“Mind? You’ve no right to search my place, Mr Rhea, no right …”
“But you don’t object, surely, do you? I mean, shall I radio my control and get a search-warrant issued? Then our C.I.D. can come here, in force, lots of them, and really search your house and premises …”
“There’s nothing here, Mr Rhea, nothing.”
“Then let me see your pick-up.”
“It’s in that shed.” He pointed to a shed with a large wooden hasp as its lock. “There are some sheep there, as well, Mr Rhea. Don’t let them out, they’re waiting to be collected.” And his voice trailed away.
“Eight?” I asked.
“How did you know that?” he regarded me with a steady stare.
“With blue marks on their left flanks?”
“Yes,” he said, wilting now. “That’s very astute of you, Mr Rhea. I got them for a friend …”
“You stole them from Ted Williamson,” and I then remembered my unusual bargain with Ted. “Show me, Claude, and no mucking about.”
Resigned to his fate, he took me to the shed and inside was his little vehicle, but it was jacked up and the rear tyre was missing.
“I just got home,” he said grimly, “and was coming down my lane, when I got a puncture. There was a bleb on the inside of the tyre, Mr Rhea, so I got landed with those sheep … look, I’m sorry …”
And in a wire pen at the far end of the shed were eight gimmers contentedly chewing hay, their blue rumps readily visible.
“My spare had a puncture as well,” he said. “It’s not my day, Mr Rhea.”
“It is your lucky day, Claude Jeremiah,” I said. “If you get those sheep back to Ted’s this morning, he will not take you to court.”
His eyes lit up. “Really? Mr Rhea? That’s gen, is it?”
“It is,” I said, somewhat sadly, and then a car entered the yard. I looked out and saw it was the mechanic from Elsinby Garage. He climbed out and took a pair of wheels from his boot and trundled them over to this shed.
“Oh, hello, Mr Rhea. Not a bad morning. Claude – your tyres – one new tyre fitted and one puncture mended. Two pounds three and six please.”
“I haven’t any money,” said Claude.
“Then I take the wheels back and you’ll get ’em when you pay …”
“Just a minute, Graham.” He changed his mind and dug deep into his pocket. He found the necessary cash and paid the mechanic who drove away contented.
“Now, Claude Jeremiah,” I said. “Right now you replace that wheel and you take those sheep back to Keld Head. I’ll wait until you do and I’ll follow you to the farm. Right now, with no more messing about.”
“But, Mr Rhea …”
“It’s that, or court, Claude Jeremiah, and for sheep-stealing hereabouts, you’re risking prison, you know.”
Without a word, he bent to the task of replacing the wheel and within five minutes, the truck was roadworthy. The spare was thrown into the rear, and I instructed him to herd the sheep aboard. He succeeded without a great deal of trouble, as they were already confined in the building, and within fifteen minutes, we were heading for Keld House.
Ted was delighted. His wife was overcome because some of these had been pet lambs, and I smiled as they were replaced in their paddock in exactly the same way he’d removed them. He reversed his truck into the gate, lowered the tailboard and shooed out the animals.
“Is that it, Mr Rhea?” Claude asked me, anxious to be off.
“Not quite, Claude,” I smiled at him, and I saw the look of anxiety on his face. “You’ve a debt to pay, haven’t you?”
“Debt? Here? I don’t owe money, Mr Rhea, not here.”
“No, but if it wasn’t for Mr and Mrs Williamson’s generosity, you’d be under arrest and sitting in a cell at Ashfordly Police Station. You’d be waiting for a court appearance on a serious criminal charge and even prison.”
He said nothing, but lowered his head.
“Ted,” I addressed the farmer. “This morning you told me you needed some hedging and ditching doing, and couldn’t afford to pay anybody?”
“Aye, things are a bit tight,” he confirmed.
“Claude is good at things like that, he’s very handy about a farm, Ted, and can turn his hand to anything. He won’t need paying, of course, and he has volunteered to help you as an act of contrition.”
