I knew that lots of practices and customs had died away over the centuries, many being casualties of wars, and I was sure that lots of other villages had once boasted a range of events which were no longer held. I did wonder whether Aubrey was reading more into this than was the real case — perhaps the Aidensfield Sword Dance had faded away simply because no one was interested in it. That could have happened a century ago, in which case few memories would linger. I remained a while to chatter with him and then a lady came into his shop seeking an indoor plant for a friend, and so I made my exit. But I did promise Aubrey that I would remain alert for any references to the sword dance or any associated memorabilia that I could find.
Then about six months later, two odd things happened. As is the case on so many occasions, the events themselves seemed unrelated but the long arm of coincidence can be very strange. The first was a chat with the vicar, The Reverend Christian Lord.
‘I am thinking of having a service for Blessing the Plough on Plough Monday, starting next year,’ he said during a conversation about village matters. We had regular chats of this kind, one of which was to identify people in need of help; my job took me into lots of houses where I could identify the needy and, in such cases, I always made sure the relevant authority was informed, often discreetly. Sometimes that meant a quiet word with the vicar or Catholic priest.
‘The official start of the new farming year?’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will be a success. You might get a few farmers into church!’
‘Most of them around here are Catholics,’ he said. ‘The farmers, I mean. The Reformation missed them on their lonely farms on the moors. They’ve kept the old faith down the generations and, as you know, the farms are passed down from father to eldest son. So there are very few Anglican farmers hereabouts.’
‘So you’re having doubts about the value of such a service?’ I put to him.
‘Well, there’s never been a Plough Monday service for as long as anyone can remember. I’ve been going through the old records in my library and can’t see any reference to a Plough Monday service this century. I’m sure there must have been one at some stage.’
‘Did you check back further?’ I asked.
‘No, I ran out of time. Why? Do you think there’s value in going back further?’
I told him about the mysterious Aidensfield Sword Dance, last known to have taken place in 1834, and added, ‘If there was a sword dance, which has associations with Plough Monday, you’d think there would be a Plough Monday service to bless the ploughs.’
‘Absolutely right, Nick. I’ll keep looking, but whatever I find or do not find, I think I will hold a Plough Monday service next year. It will remind others, who are not farmers, that we owe such a lot to God’s gift of the landscape around us. So all I shall need is a plough to bless, preferably without a tractor attached! One of those old horse-drawn ploughs would be perfect.’
‘I’ll see if any of the farmers on my patch have a spare one!’ I joked.
But it was that joke which produced the second coincidence.
During November I was visiting all the farms on my patch to check the stock registers which had to be maintained by all livestock farmers. At that time of year, many of the farmers were busy ploughing the fields of stubble which were the legacy of their corn harvests and so the fields comprised rich dark-brown furrows in a series of remarkably artistic designs. The countryside was being transformed from yellow, tan and dull green fields into a patchwork of rich glistening browns which, by the following spring, would produce bright new green shoots. For the mechanized farmers of the 1960s, much of the ploughing was completed long before the traditional Plough Monday. I wondered how that would affect the vicar’s proposed Plough Monday service.
It was during this busy time for farmers that I called at Peat Rigg Farm, Aidensfield, the loftily situated holding of Harry and Winifred Bosworth and their son, Gerry.
Their farmhouse and buildings nestled in a sheltered hollow in the moors and the entire complex was hidden from the passing roads, but the Bosworth spread of fields and open moorland covered an elevated and huge area, some of which had once been used for peat cutting, hence the farm’s name. The Bosworths, always busy, kept Highland cattle, blackfaced sheep, Tamworth pigs and masses of poultry, in addition to their arable farming. I always liked to visit Peat Rigg because Harry invariably invited me to share a walk around the complex, after the traditional cup of coffee or tea with masses of fruit cake, scones and cheese — a snack by their standards. The contents of outbuildings of farms as large as this one were endlessly fascinating and, in some ways, reminded me of my childhood explorations of my grandfather’s farm.
