One thought did occur to me, however. When he had been searched, very soon after a theft had been reported, nothing was found on him or at his home, but I wondered just how thorough that search had been. Suppose, I thought to myself, he actually wore the pants that he stole; suppose he put them on within minutes of stealing them . . . the fact he selected fairly roomy bloomers added to my theory, but unless he was subjected to a strip search, the evidence would not be found. I made a mental note to impart my idea to Sergeant Blaketon should Toby ever be arrested in the future.
There is no doubt Toby’s furtive activities unsettled and embarrassed the ladies of Ashfordly — and for that reason, it annoyed their husbands and boyfriends.
It came to our knowledge that two men, acting together, had stopped Toby during one of his night outings and had threatened him with a thumping if he persisted in his knicker raids, but if Toby had been frightened by their behaviour, it did not stop him. A week later, a pair of knickers vanished from a clothes line two streets away, and two days after that, another pair went from a line on a new housing estate. We were sure other lines were being raided without being reported to us and although we kept Toby under observation in an attempt to link him with any raids, we did not succeed. Toby went walkies and knickers went missing. We think that every time he stole a pair, he used a secret way back to his home, probably crossing fields and using a complicated unlit route known only to himself. Certainly there were nights he was never seen outside the house and yet knickers were stolen on those nights. I felt sure he knew we were keeping him under observation and that he enjoyed dodging our officers.
Our inability to catch him was highly frustrating and I knew that it led to a lot of criticism from the people of Ashfordly. Although we were as anxious as they to catch Toby, there were rules of procedure which had to be obeyed and so his one-man knicker campaign continued. But then the people literally took the law into their own hands. By chance, I was on duty in Ashfordly one Wednesday night in August. It was a hot, airless night with a threat of thunder and a full moon which bathed the town in its glow.
A young, well-built woman living in a house in the middle of Greenfinch Terrace went out moments before eleven o’clock to bring in her washing.
The back door had been standing open while she, her father, mother and two brothers were in the house. In silence, therefore, the girl walked into the garden to collect her things off the line and, to her horror, noticed a man near her washing. She’d shouted and he ran away. She screamed next and her family rushed to her assistance as the fellow, a dark anonymous character in the moonlight, leapt a dividing fence and then galloped headlong down the dark lane behind the terrace. Her menfolk gave chase — and they knew the area sufficiently well to cut off any flight by such a person and so the men had split into three to head off their prey. The girl, in the meantime, checked her washing to find a pair of black silk knickers had vanished. A search of the garden and lane immediately outside failed to trace them.
In the meantime, the thief had vanished too. He managed to conceal himself in the shadows of the moonlight and quickly went to ground among the conglomeration of garden sheds, greenhouses, dustbins, outbuildings and shrubs, clearly content to wait until the men called off their hunt. But they had no intention of calling it off . . . they knew he must be somewhere close and so they waited too, most determined to catch and identify the thief.
They did catch him. As Toby emerged from his hiding place under cover of the extra darkness created by a cloud obscuring the moon, the men pounced on him. Toby did his best to retaliate but stood little chance against the might of the three stalwarts. After identifying him, they beat him mercilessly about the body and head, then abandoned him.
Toby, semi-conscious by this stage, staggered along the lane and emerged onto a quiet road where he was seen in the lights of a passing car. The driver happened to be an off-duty ambulanceman. He stopped, assessed the battered condition of Toby within seconds, and whisked him off to Strensford Hospital, leaving him in casualty as an in-patient. Having ascertained his name and address, the hospital authorities rang Ashfordly Police Station because the attack constituted a serious crime — assault occasioning actual bodily harm at the very least — and they felt we should be informed.
As I was on duty that night, I took the call. The moment I was given the name of the victim, I guessed he had been beaten up by someone who’d caught him nicking knickers. It was probably not the first time that had happened but first there was the humane aspect of the case to consider. I asked the caller if the patient wanted his mother or any relatives or friends informed of his hospitalization. My contact was the ward sister and she told me the patient had declined — he said he’d ring his mother himself, from the hospital pay-phone.
Then, after establishing that Toby was fit to be interviewed, I decided to drive to Strensford Hospital for a chat with him. When I arrived, I was shown him through a window of the side ward where he lay. With dressings on his face, arms and head, he was lying in bed wearing hospital pyjamas and looked a pathetic sight.
‘He’s had a thorough beating, a really tough and sustained battering with fists and feet,’ the ward sister explained. ‘But he won’t tell us what happened or say who did it.’
‘Did you undress him?’ I asked eventually.
‘We did,’ she smiled, as if anticipating my next question.
‘Was he wearing a pair of woman’s knickers?’
‘Yes, he was,’ she grinned. ‘Black silk ones, quite nice actually.’
‘Now you know why he was attacked,’ and I told her about the phantom knicker-nicker of Ashfordly. At that stage I had no idea where or when Toby had obtained those particular knickers, but I felt I now knew where he usually concealed his freshly stolen trophies: he wore them. In some respects, he must have been a quick-change expert, but it was a good means of avoiding detection even if he was searched. Who would think of searching beneath his clothing for such things? The next task was to interview him in the hope I could obtain an admission or explanation.
