Constable Across the Moors (15 page)

They were already galloping upstairs, their voices shrill and harsh as they careered towards the bedroom of the object they worshipped so dearly. Both were hammering on the door as I reached it, panting slightly from the steep climb.

They stood aside, gabbling incessantly and wiping their flooding eyes as I stepped forward and turned the knob. Nothing. It was locked and I guessed the key was on the inside. I knocked many times and shouted loudly.

“Jack? Are you there?”

There was nothing, not even a groan of pain or a half-hearted attempt to reply. I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. And as I hammered on the door and shouted, I could faintly discern the peculiar smell I’d noticed previously when looking around the rooms. Now, I thought I knew what it was. If I was right, Jack wasn’t dead.

“Well?” they both asked at once, expecting me to perform a miracle.

“Have you a ladder?” I asked.

“Ladder?” they chorused. “What for?”

“To look into his room,” I said seriously. “I think he’s in there and I think I know what’s the matter.”

“He’s there?” they shouted. “You mean he hasn’t left us?”

“I’ll have to see.” I didn’t promise anything, but we all trooped downstairs and out into the foldyard. There hanging on a wall inside a shed was a long ladder, and I carried this to his bedroom window. Propping it carefully against the wall, I began my climb of exploration.

As I reached the bottom pane, I peered inside and knew my diagnosis had been correct. I could see Jack laid on the cover of
his untidy, unmade bed, and he was out like the proverbial light. His head lay on the pillow and his mouth was wide open, an invitation to flies and passing spiders, while his hands lay palm upwards at the end of outspread arms. His feet, bare and black, hung over the end of the bed, and he was dressed in blue striped pyjamas. He was not a pretty sight.

From my position on the ladder, I could peer right into the room, and saw evidence of my suspicions. That smell had been alcohol, gallons and gallons of it, the sort that reeks when poured down human throats without ceasing, year after year, and which fills rooms like this when empty bottles are left around. Jack Holtby was an alcoholic. Even from this distance, the room bore the classic signs. There were bottles everywhere. Stout, beer, spirits, full ones and empties, all littered about the place, filling every spare inch of space. The window ledge, the mantelpiece, the top of the wardrobe, the drawers, the
dressing-table
– all were full of bottles, standing or lying, empty and full, and the floor was similarly littered. The fellow was as drunk as a newt.

I opened the window in the manner used by enterprising burglars and clambered inside, knocking bottles aside. The stench was appalling. Holding my breath, I raised the window to its full height to allow some fresh air inside, and noticed the two anxious faces below.

“I’m checking,” I yelled at them. “He’s here.”

“Oh!” they cried, putting their hands to their mouths. “Is he ill?”

“I think so,” I deigned to answer, and picked my way through the minefield of bottles towards the bed. I felt him; he was warm. He was therefore alive and I could just hear his faint breathing. I slapped his cheeks, but got no response. He was out cold, stoned out of his mind and I wondered if the ladies had driven him to drink …

Probably not. Probably, he was well on the way to alcoholic oblivion before getting this job, and this made it easy for him to avoid prying eyes. To be tucked away out here with two doting spinsters must have been a gift from the gods. No wonder he’d kept himself to himself.

I unlocked the door with the key left in the lock and made my
way downstairs. They were hurrying towards me with worried expressions.

“Is he ill?”

“Or dead? Fallen and hurt himself?”

“Has he ever asked either of you for drinks?” I put to them.

“Yes,” each said in perfect unison, “but he told me not to tell my sister. I got him drink from the village when I went down …”

“As a secret? A special favour because you loved him …?” I smiled.

They didn’t answer. Each was blushing, each had been skilfully used by this chronic alcoholic and each had served only to keep him well stocked up with booze of every conceivable kind. And last night, he’d reduced his stock by a fair margin.

“He’s drunk,” I said. “He’s out like a light, totally and finally sloshed. He’s an alcoholic, ladies, the room is full of bottles.”

They looked at each other and didn’t speak.

“I’ll call the doctor,” I said. “I think he needs medical attention of some kind. Can I use your telephone?”

“Of course, Mr Rhea.”

When I called again three months later, Jack had gone. They introduced me to another man, a grey-haired slim man in his fifties. He sat with them at their kitchen table, sipping coffee and I saw the familiar light in their eyes.

