There was no indication of his identity, no jewellery on the body like a ring or necklet, and his teeth were in surprisingly good condition, suggesting a sensible diet.
Doctor England advised us to inform the Press so that publicity might persuade a local historian to search old records in an attempt to determine whether anyone was known to be missing on these moors during the material time; It was not necessary to mount a suspicious death investigation and the CID could rest in peace, knowing they would not have an unsolved murder on their books, however ancient it might be.
Some time later, a local historian revealed that in the 1770s, a cork seller had vanished on those moors. He travelled around the moorland inns and farms, selling corks to the licensees and farmers’ wives who then made and bottled their own ale and other concoctions. The cork seller, whose name was never given in the old reports, had vanished one January during a ferocious snowstorm. His body had never been found but the general consensus was that the Ramsdale bones were his mortal remains.
Disposal of the skeleton provided another example of the reservoir benefiting local tradesmen because the body was returned to the care of Maurice Merryman, the Ashfordly undertaker. He was charged with the task of arranging a suitable funeral, the costs of which were borne by the Rural District Council. Maurice arranged a quiet but decent burial in Aidensfield parish churchyard and the reservoir contractors paid for a simple memorial stone bearing these words from the work of Alexander Pope:
Thus let me live, unseen unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
Thanks to Marchant French, the unknown man did now have a stone which can be seen to this day. Even though he did not have a name, I always referred to the mystery man in later conversation as Johnny Corker.
* * *
I don’t think the discovery of Johnny Corker’s bones was responsible for the strange clause in the will of Warwick Humbert Ravenswood although, to be truthful, I shall never know.
Warwick was one of the characters of Aidensfield. A gaunt, gangly man, he was about six feet five inches tall and as thin as the proverbial rail. His head was egg shaped and the bald dome was adorned with a few wisps of unkempt white hair which fluttered loosely from the sides of his scalp, even in the most gentle of breezes. He looked like a flexible stem of decorative grass. I don’t think he ever went to the hairdresser although I suspect he sometimes lopped pieces off his straggly hair with his own scissors. He wore tiny rounded spectacles over a spectacularly bulbous nose and had keen grey eyes which seemed to be restless and probing. He wore a brown leather suit too — the jacket was always buttoned tightly across his thin chest and his trousers seemed to be eternally crumpled — his suit looked most uncomfortable and yet it was always clean, as if he’d polished it thoroughly with his shoe brush.
One of my regular thoughts was that it should have been a motorcycling outfit but in fact it was cut like a well-made lounge suit. I have never seen a suit like it, either before or since.
In his late seventies when I knew him, Warwick walked for miles around the village and moors, his slightly stooping frame and long, loose legs in brown leather trousers being a familiar sight to the residents. Quite often, he seemed to be striding nowhere in particular, heading across the moors in no specified direction but clearly enjoying the wide open spaces and the scent of the heather.
No one seemed quite sure of Warwick’s background. Money did not seem to be a problem and he was never short of cash. He was unmarried and apparently had no close family, one persistent rumour being that his origins were aristocratic or even royal, but that those origins did not conform to the norms of acceptable society. In other words, people thought he was the illegitimate product of a high-born person and, in order to ward off any embarrassment to his ancestors, he was in receipt of a generous allowance. It was also said that a condition of that allowance was that he maintained the secret of his birth while living independently of his noble lineage.
I was never sure whether those rumours were based on truth, or whether they were the product of the imaginations of the villagers. Speculation about his origins probably arose because he did not work yet owned the splendidly situated Pasture House. A fine, spacious and well-kept stone detached house in its own grounds on the Elsinby side of Aidensfield, he had bought it for cash some years before I arrived as the local constable.
