CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17)

by Nicholas Rhea

  All Saints were 122 for 9, with the last man coming in to bat but with a wild swing, known locally as a cow swipe, with which he hoped he would score a six; he missed and was clean bowled. St Aidan’s had won the cricket. The total score was 18 for each church.

  It meant that everything depended upon the children and part of the day’s achievement was to make sure that every child entered at least one of the contests. St Aidan’s won the under 5s sprint for girls and the under 10s egg-and-spoon race for boys; then All Saints drew ahead with cracking wins in the 5–8s boys’ sack race, the 8–10s long jump for boys and the girls’ 15–18s hundred-yard race.

  The tension and interest thus created was quite astonishing and there is little doubt that the competitors, young as they were, entered their races with the fervour of missionaries. Cheers rent the air as successive teams assembled and tore towards the finishing lines, with roars of approval or cries of dismay, dependant on whom one was supporting as the winning line was crossed.

  And quite suddenly, it was over. The score was 27 each — but there should have been a clear winner, and there wasn’t. There was a frantic check of the completed events when it was revealed that the organizers had omitted one of the races. With everything to play for, there was a further race to be completed but no one knew which had been omitted because one or two had been run simultaneously at different locations. To keep the tension high, the announcer said,

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. There is one more race — the decider for the Aidensfield Churches Challenge Cup. It will begin in five minutes. The winner will ensure that a fine Challenge Cup and a cheque for £500 goes to the winning church — and what a climax this will be! Be there — see the cliff-hanging climax in five minutes . . .’

  There was then a frantic check of the list to see which race had been omitted and it was shown to be the 5-8s three-legged race for boys. Somehow, the race organizers had overlooked it on the long list of events, but it meant that the honour of winning the cup now rested upon the competitors in this final test, a band of tiny lads.

  The announcer called for the youngsters to assemble at the starting point but some had wandered off, thinking they would not be called to race or believing that they had perhaps not heard an earlier call. And so there was something of a scramble to persuade parents to ensure their children were ready. Eventually, with the entire crowd assembled around the arena, the lads were gathered together, with each school being well represented. It was then that I noticed two lads walking towards the arena — I knew one as Brendan O’Ryan, aged seven, because he had once had his bicycle stolen from outside St Aidan’s school, but I did not know the other.

  ‘Come on, you two!’ I shouted. ‘You’re just in time for the big race! Where have you been?’

  ‘We’ve just come, Mr Rhea,’ said Brendan. ‘Dad had to go to Scarborough.’

  ‘Well, you’re just in time. So who is this?’ I asked the other boy.

  ‘Timothy Riley,’ said the other one.

  ‘How old are you, Timothy?’ I asked him.

  ‘Seven,’ he said.

  ‘And you are Brendan’s friend?’

  ‘No, he’s my cousin,’ said Brendan.

  ‘Right, get up to the start of the three-legged race, have your legs tied together and run for your lives when the whistle goes. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rhea,’ said Brendan.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ echoed Timothy.

  As the boys hurried to the starting point for an official to tie a duster around their ankles in a regulation knot, I saw Brendan’s mother and father heading towards me and thought they should be told where the boys were. Mr O’Ryan said he’d had some important business which had taken longer than he’d expected, and was sorry he had missed the fun of the fête, but was delighted to see Brendan and his cousin preparing for the three-legged race. I wondered if the O’Ryans realized how much was riding upon the back of each pair of children in this race, but they seemed not to have appreciated the tension into which they had just walked.

  Then the starter shouted, ‘Ready, everyone?’ A hush descended upon the gathering. ‘Children?’

  A row of boys, each with one leg tied to that of a friend, stood at the starting point with one of their arms around the back of their partner. All were staring intently at the finishing tape. The starter shouted, ‘Right. When I shout Go — run for that tape . . .’ There was a pause as the crowd lapsed into a respectful silence and then we heard the starter call, ‘Ready, steady — Go!’

  A roar filled the air as hundreds of voices cheered on the galloping lads and then I saw the O’Ryan and Riley twosome gain a very useful lead. They were running with practised skill, the rhythm of their movements taking them well ahead of their competitors and they crossed the finishing line well ahead of anyone else to the rousing cheers of the St Aidan supporters.

  The announcer, with a microphone in his hands, went up to Brendan and Timothy as they were removing their bond and I heard him say, ‘Brendan, which is your school?’

  ‘St Aidan’s, the Catholic school sir,’ he said quietly, as the place erupted into cheers as the assembled Catholics realized their church would get the £500 and the cup.

  But then we heard the amplified voice of Timothy say, ‘But I’m starting at All Saints on Monday.’

  The cheers died away as the announcer said, ‘You are new here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m staying with my aunt and uncle until Mum and Dad move house. I am not a Catholic, so I will go to All Saints Primary.’

  And there was a roar from All Saints supporters as the announcer said, ‘Well, I declare the result to be an admirable draw! The cup will be held by each church for six months and the cash prize divided between the two. A very worthy result if I may say so.’

