CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18)

by Nicholas Rhea

  We realised that things hadn’t worked out for Medwin when he and Bethany went off to York for a quiet weekend in a cottage they rented near the railway station and when they did likewise on several successive occasions, it was clear that he regarded the town as the ideal place to spend a quiet, relaxed weekend.

  We knew what would happen next. He would put Middle Mires Cottage on the market. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before a ‘For Sale’ notice appeared at the gate. We all thought it would never sell — not many people were daft enough to buy that remote, unmodernised cottage in the middle of a field. It was for sale for several weeks but eventually the sign did come down. Someone had bought the house. That was the surprise for us all and we wondered if another dreaming townsperson had bought it — but it did mean that Medwin returned to the solitude, anonymity and loneliness of city life to leave us all in peace.

  A few weeks later, I visited Herbert Bainbridge at High Mires Farm for a routine inspection of his livestock registers. His paperwork was always up-to-date and accurate, and I had no qualms in appending my signature to confirm my visit. As always, Jessie invited me to stay for a cup of coffee and a piece of gingerbread and cheese; happily, I consented. As we chatted, I recalled Medwin’s brief occupancy of Middle Mires Cottage and commented, “I see Medwin Isaacs managed to sell the cottage. Any idea who bought it?”

  Herbert grinned wickedly.

  “Aye, me. I bought it back from him.”

  “You did?” I was surprised.

  “He lost more than a few quid, I might add,” chuckled Herbert. “I thought I’d teach him not to come here and start complaining about country ways, so when I realised he’d never sell the spot, I offered him a daft price. He was that keen to get back to York he accepted. So I’ve got my cottage back and I hope that daft Medwin and his missus have learned a lesson. It’s been a costly one for them, I’d say,” he mused.

  “I doubt if they have learned a lesson,” I had to say. “People like Medwin never learn from their experience — they’ll always blame others for their problems. But what are you going to do with the cottage?”

  “Let it off to holidaymakers,” he smiled. “There’s a demand for old, primitive cottages — only for short-term visits, mind! Folks like to think they’re camping in the fields. I’ll be advertising in the papers for next year, Nick, so if you hear of anybody who wants a nice quiet place in the countryside, tell ’em about Middle Mires Cottage.”

  “I will,” I promised, but made a mental note not to mention noisy combines, tractors, cockerels and the other sounds of the Yorkshire countryside at work.

  Chapter 6

  The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

  And stared, with his foot on the prey.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, 1809–92

  It takes a good deal of imagination to calculate how the arrival of a spectacular but rare bird of prey could help to solve a puzzling series of petty crimes — but by a string of linked coincidences, that’s exactly what happened one summer on the moors above Aidensfield.

  It was a hot and cloudless Monday in June when I received a telephone call from Tom Maxfield who farmed at High Ghyll Hall. It was about four in the afternoon when he rang me and by chance I was working in the office attached to my house, typing a report for the coroner about a recent sudden death. A call from High Ghyll Hall was unusual because it was one of the most remote of the farms on my beat, well and truly off the proverbial beaten track but enjoying the most beautiful locations with stunning views to the south across the moors. But Tom did not want to explain the reason for his call, not over the telephone. The confidentiality of telephone calls was something that seemed to worry a lot of country people. Tom asked me to pop in when I was passing, and I said I would be on patrol later that same evening and would drive out to visit him.

  But the splendidly situated High Ghyll Hall wasn’t the sort of place anyone popped into while passing!

  The magnificent stone house, known locally as a hall as were many of the larger farmhouses of this region, occupied a sheltered and isolated position at the head of its own small dale. That was Ghylldale which led deep into the moors above Aidensfield. The farm, with mixed arable land, moorland sheep and beef cattle, was set in acres of wild moorland and accessible only by a long, gated track which twisted and turned for almost two miles along the side of the dale; the track, which passed one or two lonely cottages en route, did not lead to any other place, consequently High Ghyll Hall was not the sort of place you passed en route to anywhere else. Tom, however, had no real appreciation of its isolation because he made regular trips into Aidensfield and beyond to Ashfordly, Eltering and Harrowby markets. Such journeys were quite normal for him — he’d lived there all his life, having inherited the farm from his father.

