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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Then I heard a voice behind me.

  “What’s going on, Rhea? You’re like a bloody greyhound, sniffing like that.”

  Sergeant Blaketon had emerged from one of the alleys in time to see my perambulations with nose aloft.

  “I can smell smoke, Sergeant. It’s not far away.”

  “It’ll be a bonfire,” he said. “Somebody will have lit a bonfire and it’ll be smouldering. They do that, you know.”

  “It’s not that sort of smell,” I insisted. It wasn’t a bonfire smell. Bonfires have their own distinctive smell and this was different. It is difficult to describe a smell, but I knew this was definitely not a bonfire. I continued to parade up and down the street, sniffing and looking for signs of smoke. He joined me, and together we promenaded, noses in the air, sniffing loudly. It must have been a strange sight.

  “Bonfire,” he said eventually. “I can smell it now. Bonfire, Rhea.”

  “No, Sergeant,” I argued. “It is not a bonfire!” and then I saw the faintest wisp of grey smoke drifting past the illuminated windows of the telephone kiosk. “There!” I pointed. “It’s floating past the kiosk.”

  “Bonfire,” he affirmed.

  I decided to explore. I was very unhappy about this, for it was most certainly a strange smell, not the scent of burning garden rubbish. By peering into the night sky against the reflection of the town’s few remaining lights I hoped to catch sight of more drifting smoke. And I did. I saw a considerable plume rising from an area tucked in the middle of a cluster of ancient buildings, just behind the main street.

  “There!” I pointed out the grey pall to Sergeant Blaketon.

  I galloped towards it. That part of Eltering is a maze of narrow passages and tiny alleys where dozens of small houses are literally clustered on top of one another. Their age and construction means they are tinder dry, their old wooden roofs and beamed ceilings being perfect fuel for a major blaze. And, I knew, there were no gardens in that part of town. This was no bonfire.

  Blaketon followed my urgent dash and I could hear him panting through the dark passages. We didn’t know where we were going, for each passage had others leading from it, and in those narrow confines I could not see the smoke against the night sky. I was guided by my sense of smell and the smell was intensifying. Now I heard the crackling of flames.

  Round the very next bend I found it. It was a narrow cottage tucked into the corner of an alley, and it was half-timbered. Through its ancient mullioned window I could see the glow of a fierce blaze. The entire room was burning brightly, and the upper storey window was missing, casting a thickening blanket of smoke across the nearby roofs. Sergeant Blaketon arrived seconds later and we stood for a moment, awestruck at the sight of this tiny cottage, as its interior glowed a fierce and menacing red.

  “Fire Brigade!” he gasped. “Police — ring for them too, Malton.”

  I galloped back to the kiosk and dialled three nines for the Fire Brigade before panting out my story. I was out of breath and had difficulty gasping out the address, but soon convinced the recipient of the urgency of my call. I told the police at Malton and asked for assistance; rapid help was assured.

  I ran back to the scene and found Sergeant Blaketon, his face glistening with perspiration in the red glow, knocking on doors and attempting to rouse the sleeping occupants of adjoining premises. He was running up and down, thumping doors and shouting, “Fire, fire…”

  I did likewise.

  In the light provided by the blaze I could see more of the burning cottage. It was tucked into a corner of a small, cobbled square deep in the heart of old Eltering. All around were lots of similar buildings, all with tiny windows, old doors and low ceilings, ancient and tinder dry. If this fire spread… It reminded me of the Great Fire of London… the potential inferno didn’t bear thinking about.

  “It’s a warehouse,” Sergeant Blaketon yelled above the roar of flames. “Full of toys and games. Nobody inside, thank God…”

  Although we knocked on neighbouring doors nobody responded. Not one person answered. The Fire Brigade arrived very quickly and soon had their thick hoses snaking through the passages. Men in dark uniforms and shining helmets arrived and the place became a hive of organised activity. Firemen with breathing apparatus and powerful lights battered their way into the blazing building to search for casualties as I continued to knock on doors.

