by J. R. Ellis
Oldroyd’s conclusion seemed to send Ramsden off into the realm of whimsy.
‘Well, there were many legends in the past of supernatural creatures living in those caves like fairies and boggarts; evil spirits you know, who could whisk you off into the depths. You know those potholes on the slopes of Ingleborough called Boggarts Roaring Holes? That gives you the idea.’
‘I think I know how my chief superintendent would respond if I suggested that the victim was magically transported down there by a cave spirit.’
Ramsden smiled. ‘I wasn’t serious, Chief Inspector; what you’re thinking is that there must be another way to get to that point in the system, a shorter and quicker way.’
Now it was Oldroyd’s turn to be faintly surprised. The old boy’s mind was still very sharp beneath his seemingly inconsequential reflections.
‘Yes, that’s right. But I have been assured by two authorities on the subject that there is no way to reach this Sump Passage, where the body was found, other than the direct route.’
Ramsden thought quietly for a moment.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chief Inspector, but it’s not a subject I know a great deal about. Whatever you’ve been told by the experts is probably true. Was one of them Alan Williams by the way?’
‘Yes. He was one of the rescue party that brought up the body.’
‘I know Alan. He comes in occasionally; he’s bought a few books on caving and mountaineering. I keep a few volumes on local hobbies and pastimes.’
Oldroyd was a little deflated. Was this going anywhere? It was always difficult to tell with Ramsden.
The old man continued, ‘However, who was it, Chief Inspector, who said that a well-educated person was not someone who knew the answer to every question, but someone who knew where to find the answer?’
‘Go on,’ said Oldroyd with a knowing smile.
Ramsden paused again, slightly enjoying – like myself, thought Oldroyd – a sense of drama.
‘Taking your logical approach one step further, if there is no known alternative way into the Jingling Pot system there must be an unknown one. Dear me, I nearly quoted Donald Rumsfeld then and I wouldn’t want to imply that it was possible to derive any wisdom from that notorious warmonger.’ Ramsden’s eyes glinted fiercely.
‘I see the logic, but I’ve been assured that Jingling Pot has been thoroughly explored and there are no links to other systems.’
Ramsden raised his eyebrows and gently shrugged his shoulders, suggesting scepticism.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m not an expert, as I said, but I went down into those caves a few times with a couple of friends of mine who were keen – years ago, you understand, but I remember it vividly. Have you ever been down, Inspector?’
‘Only some of the show caves and I’ve been down the Gaping Ghyll winch.’
‘Just so. Now, one thing I noticed while going through those systems is that you have this lamp on your head and a tunnel of light in front of you but all around is darkness. The walls of the caves are completely irregular, so shadows are cast all over.’ Ramsden paused as both men recalled the scene. ‘You can’t tell whether those black areas are just shadows or openings; other caves leading off to other systems.’
‘I agree,’ said Oldroyd, ‘but we’re told by the experts who have explored the system that there positively is no cave leading in.’
Ramsden leaned his head to one side. ‘The experts, Inspector? Now I know a man like you is too perceptive and wise to believe everything that the so-called experts say. Experts can develop a pride in their knowledge and think they can’t be wrong. Just think of these cases recently of those poor mothers put in jail for supposedly murdering their babies largely on the testimony of experts.’
Oldroyd was continually surprised by the range of Ramsden’s knowledge and interests. Beneath the eccentric appearance lay a very perceptive mind with an extraordinary capacity to store information.
‘All right, so what are you saying?’
‘That they can’t possibly be completely sure. Aren’t new links always being discovered?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, although the experts would appear to be right, the fact of the body’s position suggests otherwise.’
‘Yes, but what did you mean when you referred to an unknown way?’
‘Ah.’ Ramsden’s eyes widened and he nodded; he seemed to be enjoying a mild teasing control over Oldroyd.
‘I meant a way unknown to the caving fraternity as a whole but known to the murderer, who, I take it, must be a caver too.’
