Although I regularly called at the farm during my duties, I had no intention of embarrassing Ian in front of his family by referring to his messages of love, even if they had been presented in such a way that the whole world could read them.
I considered Ian to be just another of a long list of farm labourers who seemed destined to the life of a bachelor. But while thinking of Ian in these circumstances, it was inevitable that I wondered about the identity of the mysterious Sue.
And then one morning, as I was performing an early patrol in my Mini-van, I found myself descending that hill out of Briggsby and, walking ahead of me on the road, was Ian Sedman. On this occasion, the sheep were not displaying any message. Ian, however, was heading the same direction as I, so I stopped and asked if he wanted a lift.
‘Aye, thanks, Mr Rhea,’ he said, as he climbed into the passenger seat of my police van.
‘Where are you heading?’ I asked.
‘Aidensfield,’ he told me. ‘The surgery, for these bandages to be changed. I can’t grip my handlebars, otherwise I’d have biked in.’
He held up his left hand which was swathed in bandages and when I asked him what had happened, he told me he’d sliced the palm of his hand with a turnip cutter causing a very deep wound. He had to attend the surgery once a week for the wound to be examined and to get the dressings changed. He was walking to the surgery because his parents were busy with some new calves.
‘The doctor reckons there’ll be no lasting damage,’ he said with some relief. ‘I didn’t cut through any nerves or owt like that. I could be using my hand by this time next week.’
As the journey would take only six or seven minutes and we were alone in the van, I decided to ask about the sheep. I wanted to know how he’d persuaded them to stand in formation — and I might just learn a little about the mysterious Sue.
‘I saw those messages of yours,’ I smiled at him. ‘Nice work, Ian.’
He blushed crimson but said nothing; I wondered if he’d realized that everyone passing along the road would be able to read them. Most of the local people would realize he was their creator.
‘How did you persuade those sheep to make the letters?’ I continued, seeing that he was embarrassed about the matter.
‘It was an accident at first, Mr Rhea. I put some feed down and thought I’d spell Sue’s name on the ground. I mean, nobody would have seen it. Then the sheep came and started to eat the stuff and next thing I knew Sue’s name was spelt in sheep on our hillside. That feed’s a concentrate. From sacks . . . you just walk along and pour it out. It’s dead easy to make patterns and letters with it, Mr Rhea.’
‘So having done it once, you thought you’d do it again?’
‘Yes, it was fun, making up different messages and then seeing if the sheep would make the letters.’
‘Clever stuff,’ I praised him. ‘So what’s Sue think to it all?’
‘She’s never said.’ He blushed even deeper. ‘I don’t know whether she’s seen them or not . . . it was just a bit of fun, you know. Nowt serious. I got kind of carried away with it.’
‘I like the idea.’ I realized I had not to make fun of this behaviour. ‘And I bet Sue did as well!’
‘You really think so?’ There was a spark of interest here, encouragement almost.
‘You could always ask her,’ was my next suggestion.
‘Nay, I’m too shy to do that,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s not as if I actually came up with the idea of the sheep . . .’
‘But you did spell her name out in their feed, didn’t you? If you can come up with ideas like that, I’ll bet Sue would be keen to know how those letters were made by the sheep,’ I told him. ‘It’s better than spelling her name across a field with turnips!’
‘My dad thought it was a daft idea,’ he said, with his head down.
‘That’s because he never thought of it!’ I laughed. ‘Anyway, you’ve done it now and it might get you talking to Sue one of these days . . .’
‘She lives in Briggsby. I sometimes bike over there but I’ve never seen her knocking about the place. She comes down that hill on her bike every day to work, though,’ he told me with some excitement in his voice. ‘That’s why I put the messages in that field, so she could see them.’
‘But you don’t know whether she has seen them or not?’
‘No, no idea,’ he admitted.
‘Well, you’ll just have to wait until she says something, or you’ll have to pluck up the courage to ask her, won’t you? You’ll have to keep riding over to Briggsby in the hope you’ll bump into her somewhere.’
