If they had not done it deliberately which seemed most unlikely, and if it was not an accident (there were no chimneys or exposed flames nearby), and if it was not spontaneous combustion, then who had done it and why? These were the questions we had to answer.
I tried to find links or more similarities with the Stead fire but failed. My avenues of investigation included bad business deals; possible fraud; family feuds; jealousy, petty spitefulness or malice; the work of a pyromaniac and a host of other domestic and business likelihoods. To my knowledge, no known arsonist lived in the area.
The next blaze was three weeks later, on a Wednesday night at Crampton. It was discovered earlier than the others, around eleven o’clock. A neighbour had smelled smoke and had investigated the cause only to discover bales of hay well ablaze in the barn of Throstle Nest Farm. This barn was close to the centre of the village and, happily, there was no strong breeze to fan the flames or to disperse the dangerous sparks among the houses.
Mr and Mrs Bill Owens farmed Throstle Nest; their splendid farmhouse occupied an elevated site surrounded by its spacious land, and a pair of Dutch barns stood at the bottom of a lane. This lane formed a junction with the road which led into the village, and their neighbour, Jack Winfield, lived in a cottage near that junction.
Jack’s swift action and the rapid response by the Fire Brigade kept damage to a minimum, but the familiar story emerged. It was another suspicious fire, so like the earlier ones. As the Brigade fought the fire and helpful villagers removed bales of unburnt hay, the drifting smoke penetrated many nearby homes. The smell would linger for days afterwards. During a lull, I spoke to Jack Winfield, a retired farm worker.
“Now, Jack, did you hear or see anything? We’ve had a few of these fires now.”
“There was a motorbike about the village tonight,” he said without hesitation. “I grumbled, ’cos it made my television picture go funny. Motorbikes do that, you know, sometimes.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Nine o’clockish,” he said. “First time, that was. Then again later, before t’ fire broke out. Not long before, but I couldn’t be sure of t’ time really. Same bike, I could tell by t’ noise.”
“Has it been before?”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed it. Mind, if I hadn’t had my set on, mebbe I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Did you see it then? Do you know who it was?”
“Sorry, lad, no.”
After quizzing him at length, I took a written witness statement from him. For the first time, we had a hint of a suspect, slender though it was, and before the Fire Brigade left, one of their officers came to me.
“We found this,” he said, opening the palm of his hand to reveal a spent match.
“Where, precisely?” I asked, accepting this new piece of evidence.
“About five feet from where we believe the blaze started,” he said, pointing to a piece of muddy land. “We think it started low down this side, where some bales have been removed . . .”
“Like the Low Dale fire?” I interrupted.
“Yes, in a similar position. The flames crept up the outside wall of hay before gaining a strong hold. This match, which is clean and new as you can see, was lying on the ground.”
“Thrown away, you think?”
“Its position suggests that.”
I pinpointed the precise location of this match and drew a little sketch in my notebook so that it would be committed to paper for future records. It was an ordinary match, not from a book of paper matches or a short-stemmed Swan Vestas. Its unweathered appearance said a lot; there was a distinct possibility that it was associated with the blaze.
I reported these new facts to Sergeant Blaketon at Ashfordly, and he decided to institute a series of nightly police patrols. Their purpose was to trace the motorcyclist and/or the fire-raiser. At this stage, we felt there was little point stopping all motorcyclists but did decide to record the registration number of every bike seen during our patrols. I was aware, too, that the fuel tank of a motorcycle contains petrol and what better method is there for a fire-raiser to carry this incendiary aid?
If and when another fire broke out, we could consult our records and check the movements of all recorded bikes. It would be possible to see if they tallied with the date, time and place of the fire. Even so, with such a massive rural area to patrol, the chances of a police vehicle crossing the path of the fire-raiser were remote to say the least. But we had to try.
For the next couple of weeks there were no reported stack fires. We began to feel that our presence on the roads and the fact that our purpose was enhanced by local gossip, had deterred the arsonist. But we were wrong.