On this occasion, Harry did not fail me. ‘Howway, Nick, let’s have a paddle around,’ he said.
It was a chilly November day and I could see his son, Gerry, guiding his tractor across a field to the north of the farm. He was turning over the earth with smooth, confident movements, the heavy plough coping easily with the tough moorland soil. We were heading for one of the outbuildings where Harry was in the process of cleaning and maintaining some of his harvesting machinery. I marvelled at the cleanliness of the farmyard and its immediate surrounds. He really did set an example to others. Inside the massive stone structure, there were some dismantled pieces of mysterious agricultural equipment and he told me he was cleaning the bits, then greasing them for storage until they were required next year.
‘There isn’t an old horse-drawn plough among that lot, is there?’ I indicated the pieces which were strewn across the floor.
‘Aye, as a matter of fact I have one next door. It’s in that middle shed,’ he said. ‘It’s horse drawn; it’s not been used for tens o’ years. My father kept it in mint condition, though, greased and cleaned and painted up where necessary. I’ve never used it. Here, come and have a look. Anyroad, why are you interested in awd ploughs?’
I told him of the vicar’s plans to revive the Plough Monday tradition and he said, ‘Well, we’re not Church of England as you know; our family was living in these parts long before them protestants came along, but t’parish church can use this plough if t’vicar wants. I’ve no objection to that. I can’t see t’point of blessing it, mind, when it doesn’t do any work these days. He’d be far better off blessing a milking machine or a tractor or a combine.’ And he chuckled at his own logic.
Inside yet another spacious, dry building full of sacks of cow nuts and smelling delicious, he indicated a point midway up the rear wall. There was a kind of stone shelf which had been formed where the thickness of the stone of the sturdy base wall gave way to a thinner one above. And there was a beautiful old plough, its bare metal parts gleaming and its red paintwork looked brand new. A double furrow plough, it had two slippers, otherwise known as mouldboards, each with a gleaming metal sock; there was a pair of long twin wooden handles, painted red, with a coulter and a red furrow wheel, red land wheel and red beam.
It was fully equipped with a three-horse baulk, complete with cutwillies and highly polished cobbletrees and swingletrees in natural wood. They were chained to a large hook in one of the beams above but it meant the plough was well off the floor and safe from any risk of damage.
‘It’s like an exhibition plough; it doesn’t look as though it’s ever been used!’ I went nearer to examine this gem. ‘It’s the sort of thing you’d find in a museum.’
‘Nay, I don’t think it’s ever been worked,’ he said. ‘We never used it, but my dad said we had to clean it and keep it in good condition.’
‘But why keep it in such beautiful condition?’ I asked.
‘We’re its custodians. It’s t’awd sword dance plough,’ he said.
I felt a tremor of excitement now. ‘What old sword dance?’ I asked.
‘Our sword dance! Aidensfield Sword Dance,’ he said. ‘It’s never been done for years, but that awd plough was t’centrepiece. They allus danced on Plough Monday and did a frantic sort of dance waving swords about and dancing between �
��em on t’ground, while yon plough stood in t’background. Summat to do with fertility rites, they reckon, from Viking times. Pagan really, not at all Catholic.’
‘So why have you got this plough?’ was my next question.
‘When they stopped t’sword dances, all t’gear they used was distributed to t’surviving members of t’group,’ he said. ‘Some got a sword apiece, we got yon plough. One of my ancestors was t’leader, you see.’
‘When was that, Harry?’ I asked.
‘Nay, long before my time,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t rightly say when it was but I think it was my grandfather who was given yon plough, so I reckon it was before t’turn of t’century.’
‘So why did the sword dance come to an end?’ I put to him.
‘Nay, that’s summat I never did find out, Nick. I remember my grandad would never talk about it, nor would anybody else. They just stopped doing t’dance years back, but I’ve never asked why. And my awd dad’s dead and buried now, and I don’t think he ever knew either. If he did, he never said.’
