‘So what did she do with those she didn’t sell?’ asked Claude.
‘She buried them again, separating the tins this time. And she put the money he’d paid in with the remaining sovereigns. Then she died and the story got forgotten, but somebody unearthed it in an old newspaper last week. I wish I’d kept the tale — so there’s some full treacle tins of gold sovereigns and fivers somewhere under that soil, they reckon.’
‘But doesn’t Mrs Murphy know about it?’ asked George, with Claude listening carefully.
‘She didn’t mention it to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she knows the tale, it happened many years before she and her husband bought the place. I think I must pop around there later today and tell her. That’s why I’m swotting up the law on treasure trove, just in case those tins turn up.’
‘Are they likely to turn up?’ asked George.
‘If the field’s given a good ploughing, they might,’ I said. ‘Or if somebody’s read the story in the paper, they might turn up to start digging one night; she might lose the lot if the story gets widely publicized!’
‘And if anybody found them, could they keep them?’ George persisted.
‘Well, it’s possible,’ I said. ‘But the system is to report it to the police as treasure trove, then there’d be an inquest on the find.’
‘Inquest?’ said Claude.
‘Yes, an enquiry conducted by the coroner. If he decides the money was deliberately hidden years ago, then it belongs to the state — but the finder gets the full market value. The finder, that is, not the landowner. The finder is paid the full market price and the gold coins would be handed to the British Museum.’
‘So him that finds that money could be rich?’ beamed Claude.
‘It’s a big field to dig by hand!’ said George.
‘Some folks have ploughs for that sort of thing!’ I laughed. ‘There’s riches galore under our soil if only we could get at it.’
‘Well,’ Claude said suddenly. ‘I must be off. I’ve work to do. Come on, Alfred,’ he called to his lurcher. ‘We can’t sit around in this place when there’s work to be done.’
When man and dog had rushed out, George asked, ‘Where’s he gone rushing off to? He hasn’t finished his pint!’
‘I think he’ll be offering to plough Rita Murphy’s paddock,’ I smiled.
George looked at me. ‘That tale about the gold,’ he had a quizzical look on his face. ‘Was it true?’
‘It was — but it didn’t happen anywhere near Mrs Murphy’s paddock,’ I smiled. ‘It happened at Littlebeck, near Whitby, long before the First World War. A true story, George, and the hidden treacle tins full of sovereigns might still be there — in Littlebeck, that is, not under Rita Murphy’s land!’
I then told George about Claude’s deal with the chest of drawers and he smiled. ‘Serves him right,’ he said.
I went home for lunch and about an hour and a half later drove to Rita Murphy’s home at Hollings Intake. An Intake, by the way, is a patch of moorland which at some time in the past has been enclosed then reclaimed as agricultural land. There are many examples throughout the North York Moors and they are usually named after the person who enclosed them. Thus there are Morgan Intake, Pearson Intake, Brown’s Intake, Coates’ Intake and, in this case, Hollings Intake. In the local manner of speech, this is sometimes shorted to Intak.
When I arrived, Claude Jeremiah was perched on his little rusting Ferguson tractor with Alfred sitting near his feet. He was hauling a plough through the soft earth and seemed very happy with his chore.
When he saw me approaching, he drew to a halt, but left the engine running as he came across to me. Rita Murphy also came out to meet me.
‘Good afternoon, Claude,’ I smiled as he came to a halt before me. ‘You look busy?’
‘Just helping out an old friend, aren’t I, Rita?’ he beamed, his eyes blinking at me. ‘Neighbourly gesture, like, me being a friendly sort of chap.’
‘Well, I do know Rita wanted her paddock ploughing, so I know your work is needed.’
She had arrived at my side too. ‘It was so good of Mr Greengrass to offer,’ she was genuinely surprised. ‘And out of the goodness of his heart, too. He said he wants nothing from me.’
‘Is that right, Claude?’ I put to him, just to clarify the situation.
‘Oh, aye, well, I thought she could do with a bit of help, Mr Rhea, and me having a plough I wasn’t using, well, I thought it was neighbourly to turn the ground over for her . . .’
‘Well, I think that’s very noble of you,’ I said.
‘Will you have a cup of tea, both of you?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, I would love one,’ I accepted.
‘Not for me,’ said Claude. ‘Work of this kind can’t wait, you understand, strike while the iron’s hot and all that . . .’
And so I went indoors with Rita Murphy and she produced some lovely home-made scones, a pot of strawberry jam and two mugs of hot fresh tea.
‘I can’t understand why Mr Greengrass is so keen to plough my ground,’ she said. ‘He even offered to plant the potatoes.’
‘Then let him,’ I said. ‘And when I come again I’ll explain his generosity!’
And so Rita’s small piece of Aidensfield was ploughed and planted by George Jeremiah Greengrass, and later she had a crop of beautiful new potatoes. Claude was given a sackful — but he never did find the treacle tins full of gold sovereigns.
Later in the pub, he asked me, ‘Mr Rhea, that tale about those treacle tins of sovereigns. You didn’t make it up, did you?’
‘No, it’s a true tale,’ I said.
