I had to open several wooden gates, a tricky job with a motorcycle, but eventually found myself entering the yard of Slape Wath Farm. It was clean and nicely concreted, and I placed the machine against the wall of an outbuilding before walking across to the farm house. The time was shortly before eleven one Wednesday morning.
I halted before knocking on the door in order to check my records, and reminded myself of the occupants’ names. The owners of this remote spread were the Misses Kirby, Frances and Irene to be precise. There was no other explanatory note in my records and I had never heard anyone mention these ladies; their farm, I appreciated, was far too remote for casual callers and I doubted if the two ladies in question enjoyed much of a social life.
My memory refreshed, I knocked on the kitchen door.
“A minute!” called a voice, and I waited. Presently, the door was opened and a huge masculine woman stood before me. She wore a hessian apron, a long working dress buttoned up to the neck and a curious dust-cap on her head. She was nearly six feet tall, with a head of ginger hair peeping beneath her headgear; her face was red with the effects of the weather but her eyes were unusually bright blue and bored into me as I stood on the doorstep. She was hefty and muscular, and wore heavy Wellington boots which peeped beneath her long dress.
“Oh,” she said, eyeing me. “It’s t’policeman. Come in,” and she stepped back to permit me to enter. I noticed she had a large broom in her hands and she appeared to be in the middle of sweeping the sandstone floor of her kitchen.
“That’s a useful brush,” I said by way of making an inane introductory comment.
“Aye,” she said, looking at it with pride. “We’ve had it for thirty-five years, and all we’ve had for it is three new heads and two new shafts.”
I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh at this statement as a joke or treat it as a piece of moorland feminine logic, but my embarrassment was avoided by the timely appearance of another lady. She was much smaller than the first but with the same ginger hair and masculine appearance. Her eyes were a paler blue and her face a trifle less colourful, but it was easy to deduce that the big lady was the man-about-the-farm, and her sister was the woman-about-the-house.
“I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield,” I introduced myself. “The new policeman.”
“Oh,” said the big one. “Thoo’ll be calling about our registers, then?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’ve been rather busy . . .”
“Think nowt on it, young man,” the big one said. “Sit thyself down and Rene, fetch him a cuppa tea. Sugar?”
I shook my head and said, “No thanks. Milk, no sugar.”
“Mak it three, Rene,” ordered the big lady. “Thoo come as well.”
Rene never spoke as she drifted across to an oven at the far end of this large kitchen and busied herself with pots, pans and bottles of milk. I placed my helmet on the scrubbed kitchen table and sat on a bench. The big lady, who I reasoned was called Frances, sat on the bench opposite and peered steadily at me.
“It’ll be about them pigs, is it?” she put to me.
“You got some at Malton Mart last week,” I said. “I’ve got to check to see everything’s in order, and that you’ve entered them in your register.”
Without a word, she left her seat and went across to a cupboard hanging on the wall. She produced the register and flicked it open — an immaculate entry graced the pages and I said, “I’ll have to see the stock in question.”
“Thoo’s a keen ’un, eh?” she grumbled, heading for the door.
“Just doing my job,” I said softly, following behind.
“We’re off to t’sties, Rene!” she bellowed, her loud voice blasting my ear-drums. “Three minutes, no more.”
She led me in silence down to her pig sties and showed me the store pigs she’d bought. I leaned over the bottom half of the door, enjoying the sight of young pigs grunting in happiness as they nosed among the straw and potato peelings which covered the floor of their pen.
“Nice pigs,” I commented, for they were lovely.
“The best,” she said with some force. “Me and our Rene nobbut buys t’best, thoo knaws. We show pigs and sheep, so we’ve got ti have t’best.”
“You show them?” I expressed interest in her remark. “Do you win prizes?”
“Win prizes?” she bellowed. “I’ll say we win prizes. Great Yorkshire, Stokesley, Egton, Danby, Castleton, the Royal, you name it, and we’ve won there. We’ve got the best pigs this side of the Pennines.”