‘Have you anything else connected with the sword dance?’ I asked. ‘Papers, lists of dancers, the routine they used, the music?’
‘Nothing, Nick. Just that awd plough. I’ve nowt to prove where it came from, neither, except word of mouth, but I don’t think any of my folks would lie about a thing like that.’
‘So the swords might still be in the village as well?’
‘It’s very possible, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to find t’descendants of them that did the last dance. Eight dancers, there was, my dad said, so there should be eight swords somewhere. Anyway, why all t’sudden interest in t’sword dance and Plough Monday?’
I told him about the vicar’s intentions and mentioned Aubrey Fletcher’s desire to revive the Aidensfield Sword Dance but I could see this did not please him.
‘He’s an incomer, eh? Trying to show us locals how to live our lives, Nick. Well, if he wants my advice, he’ll drop them plans. Tell him to leave well alone.’
‘You do know something about the sword dance!’ Now, I realized he knew more than he was prepared to admit even to me — for I was an outsider too.
‘Just tell Mr Fletcher he’s best leaving things as they are,’ said Harry. ‘Mebbe you would see him and tell him, from us all, friendly like.’
‘If I knew why there is likely to be such opposition to the revival of something as simple as an ancient sword dance, it would make all this much easier to understand,’ I put to him.
But Harry merely shook his head. ‘It’s best left alone, take my word, Nick. Just tell him to leave things as they are, let sleeping dogs lie. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘I’ll pass the message on,’ I promised him, and prepared to leave the farm.
There is no doubt that Harry’s attitude increased my curiosity about the sword dance and I found myself sharing Aubrey’s interest in discovering the cause of its lapse. In the weeks that followed, I maintained my interest and continued to ask around the village, but it became increasingly clear that the elder residents of Aidensfield, along with those whose families had lived here for generations, were most anxious that memories of the dance should not be stirred. I became acutely aware that any revival of the sword dance would never be welcomed. But I had no idea why.
My police duties prevented me from conducting any prolonged sessions of detective work into the mystery of the sword dance, although I popped into Aubrey’s shop from time to time to update him on my discoveries. The old plough at Peat Rigg was of great interest to him — but we never found any of the swords.
He had found one other reference to the dance; it was in a Handbook for Rail and Road Travellers, a guidebook to the area published in 1894, but the wording was such that it did not say whether or not the dance was then being held. The relevant paragraph said, ‘Part of Aidensfield’s long history is rooted in the ancient sword dance held on Plough Monday. Dating from Viking times, the dance may have had bygone associations with pagan fertility rites’. That’s all the book said about it, leaving it somewhat uncertain as to whether the dance was being held at the time the book was written. From the wording, it was unclear whether the word ‘held’ was in the present or past tense.
As Christmas turned into New Year, and the vicar went ahead with his Plough Monday service, I did consider researching the dance in back copies of the Ashfordly Gazette. The snag with the cessation of such a dance was that it was unlikely to attract the interest of the newspapers of the period. The fact that the dance was not held during a particular year would not appeal to a newspaper published a few miles away in the nearest market town and in any case, to wade through weekly newspapers seeking such snippets of local information going back a century or so would be enormously time consuming. I began to think I would never discover the reason for the puzzling end of the Aidensfield Sword Dance and concluded that the secret, if there was one, lay within one or more of the houses which comprised the village of Aidensfield.
It was Alf Ventress, Ashfordly’s longest serving constable, who unwittingly gave me the next clue.
He was settling down to his lunch in the office, giving himself a break from some clerical chores, which meant I could use the typewriter. Because it was year end, each country constable had to submit an annual return of the crimes which had occurred on his beat. This listed them in order of the Home Office classification and noted which, if any, had been detected. In my case, there were few crimes that year — no murders, rapes, burglaries, robberies or arson had been committed on my beat, although I had had one or two instances of simple larceny, a couple of garage-breakings, one housebreaking and two cases of actual bodily harm. All had been detected, for which I was thankful.