Pasture House was beautifully furnished with antiques and he employed a housekeeper although she did not live-in. She was Elsie Dobson, a widow who lived near the Anglican church at Aidensfield. She had looked after Warwick for years although there had never been any talk of a romance between them. There was also a gardener to tend the exterior and a part-time caretaker to keep the place in good repair. Warwick did not own a car, however, preferring to use public transport or to walk. He would sometimes walk the four miles into Ashfordly or the ten miles or so into Strensford to buy nothing more than a bread loaf or a daily newspaper. Walking was his life and he spent many hours alone on the moors. He seemed to cherish the atmosphere of total freedom offered by the unfenced moorland.
Well-spoken, articulate and full of charm, he was the perfect gentleman even if he was rather odd. Some of his ideas and behaviour were bizarre. In spite of the weather, for example, he would go salmon fishing in the river while dressed only in bathing trunks. He considered that to be very sensible because if he got soaked, it didn’t matter, but the sight of his thin, white figure clad only in black trunks and waders did not seem quite right in the majesty of Yorkshire’s only salmon river. One expected tweedy types in plus fours and deerstalkers.
Another of Warwick’s foibles was to write long rambling letters to all the local papers and to Members of Parliament about current topics or to air his pet grumbles. He would also print posters on bright yellow paper which publicized his odd views and which he posted on local noticeboards.
He collected rounded green rocks from the beach at Strensford which he placed on a pile in the corner of his garden, the purpose of which puzzled everyone. He created a pond in another part of his garden to encourage frogs but it seemed to attract nothing but herons. He spent a lot of his time trying to build a pedal-operated machine which would fly and carry him from the cliffs at Strensford. Fortunately for him, that machine was never completed and it was kept in his garage, although it was sometimes rigorously tested in his garden, the rattling noise of its flapping portions alerting most of us to the fact that Warwick was still hoping to become airborne. Eccentric was perhaps an apt description of Warwick Humbert Ravenswood.
In spite of his peculiarities, everyone in Aidensfield liked him. He was quite harmless and in some ways endearing, but his pièce de résistance was the generosity he showed in the pub. He went to the Brewers Arms every Wednesday night for a drink and a snack, and again every Friday lunchtime for a cheese sandwich washed down with a whole bottle of red wine. Each time he went into the bar, he bought drinks for everyone who was there — visitors and local alike — provided they drank malt whisky. He would never buy any of the locals a pint of beer or a gin and tonic — without exception, it had to be malt whisky. No one ever discovered why he had such a penchant for buying other people malt whisky unless he had shares in a distillery. He drank it himself most of the time, albeit varying his intake with a single pint of beer on a Wednesday night and his Friday bottle of red wine — although he did drink malt whisky prior to having those drinks.
I am not sure how many bottles of whisky he managed to dispatch during the course of a week because he consumed most of it at home but I never ever saw him any the worse for drink in spite of his impressive intake.
Then one Tuesday morning in March, I received a telephone call from the postman, Gilbert Kingston. Based in Elsinby, his round included Aidensfield and he was the virtual eye and ears of both communities. This was an early call — it was not yet 8 a.m. and I was eating my breakfast. Fortunately, it was
a duty day and I was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m.
‘’Morning, Nick,’ he greeted me. ‘I’m ringing from the kiosk in the village, Aidensfield village, that is. I think you’d better come, something’s happened to Warwick.’
‘Happened?’ I asked. ‘How do you mean? What’s happened?’
‘I think he’s dead,’ responded the postman. ‘I’ve called Doctor McGee and he said I should call you.’
‘Has there been a break-in or something?’ was my next question.
‘Not that I can see, but he’s lying on the floor in his sitting-room; I can see him through the window.’
‘You’ve tried to get in? Is Mrs Dobson there?’
‘No, not yet. The place is locked up and there’s no sign of her. I’ve knocked and rattled the door; he’s not responding.’
‘I’ll come straight away,’ I said, reaching for my cap and telling Mary where I was going.
