Then another voice sounded close behind me.
“Rhea? What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?”
It was Sergeant Blaketon. He had arrived in the village with the expectation of meeting me at the kiosk, but I had forgotten the time. He now stood tall and majestic beneath the shadows of the church, his brilliant torch shining directly at me. I walked slowly towards him, realising I was in trouble.
“Checking a date, Sergeant,” I said, wondering if it sounded very stupid.
“Date? What date?”
“The death of Dr Russell, Sergeant. There’s been a discussion in the pub, you see, and they’re all checking . . .”
“Friday, 3rd May 1929,” he said with conviction. “This is his grave.” And he shone his torch on to a tomb not far from the gate. “Come on.”
“It’s here,” I called to the villagers, shining my light on the gravestone.
With no more ado I walked out of the churchyard with Sergeant Blaketon silent and stern at my side. We stood on the kerb as the villagers all trooped past, each checking it for himself before returning to the bar. There would now be a share-out of the money and, hopefully, more drinks although it was after closing-time.
“Are they all friends of the licensee?” he asked, and I detected the faintest hint of humour in his voice. Friends of the licensee could drink after normal hours, at his expense.
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said, hoping he would believe me and trusting he would not enter the bar to check the validity of that statement.
“Good,” he said affably. “Now show me the castle.”
We walked away in silence and turned up the long drive that leads out of the village and up to the ancient castle on the hill. “Sergeant,” I deigned to ask. “How did you know that date and where to find the grave?”
“Do you read police books, Rhea?”
“Sometimes, Sergeant.”
“Forensic medicine?”
“Now and again.”
“Well, Dr Russell was a pioneer of modern forensic pathology. Clever chap, he was. Wrote a book about the use of forensic pathology in the field of crime detection. Worth reading, Rhea. Surely you’ve read Russell on Scratch Marks?”
“No, Sergeant, but I’ll get it from the library,” and I fell into silence as I marched up the drive at his side, perfectly in step with his ramrod figure. Although he said no more about Dr Russell, I got the impression from his demeanour that he was letting the village drink late in honour of the long-dead doctor who I guessed was one of Blaketon’s heroes.
This incident showed me that the locals of the Hopbind Inn were an imaginative crowd, but the affair of Dr Russell’s tombstone wasn’t the only event which caused me problems. It is fair to say that the tombstone happening was a very minor hiccup in my parochial patrolling and, in comparison, the laying of the Elsinby ghost was almost disastrous.
Legend assured us that the ghost of Sir Nicholas Fairfax, a long-dead occupant of Elsinby Castle, walked the village at certain times. His appearance, clad in the dark armour which was his symbol, occurred only when the midnight full moon coincided with the midnight of the anniversary of his death. The chances of those events happening together were considerably remote and a local mathematician once attempted to calculate the dates when this would occur. He failed because he got drunk on the free drinks supplied at the Hopbind Inn during his attempt.
It was fortuitous that the anniversary of Nicholas Fairfax’s death and a full moon happened to coincide during one of my spells of night-duty. I was blissfully unaware of this momentous event and was patrolling the village during the hours of darkness in my usual manner. The inhabitants of the Hopbind Inn, however, had anticipated this accident of history and had been discussing it at length in the bar. One of the customers was Dick-the-Sick who had been paying one of his regular visits to Elsinby from Aidensfield. As had happened on previous occasions the regulars had plied him with drink and had talked him into taking action he would otherwise have avoided.
This background information was later supplied to me, but I include it here in order to retain the sequence of events. It seems that the locals of the Hopbind Inn were relating the stirring deeds of the brave, handsome Sir Nicholas and told how he met his untimely death. In the hushed atmosphere of the pub there followed the story of the ghost which appeared on such rare occasions.
