I wrote the day and date of the crime beside each dot. One thing struck me immediately — some houses had suffered more than one theft. Others had suffered none. Next, I drew a chart on a piece of lined paper; the down column on the left was the address of those houses already targeted, with ample space to add more when necessary. Across the top of the sheet, I incorporated other factors — the date and day of the week and the time at which the milk had been taken, the amount stolen, the number of bottles delivered to each address, sightings of suspects, any sounds of vehicles stopping or starting in the street and even the state of the weather. One thing we policemen kept in our pocket books was a brief note of the weather on every day of our duty, along with lighting-up times. Such a simple running record had proved immensely useful on many occasions, and this was one example.
As I was working on my analysis chart, the telephone rang. It was Sergeant Blaketon.
“Rhea,” he bellowed into the mouthpiece, “I have just returned to duty after my holiday. I thought things would have ticked over nicely in my absence; I thought the explosion of crime in Aidensfield would have been brought to a satisfactory end, but what do I find? I find that crime is still soaring. There is a raging epidemic of crime on your beat and that means it affects Ashfordly Section’s statistics as well, and our divisional figures. Need I say more? It looks as if we are losing control, Rhea. Twelve crimes reported in the last month! That is a crime wave of great magnitude, Rhea. My quarterly return is due and our undetected crime rate is going to appear horrendous. It looks as if we are not doing our job. Headquarters will want to know what’s going on in Aidensfield, Rhea. So might I ask what you are doing about it?”
“It’s all pints of milk, Sergeant,” I explained. “One crime per bottle. It’s not such a serious crime wave as it appears.”
“When my returns arrive on the chief constable’s desk at Force headquarters, Rhea, they will not differentiate between murders and stolen bottles of milk. They’re all crimes, Rhea, all figures on a piece of official paper. That is what will concern him and, I might add, it will also concern the Home Office when they compile and analyse those figures. They — and he — will see that crimes in Aidensfield have rocketed and questions will be asked.”
“I do have the matter in hand, Sergeant. I am investigating the reports, trying to analyse the figures and the relevant factors involved . . .”
“Rhea, I don’t know what you are talking about. Analyse what figures? This is theft we are talking about, a series of thefts in fact, some villain nicking bottles of milk from under your very nose, Rhea. You don’t need an analysis for that. You need to get your backside off that chair and get into the street at the crack of dawn and stay there until you’ve felt his collar. Wait until he’s nicking the stuff and catch him red-handed. That’s good real evidence for the courts, Rhea. That’s how thieves are caught. You make the best use of good, positive, practical policing with a few collars being felt from time to time, not sitting in offices poring over statistics . . .”
“I’m doing this research in my own time, Sergeant,” I told him quietly.
There was a slight delay and I thought he’d rung off, then he said, “Well, commendable though that is, it doesn’t absolve you from getting your backside off that chair and into the street to do your duty, Rhea. Police work means plodding the beat and nicking thieves. I want this thief caught before our crime figures go through the roof.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I knew better than to argue and equally I knew he would have no time for my theories. There were occasions I felt that some police officers worried more about their crime statistics than they did about the effect of crime on the public.
However, my efforts did produce something interesting. First, all the thefts had occurred during fine weather, albeit in autumn and winter conditions. Secondly, all the thefts had occurred towards the western end of the village. Indeed, it was possible to draw a line across the village street with a crime-free zone at one side — the east — and a crime-ridden area on the other — the west. I felt that was significant. Thirdly, no one had seen or heard any suspect person or vehicle, the only noises being that of the occasional motor vehicle passing through Aidensfield without stopping, and of course, the clink of Harry’s bottles as he went about his deliveries. If a motorist stopped to steal a pint, someone would have heard the vehicle draw to a halt and drive away afterwards. No such noises had been heard. This made me wonder if the thief lived in Aidensfield to make his forays on foot, or of course, a pedal cycle could be involved. The other factors were that only one pint was stolen on every occasion; furthermore, and somewhat curiously, it was stolen only from an address where a single pint had been delivered. Addresses where two or more pints were delivered had not been targeted. I thought that was odd. And the stolen milk had always been taken between a Monday and a Friday, the five days of a normal working week. There had been no thefts on Saturdays or Sundays — milk was then delivered on Saturdays and Sundays. In my opinion, it suggested the thefts were committed by someone on his way to work — or on her way to work. An early-morning worker. No empty bottles had been found discarded and so it seemed the thief carried the bottle and contents to work — on a bicycle perhaps? I knew it was possible to carry milk bottles in the drinks containers that sporting cyclists attached to the down tube of their machines — these usually contained fruit juice and the rider would reach down while riding, haul the metal container from its resting place, sip the drink through a straw, and replace it without halting the cycle to dismount. I’d done so myself during my cycling days. Could a bottle of milk be carried like that? I felt sure it could.