The next fire broke out in the centre of Ashfordly. Tucked into one of the side streets was a farmhouse and behind it was a square stackyard and a motley collection of implement sheds. The fields belonging to this farm were some distance away on the outskirts of the town, but this curious town centre farm, known as Town Farm, was a thriving enterprise.
I was on night duty one Friday and was patrolling the surrounding moors and hills when I spotted a bright blaze in the centre of Ashfordly. It was 1 a.m. For a moment, I thought it was a bonfire in a garden, one which had been lit earlier and whose flames had been revived by a sudden night breeze; but in seconds, I knew it was too large for that and I feared the worst.
From my vantage point on the hills, it was impossible to say precisely where it was. All I could determine was a bright, flickering flame somewhere among a dark collection of houses and other buildings. I accelerated the little motorbike down towards the town and it was then that I recalled the tumble of farm buildings and sheds just off Field Lane. As I entered the town, I knew the worst. I roared towards the blaze. It was now showing as a bright orange and red glow against the sky above the houses, and I could see a pall of thick, black smoke. This was no garden bonfire and I feared another arson attack.
The moment I turned the corner and identified the precise location, I halted and radioed my Control Room. Through its radio network, the Fire Brigade was summoned and I asked Control Room sergeant to awake Sergeant Blaketon. Then I began to rouse the sleeping occupants of the farmhouse and several nearby homes. The horrified farmer said there were horses in some of the buildings and so I helped him to evacuate his animals.
Two tractors were in the Dutch barn; they were already covered with blazing hay which had tumbled from the stacked bales and so began another battle to save his equipment and machinery. The farmer’s wife was in tears; neighbours were terrified for their homes and the horses were snorting and frisky in their fright.
We did not save the barn, the hay or the tractors but no human or animal life was lost. With Sergeant Blaketon at my side, I began a meticulous search of the scene. We were seeking that spent match which could be some distance from the barn. He found it. Lying five or six feet away from where the wall of the hay had been, he located a clean spent match, miraculously having avoided the trampling feet and gallons of rushing water. He preserved it for evidence. It was another important indication that the same person was responsible for all the fires.
The Fire Officer in charge said he believed the blaze had not been due to an electrical fault or to spontaneous combustion; he expressed an opinion that the tractors might, in some way, have been responsible. The possibility of a short circuit from a battery couldn’t be ignored.
A more detailed investigation would follow and the charred remains would be examined. When we told the firemen about the match, he said, “That figures. We think it might have started on that outer wall of hay, not far from there . . . that’s the second match you’ve found, eh?”
We began to ask about the motorcycle noises in the night and one of the neighbours, a retired bank manager, did tell us he had heard a motorbike. It was not mine because the timing was different. I hadn’t been near the place until just after 1 a.m. He had heard one about midnight, he said, but could not say whether it was coming towards Town
Farm or leaving it.
But it was enough for us, after that, we intensified our nightly patrols for the motorcycling fire-raiser. At the same time, we renewed our enquiries from earlier victims. We asked them whether they had antagonised anyone who owned a motorbike and we continued our efforts to establish a link, any link, between all the scenes of the fires.
But we did not find any connection.
Then I had a stroke of luck. It was one of those moments of good fortune that all detectives require and with which some are blessed throughout their careers. In my case, it happened while I was off duty. I recognised the clue for what it was and became excited when I realised I might have found the arsonist.
It was a Friday, which was market day in Ashfordly. I went to market with Mary to help with the shopping and to look after the children. For me, it was a trying but enjoyable chore. I was wandering among the stalls in my off duty casual clothes, pleased that it was a fine spring day and that there were books and antiques to examine. I ran into friends and acquaintances to chat with and the entire experience generated a pleasing air of rustic contentment. It was a welcome break from my routine.