“I have?” asked Claude.
“You have, just now. You will work here until Ted has got caught up with his outstanding jobs. For nowt, Claude. You work for nowt, and if you go away, or pinch anything from here, or anywhere else, we’ll activate the sheep-stealing charge. That’ll get you several years in clink, my lad.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Mrs Williamson.
As we discussed the tasks that awaited him, I could see Claude wilting at the thought. We entered the kitchen for a celebratory cup of tea laced with a fair helping of whisky, and I recalled the old days of threshing and harvesting on these moors.
Everybody helped one another; they loaned equipment and man-power so that all could reap their harvests as quickly as possible, and I smiled to myself.
As I drank my tea, I reminded Ted and Claude of this system, which continued to operate in some areas.
“Can you remember the days when you all helped each other, Ted?” I asked, hoping he would recognise the drift of my conversation.
“By gum, aye,” he smiled. “Grand days, them. Did thoo know, Claude, we needed fourteen fellers to work on a threshing day. There was t’engine driver, forkers, corn carriers, stack builders, a lad to see t’engine allus had water, and a few more besides. We all helped out, thoo sees, lending men and machinery, moving across these hills and getting all these crops in as fast as we could.”
“You can still lend a man, Ted,” I smiled. “I know Claude will let himself be lent out, for nothing of course. Didn’t you say you were going over to High Rigg next week?”
Ted was quick-thinking and agreed with my fictitious work idea. I knew he would offer Claude to High Rigg Farm, and I knew the little man was fixed up for work for several weeks to come. All for no pay.
It would have been cheaper to have paid a fine in court.
And, of course, it would have been better not to have stolen those sheep.
But I still had not managed to win a conviction against Claude. I could wait. One day, he’d come. One day …
9
“I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
this many and many a year.”
Alexander Brome 1620–1666
Sergeant Charlie Bairstow and I were sitting in his official car, discussing a spate of vandalism which had broken out in the village of Elsinby. Our talk was not so much a plan of action, but more a small symposium of ideas for the total eradication of vandalism by saturating the village with police officers. That, in reality, meant regular visits from me. The time was approaching ten o’clock one Wednesday evening in early May and the night was dark, albeit with a hint of brightness over the distant horizon.
We were not in Elsinby at this time; in fact, I was performing a late motor-cycle patrol across the whole range of Ryedale and Sergeant Bairstow had found me just outside Malton, on the minor road to Calletby.
“Evening, Nick,” he’d greeted me in his usual affable way. “Take your helmet off and sit with me a few minutes.”
And that is how I came to be sitting at his side in the tiny police car some distance off my own beat. We did not make any great progress in our battle against vandals but I enjoyed the opportunity to air my views about this creeping menace, and the discussion added welcome interest to my lonely patrol.
But as we sat and talked, I heard someone running towards the car. The darkness made it difficult to identify the sex or state of the runner, but soon there was a frantic tapping on Sergeant Bairstow’s window.
“By, I’m glad I found you fellers.” A thick-set farm youth with corduroy trousers and an old tweed jacket was addressing us, hav
ing quickly opened Sergeant Bairstow’s door.
“Summat wrong?” Bairstow used the local pronunciation.
“Aye, Sergeant,” the lad said. “In yon barn of ours. There’s a man and I reckon he’s dead. He’s laid out on our straw, and I wouldn’t guess how long he’s been there.”
“You’ve not touched anything?” asked Sergeant Bairstow.
“Not a thing, Sergeant, not a thing. Ah wouldn’t touch yon feller for all t’gold in China.”
“Come on, show us then,” and Sergeant Bairstow opened the rear door. The youth climbed in smelling strongly of pigs and guided us to the barn. It was situated about four hundred yards along the village street, and down a narrow, unmade lane. The lad was called Alan Dudley and farmed for his father; he was on his way to a telephone kiosk when he spotted our conveniently parked car. He was highly excited and chattered about his discovery as he showed us the barn. There was no light, but he located a storm lantern which he’d left near the entrance, and produced matches to ignite the wick.
