CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Really?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘And where might that be?’

  ‘See our house?’ He pointed to the handsome, well-proportioned building.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, and we all looked at the front of the house. As we viewed it, the domestic quarters were to the left of the long building, with accommodation for the cattle on the right, all under one long roof.

  ‘It’s what they call a long house, Mr Rhea. A traditionally built moorland farmhouse with the living part and cow-house all joined together in one long building. They did that in olden days, Mr Rhea, as a way of keeping the house warm in winter. The heat of the cattle in their shippen during wintertime helped to warm the living-quarters.’

  ‘Right,’ I nodded. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the loft space above the cow-house isn’t used these days — years ago, farm-hands slept there. They ate in the farmhouse and slept in the loft; they used a lot of candles, I’m told. It’s quite separate from the house as the entrance is through the cow-house. Nowadays, there’s nowt up there, we don’t even use it as a hay loft. It’s been empty for years; there’s no windows, as you see.’

  ‘But from here, it looks as if there’s no useable space at all above your cow-house,’ I said, looking at the frontal view of the house. ‘I can see the stalls below and I’d say there’s only the roof above.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Rhea. There is some space above them cowstalls, as big as if not bigger than a loft. Bags of room, but no light or windows.’

  ‘So how does anyone get in there?’ was my next question.

  ‘Up through the far end of the cow-house,’ he said. ‘There’s a ladder and a trap door . . . There used to be a way in from the house, years ago, but we had it bricked up.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said to everyone. Now, I realized why I had not found this place when examining the house for electrical supplies. From the domestic quarters, there was no entrance to the loft above the cow byre and it was easy for anyone, even the Electricity Board officials, to assume any power or light in that loft would be linked to the business power source. Clearly, it wasn’t.

  Before young John returned, his father led us up the wooden stairs and into the loft where we found an immense hoard of well-tended cannabis plants, all in small seed boxes and all being warmed and illuminated by a series of powerful lights and electric heaters linked to the domestic supply. It was like stepping into a hot house but because the loft had not been used for years, those sockets and plugs had been forgotten. Now, young John was making good use of them.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ grunted his father. ‘Who’d have thought this?’

  Detective Sergeant Rogan then formally asked him, ‘Mr Chorley, did you know about this crop?’

  ‘Nay, lad, I’d no idea. But what a grand spot for growing things . . .’

  To cut short a long story, young John was put on probation for the unauthorized intentional cultivation of cannabis; his simple-mindedness went in his favour and the court accepted he had no idea of what the plant really was. It was also accepted that his parents had no knowledge of the crop he was cultivating.

  The man he supplied, and who, it transpired, had persuaded John to grow the plants, won a sentence of three years for various drugs offences. As for John, his entire stock of cannabis plants was confiscated: although the tractor and trailer were restored to the farm. Afterwards, his father decided that, with some modifications, the loft would be ideal for raising a variety of commercially viable plants.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for our John,’ he smiled. ‘I’d never have known about that spot . . . it had gone clean out of my mind. It had never been used for years. But I believe in using every bit of space, Mr Rhea, for profit that is. So now it’s going to earn its keep — I’ll put some roof windows in and it’s already got power and light fitted. Good thinking years ago by somebody, that was.’

  But Janet Chorley was more down to earth. When I called some weeks after the court case, she said, ‘You know what, Mr Rhea. Our John made a real profit out of yon drug plant he was growing. He’s got a useful savings account now, I thought the court would have done summat about that, confiscated it mebbe.’

  ‘The court wouldn’t be able to touch his money,’ I said. ‘There was no proof his savings were directly associated with the cultivation of drugs.’

  ‘Mebbe not, but he put pounds and pounds into his bank account, saving up for a car, he said. But you know what made me very cross?’

  ‘No?’ She had never mentioned the illegality of her son’s enterprise and so I was awaiting her reaction to this type of lawbreaking.

