Then late one evening, I received a telephone call at home. It was from Joe Camplin, the farmer in question. He sounded agitated and asked if I was on duty.

  I wasn’t, but asked if I could help.

  “Aye, it’s about Diane Ferguson,” he said hesitantly.

  “Diane Ferguson?” I didn’t recognise the name.

  “Aye, my milkmaid, the Scots girl, you know.”

  “Oh.” I had never seen the girl, but the point registered. “Something wrong, Mr Camplin?”

  “Aye, she’s been attacked.”

  “Attacked?” I shouted. “Where?”

  “Down our lane. Not five minutes ago …”

  “Is she badly hurt?” I asked, wondering whether a rogue cow had attacked her or whether it was something else.

  “No, but she’s shaken. It was a man, grabbed her, he did. She got away though.”

  “I’ll be there right away,” I promised.

  Although it was my day off, I jumped into my private car and rushed five miles to the lonely farm. As I drove through the countryside, I looked for a solitary man walking the lanes at night, but found no one. I hoped I might come across the culprit but out here a person can lose himself very rapidly. Near this farm, there is nothing but wide open moorland, interspaced with a few spruces and silver birch. He could be anywhere out there. My headlights found only dry-stone walls, solitary trees and the occasional cottage. As I turned down the lane to Crag Foot Farm, I discovered the unmade road was muddy and full of holes. It threatened to shake my car to pieces as I bumped and bounced along its terrible surface. Fortunately, the farm’s exterior light was burning and guided me onto the concrete yard near the back door. It was a relief to come to a halt.

  I hurried inside, pausing to knock but once and shouted my arrival. I knew the way and rushed inside. In the comfortable kitchen I found Joe and Mary Camplin fussing over a tearful girl. This was Diane Ferguson.

  “Ah,” said Joe as I entered. “Thank God I found you in.”

  “How is she?” was my first question.

  The girl smiled weakly through her tears and wiped her red eyes with a man’s handkerchief, doubtless supplied by Joe. “I’m all right, thanks. Just shaken.”

  “Cup o’ tea?” suggested Mary Camplin. “I’ve made one for Diane.”

  “Thanks,” I accepted her offer and pulled out a chair to settle at the table. The tea was lovely.

  “I heard her come crying into the yard,” began Joe before I could ask what had happened. “It was dark, and she’d run all the way … he got her by the throat …”

  “Let’s start at the beginning, eh?” I suggested, turning my attention to Diane. She was a petite girl, about twenty years old, very pretty with mousy hair and a face bearing a suggestion of freckles. Her delightful grey eyes were sharp and alert, her smile tantalising, and all were complemented by her figure which was charming and full. She looked more like a farm secretary or a shorthand typist than a milkmaid, but her appearance and demeanour reminded me of the charm of her Shakespearian counterparts. If poets and writers said that milkmaids were charming, this one proved the truth of their words.

  “Tell me, Diane. What happened?”

  “Well, Mr Rhea.” Her accent contained a beautiful Lowland lilt. “It was like this. I got off the bus at the lane end,” and she indicated the direction with her hands. “I always get off there, you see …”

  “It’s her afternoon off,” butted in Joe. “She goes to Harrowby for the afternoon and gets that bus back. It stops at the lane end, just up the road from here.”

  “I see,” I smiled and bade her continue. “You got off the bus. What time?”

  “Half past eight, Mr Rhea. It was right on time.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it was dark, you see, and I had a torch. I got off like I always do, and began to walk down the lane to the farm …”

  “I’ve often said I should put a light at that lane end,” commented Joe. “I’ll do it now, by God I will.”

  I smiled at Diane. She understood and we tolerated his well-intentioned interruptions.

  “Well,” she continued. “I got as far as the haystack …”

  “I always put a stack in that field,” said Joe. “It’s handy for my cows when they’re up there …”

  “Joe, shut up,” ordered his wife. “Let Mr Rhea talk to Diane.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, picking up his cup of tea.

