But I think Arthur must have chosen his guests very carefully because I received no complaints, either from the few villagers who lived nearby, or from Arthur or his guests. As lime went by, the old riverside tile shed did appear to be a genuine haven of rural delight.
The fact that, when full, the tile shed accommodated only seven people might have had some bearing upon this happy state of affairs. Had it accommodated seventy, then there may have been occasions for aggravation. But even so, for some forty weeks of the year, Lower Keld’s population was swollen quite considerably. The entire hamlet had less than twenty residents, and so Arthur’s enterprise regularly increased its population by about a third. It was a large percentage increase, if a modest numerical one. The shop and pub in nearby Crampton approved and so the situation was never a problem.
That state of bliss continued until I received a telephone call from Miss Neville, a retired spinster of uncertain years whose cottage was very close to Arthur’s tile shed.
‘Mr Rhea,’ she breathed into the telephone late one night, ‘do come to Lower Keld, please. I’m sorry to ring so late, but I fear there is trouble at Arthur’s tile shed and he is out, you see, with his wife. There is an awful noise and lots of arguing with people shouting. It’s terrible, it really is most out of character. I do fear there is trouble.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I assured at.
I’d just completed a late route and was in my office writing up my pocketbook when her call came, otherwise I might have been in bed. I noticed it was approaching 11.30.
‘I’m just popping down to Lower Keld,’ I called to Mary who was already in bed. ‘I won’t be long, it sounds like a domestic row in Arthur’s holiday cottages.’
Domestic rows are an aggravating feature of a police officer’s life. Where possible, we endeavour to avoid them because if we enter the fray (usually at the request of a neighbour), the warring husband/wife/boy-friend/girl-friend/lovers join forces and attack the peace-keeping constable. Our attitude has always been that minor domestic wars are best left to play themselves out in the family home, although we are sometimes concerned about an outbreak of something more serious, such as physical attacks or injuries.
So to what was I heading at Lower Keld? I wondered what horrors lay before me. Domestics are never pleasant, they seldom provide the slightest degree of job satisfaction …
In my little police van, I chugged along the lane towards the tile shed, enjoying the peace of the late-night journey. When I arrived at Riverside Farm, it was in darkness except for the tile-shed block, and there I noticed lights in two of the units. I knew that at this time of year, the early spring, things were quiet; in fact, I was to learn that only two of the units were currently occupied. I parked and walked through the gate and into the courtyard, but there was no noise.
Two cars were parked there and I did see a light shining from Miss Neville’s cottage beyond the parking area; her curtains fluttered as the gate clicked upon my entry, but she had not ventured into the battleground to greet me. But when I entered the paved courtyard, once a muddy portion of Arthur’s farmyard, I saw in the light cast from the units, two silent figures lying on the stone flags. Had vile murder been done?
I hurried to them, fearing the worst. To my surprise, I found two women, both unconscious, and they were surrounded by empty bottles … gin bottles, Martinis, wine bottles.
At first glance, I reckoned they’d be in their thirties. They were casually dressed: one wore jeans and the other had a short skirt; both wore thick sweaters. I checked their pulses and listened to their breathing as I sought any signs of injury. My brief examination convinced me that neither was hurt; the problem was that they were very, very drunk.
I looked around for any indication of other trouble, but found none, the only clue being that two chalet doors were standing wide open, flooding their light into this courtyard. Hurriedly, I entered the first and searched it, noting that the single bed was unoccupied … more empty bottles littered the kitchen.
Next door, I knew, was the double chalet, the one I had inspected with Arthur some time ago. Its door was also open and the lights were on. I now entered that one, stepping gingerly through the open door.
I walked past a pair of thigh-length waders and some fishing equipment stacked in a corner, then went up the stairs. I opened the bedroom door and was surprised to see a man on one side of the bed, fast asleep. He was totally oblivious to the situation outside and an empty malt whisky bottle stood on the floor at the side of his bed.
