But surely the worst experience to have occurred in our force was when I was an Aide to the CID at Strensford. Somehow, a combination of events managed to lose Her Majesty the Queen.
The intelligent reader will ask: how on earth can anyone lose the Queen?
It happened like this.
Her Majesty had a very important engagement in London one evening, one which could not be cancelled. It was scheduled to finish around 9 p.m. But she also had an equally important engagement in Edinburgh at 10 a.m. the following morning. She therefore decided to travel by royal train, leaving London at 10 p.m. with her entourage. She would sleep on the train, and it was decided that the royal train would break its journey around midnight, when it would be guided into a quiet, peaceful and secure siding until around 7.30 a.m., when it would resume its journey, to arrive in Edinburgh around 9.30 a.m., in good time for Her Majesty’s 10 a.m. engagement. Thus the royal train would be parked somewhere for about seven hours. That place had to be secure, private and yet accessible to the main London-Edinburgh route. And what better place than a tiny branch line on the north-eastern edge of the North York Moors?
It was therefore decreed that the royal train would be diverted off the main line and through some scenic countryside which embraced the branch line that led from Thirsk into the hills. The line passed through the villages of Little Cringle, Harksworth and Crossby before regaining the main line some fifteen miles to the north. The Beeching Axe closed this line in 1964, but the tracks were still there, and it was ideal for this purpose.
The royal train would remain overnight in Little Cringle Station, which stood a mile or so from the village after which it was named, and it was the duty of our police force to provide security and protection to the train and its VIP passengers during its stay. I was one of the CID men detailed for that duty, one of several, in fact. My role was to arrive at Little Cringle Station at 11.30 p.m. and remain there on security duties until departure of the train next morning. The royal train was expected to arrive at 12.35 a.m.
Armed with my flask of coffee and a box of sandwiches, I drove through the dark lanes to Little Cringle and reported to the sergeant in charge at the deserted station. I was posted to a bridge overlooking the line and had to stop anarchists and their ilk from dropping bombs onto the royal train. I had no firearm, only my detective stave and a personal radio. I hoped the anarchists would never know that.
And so, that fine May night, I walked up and down that bridge, waiting for the train to appear. The expected time of arrival passed with no sign of it. Another half an hour passed and still there was no sign, and I could see my colleagues on the station moving around in concern.
Clearly, there was a problem of some kind, for trains with the Queen on board should never be late. I knew I must not leave my post without good reason, and so I walked up and down, puzzled and growing increasingly concerned as time passed without any reports. Then the detective sergeant came to me, walking quickly through the night.
‘Nick,’ he said, ‘we’ve a problem. Come into the office.’
I followed him into the disused station master’s office which had been utilised as a control room for this occasion, and found the others sitting around.
‘Right,’ said Detective Sergeant Proctor. ‘We’re all here, and this is the problem. The royal train should have arrived here at 12.35 a.m. and it hasn’t. It has Her Majesty on board and members of her entourage, including her private police officer. I have checked with British Rail and our own control room, and they maintain the train is where it should be. They say it is here. Well, I for one know it bloody well isn’t. You all know that it isn’t here, and you can’t just spirit away an engine and several coaches full of VIPs. We have a radio link with the train, of course, and the chap on duty says the train is in its siding, safe and sound, and Her Majesty is sleeping. He reckons he is at Little Cringle as arranged, and he will not accept any other suggestion. And the main line is clear, gentlemen, so the royal train is not on the main line. British Transport police have checked.’
‘Then where the hell is it?’ asked one of the detectives.
‘We don’t know. The signalman at Thirsk, whose job was to switch the points for it to enter this line, has gone off duty. We’re having a man sent to have words with him, to see if he’s diverted it along the wrong bloody line — either by design or by carelessness.’
That this might have been done deliberately presented a chilling scenario and had horrific implications for the effectiveness of the overall security arrangements surrounding Her Majesty.
