As the public houses ejected their regulars it was prudent to patrol the marketplace looking fierce as drunks fought the effects of the fresh air, but by 11 o’clock the town was usually dead. Only if the Young Farmers’ Club or Ashfordly Ladies’ Dining Club had organised a function did the routine vary, in which case the home-going was a little later and the drunks a little more entertaining. In addition, the duty became enjoyable for the policeman because lots of pretty girls were in a chatty and romantic mood.
When Ashfordly was finally at peace we patrolled the villages, making points in the manner I have earlier described. To the layman this must seem a mundane sort of existence and it is fair to say that the duty could be boring in the extreme. It could be crushingly monotonous. One old constable tried to cheer me up during such a period by saying, ‘T’ job’s what thoo maks it, lad,’ and with his words in my head, I learned that I could bring interest to those lonely patrols.
One way of breaking the tedium was to investigate the marvellous range of epitaphs in churchyards. A fear of ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night meant a wide gap in the education of the sufferers, and I wondered if I could make a collection of interesting inscriptions. Was there sufficient variety to justify this? I discovered that the night flew if I spent some time in the churchyards of my beat, so I took to wandering around each one for ten minutes at a time, ostensibly checking the security of the premises. By flashing my torch on a bewildering array of tombstones, I discovered some gems. There were old ones and new ones, they were carved in marble and in stone, some were ornate, others very simple. There were obelisks and tiny wooden crosses, but all contained sentiments applicable to the dear departed.
My researches revealed that the modern epitaph is a plain affair when compared with some of the older ones, and I enjoyed such beauties as:
Tread softly — if she waken, she’ll talk.
Or:
Underneath this sod lies Arabella Young
Who on 5th May began to hold her tongue.
Another read:
Here lie I, no wonder I’m dead.
The wheel of a wagon went over my head.
In Whitby I found the following:
Sudden and unexpected was the end,
Of our esteemed and beloved friend,
He gave to his friends a sudden shock,
By falling into Sunderland Dock.
And this one:
Here lies the body of John Mound,
Who was lost at sea and never found.
In a village near Malton, there is:
For all the pains and trouble from my birth
All that I’ve gained is just my length of earth.
High in the Dales one can find:
Think of me as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, some day you’ll be,
So now prepare to follow me.
Someone, perhaps a night-duty policeman, had added the following:
To follow you I’m not content,
I do not know which way you went.
It could be difficult to determine the most enjoyable epitaph, but this is one of my favourites:
There was an old man who averred
He had learned to fly like a bird.
Cheered by thousands of people,
He leapt from the steeple —
This tomb states the date it occurred.
My real favourite, which is so brief and typically Yorkshire, reads:
Beneath this sod lies another.
It was during one of those epitaph hunts that I stepped into a rather frightening situation in a graveyard. The boots I wore at night were silent and comfortable, and this enabled me to creep about unheard and unseen, a useful talent when shadowing felonious individuals. It also meant I unwittingly surprised other people and, on this occasion, I had decided to pay a short visit to the churchyard at Elsinby. It was about 10.30 at night and I had some ten minutes to kill before moving around my beat. I reckoned a quick perambulation among the tombstones would occupy those spare moments.
The lych-gate was open, which was unusual, and I wondered if there were criminals abroad. Perhaps someone had broken in to steal the valuables? Fearing the worst I crept along the stone-flagged path, alert and ready for anything, even the presence of Sergeant Blaketon. Then I heard voices, speaking in low whispers and they came from behind the church. I did have intruders!
I crept forward with my spine tingling and the hair on the back of my neck standing on tiptoe. In a state of high excitement I rounded the end of the grey stone building and, in the deep shadows, I halted. I knew I was invisible if I remained motionless. I listened for more sounds, but there was nothing. I wondered if I had been mistaken, for I was sure I’d heard voices. Then I saw the vague outline of shadowy figures moving stealthily between the rows of memorials. I wondered if I had stumbled upon a coven of modern witches or someone emulating Burke and Hare. I must see more. I waited trembling slightly, and once again I could hear mumbling voices. Occasionally, lights would flash and silhouetted heads would appear and disappear before the group moved on. I had difficulty counting the heads because of their up-and-down motions, but after a few minutes of careful study I realised I was watching the congregation of the Hopbind Inn.
Gradually, recognisable voices floated across to me on the silent evening air and, having solved that problem, I wondered what on earth, or in the name of heaven, they were doing. It seemed that the entire regular population of the bar was there, creeping among the graves and muttering among themselves. I decided to perform my duty and find out what was happening. I left my place of concealment and strode purposefully to the area where they were still at work.
When I was close to them I halted and in a loud voice demanded, “What’s going on here, then?”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr Rhea,” said the familiar tones of Dick-the-Sick, on a visit to Elsinby. “We’re looking for Dr Russell’s grave.”
“Dr Russell?” I was puzzled.
“Aye,” chipped in another voice. “You remember. He lived in Thrush Grange years ago, a big chap who liked shooting pheasants. Died a bit back. Nice bloke.”
“I never knew him,” I had to admit. “It was before my time. Anyway, why is everybody looking for his grave tonight?”
