“Rhea, this man is a cheat and a rogue and a vagabond and a card-sharping charlatan . . .”
“You mean you didn’t win a fiver, Sarge?” I grinned.
“Win a fiver, Rhea? Nobody can win a fiver with this pack of cards. It’s a trick pack.”
“I know, Sergeant. I know how it works . . . it’s an old conjuring trick, you see, and . . .”
“You mean you knew what was going on? That you are party to this deception, Rhea? That’s a fine admission, coming from an officer of the law!”
I tried to explain that I had only just come to appreciate what Rebus the Great, alias Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, had been doing, and that it was all being done for charity, but Blaketon was in no mood for listening. He released his hold on Claude and made him turn out his pockets as Alfred and a growing crowd of observers gathered. Claude had pockets full of money and Sergeant Blaketon made him place every penny on the grass before him.
“That’s my own money, Mr Blaketon,” protested Claude. “I mean, that in my back pocket is nowt to do with this fair . . .”
“I don’t believe you Greengrass. Now, all this money goes to charity, the lot. That is your punishment for cheating.”
“Aye, well, I mean, I was going to hand it over,” blinked the embarrassed Claude. “I need some to pay my tent rent.”
“You’ll have to find it from somewhere else, Greengrass!” snapped the angry sergeant. “Now, give me that pack of cards.”
“A magician never shows how he does his tricks, Sergeant. It’s sacred, Magic Circle, you know, we’ve rules about not revealing trade secrets.”
“Cards, Greengrass!” And he held out his hand for Claude’s magic pack. Reluctantly, he handed them to Sergeant Blaketon who tossed them across to me.
“Rhea,” he said, “you know how the trick works, please explain to these good people.”
I eased the pack of cards from their packet and showed them to the crowd, explaining that they had all the appearances of a genuine pack of playing cards. But they were stacked so that every second card was an ace of diamonds. The pack consisted of twenty-six aces of diamonds, all with the same coloured backs on them, and twenty-six mixed cards with other face values. And every ace of diamonds had been cut a fraction shorter in length than the other cards. This meant that if anyone cut the pack in the normal way (and the conjurer ensured they did cut it the normal way by holding the cards towards them while gripping the sides) they would always break the pack at one of the normal cards. The bottom card of the top half of the cut pack would always be an ordinary card, not the ace of diamonds. But the one below it would be an ace of diamonds. That was the reason why no one had a second opportunity to pick a card — anyone with half a brain would quickly realise that the pack was fixed. And, preying on the desire of the punters to win something worthwhile, Claude knew they would talk about just missing the prize — and so persuade others to have a go. Using the cards as a magician would, I explained the trick to them and then, quite suddenly, everyone began to boo Claude.
He began to slink away, but I called, “Claude, your cards. You might need them again.”
“You keep ’em,” he muttered. “You do it next time . . .”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I called to the crowd, “Claude has donated all his takings to charity . . . a very noble effort, I feel.” Suddenly the boos turned to applause and Claude halted to acknowledge the cheers. “You are very charitable today,” I praised the people and then, with the crowd in a good mood once more, they began to disperse. The show was over. Justice had been done.
“You didn’t give me change for my pound, Greengrass,” snarled Blaketon when the crowd were moving away. “I paid a pound for a five-bob gamble, and you said you had no change . . .”
“It’s gone to charity now, Mr Blaketon,” grinned Claude. “I’m sure you can afford fifteen shillings for charity. I’ve donated a lot more I’ll have you know. Now, I have another trick you might like to see . . . cups and balls, it is. All you have to do is work out which cup covers the white ball . . .”
“Greengrass, if I hear one more suggestion from you, I’ll nick you and confiscate your balls!”
* * *
I had similar problems with Greengrass at another gala in Aidensfield. This one was being run for the benefit of the Red Cross and it was in the spacious grounds of Aidensfield Manor, courtesy of Mr and Mrs Barraclough. Although on a much smaller scale than the village fête and fair, many of the villagers had volunteered to provide stalls and entertainments. Among them was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. He said he would run the coconut shy.
