“Nick, old son,” Sergeant Bairstow placed one hand on the handlebars of my machine. “This character is yours for the night.”
“Mine?” I was horrified. I knew what was coming next.
“You are the only duty constable in the section tonight, and if we take this character into the police station, he’ll have to be placed in the cells because he’s drunk and incapable. That means someone has to be present all the time, watching him and caring for him, making sure he doesn’t snuff it or hurt himself. Someone has to feed and water him, fetch him his breakfast, and minister to his every need.”
“I’m supposed to finish at one o’clock,” I reminded him, wondering if I’d get paid overtime for this duty.
“Exactly, Nick. And I’m supposed to finish when I get home in a few minutes’ time. So this fellow is a problem, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I wasn’t quite sure what he was driving at, but was interested to find out. I knew the routine — a prisoner in the cells at Ashfordly Police Station meant all-night duty for the constable looking after him, and the tiny station was not really equipped for such visitors. There was no provision for food, for one thing. We could take him to Malton or one of the larger places, but I could imagine the wrath of the duty inspector if we presented him with our gift. No one wanted a smelly old meths drinker in custody if they could help it — there’d be the resultant mess in the cell to clean up.
“Well, Nick?” Sergeant Bairstow asked, after a long silence from me.
“Well what, Sergeant?”
“What shall we do with him? Any practical ideas?”
“Not really,” I had to admit.
“Well I have,” he beamed. “Follow me.”
He started the engine of his little car and with the pungent fellow wafting evil fumes about the inside of the vehicle, Sergeant Bairstow turned around and drove towards Malton. I followed at a discreet distance and wondered what solution he had found. I was amazed to see him drive through the centre of the quiet town and across the river.
This was sacrilege! We were entering foreign territory now, because we had left our native North Riding of Yorkshire and were driving into the neighbouring East Riding, then a separate county. In those days, county boundaries were sacrosanct and jealously guarded. Although boundary rules were not quite so rigidly enforced as those in the U.S.A. during Wild West days, there was a great deal of professional jealousy between adjoining police forces. It was certainly discourteous to invade another Chief Constable’s county without his knowledge and we all had instructions that whenever we crossed a boundary to make any enquiry, however minor, we must inform the local police of our presence. It was similar to getting one’s passport stamped.
But this did not appear to concern Sergeant Bairstow. He trundled through Norton in our police car, and turned into the countryside with me close behind, ever vigilant for the appearance of an East Riding policeman. If one caught us, we were sunk . . .
The East Riding Constabulary differed from the North Riding Constabulary in those days, because the former wore helmets, whereas we sported flat caps. In truth, we had very little contact with these strange fellows from south of the River Derwent, and had no desire to meet them now. After two miles. Sergeant Bairstow pulled up outside a barn down a very lonely lane. I eased to a halt behind him and lifted the motorcycle on to its stand, then joined him at the car.
He spoke in whispers. “Nick,” he hissed. “There’s an old hay barn here. We’re in East Riding territory so be careful — we don’t want them to find us. We’ll put Meths Maurice in his barn, then belt back into the North Riding as fast as we can.”
“All right,” I said, for there was nothing else I could say. After ten minutes of heaving and cursing, we extricated Meths Maurice from the car and carried him into the cosy barn. I was dressed in motorcycle gear, complete with crash helmet, and Sergeant Bairstow was capless; had anyone seen us, it was doubtful if they’d recognise us as police officers as we undertook our nefarious deed, least of all the subject of our mission.
Within fifteen minutes we had our guest neatly laid out on a bed of clean new hay. He slumbered blissfully on and curled into his foetal position as we arranged the hay around him to keep him warm. Satisfied that he was slumbering peacefully, we left him to his new abode in the East Riding of Yorkshire. If anyone found him, he would no longer be our problem; his fate rested in the hands of the East Riding Constabulary.