‘Certainly.’
Ramsden leaned forward.
‘But also maybe known to people in the past.’
‘Exactly,’ said Oldroyd, ‘which is why I’m here to ask if you have any books on the early history of caving.’ He sensed that Ramsden did and was enjoying the lead-up to a dramatic revelation. In the circumstances, Oldroyd didn’t mind being on the receiving end as he was just as fond of leading people on like this. In fact, the two men had a lot in common. Oldroyd would have loved to own and run a bookshop like this.
‘Well, as I said, Chief Inspector, it’s knowing where to find things that counts. Now just wait a minute.’
He shuffled off and disappeared into a room behind the desk, and returned soon after, blowing the dust off yet another ancient-looking volume.
‘This might be what you’re looking for.’
He handed the book to Oldroyd, who read the embossed title: Explorations of the Caves of the Craven District of Yorkshire. A vague memory stirred in his mind as he turned to the title page and smelled the distinctive and fusty aroma of an old book that had remained closed for some time. Underneath the title was written as a kind of subtitle: With Reflections in Verse Written in the Vernacular by Joseph Haverthwaite. The author was Sir William Ingleby.
‘That’s one of the first books ever to contain any detail about caving in Yorkshire, although the caves are mentioned in travel books as far back as the eighteenth century. It dates from the 1850s, long before caving became popular.’
‘Who was Sir William Ingleby?’
‘A Victorian gentleman of the time who had leisure to pursue his passions. There were quite a few of them round here.’
‘You mean people like Reginald Farrer.’
‘Yes indeed, the famous plant collector of Clapham – went all over the Far East collecting plants and bringing them back to Ingleborough Hall; eventually died out there in Upper Burma.’ Ramsden could not resist giving even the shortest exposition on any subject raised. ‘Well, Ingleby was like that, but his passion was caving.’
‘What does this subtitle refer to?’
‘It’s curious, isn’t it? It seems Ingleby didn’t actually explore the caves himself; maybe not the kind of thing an English gentleman did in those days. He got the locals to help him and one man in particular: the Joseph Haverthwaite referred to there. He was what you’d call a local character, apparently, and a blacksmith; got to know Sir William when he was repairing iron fences on his estate at Garthwaite Hall. They were both interested in caves and it seems they struck up an unusual friendship across the great chasm, pardon the expression, of the Victorian class system. Haverthwaite seems to have been a complete daredevil. He and a group of his friends had already done some exploring.’
‘How did they do that?’
‘Simply with hemp ropes and candles, very dangerous, there’s evidence that some were killed. It was quite something when you think it wasn’t long after the time when there was still a lot of superstitious fear about potholes. As I said before, people thought they were inhabited by witches and devils and probably if you went too far down you’d reach Hell itself.’
A memory flashed into Oldroyd’s mind of standing on the fellside below Ingleborough and gazing into the horrible black mouth of Gaping Ghyll. No wonder people thought it was a way into the Underworld.
‘So you think I might find something useful in here?’ Oldroyd sensed
that Ramsden knew more than he was prepared to admit.
‘Quite possibly. It’s an odd assortment, mostly descriptions and anecdotes plus Haverthwaite’s dialect poems. It’s not that well known among modern cavers; most people don’t like the style: ornate, Victorian, gentlemanly stuff. You have to be a patient reader. You’re welcome to borrow it to help with your investigations, but please look after it, I’m not aware that there are any other copies in existence outside some of the library special collections.’
‘Well, thank you, and don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it,’ reassured Oldroyd.
‘The main reason I think it could be useful,’ Ramsden went on, ‘is that after Ingleby and Haverthwaite there’s a bit of a gap in caving history. It could just be that something they knew about was forgotten.’
The last sentence was delivered with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. Oldroyd saw a ghost of a smile on Ramsden’s face. Clearly, also like me, he loves a bit of enigma, thought Oldroyd as he left the shop.
