Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Good of you to see me, Sergeant,” began the priest. “It’s about Waindale Abbey. It is within your province, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Bairstow. “It’s on our patch.”

  Waindale Abbey is one of several beautiful ruins dotted around the area. Wrecked by the Commissioners of Henry VIII during the Reformation, it sits beside the gentle River Wain where its impressive location and magnificent broken outline give testimony to its dramatic past. Today, it is a popular tourist attraction where its mellow stone and lofty columns give no hint of the role it once played in the economic life of the locality.

  “This year marks the thirteenth centenary of the foundation of the Abbey,” began the priest. “It is one of the oldest ruins in the land and dates to the earliest times of Christendom in this country. So,” he went on, “we — that is the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, with the blessing of members of the Anglican faith I might add — have decided to mark the occasion. We are going to hold a Concelebrated Mass with the bishop and priests of this diocese. It will take place in the ruins and the proposed date is 24 August, that’s the Feast of St Bartholomew, patron saint of the Abbey.”

  “So that will mean a considerable influx of people and vehicles, Father?”

  “Yes, I estimate there’ll be well into tens of thousands. Bus loads, cars, foot and cycle pilgrims, priests, nuns and laity — they’ll come from all the northern parishes and even further afield. That is why I am here, to give you due notice, so that you can make your own plans.”

  I took them a cup of coffee each and settled down in the front office to enjoy one too. They continued their chat and I could hear every word. It was not a confidential meeting.

  “We appreciate adequate warning, Father, then we can arrange our duties to cope. Will you want a police presence inside the Abbey grounds, do you think, or merely on the outside to cope with the traffic and crowds?”

  “Certainly on the outside, Sergeant. As for the interior, well, I imagine our pilgrims will behave, although a discreet police presence is never amiss.”

  “I’ll mark the date in our duty diary,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “You’ll not have the time of the service yet?”

  “No, those matters are to be finalized, but it will be during the afternoon, probably beginning at 2.30 p.m. or 3.00 p.m. But some people will arrive much earlier; some will bring picnics, I know, and they will give the day a holiday atmosphere, a form of celebration.”

  “Good, well, Father, thank you for this advance notice. You’ll keep in touch please, about the timing and other details?”

  “Of course, and don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything more you need to know.”

  Father Summerson left and Sergeant Bairstow came into the front office. “You heard all that, Nick?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It looks like being a busy day.”

  “You’re telling me! There’ll be lost children to consider; wandering old ladies; lost and found property; toilet facilities to provide; car and coach parking … There’ll be other traffic in the valley, trying to squeeze past the pilgrims on those narrow lanes, and the local residents will play hell about it all. We’ll have to ensure access for any emergency vehicles and there’ll be litter; first aid facilities to think about; possible crimes like pickpockets or other thefts … ”

  “It’ll keep us busy for weeks!” I laughed.

  “And for that remark, young Rhea, consider yourself involved right from the start! Right now, in fact. Come along, we’ll go and inspect the scene, shall we?”

  In the Sergeant’s official car, we drove the four miles or so across the hills and into the valley of Waindale. The lanes were peaceful, with the hedges just bursting into the fresh green leaf, while the fields and woodlands were changing into their spring colours. Flowers like wild daffodils and celandines adorned the verges and birds sang in marvellous harmony as we dropped down the steep incline into the lovely valley. To give the monks due praise, they certainly knew how to select an ideal site.

  The tiny village with its cluster of yellow stone cottages, some thatched and others with red pantile roofs, reclined beneath the shadow of the hillside, while the magnificent Abbey occupied a huge, flat site deep in the valley.

  “You know, Nick,” breathed Sergeant Bairstow, “this view never ceases to thrill me. It really is incredible, those woods, the fields, the river down there — see? And the Abbey, silent and just a little mysterious … I’ve seen it with a mist around it at dawn; I’ve seen it at night in the light of a full moon, and at sunset too … ”

  I knew what he was trying to say. There was a magic about the place, an indefinable atmosphere rich with the scents of history and drama and it was something I’d experienced on the occasions I’d come here.

