Constable on the Hill (20 page)

The Abbot agreed; in fact, he was very enthusiastic and one Sunday evening in late autumn, therefore, I found myself driving to Lairsbeck in my own car and off duty, but in full uniform. I was on my way to read the lesson at Pastor Smith’s tiny moorland chapel. I arrived twenty minutes before we were due to start and met him in what was akin to the vestry in my own church. He showed me the relevant passages and I read them to familiarise myself with the phraseology before my moment of glory. I said I’d be fine. He thanked me and wished me luck.

“Oh,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Be sure to sit in the seat directly beneath the pulpit.”

I didn’t question the wisdom of this, but nodded and we later entered the church. They were singing one of their hymns, sitting down as was their practice, and I made my way self-consciously to the seat he had advised. I noticed the little church was cosy and the oil lamps flickered in the draughts of the place, giving the building a very homely atmosphere. I knew that Pastor Smith had a reputation for long sermons, and hoped he would deliver a short one tonight. I had no idea of the progression of a chapel service but waited for the nod from him. Eventually, the signal came and I entered his varnished pulpit, cleared my throat and read the relevant passages. As I returned to my seat, he mounted the stairs and began his sermon. It went on and on. I knew I was in for a long session, for his theme was “Christianity in Practice”, a talk about the benefits of ecumenism.

He spoke well, I must admit, and his words made sense, but after half an hour, I could hear the restless sounds of shifting feet, of rubbed hands, of coughing. He ploughed on
regardless
. I was nice and cosy beside the heater, and it wasn’t an unpleasant experience.

Eventually, it was all over and they drifted away, the caretaker remaining behind to lock up and put out the lamps. Pastor Smith bade them farewell until next month and invited me to his home. “I’ve some explaining to do. Can I
tempt you to my manse at Ashfordly? For a bite of supper, perhaps and a cup of tea?”

I agreed and followed him home. His wife produced some home-made scones and cakes and we sat to enjoy a
marvellous
supper. His eyes twinkled as he told me the story.

“You’ll know old Joshua Atkinson?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I knew him all right. “Queer old character, isn’t he?”

Joshua was a farmer in the area, a stalwart of his chapel and one of the old school whose life-style had not changed since Wesley’s visit to these parts.

“Well,” said Pastor Smith. “He looks after the heaters, and his wife does the lamps. On winter Sundays, when we have services, Joshua comes down to the chapel just before lunch and fills the heaters. He lights them so the church will be warm by evening. By seven on the chilliest Sunday, the place is lovely and cosy, and you can sit without a coat. But Joshua, I found, is very cunning. He’s got it off to a fine art. He’ll fill the heaters just long enough to last a certain time, time for one very short sermon. If I go on too long, the heaters dry up and the congregation begins to feel cold. So do I. It is Joshua’s method of telling me to belt up and go home. The crafty old monkey tries to dictate the length of my sermons.

“When he got the television installed, he would put even less paraffin in! He wanted to get home to watch his favourite programme. Well, tonight, I took my own paraffin, and I filled the heaters in the pulpit and beside your seat. He’d already filled them at lunchtime, putting in enough for his purpose. But I put more in. As Joshua and his cronies sat shivering, you and I were nice and warm, Mr Rhea. I’m sorry I went on a bit, but it was done to teach them a lesson.”

I laughed aloud. “You’ve got to be crafty to beat this lot!” I said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they realised what you were doing!”

“He doesn’t know yet, but it won’t take long,” Pastor Smith laughed. “It’s not the first time I’ve filled my heater to make it last a little longer, so I’m sure he’ll work it out. He judges his own fillings by the little chapel clock.”

“The clock?”

“Yes, on the wall. It’s an old clock. He knows how much
paraffin will last per hour, and he fills the heaters
accordingly
.”

“The crafty old blighter!”

“But I alter the clock!” chuckled Pastor Smith. “I always get here before him, in time to fix my heater and to change the pointers of the clock. That means that his timings for the consumption of paraffin are not accurate.”

“What good does that do?” I asked, puzzled by the
complexity
of this.

