CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  Such houses, when used as working farms, employed several labourers who ‘lived in’, being resident at one end of the building while the owners occupied the other. Some of those labourers, or maids, might live over the cattle byre or stables, and in winter, their quarters would be cosy and warm. In such houses larger windows faced south and allowed the light and sunshine to enter all the main rooms, upstairs and down. At intervals along the roof of this house were the chimneys, some of which could be seen from the moor road, and I saw that a few tiny windows had been let into the north wall, the wall I approached upon my arrival. Each wall was over two feet thick and the windows visible to me upon my approach were all very small, little more than two feet deep and eighteen inches wide, some on the ground floor and some upstairs, all with a northern prospect. The idea was to keep the heat inside the house — views of the surrounding splendour from such remote houses, or a huge influx of sunshine and light, were not considerations. Shelter and warmth were more important than views and light.

  As I absorbed these snippets of information I noticed there were two cars on the rough stone forecourt outside the house, a smart new Rover 2000 and a more elderly Ford Consul. I parked behind them, booked off the air and went to the solid oak door. It sported a large black cast-iron knocker but even as I raised my hand to use it the door was opened and a large, smiling man said, ‘I saw you coming down the track. You must be PC Rhea. Come in.’

  He introduced himself as Robert Scholes, then shouted through to the kitchen for his wife to make the coffee now that the constable had arrived.

  Meanwhile, he said, he would show me where the intruder had entered. I referred to the person as ‘intruder,’ not ‘burglar’ because at that time, a burglar was a person who broke into a dwelling house only during the night hours, i.e. between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m. To break into a house at any other time was known as housebreaking. Unless it could be proved beyond doubt that the break-in had occurred between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m. then such crimes were recorded as housebreaking and the villain of the piece was known as a housebreaker. This terminology changed with the Theft Act of 1968, when all crimes which involved breaking into properties such as shops, garages, houses, churches, etc, became classified as burglary which in turn meant that all such villains have since been described as burglars.

  Scholes led me along the passage towards the former cow byre. The passage ran the full length of the house but in this case, I noticed with some curiosity, it followed the line of the southern facing wall, not the north. And there was not one window in that southern wall. I didn’t mention it at this early point because Scholes was striding along the passage at a fairly rapid rate, then he halted at a thick wooden door, painted black. It was secured by only an old-fashioned sneck.

  ‘He got in through here,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no lock,’ I noticed. ‘And no internal bolts.’

  ‘No, we never lock the house,’ he said. ‘There’s never been a need. Not until now that is.’

  ‘So how do you know he came in this way?’ I puzzled.

  ‘It was standing open when we arrived. We’ve only just come this morning, ready for the weekend, me and the wife, and my son and his wife.’

  ‘So, he didn’t smash his way in?’

  ‘No, he just lifted the sneck and walked in. I hope I haven’t disturbed any fingerprints or anything by closing the door.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think there’s much chance of usable fingerprints on something as small as a sneck. But in legal terms opening a closed door is termed “breaking and entering”, so we do have a break-in even if there’s no damage.’ I was thinking of the right classification for this crime. ‘But for the crime of housebreaking to be complete, our villain must have either stolen something, or intended to steal something when he entered. So, is this an outer door?’ was my next question.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It leads into the cow byre. The byre door leads outside. We’re hoping to convert the byre into living accommodation, we haven’t had the place many months so it’s pretty much in its original state. We’re coming here whenever we’ve a free weekend, so our plans aren’t anything like firm at the moment.’

  ‘Right. So, the byre door? The outer door? Is that locked?’ was my next question.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘As I said, we never lock any doors.’

  ‘Show me the byre door,’ was my next request.

  He led me through the former cow byre which was still fitted with skelbeasts, the local name given to wooden partitions between the stalls.

  Tethering chains hung from walls at the head of each stall and in each there was a wooden trough for cattle food; the floor was cemented and lined with grooves to help swill away the inevitable mess. There were two dozen stalls, I noted, but all the windows were in the north wall. At the far end was a large wooden double door, now closed. We tramped through the clean byre and he led me to the door. ‘He got in through this one,’ said Scholes.

  ‘Without smashing his way in?’ I wanted confirmation of this.

  ‘Not a mark on it,’ he confirmed. ‘But this one was shut when I looked this morning. If he hadn’t left that inner door ajar, I’d have never known he’d been in the place. Except for that note he left.’

  ‘No evidence of a break-in then?’ I noted. ‘No forced entry? No broken woodwork, windows, internal damage to cupboards or cabinets?’

  ‘No. Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘And can you be absolutely sure he’s taken nothing of yours?’ I put to him.

  ‘That’s the funny thing about all this. We’ve done a check of our belongings and, so far as we can see, nothing’s been taken. I wouldn’t know anything about that post he mentions though. It comes through the front door but the only stuff we’ve had is circulars. There’s not many belongings of ours he could have taken, to be honest. We left behind some cans of soup or beans, a few bits of crockery and cutlery if he’d wanted those, a battered old radio, an old TV set, a few ancient chairs . . . but all that stuff is still here. So far as I can say, nothing’s been taken, Constable. We bring most of the other stuff like bedding, towels and fresh food each time we come.’