When I walked into his ward, in full uniform, his bruised features hardened and I knew I faced a difficult task.
‘Toby Hicks?’ I began.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning his eyes away from me as I settled on a chair at his side. I gave my own name and explained that the hospital had called the police due to his injuries, then asked again whether he wanted me to inform his mother or anyone else. He shook his head.
‘I’ll do it, when I’m ready,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll let me out soon, so they said.’
‘You know why I am here?’ I put to him.
‘Because I got beat up,’ he said. ‘But it’s no good asking me, I have no idea who they were or why they did this to me.’
‘Did they steal anything?’ I asked.
‘Money, you mean? No, nothing. They just thumped and kicked me, then ran away.’
‘Where was the attack?’ I asked.
‘The back lane, just behind Greenfinch Terrace,’ he said.
‘What time?’ was my next question.
‘I dunno, not exactly. Half past ten maybe.’
‘It was dark, then?’
‘Yes, but there was a moon. It wasn’t completely dark.’
‘So what were you doing there?’ I put to him.
‘Walking, just walking. There’s no law against that. Getting fresh air, away from the busy streets. Lots of people walk along that lane, Mr Rhea. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’
‘I am not suggesting you were. I am just interested from a professional point of view. I will make sure I patrol that lane more diligently in the future. We don’t want it to become known as a place where people can be attacked. Now, the attackers. How many were there?’
‘Three or four, I can’t be sure.’
‘And who were they, Toby?’
‘No idea,’ he said.
‘Can you describe them?’
‘No, I can’t. It was dark . . .’
‘Look, I’ve no idea. No idea at all. Just three men, or four, I’m not even sure about that. I want nothing doing about this, and I don’t want my mother told what’s happened . . . so can we just leave it, forget it . . .’
‘An assault of this gravity is a serious matter,’ I said. ‘If you wish to make a formal complaint . . .’
‘I don’t,’ he snapped. ‘Forget it, can’t you? I want nothing done, nothing at all. I will never be a witness against my attackers, that’s if they are ever found, so there’s no case, PC Rhea. No case at all.’
‘But there might be a case of larceny, Toby, the stealing of women’s underwear from clothes lines. You know there’s been a long-running series of such thefts in Ashfordly because you have been interviewed many times. Now, I know you were wearing women’s knickers when you arrived here, black silk ones. I wonder where you got them? And I wonder if you got chased away by the loser’s husband or boyfriend or father . . .’
‘I am saying nothing about that. There is no law to say a man cannot wear whatever he wants, PC Rhea. If I want to wear women’s silk underwear, then there is nothing to stop me.’
‘Right — except that it’s a crime to steal them.’
‘Then you prove they were stolen!’
I guessed, and he knew, that the girl who’d lost this particular pair would never complain because it would implicate her menfolk or friends if they were involved in the beating-up of Toby Hicks. In spite of my endeavours, Toby refused to describe his attackers, he would not admit any thefts of ladies’ knickers and so, once again, we were unable to proceed against him. Afterwards, we never did prove the pants he wore that night had been stolen because no one came forward to report the theft.
Toby returned home later the following day, but, meanwhile, the town had heard of the attack upon him. I think his assailants had quietly spread the news that they’d caught him stealing from the clothes line and made sure everyone knew the identity of the knicker-nicker. However, no one admitted the assault upon him and due to his refusal to make a formal complaint, we could not press proceedings nor even make official enquiries.
But Toby received a further punishment for his crimes because the local children began to sing the rhyme:
‘Toby Hicks, Toby Hicks, gets his kicks from ladies’ knicks.’ His mother died within a few months of that incident, after which we learned from a friend that she had always known of Toby’s fetish. Whenever Toby returned home with women’s knickers, she would discover them in his bedroom and throw them into the dustbin. That prompted him to go out and steal another pair.
Soon after her death, Toby moved to Middlesbrough where he secured a post in yet another department store, this time as deputy manager of the clothing section.
His new responsibilities included lingerie and so he could indulge in his passion without fear, buying his undies during the course of his work instead of having to steal them.
With his departure, the Ashfordly knicker thefts came to an end but I must admit I wondered why, if he worked in a department store at Ashfordly, he never bought his special pants there instead of risking so much by stealing them. If the purchases embarrassed him, he could always have told staff members he was buying them for his mother — unless, of course, she preferred men’s undergarments.
4
And thou shalt have none to rescue them.
Deuteronomy 28.31
Properly organized and equipped search and rescue teams which respond to people lost or hurt on the moors or mountains were a fairly recent innovation during my time at Aidensfield. Prior to their creation, people lost or injured on the North York Moors had to depend upon the skills of the local police forces or fire brigades with or without a host of valuable volunteers. Volunteers who did turn out ranged from the Territorial Army to the Boy Scouts by way of helpers from the nearest village or those who offered their services when the rescue attempt extended over a long period accompanied by lots of publicity.
