Constable by the Stream
Nicholas Rhea
© Nicholas Rhea 1991
Nicholas Rhea has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1991 by Robert Hale Ltd.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
1. Nymphs of Still Waters
2. Stolen Sweets are Always Sweeter
3. Artful Deceivers
4. The Devil Looks After His Own
5. Fellowship and Social Assembly
6. Every Dog Has His Day
7. Men of Letters
8. Currents of Domestic Joy
9. Brotherly Feuds
10. The Feast of Christmas
1. Nymphs of Still Waters
And she forgot the stars, the moon, the sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze.
John Keats (1795-1821)
After a beautiful and memorable early morning experience, I could add my own lines to Keats’s verse; they would read,
And she forgot she had no bathing suit on.
And she forgot the masculine eye that sees.
To be strictly accurate, my lines should read ‘they’ instead of ‘she’, because my early morning patrol was enlivened and enhanced by the sight of two beautiful maidens, two sylphs, two nubile nymphs bathing in a remote lake. And both were nude.
At first I thought I was dreaming, and then I wondered whether I was experiencing one of those moments that seem to happen only to other people, like seeing fairies or ghosts or experiencing religious visions. Those who cannot see them do not believe or understand those who can.
But those enchanting figures were real enough. Not real enough to touch, of course, but real enough to watch.
I was spellbound as I saw them splashing in the clear waters and heard their laughter ringing bell-like in the powerful silence of that morning.
As I gazed upon the delights before me I was reminded of the many legends, mainly Grecian but some British, which tell of water nymphs. Those lovely goddess-like creatures have, over the centuries, been inextricably linked with springs and streams and here was I, seeing two dream-like creatures frolicking in a quiet lake before six o’clock one brisk and bright spring morning.
I knew of ancient stories which told of such heavenly sights. Homer wrote of nymphs which were semi-divine maidens; they inhabited waters like seas, lakes, rivers and fountains and there is a verse which says,
They spring from fountains and from sacred groves,
And holy streams that flow into the sea.
Here in the north of England, there are similar tales. Some local, but ancient stories continue to associate holy maidens with wells and springs, one of which flows near Giggleswick in the Yorkshire Dales. This is the famous Ebbing and Flowing Well whose origins are so ancient that they have been lost in the passage of time. The creation of this magic spring is said to have occurred long before the foundation of Christianity. The story tells of a maiden who was fleeing for her life; she prayed to the gods that she would escape her pursuer.
When she reached the point where the spring now flows, the gods answered her prayers. She was instantly turned into the magic spring which continues to ebb and flow from a mysterious underground source. Its surface rises and falls in a most curious manner. Its movement is sometimes accompanied by sighs and it is said that these are sighs of relief coming from that hunted nymph.
But in my own pleasure at sighting two nudes by the lake, I realized there was a very practical explanation. These were not sprites or legendary nymphs, but two very real and very beautiful young women. Nonetheless, it must be said that the moment was magical because these were two of the most beautiful of maidens. Furthermore, the ethereal quality of the morning did add enchantment. It was a stunning opening to that day’s duty and I was reminded of the wise words of a former chief constable who said, ‘Men who do not appreciate the beauty of a naked woman must have something wrong with them!’
However, I had work to do which was why I was in this wood at such an early hour. From time to time, we got reports of escapees from local Borstal institutions or even mental hospitals and on occasions these young men would sleep rough in local woodlands. They’d build shelters among the undergrowth and would light fires to keep themselves warm or to provide hot meals — sometimes the rising smoke was a sign of their presence.
Other indications came with the raiding of isolated farms for food like raw turnips or potatoes, eggs or milk. Some would even break into village houses or shops in their hunt for food or cash, and some had been known to steal a change of clothing or footwear.
In recent days, I had received reports of a suspicious man in these woods and this made me wonder if we had an escapee in the vicinity, even if there had been no other evidence of his presence. From the reports, I felt sure someone was lurking there and checked my own lists of recent escapees and wanted persons. But I found none that would be of direct interest to me as the village constable of Aidensfield. I had not received any reports of stolen food or unlawful entry into premises, nor had I received any reports of gunshots or traps used by poachers in that woodland. In short, the mystery man was something of a puzzle, but in truth he was not of any pressing concern because he did not seem to be engaged upon any unlawful activity. He might be nothing more than a keen ornithologist or a local person taking an early-morning stroll — but, as the village constable, it would be useful to know what he was doing, if only to placate those who worried about him.
I decided not to make any special effort to locate him; instead, I would be aware of his presence and remain alert for further sightings or reports of wrongdoing.
On that lovely morning, therefore, I was patrolling a ‘route’, as we called the duty. This gave me the opportunity to have a quiet walk among the trees just to see if there was any substance to the mystery-man stories. Reports suggested he’d been lurking among the mixed coniferous and deciduous trees which adorned a hillside to the south-west of Aidensfield. The first report came from a gamekeeper; he’d seen the fellow at a distance shortly before five o’clock one morning but had lost sight of him among the trees. Quite naturally, he suspected poachers. Then, on another day, around 5.30 in the morning, a cowman had spotted the man; his version was that the character was a youngish man with long hair who seemed to be furtively clambering among the hillside shrubs and trees. He seemed to have been hurrying from the lake which lay deep in a small valley within that woodland. The cowman had been unable to pursue the fellow because he was herding his cows into the mistal for milking and lacked the necessary time to locate him. He did say, however, that the man did not appear to be doing anything suspicious and he thought he might be camping in the woods.
