‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t start thinking like that!’ groaned the sergeant. ‘It’s bad enough losing the bloody train, let’s not start thinking somebody’s kidnapped the Queen! This isn’t a bloody novel, Nick, it’s real life!’
‘It must have got shunted into the wrong branch line,’ concluded Proctor. ‘It’s the only possible answer. Now, who’s got the map?’
Someone produced an Ordnance Survey map of the district which the CID had used to identify which bridges to supervise and which roads to patrol, and Proctor examined it. After a moment, he said, ‘Nick, here a minute. This is your patch, isn’t it?’
He indicated a branch line which led from just south of Thirsk and through the hills into Ryedale, reaching the villages of Maddleskirk and Elsinby, both on my own beat.
‘It’s not used by service trains, Sergeant,’ I told him. ‘But it is used occasionally. Maddleskirk College do have trains visiting Maddleskirk Station to deliver boys to the college. Special trains come at the start of each term and at the end of each term. The line is still open, but there’s no public service now, no through trains.’
As he spoke, a radio call came from Headquarters. It was to say that an officer had visited the home of the signalman in question, but he was not there. His mother said he’d only been doing the job for a few weeks and that he’d come home, got changed and gone fishing. He was a keen fisherman and hadn’t gone to bed because he now had two days off and wanted to make full use of them. She had no idea where he’d gone; he rarely told her. She did say that he usually went up Swaledale, but he might have gone over into Eskdale looking for salmon, or there again he might have gone to Whitby to do some sea fishing from a boat. The message also said that, whatever line the train had been sent along, its points had now reverted to their original position to cater for main-line expresses, and so no one knew which line had been used. We put an All-Stations message out for all police officers to seek this signalman; he had to be interviewed without delay.
‘Right, Nick, I’m going to send you over to Maddleskirk. It’ll take you, what? Half an hour from here? Check that line, will you, and see if you can find the royal train. I’ll have checks made on the other lines — there’s lots branch off the main line between York and Darlington. Yours is the one immediately before the one that should have been utilised; that signalman could have pulled the wrong lever.’
And so I went about my mission. But when I got to Maddleskirk Station, which, like the one at Little Cringle, lies a mile out of the village, there was no sign of a train. I motored through the valley to Elsinby and again found no sign of a train, but then, at the tiny halt beyond Elsinby at Ploatby Junction, I could see the dark bulk of a stationary train. Ploatby Junction was not really a station, only a mere halt where, in the past, the line divided. One branch extended from here to Malton, while the other went into Ashfordly. Now it was unmanned and unused; there was not even a sign to announce its name. I drove steadily along the land and parked on the ashen surface which had once been a car park. There was no one around, although one of the carriages of the still train did bear dim lights.
I went towards that carriage, noting it was now 2.15 a.m. I tapped on the door, hoping to God it did not contain the Queen’s apartments, and it was opened by a smart-suited man with close-cropped hair.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘CID,’ I said, producing my warrant card. ‘D/PC Rhea, local force.’
‘Come in, and don’t slam the door,’ he said.
I went in and found myself in a mobile office; he gave me a mug of steaming coffee and then asked, ‘Where the hell have your lot been? We’ve been here the best part of a couple of hours with never a sign of any liaison . . . talk about security . . .’
‘You’re in the wrong station,’ I said. ‘This is not Little Cringle, this is Ploatby Junction.’
‘You’re not serious? Have we passed Cringle?’
‘No. You’re not on the right line,’ I said. ‘You’ve been sent down the wrong branch line . . .’
‘My God! Is this line busy? Hell, if something runs into us . . .’
‘No, no problem,’ I told him. ‘It’s disused, it’s quite safe, there’s no traffic on this line at night,’ and I explained things to him.
‘My God, trust British Rail! So what do we do now?’
‘I suggest you remain here till morning,’ I said. ‘It’s safe, you can be back on the main line within a few minutes, although you’ll have to reverse all the way, and you can be on your way on time tomorrow without any problems.’ I explained the geography of the district to him with the aid of a map in his mobile office.