The reaction from the bar was mixed, to say the least. The older customers swore that it happened — they knew that the ghost did appear. Newcomers to the area and young people pooh-poohed the idea, saying there were no such things as ghosts let alone one that celebrated its owner’s death by the light of the moon. The discussion raged long and fierce over full and frothy pints, and as the night wore on, there arose the question of people’s fear of ghosts. Among the loud voices raised in the bar that night was the familiar sound of Dick-the-Sick. He swore he was not afraid of any ghost. He didn’t believe in them, and he was not afraid of anything which pretended to be a ghost, even if it was a long-dead knight clad in black armour who walked by the light of the full moon.
A bold, definitive statement of that kind from Dick was like manna from heaven. As one, the customers turned upon the poor chap and coaxed him into proving his fearlessness. They plied him liberally with a fiery mixture of beer and whisky and persuaded him to prove his valour. His test would be at the ancient packhorse bridge which spanned the River Elsin at a point not far from the approach road to the castle. The ghost of Sir Nicholas crossed it at midnight when it appeared, and the locals told of the ghostly manifestation which walked from the castle towards the field where the bold knight had met his death by the light of the silvery moon. So horrible was the spectre that no one dared go near the bridge to test the truth of the legend.
It was no surprise to the packed bar that Dick found himself volunteering to watch the bridge that night, at midnight. Dick reassured everyone that he would do just that. He would settle the issue once and for all. Loud cheers greeted this announcement and it seemed yet another occasion to justify the unofficial extension of hours. It was the noise of this minor celebration which attracted my attention as I entered Elsinby that fateful evening.
I walked into the situation like an innocent child stepping off the footpath in London’s Regent Street. It would be around 11.15 when I entered the village to see the pub lights blazing and the populace in full song. Closing-time was 10.30, so I entered the pub slowly and, like John Wayne might have done, thrust open the bat-wings of the saloon. Everyone fell silent at the sight of the uniform.
I looked at my watch, making the one-armed gesture very slowly as I stared in official distaste at the landlord, George.
“Pint?” he asked.
“Come off it, George!” I retorted. “You know it’s past closing-time. There’s no extension. Put the cloth over the handles and let’s be having you out, all of you. Everyone go home quietly.”
There followed the inevitable lull and looks of utter disbelief at my words. It seemed almost criminal to close a pub in this village, but George obeyed and draped the covers over the pump-handles, the signal that drinking had ceased. Then Dick-the-Sick pushed himself forward with an almost empty glass of evil-smelling fluid in his hands and said, “Ah’ssh goin’ to sshoot the ghossht, Misshter Rhea,” he grinned widely at this announcement. “Old Nick, down at the bridge, tonight . . .”
“What ghost?”
George came to the rescue. “There’s an old legend, Mr Rhea, that the ghost of Sir Nicholas Fairfax walks across Elsinby Bridge at midnight on the anniversary of his death, but only when it coincides with the full moon. That’s tonight, you see, because he died by the light of the moon. He walks down from the castle and across the river to the field where he was killed by a rival.”
“Really?” I tried to sound convinced.
My scepticism caused several of the locals to join an attempt to convince me, and in the end George vanished into the private rooms of his inn and returned with an ancient volume.
He opened it at a stained page bearing a drawing of an armour-clad knight striding across the old bridge. There was a full moon in the background and the caption supported their yam.
“Ah’sssh goin’ to sshhoot it . . .” and Dick vanished from the inn.
There followed some loud and heated discussion about the veracity of the story, and I must admit we all forgot about Dick and his shotgun. As the controversy raged, I realised it was quarter to twelve, and I had a point at the village kiosk at midnight. It was time for me to leave.
“We’re all going to watch the bridge,” George told me as I made my move to leave the inn. “Coming?”
“I’ve a point at midnight,” I said by way of an excuse.
“The telephone box is just a few yards from the bridge,” he informed me as if I didn’t know that already. “You’d hear it ring if they wanted you.”
“Aye, all right,” I agreed, for it would be an interesting diversion for me.
