“I’ll just have to report a failure,” he spoke with a resigned air. “I don’t like reporting failures, Mr Rhea. I like to announce success in my operations.”
He entered his clean little car, started it and left me standing at the gate. I waited a few moments to see if there was any reaction and sure enough, a head appeared from an upstairs window as the car vanished along the forest road.
I could see it was a man with long grey hair and a matching grey beard, but at this distance I could not distinguish his facial features. I did see, however, that he wielded a shotgun.
“And don’t you try it!” he bellowed at me, threateningly waving the gun. “Keep off, all of you!”
And he slammed the window to withdraw into the darkness of his isolated home. I smiled to myself, marvelling at the character of a man who could keep authority at bay for so long. I wandered along my lonely route and into the tiny moorland village where my motor cycle was parked.
For me, this was an exploratory visit, my first trip to Rannockdale village in an official capacity. I was keen to learn about its people and peculiarities, so as always on such visits I had parked the motor bike to walk the streets. On this occasion my action had been rewarded by the encounter with Mr Standish, the tax man.
It was important that I learn more about the eccentric Chapman, and the ideal place to begin was the village store. I pushed open the glass-fronted door and inside, a bell rang. A middle-aged man with a white apron appeared, smiling at me as he wiped his hands on the hem.
“P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m new here, and it’s my first trip to Rannockdale. I thought I’d say ‘hello’.”
“It’s good of you to bother,” he finished his wiping. “I’ve just been tidying some shelves at the back. Jim Freeman. My wife’s called Ann, but she’s out shopping for clothes, she went over to York this morning.”
“I’m at Aidensfield,” I said, removing my cap, “but now that they’ve issued us with bikes, we’re covering bigger patches.”
“I’m always pleased to see you chaps – fancy a coffee? I was about to have one.”
“Thanks,” and he escorted me through the shop to the living quarters where he motioned me to sit in a cosy armchair. He told me about the village, its amenities, problems, characters and gossip. I listened with interest, realising he was justifiably proud of the place and its people.
Over coffee, during which he answered the bell twice, I took the opportunity to mention Chapman and the income-tax man.
Freeman laughed loudly. “Oh, then you’ve been quick to meet our prize character, Charlie Chapman, the Recluse of Rannockdale.”
“Is he really a recluse?”
“He never leaves that house – or at least, no one ever sees him leave. Rates, electricity, income tax, social services – they’ve all tried to get in to see him, and he gives everyone the same answer. A shotgun through the window.”
“Doesn’t he ever let anyone in?” I was amazed at this. “What’s he do for food or medical supplies? Money? The essentials of life?”
“There are two people he trusts. I’m one,” he said with some pride. “The other is Miss Stanton. She’s a retired schoolteacher who lives in a cottage near the church.”
“How’s he trust you? Do you get inside?”
“No, we take things up to the front door. There’s a dog kennel outside the front door, and we place our things in there for him. I leave groceries once a week, and when I get there each Wednesday afternoon, he’s left a note outlining the following week’s requirements. I take other things for him – the mail, milk, stuff like that. I always leave them in the dog kennel with the note of the price, if any, and next time I go, the money is there, exactly right.”
“He’s got a gun,” I said. “I know a shotgun doesn’t need a certificate, but has he a rifle?”
“Yes, he’s got a .22 rifle which he uses for killing rooks and wood pigeons. The policeman comes once every three years to renew it. I take it up, leave the forms in the kennel and next time, I collect the filled-in forms and the money.”
At that time, a shotgun could be held without a shotgun certificate, although a gun licence was needed if the gun was taken outside the home; today, gun licences have been abolished and a shotgun requires a shotgun certificate to authorise its possession by anyone, and other firearms, except air weapons, require firearms certificates. From what I’d seen already, I knew I’d have problems with Chapman if I had ever to renew his firearms certificate. That day would surely come.