I arrived seconds ahead of Dr McGee and together we hurried to the window of the sitting-room where Gilbert indicated the still form of Warwick. He was lying on the floor, face down and spread-eagled with his hands over his head. I rattled the window and shouted but he did not respond, so I decided we must get into the house. I did consider trying to locate his housekeeper who would have a key, but felt it might be speedier if I broke in. A rapid examination showed an upstairs window was open. I found a ladder in the garden shed and it was the work of moments to prop it against the wall so I could lower the window and clamber into the house. I found myself on the landing, ran downstairs and entered the sitting-room. Before admitting the others, I felt his pulse — there was none and the body was cold. Poor old Warwick was beyond human help.
Then I admitted Gilbert and the doctor. Dr Archie McGee quickly confirmed Warwick’s death, but said he could not certify the cause although it did appear to be natural, probably a heart attack. Together, we made a brief but thorough external examination for any wounds on Warwick’s body but found none. There was no bleeding, bruising or broken limbs and nothing to remotely suggest he’d been attacked prior to death. Nonetheless, a post-mortem examination would be necessary to establish the cause of Warwick’s death and I found myself having to search the house for evidence of any other cause. I had to determine whether or not there had been an intruder or whether Warwick had committed suicide perhaps by taking an overdose of some kind, or if he’d left a note or whether he had simply collapsed and died.
Having explained to Gilbert that he was no longer required, I took a written statement while he was there — a few lines to record his discovery of the body — and then I released him. Likewise, I took a statement from the doctor in which he certified the death but reiterated his claim that he could not certify the cause, albeit with a paragraph to say he had carried out a brief external examination without finding any relevant wounds or bruising. Warwick was his patient but had been a very infrequent visitor to the surgery — the only prescription the doctor could recall was a course of sleeping tablets several years ago. Warwick had not been seen by him since then.
‘Sleeping tablets?’ I had to clarify the situation so far as they were concerned. Some suicides did attempt to kill themselves with barbiturates.
‘If my memory serves me right,’ the doctor frowned. ‘I gave him a prescription for just the one course a long time ago, but the condition of the body does not suggest he has died from barbiturates. It looks like natural causes to me, Nick, but because he’s not been to see me recently, I cannot certify the cause of his death.’
‘I understand. I’ll search the house to see if I can find any sleeping-tablet bottles, just in case.’
‘You know your job. Right, I’ll leave this with you. You’ll do the necessary?’ he asked me.
‘Yes, no problem. And I’ll notify the coroner.’ Dealing with sudden deaths of this kind were very much a feature of my work. ‘I’ll arrange the post-mortem if he orders one.’
‘Undertaker?’ he asked. ‘Shall I tell him?’
‘No thanks, Doctor, I’ll do the lot, and I’ll make sure his housekeeper knows. She might know how to trace his relatives, but the body will have to remain here for a while, at least until I’m satisfied no one else was involved, and that there was no break-in. I have to search for a suicide note too, just to prove there isn’t one!’
And so the routine work of another sudden death was set in motion. It was quite clear to me the house was secure; there had not been a break-in, there were no damaged windows and no search of the house had been made. So far as I knew, nothing had been stolen. In the bathroom, I did find some sleeping pills but no sign of a discarded empty bottle. The date on the bottle showed they had been prescribed five years earlier by Dr McGee, and only half the bottle had been consumed.
I took the bottle and recorded my seizure of it, just in case the post-mortem did reveal barbiturate poisoning, noting that dust on the bottle lid suggested it had not been opened for years. My chief aim at this moment was to search for a suicide note. Bedrooms, writing bureaux and kitchen tables were the usual places to find such notes but in spite of a careful search, I found nothing.
However, I did find a will. It was on the top of Warwick’s writing bureau where it could not possibly be overlooked. There was a long buff envelope with the name W.H. Ravenswood on the front, followed by ‘Last Will and Testament’, and a hand-scribbled note saying, ‘To be opened in the event of my death’. I was unsure whether or not I was entitled to open that envelope, so I refrained and rang Sergeant Blaketon on Warwick’s phone. I wanted to report the sudden death.
