‘She’s gone,’ I said to Maisie. ‘There’s nothing we can do for her now.’ I returned to the window to close the curtains.
‘Poor old thing,’ she said. ‘She was such a lovely, interesting old lady, but at least she’s died peacefully. I think that’s how she would want to go, Nick; it’s a lovely way really.’
‘There’s no sign of pain on her face,’ I added. ‘She’s totally at peace.’
‘So what happens now?’ asked Maisie.
‘I have to examine her very briefly to make sure she has not been attacked, and I must then examine the interior of the house to make sure there’s been no illegal entry or crime against her or her home. If there are no suspicious circumstances, I can treat it as a routine sudden death. In any case, I’ve got to call in Doctor Williams to certify she’s dead and if he can’t certify the cause of her death, it’ll mean a post-mortem examination, so the coroner will have to be informed. And I have to find her relatives to get her formally identified.’
‘I don’t think she has any,’ Maisie said. ‘I’ve never known any of them visit her or write to her.’
‘She must have somebody,’ I countered. ‘It might mean a search of her letters and family papers . . . not a very pleasant job, but if we can’t get her formally identified, it’ll have to be done. But first, I must examine her.’
My examination was, of necessity, very brief — it entailed a look at her face, head, neck, hands and other exposed places for any sign of a wound, then, easing her forward in the chair to ensure there were no wounds in her back or spinal area or the back of her head, and checking for signs of blood about her clothing. I found none. There were no empty bottles of pills or medicines beside her and I was sure that Miss Gallant had not been attacked, nor had she taken her own life. A tour of the interior of the house, with Maisie in attendance, likewise assured me that no one had unlawfully entered Jasmine Cottage — there was no sign of a housebreaking, theft or attempted crime of any sort such as arson or malicious damage. Maisie was familiar with the contents and state of the cottage, being a regular visitor to Miss Gallant and she supported my assessment.
‘I can safely say this is not a suspicious death,’ I said to Maisie. ‘But thanks for being with me. Now, I must lock up the house and call the doctor.’
Doctor Williams was, by chance, visiting patients in Aidensfield and I was able to locate him very quickly and escort him into Jasmine Cottage. He certified the death of Miss Gallant, but said he could not certify the cause of her death because he had not attended her for some five years.
This meant the coroner had to be notified and so I rang his office. After listening to my account, he ordered a post-mortem; I arranged for her body to be removed to the mortuary of Strensford Hospital for the post-mortem to be conducted as soon as possible. Next I’d have to find someone who could make a formal identification of the body. Ideally, that should be a relative. The problem was that most people in the village, including myself and Maisie, knew her as Miss Gallant — and that was all. So far as I was aware, none knew her Christian name. I could truthfully state that this was the body of the woman I knew as Miss Gallant, but was that her real name and did I really know her? I had no knowledge of her past, no idea of her date of birth, her full name, her home district, her former work or anything else, and I knew I had to return to the house to search it for her personal papers. The coroner would require me to ensure that she was formally identified before authorizing the burial.
After Maurice Merryman, the undertaker, had removed the body to the mortuary, I remained in the house to search for evidence of positive identification. Although I did not conduct a meticulous search of every piece of paper or storage place, I found her bureau. It was full of personal things including writing paper, envelopes, several fountain pens and bottles of different coloured inks but there was no birth certificate, marriage certificate, passport, will or other document of identification. Surprisingly, there were no unanswered letters, although I did find a small file of her rate demands and electricity bills, all paid through the very exclusive Blackstone’s Bank.
It had a branch in Ashfordly, Ashfordly being the central market town for an area rich with members of the aristocracy and landed gentry. It was widely known that they made use of this bank. It made me wonder why Miss Gallant made use of Blackstone’s instead of one of the well-known high street banks because she had never struck me as being a member of the nobility, or an upper-class person or even being suitably wealthy.
