“It’s really young Agar I want to see,” I explained.
“Why would you want to see him, then? He’s not in trouble is he?”
“No,” I said, “but I hear he’s been making a pest of himself.”
“Pest? What sort of pest?”
I provided brief details of his alleged misbehaviour and she listened intently, leaving me standing in the middle of the floor. She smiled fleetingly, and when I’d finished, she said, “Lads will be lads, it’ll be due to his sap rising, Mr Rhea!”
“I agree it’s nothing serious, Mrs Atkinson, but his behaviour is unnerving for Miss Hardwick.”
“Hardwick, did you say?” she threw the question at me, with those eyes flashing brightly.
“Yes, up at Oak Crag Cottage.”
“Then she ought to know better than to bring you in, should that one,” the old lady said. “Fancy bringing you all the way in for a trifling thing like that . . . she ought to be ashamed.”
“It’s not nice, Mrs Atkinson, having unknown lads making nuisances of themselves when you’re a woman living alone. I don’t mind coming out to help put a stop to it.”
“Nay, it’s not that, Mr Rhea, it’s that woman. Hardwick. It’s the first time I’ve come across a Hardwick woman that couldn’t sort things out by herself.”
“Why?” I asked, intrigued. Katherine Hardwick seemed a perfectly ordinary young woman.
“They’re witches,” she said with all seriousness. “All Hardwick women are witches.”
I laughed. “Witches?” I said, thinking she was joking.
“You’ll have heard of Nan Hardwick, haven’t you? Awd Nan Hardwick, who was a witch in these hills years ago?”
“No,” I had to confess.
“Then just you listen, young man,” and she motioned me to a wooden chair. I sat down, interested to hear her story. I knew that old ladies tended to ramble and reminisce, but Mrs Atkinson appeared totally in control of her senses, and deadly serious too. She spoke with disarming frankness.
After leaning forward in her chair and eyeing me carefully, she unravelled her extraordinary story. She was in her late eighties, she told me by way of introduction, and then related the fable of Awd Nan Hardwick. She was a witch whose notoriety was widespread in the North Yorkshire moors when Mrs Atkinson was a young girl; everyone for miles around knew Awd Nan.
She told me a story about a farmer’s wife who was expecting a baby. One afternoon, Awd Nan chanced to pass the house and called in for some food and a rest as she was several miles from home. She asked for a ‘shive o’ bread and a pot o’ beer’. The food was readily given to her and during the conversation, she let it be known she was aware of the young wife’s condition. She wished the girl well and said, “Thoo’ll have a lad afoor morning, and thoo’ll call him Tommy, weeant thoo?”
The girl replied that she and her husband had already decided to name the child John if it was a boy, but Awd Nan replied, “Aye, mebbe thoo has, but thoo’d best call him Tommy. And now, Ah’ll say goodbye,” and off she went.
Both the husband and the girl were determined to name the child John, and later that evening, the prospective father drove a pony and trap across the moors to collect his sister-in-law. She had offered to help with the birth. Three miles from the farm, he had to cross a small bridge, but the horse stopped twenty yards before reaching it and steadfastly refused to move. Try as he might, the farmer could not persuade the animal to proceed, so he tried to leave his seat on the trap. To his horror, he found he was unable to move. In his words, “Ah was ez fast as owt.”
Eventually he concluded that Awd Nan had put a spell on him and shouted into the air, “Now, Nan, what’s thoo after? Is this tha work?”
To his amazement, a voice apparently from thin air replied, “Thoo’ll call that bairn Tommy, weearn’t tha?”
The husband, still determined to select his own name, shouted back, “Ah’ll call ma lad what Ah wants. Ah weearn’t change it for thoo or for all t’Nan devils in this country.”
“Then thoo’ll stay where too is until t’bairn’s born and t’mother dies,” came the horrifying response.
