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

by Nicholas Rhea

  It follows that there is a good deal of coming and going by members of the public. One pleasing fact is that visitors regularly pop into the police station for nothing more than a chat or to pass the time of day. It is a friendly place. The officer on the counter is content to while away his hours in the same way, there being little else to worry him. Such is the pace of life at Eltering.

  That lunchtime, therefore, I was seated at a small desk at the rear of the enquiry office, and Vesuvius, the gentle giant of Eltering Police Station, manned the counter. As I munched my lettuce sandwich, he was gazing out of the window, contemplating life.

  “Hello,” I heard him say to himself, “There’s awd Reuben Tempest on his tractor.”

  I paid slight attention to his remark, for I did not know Reuben Tempest, nor did I know why his presence on a tractor was worthy of comment. Soon, the air was filled with the throbbing notes of his tractor as it pulled up directly in front of the police station where Reuben switched off the engine. A few moments later, the office door opened, ringing the bell to announce the arrival of a customer, and a ruddy-faced farmer presented himself at the counter.

  “Now then, Reuben,” greeted Vesuvius, rising from his chair. I didn’t know which of them was the untidiest, for Vesuvius’ uniform was crumpled and his shoulders were covered in dandruff; this new arrival was clad in an old yellow sweater with mud and dirt all over it, and his long, straggly fair hair was protruding at all angles from beneath his grimy flat cap.

  “Now then, Alf.” The farmer addressed Vesuvius by his Christian name; his real name was P. C. Alfred Ventress.

  “Grand morning,” returned Vesuvius.

  “Aye, not bad for t’time of year,” said the farmer, looking at the day through the office windows. “This year’s passing along nicely.”

  “You’ll be fanned up, then?” asked Vesuvius.

  “Coming along. Aye, Ah’s coming along. Ah’ve gitten that 100 acre cut and dried and my turnips howed ower. Mind you, Alf, there’s a lot to do. There’s alius a lot to do on a farm.” “Nay, you fellers mak it all up. You’re niwer busy, alius just pretending. You spend all your time at marts or sales, and get other folks to do t’graft.”

  Reuben grinned. “It’s neea good keeping a dog and barking yourself, is it?”

  “Nay, I’ll agree to that. Anyway, what’s up? It must be serious if you’ve rushed here on that tractor.”

  “Well, Ah don’t know whether it’s summat I should rightly trouble you with, Alf,” the farmer pursed his lips and rubbed his chubby cheek. “But my missus is out at Scarborough, and Ah didn’t know who to ask for advice, so because Ah needed a drop o’ diesel for that awd tractor, Ah thought Ah might as well pop into Eltering, and see you chaps at t’same time.”

  “Summat serious, is it?” asked the policeman.

  “Aye, we’ve a fire at our farm.”

  At the words “fire” my ears pricked up; this was serious. But for these characters, it wasn’t serious enough to panic them or to rush into frantic action.

  “What sort of a fire?” asked Vesuvius.

  “It’s a grass fire,” the farmer told him.

  “A big’un, is it?”

  “Oh aye, there’ll be a few acres binning.”

  “Do you want it putting out or summat?”

  “Aye, well Ah think it might be best. Ah’ve been to have a look and it’s on t’railway side, along yon cutting at t’bottom of my land. There’s a wood doon yonder that might be at risk, and some buildings of Harry Tordoff’s — he’s away on holiday — and then there’s them corn fields o’ mine. Now, if yon blaze got among my corn, it would mak a mess of my harvesting.” “You’ve got your hay in though?” asked Vesuvius.

  “Oh, aye, in and stacked.”

  “It would make a mess o’ them stacks then, if it got close enough?”

  “It would that!”

  “How long’s it been blazing then?” asked Vesuvius.

  “Nay, now Ah’ve no idea. Ah spotted it when Ah was having my dinner, so Ah went and had a look, and saw it was pretty bad, so Ah came here.”

  “All of a rush on your tractor?”

  “Aye.”

  They paused in the middle of this remarkable conversation, and then Vesuvius asked,

  “Did you ring t’Fire Brigade, Reuben?”

