As we chatted, I could see that she was actually working for Stephen’s benefit but I also knew there was no guarantee he would stay to farm this lonely, hilltop site. She ought to be thinking of herself now, she should retire and enjoy her investment, for the farm would bring a high sum on the open market.
As our conversation continued and I accepted her second mug of coffee, she smiled and asked me a favour.
‘I’d like you to do something for me, Mr Rhea.’ Those dark eyes scanned my face. ‘A favour, if you will.’
‘I hope I can.’ I was cautious, wondering what was to come.
‘You remember when I towed you out of that ditch last winter?’ she reminded me.
I remembered the incident. In my police van, I had skidded into a ditch on the outskirts of Aidensfield, and she had halted with the tractor. She’d towed me out; there was no damage to the police van and I had never reported it to anyone. But at the time I’d said, ‘Thanks, Mrs Haines, if ever you need a favour, well, you know where to come.’ And now she was calling in that favour.
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘And I’m always grateful.’
‘Well, now I’m asking a favour in return.’
I wondered what was coming.
‘It’s our Stephen,’ she said quietly. ‘He never goes out Mr Rhea, he never goes where he’s likely to meet a girl. I wish he’d go to the pub or join something but he spends all day working and won’t go out. He thinks of nowt else but tractors, and at night he’ll sit in to watch television or read.’
‘So how can I help?’ I wondered.
‘Well, you’re out and about all the time, meeting people. I wondered if you knew of any suitable lasses, farm lasses like me, who’d make him a friend. He needs a friend, Mr Rhea, a girlfriend. I thought, well, that if you did know of anybody that might suit him, you’d let me know.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘Just now, I can’t think of anyone, but if I do, I’ll get in touch.’
‘You won’t forget?’ I realized she was very serious about this.
‘No, I won’t forget,’ I said, taking my leave.
I never regarded myself as a matchmaker, and furthermore. I knew the dangers that could result from such arrangements, but I did not forget her earnest plea. As I motored around the moors, calling at farms and remote houses, I often recalled Lucy’s words, but all the desirable young ladies in those areas were ‘spoken for’, as we termed it. I never saw anyone I thought would tolerate the harsh life of Crag Top Farm or be strong enough to cope with Stephen’s painful shyness.
But then, some eighteen months after that chat with Lucy, I visited Marshlands Hall at Gelderslack at the request of the occupants, a Mr and Mrs Slater. They had come to this old manor house and had turned it into fine private hotel; now, to take advantage of the changes in the licensing laws, they wanted to apply for a table licence which would permit them to sell intoxicants to non-residents who took meals in their dining-room. I went along to discuss this with them, armed with my knowledge of the liquor licensing laws.
Bernard and Olive Slater were practical folks who saw the potential in their idea. As I chattered to them, I noticed a young woman working in the grounds. She was hammering some fence posts into the earth with a huge mallet. The Slaters noticed my interest.
‘That’s Sylvia,’ said Olive Slater. ‘Our daughter. She’s an outdoor type if ever there was one.’
‘Does she work here?’ I asked out of interest.
‘Sort of,’ said her father. ‘She spends her time rushing all over the world. Her great-aunt – my aunt Felicity – left her some money, so she is almost independent of us. But she uses this house as her base and earns her keep when she’s here by working, sometimes outside like she is now, and sometimes by waiting at table or even decorating. She’s a real tomboy and a useful handywoman.’
‘She’s just come back from a climbing expedition in the Alps,’ her mother said. ‘And before that, she sailed every lake in the British Isles, and she’s trekked to the source of every Yorkshire river …’
‘She sounds a restless sort of lass!’ I laughed.
‘She ought to be settling down,’ her father joked. ‘She’s nearly thirty now, and there’s no sign of a man in her life. If you know of any young men who could meet her challenge, I’d be grateful – she’s always too busy rushing off to meet any local lads.’
At this, I recalled Lucy’s plea about her Stephen. Here were two young people, each isolated in their own way, with no hope of meeting one another, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if they had anything in common. As I watched the powerful Sylvia hammering in those fence posts, I thought she might be ideal for Stephen. Where else would a farmer find a girl capable of doing a man’s work?
‘I might know just the lad,’ I said, and told them about Stephen Haines.
‘We think she’d do well with a place of her own,’ said Olive Slater. ‘She needs to settle down and extend some of her energy making it a success – she’s got nothing at the moment, you see, except a bit of cash which won’t last for ever. She can’t go on for ever rushing around the world on her own. This isn’t our own premises, we rent it, so we can’t pass it on.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m sure the Haines could use some help from time to time. Whether she and Stephen hit it off remains to be seen.’
‘Tell Mrs Haines to give us a call if she does need help about the farm,’ invited Bernard Slater, ‘and I know our Sylvia will welcome the change – and the bit of cash. If a romance blossoms, well, that’s a bonus. We’d rather she became independent instead of using us as a base and, let’s face it, a convenience. We do have a permanent staff, and we can’t pay any of them off every time our Sylvia decides to come home. We’d never get them back when she left.’
