Constable in the Dale (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 5)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Man and dog went everywhere together. The little terrier was never restricted by a leash, and spent its time investigating rabbit warrens, hedge backs, holes in barn walls and other places where rats, mice and possible prey might lurk. And if creatures did hide there, Pip would flush them out and enjoy a rapid scamper across the countryside in pursuit.

  Jack Russell terriers are essentially working dogs, and they are good at ratting which makes them popular with countrymen. They’re also an asset in fox-hunting because they will enter the fox’s earth and will bark when they discover the whereabouts of Reynard. These quick, lively little dogs love to work and revel in exercise, but they are small enough to be a companionable house pet as well. There is little wonder many countrymen keep them.

  I would often meet Aaron and Pip as they went on their perambulations around Thackerston, and we always stopped for a chat. Sometimes, if Aaron was working in his tiny garden, or was on his way home from the post office, he would invite me into the house for a cup of tea and a chat, a pleasant diversion for me. On the occasions I did pop in, Pip would sniff suspiciously at my legs, look me over once or twice, and then settle down on an old rug which Aaron placed near the fireside. His short tail would pump with happiness for a few seconds before his bright, alert eyes closed in what appeared to be a nap.

  Aaron would invariably tell me about the quarry where he’d worked for most of his life, digging out limestone by the ton, and he would tell me all about the district too. When his wife died over twenty years ago, Aaron took to studying the history of the district and became quite an authority, but he never wrote it down.

  There were many times during our fireside talks when I pleaded with him to write down his memories and findings, but he never did. One day, I hope he will — the last time I saw him, he was approaching eighty and was still talking of his researches, still discovering more of Thackerston’s past and still keeping a Jack Russell terrier for companionship.

  Pip died some years ago, but it was his adventurous spirit that caused an upset one April.

  Aaron and Pip had embarked on one of their long walks, and because the April sun was bringing the countryside to life, they walked a little further and a little longer than usual. Aaron had, in fact, walked to his former place of work, Thackerston Quarry, which lay well over a mile from the village.

  It was now disused; the floor was full of discarded rubble and abandoned machinery. There was rusting metalwork everywhere, yards of miniature railway lines, old trucks, winding gear, diesel engines and a host of forgotten equipment. Where men had once scraped a living from the steep sides of stone, there now flourished willow herbs, wild briars and a multitude of rock plants, while large pools of dusty water stood in hollows about the quarry floor. An old hut, battered by the weather, occupied a comer site and there was a tiny brick-built office near the entrance, with a table and chair inside. On the table was a dirty old teapot and three mugs, relics of someone’s last tea-break.

  In Aaron’s day, this place had been a hive of activity, with teams of wagons coming to cart away the work of the day, and the quarry had played a social role in the village. The workers and their families had become a close community, while the owner of the quarry had looked after them as best he could. He had provided aid for housing them, occasionally giving them a bonus based on the profits earned and striving to keep them in work by finding more outlets for his quarried material. Aaron had retired from the quarry and now lived on his savings and a pension, but soon after he’d left, the quarry had closed. Now, it was like a deserted wild-west scenario, a haven for animals and plants where the sound of insects had replaced the rumble of busy machines.

  For Aaron, that return to the quarry must have produced happy memories; he must have heard again the voices of his former colleagues and friends, the noise of the machinery and the crumple of explosives as new paths were made into the solid walls of the quarry. He must have experienced anew the unmistakable scents of the place, the chatter of the men, the hooter telling them it was break time, the constant presence of rising dust…

  For Pip, on the other hand, the quarry was a haven of different delights. There were fascinating holes to explore, animals to hunt, smells to investigate and things to cock his leg against. Pip scurried around the quarry in a frenzy of canine activity, uncertain which of his many options to follow.

  As Aaron shuffled about the floor, kicking old buckets, handling old equipment and thinking of old friends, Pip darted into a crevice in hot pursuit of anything that might five there. There could be rabbits, rats, foxes, mice, almost any living creature. In he went, tail wagging, on what for him was an exploration of delight.

  But he never came out.