I think it’s fair to say they did a good job because most rescues were successful, whether they comprised a hiker with a broken leg or someone who had got lost either in a fog or through being unable to understand their map — if they’d taken the trouble to carry one. It was amazing how many people embarked on long expeditions in hostile country without a map, and lots did not wear suitable shoes or clothing nor did they carry food or drinks. As a consequence, a lot of numbskulls had to be rescued.
In time, of course, formal search and rescue organizations were established complete with radios, modern equipment and highly trained members. The emergency services — fire, police and ambulance — worked closely with them and their creation coincided with the increased leisure enjoyed by the great British public.
Increased leisure with a corresponding increase in the ownership of motor cars meant that larger numbers of visitors flocked to remote and mountainous areas of this country, one of which was the North York Moors. It was by then designated a National Park, but a lot of people seemed to think it was a town-like park with paddling pools, swings and roundabouts, and birds in cages. It was astonishing how many had no idea that this National Park was a huge wild piece of England with rivers, lakes, moorland heights, dales, a coastline and everything that such a beautiful landscape can contain, like castles, abbeys, pretty villages — and people who actually work and live there.
One effect of this expansion of leisure time and the facilities to enjoy it was that more people drove into the countryside from the towns and cities which in turn meant there were more people to get lost or injured — which they did with predictable frequency. At times, the fledgling search and rescue services were hard-pressed to keep pace with the demands placed upon them, and it is sad to record that lots of hours were wasted looking for people who were either ill-prepared for the task they wished to undertake, or who were never really lost. We had to contend with instances where foolish people told friends they were taking a particular route and who then took a different one while obtaining overnight accommodation instead of going home. They made these changes without informing their friends and families who, when their pals did not return at the appointed time, naturally thought they were lost or injured.
Many a search has been conducted in blizzards and dangerously hostile conditions while the object of the search was sitting in a pub over a log fire with a pint in his hands. There has long been a suggestion that idiots and fools whose actions result in a call-out should pay the bills incurred by the rescue services. I would subscribe to that.
Genuine calls for assistance were never criticized and it was through a succession of injuries and persons getting lost in fogs or blizzards that the Ashfordly Search and Rescue Organization was formed. It was inevitably known by its initials — ASRO — and comprised a volunteer force of men and women with the necessary local rural knowledge combined with fitness, rescue skills and bags of common sense. They included mountaineers, hikers, ex-military types, Forestry Commission workers, game-keepers, doctors, nurses, police officers and others who would respond to emergencies if and when they arose. The secretary was Mrs Gillian Wetherby, an efficient and very charming woman in her thirties who was employed by the National Park Authority; she could be contacted at her office during the working day, and at home during the weekends and evenings. She had established an early-warning telephone system where one of her members on call rang three others when a call-out occurred, thus enabling a large group to assemble within a very short time. Fortunately, the National Park offices were spacious enough for a spare room to be set aside for accommodation of ASRO’s equipment. ASRO was fortunate to have a base in such a place and in an area which was central for most of the searches.
Usually, it was the police, ambulance or fire brigade who initiated the call-outs after establishing, wherever possible, that a call was genuine. Sometimes, though, a person would make direct contact with ASRO, conseq
uently the police or other emergency services were not necessarily involved with every call-out. And sometimes those calls produced interesting and curious results.
One of the early requests to ASRO came direct from a member of the public instead of through the emergency services. It happened on a hot August day when the moorland about us was bathed in shimmering heat. A well-spoken, middle-aged woman called Frances Piper staggered into a lonely farm on the moors wanting urgent help for her aged and exhausted companion. Her female companion had collapsed in the overpowering heat and could walk no further. Miss Piper arrived to find that the only occupant of the farm was a very elderly lady in a wheelchair. The other family members were harvesting nearly two miles away and so Miss Piper asked if she could use the telephone to summon help.
Fortunately, the farm in question, High Dale House at Briggsby, had a list of emergency numbers pinned to the wall above the telephone. They included vets, doctors, nurses, shops, garages, and among them was the number of the recently formed Ashfordly Search and Rescue Organization. It was included because lost people often called at the remote farm seeking help. Quite understandably, Miss Piper rang ASRO and Gillian Wetherby responded. I was later given an account of this rescue by Gillian, hence my knowledge of events.
According to Gillian, Miss Piper, in tears, had rung to say her ageing companion, Mrs Robinson, had become totally exhausted in the heat. There was no shelter on the exposed moors and she could go no further; bravely, she had walked until she had dropped from sheer exhaustion. Miss Piper had managed to find a beck from which a drink of cool water had been obtained for Mrs Robinson, and then Miss Piper, a 62- year-old spinster from Huddersfield, had ordered her distressed companion to stay where she was until help arrived. Miss Piper had managed to find High Dale House from which to call for help. In responding to this call, Gillian Wetherby was aware of the dangers that could result from untreated sunstroke and heat exhaustion and realized she must act quickly. She asked for specific directions to the scene and managed to obtain a map reference which would take her volunteers straight to the casualty.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 7