  ‘So how can you be sure you didn’t leave that door open last time you were here, or that the wind or something didn’t blow it open?’

  ‘Well, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but he left that note I told you about. It’s in the kitchen, I’ll show you. If it hadn’t been for that I’d have said we’d left the door ajar.’

  ‘Before I see the note I’d like a look around the outside of the house, and at the other side of this door. If it’s not broken or damaged, and if he’s not smashed any windows to gain entry, it’s pointless calling in our Scenes of Crime team.’

  I lifted the sneck of the byre door and it opened onto a large, stony area, now dry. In addition to signs of a break-in I was seeking tyre marks or footprints, or anything that might have been left or abandoned by the intruder, but there was nothing. Chummy had evidently arrived on a dry day when the earthen portions were firm because there was no evidence of his presence. ‘So, he came through here, crossed the length of the byre and let himself into the house through the inner door. And out the same way, you think?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell; he could have gone out through the main door, the one you came through when you arrived. That’s the one with the letter box in it. That’s never locked either.’

  ‘I’d better have a look around the rest of the exterior,’ I said. ‘Just to clear my own mind about any marks or evidence he might have left.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Using the cow byre door as our exit I led the way to the exterior and found it was possible to walk around the entire house on paths with a rock-like stony base, but there was no sign of a vehicle tyre mark or footprints. But not even my own footprints showed on this tough surface, nor did the tyre marks of the vehicles now present. I also checked all the outbuildings, in case he was sleeping rough or had abandoned anything. The outcome
was that I found absolutely nothing which might be associated with the intruder.

  ‘From what I have seen so far I can’t justify calling out our Scenes of Crime team; there’s no real evidence that a crime has been committed, but let’s have a look at that note he left.’

  ‘Follow me, the coffee should be ready now.’

  He took me into the kitchen where Mrs Scholes had prepared five mugs of coffee. She was a smart-looking woman, busty and well-built with blonde hair, and I reckoned she’d be in her early fifties.

  ‘That note, Eunice, where is it?’

  ‘On the mantelpiece,’ she pointed.

  ‘And Alan and Julie?’

  ‘Upstairs, unpacking and making the beds. They’ll be down in a minute, they said. Sit down, I’ll see to your coffee.’

  As we settled at the large pine table she removed a piece of paper from the mantelpiece. ‘It’s our own paper, Constable, from a notebook we leave in the kitchen, so we can jot down reminders of things to bring next time, shopping and so on.’

  Written in pencil — probably with a pencil which was lying on a kitchen shelf — were the words: Sorry I took the post. No harm done I hope. And that was all. No date, no signature, no explanation, nothing.

  ‘I’ll speak to the postman to see if he’s delivered anything recently, but it’s all very baffling,’ I had to admit. ‘As things stand, this is not a case of housebreaking. If the man has entered your house to remove his own mail, I can see nothing criminal in that. Certainly, there’s a civil trespass but that doesn’t make it a criminal case.’

  ‘So, what do you propose to do?’ asked Scholes.

  ‘There’s not a lot I can do,’ I had to admit. ‘I’ll report to my sergeant and I’ll ensure the incident is logged into our system so that if something similar happens again we can compare notes. And I’ll have words with the postman to ascertain what’s been delivered here since your last visit.’

  ‘Fair enough. I understand. But you will try to find out what’s behind all this, won’t you? For our peace of mind. I mean, Constable, if there is some nutter living on these moors who’s in the habit of going into people’s houses and nicking the mail, I think we should know.’

  ‘I agree, and I’ll do my best to find out just what’s been going on. And I’ll speak to the post office investigation branch. But surely this is a case for locking your doors?’ I smiled.

  ‘All right, point taken. But you will let me know the outcome.’ He sounded happy with my decision. ‘And for my part, I’ll get locks for all these doors, I promise you that!’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Mrs Scholes, placing five mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table. Then she went through a door into another part of the house and shouted upstairs, ‘Alan, Julie. Coffee!’

  ‘Julie’s my daughter, Alan’s her husband, they live in Castleford,’ Scholes explained. I heard a shouted response and then the clatter of feet on a wooden staircase in the adjoining room, after which a couple appeared. Julie was a younger version of her mother, in her mid-thirties I guessed, and Alan was a sturdy man with short-cropped fair hair who looked as if he could handle himself in a rough house.

  After the introductions we all sat down to enjoy our coffee. We discussed the peculiar incident with me explaining the law on burglaries and housebreakings to the new arrivals, adding that I knew of no local wanderers or mentally ill people who might come into the house during their absence. I did assure them I’d make enquiries locally, however, and we concluded that this incident was something of a mystery.

  And then, during a lull in the conversation, Alan said to his father-in-law,

  ‘Where did you find that beautiful piece of timber, Bob?’