In typical Hopbind Inn fashion, every customer in the bar emerged and made their way along the dark byways towards Elsinby Bridge. The bridge was little used because it was too narrow for the modern motorcar, although foot passengers, visitors in particular, did enjoy its ancient, arched beauty. The track ran alongside the stream and provided numerous vantage points among the shrubbery and vegetation. I reckoned there must have been thirty customers concealed along that river bank, all squatting in the darkness on stones and grassy areas, watching the hump-backed bridge. I sat on my haunches beside a man whose name I did not know, and in deathly silence we watched the graceful outline.
The bridge rose high above the water, rising aesthetically from each bank to its peak above the centre of the water. The route across was very rough and cobbled, but it was a beautiful construction, the work of many hours of hard labour. As we sat by the side of that bubbling stream, the full moon broke from the dark clouds and cast its green lights across the entire landscape. It was almost as light as day and yet the gloom about the shrubbery totally concealed the ghost spotters.
If the legend was correct, the ghostly knight would step on to the bridge at the far side and cross towards us, en route to the grassy fields behind. He must be almost due. I looked at my watch. It was three minutes to midnight, three minutes to the ghost’s walk, three minutes to my point time. As I waited, I wondered if Sergeant Blaketon or even the Superintendent would pay me a visit. Absence from a point was inexcusable, but I didn’t want to leave here, not now. I must learn the truth of the legend. Risking my career, I stayed put.
Behind us, life in the village appeared normal. The occasional courting cat howled, and cars passed through with muffled roars, then the peaceful picture was blessed by the cheery sounds of the parish church clock striking twelve. It began to boom out its twelve strokes, laboriously recording the irrevocable passage of time, and as I counted every slow note, I kept my eyes glued on that bridge. There was not a murmur, not a movement, from the assembled witnesses . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twelve! Midnight.
As the final stroke echoed and died away, a small cloud slid across the moon and a dark shadow was cast across the water. For the watchers it was like someone switching off a light or blowing out a candle. It was all over, and the ghost had not appeared, although there was a distant eeriness as a cool wind appeared as if from nowhere and fluttered across the surface of the stream. Its passage whipped up tiny wavelets and rustled the grass and leaves. I shivered. Then followed a long, deep silence as the wind dropped. There was a total, stifling silence. The tension was indescribable, but why?
“Good God!” breathed a voice behind me. “Look . . .”
And there in the gloom at the far side of the water was the dark ghostly figure of the knight. It moved slowly and with great precision, a tall, upright figure gliding smoothly and purposefully from the shadows of the trees and mounting the rising slope of the bridge. We saw only his top half — the legs and waist were concealed by the parapets and the cloudy darkness made the moving spectre very indistinct. But it was certainly there. No one could deny it.
“I wouldn’t have believed it!” breathed a voice close to me. “I bloody well wouldn’t . . .”
Then there was pandemonium.
The spell was broken by the crash of twigs and branches, accompanied by a nervous shout and immediately followed by the crash of an exploding twelve-bore shotgun. It came from the far side of the beck, and the figure on the bridge instantly vanished. I was aware of a running figure on the other side of the river, but I got up and ran to the bridge.
Suddenly I forgot about spectres and ghostly creatures for I wanted to cross the river to catch the poacher at the other side. I was sure I’d got myself a poacher, but as I crested the summit of the tiny, short bridge my waving torch picked out the figure of Sergeant Blaketon. He was crouching and quivering with fear behind the shelter of the stone parapet.
“Rhea? Thank God!” he panted. “I was shot at.”
“Poachers, I think, Sergeant,” I managed to say, panting slightly. I was thinking fast. “I was on the other side, watching. I don’t think he was shooting at you.”
By now the others had materialised from their hiding places and were gingerly standing at our side of the bridge as I helped Oscar to his feet.
“It’s the sergeant,” I shouted at them. “He’s okay. I think that poacher took fright, lads. He’s gone.”
George came to my rescue.
“We’ll catch the sod one day,” he said. “Come on, lads. Back home.”