On the limestone fells above Burnthwaite, two figures were trudging across the fields. Two PCs had been instructed by Inspector Craven to search the area where Oldroyd and Carter had encountered the mystery person. PC Ward enjoyed any break from the routine of traffic patrol on the A65 and was a member of the local branch of the Ramblers Association, but PC Taylor was resolutely sedentary. He was finding it difficult to drag his beer belly over the rough terrain.
‘What are we looking for, anyway?’ His grumpiness got more pronounced the further they went.
‘Nothing in particular, you know that. Craven just said do a general search of the area around the limestone pavement.’
‘Around the what?’
Ward turned to his sullen companion.
‘Do you come from round here or what?’
‘Yeah, you know that. I was bloody well born in Keighley; somebody had to be.’ He laughed at his own joke.
‘Well, you ought to know what a limestone pavement is then. Didn’t you ever do any geography at school?’
Taylor thought for a moment. His education had been rather disrupted in his teenage years when he started to do labouring work for his dad who was a plumber and he sometimes skipped school.
‘I never liked all that stuff about rocks and weather.’
‘It shows.’
They reached the point where Oldroyd had seen the figure behind the wall.
‘Anyway, Craven said that Oldroyd and his new DS . . .’
‘You mean that cockney bloke?’ News travelled fast in the West Riding Police.
‘Yeah. They saw someone acting suspiciously round here and one of the suspects in that pothole murder is missing.’ Ward looked up at the drystone wall. ‘Apparently he could have been the person who ran off behind that wall.’
‘Why didn’t they run after him then? London boy probably wearing his designer shoes, didn’t want to get them scuffed. What the hell were they doing up here anyway? That Oldroyd’s a clever bugger, but he does some weird stuff sometimes.’
‘Ours is not to reason why. We’d better have a look up there then.’
They walked across to the wall meandering around weathered outcrops of limestone and followed in the tracks of the mystery person. The wall swung over a rise and joined another wall at right angles. They were in another even more isolated and quiet dry valley.
Taylor came puffing up behind Ward.
‘Bugger me if I know why people want to come walking up here; there’s nowt to see.’
Ward gave him a glance of contempt. He shared Oldroyd’s love for these strange landscapes. He scanned around for any clues. Across the dry, flat valley, the fell rose almost vertically and there were sheer limestone cliffs with grey scree slopes below. Ward suddenly had an idea; he could see the black opening of a cave.
‘Come on, let’s have a look over here.’ Taylor looked in the same direction.
‘Where? There’s nothing over there except rocks.’
‘Look to the right of that rock face, there’s a cave.’
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Taylor complained as he followed Ward through patches of stinging nettles and then up the steep rocky slope, slipping on the scree.
Ward was already in the cave before Taylor was halfway up the slope. Luckily, he had a small torch with him as the cave proved to be quite deep. He swung the light around and saw that there was a bend at the far end of the chamber. Shining his torch around the corner, he found the remains of a recent fire and scraps of litter on the floor. Nearby was a frayed and discarded blanket. It all suggested that someone had been living rough there, and quite recently.
Taylor came into the cave and promptly tripped over a rock in the dark.
‘Shit!’
‘Never mind,’ Ward replied to this expletive, ‘we’ve found what we’re looking for.’
Carter’s arrival had not gone unnoticed at West Riding Police HQ. He had particularly caught the attention of DC Nicola Jackson, a curvaceous brunette with a predatory reputation. She’d immediately decided that Carter was going to be her next conquest. Luckily for her, she was catching him at a vulnerable time; he was not the kind of man to go long without a relationship.
Nicola saw Carter sitting by himself in the canteen, just finishing his lunch. Seizing her opportunity, she grabbed a cup of coffee and went over.
‘Mind if I join you, Sarge?’