  For about half an hour after Pip’s entry, Aaron continued his journey into nostalgia, completely oblivious of his little friend’s exploration. Finally, having wallowed in his memories to a state of satisfaction, he looked at his watch and decided it was time to go home for tea.

  “Pip?” he called as he always did, expecting the game little dog to bark its response.

  But there was no response.

  “Pip?”

  Poor Aaron stumbled about the uneven floor of the quarry calling for his dog, but Pip never came. We will never know what passed through Aaron’s mind during those awful minutes, but I do know that he went home to see if Pip had returned for any reason. There being no Pip at the house, he returned to the quarry to see if he was there. Many times, he did this and each time the outcome was the same. There was no Pip at either place to bark a welcome and wag that stumpy tail.

  With all his quarrying experience, and with his knowledge of Jack Ruseell terriers, Aaron feared the worst. Pip must have entered one of the countless crevices in the limestone, and was now trapped underground. It had happened many times before with dogs; dogs hunting foxes had become trapped or lost in endless burrows and some had never been seen again. Old quarries were always a source of trouble for inquisitive dogs, and there is nothing more inquisitive than a hunting Jack Russell…

  Bravely, Aaron kept his awful secret until next morning. He spent an overnight vigil in the quarry, repeatedly calling for Pip and shouting his name into all the crevices and cracks, hoping against hope for that single distinctive bark in response. Jack Russells did bark when they found anything, and this one barked at the sound of its own name.

  Why on earth Aaron failed to tell anyone we shall never know but I reckon it was his Yorkshire canniness coupled with a belief that he could solve his own problems. I should imagine that he didn’t want to be embarrassed in his sorrow and that he did not want to put others to any trouble on his behalf. For all those reasons and more Aaron Harland kept his lonely vigil during that April night.

  Next morning, I was on early patrol, starting at six o’clock on my Francis Barnett to tour the outlying villages and communities. These early tours were a regular part of my work — we performed one late and one early each week, and they were a way of showing our presence at unusual hours.

  On this occasion, my first port of call was the telephone kiosk in Thackerston where I had to make a point at 6.40 a.m. While travelling down the gently sloping incline into the village, I noticed the weary figure of Aaron trudging homewards. There was something not right about him, and for a moment, I couldn’t decide what it was.

  I pulled up ahead of him, and sat astride the machine until he reached me. He looked terrible. His face was ashen and unshaven, and his feet and hands were covered in limestone grime and mud. His hair and clothing were dusty too, and he was almost exhausted.

  “Aaron!” I must have sounded alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

  He shook his old head and I could see the beginnings of tears in his eyes; then I realised what was not right about him. Pip was not by his side.

  “It’s Pip,” he said. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” At this stage I had no idea how or where he’d gone.

  “Up in t’quarry,” he mumbled sorrowfully.

&nb
sp; “Has he fallen over the cliff?” I asked, struggling to get the full story from him.

  He shook his head. “Nay, lad, I think he’s gone into the quarry face, up on one o’ them fissures. Jack Russells do that, go into spots seeking foxes and rabbits.”

  “When?” I asked, and he told his story, explaining how he’d searched everywhere outside the quarry too, and how he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Pip had got lost in the labyrinth of cracks underground. He told me about the qualities of limestone, and how it lent itself to long fissures which could stretch for miles beneath the surface of the earth, sometimes opening up as colossal caves or underground lakes. No one knew what lay deep behind that disused quarry face.

  “Won’t he find his own way out?” I asked.

  “He might,” Aaron shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody can tell.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, relying on his experience as an ex-quarryman.

  “Nay, lad, there’s nowt. I’ll just etti wait and see.”

  “How long can he last without food?” I put to the old man.

  “It’s hard to say.” He was honest. “Four, five days mebbe, even longer. He might have found summat under there, mind. Rabbits, mice and things, and water. He’ll need water, Mr Rhea.”

  “So if he’s not injured, he could live for a long time in there and come out safely?”

  “Aye, he could,” and his final word was filled with uncertainty.