Sergeant Bairstow congratulated himself on this piece of strategy and we returned to our own territory, hoping that no one had noticed our little convoy of trespassing police vehicles. I followed him home, but after twenty minutes, he pulled into the side of the road and signalled me to halt. I pulled up beside him and he lowered his window.
“Nick,” he said with a most apologetic tone in his voice. “We’ve done wrong, you know. This is no way to treat our friends in the East Riding. Just imagine — they’ll be lumbered with that smelly old character now, and besides, that barn might not be warm enough. If he dies, we’re for it, and I’d never forgive myself.”
To cut a long story short, Sergeant Bairstow changed his mind and decided to return for the meths drinker. For the second time that night, therefore, we crept into Norton and made our way towards the old barn. I parked close to the official car and together we entered the dark, cold premises. My torch picked out the slumbering form among the hay and Sergeant Bairstow said, “Right, as before. Get him into the back seat, Nick.”
“We’re not taking him to the cells, are we?” I was horrified at the thought of working all through the night just to look after this character.
“No,” he said, “I know a nice warm shed next door to a bakery in Malton. We’ll put him there for the night — somebody from Malton will find him and see to him. They’ve plenty of accommodation and staff. That will satisfy my conscience.”
What happened next was a most unexpected and unwelcome surprise. As we stooped to lift him from his cosy bed, the fellow suddenly hurtled from the hay and savagely attacked us. He beat us with his fists, cursed us, kicked us and began a most alarming and vicious assault upon us. He fought like a wild cat, cursing vilely and using his head in an effort to break our noses and cheek bones. He was not going to be taken anywhere.
He was shouting that he wanted to be left alone, and not taken to prison or hospital. We tried to make him understand it was for his own good, but Sergeant Bairstow’s efforts to console him and reassure him were unheeded and there developed one almighty tussle in that barn. But two fit policemen are more than a match for a meths drinker in the long term, and in spite of his wild lunges, kicks and butts, we managed to quieten him and take him to our car.
I visualised problems persuading him to enter the rear seat, but by now he was his previous calm self, and meekly allowed us to sit him in the back. Sergeant Bairstow was nursing a black eye and a cut lip, and I thought I’d dislodged a tooth, in addition to having a rising swelling on my shin from a well-aimed kick. But at least he was calm, and our enterprise could continue.
Thus we kidnapped him from his East Riding nest and conveyed him back across the river into the North Riding, where Sergeant Bairstow had another home in mind. We drove into the town centre and he located the bakery with its warm shed next door to the ovens. In the shed was an old armchair with horsehair sticking out and a hole in the cushion, but it was warm, cosy and dry. Once again, we manhandled Meths Maurice from the car and cajoled him into this new location. Fortunately, he was enjoying that happy state between consciousness and drunkenness and seemed to have forgotten all about the wild struggle of a few minutes earlier. He contentedly settled in the old armchair and his head flopped to one side, into the oblivion of a deep sleep.
“Doesn’t he look happy?” smiled Sergeant Bairstow, wincing as his black eye bore testimony to his kidnapping.
“He’s back home,” I said.
“He’ll be fine; he’ll sleep happily there until morning and he’ll go on his way.”
And so we left him in his new place of abode. Sergeant Bairstow made his way back to Ashfordly, happy in the knowledge that his cells would not be polluted by this smelly fellow. I noticed he drove with the window open to rid the car of its pungent reminder of the man’s presence, and his black eye would be a more permanent relic. I patrolled the section until one o’clock, but about twelve fifteen popped into the shed near the bakery before driving home. The man was still there, fast asleep in the cosy atmosphere, with his head lolling to one side in the battered old chair. But he was safe, dry, alive and no trouble to anyone.
I finished prompt at one o’clock that morning and at nine was back on duty in Ashfordly Police Station. Sergeant Bairstow came through from his house, and he sported a gorgeous black eye. I could not help laughing but he didn’t seem to think it funny. He’d told his wife he’d done it as a ruffian knocked him over when rushing out of a pub, and asked me to confirm that tale, if necessary.
