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animals romped in the fields, glad to be rid of winter’s burden and looking forward to the joy of spring.
    My machine and I climbed across the ranging hills with their acres of smooth moorland, and I enjoyed the limitless vista of steep slopes, craggy outcrops and deep valleys. They combined to produce a beauty of landscape seldom found elsewhere. And there was not a person about. I had the moors to myself.
    True, I did pass one or two cars, and in the villages I noted ladies going about their daily shopping or cleaning their cottage windows, but beyond the inhabited areas, there was a sense of isolation that was intriguing. It was like entering a deserted world, an area devoid of people and houses but full of living things like birds and plants and animals. In some respects, it was like a fairyland, with wisps of mist hanging near the valley floors and shafts of strong sunlight piercing the density of the man-made forests and natural woodland. The smell of peace and tranquillity was everywhere.
    Ellersfield lay snug in one of these deep valleys, a cluster of stone-built houses nestling at the head of the dale. All had thatched roofs, and they were sturdy dwellings, somewhat squat in appearance but constructed to withstand the fierce winters of the moors. Oak Crag Cottage stood at the far end as I rode into the community, using a road which ended in a rough cart track as it climbed steeply on to the moors before vanishing among the heather.
    It was a neatly kept house. The thatch was carefully maintained and an evergreen hedge acted as a boundary between the cottage and the track by which it stood. The wooden gate was painted a fresh green and bore the name of the house in white letters. I parked the motor cycle on its stand and opened the gate, walking clumsily in my ungainly suit.
    The house had three windows along its front with two attic windows above, all with tiny panes of glass and all neatly picked out in fresh white paint. I knocked on the door and waited. There was no reply.
    I tried again, with the same result, and guessed the lady of the house must be around because she’d called in the police to solve her problem. As policemen are wont to do, I moved away from the front door and walked along the sandstone flags to the rear. At the back was a long flat garden with sheds and poultry runs, and I saw a woman repairing a wire netting fence at the far end.
    “Hello!” I shouted.
    She stood up, placing a hand on her back to indicate some form of backache. She smiled a welcome.
    “Oh, hello. Is it the police?”
    “Yes,” I confirmed, realising my gear made me look like a refugee from the Royal Flying Corps of World War I. “I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield.”
    She came towards me looking pleased as she removed some rubber gloves. She wore a headscarf which almost concealed her face, and I wondered if she was pretty.
    “Katherine Hardwick,” she introduced herself. “Miss,” she added as an afterthought. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I thought I’d better put an official stop to my unwelcome visitor .”
    “You did exactly the right thing,” I endeavoured to comforther a little. “You know who it is?”
    She shook her head and said, “Come inside, I’ll make a coffee. You’ll have a coffee?”
    “There’s nothing I’d like more.” The spring air had given me a healthy appetite and thirst, and she led me through a rear door into the dark interior of her cottage.
    It was very dark inside and I noticed the rear windows were very small, so typical of these moorland houses. They aided warmth and security in the harshest of weathers. Her kitchen was a long narrow room with modern electric equipment, but she led me through and into her lounge.
    As the kettle boiled, she settled on a Windsor chair and smiled pleasantly, removing the headscarf as she talked. She was a very tall woman, with an almost angular body and she appeared to be shapeless beneath her rough country clothes. She had a long