  I knew that Aaron wanted his little friend to be found safe and well, and there seemed so little anyone could do for him. The agony was in the waiting, and the waiting was full of imponderables.

  “Jump on the pillion,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”

  Aaron obeyed, clambering stiffly on to my motor cycle, and I carried him the final half-mile to his little house.

  “I’ve got a point to make, Aaron, but I’ll be back in ten minutes. You get yourself some breakfast, then we’ll talk about it.”

  I watched him enter his house, a shade of his normal, happy self, and felt that something should be done for him. But what could be done? How could anyone help? As luck would have it, Sergeant Bairstow made one of his rare visits to me at my 6.40 a.m. point and asked,

  “Anything doing, Nick?”

  I told him about Aaron and his missing dog, and Sergeant Bairstow said, “Poor old bugger! Has he been out all night?”

  I explained the full situation, and Sergeant Bairstow agreed with me. Something must be done and he believed he had the answer. He said he would meet me at my 7.10 a.m. point which was in Ploatby, but in the meantime, he advised me not to build up the old man’s hopes. It was necessary to fear the worst.

  While I went for a cup of tea with Aaron, Sergeant Bairstow drove away in the official car upon his mystery mission; I asked Aaron not to go traipsing around the countryside searching for Pip, and promised I would visit the quarry regularly this morning to see if he had emerged. Aaron appeared content with this — at least, his problem was now shared, but I did not tell him about the sergeant’s discussion.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I drove across to Ploatby and waited outside that telephone kiosk at the appointed time, and sure enough, Sergeant Bairstow turned up. He was smiling.

  “Great news, Nick,” he greeted me as he stepped out of the vehicle. “T oday, we’re going to attempt the rescue of that dog.”

  “Are we?” I asked. “Who, exactly?”

  “Jim Fairbum, to be precise. He owns Chaffleton Quarry. You know it?”

  “Yes, I do.” It was a large, busy concern just off the road to Malton.

  “Nice chap, is Jim,” Sergeant Bairstow said, “and he owes me a big favour. I’ve told him about the dog and he’s sending his men up to Thackerston this morning to blow that old quarry to pieces.”

  “What about the dog?” I cried.

  “He’ll cope with that, he’s not daft,” said Charlie Bairstow with confidence. “The explosions will clean the face away, but leave the underground intact, so he says. It’s all done by experts. He owns Thackerston Quarry, by the way; he bought it when it became exhausted, and says he’s been thinking about examining the limestone to see if it is workable. Today will serve two purposes — hopefully, we’ll find that dog, and he’ll have an excuse for working the old quarry to see if it is viable. It could do us all some good.”

  “What about Aaron?” I asked. “Should he be there to see it?”

  “That’s a tricky one. What do you think?”

  I tried to put myself into Aaron’s shoes. It wasn’t easy. All I could say was, “I reckon he’d want to be there. If we did find Pip, or if the dog got killed in the work that’s going on, I’m sure he’d want to know.”

  “O.K. Go back and tell him. They’ll start about half past eight, after Jim’s ferried the men and the equipment up from Chaffleton. If Aaron wants to watch, he can, but he’ll have to do as he’s told by the foreman.”

  “He’s been doing that all his life.” I smiled, and then I remembered something else about Aaron. I caught Sergeant Bairstow in time.

  “Sergeant!” I called after him. “Forget what we said about Aaron witnessing the rescue. We’d better not tell him it’s a rescue attempt, and then he won’t be disappointed if it fails. Besides, he’s an independent old cuss and would hate to think he didn’t find Pip.”

  “Fair enough, so what do we tell him?”

  “Just that Jim Fairbum is doing some exploratory work in Thackerston Quarry today; we’ll say he’s been told about the dog, but his real reason is to examine the old quarry to see if it is workable.”

  “Good idea. I’ll brief Jim about that and you can tell Aaron. If Aaron wants to come along, then that’ll be fine. Let’s hope it works, Nick.”