As I checked the Occurrence Book for the morning’s messages, the telephone rang. Sergeant Bairstow answered it, and I heard him say “Sir,” to someone.
“It’s the inspector,” he mouthed at me. “From Malton Urgent. Don’t leave yet, there might be a job for us.”
I waited as Sergeant Bairstow dealt with the call. There was a good many “No, sirs,” and “Yes, sirs,” and in the end, he replaced the receiver, smiling broadly in spite of his bruises.
“That was the inspector,” he informed me. “You know that old meths man? He went into Malton Police Station this morning about six o’clock to complain about the North Riding Police. He told the inspector he’d been asleep in a cold barn full of straw, when two nice East Riding officers, one with a helmet, had removed him to a warm barn full of hay. He remembers that but then, according to him, two awful North Riding Officers kidnapped him, assaulted him and made him sleep in a rickety armchair near a bakery. He’s allergic to yeast and now he’s come out in spots. The inspector asked if we knew anything about it — he’s checked with the East Riding lads and they don’t know . . .”
“You told him ‘no,’ sergeant?” I said.
“I said we had no knowledge of a meths drinker last night, Nick.”
“And he accepted that?” I put to him.
“He has no option — either he believes a drunken old meths drinker or he believes some of his most honourable officers. The man’s fine, by the way, they’ve taken to a place which will cure him, they hope.”
“You’d better keep out of the inspector’s way for a few days, then,” I suggested.
“Why?” he asked in all innocence.
“That black eye,” I said. “It might take some explaining.”
* * *
My second problem with a body occurred soon afterwards, but the story really began during the First World War.
A farm girl called Liza Stockdale lived in an isolated homestead high in Lairsdale. She was born there at the turn of the century, 1900, and lived her first sixteen uneventful years on the farm. There she assisted around the place, looking after the hens and acting as milkmaid for her father with his busy dairy herd. Being always at work, she never travelled; she had never been to York and had not even been to Malton. Twice before her sixteenth birthday, she had visited Ashfordly on Market Day to buy livestock with her father, and that was the extent of her experience beyond the ranging drystone walls of Scar End Farm.
Then she met a soldier. A tall, dark and handsome soldier of nineteen chanced this way on an exercise, and he was in charge of a mighty gun which was being towed across the moors by a small platoon of young men. They camped near Scar End Farm, Lairsdale, and bought milk and eggs from Liza. As in all good love stories, Liza fell helplessly in love with this handsome visitor and to cut a long story short, she ran away with him.
They married soon after the 1914–18 war was over and lived in North London where her husband developed a successful business from a small draper’s shop. They produced four lovely children who were a credit to the happy pair and in turn they produced a clutch of grandchildren who were also a credit to the family.
Back in the remoteness of the North Yorkshire Moors, Liza’s relations continued to work on the hills, farming sheep and cattle and growing acres of corn for the cereal industry. Time went by, and the farming Stockdales prospered just as Liza had prospered in London, but there was one small blot on the happy horizon.
Liza had never returned home. Having run away, she felt she had incurred the wrath of her mother and father, and the scorn of her other strait-laced relations, consequently she never ventured back to the family homestead. Furthermore, she deliberately kept her address secret, and avoided all contact with her past.
Throughout her long and happy life, however, she’d nursed a secret desire to be invited to the moorland home of her family; her parents had died long ago but she had not attended their funeral at Lairsdale’s isolated Methodist chapel. She had not been to the weddings of her brothers and sisters, nor to the christenings of their children. She had missed all this, and had often wondered about the Lairsdale branch of her family. Sometimes, she wished she had the guts to make contact.
Liza’s husband, however, was not the insensitive man the family considered him to be. At the time of the elopement during the First World War, he’d been an aggressive, cocksure young man and it was his cavalier attitude and his worldly manner that had captivated the young Liza. On marrying him and settling down to a hard-working life, she realised she truly loved him and he truly loved her. Their love strengthened with the passing years, and Herbert often tried to persuade her to return to the farm, if only for a visit. He said she should write and make contact, but she never did.