The gala, at which the Ashfordly Brass Band was playing, was on a Saturday in September and the weather was gorgeous. Bright, warm and sunny, it was the perfect day for such an event and the villagers responded wholeheartedly by bringing their friends and families and encouraging visits from neighbouring communities. There were watery games like ducking for apples and throwing wet sponges at a volunteer whose head was fastened in a frame, sports events for children and parents, stalls selling everything from local handicrafts to cakes by way of second-hand crockery to knitwear. Tests of skill were included. There was an air rifle stall where the contestants had to hit moving ducks and knock them down, and another where competitors had to throw darts at a dartboard, with those scoring more than a hundred with three shots winning a box of chocolates. There were the inevitable cakes and teas, a stall staffed by Red Cross volunteers and a host of other interesting sights. And there was the coconut shy.
It was my day off on this occasion and I was attending the gala with Mary and the family; the children loved every moment and ran about excitedly, wanting to try everything, eat everything and win everything. We gave them some cash to spend and allowed them to select their own events. As they did this, I noticed Claude at his stall and decided to try and win a coconut. The cost was sixpence for three attempts.
Having paid my sixpence, I would receive three hard wooden balls and the idea was to knock the coconuts off their stands at the far end of the tent. There was a counter behind which Claude stood and this provided a suitable barrier against those who might get too close. You stood at the counter and threw from the public side of it; the players could keep every coconut they dislodged.
“Now then, Mr Rhea,” blinked Claude when he noticed my approach. “You’ve come to try your hand, have you?”
“I thought I would test my old skills,” I laughed. “I’m a fairish bowler at cricket and can usually hit the stumps with a throw-in.”
“Aye, well, it’s different in these conditions, you know.” He was blinking furiously as he handed me the three balls. “No wind to help your throw, not much daylight at yon end of the tent, and a small target . . . I mean to say them coconuts aren’t very big, not like balloons.”
I looked at the array of coconuts. They were at the distant end of Claude’s long tent, in semi-darkness, and all were perched in a shallow bowl on top of a pole, there was a row of twelve coconuts — Claude was offering a discount for twelve balls. One and sixpence for twelve balls was the offer, the prize being the opportunity to win a dozen coconuts if every throw scored. I settled for three balls and handed over my sixpence.
“They’re funny looking coconuts, Claude,” I peered into the gloom. “I haven’t seen coconuts shaped like that, Claude. Genuine, are they?”
He blinked even more furiously. “Aye, they are. Specials, all the way from the tropics, Malabar and the West Indies no less. Specially grown coconuts from coconut-shy-producing trees, specially imported for throwing balls at. Or missing with balls as the case may be. Mind you, they taste good. Full of creamy milk, they are, better than a tin of condensed milk from contented cows, I’d say. And the flesh . . . well, you’ll never taste anything better, Mr Rhea. Mark my words. Them who can knock one of my coconuts off are in for a treat.”
“Are they ripe?” I asked because they had a distinct greenish colour with yellowish markings showing through, although there wer
e tufts of ginger hair protruding from the tops. It was the sort of hair one would expect on a coconut.
“Ripe? Of course they’re ripe. You’re doubting me already, Constable! Them coconuts is as ripe as they ever will be,” blinked Claude. “Now look, this is a bit of fun. You’re not on duty now, you’ve got your balls, if you’ll pardon the expression, so see if you can knock a coconut off; if you can, it’s yours.”
Concentrating upon my throw, I missed with the first two balls, but the third struck one of the coconuts firmly in the centre of its widest part. I felt there was power behind my throw, certainly enough to knock the coconut from its perch, but the coconut did not budge. On top of that, the impact made a peculiar sound — I had always thought coconut shells were hard and that they would produce a wooden sort of noise when struck with a wooden ball. But this didn’t; it was a duller sound. Maybe unripe coconuts had softer shells? It wasn’t all that important, but I was surprised at this outcome — a firm hit of that kind would normally have dislodged the coconut.
“Are your coconuts glued to their bases, Claude?” I asked.
