Ben’s eyes brightened.
“You sure, Vesuvius?” he looked at me and then at Ron.
“I’ve done it before,” said Vesuvius, standing up.
“Right,” said Ben. “Let’s try it. You show us.”
We trooped outside, and I carried the torch. Vesuvius took the poker from the fireplace and the four of us stood around the large, metal cover. Vesuvius prised up one end with the poker and we lifted it clear, placing it on the centre of the road. Somewhere, a clock struck 2.15. The town was at peace.
“Torch,” someone called, and I shone the light deep inside. It was a square-shaped well, clinically clean and lined with white-tiled bricks. A metal ladder was built into one wall and the bottom would be a good eight feet or even more below us. We could see the five channels entering the base from different angles, merging into one large exit channel. It was large enough for at least one man to climb inside; at a squeeze, two could make it.
“The one on the left, nearest the exit route,” Vesuvius indicated to Ron. “That’s ours. If we flush our chain, the muck comes flooding down there and it’s carried along that other single channel, out of sight. If Ben gets down there, he can catch it as it comes past and get your keys. The tag will help them swim along to this point.”
Ben did not like the idea at all. His face told us that. For him, the entire scheme was distasteful.
“Ron, it’s got to be done,” said Ben. “You lost the bloody things down the hole.”
“Have we any Wellingtons?” he asked. “I could stop the flow with my foot, eh? Stick my foot in that groove to halt things as they come through?”
“No Wellingtons here, Ben,” said Vesuvius. “You could use your bare feet, eh? I’ve seen council workmen do that. Take your shoes and socks off, roll your trousers up to the knees and stick your foot in that groove. Your toes will catch the keys, eh? And you’ll let the other rubbish float past.”
Ben looked down at his shoes. They were black leather, nicely polished, and he did not intend wasting them. Besides, feet could be washed.
“All right,” he sighed. “There’s no choice. I’ll do it.” Standing at the edge of the hole, Ben removed his socks and shoes, rolled up his trousers to the knees and prepared to climb down the cold, damp metal stairs. They would take him to the brown earthenware floor of the manhole with its array of tiny tunnels.
“When I get down,” he said, “I’ll shout when I’m ready. I’ll stick my foot in that channel — are you sure it’s the right one, Vesuvius?”
“Aye,” he said. “I’m sure. The one on the left, like I said. Stick your foot in it, toes pointing towards our building. When you’re ready, give us a shout and I’ll pull. I’ll keep pulling the chain until your keys are washed through. It’ll take a few flushes, I reckon, it’s a bit of a distance.”
Ron stood at the top of the hole, looking down upon his pal as he clambered nervously down the ladder. The rusty rungs hurt his feet, but soon he was on the cool, smooth floor.
“This one?” he stuck a toe into the narrow groove, as if testing the sea for the temperature of the water. Vesuvius said, “Aye,” and Ben therefore planted his bare foot firmly into the channel, effectively blocking it. His toes faced the police station, as suggested.
“Right, I’m off,” said Vesuvius and he went into the police station, asking me to liaise with him. I had to dart backwards and forwards making sure both parties were ready before the first pull of the chain. The distance between the toilet basin and the foot of that manhole would be some thirty yards or so, and I wondered how much effluent would have to be dislodged before the bit carrying the keys arrived at Ben’s big toe.
I called to Ben. “Ready?”
“I’m ready,” he replied, his face white as he peered up at me.
I rushed inside to Vesuvius.
“He’s ready when you are,” I announced.
“Get yourself back to that hole,” he laughed. “I’ll give you ten seconds. You’ll enjoy this!”
Puzzled by his final remark I hurried to the vantage point on the rim and looked down.
“Count ten,” I said to Ben, for want of something more appropriate.
Surprisingly, Ben did.
I heard him counting — one, two, three, four, five . . . all the time staring at his white foot bathed in the light of my torch.
“Nine, ten,” he concluded.
Then I heard the sound of a heaving chain and the gurgle of an emptying cistern. Somewhere in Ben’s deep chamber I heard the whooshing of an oncoming flow of water, and I heard Vesuvius shout. “First lot coming.”
“First lot coming,” I repeated for Ben’s benefit.
Then I realised Vesuvius’ ruse.
The pipe from the police station toilets did not emerge at the base of the manhole — it emerged near the top! It was about six feet above the base, dropping its discharges from a great height. It was the oncoming rush of water that warned me — the sound came from a series of pipes which entered the chamber at varying heights. I could see them now, a series of dark holes. And Ben was standing on the floor.
Too late he realised what was about to happen.
With a sighing, almost obscene noise the mess spluttered and rushed from the darkness just above Ben’s head and, in seconds, he was smothered from head to toe. I heard him cough and gasp as Ron burst into fits of laughter at the sight of his poor companion whose uniform, face and hair were plastered with the foulest mess imaginable. He tried to climb out, but another whooshing noise was sounding. The toilet cistern couldn’t have filled already, so Vesuvius must have flushed another one. Another ghastly brew was on its way.
