CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  But almost immediately that happiness turned to disbelief and shock. The dog began to chase some sheep and lambs. The children encouraged it, laughing and shouting as the frightened animals galloped through the bracken and heather. The mongrel raced in pursuit, clearly enjoying the ‘game’.

  I expected the grey-haired man to call it off, to make the children stop. But he didn’t. He was laughing too. He was curiously enjoying the panic generated in the sheep.

  The distressed animals did not know which way to run to escape from the barking dog or the shouting children. Tiny lambs bleated in terror and became separated from their mothers, while panic caused the pregnant ewes to be in danger of aborting. If they did, it would be a costly business for the farmer who owned them, and a traumatic time for the animals. Within moments, the flock had been scattered, and I knew that if this daft dog managed to bite one and taste blood, it could turn into a sheep-killer.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted and ran towards the van. ‘Hey, stop that! Call that dog off!’

  The grey-haired man turned and saw me. No one had been aware of my presence until that moment. The whole family was clearly surprised and embarrassed at my unexpected arrival. As I shouted in my anger and horror at their stupidity, I noticed another man climb from the van. He was younger than the first and was followed by two women. One was about his own age, and the other might have been his mother or mother-in-law.

  ‘Bonnie, heel!’ He looked at me, then at the frenzied dog and immediately appraised the situation. ‘John, call Bonnie off, stop him . . .’

  But the dog had other ideas. It ignored the calls to heel and bounded through the clumps of heather, seeking more sheep to chase, more lambs to harass. The three children were a long way behind it, too far away to seize it, and so the shouting man had to rely on the authority in his voice.

  ‘Bonnie, heel! Heel, I say! Damn you, heel!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Constable . . .’ the older man was at my side. ‘I had no idea it would do that . . . I must . . .’

  ‘That dog should be shot!’ I snapped at him. ‘Of all the crazy things to do, letting it loose like that . . .’

  ‘Bonnie, heel!’ the younger man was having some success now. His powerful voice had penetrated the dog’s consciousness and halted its mad gallop; it stood with tail wagging and looked at its master, then once more regarded the sheep. At this stage, they had come to a standstill and had assembled at a safe distance to stare stupidly at the dog. It was on the point of repeating its game when its master called again.

  ‘Heel!’ he shouted, ‘Heel, Bonnie, heel!’

  The three children, a boy and two girls in their early teens, now came to the side of the man. The dog came too, wagging its tail and panting in joy.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ said the boy. ‘I thought it was a bit of fun.’

  ‘All right, no harm done,’ said the man as the mongrel arrived at his side, its tail wagging half in happiness but half in expectation of trouble. It had recognized the anger in his voice. ‘Heel, Bonnie! Sit!’

  The dog sat and looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting. Its tongue lolled as it panted heavily from the exercise, and its tail thumped the ground. I was now at the younger man’s side, the children hovering at a discreet distance. The older man had been lingering just out of my sight, close to the two women, but now made as if to speak to me . . .

  ‘Er, Constable . . .’ He stepped forward, but I was in no mood for excuses. I ignored his interruption.

  ‘Who is the owner of this dog?’ I demanded.

  ‘Er, it’s mine,’ said the younger man.

  ‘For a start, it’s not wearing a collar,’ I said. ‘And that is an offence. The collar should bear your name and address. And it is also an offence to allow a dog to worry livestock — and chasing them is classed as worrying. It means the owner of these sheep could have shot your dog if he’d caught it just now. It also means I can summon you to court for you to give reasons why your dog shouldn’t be destroyed at the worst or at the very least kept under control, and it means that, if any damage or injury is done to these sheep, the farmer can claim compensation from you.’

  One of the girls started to cry.

  ‘Look, the children would have no idea of the consequences. We’re townspeople, we don’t understand the seriousness . . . I mean, the dog was just playing . . .’

  ‘The dog was not just playing!’ I retorted. ‘You people were encouraging it. It was chasing sheep. Some are heavy with unborn lambs and they might have aborted — they still might abort — and that will cost the farmer a lot of money. He might come to you for compensation. This might cost you a lot of money. Now, your name, please.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure it never happens again.’

  The older man came forward again. ‘Look, er, Constable, this is my son-in-law, and he meant no harm. Now, I think . . .’

  ‘Are you the owner of the dog?’ I put to the older man.

  ‘No, officer, I am not.’

  ‘Then kindly allow me to speak to the owner. This is his responsibility. So,’ I continued to address the younger man, ‘your name and address, please?’

  My notebook was ready. He said his name was John Horwell and gave an address in Wakefield; he was thirty-eight years old and a schoolmaster. I gave him a lecture about general behaviour in the countryside and suggested he make an effort to learn more about rural matters; I said he would be capable of passing his knowledge to the children, both his own and those he taught at school.

  I then told him, in very official tones and by invoking the correct procedures, that I was going to report him for: (a) allowing a dog to be in a public place while not wearing a collar bearing the owner’s name and address; (b) being the owner of a dog which worried livestock on agricultural land, i.e. the moor. I said that I was going to summon him to appear at court to show cause why an order should not be made for the dog to be kept under proper control.

