“It’s not makking onny difference!” shouted Josh. “By, he’s a randy awd fussack is yon . . .”
Then, as Basil slipped off the now soaking object of his passion, the stream of cold water hit the pony in her most sensitive and delicate area. With a sudden whinnying of surprise, she lashed out with hind legs, kicking Basil in the stomach and knocking him back a few feet, and then she bucked and kicked until she was free. Then, whinnying with embarrassment as Josh continued to play the cold water upon her rear end, the pony twisted like a struggling cat, emerged from the lychgate and galloped away down the village street.
“Well, Ah’ll be capped,” said Josh. “Water off now, Vicar, we’ve done t’trick.”
But Basil was not going to be undone. With a deep-throated hee-haw, he set off in pursuit of the pony, his passion not in the least diminished.
I watched in some alarm as the two animals tore headlong down Aidensfield village street, with cars swerving to avoid them. My only consolation was that the funeral was free to go ahead.
“Thanks, Josh,” I said with some gratitude.
Josh beamed at the vicar, “I reckon that’s some kind of baptism, eh?” and then, adopting his solemn funereal mask, turned to the waiting cortège and said, “We can now convey the departed into the church.”
My problem was the departed pony and donkey. If Basil got his way, he would corner that pony in some other place to continue his interrupted fornication and so I walked briskly away to try and locate the pair of them. But I needn’t have worried. The pony managed to find its way into its own stable and Fiona Lambton arrived just in time to slam the door against the advancing Basil.
“What on earth’s happened to Sunbeam? She’s all wet!” asked Fiona as Basil frothed at the mouth while head-butting the stable door in the urge to reach the pony.
“She’s been rescued from a fate worse than death.” I explained the situation. “So, can you keep this donkey here until Claude Jeremiah comes for him?”
“He won’t go away, I can tell you that,” Fiona said. “He’ll hang about that stable until he’s dragged away . . . he’ll tackle anything, will that Basil. What a libido! I wish I could find a man like that. Does Claude know he’s here?”
“No,” I said. “Perhaps you’d ring him and ask him to collect his donkey?”
And before she could refuse my request I walked away, relieved to leave the problem in her capable hands.
* * *
One of the reasons I left Fiona to cope with Basil was that I had had lots of occasions to threaten legal action against Fiona, due to the behaviour of her own horses and ponies. They seemed to cause as much bother as Claude Jeremiah’s donkeys and I thought this was one way of repaying her for past bother. (See Constable on the Hill.)
Her horses were a fascinating collection. One of them was always ridden to Ashfordly market by Johnny Brown, a local character, and it then found its own way back to Aidensfield. Johnny would return by bus later in the day. This was an example of the ability of some horses to operate without riders and, in the past, many milkmen would rely on the horse to find its way around the village delivery route. The milkman would deliver on foot as the horse took the cart of milk from house to house. There are lots of similar tales about horses carrying drunken owners home or finding their own way home when their rider had had an accident.
But even in the 1960s, it was not wise to have an unattended horse wandering the country lanes. There were traffic hazards which had not been in existence even forty years earlier, and so a free-ranging horse was a problem.
I was faced with such a worry by one of Fiona Lambton’s horses. It was a delightful gelding called Treacle due to his wonderful golden colouring. He was a superb animal who was loved by all who met him, but he had a curious weakness.
Treacle had a passion for fox hunting. On the morning of a hunt meeting, he would begin to shiver with excitement, growing restless and agitated and whinnying for his mistress to come and saddle him up. In the horsebox en route to the meet, he continued in this state of high excitement, rattling his hooves on the floor of the trailer or neighing loudly as he approached the meet. And then, when he and Fiona were galloping across the countryside among dozens of other horses and riders, Treacle was in his seventh heaven. For Treacle the horse, hunting was like a drug; he could not exist without his regular dose.
