But there was a mystery about Kevin.
He came to live and work in Aidensfield some months after my own arrival, but he was not a local man. He came from York, having nurtured a dream of becoming a rural craftsman, and I respected him for having the nerve to put his ambition to the test. He was a tall man, around thirty years old, with a slightly balding head of light brown hair; slim and powerful, he played cricket and squash.
Everyone liked Kevin — he became a welcome and important asset to Aidensfield. He made his home in the limestone cottage adjoining the old blacksmith’s shop. This had been the home of a succession of blacksmiths, many of whom had been content to live in rather primitive conditions, but Kevin’s woodworking skills and DIY ability turned it into a dream house.
The mystery which puzzled the local people involved his family.
An older woman came to live there, a Mrs Marie Bell, and we discovered she was Kevin’s mother. She was in her mid-fifties, we estimated, for her blonde hair was turning grey. She became a part of the village community by joining the Women’s Institute and helping with parish church matters. In time, I learned that her husband had died, and so she had come to live with her unmarried son in Aidensfield. The arrangement seemed a good one, for it meant that Kevin had someone to look after his precious house, to ensure he was adequately fed and his clothes were washed. Mum and son appeared to have none of the problems that can accrue when different generations live together.
There was also a small boy, about seven years old. He came at the same time as Mrs Bell and was called Robert. As he was of a build and colouring similar to Kevin’s, everyone assumed he was a late arrival in the family. Without asking or prying, they assumed that Mrs Bell had produced him just prior to her menopause, a time when many women are likely to conceive. The Bells did nothing to change that assumption.
Young Robert joined the local school, accompanied Mrs Bell to the shop or upon bus rides in Ashfordly, went to other children’s houses for parties and invited them back, and took part in most of the village’s events. Everyone called him Robert Bell, he called Mrs Bell ‘mummy’, and he related to Kevin as if the latter was an elder brother.
But I was to learn the truth.
As with so many of these family secrets, the truth came out quite accidentally and, having learned it in that way, I had no intention of making anyone else aware of young Robert’s ancestry. The names I am now using are, of course, not the family’s real ones, but I have been allowed to reveal that secret in this book — not that it is of earth-shattering consequence.
It seemed that some years earlier Kevin and a girl called Teresa Craven had had a long and enjoyable relationship whose result was Robert. Because Teresa had been eighteen at the time and on the threshold of a major career, Kevin said he would bring up the boy in the hope that perhaps she would one day marry him and settle down to motherhood. The caring Kevin had no wish to prevent Teresa’s following her career — it was a most noble gesture, I felt. Then, when Kevin’s father died, Mrs Bell took over the responsibility for the little lad; it was a voluntary offer from a family which, I had already learned, was thoroughly nice and decent.
A bonus was that Teresa was now making a name in her chosen career, and she did visit her son from time to time. And she remained on good terms with Kevin — he seemed quite content to give her all the freedom she desired until she decided to settle down, marry him and raise their son.
This gem of local knowledge came to me through a colleague who served in York City Police. I learned this piece of news when he and I performed duty together at York Races — officers from the North Riding of Yorkshire were drafted in to perform duty at the races, and I found myself working with Tim Lewis. We chatted and he told me that a friend of his had moved to Aidensfield — that friend was Kevin Bell. And so, in this manner, I learned something of Kevin’s past. It was during this chat that Tim told me about Teresa’s career.
‘Does the name Terry Craven mean anything to you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Should it?’
‘Not unless you’re a tennis buff,’ he said. ‘She’s our great white hope for Wimbledon.’
‘Oh, that Terry Craven!’ I had heard the name; in fact, she had been featured only recently in the national newspapers.
Tim went on to say she had been born in York but had moved away with her parents, returning from time to time to visit relatives. She was a talented and highly promising tennis player and had been offered a scholarship at an American university. There she would be coached in the very best of techniques by some of the world’s finest exponents. Shortly before going to the USA she had come to York for a holiday, where she had met Kevin and become pregnant. And, Kevin being Kevin, he had promised to bring up the child so that Teresa could follow her career.