  “Nay, Ah didn’t. That’s why Ah’m here. Ah thought Ah’d cum and ask if you thought Ah should.”

  “It’s nut a bad idea when there’s a fire, Reuben. Those fellers are pretty good at putting’em out if they’re told about’em.” “Well, Alf, thoo sees, Ah’ve heard they’ve got to cum all t’way from Northallerton or somewhere. Noo that’s all of forty-five miles and it’s a long way…”

  “Nay, lad!” soothed Vesuvius. “Just because we ring’em at Northallerton, doesn’t mean they cum from there. When we ring’em at Northallerton, they ring bells and things at Eltering, then our local lads turn out. Their spot is right next door, here, just along t’path.”

  “Oh, that’s how it works, eh? So if Ah’d telephoned from my spot, it wad have gone through to Northallerton, and they’d have rung t’lads here, and these lads would come and fettle my fire?”

  “Aye,” nodded Vesuvius.

  “Right, well Ah’ll get away home and give’em a ring. Ah’ll etti be sharp because it’s gittin a strang hold, is yon fire. It’s moving pretty fast.”

  “Noo, there’s no need to panic, Reuben.” Vesuvius was already lifting the receiver. “Ah’ll ring Northallerton now.” Reuben stood by and watched with something bordering on amazement as Vesuvius used our private line to dial direct into the Fire Station; as Eltering Fire Station is manned by part-timers, his call went automatically to Fire Brigade Headquarters at Northallerton.

  “By that was quick!” admired Reuben, as Vesuvius spoke. “Hello, yes, Eltering Police here. I’ve a Mr Reuben Tempest with me. He’s from Low Marsh Farm, Eltering,” he paused as the operator made a note of the name and address, then continued, “There’s a fire on his farm. A grass fire, and it’s moving fast, and is threatening his crops.”

  And Vesuvius replaced the telephone.

  “Now, Reuben,” he said, “Get yourself round to next door and wait for t’lads to come. They’ll be there in a jiffy; tell’em exactly where yon fire is, and then follow on.”

  “Have Ah time to get my diesel, then?” asked the farmer. “Nay, thoo has not!” Vesuvius said firmly. “By t’time thoo gets around next door, them fire brigade lads will be there, anxious to be off. So get thyself there sharp.”

  As he turned to leave the police station, the siren sounded above the town, and Reuben’s ears pricked up. “Is that it?” “That’s it, Reuben. That’s Northallerton calling’em to your fire, but they need an engine first, full o’ watter.”

  “And that’s in t’garage next door to you, eh?”

  “It is.”

  “By gum, Alf, things is getting very official,” and he left.

  I saw him pottering along the footway towards the doors of the Fire Station, and even as he left us the first fireman hurtled past on his bicycle. Within seconds, others arrived by taxi, car and motor cycle, all half-dressed in their uniforms, and all desperately anxious to beat their previous best time for getting mobile.

  Within two minutes of the siren’s awful notes fading into the summer air, the gleaming red fire appliance, with its bell ringing, tore out of town on its way to Reuben’s grass fire.

  I saw him climb on to his tractor, then turn in the opposite direction.

  “He’ll be going for his diesel,” said Vesuvius, returning to his books.

  I learned that the fire was safely extinguished before it damaged any of Reuben’s crops or buildings, although it left its mark on the grass embankment of the railway line. For Reuben, it was a moment of drama in his day, and I doubted very much whether he’d tell his wife about it when she came home. He’d probably tell her he’d had a few problems getting his diesel oil.

  It is worthy of
comment that in those days, every part-time fireman had a bell in his house. The bells rang to call them to the station, and these were supplemented by the noisy siren in town. When those noises occurred, the local people knew it was vital to keep clear the route from each fireman’s home or place of work, for they knew that half-dressed men would soon hurtle through the streets aboard any kind of transportation they could find. To stand in the way of those dashing men was both dangerous and frustrating, and so the call of the siren meant the town’s people froze until the fire engine was safely at its destination.

  But modern technology has caused some problems. Now, each fireman has a bleeper, and this makes a personal noise to inform him that his presence is urgently required at the fire station. The snag with this system is that no one else knows. The siren doesn’t sound any more, and so the people are unaware of this impending stampede.

