Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Behind us, life in the village appeared normal. The occasional courting cat howled and cars passed through with muffled roars, then the peaceful picture was blessed by the cheery sounds of the parish church clock striking twelve. It began to boom out its twelve strokes, laboriously recording the irrevocable passage of time, and as I counted every slow note, I kept my eyes glued on that bridge. There was not a murmur, not a movement, from the assembled witnesses… nine… ten… eleven… twelve! Midnight.

  As the final stroke echoed and died away, a small cloud slid across the moon and a dark shadow was cast across the water. For the watchers it was like someone switching off a light or blowing out a candle. It was all over and the ghost had not appeared, although there was a distant eeriness as a cool wind appeared as if from nowhere and fluttered across the surface of the stream. Its passage whipped up tiny wavelets and rustled the grass and leaves. I shivered. Then followed a long, deep silence as the wind dropped. There was a total, stifling silence. The tension was indescribable, but why?

  “Good God!” breathed a voice behind me. “Look…”

  And there in the gloom at the far side of the water was the dark ghostly figure of the knight. It moved slowly and with great precision, a tall, upright figure gliding smoothly and purposefully from the shadows of the trees and mounting the rising slope of the bridge. We saw only his top half — the legs and waist were concealed by the parapets and the cloudy darkness made the moving spectre very indistinct. But it was certainly there. No one could deny it.

  “I wouldn’t have believed it!” breathed a voice close to me. “I bloody well wouldn’t…”

  Then there was pandemonium.

  The spell was broken by the crash of twigs and branches, accompanied by a nervous shout and immediately followed by the crash of an exploding twelve-bore shotgun. It came from the far side of the beck, and the figure on the bridge instantly vanished. I was aware of a running figure on the other side of the river, but I got up and ran to the bridge.

  Suddenly I forgot about spectres and ghostly creatures, for I wanted to cross the river to catch the poacher at the other side. I was sure I’d got myself a poacher, but as I crested the summit of the tiny, short bridge my waving torch picked out the figure of Sergeant Blaketon. He was crouching and quivering with fear behind the shelter of the stone parapet.

  “Rhea? Thank God!” he panted. “I was shot at.”

  “Poachers, I think, Sergeant,” I managed to say, panting slightly. I was thinking fast. “I was on the other side, watching. I don’t think he was shooting at you.”

  By now the others had materialised from their hiding places and were gingerly standing at our side of the bridge as I helped Oscar to his feet.

  “It’s the sergeant,” I shouted at them. “He’s OK. I think that poacher took fright, lads. He’s gone.”

  George came to my rescue.

  “We’ll catch the sod one day,” he said. “Come on, lads. Back home.”

  It wasn’t difficult to assure Sergeant Blaketon we had been lying in wait to ambush a local poacher, saying we believed it to be a chap from another village. The suspect had eluded police, gamekeepers and residents alike, so we’d joined forces to catch him. Oscar seemed to accept this, because the area around the bridge was noted for its profusion of pheasants which roosted in the trees. We all expressed the feeling that the timely arrival of Sergeant Blaketon had terrified the poachers, who’d run off, accidentally discharging their guns, or one of them, as they ran. One could tolerate one’s own poachers, but not those from neighbouring areas.

  Blaketon and I examined the ground near the end of the bridge and found signs in the earth which suggested a premature discharge of a shotgun at close range. Our theory was thus borne out.

  Sometime later I learned that Dick-the-Sick had literally taken fright upon the ghostly appearance of Sergeant Blaketon and had run off in terror. In the darkness and in his haste he had tripped over his gun, which had been accidentally triggered off. Blaketon never knew this, of course, and I was thankful for Dick’s fear.

  When it was all over and the men had dispersed to their homes Sergeant Blaketon and myself spent about an hour searching for the poachers but drew a blank. I felt a bit of a twit, searching in this way, but had little alternative. Finally, we adjourned to his car, where he produced his notebook, patted his pocket and said,

  “Blast! My pen! My fountain pen! It’s gone.”