Ben did manage to climb out, but only after three of Vesuvius’ pulls had discharged their evil contents over him. I didn’t know what to do. I laughed alongside Ron and noticed Vesuvius framed in the light of the police station door.
“Have they come through?” he called.
There was no reply from the sorry man. It was at that moment that the telephone rang, so Vesuvius dashed inside to answer it and I followed. We left Ron to replace the manhole cover after helping his smelly friend out.
“Right, I’ll tell them,” he said, replacing the telephone as I entered.
“Malton Office,” he announced to Ron. “That was Sergeant Colbeck. There’s a domestic disturbance in town. You’re needed there urgently, both of you.”
“Now?” Ben cried.
“Straight away,” Vesuvius smiled. “No. 10 Welsh Terrace.”
“We’ve no keys!”
“Oh, I forgot,” Vesuvius grinned stupidly. “There’s always a spare set kept here, one set for every car in the Sub-Division and for all official cars which regularly call. Sergeant Blaketon’s idea, being a belt-and-braces man. I’ll get ’em,” and he pottered into the sergeant’s office, unlocked a drawer and lifted out a set of keys. They bore the registration number of their patrol car. “Sorry I forgot about those,” he said. “It’s not every station that has them — I’ve a bloody awful memory, you know.”
“I’ll clean up in the car,” Ben said, the ordure dripping from him.
“You bloody well won’t!” Ron snarled. “You’re not getting into the car like that! You smell worse than a pigsty — what a bloody awful mess!”
“Worse than egg yolks, eh?” smiled Vesuvius. “That call was urgent, lads.”
And so they had to leave. Ben hobbled to the car in bare feet and sat upon one of the rubber mats which he lifted from the floor and placed on the seat. The stench from his appalling bath was overpowering and they drove away with all windows open and Ben dripping ghastly fluids to the car floor.
Vesuvius smiled.
“They’re nice lads, really,” he said quietly, and then the telephone rang again.
“Eltering Police, PC Ventress,” he answered. He listened for a moment and replied, “No, Sergeant. All’s quiet here. Nothing doing.”
He replaced the handset and turned towards me. “Fancy a coffee, son?” he asked.
Chapter Three
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties,
And things that go bump in the night.
Good Lord, deliver us.
— ANONYMOUS
Two fears must be conquered by the constable on night-duty. The first is the fear of the dark and the second is a fear of ghosts. There are constables who are subjected to one or both of these terrors, and for them a night patrol is a continuing test of courage and devotion to duty. Happily, I have never been afraid of either and was never worried about patrolling during the hours of darkness. In fact, it was very enjoyable, even in the town, but the countryside around Aidensfield offered far more than the streets of Strensford.
The wide, open spaces of the North Yorkshire moors offered little in the way of crime, but they did produce sounds which could terrify the townsman. There might be the cry of the vixen, the scream of the barn owl, the cough of a sheep or cow and the weird sobbing sounds of wild geese flying overheard. We called the latter “Gabriel Ratchets” or “Hell’s Hounds” for the older generation believed they were angels seeking the lost souls of unbaptised babies, or that they were the angels of death hovering over houses in which a death would soon occur.
Policemen, as a rule, care not for ancient legends or the vagaries of nature, and our patrols were chiefly a crime prevention exercise. The presence of our vehicle made the public aware that we were out and about during the witching hours, and this was comforting to those who considered themselves at risk. For the lonely and the frightened there is something reassuring about the presence of a mobile police officer at night. In some respects he assumes the role of the guardian angel we were taught about in childhood. He is there if he is needed.
With the passage of time every spell of uneventful night-duty conformed to a pattern. For my part, I would book on duty at Ashfordly, spend some time reading the latest horror stories featuring domestic rows, thefts, burglaries, shop-breaking or stolen cars, and having digested that unsavoury menu, I would sally forth into the market town. There I would diligently shake hands with lots of doorknobs. I would make my uniform seen by everyone who was out and about and thus create among the public the cosy feeling that the police were present and acting in their interest. We care about the communal safety of society and must make that care evident to those in our charge.
As the public houses ejected their regulars it was prudent to patrol the marketplace looking fierce as drunks fought the effects of the fresh air, but by 11 o’clock the town was usually dead. Only if the Young Farmers’ Club or Ashfordly Ladies’ Dining Club had organised a function did the routine vary, in which case the home-going was a little later and the drunks a little more entertaining. In addition, the duty became enjoyable for the policeman because lots of pretty girls were in a chatty and romantic mood.
When Ashfordly was finally at peace we patrolled the villages, making points in the manner I have earlier described. To the layman this must seem a mundane sort of existence and it is fair to say that the duty could be boring in the extreme. It could be crushingly monotonous. One old constable tried to cheer me up during such a period by saying, ‘T’ job’s what thoo maks it, lad,’ and with his words in my head, I learned that I could bring interest to those lonely patrols.