From the available evidence, I could imagine what had happened. The three of them had had a wild party with lots to drink, and I guessed they’d been laughing and shouting outside. Poor Miss Neville had misunderstood the situation; she’d interpreted the noise as the sound of trouble whereas it had been the sound of fun. There was no damage anywhere, no injuries and no cause for alarm. Even so, it must have been quite a party … these three, friends by the look of it, had enjoyed an almighty binge, but the two women had been unable to regain their respective chalets. The husband had managed to stagger upstairs with his bottle and had crashed into bed. That was my assessment of the situation.
I could return each woman to her chalet, but which woman should be sleeping with the man? I went upstairs to rouse him, but failed. All my shouting and shaking had absolutely no effect — the whisky had sent him into the deepest of sleeps. But I could manage. I went outside and studied the drunken, snoozing pair. For some reason I thought of Cinderella and decided that shoes might provide the answer, so I went into the single chalet and found a pair of high-heeled shoes.
I fitted them to each of the women’s feet — they slid easily on to the girl in the jeans, but were far too small for her companion. The problem was solved! The next thing was to get them to safety. I went into the double chalet and again tried to rouse the sleeping man, but with no success, and so I went to the girl wearing the mini-skirt, hauled her to her feet and slung her face down across my shoulder in the fireman’s lift. It was a technique taught us at training school and it meant I could carry her quite easily.
She groaned a little and wheezed a lot while making other weird noises as I settled her on my shoulder with her head and arms hanging down my back. I clamped my arm around the back of her dangling legs, and in this way bore her into the chalet. I would drop her in bed beside her husband; it was the only safe and warm place. Without much trouble, I mounted the stairs, entered the bedroom and with my free hand, rolled back the sheets. The man was as naked as a new born babe. Then, as carefully as possible, I deposited the unconscious woman beside her unconscious husband; he groaned and turned to face her, still asleep, as she began to snore. Although she was fully dressed, I covered them and left them, dropping the Yale latch as I made my exit.
I repeated the exercise with the other woman, placing her fully dressed into her single bed, and then dropped her latch as I went out. I left each of their lights burning just in case they had to wander to the loo during the night.
And that was it. I was quite proud of the ease with which I had dealt with that little problem and turned to leave, only to find Miss Neville standing near the gate, clutching a coat about her.
‘It was a party, Miss Neville, a somewhat drunken party by all accounts. They’ll all in bed now, fast asleep.’
‘I hope you didn’t mind me calling …’
‘Not at all,’ I assured her. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘I’ll tell Mr Fewster when he returns, I think he and his wife are attending someone’s silver-wedding party.’
‘Yes, you tell him,’ I smiled, looking at my watch. It was nearly quarter past twelve. ‘But so far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed and I’m going home. Goodnight.’
It would be about ten o’clock next morning when a man arrived at my police house. I welcomed him into my little office and settled him down. In his early forties with thinning sandy hair, he was smartly dressed in what were clearly a countryman
’s clothes — heavy greenish tweeds with brogue shoes bearing studded soles. He was smiling at me.
‘You are the village constable, I understand?’ he said in a gentle Scots accent. ‘You patrol Lower Keld?’
‘Yes, I’m PC Rhea,’ I confirmed.
‘I came to thank you,’ he beamed. ‘For last night.’
‘Oh!’ now I realized who he was and the purpose of his call.
‘I saw Miss Neville this morning,’ he enlightened me. ‘She said she had called you, and that you had dealt with the problem.’
‘It was nothing,’ I assumed a modest pose. ‘Just part of the service.’