  ‘He paid nowt in business expenses!’ she grumbled. ‘And here was me, slaving away with my hens and eggs and taties and turnips, all to pay our ’lectric bills, and all the time he’s selling his stuff for a big profit — and never paying me a penny!’

  ‘Well, it’s all over now,’ I tried to sympathize with her. ‘He knows he mustn’t grow the stuff and his dad’s going to use the old loft for something else. If he wants to make himself some money without breaking the law, John will have to stick to hens and pigs and things normally reared on a farm, I reckon. And if he likes gardening, he can grow plants and sell them to dealers.’

  ‘He’ll have to buy his seeds and boxes first!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not letting him have anything from my stock! He’ll have to go to market and buy his own. He has to learn, hasn’t he, Mr Rhea? Besides, he won’t have much money for a while, will he?’

  ‘Won’t he?’ I said. ‘I thought he’d made quite a profit from his gardening!’

  ‘Aye, mebbe so,’ she laughed. ‘But he owes me a fair bit for his ’lectric bills. I haven’t worked it out yet but it goes back a few months! Once he’s paid all that off, he can start thinking about spending money on starting another business. But not until!’

  As I left the farm, I realized John’s parental punishment was as good as any fine the court might have imposed. His mother would make sure he paid for his mistake! But I must admit his crop had produced some very fine plants of the genus cannabis. I wondered if, with a reduced profit margin, he would produce such splendid tomatoes and cucumbers.

  * * *

  Just as the naive John Chorley had, at the outset, no idea he was committing a criminal offence by cultivating cannabis, neither did Abraham Smithers regard his activities as illegal.

  Abraham and his wife, Polly, lived in the Old School House at Milthorpe. Years ago, this fine stone building had been a remote but thriving village primary school, but, in time, numbers of pupils had dwindled and the school had closed. Following its closure, any pupils from Milthorpe were taken into Aidensfield by bus where they joined classes at Aidensfield primary school. Senior children were taken on to Ashfordly Secondary Modern or Strensford Grammar School.

  Abraham and Polly, both in their early forties and lecturers in environmental studies at a polytechnic on Teesside, had fallen in love with the notion of living a rustic life in the middle of the heathery heights of the North York Moors and had bought the old school. After much expense and hard work they converted it into an impressive dwelling house, and the former playground became a garden renowned for its flowers. Of particular interest was Abraham’s annual and highly colourful display of splendid dahlias which flourished in the autumn.

  The Smithers had no children, but they did have a small red Ford Anglia van which they used to travel across the moors to their work on Teesside, and it was also used to carry their flowers to shows and exhibitions. The nature of their lecturing work meant they were frequently at home to cultivate their little spread of England, Polly giving valued support to Abraham in his efforts. There is no doubt that Abraham was an authority on dahlias, showing them and lecturing about them both locally and nationally, and contributing specialist articles to gardening magazines and newspapers. That he was an expert on the flower was never in doubt, and to anyone who either listened to him or saw him at work in his garden, he
was clearly devoted to these gorgeous blooms.

  The snag was they were also enjoyed by moorland sheep.

  It was a long time before I became aware of Abraham’s never-ending battle against the invading sheep, but the first intimation came in the form of a complaint from Hannah Winspear. Hannah, a dour, unmarried lady in her late sixties, owned a flock of black-faced sheep which she kept on the open moorland above and behind Milthorpe. Hannah, who lived alone in a small stone cottage on the edge of the moors, was a familiar sight in her old navy-blue gaberdine mackintosh, black Wellington boots and battered grey trilby hat; she always carried a shepherd’s crook which sometimes served as a tall walking stick.

  Her flock was about eighty in number and her animals were identified by a splash of blue marker on the fleece of their left shoulders.

  To help her tend the sheep, she relied on a black and white border collie called Lassie, and from time to time she and Lassie would drive some of the animals into Ashfordly livestock mart, invariably blocking the lanes with the animals along the five-mile route. At market, she might buy further animals for her own flock, or she would breed her own lambs in the spring. In and around the district, therefore, Hannah was a regular sight and a much-loved character. Then one morning, she rang me from the telephone kiosk in Milthorpe.

