I must admit that when the Seventh Woodhouse Guides arrived, I wondered whether we would experience any memorable incidents. I paid my usual visit to the site, met the leaders and wished them a happy stay in Aidensfield but other than noticing the Guides in and around the village during the first few days, there were no incidents of concern to me. Wednesday, however, was adventure day. The entire troop was divided into its various patrols, each supervised by its own patrol leader. They had to equip themselves for a long day walking in the woods and on the moors, including the preparation of the ingredients for a meal they would take with them to cook during their outing. The objective was to find their way to a given point — in this case the Hermit’s Cave in Ghylldale — and then return to the camp by using a simple map. Along the route would be a series of challenges and adventures, such as lighting fires with natural materials to cook their meals, measuring the height of trees, identifying birds, animals and plants seen en route, finding their way by using a map, compass and natural features, seeing which patrol could find and identify the most kinds of fungi, crossing streams by building bridges or making stepping stones and then writing up the entire exercise, with drawings where appropriate. A spirit of competition was introduced by challenging each patrol to bring back the most species of tree leaves, all correctly identified, and to sketch all the different types of stile they crossed during the day.
Outings of this kind were hugely popular and by ten that bright and sunny morning, the excited girls were heading for the hills. They returned tired and happy, all with interesting tales to tell and it was the Woodpecker Patrol, led by 14-year-old Susan McNeil which emerged winner of the day’s competition. Its members were each given a small certificate to record their success and after an evening meal, the youngsters went to bed early, some of them very tired indeed.
Next morning, Thursday, Susan was missing. When the other girls in her tent awoke, they noticed the empty sleeping-bag but initially were not concerned. Susan usually woke first and went outside for a wash and to the toilet, then set about rousing the others. In this, she was a good patrol leader, caring for the others, helping them where necessary, but ensuring that all obeyed the rules of the camp. But when her Second, Ann Knowles, also fourteen, went to find her, Susan was nowhere to be seen. Ann, slightly concerned, went to tell Susan’s mother, Sylvia.
Together, Sylvia and Ann made a search of the campsite, examining all the places likely to have been visited by Susan, including the other tents on the site, but she was nowhere to be seen. The other girls were roused and asked if they’d seen her but none had. Some thought she might have popped into Aidensfield to get some breakfast provisions from the shop and so they waited for half an hour, just in case, but Susan did not return. One of the adult helpers drove into the village in her own car to make a brief search, but there was no sign of Susan. By this stage, almost an hour had passed with no indication of her whereabouts. She had not left a note to explain her absence, nor had she told anyone else where she was going.
It was then that an increasingly worried Sylvia McNeil hurried to my house and knocked on the door. It was 8.30 and I was already up and dressed. I took her into my office and Mary produced a cup of fresh tea from our breakfast pot. After listening to Sylvia’s account of events up to that point, including Susan’s role as patrol leader for yesterday’s adventure day, I asked, ‘So what is she wearing?’
‘Oh, I’ve no idea, Mr Rhea,’ she admitted. ‘Is that important?’
‘Well, it would be useful to know if she’s wearing her nightclothes or her day clothes, her Guide uniform, for example? I have to consider whether she’s gone voluntarily, perhaps just taking an early morning walk or exploring, or whether we have to consider something more disturbing.’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn’t check her bedspace.’
‘I need to know so I’ll come to the camp with you,’ I said, and within minutes was heading for Hagg Bottom. I drove the short distance in my Mini-van while Sylvia returned to the site in the car she had borrowed. When I entered the campsite, I saw the girls were hanging around in small groups, talking among themselves in low voices and there was a prevailing air of bleak anticipation. During Sylvia’s absence, word of Susan’s disappearance had reached everyone and although a careful search of the site had been made, no sign of Susan had been found.
It took a few moments to establish she had dressed herself in her Guide uniform, a blue dress with the patrol leader’s insignia, along with blue socks and black shoes.