I tried to think of anyone in the village who had a sporting cycle and who rode it to work at that time of day, but I did not know of anyone. There were, of course, many people in the village who did not go off to work and who might sneak out of the house in the early hours to help themselves to someone else’s milk.
However, with these thoughts in my mind and armed with the information I had assembled, my first task was to walk the length of the village street to reappraise the site of each theft. I wanted to look at those places from which the milk had been stolen. My walk confirmed that all the victims’ houses were facing the street — none of the stolen milk had been removed from houses tucked away up alleys or away from the front street. But, when looking critically at the victims’ houses, another factor struck me. All the houses from which milk had been stolen had front doorsteps which led directly onto the footpath; many protruded onto the path and I’d had reports of people tripping over them in the darkness. Was this significant? I went to see Harry Fletcher and discussed my findings with him. It meant nothing to him, other than to confirm that he began his deliveries at the west end at 6 a.m. By 6.30, he’d be roughly halfway along the street . . . I wondered if his 6.30 position was anywhere near my halfway mark. I then referred to the doorsteps.
“Do you put the bottles on the doorsteps, Harry, or down beside them?”
“Do you know, I can’t rightly remember,” he grinned sheepishly. “It’s the sort of thing I do automatically. I usually place ’em where there’s some empties waiting. But yes, I’d say I put the full bottles on the steps, not on the pavement or down beside the steps. That means I don’t have to bend over more than necessary.”
“Right, Harry. Now, if it’s fine tomorrow morning, can I come on your round with you?”
“Aye, ’course you can, Nick.”
“I want you to behave exactly as you normally do, putting the bottles in exactly the same places as you always do. Forget me, I’ll lurk behind you, somewhere in the darkness.”
“It sounds like a bit of Sherlock Holmes to me, Nick, but yes, anything to catch this character. He’s making my life hell. Folks are saying I’m not leaving their orders and I have to give ’em another!”
“I have a theory,” I told him. “I won’t bore you with it now, but I’ll bring my van into the village. I’ll hide it out of sight before you b
egin your deliveries, but I want it close at hand in case I’ve got to chase our thief!”
“You think you might nab him, then?”
“With a bit of luck,” I said.
And so our plans were made. I was due to work an early turn tomorrow so I would normally be starting at 6 a.m. I warmed to my task, went to bed early and set the alarm for 5.15. By half-past five, I had driven into the village from my hilltop police house, parked my van out of sight and was hiding in the shadows at the western end of Aidensfield. I remained out of sight as Harry began his deliveries. At six o’clock he began popping some pints onto doorsteps, some into doorways, some onto window ledges and even some behind garden walls. I noted where every pint was placed, particularly in those cases where only a single bottle was delivered.
As Harry moved along the street with the chink of bottles and the lights of his van marking his progress, I made my way just behind him, albeit in the shadows. A few cars, vans and lorries passed along the street, but none stopped. I saw no pedestrians or cyclists and by half-past six, Harry had reached the point which I regarded as the halfway mark. Beyond that point, not a single bottle of milk had been stolen. It looked as if this was going to be another abortive observation exercise. I watched Harry move his van stage by stage further down the street, eventually parking on the garage forecourt as he delivered to a few houses in that vicinity, and I decided not to follow him any further. After all, no thefts had occurred from this point eastwards.
