Constable Across the Moors (18 page)

I finished prompt at one o’clock that morning and at nine was back on duty in Ashfordly Police Station. Sergeant Bairstow came through from his house, and he sported a gorgeous black eye. I could not help laughing but he didn’t seem to think it funny. He’d told his wife he’d done it as a ruffian knocked him over when rushing out of a pub, and asked me to confirm that tale, if necessary.

As I checked the Occurrence Book for the morning’s messages, the telephone rang. Sergeant Bairstow answered it, and I heard him say “Sir,” to someone.

“It’s the inspector,” he mouthed at me. “From Malton Urgent. Don’t leave yet, there might be a job for us.”

I waited as Sergeant Bairstow dealt with the call. There was a good many “No, sirs,” and “Yes, sirs,” and in the end, he replaced the receiver, smiling broadly in spite of his bruises.

“That was the inspector,” he informed me. “You know that old meths man? He went into Malton Police Station this morning about six o’clock to complain about the North Riding Police. He told the inspector he’d been asleep in a cold barn full of straw, when two nice East Riding officers, one with a helmet, had removed him to a warm barn full of hay. He remembers that but then, according to him, two awful North Riding Officers kidnapped him, assaulted him and made him sleep in a rickety arm-chair near a bakery. He’s allergic to yeast and now he’s come out in spots. The Inspector asked if we knew anything about it – he’s checked with the East Riding lads and they don’t know …”

“You told him ‘no,’ sergeant?” I said.

“I said we had no knowledge of a meths drinker last night, Nick.”

“And he accepted that?” I put to him.

“He has no option – either he believes a drunken old meths drinker or he believes some of his most honourable officers. The man’s fine, by the way, they’ve taken to a place which will cure him, they hope.”

“You’d better keep out of the Inspector’s way for a few days, then,” I suggested.

“Why?” he asked in all innocence.

“That black eye,” I said. “It might take some explaining.”

My second problem with a body occurred soon afterwards, but the story really began during the First World War.

A farm girl called Liza Stockdale lived in an isolated
homestead
high in Lairsdale. She was born there at the turn of the century, 1900, and lived her first sixteen uneventful years on the farm. There she assisted around the place, looking after the hens and acting as milkmaid for her father with his busy dairy herd. Being always at work, she never travelled; she had never been to York and had not even been to Malton. Twice before her sixteenth birthday, she had visited Ashfordly on Market Day to buy livestock with her father, and that was the extent of her experience beyond the ranging drystone walls of Scar End Farm.

Then she met a soldier. A tall, dark and handsome soldier of nineteen chanced this way on an exercise, and he was in charge of a mighty gun which was being towed across the moors by a small platoon of young men. They camped near Scar End Farm, Lairsdale, and bought milk and eggs from Liza. As in all good love stories, Liza fell helplessly in love with this handsome visitor and to cut a long story short, she ran away with him.

They married soon after the 1914–18 war was over and lived in North London where her husband developed a successful business from a small draper’s shop. They produced four lovely children who were a credit to the happy pair and in turn they produced a clutch of grandchildren who were also a credit to the family.

Back in the remoteness of the North Yorkshire Moors, Liza’s relations continued to work on the hills, farming sheep and cattle and growing acres of corn for the cereal industry. Time went by, and the farming Stockdales prospered just as Liza had prospered in London, but there was one small blot on the happy horizon.

Liza had never returned home. Having run away, she felt she had incurred the wrath of her mother and father, and the scorn of her other strait-laced relations, consequently she never ventured back to the family homestead. Furthermore, she deliberately kept her address secret, and avoided all contact with her past.

Throughout her long and happy life, however, she’d nursed a secret desire to be invited to the moorland home of her family; her parents had died long ago but she had not attended their funeral at Lairsdale’s isolated Methodist chapel. She had not been to the weddings of her brothers and sisters, nor to the christenings of their children. She had missed all this, and had often wondered about the Lairsdale branch of her family. Sometimes, she wished she had the guts to make contact.