The poor young farmer was placed in a terrible dilemma. He could not move his pony and trap, nor could he climb from the seat, and he was faced with the death of his dear wife, all for the sake of a lad’s name. As he sat transfixed, he reasoned it all out, and decided there was an element of uncertainty because the child might be a girl. For that reason, he capitulated. He agreed to call the child Tommy if it was a boy. And at that, he found the horse could move and he went on his way.
My storyteller did not tell me whether the child was a boy, and I did not ask in case she was talking about her own ancestors, but she went on to relate more stories of Awd Nan Hard wick, all showing belief in the curious power of these local witches.
As I listened, it was evident that she believed the stories, and I could imagine her family relating these yarns as the children gathered around a blazing fire during the long dark evenings of a moorland winter.
“Is Katherine Hardwick a descendant of Awd Nan?” I asked.
“She is,” the lady nodded her grey head seriously. “All those Hardwick women were witches, and she’s no better. Mark my words, young man.”
“What sort of things does she do then?”
“Turns milk sour if she comes in the house, makes folks ill by looking at them. Little things like that, like her mother and the other women folk did. Milk would never come to butter if a Hardwick was around.”
“Is that why you said she could sort out her own trouble with this mischief maker?” I asked.
“Aye,” she said, “any witch worth her salt could sort out that kind of trouble.”
“But with all due respect, Mrs Atkinson, witches don’t exist . . .”
“Balderdash!” she snorted. “Do you know what they did in a situation like this? When folks upset them, angered them, scandalised them?”
I shook my head.
“The witch took a pigeon, Mr Rhea, a wild pigeon, a wood stoggie we used to call ’em. They made pigeon pie, but they took the heart out and stuck pins into it, into the heart that is. They put as many pins in as they could, lots and lots, and then put the heart into a tin and cooked it. Then they put it near the door, out of reach of cats and things, out of sight.”
“And?”
“Well, it made the mischief maker want to apologise for what he’d done. He went to the house and made his peace. It allus works, Mr Rhea.” She spoke her final words in the present tense.
“And you think Katherine should do that?” I put the direct question.
“Nay, lad, Ah didn’t say that. Ah said she could do that, because her previous women folk did that sort o’ thing. If she wants to bring you fellers in, then that’s her business.” She spoke those words with an air of finality.
“Is Ted Agar in, Mrs Atkinson? I ought to talk to him while I’m here.”
“Try those sheds at the bottom of our yard, he’s down there fettling t’tractor.”
“Thanks — and thanks for the story of Awd Nan.”
“It’s true,” she said as I left the warmth of the kitchen to seek Ted Agar. I found him working on the tractor. He had the plugs out and was cleaning some parts with a wire brush, his face wrapped with concentration as I entered the spacious building.
“Ted Agar?” I spoke his name as I walked in.
He glanced up from his work and smiled at me. “Aye, that’s me.”
“I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield,” I announced, thinking this would give him notice of the reason for my presence.
He continued to work, acknowledging me with a curt nod of his curly black head. He was about twenty-two or three, I guessed, a sturdy youth in dirty overalls and heavy hobnailed boots. His face was round and weathered with a hint of mischief written into his smile.
“Summat up, is it?” he asked.
“Have you been annoying Katherine Hardwick?” I decided to put the matter strai
ght to him. “Playing jokes on her, messing up her garden and so on?”
“Me? No,” he said without batting an eyelid, and without stopping his work.
“Somebody has,” I said. “She’s upset and if I catch the person, it’ll mean court.”
“It’s not me,” he said firmly, furiously rubbing at a piece of rusty metal with the wire brush.
“Then don’t do it,” I said, leaving him. I felt it would be a waste of time, pressing him further. Denials of this kind rarely produced anything beyond those words, so I left him to his maintenance work. I poked my head around the kitchen door to inform old Mrs Atkinson that I’d found him, and said I was leaving. If Agar was the culprit, I felt my brief visit would halt his unwelcome attentions.
