CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19)

by NICHOLAS RHEA

  In the little black Ford Anglia, we bounced slowly along the unmade track and could see that the surface had been disturbed by the passage of at least two motor vehicles. Although grass was growing down the centre of the track, there were two sets of tyre marks, one the width of a small motor car and the other suggesting something wider, like a small lorry. As we approached the house, the lane passed behind it, and the wider tracks continued into the upper dale. The car’s tyre marks came from a paddock at the side of the house; clearly, a vehicle was normally housed there.

  ‘One vehicle’s gone further up the dale,’ I commented.

  ‘Yes, but there’s no vehicle at the house.’ Sergeant Blaketon pointed to an open gate through which the muddy tyre tracks could be seen in a spacious yard before an outbuilding which served as a garage. The floor of the outbuilding was made from sandstone and it had no door. ‘Maybe our journey’s wasted?’

  ‘The washing’s still out,’ I reminded him. ‘So it seems someone might be here, a woman perhaps.’

  ‘Pull up; we’ll check it while we’re here,’ he said.

  In the yard, we eased the little car to a halt and climbed out. A gate led through a high stone wall to the front of the sturdy stone-built house and, even as we strode towards the door, I could smell wood smoke. It was rising from the chimney. There was a sandstone path along the side of the house and we strode towards the front door which boasted a honeysuckle-covered rustic porch. Rambler roses straggled upon the house wall at either side to form a picturesque entrance.

  We paused for a moment to enjoy the view over what would become the new lake and I could hear a curlew crying somewhere out of sight. But the occupant had either heard or seen our arrival and was waiting at the open door.

  It was Gordon Precious.

  No longer was he wearing a sombre brown suit but was dressed in casual jeans, a bright red T-shirt and open-toed sandals. He looked infinitely more relaxed than when I’d noticed him waiting daily at the bus stop.

  ‘Oh, hello, Gordon,’ I smiled a greeting. ‘What a surprise!’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Rhea.’ He did not use my Christian name, perhaps because Sergeant Blaketon was present or perhaps because he did not know me too well. ‘What brings the Force here? Am I in trouble?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘We’ve been making an inspection of the site of the new dam, we have to prepare plans to cope with emergencies and also consider security of the premises and equipment,’ I added, to make our purpose sound very formal. ‘Oh, and this is Sergeant Blaketon, from Ashfordly.’

  Blaketon held out his hand and Gordon shook it.

  ‘Sergeant, this is Gordon Precious; he used to live in Aidensfield. He works for Ashfordly Rural District Council.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Blaketon very formally.

  I explained to Gordon, ‘We saw the smoke and washing. I’d always thought the cottage was deserted, so I thought I’d better check. I’m always on the lookout for illegal campers, squatters, that sort of thing. I had no idea you were living here.’

  ‘I am here quite legally.’ He smiled briefly. ‘But I’m pleased you came; it shows someone cares about such things. But my life has changed, I’m not with the council anymore!’

  I could sense the relief in his voice and demeanour, as I asked, ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I resigned. I gave up my secure boring job and my pension so I could be an artist. We’ve been here almost a year, Deirdre and me that is.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed you around Aidensfield recently and wondered if you’d changed your job,’ I acknowledged. ‘I’ve seen Deirdre in the Hopbind, but had no idea you’d moved to Ramsdale.’

  ‘It’s a dream come true. I’m a full-time artist at last . . . I had a small legacy from an uncle to help me make up my mind, and that first exhibition sold out of my paintings, with lots of commissions to follow. This place, this new dam, has provided me with a lot of work, people wanting pictures of Ramsdale before and after the reservoir. It was almost a miracle that I got the chance to have this place; it’s as if I was destined to have the house. Swanland offered it for a peppercorn rent because it needed quite a lot of work to make it habitable after being empty for so long. I heard about it through the council, so Deirdre and I sold our house in Aidensfield to generate more capital and that helped towards the upgrading. She’s kept her part-time job at the shop in Ashfordly and at the Hopbind, so that helps to make ends meet while I establish myself. I’ve learned to drive but Deirdre usually takes the car to work and to her bar job at Elsinby. So here I am . . .’ and he spread his arms in a gesture of complete happiness and contentment.