‘Well, I ploughed all her land and found nowt,’ he muttered.
‘You might have to dig deeper next year!’ I smiled.
3. By Chasing Two Hares, You’ll Catch Neither
For duty, duty must be done,
The rule applies to everyone.
SIR W.G. GILBERT, 1836–1911
It was inevitable that our new sub-divisional inspector would attempt to impose his wisdom upon the rest of us. Such is the way of those new to the power of command. It seems that the police service, like any other profession, is riddled with new brooms which always want to make clean sweeps, even if the places in question have been swept clean times without number on many different occasions and in many different ways.
I am convinced that organizations like the police service, and especially departments of local authorities, keep their staff in work only because they regularly change their procedures, names or intended purposes. ‘Reorganization’ is the key word; in my time at Aidensfield, for example, the Civil Defence department was reorganized every two years simply because they had nothing else to do. There were very few civil people to defend! Eventually it was decided to rename it War Duties department, and as such it was reorganized even more frequently, chiefly because there were no wars to fight and thus no duties to perform. But the constant challenge of reorganization kept people in work and prevented boredom.
With the arrival of a new inspector, therefore, we felt it was inevitable that he would want to change something. Thus it was that Inspector Pollock called a meeting of all the constables of Ashfordly section. Sergeant Blaketon was also instructed to attend. With bated breath we assembled in the muster room of Ashfordly police station, boots shining and hair neatly trimmed, to await his arrival and to find out what changes he intended to implement. Sharp at the appointed time, 10.30 one Thursday morning, he appeared before us like a vision — boots gleaming, trouser-seams and the front of his tunic sleeves pressed until they were like knife edges, not a fleck of dust anywhere and not a hair too long nor a whisker out of place. He stood before us, erect and stern, like a wax model of a supercop, but he was real.
‘Good morning,’ he said, and we duly chanted our reply.
‘I am very concerned about the level of law-breaking in this sub-division,’ were his first noble words. ‘I know I have not been here very long but already I have been deep
ly disturbed by the unlawful behaviour of many local people and I have decided that we, all of us, should make a concerted effort to enforce the laws of this splendid England of ours. If law-breaking becomes endemic, the whole of society will crumble,’ he was in full flow now. ‘The well-being of this nation has been built upon the willingness of the British people to accept the laws of the land, irrespective of class, colour and creed. We, as police officers, have been charged with the awesome responsibility of enforcing those laws, laws made by Parliament; I might add, the Mother of Parliaments. Our Parliament has set an example to the rest of the world. We should not shrink from our duty to enforce its laws.’
He paused for a moment, his eyes glistening and tiny beads of sweat appearing on his brow and cheeks. He was sensing greatness now, he was enjoying this; I got the impression he thought he was Winston Churchill stirring us into a fine and noble war effort. Then he continued,
‘I have therefore conducted a detailed survey into law-breaking in this sub-division and have concluded that far too many motorists are parking without lights. Cyclists are even riding without lights during the hours of darkness. It is my intention, therefore, to conduct a campaign of effectiveness. With effect from today, each of you will endeavour to report for summons every motorist who parks without lights and every cyclist who rides without displaying obligatory lights to the front and rear of the machine. I have had a supply of special forms printed; I appreciate the difficulties of interviewing drivers who leave their cars upon the streets at night, but if you find a car without lights, you will place one of these forms upon the windscreen, directing the owner or driver to report to the nearest police station with his or her driving documents.
‘They will then be interviewed by the office constable and reported for summons for whatever offences are disclosed. And this, you all know, is a fine way of checking driving licences, insurance, motor vehicle excise licences and details of vehicle registration. Many people forget to record changes of address or fail to sign their driving licence — all will be reported for process if offences are disclosed.’
It is fair to say that every man present groaned deeply within; we did not issue a loud, corporate groan, but suppressed our deepest feelings with honour. Every constable at that momentous meeting knew that this sort of purge had been done before, always with disastrous results. It seemed to be the aim of every new inspector to go around upsetting the local people. As things were, the local police used common sense when enforcing the traffic lighting regulations; we’d never dream of booking drivers who parked their vehicles unlit at night in cul-de-sacs or quiet back streets. If someone parked their unlit vehicle on a busy main road or in a dangerous position, then the law would be enforced, if only to teach the offending motorist a lesson in common sense. But to prosecute every driver who parked without lights, especially in remote rural areas, was sheer stupidity and it was guaranteed to alienate the public. In one quick burst of petty law enforcement, we could ruin years of good relations between police and public.
At that time, every motor vehicle parked on the streets during the hours of darkness had to show obligatory lights; these consisted of two white lights to the front and two red lights to the rear, with one of each for motorcycles and some other vehicles. The law applied to every public road in every town and village. Lorries, buses, cars, vans and motorcycles were all expected to obey this law, the only exceptions being tram-cars and vehicles used on railway lines. Furthermore, even at that time, those lights had to be kept properly trimmed (that was the actual word used), in a clean and efficient condition and they had to be attached to the motor vehicle in the prescribed manner.