“You don’t show these though?” I gestured towards those in the pig sty. “These are for fattening, aren’t they?”
“Aye, they are, young man. No, we breed our own show pigs.”
The kitchen door opened and the smaller edition said, “Tea, Cis.”
“Tea, constable,” said Cis striding towards the house with me almost trotting to keep pace. She led me inside. Rene had placed a green patterned oil cloth on the rough table, and there were three cups, some scones, jam, butter, three slabs of fruit cake and a pile of chocolate biscuits.
This was a typical ’lowance, as they called it here; tea break is the word elsewhere, or elevenses. To these folk, it’s ’lowance time, or allowance time.
“Thank you, ladies,” I settled down and signed the book with a flourish. “You keep a very nice tidy farm.”
“We’ve a man in,” said Cis. “Jack Holtby.”
“He’s employed full time, is he?”
“He lives in, Mr Rhea, gets fed and bedded here, all found. He looks after my pigs.”
“And my sheep,” said Rene quickly. “Jack looks after my sheep as well.”
“She breeds sheep. I do the pigs.”
“They win at all the shows, Mr Rhea,” said Rene, getting into top gear now her tongue had been loosened. “Good stock, is ours. You’ll have heard of t’Kirbys of Whemmelby?”
I didn’t know whether to acknowledge my ignorance by shaking my head or to tell a white lie and pretend I knew all about their successes, but Frances saved the day by saying,
“Don’t be stupid, Rene. Of course Mr Rhea knows about our showing. I’ve told him, and he reads the papers. Kirby’s a famous name among showing folk; my pigs and your sheep are noted the country over.”
“I always get first with my blackfaces, Mr Rhea . . .”
“And me with my saddlebacks . . .”
I listened as the two sisters prattled on about their wins, each talking about her own speciality, and I began to realise I was witnessing a curious phenomenon. Once they left the subject of their pigs and sheep, their conversation followed a peculiar pattern. Each contributed to a sentence by apparently knowing what the other was going to say.
“They tell me you’re married, Mr Rhea . . .”
“With four children, eh? How nice, your wife . . .”
“Must be very busy, looking after them and cooking and cleaning. Big families are nice, but . . .”
“I couldn’t cope, not with four, not here. Animals are enough and . . .”
“They’re just like children, keeping us out of bed at night and wanting feeding when . . .”
“They’re little and in bed . . .”
“So we always work shifts, four hours on and four off, especially . . .”
“In the lambing season . . .”
And so it went on. I listened in amazement at this curious form of communication, and it appeared only to manifest itself when they were talking about subjects other than their pigs and sheep. It seemed that the pigs and sheep were individual matters, with Cis the big one looking after the pigs, and little Rene concentrating on the sheep. I left the premises feeling very amused and wondered which of them was the elder. I guessed it was Cis, the larger of the pair, for she was the dominant one and certainly had the appearance of a man. It was difficult to estimate their ages — they could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, and I reckoned they were probably in their early forties.
During that vis
it, I did not see their man. Jack Holtby was nowhere to be seen, but evidence of his skills, or of their supervisory capacity, was everywhere. The farm was beautifully maintained; its woodwork was gleaming, its glasswork polished, the yards swept clean and the loose pieces of hay and straw tucked firmly into place. It was a picture of professionalism.
It would be about five weeks later when the name of these curious sisters cropped up in a casual conversation. I was in Aidensfield chattering to Joe Steel in his grocer’s shop, and he asked, “You’ll have come across the Kirby twins, have you?”
“Twins?” I puzzled, and then remembered that Rene and Cis were called Kirby. “You mean those ladies out at Slape Wath?”
“Aye, that’s them. Twins. Rum lasses.”
I told him of my first visit to their establishment and of my fascination with their mode of speech. He laughed.