I had these reports in mind as I’d started that early morning route at 5 a.m. My scheduled patrol had to include the villages of Elsinby and Maddleskirk; I was to be at each of them at 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. respectively and was to end that patrol at my police house at 8 a.m.
As the stretch of woodland in question lay within that route, and as I had not yet solved the mystery of the man among the trees, I decided I would explore the area. It would add purpose to my solitary walk.
I found myself walking along a deserted cart track which skirted the lower edge of the wood and from there I turned along a smaller path which led to the bottom lake. There are three lakes in these woods; they are a
ll fed by the same stream which rises in the hills above, the top lake overflowing to form the middle one, and the middle one overflowing into the bottom one. The bottom one is the largest of the trio and offers good fishing as well as a wealth of rare and interesting wildlife ranging from plants to birds, via trees, fish and insects. It is, in fact, noted for its dragonflies and damselflies and the entire area, which is on private property, has been designated a nature reserve.
Among the structures around the lakes is a shelter of rough timber built by some local boy scouts to house their canoes and I knew to search there for signs of a secretive presence. I found nothing. During my perambulations, I walked quietly through the trees, avoiding the paths that would give rise to unwelcome noise, avoiding fallen twigs which would crack if I stood on them or thick coverings of leaves which would rustle. If there was anyone living rough hereabouts, I did not want to give warning of my approach by sending birds chattering from me.
A startled pheasant or wood pigeon can create an awful din, while the alarm call of a blackbird is enough to alert any countryman. Thus I moved gingerly and carefully about my business, eyes and ears alert as I emulated generations of gamekeepers in my stealthy prowling. After thoroughly checking the ground around the bottom lake, I moved to the middle one and repeated my search, again with no success. And then, as I climbed through the trees to the top and smallest lake, only marginally larger than a good village pond, I heard sounds. Voices. Light voices. Movements among the undergrowth. Bushes rustling. A chaffinch flying off in noisy alarm. A twig cracking. Laughter. Water splashing …
So there was somebody! I froze. I stood like a statue among the freshly leafed trees, not making a sound as I tried to gauge the precise location of those sounds. I decided they came from the north-eastern corner of the lake, close to the entry point of the stream which fed it. I knew that the forest track ran past that point too … if there was a vehicle, it would be parked nearby. I could obtain its registration number, if necessary.
It was now that my local knowledge proved valuable because I knew of a large, chair-shaped boulder near the western shore and realized it would provide me with a secure vantage point. I could hide behind it as I watched the activities of the visitors. Moving quickly, silently and confidently through the trees, I gained the big rock and began to scan the water.
It was then that I saw two heads near the centre of the lake.
Two young women were bathing there, neither wearing a swimming cap but they were keeping their heads above the surface. One was a light blonde while the other was also blonde but of a slightly darker shade. They swam with ease, chattering to each other as they moved gracefully through the smooth water with the morning sun glinting from the surface. There was the slightest hint of a haze over the lake, a misty atmosphere which intensified towards the distant shore. But I could see no one else nor could I discern any vehicle parked nearby. I wondered if the man seen earlier had any links with these girls.
I did not recognize either of them and was about to leave when they emerged from the water. Both were exquisitely beautiful and splendidly shaped — and they were completely naked. As they rose from the cool, clear waters I watched with fascination as their long, slender limbs carried them to the distant shore; they halted near the edge, turned and scooped handfuls of clean water with which they washed their lithe young bodies. They presented a sight to be treasured, a sight to be captured for ever by a skilled artist. But there was no artist to observe them — just an appreciative village constable. The water cascaded between their shapely and ample breasts, down their flat stomachs, flowing between their legs and around their thighs as they rinsed away the water-borne particles which clung to them.
They continued with their ablutions until they had washed away every piece of surplus mud and greenery which had been carried from the lake and its floor. Unabashed, uninhibited, free and beautiful, they cleaned themselves, then suddenly turned and ran off.
I heard them laughing with joy as they vanished among the distant trees and shrubs. I waited. I did not want to announce my intrusive presence in any way, nor did I want them to think I had been spying on them. Did they visit this lake each morning? Were they camping nearby? Were they visitors? And it was so early … I looked at my watch. 5.50. Who would rise for a swim before six in a chilly fresh-water lake? No one that I knew …
But they had vanished. I did not see them depart nor did I hear any more voices. They had vanished beyond the thick greenery at the far end of the lake and I waited for a long time, forgetting that I had to be in Elsinby at 6 a.m.! I never made that rendezvous but walked from the wood in something of a daze. I wondered if I had really seen those girls, or was it all a pleasant dream? But I never saw them again.
