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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “You couldn’t have done any more.”

  “You’ll take him home?”

  “Yes,” I promised.

  I had my own car today because I was off duty, and gave Aaron a lift to his front door. He never spoke during that journey, and I knew he feared the worst.

  “There’s hope yet, Aaron,” I said as he left me.

  “They’ve shifted more stuff in two days than we could in a week,” he sniffed, “and still he’s not come out. He is in there, Mr Rhea, I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Aaron, and if those men didn’t find him dead, then there must be hope. He could live off things he finds — rabbits and so on.”

  “Aye, but he would have barked, you know. He’s bred to bark.”

  “Maybe he was too far away for us to hear? You said those cracks went for miles underground.”

  “They do, they do, Mr Rhea. Look, thanks for what you’ve done. Do you think I should write a letter to that Mr Fairbum, to thank him for looking?”

  “I think he would like that, Aaron,” and he went indoors, closing the door behind himself. I felt sad; he had lost a friend, but dogs had survived longer than this underground. There was still hope.

  Two days later, I saw him walking up to the quarry, his knapsack on his back, and a long stick in his hand. I stopped for a brief chat, and discovered he was going to shout into some of those cracks and fissures, just in case. He was going to spend the day there, he said. It was now half past eight and I was on my way to Malton for a meeting with the Superintendent; it was the quarterly meeting for rural beat constables and would take all day.

  I returned past the quarry at about quarter to five, and decided, on impulse, to see if Aaron was still there. I guided the Francis Barnett down the rough road and leaned it against the office building. Aaron was positioned in the floor of the quarry, sitting on a large lump of rock, and he was eating a sandwich.

  “Hello, Aaron,” I said. “Any luck?”

  His face told me the obvious answer. He shook his dusty old head and I said, “Come along, I’ll give you a pillion ride home.” “No, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I’ll stay till dark.”

  The tone of his voice indicated he had made up his mind, and I knew better than suggest any alternative.

  “I’ll bring a flask for your supper then,” I laughed.

  “He’s still in there, Mr Rhea, you know. Alive. I can feel it.” “I hope you’re right, Aaron,” and I left him to his vigil.

  As dusk was falling that night, I returned to the quarry with a flask of Mary’s coffee and a round of ham sandwiches. I was in my own car this time, and drove it into the quarry floor. Even now, it was almost dark, and I could see the dim figure of Aaron Harland on the rock in the centre of the floor. I walked across with the food and drink, and his face revealed his gratitude. “Anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Here,” and I pushed the sandwich at him. He thanked me and ate it as I sat beside him, holding the flask.

  “I’ll drive you home, Aaron, you can’t sit here all night.”

  “If he is down one of those long cracks, Mr Rhea, he might hear us, but we might not hear him, on account of his good hearing, eh?”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are right, Aaron. I’m not sure how sound travels along underground passages.”

  “It echoes a bit — come, I’ll show you before I go home.” Leaving the flask on the rock, he took me to one of the large fissures and said, “This is a new one, those fellers uncovered it with their blasting,” and he leaned into it, cupped his hands about his mouth and produced a piercing whistle.

  There must have been a huge hollow chamber a long way inside, because his whistle echoed as he said it would. It was a faint, distant echo.

  “If those chaps had blasted right back, we might have discovered a new cave system, Mr Rhea. There are caves hereabouts, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. This place is riddled with tunnels and caves — I’d love to explore this area underground.”

  We turned to walk away and in a moment of lovely silence, I heard the whimpering of a dog. It was faint, but it was there echoing down the passage. Aaron, with his ageing ears, had missed it.

  “Aaron!” I halted him. “Sssh…” and I held up my hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Listen!” I pointed to the gaping entrance of the fissure, but there was nothing. I waited with my heart pounding, and then I said, “Whistle again, like you did.”

  “It’s the whistle I give when he’s a long way off,” he told me.

  “Fine, just do it!”

  He produced the same piercing whistle and together we waited. And then, deep from the black recesses, we heard the unmistakable whimper of a dog.

  “He’s there, Mr Rhea, he’s there… ” and the old man jumped up and down and clung to me, with tears unashamedly tumbling down his cheeks.

  “Keep whistling,” I pleaded. And he did.

  The whimpering continued, but it grew louder. We waited a long time. The darkness was almost complete so I went to the car for a torch, and shone it deep into that ragged fissure. And there, hauling himself towards us, bruised, battered and dirty, was the unmistakable figure of Pip.

  “There he is, Aaron,” I cried.

  Aaron called him, and the gallant little dog literally dragged himself by his forelegs along the uneven, rocky floor of that crack. But he was alive…

  Three days later, I called again. Pip was lying on the rug near the fireside, and he looked clean and well. His bright eyes surveyed me and his tail thumped the rug.

  “The vet says he’d been in a fall of rock, Mr Rhea, and got badly bruised about his back end. He’d not eaten either. He’s got a few cuts and bruises, but he’ll mend. The vet reckoned another day down there would have fettled him.”

  “I’m pleased you found him then.”

