If there was one creature that Leonard feared more than a ghost it was the Superintendent. Superintendents of every kind terrified Lanky Leonard Lazenby. This combination of factors coincided one late autumn night when I was on duty in Eltering.
Leonard was also on patrol in the town and I was performing one of my motorised merry-go-rounds in the surrounding landscape. Another happy fact was that Ben and Ron, the terrible traffic twins, were also on night-duty, carrying out their routine motor patrols. That night we sat in the office, munching our sandwiches and telling stories. Sergeant Bairstow took the chair normally reserved for Vesuvius, who was enjoying a rest day, and Leonard and I listened to the high-spirited pair and the sergeant as they entertained us.
Those night-shift meal breaks were relaxing and enjoyable, and sometimes extended more than the permitted three-quarters of an hour. On this occasion Leonard had come in for his break at 1.30 am, which meant he was due out at 2.15 am. I had come in at 1.45 am with Sergeant Bairstow, and the two traffic lads had entered at 2 am. Nonetheless, we formed a happy, laughing group.
As 2.15 am approached, Bairstow turned to Leonard and said, “Well, Len, it’s time to go. Do the second half of seven beat tonight, will you? I’ve heard the Superintendent will be out early. He’s doing one of his morning prowls, trying to catch us out, so we’ll be prepared for him.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Leonard, his face as pale and as fragile as French chalk.
As Leonard worried about this instruction I noticed a sly glance pass between Bairstow and the two traffic men but failed to read anything significant into it at the time. Like everyone else I knew of Leonard’s terror of dark places and of his pathological dread of superintendents. I realised that seven beat embraced the castle, its ancient chapel and graveyard, and the long winding and dark footpath through dense woodland to a Forestry Commission workman’s hut high on the moors. Inside was a telephone, chair and table, with an oil lamp. There was nothing else. The place was never locked and was regarded as a sort of refuge for lonely or lost folks on the hills, for workmen, for holidaymakers, lovers or even patrolling policemen who had to make points.
To reach this tiny wooden shelter from Eltering it was necessary to climb the steep flight of steps which led towards the castle and then walk through the adjoining graveyard. A stone-flagged footpath twisted among the ancient tombstones and emerged at the far side where it led straight into the forest and along the unmade road towards the cabin. It was customary for the Superintendent to meet the beat man at the cabin at the weirdest possible hours. He seemed to enjoy the task of keeping us alert to the fact that he was likely to turn up here at any time of the day or night. I have yet to understand why we had to make a point here, but we did.
Tonight it seemed as if the Superintendent was going to make one of his check calls.
That thought sent poor old Leonard scurrying along that route at the dead of night. His fear of superintendents had superseded his dread of ghosts but had not obliterated it. Thus he had two fears to contend with as he made his silent way towards that isolated point in the forest. I felt a twinge of concern for Leonard as he began his perilous journey.
When Leonard had left the office, Sergeant Bairstow smiled at Ben and Ron.
“Okay?” was all he said.
“Fine,” Ben replied, and after another twenty minutes they also left.
I was now alone with Sergeant Bairstow.
“Well, Nicholas,” he said affably. “It’s been a quiet night, eh? No trouble? Nothing stirring.”
“Very quiet, Sergeant,” I agreed.
“You’ve never been to that hut, have you? The Forestry Commission Place?”
“No, I haven’t,” I agreed.
“The local foot patrols go there. It’s not really on the beats of you lads from rural patches,” he told me. “You can’t get a car far along the track although the Super sometimes manages. He wouldn’t do it if it was his own private car!”
“Does he often meet men there?” I asked. “It seems a strange place for him to worry about.”
“He’s a strange man,” smiled Bairstow. “Right, let’s go. Leave your car — take a walk with me. I’ll show you the castle, the ruined chapel and the graveyard.”