  And so it was. St Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes would have been well pleased.

  * * *

  There is little doubt that the success of the joint churches fête was responsible for a softening of attitudes between the congregations, but another conciliatory event swiftly followed.

  Due to dwindling congregations, one of the two Methodist chapels in Aidensfield had closed a few years earlier and it had remained untouched and unused.

  A handsome building constructed of local moorland granite, it was full of rich woodwork; it had been built in the early years of the last century on the heather-covered slopes of a steep incline overlooking the river. It was a picturesque site by any standards and several entrepreneurial builders had made approaches to purchase the old chapel with a view to converting it into a dwelling house. All had been refused permission to buy it, one reason being that the reduction of numbers might be of a temporary nature, and that an upsurge of interest in Methodism was anticipated. But that renewal of faith never happened and the old chapel became more and more dilapidated in appearance.

  It was therefore decided, with some reluctance, that the old chapel should be sold and so it was put on the market. It was quickly purchased for a very reasonable price by a local builder called Duncan Goodwin. He wasted no time in gutting the place, selling off the benches and stripping all the beautiful timber which had remained in surprisingly good condition. In a remarkably short time, the place was a mere shell comprising little more than four stone walls and a roof as Goodwin set about his task of converting it into a modern and fashionable house with stunning views over the river and moors. He dressed the shell of the old chapel in a coat of scaffolding, re-pointed the walls, repaired the roof and prepared to instal the necessary services. From time to time as I passed I would pop in to see how things were progressing.

  My visits were not connected in any way with my police work, but merely the curiosity of a village resident who felt he might like to buy the finished house. But that was an impossible dream for me — such properties were far beyond my modest salary, even if I had been allowed to buy my own home. My house came with the job! It was during one of these nosy visits that he showed me something which was to pr
ove of immense interest.

  As I entered the dusty, empty building, Duncan and his three men were taking up the floorboards. There was a bewildering amount of dust in the air as they prised the long, strong boards from the underlying beams which supported them. They were careful not to damage the woodwork because it was going to be relaid as the new floor. It was in exquisite condition, a tribute to the care lavished upon it over the years by successive chapel congregations. As I passed the time of day with Duncan, one of his men, Harry, shouted, ‘Boss, here, look at this!’

  Duncan, a small stocky man in his late forties, went over to Harry who had found a large hole beneath the floor.

  ‘What is it, Harry? A well or summat?’

  ‘It looks bigger than a well to me, more like a pit shaft.’

  ‘We need a torch,’ said Duncan.

  ‘I’ve got one in my van,’ I offered, and went out for it. When I returned, I found myself looking into a black and very spacious hole directly beneath the floor; I poked my torch into it and shone the light around — it looked like a room because there were walls and a floor below and I could see that the beams of the chapel floor spanned the huge gap beneath and served as a roof to the hidden room.

  ‘Have a look.’ I handed the torch to Duncan, and he passed it to the others, after which Duncan said, ‘It looks like a cellar to me.’

  He ordered his men to lift several more floorboards which they now did with extreme care and, as each board, some twelve inches wide, came up, it revealed more of the emptiness beneath. My torch revealed more of the old cellar, its floor covered in thick dust with pieces of large stone and other unidentified artefacts lying around. It had been undisturbed for years.

  ‘It is a cellar,’ said Duncan eventually. ‘See, it’s got a stone floor, good solid stone walls and there, under the far end of the chapel, there’s a stone staircase rising up to our level . . . it’s been blocked off, though. The floorboards cover the exit into the chapel.’

  He was right. At the point where the staircase would have entered the chapel, the floorboards spanned the area, yet there was no indication from within the chapel that a flight of steps descended beneath it at that point. Certainly, there was no cellar flap to permit entry to the staircase and cellar below.

  ‘So the entire chapel is standing on top of a cellar?’ I said. ‘It’s a wonder it was never used, it would have made a massive and very useful storeroom.’

  ‘It’s funny, is that,’ said Duncan. ‘But if my knowledge is owt like right, those cellar walls are far older than the chapel. And see, at the front . . .’ He was guiding the beam of my torch around the walls beneath.

  ‘Overlooking the beck?’ I said.

  ‘Aye, there’s been a window there, it’s blocked up now. With matching stone . . . it’s been a church window, I reckon, Mr Rhea, see its outline?’

  He was right. The shape of the blocked-up window was just like those of the parish church — a tall, narrow shape rounded at the top before coming to a point. And there were similar windows at each side too, close to the one which overlooked the river. All were blocked with stone.

  ‘But you can’t see the outline of those windows from the outside, can you?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s all overgrown down there, Mr Rhea, briars and rubbish. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. You can’t really get close to that cellar wall at the outside, it’s become part of the cliff in that gully. From the far side of the beck, this wall now looks like part of the chapel. Looking at it more carefully, you could think it had been built years ago, long before the chapel, mebbe to stop landslides, then used to support the chapel.’

  ‘You’re saying those cellar walls could have been there for centuries? What’s the history of the chapel site, Duncan, any idea?’