  We eased our little police car into the car-park and emerged to breathe the crisp, fresh air of Waindale.

  “And to think we get paid for this!” smiled Sergeant Bairstow. “Come along, let’s have a critical look at the interior.”

  After explaining our purpose to the lady in the little wooden hut at the entrance, we walked around as we tried to envisage how the huge congregation would be accommodated; where the altar should be sited both for safety and for vision. We wondered whether crowd-barriers were needed and which was the best place to site the portable toilets, the first aid centre, the lost children tent and other essentials.

  We had to ensure that the village was free to go about its normal business, and we must be equally sure that ambulances could gain access to any possible casualties in the crowd. Thoughts of this kind were part of any exploratory visit and Sergeant Bairstow was sufficiently experienced to be aware of the requirements. We both knew that an Operation Order would be needed to cope with all the problems of the day, and as a plan formed in his mind, he decided it was an ideal opportunity to make use of our band of local, dedicated Special Constables.

  My next contact with Father Summerson came through a telephone call. I was in Ashfordly at the time and accepted the call.

  “It’s Father Summerson,” he said. “I’m ringing about the Abbey celebrations.”

  “It’s PC Rhea, Father. I am familiar with the event so far.”

  “Good, well I thought you’d better know that we have received some intelligence from our parishes. At this stage, we believe that the congregation will be in excess of 20,000 — it might even rise to 30,000. I thought you had better be aware of these numbers.”

  I found it difficult to visualise such a crowd in Waindale Abbey, and expressed that point.

  “Oh, the Abbey will accommodate them,” he said with some assurance. “There is plenty of space. It is the traffic that worries me, Constable. From what I hear, most will be coming by coach but there will be many cars.”

  I realised that the volume of incoming traffic would be similar to that which arrives at a popular race meeting, but this was no race track and there was a distinct lack of parking space. There were none of the facilities necessary for coping with such numbers. In short, we, and the church organisers, were to be faced with a car-parking problem of some magnitude. It could not be left to chance or ignored.

  I thanked him for this advance information and wrote the details on a note for the attention of Sergeant Bairstow. He contacted me a couple of days later and said, “Nick, I’ll pick you up at half past nine this morning. We’ll have another look at Waindale Abbey — it’s about the parking problems.”

  We stood in the centre of the tiny official car-park and calculated that it would accommodate no more than twenty cars — and at an average of four persons per car, that was a mere eighty people.

  “That’ll just about cater for the official party,” Bairstow said. “And there’s nowhere else. They can’t park in these lanes — they’d be blocked in no time. So young Nicholas, what are we to do?”

  “We could organise parking elsewhere and bus them in here,” I suggested.

  “Have you ever tried that? It causes chaos and delays. Beside
s, don’t forget many of these folks will not be in organised parties. They’ll drive to the dale in their own transport, and they’ll come right here. We have no control over them.”

  “There is a field about a hundred yards away,” I told him. “Just beyond that cottage and small-holding.”

  “Flat, is it? And dry?”

  “I think so. We can inspect it now,” I suggested.

  We walked along the lane towards an old stone cottage with smoke rising from its chimney. Hens clucked in the yard and there was a goat tethered among the apple trees in a small orchard. An elderly woman was sweeping the doorstep with a large stiff brush and Sergeant Bairstow addressed her.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “This field? Do you know whose it is?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Awd Arthur Craggs. Up yonder,” and she pointed to a farmhouse almost hidden by trees. It overlooked the valley and the Abbey from its elevated site.

  “Thanks.”

  The field was ideal. There were two wide entrances, one at each end. Each was large enough to permit coaches and cars to turn off the lane as they entered the valley from both directions. It was a large, flat area of grass which had once been two fields, and the surface was solid. We tramped across it, testing the ground with our heels and trying to estimate how many vehicles it would contain.