“This is Ernest Wallace,” beamed Cis. “He’s been with us a few weeks …”

“He came from Waversford Estate, Mr Rhea, with very good references …”

“I know he’ll be well looked after,” I smiled, pulling up a chair. “Welcome, Mr Wallace.”

I made a mental note to check his character and I wondered how he’d cope with a moorland burglar alarm and two love-sick spinsters.

Because it was Saturday, the grandfather clock had to be wound up. I opened the ancient glass door which covered the face and reached to the top of the case for the key. I kept it there because it was out of reach of the children and I knew where to find it each winding day. The key was a curious shape, being a tiny tunnel with a handle welded at one end, and it was used to wind the eight-day clock. It looked something like a miniature starting handle for a car.

As I wound up the faithful old clock, the key suddenly broke in my hand. The delicate handle had come away from the barrel of the antique key, and I could see it was nothing more than a straightforward welding job. The repair could be quickly affected.

At first, I thought of Awd John the blacksmith, but on second thoughts appreciated that his skills were more directed towards the repair of larger objects like ploughs and gates. I had never seen him tackle anything of a delicate nature, and I wondered if anyone in this village could fix my key. It was more than a soldering job, I realised, otherwise I would have done that myself. Welding was the only sure way of effecting this repair. The garage might have done it, but they closed on Saturday afternoons.

Accordingly, I decided to ask around the village, and the first
man I saw as I patrolled on foot about the village centre was Stumpy Sykes.

“Now, Stumpy,” I made the traditional greeting. “How’s tha gahin on?”

“Middling,” was his reply. Everything Stumpy did was middling – never good, never bad. If he was ill, he was middling; if he was fit and well, he was middling. If he won a prize in the flower shows, his plants were fair to middling, and whatever the weather, it was middling.

“Stumpy,” I said, taking the broken key from my pocket. “Is there anybody who can fix this?”

He solemnly regarded the key and nodded slowly. “Deearn’t trust Awd John wi summat like that. Welding ploughs and fixing rainwater pipes is right up his street, but fixing delicate things like yon is not in his line at all. Try Awd Alex.”

“Alex?” I puzzled.

“Aye, that cottage yon side o’ t’garage. He’s a retired
clockmaker
, well into his seventies, but he can fix owt.”

I’d not come across Awd Alex and learned his surname was MacDonald. Mr Alexander MacDonald to be precise, and he lived with his wife in a lovely cottage with a porch and climbing plants all over the front. The place shone like a polished cream-strainer. I knocked on the door, using a brass knocker in which I could see my own reflection, and soon a smart lady in her sixties answered. Her pretty face expressed surprise at the sight of my uniform but she rapidly gained her composure and said, “Yes?”

“Oh, I’m P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m looking for Mr MacDonald.”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong, is it?” she asked the question
everyone
asked when finding a policeman at the door. I noticed she carried a yellow duster.

“Oh, no,” I smiled and pulled the key from my pocket. “It’s this – I’m told he can fix it.”

“Well, yes, I suppose he can, officer.” She spoke with a faint Scots accent. “But he’s out just now. You can find him up at Miss Crowther’s – you know her place?”

I shook my head.

“Stone House,” she said, pointing along the village. “You
could leave the thing if you want – he’s got a workshop up the garden.”

“No, I’ll explain how it needs fixing,” I smiled. “I’ll find him. Miss Crowther, eh?”

“Yes, he went there a long time ago – I hope you find him – if you do, officer, can you say tea will be ready at five o’clock?”

“Yes, of course,” and I left her to her cleaning.

I walked along the main street, bidding “Good afternoon” to several residents and finally reached Stone House, Miss
Crowther’s
home. It was a large, Victorian building of sombre grey stone and boasted a rather genteel but unkempt appearance. I had to lift the garden gate to open it, for it needed new hinges, and made my way to the front door. I rang the bell and it sounded somewhere inside, upon which I eventually heard inner doors opening and closing as someone came towards me. Then the front door opened.

A short, dumpy and smiling woman answered; she was clad in a long purple dress with a knitted shawl over the shoulders and smiled a warm welcome.

“Ah,” she said, “You must be Police Constable Rhea?”

“Yes,” I acknowledged.