‘I’m not very good with girls, I never know what to say . . .’
‘The trick is to get them to talk about themselves,’ I suggested, but I did wonder whether he would ever pluck up the courage to break the proverbial ice with Sue. Even though she came from Briggsby, a tiny hilltop community, I did not know who Sue was and decided not to press him on what was quite a delicate and personal matter. Nonetheless, I felt I had given him a slice of encouragement and some useful advice. Very soon we were approaching Aidensfield and I said I would take him right to the surgery; I had to pass it on my way home so it was not out of my way. As we eased to a halt outside, I noticed a slender, young, dark-haired woman with a bicycle. She had just dismounted and was placing the bike against the surgery wall.
She would be about eighteen, I thought, and I realized it was the young woman I’d sometimes seen cycling from Briggsby to Aidensfield around 8.30 on a weekday morning. I brought the van to a halt only feet away from her and as I waited for Ian to climb out of my vehicle, I saw him blushing crimson.
‘Is that Sue?’ I asked him, guessing the answer from his demeanour.
‘Aye, she works here, she’s the new receptionist,’ he said.
‘Then this is your big chance, Ian,’ I told him. ‘Out you get — your new life starts at this very minute!’
‘Nay, Mr Rhea, I can’t . . . I mean, I can’t start talking to her, can I? I mean, she doesn’t know me.’
‘When you report your arrival for the surgery, she’ll know who you are, and if she’s a local girl . . .’
‘She is, she lives at Briggsby, like I said. I often go there on my bike, for a ride round, you know, of an evening, in case she’s out and about.’
‘Well, if she lives at Briggsby and cycles to work at Aidensfield, she’ll have seen those messages, Ian, she couldn’t miss them . . .’
‘By, I feel daft now,’ he muttered. ‘Doing a trick like that . . .’
As we were chatting, Sue disappeared into the building to prepare for the day’s morning surgery and for the arrival of Dr Williams. I could see that Ian was debating whether or not he should follow her inside. But his mind was made up with the arrival of Dr Williams in his Rover.
‘Morning, Ian. First in the queue again, eh?’ he said, as he emerged from the car. ‘Give me time to get myself organized and then come in. Sue will see to you and get your file out.’
‘It’s time to go,’ I said. ‘And good luck!’
Ian was blushing furiously as he left me and made for the surgery entrance, so I tooted my horn as I drove away. I did not know Sue personally; clearly, she was a local girl who was settling down to her new job and I felt sure she would welcome some attention from the shy Ian.
It was two weeks later, on a Saturday, when I saw two youngsters, a girl and a youth, riding their bikes together along the lane towards Maddleskirk. As I passed, I realized they were Ian and Sue.
I tooted the horn of my van, but they did not respond. They were too engrossed in one another to notice the passing of a village constable.
And I never noticed any more sheep spelling love messages in the hills.
* * *
Ian Sedman’s method of proclaiming his love through choreographed sheep was quite harmless and rather charming. To this could be added a whole range of similar love messages, like the youth who named his prize sow after his girlfriend, another who used a muck-sp
reader to splatter his girlfriend’s name in manure across the runway of a disused airfield and yet another who wrote his girlfriend’s name in white paint across the green tarpaulin which covered a haystack.
While such pranks were of little professional interest to the local constabulary, the area around Aidensfield later suffered a different type of rural message. At first, no one knew whether this latest outbreak of creating messages in the earth was done out of spite, anger, revenge or even whether it was a form of twisted love, but on that occasion it was very much a matter for the police.
Someone had ploughed up part of the cricket pitch at Thackerston. It happened in the early weeks of the cricket season and the vandalism occurred during the night of a Tuesday/Wednesday. At first, no one was quite sure of the purpose of the long, curved but rather shallow furrow which had been cut from the pristine turf. It extended right across the pitch midway between the wickets, but it was the chance remark of a sheep farmer on the hills above who told the captain the mark was a giant letter J without the crosspiece.
