Claude stomped into the office of the police house, shaking himself like a huge hound and flicking wet snow all over the floor.

  ‘We’ll keep looking, Claude,’ Nick assured him.

  ‘Have you been out all day, Claude?’ asked Kate. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘When your best friend needs help, Mrs Rowan, you never think of the weather. I’ve been out everywhere, hunting high and low, checking all his favourite places, digging into snowdrifts, looking into barns and outbuildings - and not a sign, not a whimper.’

  ‘Poor old Alfred,’ said Kate. ‘And have you eaten?’

  Claude sniffed the air; the magnificent aroma from Kate’s kitchen was making his mouth water.

  ‘Now you mention it, no, I haven’t eaten. I’ve been so busy seeking Alfred, food wasn’t important, but by gum, I could enjoy a plate of good old-fashioned Yorkshire stew.’

  ‘Lancashire hotpot, actually, but look, Claude, take those wet things off and come through to the living room. Me and Nick are having our suppers on our knees, beside the fire. You’re welcome to join us, there’s plenty.’

  For the first time that day a smile crossed Claude’s face. ‘By jove, Mrs Rowan, it’s at times like this you appreciate the police force, isn’t it? Getting their priorities right, out looking for a lost dog in these conditions. By gum, Mr Rowan, I really am grateful for the efforts you and the other constables are making.’

  ‘It’s all part of the service, Claude,’ winced Nick as Claude handed over his smelly old coat.

  Nick, remaining in the kitchen to hang the wet things on a hook, missed the wry smile on Kate’s face as she led their chattering guest into the living room.

  ‘So, Mr Greengrass, Nick has been out looking for Alfred all this evening, has he?’

  ‘He has, Mrs Rowan, a real nice feller is your husband, salt of the earth. I’ll not forget this, you know. If ever he needs help and advice, I’ll be there, with Alfred when we find him. Are we going out again, Mr Rowan?’ he called into the kitchen. ‘You and me? On night patrol, to look for him? There’s plenty of spots we haven’t searched.’

  ‘Look, sit down and relax for a few minutes. I’ll fetch some knives and forks,’ Kate smiled.

  ‘What did you invite him in for?’ hissed Nick as Kate came into the kitchen.

  ‘He looked worn out, Nick, he’s been out all day looking for Alfred. He really thinks the world of that dog. Look, if he’d continued to search all night, I would have had another patient. And,’ she teased, ‘fancy you spending all day looking for Alfred? I had no idea you’d been doing that! Now, I do call that service. So be nice to him! Or I’ll tell him you and your mates never gave his dog a second thought!’

  ‘Fancy a whisky, Claude?’ shouted Nick from the kitchen.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ was the cheerful reply.

  And so Kate and Nick settled down to supper with their guest. All the time, Greengrass talked about Alfred, about his likes and dislikes, his skills and his less welcome behaviour. He tucked into his supper with gusto and Kate gave him a second helping which disappeared like magic down his throat.

  ‘You’ll be going out again, Mr Rowan?’ Greengrass asked earnestly when he’d finished his meal. ‘Me and you make a good team, you know, we can work together well. You search the north and I’ll go south, I’ll check all the pubs if you can do the moors and woods.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nick. ‘Rendezvous in the Aidensfield Arms in half an hour?’

  ‘Right you are, Mr Rowan, I’ll pop in and see George now, he’s keeping an eye open for Alfred, you know. He likes the fire in there, does Alfred, on a cold night. You know that fire’s never been out since Queen Victoria was a lass? Well, our Alfred respects a bit of history like that and loves to curl up in front of it. He might be there now, eh?’

  ‘Yes, he might.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be off. Goodnight and thanks for the supper.’ And Claude collected his belongings, put on his old coat and vanished into the storm.

  ‘You did a wonderful piece of police public relations there,’ smiled Nick. ‘Well done.’

  ‘The poor man, he really was upset, I do hope he finds Alfred.’

  ‘He will, Alfred will come home when the time’s right. Now, how about a restful night by the fire.’

  ‘When you’ve done the washing up!’ She smiled sweetly.

  And at that point, all the lights went out.

