CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Nicholas Rhea

  When I checked the wording of the relevant regulation, I discovered he was right. Multi-tone horns were not unlawful; even though this was probably an oversight by the parliamentary draughtsmen, the definition of a two-tone horn (which produces a sound alternating at regular intervals between two fixed notes) did not include Claude’s device.

  It meant I could not forbid him to use it, and it meant he was not committing a road traffic offence. His horn was beyond the law.

  Sergeant Blaketon was furious. “Get him for something else then, Rhea; he must be offending with that rubbishy old truck of his.”

  But I had no wish to persecute poor old Claude; if he was not committing an offence against the traffic laws, I must not let personal opinions dictate to me or compel me to enforce non-existent laws. In all conscience, I could not compel him to remove the noisy horn if he was not breaking the law — and even if the residents of Aidensfield grumbled at his persistence in playing “Colonel Bogey” as he motored through the village. But our salvation came with the Aidensfield Ambulation.

  This was an annual event held on the third Sunday of March, the idea being that the people of Aidensfield trekked from the Aidensfield War Memorial to Crampton Ings, a local nature reserve where they had a picnic. Crampton Ings was about seven miles away and the purpose was to trek between the two places without the use of mechanically propelled transport. No motorcycles, cars, vans, steam rollers, traction engines or anything containing an engine must be used — the trip had to be completed on foot, although non-mechanically propelled aids like roller skates, horses and bicycles could be used. The Ambulation was to raise funds for local charities and it was always well supported.

  On the day in question, three of the local lads decided to hire an elephant from a local zoo and they would complete the Aidensfield Ambulation upon the elephant whose name was Septimus.

  As this was quite within the rules no one objected and so Septimus started the stroll with one of his three hirers on board. As elephant and handlers were trekking across Crampton Heights, an open stretch of elevated moorland, it transpired that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was chugging along the same road with a load of scrap metal in his old pickup truck.

  Claude, not the wisest of people on occasions, decided to entertain Septimus and friends with a tune on his multi-tone audible warning instrument. Claude slowed down behind the elephant and reduced his speed to a crawl to give him the full benefit of the horn; as he approached the rear of the huge beast, therefore, the air was rent with the tinny tones of the music of “Colonel Bogey”.

  Septimus was quite startled by the sudden din close to his rear end and lashed out with one of his powerful rear legs. He kicked the front wheel of Claude’s truck just as Claude was beginning to accelerate past, but the kick turned the wheels to their right and jerked the steering wheel out of Claude’s hands. The outcome was that Claude found himself roaring off the road as he grappled with the spinning steering wheel and fought to find the brakes in the midst of his frustration, but he was too late. His loaded truck careered off the road and nose-dived into a ditch, flinging Claude clear before the load of scrap metal crushed the cab. Claude scrambled up to the highway, waving his fist and shouting, “I’ll have you for this, I’ll have the police on you . . .”

  “Shall we get Septimus to drag your truck out, Claude?” grinned one of the lads.

  “You’ll not let that monster anywhere near my truck!” snarled Claude. “That’s dangerous driving, dangerous driving of an elephant by my standards . . .”

  Having realised that Claude was unhurt, the lads continued on their way as Claude struggled back to the village to call on me.

  “I’ve come to report an accident,” he said, and he then outlined the incident.

  “It’s not a reportable accident, Claude,” I smiled at him. “The police have no jurisdiction over it. An elephant is not classified as an animal in British road traffic law.”

  “What do you mean? Not an animal?”

  “So far as our traffic laws are concerned, accidents involving animals apply only to dogs, goats, cattle, horses, asses, mules, pigs and sheep. Not cats, hens, foxes, rabbits, badgers, crocodiles, zebras, elephants or anything else. Just those domestic animals I’ve mentioned.”

  “You mean there’s nothing I can do about it?”

