Dave Jessup was given the job and, very soon, we became accustomed to his cheery wave as he motored around the villages, visiting each in turn to sell from Drake’s Butchers van. Tuesday mornings and Saturday mornings were his days for Aidensfield, with a weekly visit to Ashfordly market every Friday and to neighbouring villages on other days. After a couple of months, I chanced to see Arthur Drake and he was full of praise for Dave, saying he was a natural for the job and in spite of his quiet manner, had a wonderful way with the customers. All felt they could trust him and although Ted had been released from hospital, it seemed his heart condition was such that he would never return to work. He’d suffered a serious stroke while in hospital, and it had paralysed his right arm and right leg. It seemed Dave Jessup had a job for the rest of his life.
As I patrolled my beat, I would come across Dave touring his patch; sometimes, we would stop for a brief chat and he never lost an opportunity to thank me for putting his name forward, but I said the reason for his success was entirely due to him.
As time went by, however, I began to notice that the butcher’s van would spend slightly more time than normal at a certain Aidensfield house. It was inevitable that, in time, this would produce some speculative gossip, as indeed it did.
The house in question was large and detached in spacious grounds and I knew the occupant well. She was called Eileen Bissett and she would be in her mid-forties. Usually, she was dressed in wellington boots and an old coat because she was invariably involved in work outside the house. She kept a veritable menagerie of animals and domestic fowl. To my knowledge she kept two horses, a donkey, several dogs and cats, some pet rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, ducks, hens and geese, and even a peacock. People took sick and injured birds and animals to her for treatment — in the short time I had been there, she’d dealt with several barn owls which had collided with cars and broken their wings, a Canada goose whose wing feathers had been clipped by vandals, a fox lamed by a snare, a badger that had gone blind and a peewit that had somehow lost a leg. I had dispatched several patients to her over the years, many the result of road accidents.
Her rough mode of dress tended to conceal her charms but she was a lovely woman with a fine figure and masses of blonde hair set off by a delightful and open personality. I had often wondered why she had never been tempted by a handsome man but wondered if it was something to do with the amount of livestock under her care, or perhaps because she had spent most of her younger days caring for her sick mother, now deceased.
The house was called Crag House, Aidensfield, and it had belonged to her parents, her late father being an industrialist specializing in chemicals whose fortune had been made on Teesside. Eileen, his only child, could live comfortably from her father’s legacy.
I was to learn that it was her love of wild creatures which had led to her lengthy meetings with Dave. Someone had brought an injured but very tiny bird of prey to her for treatment and she’d been unable to identify it. Knowing of Dave’s past work as a gamekeeper, she’d invited him into the outhouse which contained lots of wire cages and he’d identified the bird as a merlin. Thereafter he had popped in to help with the bird’s progress and he’d shown a deep interest in the other creatures under her care. From those moments, there developed a romance.
I do not claim to be the first to identify the liaison as romantic, but I do know that Dave bought himself a small second-hand Ford which was sometimes parked outside Crag House at weekends and during the early evenings. On occasions, I noticed it on the moors, invariably empty as two distant figures strode through the heather or it might be parked at the riverside while Eileen and Dave took her dogs for a romp in the countryside. For a long time, each of them was very shy about being seen together in public. I must admit I did notice their shyness — if Dave happened to be working in the butchers shop and Eileen came in, she would blush a deep crimson and never talk to him; if they met in the street, they would smile and walk past each other coyly . . . but to anyone with half an eye for the obvious, they were in love.
They were two very shy people experiencing the first flutterings of romance even if it had come rather late in their lives. Alone upon the spectacular heights of the moors, they could be happy with one another and safe from the passing crowds. That’s when I’d often noticed them, hiking over the moors and through the heather in all weathers, two very happy people with a common interest.
And the inevitable happened — they decided to get married. The whole village turned out to wish them every happiness and Dave moved into Crag House, the first time he had ever lived in a village. He did not give up his delivery job, not wishing to give anyone the impression he had married Eileen for her money, but I do know they lived happily ever afterwards.
And so the reservoir opened a whole new world to Dave Jessup, even if it took a while for that bliss to materialize, and it also made Eileen a very happy and contented person.
But it was their romance which made me realize there was another romance which was blossoming right under our noses — and for a long time, none of us had noticed.
* * *
It is difficult to be sure when first I became aware of the flutterings of romance between Deirdre Precious and Ken Rigby. It began shortly after the arrival of the contractors in Ramsdale but I don’t think Deirdre and Ken had met before then. Likewise, I don’t think Ken’s presence in the dale was the reason for Deirdre’s ready consent to occupy the remote Ramsdale House, even if it was close to Ken’s office. Furthermore, it was another coincidence that Ken obtained lodgings at the Hopbind Inn where Deirdre worked as a barmaid. In spite of these coincidences, I am positive the arrival of both Ken and Deirdre in Ramsdale, at around the same time, was not planned. but it did produce a drama which gradually unfolded before me. As I became increasingly aware of the couple’s closeness, I began to wonder whether I was imagining or even fearing something deeper. Was their friendship platonic or was there some powerful sexual chemistry between them? Or was I reading too much into the moments I had seen them together?