  For the rest of us, a visit to this remote spot was not something anyone did casually — it required a determined effort, the opening of six five-bar gates and some uncomfortable bumping along an unmade track before arriving at the farm. Those of us who knew the district always made a phone call to Tom and Margaret Maxfield before setting out from Aidensfield, just to make sure they were at home. It was a long way there and back for nowt!

  Pondering the reason for Tom’s phone call, I arrived at the farm at 6.30 that same evening to find Tom and Margaret settling down for their evening meal, which they called tea, and, as was the custom hereabouts, I was invited to join them at the table.

  A sturdy jovial man in his late fifties, Tom had a round red face and thin fair hair which looked like straw; with hands like shovels and feet like even bigger shovels, he stood some six feet six inches tall in his heavy working shirt and corduroy trousers. Margaret, his wife, was just as tiny, a little sparrow of a woman with sharp features, darting grey eyes and thin legs. She played an equal part in the running of his family business. Locally, she was regarded as an expert on Friesian cattle and was a regular prize-winner with her animals at Yorkshire agricultural shows.

  “Come in, Mr Rhea,” she invited as I arrived at the kitchen door.

  “Sit down there, Mr Rhea,” commanded Tom, pointing to a beautiful carver chair at the head of the kitchen table which was set for a meal. “Then we can talk.”

  I obeyed and was next presented with a feast of smoked ham, home-grown tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber, cold new potatoes and soft tiny carrots, to be followed by a whopping slice of gooseberry pie and custard, all washed down with a mug of milky tea. A light meal for them — a feast for me.

  “Now then, Mr Rhea.” Tom waited until I was settled before my overflowing plate before he mentioned the reason for his call. “It’s good of you to turn out like this. You’ll be wondering why I called you in?”

  “Yes, it’s not often I get summoned to these parts,” I smiled.

  “Aye, well, I didn’t like to say owt on t’ telephone, you never know who’s listening in.”

  I wondered how he perceived the telephone, but was growing more interested now as I tucked into my meal, wondering if a drama was about to be unfolded.

  “Confidential, is it?” I asked.

  “Nay, not in so many words, but I don’t like conducting my personal business on t’ telephone. What it is, Mr Rhea, is we’ve had some money pinched. And food. Ham and stuff. Tomatoes, eggs. At least, we think we have.”

  “They could have had the food if only they’d asked,” Margaret added. “There’s always food to spare, folks just have to ask.”

  “You said you think you’ve had some stolen?” I wondered who on earth would steal from this lonely place. “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Well, it was my egg money,” Margaret explained. “I keep it in that drawer over there,” and she pointed to a sideboard with drawers at the far side of the huge kitchen. “To be honest, Mr Rhea, I never know exactly how much there is in there, and we do dip into it for spending in the village — groceries, stamps, hen food, a drop of petrol or diesel now and again, and so on. But I’m sure summat like five pounds has gone, in coin
s, and I know Tom hasn’t taken it.”

  “Never laid a finger on it,” he grinned. “It’s her money, you see, Mr Rhea. More than my life’s worth to snaffle a bob or two.”

  “And you never lock your door?”

  “I shouldn’t think that kitchen door’s been locked for nigh on two hundred years, Mr Rhea, give or take a month or two. There’s no need to up here, is there?”

  “Not until now,” I had to say, following with, “And do you employ anyone? Has anyone been working here lately?”

  “Only Aud Harry Fenton from down the lane, but he’s not been in all week, he’s got rheumatics. But he’s been with us ever since he was a lad, Mr Rhea, whenever that was — in my father’s time, I should think, or my grandfather’s. He’s allus been an aud feller while I’ve known him. He must be getting on for eighty and can still do a full day’s hay timing. But he’d not take owt without asking, not even an apple or a tatie.”