I was brought back to reality when Sergeant Blaketon met me at my 7a.m. point, and I wondered if he had driven out to meet me at six. But he said nothing about that missed rendezvous. He did, however, mention my dirty boots and my muddy trouser legs.
‘I’ve been in the woods, sergeant,’ I explained. ‘I’ve had reports of a possible poacher or someone living rough,’ and I outlined the reports I’d received.
‘Good, keep up the good work, Rhea. Anything else to report?’
‘No, it’s all quiet, sergeant.’
‘Good, well enjoy your walk. I’ll get myself home for some breakfast. You can’t beat an early start to the day — it sets the pulses racing. See you later.’
And that was it — until I chanced to see a girly calendar in a York shop the following Christmas. And there was my rock, the chair-shaped rock by the lake, with a beautiful blonde girl draped upon it, breasts and body bared for all the world to view. There was a total of twelve superb colour pictures, one for each month, and each was a woodland scene. I recognized eight of them — all eight had been photographed in those woods.
I saw from the credits that the photographer was a local man called Anthony Gourlay from York; it was then that I realized who the mysterious visitor had been. The sketchy descriptions I’d received did match his general appearance. I felt sure the mystery man had been Gourlay, reconnoitring the landscape in the morning light before deciding upon his precise locations for his calendar.
I did not tell anyone about this. After all, I did not want the lake to become a tourist attraction.
*
That brief but very pleasant experience highlighted the fact that our waterways, whether in the form of the seaside or inland rivers, lakes or ponds, can hold a promise of untold bliss. This is recognized by many. If there is a convenient stretch of water, the British will spend time beside it, even if only for a day. Yorkshire’s dramatic coastline, its huge rivers and countless streams or becks, all bear witness to this longing for waterside leisure, especially during the summer when the people evacuate their cities and towns for a day beside the sea, a picnic near a moorland stream or a holiday beside a river or lake. It was an appreciation of our inbred escapist needs that persuaded a local farmer to make good use of some derelict buildings.
He was Arthur Fewster of Riverside Farm, Lower Keld. This remote Ryedale hamlet is a couple of miles west of Crampton and overlooks the gentle River Rye. It has no shop, post office or pub and is known for its underground springs, the Yorkshire word ‘keld’ meaning a spring. Much of the district’s domestic water supply is pumped from Lower Keld’s never-ending flow of deliciously crisp and pure water. I had very few reasons to call at any of the half-dozen houses which comprised Lower Keld, but did visit the farm each quarter to check Arthur’s stock registers.
After one visit, where I had indulged in the ’lowance, i.e. the usual mid-morning snack of teacakes, fruit cake, cheese and biscuits, washed down by a huge mug of hot tea, Arthur said, ‘Here, Mr Rhea, Ah’ll show you summat.’
He led me across his spacious yard to what had been an old disused and tumbledown building, full of farmyard junk. Now it was sparkling with new paint and freshly pointed brickwork. There were five new doors, all glistening with fresh p
aint, and the windows shone in the morning sunshine. He opened one of the doors and led me inside; the transformation was astonishing.
There I saw a neat kitchen with a newly fitted sink and cooker, and it was furnished with new pine chairs and a table. Two easy chairs stood in the far corners while a narrow wooden staircase rose from the floor. He led me into a small upstairs room and there I saw a double bed, a wardrobe, dressing-table and two easy chairs, all in fashionable pine. A small bathroom and toilet completed the accommodation.
‘Holiday cottages,’ he said proudly. ‘Ah’ve converted this awd tile shed into five cottages, two doubles like this ’un, and three singles. T’other double’s at yon end, singles are in t’middle. Fishermen, tha knows. They come for a weekend or longer, so Ah thowt Ah’d convert this awd spot into rooms for ’em. What do you think, Mr Rhea?’
‘A great idea, Arthur,’ I enthused. ‘You’ve done a good job.’
‘One day, farmers’ll have to do summat other than farm, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘What with folks getting more leisure time and longer holidays, well, it makes sense to me to cater for ’em. Ah’ve done it all proper, planning consent and all that. So if you know anybody who’s looking for a quiet spot beside the river, well, just you give ’em my name and address.’
‘I will,’ I promised him.
Arthur began to advertise his holiday accommodation, with special emphasis upon the opportunities for angling in this lovely river, and I did pass details to one or two people who inquired. I was later to learn they had been very happy in Arthur’s old tile shed. He sold them fresh farm produce such as milk, eggs, potatoes and vegetables and they thought they were living the life of a rustic yokel. For some townies, the tile shed represented bliss of a kind not associated with city streets and concrete gardens. Arthur had hit upon a winner.
But from a police point of view, the assemblage of total strangers in an alien environment, where they must live and sleep in close proximity to one another, can often lead to problems. Police officers in holiday resorts are well aware of this and although I welcomed Arthur’s initiative, I did wonder when there would be trouble at t’tile shed. I forecast someone going off without paying, or someone getting drunk and smashing Arthur’s furniture or someone fighting with his neighbour over parking places, girl friends or something equally silly.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 1