In my time at Aidensfield, she had completed her American course and was now part of the world tennis circuit, playing in tournaments at all the major venues — and she was winning. She was high in the list of British seeded women players, being one of our top exponents. From my friend Tim, I understood that when her tennis career was over and her world tours ended, she would marry Kevin and settle down to being a mum for Robert. It was a remarkable tale.
Terry did visit Aidensfield on a regular basis. When her hectic lifestyle permitted her to take time off, she would come to stay quietly in Aidensfield. She stayed with Kevin and his mother and would go for long walks with young Robert. I think he thought she was an aunt — certainly, the other children referred to her as ‘Aunt Teresa’. I’m sure most of the village thought so too, although I suspect many did realize the true relationships within that happy family. Her other role, as a leading British ladies tennis player, was hardly mentioned; those who did not follow tennis would never know of her, for she had not yet become what is termed a ‘household name’, nor was she universally recognized in airports and public places.
Then things began to go wrong.
I was in the bar of the Brewers Arms one Friday lunchtime in early May, making one of my routine uniformed visits, when a long-haired young man burst in. He rushed across to the bar, ordered a pint and started to chatter to the locals. He sat at one of the tables with some regulars and bought them all a drink, a bonus to their usual lunchtime pint. At first I paid no heed to his behaviour, thinking it was someone known to these characters. Then he came over to me.
‘Ah, the village constable, the fountain of all knowledge, the man with everyone’s secret tucked in his notebook. Constable,’ he smiled at me, ‘can I get you a drink?’
‘No thanks. I’m on duty,’ I said.
‘Well, you might be able to help me. The name’s Craig.’ And he said he was a reporter for one of the less savoury of the Sunday national newspapers. As he talked, I caught the eye of one of the men at the table he’d just left — the man shook his head slowly from side to side. I knew they had not co-operated.
‘It depends,’ I said cautiously. ‘If it’s anything to do with the force, we do have an official spokesman.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the force, Constable,’ he said, sipping his pint. ‘It’s local knowledge I’m after. You’ll know of Terry Craven?’ I shook my head. ‘But you must, the tennis player . . . the next great British Wimbledon champion . . .’
‘Sorry, I don’t follow tennis.’ I pretended to be ignorant. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Look, you can’t be much of a village guardian if you don’t know her; it’s not a him, it’s a her, Terry as in Teresa, not Terence. She comes here a lot. Stays in the village, according to my sources . . .’
‘Really? We get lots of very famous people here,’ I said. ‘A tennis player doesn’t make a lot of impact, I’m afraid. Are you sure you haven’t got this village confused with Aidensford in Surrey? Some do, you know.’
‘No, I have not. Aidensfield is the place. She comes here for quiet holidays. Somebody must know her . . . it’s the tiniest bloody village I’ve ever been in . . . every
body must know everybody else’s business . . .’
‘If they do know, they respect each other,’ I said. ‘Now, do you lads know her?’ I asked the men at the table and also the barman whose name was Sid. They all shook their heads and muttered their denials. It was a convincing act on their part.
‘Why do you want to know?’ I asked.
‘There’s a tale doing the rounds saying she’s got a bairn, an illegitimate kid, farmed out. I’m onto the story, I’m after an exclusive . . .’
‘You’ve got the wrong spot here, mate,’ said Sid. ‘As Mr Rhea says, you must be thinking of Aidensford down south.’
It was evident that the reporter realized there was a conspiracy of silence, and he stormed out. The moment he’d gone, Sid put into operation the unofficial but highly effective Early Warning System we had created. This served all the businesses in the village and surrounding areas. If one received a visit from, say, a con man or someone trying to pass dud cheques, that business would ring another three, who in turn would ring another three and so on, thus warning everyone within a very short time. This useful system was now being operated for the benefit of Teresa Craven.