I walked back up the village to my motorcycle and popped over to Katherine Hardwick’s house to explain my action. I went around to the back but she was not in the garden, and I noticed the kitchen door was open. I knocked and stepped inside a couple of paces, shouting “Miss Hardwick? Are you there?”
There was no reply, so I continued to shout as I entered the kitchen. Her lunch was in the course of preparation, so she must be around. I called again, “Miss Hardwick?”
“Upstairs,” she shouted. “Who is it?”
“The policeman,” I shouted back. “P.C. Rhea.”
“Oh, I’ll be down in a minute,” she replied. “Sit down.”
I sat on a kitchen chair, holding my crash helmet in my hands. And as I waited, my eyes ranged across the half-prepared meal. A pigeon lay on the kitchen table, plucked clean except for its head. Its innards lay beside it, having been expertly gutted and I saw the tiny heart set aside from the other giblets. There was a small tin beside the heart, and a pin cushion, thick with pins and needles. I thought of Mrs Atkinson and her tales of Awd Nan . . .
“Hello,” she returned, smiling broadly. “Sorry, I was upstairs. I was changing out of my working clothes, I’m going into Eltering this afternoon.”
“I just popped in to say I’ve spoken to young Agar,” I announced. “He denied making mischief, but I’m convinced it was him. I warned him about the consequences of repeating any mischief at your house, so I reckon we’ve seen the last of him. If he does come back, or if anybody else starts those tricks, let me know.”
“It’s most kind of you, Mr Rhea. I really appreciate your help.”
After some small talk, I left her to her cooking, my brain striving to recall the details of Mrs Atkinson’s story. It was definitely a pigeon’s heart on that table, and the pin cushion was so conveniently positioned next to it . . .
Three days later, my telephone rang.
“Is that P.C. Rhea?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Speaking.”
“It’s Katherine Hardwick,” the voice told me. “You called the other day, about young Agar.”
“That’s right,” I recalled. “Has he been troubling you again?”
“On the contrary,” there was a smile in her voice. “He’s been to apologise. He said he did it for a lark, but didn’t realise the upset he would cause. I’ve accepted his apology, Mr Rhea, so there won’t be any need for further action, will there?”
“No,” I agreed. “No, that’s all. There will be no court action. Thanks for ringing.”
I replaced the phone and reckoned the previous generations of Hardwick women would be very proud of their Katherine.
* * *
Happily for the Hardwick women and those of their ilk, the Witchcraft Act of 1735 had been repealed, albeit not until 1951.
England had had a long history of cruelty and antagonism towards old ladies who were regarded as witches, and before the 1735 Act, witchcraft had been a capital offence. The last judicial execution for witchcraft possibly occurred at Huntingdon in 1716, when a woman and her nine-year-old daughter were hanged, and the last recorded committal was at Leicester in 1717 when an old woman and her son were charged with casting spells, possessing familiars and being able to change their shapes.
It was not until 1951, however, that witches were safe from prosecution in England, and the statute which brought about this change was the Fraudulent Mediums Act, 1951.
The provision of that Act which was of interest to the police was Section I. It created the offence of acting as a spiritualistic medium or using telepathy, clairvoyance or other similar powers with intent to deceive, or when so acting using any fraudulent device when it is proved that the person so acted for reward.
Those who reckon they can perform miracles of this kind purely for entertainment need have no worries, but those who seek to make money from their so-called powers can expect a file of their activities to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions and they can also claim right of trial by jury if things go that far.
In the bucolic bliss of North Yorkshire’s Ryedale, I hardly expected to consider a prosecution under the Fraudulent Mediums Act of 1951, but my eyes were opened at the Annual Whist Drive and Jumble Sale held in Aidensfield Village Hall. This was an early event in the year, the social occasion of the spring equinox, when everyone in the village took mountains of junk for someone else to buy, and obliged by buying mountains of someone else’s junk in return. Thus the junk of the village did a tour of the households and much money passed hands for worthy causes such as the church steeple fund, the old age pensioners’ outing fund, the R.S.P.C.A. and other animal charities, including charities for children. Much money was made, and much junk was disposed of, to be returned for re-sale after a suitable period in someone’s home.