Over the following weeks, I learned that Chapman had earned his nickname “Recluse of Rannockdale” due to his habit of writing reams of letters to people in authority. All his letters were written on beautifully printed notepaper in green typewritten characters. He claimed he was Lord Rannockdale, a cousin of the Queen, and rightful heir to several estates in the North Riding; on some letter headings, he styled himself MP, and others comprised various business letter headings, happily of fictitious firms. The recipients of his letters must have wondered who was producing such gems, but I did learn that many were aware of his activities because of constant attention by the local and national press.
It was a local newspaper which had christened him “Recluse of Rannockdale” and the title had stuck. Every time he received wide publicity due to some idiot testing his defences for a giggle, the result was more people attempting to gain access to his house or visiting his farm with crazy notions. Some took along pressmen or cameras, for the Recluse had become something of a national celebrity. All this began some years before I arrived on the scene and in recent times, the publicity had dwindled considerably. The village people knew of his desire for the utmost privacy and respected it, and these days he lived his life almost as he wished. He was out of the nation’s limelight.
That was until two burglars called.
Late one winter’s evening, they decided to break into Charlie’s farmhouse. What prompted them to embark upon an enterprise of this kind, in remotest Rannockdale on a winter’s evening, is still something of a mystery, but it seems they had popped into the village inn for a quick drink. They were a highly professional team of burglars from Middlesbrough and their skills had earned them a comfortable living beyond the law.
It was that same skill that almost cost them their lives. Somehow, they managed to get into Charlie’s house without him realising, a feat which had defeated every caller for years. Perhaps the passage of time had helped, for there’d been no concerted attack on his home for years. We reckoned he had been lulled into a false sense of security. Be that as it may, the skilled pair had broken in and had started to rifle Charlie’s precious belongings.
He had a lot of things worth stealing, like antiques, jewellery, silverware and cash, and he kept them in a bedroom. It was to that very bedroom that the hapless pair went by the light of a torch in the very early hours. They reached the room, picked the lock and entered. And there lay Charlie’s treasure. They could scarcely believe their luck; it was a veritable treasure trove.
They began to place these riches into pillow cases which they used as sacks, and then Charlie approached. They heard him coming; just in time, they heard his quiet steps and saw the glint of his torch as he moved along the long corridor.
One of them, Ginger Mills, slammed the be room door just in time, and rammed home the lock on his side. He and his pal, Cat Christon, were locked in.
Being professionals, they appreciated this gave them time to think and plan; the householder would go downstairs to ring for the police, and while he was down there, they’d sneak out with the loot. They’d go downstairs and, if necessary, tackle him and immobilise him. So they waited; time was on their side.
Suddenly, the door panels were splintered into fragments as the twin barrels of Charlie’s twelve-bore discharged themselves and his voice called, “You can stay there, you bastards. If you climb out of the window, I’ll be waiting … if you move along here, I’ll be waiting …”
And
as if to emphasise those words, he released a further barrage at the door. The little balls of lead shot peppered the door and blasted the interior of the room where two very alarmed burglars now crouched in fear of their lives.
He kept them there for two whole days and two whole nights, sometimes enforcing his threats with barrages of lead pellets at the shattered door. Naturally, the burglars kept out of the way, using a wall as a shield.
Then Charlie sent for the police. Early one morning, he placed a note in his kennel and this was intercepted by Mr Freeman at the shop and he rang me.
“Where are they?” I asked, surprised that Charlie’s burglars had not been encouraged to leave with their backsides peppered as mementos of their visit.
“He’s got them locked in the bedroom,” he told me over the telephone. “Two, he thinks. He’ll allow you to call and arrest them. He says you must be there at twelve noon today, and he’ll deliver them to you at the front door.”
“Is he sure they’re burglars? They’re not just daft youths who got in for a dare?”
“He says burglars in his letter, Mr Rhea, and I’m sure he’s right.”
“O.K.” I assured him. “Tell Charlie I’ll come with a police car.”
