CONSTABLE
AT THE
DAM
A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors
NICHOLAS RHEA
Constable Nick Mystery Book 19
Revised edition 2021
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 1997
© Nicholas Rhea 1997, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-762-6
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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Chapter One
We must grant the artist his subject, his idea, his donnée:
our criticism is applied only to what he makes of it.
HENRY JAMES, 1843–1916
Gordon Precious was a very quiet and unobtrusive man, the sort you’d never notice in a crowd or at a party and it was some time before I knew his name or realized he was a resident of Aidensfield. I think I became aware of him around the time I heard news that a dam and reservoir were to be constructed in Ramsdale. That is a beautiful but remote valley some two miles north-west of Aidensfield and the links between Gordon Precious and Ramsdale became increasingly dramatic during my passage of time as the village constable. Indeed, those links continued virtually throughout the whole of my service in Aidensfield.
So far as Gordon was concerned, he was not the sort to come to the notice of the police in any form, good or bad, and I did not encounter him during my leisure moments either. One of those anonymous people who travelled to work daily from Aidensfield to Ashfordly, he queued for Arnold Merryweather’s bus every morning and returned at teatime to spend his leisure periods indoors or perhaps in his modest garden. Although I’d noticed him at the bus stop, it was a long time before I knew Gordon’s name because he took no part in village activities. He never volunteered to work on committees or help with social events; he never popped into the pub for a drink neither did he join the cricket team or play billiards in the village hall.
I’d never seen him drive a car or ride a bike, nor did he attend any of the churches or even walk a dog. Even so, not once did I regard him as snobbish or aloof — I concluded he was a very shy, reserved and modest gentleman.
In his early forties, of average build with wavy brown hair and glasses, Gordon would wait for the bus in his dull brown suit and would never talk to anyone. That’s how I first noticed him, a solitary brown figure who could be observed in all weathers waiting to catch Arnold’s morning omnibus — provided Arnold had managed to get his creaking old bus to start.
Because I noticed Gordon so regularly at the bus stop, my interest gradually increased. I did not know what he did for a living or how he occupied his spare time and I never saw him at any other place in the village. I never even noticed him walking to or from the bus stop! Because I saw him there and nowhere else, he became something of an enigma and I wondered where he spent the rest of his time or how he earned his living. I thought there must be more to life than waiting for Arnold Merryweather’s bus.
Such inbred curiosity is part of the work of a village constable; it is a means of getting to know members of the community, a method which fills a mental filing system which may or may not have some future use. As my interest deepened, I accepted I had no professional reason to probe the life of the quiet brown man and must admit it was with some surprise I discovered he had a wife. It had taken some time to establish a link between the inconspicuous bus-catcher and the rather glamorous blonde woman I’d often noticed around Aidensfield.
I’d also seen her serving behind the bar of the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby. This is precisely the kind of gradually acquired local knowledge that a village constable assimilates during the course of his work; it is not regarded as spying upon individuals but simply the result of the observations of events which are part of one’s daily routine. Any villager would acquire similar knowledge.
My first positive link between the blonde barmaid and the brown bus-stop man came with an item of found property. Mrs Precious — Deirdre to her friends — found a small blue leather purse lying in the street at Aidensfield and, after fruitlessly enquiring in the post office after a possible loser, she brought it to me. It contained £5 in mixed notes and coins, but there was nothing to indicate the name of the loser. Deirdre opted not to retain the purse at her home because she worked and was away from the house a lot of the time; her husband was out all day too. If the loser was a pensioner who urgently wanted its return, then it would be better left at my police house. I agreed and entered the find in my Found Property register. I told Deirdre it would become her property if it was not claimed within three months, but as things worked out, an elderly lady in the village did report the loss that very same day. I was delighted that the purse and its contents were so rapidly restored to the grateful loser and I supplied her with Deirdre’s name and address. It was my small talk with the friendly Deirdre during that small incident which established that Mrs Deirdre Precious was the wife of Gordon, the man at the bus stop. I discovered they lived at Glebe Cottage, Aidensfield and that he worked as a clerk for Ashfordly Rural District Council, dealing with the issue of licenses of various kinds.
I learned that Gordon caught Arnold Merryweather’s bus to work every morning just before half past eight. That’s when all the miscellaneous snippets of information gleaned during my duties came together. As I mentally noted the man at the bus stop was called Gordon Precious. Deirdre told me he had a good steady job with security for life, even if it did lack any glamour, excitement or prospects for promotion. She added she had a part-time post in a ladies’ fashion shop in Ashfordly in addition to her bar work and she used the family car to drive herself to her various jobs. And so, in that rather oblique way, I discovered the identity of the quiet man in the brown suit who so diligently patronized Arnold Merryweather’s bus service.
