Dolly-Ann was a tiny, slender and very pretty widow of about forty-five who lived in a picturesque thatched cottage at Briggsby. When dressed in her best clothes, she reminded me of one of her own flower arrangements, so delightfully neat and attractive was she. Our paths seldom crossed for she went about her business in a brisk and efficient manner and her work was something that rarely, if ever, warranted attention from a policeman. Every so often, however, I would spend time patrolling around her village and very occasionally I would find her in the garden, tending her beautiful collection of exquisite flowers. Many of these were used in her work and I do know that she sold lots to florists for wreaths and bouquets, or even to customers who came to the door. To say that her house and garden were a picture was a great understatement — they were a sheer delight. On such occasions, we would chat amiably over the hedge, passing the time of day and issuing the customary British small talk about the weather and gardening.
One of Dolly-Ann’s strengths was that she did most of her own renovations to the cottage; rather than employ builders or craftsmen, she would tackle most jobs and, surprisingly, achieved a great deal. It was while undertaking one of her improvements that she made a discovery which puzzled and then intrigued her.
It occurred when she decided to re-lay the sturdy path of sandstone paving-slabs which led to her honeysuckle-covered porch and front door.
Over the years, they had become rather uneven and maybe dangerous, and so she decided to level them all. To make a good job, she lifted every one, including that which formed the threshold. It was here that she made her discovery. Underneath the threshold she found an old glass bottle dirty with age. Some six inches tall with a wide neck, its top contained a large cork which was thoroughly sealed and had remained intact in spite of many years in the ground. She had wiped off much of the grime to find the bottle contained some very strange objects and ingredients, so strange in fact that she was baffled by them.
By chance I arrived just after she had cleaned the bottle, when she was endeavouring to determine the contents, so she invited me in for a look at it. She put the kettle on and sat me in her pretty kitchen among countless vases and arrangements of flowers.
‘So here it is.’ She plonked it on the table before me. It was a clear bottle, although the glass had a faint greenish tinge to it, and I could see a dried-up, dark and almost glutinous substance covering the bottom. This had congealed many years ago, judging by its appearance, but there were other small metal objects stuck into it, rather like pins or nails, some rusted and others still clean; I could see what appeared to be human hairs and nail clippings too.
And then I knew what it was.
At that point, she arrived with a mug of hot tea and settled down at my side.
‘Well, Mr Rhea, have I discovered hidden treasure?’
‘Not really,’ I smiled, thanking her for the drink.
‘Oh.’ Her face showed just a hint of disappointment.
‘You’ve no idea what it is?’ I asked.
‘Not a clue,’ she was honest.
‘Well, suppose I asked you if your house is troubled by witches?’ I smiled at her. ‘What would you say?’
‘Witches? No, of course not!’ she laughed. ‘Why, was this a witch’s cottage?’
‘On the contrary, witches were not welcome here!’ I told her. ‘This little device was to stop them, to ward off witches and to prevent them from bewitching the house or its occupants. It’s obviously done a good job!’
‘Really?’ She opened her eyes wide with surprise and smiled at my attempt at joking. ‘I had no idea!’
I explained my own interest in the folklore of the North York Moors and how, even until little more than a century or so ago, the country folk believed in witches and the power of the evil eye. Even today, some cottages contain witch posts whose original purpose was to protect the occupants from the attentions of witches, and there are other devices which served this purpose: for example, iron nails in beams or bedsteads, circular stones with holes in the centre, horseshoes on the walls of houses and outbuildings and even rowan trees planted close to the dwelling. All were used to deter witches.
She listened as I explained, and when I had finished, asked, ‘So what is this bottle?’
‘It’s a witch bottle,’ I told her. ‘It was customary to bury them beneath the threshold, or sometimes under the hearth.’
‘Really?’ She picked it up and tried to identify the contents. ‘What’s inside?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ The ingredients were rather revolting and I wondered if she was squeamish.
‘Something odd, is there?’ she asked, suspicious of what was coming next.