  “I’d just got past the stack when a man jumped out at me,” the girl said slowly. “I didn’t know what to do… I didn’t run…. I think I was too frightened…. I just didn’t know….”

  “What did he do?” I put this important question gently but firmly. I had to know whether there’d been any attempt at rape or indecent assault. It mattered for my subsequent action.

  “He tried to put a sack over my head,” she said, wiping away a tear. “A dirty old sack …”

  “A sack?”

  “Yes, it sounds so silly, but he had a sack. It was a rough hessian one, all smelly and horrible, and he tried to put it over me…. I began to run, but he grabbed me by the arm… he was very strong, so I shouted and screamed …”

  “He didn’t touch you?” I asked. “Indecently, I mean? Or say anything?”

  She shook her head. “No, nothing like that, thank God. It was just that sack…. I fought and fought, but he was very strong.”

  “And you screamed?” I sipped at the tea.

  “Yes, but the farm’s too far away for Mr and Mrs Camplin to hear me and the bus had gone by then. No one heard me. There was nobody.”

  “So what did you do?”

  She hesitated. “I kicked him, right between the legs,” and she laughed. “I knew it hurt—he called out in pain, and then I hit him with my torch.” She showed me the cracked glass.

  I smiled at her bravery. “Great! That’ll teach him a lesson. Then what happened?”

  “He ran away,” she smiled at the memory, “and I came in here, crying. Mr Camplin went out….”

  “I did that, with my shotgun. If I’d seen him in our lane he’d have got both barrels right up his backside, I can tell you.”

  “And you found no one?”

  “Not a soul.” He shook his head.

  “And the sack?”

  “Nay, lad, I didn’t see that. I was too concerned about Diane.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” I asked her again.

  “No, nothing. He just panted and grunted as he tried to put the sack over me. It’s so silly … maybe he didn’t mean any harm …”

  “It was an assault if nothing else,” I said. “Now, Diane, you had your torch. Was it on?”

  She nodded.

  “And could you see him? I need a description if you can give one.”

  She had no trouble providing me with a marvellously detailed description of her assailant. He was about 50 years old with thick grey hair, about average height, and he wore a dark donkey jacket with leather shoulder-patches. He had dark trousers, dark shoes, and a flat cap, checked style, with the press-stud undone above the peak. And he had a squeaky voice. She’d noted that as he’d cried out with pain. He was clean-shaven, she said, but whiskery, as if he’d not shaved for a day or two. He wore a white scarf and gloves with string backs, like racing drivers wore.

  It was a first-class description and if this man lived in the district I would have little trouble tracing him. We’d trace him in no time.

  “Have you any idea who it was?” I put to her. Quite often, unprovoked assaults of this kind were an outcome of some recent disagreement with a boyfriend or prospective suitor. Diane was a very pretty young woman, and must have had lots of suitors, so this could be some form of revenge.

  “Yes, I think so,” she said quietly.

  “Aye,” said Joe. “We think we know who it is. Nasty business, Mr Rhea. I don’t want to be one to cause trouble, but it’ll have to be stopped. Innocent girls can’t be put at risk, you know….”

  “So who is it?” I ventured.

  “You know that Frenchman who lives up the hill, on the road to Harrowby?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, you wouldn’t, he’s like you, not been here all that long, but he took Blackamoor House as a studio. He’s an artist, a clever chap, but a bit weird.”

  “Weird?” I asked.

  “Well, not like us. Dresses queer, dyes his hair, smells of scent and stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a bath every day neither.”

  “Artists often do dress individually,” I said. “Has he been a nuisance before?”

  “No,” she said. “No, he never bothers me.”

  “So you’re acquainted?”

  “Aye,” said Joe. “He comes here for his milk. Two pints a day—he collects them himself, in a little can like they do in France.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Edouard Sannier,” said Mary Camplin. “Monsieur Edouard Sannier. He’s quite nice, I think. At least, I used to think he was.”