  “So when did the money disappear?” was my next question.

  “It’s hard to say, Mr Rhea,” Margaret frowned. “I’d say yesterday afternoon, Sunday mebbe, or even Saturday sometime. Both days, Tom was down the fields but yesterday I went into Aidensfield to see my sister. The kitchen would be empty from after Sunday dinner till just before teatime.”

  “And has anything else been stolen? You have shotguns in the house, I’m sure, and a .22 rifle. All farmers have them.”

  “I checked, Mr Rhea, none of the guns were touched, nor the ammo. No, it’s just as we said, food and a bit o’ cash.”

  “And did you see anyone on the road when you went into the village? Strange cars? Cyclists? Hikers?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no, never saw a soul.”

  In such circumstances, especially when the facts are rather uncertain, it is always difficult to be sure that a crime has been committed — there was no break-in, the losers weren’t absolutely sure if anything had been taken and even if it had, they did not know how much was missing.

  In such a lonely situation, casual callers were unlikely, as were travelling thieves or opportunist villains. I looked at the drawer concerned — it contained various items of cutlery but in the front there was a money box with a slit in the lid — Margaret always popped her egg money in there and used it for small expenditure. She could never say precisely how much it contained at any one time, only knowing instinctively that when she opened the tin today, there was less than she’d expected. It now contained 18s. 6d. in coins, when she’d expected something like £10 or £12. Similarly, the pantry contained shelves and trays of food and vegetables, and all she could say was that several slices of ham appeared to have gone, along with a pocketful of tomatoes and half a dozen fresh eggs. I knew she was not imagining this but even so, due to the lack of precise information, I knew that Sergeant Blaketon would not allow the losses to be regarded as a crime. I therefore decided not to record this event as a crime but told the Maxfields I would bear it in mind during my forthcoming patrols. I promised to keep an eye open for any likely suspects in the area, and asked them in return to let me know if more food or money disappeared. During my return journey to Aidensfield, I called at the cottages and farms along the lane to ask if any strangers had been noticed, but none had. That tended to support the official attitude that Margaret had made a mistake and had miscalculated the contents of her tin and pantry shelf.

  But more money did vanish, although not from High Ghyll Hall. The next report came from Nab Side Farm, Briggsby, the home of John and Frances Broadley.

  In their mid-thirties, this young couple had rented the farm from Ashfordly Estate about three years earlier and were creating a fine milking herd of Jerseys. They rang me the following morning, Tuesday, with a story that bore remarkable similarities to that of Tom and Margaret Maxfield. Yesterday afternoon, someone had sneaked into the farmhouse, entered John’s office and stolen £10 in mixed silver and notes from his petty cash box. Half a pound of bacon rashers, a string of sausages and two pork chops had also disappeared from the cool shelf of the pantry.

  There had been no break-in, entry to the house being via the kitchen door which had been closed but not locked as the couple were working in the milking parlour. But John and Frances were not in doubt about their loss — John maintained a good accounting system and could trace every penny he spent. As with the Maxfields, I asked whether their guns had been stolen, but they had not, the only missing items being the money and some food.

  In many ways, Nab Side Farm emulated High Ghyll in that it was an isolated farmstead on the moors although in this case the house was perched on the side of a hill, known locally as Briggsby Nab. A single track led to Nab Side from Briggsby but in this instance continued beyond it to serve several farms and houses before continuing around the head of the dale and returning to Briggsby via the far side of the valley. There was no direct road link between High Ghyll and Nab Side, a trek from one farm to the other requiring a trip of some five miles if one went by road — but an examination of the map told me the farms were in fact less than half a mile apart, albeit separated by the imposing bulk of the heather-covered Briggsby Nab.