  “Even if it rains,” I said “this surface will be sound enough. They won’t get bogged down — it’s solid enough to take the buses, isn’t it?”

  “I reckon it is, Nick. It’s just what we need. But it won’t rain,” chuckled Bairstow. “I have it on good authority! Father Summerson says he’s praying for a fine day. He assures me it will be fine and that there will be no rain and no weather problems. He’s not even thinking of a wet weather programme or an awning for the altar!”

  “That’s faith for you!” I said. “But God works in mysterious ways!”

  “Then let’s hope he approves of this field as a car park!”

  We decided not to take the car up to Arthur Craggs’ farm, but walked up the steep, unmade track and found ourselves in an expansive and rather untidy farmyard. Other than a few bantams pecking for scraps, there was no sign of life, so we went to the house. The door was open so we knocked and shouted, and a woman called, “T’ dooer’s oppen.”

  We knew it was an invitation and so we stepped in. A farmer and his wife were sitting at a large, scrubbed kitchen table, each with a mug of tea and a huge slice of cake before them.

  “Sit down,” she said without waiting for any introductions and went across to the kettle which was boiling on the Aga. Being familiar with the customary hospitality of the local farmers, we settled on chairs at the table, and she produced a mug of hot tea and a massive chunk of fruit cake for each of us. We weren’t given the luxury of plates.

  “Is it about me stock register?” said the man.

  “No,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “Are you Arthur Craggs?”

  “There’s neearbody else of that name lives here,” he said, grinning widely and showing a mouthful of stained and rotten teeth. He would be in his late sixties, I reckoned, a ruddy-faced man with a few days growth of beard around his jowls and chin. His eyes were light grey and clear and he wore rough working clothes, corduroy trousers with leather leggings and hob-nailed boots. We had arrived at ‘owance time’, as they called their mid-morning break and even though this couple did not know us, we were expected to share their food. His wife, a plain and simple woman, now settled at the table but did not speak.

  “Well,” said Sergeant Bairstow, “this is lovely cake and a welcome cup of tea.”

  “Thoo’ll ‘ave cum aboot summat else, though?” Those eyes flashed cheekily, playfully even. He knew we wanted some favour from him.

  “Yes. You’ll have heard that a service is planned in the Abbey, in August.”

  “Aye,” he said, those sharp eyes watching us.

  “Well,” said the sergeant, “we are looking for somewhere to park the buses and cars. We understand that the field just this side of the Abbey belongs to you.”

  “Aye,” he said, not volunteering anything.

  “Well,” said Sergeant Bairstow, “we wondered if you would permit the church authorities to use it as a car and coach-park, just for that one afternoon.”

  “And dis thoo think they’d let me graze my cattle and sheep in yon Abbey, then? There’s some nice grass in there. Or mebbe they might let me use yan o’ their choches or chapils as a cattle shed, eh?” and he laughed at his own jokes. “Christians share things, deeam’t they?”

  It was clear we were dealing with a difficult and stubborn old character, but Sergeant Bairstow plodded on.

  “It would be needed all day, I reckon,” he said. “On 24th August, it’s a few months away yet, but we need to be finalizing our plans … ”

  “Well, Sergeant,” he said, sipping from his mug. “Ah might ‘ave sheep in yon field by then, or coos, or even some beeasts Ah might be aiming o” buying. There again, Ah might decide to put some poultry ‘uts in there … thoo sees, Sergeant, Ah ‘m a busy farmer and my lands are needed all t’ time, for summat or even for summat else. All’s allus shifting things about … nivver stops … ”

  “It would be required only for that one day … ”

  “Yar day’s t’same as onny other in my mind,” he said. “It maks neea difference what day it is. Besides, Sergeant, Ah’s nut a Catholic, and it’s them lot that wants to come, isn’t it?”

  “I expect there’ll be pilgrims of all faiths on the day,” Sergeant Bairstow said truthfully.