It was now time to walk back along the street and to check for the presence of every bottle that had been delivered. But when I reached Daleside Cottage, the pint was missing from its doorstep. I had seen Harry leave a pint there — the step jutted into the footpath which ran along the street — and now the milk had gone. And I’d not seen or heard a thing! There were no lights in the house — I tried the door and it was locked. I didn’t think the residents had taken it in, but I did not want to rouse them this early; they were a pair of pensioners called Mr and Mrs Ingram — and I guessed what had happened. The thief had emerged as Harry had disappeared around the corner on his way to park on the garage forecourt; he’d nicked the milk from the Ingrams’ doorstep and had headed west. That meant he would not pass Harry. I knew the thief had not used one of the incoming vehicles — I’d have heard it stop and pull away, so it had to be a pedal cyclist who was now heading west. I decided to drive westwards out of Aidensfield.
I hurried to my van and began my drive and there, on the road out to Maddleskirk, I found a pedal cyclist heading in the same direction. He was dressed in working clothes but his machine was a sports model with low-slung handlebars and it was bearing the correct lights. As I eased out to overtake him, I saw the bottle of milk in the wire drinks carrier on the downtube. I had found my thief. I halted ahead of him, switched on the blue light and caused him to stop. He did so without any trouble. After identifying myself and explaining the purpose of my action, I asked, “So where did you get that bottle of milk?”
He looked at me steadily and knew there was no benefit in lying.
“I was going to pay,” he said. “I was going to get some money from the bank today . . .”
“Get in the van!” I ordered him. “And your bike — and I’ll take care of that milk.”
“I have to start work at seven,” he said. “At the bacon factory . . .”
“Not this morning,” I told him. “You’re under arrest for larceny and we’re going to Ashfordly Police Station.”
“Look, Constable, it’s only a pint of milk for God’s sake, I haven’t broken into a bank or robbed an old lady . . .”
“You can tell that to the court,” I gave him the traditional answer. I drove to Ashfordly Police Station and arrived just after seven where everything was in darkness.
I hauled on the doorbell pull, knowing it would ring in Sergeant Blaketon’s house which adjoined the station, and soon he appeared, bleary-eyed but having managed to drag on his uniform trousers and shirt.
“Rhea? What is it? It’s seven o’clock in the morning . . .”
“I’m going to make your day, Sergeant. It’s a wonderful start for you. I’ve a prisoner . . . the milk thief.”
“You have? Well, you’d better bring him in and we’ll see about charging him. You might put the kettle on as well, my mouth’s as dry as a desert.”
The thief was a nineteen-year-old youth called Ben Marshall from York who had secured a job in the local bacon factory and who was using weekday lodgings with a distant cousin in Aidensfield. He had started his work only in September and had chosen to cycle to work when the weather was fine — if it was wet, he declined and used his old car so that he wouldn’t arrive at work in something of a wet mess. There was nowhere at work to dry his clothes. When he cycled, however, he often found he had no time for breakfast before leaving and had developed the habit of stealing a pint of milk to drink en route. He rode his cycle along the footpath, grabbed a bottle as he passed a protruding doorstep, stuffed it into the metal carrier on his cycle frame to drink while riding. He had chosen solitary pints because if he tried to grab one bottle from a clutch of two or more while riding past, he might misjudge his actions and send the other bottles flying. He could cope with a single bottle in absolute silence. Because his digs were halfway along Aidensfield main street, behind the street’s frontage, he emerged from an alley and turned west.
Harry had never seen the youth because he was always at the other end of the village when the lad made his appearance, but when we presented our records to Marshall, he admitted stealing every one of those missing pints. Harry was most relieved when I told him the outcome of that little operation — he said he could tell his customers his memory was not defective, and he was not inefficient.
“I’ll tell you what, Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, when the court hearing was over, “by letting us take all his previous crimes into consideration, young Marshall has done wonders for our crime figures. Our detection rate has soared this month, Rhea. We’ve a wonderful clear-up rate to report. Well done.”