From his vantage point, he could see the entire cut. It began at one side of the pitch, about ten yards from the middle of it, crossed the pitch at right angles to a point about ten yards on the other side, and then terminated in a curve which formed the hook of the J.
It was some twenty-five yards long but the cut itself was quite narrow. I was called just after nine on the Wednesday morning and went to inspect it with the volunteer groundsman, Harry Wheater. He was a 45-year-old plumber who lived in Thackerston. A tall, rather gangly man with rounded specs, overalls and little hair, he was a keen cricketer and willing worker for many village organizations.
‘So what’s caused that furrow?’ I put to him.
‘It’s too small for a plough,’ he suggested. ‘I think it’s been done with a rotavator, Nick, quite a powerful one judging by the fact it’s gone through the turf.’
‘They don’t have lights fitted, do they?’ I commented.
‘Not as a rule, Nick. No. Why?’
‘Well, it would mean the damage was done in the darkness. I’m wondering how much the rotavator driver would be able to see ahead of himself or around him.’
‘Not a great lot, I’d say. He might have had to operate with a hand torch. That wouldn’t give him much of a headlight, not like tractor lights would have done.’
‘I’m wondering, Harry, whether this damage was done with some plan or skill, or whether it was a random attack on the pitch, literally ploughing in the dark. Do you think the cut was deliberately made across the wicket rather than along it, or did the perpetrator simply bring the machine here and let it rip without any real plan?’
‘He has managed to make a letter J,’ said Harry, thoughtfully.
‘Or,’ I said, ‘he might have brought the machine here in a van or something and left the headlights burning; that would give him a good view of the pitch.’
‘He’d need to keep his engine running if he did that, otherwise he’d soon flatten his battery. Blazing headlights can flatten a battery in no time.’
‘Right. But it’s all something to think about, Harry. It wouldn’t be easy operating the rotavator in the dark, not when you’ve got to walk behind it holding both handles to control it. That might rule out someone holding a torch and put the argument in favour of the van headlights. Maybe someone saw those lights? I’ll ask around. Now, any ideas about the identity of the culprit?’ I put to him.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Search me. I haven’t a clue.’
‘Does anyone in Thackerston own a rotavator?’ was my next question. Thackerston is a very small village and if someone living there did own or use a rotavator, Harry would know.
‘Not to my knowledge. All our local farmers use ploughs, and this damage was never done with a plough. The cut’s far too narrow and shallow for that. And most of our amateur gardeners hereabouts haven’t got the money to splash out on something expensive like a rotavator when a spade’ll do just as well.’
‘Right. So my next question, Harry: motive. What is the motive? Has anybody been upset lately? A cricketer dropped from the team, perhaps? Someone thinking they should be the new captain, that sort of thing?’
He thought for a while, then shook his head.
‘No, our lads aren’t that way inclined. They’re a team, Nick, a bunch of friendly chaps. They accept there’s got to be changes and a few upsets, but they never take it to heart, not so as they’d do summat like this.’
‘Now, it seems it was done during last night? Is that what you think?’
‘Yes. Yesterday evening, I prepared the pitch for tonight, for our regular fortnightly home game. We’re playing Elsinby. The field was fine when I left, Nick. I ran the cutter across the pitch and freshened up the white lines at the wickets. I finished about half past eight; there was nobody about at that time.’
‘So what about tonight’s match? Will you be able to play?’
‘Put it this way, we’ve played on far worse pitches in our time, Nick, some still being used! If I think we can’t play here, I’ll have words with one of the nearby clubs. We might even use Elsinby’s field if I can’t fettle ours. But rest assured, we’ll play somewhere, Nick, that’s for sure. Luckily, the damage is across the centre of the pitch, it’s not where the ball lands during bowling and I think we can cope with the uneven bits of the outfield. Once I get our roller on it and them turfs put back in place, you’ll not see the joins. It’ll take me all day, but I can spare the time just now; I’ve been able to postpone a plumbing job today.’