  While I was at it, I also asked for his driving licence and insurance, but as he had none with him, I issued him with the standard form HO/RT/1, which meant he had five clear days to produce them at a police office of his choice. He chose Wakefield. I told him to take his dog licence too.

  In throwing the book at Mr Horwell, I was fairly certain that the chief constable would not authorize prosecution on any of these charges; instead, he would probably issue a formal written caution, but it would be a valuable lesson to the family. I took all their names as possible witnesses.

  My concern was that incidents of this kind had to be halted. They were becoming increasingly frequent as more people took their leisure on the moors. I now felt that this family would be more careful, and they would relate their story to friends and neighbours. The long-term deterrent effect would be of some modest benefit to country folk and their livestock.

  Having cast gloom and despondency upon their outing, I noted the registration number of the vehicle just in case I had been given a false name and address. Then I departed towards my own vehicle, making a mental note to provide the farmer with details of this incident, should he wish to pursue the matter privately. I was not in any mood to sit near that location for my picnic lunch, so I drove to another viewpoint, there to calm down over my coffee and sandwiches.

  When I returned to Ashfordly police office later that afternoon, I completed my paperwork and rang the West Riding Constabulary control room to ask them to check ownership of the Bedford carrier. When I provided the registration number, the girl immediately said, ‘It’s in our records. It belongs to Mr Laurence Nelson,’ and she gave me his address.

  ‘Nelson?’ the name triggered some kind of memory deep in my mind, but its significance eluded me.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s the chief constable of Holbeck County Borough Force.’

  I groaned. A chief constable! I had almost booked a chief constable! But he should have known better! Nonetheless, I wondered how he would view my behaviour during those fraught moments. I wondered if he would be c
ritical of my actions, whether I had done everything according to the book or whether I had exceeded my authority. And I wondered what Sergeant Blaketon would do with my report when I concluded it with the sentence, ‘Mr Horwell is the son-in-law of Mr Laurence Nelson, chief constable of Holbeck County Borough Police Force. Mr Nelson was present during my interview of the defendant.’

  I was to learn later that Horwell was given a written caution for each of his transgressions, which I felt was quite adequate.

  I heard nothing from Mr Laurence Nelson and don’t know whether he ever contacted any of my superiors.

  As a matter of historical record, some years later his tiny police force was absorbed into the surrounding county constabulary as a result of boundary changes, and it no longer exists.

  * * *

  While the splendid heights attracted the multitudes, so did the lush green dales and the pretty stone-built villages. They drew an increasingly mobile public from the humdrum existence of dingy city streets and the conformity of semi-detached suburbia. Quite suddenly, the splendour of the Yorkshire landscape was available to all. The influx surprised those of us who lived and worked in the more remote and attractive districts.

  This was in direct contrast to pre-war days. Then, the occasional visitor would pass through a village, perhaps halting for a drink and a chat at the village inn, but by the mid-1960s they were coming in their thousands. Some came by coachload, others came on foot or by bicycle, but mostly they came by car. I think it is fair comment that our villages, and even the charming market towns, were unprepared for this onslaught upon their amenities. There were few car-parking facilities, no public toilets, a definite shortage of places to halt for a soft drink or cup of tea, and a dearth of information directed specifically at visitors.

  Many had no idea how to behave in the countryside — they left gates open, which caused cattle and horses to stray, sometimes with fatal consequences; they regarded all fields, whether crop-bearing or not, as common land; they left their rubbish and litter; they picked wild flowers to the point of rarity, and some even chopped up wooden fences to light fires or demolished drystone walls in their determination to take home a piece of moorland granite to start a rockery. There was ingratitude, ignorance and vandalism on a scale hitherto unknown.

  But the people of the moors learned to cope. Some saw the financial advantages of this perpetual influx and opened cafés, caravan sites and bed-and-breakfast establishments, while those in authority were forced to plan for this expanding tourist industry. Car-parks appeared, direction signs proliferated, information packs were compiled and byelaws created, all to regulate the increasing flow of visitors and protect the countryside and its inhabitants.

  One pretty dale received more than its fair share; tens of thousands of visitors swarmed along its narrow, hilly lanes. The snag was that most of them arrived at the same time. They were not spread out across the year or even the summer season as were other places — they were compressed into a couple of weekends every year, usually around Easter.

  The outcome was that the police were duty-bound to sort out the traffic confusion created by thousands of cars on lanes far too narrow, winding and steep to accommodate the width or length of a bus. It was a recipe for chaos. Just add a stubborn tractor-driver or shepherd with his flock, and the mixture could become volatile. The result could be a traffic jam several miles long — and this was in the days long before the M1 or the M25 and their notorious blockages.

  The short-lived attraction was wild daffodils. There were hundreds of thousands of them, even millions, and they grew (and still grow) in splendid and colourful profusion along the banks of the River Dove in Farndale. There are miles of them, and they add a unique charm to this delightful moorland dale. The dale is also known for its thatched cottages and cruck houses, as well as its remoteness and splendid upland views, but it was the wild daffodils which first attracted the crowds.