The snag was that Fiona did not attend every meet. Somehow, Treacle knew when there was a local meeting, perhaps due to other horses from Aidensfield being taken there or maybe due to a deep-seated sixth sense. When there was a meet in the district, he would become highly irritable and restless, kicking his stable door or chewing the wood from doors and gates in his frustration. Then one day, he decided that if Fiona would not take him hunting, he would go by himself.
And so he did. He leapt the fences of his home ground to escape just as he leapt the fences when hunting with the other horses.
On the first occasion he hunted alone, no one paid much immediate attention to the unattended horse. The regulars knew it belonged to Fiona Lambton and the fact it bore no harness or saddlery probably meant she was about to correct that defect. But when it galloped off without a rider and followed the hunt to its conclusion with never a sight of Fiona, the master of foxhounds realized he must do something about it.
I was told that he rang Fiona to inform her that her horse had somehow attended the meet, but she did not seem to be very perturbed about it. But when it happened on several further occasions, the MFH decided to take action.
“Look here, Fiona,” Mr Gregory Stanleigh-Prowd telephoned her one Saturday morning. “This bloody horse of yours has turned up again, we can’t have riderless horses going hunting, you know, damned dangerous if you ask me.”
She said he had come to no harm and knew how to conduct himself in the field; if someone would tether him when the hunt was over, she would arrange to collect him.
I was blissfully unaware of Treacle’s regular truancy until I received a call from a motorist. A travelling salesman had been driving past Whemmelby Lane end when he’d seen a riderless horse heading into the dale. He called me because he thought the rider might have been thrown off and was perhaps lying injured somewhere. I drove down to Whemmelby only to find the place swarming with huntsmen and women in their finery.
Horse boxes were parked along the verges and there, among the lively horses, I saw Treacle and recognized him instantly. I located Stanleigh-Prowd and asked, “Mr Stanleigh-Prowd, isn’t that Fiona Lambton’s horse?”
“Yes, it is, damned thing. It gets out and follows local horses to the meets. See, no saddle, no halter. It follows us everywhere we go.”
“Isn’t it dangerous, having a loose horse among you?”
“Normally I’d agree with that, Mr Rhea, but old Treacle is wonderful, he’s no bother really, but, well, a riderless horse on the highway isn’t exactly a sound idea.”
“It could cause a nasty accident,” I said. “So after a day’s hunting, how does he got home?” I asked.
“He doesn’t. He can find his way here all right, by tracking horse boxes, I reckon, but he can’t find his way home again. So once the hunt is over, he will hang around near a horse box until someone tethers him. We all know him, fortunately, he’s no real trouble.”
“And then Fiona is called?”
“Exactly. She will come to collect him. Bloody thing . . . he’s hooked on hunting, you see, Mr Rhea. Very well trained, mind, a fine animal really.”
“Can we tie him up now? Before you ride off? You can leave without him. I’ll ring her and ask her to collect him.”
“He would go berserk, Mr Rhea. No, either she rides him or he comes with us now. I’ll see to him, between us we’ll care for him, the others know him well enough. But we mustn’t tie up old Treacle while the others are hunting, God, no!”
“That’s a risk, is it?”
“God, yes. He’d do everything in his power to free himself, might even strangle himself w
hile trying to get loose. We couldn’t have that. I couldn’t take that risk. Imagine, leaving him here, tied up all day while we’re riding to hounds within his earshot? He’d go mad.”
“It seems we need to find a rider for him when Fiona can’t make it?” I suggested.
“Yes, we tried to suggest that to Fiona, some of our members need a mount from time to time, but she doesn’t seem to worry about him. But she’ll have to do something, he’ll go mad if he’s not allowed to hunt with us. Between us, we make sure he doesn’t go on any roads.”
I was conscious of the illegality of allowing a horse to stray on the highway and I was equally aware of the dangers of a riderless horse trotting along the country lanes, even if it was as calm and lovely as dear old Treacle. The drivers of cars, lorries and motor cycles might not realize that Treacle was trained to cope with traffic but irrespective of all the arguments in his favour, Treacle could not be allowed to roam by himself.
