Constable Around the Village (4 page)

Deflated, I was now faced with a long walk back home and my efforts had produced very little more information, except I now knew the identity of his partner in crime. Back in my office an hour later, I rang York’s collator to see if there was any record of that car in their files, but there wasn’t. It had never come to the notice of York police in a
suspicious manner, nor had its occupants. Either they were very clever criminals or they weren’t criminals at all.

I was now faced with several probabilities and several different ways of tackling the problem. Certainly,
something
unusual was going on. There was no doubt about that and it was my duty as the local constable to unearth the truth. If I told Sergeant Bairstow, he’d laugh it off, and Sergeant Blaketon would wheel them both in for interview. Neither seemed the right approach. I had to find out for myself and then tell the sergeants. I could be bold and ask them outright to account for their movements, but, if they were engaged in crime, that would alert them to police interest and we’d never solve anything.

The only solution was to make discreet enquiries in Elsinby and the finest starting-place for such delicate
questions
was the Hopbind Inn. Later that morning, I made it my first calling-place and George produced a cup of warm coffee. It was just ten o’clock.

“Busy?” he asked, by way of opening the conversation along official lines.

“So, so.” I shrugged my shoulders, hoping he’d accept that as an indication of the non-urgent nature of my presence.

“You’re early—it’s usually dinner-time when you get here.” Dinner-time for Yorkshire folk is lunch-time for other people.

“Aye.” I sipped the coffee as I perched on a stool in his bar. He wiped many glasses. “Tell me, George, do you know Eugene Peterson, the chap with the Rover?”

“Aye, I do,” he said, looking earnestly at me.

“What sort of chap is he?” I continued. We were alone.

“All right,” said George. “Honest, quite well-off, I’d say. Grown up family, retired businessman. Pleasant enough chap.”

“Honest?”

“I’d say so. I’ve never heard anything against him.”

I didn’t respond but savoured his coffee so now he came at me with:

“Come along, Mr Rhea, what’s on your mind? Is he up to something?”

“I don’t know,” I said wistfully. “I don’t know, but I must find out.”

“Why, what’s he done?”

I knew I could trust George’s discretion, so I unfolded my catalogue of early suspicions about John Henry Tyler and now Eugene Peterson. George listened carefully, wiping more glasses and sipping occasionally from his own coffee.

He smiled as I unfolded my yarn, his smile broadening as I enlarged my tale. I could see he was amused and knew, at that point, that my two suspects were not criminals.

“So, there it is, George. What’s going on?”

“You’ve no idea, have you?” he grinned wickedly.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

“Well, every third Thursday in the month, John Henry walks down here and goes off in Peterson’s Rover. They go to York Railway Station and catch an early train to London.”

“Go on,” I encouraged him.

“Well, you might believe this of Peterson, but not your John Henry. You see, they’re both top chess-players; they play international chess at a club in London. Some are postal contests, some are live, and I believe some are played over the telephone. Peterson introduced John Henry to the London club, and they go there every month. John Henry’s loved down there!”

“John Henry Tyler? You mean that smelly old farmer is a major chess-player?”

“One of the country’s best; you’ll occasionally see his name in the posh Sundays—last year, he beat a Russian grandmaster….”

“But why doesn’t he get dressed up?”

“He never dresses up for anything and he doesn’t want the village to know about it. You won’t tell anyone, will you? The club has agreed not to publicise his real identity, so don’t let John Henry know that you’re onto him. He’ll kill me for letting his secret out.”

Back in the office, I wrote “checkmate” on my file about John Henry Tyler.

It was the ubiquitous Shakespeare who called the milkmaid “Queen of curds and cream”, while Sir Thomas Overbury in
1614 wrote, “In milking a cow and straining the teats through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a milk press makes the milk the whiter or sweeter.”

These lovely rural ladies were considered the height of perfection and in days of yore were worshipped as the purest of creatures. When farms were run as highly competitive commercial enterprises, even ladies of standing regarded the job of milkmaid as worthwhile. It was never looked upon as a menial task and advice given to dairy farmers was to have a good breed of cow, to possess proper buildings and implements and to have an attractive and skilful dairymaid. One farmer, writing in the last century said, “It is a truly feminine employment and to their hands it (the milking) should be left.” It was widely accepted that cows “never let their milk down pleasantly” to someone they dreaded or disliked and it was felt that cows enjoyed being soothed by mild usage, especially when ticklish and young. It was known that contented cows provided good creamy milk, and it was the job of the milkmaid to win the best from her bovine charges.