  “Now, Diane, listen carefully,” I put to her. “Are you sure it was him? If I had to get you to swear on oath that it was Edouard Sannier would you say it was?”

  “Yes,” she said with a determined clenching of her teeth. “Yes, I would …”

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll go and talk to him.”

  “What can you do with him?” Joe asked me.

  “It’s difficult to know what we can do,” I said. “There was no indecency, and no attempt to rape Diane. He didn’t say he was going to rape you, did he? There’s no cuts, bruises?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’re left with common assault, in which case you could take your own action against him. Common assault is not a matter for the police,” I told them. “You go and see a solicitor and he’ll fix it to go to court. If we consider he is a public nuisance,” I added as an alternative, “we might get him bound over to be of good behaviour.”

  “I thought they’d send him to prison for what he did!” gasped Mary.

  “For rape or attempted rape, yes, but for something like this, no. There’s very little in law that can be done. Mind,” I continued, “if he admitted he was going to rape Diane, or touch her indecently, we could consider a more serious charge. But first let me talk to him. I’ll let you know how I get along. If I have to take him to the police-station, it’ll be morning before I see you.”

  “Aye, all right. I reckon Diane needs an early night,” considered Joe, “with a drink of hot milk and whisky. She’ll sleep on that.”

  “Couldn’t be better. Now, Diane, is there anything else I should know? Did he say anything or do anything else? Have you angered him at all? Led him on, teased him?”

  “No, honest, I’ve never given him any encouragement. Never …”

  “These Frenchmen are very romantic, you know.” I tried to make the incident sound light to reduce its seriousness, but I failed. For these people, it was a most serious event.

  “It’s not romance when they put bloody sacks over lasses’ heads!” growled Joe.

  I left them and drove the few hundred yards to the lonely cottage on the hill top. A light was burning, which pleased me. I had never been into this house although I had passed it several times. Feeling apprehensive about the interview, I parked my car on the main road, walked to the studded front door and knocked. A pretty middle-aged lady answered, smiling up at me. She was very petite and charming.

  “Yes?” she said pleasantly.

  “Oh, I am P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “Is Monsieur Sannier in, please?”

  “Yes, do come in.” There was no trace of a French accent. In fact, she had a very English voice and I estimated she would be in her late sixties.

  She led me into the lounge where I saw a grey-haired man sitting on the settee, sipping coffee. He rose as I entered.

  “I am P.C. Rhea, the village policeman at Aidensfield,” I announced. “I wonder if I could have a word with you, sir.” I probably sounded very formal.

  “But of course,” he smiled and indicated an easy-chair. “It is always nice to meet the local policeman, eh, Alice?”

  “Yes, dear,” smiled his wife. “Would you like a coffee, Mr Rhea?”

  “Er, no thanks,” I refused as I settled in the chair. “I’ve just had one actually. Now, it’s a very difficult enquiry for me …”

  “We are very civilised,” he said graciously. “It is trouble?”

  His English was impeccable too, but he did have a high-pitched voice.

  “Mr Sannier,” I anglicised his title. “Where were you tonight, about eight-thirty?”

  “Tonight? Why here, of course. With my wife.”

  “You didn’t go out?”

  “No, he did not,” she said grimly. I paused deliberately as I looked around the small room. A piano stood against one wall and on top. was a flat cap with the press-stud undone, a pair of gloves with string backs and a long white scarf. Hanging on a hook behind the door was a dark donkey jacket with black leather shoulder-patches and he had a thick mop of grey hair. Diane’s description was perfect. It fitted him absolutely, although I’d have placed his age nearer sixty than fifty.

  But was it too perfect? Everything matched and she had said he called regularly at the farm for his milk.

  “Mrs Sannier, could you swear your husband did not leave the room this evening?”

  She regarded me seriously. “We both went out, in our car, down to Ashfordly and returned in time for tea, just before five o’clock. Edouard went out to fill the coal-scuttle at six o’clock, and we’ve not been out since, neither of us. I will swear to that.” She spoke in a fiercely protective manner.