  They went out at Farm Cottage too. The tiny house was suddenly plunged into darkness as the heavy wet snow brought down the cables which crossed the moors. From the kitchen window, Roy Marshall could look across the dale and he saw that Elsinby was also in darkness; indeed the entire valley was without electricity.

  ‘I’ll get the candles,’ he said. Igniting a cigarette lighter, he rummaged in the kitchen cabinet and found a box of candles. Every moorland home kept a stock of candles and oil lamps for such occasions and soon the little cottage was glowing in the dim light of half a dozen flickering flames. The fire, blazing with logs, also cast its light into the room.

  Roy inspected the fuse box just to be sure that the problem was indeed the result of a power cut, not a blown fuse. Sure enough, the fuses were all in good order. There was nothing he could do to rectify the fault.

  ‘We’ll just have to sit it out,’ he said calmly to Ellen. ‘They’ll soon have the power back on. The electricity board is used to this sort of thing. I’ve locked all the doors and windows, so we’re safe enough here.’

  ‘Roy?’ Her voice was faint and pleading. ‘Roy, I think it’s coming.’ And she held her stomach as the pain made her groan.

  ‘Oh, God, not now! It can’t!’

  ‘It is, I know it is. I can feel it … Roy, it’s coming, the baby’s coming … I need help, get the doctor … quickly.’

  ‘Doctor? But the telephone …’

  ‘The kiosk, try the kiosk … please hurry …’

  ‘I’ve rung the electricity board to report the failure,’ Nick told Kate. ‘The power’s off in all the villages, a line’s down somewhere on the moors. They’re going out to see to it. They’ll have one hell of a job in this weather, so there’s nothing more to do but wait. I’d better go for a walk around the village.’ Nick couldn’t help but feel restless. ‘With all the power off, some of the old folks might be worried. I’ll pass the word round that the electricity board’s having a look at it, so at least they’ll know something’s being done.’

  Kate raised her eyebrows sardonically. ‘My, you are conscientious. And you’ll keep an eye open for Alfred, no doubt?’

  ‘I might pop into the Aidensfield Arms just to make sure he’s not curled up in front of George’s fire.’

  ‘You’re not driving?’ she asked with some concern.

  ‘No, I’ll walk, I’ll leave the Landrover where it is.’

  ‘Be careful, and don’t be long,’ and she kissed him.

  ‘If I’m more than an hour, send a St Bernard to look for me.’

  ‘I could always send Alfred the Lurcher!’

  ‘If he’s come home. He’ll be lying somewhere having a whale of a time, will that one. He’s not stupid enough to stay outside in this weather, mark my words. Nor is Claude Jeremiah!’

  ‘And then you’ll come back and spend the rest of the evening by the fireside?’

  ‘Scout’s honour!’ he said, kissing her.

  Nick began his lonely patrol of Aidensfield, checking the homes of pensioners and people living alone. He told them about the power line which had collapsed and asked them to tell their friends and neighbours. He organised help for people without candles or oil lamps, and brought scuttles of coal and piles of logs in for those less able than himself. Then he went into the Aidensfield Arms. The famous everlasting Aidensfield fire was blazing brightly with pine logs that spat and crackled in the blaze, as the regulars all sat around with their pints. Candles were burning on the bar and the smoke-room tables.

  ‘Everything under control, George?’ asked Nick when he spotted the landlord in the gloom.

  ‘Good job all my pumps aren’t electric,’ said George. ‘At least I can still pump beer from the cellar. It’s off everywhere, eh?’

  ‘A power cable’s collapsed with the weight of snow, they’re on their way to fix it,’ said Nick. ‘Pass the word around. Now, have you seen Claude?’

  ‘He was in earlier, looking for Alfred. He had a quick drink then went out again. He’s in a bit of a state about that dog.’

  ‘You’ve not seen Alfred today?’

  George shook his head. ‘No, not a sign of him. Mind, he knows his way here so if he does come back to the village, he might pop in. If he does, I’ll keep him till Claude returns.’

  ‘Cheers, George,’ and Nick left to go home. But as he walked up the drive, he saw that the Landrover had gone. He could see the tracks in the snow, already filling in with a new layer of fresh white flakes. He went into his office where a candle provided the sole source of light. ‘Kate? You there?’