Sergeant Bairstow carried a powerful torch from the car and together we entered the dark recesses of the large Dutch barn. Alan Dudley guided us unerringly to the distant corners by clambering over loose bales and piles of unstacked straw.
He halted and revealed his find by holding his lantern high to flood the corpse with a dim light. Sure enough, there was the body of a man. He lay in a prone position with his head cradled in his arms and his legs curled up in what might be described as the foetal position. The fellow was dressed in a rough grey suit with black boots, and a flat cap lay on the straw a few inches from his head. His hair was filthy and had once been fair, but was now a curious shade of tarnished gold. I guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties and he appeared to be a tramp or a roadster of some kind.
“You came straight to us?” Sergeant Bairstow asked gently.
“Aye, I did,” said Alan. “Fair turned me, it did, seeing that lying there.”
“You’ve not touched him then?”
“Not me, sergeant, never. Not a thing like yon.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” and as Alan stood aside, Sergeant Bairstow and I edged forward in the pool of light, treading carefully upon the straw. I watched as my superior squatted on his haunches at the side of the body and touched the whiskery face.
“Warm,” he said with some relief in his voice, “and he’s alive.”
“Alive?” cried Alan Dudley. “He looks dead to me.”
“He’s alive all right,” and Sergeant Bairstow lowered his head to listen for breathing, then swiftly sat upright, holding his nose. “Drink,” he sighed. “Meths. This fellow’s a meths drinker, he’s paralytic. God, he stinks!”
I went closer and sniffed the atmosphere. For my trouble, I caught a terrible whiff of the powerful odour which rose from this sleeping man. Alan came too, and creased his face in disbelief. The stench was terrible.
“We’re fetching some sheep in here tonight,” said Alan, looking down at the visitor. “He can’t stay, some of them awd rams’ll half kill him.”
“He’s our problem, Nick,” said Bairstow softly.
“It’s your car, sergeant,” I reminded him, for my motor cycle was parked nearby.
“Help him into the bloody car then,” and with Alan lifting and sweating, and with me hoisting the limp fellow to his feet, we managed to half-carry, half-bundle the limp lump of meths-sodden humanity towards Sergeant Bairstow’s car. With much puffing and panting, he squeezed him into the rear seat and laid him flat. The stench in the car was appalling, and I didn’t regret being on the motor cycle tonight. I wondered what Sergeant Bairstow would do with the fellow, and realised with horror that I was the only constable on duty tonight in this section. The problem could be mine.
We thanked Alan for his help and praised him for his public-spirited action, but wondered what on earth we could do with the meths man.
“Follow me, Nick,” Bairstow ordered. I obeyed. I climbed aboard my Francis Barnett and followed the car for about two miles. Then he halted.
He left his car and approached me as I sat astride my motor cycle, awaiting further instructions.
“Nick, old son,” Sergeant Bairstow placed one hand on the handlebars of my machine. “This character is yours for the night.”
“Mine?” I was horrified. I knew what was coming next.
“You are the only duty constable in the section tonight, and if we take this character into the police station, he’ll have to be placed in the cells because he’s drunk and incapable. That means someone has to be present all the time, watching him and caring for him, making sure he doesn’t snuff it or hurt himself. Someone has to feed and water him, fetch him his breakfast, and minister to his every need.”
“I’m supposed to finish at one o’clock,” I reminded him, wondering if I’d get paid overtime for this duty.
“Exactly, Nick. And I’m supposed to finish when I get home in a few minutes’ time. So this fellow is a problem, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I wasn’t quite sure what he was driving at, but was interested to find out. I knew the routine – a prisoner in the cells at Ashfordly Police Station meant all-night duty for the constable looking after him, and the tiny station was not really equipped for such visitors. There was no provision for food, for one thing. We could take him to Malton or one of the larger places, but I could imagine the wrath of the duty inspector if we presented him with our gift. No one wanted a smelly old meths drinker in custody if they could help it – there’d be the resultant mess in the cell to clean up.