“Thanks,” I was looking forward to the break from routine but puzzled by his actions. Why show me this? It wasn’t on my beat tonight and anyway, Lanky Leonard would be braving the dark to cope with problems in that part of the Sub-Division.
I locked the office and allowed the friendly sergeant to guide me to the lonely Forestry Commission hut. We sauntered casually through the deserted streets and chattered in low voices as he led me towards the outskirts of the market town. Finally he took me through a thicket which led into woodland. As we climbed the steep, shadowy path, I could see the gaunt outline of Eltering Castle over to my right. The lighter areas of night sky revealed the battered outline of this interesting place and in true Dracula style a barn owl floated on silent white wings from the ramparts and glided over our heads as we moved stealthily towards the grounds.
“Don’t make a sound,” whispered Sergeant Bairstow. “There’s something I want you to see up there.”
I puzzled over this as his measured tread became lighter. He strode ahead of me, tripping through the quiet avenues of trees until we entered the grounds of the ruined castle by climbing over a low drystone wall. I followed, hardly daring to breathe. Whatever lay in here must be very important and interesting because Sergeant Bairstow was creeping silently across the carefully cut turf and heading for the far side of the grounds. I followed as he padded across the emptiness of the ruin and eventually came to a small iron gate. It was closed but not locked, and he opened it. It squeaked faintly as we passed through and I found myself in a graveyard, somewhat overgrown but adjoining an isolated and ruined chapel.
A small church stood beside it and I knew the church did accommodate services from time to time. Certain Eltering families had ancient rights of burial here for this was their parish church. Some had their own pews too.
Charlie Bairstow led me through the deep grass, weaving between the assorted gravestones which stood at every conceivable angle. Finally we came to rest near a sturdy obelisk mounted on a series of steps and surmounted by a cross.
“All right?” he hissed.
“Fine,” I said, breathing heavily after the tension of trying to be very quiet.
“Just watch,” he bade me, and I saw him lift his torch and flash it once or twice across the graveyard. I was surprised to see an answering beam from the depths of the distant shadows.
“Fine,” said Bairstow with no explanation.
There was a long pause during which he looked at his watch and eventually he whispered, “See that path through the churchyard, over to your right?”
“Yes,” I could see it.
“It goes down to Eltering and emerges near the bus station. That’s the way the bobby comes on his route to the Forestry Commission hut. We took a short cut.”
“Oh,” I said as if understanding his conversation.
“The hut is across to our left, a few minutes’ walk into that forest,” and I turned my head to see the tall, slender, pointed outlines of the conifers which formed the forest.
Then there was some movement. He hissed for silence and squatted behind the sheltering base of the obelisk. I did likewise, albeit keeping my eyes on the scene ahead. My sight had become accustomed to the pale darkness and I could see that we were very close to the path which bisected the graveyard before leading into the woods. Beyond, at the far side, were more rows of dilapidated tombstones, some showing white in the darkness, and I was sure the torch flash had come from near one of them. I wondered if I was involved in an important observation exercise, perhaps lying in wait for a criminal? Maybe the local police had received a tip about something unlawful? A visit by a graveyard vandal, maybe? A robber of the Burke and Hare variety? A writer-on-tombstones? Someone hiding loot from the proceeds of cri
me? The handing over of stolen property? The range of possibilities was almost endless.
It was quite exciting really, waiting in the darkness with an experienced officer at my side and learning first-hand the art of catching villains and ne’er-do-wells. I was looking forward to the outcome of this strange excursion.
Then someone was coming. I heard the sounds. A tall figure materialised over to our right, coming from the direction of Eltering town. The darkness made it difficult to see him properly, but the anonymous person walked very slowly into the graveyard and began to cross it. I waited, my heart thumping. A crook? A night prowler of some sort?
The figure halted. Sergeant Bairstow cursed under his breath and I heard him mutter to himself, “Go on . . . do it . . .”
