Constable on the Hill (15 page)

“About me?” she cried.

“I have a list of dates and times when motor-vehicles belonging to certain men of this village have been seen outside your house at some very strange hours. Indeed, some have been noted outside your house for lengthy periods
during the day. I need mention only the postman, the Co-op van, the policeman’s motor-cycle … Now, Miss Hamilton, I know you are an unmarried lady, and I am not suggesting for one minute that you are leading an immoral life, but for a lady in your position, as warden of our chapel …”

When Pastor Smith told me of this chat with her, he said that it was at that stage of his conversation, that Miss Hamilton had ceased to listen. The frown of concern upon her face had become a quiet smile of success.

But she didn’t write any more letters to my
Superintendent
.

The atmosphere at the Hopbind Inn, Elsinby was invariably jolly. I paid many visits during the course of my duty, for it was a fine pub. Its drinking accommodation was one long bar with six oak beams, furnished with the inevitable dart board, yards of ale, hunting prints, sporting trophies, an open
fireplace
and a stone floor. It boasted a landlord for whom nothing was too much trouble and it was a foregone
conclusion
that his inn was very popular. An added bonus was the fact that the beer was very good. That was understandable, because it was brewed in Yorkshire.

I popped in whenever I passed through the village at lunchtime, and I popped in most evenings. I never drank on duty, but went for a chat and an opportunity to learn local gossip. At lunchtime, the locals would be swapping yarns and playing darts, and it was the same crowd that frequented the bar during the evenings. Those locals practically lived there.

Outsiders joined them for the evening sessions, but the nucleus of life in the pub was that group of local men. I was to learn, soon after my arrival that they were local farmers in the main, plus a businessman or two, a racing journalist, a doctor, the vicar, the postmaster and others of no specific occupation. Due to the nature of the people who attended so regularly, it was logical that village meetings be held in that pub. The parish council met there monthly because every councillor was in the place anyway. The British Legion committee met here too, in the shape of the same group of men, and if there was a special meeting or committee for any village function, the same people would be appointed, the meeting held and the function arranged.

In many ways it was an admirable arrangement and there was the added benefit that I knew where to find these people
if they were required in a hurry, like the doctor, for example. Such an occasion arose with the death of Irresponsible John.

Irresponsible John was a tramp. He was a tall man with masses of very dark hair through which shone a scarred nose and two very dark eyes. He was like every man’s idea of Fagin. His unruly mass of hair was covered by an old top hat and he wore a long, black coat with old boots and dark trousers. His hands were always gloved with a pair of very holey mits without fingers and I never saw him remove them, whether in the middle of summer or winter.

John lived in a derelict cottage on an elevated site on the edge of Elsinby, along the York road. He spent most of his time roaming the neighbourhood and earning a few shillings by casual labour, scrounging his meals from grateful farmers and smallholders. The village loved him too because he was totally harmless and honest. Everyone accepted him for what he was – a harmless old tramp of indeterminate age and unknown background. Very occasionally, he would pop into the Hopbind for a mild ale, but this was not a common practice. In the coldest spells, he would buy the occasional bottle of rum, a relic of his naval days.

I was in the Hopbind one Wednesday lunchtime when Gilbert, the postman, dashed in looking haggard and
flustered
. He asked for a double Scotch which was promptly handed to him and then he gasped.

“It’s John, dead. At his cottage. I’ve just found him.”

“Not Irresponsible John?” asked George, the landlord.

“Aye, John. He’s up at his house.”

“How did you find him?” I asked, not at that time knowing the village routine.

“Took his dinner as usual.” He shrugged his shoulders and downed his drink. “Pork pie, peas and chips, done to a turn by my missus. He liked his pork pies, chips and peas, did John. I knocked, opened the door like I always do, and there he was, lying on the floor.”

Doctor McGee, in his tweed plus fours, joined us. “Dead, did you say?”

“Flies all over,” said Gilbert, wrinkling his nose.

“I’ll go up there,” I said, for I was on duty. My motor-cycle was outside, so I donned my helmet and left the pub. Doctor
Archibald McGee said he would follow in his car, and he rapidly swallowed his pint.