It wasn’t difficult to assure Sergeant Blaketon we had been lying in wait to ambush a local poacher, saying we believed it to be a chap from another village. The suspect had eluded police, gamekeepers and residents alike, so we’d joined forces to catch him. Oscar seemed to accept this because the area around the bridge was noted for its profusion of pheasants which roosted in the trees. We all expressed the feeling that the timely arrival of Sergeant Blaketon had terrified the poachers who’d run off, accidentally discharging their guns, or one of them, as they ran. One could tolerate one’s own poachers, but not those from neighbouring areas.
Blaketon and I examined the ground near the end of the bridge and found signs in the earth which suggested a premature discharge of a shotgun at close range. Our theory was thus borne out.
Sometime later I learned that Dick-the-Sick had literally taken fright upon the ghostly appearance of Sergeant Blaketon and had run off in terror. In the darkness and in his haste he had tripped over his gun which had been accidentally triggered off. Blaketon never knew this, of course, and I was thankful for Dick’s fear.
When it was all over, and the men had dispersed to their homes Sergeant Blaketon and myself spent about an hour searching for the poachers but drew a blank. I felt a bit of a twit, searching in this way, but had little alternative. Finally, we adjourned to his car, where he produced his notebook, patted his pocket and said,
“Blast! My pen! My fountain pen! It’s gone.”
“Maybe you lost it on the bridge, Sergeant?”
“Let’s have a look.”
We returned to the ancient bridge and, by the light of my torch, searched thoroughly for his fountain pen. He told me it was a present to him when he left his previous job to join the police force years ago, and he was sentimentally attached to it.
Fortunately, I found the pen lying in a gully upon the bridge, very close to where I had found him crouching. I picked it up, handed it to him and said, “It’s been a lucky night for you, Sergeant.”
I meant it.
We turned and walked off the bridge and I was very content. It had been an interesting night. But, as we left, a cool breeze suddenly rustled the leaves and I shivered. It grew very cold and the village clock struck one. At that instant I chose to take a last look at the old bridge and my action caused Oscar Blaketon to turn his head too. In the back of my mind I was wondering how good a target he had been, and he turned to see what I was staring at.
And there, walking
over Elsinby Bridge by the light of the moon, was a tall dark figure in a plumed helmet.
He said nothing. Neither did I, although I did wonder what William Willett and our altered clocks had to do with it. I couldn’t decide. The intricacies of Greenwich Mean Time, British Summer Time and Central European Time were a little too confusing for me at that time of night.
But I often wonder who walked across the bridge.
Being practical types most policemen are not easily scared by rumour or fact and they treat ghosts for what they are — flimsy creatures who could never harm anyone other than to send cool shivers down the spine or give rise to legends in pubs. There are exceptions, of course, because some police officers are terrified of ghosts.
Lanky Leonard Lazenby of Eltering Police Station was such a man. He was terrified of ghosts. The mere thought of them caused him to palpitate alarmingly and it was his misfortune to break into a cold sweat at the beginning of every period of night-duty. He had a dread of meeting a ghost during his patrol, a fact which was very evident to the other members of his shift. Some sergeants, however, were models of consideration and would arrange the station duties so that poor Leonard was given office work or alternatively patrolled the town centre, which was illuminated for most of the night. This arrangement was not out of deep compassion for Leonard — it was a means by which the job continued to be done because a panic-stricken constable is of little or no value, with or without ghosts. It was sensible to allocate him to a duty where he was of some use instead of being a gibbering wreck all night.
Periodically, however, Leonard’s weakness was overlooked when a relief sergeant compiled the duty-sheet. These newcomers were usually ignorant of Leonard’s propensity to tremble at the sound of a fluttering leaf, and so it transpired that Sergeant Charlie Bairstow was allocated the task of being night-shift sergeant for the Eltering Sub-Division.
He had often caused embarrassment to me and it seems, on reflection, that he was aware of Leonard’s other great fear.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 26