And she had been in her bed at eleven o’clock last night, when Sylvia made her final rounds. Her toothbrush, soap, face cloth and other toiletries were in her holdall and so it seemed she had not left the site with the intention of remaining away for long. I suggested a telephone call to her home address, just to check whether she had made her way home for any reason. Not knowing what time she had left the site, she might have had time to reach Leeds by bus or rail. Sylvia said she would do that — her husband, Ray, would be at home this week, doing some decorating. As Sylvia drove once again into the village to the telephone kiosk, I conducted a very thorough search of the campsite, examining every tent, vehicle, boot of vehicle, food store, toilets and even an old derelict building, but I found no trace of the missing girl and no evidence to suggest a reason for her absence.
Throughout these necessary exercises, however, time was passing — and as time passed with no sign of Susan, my concern (and the concern of her mother and friends) was increasing. I was rapidly approaching the moment when I had to decide whether to extend and expand the search because when a young girl is missing from her usual haunts, there can often be sinister reasons. The alternative was to continue as if it was little more than the case of a senior schoolgirl who was late home from a morning walk. Teenagers were often late home for a variety of reasons. At this stage, there was no evidence to suggest Susan had been forcibly removed from her bed or that she had been the victim of a sexual attack or assault of any kind, serious or minor.
Although, in the nature of my work, I had not to lose sight of the fact she might have become the victim of a sex attacker, I had likewise to balance the facts with the possibility she had gone for a morning walk or possibly that she had had an early morning liaison with a boyfriend. Again, there was no evidence to suggest such a meeting, but these things are not impossible, even during Girl Guide camping weeks. All the available evidence, particularly the fact she had taken the time to dress in her uniform, suggested she had risen early from her bed to go for a walk — and had simply failed to return.
If that was the case, was she late because she had misjudged the distance and time involved in her walk, or had she injured herself? As I searched the shores of the river which flowed past the site, I was trying to make up my mind about the next stage of my action. Meanwhile, Sylvia returned from telephoning home to say her husband, Ray, had had no messages from Susan, nor had she arrived at her Leeds home. He decided to remain in the house in case she did return for any reason — but he asked his wife to keep in regular contact with home, not an easy task with a telephone kiosk as one’s only line of contact.
Before deciding whether to expand the search, I called all the Guides and Guiders together because I wanted to quiz them all about Susan. I felt this was the best way, rather than conduct individual interrogations of all the campers. I asked them to gather in front of a chair upon which I would stand to address them. As they were ushered into a quiet group before me, I climbed onto the chair and began.
‘My name is PC Rhea,’ I introduced myself by name. ‘I am the village constable here in Aidensfield as some of you already know, and I live in the police house. Now, you know why I am here. Susan has disappeared; all of you know her and she is dressed in her Guide uniform. She was in bed last night, we know that, but this morning when Ann, her Second, went to look for her, she had vanished. We don’t know what time she got out of bed which means we have no idea how long she has been missing, how far she might have gon
e — or where she might have gone. I don’t think she has been kidnapped or anything nasty like that because she got dressed in her uniform. I think she might have gone for a walk and either got lost or perhaps injured herself. The question now is: what can we do to find her? I think the first fact I have to establish is whether anything has happened which might make her want to go off alone.’
At that stage, I paused for a moment to allow my words to have their effect, and then continued, ‘Now you’ve all been with her for the past few days, living together, talking among yourselves, having the adventure day yesterday, that sort of thing. So, can anyone give me any idea why Susan might have wanted to get up early this morning and go off to be all by herself?’
I paused for a second time, now scanning the faces grouped before me in the hope that one of them might produce some clue or hint which could be followed up but no one said anything. The Guides, clearly frightened to some degree, merely stood and gazed up at me. I knew the difficulties in talking to children, but some of these were fairly mature young women.
‘If Susan said anything, anything at all, please tell the policeman,’ Sylvia urged them, speaking both as a mother and as the Guider in charge.