  As we worked a senior Fire Officer halted us. “You’ll have to evacuate these houses,” he ordered. “If this blaze gets away from us the whole lot’ll go up. People an’ all. I hope we can contain it but…” and his voice tailed away.

  We tried again. I counted the cottages in question. There were only six. I had been to every one several times, and so had Oscar Blaketon. We were beginning to think they were all empty, perhaps kept as holiday cottages and then I heard the swish of curtains being drawn open. I looked up and a man’s face appeared at a bedroom window. He glowed orange in the bright light.

  “Out!” I shouted above the noise and saw the horror on his face as he stared at the blazing inferno only yards away. “Out — anybody else in there?”

  The face vanished and I hammered on more doors. By now there was a tremendous amount of noise at the scene — firemen were working and shouting, water was hissing, fire crackling, timbers falling, slates crashing and Sergeant Blaketon hammering on doors with his truncheon. How anyone could sleep through this din I do not know. If it took our combined efforts to rouse the orange-faced individual, there could be more people in bed, so I concentrated on the house which had produced the face.

  As I hammered, a frightened feminine face appeared, wearing long blonde hair. “Out!” I cried at the top of my voice, cupping my mouth with my hands. “Hurry up, for God’s sake…”

  She vanished, but still no one emerged.

  Anxious firemen were rattling doors, banging dustbins and generally creating as much noise as possible. At last it had some effect. More curtains opened, more glowing faces appeared and more people began to move about inside those threatened houses.

  “Take ’em away, out into the main street, for safety,” Sergeant Blaketon ordered. “Get their names, ask how many folks were inside. Everyone must be accounted for.”

  The senior Fire Officer was dutifully organising his men and other nearby residents who had arrived to watch, as I moved away from the immediate vicinity. I stood aside, and my little group of bewildered people began to grow as the startled sleepers emerged from their six tiny houses. All wore casual clothes — sweaters and light trousers — and as they assembled in a huddle near me, I asked, “Anyone left inside?”

  No one spoke. They were all too shocked.

  I called to Sergeant Blaketon. “Sergeant,” I cried. “Can we check inside every cottage, one by one? I think they’re all here now.”

  A fireman answered. “Aye,” he said and promptly vanished inside the nearest. As he did this a couple emerged from another and soon I had six shivering couples standing around me. We waited as the fireman bobbed in and out of the houses and eventually declared every one empty.

  Meanwhile three fire appliances had parked in the street and their long, snaking hoses were pumping gallons of water into the blazing building. The firemen were doing a good job, their chief mission being to prevent the spread of flames. I felt they were gaining the upper hand.

  “Come on,” I said to my group. “I’ve got to check you all.”

  Like sheep the six men and six girls followed me along the dark alley until we arrived in the main street, aglow with lights and throbbing with action as the three appliances worked their way into the coming dawn. From the safety of the street I could see the dull red glow that now brightened the sky, and the flicker of red at the distant end of the passage.

  People were standing around in nightclothes, and in the midst of all the activity and interest I drew my little notebook from my pocket, moved the survivors into a shop doorway and prepared to count them.

  “Well,” I tried
to be cheerful. “You’re all safe. I’ll need your names, please, for accounting purposes. We’ll have to make a detailed inspection of every affected house and premises, to check for missing persons. It’s routine.”

  No one spoke.

  I wondered if they were all in a state of deep shock.

  “Come along,” I coaxed them. “Names. How about you?”

  I addressed a young man with a mop of untidy hair. He looked at the others and his facial expression told me that something was not quite as it should be. I then looked at his companions. Six pretty girls. Six young men. Six young men with six pretty girls, all shy.

  Who owned the cottages? I did not know because Eltering was not part of my own regular beat and these night visits provided only a cursory knowledge of the town.

  I slowly looked them up and down.

  “Local folks?” I asked.

  The one I had addressed shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’re on holiday.”

  “A conference, actually,” chipped in a second youngster, a man.