‘But if the chap in charge of the train thinks he’s at Little Cringle, or says he’s at Little Cringle, something is wrong.’ I had my little say. ‘Could the royal train have got into the wrong hands?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t start thinking like that!’ groaned the sergeant. ‘It’s bad enough losing the bloody train, let’s not start thinking somebody’s kidnapped the Queen! This isn’t a bloody novel, Nick, it’s real life!’
‘It must have got shunted into the wrong branch line,’ concluded Proctor. ‘It’s the only possible answer. Now, who’s got the map?’
Someone produced an Ordnance Survey map of the district which the CID had used to identify which bridges to supervise and which roads to patrol, and Proctor examined it. After a moment, he said, ‘Nick, here a minute. This is your patch, isn’t it?’
He indicated a branch line which led from just south of Thirsk and through the hills into Ryedale, reaching the villages of Maddleskirk and Elsinby, both on my own beat.
‘It’s not used by service trains, Sergeant,’ I told him. ‘But it is used occasionally. Maddleskirk College do have trains visiting Maddleskirk Station to deliver boys to the college. Special trains come at the start of each term and at the end of each term. The line is still open, but there’s no public service now, no through trains.’
As he spoke, a radio call came from Headquarters. It was to say that an officer had visited the home of the signalman in question, but he was not there. His mother said he’d only been doing the job for a few weeks and that he’d come home, got changed and gone fishing. He was a keen fisherman and hadn’t gone to bed because he now had two days off and wanted to make full use of them. She had no idea where he’d gone; he rarely told her. She did say that he usually went up Swaledale, but he might have gone over into Eskdale looking for salmon, or there again he might have gone to Whitby to do some sea fishing from a boat. The message also said that, whatever line the train had been sent along, its points had now reverted to their original position to cater for main-line expresses, and so no one knew which line had been used. We put an All-Stations message out for all police officers to seek this signalman; he had to be interviewed without delay.
‘Right, Nick, I’m going to send you over to Maddleskirk. It’ll take you, what? Half an hour from here? Check that line, will you, and see if you can find the royal train. I’ll have checks made on the other lines — there’s lots branch off the main line between York and Darlington. Yours is the one immediately before the one that should have been utilised; that signalman could have pulled the wrong lever.’
And so I went about my mission. But when I got to Maddleskirk Station, which, like the one at Little Cringle, lies a mile out of the village, there was no sign of a train. I motored through the valley to Elsinby and again found no sign of a train, but then, at the tiny halt beyond Elsinby at Ploatby Junction, I could see the dark bulk of a stationary train. Ploatby Junction was not really a station, only a mere halt where, in the past, the line divided. One branch extended from here to Malton, while the other went into Ashfordly. Now it was unmanned and unused; there was not even a sign to announce its name. I drove steadily along the land and parked on the ashen surface which had once been a car park. There was no one around, although one of the carriages of the still train did bear dim lights.
I went towards that carriage, noting it was now 2.15 a.m. I tapped on the door, hoping to God it did n
ot contain the Queen’s apartments, and it was opened by a smart-suited man with close-cropped hair.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘CID,’ I said, producing my warrant card. ‘D/PC Rhea, local force.’
‘Come in, and don’t slam the door,’ he said.
I went in and found myself in a mobile office; he gave me a mug of steaming coffee and then asked, ‘Where the hell have your lot been? We’ve been here the best part of a couple of hours with never a sign of any liaison . . . talk about security . . .’
‘You’re in the wrong station,’ I said. ‘This is not Little Cringle, this is Ploatby Junction.’
‘You’re not serious? Have we passed Cringle?’
‘No. You’re not on the right line,’ I said. ‘You’ve been sent down the wrong branch line . . .’
‘My God! Is this line busy? Hell, if something runs into us . . .’
‘No, no problem,’ I told him. ‘It’s disused, it’s quite safe, there’s no traffic on this line at night,’ and I explained things to him.
‘My God, trust British Rail! So what do we do now?’
