Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “I’m not sure,” I had to admit. “I know anthrax can be caught by people.”

  “Aye, well, it’s matterless now. You go and stick them signs up and Ah’ll stop folks tramping down my lane. You’ll ‘ave called in t’ Ministry vets, have you?”

  “I have, and they’ll be here as soon as possible. It might be a while, they’ve other suspected outbreaks.” I could see moisture in his eyes. His banter had concealed his genuine feelings, I felt, but now he would be alone once again with his thoughts. Before I left, I handed him his Form A, and then turned away to post the notices on his various entrances, eight in total. He was a sad and lonely figure as he waited with his gun in his hands, guarding his gate against ordinary people and a virulent disease. As I left, he opened my envelope, read the contents of the Form A and stuffed it into his pocket.

  When I returned about forty minutes later, he was still there, pacing up and down as he looked out for the ominous approach of the vet’s car.

  “You go down to the house, Reg, I’ll wait here,” I offered.

  “Nay, lad,” he spoke softly. “Ah couldn’t. T’ wife and our lad are so upset … they’d only upset me. Ah’d allus be wanting to look in on me cows … ”

  “It’s not confirmed,” I tried to sound optimistic. “It could be a false alarm.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, Ah doubt it. It’s all around is that disease; somehow, yan o’ my cows ‘as picked it up … it’s t’ end, Mr Rhea … t’ end … twenty years work … all for nowt … ”

  “Don’t upset yourself,” I did not want to see this stalwart, tough farmer reduced to self-pity or tears, but he needed to talk to somebody. I happened to be that somebody; we were alone at the gate in our ungainly protective clothing, and we could look down the long straight track which led across his fields and into his compact clutch of farm buildings.

  “Twenty years,” he repeated, almost to himself. I looked at him. A sturdy Yorkshireman, turned fifty I guessed; he had the round, weathered face of his profession, a face which had seen little else but long hours and hard work over those years. But that work had produced some pride, too, family pride I guessed.

  “Twenty years, it’s takken me to build that herd. Pedigree Friesians, they are. Eighty milkers, Ah’ve got. Eighty and Ah started wi’ nowt.”

  I glanced at the tall post which stood beside his main gate; it bore a small black and white sign which proclaimed that this was the home of the West Gill Farm Herd of Pedigree British Friesians.

  “Ah did it for t’ lad, for our Ted. Ah needed summat to pass on, Mr Rhea. He’s grown up wi’ them Friesians and knows ‘em like they was baims, Mr Rhea. We all do, every one on ‘em. Me an’ all, and t’ wife. Seen ‘em come along from calves, most of ‘em. Bought some and bred some; fussed over ‘em, made sure they were just right. Bedded ‘em down at night, seen to ‘em when they were badly … best Friesians for miles, they are.”

  He was staring into the distance as he talked, not looking at me and not looking down upon his farm in the shallow valley. He was gazing beyond all that, reminiscing and pouring out his heart in his own simple way.

  “And now it’s all gone … they’ll be killed, all of ‘em … put down like rats. Ah’ve been so careful, Mr Rhea, with foot and mouth about, taking care, watching where Ah bought things, where Ah went, disinfecting … ”

  “Don’t,” I said uselessly. “You’re only making things worse. It might be a false alarm … ”

  I tried to give him a little hope.

  “Nay, Ah knows foot and mouth when Ah sees it. Yon awd cow ‘as it, there’s nowt so sure … ”

  He went on to say how, as a young farmer, he had recognised the potential in a herd of Friesians; He’d seen them as ideal cattle for his plans, cattle which would produce first-class milk. They were useful beef animals too. So years ago, he decided to build himself a pedigree dairy herd, his own very special effort. And his idea was to introduce his only son, Ted, to the skills of dairy farming so that he, in turn, would continue with this herd. He wanted Ted to improve and expand it.