‘So something away from here would be an asset?’ I said.
‘Ideal,’ said Bernard Slater. ‘I think she could do with some work away from here.’
It was another three months before I revisited Crag Top Farm, and I found Lucy with her arm in plaster. She had fallen off the roof of an outbuilding while replacing some loose tiles and had broken her wrist.
‘How are you coping?’ I asked. I knew that winter is a quiet time on the farm, but I also knew that much does require attention in winter, especially maintenance work. With one person incapacitated, life would not be easy.
‘I’ll be honest. I’m not coping,’ she said. ‘Our Stephen is doing his best, but the cattle take most of his time, and I’m tied to the house now. There’s fencing to do, ditching and so on … and there’s no workers available just now. They won’t work for farm wages, and poor old Ralph’s getting too slow.’
It was then that I recalled Sylvia Slater and, remembering my earlier conversation with Lucy, I said, ‘I know just the person!’
I explained that Sylvia was older than Stephen by a year or two, but that she seemed a capable lass so far as outdoor work was concerned. She might be willing to come along if she wasn’t canoeing down the Amazon, hiking through the Grand Canyon or rebuilding ruined castles. Lucy listened intently and smiled.
‘She might be just the sort to jerk our Stephen out of his shyness.’
I gave her the number of Marshlands Hall Hotel before I left.
As I was on holiday at the time of the next quarterly visit to the farm, the stock registers were inspected by a colleague, and so there was a gap of six months before I returned to Crag Top Farm. By then it was summer, and the countryside was looking its best. The hedgerows were in full leaf, buttercups covered the floor of the dale with their golden blooms, and forget-me-nots decorated the woods around Crag Top.
The farm was smart and tidy as I knocked on the kitchen door. It was opened by Stephen, who invited me in as his mother would have. He and old Ralph were having their ’lowance, as the mid-morning break is called, and both were sitting at the scrubbed wooden kitchen table. Blushing slightly, Stephen invited me to join them. He had made some coffee in a pan, and there was a fruitcake
on the table. I smiled and accepted.
Stephen produced the necessary books from the bureau without my having to ask and laid them in front of me before joining me over coffee. But of Lucy there was no sign. Ralph said nothing but merely grinned at me as Stephen sat and looked into his coffee mug. Conversation would not be easy. But where was Lucy?
‘Your mum not around?’ I asked eventually.
He shook his head. ‘She’s gone mountaineering,’ he said, then added quickly, ‘She allus has had a liking for mountains, and when that lass o’ Slater’s came to help out, they decided to have a month off. They’re gone to Canada, to the Rockies.’
Good for Lucy! I was surprised at this sudden abandonment of the farm, but I smiled at Stephen.
‘She’s a fine lass, that Sylvia,’ I said.
‘She’s too bossy for me,’ he grunted. ‘She’s as bad as my mother, so I’m off when they get back, Mr Rhea.’
‘Off?’ I asked. ‘Where to?’
‘Hull,’ he said. ‘There’s a new tractor distributor opened there. They were advertising for a tractor mechanic. I got the job. I start next week.’
‘And the farm? What’s going to happen to that?’
‘Mum and Sylvia will run it,’ he said quietly, getting up to return to his task.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
as Nicholas Rhea
Constable on the Hill
Constable on the Prowl
Constable Around the Village
Constable Across the Moors
Constable in the Dale
Constable by the Sea
Constable Along the Lane
Constable Through the Meadow
Constable in Disguise
Portrait of the North York Moors
as Peter N. Walker
Murders and Mysteries from the North York Moors
Folk Tales from the North York Moors
Carnaby and the Hijackers
Carnaby and the Gaolbreakers
Carnaby and the Assassins
Carnaby and the Conspirators
Carnaby and the Saboteurs
Fatal Accident
Panda One on Duty
Special Duty
Carnaby and the Eliminators
Identification Parade
Carnaby and the Demonstrators
Panda One Investigates
Carnaby and the Infiltrators
The Dovingsby Death
Carnaby and the Kidnappers
The MacIntyre Plot
Missing from Home
Witchcraft for Panda One
Target Criminal
Carnaby and the Counterfeiters
The Carlton Plot
Siege for Panda One
Teenage Cop
Carnaby and the Campaigners
Robber in a Mole Trap
as Christopher Coram
A Call to Danger
A Call to Die
Death in Ptarmigan Forest
Death on the Motorway
Murder by the Lake
Murder beneath the Trees
Prisoner on the Dam
Prisoner on the Run
as Tom Ferris
Espionage for a Lady
as Andrew Arncliffe
Murder after the Holiday
Copyright
© Nicholas Rhea 1990
First published in Great Britain 1990
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0519 6 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0520 2 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0521 9 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 4140 5 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Constable among the Heather Page 19