  “Maybe you lost it on the bridge, Sergeant?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  We returned to the ancient bridge and, by the light of my torch, searched thoroughly for his fountain-pen. He told me it was a present to him when he left his previous job to join the police force years ago, and he was sentimentally attached to it.

  Fortunately, I found the pen lying in a gully upon the bridge, very close to where I had found him crouching. I picked it up, handed it to him and said, “It’s been a lucky night for you, Sergeant.”

  I meant it.

  We turned and walked off the bridge and I was very content. It had been an interesting night. But, as we left, a cool breeze suddenly rustled the leaves and I shivered. It grew very cold and the village clock struck one. At that instant I chose to take a last look at the old bridge and my action caused Oscar Blaketon to turn his head too. In the back of my mind I was wondering how good a target he had been, and he turned to see what I was staring at.

  And there, walking over Elsinby Bridge by the light of the moon, was a tall dark figure in a plumed helmet.

  He said nothing. Neither did I, although I did wonder what William Willett and our altered clocks had to do with it. I couldn’t decide. The intricacies of Greenwich Mean Time, British Summer Time and Central European Time were a little too confusing for me at that time of night.

  But I often wonder who walked across the bridge.

  Being practical types most policemen are not easily scared by rumour or fact and they treat ghosts for what they are — flimsy creatures who could never harm anyone, other than to send cool shivers down the spine or give rise to legends in pubs. There are exceptions, of course, because some police officers are terrified of ghosts.

  Lanky Leonard Lazenby of Eltering Police Station was such a man. He was terrified of ghosts. The mere thought of them caused him to palpitate alarmingly and it was his misfortune to break into a cold sweat at the beginning of every period of night-duty. He had a dread of meeting a ghost during his patrol, a fact which was very evident to the other members of his shift. Some sergeants, however, were models of consideration and would arrange the station duties so that poor Leonard was given office work or alternatively patrolled the town centre, which was illuminated for most of the night. This arrangement was not out of deep compassion for Leonard — it was a means by which the job continued to be done, because a panic-stricken constable is of little or no value, with or without ghosts. It was sensible to allocate him to a duty where he was of some use, instead of being a gibbering wreck all night.

  Periodically, however, Leonard’s weakness was overlooked when a relief sergeant compiled the duty-sheet. These newcomers were usually ignorant of Leonard’s propensity to tremble at the sound of a fluttering leaf, and so it transpired that Sergeant Charlie Bairstow was allocated the task of being night-shift sergeant for the Eltering Sub-Division.

  He had often caused embarrassment to me and it seems, on reflection, that he was aware of Leonard’s other great fear.

  If there was one creature that Leonard feared more than a ghost it was the Superintendent. Superintendents of every kind terrified Lanky Leonard Lazenby. This combination of factors coincided one late autumn night when I was on duty in Eltering.

  Leonard was also on patrol in the town and I was performing one of my motorised merry-go-rounds in the surrounding landscape. Another happy fact was that Ben and Ron, the terrible traffic twins, were also on night-duty, carrying out their routine motor-patrols. That night we sat in the office, munching our sandwiches and telling sto
ries. Sergeant Bairstow took the chair normally reserved for Vesuvius, who was enjoying a rest-day, and Leonard and I listened to the high-spirited pair and the sergeant as they entertained us.

  Those night-shift meal breaks were relaxing and enjoyable, and sometimes extended more than the permitted three-quarters of an hour. On this occasion Leonard had come in for his break at 1.30 a.m., which meant he was due out at 2.15 a.m. I had come in at 1.45 a.m. with Sergeant Bairstow, and the two traffic lads had entered at 2 a.m. Nonetheless, we formed a happy, laughing group.

  As 2.15 a.m. approached, Bairstow turned to Leonard and said, “Well, Len, it’s time to go. Do the second half of seven beat tonight, will you? I’ve heard the Superintendent will be out early. He’s doing one of his morning prowls, trying to catch us out, so we’ll be prepared for him.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Leonard, his face as pale and as fragile as French chalk.