“We’ve a bet on with George at the pub. He reckons the doctor died in 1932 and I said it was 1933. Then somebody reckoned it was summer and another told us it was early in the year, March or thereabouts. Well, we all got arguing so we put bets on. George is behind the bar, holding our money — ten bob a go. Whoever is closest, gets the cash. So we’re all checking. Trouble is, no one remembers which is his grave.”
“I said it was March 1932,” chipped in Dick, leaving me as he continued his search. I watched them with interest. Some had candles, one was using a box of matches and several had hand torches. Two of them had oil-lamps or storm lanterns. The less fortunate relied on lights provided by their colleagues and some even trusted the others to shout out the correct date. The combined effect was pretty eerie from a distance.
Eager to learn the truth I began to walk around the graveyard, shining my torch on the dates and at the same time looking for more interesting epitaphs. Together, the little group walked about that deserted place, some thirty stooping figures all shining lights on headstones. I must admit I got carried away with enthusiasm and found myself as keen as the others to learn the correct date.
Then another voice sounded close behind me.
“Rhea? What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?”
It was Sergeant Blaketon. He had arrived in the village with the expectation of meeting me at the kiosk, but I had forgotten the time. He now stood tall and majestic beneath the shadows of the church, his brilliant torch shining directly at me. I walked slowly towards him, realising I was in trouble.
“Checking a date, Sergeant,” I said, wondering if it sounded very stupid.
“Date? What date?”
>
“The death of Dr Russell, Sergeant. There’s been a discussion in the pub, you see, and they’re all checking…”
“Friday, 3rd May 1929,” he said with conviction. “This is his grave.” And he shone his torch on to a tomb not far from the gate. “Come on.”
“It’s here,” I called to the villagers, shining my light on the gravestone.
With no more ado I walked out of the churchyard with Sergeant Blaketon silent and stem at my side. We stood on the kerb as the villagers all trooped past, each checking it for himself before returning to the bar. There would now be a share-out of the money and hopefully, more drinks, although it was after closing-time.
“Are they all friends of the licensee?” he asked and I detected the faintest hint of humour in his voice. Friends of the licensee could drink after normal hours, at his expense.
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said, hoping he would believe me and trusting he would not enter the bar to check the validity of that statement.
“Good,” he said affably. “Now show me the castle.”
We walked away in silence and turned up the long drive that leads out of the village and up to the ancient castle on the hill. “Sergeant,” I deigned to ask. “How did you know that date and where to find the grave?”
“Do you read police books, Rhea?”
“Sometimes, Sergeant.”
“Forensic medicine?”
“Now and again.”
“Well, Dr Russell was a pioneer of modern forensic pathology. Clever chap, he was. Wrote a book about the use of forensic pathology in the field of crime detection. Worth reading, Rhea. Surely you’ve read Russell on Scratch Marks?”
“No, Sergeant, but I’ll get it from the library,” and I fell into silence as I marched up the drive at his side, perfectly in step with his ramrod figure. Although he said no more about Dr Russell I got the impression from his demeanour that he was letting the village drink late in honour of the long-dead doctor who I guessed was one of Blaketon’s heroes.
This incident showed me that the locals of the Hopbind Inn were an imaginative crowd, but the affair of Dr Russell’s tombstone wasn’t the only event which caused me problems. It is fair to say that the tombstone happening was a very minor hiccup in my parochial patrolling and, in comparison, the laying of the Elsinby ghost was almost disastrous.
Legend assured us that the ghost of Sir Nicholas Fairfax, a long dead occupant of Elsinby Castle, walked the village at certain times. His appearance, clad in the dark armour which was his symbol, occurred only when the midnight full moon coincided with the midnight of the anniversary of his death. The chances of those events happening together were considerably remote and a local mathematician once attempted to calculate the dates when this would occur. He failed because he got drunk on the free drinks supplied at the Hopbind Inn during his attempt.
It was fortuitous that the anniversary of Nicholas Fairfax’s death and a full moon happened to coincide during one of my spells of night-duty. I was blissfully unaware of this momentous event and was patrolling the village during the hours of darkness in my usual manner. The inhabitants of the Hopbind Inn, however, had anticipated this accident of history and had been discussing it at length in the bar. One of the customers was Dick-the-Sick who had been paying one of his regular visits to Elsinby from Aidensfield. As had happened on previous occasions the regulars had plied him with drink and had talked him into taking action he would otherwise have avoided.
This background information was later supplied to me, but I include it here in order to retain the sequence of events. It seems that the locals of the Hopbind Inn were relating the stirring deeds of the brave, handsome Sir Nicholas and told how he met his untimely death. In the hushed atmosphere of the pub there followed the story of the ghost which appeared on such rare occasions.
The reaction from the bar was mixed, to say the least. The older customers swore that it happened — they knew that the ghost did appear. Newcomers to the area, and young people, pooh-poohed the idea, saying there were no such things as ghosts, let alone one that celebrated its owner’s death by the light of the moon. The discussion raged long and fierce over full and frothy pints, and as the night wore on, there arose the question of people’s fear of ghosts. Among the loud voices raised in the bar that night was the familiar sound of Dick-the-Sick. He swore he was not afraid of any ghost. He didn’t believe in them, and he was not afraid of anything which pretended to be a ghost, even if it was a long dead knight clad in black armour who walked by the light of the full moon.