‘I’ll check with BR and suggest that. You know, when your lot said we were on the wrong line, we thought it could be somebody breaking in to your wavelengths, somebody out to harm Her Majesty. From leaving the main line, the time it took us to arrive here was just the same as if we’d gone to Little Cringle. We saw this platform and halted, just as normal. Mind, I did find it odd that no one from the local gendarmerie came to liaise with us.’
‘I’d better radio Headquarters and tell them where you are,’ I said.
And so I did. The detectives from Little Cringle all rushed over to Ploatby Junction, and we adopted our guardian role from that point onwards. At 7.25 a.m. the driver started his engine, and the huge train slowly reversed towards the distant main line, where another signalman had come on duty. Her Majesty and her entourage had had a pleasant night’s sleep, totally unaware that they had spent the night in an unscheduled location and blissfully unaware of our alarm.
I arrived home just as Mary was getting up and dressing the family. I stayed out of bed and helped and then had my breakfast with my wife and little family of four children.
‘Did you have a busy night?’ asked Mary when we had time to chat.
‘I was involved in the royal visit to Ploatby,’ I said, but I don’t think she believed the Queen had slept within sight of our lofty police house.
I wondered how that tiny community of two or three farms and a dozen or so houses at Ploatby would have reacted if they had known that Her Majesty had spent the night among them.
Later the rumours did begin to circulate, and one of the local men said to me, ‘Noo then, Mr Rhea, Ah’ve ’eard tell that Her Majesty had ti sleep on yon station t’other week. Now, there’s no fire there, no waiting-room, no toilets, nowhere for a cup o’ tea or a sandwich. Nowt. Noo, if Ah’d known that, she could have used my bed for t’night — Ah’d have moved out, tha knows, if they’d come and asked. T’sheets wad have been warmed up and we’ve allus got eggs and bacon in for breakfast. It’s nut right, is it, letting a Queen sleep on a draughty station like that when there’s folks here wi’ spare beds and spare rooms?’
‘I’ll pass the word on in case it happens again,’ I promised him. In fact, it did happen again, for before the tracks were removed, this line was considered ideal for parking the royal train at night. But I don’t think any of its passengers enjoyed bed-and-breakfast in Ploatby.
Another VIP visit caused a bit of a flutter in Aidensfield. I learned of it through a chat with George, the landlord of the Brewers’ Arms.
‘I’m not sure whether this is a matter for you or not,’ he said, ‘but we’ve a famous person coming to the pub for dinner next week. Friday night.’
‘Is he staying at the Brewers’ Arms?’ I asked.
‘No. He’s just coming for dinner. He’s arriving with Sir Eldric and Lady Tippet-Greve, and they have requested total secrecy. They do not want his visit spoiled by sightseers, and they have sworn me to total secrecy.’
‘Is it a politician or a member of the royal family?’ I asked. ‘We don’t normally take an interest in visits by those who are not in that category.’
‘No, he’s a singer,’ said George. ‘He’s staying with Sir Eldric and Lady Tippet-Greve at High Hall for five days. He’s doing a spot of grouse-shooting on the moors and wants to see something of North York Moors and
the scenery. And he wants to see a typical English pub, to have a pint and a meal there.’
‘So they’re bringing him to the Brewers’ Arms, eh?’ I smiled. ‘Well, they couldn’t find a better example of a village pub, George. You’ll feed him well?’
‘There’s a party of a dozen coming,’ said George. ‘I’m having the dining room decorated for the job, but I thought I’d better tell you, just in case we get trouble in the village.’
‘If no one knows he’s coming, George, I think things will pass peacefully on Friday.’
‘Aye, but word gets around, you know; I mean, once he’s inside, folks’ll recognise him and they’ll be ringing their friends and they’ll come to the pub, and before we know it, there’ll be chaos.’
