THERE are always lots of secrets lurking in the shadows of Beggarsdale. It is the nature of the place, as if the long shadows cast over the dale until the sun climbs over Tup Fell encourages hidden emotions and intrigues.

For one secret to be revealed in any given week is memorable. For two to become public at the same time marks a major milestone. For the two be linked is positively epoch-making.

Last week, I reported that an inspector from one of the bird protection charities had been staying at the Beggars' Arms surreptitiously sniffing around for evidence about the Murder on the Old Bridge Pond.

This was no homicide but the shooting of a bird (avianicide - is that a word?). In particular, it was a pretty but rather unpleasant type of duck by the name of goosander.

Goosanders are not natives of this land. They are recent immigrants from Scandinavia and, like the Vikings before them, are not at all averse to a bit of pillage - of our rare fish stocks.

They are, in short, major predators of young trout and the fly fishing season is just getting underway on the River Beggar and the becks that feed it. The victim was a female goosander, done to death by shotgun blast, an event which brought our inspector rushing the Dale, because this was a legal immigrant - a protected species.

He did not remain under cover for long, for Owd Tom soon smoked him out (almost literally, given that foul pipe of his). And, we all suspected, Tom was the prime suspect: he has fished that Pool with a cunning fly for at least 60 years and he had told the snooper in no uncertain terms: "Ah'm all in favour a'protectin' birds 'ut do no damage - but oo's ahrt there protecting arh yun trout?"

Fortunately there is no way that forensic scientists can prove that, unlike rifle bullets, certain pellets were fired by a certain shotgun and as Owd Tom was never going to confess, our snooper went away empty handed.

Then, last Friday, a rare event happened: Ben the Bucket, one-time quarry shot firer who hasn't worked since he was made redundant almost 20 years ago, got drunk. He only had three pints of Ram's Blood (ABV: 5.5%) but, except at Christmas, he has never had more than three gills - couldn't afford it.

Jocular is not what you would call Ben under normal circumstances. But here he was positively merry. Eventually, after being pressed hard for an hour or more, he coughed: "Ah've got a job. A proper job - startin' Monday."

Now Ben has been seen scratching about in the old quarry - where he spent all his working life until it closed - but he has never before let on what he was up to.

Now it came rushing out in a torrent: "Maggots Money-Grubber is 'aving it flooded to start a new trout fishery - and ah'm going to look after the place for him."

We were stunned and happy at the same time. "It were that ruddy duck that swung it," Ben went on. "Maggots weren't goin' to spend a fortune stockin' trout to 'ave 'em eaten by ducks. He said I could 'ave t'job if ah sorted t'problem. So ah did ..."

So, two secrets revealed. At last we know the future of the old quarry - which one time we feared might be used as a dump for urban waste - and also the identity of the Old Bridge Pool killer.

But one quandary remains: who reported the duck's death to the authorities? Do we have another unpleasant avian in our midst? A stool pigeon?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.