As I stood and faced this silent group, I noticed two girls nudging Ann Knowles, the Guide who had raised the alarm. They were whispering to her and I saw their actions even though they were in the midst of the crowd.
‘Ann,’ I asked her direct, ‘is there something we should know?’
Ann, looking nervous in case she was going to get herself into trouble, hesitated, but the others encouraged her to talk and she said, ‘Well, sir, yesterday, on the adventure day, we came to a waterfall. We had to cross the stream, sir; there was a bridge further up. But when we got to the waterfall . . .’ And at that stage, she halted in her narrative.
‘And who is “we”?’ I interrupted her, smiling to give her encouragement to continue.
‘The Woodpecker Patrol, sir, when we were map reading.’
‘Ah, I see. Go on, Ann,’ I hoped my relaxed attitude would be encouraging. ‘You got to the waterfall, then what?’
‘Well, there was a tree trunk lying across the water, sir, a big one, right near the top of the waterfall. It was an old rotten tree, lying right across from bank to bank, just like a bridge. We said we could use it to take a short cut, so we could get back to base first.’
‘A short cut?’ I puzzled.
‘Yes, sir. The map said we should go further up the stream to a footbridge, but we worked out that if we crossed it on that tree trunk, we could save nearly a mile and get back to camp first. We said it would show what a good patrol the Woodpeckers were.’
‘I can see what you mean,’ I laughed. ‘So did you cross by the old tree trunk?’
‘No, sir, Susan wouldn’t let us.’
‘And why wouldn’t she let you?’
‘She said it was dangerous. She put a foot on it to test it, then took it off, quickly. The trunk was right across the top of the waterfall, and slippery with moss and wet. She said the wood might be rotten and it might not bear our weight.’
‘It sounds to me that Susan acted very sensibly,’ I said. ‘So you did not use the old tree trunk, but went the proper way, over the footbridge?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A moment of silence followed as I digested this snippet of information which, I must admit, I could not link directly to Susan’s early morning expedition. It meant I might have to drag some deeper and more relevant piece of information from these girls who clearly thought the incident at the waterfall was of some relevance.
‘Ann,’ I said. ‘Something else happened, didn’t it? At the tree trunk over the waterfall? You must tell us — do you think Susan has gone there this morning?’
She nodded and then, quite surprisingly, began to cry. Sylvia McNeil went to her side to comfort her as I pressed ahead with my questioning. I repeated my question,
‘Ann, do you think Susan has gone back to the waterfall?’
‘She might have, sir.’ She rubbed her eyes to brush away the tears.
‘Look, Ann, this is important,’ I said. ‘No one’s going to get into trouble, you are not at school now, or at home. You are responsible girls and I want you to act with responsibility. We’ve got to find Susan in case she’s got lost or even hurt herself. Tell me, why do you think Susan might have gone back to the waterfall today?’
‘We all said she was scared, sir.’
‘Scared? What do you mean?’
Ann licked her lips and looked at Sylvia, then at me. I smiled and asked, ‘Who was scared?’
‘We all said Susan was scared to cross the trunk, because of the waterfall under it . . . she said she wasn’t scared, she said it was dangerous, that’s why she wouldn’t let us cross it.’
‘And was she frightened to cross it?’
‘I don’t know, sir, she never said. She just said she was our patrol leader and she would not allow us to cross it because it was dangerous. So we didn’t . . .’
‘But you argued with her, did you? You said she was scared? Is that it?’
‘It was just a bit of fun, sir, we didn’t really think she was scared.’
‘Ann,’ I pressed her, ‘if you did not cross the tree trunk because Susan said you shouldn’t, why do you think Susan has gone back there now?’
‘To cross it, sir. She said she wasn’t scared; she said she would cross it herself one day before we finished camp.’
‘So you think she’s gone there to show herself she can do it?’ I asked.
The unhappy girl nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I think she might have done that.’