Although my beat embraced many dairy-farms, there were not many milkmaids in or around Aidensfield. To be truthful, I did not personally know one, but it seemed that there was such a beauty on a remote farm. One day I would meet her, I felt sure. The farm in question, a large
dairy-farm
on the moors beyond Briggsby, occupied a
considerable
but isolated site well away from the main road to Harrowby. I had called on a couple of occasions in the past to check the stock registers but never during those brief visits had I espied this renowned beauty.

Then late one evening, I received a telephone call at home. It was from Joe Camplin, the farmer in question. He sounded agitated and asked if I was on duty.

I wasn’t, but asked if I could help.

“Aye, it’s about Diane Ferguson,” he said hesitantly.

“Diane Ferguson?” I didn’t recognise the name.

“Aye, my milkmaid, the Scots girl, you know.”

“Oh.” I had never seen the girl, but the point registered. “Something wrong, Mr Camplin?”

“Aye, she’s been attacked.”

“Attacked?” I shouted. “Where?”

“Down our lane. Not five minutes ago …”

“Is she badly hurt?” I asked, wondering whether a rogue cow had attacked her or whether it was something else.

“No, but she’s shaken. It was a man, grabbed her, he did. She got away though.”

“I’ll be there right away,” I promised.

Although it was my day off, I jumped into my private car and rushed five miles to the lonely farm. As I drove through the countryside, I looked for a solitary man walking the lanes at night, but found no one. I hoped I might come across the culprit but out here a person can lose himself very rapidly. Near this farm, there is nothing but wide open moorland, interspaced with a few spruces and silver birch. He could be anywhere out there. My headlights found only dry-stone walls, solitary trees and the occasional cottage. As I turned down the lane to Crag Foot Farm, I discovered the unmade road was muddy and full of holes. It threatened to shake my car to pieces as I bumped and bounced along its terrible surface. Fortunately, the farm’s exterior light was burning and guided me onto the concrete yard near the back door. It was a relief to come to a halt.

I hurried inside, pausing to knock but once and shouted my arrival. I knew the way and rushed inside. In the
comfortable
kitchen I found Joe and Mary Camplin fussing over a tearful girl. This was Diane Ferguson.

“Ah,” said Joe as I entered. “Thank God I found you in.”

“How is she?” was my first question.

The girl smiled weakly through her tears and wiped her red eyes with a man’s handkerchief, doubtless supplied by Joe. “I’m all right, thanks. Just shaken.”

“Cup o’ tea?” suggested Mary Camplin. “I’ve made one for Diane.”

“Thanks,” I accepted her offer and pulled out a chair to settle at the table. The tea was lovely.

“I heard her come crying into the yard,” began Joe before I could ask what had happened. “It was dark, and she’d run all the way … he got her by the throat …”

“Let’s start at the beginning, eh?” I suggested, turning my attention to Diane. She was a petite girl, about twenty
years old, very pretty with mousy hair and a face bearing a suggestion of freckles. Her delightful grey eyes were sharp and alert, her smile tantalising, and all were complemented by her figure which was charming and full. She looked more like a farm secretary or a shorthand typist than a milkmaid, but her appearance and demeanour reminded me of the charm of her Shakespearian counterparts. If poets and writers said that milkmaids were charming, this one proved the truth of their words.

“Tell me, Diane. What happened?”

“Well, Mr Rhea.” Her accent contained a beautiful
Lowland
lilt. “It was like this. I got off the bus at the lane end,” and she indicated the direction with her hands. “I always get off there, you see …”

“It’s her afternoon off,” butted in Joe. “She goes to Harrowby for the afternoon and gets that bus back. It stops at the lane end, just up the road from here.”

“I see,” I smiled and bade her continue. “You got off the bus. What time?”