“They’ve always been like that, Mr Rhea. Get ’em talking about their own animals, and they’ll be normal, but get off that subject and they both talk like one person. You should hear ’em in here, ordering groceries . . . one says, ‘bread’ and t’other says, ‘butter’, and they go on like that, right through a shopping list.”
“Do they ever go their own ways? They’re not identical twins, are they?”
“No, they’re not. They could be, if they were t’same size, but little Rene’s the quiet one and she often goes off alone, showing her sheep.”
“I get the impression they’re hard working,” I commented. “Salt of the earth and all that.”
“They’ve no need to work, Mr Rhea. That father of theirs left ’em thousands. Did you get into their living-room?”
I shook my head.
“You’re not an artist, are you?” he appeared to change the subject and I shook my head again.
“But you’ll have heard of Reynolds, have you?”
“The portrait painter?” I asked. “Sir Joshua Reynolds?”
“Aye, that’s him. Well, they’ve five or six Reynolds paintings in that house, and antique furniture too, silver, jewellery . . .”
“Up there?” I cried. “In that old farmhouse?”
He nodded solemnly. “They’re loaded, Mr Rhea. They’ve no need to work, but they stick it out there in the hills, working themselves hard day and night.”
He prattled on about their inherited wealth and their total ignorance of its capacity to give them an easy life, and then said, “I reckon they ought to have burglar alarms fitted, Mr Rhea. That’s why I thought I’d mention it. If somebody broke in and took those pictures alone, they’d lose thousands . . .”
“I’ll pop in and see them next week,” I promised.
“And look out for their latest man,” he waved a finger at me.
“Latest man?” I asked, smiling at him.
A broad grin flitted across his face and he ran his hand across his bald head. “Aye,” he laughed. “They’ve had a succession of men working for them, year in and year out.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Tending sheep or pigs, and general labouring,” he told me. “Heavy work, mainly, but some skilled fellers have been through their hands. They never stay long.”
“Don’t they? Why?” I asked in all innocence.
“They fall in love with the fellow,” he laughed. “Cis and Rene each fall in love with the poor devil at the same time. It always happens — within five or six months of the new bloke being there, they both start falling for him. Then there’s jealousy, and Rene has a go at Cis’s pigs and Cis has a go at Rene’s sheep, and if it coincides with a show date somewhere, there’s hell on . . .”
“And?”
“The poor chap is driven out. I’ve lost count of their fellers,” he laughed. “Every poor sod finds himself fighting their battles and protecting their animals against the other’s vicious attacks . . . then they both blame him for falling in love with the other and for sticking up for the other’s animals.”
“Does it ever reach my official ears?” I asked, visualising domestic turmoil out at Slape Wath Farm.
“No, it rarely gets out — they seldom go anywhere, and the fellers come and go quietly.”
But I did get involved with them and their current love affair with Jack Holtby. I saw him for the first time when I went along to discuss the treasures in their house. He was having his ’lowance and I was invited to join them at the kitchen table, where I tucked into a meal large enough for the average man’s lunch.
He was a dark-haired man in his fifties, with a heavily scarred face which was apparently the result of being trapped in a tank during the war. A small man, he was wiry and sparsely built, but had a ready smile for me as I joined him at the table. He was dressed neatly, albeit in working clothes, and appeared to be slightly on the shy side. As I talked to the ladies, he made an excuse and left, saying he was just popping up to his room before returning to work.
Two pairs of blue eyes followed his progress and I could see the signs of unrequited love. I wondered what problems it would bring to him.
But I was here to talk about security.
After my scones and coffee, I broached the subject of the paintings and the ladies agreed they were valuable, although neither had any idea of the total worth of their treasures. Neither had I, for I lay no claim to knowledge of antiques or works of art, but when I saw the array of Reynoldses and other valuables, I knew that this house was a veritable museum, a treasure trove of remarkable interest.
Following my visit to the downstairs rooms, they showed me around the upper floor, including all six bedrooms and the attic of their rambling old home. Every room was richly endowed with solid antique furniture and I noticed lots of pictures, large and small, but all of considerable age.