  ‘Is that Mr Rhea?’ she shouted into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Speaking,’ I answered, instantly recognizing her voice.

  ‘Somebody’s stealing my ewes,’ she hollered. ‘You’d better come and see me and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘How about eleven o’clock this morning?’ I suggested.

  ‘Right,’ she bellowed, slamming down the receiver. Although Hannah had a soft and rather pleasant speaking voice, she always shouted down a telephone. The shopkeepers she rang on a regular basis always reckoned she didn’t need a telephone; she could shout her orders from her house, but it didn’t work like that. When facing anyone, her voice was quiet and calm; it was only the telephone which seemed to compel her to bellow. At eleven, as agreed, I arrived at Hob Hole House, her small, idyllic smallholding and home, and found her outside, sweeping elderberry leaves from the yard. A dozen hens and bantams clucked at my approach and a couple of ginger cats emerged from the house to gaze at me.

  But with the coming of autumn, the leaves were falling and the solitary tree beside her house was managing to produce an inordinate amount of fallen foliage. I stood for a few moments to admire the stunning views across the moors and dales and to think that such a place would appeal to any townie — at least for the summer. In the winter, it would be a different story with drifting snow, gales and numbing cold. A long hard winter always sorts out the genuine country lovers from the wannabees. But Hannah had always lived here, even as a child, and knew no other home.

  ‘Now then Mr Rhea.’ She leant her brush against the wall of the house and said, ‘You’d better come in, I’ve got the kettle on.’

  The house was sparsely furnished, the kitchen also serving as her lounge, and a blazing log fire burned in the Yorkist range. The floor comprised stone flags covered with home-made clip rugs, and the brasses around the fireplace gleamed in the light. A blackened kettle was suspended over the heat and was singing happily, puffing steam from its spout and lid, as she found a teapot and heaped in some tea-leaves.

  ‘You’ll have a mug of tea and a scone, Mr Rhea?’

  ‘Thanks, Hannah, that’ll be fine.’

  As I sat at her simple wooden table, I opened the proceedings by asking, ‘So what’s this about somebody stealing your sheep?’

  ‘Well, you know how they behave, Mr Rhea, my sheep, I mean. In the daytime, they’re on the moor tops and at night, they wander down into the village and sleep on the green. They’ve allus done that, year in and year out. They keep the grass and verges trimmed. That’s why Milthorpe is always so tidy.’

  ‘That’s right, I know that,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘And when there’s bad weather about, they’ll come down from the moors even in the daytime — it’s allus a sign of bad weather when the sheep come down from the moors out of their usual time.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. They’re very good weather forecasters,’ I smiled.

  ‘So at this time of year,’ she continued in her droll manner, ‘they’re down here quite a lot, munching grass around the green and things.’

  ‘Right,’ I nodded.

  ‘And if the weather’s going to be fine and dry, they’ll wander back up to their heeafts on the moors.’

  ‘Got it,’ I nodded again, knowing that a heeaft is the local name for a sheep’s home patch of moorland. The sheep become accustomed to a particular part of the moor and will always return there if they leave; the word heeaft means home.

  ‘Well, Mr Rhea, some of ’em aren’t getting back to their heeafts.’

  ‘You’ve done a count, have you?’ I asked her.

  ‘I have that!’ she affirmed. ‘A month back, I did a count on the moors, me and Lassie that is, and we had seventy-nine ewes. Next time I counted ’em, there was one missing. Now t’same thing happened last week — another one missing. And again this morning. Yesterday, Mr Rhea, I did a check on the moors. Seventy-seven last night and only seventy-six this morning. One’s going missing each time, Mr Rhea. Three gone. As sure as shot.’

  ‘And all have got your blue mark on the left shoulder?’