  “Nay, them fellers who did the quarrying, they found him. That was a new crack he came along. I reckon if they hadn’t opened it up, I’d have lost him.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, you’ve got him back.”

  “Aye, I have, Mr Rhea. Isn’t life grand?”

  “It is,” I agreed, “and you’ll not be going back to Thackerston Quarry in a rush!”

  “I am!” he said. “I’m going up there tomorrow with my shovel and I’m going to block the entrances of all them cracks. I don’t want any more dogs getting stuck in there.”

  “It’ll be just like going back to work, eh?”

  “Aye,” he said, “It will, but Pip’s not coming this time! He can stay and guard the house instead. He can work at that for a change.”

  I left him caressing the velvety black ears of his happy friend.

  Chapter 5

  “He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely.”

  Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822

  *

  It was in the 1950s that litter gained publicity as a problem in the countryside. This coincided with the discovery of beauty spots by motorists and the post-war fetish for putting things in near-indestructible plastic wrappings and containers. When this kind of perpetual rubbish is abandoned in picnic areas, woods, fields and hedge-bottoms, it is destined to remain for eternity, if it is not eaten by a cow.

  If a cow attempts to eat a plastic bag, it will probably block the cow’s windpipe and kill it; if a hedgehog gets a plastic carton stuck on its head, it cannot feed and will die of starvation, and if an animal cuts its feet on a broken glass bottle, it may survive for a while in acute agony. Apart from many reasons of this kind, rubbish is unsightly, messy and a confounded nuisance to country people.

  It cannot be disputed that some visitors to the North Yorkshire moors and dales do cause fitter problems; some of their rubbish is little more than discarded orange peel or cigarette packets, but others leave behind the offal of their riotous weekends in caravan or tent, and there are awful types who drive to the country for the sole purpose of depositing unwanted domestic junk
. Things like old refrigerators, mattresses and settees have been left in our woods and glades, and the snag is that these lovely areas belong to some unfortunate person who is left with the problem of removing the stuff.

  It is akin to a countryman dumping his unwanted and rusting machinery in a suburban garden, or casting his waste animal matter into someone’s semi-detached rockery. It is a sad reflection on life that even today, many townspeople do not know how to conduct themselves in a rural environment, and some regard a National Park as nothing more than a glorified car park. Indeed there are times when countryfolk feel they are being penalised for living and working in these picturesque areas, but in spite of such anti-social habits many opt to suffer these penalties rather than exist in a wilderness of concrete and bright fights.

  Litter is a product of carelessness, rudeness and a lamentable lack of consideration, so in an attempt to counteract this unsocial trait, several organisations began to think in terms of a Best-Kept Village competition. The countryside needed some form of publicity if the flow of junk was to be halted, and this movement coincided with the passage of the Litter Act, 1958. This statute forbade the dropping of litter in the open air and reinforced its provisions with a staggering fine of £10.

  As a village police constable, I was notified of the new Litter Act and was exhorted to reinforce it when people threw cigarette packets out of cars, cast chip papers into gardens or dropped beer bottles in the street. The snag was that the Act gave no power for the police to demand a suspect’s name and address, nor did it give us a power to effect an arrest if such a person was non-co-operative. It was really a toothless tiger.

  What the Act did achieve, however, was that it drew the attention of public-spirited people towards the fitter problem. From this, a crop of Best-Kept Village competitions spread across the countryside and all kinds of official organisations and magazines like The Dalesman arranged their own contests. Our village was not going to be left out, and so it was decreed by the elders of Aidensfield that the village should compete in a local competition.

  In keeping with the prestige of such events, a committee was formed whose duty was to encourage active participation by village people of all ages and groups, but especially organisations like the Women’s Institute, Parish Council, British Legion, Boy Scouts and the Parochial Church Council. For that reason, a representative from all the parish organisations was co-opted on to the committee, and I found myself nominated because of my law-enforcement expertise. It was reckoned I would know a little about the Litter Act of 1958, and I would have the ability to crack the proverbial whip when slackness was observed.

  The competition for villages in our district was organised by the Ryedale Village Communities Association which expressed a desire that all villages in the area should compete. The prize would be a colourful trophy made in metal and positioned on top of a tall oak post. That trophy, plus a plaque for display in the village hall, would be awarded to the Best-Kept Village in Ryedale. The trophy and the plaque would belong to the village for all time.

  It was stressed that the competition was for the best- kept village and not the prettiest or the most beautiful, thus a very ugly place could win first prize if its residents kept it neat and tidy. The word was passed around the villages, nominations were sought, committees elected and a programme of judging established. We were told about it in February and discovered the judges would tour the competing communities in July and August. The winner would be announced during September, hopefully before the school holidays ended.

  Our first meeting was in Aidensfield Village Hall on 10 February, which is Umbrella Day, a time for Englishmen to carry umbrellas in commemoration of the public’s acceptance of this article. It was publicised by Jonas Han way in the eighteenth century and he had the devil’s own job to get the object taken seriously. I don’t think the choice of this day was significant, but I never really knew.