“Half past eight, Mr Rhea. It was right on time.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it was dark, you see, and I had a torch. I got off like I always do, and began to walk down the lane to the farm …”

“I’ve often said I should put a light at that lane end,” commented Joe. “I’ll do it now, by God I will.”

I smiled at Diane. She understood and we tolerated his well-intentioned interruptions.

“Well,” she continued. “I got as far as the haystack …”

“I always put a stack in that field,” said Joe. “It’s handy for my cows when they’re up there …”

“Joe, shut up,” ordered his wife. “Let Mr Rhea talk to Diane.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, picking up his cup of tea.

“I’d just got past the stack when a man jumped out at me,” the girl said slowly. “I didn’t know what to do… I didn’t run…. I think I was too frightened…. I just didn’t know….”

“What did he do?” I put this important question gently but firmly. I had to know whether there’d been any attempt
at rape or indecent assault. It mattered for my subsequent action.

“He tried to put a sack over my head,” she said, wiping away a tear. “A dirty old sack …”

“A sack?”

“Yes, it sounds so silly, but he had a sack. It was a rough hessian one, all smelly and horrible, and he tried to put it over me…. I began to run, but he grabbed me by the arm… he was very strong, so I shouted and screamed …”

“He didn’t touch you?” I asked. “Indecently, I mean? Or say anything?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that, thank God. It was just that sack…. I fought and fought, but he was very strong.”

“And you screamed?” I sipped at the tea.

“Yes, but the farm’s too far away for Mr and Mrs Camplin to hear me and the bus had gone by then. No one heard me. There was nobody.”

“So what did you do?”

She hesitated. “I kicked him, right between the legs,” and she laughed. “I knew it hurt—he called out in pain, and then I hit him with my torch.” She showed me the cracked glass.

I smiled at her bravery. “Great! That’ll teach him a lesson. Then what happened?”

“He ran away,” she smiled at the memory, “and I came in here, crying. Mr Camplin went out….”

“I did that, with my shotgun. If I’d seen him in our lane he’d have got both barrels right up his backside, I can tell you.”

“And you found no one?”

“Not a soul.” He shook his head.

“And the sack?”

“Nay, lad, I didn’t see that. I was too concerned about Diane.”

“Did he say anything to you?” I asked her again.

“No, nothing. He just panted and grunted as he tried to put the sack over me. It’s so silly … maybe he didn’t mean any harm …”

“It was an assault if nothing else,” I said. “Now, Diane, you had your torch. Was it on?”

She nodded.

“And could you see him? I need a description if you can give one.”

She had no trouble providing me with a marvellously detailed description of her assailant. He was about 50 years old with thick grey hair, about average height, and he wore a dark donkey jacket with leather shoulder-patches. He had dark trousers, dark shoes, and a flat cap, checked style, with the press-stud undone above the peak. And he had a squeaky voice. She’d noted that as he’d cried out with pain. He was clean-shaven, she said, but whiskery, as if he’d not shaved for a day or two. He wore a white scarf and gloves with string backs, like racing drivers wore.

It was a first-class description and if this man lived in the district I would have little trouble tracing him. We’d trace him in no time.

“Have you any idea who it was?” I put to her. Quite often, unprovoked assaults of this kind were an outcome of some recent disagreement with a boyfriend or prospective suitor. Diane was a very pretty young woman, and must have had lots of suitors, so this could be some form of revenge.

“Yes, I think so,” she said quietly.

“Aye,” said Joe. “We think we know who it is. Nasty business, Mr Rhea. I don’t want to be one to cause trouble, but it’ll have to be stopped. Innocent girls can’t be put at risk, you know….”

“So who is it?” I ventured.

“You know that Frenchman who lives up the hill, on the road to Harrowby?”

I shook my head.

“No, you wouldn’t, he’s like you, not been here all that long, but he took Blackamoor House as a studio. He’s an artist, a clever chap, but a bit weird.”

“Weird?” I asked.

“Well, not like us. Dresses queer, dyes his hair, smells of scent and stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a bath every day neither.”

“Artists often do dress individually,” I said. “Has he been a nuisance before?”

“No,” she said. “No, he never bothers me.”

“So you’re acquainted?”