She had a range of techniques for seduction at her disposal. There was a little pause before the ‘Sarge’, which created a rather demure effect. She sensed that Carter might be quite turned on by a woman like her playing the submissive role. It was one of the intricate ways in which sex and power were connected.
‘Sure.’
She sat down and crossed her legs. Her tight skirt inched up a little. Carter was looking at her deeply cut blouse and enticing cleavage. She saw the hunger in his eyes.
‘I saw you were on your own so I thought I’d take my chance before anyone else.’
‘Glad you did; who else do you think might want to sit there?’
She looked at him and her eyes widened slightly as she leaned forward.
‘Plenty of women, I would think, if they’ve any sense.’
It wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. Carter felt the raw sexual energy and found it invigorating.
‘I’m glad it was you,’ he said.
Knowing she had already aroused more than a little interest, she pulled back slightly and sipped her coffee; not a good thing to appear too eager.
‘So how are you finding it up here? Missing the girls in London?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Carter grinned back, glad to be taking part in some sexual banter again. It had been difficult with Steph, not getting a response and not knowing why. Here things were much more clear-cut.
‘Do you fancy some more of these moments then?’
‘I’m ready anytime you are.’
At that moment Steph walked into the canteen and immediately saw Carter and Nicola together. She caught Carter’s eye and gave him a long hard stare before turning abruptly away. It was obvious what was going on. She bit her lip and felt like crying. It was always the same. She attracted men, but then her stand-offish behaviour drove them into the arms of women like Nicola Jackson.
She got herself a slice of pizza with salad and sat by herself, eating moodily and glancing over to their table. Nicola was giggling about something and she could see the Cheshire cat smile on Carter’s face as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
After a while, Nicola got up and left by a door on the other side of the room. Carter, heading in the opposite direction, passed Steph’s table on his way out. He nodded to her and smiled.
‘You look as if you’ve been enjoying yourself,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Yeah, is that a problem?’
‘No, but it’s a bit predictable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You won’t be the first or last enjoying yourself there.’
‘Oo, bitch
, bitch.’ It was Carter’s turn to be mocking. ‘So what? She obviously knows how to have a good time.’ He pointedly emphasised the ‘she’.
Steph turned away, stung by the remark, and Carter walked off, rather regretting his cruelty.
At Garthwaite Hall, Simon Hardiman finished work for the day and trudged into the gloomy kitchen through an old wooden door from which the paint was peeling. He pulled a can of lager out from the fridge and went into their small private sitting room.
He sat down in an armchair by the window that commanded a view across the fells. The slanting evening light fell on the green hillside dotted with sheep and criss-crossed by limestone walls.
He only had to look at that view to restore his faith that, when things were hard for himself and Caroline, it was all worth it. The other thing he could do was think about his time teaching in secondary school. He remembered it almost as a time of incarceration. Bells went and a group of thirty plus reluctant adolescents trooped into the room. He drank from the can and looked out over the fells, drew a deep breath and frowned. The truth was, he was worried about Caroline; lately she seemed depressed and weary with the struggle. At that moment, she came into the room and sat down heavily opposite him with a sigh.
‘Hi.’ He tried to be bright and encouraging, but there was little response. After a little while he said, ‘Are you OK?’
She sighed. ‘Yes, just tired, that’s all, as usual. Did you fix the window?’
Someone had attempted to break in the previous night through the window of the downstairs office.
‘Yes, fine. I suppose we ought to report it to the police, but I can’t really be bothered; interviews and signing forms, you know.’
‘I wonder what they were after?’
‘Who knows? Probably just an opportunist thief.’
She didn’t reply.
‘Look, we’ll get through this. The schools will be back soon. We’ll get plenty of bookings this autumn, you’ll see. We’ll just get stuck in.’
She looked at him. He was always optimistic and she drew strength from that.
‘Just look over there.’ He pointed to the fells. ‘That’s worth anything, isn’t it? We couldn’t possibly leave and go back to the city.’