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

  ‘But I can’t see they’d allow him to be buried there now, not where the water will cover him . . . I mean, people wouldn’t want to drink water that had covered his remains . . .’

  ‘There’s a lot worse things to be found in drinking watter, Mr Rhea, to say nowt of sheep droppings and dead rabbits . . . and besides, he’d be in a coffin, well down in t’ground, I’d say, below t’watter mark. Anyroad, he allus did like folks to have a drink with him, and I’d say he’d give a right good flavour o’ malt whisky to any watter that got into him. I hope there’s not going to be a fuss about it: he was so very particular about where he was going to be buried. Anyroad, you chaps found a skeleton there, didn’t you? That awd cork seller. I mean, if you hadn’t found him, we’d have been drinking watter that had washed his bones and never thought no more about it. What’s good for a cork seller’s good enough for poor awd Warwick. One corpse down there’s no worse than any other, and at least Warwick had a bath every day.’

  It occurred to me that if Johnny Corker’s bones had never been found, we should have happily drunk the water which would have covered him; we would never have known of or worried about his bony presence in our water supply. But if Warwick was buried at the bottom of the reservoir, I could see an enormous fuss being made. The problem was we’d all know that Warwick was flavouring our water. Even if his coffin was encased in concrete or lead and buried deep enough to be safe from the reservoir water, there would be vociferous objections. I could see that the interment of Warwick’s mortal remains was going to be more troublesome than the disposal of noxious waste.

  Later that day, I went to Ashfordly to attend the post-mortem and it revealed that Warwick had died from natural causes, a savage heart attack.

  The coroner authorized the release of his body so that the funeral could go ahead. Before contacting the undertaker, though, I popped into Price and Ridley’s offices in Ashfordly and asked to speak to Benjamin Price. He was able to see me and I told him about Warwick’s sudden death and explained what I had done so far, only referring to the matter of the funeral wishes once I had covered all the other points.

  ‘He was very emphatic about the scene of his burial,’ said Mr Price.

  ‘But you can’t just bury people where they want, can you?’ I asked. ‘I thought they had to be buried in consecrated ground?’

  ‘Not everyone is a Christian, Mr Rhea, and there is no reason why people can’t be buried in woods, fields or even in their own back garden, provided the necessary planning permission has been obtained.’

  ‘Planning permission?’ I must have sounded amazed.

  ‘Yes, and Warwick did obtain the necessary permission before he died, a long time ago in fact. I have a copy in his personal file. It got overlooked in the deal when the land was sold — I think it will be interesting to see what transpires now. Warwick was quite happy for his mortal remains to be placed in something waterproof and weighted on the bottom of the reservoir, although that was not his original intention, of course. He wanted to lie beneath the sky, among the heather and with the wide open spaces of the moors around him. But he knew about burials at sea and felt that if he lived to see the reservoir full, then a burial-at-sea type of funeral might be available. But that is not necessary — there is no water in the place, so he can be buried in the ground long before the water rises to cover him. His chief desire was to be near the beck and close to Ramsdale Bridge.’

  ‘But surely, there’ll be objections from the public!’ I stressed.

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ and Benjamin Price chuckled at his own joke.

  I realized, of course, that the funeral arrangements of the late Warwick Humbert Ravenswood were not my concern; my duties ended with the issue of the coroner’s pink form which authorized the handing over of his remains to the undertaker. Because Mr Price confirmed there were no relatives, I passed the pink form to him in his capacity as Mr Ravenswood’s solicitor, and he said he would attend to the funeral arrangements.

  Thanks to local gossip and speculation about the final resting place of Warwick Humbert Ravenswood, the local paper got hold of the story, and so did the nationals, radio stations and television newsrooms. The tale of the man who wanted to be buried in the reservoir was wonderful and it was during the time of that speculation that I paid one of my routine visits to the site. I found Ken Rigby in his site office and, as one might have expected, our conversation turned to Warwick Hubert Ravenswood.