  The Chairman was Rudolph Burley because of his loud voice, and other members of the committee included the vicar, the Rev. Roger Clifton; the farmers’ representative, George Boston; Joe Scully from the British Legion; Mrs Virginia Dulcimer of Maddleskirk representing local Women’s Institutes; Joe Steel from the shop and me from the law, with one or two local folks to keep the villagers interested and involved.

  Rudolph was a fine chairman, just as he was a good conductor of the String Orchestra, and after outlining the purpose of the meeting, he asked the committee to decide formally whether Aidensfield should enter the Best-Kept Village competition. Everyone agreed it was a good idea, and he suggested the vicar be appointed secretary to carry out our enrolment, and to fulfil future clerical duties. We all agreed.

  “Right,” he said in resonant tones. “I reckon we’ll need one person to be responsible for each aspect of the contest. For example, the condition of the churchyard, and any burial grounds and chapel gardens is one of the judging points. I think the responsibility for that must rest with the vicar?”

  He turned to peer at Roger Clifton who gave his consent.

  Rudolph continued, “Right, I’ll list the points that will be examined, and if you wish to make yourself responsible for supervising one or more of these, please give your name. If I get no volunteers, I’ll appoint someone.”

  He paused to allow his words to take effect, then announced the first point.

  “Absence of litter. Now,” he said, looking around the gathering, “this is vital, of course. P. C. Rhea? It strikes me this could be your forte — you could always threaten miscreants with the Litter Act and the fierceness of our local magistrates!”

  “I’ll do it,” I volunteered and he wrote down my name. I found I was also expected to supervise the tidiness of the parish tip and other refuse dumps.

  “Next,” he smiled, “condition of the Village Green, Village Centre, and Main Street.”

  Joe Steel from the shop felt this was within his province, especially as he walked the street daily to deliver his groceries and newspapers. He was also asked to supervise fences, walls and hedges, to ensure they were kept in good repair and in the case of the hedges, neatly trimmed. Joe was asked to make sure the residents kept their gardens tidy, painted their doors and windows, and removed junk from any shed windows which faced the street. Joe was also asked to be responsible for gardens and sheds which were within public view, although the judges would not enter private property. But whatever they could see would be considered part of the contest.

  George Boston, being a farmer, was given the duty of chasing up the local farmers and their wives with a view to ensuring all farmyards were neat and tidy, with shovels, picks and all other implements carefully stored away or kept in graceful arrangements. Haystacks and rusty implements could be a problem, he was reminded.

  Rivers, streams and footpaths on the outskirts were allocated to Joe Scully and he was asked to ensure that no beds were concealed under the bridge, and that old tyres, tins and rubbish were removed. The chairman did say he had noted a frying pan and three oil drums in Maddleskirk Beck and had noticed a nest of sticklebacks in a bean tin just below the stepping stones. The river must be as fresh as a mountain stream.

  Mrs Dulcimer, who represented the Group W. I., said she and her members would see to the village hall and other public buildings, including the War Memorial, and they would also attend to the orderliness of advertisements upon local notice-boards. The Chairman pointed out that one notice in the anteroom of the village hall was still announcing the village’s Coronation arrangements, and suggested it be stored in the County archives.

  Every member of our committee was exhorted to co-opt the assistance of neighbours and friends and to use groups like the Boy Scouts and British Legion. We decided to adopt the slogan, “Make Aidensfield Tidy”, and make it the aim of everyone in the village.

  There is no doubt that the enthusiasm of the Tidy Committee, as we became known, infected the villagers. In no time at all, the schoolchildren could be seen picking up rubbish on their way to and from
the classroom, men in the pubs cleaned the streets as they walked home, farmers tucked in stray pieces of straw when they flapped upon their bams and old ladies talked old gentlemen into painting their doors, windows and fences.

  Someone painstakingly picked the moss out of the lettering on the War Memorial and changed the poppy; the ivy around Ivy Cottage was trimmed, and Home Farm’s milk-shed windows were cleared of their generations of spiders’ webs and emptied of disused bottles of cattle medicine. The names of cottages were smartened up and their windows cleaned; door steps were given a coat of white when they abutted the street, and the shops arranged their notices in a tidy, artistic manner. One farmer even trimmed his horses’ tails, and another painted a scrap plough because he couldn’t be bothered to remove it. Milk churns were made to gleam and the parish seat was given a new set of wooden rails which were painted a pleasing green.

  It is fair to say that the whole village worked very hard, more so because we learned that Maddleskirk, Elsinby, Ploatby, Briggsby and Crampton had all entered. We couldn’t sully our reputation by letting any of them beat Aidensfield. But the work did produce its arguments, differences and examples of rural slyness.

  In my role as the official Litter Eradicator, I made regular foot patrols about Aidensfield, trying to jolly the people along and constantly nagging at visitors and careless locals about the heavy fines for unlawfully dropping things in our tidy street and clean public places. It was during one of these foot patrols that I chanced to look into Ryedale Beck where it flows beneath Aidensfield Bridge.

  To my horror, tucked neatly under our bridge, was the framework of a huge double-bed complete with rusty springs and an old mattress. It had been very carefully positioned because it was impossible to see it from the road, and it was by the merest chance I had noticed its reflection in the clear water.