‘It was definitely here,’ he pointed to the mess in the hedge. ‘The car was there, on its side, and it was pretty badly damaged … but there was nobody with it. And the horse was lying down there, on that wide bit of verge. There was blood on its flank — it looked like a bad stomach wound and it was panting heavily, but alive … I ran to call the police.’
‘I got the call at 8.30 p.m.,’ I said, looking at my watch. It was now ten minutes past nine. We’d spent the interim searching.
‘It would take me a good five minutes to run and make the call, but the accident might have happened some time before I arrived. Maybe the man in the car rang from somewhere, or a pal was with him or something …’
‘So it might have occurred an hour ago?’ I said, thinking that that left sufficient time for someone to come and clear away the damaged car and remove the horse. With Dixon helping us, we made another complete search of the neighbouring fields and road verges, but found nothing. I thanked the vet and the ambulance for coming all this way on icy roads for nothing, but said I had no idea where the casualties had gone.
I took Geoff Dixon home and he invited me in for a cup of coffee; I went over his experience once again, getting a detailed description of the car and the horse, just to satisfy myself that the incident had occurred, but of that, there was no doubt.
Even today, I do not know what happened to that car driver or his Ford Anglia car, nor do I know what happened to the injured horse. I am convinced that Dixon had not imagined the accident — the evidence at the scene confirmed his experience. But of the casualties? They vanished on that frosty night in January.
*
Another curious instance of disappearing property occurred when someone allegedly stole sheep from Frank Huggett. Frank ran a huge flock on the open moors above Gelderslack, his black-faced ewes living almost wild upon those bleak and heathery heights. They had no fences to keep them in and they spread themselves across a spacious area of heather and bracken, fending for themselves for most of the year. Then, every three months or so, Frank would ride the range upon his horse, accompanied by his team of three dogs, and he would bring his flock down to the lower reaches for clipping or for counting or dipping when required.
But these sheep did not stray from their pastures because they were heeafed, pronounced hee-affed. This curious dialect word comes from heaf meaning home, and in this case it means that the sheep know their own territory and will remain there without the need for fences. Whole flocks are heeafed and the local name for these sheep is therefore heeafed yows (heafed ewes).
Frank claimed he could recognize every one of his ewes, even though all were black-faced with horns, and had the distinctive black legs. To anyone else, they were like peas in the proverbial pod, except that there were hundreds of them. But Frank knew their individual faces as a head teacher knows the faces of all the school’s pupils; he could remember which ewe had had twins or triplets, which had been ill or missing in the counting sessions and which needed the greatest care.
That Frank loved his sheep was never in doubt. Some said he was sheep-fond or sheep-daft, meaning he thought of nothing else, just as some Yorkshire lasses are known as lad-fond. Certainly, every minute of Frank’s life, whether working or at leisure, was dominated by his flocks, and it was equally well known that he was regarded as an expert on moorland sheep and was a leading member of the Black-faced Sheep Breeders’ Association.
He judged at shows and was often called by his friends to give advice, and yet his formal education had been virtually nil. He’d left the village school at fourteen to follow his father into moorland sheep-farming and had been willing both to work hard and to learn from his highly experienced father. With his father and mother long dead, Frank and his wife did keep some other animals — goats could be seen about his farm buildings and his wife bred geese, ducks and poultry. Frank even reckoned to be able to identify every hen on the premises.
*
So far as his sheep were concerned, people would often put Frank to the test, asking him to identify a particular ewe and to provide its history. And he would oblige. He’d say,
‘Yon awd lass had triplets two year back, and she’s been wi’ me nigh on fower year. Ah gat her at Eltering Mart. Ah calls her Elsie Seven and she’s alius given a good fleece, thick and full. She’s been a good lamber an’ all, and Ah reckon there’s a year or two in her yet. She’s a grand awd lass is yon.’
The name of Elsie Seven intrigued me. He did give names to most of his ewes, but because he had such a huge flock he ran out of names. Thus, several sheep bore the same female Christian name, with a numeral for their surname. He would often point out a sheep in the distance, saying she was Kate Three, the daughter of Mary Nine and that she’d had three lambs in three years, the other two being Nancy Two and Brenda Eight. It was a joy to hear him counting his sheep, shouting at Joan Eleven to ‘git oot o’ t’rooad’ or Lily One to ‘sharpen thisell and git between yon fences’.
