And so the day was a success. Craggs’ field did accommodate most of the traffic and, as so often happens on these occasions, most of the vehicles were somehow parked before the service began. I went into the Mass and so did Sergeant Bairstow; it was a moving experience to see those ancient walls filled with people at prayer after so many centuries.
It would be some three weeks later when I saw Farmer Craggs again. He was crossing the market-place in Ashfordly and I hailed him.
“Thanks for helping us out that Sunday,” I said.
“Ah’s done meself a load of harm,” he said, “lettin’ yon field off like that.”
“Harm?” I asked. “What sort of harm?”
“Somebody’s told t’ taxman about it, and now he’s been through my money like a dose o’ salts, checking this, checking that, counting egg money, taty money. Gahin back years, he is … Ah shall be worse off than ivver now … ”
And he skulked away towards the bank.
I never did know who had informed the Inland Revenue about Mr Craggs, but it was not a very Christian thing to do.
Chapter 5
Tenants of life’s middle state
Securely plac”d between the small and great.
WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800)
*
While serving the rural community which comprised my beat at Aidensfield, it dawned upon me that Crampton rarely featured in my duty commitments. But I did not neglect the village. I paid regular visits to its telephone kiosk during my patrols and from time to time, performed traffic duty outside the gates of the Manor. Whenever His Lordship and Her Ladyship hosted one of their frequent and glittering social functions, my role was to prevent people in smart clothes and equally smart cars from interrupting the routine of Crampton by indiscriminate parking. A car thoughtlessly parked in a farm gateway can cause untold havoc and delay in a rural timetable. Afterwards, I was usually invited into the servants’ quarters for a meal, an acceptable reward.
It was the ordinary people of Crampton who seldom featured in my work. Apart from the occasional firearms certificate to renew or motoring offender to interview, there was rarely anything of greater moment. No serious crimes were committed; there were no domestic rows or breaches of the peace of any kind. There was no council estate and no pub either; these facts might have been responsible for the happy absence of social problems, but this was not the entire answer. It appeared to me that the inhabitants of this peaceful place lived their quiet lives in an oasis of blissful contentment.
It was almost as if they lived on an island of ancient peace in the midst of a turbulent modern world. Without doubt, Crampton was different from many other villages, including those on my patch and elsewhere, but I could not immediately identify the subtle points of difference. By local standards, it was a medium-sized place of perhaps 300 inhabitants with a Methodist chapel and an Anglican parish church complete with a very scholarly vicar. There was a shop-cum-post office, a village school, several farms and many cottages, while prominent on the outskirts was the Manor.
These factors placed it squarely on the same basis as many local villages, while its pleasant situation overlooking the gentle and meandering River Rye gave it an added scenic dimension. It was a place of remarkable calm and beauty, one which was well off the proverbial beaten track and which therefore avoided the plague of tourism and the subsidiary diseases it left in its wake.
The entire village was constructed of mature local stone which grew more charming with the slow passage of time. The gentle tan shades of the stone; the careless patchwork of red pantile roofs interspaced by the occasional thatched cottage; the tiny well-kept gardens which glowed rich with colourful flowers from spring until autumn and the whispering trees in the surrounding parkland, all combined to provide Crampton with a serenity that was the envy of many. Its way of life echoed of centuries past.
The pace was so unhurried; the inhabitants were shy and retiring and even the schoolchildren went about their business in a quiet, well-ordered fashion. The handful of teenagers who lived in the village never caused me any concern and I often wondered how they spent their free time. They, and everyone else, seemed very content with their lot, but I felt they were not subdued in any way. As time went by, Crampton became an object of some fascination and even curiosity; I wondered what made it so different and why it existed in such a quiet but distinctive way.
The first clue came one Sunday.
It was 10.15 a.m. on a bright, sunny morning in April and I was standing outside the village telephone kiosk, making one of my points. I had hoisted my motorcycle on to its stand and it was leaning at an awkward angle with my crash helmet perched on the fuel tank. Its radio burbled incomprehensively in the peace of Crampton, but none of its messages were for me. This was the quiet scene as I waited in case the duty sergeant came to visit me, or in case someone from the office rang me on this public telephone.
All around, the birds were singing with the joys of spring and the village presented an idyllic picture of rustic calm. Its neat cottages nestled along each side of a trio of short streets; each of those streets clung to rising slopes of the valley as the morning sun glinted from their polished windows and fresh paintwork. Then I heard the sound of an expensive car engine.
Instinctively glancing in the direction of the noise, I saw a vintage Rolls-Royce emerge from the gates of Crampton Manor. It crawled sedately along the gravel road with uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, and I could see His Lordship and Her Ladyship in the rear seat. They were on their way to church. The splendid car, with every part shining after years of devoted care and constant polishing, cruised into the first street and stopped. The immaculately dressed Lord Crampton, a tall, slender man who oozed with the aristocratic breeding of his kind, climbed out and rapped on the door of a cottage with his silver-knobbed cane. Without waiting for a response, he moved to the adjoining cottage and repeated this action, then moved on to more cottages.
