I was in an ideal position. As I watched, I saw the youth dig into his trousers pocket, pull out a cigarette and light it. Then, having done so, he flicked the spent match over his shoulder and drew heavily on the cigarette. My heart thumped; I found a pen in my pocket and jotted the make and registration number on a piece of paper and followed with a description of him and his girl. Then, I ambled across to find that match. I had to have it for comparison with the others.
It was easy; it was the only one lying nearby. The youth was engrossed in his chat with the girl and didn’t even glance at my approach. The match lay about five feet behind him.
Not wishing to draw his attention, or indeed anyone else’s, to my curious behaviour, I ‘accidentally’ dropped my car keys close to the match then stooped to retrieve them and my valuable piece of evidence. Now, the match would be scientifically compared with those already in our possession, and discreet enquiries would be made into the owner of that BSA. The chain of evidence was growing stronger. I went straight to Ashfordly Police Station with the match, and Sergeant Blaketon said he would have it taken immediately to the Forensic Laboratory at Harrogate.
Prompt enquiries from the Vehicle Taxation Office at Northallerton told us that the youth lived at Malton; we learned he was called Ian Clayton. And so, at last, we had a very likely suspect.
The problem was whether to interview him immediately, in which case he could deny being near the fires, or to make some discreet enquiries and observations with a view to gathering more evidence and facts about his life and background. We decided we needed more evidence if we were to link him with the fires; after all, we had no proof yet, merely surmise, and so we circulated to all police officers, his description and details of his motorcycle. We would find out about his work and how he spent his leisure hours and if necessary, his movements would be monitored as he went out at night. We might even catch him in the act of lighting a fire.
Two days later, we received a telephone call from the Forensic Science Lab at Harrogate. Their experts had examined all three matches and said that, in their opinion, they were similar.
Scientific evidence confirmed they had come from the same manufacturer and even the same batch of timber, but the lab experts would not commit themselves to anything more positive. A written report would follow. As evidence of arson, this was, in itself, far too flimsy. Our suspect remained a mere suspect.
Two weeks later, the little BSA Bantam was seen heading towards Ashfordly. It was discreetly followed and Ian Clayton collected his girlfriend from a house at 45 Stafford Road, Ashfordly. With each perched astride the tiny bike, it motored towards Waindale. It was about ten-thirty and it was dark. Having shadowed them into Waindale in his patrol car, PC Gregson radioed for me because Waindale was on my beat. He said they had driven along Green Lane. I received the call and set off for that hamlet. There was a feeling of excitement in my bones.
I used my own car because I felt this would be wiser than using the police motorcycle. A police motorcycle was far too prominent for this task. I parked in Waindale, making sure the car was out of sight, and began to walk along Green Lane, seeking haystacks and Dutch barns. I knew the location of most, and then, as I silently moved along the lane, I arrived at Green Farm. In the darkness, I could distinguish the tall supports of the Dutch barn, and then, as I padded silently into the complex, I came across the BSA Bantam. I could smell the heat of its engine as it leaned against a drystone wall, and a quick examination of its number plate proved it was the one we sought. My heart was thumping now; I had to find him before he fired this stack, but I also needed evidence of his crimes.
Other than the sounds of the night, including some furtive scuttlings from rats and mice, I could not see or hear anything. But he was here. Had he seen me? Was he watching me? If I wasn’t careful, he might escape on his bike . . . perhaps I should have disconnected the plug lead?
All kinds of worries and plans crossed my mind, and then, as I stood in the shelter of a tractor shed, my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Aided by a low light from the curtained farmhouse windows, I saw the flicker of a match. It burnt a hole in the gloom; it flickered for a few seconds and then flew in an arc to splutter into darkness. This was it!
I sped towards that place. The match had died now. It had not set fire to anything. But there was another tiny glow of red. And I smelt smoke. Cigarette smoke. Not burning hay.