There were special provisions for invalid carriages, horse-drawn vehicles, pedal cycles with sidecars, horses with or without riders, wheelbarrows, prams, hand-carts, lawn-mowers, agricultural implements and lorries with overhanging loads. If we were to enforce every law about the use of lights when vehicles were on the road, we should be considered persecutors who were operating a police state. But as experienced officers, we knew that the finest way to show Inspector Pollock the error of his ways was to obey his orders meticulously. It was inevitable, therefore, that his scheme should become known as Pollock’s Purge. And there was no finer person to obey those instructions to the letter than Sergeant Blaketon.
One of the old school of police officers, he was the sort of policeman who, if the inspector told him to jump off a cliff in the course of his duty, would do so. Having served in the army, Sergeant Blaketon would never question a lawful order. After listening to the inspector’s added views on how we should go about our new law-enforcement duties, we left the office to resume our normal patrols.
Alf Ventress was fuming with suppressed anger. ‘This is bloody ridiculous!’ he snarled. ‘I can see what’s going to happen — every night, you lot will stick notices on all vehicles without lights and next morning, I’ll be faced with a queue of drivers a mile long as I check documents and report them . . . they’ll all be blowing their tops . . . I can see trouble brewing but if that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get.’
Alf was right. That night, the patrolling constables of Ashfordly sub-division planted tickets on every car which was parked without lights. I was off duty that night, so Aidensfield escaped the first flush of Pollock’s Purge, but as the night-duty constables went off duty at 6.00 a.m. another day was dawning.
And so it was that for hundreds of motorists the new working day began with the discovery on their windscreens of white pieces of paper headed ‘North Riding Constabulary’; these were stuck beneath their wipers and exhorted them to pay a swift visit to Ashfordly police station, and to take along their licences and insurance.
At the station, they would be reported for summons for the offence of parking without lights. A lot of our customers would be late for work that morning and many would have stories to tell their colleagues. The police force would suffer yet another bout of canteen criticism — some victims’ stories about being booked for parking without lights would make their experience seem more serious than having a hospital operation.
While a substantial proportion of the motorists of Ashfordly were trudging towards Alf Ventress and Ashfordly police station clutching their licences and insurances and at the same time wondering about the cost of a new battery for their cars, I was preparing for my morning patrol of Aidensfield. I had no intention of booking every motorist whom I discovered parking without lights — my relationship with the village people was too important to jeopardize for the sake of such a futile aspect of law enforcement — and so I decided to patrol the village and warn all the residents of the inspector’s orders. Pollock’s Purge would soon be hot news in Aidensfield.
Such warnings were generally appreciated. An old rural bobby once told me that the best way to ensure that people bought licences for their dogs was to walk into the post office and announce that you were going to inspect every dog licence in the village. With the speed of light, word of the constabulary intention would reach every dog owner in the district.
The effect would be that all those without licences would promptly rush to the post office to obtain the necessary document. Thus the legal purpose was achieved with the minimum of work by the police and also without the hassle of upsetting a host of forgetful dog owners.
I reckoned the same logic would work with car lights and so I paid a visit to all the key establishments in Aidensfield, such as the pub, the garage, the shops and the post office and issued warnings, in the strictest confidence, that the new inspector had ordered a purge on all cars parked without lights.
I reinforced my news with the fact that I would be patrolling Aidensfield that evening, during the hours of darkness, to plant tickets on every car I discovered on the streets without lights. It was the confidentiality of the information I was imparting which produced the greatest impact and word of the inspector’s crackdown soon reached those parts of Aidensfield which I would not normally visit. I knew that, from tonig
ht onwards (at least for a week or two), all cars would either be parked off the road or they would display the necessary lights. The village would be aglow; it would shine like Blackpool Illuminations.
With regard to the lack of car lights, I knew, as I began that first car lighting patrol, that visitors to the pub and to evening functions in the village hall were likely to be the worst offenders. I recalled from past experience that many people would enter the premises in daylight and forget about the car they’d left outside; as the sun sank in the west in Ashfordly, so the law would approach such cars with the intention of compiling yet another offence report. But that would not happen in Aidensfield. I detested that kind of impersonal approach — if the cars were likely to cause a danger, I would walk into the premises and ask the offending owners to switch on their lights. Many would do so without a quibble. Sometimes I would switch the lights on myself because most cars were never locked — there was no need to lock them because, at that time, most people were honest and did not steal from unlocked cars. It was a simple job to reach inside and operate a light switch.
And so, that first night, as I patrolled my village beat, sometimes switching on car lights and sometimes getting car owners out of their homes, the pub or the billiards match at the village hall to put on their lights, I realized that most parts of the village were rather like a major city. There were lights everywhere. I had never seen so many cars with their sidelights blazing and I made sure my uniform was seen as I patrolled the rows of parked vehicles. I felt that the campaign was something of a success — I had achieved this result without issuing a single ticket.
It was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw a small black car creep into the village and park outside the pub. The time was nearly ten o’clock and the car was displaying lights. As I approached, I realized it was the new inspector. I went closer, chanted ‘Good evening, sir,’ in a fairly loud voice and slung up a smart salute.
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 5