‘It was bloody good service if you ask me,’ he chortled, his accent growing stronger. ‘I go there to have a spot of quiet fishing, to get away from the pressures of work, you know, and what happens — some kind constable plonks a woman in bed beside me. I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me … but what a time we had …’
‘I thought she was your wife …’
‘No, I have nae wife. I’m divorced. I spend my time fishing, it’s relaxing. And last night, well, I drowned my sorrows with a good stiff whisky or two … but then I thought I was having a wonderful dream … stripping a woman, making love, it was some dream … then I woke up and found a woman at my side, naked, asleep … then she woke, saw me, screamed, grabbed her clothes and ran off … God knows where she went. But she was most friendly and co-operative during my dream, I can assure you … so I came to say thanks. Now, I’m going home feeling very happy and fulfilled — and I’ve had the best break of my life, thanks to you.’
When he’d gone, I pondered over the two women. Who was the one who’d entertained the fisherman? Some time later, I was talking to Arthur Fewster and referred to the incident.
He chuckled.
‘By gum,’ he grinned. ‘You cheered that bloke up no end, Mr Rhea. Never had a time like it, he reckons. He asked if I could fix him up with another holiday like it.’
‘But those two women … I mean, I thought …’
‘Don’t let it worry you, lad, no harm done. The one in my chalet comes from Brighton, t’other’s her pal. The pal has a cousin in Lower Keld, Mrs Bayes down by t’bridge. She stayed there while her pal rented that spot from me. They’d had a bit of a farewell party last night … now yon fisherman never locks his door. I reckon they’d strayed into his spot instead of hers when they were past caring … that’s why his door was open … anyroad, it’s all over. A good time was had by all.’
But I still do not know who that fisherman was, nor do I know the identity of his surprise partner that night.
But every Christmas for five or six years afterwards, a bottle of beautiful malt whisky would arrive at my house, anonymously. I raised my glass to him and to her, for she had made one man very happy and another very curious. Perhaps she is reading these words now?
I may never know.
*
That story of a strange party was echoed in another case which occurred in the hillside hamlet of Shelvingby, high on the southern escarpment of the North York Moors.
This tiny community of stone-built houses nestles deep in the moors beneath the sheltering slopes of a huge rounded hill. Once, not long ago, the village was the stronghold of local Methodism, John Wesley having preached here during one of his Yorkshire tours, and this might explain why the tiny village church reclines in the valley at a discreet distance from the village. Now, Methodism has virtually vanished from the district and the church is enjoying a revival, if only from visiting tourists. It stands beside the Shelf Beck, the village and beck being named after the strange step-like formation of the limestone landscape. In this case, the stream tumbles and roars down a series of stone shelves, but as it flows past the tiny church, it becomes calm and serene.
The churchyard borders the stream, and in late winter it is brilliant with masses of snowdrops; in the spring, it is the turn of the daffodils, for thousands of them bloom in this remote and quiet spot. Owing to its situation close to the beck, a public footpath passes through the churchyard, and consequently it is busy with hikers and ramblers for many weeks in the year. This does mean, however, that many passers-by pop into the church to contemplate its long history, and then they slip a coin or two into the offertory box. In this way, the little church enjoys a useful supplementary income.
It was a regular but local walker who drew my attention to a small problem in that churchyard. He was Timothy Pepper, a retired clerk.
A meek man, he had come to live in Shelvingby in his retirement. He was so meek and mild that when he heard strange noises emanating from the centre of the churchyard, he did not rush to investigate. Instead, he hurried home with his dog, an equally timid Yorkshire terrier called Garth, and wondered what to do about the noises. His wife, not eager to push Timothy to the limits of his valiant nature, advised him to forget it — it might have been nothing more than children playing or dogs skylarking. So Timothy obeyed her. For the next few weeks he walked his dog through the churchyard only during daylight hours, but as the autumn drew nearer, so the days grew darker.
Gradually, Timothy began to walk again in the darkness, but by now he’d forgotten about the noises and had resumed his night-time walks with Garth. Then around ten o’clock one night, he heard the noises again; he rushed home without seeking an explanation and this time his face was pale and his hair stood on end. Even Garth appeared to be worried about something because he refused to leave his master’s side.