  And a girl giggled.,

  “Look,” I said, my notebook open in the palm of my hand, “I’ve got to take your names because I’ve got to check the safety of everyone. That’s all.”

  I was recalling the ten points I’d learned at Training School, one of which was to keep a record of important matters. I reckoned this was important.

  The first man gave me his name. I noted it, and asked for his address. “This address, you mean?”

  “Isn’t this your home address?” I put to him.

  “Do we have to? Give our home addresses?” he asked.

  I was beginning to understand.

  “Look,” I said firmly. “All I’m concerned about is the safety of the people in those cottages. Why you are here does not concern me. If something is bothering you,” and I looked from one to the other, “then say so. I’m discreet enough not to let anything slip, if that’s bothering you. If I know your problem I can cope with it. If I don’t know it…” I left the phrase unfinished.

  “OK,” the spokesman said. “I’m staying at No 3.”

  “What’s the alley’s name? I asked.

  “Cross Alley,” he said. “Houses 2 to 7 are rented as holiday accommodation. No 1 is that store, a toy-shop store. They’re all owned by the same man, the shopkeeper. We’ve rented the cottages for a holiday. There’s no more of us — just the twelve.”

  “So there’s no problem. Now, names, please.”

  Full appreciation of their dilemma now dawned on me. Not one of these men was married to the girl with whom he had been discovered. One could now understand their reluctance to leave the cottages in spite of the threat by fire, and I’ve no doubt they all hoped it would be extinguished before it led to the discovery of their love-nests. But things don’t work out quite like that.

  I took down their names, with two of the girls crying softly into their boyfriends’ arms, and eventually Sergeant Blaketon appeared and asked, “All safe?”

  “All accounted for, Sergeant,” I said with confidence.

  “Smashing. They’ve got the fire under control. The cottage will be a wreck, a total loss I’d say, and the contents. Looks like an electrical fault. You folks will be all back soon. They’ve stopped it spreading. Panic’s over.”

  An hour later I was sitting in No 3 with the young man to whom I had first spoken and his girlfriend. Three firemen were with me, all enjoying cups of tea and biscuits. Sergeant Blaketon and another police sergeant from Malton were in another cottage, and in every house a little party was being held. Outside a pair of vigilant firemen continued to play their hoses into the gutted cottage and kept the smouldering heap of burnt-out toys from breaking into a new blaze.

  By six o’clock that morning it was all over. The firemen had gone and I was alone with my young couple.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I prepared to leave too. “Sorry you’ve been disturbed.”

  “It won’t get into the papers, will it?” asked the girl, called Susan.

  “The fire? I reckon it will. It’ll be in all the local papers.”

  “Oh God!” she cried. “I hope my husband doesn’t find out.”

  “He won’t, Sue,” the man curled his arm about her. “I’m in the same boat — my Anne thinks I’m at a conference.”

  “Your names won’t be released.” I was the only person with their names. “If the Press do ring tomorrow your names won’t be released by us. If they call here don’t tell them who you are and don’t allow them to take your pictures. Just say you are all safe and intend to continue your holidays.”

  “I’ll tell the others. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, but,” I smiled, “off the record, who are you?”

  “Office workers,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Income tax officials, actually. The chap with this block of cottages owns a shop, as I said. We know him. He let us all book in — we’re six mates from one office — and we said to our wives that we were going off to a conference. These are six girls from the office — they said the same to their folks. Delicate, you see.”

  “Very delicate,” I agreed.

  I felt like asking if any of them worked on my income tax returns, but my question might have been misinterpreted. I remained silent and wished them a happy conference, or perhaps I should have said congress.

  But I still wonder if any of those youngsters deal with my income tax returns.