  “No. Claude, nothing, unless you have words with your insurance man. Only he can tell you if you’re insured for collisions with, or kicks from, elephants. And you might find that you were at fault, scaring the beast with ‘Colonel Bogey’!”

  “That’s not illegal, Constable, and you know it.”

  “Neither is colliding with an elephant, Claude. And now you know that!”

  Later, I learned that when the old truck was dragged from the ditch by a breakdown vehicle, it was not too badly damaged. Although the load had shifted and crushed the cab, a new cab could be easily fitted but there was one saving grace — the crash rendered the horn unusable. “Colonel Bogey” disappeared from Aidensfield, thanks to a well-aimed kick from Septimus the elephant.

  Sometime later, the law on audible warning instruments was altered — it became illegal to fit multi-tone horns to motor vehicles but in the UK, it is still not a reportable traffic accident if your vehicle collides with an elephant.

  4. Greengrass at the Fair

  He haunts wakes, fairs, and bear baitings.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564–1616

  The Aidensfield annual Church Fête and Fair was, by local standards, an impressive and most enjoyable occasion. The fête and fair committee was allowed the use of a level field with good vehicular access on the edge of the village, courtesy of a local farmer, and important contacts within the village community meant that a modest selection of professional fairground entertainments was made available. There were dodgem cars, for example, a big dipper, shooting galleries, a bingo stall, an amusement arcade with machines and various other attractions which had been provided by Giovanni Morrelini, the amusement arcade king whose kingdom stretched along the seafront at Strensford. He lived in Aidensfield, however, away from the hustle and bustle of that busy seaside resort. He was always very supportive of village functions, on this occasion allowing the village to make use of part of his travelling fair. He shared any profits with the village charities, and his generosity was always appreciated.

  The fête and fair ran for two days on a weekend in mid-August when, in addition to Morrelini’s equipment and personnel, the local people staged their own entertainments. There was, quite literally, all the fun of the fair from three-legged races to guessing the weight of a sheep or a fruitcake. There were balloon races for the children and, for the adults, estimating the number of miles a Morris 1000 would run on a tankful of petrol or how many dried peas there were in a pint-sized milk bottle. Teas and refreshments were provided by the ladies of Aidensfield, and George from the pub ran a beer tent with hot pies and soup. It was always a happy occasion.

  As the village constable, my part was to ensure that traffic moved freely through Aidensfield during the fair, that no obstruction was caused, no litter was dropped in the village and no trouble was caused in the local inns by boisterous youths anxious to impress giddy young girls. There was an emergency tent on the site to cater for lost property and lost children as well as administering first aid and providing information for those who made enquiries. Occupants of the tent, all volunteers, were expected to know everything from the time of the last bus to Ashfordly to the names of the winners of every competition. The tent was also used by those who wished to complain to the fête secretary for any reason — someone always complained, either about car-parking, flies, mud on their shoes or cold tea. Most complaints were frivolous and unnecessary but some people love to complain — there are lists of petty complainers in most police stations but church fêtes are no exception to the rule that you can’t please all the people all the time.

  The police were expected to use that tent too. It was probably the busiest pla
ce on the site — it was astonishing the things that could go wrong on a day’s outing, especially with children. In addition, I had to patrol the fairground to ensure that the law was not broken.

  I had to make sure that pickpockets were not operating among the crowds and that everyone had a pleasant, crime-free time. Normally, I did not experience problems at the fair: it was always well organised and well attended; most country people are sensible, calm and well behaved. Even rural youngsters and teenagers display a modicum of common sense and courtesy. The occasion was always a thoroughly decent and happy one with most of the participants winning modest prizes in either the tombola, raffle or on-going competitions. Things like the shooting ranges, coconut shies, roll the pennies and similar games of skill always produced a wide range of happy winners.

  At least, that was the situation until the year that Rebus the Great arrived.