‘Thanks, Sid,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and warn Kevin and Mrs Bell.’
‘That bastard! Why do those bloody awful Sunday papers dig up dirt like that? And who buys them anyway?’
As I warned a grateful Kevin of the man’s visit, so Sid’s system alerted the other places of public resort in Aidensfield and beyond. I was to learn later that the reporter had received absolutely no information from the village, and I was pleased, if only that young Robert’s life was being protected from sensational and scandalous journalism.
But it did not end there. On the following Sunday the pub was inundated with journalists — all the muckraking papers were represented and there were a few reputable ones there too. News of a possible indiscretion in Terry Craven’s life had permeated the newsrooms and canteens of many papers.
The heavy-spending reporters were buying drinks for all the regulars, hoping that tongues would be freed and news would flow. But Sid had done his duty. No one was prepared to speak, and young Robert’s ‘Bell’ surname and his home at the blacksmith’s shop saved his family from investigation. More drink was purchased and more questions were asked, but no answers were given.
Then, without warning to anyone, the local ne’er-do-well, who had the curious name of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, came into the Brewers Arms. This was not his usual pub — he tended to haunt the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby — but he must have sensed that something important was happening in Aidensfield and that free drinks were available, along with the chance to earn a few bob. He had turned up like the proverbial bad penny. Claude was a pest. Small, pinched and totally untrustworthy, he was always in trouble of some kind; his offences were usually of a minor nature and he lived on his wits. As he materialized in that bar, I scented danger. He was the one man who might reveal the truth, and the others were not in a fit state to warn him by now. They could hardly talk — the reporters had virtually defeated themselves in getting everyone paralytic. But I knew that Claude would know Terry’s secret — he knew everyone’s secrets . . .
‘Ah!’ A News of the World reporter spotted him before I could reach him through the crowd. ‘A newcomer! You, here! Can I get you a drink?’
‘I allus has a rum before my Sunday dinner.’ He beamed at the journalist, his wizened face crinkling in a leathery smile.
A rum was duly bought.
‘Claude,’ I said. ‘I’d like a word . . .’
‘Later, Mr Rhea, I’ve got drink in my hand, and I never interrupts that, not for you, nor for anybody.’
‘But before you talk to these men . . .’
‘What men?’ asked Claude, and he winked at me. I knew what he meant. He sipped his first rum, savouring the taste as the journalist waited. I left him with the journalist.
‘Er, what’s your name?’
‘Greengrass.’
‘Mr Greengrass, we are interested in a young lady called Craven . . .’
‘My glass is empty. I allus likes a rum before my Sunday dinner,’ said Claude, and I watched the twinkle in his eye. His glass was refilled, and he sipped it slowly. When it was empty, the journalist began, ‘Mr Greengrass . . .’
‘I do like a rum before my Sunday dinner,’ repeated Claude.
The regulars lost count of Claude Jeremiah’s rums, because they had also lost count of their own beers, whiskies and brandies. The outcome of that visit by the press was heavy expenditure for the press, a hefty Sunday lunchtime trading session by the Brewers Arms, a lot of late meals in the farms and cottages of the area, and several thumping headaches.
But no one revealed any information about Terry. The reporters had wasted a fortune. Afterwards I thanked Claude Jeremiah.
‘It’s not often I congratulate you,’ I said, ‘but you did real well.’
‘I do like a rum before my Sunday dinner, Mr Rhea, so when I heard about Terry and that the press were there doling out free booze, I thought they owed me drink or two. I mean to say, they’ve printed enough scandalous tales about me.’
And so they had. He’d earned his rums.
I think that incident convinced the gutter press that they’d never succeed in getting a story of Terry Craven’s private life from the villagers of Aidensfield. The people had, without exception, closed ranks to protect her and her child. I was proud of them.