  A strange provision relating to fires was drummed into us at Training School, where we were told that it was illegal to allow one’s chimney to catch fire. Anyone whose chimney did catch fire was therefore to be reported and summoned to appear before the local magistrates’ court. If they were found guilty the fine would be a maximum of ten shillings (50p). The statute which created this offence was the Town Police Clauses Act of 1847 which was, and still is, in force in some urban areas. One major problem was learning which urban areas were affected; furthermore, it did not apply to rural districts. This meant that rural chimneys could happily catch fire and belch forth smoke without offending against this law, although the Public Health Act of 1936 did create something called a ‘smoke nuisance’. This could be dealt with by a local authority.

  Smoke nuisances of the latter kind were not of great concern to the patrolling policeman, although reported chimney fires did mean a visit to the house in question for the purpose of reporting the unfortunate individual whose chimney had let him down. More often than not the case never reached court, as the offender would receive an official written caution from the Chief Constable. This was infinitely better than facing a court.

  It must be said that few policemen sought chimney fires; official notification was left to the Fire Brigade, some of whose officers seemed to enjoy reporting these minor disasters to us so that the necessary legal procedures could be implemented.

  In the rural areas, however, it did not really matter to the policeman whether or not a chimney caught fire. It was not illegal on my beat and my time at Aidensfield did not involve me in any such crisis. Certainly, there were chimney fires and much surplus smoke was cast high into the heavens, but summonses were never issued.

  Another factor was that country folk were rather particular about keeping their chimneys clean. They employed some ingenious methods to maintain them in a clean condition, and a good old rural recipe was to burn potato peelings in the fireplace with a dash of salt. This was to prevent an accumulation of soot in the chimney. Many rural men swept their own chimneys, having purchased the necessary equipment, and there were others who reckoned such expenditure was unnecessary.

  Instead, they adopted natural methods, one of which was to obtain a thick bunch of holly and lash it tightly together so that a kind of rough broom head was formed. Ideally it should be wider than the chimney. It was then tied to a long rope and in order to use this device, two people were needed. One carried the holly to the top of the chimney and perched this on the rim. The rope thus dangled down inside and the second
man seized the end. He then pulled it down inside the chimney and his mate pulled it up again. This was a very effective brushing device but there is nothing to indicate how the man at the bottom kept himself clean. It was reckoned to be a good system for those rural folk who burned only wood, because wood-burning residue rested in all kinds of places within the chimney breast. The springiness of the holly was sure to remove it.

  Another system was to obtain a large piece of holly and ensure it was dry. It was then lit so that it burned fiercely and cast via the fireplace up into the chimney. If things worked out correctly the rising draught would carry the blazing object right up the chimney and out at the top, thus dislodging the soot along its roaring route. If the holly lodged along its route, the chimney might catch fire, but this served the same purpose, if a little dramatically.

  One of the finest methods was to carry a live hen to the top of the chimney and drop it down. Its urgent flapping during the descent removed all the surplus soot, which promptly fell into the hearth and often spilled into the room. If one was not careful, the hen, very relieved at reaching base, ran about in sheer happiness and left a trail of soot as it squawked and flapped in blessed joy. I have no recipe for cleaning sooty hens.

  If rural folks had recipes for cleaning chimneys, they also had recipes for putting out chimney fires. The simplest was to shut all doors and windows, and stop up the bottom of the chimney with a piece of sacking saturated in water. In addition some would throw salt on to the fire with sulphur if available. This was considered a good substance to throw into the grate if the chimney was blazing because it exhausted the fire’s supply of oxygen. This seemed a favourite method because the fire starved itself to death.

  I have seen chimney fires roaring like jet aircraft, and at times the chimney stack has grown practically red hot with smoke and flames belching out. Such fires are fed from below by powerful draughts which produce the roaring noise. Surprisingly, little or no damage is done, but one problem in the countryside is that many cottages were built in such a way that timber sometimes entered the chimney breast. The ends of the beams were exposed in the chimney and many farms have wooden beams beneath their fireplaces. Lots of old chimneys have ledges and shelves inside, the outcome of rough building techniques, and if burning soot accumulates in those areas the result can be danger to the house. Hens or burning holly were useless if these areas got alight; the only answer was lots of water.