‘So it’s not as bad as it looks. Now, did anyone hear anything overnight? That rotavator would make quite a lot of noise while it was being used, and it must have been brought to the field somehow, by vehicle I guess, at some odd time of night. And there’s the lights I mentioned . . .’
‘The field’s tucked away behind the village hall, and that’s on the edge of the village — folks never complain about music and dancing or the noise and traffic from functions, that’s one reason the hall was built out there, so I doubt if anyone would have heard the rotavator or noticed the lights or seen anyone arriving in a vehicle at a strange time. I don’t live far away and I never heard it.’
‘I’ll ask around the village,’ I told him. ‘I’ll record this as a case of malicious damage, Harry. What is the cost of the damage, do you think?’
‘Not a lot, Nick. I can fix it as I said. The fact that furrow goes across the pitch and not along it limits the damage. Even if we can’t play here tonight, we’ll be able to play on Saturday, definitely. We have a home fixture. But if you want a value, I’d say twenty pounds.’
‘That’ll do for my report,’ I said.
I began my enquiries around the village of Thackerston paying special attention to the people who lived close to the village hall and cricket field, but elicited no useful information. Next, I paid a visit to every member of the cricket team, including the club officials and a handful of supporters, but nobody had heard or seen anything. I failed to discover a motive for the attack and likewise failed to find anyone in Thackerston who owned or had use of a rotavator. The unfortunate event was a total mystery. Thanks to the energetic and skilful work by Harry Wheater, Thackerston cricket pitch was fit for play that same evening; the match was a friendly, such games played early in the season being regarded as practice matches or opportunities to study the ability of new players.
And although watch was kept by club members overnight on Wednesday and Thursday, there was no further damage. I continued my enquiries in the district, and by the end of my shift on Friday, I had exhausted all my sources of enquiry. No one knew of a motive for the damage, no one had seen or heard the rotavator at work, nor had they seen or heard the presence of a vehicle on the cricket field during the night hours. I drew a complete blank, but reported my efforts to Sergeant Blaketon.
He said, ‘Well, Rhea, let’s hope it’s a one-off case of malicious damage. Even so, it might be an idea for our patrols
— and you, of course — to visit all local sports fields during each night, just to make sure Rotavating Ronnie hasn’t developed a passion for turning over cricket fields or anything else for that matter. And I hope it’s not a determined cricket-hating fisherman looking for worms. I’ll make sure our night patrols are aware of this, and in the coming week, you’d better have words with the cricket secretaries of all your local teams.’
‘Very good, Sergeant.’
‘Put them on the alert, Rhea, they might even initiate a night-watchman system.’
‘I’m sure word will have got around anyway, Sergeant, but I’ll warn them all officially.’
I managed to warn all the cricket club secretaries on my beat, most of whom said they either would or had already established a system of checks on their fields, even though it might not be possible to maintain these for very long.
But on the Saturday morning, the groundsman at Pattington cricket field went to inspect the pitch and found a gash right across the middle. Just like the one at Thackerston, it formed a giant letter J but this one did not cross the pitch at right angles. It did not run the length of the pitch either, but had been executed at an angle, slicing quite a large section of the beautifully prepared wicket area at the pavilion end. Although Pattington was not on my patch, it was on the adjoining beat and within my own subdivision, so I was called out to inspect it. My task was to compare the method of damage with that which had occurred at Thackerston.
‘It’s the same.’ I was not in any doubt about that. ‘A rotavator. And the damage is made in the shape of a letter J.’
Pattington cricket field was well away from the village, too, and when I asked the groundsman the same questions I’d asked Harry Wheater, I got the same answers. The Pattington constable, PC Derek Warner, was present during this and I acquainted him with the full facts of the Thackerston damage. He assured me he would make enquiries on his patch and inform me if he learned anything of value to my enquiries, particularly whether any of the team or their supporters had a grudge to air.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 19