  ‘Aye, they have. I’ve asked my neighbours if my ewes have strayed onto their land, but they say not. And they’re not lying dead, I don’t think we’ve had foxes up there, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘Could you have made a mistake while counting?’ I didn’t like to suggest she might have made an error, but it was a question I had to ask — Sergeant Blaketon would surely ask me the same thing.

  ‘Nay, lad, not me. I’ve been counting my sheep for years. I know how to count ’em properly. What’s been happening, Mr Rhea, is that the whole flock comes down to the village green some nights, and one less goes back next morning.’

  ‘But it’s not happening on a regular basis?’ I said.

  ‘Not every day, no. It’s every now and again,’ she agreed. ‘It might have been happening for quite some time, Mr Rhea, because some weeks back I noticed I was short of a sheep or two. I thought we’d mebbe had rustlers at night, but this is getting too regular to be accidents or lost sheep dying out there.’

  ‘So which days are we talking about? Can you remember?’

  ‘Monday morning last week, one had gone. Again on Thursday last week. And this morning.’

  ‘Today’s Monday. That makes it a second Monday,’ I said, thinking there might be some kind of routine to these thefts. ‘I wonder if the coming Thursday might be another busy day for your thief?’

  ‘I can keep my eyes open, Mr Rhea. They’re vanishing in the village, so somebody local’s stealing them. There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Any idea who it might be?’ was my next question.

  ‘No, that’s the trouble. I haven’t. If I had, I’d go and have words; they’re depriving me of my income, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘It won’t be easy, laying a trap for the thief or keeping watch if it’s not happening on a regular basis.’

  ‘I know that. I’ve tried keeping watch myself, but I’ve never seen anything. But I have to report these thefts to you, for insurance purposes.’

  ‘I’ll record it in our crime reports,’ I assured her. ‘And I will pass word to our patrols so they’re all aware of it, and, of course, I’ll keep my own eyes open. I’ll do my best to be around on Thursday morning, just in case.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  ‘We’d better not be seen together while we keep watch — two sets of eyes in two different places will be more beneficial. What time do you think they’re being taken?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, Mr Rhea. I usually check ’em around half eight or nine o’clock, they’ve been gone by then.’

  ‘Right, leave it with me, Hannah. I’ll see what transpires on
Thursday. Let’s hope we can catch the culprit.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘In the meantime, give me a call if any more vanish,’ I said. ‘And the sooner I’m told about a loss the better. If we can catch the culprit in possession of the animal, it means we’ve a good case to put before the court.’

  The trouble with sheep stealing is that most thieves kill the animals and strip away their fleeces immediately, even before transporting them from the scene; this removes any identifying marks and thus it is difficult, if not impossible, to prove that the carcass in their possession has been stolen. If someone was stealing Hannah’s ewes, then I was sure they’d be using that technique. It would be a very difficult task to catch the thief, prove the source of their carcasses and then secure a conviction — but I would try. I was slightly unsure that these disappearances were thefts — in spite of their amazing homing instincts, moorland sheep can go astray. They are not fenced in and are free to roam over a huge area of land on the moors and in the surrounding villages. Sometimes, they can get trapped in ditches or among barbed wire and sometimes, they can die from poison or disease without their owners realizing until some time later. And, of course, many get killed by motor vehicles on the moorland roads, the sheep’s road sense being comparable to that of some weekend drivers.

  Bearing in mind these possibilities, I had to bow to Hannah’s superior knowledge of her flock. If she felt some of her animals were being stolen, then I felt she was right. As I departed from her delightful house, I made a mental note to patrol Milthorpe next Thursday morning. I would have to inform Sergeant Blaketon too, so that my duties could accommodate this period of observations.

  When I telephoned him, he said, ‘If you think those sheep are being stolen, Rhea, then you are perfectly entitled to keep observations for the thief. But if my experience is anything to go by, those missing ewes will have been knocked down by a passing lorry or wandered off or got trapped somewhere.’

  ‘That’s possible, Sergeant,’ I agreed. ‘But I tend to side with Hannah in thinking they’ve been stolen.’