I knew the cottage. It was just off the York road and was a lovely place, or it had been a lovely place. It was the type of house that graces Victorian paintings, with honeysuckle around the door, roses climbing the walls, no footpath or garage, and a garden full of hollyhocks and red-hot pokers. Built of yellow limestone, it had a red pantile roof and a range of outbuildings adjoining the dwelling portion. Sadly, it was neglected and rotting, because no one admitted
ownership
so John had made his home there, many years ago. He demanded little of the place, save shelter from the elements. I leaned my motor-cycle against the rickety garden fence and walked somewhat apprehensively towards the front door. It was open. I inched it further against the wall and shouted, “John? Are you there?”

Wondering if Gilbert had made a mistake in his amateur diagnosis, I entered on tiptoe, feeling like a trespasser, but there in the middle of the floor of the tatty living-room was the stiff corpse of Irresponsible John. It was early autumn with a warm September day to compensate for the wet summer, and the flies were enjoying the gift nature had presented them. I have no idea how long he’d lain there, but pathologists can estimate this by the stage of development of maggots found in and upon bodies. I had no wish to
determine
this, nor even to examine him for their presence, but I touched the whiskery face and found it was stone cold.
Rigor
mortis
had set in. That John was dead could be in no doubt.

Policemen always treat sudden and unexplained deaths with extreme caution, regarding them as murders until proved otherwise. The house did not bear signs of forcible entry, but an unlawful entry would barely have been evident here. The windows were hanging out, the doors tilted from their hinges and the place had a dark and dismal appearance inside. There was no way of knowing if anyone had broken in, but I could see no injuries upon him. It was not easy to be sure due to his mass of hair and the thick clothes in which he lay. We’d have to strip him to be absolutely sure.

A few minutes later, Dr McGee arrived, followed by the entire lunchtime population of the Hopbind Inn. As McGee
entered the house, the others remained outside, silently waiting for news. It reminded me of the crowds that used to wait outside prisons for news of executions. McGee looked at me, wrinkled his nose and said, “He’s a bit strong, isn’t he?”

“Like Gorgonzola,” I heard myself comment. “He’s dead, Doctor.”

McGee crouched at his side, felt the pulse, lifted the eyelids and touched the skin.

“Dead as they come,” he said. “How, I wonder?”

“You’ve never treated him, Doctor?” I asked.

“Once, years ago,” he confirmed. “He stuck a hayfork through his foot. Never since.”

“So you can’t certify the cause of his death?” I put to him hopefully.

“Sorry,” he shook his head. “I can certify that he
is
dead, so you can set the ball rolling. But I can’t certify the
cause
of death – it looks like natural causes, I must say. There’s no indication of poisoning, no obvious marks of violence, no sleeping tablets lying around. I think he’s just faded away, Mr Rhea, but I cannot certify that.”

I groaned inwardly. This meant a post-mortem and I must set about the task of arranging it. I would have to make enquiries about his past and then complete reports. There would be relatives to trace, the funeral to arrange with a hundred other chores, to say nothing of stripping that smelly corpse to the bare skin in readiness for the pathologist’s knife. John’s remains would have to be removed as soon as possible and taken to the mortuary at Ashfordly, the nearest place which boasted one.

Having delivered his glad tidings, Dr McGee went outside and told the assembly that Gilbert’s diagnosis had been correct. Irresponsible John was dead. Upon receipt of that news, they all adjourned to the pub to drink to his memory. I was left holding the body.

I radioed Control and asked for a message to be passed to Sergeant Bairstow, who was the duty sergeant that day. I asked that the van be sent from Eltering to John’s cottage, complete with the shell. The shell was a fibre-glass box, shaped like a coffin, into which a corpse was placed for transportation, especially for a trip to the mortuary. Sergeant
Bairstow was out, and no one was at the office. I knew he’d be at lunch, and he never answered the telephone during his refreshment break. I asked Control to try at two o’clock.

That meant I had to wait around and I didn’t relish the idea of standing like a sentinel at John’s gate until help arrived. I went back into the house, made a careful search for signs of violence upon him, weapons, forcible entry and all the other routine matters appertaining to a sudden death. Then I left. John wouldn’t go away, so I adjourned to the pub where I broke my rule about drinking on duty. I ordered a sandwich and accepted a pint from the doctor. Like the others, I raised my glass and said, “Here’s to Irresponsible John. May he roam the heavens as he did the English countryside.”