‘I’m on an attachment to CID, George,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to get another uniformed constable to pay a visit.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t want that; I don’t want anyone outside Aidensfield to know he’s coming. If a uniformed bobby hangs about, folks will sense there’s something going on. Can’t you come in civvies, off duty? Just to be around, just in case? Their tables are booked for eight. They’ve taken the whole dining room.’
It was an earnest plea and, as I was not anticipating having to work that evening, I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do, George, but I really ought to know who’s coming. Just in case.’
‘You won’t tell a soul, will you?’ he pleaded. ‘I mean, I could get into a load of bother if word gets out.’
‘It’s our secret, George,’ I assured him.
‘It’s Bing Crosby!’ he said. ‘Bing Crosby’s coming to the Brewers’ Arms!’
I knew this would not present the kind of problems one associated with the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, but if word did reach the wider public, there could be a crowd and there could be problems that were associated with crowds. There might be traffic congestion in the village, and if some wilder elements came along, there could be trouble such as minor fights and the kind of bother one expects from silly youths, especially if they resort to drinking on the street. I also knew George wasn’t imagining this, for it had been reported that ‘The Old Groaner’ was in the area on a private visit.
He was not performing at any concerts, and the entire visit was being regarded as a personal and private one. Until now, I’d had no idea he was acquainted with the Tippet-Greves.
‘I’ll be there,’ I promised George.
In the days that followed, everyone in Aidensfield and district heard the news, and when I arrived at the pub with Mary (in whom I had confided the secret), I found it packed. People who never normally patronised the Brewers’ Arms were there, old ladies with glazed eyes were there, youngsters who had heard about Crosby and weren’t quite sure what he did were there, and everyone was struggling to buy drinks at the bar and to catch a glimpse of the crooner.
‘He got here early,’ said George to me in a confidential whisper. ‘Sir Eldric’s party is in the dining room. We’ve drawn the curtains for privacy.’
‘Thanks. A good idea,’ I agreed, for it was almost dark anyway, being a late September day. By this time, a small crowd had gathered outside, hoping to catch sight of Crosby, but his early arrival had defeated them. It was a pity, I felt, for they were local people who were simply standing there to catch a sight of this world-famous singer. Inside, however, the place was packed. I moved among the crowd, fighting for space as Mary chatted to some friends, fans of Crosby, who had heard the whispered rumours. A couple of hours passed in this way, and then George hailed me.
‘There’s a coach arrived!’ he said. ‘In the car park at the back. I can’t cope with a coach-load of fans, Nick. Can you send ’em on their way?’
‘I’ll have words with them,’ I assured him.
I went into the car park at the rear of the inn and saw a crowd of men descending from a mini-bus, a twelve-seater. Others joined them from a couple of cars parked behind. There’d be twenty men in all. But no coach.
I had to be diplomatic, for I was not wearing uniform, and besides, I could not ban these men from the Brewers’ Arms. I had no such power. Besides, a too-forceful attempt to deter them would only result in their determination to find out why.
‘It’s full, gents!’ I said. ‘Packed out. You’ll never reach the bar.’
‘Want a bet, mister?’ grinned one of them. ‘We don’t play rugger for nothing. We can always make a scrum. Thanks, but we’ll get our pints. We’ll be no trouble if we’re left alone.’
And they marched steadfastly across the car park to the back door of the inn. As they did so, a little man carrying a pork-pie hat emerged and walked towards me. I waited in the car park, watching the departing rugger team as they filed, one by one, into the packed inn. I hoped they would not cause bother — I could always ring for a duty car if bother was threatened.
The rugger team passed the little man, and he seemed lost as he noticed me standing in the centre of the car park.
‘Say,’ he said in that soft and most distinctive voice, ‘where’s the john?’
‘It’s a bit primitive,’ I said jokingly. ‘A relic of the last century.’
‘I don’t care,’ he chuckled. ‘Gee, I am enjoying this.’
‘It is Mr Crosby, isn’t it?’ I ventured.
‘Sure, but without my toupee, no one knows me; I just walked through that crowd in there, and no one stopped me. You won’t tell, will you?’