  “Ah’d got all soorts of ideas in me head, Mr Rhea. Ah was gahin ti keep better records of ‘em all, go for bigger milk yields an’ that … ”

  It was good to hear him talking and I allowed him to ramble on, sometimes asking what I thought was a sensible question. I learned a good deal about Friesians that afternoon, but it also taught me enough about foot and mouth disease to make me realise the end had come. I didn’t hold out much hope for his herd now, not after listening to his knowledgeable description of the disease and its drastic effects.

  It would be over an hour later when a small car eased to a halt on the verge near the gate. A tall young man in a smart lovat-green suit climbed out and announced that he was Alan Porrit, a vet from the Ministry of Agriculture. After shaking hands and expressing his sorrow at the awful news, he announced his approval of our immediate actions and

  donned his own waterproofs.

  After swilling himself in the disinfectant, he said, “Come along, Mr Lumley. Show me where to go.”

  “Nay,” said Reg. “Ah can’t. Ah just can’t go down there. Not now … you go and get it ovvered with.”

  Tears welled in his eyes and he rubbed them roughly with his fist.

  “Ah ‘m being right daft and sentimental, but you go. Ah can’t … ”

  “I think you should, Reg,” I said. “You’ll be needed down there. I’ll stay here.”

  After some gentle persuasion from us both, Reg joined the vet and I watched them walk into the distance. Their sorry figures seemed to diminish as they approached the farm, and then, as they reached the paths which divided one towards the byre and the other to the house, they halted.

  From my vantage point on the lane, I could see them in deep conversation, then Reg began to shake his head. I saw him turn and walk towards his house. He left the vet standing alone. The vet turned on his heels and strode purposefully towards the byre which contained the suspect cattle.

  As Reg approached the back door of his house, his hands were over his face. He was sobbing like a child. Someone inside opened the door; he went in and the door closed behind him.

  That epidemic of foot and mouth disease cost the country over £200 million. No one knows how much it cost Reg Lumley.

  Chapter 9

  Is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?

  ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744)

  *

  In the great and pleasant rural landscape which surrounded Aidensfield during my time there, serious crime was practically unknown. Certainly, there were many minor thefts, most of which were never officially reported, and I’m sure there were motoring offences which never came to my notice. Other breaches of the law, such as drinking late in the country pubs or petty acts of damage or vandalism were dealt with in the spirit of the law rather than by the letter of the law. A quiet word in the right ear usually prevented further trouble.

  It would be wrong to claim that Aidensfield and district was totally free from crime. It was not; every so often, an outbreak of criminal activity would occur, usually of the kind described as petty damage, theft or the unauthorised borrowing of cars. There were some housebreakings, shop-breakings and poaching, and if we suffered three crimes in the district during a month, the local papers described it as a crime wave.

  These waves were very tiny, therefore, more like ripples on a village pond than the kind of waves that swamp ocean liners. Nonetheless, they did cause distress to the victims and this in turn caused anxiety among the villagers. From my point of view, these crimes, minor though they were, did involve my colleagues and me with extra duties. There were observations, report writing and court appearances, but I did not mind. In fact, I enjoyed the experiences they provided, albeit with deep concern for the victims, for the investigation of crime is fascinating. To investigate and detect crime is probably one of the major reasons for anyone joining the Police Service.

  As time passed, and as each minor brea
ch of the criminal law was dealt with, I did begin to wonder if a major crime or series of crimes would ever occur on my patch. I began to feel that this period of peace was too good to be true, and then, in the spring of one year, I was faced with an outbreak of arson.

  Arson was, and still is, one of the most serious of crimes and the legal definition then said that arson involved the unlawful and malicious setting fire to buildings, including churches, warehouses, railway stations, shops and sheds, as well as crops, vegetable produce, coal-mines and ships. It was then categorised as a felony both at common law and by statute. The common law crime was confined to houses and their outhouses, while the statutory crime, featured in the Malicious Damage Act of 1861, involved a detailed list of the objects of the kind listed in the above definition. I remember that in those days, it was not legally possible to charge anyone with arson to a motor vehicle or television set because new fangled contraptions of that sort were not mentioned in that 1861 Act — other possible charges such as malicious damage to personal property had to be considered.