Then, as I poked among some junk on a stall, seeking old inkwells (which I collect as a hobby) I noticed the motorcyclist. He was sitting astride a green BSA Bantam in front of one of the pubs which overlooked the market-place. He was laughing and chatting to a pretty girl. I watched and, because motorcycles were very much on my official mind, began to observe them.
I was in an ideal position. As I watched, I saw the youth dig into his trousers pocket, pull out a cigarette and light it. Then, having done so, he flicked the spent match over his shoulder and drew heavily on the cigarette. My heart thumped; I found a pen in my pocket and jotted the make and registration number on a piece of paper and followed with a description of him and his girl. Then, I ambled across to find that match. I had to have it for comparison with the others.
It was easy; it was the only one lying nearby. The youth was engrossed in his chat with the girl and didn’t even glance at my approach. The match lay about five feet behind him.
Not wishing to draw his attention, or indeed anyone else’s, to my curious behaviour, I ‘accidentally’ dropped my car keys close to the match then stooped to retrieve them and my valuable piece of evidence. Now, the match would be scientifically compared with those already in our possession, and discreet enquiries would be made into the owner of that BSA. The chain of evidence was growing stronger. I went straight to Ashfordly Police Station with the match, and Sergeant Blaketon said he would have it taken immediately to the Forensic Laboratory at Harrogate.
Prompt enquiries from the Vehicle Taxation Office at Northallerton told us that the youth lived at Malton; we learned he was called Ian Clayton. And so, at last, we had a very likely suspect.
The problem was whether to interview him immediately, in which case he could deny being near the fires, or to make some discreet enquiries and observations with a view to gathering more evidence and facts about his life and background. We decided we needed more evidence if we were to link him with the fires; after all, we had no proof yet, merely surmise, and so we circulated to all police officers, his description and details of his motorcycle. We would find out about his work and how he spent his leisure hours and if necessary, his movements would be monitored as he went out at night. We might even catch him in the act of lighting a fire.
Two days later, we received a telephone call from the Forensic Science Lab at Harrogate. Their experts had examined all three matches and said that, in their opinion, they were similar.
Scientific evidence confirmed they had come from the same manufacturer and even the same batch of timber, but the lab experts would not commit themselves to anything more positive. A written report would follow. As evidence of arson, this was, in itself, far too flimsy. Our suspect remained a mere suspect.
Two weeks later, the little BSA Bantam was seen heading towards Ashfordly. It was discreetly followed and Ian Clayton collected his girlfriend from a house at 45 Stafford Road, Ashfordly. With each perched astride the tiny bike, it motored towards Waindale. It was about ten-thirty and it was dark. Having shadowed them into Waindale in his patrol car, PC Gregson radioed for me because Waindale was on my beat. He said they had driven along Green Lane. I received the call and set off for that hamlet. There was a feeling of excitement in my bones.
I used my own car because I felt this would be wiser than using the police motorcycle. A police motorcycle was far too prominent for this task. I parked in Waindale, making sure the car was out of sight, and began to walk along Green Lane, seeking haystacks and Dutch barns. I knew the location of most, and then, as I silently moved along the lane, I arrived at Green Farm. In the darkness, I could distinguish the tall supports of the Dutch barn, and then, as I padded silently into the complex, I came across the BSA Bantam. I could smell the heat of its engine as it leaned against a drystone wall, and a quick examination of its number plate proved it was the one we sought. My heart was thumping now; I had to find him before he fired this stack, but I also needed evidence of his crimes.
Other than the sounds of the night, including some furtive scuttlings from rats and mice, I could not see or hear anything. But he was here. Had he seen me? Was he watching me? If I wasn’t careful, he might escape on his bike . . . perhaps I should have disconnected the plug lead?
All kinds of worries and plans crossed my mind, and then, as I stood in the shelter of a tractor shed, my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Aided by a low light from the curtained farmhouse windows, I saw the flicker of a match. It burnt a hole in the gloom; it flickered for a few seconds and then flew in an arc to splutter into darkness. This was it!