As he rapped successively on a sequence of doors, the car inched forward and then disappeared into Moor Street. I left my place near the kiosk and hurried in that direction, ostensibly upon a short patrol but in reality fascinated by this behaviour. I was in time to see His Lordship rap on a further four doors, then he climbed into his car which cruised up the street, turned right at the top and vanished from view.
But now, Moor Street was alive with people dressed in their Sunday finery. From all the houses visited by His Lordship, there emerged families in their Sunday best, and as they trooped up the street towards the parish church on the hilltop, they in turn knocked on all the doors they passed. More people emerged and in seconds, Moor Street was filled with smart people of every age, all heading towards their parish church.
Now the Rolls-Royce was cruising down Dale Street and it halted at the top where a repeat performance was commenced. After his Lordship had rapped on four doors, the villagers emerged and knocked on others, and soon the populace of Dale Street was heading towards the church. As they walked and chattered happily, the Rolls turned into Middle Street which was where I happened to be. I had now returned to my kiosk and as the splendid vehicle turned towards me, Her Ladyship waved graciously and I responded with a polite salute, hatless though I was. I wondered if my action appeared to be the submissive touching of a forelock, but it was really a courteous acknowledgement.
The magnificent vehicle now stopped in this street. His Lordship, silver-topped cane in hand, thwacked more doors before ordering the car to continue. Off it went and by the time it halted at the lych-gate at the top of Middle Street, the entire Anglican population of Crampton, men, women and children, was marching towards the church. I’ve no idea how the Methodists, Catholics and other faiths fitted into this pattern and I did wonder, for just a fleeting moment, whether I was expected to attend. But I didn’t make the gesture. I saw that His Lordship and Her Ladyship were first to enter the church, and noted that the early worshippers stood outside until the VIPs took their seats. Then everyone filed
in. Only when the congregation was seated and the church full, did I hear the organist strike up the first hymn. It was precisely ten-thirty.
As I observed this quaint church-going arrangement, I realised I had witnessed a custom which had probably endured for centuries. I could imagine many past Lord Cramptons doing this self-same task from their ponies-and-traps, or from their coach-and-fours, and I now knew that I was working in a village whose ways had changed little since feudal times. The Rolls had replaced the horses; that was one visible sign of these modem times.
Few outsiders would be aware of this system of calling the faithful to church and I wondered whether the presence of individuals was monitored or checked in any way. Did His Lordship know when anyone had missed the service? And if so, what did he do? It was by pure chance that I had been in the village as this ritual was being executed, and it did give me a vital insight into the regulated mode of life in this charming, if somewhat old-fashioned village.
That Crampton continued to function along ancient feudal lines became more evident when I realised that the entire village was owned by Crampton Estate. It owned all the farms, the cottages and the shop; furthermore, most of the inhabitants worked on the estate. Some, however, were retired and continued to live in estate cottages for a meagre rent. I did learn, however, that one or two of the homes were now rented to younger village people who did not work for Crampton Estate, having secured work elsewhere. As time progressed, the number of estate workers was dwindling, but nonetheless, the estate had employed the parents and grandparents of these younger people, so the link remained.
From that time, as I toured the village on my periodic patrols, I did notice that several of the smaller cottages were unoccupied and sadly noted that some were falling into dereliction. Even if Crampton was clinging to its ancient ways, the Estate’s power was being reduced simply because people were no longer working for it and occupying its cottages. Sooner or later, these would be sold, I guessed, perhaps to be revived as second homes for wealthy outsiders, or even to be turned into holiday cottages by the Estate.
One such cottage was occupied by eighty-two-year-old Emily Finley, widow of the late Archie Finley who had been one of the Estate’s carpenters. After Archie’s death six years ago, Emily had continued to live in their beautiful little home for the tiniest of rents. She was well looked after by the Estate from both the financial and welfare point of view, a fact which made her old age and widowhood as happy as possible. Then Emily died, and I received a telephone call from the Estate Manager, Alan Ridley.
“It’s Ridley at the Estate Office,” said the voice one lunch-time. “You’ve probably heard that old Mrs Finley’s died?”
“Yes.” Word had reached me via the rural grapevine. “I had heard. There’s no problem, is there?”
I was thinking in terms of the coroner and whether the death was in any way mysterious or suspicious; if so, I’d have to arrange a post-mortem, with all the resultant enquiries and maybe an inquest. A Sudden Death, as we termed this kind of happening, entailed a lot of police work.
“No, nothing like that, Mr Rhea. She died naturally, of old age I’d imagine. Her doctor’s seen her and has issued the certificate. But it’s her funeral on Wednesday in Crampton Parish Church. Eleven in the morning. The Estate is acting as undertaker. We do this for most of our employees and past employees and their spouses, free of charge, of course. There’ll be a lot of cars and people about and we wondered if you would come along and keep an eye on things.”
“Of course.” I was only too pleased to oblige.
“I’d like to meet you on site to discuss the parking arrangements for the cortege, and of course, His Lordship’s vehicle and those of the chief mourners.”
And so I agreed. We fixed a date and time, and this aspect presented no real problems. We could utilise the village street for parking the cars of any incomers, while the church had adequate space to accommodate and park the funeral procession including the vehicles used by His Lordship and the official party. Most of the mourners, being residents of Crampton, would be on foot anyway, for it seemed that Emily had no close family — no children, brothers or sisters.