  There was no reply. He went over to the telephone to check that it was still working. As he listened with relief to the dialling tone, he saw the note wedged under the candlestick on his desk. In the flickering light, he read, ‘Gone to attend to Ellen Walsh, birth imminent. Back sometime, have taken the Landrover. Kate. XXX.’

  Nick smiled. What a night for a new child to come into the world! No power, no heat, no light and a village knee-deep in snow! And a dangerous man heading that way too … He sighed and began to take off his Wellington boots.

  Then the telephone rang.

  ‘Aidensfield Police,’ he said, somewhat wearily.

  ‘It’s the railway station,’ panted a man’s voice, sounding distressed. ‘There’s been a derailment, a passenger train from Eltering, coaches off the line, here in the station. There’s people hurt, we need help, Mr Rowan, desperate help, there’s only me here …’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Nick, slipping his feet back into his Wellingtons. Before leaving, though, he rang Ashfordly Police Station to alert Sergeant Blaketon; Ashfordly would automatically contact the necessary emergency services.

  Alf Ventress answered the phone.

  ‘It’s Nick from Aidensfield, Alf,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve found Greengrass’s dog!’ Alf sounded cheerful. ‘Or Aidensfield’s cut off by snowdrifts

  and you won’t be able to see Sergeant Blaketon for six weeks!’

  ‘Cut the cackle, Alf, this is serious. There’s been a derailment at Aidensfield Station, it’s the incoming passenger train from Eltering, coaches off the line and people hurt. I’m on my way now, I’ll radio in with a sit. rep. as soon as I’ve got some firm details.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, and I thought this snow was going to give us a quiet night, no traffic accidents, no burglaries or mayhem …’

  ‘I’m taking the motorbike, it’s got a radio on board; I’ll be there in two minutes and will give a report as soon as I’ve assessed the situation. All right? You’ll tell Sergeant Blaketon and then alert Division?’

  ‘Blaketon’s having a night off, he’s gone to a dinner-dance in town.’

  ‘He’ll have to be told, Alf. You’ll have to drag him away from his palais glide or whatever he’s doing.’

  ‘Leave it to me, Nick. I’ll make sure everybody who should know does know. Kate will be attending, will she?’

  ‘No, she’s gone to a woman who’s about to give birth, out in the wilds, so we’ll need another doctor. British Rail might have one listed who they call out for this kind of thing. Ferrenby’s not here either, he’s gone to see some relations down south, but he’s due back today.’

  ‘On that train, mebbe?’ said Ventress.

  Nick frowned. ‘Don’t say that! Right, I’m off, Alf. I’ll be in touch.’

  Dressing once again in his wet clothing, Nick kicked his Francis Barnett into action and sallied forth from the garage. Keeping his feet to the ground, he guided the slithering machine through the deep, even snow, ploughing a triple furrow along the road towards Aidensfield Station.

  On the way, he spotted Claude Jeremiah trudging in the same direction and slowed down alongside him.

  ‘Off again, Mr Rowan, eh? Has he been spotted somewhere?’

  ‘Claude, a train’s come off the lines in the station, we’ll need as much help as we can.’

  ‘He didn’t jam his brakes on to avoid colliding with my Alfred, did he?’ Claude asked anxiously. ‘I’ve told him about crossing the line when there’s a train coming.’

  ‘Claude, for God’s sake just get yourself down to the railway station and see if you can help.’

  ‘Aye, right, Mr Rowan. Mebbe Alfred’s jumped on to a train and gone down to London or somewhere. I often said I’d put him in Battersea Dogs’ Home if he didn’t behave himself. Mebbe he’s gone to see it for himself?’

  ‘You could always ask if he’s in the left luggage office,’ and Nick accelerated away. ‘See you there.’

  As he guided his motorcycle slowly down the steep hill towards the station, Nick’s first impression was one of utter chaos. There were lights everywhere, the coaches having their own supplies; there was the steady hiss of steam and the sounds of people in distress; figures wandering about in a daze; shouts for help mingled with groans and cries of fear. He parked his machine near the fence and walked on to the platform, taking a torch from his pannier.