A crime of some kind was about to be committed. I knew the value of witnessing the actual commission of a crime rather than trying to convince a court that the man had attempted to commit something unlawful. There’s a world of difference between an intent and an attempt, and another world of difference between an attempt and the full commission of an unlawful act. No doubt Charlie Bairstow wanted this character to prove himself a wrong ’un, then he’d pounce to effect a very smart arrest.
As the sergeant crouched at the base of the obelisk I looked into the gloom, trying to spot anyone else. The torch signal told me that someone lurked out there and I guessed it was the CID, although it could be a uniformed officer from Malton.
Sergeant Bairstow’s eyes were still firmly fixed on the slow-moving figure across to our right. The figure was still motionless. It was stalemate.
As Sergeant Bairstow appeared to be in command of the situation I looked around for other villains, hoping to contribute by spotting the approach of his mates. I looked around carefully and as my glance rested on the gate which led into the woods, I saw someone. My heart leapt.
There was another figure; he was standing very close to the gateposts and appeared to be hiding from the man on the footpath. He was just within my view. I could distinguish the pale face, although his clothing was so dark that it was impossible to see any more of him. An occasional movement betrayed him; sometimes I saw the white of his hand as he examined his watch and I thought about notifying his presence to the sergeant, but I felt I should not interfere in this operation. Besides, any movement or noise from me could spoil the whole thing. After all, I was a mere observer in what was clearly a carefully planned police operation. Every detail would have been considered and every participant well briefed about his role.
Eventually the tall, slow-moving figure who was the focal point of the exercise came forward a few more paces. His hesitancy seemed to be evaporating and his confidence was growing. He seemed to accept that he had a nerve-jangling mission to complete and began to stride purposefully across the quiet churchyard, heading for the concealed man behind the gate. The meeting was nigh. I could feel the tension, especially in Sergeant Bairstow. He hardly dared to breathe.
When the man reached a point directly in front of Sergeant Bairstow and myself, Bairstow whispered, “This is it, Nicholas!”
I watched intently, holding my breath. The excitement was electric.
Suddenly there was a ghastly shriek and I saw the earth move. A dim light appeared from the base of a tombstone directly across the path from our position, and I saw a horrible white face rise from the grave. A blood-red light accentuated the eye sockets and nostrils. It was an awful sight.
With a sharp cry the tall figure turned and ran. I saw him galloping the way he had come, and at that point Charlie Bairstow burst into fits of laughter. The tall, running figure vanished through the gate and could be heard crashing his way through the undergrowth towards the town.
Holding his sides with laughter giving pain and pleasure together Charlie Bairstow left his hiding place and walked across to the scene of the apparition, laughing uproariously. I went with him, shaken but interested in what had happened.
My heart was pounding after the sudden shock but there before us were Ben and Ron, chuckling to themselves. Ben’s face was smothered in white flour and the two traffic men doubled up with laughter as they saw us.
It had been a well-planned joke against poor Lanky Leonard.
I examined the scene. Covering one of the old graves at the side of the path was a large square piece of theatrical grass, a green mat-like material. It was the kind of stuff used in showrooms or upon the stage to simulate a grassy area and in the darkness looked most realistic. Ron had concealed himself behind the tombstone while Ben had lain full length upon the grave of some long-dead character. The grass-green coverlet had hidden him; with his face powdered a deathly white he had lain there with his hands crossed upon his breast, clutching the torch. At a shriek signal from Ron he had switched on the light. With the lens covered with a piece of red glass the light had shone from beneath the coverlet to spotlight his horrible face, shining from directly beneath his chin. Thus illuminated Ben had slowly raised himself into a sitting position with the green coverlet pinned to his tunic under the chin.
From a distance it had looked for all the world like a corpse rising from its tomb and not the ideal sight for a highly nervous person like Leonard.