  The result is, quite without warning, towns like Eltering are full of half-dressed men in cars and on bicycles hurtling through the streets on missions that appear bewildering.

  One outcome of this new procedure is an increase in the number of traffic accidents in towns like Eltering, as people and firemen collide. As a form of communication, the old-fashioned siren had a lot to commend it — it ensured that everyone knew what was happening. And in a small community, that is important. But I often wonder what Reuben thinks of the new system — he probably thinks modem firemen arrive by telepathic means.

  In that same summer, two old men of Aidensfield caused something of a panic when a henhouse caught fire.

  The henhouse was totally destroyed, but because the blaze occurred during the daytime, all the hens were outside, pecking to their hearts’ content in the small enclosure provided for them. The hens, and their ruined home, belonged to Arthur Poskitt who was one of the old men in question. The other was his life-long friend, Sam Crowther.

  Friends though they were, the two old men, both well into their seventies, used to argue and fight over trivialities. This long-standing battle continued in their homes, in their neighbouring gardens and in the pub dining an evening when they went for their pints of refreshing medicine.

  The destructive henhouse fire was the outcome of such an argument. Long before I was posted to Aidensfield, Arthur Poskitt had owned a henhouse on the same site. It had been a smart construction of timber, well saturated with creosote for the purposes of preservation and for water-proofing, and it had a sound roof of equally waterproof material. Inside, there had been double perches, and nest boxes so that six hens could lay at the same time. In this comfortable abode, therefore, Arthur had kept a dozen Rhode Island Reds.

  Then one fateful day, during a summer of long ago, Arthur’s henhouse had ignited. The hens had been saved because they were outside at the time, and those who’d been inside were wise enough to flee the place as the flames licked their feathers. Most of the village thought this old fire had been forgotten — but it hadn’t.

  It was a heated argument over that first fire which caused the second. The second one occurred during my period of duty at Aidensfield, and the story happened something like this.

  It was a long, hot summer day in July, when the whole of Europe, including Aidensfield, was basking in a heatwave of remarkable intensity. All over the place, girls in scanty costumes pleased the men by displays of beauty seldom seen in rural areas, and the men sat around hoping that the heat of the sun would not burn the hairs off their chests. It was one of those summers when it paid to remain in England, for the suntans here were better than those obtained at great expense in France or Spain.

  Around twelve noon on the fateful day, the two old men were sitting in deckchairs just beyond Arthur’s henhouse, with handkerchiefs draped over their heads, and braces supporting ancient corduroys which were rolled up to the knees. They were not asleep, although a passer-by would have had to be very alert to discern any sign of wakefulness.

  The two old characters had been sitting in this semi-comatose position for several hours, when Sam spoke.

  “This is like that day when your henhouse caught fire,” he said.

  “It wasn’t as hot as this,” came the reply.

  “It was hotter,” Sam affirmed. “Much hotter!”

  “It wasn’t as hot as this when my henhouse caught fire,” retorted Arthur. “Nowt like.”

  “I remember it well,” returned his friend. “It was a damned sight hotter than this, because you needed two handkerchiefs over your head and you had sunglasses on.”

  “That wasn’t because it was hotter. It was because my eyes were tender, and my head was sore.”

  “You never told me your eyes got tender, or your head got sore?”

  “Why should I tell you? If my head gets sore, it’s nowt to do with you.”

  There followed a lengthy pause, after which Sam renewed the attack.

  “You remember that day, then?”

  “What day?” answered Arthur.

  “That day your henhouse caught fire.”

  “Remember it? Aye, of course I remember it. It cost me enough to build this new’un.”

  “It was your own fault.” Sam now scored a triumphant hit. “My fault?” Arthur sat bolt upright in his chair, his old eyes blinking against the sun. “Who said it was my fault?”

  “They all did.”

  “Who’s ‘all’?”

  “Folks in Aidensfield. They all said it was your fault. You put your pipe in that long grass, on a day like this, and it caught fire.”

  “It was kids what did it!” snapped Arthur, redining once again.