  Because I was not a member of the organising committee, I had no part in the choice of participating acts. I had no idea of the part to be played by Rebus the Great, nor did I know who sheltered beneath that odd alias. I became aware of his presence when I saw his tent pitched beside that of Gipsy Rose Lee. The tent of Rebus the Great was a tall, narrow structure, rather like a miniature lighthouse with the top half chopped off. It had a shallow pointed roof with a pennant flying from the top and I was reminded of the kind of tent used by the Knights Templar when knights were bold, fought good fights and rescued fair maidens from fates worse than being eaten by fire-breathing dragons.

  The tent of Rebus the Great was brightly adorned with broad red and white stripes and outside was a large handwritten notice saying, Pit Your Wits Against Rebus the Great. Spend five shillings to win £5. Satisfaction Guaranteed. A smaller notice added, No person may have more than one attempt and at the bottom was a sign pointing towards the dark, windowless interior of the tent. Inside, as the flap was opened, there was a small table bearing a candle in a bottle; there was one chair before it and another behind for the use of Rebus the Great as he sat face to face with his client. He was heavily dressed in brightly coloured robes, golden shoes with turned-up points and a golden face mask, a real mystery man from the East.

  I did not enter that tent; I had no wish to tempt my fortune by spending five shillings upon a solo effort to win a fiver. I suppose it was my inbred police caution which told me that there was probably a bit of innocent (or not-so-innocent) trickery here. It was the sort of jiggery-pokery one could accept in this situation. I’d heard that the sights of some fairground rifles were slightly off true so that few marksmen could hit a target; some said the coconuts were glued to their stands so they could not be dislodged; while things like miniature mobile cranes would never lift anything heavier than a feather, let alone a bar of chocolate or a bag of pennies. The fun of the fair invariably involved a spot of acceptable deception. But not for me.

  Perhaps I should have taken more notice of the tent of Rebus the Great when I noticed the furtive appearance of the snout of a grey dog, followed by a shout of “Alfred, get under that table and sit down!” That should have told me the identity of Rebus the Great, but at that innocent stage, I just thought that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s flea-ridden dog had accompanied Claude into the tent while Claude was attempting to win a small fortune.

  It never occurred to me that Claude was in fact Rebus the Great. Had that knowledge presented itself to me, I should have entered the tent to discover what devious scheme he was plotting. Blissfully unaware of the moneymaking drama going on within the little tent, therefore, I performed my patrols at the fête and was pleased that everything went very smoothly. Then I began to hear people talking; they weren’t exactly grumbling and there was no official complaint, but in the queue for tea, in the queue for the loo and the queue for ice cream, I heard people talking about Rebus the Great. The chatter revealed that not one person had won the expected £5. On the other hand, all had been very very close to winning; by the narrowest of margins, they had almost won and all had believed themselves very capable of completing the minor task set by Rebus the Great but none had succeeded in winning anything. And there was no second chance. No one was allowed a second go.

  As I listened to their chatter, I discovered how he operated.

  It seemed that the client entered the tent and was confronted by Rebus the magician who held a pack of playing cards. The client paid his or her five shillings, whereupon Rebus the Great cut the pack into two sections. He then turned over the card on top of the lower section. It was always the ace of diamonds. That charade was done to prove that the ace of diamonds was indeed within the pack. The pack was then reassembled and cut several times to mix the cards, always with the client being asked to watch carefully in an attempt to follow the position of the ace of diamonds. The client had to pay five shillings which allowed only one cut of the cards. The client then personally cut the deck. If he or she cut it so that the ace of diamonds was on the bottom of the section in their hands, i.e. the cards they had lifted from the pack on the table, they won £5. There was no second chance. At that stage, Rebus the Great turned over the next card, the one sitting on top of the lower half, and it was always the ace of diamonds. That proved it was still in the pack and it meant that the punter had missed winning £5 by the narrowest of margins. Its position meant that out of an entire pack of fifty-two cards, the client had missed the ace of diamonds by the thickness of just one playing card. Word had got around that everyone was just missing the winning card which meant they should be very capable of finding it with a little more practice — but Rebus the Great did not allow anyone a second chance. Even so, a queue developed outside his premises; he was making a small fortune because people were talking about the challenge. All had been so very close to winning . . . and now others were paying for that opportunity, yet none emerged a winner. Rebus didn’t pay anyone.