“It’s so kind of you to call,” she oozed, “I’m delighted you have found the time. I do like the policemen to call on me, to make themselves known so that when I’m in trouble, I know who they are. That makes it so much easier to approach you, and it gives us all that much more confidence …”

As she ushered me inside her rambling home, she babbled on and guided me into a large lounge expensively furnished with Indian carpets and complementary furnishings. She motioned me to sit down and I obeyed.

“Now,” she said. “Tea or coffee?”

“Well, actually,” I began, “I didn’t come to stay …”

“Nonsense, you can’t call without some hospitality in
return
,” she breathed. “I do like to give my policemen a drink or two. Biscuits?”

And before I could answer, she whisked away towards her pantry somewhere along the corridor and returned with a plate full of chocolate biscuits. She placed these on a low table, which she eased towards me and said, “Tea won’t be a jiffy.”

At that, she settled on the chair opposite and began to ask about my family. I happily obliged, occasionally trying to explain the real purpose of my visit, but it was quite plain she’d interpreted this as a purely social call, a “get-to-know-you” exercise. So I played along with this, knowing it would please her. She told me of her father, a senior army officer in India years ago, and of her brothers who were very clever and doing well in London, one a barrister and the other in exports of some kind. She spent well over forty minutes telling me all about herself and asking all about me. She was a charming lady, most articulate and well read, and I knew I was going to have difficulty getting away. Furthermore, I had to find out where Mr MacDonald had gone – perhaps he was still in the house?

I managed to include his name in the conversation as I found myself telling her the names of those people with whom I’d made contact in the short time I’d been here. When I mentioned Alex MacDonald, she said,

“Oh, nice man. Very nice man. I had him in here before you came. He came to fix my television set, it was doing funny things. He’s good at fixing things, is Mr MacDonald, very good.”

“I’d like to meet him,” I said, thinking of the broken clock key in my pocket.

“He said he was going down to old Mr Nash’s house,” she said.

“I’ll see him later,” I said. “It wasn’t important.”

“Well, I mustn’t keep you,” she beamed. “It was so kind of you to call. Do call again, anytime you like, and we’ll have tea.”

And so I walked into the fresh air, rather baffled by her warm reception, but determined to call again and hear more of her fascinating life.

I knew Mr Nash. He was an old gentleman who had retired from a life in the city, something to do with accountancy, and I often chattered to him in the street, or in the shop. I knew he would welcome me, and that he was a kindred spirit of Alex MacDonald. I found his neat semi tucked well into the corner of a new estate, and walked up the path. He was gardening and observed my approach.

He raised a soil-stained hand in greeting as I strode along his path.

“Hello, Mr Nash. Still tidying up then?”

“There’s always work in a garden,” he said, leaning on his rake. “But it keeps me busy. My wife has gone into York, looking for a new dress, so I pretended I had this patch to get raked over urgently …” and he grinned wickedly at his private conspiracy.

“I’m looking for Alex MacDonald,” I said. “I heard he was here.”

“Yes, he was. I got him to fix the overflow in my roof. The confounded thing keeps overflowing every time we have a bath, and as he’s such a good plumber, I thought he’d fix it. He hasn’t been gone long.”

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“Up to Joe Steel’s.”

That meant the village shop.

By this stage, I was most interested in Awd Alex, as Stumpy had called him. I’d been sent to him because he was a useful welder, but already this afternoon he’d fixed Miss Crowther’s television set and Mr Nash’s plumbing. Why had he gone to the shop – it was closed on Saturday afternoons?

“How long since?” I asked him.

“Not long – maybe an hour, no more.”

I was determined to track down the elusive Alex MacDonald, and after passing the time of day with Mr Nash and admiring his garden, I walked back up the village to the shop. Although it was shut, I knew Joe Steel would respond to my knocking. He did, and seemed pleased to see me.

“Hello, Mr Rhea. Trouble?”

“No trouble,” I smiled. “Sorry to bother you, Joe, but I’m looking for Alex MacDonald.”

“Oh, he’s gone,” he told me. “I had him here not long ago – an hour ago, not much more. He does a spot of wine-tasting for me, you know. I get wine in for my customers and he tastes samples for me – he knows a bit about his wines, he’s very good with German whites …”

“Where did he go from here?” I heard myself ask patiently.