Deirdre was a most attractive woman and I guessed she would be in her late thirties. She had a mass of blonde hair, fine legs and a very well-endowed figure which she usually managed to display to advantage. She was blessed with an outgoing personality which complemented her buxom appearance. Some might say she dressed rather flashily, or in the manner of a woman five or ten years younger than she really was, or that
she used too much make-up and nail varnish, or that she wore skirts which were too short even by sixties’ standards while revealing a pair of fine thighs — but few could deny she was very glamorous and personable.
The next link in the story came through an art exhibition at Ashfordly Town Hall. Organized by the local arts club, it featured the work of artists who were living or painting in the Ashfordly area.
The exhibits were chiefly watercolours and oils, albeit with a few select sculptures, and the exhibition had been staged to run from noon one Friday in March until 5 p.m. the following Sunday. As I was off duty that Friday evening, with our four children being cared for by one of their grandmothers, Mary and I went along to the preview. Upon entering, I was quite surprised to see Deirdre Precious, dressed to kill, standing before some of the paintings on display. She was accompanied by the quiet man in the brown suit whom I’d noticed at the bus stop, the man I now knew to be her husband. That evening, however, he had discarded his suit and was almost unrecognizable in his casual sweater and jeans. I went across to thank Deirdre for handing in the purse she’d found and explained how the delighted loser had been reunited with her property. Deirdre said the old lady had dropped a postcard through her letter box by way of thanks. It was after that initial chat that she introduced me to Gordon, her shy husband. That was our first meeting.
‘Gordon, this is PC Rhea, and Mrs Rhea.’
‘Call me Nick,’ I invited, smiling at the reticent man as I held out my hand for him to shake. ‘I’ve seen you at Aidensfield bus stop.’
‘Yes, I work in Ashfordly, at the council offices.’ He spoke very quietly, taking my hand in a firm grip.
‘I’m Mary,’ smiled my wife, emulating me by shaking Gordon’s hand and then his wife’s.
‘You’ve come to buy something, or just to look?’ I opened the conversation with that not-too-inspiring sentence.
‘Oh, neither,’ oozed Deirdre, full of pride. ‘No, Gordon is an exhibitor, these are his work, those watercolours behind us. He’s exhibiting twelve moorland scenes which depict the seasons or the moods of the moor.’
‘Oh, I see! I had no idea you were an artist, Gordon.’
In this way, I gave him an opportunity to speak for himself. ‘Well, I’m not really,’ he blushed. ‘I’m just a clerk, but I do like to paint, it is my hobby, you see, but Deirdre thought I should try to sell some of my work.’
‘He wouldn’t have bothered if I hadn’t persuaded him . . .’ she said with considerable force.
‘I’m not one for pushing myself forward,’ he tried.
Deirdre interrupted. ‘Our house is full of his watercolours, hundreds of them, so I thought it was time he made himself known. He spends all his spare time painting. I told him to join this exhibition; his work’s as good as any of the others, if not better. He has ambitions, you know, to be a full-time artist . . . he just needs a push in the right direction. I know he’s good enough. The trouble is he won’t take the plunge or even try to sell his work. Sometimes, I wish he’d have the nerve to give up that dead-end job with the council and try to earn his living by painting. He’s wasted there; he’s talented. He’s good enough to be a professional, don’t you think?’
‘If that is what he wants, then I am sure he will succeed,’ I said cautiously. ‘And yes, I do think his work is very good.’
Although I am no expert in any kind of art, I was not lying.
I did like Gordon’s work but I knew it was very difficult to earn a living as a full-time artist, irrespective of one’s talent. But it was not impossible. Talent combined with a businesslike approach meant a good living could be made from the arts. If Gordon did launch himself as an artist, Deirdre might have to find more lucrative work to support him, but I reckoned she was the sort of woman who would do that. During that modest exhibition, I found myself admiring Gordon’s highly atmospheric paintings. Some were very sombre or even dark and gloomy but he had a wonderful way of capturing the silent threat and utter stillness of the remote moorlands. He was able to capture their ability to terrify or surprise those who ventured upon their brooding and bleak wastes. Some of the skies he portrayed were overtly hostile with their deep grey clouds and lack of sunshine; in some ways, his work could be quite frightening and I wondered if it revealed anything of his deeper personality, moods or frustrations.
After studying several watercolours, I reserved a fine painting of Ramsdale as viewed from High Cross Rigg. It depicted Ramsdale’s famous stone cross as it stood among purple heather in the foreground. In the distant background was the shallow-bottomed dale beneath one of Gordon’s dark and brooding skies, while the slender silver ribbon of Ramsdale Beck twisted along the floor of the dale. Alders and willows lined its route and a sunbeam highlighted the pale limestone of the ancient pack-horse bridge which spanned the beck. That beautiful bridge, known as Ramsdale Bridge, carried the centuries-old track which wound its way around the dale head. Prominent in the centre of the picture was a solitary deserted house.