  He could see one coach partially on its side, its trolleys having separated from its body, each lying awkwardly across the rails with the wheels off the tracks. Several of the coach windows were smashed and snow was swirling inside to settle on the pale faces of the terrified passengers. Some doors were hanging open and a seat had been thrown out, to land on the embankment. The engine was standing by, still on the rails, and in the gloom he could see another coach which had also jumped the rails. It was upright, fortunately, but its wheels were also off the metals and they had sunk into the cinder track beneath.

  Nick moved swiftly among the devastation, visually assessing the situation before clambering aboard to determine whether or not there were fatalities or serious injuries.

  Then the signalman was running towards him.

  ‘Mr Rowan, thank God …’

  ‘All right, Jim, calm down. Any fatalities?’

  ‘Fatalities? Oh, God, I hope not … this carriage, people hurt … look, it wasn’t my fault, the points jammed, froze or something, I couldn’t stop the train …’

  Nick held out a calming hand. ‘Nobody’s blaming you. We’ve got to attend to these people, we’ve got to find out who’s hurt, who needs help. Now, help me up to the step, I want to have a look inside.’

  Many of the passengers in the upright coach were still in their seats, too dazed to move, and Nick bade them stay; the coach was not likely to topple over and it was warm and dry inside.

  He moved along the corridor, peering at people, asking questions, making jokes, reassuring them that help was on the way. Then he saw Alex Ferrenby. He was sitting upright in his seat, eyes staring directly ahead of him as if he was asleep or in a trance.

  ‘Alex?’ Nick touched his old friend, but there was no response. ‘Alex? It’s me, Nick.’

  He took Alex’s pulse; his heart was still beating and the flesh was warm. Dr Ferrenby was certainly alive, but what was wrong? Worried, Nick moved on; he would have to return to him later. Then he found a man bending over a schoolboy. ‘He’s trapped, Officer,’ the man gasped over his shoulder. ‘The carriage wall gave way, and crumpled on him …’

  ‘Can we lift the woodwork? You and me?’

  ‘Yes, with a spar … hang on, there’s a bit of a luggage rack over there, I’ll use that.’

  ‘You all right, son?’ Nick addressed the youth who was lying on his back, his face pale and drawn.

  ‘It’s my legs, I can’t move them, something’s pressing down on them.’ He was fighting to hold back the tears.

  ‘Right, we’ll soon lift this stuff!’ Nick said briskly, and with the help of the other passenger and their makeshift lifting gear, he managed to raise the collapsed fabric and drag out the youth. Sure that the boy had a broken leg, Nick quickly made a splint out of some pieces of the damaged luggage rack. As he carefully eased the suffering boy on to the seat, he tried to reassure him. ‘Look, son, you’ll be OK. This splint will keep your leg firm until we can get you to hospital.’

  Having bound the pieces of luggage rack to the boy’s leg, Nick thanked his helper. ‘You were great. We need all the help we can get. Can you give me a hand? We’d better get all the able-bodied people together and then evacuate the injured and take them along to the tunnel behind the train. They’re safe in this coach for now, but the emergency services can’t get to them here - that’s if they get through at all in this storm. But British Rail have their own emergency plough and they might come by rail … if we can get everybody into that tunnel, they can be picked up - it’s a double line there.’

  The man nodded willingly. ‘Sure, anything to help.’

  ‘Right, now I’m going back to my motorbike to give a situation report and to ask for all British Rail rescue services as well as our own. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Can you cope?’

  ‘Sure,’ repeated the man.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Stevie,’ said the man. ‘Stevie Walsh.’

  Kate coped surprisingly well with the Landrover.

  Driving very steadily, she managed to manoeuvre it through the narrow lanes where its four-wheel drive dealt easily with both the deep, level layer of snow and the many drifts. She arrived at Farm Cottage without any mishap, albeit with the vehicle smothered in thick, clinging snow, and parked outside the cottage. Roy Marshall,

  hearing her arrival, came to the door carrying an oil lamp.

  ‘I thought it was an ambulance,’ he said, looking at the small, snow-encrusted vehicle.

  ‘It can’t get through,’ she said. ‘They’re cut off, the road between here and Ashfordly’s blocked. Now, where’s Ellen?’

  ‘I got her up to the bedroom. The contractions are stronger, she says. Can you cope?’