Liza’s husband, however, was not the insensitive man the family considered him to be. At the time of the elopement during the First World War, he’d been an aggressive, cocksure young man and it was his cavalier attitude and his worldly manner that had captivated the young Liza. On marrying him and settling down to a hard-working life, she realised she truly loved him and he truly loved her. Their love strengthened with the passing years, and Herbert often tried to persuade her to return to the farm, if only for a visit. He said she should write and make contact, but she never did.

Something intangible restrained her. Some unknown hand or force denied Liza the thrill of returning to her homestead, and she contented herself with life in London, the business and her family. Hers was a London family, not given to visiting remote farms in the north, consequently Liza’s life bore no
resemblance
to her childhood surroundings and upbringing, and she had distanced herself from her roots.

Herbert never forgot that she missed Scar End Farm; he knew of her love for the area and made many attempts to persuade her to make the move. But she stubbornly and steadfastly refused. She lied when she said she had no wish to return; because she’d had to run away to marry him, her father had never owned her and the family had never made contact. She’d felt she was no part of that life in the moors.

Herbert’s patience was infinite. He vowed that one day he would surprise her and take her home. She would not know where she was going until she arrived; he’d book a holiday in a nice hotel at Scarborough or York, and would hire a taxi to take her into the hills of Lairsdale and to the farm which he’d discovered was still in the family.

But somehow, that trip never materialised. Business was too
demanding, the family too busy or time too short. Gradually, Herbert’s intentions faded, if only a little, and that long journey from London to the heart of the North Yorkshire moors never took place. It was always something he’d do when he had the time.

And he never did have the time.

Finally, Liza died of a heart attack. One awful June day, a Mrs Liza Frankland collapsed and died in Regent Street, London. The post-mortem revealed she had suffered a massive coronary attack, and no one could have saved her.

Her caring husband, Herbert Frankland, a retired draper, loved her more in death, and as he wept alone that night he made a resolution that Liza would at last return to her native moorland dale.

He telephoned Pastor Smith at the Manse to ask whether she could be buried in his tiny churchyard at Lairsdale, and specified that it had been his wish to have Liza cremated. The burial, if permitted, would involve a small urn of Liza’s ashes and Herbert alone would accompany them. All he asked was a simple chapel service to place Liza in her resting place, and he did not tell Pastor Smith of her family links with his district, save to say it was her wish to be buried there. He’d asked his own family not to attend; they’d paid their
respects
at the crematorium and this was to be his personal pilgrimage. He wanted to repay the wrong he’d done all those years ago.

Pastor Smith agreed without question and so the small interment was arranged for a day in late June.

Being a man without a car, Herbert Frankland left King’s Cross Station in London in the early hours of that Saturday, carrying a suitcase and contents. In the suitcase were his overnight things and a dark suit for the funeral. Also in the case was a pleasant silver casket containing the ashes of Liza, his beloved wife. It bore her maiden name, Liza Stockdale, and was carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and tucked among his clothes.

The train left King’s Cross on time and Herbert settled down to his long trip north, eagerly awaiting his arrival at York. A taxi was to take him across the hills into Lairsdale, where, at two
o’clock precisely, Pastor Smith would conduct the burial
ceremony
. Liza would be home at last, resting eternally among her family and the moors.

At York, Herbert Frankland, sad and thoughtful due to the day’s sorrowful occurrence, took his case from the rack, left the train and caught a taxi out of York.

At quarter past twelve, he was knocking on my door at Aidensfield Police House.

I answered the knock to find a lightly built man there, a man I’d never seen before. He was smartly dressed in a light grey suit and trilby, with a white shirt and a black tie, and would be in his sixties. He clutched a rather battered brown leather suitcase, and I noticed a taxi waiting outside my house.

“Yes?” I was enjoying a day off and was clad in old clothes, because I was in the middle of decorating a bedroom. I looked more like a painter and decorator than a policeman.

“Oh, er, is the policeman in?” he asked, smiling meekly.