  ‘Gordon, I’m delighted. And are you happy here?’

  ‘Utterly content and totally fulfilled!’ he smiled. ‘I’ve lots of work on hand. I’ve got a studio where I can work, and lots of outbuildings, one of which we can turn into a showroom where I’ll put my finished paintings on show, those which are not commissioned. Our plans are to have that showroom ready when the visitors start coming to visit the new lake. I reckon they’ll do that even during the construction process, long before the water begins to rise. Deirdre might even give up her work to run the place, we could even make teas and sell souvenirs, we’ve room for all that. Postcards, tourist booklets, that sort of thing. We’ve all sorts of plans. But right now, this is a small corner of our heaven, even though there’ll be workmen and noisy machines just along the lane. But that won’t last for ever. I’m thinking in the long term — my future is here.’

  ‘I wish you every success,’ and I meant every word.

  ‘Come in, both of you,’ he invited. ‘I’ll show you my studio. It’s not often I get visitors. How about a coffee?’

  ‘We’d love one,’ beamed Sergeant Blaketon.

  I must admit I had never seen Gordon so enthusiastic about anything and quite clearly, he was a new man; he was his own boss, earning a living from what he enjoyed and from what he was skilled at doing, and there were opportunities for the future, whether or not he found markets for his paintings. There was no doubt in my mind, and in his, that he had made the right decision. We followed him into his studio.

  Gordon, clearly thrilled by his new life, brewed us a mug of coffee, showed us several unfinished works, many lacking the gloominess of his earlier efforts, and then he provided us with a guided tour of the spacious premises. Electricity and water had been installed, along with a bathroom, flush toilet and heating system, although I was pleased the open fires had been retained. Indeed, the one in the lounge was blazing with birch logs, but in general, the house was unspoilt with its stone kitchen floor and ceilings with ancient oak beams. Ramsdale House had lots of useful outbuildings and extensions, ideal for Gordon’s future plans.

  He told us that several outlets in Ashfordly and district, such as stationers, pubs and even a fruit shop, had agreed to display and sell his paintings on a commission basis and he regarded that as important. It meant he had a market for his work well away from home, in places regularly visited by the public.

  I noticed one finished work which depicted Ramsdale Bridge in its present setting and asked for a price; having agreed to it, I reserved the painting and said I would call later with the money. He did say he wanted to produce picture postcard-sized prints from this painting, recognizing its nostalgic effect. But we enjoyed the visit and were invited to pop in any time we were in the dale.

  ‘The coffee pot will always be on,’ smiled Gordon. ‘I welcome visitors when I’m at home, but I’m not in the house all the time. I do get out; I’ve a lot of work in the open air and have several outdoor commissions to complete before the dale is flooded. It’s surprising how many people want to remember Ramsdale as it is now.’

  And so, with a feeling of contentment and perhaps a touch of envy, Sergeant Blaketon and I bade farewell to Gordon Precious and returned to our car. But even as we were opening the doors to climb aboard, we heard a clanking noise which was accompanied by the groaning sounds of a labour
ing, slow-moving and seemingly very ancient motor vehicle.

  ‘It’s coming along the lane from the upper dale,’ Blaketon said. ‘It sounds like an old rattle-trap to me, one that’s on its last legs, or last wheels.’

  I thought it sounded more like two dozen dustbins all being shaken while full of tin cans or perhaps a load of scrap iron being tipped on to another pile of scrap iron or even several old tanks engaged in close combat, but above the ringing noise was the clangorous sound of a vehicle engine. Certainly it was not a healthy engine — it sounded as if it had bronchitis or lumbago or both because in addition to its continuous groaning it also had a croaking wheeze or two plus some worrying hissing sounds interspaced with several intermittent and rather loud explosive retorts. Intrigued by the oncoming clamour and not believing it was one of the construction vehicles, our mutual curiosity demanded we walk to the gate and inspect the oncoming mobile cacophony. To do so, Sergeant Blaketon peered along the lane from behind the security of a high stone wall.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ he cried. ‘It’s Greengrass!’