One way of breaking the tedium was to investigate the marvellous range of epitaphs in churchyards. A fear of ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night meant a wide gap in the education of the sufferers, and I wondered if I could make a collection of interesting inscriptions. Was there sufficient variety to justify this? I discovered that the night flew if I spent some time in the churchyards of my beat, so I took to wandering around each one for ten minutes at a time, ostensibly checking the security of the premises. By flashing my torch on a bewildering array of tombstones, I discovered some gems. There were old ones and new ones, they were carved in marble and in stone, some were ornate, others very simple. There were obelisks and tiny wooden crosses, but all contained sentiments applicable to the dear departed.
My researches revealed that the modern epitaph is a plain affair when compared with some of the older ones, and I enjoyed such beauties as:
Tread softly — if she waken, she’ll talk
or
Underneath this sod lies Arabella Young
Who on 5th May began to hold her tongue.
Another read:
Here lie I, no wonder I’m dead
The wheel of a wagon went over my head.
In Whitby I found the following:
Sudden and unexpected was the end,
Of our esteemed and beloved friend,
He gave to his friends a sudden shock
By falling into Sunderland Dock.
And this one:
Here lies the body of John Mound
Who was lost at sea and never found.
In a village near Malton, there is:
For all the pains and trouble from my birth
All that I’ve gained is just my length of earth.
High in the Dales one can find:
Think of me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, some day you’ll be,
So now prepare to follow me.
Someone, perhaps a night-duty policeman, had added the following:
To follow you I’m not content,
I do not know which way you went.
It could be difficult to determine the most enjoyable epitaph, but this is one of my favourites:
There was an old man who averred
He had learned to fly like a bird.
Cheered by thousands of people,
He leapt from the steeple –
This tomb states the date it occurred.
My real favourite, which is so brief and typically Yorkshire, reads:
Beneath this sod lies another.
It was during one of those epitaph hunts that I stepped into a rather frightening situation in a graveyard. The boots I wore at night were silent and comfortable, and this enabled me to creep about unheard and unseen, a useful talent when shadowing felonious individuals. It also meant I unwittingly surprised other people and, on this occasion, I had decided to pay a short visit to the churchyard at Elsinby. It was about 10.30 at night and I had some ten minutes to kill before moving around my beat. I reckoned a quick perambulation among the tombstones would occupy those spare moments.
The lych-gate was open, which was unusual, and I wondered if there were criminals abroad. Perhaps someone had broken in to steal the valuables? Fearing the worst I crept along the stone-flagged path, alert and ready for anything, even the presence of Sergeant Blaketon. Then I heard voices speaking in low whispers and they came from behind the church. I did have intruders!
I crept forward with my spine tingling and the hair on the back of my neck standing on tiptoe. In a state of high excitement I rounded the end of the grey stone building and, in the deep shadows, I halted. I knew I was invisible if I remained motionless. I listened for more sounds, but there was nothing. I wondered if I had been mistaken, for I was sure I’d heard voices. Then I saw the vague outline of shadowy figures moving stealthily between the rows of memorials. I wondered if I had stumbled upon a coven of modern witches or someone emulating Burke and Hare. I must see more. I waited trembling slightly, and once again I could hear mumbling voices. Occasionally, lights would flash and silhouetted heads would appear and disappear before the group moved on. I had difficulty counting the heads because of their up-and-down motions, but after a few minutes of careful study I realised I was watching the congregation of the Hopbind Inn.
Gradually, recognisable voices floated across to me on the silent evening air and, having solved that problem, I wondered what on earth, or in the name of heaven, they were doing. It seemed that the entire regular population of the bar was there, creeping among the graves and muttering among themselves. I decided to perform my duty and find out what was happening. I left my place of concealment a
nd strode purposefully to the area where they were still at work.
When I was close to them, I halted and in a loud voice demanded, “What’s going on here, then?”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr Rhea,” said the familiar tones of Dick-the-Sick, on a visit to Elsinby. “We’re looking for Dr Russell’s grave.”
“Dr Russell?” I was puzzled.
“Aye,” chipped in another voice. “You remember. He lived in Thrush Grange years ago, a big chap who liked shooting pheasants. Died a bit back. Nice bloke.”
“I never knew him,” I had to admit. “It was before my time. Anyway, why is everybody looking for his grave tonight?”
“We’ve a bet on with George at the pub. He reckons the doctor died in 1932 and I said it was 1933. Then somebody reckoned it was summer and another told us it was early in the year, March or thereabouts. Well, we all got arguing so we put bets on. George is behind the bar, holding our money — ten bob a go. Whoever is closest gets the cash. So we’re all checking. Trouble is, no one remembers which is his grave.”
“I said it was March 1932,” chipped in Dick, leaving me as he continued his search. I watched them with interest. Some had candles, one was using a box of matches and several had hand torches. Two of them had oil-lamps or storm lanterns. The less fortunate relied on lights provided by their colleagues and some even trusted the others to shout out the correct date. The combined effect was pretty eerie from a distance.
Eager to learn the truth I began to walk around the graveyard, shining my torch on the dates and at the same time looking for more interesting epitaphs. Together, the little group walked about that deserted place, some thirty stooping figures all shining lights on headstones. I must admit I got carried away with enthusiasm and found myself as keen as the others to learn the correct date.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 25