“When he realises what I’m doing,” smiled Pastor Smith, “He’ll work out new amounts of paraffin for the heaters, and he’ll base them on the clock. But the clock is always wrong, you see, so he’ll never get it right, will he? I shall work things always to my advantage. Joshua will always shiver, Mr Rhea, and I shall always be warm.”

I wondered where this little drama was going to end, and left the manse very amused by it all. As I drove home, I wondered what Pastor Smith would do next in his attempts to make them stand up as he entered. Perhaps he’d play the National Anthem? I decided to suggest this to him next time we spoke.

Contrary to popular belief, the monks of Maddleskirk are a worldly crowd, closely in touch with our modern society and its attendant problems. They know about the public’s
concern
over sin and sex, money and motoring, they take part in village affairs and county matters. Some sit on councils and one became chairman of the local District Council. Others take leading roles in teaching, sport, drugs education, religion and a host of other extramural subjects. In short, they know more about life than many of our so-called progressive society.

In spite of their many external interests, they are intensely religious and their daily routine centres upon their faith. It is probably fair to say that their Catholic faith is more
important
then any other aspect of life, and there are times when this overlaps with my duties.

On one occasion, I was summoned via the radio on my
motor-cycle to a fire in Aidensfield. A cottage was burning, with smoke pouring through the roof and upper windows. Someone had phoned my house; I was out, engaged upon a routine patrol and Mary had the presence of mind to contact me via Control Room. I was only five minutes away and arrived at the scene to find a gaggle of onlookers staring at the smoke which was permeating through the multitude of gaps about the cottage. It rose, black and thick, through the roof, the windows and the woodwork, but no one had entered to seek its occupants.

“Is anybody in there?” I shouted as I ran to the door.

“It’s old Mr Blenkinsopp,” twittered one old lady. “It’s his house and it’s locked.”

During a two-week fire fighting course a member of the R.A.F. had taught me that the opening of a door or a window could introduce fresh oxygen to the seat of a fire and that could cause it to burst into flame. At the moment, the place seemed to be gently smouldering, producing lots of smoke but no flames. Should I break down the door or not? I had to get inside somehow, and in those precious seconds of indecision, the Fire Brigade arrived.

“There might be somebody in here,” I shouted.

“We’ll have to break in then,” returned a leading fireman. “We’ll contain any blaze that erupts.”

As they organised themselves, I ran to a ground-floor window and cracked it with my gloved fist, opened it and climbed in. The place was full of choking fumes and I covered my face with a handkerchief as I raced through the
downstairs
rooms. There was no one here. I ran upstairs and as I reached the half-way stage, the front door collapsed behind me and a fireman appeared, silhouetted in the doorway. He ran upstairs behind me. I found a bedroom with billowing smoke pouring from it, and inside I could see the still figure lying on a smouldering bed. Poor old Mr Blenkinsopp.

Coughing madly, I went to him, but it was far, far too late. His body was the colour of brown varnish, his
clothing
smouldered to ashes and his extremities burnt away. He had no feet or hands, no hair and his hot body was swollen with a combination of fire, gas and intense heat. I heard a loud thump behind me; the fireman had fainted at
the sight, but another rushed in with a hose and asked, “What shall I do?”

“Switch the electricity off,” I shouted at him. “It’s an electric blanket.” The tell-tale cable ran from beneath the remains of the bed, and he switched off the mains supply.

“Shall I spray the bed?”

“Please.”

No. 1 fireman had recovered and together, they sprayed the red-hot bed and the heated corpse with their small hose. Fortunately, nothing else was burning and all that had been destroyed was the bed. Nothing else had caught fire. Smoke had discoloured the upper rooms and some places downstairs; even the windows bore a covering of slimy brown fumes, but happily, the close atmosphere had prevented the flames
breaking
out. We later discovered that the bed had smouldered literally all through the night, and that poor old Mr Blenkinsopp took drugs. He was also an alcoholic. The
post-mortem
later revealed he had gone to bed heavily laced with barbiturates and whisky, and had left his blanket switched on. He’d probably wet himself while asleep, an action which could cause an electrical short in the blanket, and that in turn could cause the smouldering. He’d died by inhaling the fumes of the burning mattress, and would have been dead long before the heat began to consume his body. He would have felt no pain.