  ‘Not really. When I bought the spot, I found there’d been a barn here before the chapel was built — some farmer let the Methodists have the barn so they could put a chapel here but I’ve no idea what the barn looked like. The chapel was built in 1812-1813, but I have no idea how long the old barn had been there before that or whether the walls of the barn were re-used to make the chapel.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the history of the village to say there’d ever been a church on this site, is there?’ I asked.

  ‘Nay, Mr Rhea, I’m no historian. But I never saw owt about an old church when I was buying the spot, and the planning committee never mentioned it. So far as I knew, this had been a barn for years and years, and then a chapel, and I got permission to change it into a dwelling house. You don’t think this cellar’s from an old church, do you?’

  ‘It looks like a crypt,’ I said. ‘I don’t know much about such things but it’s very like that crypt at Lastingham, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lastingham? I’ve never seen that ’un, Mr Rhea.’

  I told him about the remarkable crypt which lies beneath St Mary’s Anglican Church at Lastingham in the depths of the North York Moors. Dating from Norman times, it is an entire church in its own right, complete with nave, chancel and two side aisles, and it is one of the few apsidal crypts in this country. It contains the remains of an altar and some stone crosses dating variously from the time of the Angles, the Vikings and the Danes; it is also thought to be built over the tomb of Saint Cedd, standing as it does on the site of his first monastery. Access to the crypt is through the present parish church and down a staircase through an opening in the aisle. From my memory of that old crypt, this supposed cellar looked remarkably similar.

  ‘Does this mean I’ll have to stop my conversion work?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘I doubt if anyone could compel you to stop,’ I suggested. ‘It’s not as if you’ve discovered a body or a piece of gold which is subjected to the laws of treasure trove. But I would imagine that historians and archaeologists would like to examine this place before you decide what to do with it.’

  ‘Now I know what those builders feel like as they uncover Roman remains every time they dig a street up in York!’ he grinned. ‘What shall I do, Mr Rhea? I mean, if this is important to the history of Aidensfield, I don’t want to be responsible for ruining it.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Tony Lyddington,’ I told him.

  Tony was a professional archaeologist who lived in Elsinby and he was an expert in the history of the locality; he’d be ideal.

  ‘Shall I stop the lads?’ asked Duncan warily.

  ‘That’s up to you, Duncan,’ I said. ‘But I can’t see how they can harm the crypt while they’re working on the top. Your problems might start if this is extremely old and very historic . . . !’

  ‘I’ve other projects lined up,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘We’re doing this up between jobs, I can easily stop if I have to.’

  I asked Duncan and his workmen not to mention this discovery until Lyddington arrived to determine its age and former use. It would be four or five days later when Tony Lyddington found the time to visit the old chapel; he rang me to tell me the time of his proposed visit and, as I was off duty, I went along.

  Duncan and his men had removed all the floorboards by this time and were busy pointing the internal walls prior to replastering. The floor supports were all in position, with a few floorboards and additional planks lying on top to provide walkways above the gaping hole beneath; now, though, the stairs into the crypt were accessible and, in the crypt, Duncan had rigged up an electric light bulb at the end of a long cable.

  Tony Lyddington was a strange individual with long brown hair in a ponytail and he dressed in highly coloured woollen clothes, often with a woolly hat on his head and climbing boots on his feet. In his mid-forties, he was widely acknowledged as an authority on the Roman settlements of Yorkshire, with an accompanying wide knowledge of other eras. I stood to one side as Tony, from a vantage point in the chapel itself, first examined the hollow beneath the chapel and then descended via the old stone steps. He moved towards the walls, peering closely at them, and with even more closeness, studied the bl
ocked-up windows. He ran his fingers through the dust on the floor, looked at the bits of discarded stone and then asked if there was any way he could examine the exterior. It was possible, Duncan told him, to scramble down the rocky slope outside if one held on to trees and bushes.

  Eventually, he returned and smiled.

  ‘I am almost certain it is a crypt,’ he said. ‘They were sometimes built on sloping sites like this, to support the church above. There’s one at Shillington in Bedfordshire, I believe, but they are considerably rarer in village parish churches, particularly in the north of England. Now, I do know that there was the hint of a crypt beneath a church in Aidensfield in the thirteenth century, but all detailed records have vanished. At the time of the persecution of the Catholics in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were stories of priests coming into the country from France, as missionaries, and hiding in the big houses of the area, then saying mass in secret. This is probably one of the places where mass was said, with secret access through the barn which used to stand here. A perfect place but due to its secrecy, one which has faded from the historic records of the area.’

  ‘There seems to be some damage,’ I pointed to the fallen pillars which still lay on the floor.

  ‘The Normans had pillars like this, in their crypts,’ he said. ‘But these might have been knocked down when the floor of the chapel was laid. I’m surprised the chapel builders did not publicize the crypt.’

  ‘If the workmen were Catholics,’ I said, ‘perhaps they wanted to keep the old crypt hidden, as their forefathers had done?’