  “Well,” said Craggs, “Ah’s nut gahin to say they can ‘ave yon field. It’s a lang while off yit, and Ah just might want to use it mesell.”

  And he got up from the table.

  With that note of finality, we made a move towards the door, and Sergeant Bairstow added, “Thanks for the lowance. But can we ask you to think about it? For the good of the village, really, to keep all the traffic off the roads?”

  “Aye,” said Arthur Craggs, with those eyes twinkling and almost mocking us. “Thoo can ask me ti think aboot it.”

  We said nothing to each other until we were clear of his premises, and then Bairstow sighed. “By, Nick, there’s some stubborn old mules around these parts. We need a decision from him — a ‘yes’ decision I might add — before we can go ahead with the planning of this. Do you know him?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t. I’d never had cause to visit this farm, and so Sergeant Bairstow decided to ask someone else to make an approach to the farmer. Rather craftily, he discovered that Craggs had married in the Waindale Methodist Chapel and therefore asked the local Methodist minister to plead with Craggs. But this failed too. The cunning old farmer refused to commit himself one way or the other.

  His indecision created an enormous problem for the organisers and for us. We began to look at several other alternatives for car and coach-parking, all grossly inconvenient but vitally necessary.

  And then, in late June, Sergeant Bairstow received a very unexpected telephone call.

  “It’s Craggs,” said the voice. “That field. Ah sha’n’t be needing it on t’day of yon service. Thoo can ‘ave it, Sergeant. Mak sure t’ gates is shut when you’ve finished wiv it,” and he put down the telephone.

  The relief was tremendous, and the arrangements went ahead with a new impetus. And then the big day dawned. It was fine and warm, a beautiful day as Father Summerson had predicted. During the previous week, the church authorities had fulfilled their role; the signs, toilets, first aid, lost children and lost property — everything had been fixed in readiness and the huge empty field bore enormous signs proclaiming it as the ‘Car and Coach-Park’.

  Until lunch-time, things went very smoothly. Then, as the time for the commencement of the service approached, the traffic intensified. With an hour to go, the tiny valley and its narrow lanes were congested with slow-moving vehicles, all heading for the car-park. Special constables and regular officers were guiding the
m along and ensuring none parked on the verges or roadside, but the queue grew longer and longer. There was clearly a delay of some kind at the head of the queue.

  “Nick,” Sergeant Bairstow had come to investigate the problem. “Pop along and see what the hold-up is.”

  When I arrived at the field, I soon discovered the reason. Farmer Craggs had positioned himself at one entrance, and his wife was at the other; each was equipped with a card-table and a money-box and they had erected crude hand-painted notices which said, ‘Parking, Coaches £3; cars 10/-; motorcycles 5/-; pedal cycles 1 shilling” and they were taking a fortune.

  The queues, which extended in both directions from the gates, were the result of motorists and coach drivers pausing while having to pay. I had no idea whether this was part of the deal which had been struck over the use of this field, and knew I could not intervene. It was private premises. But the queue was lengthening and the delayed people would interrupt the Mass by their late arrival. I suggested to the passengers in several cars and coaches that they disembark now, before parking, and so they did. Others copied them, and soon we had a steady stream of pilgrims entering the ruins of this hallowed place as the drivers waited to park.

  When I returned to the entrance, I found Sergeant Bairstow talking to Father Summerson.

  “Well, Nick?”

  I explained the cause of the hold-up, and Father Summerson grimaced. “The crafty old character!” he said. “He demanded a fee from us too and now he’s charging the drivers!”

  I could see it all; the cunning old farmer had withheld his permission until he knew the church would be willing to pay almost any price to have access to his field. I did not ask what price he had demanded, but then to ask parking fees as well …

  “It’s all cash too!” said Sergeant Bairstow. “He’ll make a fortune today!”

  “But he has saved us a lot of problems,” said Father Summerson generously. “We must not be too harsh about him; after all, it is his field and I’m sure we must have inconvenienced him somewhat.”