“Well, Nick?” Sergeant Bairstow asked, after a long silence from me.
“Well what, Sergeant?”
“What shall we do with him? Any practical ideas?”
“Not really,” I had to admit.
“Well I have,” he beamed. “Follow me.”
He started the engine of his little car and with the pungent fellow wafting evil fumes about the inside of the vehicle, Sergeant Bairstow turned around and drove towards Malton. I followed at a discreet distance and wondered what solution he had found. I was amazed to see him drive through the centre of the quiet town and across the river.
This was sacrilege! We were entering foreign territory now, because we had left our native North Riding of Yorkshire and were driving into the neighbouring East Riding, then a separate county. In those days, county boundaries were sacrosanct and jealously guarded. Although boundary rules were not quite so rigidly enforced as those in the U.S.A. during Wild West days, there was a great deal of professional jealousy between adjoining police forces. It was certainly discourteous to invade another Chief Constable’s county without his knowledge and we all had instructions that whenever we crossed a boundary to make any enquiry, however minor, we must inform the local police of our presence. It was similar to getting one’s passport stamped.
But this did not appear to concern Sergeant Bairstow. He trundled through Norton in our police car, and turned into the countryside with me close behind, ever vigilant for the appearance of an East Riding policeman. If one caught us, we were sunk …
The East Riding Constabulary differed from the North Riding Constabulary in those days, because the former wore helmets, whereas we sported flat caps. In truth, we had very little contact with these strange fellows from south of the River Derwent, and had no desire to meet them now. After two miles. Sergeant Bairstow pulled up outside a barn down a very lonely lane. I eased to a halt behind him and lifted the motor cycle on to its stand, then joined him at the car.
He spoke in whispers. “Nick,” he hissed. “There’s an old hay barn here. We’re in East Riding territory so be careful – we don’t want them to find us. We’ll put Meths Maurice in his barn, then belt back into the North Riding as fast as we can.”
“All right,” I said, for there was nothing else I could say. After ten minutes of heaving and cursing, we extricated Meths Maurice from the car and carried him into the cosy barn. I was dressed in
motor cycle gear, complete with crash helmet, and Sergeant Bairstow was capless; had anyone seen us, it was doubtful if they’d recognise us as police officers as we undertook our nefarious deed, least of all the subject of our mission.
Within fifteen minutes we had our guest neatly laid out on a bed of clean new hay. He slumbered blissfully on and curled into his foetal position as we arranged the hay around him to keep him warm. Satisfied that he was slumbering peacefully, we left him to his new abode in the East Riding of Yorkshire. If anyone found him, he would no longer be our problem; his fate rested in the hands of the East Riding Constabulary.
Sergeant Bairstow congratulated himself on this piece of strategy and we returned to our own territory, hoping that no one had noticed our little convoy of trespassing police vehicles. I followed him home, but after twenty minutes, he pulled into the side of the road and signalled me to halt. I pulled up beside him and he lowered his window.
“Nick,” he said with a most apologetic tone in his voice. “We’ve done wrong, you know. This is no way to treat our friends in the East Riding. Just imagine – they’ll be lumbered with that smelly old character now, and besides, that barn might not be warm enough. If he dies, we’re for it, and I’d never forgive myself.”
To cut a long story short, Sergeant Bairstow changed his mind and decided to return for the meths drinker. For the second time that night, therefore, we crept into Norton and made our way towards the old barn. I parked close to the official car and together we entered the dark, cold premises. My torch picked out the slumbering form among the hay and Sergeant Bairstow said, “Right, as before. Get him into the back seat, Nick.”
“We’re not taking him to the cells, are we?” I was horrified at the thought of working all through the night just to look after this character.
“No,” he said, “I know a nice warm shed next door to a bakery in Malton. We’ll put him there for the night – somebody from Malton will find him and see to him. They’ve plenty of accommodation and staff. That will satisfy my conscience.”
Constable Across the Moors Page 17