It stood empty beside the track as it meandered into the upper reaches of the dale. A sturdy former farmhouse, it had an air of neglect combined with character and strength. In that remote moorland dale beneath a dark sky, the house appeared as a haven of refuge from any oncoming storm. That was something Gordon managed to capture to perfection.
I liked the painting for the atmosphere it created and it continues to hang in our lounge. It is also the reminder of a memorable sequence of events which developed and concluded during my tenure at Aidensfield.
* * *
It would be about a year after that art exhibition that all rural constables in Ashfordly Section were summoned to a meeting in the police station at 10 a.m. one April morning. It was a Wednesday and we were to be addressed by Sergeant Blaketon on what he would only describe as a matter of some importance. At the appointed time, I went along and joined my colleagues. Alf Ventress had managed to produce ten cups of a peculiar light greyish liquid which he claimed was coffee. Most of it was sloshing around in cracked mugs which the prisoners used if and when we placed any of them in the cells, but on the credit side Alf’s concoction was warm, wet and welcome.
We squeezed into Sergeant Blaketon’s cramped office; there was nowhere to sit so we stood in an untidy group while he counted heads and ticked names off his list. Satisfied that we were all present, he settled in his chair, placed his elbows on the desk, linked his hands as if in prayer and looked sternly at us.
Clearly, he was about to impart words of great wisdom.
‘I have called this meeting for a very good reason,’ he began. ‘We, that is all the police officers of Ashfordly Section, are to be tested in a way that befalls few sections as small as ours. The population of Aidensfield is to be greatly increased by people whom I fear may not prove very savoury. These incomers will be living, working and enjoying their leisure time among us for several years to come.’
‘Aidensfield, Sergeant?’ I was not sure I had heard him correctly. To my knowledge, there was no planned housing development in the village.
‘Yes, PC Rhea. Aidensfield. Your village, your patch. The rural beat for which you are responsible.’
‘So what’s going to happen?’ I interrupted him.
‘I am coming to that, Rhea, if you will permit me. The cause of this change is a new reservoir. Those of you who bother to read the papers will have seen references to this project — it has been under discussion for several years and has been subjected to all manner of objections from naturalists, farmers, landowners and others. But, stage by stage, every objection has been dealt with and the outcome is that the reservoir is going to be built, along with a new dam. Work will begin immediately and the official announcement will appear in tomorrow’s Press. That means we can expect a lot of fuss, perhaps with demonstrations by conservationists and even rent-a-mob, and an inevitable increase in our workload. But it is too late for further objections at this stage. Any demonstrations will be a waste of time, Ramsdale Bridge Rese
rvoir will be built. There is no doubt about that.’
He paused for effect, then continued, ‘It has been commissioned by Swanland Corporation to supply their future needs both for domestic use and for industry. It will be constructed in Ramsdale, or to be precise, in upper Ramsdale. As I said just now, that lies on Aidensfield beat. There is a natural depression in the upper reaches of Ramsdale, the underlying strata of which is ideal to support a lake of considerable size and volume. A large dam will be built across the narrow section of the dale to contain the flow from the moors. That’s what’s going to happen. The work will take several years — five years has been quoted as a likely timescale but it might take longer if the workmen indulge in their current hobby of striking because they don’t get a tea break or if the water’s cold in their toilet washbasins. On the other hand, the construction period might be of shorter duration if no undue problems arise and if the workforce actually do what they are paid to do when they are supposed to do it. Men, equipment, earth-moving machines, diggers, lorries, cranes and almost anything and anyone who’s needed to dig large holes and shift mountains of earth, along with temporary site offices, toilets and perhaps some living accommodation for the workmen, will be moving into the area immediately.’
Although I had long known of the proposed reservoir, I had no idea it was so close to being built; furthermore, I had no idea how it would affect my hitherto peaceful rural life. But Sergeant Blaketon was continuing and he provided some idea of the problems I might have to face.
‘There is no doubt construction workers will descend in large numbers upon our pubs and upon unattached young women during their free time. They’ll have money to spend and will not be afraid to spend it locally, even if much of it is recycled through the pubs to be eventually flushed down the drain. Some cash might find its way into the shops and betting offices, so there could be benefits to the local economy. Because these men will have more spending money than our local lads, I fear the locals will not take kindly to well-paid incomers attracting the more impressionable of the available women. Fights will surely follow; maidens will fall to the temptation of lust disguised as love. It is a sad world for such young ladies, but life can be cruel at times. Our duties will have to take into account additional work from a variety of sources and I fear we are heading for a busy, but rather interesting, time.’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 1