Constable Through the Meadow (21 page)

‘Goodbye, Mr Rhea,’ he smiled as I stood up. ‘My word, you do look slim. Now, you won’t forget to tell Miss Wilkinson, will you? And you will come again?’

‘Yes, I’ll come again,’ I assured him, and left to collect my
wife and family from the cafe where they’d been having tea with one of Mary’s friends.

I must admit I gave no more thought to Mr Latimer’s
supposed
schoolteacher, but a few days later, I was patrolling Eltering. I had driven there in my mini-van because I was scheduled for a two-hour foot patrol in the town; there was a shortage of local officers that afternoon. And then, quite
unexpectedly
, I found myself walking along Ryelands Terrace. The name had meant nothing until now and when I saw the nameplate on the wall of one of the houses, it caused a flicker of reaction in my mind. At first, I could not determine why it should interest me and then I recalled my chat with old Mr Latimer.

Pulling out my diary, I found my note about Miss Wilkinson, the primary schoolteacher who’d taught him around 1886; she had lived at No 18. Now full of curiosity, I decided to walk along to No 18.

When I got there, I found an elderly lady tidying her front garden. She was slender and small, with a neat head of tidy grey hair and she carried a paper sack. She was collecting fallen leaves which had been blown from some nearby sycamores. She smiled warmly as I approached.

‘Leaves are such a nuisance, Constable, aren’t they? Every autumn, they blow into my garden, and every autumn I clean them out!’

‘They are!’ I sympathised with her. ‘My wife makes compost from them, we find them a nuisance really, but we can make use of them!’

‘Yes, I give mine away,’ she smiled. ‘To the old gentleman who lives next door. My garden is much too small for me to worry about compost.’

I wondered if I dare ask about Miss Wilkinson, Mr Latimer’s old teacher, for it was such a long time ago that she’d taught the old man. Maybe she had married and this was her daughter? Or a younger sister? Maybe this lady had no idea who lived here before her …

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘But now that I’m here, I wonder if you know of a Miss Wilkinson who used to live here. She was a teacher in the primary school at Ashfordly in 1886.’

‘That’s me,’ she said primly. ‘I’m Miss Wilkinson.’

‘You!’ I did not know what to say. ‘But, she must be older than you … she taught a friend of mine, a Mr Latimer …’

‘Sidney Latimer,’ she smiled. ‘Yes, of course. He was in my class, a very good pupil and very bright. He did nothing with his life, Officer, he could have done anything he wanted, that man. Wasted his talents. Such a shame.’

I was still not sure we were discussing the same Sidney Latimer, so I said, ‘Well, he’s in hospital actually, in York. He’s had a minor operation and asked if I would inform Miss
Wilkinson
, his teacher …’

‘Yes, that’s me. He must be, oh, what? Eighty-six now? He was eight when I taught him, Constable, and I would be getting on for twenty, I think.’

‘So you really were his teacher?’ I was astounded.

‘Yes, of course! I’m well into my nineties now, you know, but still going strong!’

‘But …’

‘Sidney was a nice boy, Constable, and I’ve always been interested in his welfare. Always. I shall go to visit him in hospital.’

‘Shall I arrange a lift for you?’ I heard myself offering.

‘Thank you, but no. I will use the bus. There is a very good bus service from Eltering to York and I will enjoy the outing. Thank you for telling me about Sidney, I will certainly pay him a call.’

And so she did. He was delighted and I was amazed.

I sat down and worked it out; if he was eight in 1886, he’d been born in 1878 and at the time I met him, he was about eighty-six. If she was twenty in 1886, which was feasible for a teacher in a primary school, she’d have been born in 1866 which meant she was around ninety-eight!

Even now, I find myself surprised that a man of eighty-six could keep in touch with his primary school teacher. And, following her visit, Sidney Latimer did get well and returned home to continue his life in Aidensfield.

Another sad but funny tale occurred during a summer soon after I arrived at Aidensfield. It involved a pair of twin bachelor
brothers and their aged father who farmed in an isolated dale to the north of Aidensfield. The sons were Angus and Fergus MacKenzie, and their father was Alexander Cameron
MacKenzie
, a man in his eighties. No one was quite sure of the twins’ age, but they must have been around sixty years old.

In spite of their names, they were Yorkshiremen, although I’m sure a distant ancestor must have journeyed this way from the Highlands. They occupied one of the most remote farms in the moors; it was called Dale Head and it stood high on the slopes of Lairsbeck, at the end of a long, rough track. The MacKenzies dealt chiefly in sheep, although they did breed Highland cattle, and seemed to scrape some kind of a living from their lofty farmstead. Theirs was a life of constant work with no time for relaxation.