‘No, of course not. I’m the village policeman, by the way, PC Rhea.’
‘Glad to know you. I like this village, Mr Rhea, and your countryside. Marvellous, but I must hurry. My hosts’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’
He went into the unlit toilet, a brick-built square which had a urinal channel and a battered water closet in a separate cubicle. But there was no light, and the only ventilation was via the open top of the affair, for it had no roof.
I returned to Mary, and as I was talking, Crosby came back into the hotel, pushed past the crowds and reached me. He recognised me.
‘Sure is a quaint john,’ he said quietly, chuckling as he moved back into the dining room without anyone recognising him.
‘Who’s that?’ asked my pal Malcolm.
‘Bing Crosby,’ I said.
‘Never . . . I don’t believe that . . .’
‘He’s taken his toupee off,’ I told him. ‘He likes not being recognised, and he looks smaller than he does on screen . . .’
‘But I wanted to meet him . . .’
‘You nearly did,’ I grinned.
And then the rugger team started to sing. Word of our illustrious guest had reached them, and they launched into ‘White Christmas’ with all the fervour a rugger team can muster. I groaned, and I could see that George was angry and upset at their behaviour.
‘Shut up!’ I heard him appeal to them. ‘We don’t want the evening spoiled . . .’
But they continued in fine voice, doing a repertoire of Crosby’s songs, and George was growing more and more embarrassed. The more he tried to persuade them to end their singing, the more determined they became to sing, and we felt sure their music would reach the ears of the party in the dining room. George decided to apologise to Sir Eldric and his party and went across to the dining room. At least no one was hanging around outside its door. I watched from the distance, and then George came out, closely followed by Crosby.
Crosby came into the bar and stood behind the counter with George, who rapped for silence.
‘Quiet, everybody!’ George’s loud voice filled the bar, and he rapped it again with an ashtray. Even the rugger team fell silent.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, for there was still a babble of excited chatter at the appearance of Crosby at his side, ‘Mr Bing Crosby.’
The pub filled with cheers as Crosby said, ‘I’ve enjoyed my visit to your inn.’ We all cheered again. ‘And so I thought I’d join your choir with a few songs . . .’
And so he did. Led by Bing Crosby, the combined ch
oirs of the Vale of Mowbray 1st XV, the regulars of the Brewers’ Arms and a handful of visitors from surrounding villages sang a medley of the best-known Crosby songs led by the maestro himself. And we ended by singing ‘White Christmas’.
Crosby had to leave with his party but he had given us a fine concert, and George bought drinks for everyone that night, even for the visiting rugger team. Two or three weeks later a signed photograph of Crosby arrived, and it was placed in a position of distinction behind the bar.
But perhaps the best news of all came a month or two later. George showed me the letter he had received from the brewery which owned the premises.
It announced that new indoor toilets for ladies and gents were to be installed.
People who consider themselves important, but who are probably not in the least meritorious, often find themselves in situations which are embarrassing. A lot of this is due to their opinion of themselves, some believing they are God’s gift to the world and that, as a consequence, nothing they do is wrong, while others blithely jog along in the erroneous view that they are indispensable to the nation which has nurtured them. To be very well known is indeed a severe handicap. That became evident in this next tale.
Such a person was a Very Famous TV Personality. I am not allowed to name him here, nor even to create a fictitious name which might, with some astute detective work, lead to his identification. And so I will call him VFTVP — Very Famous TV Personality.
That he was talented, handsome and popular was never in doubt, but it was known to those closely associated with him that his desirability and attractiveness concealed a person who was not very nice at all. The police in whose area he lived knew of his peccadilloes and of his more serious wrongdoings, one of which was a conviction for rape when he was a teenage lout.
His appearances on the screens of our national television network had made him a modern household name, and those of us who knew of his background and of his seedy private life sometimes wondered how the public would react if they knew the truth about him. But we, as police officers, could never reveal a confidence of that kind. We knew about his past, and we respected his efforts to forge a new future.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 71