The firemen extinguished the burning bed and doused the entire room with water, for it was hot all over. Even the wooden beams and floor were hot to the touch and the curtains might have blazed, the rugs too, or the bedding which had slipped to the floor. Miraculously, nothing had burst into flames, the house was intact and no other damage had been done. When the firemen left, I had to remain with the body until I could arrange its removal, and as I waited in the room, taking the necessary notes for my report, I was aware of footsteps on the landing. A monk appeared in the doorway. He did not faint, but smiled and made the sign of the cross.

“Hello, Father,” I said, wondering why he had come.

“Oh,” he said, “I’m pleased it’s you, Nicholas. Join me in prayer, would you? He was one of our flock, although he
never came to church in his later years. I’d like to pray at his side for a few moments.”

And so I found myself kneeling before the charred remains of this unfortunate man as the monk began his prayers. It was an emotional moment, even though I had never known poor old Mr Blenkinsopp. As Father Egbert began the
De
Profundis,
I felt tears coming to my eyes. The little ceremony was soon over, we shook hands and Father Egbert thanked me. Then he went away, leaving me to the police duty of dealing with a sudden death.

Looking back upon that moment, I often wonder what Sergeant Blaketon would have said if he’d entered the room during our prayers. What would he have made of a
policeman
kneeling beside a corpse, chanting the
De
Profundis
in Latin with a Benedictine monk?

Brother Franklyn was another interesting monk who had not been ordained into the priesthood. He was studying with that in mind. He was a keen rugger player and had been captain of his school XV and of his university team.
Massively
built, he was as strong as an ox and coached in his sport at the local public school, which was part of the abbey complex. A real man’s man, he would take his victorious team into the local pub and sup pints with them in the cause of a just celebration. He liked a good sing-song too and knew most of the popular rugger songs.

His hobby, when not playing rugby football or chanting at Evensong, was breeding white doves. My knowledge of doves is poor and I am not sure of their breed, but they were beautiful, gentle creatures of purest white and they lived in a loft at the edge of the monastery’s grounds. He ministered to them daily and knew them individually; he bred from them and sold the chicks to others of similar interests, and I believe his strain was noted for their excellence. He appeared to be an authority on the subject and judged at local shows.

Around April one year, I was off duty with influenza when the telephone rang one Sunday morning. Mary answered it, and came to me after dealing with the call.

“That was Brother Franklyn,” she explained, and the expression on her face told me something was wrong. Lying in bed with red eyes and a running nose, there was little I could do for the monk, but I asked what had happened.

“How did you know something was wrong?” she put to me.

“Your face, darling! It tells a million stories. What’s
happened
to upset you?”

“Brother Franklyn’s doves,” she said softly. “You know them?”

“Sure,” I smiled through my running eyes. Everyone knew of the doves, for they flew around the village, their wings whistling as they twisted and turned overhead, as if by some spoken command.

“Somebody’s killed them,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Most of them, anyway.”

“Killed them?” I cried.

She nodded. “Yes, last night, during the night. They broke into one of his lofts and they’ve strangled them all, wrung their necks and smashed the unhatched eggs.”

“Poor Franklyn,” was all I could say. “All of them?”

“No, just one of the lofts, the big one. He’s got the little loft left, untouched. He says he can breed again.”

“What a bloody awful thing to do.” I was angry and upset at the cruelty of the persons who did this.

“He’d phoned Ashfordly but got no reply, so he rang us, just to alert the police.”

“You’d explain I was off duty with flu?”

“Yes, so I said I would ring Ashfordly Police Station as soon as I knew someone was in.”

“There’s not a lot anyone can do now, unless someone saw the culprits,” I said. “Does he think the bastards will come back and have another go at his loft?”

“I’m sure the possibility was on his mind,” she told me.