  As Leonard worried about this instruction I noticed a sly glance pass between Bairstow and the two traffic men, but failed to read anything significant into it at the time. Like everyone else I knew of Leonard’s terror of dark places and of his pathological dread of Superintendents. I realised that seven beat embraced the castle, its ancient chapel and graveyard, and the long winding and dark footpath through dense woodland to a Forestry Commission workman’s hut high on the moors. Inside was a telephone, chair and table, with an oil-lamp. There was nothing else. The place was never locked and was regarded as a sort of refuge for lonely or lost folks on the hills, for workmen, for holidaymakers, lovers or even patrolling policemen who had to make points.

  To reach this tiny wooden shelter from Eltering it was necessary to climb the steep flight of steps which led towards the castle and then walk through the adjoining graveyard. A stone-flagged footpath twisted among the ancient tombstones and emerged at the far side, where it led straight into the forest and along the unmade road towards the cabin. It was customary for the Superintendent to meet the beat man at the cabin at the weirdest possible hours. He seemed to enjoy the task of keeping us alert to the fact that he was likely to turn up here at any time of the day or night. I have yet to understand why we had to make a point here, but we did.

  Tonight it seemed as if the Superintendent was going to make one of his check calls.

  That thought sent poor old Leonard scurrying along that route at the dead of night. His fear of Superintendents had superseded his dread of ghosts, but had not obliterated it. Thus he had two fears to contend with as he made his silent way towards that isolated point in the forest. I felt a twinge of concern for Leonard as he began his perilous journey.

  When Leonard had left the office, Sergeant Bairstow smiled at Ben and Ron.

  “OK?” was all he said.

  “Fine,” Ben replied, and after another twenty minutes they also left.

  I was now alone with Sergeant Bairstow.

  “Well, Nicholas,” he said affably. “It’s been a quiet night, eh? No trouble? Nothing stirring.”

  “Very quiet, Sergeant,” I agreed.

  “You’ve never been to that hut, have you? The Forestry Commission Place?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I agreed.

  “The local foot patrols go there. It’s not really on the beats of you lads from rural patches,” he told me. “You can’t get a car far along the track, although the Super sometimes manages. He wouldn’t do it if it was his own private car!”

  “Does he often meet men there?” I asked. “It seems a strange place for him to worry about.”

  “He’s a strange man,” smiled Bairstow. “Right, let’s go. Leave your car — take a walk with me. I’ll show you the castle, the ruined chapel and the graveyard.”

  “Thanks,” I was looking forward to the break from routine, but puzzled by his actions. Why show me this? It wasn’t on my beat tonight and anyway, Lanky Leonard would be braving the dark to cope with problems in that part of the Sub-Division.

  I locked the office and allowed the friendly sergeant to guide me to the lonely Forestry Commission hut. We sauntered casually through the deserted streets and chattered in low voices as he led me towards the outskirts of the market town. Finally he took me through a thicket which led into woodland. As we climbed the steep, shadowy path, I could see the gaunt outline of Eltering Castle over to my right. The lighter areas of night sky revealed the battered outline of this interesting place and in true Dracula style a barn owl floated on silent white wings from the ramparts and glided over our heads as we moved stealthily towards the grounds.

  “Don’t make a sound,” whispered Sergeant Bairstow. “There’s something I want you to see up there.”

  I puzzled over this as his measured tread became lighter. He strode ahead of me, tripping through the quiet avenues of trees until we entered the grounds of the ruined castle by climbing over a low drystone wall. I followed, hardly daring to breathe. Whatever lay in here must be very important and interesting because Sergeant Bairstow was creeping silently across the carefully cut turf and heading for the far side of the grounds. I followed as he padded across the emptiness of the ruin and eventually came to a small iron gate. It was closed but not locked, and he opened it. It squeaked faintly as we passed through and I found myself in a graveyard, somewhat overgrown but adjoining an isolated and ruined chapel.