In spite of Stanleigh-Prowd’s assurance, I knew there would be risks and there would be times when Treacle would be on the public roads without a rider.
I called to see Fiona Lambton later that day.
“He’s liable to be impounded,” I warned her. “If our motor patrol comes across him while he’s riderless, they’ll follow standard procedures. He could be locked up, Miss Lambton.”
“Poor old pet,” she mused. “He does so love hunting, Mr Rhea, he really does. But I can’t go to every meet and, well, he insists, you see. I’ve tried keeping him back . . . he’ll kick the stable doors and might injure himself if I keep him in.”
“Couldn’t one of your riding pupils go hunting on him if you can’t make it?”
“Not really, not if they’re not members. And it is expensive, you know, joining the hunt. Few young people can afford it.”
“Can’t they join just for the day? Just for one particular outing?”
“Yes, they can, there are day subscriptions. But, well, I seldom know in advance whether or not I can go, you see. Getting a rider at the last minute, with the necessary funds, well, it’s not as simple as it sounds, Mr Rhea.”
“It’s your problem, Miss Lambton,” I said. “And you could be fined or your horse could be impounded or worse still, injured. You must do something to curb his lone wanderings.”
“Yes, of course, Mr Rhea.”
It would be some four or five weeks later when I came across Mr Stanleigh-Prowd in Brantsford. He had been entertaining a business friend to lunch and took the opportunity to stop for a chat. “You’ve seen Fiona about that confounded horse?” he put to me.
I explained what I’d done and he nodded. “Well, she’s been out with us since, so there’s been no problem, but it will arise again, Mr Rhea, the bloody woman doesn’t care, you know. She is a bit blasé about it all.”
“The rule about only members riding with the hunt is a stumbling-block,” I said. “She has some pupils who could take Treacle hunting otherwise. Some can’t afford to join the hunt nor even fork out for single-day subscriptions.”
“We can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harriet turning up at our official hunts, you know. There’s insurance to consider, the use of farmers’ lands, club rules and so on. We do have standards to keep, Mr Rhea, we are reluctant to encourage non-members to ride with us. I agree she couldn’t let just any pupil ride Treacle during a hunt.”
Then I had a brain-wave.
“Why not make Treacle a member?” I said. “In his own right. Then he could hunt, couldn’t he? If he was a member, he could hunt with someone other than Fiona Lambton up?”
“Hah!” he chortled. “What a bloody scheme, Officer! Trust a policeman to find a way around the bloody rule book!”
“It might save the life of a neurotic horse,” I laughed with him. “And Fiona Lambton can afford his subscription.”
“Bloody hell, whatever next! All right, I’ll put it to our committee. A horse a member! Honorary membership perhaps . . . with no voting rights . . . I’ll have to see what the rule book says . . .” and he strode off, chortling to himself.
But a week later, Treacle became a member of the Slemmington Hunt, with Fiona paying his annual fee and thus, in theory, anyone could ride him. Fiona made sure that the youngsters who did ride to hounds with him were very capable and thus the Slemmington Hunt had its first four-legged member.
I wondered how he could cope if he was invited to the annual Hunt Ball.
* * *
Rather like a rural veterinary surgeon, a country police officer has to deal with many animals, albeit not in a medical sense. More often than not, we are concerned with creatures who are involved with problems or whose owners are involved with problems.
On one occasion, I found myself in Elsinby churchyard because I received a telephone call late one summer evening to say there were suspicious noises coming from the corner under the yew trees. The caller, who’d rung from a kiosk, rang off before I could obtain a name and address, but I felt it sounded like a genuine call.
For some weeks prior to that call, it had been suspected that drunks were using the silence of the graves for an after-hours drinking session and also that vandals were damaging tombstones and memorials. So off I went to investigate the report, fully armed with my trusty torch and truncheon.