Sergeant Bairstow and I had a good laugh, while Ben and Ron thought the whole episode hilarious. Charlie Bairstow had done it again — he had deliberately allocated this beat to poor Lanky Leonard, knowing his fear of ghosts and his even greater fear of the Superintendent. No one will ever know the conflict in Leonard’s mind as he struggled with his decisions that night. From his point of view it must have been horrifying and I must admit to a certain sympathy with him as he galloped to safety. It transpired he had gone straight home to report his going off duty, sick — suffering from diarrhoea.
After the episode Ben and Ron returned to the office, taking us with them in their police car. Over a cup of congratulatory coffee we relived the prank which, I knew, would enter the annals of remarkable police legends.
As we laughed and talked, I remembered the other person who’d been at the woodland gate. Who was that? He wasn’t here, celebrating with us.
“Who was that other chap?” I asked amid the laughter and gaiety.
“Other chap?” cried Charlie Bairstow. “What other chap?”
“At the top gate, the one leading into the Forestry Commission land. He was standing there just before Ben did his stuff. I saw him.”
“Are you sure?” Charlie asked. “What was he like? Who was it?”
“I dunno,” I had to admit. “It was somebody in dark clothing, hiding just outside the gate. I thought it was one of our lot.”
“Bloody hell!” he groaned. “I wonder who it was?”
We racked our brains before resuming patrol, and I realised I still had not been to the mysterious Forestry Commission hut. There was always another time for that pleasure.
The next night, however, I knew the identity of the mystery observer.
The Superintendent had reported sick, ostensibly suffering from a stomach complaint.
Chapter Four
The learn’d is happy nature to explore.
The fool is happy that he knows no more.
ALEXANDER POPE — An Essay on Man
The country policeman spends a lot of time walking close to nature and, in the still of the sleeping hours, there is much to see and hear. Wild animals and birds appear to accept the presence of man at night in a way they would never tolerate during the daytime. Perhaps this is not an accurate assessment, but it certainly appeared to be true during my sojourns into the countryside of darkness. In some ways I was conscious of being an invader in their territory and yet their objections were never more than a mere whimper or a muffled cry of alarm. It is tolerance of this kind which makes one feel very humble and very sorrowful for the way man has treated nature in the past, and the way he will treat her in the future.
Although a good deal of my night-duty was spent in and around small market towns I did spend many hours among the
pine forests, moorland heights and green valleys, either performing a routine patrol or engaged upon a specific inquiry or observation of some kind. I enjoyed these very much.
I spent one night, for example, in a draughty barn keeping observations regarding a potato thief. The farmer, an interesting character called Bainbridge, cultivated a remote place on the outskirts of Briggsby and stored his season’s potatoes in a large, open barn. The spuds accumulated there to await collection by a local merchant, but over a period it was clear that someone was sneaking in and stealing them by the sacksful. One sack every week disappearing but unfortunately there was no pattern to the thefts. It was difficult organising observations while engaged on so many other duties away from my beat, although I did deign to spend the occasional overnight stint in his barn. I hoped the potato pincher would enable me to arrest him red-handed.
One chilly night in late autumn, therefore, I informed Mr Bainbridge that I would inhabit his barn from midnight until three o’clock in the morning for the purpose of spud-watching. Thoughtfully, he provided me with a massive sandwich of bread and cheese, an apple pie cooked by his wife and a quarter bottle of whisky, while I armed myself with my packed supper, a flask of coffee and a torch. It promised to be a long, boring vigil although food would not be in short supply.
Inside the barn I settled among the neatly arranged sacks and found a position out of the draughts, one which provided adequate views of the various entrances. For a time my potato-filled seat was quite cosy, but the chill night air soon began to eat into my bones. I took several short walks to maintain the circulation of my blood, but it was a long, cold duty and I was never cosy.
During my time in the barn I became aware of the intense animal activity in and around the place. Sitting immobile in the darkness, I could hear furtive scuffling and scratchings of all kinds, the sound of tiny creatures running about the dusty floor or investigating the sacks for morsels of food. High-pitched squeaks came from distant corners and I guessed they were mice or shrews.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 27