“I’m the policeman,” I wiped my hands on my paint-stained trousers. “P.C. Rhea.”

“Oh, well, er, I’m sorry to bother you,” he began, “but it is important.”

“You’d better come in,” I invited him to enter my office. “Will the taxi wait?”

“Yes, I’ve asked him to,” and he entered the small office, removing his hat as he did so.

“Now, sir,” I made a formal greeting. “How can I help you?”

He placed his battered suitcase on my desk and opened it. Inside was a collection of assorted clothes and personal
belongings
, and I waited for some enlightenment.

“Officer,” he said. “I left London this morning, from King’s Cross, and I put my suitcase on the rack. It contained my overnight things, and a dark suit.”

I looked at the contents of this case. This belonged to a woman, for there were feminine underclothes, perfumes,
slippers
, blouses and so forth.

“So this isn’t yours?” I guessed.

He shook his head and for the first time, I saw tears in his eyes.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered by way of some consolation.

He nodded and I made him sit on my office chair. The poor man was obviously distressed, and at this stage I had no idea of the real reason.

I called to Mary and in spite of preparing lunch and coping with four tiny offspring, she produced two steaming cups. I closed the door and watched him sip the hot tea as he composed himself.

“I must have picked up the wrong case,” he said
despondently.
“Mine is exactly like this one, officer, and when I got off at York, I must have collected this. It’s got stickers on, you see, and mine was plain, so I should have noticed, but I didn’t spot them until I was almost here, in the taxi.”

“So yours is still on the train?” I ventured.

He nodded, and I noticed the returning moisture in his pale grey eyes.

“Look, Mister …”

“Frankland,” he said. “Herbert Frankland.”

“Look, Mr Frankland, there’s no need to get upset. I’m sure we can trace your case very soon. I’ll ring the British Transport Commission Police at York and ask them to search the train at its next stop. Let’s see …”

I made a rapid calculation, bearing in mind the time he dismounted at York and the time at present. I reckoned his train would have passed through Thirsk, Northallerton,
Darlington
and even Durham. With a bit of fast work, they might catch it at Newcastle, before it left for Edinburgh. During the time it remained at Newcastle, the railway police could search for Mr Frankland’s missing case.

I explained to him my plan and he seemed relieved.

“Er,” he said after I had explained my intended action, “There is one problem, Mr Rhea.”

“Yes?”

“In my case,” he faltered in his short speech, “there is a small silver casket.”

“Yes?” I acknowledged, not having any idea of its contents.

“It, er, contains ashes, officer. The ashes of my dear wife, Liza …” and he could contain himself no longer. He burst
into a flood of tears and I had no idea how to cope. I stood up and patted him on the shoulder, saying he shouldn’t get upset and we’d surely trace the missing suitcase. After a short time, he dried his tears and apologised for his lapse, making a brave attempt to control himself.

I sympathised with him. “I know how you feel …”

I asked if he could give some indication of the location of the coach in which he travelled. Was it near the front? The middle? The rear? Before or after the restaurant car?

Gradually, I produced some idea of his whereabouts on that fateful train, and having satisfied myself on the time of his departure from King’s Cross, I rang the Railway Police in York. They were marvellous; their well-tested routine would be put immediately into action, and when the train halted at its next stop, they would have it searched for the missing case. I described it and its contents, but felt there was no need to rub in the fact that it contained the ashes of Liza Frankland,
née
Stockdale. I then described the case now languishing in my office with its load of feminine apparel. Somewhere, a lady would find she had the wrong case, and I wondered if she would leave the train with Herbert’s case and not realise the error until she arrived home. This could cause immense problems but I did not voice this concern to Mr Frankland.

“The casket,” I said once I was sure the Railway Police were in action. “Is it recognisable for what it is?”

“It’s a nice casket,” he said, shaping it in the air with his hands. “The lid is firmly secured and on the side there is a panel with her name. It just says Liza Stockdale. I used her maiden name, because she’s home, you see … or she was coming home …”

He told me all about his wife’s links with this area, and I listened to his fascinating story.