‘It’s awful,’ Timothy stuttered to his wife. ‘Terrible noises, shrieks … weird laughter … in the darkness …’
‘You’re not telling me it’s haunted?’ Mrs Pepper was horrified at the possibility.
‘No, I think it was humans,’ he said. ‘I wondered if there was some awful ritual being practised by incomers … devil worship even, desecration of our churchyard or graves …’
‘It might be children playing,’ she put to him.
‘It didn’t sound like children,’ he said. ‘Besides, it was late and we’ve no teenagers in this village, have we? One or two of infant school age, but it wouldn’t be them, and there were no cars or motor bikes parked nearby …’
Without an on-the-spot investigation by Timothy, it seemed that the cause of the noises would never be ascertained, and those who knew Timothy were quite aware of his shortcomings. When faced with an incident where positive action was required, Timothy would always seek someone else to take over. And so I was told of the problem during a routine visit to Shelvingby.
I popped into the shop, as was my practice, and was told all about Timothy’s experience. I promised Mrs Belt, the shopkeeper, that I would keep an eye on the churchyard and I knew that news of my assurance would quickly reach the entire village. Shortly afterwards, when I came across Timothy taking Garth for his daily constitutional, I stopped my van and climbed out for a chat.
‘I’ve heard about these noises in your churchyard, Mr Pepper,’ I began. ‘I thought I’d keep an eye on things. I’ve not heard them, so what can you tell me?’
He told me his story, but, after some prompting, did say that the noises were happy ones, like a party, with laughter and loud voices. But there were no lights. Most parties would have been illuminated by torches or lanterns, but he’d not seen such things.
He did say, however, that he was sure he’d heard a woman’s voice, and added that he’d been to the centre of the graveyard in daylight but had seen no discarded bottles and no damage. The intruders did not seem to be vandals. On both occasions, the noises had occurred after 10 p.m.
‘It’s certainly mysterious,’ I agreed. ‘But thanks — I’ll keep an eye open.’
Thereafter, each time I patrolled the village during the hours of darkness, I would leave the van at a discreet distance and take a walk along the public footpath which led to the churchyard. But on each occasion, I heard and saw nothing suspicious. After about four months, I had almost forgotten about the churchyard noises when I chance
d to drive into Shelvingby late one night. I had no particular reason for being there but the village was on the route of one of my patrols. I parked in the village centre and walked around when, to my surprise, I saw Timothy making extreme haste towards me. He was dragging Garth by his lead and was clearly rushing about some urgent business — in fact, he was galloping home after undergoing another terrifying experience.
‘Ah, Mr Rhea, thank God!’ he panted. ‘What a blessing I came across you … those noises, they’re there, now. I’ve just come from there …’
‘Show me,’ I requested. ‘Then we can get the thing sorted out.’
‘Oh, well, I … er …’
He was terrified, and so I didn’t force him to accompany me; if the noises were still there, I would soon trace them. I took a powerful torch from my van and made my way to the graveyard; Timothy watched me for a few seconds, and then went home. On reflection, I’d be better without him — he might develop into a nervous wreck, faint on the spot or produce some other kind of problem. I walked towards the church with my soft-soled boots making no sound, and as I entered the churchyard I could hear some peculiar sounds. They were indeed coming from the midst of the gravestones, somewhere near the centre. I halted and listened.
It did sound like a party, albeit a small one, with a woman’s voice laughing and talking. At this distance, the words were indistinct and I could not hear what she was saying, but as I stood and listened in the gloom of that October night, I could not see any lights nor could I discern the presence of any other people.
In some circumstances, particularly in such a location, the noises might frighten the faint-hearted, but police officers must not be afraid of the unknown, and so I moved quietly towards the sounds. On the soft grass between the tombstones my feet made no noise, and because my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness I did not require my torch. Gradually, I moved closer to the noises, being guided by them. By now, they had been reduced to a softer chatter, as if the woman was talking to a friend.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 2