‘Ordinary things, really,’ I smiled. ‘But gruesome at the same time.’
She plonked the bottle on the table and stared at it, her pretty face screwed up in concentration.
‘Go on, Mr Rhea,’ she said at length. ‘Make me squirm!’
‘I’m not sure precisely what’s in this particular bottle,’ I said. ‘But the sort of ingredients they put in would include samples of human hair, nail cuttings and metal objects like pins or nails. They’d put urine in too, and human blood . . .’
‘Urggh . . .’ she shuddered.
‘And!’ I was in full flow now. ‘Some of them contained the liver of a live frog stuck full of pins, or the heart of a toad which had been pierced with the spikes from the Holy Thorn of Glastonbury.’
She stared at the bottle on her table.
‘How revolting!’ she shuddered again. ‘Why did they make such horrible things?’
‘They really worried about the effect of witches on their children and cattle,’ I explained. ‘If things went wrong, things that couldn’t be easily explained, they would blame the local witch. She was usually some poor old woman who dabbled in herbs or reckoned to foretell the future. And to stop any evil that she might perpetrate, they made these bottles as safeguards.’
‘So the contents acted as a charm?’
‘Yes, they were put under the door to prevent entry by evil spirits or witches. The presence of iron has long been a means of keeping witches at bay, hence the horseshoes, nails, pins and so on. The hair and human nail-parings come from the most indestructible part of the human body, and they believed that if included in a bottle, their presence would stop the witch injuring the family. I’m not sure what the blood was for. The addition of the urine was a terrible thing — they believed this caused the witch’s death because she would be unable to pass water!’
I went on to say these charms were used beyond our shores too, examples having been found in Sicily and Germany, and that in some cases three earthenware jars were used with similar contents, in this case each being buried beside a churchyard footpath seven inches below the surface and seven inches from a church porch.
When I had concluded my lecture on local witch lore, she smiled. ‘So what am I going to do with this bottle? Is it something you should know about, officially, I mean?’
‘No, but thanks for showing it me. You could replace it!’ I suggested. ‘Or keep it as an ornament . . .’
‘No thanks! I wouldn’t want that collection of stuff on my shelves!’
I mentioned the local Ryedale Folk Museum and felt it would be a suitable place to keep this bottle and its odd contents. She agreed.
‘Mind you,’ she smiled with a twinkle in her eye. ‘I suppose that if I remove it from the house, I’ll then be open to the machinations of the local witches? They might ruin my flowers, cause them to wilt or die, or even create havoc in the house itself.’
‘That’s the risk you take,’ I confirmed with a chuckle. ‘It seems this cottage has been free from strife over the years!’
‘It’s always been a happy house,’ she said. ‘Always.’
Draining my mug of tea, I left her to make her decision and never asked what she had decided. I felt I should not mention the bottle again, and although I did see her from time to time, she refrained from bri
nging up the subject. But I have never seen that bottle in the folk museum, and so far as I know Dolly-Ann’s cottage and business have remained free from trouble. And her front path is now neat and level, with the threshold firmly in place.
Among the other discoveries was a magnificently ornate silver spoon which a householder discovered buried in the thatch of his cottage; this was identified as a seventeenth-century dessert spoon worth around £2,500, and the coroner decided that it was treasure trove. He said due to the peculiar place in which it was found, it must have been deliberately hidden for reasons which we shall never know. So much treasure seemed to be discovered in the thatched cottages around my beat that I was almost tempted to buy one!
But perhaps the most satisfying discovery was the one that occurred at West Gill Farm, Aidensfield, the centuries-old home of Reg Lumley and his family. Only months earlier, I had seen Reg devastated by a terrible outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease. It had resulted in the slaughter of his entire herd of pedigree Friesians, a herd which had taken him twenty years to establish but which had been wiped out in hours by that most dreaded of cattle diseases. The story is told in Constable Along the Lane.