  ‘What timber?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Lying near the fireplace next door. It’s quite a length, six feet high, four inches square. Like a beam. A nice-looking bit of old wood, antique I’d say, with some curious carvings on it. I thought you must have found it in the outbuildings and thought it suitable for something in the house. It’s not scrap, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Not me, I know nothing about it. Has it fallen from the roof?’

  ‘I can’t see any sign of that, but it is lying on the floor as if it has fallen.’

  ‘We haven’t unpacked the car yet. I haven’t been upstairs, so I haven’t noticed it,’ Bob said.

  ‘You checked upstairs for the intruder, to make sure he hadn’t taken anything?’ I asked. My thoughts were still dwelling on the intruder; he could be hiding in the house and I should have searched upstairs.

  ‘I checked,’ said Alan. ‘We got here before Mum and Dad, nothing’s gone. And he’s not in any of the rooms or hiding in the wardrobes, I checked them all — and the loft!’ he grinned, as if reading my thoughts and I wondered what he might have done to the intruder if they’d met. ‘Anyway, I’ll get this piece of timber to show you.’

  He left the table and soon reappeared with the piece of old wood. It was a length of very dark oak, polished with age and smooth in places due to regular handling and cleaning. It was taller than me — six feet or so. And, as he turned it around, I noticed the intricate carving on what I now realized was the top; clearly the pillar was meant to stand upright with the carved portion on display. The elaborate carvings were on what seemed to be the face and two sides of the post; I could discern crosses, good luck symbols and etchings of what appeared to be signs of the zodiac. There was a date too — 1665, fairly recognizable amidst the surrounding carvings.

  ‘I’ve never seen that bit of wood before!’ said Bob. ‘What is it? Where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s a witch post,’ I told them. ‘There are lots in the older houses in the village where I grew up. They used to be very common on these moors during the seventeenth century. Their purpose is to keep witches away, but in practical terms, they also supported the smoke-hood . . .’

  ‘Smoke-hood?’

  ‘It was over the fireplace,’ I told them. ‘Posts like this were part of the inglenook . . . the cross and other carved charms were thought to ward off witches. That’s why they were built into the house. They’re found only around the North York Moors.’ I aired my knowledge of the beliefs which were so prevalent in my home village a couple of centuries earlier. ‘Although they are not generally known outside the North York Moors, one did exist at Rawtenstall in Lancashire, but no one knows why it appeared so far from the moors. Some witch posts from our local cottages have been placed in the Pitt-Rivers Museum at Oxford, some are still in their original settings and some are in local museums.’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do with it? There aren’t any witches around now, are there?’

  ‘No, these posts have frightened them all off!’ I laughed, before adding, ‘Mr and Mrs Scholes, whatever you decide, you are the proud owners of a very unique object — a genuine witch post. Has it come from your fireplace?’

  ‘Let’s have a look. As I said, I can’t say I’ve noticed it before,’ he said without finishing his coffee. ‘It must have worked loose and fallen out.’

  Moving as rapidly as he’d done earlier he left the table and led us all into the small, dark room which led eventually to the staircase. With a heavily beamed and very low ceiling the room had a stone-flagged floor covered with clip rugs and a cast-iron range complete with oven, hot-water boiler and moveable hooks from which to dangle kettles and other cooking utensils. The fireplace was in a recess formed by the wall on the left, and a partition on the right. The corridor of the house ran to the far side of that partition, leading to the staircase. But the front of the partition was bare — and that is where the witch post would have stood.

  ‘It was lying in front of the fireplace,’ said Alan. ‘Just as if somebody had placed it there.’

  ‘It’s come from here.’ I showed marks on the partition where it had once rested. ‘The slot at the top would fit into this groove and the base would be set in stone at floor level. It’s been forced away from here, by the look of things, but not
recently. There’s a spider’s web in the groove . . . so it was taken out a long time ago.’

  ‘Let’s see if it fits,’ said Bob. Carefully, he inched the tall, heavy post into position and it fitted like a glove. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. It’s perfect . . . but this is the first time I’ve seen it. So, where’s it been until now? And where’s it come from? It hasn’t been in this house since we bought the place, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Maybe your “burglar” brought it back!’ I laughed, and the moment I said it, I realized that was precisely what could have happened. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think that’s it . . . this is the post referred to in that letter! Not mail, but a post, this post! He’s brought it back for you!’

  ‘Brought it back?’ laughed Bob. ‘But the letter says he took it . . .’

  ‘Perhaps he took it a long time ago, when the house was deserted, and he’s had a twinge of conscience because someone’s living here, so he’s brought it back to its rightful place. He said he was sorry he took the post . . . now he’s rectified his error!’

  ‘But who would do that? I can’t believe anyone would do that!’

  ‘We might never know who or why he did it, or even whether that is what happened,’ I smiled. ‘But can you think of a better solution?’

  ‘No,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘No, mebbe you’re right, Constable. But it’s no crime to break in and return stolen property, is it?’

  ‘It’s not a criminal matter,’ I said. ‘Civil trespass perhaps, but not a crime. And if the house had been abandoned all those years ago, it will be difficult to trace the owner of the post at that time. So, I think I can write this off as “no crime” — and you are the proud owners of a witch post.’