It was during my typing-up of the statistics sheet in Ashfordly Police Station, that Alf Ventress said, ‘It’s been a quiet year on Aidensfield patch, Nick, judging by your return.’
‘Perhaps a bit quieter than average,’ I said, watching Alf crack two hard-boiled eggs by crashing one against the other. ‘But that’s a sign of efficient policing . . .’
‘The snag with that theory,’ laughed Ventress, ‘is that you do your job so well that there are no crimes — you prevent them happening — which means the bosses look at the crime figures for your beat and decide that because there is no crime, a constable is not required! You can work yourself clean out of a job if you’re not careful, Nick.’
‘And if there is no resident constable, there is no one for the locals to report their crimes to. That’s another way of keeping the figures low — you just don’t let the crimes be reported!’
‘The trick is not to be too clever with figures, Nick. Aidensfield could do with a serious crime or two if the presence of a constable is to be maintained there. That’s how the village got its first constable, you know. Because of a serious crime. The Murder That Never Was, that’s how the newspapers described it. The chief constable of the time, and the lord of the manor, thought that Aidensfield was going to become a den of iniquity, so they installed a constable there. And it’s been quiet ever since.’
‘A tribute to a succession of efficient constables,’ I grinned. ‘So what was the Murder That Never Was?’
‘A fatal stabbing, Nick, with a sword of all things. In Aidensfield! It happened during a festival of some kind — noticed it in some old files I was clearing out a few months back. Murder files.’
He was now tucking into his two hard-boiled eggs, dropping bits of wobbly egg-white all over his uniform to lodge among the ash of umpteen cigarettes.
‘A sword you say?’ My mind immediately thought of sword dancing.
‘Yes, it was during a sword dance, if my memory serves me right. They used real swords in those days, long swords with points and sharp blades, not those blunt things they use now. I remembered that case because of its association with the Aidensfield constable. One youth stabbed another to death. Big stuff in Aidensfield.’
�
�So have we still got the file?’ I was excited now.
‘It’ll be in the loft somewhere, the space above the cell passage. There’s cardboard boxes of them, dozens of old files going back to when the Force was founded in 1856. I’ve written “Murders” on a few boxes; it’s in one of those, 1900 or thereabouts. I can’t remember the exact date but it’s easy enough to find.’
It didn’t take long to get the keys to the police station loft. As Alf Ventress had said, the boxes of Murder files were easy to locate even in the restricted light of a solitary bulb, and it was simply a case of searching through them until I came to the one marked ‘Aidensfield, 1901. Murder. R v Barnes’. I took it down to the office where I could study it in more conducive surroundings and untied the string around the heavy brown folder.
Immediately inside was a newspaper cutting, yellow with age but with the print still legible. The headline was ‘Aidensfield Farm-Worker Acquitted’ with a secondary headline of ‘no evidence offered on a charge of manslaughter’.
Couched in the quaint language of the time, the cutting told the story of twenty-five-year-old Edwin Barnes, a farmworker who lived with his wife and his parents at Blue Wath Farm, Aidensfield. A member of the Aidensfield Sword Dancing team, he had been engaged in a hectic dance routine on Plough Monday during which a nineteen-year-old labourer called Joseph Lumsden had been killed with a blow from a sword. The point of the weapon had entered his stomach regions to cause a massive wound resulting in severe bleeding. He had died from loss of blood before reaching hospital. Lumsden was the nephew of Mr and Mrs P. Willis of Frost Hollow, Aidensfield, a farm in a deep valley to the east of the village.
Lumsden had been working for his aunt and uncle at the time, and he lived at their farm. He was also a member of the sword dance team.
Upon the evidence gathered by the police, the crown prosecuted Barnes for murdering Lumsden, the chief evidence and motive being that the deceased had been secretly visiting Barnes’ wife, Juliet. Juliet was pregnant at the time of the incident, the allegation being that the child was Lumsden’s. It was said that Barnes used the cover of the sword dance to murder Lumsden, doing so in the guise of a tragic accident.
CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17) Page 12