All about the house was the smell of age and dampness, except in Jack’s bedroom where I discerned a different aroma. I could not identify the scent, but it was not pipe smoke and not old socks or sweaty feet. I dismissed the question as I continued to survey the house and its contents.
Downstairs, I told the curious pair that I intended to call in the Crime Prevention Officer from our Divisional Headquarters, and he would undertake a professional survey of the house, free of charge, with a view to recommending some form of protection. I also advised them to consult Norman Taylor with a possibility of taking out some insurance. While discussing the protection of their inheritance, I did worry somewhat about the presence of Jack Holtby, for I knew nothing of his past or of his character.
My first impressions were that he was an average farm worker who would never appreciate the wealth of treasures around him, and I felt they were secure in his presence. He would not talk about them because he would not recognise them for what they were, but there is a breed of villain who preys on innocent or elderly people. These are like ravenous wolves, pitiless and cruel, for they rob their elders and their descendants of their rightful inheritance. It was such scoundrels from whom the Misses Kirby must be protected, and that was my duty.
I could not ignore the presence of their ‘latest man’ however, and resolved to keep a watchful eye upon him and his contacts. I’d check his background too. Meanwhile, the official wheels could be set in motion, and our Crime Prevention Officer would be told.
Some weeks later, the survey was complete, and a recommended burglar alarm company arrived to fit their clever device. I was not there during these operations, although we did note the car numbers and the names of the workmen just in case they turned out to be less than honest. However, the deed was completed and the Misses Kirby were fully equipped with a modern and highly sophisticated burglar alarm.
To set it, there was a box of tricks on the wall at the foot of the stairs, and after locking the doors and windows, the box itself was activated by locking it with a key. That key was then removed and stored in a secure place. Upon leaving the house, the key was also removed and the outer door was locked, thus sealing the system. After this, any severance of a contact, either by opening a door or window, would c
ause loud bells to ring at the farm and a little light to flash in our Divisional Headquarters. At last, the Kirby treasures were in care.
The system was fine, moderately expensive and highly efficient. But it lacked one important factor. It did not contain the brain of a woman, and furthermore, it could not cope with the female habit of losing keys. Women the world over lock themselves out of houses, offices and cars, and it means that a burglar alarm in any female environment is something of a hazard.
Frances and Rene were no exception. They lost innumerable keys of their alarm system. The angry machine rang bells across the moors and flashed lights in the police station; it summoned countless frustrated technicians to the remote farm to re-set the device and to supply them with a new key. In time, everyone involved — police, crime prevention officers, the insurance and the burglar alarm company — lost count of the number of times they attended these false alarms and re-set the system. The ladies could not learn to safeguard the precious and all-important key.
Eventually, the insurance company put its foot down. Norman had the job of telling the ladies that his company would not accept further liability for the contents of their home because the ladies themselves were a bigger risk. Norman talked to me about it, and I talked to our Crime Prevention Officer; together we studied a long missive from the insurance company.
The problem was all to do with lost keys. The insurance company was not at all happy about the security of the key for the lock which was the nerve centre for the entire system. The company was even more upset when one of their inspectors called unexpectedly and found the key left in the lock, with a long piece of string reaching from the key to a nail in the wall. It seemed they’d decided to keep the key there, where everyone could use it and from where it would never stray. If it remained on that piece of string, it would never get lost.
The insurance man was not at all happy with that system. There were long discussions with the ladies, and then Frances chanced to mention their safes. It seemed each lady had a safe built into the wall of her bedroom, tucked well away behind the bed. These contained personal cash and private things, and were used for their trophies, for cups and medals won at agricultural shows. Each safe was operated by a numerical code known only to the owner. If each kept a key for the burglar alarm in her own safe, the problem might be solved. It would mean the introduction of a new rule for the company, i.e. two keys for this one alarm, but by issuing each with a key, the system might function correctly.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 74