  “What kids? We were here, both of us. You and me. The kids were at school. It was before t’summer holidays. There was no kids, just us two, sitting here, and all that dry grass.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. My pipe would never have done a thing like that. You don’t set grass on fire with pipes!”

  “You can! All you want is a pipe full of hot ash, and a bit o’ wind, and dry grass’ll catch fire like nowt.”

  “Well, it didn’t set my grass on fire, nor my henhouse.” “There was nowt else!” Sam continued his attack. “Summat must have set it alight. Henhouses don’t catch fire themselves.” Arthur sat upright in his chair once again and glared across at his reclining friend.

  “Are you trying to tell me that my pipe will set fire to grass?” Sam didn’t move as he said, “Aye. Remember — it was long, dry grass, nearly like hay, and there was just a touch o’ breeze.

  You put that pipe o’ yours down when you went in for a glass o’ watter, and when you came out, yon grass was well away. Ah knew that and t’whole of Aidensfield knew.”

  “Then you must have told’em. There was only you and me here.”

  “Then you admit it? You admit it was your pipe?”

  “I admit nowt! All I’m saying is that a pipe full o’ hot baccy isn’t strang enough to set fire to growing grass, no matter how dry it is.”

  “Cigarette ends have set fire to forests before today,” Sam said with a nod of his head. “And they’ve set fire to settees and houses, an’ all. If a cigarette end can do that, then a full pipe can set fire to growing grass — and henhouses.”

  There was another long pause before Arthur struggled to climb out of his deckchair.

  “I’ll prove it!” he said. “I’ll prove that a pipe full o’ hot baccy can’t set fire to growing grass. There’s growing grass there,” and he pointed to a length of dry grass which grew beneath the hedge. “I’ll fetch my pipe and show you!”

  “You do that!” and Sam waved a finger at his pal.

  Arthur went indoors to find the pipe he hadn’t smoked for years, and emerged with it, plus a box of matches and some ready-rubbed tobacco. He sat on the edge of his deckchair and studiously filled the pipe, pushing the dried tobacco deep into the bowl in readiness for its test. Then he lit a match, applied it to the pipe, and inhaled as only a smoker can. Even though he’d rested from his pipe for some time, he soon had the bowl glowing like a furnace, and clou
ds of sweet smoke circled above his head.

  “That’s a good pipe!” smiled Sam.

  “Not one of my best,” Arthur told him, “but good enough for this.”

  “Good enough to set fire to a henhouse, eh?”

  “Good enough for a test like this!” snapped Arthur, removing the pipe from his mouth and peering into its bowl. “It’s ready.”

  “It’ll be only right if you do today what you did last time you set your henhouse on fire.” Sam could not resist the gibe.

  “This is to show my pipe couldn’t have done it; now that time, I set it down and went in for a glass o’ watter…”

  “Then we’ll do t’same this time, and I’ll come with you, just to make sure you do everything…

  Arthur’s pipe was glowing nicely and he carefully set it down in the long grass, just as he had all those years before; it sat steadily between the dry stalks, a tiny glow of dangerous red among the tan colours of the weathered growth.

  “Just like that, Sam,” beamed Arthur, pleased that his faithful pipe had not fallen over. “Now, then, a glass o’ watter…”

  Together, the pair of them marched in step towards Arthur’s kitchen where Arthur, re-living as best he could the events of long ago, reached into the cabinet, found a glass and filled it with water from the tap.

  “I think my missus asked me summat, but I can’t remember what it was,” he said, sipping heavily. “Then I went outside…”

  And he stalked back through the kitchen, round the corner of the brick cottage, and there, blazing furiously, was his patch of dry grass.

  “It’s afire!” he shouted. “Sam, the bloody grass is blazing again! Git some watter!”

  But old men are not as agile as they believe, and in the confusion and delay of those precious seconds, the searing flames were fanned by a fresh breeze which blew between the cottages. In a matter of seconds, the entire area of dry grass, which grew long and thick beneath the hedge, was ablaze and roaring towards the henhouse.

  “Watter, watter!” shouted Arthur. “Sam, ring for t’brigade…”