The body would remain in the cottage until the day of the funeral, unlike some villages where it would be taken into the church the previous night. It was scheduled to depart from Holly Cottage at ten minutes to eleven and to arrive at the church in time for the eleven o’clock commencement of the service. I decided to arrive at Crampton, in my best uniform and white gloves, by no later than ten-thirty.
Before embarking on this duty, I consulted Force Standing Orders to see if there was anything I should know about my conduct at a funeral. I learned that the only specific instruction said, “When passing a funeral cortege, members of the Force, of whatever rank, will salute the coffin.”
Just before ten-thirty that Wednesday, therefore, I presented myself outside Emily Finley’s cottage in the full knowledge that there would be little to do. But I did know that the presence of a uniformed police officer at a village funeral meant a great deal to the relatives of the deceased — for one thing, it added a touch of local stature to the final journey of the dear departed.
As I approached, I discovered that the entire population of the village had arrived outside Holly Cottage. Old and young alike were there, and I learned that the Estate had given all its workers the morning off so that they could attend the funeral. Dressed in their dark mourning clothes, the villagers congregated around the tiny house, spilling onto the road and across the smooth grass which fronted these pretty little homes. Due to the numbers, I did find myself having to keep them in some sort of order as several pressed forward and obstructed the route the coffin would take. It did mean, of course, that Mrs Finley was assured of a fine send-off. I felt she would have been surprised at the turnout, but on reflection accepted that this response was normal in this village.
Then the hearse arrived. But it wasn’t a motor hearse, nor was it a horse-drawn vehicle. Some villages, I know, did make use of a black horse-drawn hearse with a smartly groomed black horse to draw it, but this was something entirely different. Between the ranks of assembled people, there appeared six young men smartly dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties and bowler hats. I blinked as I saw them; they were all so like one another that they were difficult to tell apart. They resembled sextuplets, I thought, for they were like peas in the proverbial pod and they even moved in unison. In sombre silence, they were guiding something towards the cottage. It was a small four-wheeled trolley constructed of smart oak, with metal springs, spoked wheels and pneumatic tyres. Planks of oak formed two platforms, one above the other, the top one being about waist height. This polished and well-oiled vehicle, reminiscent of a pram without its cradle, moved silently and smoothly at the hands of its attendants. I noticed that Alan Ridley followed, now acting in his capacity as Estate undertaker. He was also clad in a black suit and bowler, and the little procession came to rest at the door of Mrs Finley’s cottage.
Like everyone else, I stood in respectful silence to observe the proceedings and then the six men, preceded by Alan Ridley, moved indoors. They left the trolley outside. After a few minutes, the six emerged bearing the coffin on three strong slings which passed beneath it.
With obvious experience of similar small houses, they manoeuvred the coffin from the cramped space within and did so without dislodging the solitary wreath which lay on top. They hoisted the coffin on to the trolley, folded and stored the slings, then Alan Ridley approached with several more wreaths in his arms. These were carefully arranged on the lower level of the trolley hearse. When everything was in position, the funeral procession moved off. I walked ahead to halt any oncoming traffic that might arrive. To the sound of a tolling bell, the sombre procession filled the narrow confines of Middle Street as it climbed slowly towards the church; the six men did not have an easy task, guiding and pushing their precious load up the slope, but they succeeded.
They grew redd
er and redder in the face as the climb steepened and at the top, the vicar awaited beneath the lych-gate, the traditional resting place of corpses on their way to burial. His Lordship and Her Ladyship also waited at a discreet distance, standing close to the main door. Beneath the wooden cover of the lych-gate, the six bearers halted for just a moment to regain their breath and wipe the perspiration from their brows, and then the vicar began to recite the preliminary prayers. At this stage, the coffin, still on its wheels, was steered into the church. As it moved down the aisle, the accompanying mourners filed silently into their seats.
I saw Lord and Lady Crampton enter their pew as the coffin arrived at its position before the altar. I stayed at the back of the church.
At eleven o’clock prompt, the service began.
Even though I had never known Emily, I found both the service and the interment to be very moving. I gained the impression that the Estate and its workers were like a large and happy family; a true community which was being eradicated through the progress of time. Had Emily been buried by her few relatives, the church would not have been so full, nor would her funeral have been such an important event for the village. As things were, she was given a fitting farewell by those who knew and respected her. Following the interment, there was the traditional funeral lunch of ham in the Tenants’ Room at the Hall. Everyone was invited, including myself.
There, I was privately thanked by Alan Ridley for the small part I had played, and I learned that the six bearers were three brothers and their three cousins. They all worked on the Estate as carpenters, stone masons, electricians and plumbers. Acting as bearers during Estate funerals was one of their regular additional commitments.
As I motorcycled home afterwards, I realised why this village did not feature greatly in any of my crime returns or in the Divisional Offence Report Register. It was due, I felt, to the family atmosphere of Crampton and the close relationship between everyone who lived and worked here. That closeness affected both their working and private lives.
Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 9