By two o’clock the regulars of the Hopbind Inn had done their best to speed him to eternal happiness, and I returned to the scene to await the shell. It arrived about half past two in a police van driven by P.C. Alwyn Foxton of Ashfordly. We carried it into the house, placed it at the side of the corpse and, holding our breath, lifted John and his entourage of buzzing flies into the shell. We rammed on the lid after forcing down a stubborn arm which insisted on rising like a flagpole from his side. Then we lashed the lid with ropes in case that arm lifted it off. A rising coffin lid, with an arm that looked like someone attempting to escape, could have caused embarrassment in town. We lifted the shell by its rope
handles
and lugged it into the rear of the van, sliding it along the floor. No one would know we had a body in there, except the cloud of hovering flies.

We transported him to the mortuary where I formally identified him as a tramp known to me as Irresponsible John. My search of his house had revealed nothing to indicate his true name and our records would show him merely as John. With Alwyn’s help, we stripped the body, searched it thoroughly for signs of injury and listed all his clothing, together with odds and ends from his pockets. We placed everything inside a locker and recorded that we found no sign of injury upon the body. John now lay starkers upon the slab.

I arranged the post-mortem for next day at Scarborough Hospital and we took him in the van, once more using the
shell. The pathologist, a hawk-like fellow with staring eyes and a weird sense of humour, performed the necessary
operation
and pronounced that John had died from natural causes. His heart had given up its long, hard battle and he estimated that John was about eighty years old. For a man of that age, he was remarkably well preserved and surprisingly fit. He’d had a good innings.

A natural death meant there would be no inquest, which in turn meant that his funeral could go ahead. I reported this to the committee in the Hopbind Inn the following lunchtime and realised the burial was causing problems. John had no known relatives, so who was going to organise and pay for the funeral? By chance or by good fortune, the local
carpenter-cum
-undertaker was in the pub. He assured us he could make a coffin and carry out the funeral. The vicar said he would bury John in his churchyard, even though it was not known to which religion John had adhered throughout his
wandering
life. But who would pay? The assembled drinkers decided that John had been too much of a friend to the village to suffer the indignity of a pauper’s grave.

It was Gilbert Kingston, the postman, who made a
suggestion
. He said the entire village should pay. The
inhabitants
numbered about four hundred and if they all paid ten shillings each towards a funeral kitty, we could send off John in a decent manner. Harold, the undertaker, reckoned that sort of money would pay for a high quality coffin with chrome handles and silver angels, a marble headstone, flowers and funeral tea afterwards. The idea seemed feasible, so it was proposed that a committee be established to make the
arrangements
for the interment of Irresponsible John. There was no time to lose.

I was not elected to the committee because I was not a resident of Elsinby, although it was stated that I could be co-opted if the need arose. I agreed to this. Harold would set about making the coffin and the vicar would begin the funeral arrangements. It was decided that the funeral should be at 3.30 pm the following Tuesday, at Elsinby Parish Church.

Faced with the impossible task of tracing his relatives, I told the Press who gave space to my problem in the hope that
someone would claim him. I assured the committee that John could lie in state at Ashfordly Mortuary until the day of the funeral. There was nowhere else for him; besides, the
mortuary
was an ideal resting place and some schoolchildren picked flowers to display on the window ledge above his head.

The whole idea of a village fund was a fine one, but even before that lunchtime session was over, the racing journalist came up with a better suggestion.

“Look,” he said, swilling his brandy around the glass. “If you ask ten bob from everyone in the village, you’re bound to come across those who are unwilling. There’ll be those who are skint, and those who are too mean. There’ll be some who reckon it’s not the correct thing to do. Then there’s all the bother of collecting it. Why don’t we raise the cash in an enjoyable way? Why not arrange a dance or something? Some kind of social event? We hold dances from time to time to raise cash for the old folks’ Christmas treat, or for the church repair fund. We always get a good turn-out because folks enjoy it, so I’m sure they’d turn out for John. We could lay on a supper, and I know George would see we got a bar.”

“I would that!” enthused George.

“Lots of folks would come and we’d raise a few hundred pounds. There is that lad in the council houses and his mates, who play guitars. They’d make music for us, I’m sure.”