During my search of the house, however, I had no trouble locating her pension book and some cash in a money box. From the pension book, I learned that her first name was Letitia and the pension book contained her National Insurance number which might help if I needed to make further enquiries. I removed the cash and counted it — there was nearly £200, a lot of money to have in the house and so I removed it, placed a receipt in the box and took the cash for onward transmission to Ashfordly Police Station for safekeeping. I was now aware that the little house was a possible target for those sharks who prey on the homes of the deceased, sometimes with removal vans — but in this case, they’d have difficulty transporting the heavy furniture along the narrow path. Someone must have had to exercise great skill in getting the larger items into the house — but the prospect of ready cash is always a temptation to unscrupulous villains.
I took possession of her formal documents — the pension book, rate demands, electricity bills and so forth, because they would provide some evidence of her identity and then I left the house. I took the unopened bottle of milk with me; I would give it to old Mr Fishpool at the council houses. He was a gentleman whom I knew was desperately short of money and whom, I knew, was often given food by Miss Gallant. Allowing him to have the milk was the sort of thing Miss Gallant would have done herself. Then I locked the door. As I walked away from the tiny cottage, I turned to look back — it was such a charming place, so unusual and in many ways utterly unique — and it then dawned upon me that I had not seen a solitary family photograph in any of the rooms.
It was extremely rare, I felt, for someone not to have at least one family portrait or picture in the house and with that thought, I walked away. As I left the house, I wondered if this was the prelude to an interesting enquiry during which I must positively identify the lady that everyone knew as Miss Gallant. From the office at my police house, I rang Sergeant Blaketon to notify him of the sudden death and outlined the work I had undertaken, finally explaining that I had arranged a post-mortem at Strensford Hospital.
He expressed satisfaction and asked, ‘Have you informed the relatives?’
‘She hasn’t any, Sergeant,’ I told him.
‘She must have somebody! Who’s going to make the formal identification? You’ll need that for the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages, won’t you? Where’s her birth certificate, Rhea?’
I told him I had been unable to locate it, although I had her pension book, rate demands and so forth, all bearing the name we knew.
‘They’re no good for positive proof, Rhea! Evidence, yes; proof, no. Anybody could have got hold of those! So who is this old dear? I think it’s very strange no one has ever used her Christian name. She has no family pictures about the place and there’s no sign of anything else to positively prove who she is. Proof, Rhea, you need proof, not bits of paper and books with just a name on. Get back to the house and give it a thorough search. We don’t want to have a person buried in somebody else’s name, do we? And it’s the relatives’ job to arrange the funeral, so you must trace someone with responsibility for her. We can’t leave her lying about unburied!’
I thought he was perhaps being rather too cautious for I could not imagine Miss Gallant being the sort of lady to steal someone else’s pension book and adopt that person’s name . . . but you could never be sure. A further search of the house was called for, however distressing that might be. Wondering where to begin, I let myself in and began at her bureau. As with my earlier search,
I failed to locate any of her official documents such as the birth certificate or her will and after removing every scrap of paper, piece by piece, I was convinced those documents were not in the bureau which she appeared to have used as her desk. This meant I had to literally examine every drawer, cupboard, loft, box and other possible hiding place. Old people were notorious for hiding important things in places even they forgot — I knew one old lady who, one summer, concealed a large amount of cash in the ashes bin of her fireplace. Then, in winter, she forgot about the money, lit the fire and the falling ashes burned several hundred pounds’ worth of bank notes.
Another hid her money in a flour bag, the notes not mixing very well when she tried to bake a cake, while an old man hid his cash in the pocket of an old jacket which he gave to a passing tramp — complete with a pocketful of five pound notes. The tramp and his windfall of £500 were never found.