Something intangible restrained her. Some unknown hand or force denied Liza the thrill of returning to her homestead, and she contented herself with life in London, the business and her family. Hers was a London family, not given to visiting remote farms in the north, consequently Liza’s life bore no resemblance to her childhood surroundings and upbringing, and she had distanced herself from her roots.
Herbert never forgot that she missed Scar End Farm; he knew of her love for the area and made many attempts to persuade her to make the move. But she stubbornly and steadfastly refused. She lied when she said she had no wish to return; because she’d had to run away to marry him, her father had never owned her and the family had never made contact. She’d felt she was no part of that life in the moors.
Herbert’s patience was infinite. He vowed that one day he would surprise her and take her home. She would not know where she was going until she arrived; he’d book a holiday in a nice hotel at Scarborough or York, and would hire a taxi to take her into the hills of Lairsdale and to the farm which he’d discovered was still in the family.
But somehow, that trip never materialised. Business was too demanding, the family too busy or time too short. Gradually, Herbert’s intentions faded, if only a little, and that long journey from London to the heart of the North Yorkshire moors never took place. It was always something he’d do when he had the time.
And he never did have the time.
Finally, Liza died of a heart attack. One awful June day, a Mrs Liza Frankland collapsed and died in Regent Street, London. The post-mortem revealed she had suffered a massive coronary attack, and no one could have saved her.
Her caring husband, Herbert Frankland, a retired draper, loved her more in death, and as he wept alone that night he made a resolution that Liza would at last return to her native moorland dale.
He telephoned Pastor Smith at the Manse to ask whether she could be buried in his tiny churchyard at Lairsdale, and specified that it had been his wish to have Liza cremated. The burial, if permitted, would involve a small urn of Liza’s ashes and Herbert alone would accompany them. All he asked was a simple chapel service to place Liza in her resting place, and he did not tell Pastor Smith of her family links with his district, save to say it was her wish to be buried there. He’d asked his own f
amily not to attend; they’d paid their respects at the crematorium and this was to be his personal pilgrimage. He wanted to repay the wrong he’d done all those years ago.
Pastor Smith agreed without question and so the small interment was arranged for a day in late June.
Being a man without a car, Herbert Frankland left King’s Cross Station in London in the early hours of that Saturday, carrying a suitcase and contents. In the suitcase were his overnight things and a dark suit for the funeral. Also in the case was a pleasant silver casket containing the ashes of Liza, his beloved wife. It bore her maiden name, Liza Stockdale, and was carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and tucked among his clothes.
The train left King’s Cross on time and Herbert settled down to his long trip north, eagerly awaiting his arrival at York. A taxi was to take him across the hills into Lairsdale, where, at two o’clock precisely, Pastor Smith would conduct the burial ceremony. Liza would be home at last, resting eternally among her family and the moors.
At York, Herbert Frankland, sad and thoughtful due to the day’s sorrowful occurrence, took his case from the rack, left the train and caught a taxi out of York.
At quarter past twelve, he was knocking on my door at Aidensfield Police House.
I answered the knock to find a lightly built man there, a man I’d never seen before. He was smartly dressed in a light grey suit and trilby, with a white shirt and a black tie, and would be in his sixties. He clutched a rather battered brown leather suitcase, and I noticed a taxi waiting outside my house.
“Yes?” I was enjoying a day off and was clad in old clothes, because I was in the middle of decorating a bedroom. I looked more like a painter and decorator than a policeman.
“Oh, er, is the policeman in?” he asked, smiling meekly.
“I’m the policeman,” I wiped my hands on my paint-stained trousers. “P.C. Rhea.”
“Oh, well, er, I’m sorry to bother you,” he began, “but it is important.”
“You’d better come in,” I invited him to enter my office. “Will the taxi wait?”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 78