  A small church stood beside it and I knew the church did accommodate services from time to time. Certain Eltering families had ancient rights of burial here, for this was their parish church. Some had their own pews too.

  Charlie Bairstow led me through the deep grass, weaving between the assorted gravestones which stood at every conceivable angle. Finally we came to rest near a sturdy obelisk mounted on a series of steps and surmounted by a cross.

  “All right?” he hissed.

  “Fine,” I said, breathing heavily after the tension of trying to be very quiet.

  “Just watch,” he bade me, and I saw him lift his torch and flash it once or twice across the graveyard. I was surprised to see an answering beam from the depths of the distant shadows.

  “Fine,” said Bairstow with no explanation.

  There was a long pause during which he looked at his watch and eventually he whispered, “See that path through the churchyard, over to your right?”

  “Yes,” I could see it.

  “It goes down to Eltering and emerges near the bus station. That’s the way the bobby comes on his route to the Forestry Commission hut. We took a short cut.”

  “Oh,” I said as if understanding his conversation.

  “The hut is across to our left, a few minutes’ walk into that forest,” and I turned my head to see the tall, slender, pointed outlines of the conifers which formed the forest.

  Then there was some movement. He hissed for silence and squatted behind the sheltering base of the obelisk. I did likewise, albeit keeping my eyes on the scene ahead. My sight had become accustomed to the pale darkness and I could see that we were very close to the path which bisected the graveyard before leading into the woods. Beyond, at the far side, were more rows of dilapidated tombstones, some showing white in the darkness, and I was sure the torch flash had come from near one of them. I wondered if I was involved in an important observation exercise, perhaps lying in wait for a criminal? Maybe the local police had received a tip about something unlawful? A visit by a graveyard vandal, maybe? A robber of the Burke and Hare variety? A writer-on-tombstones? Someone hiding loot from the proceeds of crime? The handing over of stolen property? The range of possibilities was almost endless.

  It was quite exciting really, waiting in the darkness with an experienced officer at my side and learning first-hand the art of catching villains and ne’er-do-wells. I was looking forward to the outcome of this strange excursion.

  Then someone was coming. I heard the sounds. A tall figure materialised over to our right, coming from the direction of Eltering town. The darkness made it difficult to see him properly, but the anonymous person walked very slowly into the graveyard
and began to cross it. I waited, my heart thumping. A crook? A night prowler of some sort?

  The figure halted. Sergeant Bairstow cursed under his breath and I heard him mutter to himself, “Go on… do it…”

  A crime of some kind was about to be committed. I knew the value of witnessing the actual commission of a crime, rather than trying to convince a court that the man had attempted to commit something unlawful. There’s a world of difference between an intent and an attempt, and another world of difference between an attempt and the full commission of an unlawful act. No doubt Charlie Bairstow wanted this character to prove himself a wrong ’un, then he’d pounce to effect a very smart arrest.

  As the sergeant crouched at the base of the obelisk I looked into the gloom, trying to spot anyone else. The torch signal told me that someone lurked out there and I guessed it was the CID, although it could be a uniformed officer from Malton.

  Sergeant Bairstow’s eyes were still firmly fixed on the slow-moving figure across to our right. The figure was still motionless. It was stalemate.

  As Sergeant Bairstow appeared to be in command of the situation I looked around for other villains, hoping to contribute by spotting the approach of his mates. I looked around carefully and as my glance rested on the gate which led into the woods I saw someone. My heart leapt.

  There was another figure; he was standing very close to the gateposts and appeared to be hiding from the man on the footpath. He was just within my view. I could distinguish the pale face, although his clothing was so dark that it was impossible to see any more of him. An occasional movement betrayed him; sometimes I saw the white of his hand as he examined his watch and I thought about notifying his presence to the sergeant but I felt I should not interfere in this operation. Besides, any movement or noise from me could spoil the whole thing. After all, I was a mere observer in what was clearly a carefully planned police operation. Every detail would have been considered and every participant well briefed about his role.