“Of course not! I’ll not have you casting doubts on my integrity, Constable,” he blinked. “It’s just that you didn’t hit it right. Hit it right and it’ll fall off, then it’s yours. No sour grapes, Constable, be a sportsman, accept defeat graciously. The umpire’s decision is final, and I’m the umpire.”
Not having any desire to appear unsporting, ungracious or even slightly suspicious about Claude’s enterprise, especially as a small queue had formed behind me, I decided against having any further shies at the array of Greengrass coconuts and turned away. It would be about half an hour later, as I was trying to locate Mary and the children, when I encountered Joe Steel. Joe, a silver-haired man in his early sixties, owned the village shop in Aidensfield which also served as the post office, and he was acting as a kind of unofficial master of ceremonies for the gala. He was making sure everything was properly arranged; I saw him ask a motorist to move his car because it was obstructing the entrance and on another occasion, he helped a lady in a wheelchair to negotiate the doorway to one of the displays.
“Hello, Nick,” he smiled. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes thanks, Joe. I’ve got Mary and the children here somewhere, they’re having a fine time.”
“Tell them not to have a go at Claude’s coconuts,” he grinned. “They’d be wasting their money.”
I didn’t tell him I had wasted a small sum on Claude’s stall, but asked, “Why’s that, Joe?”
“Those coconuts of his, well, they’re not coconuts. They’re turnips!”
“You’re joking!” I cried. “Of all the nerve! Turnips? That man gets worse!”
“Well, to give him his due, he did try to buy some coconuts off me, but I only had one. Claude bought that, and then asked for a sack of turnips. He’d got some supports for his coconuts, and found that if he shaved a bit off the bottom of a turnip, it would fit snugly into the space. They’re fitted into those stands, Nick, made to measure in fact. Mind, you’ll never knock them out, they’re too firmly wedged in.
“I thought they didn’t look very realistic,” I had to admit. “But they do have bits of coconut fibre on them . . .”
“From one of Claude’s old coconut mats, he’s stuck the hairs on to make ’em look reasonably like coconuts . . . in the dark, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“So nobody is likely to knock one off its perch, eh?”
“And if anybody does, Claude does have one coconut to give away, he’s keeping that out of sight, just in case! And he is giving the takings to the Red Cross, Nick, I have checked that with him, just to be sure about his motives!”
“It would be nice to play a joke on him, Joe,” I smiled.
“It would have to be right at the end of the gala, Nick, he’s making good money for the Red Cross just now.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” I mused as I heard Mary’s voice behind me. I turned away to greet the children who had arms full of candy floss, soft toys and colouring books they had either won or purchased.
“They want to go into the playground now,” smiled Mary. “There’s a chute and some high swings.”
So off we went.
It was in the playground that an idea came to me. Helping his young daughter to use a children’s swing was Danny Shipley; Danny was a van driver who worked for a department store in Ashfordly. He lived in Aidensfield and was a regular in George’s pub where his skill with darts was almost legendary. When he was on form, he was unbeatable, he was a true maestro of the dartboard. He could beat any opponent in any of the many variations of darts games and it was said he had once thrown six arrows into the bull, one after the other, so that all six were grouped in that small space. I knew that he always carried a set of arrows, as he called his darts, and decided to ask him a favour.
“What I want you to do, Danny,” I said, “is to have a go at Claude’s coconut shy, but use your arrows instead of the wooden balls.”
“I’d damage the tips, Nick,” he said. “They’d bounce off coconut shells and I’d ruin them.”
“He’s using turnips instead of coconuts,” I told Danny. “I want him exposed — I thought if you threw your darts at them, they’d stick into the flesh and the game would be up!”
“I can borrow some arrows from the dartboard stall,” he grinned. “They’ll be good enough for this job. I thought those coconuts didn’t look too realistic, but you don’t like to make a fuss, do you?”
“That’s what Claude is relying on,” I smiled. “Folks not making a fuss. He’s had his fun with us, now we can have a bit of fun at his expense.”