Frank’s individual system of identification was, of course, in addition to the standard one which is used for moorland sheep. Because several farmers run their flocks on the open moors, the animals must be identified as belonging to a particular person. Quite often, the sheep of one farmer mingle with those of another and confusion would occur without a simple and highly visible identification method. That method involves the use of coloured dye; thus moorland sheep will have splashes of red, green or blue dye upon their wool. One farmer might mark all members of his flock with a red left foreshoulder; another might use a green rump or another a blue right hand quarter. I have heard townspeople cry with alarm at seeing a sheep with a bright red patch on its belly wool — they thought it had been injured, but it was just the owner’s mark.
Tups are also marked with dye under their bellies before they embark upon fatherhood. As they serve each ewe, so they leave behind a brightly coloured patch on the ewe’s rump — red is a favourite colour — and so the farmer knows which of his ewes have or have not been charmed into future motherhood by the busy tup. Ear clipping is another means of identification, with members of each flock having distinctive marks upon their ears.
But in Frank Huggett’s distinctive method of naming his sheep, who could prove him wrong? If he made such claims about knowledge of his animals, how could anyone prove otherwise? Not that anyone would — they all trusted him and I had no reason to doubt his expertise. If he said he knew every single one of his sheep by their first names, then neither I nor anyone else doubted him. He was a fine man, a solid, likeable moorland farmer who stood no nonsense from anyone. Now approaching fifty-five, he was a thick-set character with a surprisingly pink complexion beneath his head of wavy greying hair. Bright blue eyes gave him a baby-faced look, and he was always particular about his appearance, never going unshaven and always having neat haircuts.
You’d rarely find him indoors; whenever I called, morning, noon or night, Frank would be somewhere on the moors with his dogs and shepherd’s crook, checking his flock for one thing or another. On one occasion, he went out in blizzard conditions, to take a supply of hay to some of his flock who had been marooned on the windswept heights. He learned they had found shelter in an old barn on the moors high above his farmhouse.
Nonetheless, he went out in appalling conditions to see to them and to take them food. He reckoned the safety of his sheep was more important than sitting cosily beside his blazing kitchen fire. It’s not surprising that his friends called him Awd Moorender. Moorender is a slightly derogatory term for a rough character who lives on the moors and who is not sophisticated like townspeople. Indeed, lots of townies refer to country folk of this region (like me!) as moorenders, the implication being that moorenders are simpletons.
The word is also used for rough sheep or even horses that live on these heights. If a man had a tired, shaggy old horse, people would describe it as a moorender. In spite of this, I’d say that Frank was a moorender, but he was by no means a simpleton. His wife never compl
ained of his devotion to the sheep, for she had produced three lovely children, now in their twenties, and occupied herself with village organizations like the WI and the PCC of the small parish church.
I do not know if the sheep responded to the dedication that Frank lavished upon them — they are rather stupid animals, unlike dogs who will respond to a master’s love and trust. But Frank seemed to think that they knew him and loved him, and that they welcomed his constant care and affection. Perhaps they did. That thought made him very happy and contented.
It was therefore a most hurtful experience when he discovered that two of his flock had been stolen.
For Frank, it was tantamount to someone kidnapping his child, and the matter clearly upset him. He was upset rather than angry. I learned of this crime through a telephone call.
‘Somebody’s ta’en a pair of my sheep, Mr Rhea,’ he told me shortly after eight one morning. ‘Can thoo come and see me?’
I said I’d be there within twenty minutes. As I drove across the moor, I wondered if they had really been stolen. Sheep did go astray; some got stuck in ditches and others wandered into distant corners of their heeaf. Some were run down by motorists and some simply died in isolation. Few farmers could supervise every single inch of the huge open area of countryside in which their flocks lived and so we had to treat every case of reported theft with just a hint of caution. Nonetheless, sheep rustling did occur. Thieves armed with .22 rifles would shoot the animals which grazed near the roadside. The carcasses were immediately skinned on the spot and placed in the rear of a van, the discarded skins being thrown far into the heather. Thus, if we caught a thief in possession of a carcass, it was impossible to prove where it had come from, and virtually impossible to locate the discarded skin and fleece. Such slaughtered carcasses were sold to butchers in the surrounding towns. Was this the fate of Frank’s animals?