“I’m glad we caught him, Sergeant.”
“It just shows the value of good old-fashioned police work, Rhea,” beamed Blaketon. “There’s no substitute for bobbies on the beat when it comes to detecting crime. Backsides off chairs, feeling a few collars . . . it works every time.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sergeant,” I smiled.
“Now, Rhea,” he said, “there is another rather personal matter and I would appreciate your absolute discretion here. What can you tell me about the post office in Aidensfield?”
Chapter 4
One of the more puzzling aspects of the North York Moors is the reason for the large number of standing stones which dominate the bleak heather-covered landscape. These comprise way markers, religious crosses, parish boundary signs, the outer limits of large estates, disused gateposts, the remains of stone circles and other earthworks, memorials ancient and modern, relics of former buildings, natural outcrops of rock and a host of other edifices, the origins or purpose of which have sometimes been lost in time. It is a fact that these moors, in the north-east corner of Yorkshire, boast the largest known collection of standing stones for such a compact area — some 1,300 standing stones can be found within the 553 square miles (1,432 square kilometres) of the North York Moors National Park.
For many of the moorland farmers, particularly those who worked on these heights centuries ago, these stones helped to define the boundaries of their own farms. On a bleak moorland landscape there was little else to serve as a boundary marker — there were no trees, no buildings and no rivers; in other words, there were few natural boundaries. Consequently, some landowners had to erect manmade features to mark the extent of their premises. Tall standing stones were ideal. They could be seen from a distance, they were durable and permanent and, if necessary, the names of the owners in question could be carved forever in their stone faces.
Even so, the boundary line between any two distant s
tanding stones was rather blurred and indistinct, often being determined by a small hollow in the landscape or perhaps a piece of rising ground.
The truth was that the smaller farmers did not appear to worry too greatly about their precise margins. A few yards of land within or beyond their boundaries was almost irrelevant. Many of them owned moorland sheep which roamed freely across the heights, cheerfully crossing unseen boundaries which did not exist in their sheepish minds, and it was the sheep which were marked with their owners’ distinguishing colours, not the precise edge of their grazing ground. The sheep wandered wherever they wanted, quite heedless of artificial boundaries, but they could be rounded up when necessary and allocated to their true owners irrespective of where they grazed. It seemed a free and easy method of following one’s profession, one which relied on a lot of giving, taking and common courtesy.
The large estates, however, were more formalised and their boundaries did seem to be very well defined, even if they used something as primitive as massive boulders rather than the more conventional fences. One good example is the Three Lords Stone which stands at a height of 975 feet near Carlton Bank Top on the north-western tip of the North York Moors. This once marked the meeting point of three lords’ estates — Duncombe of Helmsley, Marwood of Busby Hall and Aylesbury of Snilesworth.
In the depths of the lusher dales, however, boundaries were marked with greater ease — there were rivers and streams to create natural markers, with manmade barriers such as railway lines and roads to later aid the process. Thus the farms of the low-lying regions had well-defined boundaries, often comprising fences, hedges and drystone walls.
It was those on the wild and desolate heights where such formalities seemed unimportant. The truth was that some moorland farmers were not absolutely sure of the extent of their own boundaries, even when they owned (rather than rented) the land. This uncertainty probably arose because they had never bought their farms and thus had never experienced the legal complexities of such a transaction. This happened because the premises had been handed down from father to son over successive generations which meant that formalities like the precise boundaries were never very significant in the transfer arrangements. The son simply inherited what his father had owned without concerning himself too much with unnecessary detail. Precise boundaries became important only when there was a dispute of some land or perhaps when a piece of that land had to be either developed or sold or involved in some kind of legal process. As a policeman, of course, I was not involved in the legal aspects of such problems although, from time to time, I might be aware of them. These matters were within the realm of civil law and consequently of little official concern to the police although, from time to time, a farmer might approach a police officer for advice on civil legal matters of the simpler kind. If the officer was unable to help, then he would refer the fellow to the relevant authority or even to a solicitor.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 7