I knew that Reg, his wife and son Ted, were struggling to re-build their lives but no new cattle had yet appeared on the farm. I did not like to pry into their affairs nor discuss matters like insurance or compensation, nor did I wish to cause anguish by reminding them of the outbreak, so it was a pleasant surprise when I received a call from Reg. On the phone, he sounded in unusually high spirits.
‘Can thoo come, Mr Rhea? Ah’ve summat to show you.’
‘Sure Reg, when’s a suitable time?’
‘Any time, we’re about t’spot all day.’
‘How about just after two o’clock?’
‘Champion,’ he said and rang off.
When I arrived just after lunch, I found the family in the kitchen. They were sitting around their massive scrubbed pine table with huge mugs of tea, and in the centre was a tray full of muddy coins and bits of broken pottery.
Reg, beaming with happiness, shoved a mug into my hand and pulled out a chair. I settled on it, staring at the treasure before me.
‘That’s it, Mr Rhea. How about that?’
‘Reg!’ I said. ‘Is this yours?’
‘That’s for you to say, Mr Rhea. Our Ted dug it up wiv ’is plough this morning, down in oor fifteen-acre.’
‘Did he now!’ I couldn’t resist running my fingers through the pile of ancient money. The coins, most of which appeared to be of silver and from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, tinkled and rattled back on to the tray, and there seemed to be thousands of them. Upon some of them, I recognised names like Carolus I, Jacobus, Elizabeth, Edward VI and Carolus II. So they were from the reigns of Charles I and II, James I, Elizabeth I and Edward VI. I believe at least one was from the reign of Henry VIII.
‘Wonderful!’ I beamed. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’
‘Are they worth owt, Mr Rhea?’
‘They must be,’ I said, ‘but I’m no expert.’
‘Can I sell ’em? We could do wiv a bit o’ cash.’
‘I’m afraid not, Reg. But you could still get money from the find, although it’ll take time,’ and I told them about the procedure relating to treasure trove. Ted showed me where he had ploughed them up and I noted the place, then took a formal statement from him.
Next, we counted the coins. It took a long time because there were almost 2,000, and I had the unpleasant task of taking them away from the Lumleys in a large sack. I gave a receipt for 1,985 coins. I explained they would have to be examined by experts to determine whether or not they were silver or even gold. The Lumleys probably thought it was the last they’d see of them, knowing they were now subjected to red tape and officialdom.
As expected, the coroner declared them treasure trove which meant they were handed to the British Museum, and they would make their customary valuation based upon the prevailing market prices. It was some months later when I got a telephone call from Reg.
‘Can thoo come, Mr Rhea. I’ve summat to show you.’
‘Not another batch of coins, Reg?’
‘Nay, summat else,’ his voice contained an air of mystery. ‘Thoo’ll like this.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I said, curious to learn about his latest discovery.
This time, there was a whopping glass of whisky on the kitchen table when I arrived and the family sat around with huge grins on their faces. Even Mrs Lumley was smiling.
Reg made sure I was settled and insisted I drink the whisky, even though I was in uniform. I didn’t like to offend by refusing! After this performance, I was handed a letter. It was still in the official buff envelope which had been opened, but it bore the logo of the British Museum.
‘Tak a leeak at yon, Mr Rhea,’ invited Reg.
I did. I read the formal letter and was astounded. It itemised every single coin and identified them by year, reign and designation, and an individual valuation had also been added. The letter said that the total official value of the hoard of coins found at West Gill Farm, Aidensfield was £47,884 and a cheque for that amount was enclosed.
I held the cheque . . . I’d never seen, let alone held, such a huge amount of money.
‘Whew!’ was all I could say.
‘That caps owt, Mr Rhea,’ said Reg. ‘That really caps owt.’
‘It does, Reg. It really does cap owt. And I’m delighted for you all.’
Mrs Lumley, a woman of few words and a severe hair-do, just smiled again.
‘Nay, it’s thanks to thoo,’ said Reg. ‘I read summat in t’Gazette aboot thoo and another inquest on summat found at Elsinby, so thowt I’d better tell thoo. If thoo hadn’t said what we had ti deea wiv ’em, Ah might have stuck ’em in t’loft and said nowt. I mean, thoo can’t spend ’em, so in my mind they were worth nowt.’