Money was always short; they were clearly hard up and were seldom seen in the village or nearby market towns. Mrs
MacKenzie
had died some years ago, but the twins had never married; they’d never seen the point of having to keep one or two extra people in the house. And so, over the years, they existed in the little stone farmhouse with its stupendous views across the moors. I called infrequently to check their stock register, and that was my only contact with them. I called, drank a mug of tea, signed their book and departed. I probably called once every month or even once every two.

On one occasion when I called in late May, Angus met me and produced the necessary book which I signed. I had seen Fergus in the foldyard and on this occasion, I was not invited to stay for a cup of tea in spite of my long drive.

‘We’re getting set up for haytime, Mr Rhea,’ Angus told me. ‘It’s allus a thrang time for t’likes of us.’

I knew what he was saying. Thrang is the local word for “busy”, and for a moorland patch like this, every day counted. Haytime up here was fraught with risk from the weather, and so they had to work rapidly and positively to succeed, taking swift advantage of the limited sunshine and drying winds. And with only two fit men and one old man to do all the work, it was a lengthy procedure. Later, however, I thought about that missing mug of tea. It was unusual, but at the time I did not pay
any heed to this departure from the normal.

Later, I realised I had not seen the old man around the buildings either, and once more, this was unusual. Down in the dale and in the surrounding hamlets, no one thought it odd that old Mr MacKenzie had not been seen. He seldom ventured out anyway, his lads making sure they did any shopping that was necessary. I must admit that his absence did not bother me, for I knew of his habits and routine. It was more unusual to see him than not to see him! It was only after the events which occurred later that I realised the significance of all these odd facets.

It began with a call from Harold Poulter, the undertaker.

‘Mr Rhea,’ he said quietly over the telephone. ‘I’ve a rum sort of a job on. I thought I’d better give you a call.’

Harold dealt with most of the local funerals and we had a good working liaison due to my own official involvement in the investigation of sudden, violent or unusual deaths. Harold knew which deaths should be investigated by the police and so a call from him had to be taken seriously.

‘Yes, Harold, what is it this time?’

‘It’s poor awd Alex MacKenzie, you know, from Lairsbeck. He’s tipped his clogs.’

‘Ah’, I said partly to myself, ‘that’s why I haven’t seen him around, he must have been ill.’

‘Well, I’m not so sure about that, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘But it’s a funny affair if you ask me.’

‘Go on, Harold,’ I invited him to continue.

‘Well, them twin lads of his, they’ve had him up there for weeks, Mr Rhea, never got around to fixing a funeral. I mean, I wonder if you fellers’ll need a PM or inquest or summat. Seems he’s been dead for weeks.’

‘Weeks? How many weeks, Harold?’ I asked.

‘Dunno, and they’re not sure either,’ he said. ‘They’ve had no doctor in, they say they know when a pig’s dead or a cow, so they know when a feller’s gotten his time overed.’

I groaned.

‘Where is the body now?’

‘In a pigsty,’ said Harold. ‘They put him there because it’s a cool spot and he would keep a while. He wouldn’t stink the
bedroom out, so they said.’

‘I’d better get up there,’ I said. ‘Have you told Doctor McGee?’

‘No, I thought you’d best know first.’

‘OK, right, I’ll have a ride up to Dale Head and let you know what happens. I’ll ring Doctor McGee before I go.’

When I spoke to Doctor McGee, he asked whether I thought it was a suspicious death, like a suicide, or even murder. I had to say I had no idea at this stage; a visual examination would help to determine the future police action, but in view of what Harold had told me, I felt the presence of a doctor was
advisable
.

‘Right, I’ll see you there,’ he said.

I arrived in advance of Dr McGee and knocked on the tatty kitchen door. In need of a coat of paint, it was opened by Angus, a thin, large-boned fellow with gaunt cheeks and an unkempt head of sparse ginger hair which was greying around the temples. He smiled a welcome, showing a mouth full of huge yellowing teeth which looked as solid as the rocks around the farm and which had probably never seen a dentist in half a century.

‘Noo then, Mr Rhea,’ he said, opening the door. ‘We was expecting thoo.’

Inside, Fergus, who was almost identical to his brother, albeit perhaps a little more robust in his appearance, was sitting at the end of the plain wooden kitchen table. Around him was a collection of mugs along with the teapot, a half-full milk bottle and a sugar bowl.