I shone my torch. A pool of light burst upon the young couple, boy and girl, each partly dressed, each acutely embarrassed after their love-making in the hay. And in those moments, the youth’s smouldering cigarette was cast away to land somewhere in the dry hay . . .
I found it before it ignited the hay, kept it as evidence and took them both to Ashfordly Police Station in my car. To cut a long story short, after a protracted investigation about their movements, Ian Clayton and Susan Longfield did admit visiting all the burnt barns and stacks. They identified them only when we took them to each one in turn. Susan, being new to the area, and Ian, living fifteen miles away, had seen the reports in the newspapers, but had never realised the fires had occurred in barns they had used. Names of villages and isolated farms meant nothing to them.
They had not known the names of the farms they had visited; they had simply jumped on the little bike and toured the lanes until they came to a warm and cosy barn or haystack. There they stopped and made love in the hay.
And afterwards, Ian always lit a cigarette which he discarded without thought . . .
He was charged with arson of each of those stacks and barns and appeared before the magistrates in committal proceedings. After considering all the facts, they found no case to answer because the fires were accidental. In their considered opinion, there was no malice in his actions and they accepted he had not unlawfully and maliciously set fire to the hay.
Another of my rare major criminal investigations concerned a case of housebreaking which even today remains unsolved.
Tucked discreetly behind the village street in Aidensfield is St Cuthbert’s Cottage, a delightful small house which dates to the eighteenth century. With two bedrooms, a living-room and kitchen, it has beamed ceilings, pretty windows and roses growing around a rustic porch. When its elderly occupant died, it was bought by a Mr Lawrence Porteous of Leicester who wanted it as a holiday home. He retained most of the old lady’s antique furniture, but modernized and decorated the little house until it was a veritable gem. It was the kind of home for which any romantic young couple would have yearned.
At this time, it so happened that one young couple from Aidensfield desperately needed a home. In their estimation, St Cuthbert’s Cottage was ideal. They lacked the funds to buy it, but after the sale they did write to Mr Porteous to ask if he would rent them the cottage even for a short period, until they found somewhere of their own. He refused.
They wrote again a week or two later, pointing out that it was empty for most of the year, and that they had no home . . . but again he refused.
The situation had arisen like this. Jill Knight, nee Crane, was the youngest daughter of Mrs Brenda Crane, widow. Mrs Crane and Jill had lived in another Aidensfield cottage which was owned by a property company. When Jill married young Paul Knight, he moved into the same cottage and, with his new bride, shared the accommodation and its running expenses. Then Jill became pregnant. Through one of those awful quirks of fate, poor Mrs Crane suffered a heart attack and died about the same time.
The house had been in her name; consequently upon her death, the property company wanted to repossess it for another tenant, a retiring employee of theirs. Because Jill and Paul were not holders of the rent book, they were told to vacate the house. If they refused, then the due processes of civil law would be implemented to evict them. They were given three months’ notice. This put them in a terrible dilemma. Paul worked for an agricultural implement dealer in Ashfordly and needed another home in the area, so that he was near enough to cycle to work. He couldn’t afford a car and the buses
were too infrequent.
Wisely, he applied for a council house but was told there was a waiting-list; his name would be placed on that list and in the meantime, he must find alternative accommodation. Not surprisingly, he got his eye on St Cuthbert’s Cottage as an ideal short-term solution and that was how he came to write to Mr Porteous.
Repeated refusals from Lawrence Porteous put the youngsters in a real dilemma. I knew them both and liked them, but I could see the strain beginning to have its effect, especially upon the heavily pregnant Jill. The worry made her pale and constantly tired, and she began to neglect her appearance. Her mother’s death, her own pregnancy and the housing problems were more than any young girl should have to tolerate.
“No luck?” I met her in the shop one day.
She shook her tousled head.