“Mrs Widdowson,” he said. “She’s having trouble with her
lights. They keep going out – there’s a bad connection, I think, or a short somewhere. Bulbs keep blowing or the lights keep flickering. He’s gone round there to fix them for her.”

“Thanks – I’ll see if he’s there.”

“He left about forty minutes ago,” he said.

I knew I was getting warmer. The time-lapse was growing less and less as I pursued the elusive Alex around the village. Joe told me how to find Mrs Widdowson and I located her in a lovely bungalow just off the main street. She was washing her windows from a short step-ladder and would be a lady in her early fifties. She wore a flowered head-square and flat shoes.

“Hello,” I shouted across to her. “Mrs Widdowson?”

“Yes,” she returned my smile with that inevitable look of apprehension.

“I’m looking for Mr MacDonald,” I announced. “I was told he was here.”

“Yes, he was, Mr Rhea,” she knew my name. “He came to fix my lights – it was a bad connection, he said. He fixed it for me. He left, though, about half an hour ago. He doesn’t take long, fixing things.”

“He doesn’t!” I said. “Thanks – sorry to have troubled you.”

“He said he was going over to Partridge Hall,” she offered. “You know, that farm down the Elsinby Road.”

“I know,” I called, deciding to complete this tour. I had to visit the Dinsdale family at Partridge Hall sometime in the near future, to interview Terry, their seventeen-year-old son. He’d been involved in a motor-cycle accident near Manchester last week, so I could conclude these two missions together. The walk to Partridge Hall took about twenty minutes. I walked towards the spacious entrance of this lovely old building which was really a large farmhouse set among sycamores. It stood on an elevated site with ranging views across the open countryside and was clearly the home of an industrious and wealthy family.

I rang the doorbell and waited. Soon, a young woman with neat blonde hair tied with a ribbon appeared from a corridor and smiled at me.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m P.C. Rhea. Is Terry Dinsdale in please?”

“Terry?” she frowned. “Is he in trouble?”

“No,” I assured her. “It’s about his accident last week, the one near Manchester. I’ve got to take a statement from him – it’s for the local police. I think he was more of a witness than a casualty?”

“Yes, he was overtaken by a motor cyclist who crashed into a van. Terry fell off his motor bike because of it, but wasn’t hurt. I think he’s out. Just a moment, I’ll fetch mum.”

She disappeared the way she had come and soon a mature woman with identical blonde hair and lovely smile materialised from the house. She was dressed in painting clothes – an old apron, old dress and a clear plastic hat on her head. She carried a paint brush, the handle wrapped in a rag.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to interrupt
important
work!”

“It’s all right, I’m decorating our lounge,” she said. “Susan said it’s Terry you want?”

I explained the reason and she smiled. “Yes, he told us, but he’s out, Mr Rhea. He went off to York with some pals. I expect him back about half past six.”

“I’ll call again.”

“Shall I send him up to your house?” she offered.

“If he rings first to tell me when he’s coming, that would be fine,” I consented.

“He won’t be prosecuted, will he?” she asked, with all the worried expressions a mother can produce.

“Not from what I saw of the report from Manchester,” I confirmed. “I’ve been asked to take a witness statement from him, nothing more, although I will have to record details of his driving licence and insurance. That’s routine.”

“All right, Mr Rhea, I’ll get him to ring you when he comes in.”

“Thanks – now, a small thing while I’m here. I’m looking for Mr MacDonald and understand he’s here.”

“Yes,” she smiled, and I felt a great sense of relief. “Did you want to speak to him?”

“Very briefly,” and I pulled my key from my pocket. “I want him to fix this, and have been chasing him all afternoon.”

“Come through,” she invited, and I followed her along the elegant corridors of this beautiful old house and into a room
which reeked of fresh paint. The floor and furniture were covered with white sheets and there, perched high on a step ladder, was a silver-haired gentleman with a deeply tanned face. He was the picture of health and he turned to look down as I entered the room. He was clad in a white smock and put something down on the tray at the top of his ladder. Above was a highly ornate ceiling, rich in plaster work and decorated across its entirety. He was doing something to the plaster work.

“Mr MacDonald,” the lady announced. “This is P.C. Rhea, he wants a quick word with you.”