When I arrived, everything was in silence. There was not a murmur of wind nor any other sound among the tombstones and although it was not totally dark, it was difficult to see into the deeper recesses of the vegetation or beneath the thick yew trees. I entered the churchyard as quietly as I could, walking on the grass instead of the footpaths, as I began my tour of the tombstones.
I looked behind each headstone, for such memorials did provide an effective hiding place for drinkers and lovers, but I found nothing. There was no one lurking behind the stones, no signs of empty beer bottles or litter and neither did I discover any recent signs of vandalism. But as I made my way towards the darkness of the shadows beneath the yews, I did discern some faint sounds. It was like heavy breathing, a gentle and almost rhythmic noise. I halted and listened. In some ways, it reminded me of slumbering cows. When patrolling at night, the calm sound of the breathing of sleeping cows was one of the noises of the darkness, one which could frighten anyone not accustomed to rural sounds. But this was not a meadow — it was a churchyard, and there should be no cows here.
If it was not a cow, it was probably a drunk sleeping off a heavy session or, of course, it might be a pair of lovers resting after the evening’s activities. I crept forward and stooped to peer into the darkness . . . there was something! I halted, hair bristling on the nape of my neck as I tried to see what was lurking there — then I shone my torch.
Two massive eyes blinked back at me . . . a huge beast lumbered to its feet, white face shining in the light of my torch and nostrils extending as it fumed at my stupidity in disturbing its slumbers. It was a bull — and a big one. With the speed of light, it rose to its feet and within seconds was lumbering towards me.
I did not lumber towards the exit. I fled. I galloped. I raced across the churchyard, weaving between the tombstones and sometimes leap-frogging over them as I tried to put distance between myself and the bull. He followed, panting and making curiously frightening noises as I leapt, galloped and fled towards the gate.
The oncoming bull knocked over some tombstones, demolished several vases of flowers and trampled over some shrubbery as it lumbered after me. But I won. I raced out of the gate and locked it behind me, panting like a broken-winded gallower. The bull halted at the other side, gazing at me but unable to follow.
“You bloody vandal!” I shouted at it. Then I wondered who it belonged to.
I’d not seen the bull around the village and so I went to The Hopbind Inn which was still serving and told them of my discovery.
“It’ll be Awd Jesse’s,” said one of the regulars.
Jesse was Mr Jesse Ramsay of High Farm so I drove there immediately and told him the story. When we searched the fiel
d for his bull, it had gone; some hikers had apparently left the gate open and the bull had gone for walkies. Fortunately, the churchyard gate must also have been open and so the bull had wandered in for a rest and a meal of lush grass. I do not know who telephoned me, although I suspect it was one of the careless hikers.
“He’s as gentle as a kitten, Mr Rhea,” he told me. “He wouldn’t have hurt you.”
“Tell that to the vicar,” I said. “He’s knocked over a few items of graveyard furniture.”
After daylight next morning, the village was full of rumours about vandals rampaging around the churchyard with the damage being claimed as firm evidence of their activities. But I told the villagers that the rumours were just a load of bull.
* * *
Among the other animals which caused problems were Bushy the Border collie, an exploding pig and a kidnapped bufflehead.
Bushy was a lovely dog owned by an Aidensfield lady. He was a Border collie and should have been employed tending sheep, but he was in fact a domestic dog and a much-loved pet. He had a lovely nature and everyone liked him. But he had a curious hobby — he chased aeroplanes.
Other dogs had a propensity for chasing cars or motorcycles, but Bushy preferred aeroplanes. Just as the car or motorcycle chasers would run after a passing vehicle, barking at its back wheel for a couple of hundred yards, so Bushy would run along beneath the flight path of a passing plane, barking at it and snarling. There is no doubt he thought he was chasing the intruder away from the village because, having been barked and growled at in a ferocious manner, the plane did escape over the moors to leave the village in peace. There is no doubt that Bushy saw himself as the guardian of Aidensfield.
CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 17