I rang the section office at Ashfordly and Sergeant Oscar Blaketon answered.
“Sergeant,” I said, “It’s P.C. Rhea. Can I use the section car today?”
“You’ve a motor bike, Rhea. Has it broken down or are you just feeling idle?”
“No, Sergeant,” I reasoned with him. “It’s needed to carry two burglars. I want to go up Rannockdale to arrest them.”
“Rannockdale? Who bothers to get burgled up Rannockdale?” he asked aghast. “There’s nothing up there to be burgled.”
“They’re being held in a farm house,” I informed him. “That old man who’s known as the Recluse of Rannockdale has got them,” and I explained the curious circumstances.
“Oh, well, in that case you can use the car.” There was a hint of reluctance in his voice, “but I’ll come with you. It’s not often we arrest burglars out here, Rhea, so you’ll need support. You’re coming down to the office now, are you?”
“I am, Sergeant.”
Ten minutes later, I eased my Francis Barnett into the police station yard at Ashfordly and parked it against the wall. I took my crash helmet inside and hung it on a peg, replacing it with the flat cap from my pannier.
“You drive, Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, standing majestically before me in his superbly fitted uniform. He was ready to go, eager to be moving into action, but knowing him as I did, I made a careful check of the essentials. I checked the oil, water, battery and tyre pressures of the car, I made sure the lights worked, and the horn, and the windscreen wipers, and then I checked all the doors, the bonnet and the boot to ensure they closed properly. Sergeant Blaketon was a stickler for rules and routine, and I dare not omit anything. Having made a rigid check of this drill before moving out, I drove sedately across the moors in strict accordance with the driving system taught at police motoring schools.
On the way, I explained about the Recluse. I told Sergeant Blaketon how I’d learned a good deal about his life style, and he listened carefully, sometimes chuckling at the antics of Charlie Chapman, and sometimes tut-tutting at Charlie’s law-breaking enterprises. Blaketon had heard about him, of course; most of the local people had read of his exploits and the police, in one form or another, often caught the brunt of his anti-social behaviour.
“So what’s the arrangement, Rhea? If this madman shoots everybody who puts a foot on his drive, how are we going to get the burglars out?”
“It’s all arranged,” I assured him. “We must arrive at his front door at twelve noon precisely, and he will pass them out to us.”
“Twelve noon?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I confirmed.
“You’ve obviously established some sort of rapport with this character, Rhea,” and before I could tell him the truth about the note in the dog kennel, he said, “You know, this will make the Superintendent very happy. He’s been nagging about our lack of arrests, Rhea. When compared with other sections, we are not in the same league – no arrests for crime, no public order troubles or travelling thieves. But this is a good one – two burglars at one go, Rhea. Yes. It’s good, and it will improve our figures.”
It was very clear that I was in his good books, and for this I was grateful. To be on the right side of Oscar Blaketon was considered an honour, however short-lived it might be, and for a few minutes I basked in this unaccustomed glory. In his benevolence, Blaketon rambled on about the value of making arrests, of the effect they had on local villains who quaked in their shoes in anticipation of police swoops, and the need to show the public that we were, after all, a law-enforcement agency and not a charitable institution.
At one minute to midday precisely, we arrived at the entrance to the Recluse’s farm. I opened the gate as Sergeant Blaketon sat stolidly in the passenger seat, then I drove through, closed the gate and climbed in beside him for the final trip. I could sense that Charlie was watching our approach, and at least he could not complain about the timing. We were accurate to the second so I had no reason to fear his shotgun.
I did realise the car was unmarked as indeed all police cars were in this region. All were a highly polished black colour with uniformed men inside, and it was this distinctive hue which identified them to the local folk. I trusted Charlie was sufficiently au fait with our systems to recognise our car. Happily, he did.