  In the weeks following that first act of arson there developed a series of troublesome fires, all of which involved either haystacks or hay in bams. I could discern no pattern, except that the attacked bams or stacks were usually in isolated locations. Some, however, were in the centre of our market towns and as time went by, I began to despair of ever catching the fire-raiser. Some of the fires were on my beat, and although all the local officers were involved in the investigation, I felt it was my duty to arrest the culprit. The battle both to halt and deal with the villain became a personal challenge.

  News of the first fire came in the early hours of a Saturday morning in April. Just after 1 a.m. a passing motorist noticed flames licking the asbestos roof of a Dutch bam. He roused the farmer and his wife, who called the fire brigade by dialling 999. As a matter of routine, I was informed by our Control Room and clambered from my warm bed around quarter past one.

  Rather than waste time climbing into my motorcycling outfit, I used my own car to rush to the fire. It was at Low Dale Farm, Briggsby, less than ten minutes drive from Aidensfield. The farm, a small concern with livestock, poultry and arable land, was owned by Arthur Stead and his wife, Helen. When I arrived, the Fire Brigade was already there. Hoses were spraying hissing water into the fierce centre of the fire which had a very secure hold. Men were working in the heat of the flames as the bales of hay glowed in the night. The flames cast frightening shadows upon the house and nearby buildings and showered dangerous sparks across the dark countryside. Most of the flames licked the exterior surface of the hay, while a stiff night breeze carried sparks and more flames into the interior of the bam. Small new fires were breaking out all over the place; it looked like a lost battle.

  With old raincoats over their nightclothes and Wellingtons on their feet, Arthur and Helen, both in their late fifties, were using hayforks in an attempt to pull untouched bales clear of the inferno.

  Helpers had arrived from neighbouring farms and cottages. Men and women were working around the bam, removing bales by hand. After announcing my arrival to the Fire Brigade, I used the Steads’ telephone to relay a situation report to Control Room, and then joined the rescue effort. I began to haul bales from the bam and throw them clear of the spreading blaze.

  One problem lay in a stiff easterly breeze which made the hay glow deep within the stack as the intense heat consumed the dry material. We tried to hoist some burning bits well away from the bam, but the speed of the fire’s consumption beat us. Gallons and gallons of water were sprayed into the depths and we did manage to remove a considerable amount of uncharred hay.

  During a lull, I spoke to Arthur.

  “We’ve got a fair amount out, Arthur,” I commented, wiping my dirty hands across my face. We were all black from the smoke and sweating profusely in spite of the chill night air.

  “T’ cows won’t eat it, Mr Rhea, even if it ‘as been saved. It’ll smell o’ smoke, you see … might mak bedding or summat … ”

  “You’ll be insured, are you?” I asked.

  “Aye, but cows can’t eat insurance money; they need fodder. It’s a while yet before we can turn ‘em out to fresh grass.”

  I knew that the local farmers would rally to help poor Arthur with his forthcoming feeding problems; they always did when anyone suffered a loss of this kind. But we had fought a losing battle. As fast as we removed bales, others burst into flames; it seemed as if the blaze had crept deep inside the stacked hay and I wondered if our removal of the bales loosened the packed hay and permitted the air to enter. This would fan the flames. As things were, it wasn’t long before the entire contents of the bam were a mixture of searing heat, smoke and untidy charred hay.

  We kept an eye on the drifting sparks but they disappeared across the fields and missed the buildings. As dawn came to Low Dale Farm we could see the full extent of the devastation. The bam was burnt to a shell, some roof portions having collapsed when the supports gave way in the fire. It contained a jumbled mass of charred and useless hay which was still smouldering. It would continue to smoulder and smoke for days. All around were piles of hay which had been saved by the volunteers, hay which the cattle would not now touch because it was tainted by smoke. The entire area was saturated with dirty water and we stood in a sea of mud and straggly strands of hay.

