***Chapter 10***
***Changes ***
Davey had decided to head for Brentwood Farm via the tiny village of Foxhill but never reached there. (If anyone at Follyfoot remembered Davey's current girl lived in Foxhill nobody chose to mention it).
At Fiveways Fingerpost, he was stopped by a police constable he didn't recognise. This alone was enough to set alarm bells ringing. Back in those innocent days, a solitary constable was allocated per two Yorkshire villages and, as people spent a great deal of time travelling to and from them, the village policeman, in his blue uniform and silver-badged helmet, dealing with petty squabbles or arresting someone a little the worse for wear, was known to all.
Should a major incident occur, the busy town of Ashtree, which boasted the only main police station for many a mile, served all the villages, from Whistledown to Loppington, even faraway Kettlefield. Fortunately, major incidents were almost unheard so this rarely happened and few villagers knew the Ashtree police - nor, I should add, particularly wished to make their acquaintance, for Ashtree dealt too with the most serious of crimes.
No traffic or pedestrians allowed through, sonny, the constable told Davey, in the much faster Yorkshire dialect he immediately recognised as being that of an Ashtree man, and would explain himself no further, but pointed to the official sign: Police - Traffic Accident - No Access. Oh, but rumours were rife!
On the corner of Buckets Lane, under the spreading branches of a benevolent old apple tree stretching over the orchard wall, being stared at by some baffled cows in the farm over the way, a crowd had gathered and, having to cross the cobbled road, Davy found himself among them.
Several people recollected they had that day been passed by two horse riders who seemed to be heading towards Foxhill, but horseriding was a common mode of transport and they paid them scant attention though the general consensus was that the riders had been a man and a woman. Many had later heard the screeching of wheels, a loud bang, horses neighing, and, most terrifying of all, two bursts of gunfire!
Some said it was a daring robbery gone terribly wrong; some said it was a dreadful accident with the "gunfire" being the car backfiring; some said, their voices rising in breathless stage whispers, King George and Queen Mary had been riding incognito and been assassinated!
A skinny young man resting on a bicycle told how, fifteen minutes before he'd cycled past two horse riders, he'd cycled past a man he was sure was Harry Hunt, the butcher from Loppington, walking hurriedly and shiftily away from Whistledown towards the little road that bypassed Foxhill but would take him to Windmill Road. Windmill Road led towards Loppington (and, after some distance, a few turnings and several changes of name, to Ashtree) and hadn't everybody heard the gossip that Harry, a womaniser and a drinker since his wife's death, had lately taken up with an unknown fancy woman in Whistledown? Someone else happened to have visited Loppington that very morning and confirmed Hunt's Butchers hadn't opened.
But nobody could shed any light on the mysterious motor car.
Everybody had heard it but nobody had seen it, which suggested it had been travelling in the opposite direction, from Ashtree itself, AND would explain the Ashtree police being so quick on the scene, said the skinny young man - OR that the Ashtree police knew all about a secret holiday, added Mabel Cooper, a firm Royalty-in-Disguise advocate, normally the first on hand with any gossip (indeed Mabel had provided the information PC Hughes of Foxhill/Whistledown had broken his leg hence his absence) and unused to being usurped, she hitched up her ample bosom, folded her arms and glared daggers at the young upstart, daring him to disagree.
But no sooner had he opened his mouth to (unwisely) begin a war of words with Mrs Mabel Philomena Cooper when an ambulance van, red cross emblazoned on its side, bell clanging tinnily, sped past on its way to the hospital in York.
The second one and they must be dead or dying, someone remarked. and that had been when Davey panicked and ran all the way back to Follyfoot. He knew for a fact the Maddocks planned to "turn off at Fiveways Point and take the little road bypassing Foxhill"; he'd overheard them. Wiping his tear-streaked face with an equally grubby fist, Davey, omitting to mention he'd eavesdropped while smoking a cigarette, looked to Jimmy, as did everyone else, for what to do next.
A telephone call put their minds at rest. The shrill ringing was answered by a very bored and disgruntled Police Constable Bert Hughes. He was in "grand residence" in Loppington Town Hall (at least Loppingtonians liked to refer to it as such; it was actually the old home of the late Squire Peacock and the only building with a telephone) to where he'd been driven from his Police House as the nearest telephone was situated in a telephone box in Kettlefield. The fact none of the village constables owned telephones or cars greatly amused the Ashfield police, which thoroughly annoyed Bert.
A policeman for over twenty years, he was treated like a youngster fresh out of training school, left alone with broken leg and crutches, to make his way as best he could to the kettle or outside toilet. All that he had was a desk, a sheaf of papers with standard answers he'd been ordered by Sergeant Driscoll of Ashfield not to dare deviate from, and a telephone which, to judge by the clicks on the line, Wendy of the Telephone Exchange was listening in on.
Follyfoot Farm was way down on the Official List. The very last to be stamped "Approved Enquirer" and not "No Comment" as had been the case with most of the expected callers. Follyfoot Farm was scribbled at the end of the page, several blank lines after Reverend Paul Barlow, who was in turn three lines below Miss Anne Gibson (and Family), a perfumed letter from Miss Gibson having been found in Harry Hunt's pocket, quickly establishing her as the mystery sweetheart, the said Miss Gibson, thanks to PC Hughes telephone answering service, now with Reverend Barlow.
It seemed Arthur and Prudence Maddocks (and Families) had their own telephones and access to information, as did Jack Conroy (and Family), dashing young, newly qualified veterinary surgeon. There being very little to do, the ringing startled PC Hughes out of a doze and he drummed his fingers impatiently as Wendy announced in her chirpy, affected voice "You're through, Caller!" and clicked the line to listen.
PC Hughes cleared his throat and referred to the Official List. Mr and Mrs Maddocks sustained Minor Injuries. Most Serious was Broken Nose. One Fatality. No, he was not at liberty to reveal the identity. Good God, man, of course Royalty hadn't been involved! (Wendy gasped audibly.) Wherever did you hear such a cock-and-bull story, Mr Hargreaves? (Davey never knew why Keeper of Keys suddenly swiped him across the ear.) Gunshots? Yes, the police were well aware of the gunshots. The motorist (who'd swerved in vain to avoid The Fatality) was legally entitled to carry a rifle with him in the course of his work.
"Mrs and Mrs Maddocks in hospital with minor injuries. One death." Hargreaves replaced the receiver in its cradle and spoke authoritatively to Jimmy, Eddie and Davey, who'd accompanied him to the office. "Now we've wasted enough time and I suggest you all get back to work or pay will be docked."
But there was another casualty no one thought to mention and one that broke Jimmy's heart. Magic had been so badly injured that Conroy deemed it kinder to put the horse out of its misery. Two shots ensured the job was done.
Beauty returned to Follyfoot alone.