As we pulled up, I saw that the front door was standing wide open and two very sorry individuals in rough clothes waited just inside, with their hands on their heads. They looked awful; they looked tired, hungry and dirty as they waited in the large entrance hall of Charlie’s farm. They also looked terrified because the wild and bewhiskered Charlie was standing right behind them with his shotgun at the ready.
Even as we stopped and emerged from the little car, the two men were thrust forward with the barrels of that dangerous weapon, and Blaketon said, “Cuffs, Rhea. Handcuffs, quickly man!”
I dragged my handcuffs from my pocket – we always carried handcuffs in our left trouser pocket and the truncheon in our right – and I waited as the bearded recluse ushered them completely from his home. Sergeant Blaketon held open the driver’s door and pushed the seat forward, to give them entry to the rear of the Ford. Our cars were two-door saloons for this very purpose – it was a sound idea by our Purchasing Department to buy such cars, except that it was with great difficulty that we could encourage drunks and quarrelsome folks to clamber into the confined space.
However, these two characters were in no mood for arguing. Meekly, they shuffled out of the house, prodded forward by the twin barrels of Charlie’s gun. With his nose twitching in disgust at the smell that accompanied them, Sergeant Blaketon stood back as they climbed with evident relief into our rear seat.
They sat down and Charlie slammed the door of his house.
“Mr Chapman?” Sergeant Blaketon called through the closed door. “I need to talk to you.”
No reply. Blaketon shouted several more times, but the Recluse had returned to his lair. I knew why the sergeant wished to talk to him – we needed a statement from him, a written account of the events which preceded this arrest. Without it, there was no evidence to put before a court and we might not be able to substantiate a charge of burglary, which was then a very serious crime.
“Clear off!” came the voice after Sergeant Blaketon’s repeated knocking had made his knuckles sore. “Clear off, and take those ratbags with you.”
Sergeant Blaketon, straight as a ramrod and immaculate in his appearance, had no alternative. He turned away from the door, whirling around like a sergeant-major on parade, and made for the waiting car. I got in to the driving seat as he headed for the passenger side. The stench from our prisoners was appalling, more so in the confined space of the little vehicle.
“My God!” cried Blaketon, windi
ng down his window. “What’s happened to you two?”
The one with short, grizzly hair answered. “He wouldn’t let us go to the toilet, sergeant. He kept us in that bloody room without any food, heat or toilet … the man’s a bloody nut-case …”
“You’re nut-cases to think of burgling the old fool’s house,” snapped Blaketon, holding a handkerchief to his nose. “Anyway, you’re both under arrest for burglary.”
“We can’t deny this one,” the other said. “I’m only relieved to be out of that spot, I can tell you.”
With the stinking burglars continuing to fill the car with pungent fumes, we drove through the pure countryside air with our windows wide open. To cut a long story short, they were placed in our cells and we found clean sets of clothing for them. They readily admitted housebreaking, a lesser crime than burglary, and made voluntary statements to that effect. They told how Charlie had caught them and detained them, but we got no supporting statement from him. The Detective Inspector felt the courts would accept the men’s own voluntary admissions as valid evidence.
These young burglars from Middlesbrough were each given a three-month Borstal sentence due to their age and previous record, and it was a good crime to be written off against our sectional record. For several weeks Sergeant Blaketon re-lived the moment of that arrest, telling all his pals and superiors about it, and there is no doubt it was the highlight of his month.
Then there came a note from Force Headquarters. It was to remind us that the firearm certificate held by Mr Charles Alexander Chapman of Rannockdale was due for renewal. It asked that an officer visit Mr Chapman to inspect the .22 firearm in question, that he supervise the completion of the relevant forms and obtain the requisite fee.
“Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, “I think the time has come for us to visit this man. I know his past record, and of his obsession with keeping people out of his premises, but this is a matter of law and we are officers of the law. I intend to visit Mr Chapman to discuss the renewal of his firearm certificate. I am sure he will look favourably upon us due to our recent part in the arrest of his burglars.”
Constable Across the Moors Page 10