  “I believe you,” I said, for it was true. I did believe them. This man was no putter of sacks over the heads of young nubile girls.

  “What is it?” he asked, with a genuine interest. “Have I done wrong?”

  I was in two minds whether to tell him. I didn’t want to give the impression that I believed he’d do such a thing and yet I did owe the couple some explanation. As I dithered for a moment, Mrs Sannier poured a coffee and said, “I think this would help.” She passed it to me and I relaxed in the chair.

  I told them the full story as Diane had related it, and included the description she’d given. When I had finished, he laughed, “She described me, eh? You had to come.”

  “I had to come,” I said. “But it seems a strange tale for a girl like Diane to concoct, Mr Sannier. I’m sure she was attacked.”

  “Maybe she is telling the truth,” said his wife. “When I was washing the tea things, I saw a young man walking down the road towards the dairy-farm. He wore a dark donkey jacket, just like Edouard’s, and a flat cap, and a long light-coloured scarf with string-back gloves. I remembered thinking how like Edouard he looked.”

  “What time was that?” I felt excited.

  “Six o’clock,” she said. “Perhaps a minute or two either way, but near enough to six.”

  That was two and a half hours before the attack. “Tell me more,” I said.

  “Well, he comes down the road every Wednesday night. He walks into Ashfordly to the pub. I think he works on the Forestry Commission land near Sutton Bank Top.”

  “Do you know his name?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t.”

  “Well, I’ll have to make some more enquiries,” I said. “Look, I’m very sorry to have troubled you like this—I feel very guilty about ruining your evening.”

  “Think nothing of it, young man,” said Monsieur Sannier. “In some countries, I would have been dragged off and clapped in jail for less. I hope you find the man.”

  There are times one has to trust a man almost on sight and I trusted this one. I was convinced he had nothing to do with the attack on Diane.

  To cut a long story short, I went straight to the private address of the Forestry Commission boss for the district and explained my problem. He told me he knew the lad, a twenty-two-year-old who lived with his parents in a woodland cottage a mile from the top of Sutton Bank. The parents kept a smallholding with hens and pigs but the lad was very shy with girls. He was totally unable to communicate with them, so he was a likely candidate. The description supplied by Mrs Sannier fitted him.

  Knowing I would have difficulty locating him tonight, I went to the cottage in the woods first thing next morning. I found Jeremy Morley at home. His dad was labouring on a farm nearby and mother was out. He allowed me in; it was a hovel and filthy with it, but for this unfortunate lad it was home. And there, on a hook behind the door was a dark donkey jacket, a flat cap with the peak button undone, a dull white scarf and, on the table, a pair of driving-gloves with string backs.

  Almost before I began my questioning, the lad readily admitted trying to capture the girl. He knew it was best to put sacks over the heads of captured birds to calm them; he’d seen his dad do it many times with hens. And he’d seen the television, where men carried off the girl of their choice. He thought he’d do the same. He’d waited two hours behind that haystack, knowing Diane got off the Harrowby bus each Wednesday, and said he liked the look of her. He’d never spoken to her—he didn’t dare, and he’d dressed up like Monsieur Sannier because he liked the Frenchman’s style and confidence. That man knew how to treat girls, he felt, so he copied his idol for style and his father for action. I don’t think he realised it was wrong.

  After speaking to Sergeant Bairstow about it, we took the lad to court and he was bound over to be of good behaviour. The court persuaded him to seek treatment for his loneliness and appalling shyness in the face of girls. Diane forgave him too, which helped, and she went up to the Sanniers’ cottage to apologise for implicating the unfortunate man.

  Although I was pleased we found the culprit, I was even more pleased that I hadn’t prosecuted the wrong man. It would have been so easy to ruin the Sanniers’ life but I did wonder about the calming influence of hessian sacks upon one’s head!