  Arthur and Helen gave us all a breakfast of ham and eggs with copious quantities of hot tea. As we stood outside and I gathered the information necessary for my Fire Report, one of the senior fire officers took me to one side.

  “Constable,” he said, “we feel this is a suspicious fire. We can almost certainly rule out spontaneous combustion which, I’m sure you know, causes a good many stacks and bam fires. That usually occurs within three months of a stack being built — this one is eight months old. Fire from spontaneous combustion works from the inside and moves to the exterior. This started on the outside walls of hay, so it looks deliberate. The seat of the blaze was on the outside of the hay, at the east end of the bam, low down upon the stacked hay but just off ground level. There was a platform of hay left where some upper bales had been removed, and the blaze was creeping up the outside walls of hay when our men got here. I am confident that spontaneous combustion is not the cause and that an outside agent is responsible. It could be an accident, but I’m calling in our experts for their opinions.”

  This meant I must now inform the CID who would liaise with the Fire Brigade and a formal investigation would commence. It would be backed by statements from witnesses plus any scientific evidence salvaged from the scene. Inevitably, poor old Arthur and his wife would be under suspicion of having deliberately set fire to their hay for insurance purposes, and I knew the investigation had to be thorough, if only to exonerate them. I was sure they would never resort to this kind of evil. My witnesses were Arthur and Helen themselves, several fire officers and the motorist who had noticed the blaze, but none could provide any real evidence to show how the blaze had started. It remained a matter of opinion and speculation, but continued to be ‘suspicious’.

  A week later, there was a second blaze. Although this one did not occur on my beat, it was only four miles away at Seavham and the circumstances were very similar. Around two o’clock in the morning, Ronald Thornton and his wife Alice, who farmed at Home Farm, were roused by barking dogs. Wary of intruders, they had peered out of their bedroom window to see one of their haystacks ablaze. It was in the comer of a field, away from the buildings, but was valuable for livestock feeding.

  I noted the date and time, and although I did not attend this one I did later contact the Fire Brigade to ascertain whether it could be linked to the blaze at Low Dale Farm. Other than to say the cause was not spontaneous combustion, the Fire Brigade would not commit themselves. Nonetheless, the similarities included an isolated haystack, an outbreak in the early hours of a Saturday morning, and the suspicious nature of the blaze. The Thorntons were not insured, I learned, which somewhat added to th
e mystery.

  If they had not done it deliberately which seemed most unlikely, and if it was not an accident (there were no chimneys or exposed flames nearby), and if it was not spontaneous combustion, then who had done it and why? These were the questions we had to answer.

  I tried to find links or more similarities with the Stead fire, but failed. My avenues of investigation included bad business deals; possible fraud; family feuds; jealousy, petty spitefulness or malice; the work of a pyromaniac and a host of other domestic and business likelihoods. To my knowledge, no known arsonist lived in the area.

  The next blaze was three weeks later, on a Wednesday night at Crampton. It was discovered earlier than the others, around eleven o’clock. A neighbour had smelled smoke and had investigated the cause only to discover bales of hay well ablaze in the barn of Throstle Nest Farm. This bam was close to the centre of the village and, happily, there was no strong breeze to fan the flames or to disperse the dangerous sparks among the houses.

  Mr and Mrs Bill Owens farmed Throstle Nest; their splendid farmhouse occupied an elevated site surrounded by its spacious land, and a pair of Dutch bams stood at the bottom of a lane. This lane formed a junction with the road which led into the village, and their neighbour, Jack Winfield, lived in a cottage near that junction.

  Jack’s swift action and the rapid response by the Fire Brigade kept damage to a minimum, but the familiar story emerged. It was another suspicious fire, so like the earlier ones. As the Brigade fought the fire and helpful villagers removed bales of unbumt hay, the drifting smoke penetrated many nearby homes. The smell would linger for days afterwards. During a lull, I spoke to Jack Winfield, a retired farm worker.