But the story did not end there. That year, Terry reached the quarter-finals before being knocked out of Wimbledon. We were all proud of her. In the autumn she returned to Aidensfield for a few weeks rest. She had been told of the village’s response to the press enquiries and, in her gratitude, decided to throw a party for everyone in the Brewers Arms. She would pay for all the drinks and a buffet supper. I went along with Mary, for I was off duty, and it was a wonderful occasion. Even Claude Jeremiah had been invited. Everyone was happy for Terry and very proud of her achievements as they sang and drank her health. She made a little speech too. She said that, once her tennis-playing days were over, she would come to live permanently in Aidensfield with her son and husband. She told us that, in fact, she and Kevin were engaged to be married — that was another secret which no one knew.
Five or six years later, she did return and now lives happily in the area as Mrs Kevin Bell. She never won Wimbledon, but she did once reach the semi-finals.
But even now, if you enter the Brewers Arms on a Sunday lunchtime, you might encounter an elf-like man with a wizened and sun-tanned face. If you are unwise enough to ask him a question, it could become an expensive exercise, because, with expectation in his voice, he will respond with, ‘I do enjoy a rum before my Sunday dinner.’
* * *
Some older maps of the North York Moors show an isolated house known as Owlet Hall. But a search will fail to locate it, because it no longer stands proud in its moorland setting. Sadly, it was demolished, and this is the story.
For many generations, it had been occupied by the Barr family, the last being Jason and Sarah Barr. They had scraped a tough living from the surrounding moorland, chiefly by farming sheep, and they had eked out their existence by undertaking other jobs. They would help their neighbours at harvest, for example, or give assistance at sheep sales, fairs and haytime.
Jason and Sarah had one son called William. He was himself retired, an ex-farmworker, and lived quietly in a council house at Aidensfield. Born at Owlet Hall, he had left the lonely spot in his teens to seek work in the dales, recognizing that his primitive family home, which boasted no water, drains or electricity, could never support him or any family. His parents had lived there until shortly before their deaths, when the house had passed to him. But there was nothing he could do with it. To bring it up to modern standards would have cost him more money than he had earned in a lifetime. No one wanted to buy it, due to its remote position and increasingly dilapidated condition, and no one seemed willing to undertake the expense
of ‘doing it up’.
The result was that the once-proud house was allowed to fall down, piece by piece. The woodwork of the windows was rotting, parts of the roof were collapsing, and when the back door rotted from its hinges, the ground floor became a shelter for sheep, moorland birds and the occasional hiker. However, upon my appointment as village constable at Aidensfield, the house was still standing and, in spite of its condition, was remarkably dry and cosy inside. It had been built to withstand the rigours of the moorland weather, and I always felt it looked charming in its patch of green. I often wished I had had the enormous sums necessary to renovate it.
Then one day, as I was patrolling the lonely road which ran past Owlet Hall, I noticed a couple of old cars parked outside. They were battered and rusting and painted in what became known as psychedelic colours, all a jumble of bright reds, oranges, blacks, blues, greens and more besides. I parked my van on the moor and walked over to them. Neither was taxed, I noted, but as they were not on public roads, I could not instigate proceedings. Then a long-haired youth with a colourful band around his head and small rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose appeared at the broken door.
‘Want something?’ he asked.
‘I’m checking these cars,’ I said. ‘Are they yours?’
‘They are,’ and he offered no more information.
‘They’re not taxed.’ I had to make the point.
‘They’re not on the road,’ he said.
‘But if they do go on the road, you’ll make sure they are taxed and insured?’ He just smiled, a gentle but cheeky smile. ‘I’ll be watching for them,’ I said, smiling back at him. ‘Are you staying long?’
‘As long as need be,’ he said. ‘There’s eight of us. We’re no trouble, we just want to live our lives as we want, with no hassle, no authoritarian oppression, no rules, just happiness and freedom . . .’
‘Flower power, communal living and free love?’ I had heard these phrases in recent months and had seen reports about the people who had adopted these new ideals. They were hippies.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 86