“Paul’s been asking all over,” she said, her pretty face drawn with anxiety. “We got chance of a council house over at Scalby, but it was too far for Paul to get to work. If you see anything, Mr Rhea, you’ll let us know? They can’t put us on the street, can they? Me being pregnant and that?”
“No, I’m sure they can’t and I’m also sure something will turn up . . .”
“We only need something till we get a council house near here,” she said. “There’s bound to be one soon, isn’t there? The council said they come up fairly often.”
I did feel concerned for them. There were lots of suitable cottages in the surrounding villages, but this was the period when rich folks were buying them for holiday homes. Some were purchased as personal holiday homes or weekend cottages, and others were bought as investments to be rented weekly or for mere weekends to holiday-makers.
There is little doubt that the merits of this upsurge in buying country cottages did have a dual value; it did prevent many old cottages from falling into ruin and it did bring some welcome business into the village stores and inns. But on the other hand, it denied many young people a village home, either for rent or for purchase, because it made fewer local homes available.
This was brought home to me by the case of Jill and Paul Knight. I felt sure the council would never allow them to be thrown onto the street or taken into a hostel of some kind, but the wheels of official departments turn so very slowly and with such a lamentable lack of feeling or compassion. The officials would have no concept of the heartache involved in the long periods of waiting and hoping.
As I worried about the future for Jill and Paul, I received a visit from the postman.
“Mr Rhea,” he said as he knocked with my morning mail, “somebody’s broken into that little cottage down the village, St Cuthbert’s.”
My heart sank.
“Much gone?” I asked.
“Dunno,” he shook his head. “They got in by smashing a window at the back, in the kitchen. It’s still open.”
“Right, thanks,” I said. “I’ll go and have a look.”
As he’d said, entry was by smashing a pane at the back. The burglars, or housebreakers, had opened the kitchen window and climbed through. Once inside, exit had been through the kitchen door by unlocking the Yale catch. I could not tell whether anything was missing for I had never previously been in the cottage, and the intruder(s) had not made a mess.
I now had a crime in Aidensfield. If the breaking and entry had occurred after 9 p.m. and before 6 a.m. it would be classified as a burglary. Outside those times, it would be recorded as a housebreaking. Since 1968, due to a change in the law, all such breakings have been categorised as burglary.
I contacted the key-holder, Miss Cox, who lived two doors away and together we made a brief examination. I asked her not to touch anything, but to look around and tell me what was not in its usual place.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she muttered as she surveyed each room at my side. “Oh, dear, oh dear, how awful.”
She was a fussy little woman of indeterminate age, probably in her sixties.
“Can you tell me what’s been taken?” I asked, notebook at the ready.
“The television,” she said, pointing to an empty corner.
I quizzed her and found out it was a black and white Murphy set, with a twelve-inch screen.
“The radio,” she said in the kitchen. This was a Bush portable in a red and cream case, with a plastic carrying handle. “And a vase, a nice old vase in green glass.”
“Thanks.”
We searched the entire cottage, but nothing else seemed to have been stolen. She checked it regularly but could not say it was secure at 9 o’clock last night. So we recorded it as housebreaking, a lesser crime than burglary. I thanked her and obtained the telephone number of Mr Porteous; then called in our CID and Scenes of Crime experts; they would examine the cottage for fingerprints and other clues.
My next task, apart from completing the formal written Crime Report, was to make house-to-house enquiries around Aidensfield in the hope that someone had either heard or seen something. The CID would do their skilled work after obtaining a key from Miss Cox and I asked the local plumber to re-glaze the broken window.
From my office, I rang Mr Porteous to break the bad news. After assuring him that all possible had been done, and that his cottage would be secure before nightfall, he decided not to drive up from Leicester. I said it was not necessary.
Funnily enough, another two cottages in a deep moorland village were raided about a fortnight later, but in each case, the MO was different from the Aidensfield crime. I was sure the Aidensfield housebreaker had not broken into the others but those crimes did prompt a telephone call from Mr Porteous.