  ‘Oh, he came to see me several times,’ said Ken. ‘Marched in here with his leather suit and talked about his grave, wondering if he would occupy it before the water began to rise. Quite a character, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You’ve probably read the fuss in the papers,’ I put to him.

  ‘I have, but they haven’t seen his will. Our contract solicitors tell me that its phraseology did leave a bit of leeway,’ Ken told me. ‘On one of Warwick’s visits, I told him we were moving the old packhorse bridge to a new location on top of the dam. He seemed relieved about that, pleased it was not going to be destroyed.’

  ‘And did he mention the site of his grave?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He told me his will says he wanted to be buried in Ramsdale close to the old packhorse bridge and within sight of the beck. Most important, he said, was that his grave was close to the bridge. What we can do is to make a space for a grave without covering him with water. We can place him in the dam itself, in the front, away from the water and encased in local stone. Our architects have considered this and it’s not difficult to amend their design. His grave would be directly below the old bridge at its new location and it would be overlooking the beck as Warwick wished.’

  ‘Brilliant, but it’ll take a long time. It means his funeral will have to be delayed.’

  ‘That’s no problem, he can be kept in a fridge until we’re ready.’

  ‘It might take three or four years,’ I reminded him.

  ‘So, no problem. Besides, the ice will keep his whisky cool!’ laughed Ken. ‘But we’ve talked about it and the mortuary will store his body for as long as necessary. My firm will pay the costs and we’ll even pay to have an epitaph carved into the face of the dam!’

  ‘Do his solicitors know about this?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I rang them and they’ve been to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Good, that’ll prevent all the local speculation about Warwick-flavoured drinking water!’

  I was to learn later that a large space would be reserved for Warwick in the front-facing reservoir wall, well above the water supply. It would be a tomb-shaped hole in the wall into which the coffin would be placed and it would be sited directly below the relocated Ramsdale Bridge. A memorial to his mysterious life would be inscribed on the face of the dam. It meant that Warwick would lie in peace hard by his favourite old packhorse bridge and overlooking Ramsdale Beck, just as he had wished.

  His whisky-flavoured body and the water which would accumulate nearby were, in a rather odd way, a fitting reminder of the sad fate of the unknown man who sold bottle corks.

  Chapter Six

  The man’s desire is for the woman;

  but the woman’s desire is rarely other

  than for the desire of the man.

  SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772–1834

  With the passing of the months, Phase I of the reservoir construction was completed. This had resulted in the removal of all water from the area which would accommodate the foundations of the dam and Ramsdale Beck being rerouted and piped away until its flow was required to fill the new reservoir. Phase II, the vital work of construction of the dam’s foundations, could now commence.

  During this preparatory work, relations between the construction workers and local residents continued to flourish. Apart from regular sporting events, dances were sometimes arranged for Saturday nights in selected village halls and Claude Jeremiah Greengrass had obtained a billiards table which he had installed in one of his outbuildings. I have no idea where he found i
t — to my knowledge, none had been reported stolen, and so it seemed a legitimate purchase. He arranged snooker and billiards contests and let it be known that his intention was eventually to transfer the table to his new caravan park beside the lake. He was even talking of arranging bingo sessions in a specially constructed hall at his proposed caravan park and had visited Gordon Precious to ask his advice about the procedures necessary to obtain a refreshment house licence from the council. Gordon, being an ex-employee of that council department, had obligingly given Claude the required information.

  If granted, the licence would allow Claude to sell food and non-alcoholic drinks to the public from his premises beside the new lake — but that was a long-term dream without any current sign of reaching fruition.

  From a police point of view, there was surprisingly little trouble at any of the joint events, even though it had taken some time for the feel-good factor to manifest itself. Most of the initial antagonism had evaporated with the local business community exploring possibilities of gaining benefit from the presence of the new lake. Swanland Corporation, however, had had the foresight to purchase most of the surrounding land and their attitude to the commercialization of the shoreline had not, at this stage, been revealed. Nonetheless, they did own land with enormous potential and entrepreneurs were actively seeking permission to rent sections of it.