  Bearing towards us was the battered old truck which Claude Jeremiah Greengrass described as his pickup; it was casting wet mud and earth aside as it ploughed through the soft surface of the green track with its springs and chassis groaning and grumbling as it bore its burden down the dale. Blaketon decided to bring the oncoming noise to a halt so he stepped smartly from behind the wall and into the lane, raising his hand in the traffic cop’s ‘halt’ mode. There was a shriek of brakes, some skidding of wheels and slithering of the vehicle, all accompanied by further banging noises and curses of disbelief from Greengrass, plus a bout of shrill barking from his scruffy lurcher, Alfred.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ bellowed the shaken Greengrass, as he poked his head from the window to berate Blaketon. ‘Jumping out like that . . . it’s suicidal, Blaketon, that’s what it is, leaping in front of a moving vehicle like that. I could have knocked you for six . . . mebbe I should have . . .’

  ‘It’s one way of testing your brakes and observing your doubtful driving skills, Greengrass!’ Sergeant Blaketon was quite unperturbed by Claude’s anger. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘What am I doing? I’m minding my own business, that’s what I’m doing, which is more than can be said about you!’

  Blaketon’s next tactic was to stride purposefully to the rear of the pickup where he inspected the load. I have no idea what he expected to find, but there was a petrol-driven cement mixer, some bags of concrete, a pile of sand, some flagstones, several old oil drums — all empty — some tools, including a pickaxe and mallet, and other assorted paraphernalia. Clearly, Greengrass had either been involved in, or was going to be involved in, some kind of building operation and this intrigued Sergeant Blaketon.

  ‘You’ve not got the contract for building the new dam, I hope,’ was Blaketon’s next attempt to have the situation explained to him. ‘If you have I’ll start making contingency plans to evacuate the entire area because no dam of yours would be safe enough to hold a basinful of water, let alone a Yorkshire dale-full . . .’

  ‘Now I might just have put in a successful bid,’ chuckled Greengrass. ‘I mean, I know this valley well, I’m a landowner up here . . .’

  ‘Landowner? You?’ chortled the sergeant.

  ‘You might laugh, Blaketon, but I own forty acres up there, two fields and a small patch of moorland. Been in the Greengrass family for generations, they have, thanks to the foresight of my great grandad.’

  ‘And now they’re going to be flooded!’ grinned Blaketon.

  ‘No they’re not!’ retorted his old adversary. ‘They’ll be just above the waterline, thanks to great grandad’s foresight. He allus reckoned they’d build a reservoir up here one of these days, he said the land was no good for owt else. So he bought them two fields, up there, on the slopes, and a bit of moorland above ’em. And now they’re mine. My own bit of moor and it’s rich with rare plants at the top end — gentiana nivalis if you must know. That’s how I got the water level stopped from going that far up. Folks don’t worry about farmland being drowned but they do worry about rare plants. And there’s nowt rarer than mine, not hereabouts anyroad. You only find ’em in the Scottish Highlands, and then only a few . . .’

  ‘What’s he talking about, Rhea?’ asked Sergeant Blaketon.

  ‘He’s got some rare plants on his land, Sergeant, valuable enough to persuade the authorities to reconsider their plans.’

  ‘He’s talking gibberish, surely? A man like this couldn’t change the course of a huge project like a new dam . . .’

  But now I knew he could — and that he had! It was now that I remembered that name — it was Greengrass! It was he who had fought the battle of the reservoir, the man known for flower power with his rare plants! Years ago, I had thought the name of the protester was most apt even if I couldn’t recall it. At that time, the name of Greengrass had meant nothing to me because I did not know the fellow, consequently the connection had evaded me — until now. I’d never anticipated I’d inherit the fellow when I secured Aidensfield beat. But Greengrass, a champion of rare flowers!

  ‘Well, to be honest, he’s right, Sergeant,’ I had to say. ‘There is a colony of extremely rare alpine gentians on his piece of land, it was in all the papers a few years ago. The only other known specimens are in the Highlands of Scotland. That’s how the water level was eventually determined.’