  As I prepared to drive out to interview John and Francis Broadley, it occurred to me that the thief or thieves must be on foot, a hiker perhaps, someone who was tramping across the wilderness in that desolate part of my beat. Or perhaps camping? Otherwise why steal food? On my way to Nab End, I decided to visit Aidensfield shop-cum-post office to see if any strangers had called to spend money, but Joe Steel, the shopkeeper, shook his head. I told him about the two raids on isolated farms and he promised to let me know if he noticed any likely culprits, especially those who might be spending money in his shop. It was while I was in the shop that Daniel Ellis entered. A self-employed carpenter clad in his brown overall, he looked harassed and worried but seemed relieved at my presence.

  “Nick, just the chap! I heard you were in here,” he breathed, looking at me and then at Joe Steel. “Have either of you seen our Simon?”

  “No.” I shook my head, and Joe did likewise. “Why?” I asked.

  “He’s not at school,” he sighed heavily.

  “Playing truant! I never would have thought that of my lad!”

  “Truant?” I knew Simon Ellis. He was a pleasant boy who was regularly seen riding his bike about the village, sometimes visiting his grandparents, sometimes playing on the cricket field or simply wandering about the countryside looking for wild animals and birds.

  “He’s not the sort to skip school,” Dan said. “He likes it, he likes his teacher and he’s not being bullied. It was his teacher, Josie Preston, who told me, she rang this morning . . .”

  “Is it the first time?” I asked.

  “So far as I know,” Dan confirmed. “She said nowt about him bunking off on Friday or any other day.”

  “Where was he at the weekend, Dan?” I was thinking of those raids at the farms.

  “At home, playing around the village, riding his bike, popping to see his grandparents, going for walks by the river or biking up to the moors looking for birds, that sort of thing. Doing all the things young lads do in the countryside.”

  “And this morning? Did he let you think he was going to school as normal?”

  “Aye, he set off on his bike just after half eight as usual, bright as a button, just like he allus does.”

  “So where do you think he might have gone?” I was anxious not to spark off a massive hunt for the boy if he was simply hiding somewhere in the village but, simultaneously, I had to bear in mind the possibility he might be in trouble, or that he could get lost and injure himself.

  “He could be anywhere, Nick,” he said. “Mind you, he’s allus gone off by himself, he’s used to roaming about the countryside, he’ll not be taking harm, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I established from Dan, a good-looking, dark-haired man in his early forties, that Simon was ten years old, about four feet tall with dark-brown hair, a freckled complexion and brown
eyes. When he’d left home this morning, he was wearing a white shirt with short sleeves, a pair of grey short trousers, grey socks and black shoes.

  He carried his satchel of brown leather which contained an apple and an orange along with some books. He’d get his dinner at school. He had a bike, a boy’s Raleigh which was blue with a white seat and white handlebar grips. Dan told me that none of his other clothes were missing, the only additional thing he’d taken being a pair of binoculars given to him as a birthday present by his grandfather.

  “Why take the binoculars to school?” I asked.

  “He’s looking for a silver hawk,” said Dan. “A few weeks ago, his grandad told him the legend of the silver hawk and since then, the lad’s been looking for it. He reckons he spotted it on the moors near Witch Hill, a big white bird he said, but I told him it would be a seagull. Anyroad, he took his binoculars to school this morning and said he would look for the silver hawk after school, before he came home for his tea.”

  “Legend of the silver hawk?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of that!”

  “It’s hardly ever mentioned these days, but my dad likes to tell the tale. They say a silver hawk used to live around Witch Hill, centuries ago that was, when folks believed in witches. Witches were said to make cattle sick, turn milk sour, prevent hens and geese from laying eggs, stop the harvest ripening, that sort of thing. But the silver hawk, being a white bird, was the symbol of good, something the witches hated, and so long as the silver hawk was around, the witches couldn’t operate their wicked spells. So a silver hawk on the moors was a sign of good fortune for the farmers and country folk hereabout and therefore for the whole village — hens and geese would lay well, cows would thrive and so on.”

  “And so your dad has told Simon all about it and you think he’s gone up to Witch Hill already, instead of waiting until school’s finished?” I suggested. “Armed with his bike, his apple and orange, and a pair of binoculars? It’s quite a way for a lad — two or three miles at least!”