  The logic was that if other people had been so close to winning, then anyone might win the prize. Rebus the Great was obviously a student of human nature and he was making a very useful sum of money. I began to wonder how much he would donate to village charities. As I listened to several accounts of this piece of trickery, I began to realise how the trick was performed — I had done it myself, during my card-conjuring days. I thought I would pay a visit to Rebus the Great. As I was musing upon the ethics of his performance, however, and trying to decide whether or not I should reveal his trickery to the world, Sergeant Blaketon arrived.

  The end of the fête was rapidly approaching and he had come to see how things had progressed. He spotted me holding a cup of tea and so I organised one for him; my resolve to visit Rebus the Great was therefore abandoned, at least temporarily. By the time I had discussed things with Blaketon, Rebus would probably have left his tent, packed his deck of cards and left with a small fortune.

  “All correct, Sergeant,” I produced the expected response to his arrival.

  “A nicely organised event, Rhea.” He sounded very pleased. We chatted for a while, and then he asked, “So, where’s Greengrass?”

  “I haven’t seen him, Sergeant,” I admitted. “I think he’s not far away, though, I saw his dog here earlier. You’d never get Alfred wandering around this place without his lord and master.”

  “Well, so long as his dog is wearing a collar and Greengrass has got a licence for the animal, there is no reason why he should not bring that hound here. Now, Rhea, I think I will show the great British public of Aidensfield that the face of the police service is human,” Blaketon announced, after he had enjoyed several ham sandwiches and cakes and drunk umpteen cups of tea. “I’ll have a potter around, I might just try one or two of the sideshows. And if Greengrass is here, I’ll make sure he’s not causing trouble! You might do likewise!”

  “Very good, Sergeant,” and off he went.

  It would be about quarter of an hour later, as I was undertaking a gentle perambulation around the sideshows, that I noticed Sergeant Blaketon duck into the tent of Rebus the Great.

 
The queue had dwindled and so the bold sergeant, resplendent in his uniform, had taken the opportunity to attempt to win a crisp fiver. But as the sergeant entered the tent, I noticed the nose of Alfred the lurcher peeping out from beneath the canvas to the left of the opening; he was sniffing the atmosphere and, having been cooped up all day in that airless place, was doubtless savouring the fresh moorland air, along with the scents of lady dogs or hotdogs. It was at that stage that I realised the identity of Rebus the Great. And his latest client was none other than Sergeant Oscar Blaketon. This could be interesting.

  Fully realising how Claude Jeremiah was performing his ace of diamonds trick, I decided to hang about outside, just in case I was needed to quell a breach of the peace. I wasn’t sure how knowledgeable Sergeant Blaketon was about trick packs of cards, card sharping or people’s ability to manipulate packs of playing cards, although I was perfectly aware of his skill in interpreting the wiles of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  As I hung around the tent, its door now closed to conceal the client from the outside world, I heard Blaketon’s voice rise above the noise of the fair as he shouted, “It’s you, Greengrass! I might have known . . . cheating and frauding as usual . . . I want my money back!”

  “It was just a bit of fun, Sergeant,” responded the quiet voice of Claude. “I mean, it’s all for charity, good causes . . .”

  “Good causes? Greengrass causes more like! Greengrass! You’re a cheat . . . I want you to repay all that money and give it to the show secretary, in my presence . . .”

  And with that, the door of the tent burst open and out bolted Sergeant Blaketon with a half-nelson grip on the arm of Rebus the Great in his gaudy red silk robes and a golden mask. Blaketon ripped off the mask to reveal the unmistakable features of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Then he saw me.