‘I suggest you remain here till morning,’ I said. ‘It’s safe, you can be back on the main line within a few minutes, although you’ll have to reverse all the way, and you can be on your way on time tomorrow without any problems.’ I explained the geography of the district to him with the aid of a map in his mobile office.
‘I’ll check with BR and suggest that. You know, when your lot said we were on the wrong line, we thought it could be somebody breaking in to your wavelengths, somebody out to harm Her Majesty. From leaving the main line, the time it took us to arrive here was just the same as if we’d gone to Little Cringle. We saw this platform and halted, just as normal. Mind, I did find it odd that no one from the local gendarmerie came to liaise with us.’
‘I’d better radio Headquarters and tell them where you are,’ I said.
And so I did. The detectives from Little Cringle all rushed over to Ploatby Junction, and we adopted our guardian role from that point onwards. At 7.25 a.m. the driver started his engine, and the huge train slowly reversed towards the distant main line, where another signalman had come on duty. Her Majesty and her entourage had had a pleasant night’s sleep, totally unaware that they had spent the night in an unscheduled location and blissfully unaware of our alarm.
I arrived home just as Mary was getting up and dressing the family. I stayed out of bed and helped and then had my breakfast with my wife and little family of four children.
‘Did you have a busy night?’ asked Mary when we had time to chat.
‘I was involved in the royal visit to Ploatby,’ I said, but I don’t think she believed the Queen had slept within sight of our lofty police house.
I wondered how that tiny community of two or three farms and a dozen or so houses at Ploatby would have reacted if they had known that Her Majesty had spent the night among them.
Later the rumours did begin to circulate, and one of the local men said to me, ‘Noo then, Mr Rhea, Ah’ve ’eard tell that Her Majesty had ti sleep on yon station t’other week. Now, there’s no fire there, no waiting-room, no toilets, nowhere for a cup o’ tea or a sandwich. Nowt. Noo, if Ah’d known that, she could have used my bed for t’night — Ah’d have moved out, tha knows, if they’d come and asked. T’sheets wad have been warmed up and we’ve allus got eggs and bacon in for breakfast. It’s nut right, is it, letting a Queen sleep on a draughty station like that when there’s folks here wi’ spare beds and spare rooms?’
‘I’ll pass the word on in case it happens again,’ I promised him. In fact, it did happen again, for before the tracks were removed, this line was considered ideal for parking the royal train at night. But I don’t think any of its passengers enjoyed bed-and-breakfast in Ploatby.
Another VIP visit caused a bit of a flutter in Aidensfield. I learned of it through a chat with George, the landlord of the Brewers’ Arms.
‘I’m not sure whether this is a matter for you or not,’ he said, ‘but we’ve a famous person coming to the pub for dinner next week. Friday night.’
‘Is he staying at the Brewers’ Arms?’ I asked.
‘No. He’s just coming for dinner. He’s arriving with Sir Eldric and Lady Tippet-Greve, and they have requested total secrecy. They do not want his visit spoiled by sightseers, and they have sworn me to total secrecy.’
‘Is it a politician or a member of the royal family?’ I asked. ‘We don’t normally take an interest in visits by those who are not in that category.’
‘No, he’s a singer,’ said George. ‘He’s staying with Sir Eldric and Lady Tippet-Greve at High Hall for five days. He’s doing a spot of grouse-shooting on the moors and wants to see something of North York Moors and the scenery. And he wants to see a typical English pub, to have a pint and a meal there.’
‘So they’re bringing him to the Brewers’ Arms, eh?’ I smiled. ‘Well, they couldn’t find a better example of a village pub, George. You’ll feed him well?’
‘There’s a party of a dozen coming,’ said George. ‘I’m having the dining room decorated for the job, but I thought I’d better tell you, just in case we get trouble in the village.’
‘If no one knows he’s coming, George, I think things will pass peacefully on Friday.’
‘Aye, but word gets around, you know; I mean, once he’s inside, folks’ll recognise him and they’ll be ringing their friends and they’ll come to the pub, and before we know it, there’ll be chaos.’