It was with these thoughts in mind that I started a very detailed search of the house, beginning with Miss Gallant’s bedroom. The bedroom was furnished with beautiful antiques and I felt very much a trespasser as I undertook my distasteful duty, but, by a stroke of good fortune, I found what I wanted in a small drawer of her dressing-table. In a white envelope, I found a key labelled ‘Safe Deposit Box, Blackstone’s Bank, Ashfordly’. I took possession of it and then made a search of the other drawers and the wardrobe without finding any papers. But I felt sure the key would provide me with a starting point and decided to visit the bank before searching any further. Half an hour later, I was in the office of John Barlow, the youthful and smartly dressed manager of Blackstone’s Bank in Ashfordly.
In detail, I explained what had happened to Miss Gallant and how my search had not revealed any family members; I also stressed I had to ensure she was positively identified before the coroner would authorize her burial and then I produced the safe deposit box key. I asked if, in these rather exceptional circumstances, I could be allowed to examine her box with a view to establishing her identity and, if possible, tracing family members. I told him that I was in need of two things — her birth certificate if it was available, or perhaps a passport bearing a photograph, and her will if she had made one. That might contain her funeral wishes.
‘Every case must be dealt with on its merits,’ Mr Barlow explained. ‘Now, before we go any further, let me examine our register to see precisely what we are keeping for her.’
Having checked in a register, he told me she had in safekeeping with the bank, one large brown envelope sealed by her, the contents of which were unknown to the bank staff, and a safe deposit box, the key of which I now possessed. Whereas it was normal in some circumstances for a court order to be necessary for someone other than the owner to examine such deposit boxes, in these circumstances, I could look into the envelope, albeit in the presence of two members of the bank staff. However, I could not remove anything from the bank and a note would be placed inside the envelope to record what had transpired this day.
Mr Barlow called for his deputy to join us and to bring in Miss Gallant’s brown envelope and her safe deposit box. As Barlow arranged a cup of coffee for us all, the articles arrived courtesy of Alan Scott, his deputy. The large brown envelope was sealed with some wax and initialled by Miss Gallant with her name beneath the initials. Taking care not to tear it, John Barlow opened the envelope and extracted the contents which he spread across his desk. Among them was a birth certificate and an expired passport. I picked up the passport — it contained her photograph, now well out of date, and her name. John Barlow said he could confirm that the lady who was his customer was the lady in that photograph, i.e. Letitia Gallant, and he would be happy to swear to that fact before the coroner. I took down in my notebook details of the passport, such as its date and place of issue.
Then I opened the birth certificate. As I had now come to expect, it recorded the birth of Letitia Gallant on 4 September 1872, but then I saw that her father was shown as Vernon Gallant, otherwise Viscount Galtreford, a landowner, and her mother was Diana Josephine Gallant, Viscountess Galtreford. Inside the envelope was a note saying her will was in the safe deposit box, along with instructions for her funeral. That provided us with the authority to open the safe deposit box. It contained some jewellery and small items of silver, but there was a will tied in red ribbon, and a note saying ‘my funeral arrangements’.
Everything was very simple. She wanted to be buried in Aidensfield Anglican parish church yard, the costs to be met from the sale of her house, its contents and her jewellery. Her solicitors would make the necessary arrangements. She did not want the Galtreford family to be involved because they had rejected her when she had decided upon a career on the stage and so she never used the title ‘Honourable’. From the sale of her estate, she nominated a number of beneficiaries, including several local charities, albeit with a substantial sum (£15,000) going to Aidensfield village hall for whatever purposes the management committee decided.
Thus I could confirm her identity and we now knew her wishes — and we had someone, her solicitor, to make all the necessary arrangements. I felt this was a rather sad end to a remarkable old lady, but her heart had been in Aidensfield and now her mortal remains would lie there for eternity. I thanked the two bankers and went to inform her solicitors, Simpson, Hurley and Briggs of Ashfordly.