When I interviewed Frank in his cosy kitchen, enjoying the inevitable ’lowance and huge mug of tea, I had to cast doubt upon his theft theory.
I did so by asking whether the sheep could be stuck in a ditch, whether they might have wandered into a neighbour’s heeaf, whether they had simply died or whether they were victims of a road accident. But he was adamant.
‘Last night, t’pair on’em was up near Holm Intak, doon bi t’stream. Ah knows’em, Mr Rhea, them two’s been pals since they were lambs. Maud Seven and Doris Twelve, they go ivverywhere together them two, cousins they are. You’ll nivver see yan withoot t’other, so if yan had been trapped or run over, t’other would be standing by, bleating for me to come and do summat. They’ve both gone, Mr Rhea, and in my book, that means somebody’s pinched’em.’
I had no option but to accept his word. I could not visit the scene of the crime because they might have been stolen from anywhere within thousands of acres, but after convincing myself that Frank was correct, I decided to ‘crime’ the report of the missing sheep. That meant it was officially recorded as a crime and I was sure Frank would then be able to claim from his insurance if his animals were not recovered alive.
‘Frank,’ I said, ‘you realize we stand very little chance of recovering your sheep? If the thieves have clipped off your dye marks, we’ll never prove they are yours even if we catch the thief … To be brutally honest, I think they’ll probably be lamb chops by now, on sale in some butcher’s shop in Middlesbrough or Sunderland. But I’ll circulate the theft to all our officers and we will make wide inquiries.’
‘Ah know there’s nowt much you fellers can do, but t’insurance says we must report thefts to you blokes. But Ah’s off to Eltering Mart this morning, Mr Rhea, and if them sheep o’ mine are there, Ah’ll recognize’em even if t’markings have been shaven off. If their faces are there, Ah’ll know’em!’
‘If you do see them, call us,’ I cautioned him. ‘Don’t take the law into your own hands!’
On my return journey to Aidensfield, I popped into the police office at Ashfordly to record the crime and decided to spend a few moments in that office, typing up my initial crime report. It took me about an hour, and as I was finishing it off, the telephone rang. It was Frank Huggett.
‘Ah rang your house, but your missus said you’d likely be there,’ he began. ‘Ah’ve found them sheep, Mr Rhea, like Ah said. Maud Seven and Doris Twelve. At Eltering Mart. In a pen. T’licence bobby ’as isolated ’em; t’pen belongs to awd Ernie Stubbs. Thoo knaws as well as me that we’ve suspected ’im for years. ’E’s pinched more sheep that Ah’ve had hot dinners, and nut once ’as ’e been caught. Well, we’ve got him red-handed, Mr Rhea, you’ll be pleased to know.’
‘Where are you ringing from?’ I asked.
‘T’mart office,’ he said.
‘I’ll come straight away,’ I told him. ‘Tell the Mart PC I’m on my way and ask him to keep Ernie Stubbs and the sheep there.’
‘Right ho, Mr Rhea.’
At every cattle mart, there used to be a constable on duty and his task was to issue pig licences as well as to keep a general eye on the proceedings. That system operated in my time as a village constable and it was fortunate that a constable was there on this occasion. When I arrived twenty-five minutes later, I went to the office and found PC John Rogers of Eltering Police. He had isolated the suspect animals and had also detained Ernie Stubbs; he was now in Eltering Police Station cells, under arrest for suspected theft. ‘I had to lift him on suspicion,’ said PC Rogers to me. ‘Mind, he says he didn’t steal those sheep, says he’s never been near Frank Huggett’s spot.’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’ I smiled.
‘But, Nick, you can’t prove those are Mr Huggett’s sheep, can you? One sheep looks just like any other …’
‘Ah know my sheep,’ said Frank stolidly. ‘Them’s mine, Mr Rogers, there’s neea doubt aboot it.’