That was a typical Yorkshire attitude, and he continued,
‘Ah mean to say, who’d have thowt they were worth all this? So we’ll have a party, Mr Rhea. Your missus’ll come, eh?’
‘We’ll be delighted,’ I said, and I meant it.
‘It’ll be soon,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring wi’ t’date.’
‘Don’t spend it all on a party!’ I cautioned him with a laugh. ‘Make the money work for you!’
‘Ah shall, Mr Rhea. Starting next week, me and Ted’ll be off to a few cattle marts. There’s a few young pedigree Friesians we’d like to get oor hands on.’
I was so happy for the Lumleys, and their party was marvellous. With a farmhouse full of friends and relations, it was a wonderful event, especially as Reg seemed to have overcome the depression which had plagued him for so long. And he did get his new herd started. Now, when I drive past his farm, I see his fields once again full of beautiful Friesians and Reg has still not retired. He continues to build that ‘new’ herd with just a little help from some past occupants of his lush farmland.
But of all the discoveries made on my patch, it was the one involving Mrs Ada Jowett which was the most intriguing. Ada, a stout and oft perspiring lady in her late sixties, was the church cleaner at St Andrew’s Parish Church, Elsinby, a job which she did voluntarily. She had been St Andrew’s cleaner for more years than anyone cared to recall, and the lovely building sparkled through her efforts.
The brasses always gleamed, the altar cloths were ironed to perfection, the surrounds were tidy and neat, and she managed to ensure that the flowers were always fresh and readers’ lists and other notices were tidily displayed.
In short, Mrs Jowett was a treasure.
The church, always short of money and in need of constant maintenance and repairs, was soon to learn just how much of a treasure she really was. Conscientious as ever, she decided one year to spring-clean the hidden corners of the church. In addition to her normal brushing and polishing, this meant clearing out cupboards and corners, getting rid of years of accumulated rubbish and paper and generally ridding the church of un
wanted junk. The job was long overdue, but no one had dared suggest it to Mrs Jowett. For all her skills, she cleaned only what could be seen . . .
No one knew what had prompted her to tackle the cupboards and corners, but she attacked the job with much gusto, lots of mops and dusters and gallons of perspiration. The stuff that was thrown out was bewildering — old curtains and cloths, ancient notices and posters, stacks of battered hymn books and a load of assorted jumble which would have graced the best junk-sale for miles around. It is just feasible that some important documents got lost in her enthusiasm, but she operated like a whirlwind. There was no stopping her once she had started and for days the church was almost lost in a cloud of dust or bonfire smoke.
And then, right at the back of a massive oak cupboard in the vestry, she found a chalice. It had obviously been there for years for it was dirty, very battered and full of dust. Like most other discoveries, she decided to throw it in the bin, so removed it from the shelf and took it outside. Then she had a second look in the strong daylight and for some reason changed her mind about casting it in the bin. It was at that precise moment that I arrived. I was undertaking a patrol around Elsinby and had noticed the frantic activity within the church. Attracted by the piles of rubbish outside, I thought I’d pop in to see what was going on and to pass the time of day with Ada.
As I strolled up the path towards the porch, I saw Ada clutching the chalice; she was peering intently at it.
‘Morning, Ada,’ I greeted her. ‘Still busy, eh?’
‘Never been so busy,’ she grumbled. ‘Wish I’d never started this. The more I chuck out the more I find inside, it’s never ending. Makes you wonder where it comes from.’
‘You’re doing a good job.’ I decided to praise her efforts. ‘It must be benefiting the church. So, what’s that you’ve found?’
‘An old cup,’ she said, holding it up for me to see. ‘Been stuck in the back of a cupboard for years, it has. Junk I’d say, by the look of it. It’s made of tin, I think, been battered about a bit. They’d never use this sort o’ thing now for communion.’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 40