  Apart from Swanland Corporation, the only other person who now owned land along the shoreline was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, and he was already formulating his own plans.

  But there was one man who had not gained anything — not initially — from exploitation of the forthcoming reservoir. His name was Dave Jessup and for more than twenty years, he had been gamekeeper on the estate which had sold the land upon which the reservoir was being created. Although Ramsdale Estate had been gradually reduced in extent over the years through the sale of farms and parcels of moorland, it was the sale of Ramsdale itself which meant a full-time gamekeeper was no longer viable. With the arrival of the contractors, therefore, the unfortunate Dave lost his job.

  I’d had very few dealings with Dave Jessup because most of Ramsdale Estate lay beyond the boundaries of my beat. The only portion on my patch was that which was now being turned into a reservoir. I did know Dave by sight, however, and we had met on one or two occasions, usually after receiving intelligence reports from York City Police, the West Riding of Yorkshire Constabulary or Middlesbrough Police that gangs of poachers were heading in our direction with dogs, vans and weapons ranging from pickaxe handles to shotguns.

  At the age of forty-seven, therefore, a rather shy and reserved bachelor with no skills other than keepering, Dave had been unable to find another suitable post. The estate had allowed him to continue the rent-free occupancy of his tied cottage either until he found work or until Easter next year, whichever came earlier. He also lost use of the estate’s Land Rover — a blow to someone living in such a remote area. The vehicle had been allocated to him for his work, but in spite of that loss, he was given permission to take rabbits, hares and other game which he could sell to earn himself a few pounds until he found a job. The estate did offer to find him casual work on its few remaining farms should the opportunity arise, but this was a very unreliable way of earning an income.

  It was made clear, however, that the eventual intention of the estate owners was to sell Keeper’s Cottage, thus Dave’s occupancy was not permanent. Its address was Ewedale, a neighbouring valley. Located at the end of a long unsurfaced track some distance from the site of the dam, it was gloriously situated on the edge of the moor and it had a small paddock through which flowed a rock-strewn stream.

  Access could be gained from the tarmac road which led from Aidensfield into Ramsdale and there was never any question of the cottage being submerged because it was in a neighbouring dale a mile or more from the reservoir. It was the sort of place that would appeal to anyone wishing to live in monastic solitude and it might have a future as a holiday cottage for romantically minded townspeople.

  When Dave lost his job, therefore, he had very little to occupy him. He spent much of his time wandering around Ramsdale watching progress at the reservoir and he was always accompanied by his border collie, Jess. As time went by, the pair became a familiar sight, both to me and the construction workers. Whenever I encountered Dave, I would stop for a chat and, although he was very reserved and quiet, he did seem to welcome news from Aidensfield and district. Although Aidensfield was a very short distance away, it was one of the places he seldom visited, his shyness perhaps being a factor. He wasn’t the sort of man to venture into a pub alone or to strike up a conversation with a stranger. With no transport other than his two legs, he was very isolated in his idyllic moorland retreat and I gained the impression he had resigned himself to a life without a full-time job and without any close human companion. In spite of that, I never once heard him express any antagonism towards the contractors. He did not blame them for his plight — rather like the birds he had once cared for, he took each day as it came along, never looking back but always coping cheerfully with the uncertain future.

  Then one morning, as I was patrolling Aidensfield on foot, I learned that Ted Fryer, the butcher’s delivery man and van driver, had been rushed into hospital with a suspected heart attack. He’d been very fortunate because when he collapsed in the village street, his plight had been witnessed by the district nurse, Margot Horsefield. She had ministered to him until the ambulance arrived and he was now in the intensive care unit of Strensford District Hospital. Anxious to express my concern. I popped into the butcher’s shop to convey my sorrow at the news; the butcher’s wife, Sally Drake, was serving at the counter. In her mid-fifties with a happy, round face and cheerfully plump figure, she was clad in a blue and white striped apron and was busy slicing bacon for a lady customer.