Whether or not that was the real reason for Susan’s absence, it did provide a starting point for a search. I knew the waterfall in question — Hagg Foss — for it was about a mile and half upstream from the campsite in very rocky and hilly surroundings. Hagg Gill tumbled and roared from the higher points of the moor, racing through a narrow, rock-strewn gorge before tumbling over a narrow, lofty ledge into a deep, foam-covered pool below. Once the flow reached the high ledge, it fell directly for about eighty feet in what was locally known as a spout or a foss, churning the pool into which it fell into what looked like a pool of boiling white froth. The two sides of the pool were sheer rock, rich with alpines and rare plants, while the outlet was an open mouth through which the now calm waters flowed. Spectacular though it was, the surrounding rocks and cliffs were full of danger, slippery with water and moss, and deadly if anyone fell from a height.
My next dilemma was whether myself and these Guides (or some of them) were capable of mounting a search and, if we found Susan, dealing with whatever injuries she might have. The area was remote; there was no road anywhere near the waterfall and no communications, my vehicle radio and the telephone kiosk in the village being the only means of contacting the emergency services. The solution was first to find the girl. She might not be hurt; she might be sitting before one of the extensive moorland views in admiration, or watching young foxes at play, or even lying asleep in a shady glade.
If she was not hurt then a full scale call-out of the emergency services or the Ashfordly Search and Rescue Organization seemed superfluous and time-wasting and I began to see that I must first find her and then establish what further assistance was required. I then had a brainwave, in the use of which every Guide and Guider on this camp could be utilized.
‘Sylvia,’ I addressed Susan’s mother. ‘Can we have a quick word? I have an idea, one which might solve our problem of communication.’
‘Anything,’ she said, the anxiety clear in her eyes.
‘I know the path between here and Hagg Foss,’ I said. ‘It’s a good wide footpath, and the distance is about a mile and a half. If we position one Girl Guide every hundred yards or so between my Mini-van and the falls, we could relay a message very quickly indeed. I can leave my Mini-van radio open, connected with Ashfordly Police Station, and all I need do is to shout “Help” if we find Susan needs as
sistance. I’ll decide the precise call when I find out what’s happened.’
‘But you would actually do the search?’
‘Yes, with you and perhaps one other person. And I’d need a responsible adult to make the call on my radio . . . I’d be at the waterfall so I couldn’t do it.’
‘We’ve plenty of help,’ she assured me. ‘And I know the girls would obey all your orders.’
‘Right.’ With that I went to my Mini-van and called up Ashfordly Police Station. Sergeant Blaketon answered.
‘PC Rhea, Sergeant, location — Hagg Carr, Aidensfield, the campsite. One of the Girl Guides is missing from the camp, Sarge, but I think I know where she is. She might be injured, though. I’m going to leave this radio open, with a responsible adult in attendance, and we’re going to search for the lost girl. I have good reason to think she went to Hagg Foss on the moors above the village. I have organized a relay of Girl Guides to get a message to you if I need further assistance, such as a medical team or stretcher-bearers. It will take me about half an hour to get to the waterfall . . . once I’m there, I’ll send a message via my relay team and my radio. If she has fallen down the foss, we might need someone with rock-climbing expertise.’
After clarifying a few points, and recording the name of the missing girl, he agreed with my proposals and I next instructed the Guides in establishing the relay I wanted. The adults, group leader and patrol leaders all understood and I left the apportioning of places to them as I set off, walking at brisk pace with Sylvia at my side. Even as I climbed through the trees, I could see the extending line of Girl Guides on the woodland path, each playing her part in the search for Susan McNeil.
It was hot work climbing towards the falls in full uniform, but Sylvia easily kept pace with me. As we approached the falls, their noise guiding us unmistakably towards the scene, we began to call Susan’s name, although I feared that if she had fallen anywhere near the foss, the noise of the water would conceal our shouts, just as it would smother her cries for help. But we found her.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 9