I sped towards that place. The match had died now. It had not set fire to anything. But there was another tiny glow of red. And I smelt smoke. Cigarette smoke. Not burning hay.
I shone my torch. A pool of light burst upon the young couple, boy and girl, each partly dressed, each acutely embarrassed after their love-making in the hay. And in those moments, the youth’s smouldering cigarette was cast away to land somewhere in the dry hay . . .
I found it before it ignited the hay, kept it as evidence and took them both to Ashfordly Police Station in my car. To cut a long story short, after a protracted investigation about their movements, Ian Clayton and Susan Longfield did admit visiting all the burnt barns and stacks. They identified them only when we took them to each one in turn. Susan, being new to the area, and Ian, living fifteen miles away, had seen the reports in the newspapers, but had never realised the fires had occurred in barns they had used. Names of villages and isolated farms meant nothing to them.
They had not known the names of the farms they had visited; they had simply jumped on the little bike and toured the lanes until they came to a warm and cosy barn or haystack. There they stopped and made love in the hay.
And afterwards, Ian always lit a cigarette which he discarded without thought . . .
He was charged with arson of each of those stacks and barns and appeared before the magistrates in committal proceedings. After considering all the facts, they found no case to answer because the fires were accidental. In their considered opinion, there was no malice in his actions and they accepted he had not unlawfully and maliciously set fire to the hay.
Another of my rare major criminal investigations concerned a case of housebreaking which even today remains unsolved.
Tucked discreetly behind the village street in Aidensfield is St Cuthbert’s Cottage, a delightful small house which dates to the eighteenth century. With two bedrooms, a living-room and kitchen, it has beamed ceilings, pretty windows and roses growing around a rustic porch. When its elderly occupant died, it was bought by a Mr Lawrence Porteous of Leicester who wanted it as a holiday home. He retained most of the old lady’s antique furniture, but modernized and decorated the little house until it was a veritable gem. It was the kind of home for which any romantic young couple would have yearned
.
At this time, it so happened that one young couple from Aidensfield desperately needed a home. In their estimation, St Cuthbert’s Cottage was ideal. They lacked the funds to buy it, but after the sale they did write to Mr Porteous to ask if he would rent them the cottage even for a short period, until they found somewhere of their own. He refused.
They wrote again a week or two later, pointing out that it was empty for most of the year, and that they had no home . . . but again he refused.
The situation had arisen like this. Jill Knight, nee Crane, was the youngest daughter of Mrs Brenda Crane, widow. Mrs Crane and Jill had lived in another Aidensfield cottage which was owned by a property company. When Jill married young Paul Knight, he moved into the same cottage and, with his new bride, shared the accommodation and its running expenses. Then Jill became pregnant. Through one of those awful quirks of fate, poor Mrs Crane suffered a heart attack and died about the same time.
The house had been in her name; consequently upon her death, the property company wanted to repossess it for another tenant, a retiring employee of theirs. Because Jill and Paul were not holders of the rent book, they were told to vacate the house. If they refused, then the due processes of civil law would be implemented to evict them. They were given three months’ notice. This put them in a terrible dilemma. Paul worked for an agricultural implement dealer in Ashfordly and needed another home in the area, so that he was near enough to cycle to work. He couldn’t afford a car and the buses were too infrequent.
Wisely, he applied for a council house but was told there was a waiting-list; his name would be placed on that list and in the meantime, he must find alternative accommodation. Not surprisingly, he got his eye on St Cuthbert’s Cottage as an ideal short-term solution and that was how he came to write to Mr Porteous.
Repeated refusals from Lawrence Porteous put the youngsters in a real dilemma. I knew them both and liked them, but I could see the strain beginning to have its effect, especially upon the heavily pregnant Jill. The worry made her pale and constantly tired, and she began to neglect her appearance. Her mother’s death, her own pregnancy and the housing problems were more than any young girl should have to tolerate.
CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 17