  ‘If it’s Arthur you want, Mr Rhea, he’s out with the van,’ she told me as I strode into the shop to the jangling of the warning bell above the door. ‘You’ve probably heard about Ted?’

  ‘Yes, just now,’ I said. ‘I came to see how he was.’

  Sally continued to slice the bacon as her customer waited patiently and said, ‘He’s pretty poorly by all accounts. It’s going to be touch and go.’

  ‘Does his wife know?’ was my next question.

  ‘Yes, she’s at the hospital now, at his bedside,’ Sally explained.

  ‘So everything that can be done has been done?’ I asked, wondering if I could be of any use to his family.

  ‘Yes thanks. Margot was there when he collapsed, luckily; she was wonderful. Now, if you want to see Arthur, you’ll have a long wait.’

  ‘It’s not important, not now,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Arthur’s had to take the delivery van out — I don’t suppose you know anybody who’s looking for a driving job, Mr Rhea? You get about the place; you know what’s going on . . . it might not be permanent though.’

  By this stage, she had weighed and wrapped the bacon for her customer, taken the money and rung it up in the till. The customer left with a smile as Sally said, ‘’Bye, Mrs Dewhurst. See you next week.’

  ‘What sort of job is it?’ I asked. ‘Is it just a case of driving the van and delivering, or is there some butchering to do?’

  ‘Driving and delivering mainly. The meat’s all cut up ready when it’s loaded, although there might be a little bit of cutting up to do. Chopping chops, slicing beef, that sort of thing, but that’s something any capable person can do with a sharp knife. You don’t need to be a trained butcher to do it, in other words.’

  ‘I’ll keep my ears open,’ I assured her.

  ‘Don’t make it sound too grand a job! If Ted recovers, he’ll probably want it back because he’s got a few years to go before he retires . . . but there is a temporary job waiting for the right person, somebody who’s trustworthy. They’ll be handling cash, Mr Rhea, and meeting a lot of lonely women whose husbands are at work.’

  I was about to say I couldn’t t
hink of anyone who was suitable when I remembered Dave Jessup. He could drive, and I was sure he was trustworthy with both money and women. I knew he’d welcome something to occupy him and I guessed he’d welcome a regular income.

  Driving the butcher’s delivery van might just suit him, and while on his rounds, it would enable him to meet people. That might help to conquer his shyness.

  ‘Do you know Dave Jessup?’ I asked her.

  ‘The gamekeeper; he lost his job with the building of the reservoir.’

  ‘A quiet man? Very shy and very decent, I’d say. Always dresses in plus fours and green tweeds? Works for Ramsdale Estate?’

  ‘That’s him. Well, he lost his job with the estate. They’ve sold so much land in recent years there’s not enough left to keep him in work. He’s out of a job, Sally. And he can drive.’

  ‘I have met him once or twice; we’ve sometimes bought game from Ramsdale Estate. He sounds just what we need. Will you be seeing him?’

  ‘I’ll be visiting Ramsdale today. If he’s in, I’ll get him to call on you.’

  ‘And I’ll tell Arthur — he’ll be pleased, he hates driving the van around the houses!’

  Later that morning, I drove into Ramsdale and made time to visit Keeper’s Cottage. I found Dave in his garden and he invited me in for a coffee. After chatting about the weather, the recent developments at the dam and some of the wildlife he had watched that morning, I mentioned Ted Fryer and the van-driving job. I could see that Dave was interested so I advised him to visit Drake’s Butchers as soon as he could — I qualified that by saying he was expected, and that no butchering experience was required.

  Dave smiled and assured me he did know a bit about gutting rabbits and hares, dressing game and poultry and even killing pigs. It was evident that dealing physically with strings of sausages and black puddings held no terrors for him, neither did cutting chops, slicing bacon or quartering poultry. He added he was due to visit Aidensfield that afternoon to do a spot of shopping for groceries — he’d been promised a lift in one of the dam contractor’s vehicles which made a daily run to Aidensfield to collect provisions. He assured me he would contact the Drakes.