On the occasions I had seen them with one another, the pair had always been within the public gaze. There was nothing furtive about their friendship and I’d never had any occasion to believe they were meeting one another in secret. In fact, it was practically impossible for them to avoid meeting each other at the Hopbind Inn. Ken slept in an upstairs room and had his breakfast and evening meal on the premises, the latter in the bar area when the place was busy. With Deirdre behind the bar, it was logical they would meet and chat. It was equally logical that, as the pub’s most regular regulars, they would become friends. Likewise, Ken’s work made it feasible they would meet in Ramsdale, perhaps while Deirdre was enjoying a walk or if Ken was taking a break from his daily toil. Because they were acquaintances, it was quite normal for them to stop and chat if they encountered one another in the remoteness of Ramsdale. They were two people whose circumstances had placed them in close proximity; that was a common enough occurrence among many men and women, one which was not guaranteed to lead to anything deeper.
I did realize, of course, that I knew very little about Ken Rigby’s private life. I had no idea whether or not he had been married although I had never seen any photographs of children in his office. Men who worked away from home did take family mementos with them; Ken had not done so. Furthermore, I had noticed he did not leave the area at weekends, a fact which indicated he did not have anyone awaiting his homecoming. I did wonder if he had a settled home somewhere — perhaps he lived permanently out of suitcases, or did he have a small, empty flat to call his own? Another possibility was that he lived with his parents. In short, I had no idea of his personal circumstances but I had no intention of prying into his private life because that was nothing to do with me. Apart from my contact with him at his office, when he was always pleasant and helpful, I realized I knew nothing about him, except that he liked horse-racing. He couldn’t have selected a more horsy inn as his temporary home and in the North Riding o
f Yorkshire there were lots of opportunities to enjoy the sport. There were courses at Thirsk, Catterick, Redcar and Thornaby, along with others nearby at Ripon, Wetherby, Beverley and York. Knowing so little about him, I wondered how much Deirdre knew.
In such cases, we can recall little things which were important but which, at the time, we dismissed as inconsequential. It was like that during the early months of their affair — looking back, for example, I had noticed that as they chattered in the bar of the Hopbind, their heads were often very close together and they would chortle at private jokes as they kept their companions from joining their closed world.
There were times Deirdre was unaware that a customer needed serving while Ken would suddenly realize his entire attention had been upon Deirdre to the exclusion of others around him. I’d also noticed he openly blushed when someone made a reference to the way he gave Deirdre his undivided attention. In my visits to the pub, whether on duty or off, I had noticed all these things and more, but for many months I didn’t pay any critical attention to what I was observing.
As the months passed, however, other circumstances began to materialize. Because I was a constable patrolling his patch at all hours of the day and night, I did become aware that Ken and Deirdre were indeed having a secret affair. My suspicions had been aroused by several apparently insignificant occurrences, such as seeing both in a café in Ashfordly or spotting them together in a car heading out of Elsinby, but first positive evidence came in the autumn. It was the Saturday of the September race-meeting at Catterick Bridge and I was one of the contingent of police officers detailed for racecourse duty. My first spell was in the car park, always a frantic time as motorists whizzed in and expected to be shown into a space within the twinkling of an eye. Then, shortly before the first race, I had to move into Tatters all’s for general uniformed patrol duties, keeping an eye open for pickpockets and other wrongdoers.
It was while standing on the steps of the grandstand, admiring the tick-tack men and watching the crowds trying to decide where to place their bets for the 2.30, that I noticed Ken Rigby. He was standing in front of a bookie’s pitch, poring over a list of runners.
I was on the point of approaching him when I noticed he had a woman companion — I hadn’t seen her initially because she was standing a few yards away, one of the crowd. When he raised his eyes to check the latest betting, though, she went towards him and linked her arm through his. It was then that I realized it was Deirdre Precious.
Even at that stage I was not absolutely sure they were doing anything illicit, although I had no knowledge of an arranged outing to the races from the Hopbind Inn. From my elevated position on the steps of the stand, however, I had a clear view and it was obvious they were very close friends indeed. Deirdre was clinging to him like a limpet. I scanned the crowd for racegoers from the Elsinby area, but found none. Ken, with Deirdre hanging on to his arm, had an animated discussion with her, following which they went towards one of the bookies where Ken placed a bet. Then I lost them in the crowd — I think they went to the bar prior to the start of the race.
I never saw them again during that race-meeting and wondered if they’d noticed me in my uniform. If they had, would they want to keep out of my sight? I thought little more about it until the following Thursday. I undertook another of my patrols around Ramsdale, calling as usual at the site office where Karen produced a coffee. Ken was not around. He was meeting subcontractors somewhere in the basin which would contain the new reservoir. I left without talking to him.
This meant I had time to visit Gordon.
I had a reason for this call because my parents had expressed interest in his work and I was thinking of buying a watercolour for their Christmas present. Gordon kept a stock for sale, so this visit, in the last quarter of the year, was opportune. He was indoors when I arrived, working in oils. This was a fairly new venture and he was standing before a large canvas depicting a moorland scene rich with the purple heather but imbued with the sombre darkness which was almost his trademark. There were times I wished he’d introduce more cheerfulness into his paintings. But this was not a reservoir scene and I got the impression he was pleased to be doing something different.