‘Thoo’ll have a cup o’ tea, Mr Rhea?’ Fergus asked. I was pleased to see this routine had been re-established.

‘Thanks, Fergus,’ and I settled at the table with Angus at my side. I waited until I had the mug in my hands and said, ‘Harold Poulter would tell you why I had to come?’

‘Aye, ’e did, Mr Rhea. Unusual death, ’e said. But, Mr Rhea, there’s nowt unusual aboot oor father’s death. ’E just passed on, like awd folks do. In ’is sleep, no fuss or bother. We’ve ’ad cows pass on like yon. Nice as yer like, Mr Rhea, so, well, Ah’ll be honest, Ah can’t understand why awd Harold wouldn’t just let us git on wi’ t’funeral and git t’awd man buried. It’s time we did
summat wiv ’im.’

‘There are always formalities when a person dies.’ I tried to be courteous. ‘Forms to fill in, a doctor’s certificate to obtain, the registrar to see, things like that. You can’t bury a human being like you’d bury a sheep.’

‘When they’re dead, they’re dead,’ said Angus. He was
probably
harking back to the days when the procedures
surrounding
death were less strictured. Certainly in some remote places, people died in circumstances which today would warrant a full investigation – but all that was in the past.

‘Doctor McGee is following me along,’ I said. ‘He must see the body … er … your father … and certify that he is dead. That’s his first job. Then if he cannot certify the
cause
of death, I’m afraid a post-mortem must be held. That means examination by an expert who determines precisely what caused death; he’ll find out if it was a heart problem, or something else. Once that’s been established, the funeral can go ahead, with the permission of the coroner.’

‘’E’s as dead as a doornail,’ cried Angus. ‘There’s neea need for t’doctor to come and tell us that! And as for t’reason ’e died, it was age, nowt else. ’E was tonned eighty-eight, and ’e just faded away in ’is sleep.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, but we do have to do things the proper way.’

I could see they did not understand the need for all the fuss, and then Dr Archie McGee arrived. Fergus took him to the table and he sat down with a mug of tea, then looked at me for guidance.

‘Well, Mr Rhea, what’s the score on this one?’

‘It seems that Mr MacKenzie, senior, died in his sleep, Doctor.’

‘He’ll be upstairs now, is he? I’ll have a look.’

‘No, he’s outside, in a pigsty,’ I said. ‘We are waiting to take you there, after you’ve had your cuppa.’

‘Pigsty? Did he die there?’ he asked the twins.

‘Nay!’ said Fergus shortly. ‘’E died in bed, but because it was haytime, we couldn’t stop work to git ’im buried. There was no time, Mr Rhea, not a minute to spare. You’ll know what t’weather’s been like, we daren’t miss a day just for a funeral. So
we laid ’im in yon pigsty till we got finished haytiming; it’s not in use and we cleaned it out, them put ’im in straw and salted ’im, making sure we turned ’im twice a week. ’E’s out there, as fresh as a posy, waiting to be buried. I mean, there’s nowt wrang wiv ’im, except he’s dead o’ course. ’E didn’t suffer, ’e wasn’t badly,’ e never fell off a ladder or banged ’is head on owt …’e just faded away like Ah said.’

Doctor McGee raised his eyes as if to heaven. ‘And how long has he been there?’

‘Since just afore we started hay time. Four or five weeks, mebbe. Actually, Doctor, we got finished haytiming a while back, and we was that relieved we’d got all t’hay ladened in, we forgot aboot ’im for a day or two. It was only when Ah went in t’sty for summat that Ah saw ’im there, so Ah turned him over and rang Harold to git ’im buried.’

Dr McGee grinned ruefully at me, as Fergus continued,

‘I thought it was time we were gitting summat done with t’awd feller. Not that ’e’d have minded waiting, thoo knaws, ’e allus was a patient chap, oor dad.’

‘You are supposed to organise the funeral straight away, gentlemen,’ Doctor McGee sighed. ‘You must call a doctor who’ll certify death and get things moving.’

‘We couldn’t see t’point in that,’ said Fergus. ‘Ah mean, once ’e was dead, there was nowt ’e could do and nowt we could do, and besides, ’e wouldn’t take any ’arm waiting awhile to get buried. Ah reckon this is a fuss about nowt.’

McGee drained his tea. ‘I’d better have a look at him. Take us to him, gents.’