A bold, definitive statement of that kind from Dick was like manna from heaven. As one, the customers turned upon the poor chap and coaxed him into proving his fearlessness. They plied him liberally with a fiery mixture of beer and whisky and persuaded him to prove his valour. His test would be at the ancient packhorse bridge which spanned the River Elsin at a point not far from the approach road to the castle. The ghost of Sir Nicholas crossed it at midnight when it appeared, and the locals told of the ghostly manifestation which walked from the castle towards the field where the bold knight had met his death by the light of the silvery moon. So horrible was the spectre that no one dared go near the bridge to test the truth of the legend.
It was no surprise to the packed bar that Dick found himself volunteering to watch the bridge that night, at midnight. Dick reassured everyone that he would do just that. He would settle the issue once and for all. Loud cheers greeted this announcement and it seemed yet another occasion to justify the unofficial extension of hours. It was the noise of this minor celebration which attracted my attention as I entered Elsinby that fateful evening.
I walked into the situation like an innocent child stepping off the footpath in London’s Regent Street. It would be around 11.15 when I entered the village to see the pub lights blazing and the populace in full song. Closing-time was 10.30, so I entered the pub slowly and, like John Wayne might have done, thrust open the bat-wings of the saloon. Everyone fell silent at the sight of the uniform.
I looked at my watch, making the one-armed gesture very slowly as I stared in official distaste at the landlord, George.
“Pint?” he asked.
“Come off it, George!” I retorted. “You know it’s past closing-time. There’s no extension. Put the cloth over the handles and let’s be having you out, all of you. Everyone go home quietly.”
There followed the inevitable lull and looks of utter disbelief at my words. It seemed almost criminal to close a pub in this village, but George obeyed and draped the covers over the pump-handles, the signal that drinking had ceased. Then Dick-the-Sick pushed himself forward with an almost empty glass of evil-smelling fluid in his hands and said,
“Ah’ssh goin’ to sshoot the ghossht, Misshter Rhea,” he grinned widely at this announcement. “Old Nick, down at the bridge, tonight…”
“What ghost?”
George came to the rescue. “There’s an old legend, Mr Rhea, that the ghost of Sir Nicholas Fairfax walks across Elsinby Bridge at midnight on the anniversary of his death, but only when it coincides with the full moon. That’s tonight, you see, because he died by the light of the moon. He walks down from the castle and across the river to the field where he was killed by a rival.”
“Really?” I tried to sound convinced.
My scepticism caused several of the locals to join an attempt to convince me, and in the end George vanished into the private rooms of his inn and returned with an ancient volume. He opened it at a stained page bearing a drawing of an armour-clad knight striding across the old bridge. There was a full moon in the background and the caption supported their yam.
“Ah’sssh goin’ to sshhoot it…” and Dick vanished from the inn.
There followed some loud and heated discussion about the veracity of the story, and I must admit we all forgot about Dick and his shotgun. As the controversy raged I realised it was quarter to twelve, and I had a point at the village kiosk at midnight. It was time for me to leave.
; “We’re all going to watch the bridge,” George told me as I made my move to leave the inn. “Coming?”
“I’ve a point at midnight,” I said by way of an excuse.
“The telephone box is just a few yards from the bridge,” he informed me as if I didn’t know that already. “You’d hear it ring if they wanted you.”
“Aye, all right,” I agreed, for it would be an interesting diversion for me.
In typical Hopbind Inn fashion, every customer in the bar emerged and made their way along the dark byways towards Elsinby Bridge. The bridge was little used because it was too narrow for the modern motorcar, although foot passengers, visitors in particular, did enjoy its ancient, arched beauty. The track ran alongside the stream and provided numerous vantage points among the shrubbery and vegetation. I reckoned there must have been thirty customers concealed along that river bank, all squatting in the darkness on stones and grassy areas, watching the hump-backed bridge. I sat on my haunches beside a man whose name I did not know, and in deathly silence we watched the graceful outline.
The bridge rose high above the water, rising aesthetically from each bank to its peak above the centre of the water. The route across was very rough and cobbled, but it was a beautiful construction, the work of many hours of hard labour. As we sat by the side of that bubbling stream, the full moon broke from the dark clouds and cast its green lights across the entire landscape. It was almost as light as day and yet the gloom about the shrubbery totally concealed the ghost spotters.
If the legend was correct, the ghostly knight would step on to the bridge at the far side and cross towards us, en route to the grassy fields behind. He must be almost due. I looked at my watch. It was three minutes to midnight, three minutes to the ghost’s walk, three minutes to my point time. As I waited I wondered if Sergeant Blaketon or even the Superintendent would pay me a visit. Absence from a point was inexcusable, but I didn’t want to leave here, not now. I must learn the truth of the legend. Risking my career, I stayed put.
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 5