I outlined the procedures I had completed and assured my sergeant there was no suicide note. He said he would dispatch PC Ventress to Aidensfield to collect the body in the shell, the name we gave to the temporary coffin used for such events. Alf Ventress would set off immediately and would take Warwick’s remains to the mortuary pending the coroner’s decision about a post-mortem. At this point, I mentioned the will I’d found.
‘Leave it for the relatives,’ said Sergeant Blaketon. ‘I can’t see it was meant for us.’
‘I don’t think there are any relatives,’ I told him, following with an explanation of Warwick’s odd life. ‘But I’ll leave it unopened for now. I’ll go and see his housekeeper when I’ve dealt with the coroner and Alf; she might know how to trace his family.’
I was able to unlock the house from within, using the Yale lock on the front door. Within the hour, Alf Ventress arrived and we manhandled the long, thin corpse into the shell, after which Alf drove to Ashfordly mortuary. I telephoned the coroner from my own house and in view of the doctor’s refusal to certify the cause of death, he ordered a post-mortem. I rang Alf and asked him to fix a time, bearing in mind that I should have to be present for continuity of evidence. Having set in motion the necessary procedures, I secured the house and went to find Warwick’s housekeeper, Mrs Dobson.
She was at home when I called, and invited me in.
‘Is it right?’ she asked as she made a pot of tea from the kettle on the hob. ‘About Mr Ravenswood? They said in t’shop that t’police and doctor had been called by t’postman. There’s a tale going round that he’s passed away.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ I told her, not really surprised at the speed of the circulation of the village news. ‘It looks like a heart attack, but there has to be a post-mortem. It’ll be later today, I would expect. Now, Mrs Dobson, you were probably closest to Mr Ravenswood, I need to trace his relatives and inform them.’
‘There isn’t any,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s only him; his mother died a long while back.’
‘Brothers and sisters? Cousins? Near relations?’
‘None that’ll own to having him,’ she said. ‘He told me that. He said when he died, we had to follow the directions of his will. He allus left it out ready, thinking he might die suddenly. It’s on the bureau so as folks would find it easily. He told me what’s in it, there’s no secret, Mr Rhea. Most folks hereabouts know what he wanted when he die
d.’
‘I saw the envelope,’ I told her, ‘but I thought I’d better not open it. I thought it would be for his family or his solicitor. I must admit I have no idea of its contents.’
‘Well, you’re fairly new in these parts. We all know — t’locals, that is. Now, his solicitor is Benjamin Price of Price and Ridley, Ashfordly, but he made his will years ago and it’s never changed. The contents of his house go to the Yorkshire Museum, his flying machine goes to an aircraft museum and the house has to be sold. I get summat, and so does his gardener and handyman, and the rest goes to charity.’
‘He seems to have planned well in advance!’ I muttered.
‘He wasn’t as daft as people thought he was. Now, you’ll want to know about his burial, I expect?’
‘Well, yes. Once the coroner has released the body, I’ll tell the undertaker.’
‘Aye, well, Mr Ravenswood was very particular about the location of his grave. He wants to be buried in Ramsdale, Mr Rhea. Beside the beck below the packhorse bridge, not in any graveyard. He was very firm about that. He wasn’t a churchgoer, Mr Rhea, and reckoned nowt to spending eternity in a crowded churchyard. He said he couldn’t abide having all them old folks around him for t’rest of his days and wanted to be buried in the quietest possible spot. That’s why he chose Ramsdale, a spot of his very own near that old packhorse bridge.’
‘Ramsdale?’ I carried. ‘But there’s going to be a reservoir there!’
‘He talked about that to me, Mr Rhea, and said he had no objection about being buried under t’watter. He allus reckoned he would die before they got t’reservoir finished so he picked his spot well. He made his will years ago, Mr Rhea, long before yon reservoir was ever thought of. He loved that old bridge and wanted to lie hard by it, he allus said.’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 9