Danny spread news of his forthcoming throws on the coconut shy among his pals and as the gala was drawing to a close, they all arrived at Claude’s stall. I was there too, to watch the fun. One or two of Danny’s mates paid their sixpence for three balls and flung them at the coconuts with all the power they could muster. Several struck home with solid thwacks, but none of the coconuts was dislodged. Now, of course, we all knew why.
“Come on you lot!” Claude shouted. “It’s closing time, everybody else is packing up . . . I can’t hang around here all day!”
“There’s just me, Claude,” said Danny stepping forward. “I’m the last.”
He paid one and sixpence for the opportunity to throw at all twelve of the solidly situated “coconuts” as Claude was saying, “Nobody’s knocked one off yet, Danny . . .”
“I thought I’d use my own missiles, Claude,” beamed Danny. “There’s nothing in the rules about having to use those wooden balls, is there?”
“Well, I don’t know about that, Danny,” blinked Claude. “I mean, well, everybody else has used the balls . . .”
“It’ll be harder for me, Claude,” and Danny pulled a set of arrows from his rear pocket. “The points of my arrows are much smaller than those balls.”
“Darts? You can’t use darts on a coconut shy! Especially not you . . . !”
“They’re not coconuts, Claude,” laughed Danny. “They’re turnips, and there’s nowt about not using arrows on a turnip shy,” and with that he threw the first three darts towards their targets. Each struck home. Each sank deeply into the turnip as Danny pulled more darts from his pocket and, with lightning movements, buried them all in the turnips. Very soon every turnip was fletched with a clutch of arrows all buried up to the butt in the flesh of the vegetable. Chunks of turnip had flown far and wide during the onslaught and by the time Danny had completed his work, each of the target turnips was a sorry sight.
Claude stood by in silence, blinking his embarrassment at the laughing crowd and saying, “Well, they looked like coconuts and they did have a bit of coconut matting on top and I have one to give away . . . you can have it, Danny, I reckon you’ve won.”
“Claude, you’re an old cheat!” smiled Danny. “Now, how much have you made for the Red Cross, eh?”
“Aye, well, I dunno, I haven’t
counted up yet, I mean, there’s my expenses, you know.”
“Twelve turnips and a coconut,” laughed Danny, holding out his hands. “Come on, Claude, empty your pockets.”
And for the second time that year, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass had to empty all his pockets for charity. From the heap of cash which appeared on the counter of his stall, it seemed he had done well for the Red Cross.
“I wonder if anybody wants to buy some turnips?” he asked me when everyone had gone.
“Not after the treatment they’ve had, Claude, they look like mashed turnips now. But I’ll buy the coconut.”
“You will, Mr Rhea?” his face brightened at the news.
“My kids will love it. I can always tell them I won it fair and square on your coconut shy!” I teased him. “And I’ll give the money for it to the gala secretary,” I added as Claude’s smile faded.
* * *
Another of Claude’s schemes was doomed to failure and it owed just a little to the fairgrounds of the area. Claude had seen Gypsy Rose Lee forecasting people’s lives and realised that gullible folks were easily persuaded to part with their hard-earned cash if they believed they were learning something to their advantage. The trick was to make them believe that what they were hearing was true which, in his case, meant concealing his real identity. I must admit I had no idea of his scheme until things began to grow repeatedly wrong. My knowledge of Claude’s grand plan, albeit not realising at the time that Claude was the perpetrator, came to light when I paid a visit to Jack Earnshaw of High Toft Farm which was a modest spread on the moors above Aidensfield. It was a blustery March day and the heights bore a covering of snow, an overnight fall which had surprised even the professional weather forecasters. Added to this, there was an extremely chill wind from the north.
“I’d just put my lambs out,” grumbled Jack, as we sat at his kitchen table enjoying a mug of hot tea and a scone. “I relied on that chap who writes for the paper — he said this week would be mild and dry with sunshine and clear skies so I thought I’d turn my flock out. Now I’ve had to fetch ’em all back in again, and I nearly lost some newborns.”
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 5