It was some weeks later, when the funeral was over and while the house was being cleared, that the removal men found a large box of yellowed newspaper cuttings featuring the famous music-hall singer and comedienne, Letty Noble. That’s who she was. The Honourable Letitia Gallant had been Letty Noble, famous in her day as a singer, entertainer and comedienne in the music halls of this country, but her aristocratic upbringing had always caused her to be formally addressed as Miss Gallant. One did not use Christian names when addressing that class of person, there were formalities to be respected.
For all that, she was a lovely lady who now lies in Aidensfield church yard where her gravestone bears the name Letitia Gallant. Her contribution to the village hall funds is marked by a plaque inside the building and the Letitia Gallant Cup is given every year to the most promising singer in the village, male or female. Neither her aristocratic ancestry nor her music-hall fame are recorded in the churchyard or in the village hall and her little house is now a holiday cottage which is popular with tourists.
6
Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
JAMES SMITH, 1775–1839; HORACE SMITH, 1779–1849
For as long as humans have inhabited the North York Moors, they have erected upon those heathery heights, a quite astonishing range of structures, some useful, some decorative and some with an unknown purpose. These vary from the ultramodern Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station on Fylingdales Moor by way of grouse butts and follies to simple standing stones with ancient or prehistoric significance. To these we can add the giant landmark which is the White Horse of Kilburn, Austin Wright’s abstract and thought-provoking aluminium sculpture on East Moors near Helmsley, the puzzling Face Stone on Urra Moor, the Captain Cook Monument on Easby Moor, the Elgee Memorial Stone on Loose Howe near Rosedale, the Roman Road on Wheeldale Moor near Goathland, the remarkable Derwent Sea Cut near Hackness, almost forty castles, half-a-dozen abbeys including Am-pleforth’s modern one full of monks, countless churches and chapels, houses and farms, roads, railways and bridges, along with many memorials, way markers, parish boundary stones and what is probably Britain’s largest collection of stone crosses. One of those crosses, (Lilia Cross on Fylingdales Moor) is probably England’s oldest Christian relic, dating to AD 626. The stone crosses of the North York Moors are certainly the largest in such a compact area. To these can be added similar structures in the Yorkshire Dales and on the Yorkshire Wolds, but the Dales and Wolds are a long way from the North York Moors and provide their own range of stories.
One would think that a modest addition to this host of moorland complements would not be noticed or that no one would object to such a presence, but in
these days of complex building rules and the need for planning permission, plus the inevitable NIMBY (Not in My Back Yard) syndrome, any attempt to erect a new edifice on the moors is bound to be challenged. Such challenges are done on the basis that if you don’t like something or don’t understand it, you should object to it. There was a similar attitude in the 1960s.
When the three famous white globes of Fylingdale Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station were erected in the early 1960s, there was almighty fuss with lots of vigorous protests but the duck-egg white globes were built in spite of the objections and eventually became a beautiful and romantic sight on our bleak moorland. When they were removed in 1994 to be replaced by a truncated pyramid-type building containing SSPAR (Solid State Phased Array Radar), there were further protests by those who said that the three white globes should remain in situ even if they were obsolete. At the very least, the grumblers said, one of them should be retained. But none was, maintenance of such a relic being extremely costly.
The York sculptor, Austin Wright, had similar problems when he placed his controversial aluminium sculpture on the moors above Helmsley in 1977 — there were objections galore and yet the piece is now regarded as an asset to the area while providing a fascinating focal point on those moorland hills, in spite of damage by vandals.
It is not surprising, therefore, that when a Yorkshire sculptor called Haldan Chance applied for planning permission to erect one of his creations on the moors, he expected an avalanche of protests. His proposal was to instal one of his giant, modernistic and rather baffling timber-framed works on the remote Three Howes Rigg, an eminence on the moors above Aidensfield. I had never heard of Haldan Chance before that time and knew nothing of his work; it seems that no one else knew anything about him either because no one was precisely sure what the thing would look like when complete, except that it would be modern, controversial, roughly egg-shaped and built of wood.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 12