‘Let’s have a look at them,’ I suggested.
The tiny pen contained two timid looking sheep, both blackfaced ewes with horns and black legs, but neither bearing any ear clipping marks or dyed wool. To my inexpert eye, they looked like identical twins; I could see no difference in them.
‘He’s clipped my colour off,’ said Frank, touching each animal on its shoulder to indicate the site of the missing dye. ‘Thoo knows, Mr Rhea, Ah’s a red right shoulder man. Thoo can see where t’fleece’as been trimmed.’
He was right. The wool around that shoulder had been recently cut short, but whether a court would accept that as evidence of the removal of identifying marks and thus an indication of theft, remained to be seen.
‘But these sheep don’t respond to you,’ said PC Rogers to Frank.
‘They do!’ he cried. ‘They know me, but sheep are not daft, Mr Rogers, they don’t show emotion like dogs, they don’t make a fuss … Them two’s my ewes, mak neea mistake.’
‘Frank is an expert on moorland sheep,’ I informed Rogers. ‘I’m sure that if he gave evidence in court, as an expert witness, it would be treated with great respect.’
Thus we were faced with something of a dilemma, for I doubted whether our own prosecution department would accept Frank’s opinion that these were indeed his animals. After all, anyone could claim ownership of anything if absolute proof became an unnecessary prerequisite. But I did believe Frank and felt that the decision should rest with a court. As Frank had said, we had long suspected Stubbs of sheep stealing; indeed, we were positive he was a regular thief but we had never been able to prove a single case against him. We’d never caught him in possession of the stolen animals.
To cut a long story short, Stubbs was charged with theft of Frank’s two ewes and, in court, steadfastly denied any responsibility for that crime.
He refused to reveal from where he had obtained the two ewes in question and denied clipping off the red identification mark. The magistrates listened to Frank’s simple explanation of his reputed ability to identify every animal in his flock of over eight hundred, and the court accepted his status as an expert on moorland sheep. I felt sure the court wrould de
cide that there was reasonable doubt about Stubb’s guilt and that they would acquit him of theft, but as one of the magistrates was himself a moorland farmer, I reckon the bench knew of Ernie Stubb’s reputation and of Frank’s legendary skill. So he was found guilty and fined £50.
About a month later, I called at Frank’s lonely farm for my quarterly visit to sign his stock register and I was invited to join him and his wife for ’lowance. I mentioned that we’d had no subsequent reports of sheep stealing since Stubbs’s conviction and thanked Frank for his efforts in convicting him.
‘Somebody ’ad to sort him out, Mr Rhea.’ A knowing smile flickered across his pink face. ‘’E’s been at it for years without getting caught.’
‘But now he’s been convicted of sheep stealing, the local markets will be less keen to take stuff from him?’
‘Aye,’ beamed Frank. ‘’E’ll not pinch sheep unless ’e can sell ’em, and ’e can’t sell ’em if nobody’ll take ’em off ’is ’ands. Ah reckon we fettled him good and proper, Mr Rhea.’
‘It still baffles me how you can tell one sheep from another, Frank,’ I laughed.
‘He can’t,’ commented his wife. ‘He makes it all up, it’s his party trick!’
‘But two o’ my ewes were missing ewes and Ah’ve get two back. If Ah say they’re mine, then mine they are!’ grinned Frank. ‘And we’ve stopped Stubbs. Moorenders aren’t so daft after all, are they, Mr Rhea?’
‘Fortunately, no!’ I heard myself saying. ‘And I can record a crime as being detected.’ It was all that I, as another moorender, could think of adding.
5. Fellowship and Social Assembly
Their judgement is a mere lottery
John Dryden (1631-1700)
The legal name for tombola or a raffle is a lottery and in my time as village constable at Aidensfield there were only four types of lottery, other than premium bonds, which were legal in this country. Every other lottery was unlawful.
The definition of a lottery is ‘a distribution of prizes by lot or chance’, the important element being that there should be no skill involved. A lottery is won by sheer chance or good fortune, hence the need for legal control.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 8