The system was illustrated perfectly when my tiny daughter purchased for one shilling a box camera I had given away five years earlier for another jumble sale not far away. She bore her purchase proudly home, only to find the shutter didn’t work because it was bent. She kept it and donated it to the sale the following year. I imagine that camera is still being bought and sold and I’m sure it now qualifies as an antique. If I see it around, I might buy it as a keepsake.
Because of the large volume of traffic expected at the function, Sergeant Blaketon telephoned and instructed me to perform duty outside the hall that Saturday afternoon. I had to control the crowds, prevent indiscriminate parking and keep an eye open for pickpockets and other villains. I parked the five cars without much ado, I controlled the perambulating crowds which swarmed the street, and kept vigil for local villains. I was not unduly busy.
The only villain likely to make an appearance was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, and I was somewhat surprised and, I dare admit, disappointed, when he failed to put in his anticipated attendance. Claude Jeremiah liked jumble sales because he bought most of his clothes and furniture from such places, and I know he managed to earn a little extra cash by re-selling items of interest. I liked him there because his presence gave me work — I had to keep an eye on him to stop him stealing things.
With the grand opening neatly performed at 2.30 pm by the vicar’s wife, and with my public order and parking duties enforced without incident, I entered the hall for a survey of pickpockets and ne’er-do-wells. Mary had brought the children, all four of them, and our family formed a crowd in its own right. The Rhea procession had entered some time earlier, and satisfied that crimes were not being committed, I looked about to see what I could purchase. The tiny hall was full, a pleasing sight, with nice people making faces at each other and complimenting the ladies for baking cakes, mending old clothes and manning stalls.
I found Mary and our little entourage and helped her guide the family around the stands, examining vintage baby clothes, looking at battered furnishings and cracked crockery, and deciding not to buy anything. And then I spotted the fortune teller.
This was a new idea. As my eyes settled on the ornate tent in a corner in front of the stage, I found it most impressive. The tent had the appearance of a small Arabian structure, circular in shape with a tall centre pole and flags flying from the top. The drapes were open down the front and the mysterious interior was coloured deep purple enhanced
by golden curtains with a green centre support. In front of the opening was a table, also covered with purple and gold drapes, and upon the table was a crystal ball and several other implements used by a gypsy fortune teller. A large notice pinned to the tent told us this was Gypsy Rose Lee.
Behind the ball sat the gypsy herself. She was a small woman with a deeply tanned face, most of which was smothered by a veil which covered the nose and mouth. Her head was swathed in brilliant silken bands which cascaded down the rear of her neck, and her voluminous sleeves billowed as she sat before the crystal ball. Her hands were heavy with jewellery, and a tiny bowl of incense burned inside the tent, sending a strong aroma about the hall.
It was a most impressive display, and I watched with fascination because every woman in the place seemed to want her fortune told. I heard the chink of silver as money changed hands, and was surprised to see the growing queue of women, all eager to have their palms read or their fortunes told for the princely sum of five shillings.
I was kept fairly busy during the sale. Children got lost, people misplaced belongings, old ladies lost keys and purses, some teenage lads became a shade too boisterous and an exploding fuse put all the lights out. Mary and the children appeared to enjoy the occasion, but left early because the youngsters had exhausted themselves as only tots can. I helped Mary take the family up to my house on the hill and returned to the Hall to be present at the conclusion of this momentous event.
By five o’clock it was all over. The cake stall was deserted, and only crumbs remained; the soft drinks now comprised many crates of drained bottles, and the assorted stalls of junk had little left, other than the annual complement of totally unsaleable rubbish. This would come out again next year. I chatted to Miss Jenks, the secretary and treasurer of the Village Hall Committee and expressed my pleasure at a well conducted event.
“Thank you, Mr Rhea.” She was a retired schoolteacher of the old kind, stern and humourless. “We have done well, but then we always do.”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 65