I watched for a few moments, marvelling at his ability to depict something as detailed as heather with little more than a few deft brushstrokes. He offered me a coffee but I declined, having recently enjoyed one in the site office, and I said I had no wish to disturb him at his work. He continued to paint as I stood at his side, and when I explained my requirements, he directed me to a small back room whose walls were full of his work, some framed and some not, some in watercolours and a few in oils but all depicting moorland scenes or the reservoir development.
I spent some time viewing them and eventually settled for an oil which showed Ralph’s Cross among snow on the moors above Rosedale. He was asking £30 for it, not expensive in my opinion, and I returned to his studio to ask him to reserve it. I wanted Mary to see it before finalizing the purchase. As I entered, he was laying down his brushes, saying he wanted a break. Then he pressed me to join him for coffee. I did so.
Like two old friends, we talked about nothing in particular, our conversation ranging across his work and mine. Gordon laughed about his youthful exploits when rock-climbing and hiking in the Lake District and I responded with tales of mishaps with my succession of old cars. We discussed the reservoir, the moors in autumn, the reduction in tourists as the autumn deepened and the state of crime and vandalism in the country in general. In joining him, though, I had made a vow not to mention I’d seen Deirdre at Catterick Bridge races. I had no wish to stir up trouble between him and his wife — in fact, he might have been fully aware of her outing.
But suddenly, he started talking about Deirdre, praising her and expressing devotion and gratitude for her support in his endeavours to become an artist. I have no idea what prompted him to suddenly mention her but I could see the emotion in his eyes as he lauded her. Clearly, he worshipped her and, as his praise continued, I could see that, without her, he would not have abandoned his safe, dull job for his happy, but uncertain future. As he enthused about her, I did wonder whether he had a suspicion she was cheating him; it might explain his wish to defend her in this way.
‘She’s working longer hours now,’ he told me. ‘But I don’t mind. I appreciate there’s little to do in Ramsdale, and I like her to enjoy the extra cash. I’m earning enough to pay the rent now, and the household expenses, and I can keep myself in the materials. That’s quite an item. Now that I’m earning on a fairly regular basis, though, it means Deirdre can afford nice clothes — she went to Harrogate with some friends last Saturday afternoon, looking at clothes. She didn’t get anything but I’m happy that she feels able to do that.’
The significance of his words did not register at first, and it was only after I had left him to ride home for lunch that I realized Deirdre had lied to him about her outing last Saturday. She had not gone to Harrogate with friends, she’d gone to Catterick Bridge races with Ken Rigby. That she had lied to Gordon was an indication that her friendship with Ken was more than just a friendship. I was now faced with some kind of a dilemma — should I tell him what I suspected?
My years of police experience warned me that I should not tell him. I must not get involved. It was no business of mine. The couple were not committing any criminal offence and this was essentially a domestic matter. Much as I felt a deep sorrow for Gordon, much as I feared that his new world would crumble to dust in the very near future, I must not be the one to shatter his dream world. That must come from Deirdre, if indeed she would ever tell him. Maybe she would keep the affair a very close secret?
I left Gordon’s picturesque home in something of a daze, my real concern being for him and his future. He had staked so much upon his new life and he had come to depend so much upon his wife. And now she was cheating him.
I told myself I had not caught them in flagrante delicto. My suspicions, I tried to argue with mysel
f, were based on little more than a chance sighting at a race-meeting in full view of the public — plus a lie told by the lady in question. Had she some other reason for not telling Gordon she’d been racing? Was he against gambling, for example, or did he believe horse-racing was cruel? As I pondered these events, I found myself willing Deirdre not to do anything which would hurt Gordon.
I tried to make myself believe her actions were not adulterous, that whatever she was doing at the races was not hurting Gordon. But I knew I was being silly. I think it was during that ride along the peaceful and beautiful lanes of lower Ramsdale, that I recollected all those previous moments when I’d seen Deirdre and Ken together. His blushes, their physical closeness, the coach trip to Thirsk Races . . . all done with people around. All innocent?
When Mary asked why I was dithering over my lunch, I deliberated whether or not to tell her. But if I did tell her, she would experience the problem of having to keep quiet about it and so I decided not to reveal names. I did, however, tell her of my discovery. I said I had very good reason to believe that a local woman was cheating her very nice and vulnerable husband, and asked Mary whether she thought I should alert him. Without flinching, she advised me against it.
‘Nick, you come across a host of secrets in the course of your work, you must keep most of them to yourself. So don’t get involved. Much as you feel some kind of responsibility to the husband, let them sort it out for themselves.’
It was wise advice and I accepted it.
A couple of nights later, I called at the Hopbind Inn and Deirdre was serving behind the bar as usual. The place was moderately full with a buzz of cheerful conversation, and I could see Ken at the far end of the counter. He was sitting with a plate of chicken and chips before him, tucking in with gusto. Deirdre was not talking to him on that occasion; instead, she was listening to a man telling her about his backache.
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 11