  Topographical books published before the turn of this century omitted references to these flowers, but once news of their presence did circulate, it brought in the thieves and vandals. They all wanted summat for nowt.

  Greedy visitors came with scissors, scythes, sickles, trowels, spades and wheelbarrows and began to dig up the bulbs or cut barrowloads of flowers to sell in local city markets. Such was the threat from these looters that in 1953 the dale was made a local nature reserve, with a byelaw to protect the flowers.

  And so the police officers whose duty took them to Farndale had two prime tasks — one was to control traffic, and the other was to protect the flowers, although there were also such ancillary tasks as first aid, lost and found property, missing children and wandering old ladies, thefts, vehicle breakdowns, lost dogs, litter and that host of other problems that are generated when crowds assemble.

  Daffodil Duty, as we termed it, was one of my regular tasks, although Farndale was not on my own beat. Like the other officers in the area, I was diverted to Farndale from time to time, and it was a busy, if enjoyable task. Five or six constables, a sergeant and some special constables were drafted in when the daffodils bloomed. Our brief was simple — it was to keep the traffic moving.

  Fortunately, although the roads were narrow, steep and winding, they did have one advantage: they formed a figure 8 as they wove around the dale. There was a tiny car-park near the central length of that figure 8, and if a one-way traffic system was instituted around the loops, it would prevent blockages. But only half the figure 8 (the lower half) was wide enough to cope with buses — and buses came by the score. On the main approach roads, signs were erected to guide coaches along one specific route: they must drive up the right-hand side of the lower dale, turn left along the link road and disgorge their passengers, and then park on the return leg of the bottom of the figure 8. That lane was wide enough to permit coaches to park, and when their passengers regained them, they could drive out of the dale without problems. Coaches had not to enter the top half of the figure 8.

  Private cars, on the other hand, could cope with the steep, narrow lanes around the top half of that figure 8 (even if some of their drivers couldn’t!). However, this could operate only on a one-way system. There was no space for large numbers of cars to pass or overtake each other. We created a system whereby they entered the dale via the same route as the coaches and were directed by a policeman on traffic duty across to the left of the dale. They then drove up the left of the top of the figure 8 and circled the dale to return to the centre, where they encountered the same policeman. There they were fed into the incoming stream of cars to cross the 8 in the middle, and then they could leave the dale down the left-hand leg. (They could not leave via the right-hand leg because the incoming buses filled the roads.) And with good nature from all, and a capable policeman on that central road of the figure 8, it worked. Traffic on that central stretch must be kept moving.

  Understandably, some of the local residents and farmers did not relish a full tour of the dale to post a letter or gain access to their own premises. In time, we got to know them and their foibles and so would halt the traffic to allow a local person to go against the flow.

  This was not always a success, however, because inevitably some obstreperous motorist would demand to go the same way, having seen us treat the locals with some sympathy. Initially, we explained our actions to those who grumbled, but too many wanted special treatment. After a time our patience was exhausted, so we never explained or argued with such drivers — if they were very awkward, they found themselves doing a longer than usual tour. The total round trip was in the region of eleven miles, but with a spot of collusion from other constables, awkward and inconsiderate drivers could find themselves doing a long second trip.

  The truly tricky bit, from a traffic-control point of view, was the central part of that figure 8. All traffic used that short stretch of road whether entering or leaving the dale. Traffic new to the dale, both buses and cars, was channelled along it, but cars which had toured the top of the dale were also chann
elled along it as they were guided to their exit route. So long as everyone kept moving, knew where they were heading and did as they were told, there was no trouble. Even so, it required a good and patient constable to cope with the never-ending problems at that very important point. A blockage there would halt the entire dale, something of no great consequence to tourists but of very serious consideration if it prevented access by emergency vehicles, such as ambulances, fire appliances and doctors’ cars.

  I recall one such problem. A coach had overshot the junction by about ten yards and needed to reverse in order to get around the bend into its correct route. But in those few moments other cars had arrived and were now queuing behind it. If each one reversed a short distance, the problem would be solved — the coach could move backwards, giving it space to turn the corner and then be on its way. But when I put this to the lady driving the car immediately behind it, she said haughtily, ‘Officer, I never reverse!’

  ‘But, madam,’ I replied, ‘if you don’t, the entire dale will be blocked. All I’m asking is for you to move back to that gate . . . a few yards . . . then the bus can proceed.’

  ‘I have told you, Constable. I never reverse. Never!’

  I could have argued all day and threatened her with prosecution for obstructing the highway, but none of that would solve the immediate crisis. Already more cars were heading this way — if we didn’t get her moving soon, there would be a massive blockage.

  ‘Would you mind if I moved it for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at all.’ She was a picture of charm and, I suspect, some relief as I reversed her little Austin for the necessary distance.

  That hiccup was of little consequence in comparison with the traffic jam created there one Easter Sunday afternoon at the peak of the influx of vehicles.