‘I’m on an attachment to CID, George,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to get another uniformed constable to pay a visit.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t want that; I don’t want anyone outside Aidensfield to know he’s coming. If a uniformed bobby hangs about, folks will sense there’s something going on. Can’t you come in civvies, off duty? Just to be around, just in case? Their tables are booked for eight. They’ve taken the whole dining room.’
It was an earnest plea and, as I was not anticipating having to work that evening, I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do, George, but I really ought to know who’s coming. Just in case.’
‘You won’t tell a soul, will you?’ he pleaded. ‘I mean, I could get into a load of bother if word gets out.’
‘It’s our secret, George,’ I assured him.
‘It’s Bing Crosby!’ he said. ‘Bing Crosby’s coming to the Brewers’ Arms!’
I knew this would not present the kind of problems one associated with the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, but if word did reach the wider public, there could be a crowd and there could be problems that were associated with crowds. There might be traffic congestion in the village, and if some wilder elements came along, there could be trouble such as minor fights and the kind of bother one expects from silly youths, especially if they resort to drinking on the street. I also knew George wasn’t imagining this, for it had been reported that ‘The Old Groaner’ was in the area on a private visit.
He was not performing at any concerts, and the entire visit was being regarded as a personal and private one. Until now, I’d had no idea he was acquainted with the Tippet-Greves.
‘I’ll be there,’ I promised George.
In the days that followed, everyone in Aidensfield and district heard the news, and when I arrived at the pub with Mary (in whom I had confided the secret), I found it packed. People who never normally patronised the Brewers’ Arms were there, old ladies with glazed eyes were there, youngsters who had heard about Crosby and weren’t quite sure what he did were there, and everyone was struggling to buy drinks at the bar and to catch a glimpse of the crooner.
‘He got here early,’ said George to me in a confidential whisper. ‘Sir Eldric’s party is in the dining room. We’ve drawn the curtains for privacy.’
‘Thanks. A good idea,’ I agreed, for it was almost dark anyway, being a late September day. By this time, a small crowd had gathered outside, hoping to catch sight of Crosby, but his early arrival had de
feated them. It was a pity, I felt, for they were local people who were simply standing there to catch a sight of this world-famous singer. Inside, however, the place was packed. I moved among the crowd, fighting for space as Mary chatted to some friends, fans of Crosby, who had heard the whispered rumours. A couple of hours passed in this way, and then George hailed me.
‘There’s a coach arrived!’ he said. ‘In the car park at the back. I can’t cope with a coach-load of fans, Nick. Can you send ’em on their way?’
‘I’ll have words with them,’ I assured him.
I went into the car park at the rear of the inn and saw a crowd of men descending from a mini-bus, a twelve-seater. Others joined them from a couple of cars parked behind. There’d be twenty men in all. But no coach.
I had to be diplomatic, for I was not wearing uniform, and besides, I could not ban these men from the Brewers’ Arms. I had no such power. Besides, a too-forceful attempt to deter them would only result in their determination to find out why.
‘It’s full, gents!’ I said. ‘Packed out. You’ll never reach the bar.’
‘Want a bet, mister?’ grinned one of them. ‘We don’t play rugger for nothing. We can always make a scrum. Thanks, but we’ll get our pints. We’ll be no trouble if we’re left alone.’
And they marched steadfastly across the car park to the back door of the inn. As they did so, a little man carrying a pork-pie hat emerged and walked towards me. I waited in the car park, watching the departing rugger team as they filed, one by one, into the packed inn. I hoped they would not cause bother — I could always ring for a duty car if bother was threatened.
The rugger team passed the little man, and he seemed lost as he noticed me standing in the centre of the car park.
‘Say,’ he said in that soft and most distinctive voice, ‘where’s the john?’
‘It’s a bit primitive,’ I said jokingly. ‘A relic of the last century.’
‘I don’t care,’ he chuckled. ‘Gee, I am enjoying this.’
‘It is Mr Crosby, isn’t it?’ I ventured.
CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9) Page 16