“Ah, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I’ve just seen the paper — two cottages have been burgled on the moors. Is this a regular happening in your area?”
“It’s becoming more commonplace,” I had to admit. “Some of these holiday homes, with expensive furnishings, are easy meat, you know. They’re empty for long periods and it doesn’t take a genius to realise they’ve got things like TVs and radios inside; all easily disposable.”
He paused. “We’re going abroad for the summer,” he said, “so we won’t be using St Cuthbert’s Cottage for our fortnight’s holiday. It’ll be empty from now until October; that’s six months. Miss Cox will pop in from time to time, but you’ll keep an eye on it for me, will you?”
“Of course,” I said, “but it’s always at risk, you know that.”
“I know. I’ve heard about these people who live in houses for you, house-sitters or something. Have you anyone in your area who would do that? For a fee, of course.”
I was about to say I knew of no one, when I remembered Jill and Paul Knight.
“I know a young couple who would do a good job for you,” I said. “They’d be willing to house-sit for you, for six months or whatever it takes.”
I told him all about Jill and Paul, and how they were now waiting for allocation of a council house. He recalled their pleading letters.
“I didn’t commit myself before,” he said. “After all, I don’t know them and at that time I did intend using my cottage most weekends . . . but, well, for a gap of six months . . .”
“They are on the council waiting-list,” I stressed, “but this would be useful to both you and them.”
“Ask them to ring me,” he said, “I’ll discuss terms; I was willing to pay someone, so I may decide to allow them the cottage rent free or possibly a nominal rent, for legal purposes . . .”
Three days later, they moved in.
Five days afterwards, the stolen goods were found in an old van which was rotting in a quarry. They were quite undamaged and after successfully testing them for fingerprints, they were restored to St Cuthbert’s Cottage. It was good news for Mr Porteous.
My enquiries into the crime drew a complete blank but it was a remark I overheard from a drinker in the Brewers Arms which caused me to think.
“By gum,” said the man over his pint one night, (he was chatting confidentially to a pal, but I heard him), “it’s a rum sort of a do when you’ve got to b
urgle a house to get folks to take notice of you. Still, yon lad’s got a roof over his head now.”
From time to time, I still reflect upon that unsolved crime.
THE END
BOOK 8:
CONSTABLE
THROUGH
THE MEADOW
A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors
NICHOLAS RHEA
Chapter 1
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.
L’Allegro, JOHN MILTON, 1608—74
For the rural police constable going about his daily routine, this is more than a poetic image; sights of this kind are a pleasant part of country life and the constable’s patrols take him through a whole galaxy of meadows, sometimes along major roads, sometimes along narrow lanes and occasionally by little-used bridleways, green lanes or tortuous footpaths with centuries of history beneath them.
On the edge of the moors where I used to patrol, some of the fields are divided by rippling brooks which we call becks or gills, other boundaries are marked by the sturdy dry-stone walls of the region, and some make use of hedgerows or even timber-and-wire fencing. There are spacious flat fields used for the growth of cereals or the nourishment of herds of milk-producing cows, and tiny patches of grass which have the appearance of being artificially created from the heather or bracken of a wild moorland hillside.
Some of the meadows adjacent to the moorland are almost too small to be considered fields or meadows, perhaps being better described as paddocks. One local name is intake because they have been cultivated after being securely walled from the wilderness of pervading heather, but they continue to provide a refuge for a few hens or moorland sheep, even a cow or horse.
Those on the edge of the moors usually contain a patch of smooth, short grass with very few flowers because the black-faced sheep of this region continually nibble at it until they produce a surface which is as smooth as a prize lawn. In the dales below, however, the meadows are more lush; on the fertile earth, they thrive upon the natural goodness which has accumulated over the years. They feature as parts of a beautiful green carpet decorated with profuse and colourful vegetation; in the spring and summer they are a delight, and in the winter they sleep unmolested.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 34