  ‘That’s right, Blaketon,’ beamed Greengrass. ‘Seasoned campaigner, that’s me. Plants protected, walls built, caravan sites prepared . . .’

  ‘Caravan sites? Is that what all this rubbish is for, Greengrass?’

  ‘Well, if you must know, Mister Nosy-Parker Policeman, I’m building a concrete platform for my caravan. That’s before I make a site for lots more caravans, for holidaymakers and tourists.’

  ‘Your caravan?’ puzzled Blaketon.

  ‘Aye, my temporary home. while I’m working on the dam.’

  ‘You’re working on the dam?’

  ‘I am, part-time, like, in a consultancy role, as they say. Advising on flora and fauna which is at risk . . . me, being the owner of the land bearing the gentiana nivalis and a successful campaigner for wild life. So I’m going to spend part of my time in a caravan up there, on my land, to keep an eye on things, then I’ll turn one of my fields into a caravan site, with running water, toilets and things, for when the tourists want to come and stay and sail their yachts. And before you ask, this road is a right of way to my property.’

  ‘I don’t believe this, Rhea,’ muttered Sergeant Blaketon. ‘How does a man like him get involved in an important project of this kind? And a caravan site? Who in the name of the Great Jehovah wants caravans blocking these narrow lanes? We’ve enough problems with traffic as it is, without him generating hold-ups with slow-moving mobile homes.’

  ‘His family have been here a long time, Sergeant,’ I tried to reason with him. ‘He’s lucky to have had an ancestor with a bit of foresight.’

  ‘You’ll have to be insured, Greengrass!’ bellowed the sergeant.

  ‘Insured? What for?’ asked Claude.

  ‘Towing caravans to your site . . . you need special insurance.’

  ‘I am insured,’ Claude grinned. ‘For towing all kinds of trailers, horseboxes, sheep trailers, caravans, the lot. Now, if you don’t mind, Sergeant Blaketon, some of us have important work to do. I must be off.’

  And with no more ado, he closed the window of his pickup, rammed the vehicle into first gear and began to move forward. The resonant sounds resumed and continued as the old vehicle rattled and groaned slowly along the rough track as Alfred barked his farewell. With a cloud of smoke from its exhaust, Claude’s old truck disappeared from our sight beyond Ramsdale House but its departing noise lingered upon the cool fresh air.

  ‘I thought this job was going to be a doddle,’ muttered Blaketon, as he returned to the official car. ‘I hadn’t bargained for
the Greengrass element.’

  ‘Won’t he need planning permission for his caravan site?’ I suggested.

  ‘Then I might just lodge an objection,’ grinned Blaketon. ‘On the grounds that visitors might damage his precious rare wild flowers.’

  And thus we concluded our first official trip to Ramsdale.

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed, a clutch of prefabricated buildings appeared on the site near the packhorse bridge in Ramsdale. Vehicles materialized, workmen in hard hats began to congregate and move around the area, private cars began to gather and a huge wooden sign erected upon tall legs near the entrance heralded the arrival of the main contractors. Standing close to the entrance to the site, the sign bore the name: Marchant French Civil Engineering Ltd.

  This was followed by a Doncaster address and telephone number. A site office bore a smaller but similar sign on one of its outer walls and it was to that office that I went upon my first official visit to the site.

  As huge, noisy earth-moving machines were clearing the massive area, I parked my motorcycle against the wall of the site office, tapped on the open door and walked in. I removed my motorcycle crash helmet but the mild dry weather meant I had not donned my motorcycle suit. Thus I was in my uniform which announced to everyone that I was a policeman. As I entered, I noticed, to the right, a small office containing a young woman working at a typewriter and another sitting at a high desk poring over sets of plans.

  ‘Hello.’ The typist noticed me and smiled. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the site foreman, please, if he’s available.’

  ‘Ken Rigby, yes, that’s his office to the left of the door, but he’s over there.’ She pointed in the general direction of some earth-moving activity. ‘He’s the one wearing a white safety helmet, it’s got his name on.’

  ‘Am I allowed to go over there while work’s underway?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, no problem at this stage, you could always wear your own motorbike helmet if you’re worried,’ she smiled.