  And so the plot was prepared. I returned to Aaron’s house after making a second point at 8.10 a.m. at Thackerston telephone kiosk, and gave him the news. He looked at me through those dusty spectacles, and said, “If they kill my dog with their new-fangled quarrying, I’ll niwer forgive’em. These new fellers aren’t quarrymen, they’re explosives experts, nowt else. They know nowt about quarrying, none of’em. Aye, Mr Rhea, I’ll go and see they keep my dog from getting blown to bits. I’ll keep an eye on’em.”

  I conveyed him there, complete with some sandwiches and a flask of coffee, so he could spend the day observing events in Thackerston Quarry.

  I did not stay because I had other duties to occupy me, although I did pop in from time to time. The place was a hive of activity with lorries, a crane, mechanical diggers, JCBs and a host of other heavy and light equipment. Dust was flying and I realised why Aaron’s glasses were always dirty — it was a state of normality for him. Already, heaps of fallen rock lay about and men were busy on the cliff face. Every fifteen minutes or so there was an explosion as more rock was blown into small fragments, and I could see the anxious figure of Aaron hovering on the periphery of the work.

  I found Jim Fairbum and asked, “Any luck?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Nothing. Not a sign, and not a whimper. I reckon his dog’s gone miles underground, Mr Rhea; it might take days to come back here, if it ever makes it.”

  “It’s good of you to do this for him.”

  “Think nothing of it. It was a job we had to do anyway, and we can use the stuff we’ve moved today. It’ll cost me nowt — in fact, I might even make a bob or two and it’s a change for the lads. If we find Aaron’s dog, that’ll be a bonus for us all.”

  “Do the lads down there know what’s going on?”

  “Aye, they do. I needed summat to stir’em into working away from their usual spot. They won’t tell awd Aaron though.”

  My last visit that day was just before five o’clock, and the men were packing up. Aaron was talking to Jim Fairbum as I approached them.

  “Any luck?” I asked Jim, a question that was open to more than one interpretation.

  “Nowt,” he said, turning to Aaron. “That dog o’ yours must be well away under that limestone,
Aaron. We’ve not seen it.”

  “Are you working here tomorrow?” Aaron asked Jim.

  “Aye, we’ve a lot more testing to do; I reckon this quarry’s got a lot of good stuff left.”

  “I allus said it had,” beamed Aaron. “I said this quarry was one of t’best in this district, workable for years to come. Can I come tomorrow?”

  “Sure, you’ll be welcome.”

  I took Aaron home and he was dejected.

  “Them young fellers know nowt about quarrying,” he said speaking almost to himself. “It’s all blast and ignorance these days. No skill. I could show’em a thing or two, but yon boss feller said I had to keep away. If you hadn’t told’em about Pip being in there, Mr Rhea, I reckon they’d have blown the whole bloody cliff-face down.”

  “They’ve got to assess the depth of the usable stone,” I tried to sound convincing, “but they’re being very careful about it, because of Pip.”

  “Aye, they are. I appreciate that, Mr Rhea.”

  “You’ll be going back tomorrow?” I put to him.

  “Aye, I will.”

  I left him and promised to give him a lift in the morning, but he said he would walk. I decided to pop into the quarry anyway, and made several visits during the day. The work continued and, in my inexperienced eye, it was exactly like a normal day’s quarrying. The layman would not have guessed they were seeking a little dog, and I wondered if the modem techniques were sufficiently changed to confuse the old man.

  But at the end of the second day, Pip had not been found. I walked into the quarry at five o’clock and found Jim Fairbum closing the day’s work. Aaron was deep in the workings, just standing and staring at the quarry face.

  “I reckon that dog’s dead,” Jim said. “We’ve not heard anything, Mr Rhea. Jack Russells will bark, you know, if they hear anything. That dog’s gone, I reckon. There’s not been a whimper.”

  “You’ll not be coming back tomorrow?”

  “Sorry. We’ve done all that we can — I’ve had the lads blast open all the routes we can find, and it’s served my purpose. There is a bit of quarrying left here, but not a lot. Maybe a year’s work for us, no more, but it would need equipment being here all the time. I’ve done what I wanted, Mr Rhea, but I haven’t found old Aaron’s dog. I’m sorry about that — we all are.”