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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “You could have told somebody where you were, Claude, IGSC were frantic; they had seats reserved for you and thought there’d been an accident.”

  “I never thought we’d be missed, Constable, I mean, it was just a big do in a shopping centre for hundreds of women . . . I had no idea anybody would miss us.”

  I told him about the police search and the worries, and the anguish in poor old Arnold, and then said, “And I’m going to leave your name on our search list for another few hours. That means if any police officer sees that bus on your drive back home, you’ll be stopped and quizzed — so you’d better make sure you are sober before you set off, or get Arnold to come for you . . .”

  The bus did arrive home at the anticipated time. It was driven by Miss Esme Railton, a former wartime WRAC lorry driver, and so none of the families of the WI ladies were ever alarmed by their absence.

  But I think a lot of husbands wondered how on earth their wives could visit a brand-new shopping centre to be given half-price discount, and yet return home with more money than they had set off with.

  Claude was not asked to drive any more buses for Arnold Merry weather, but Esme Railton, a lady who had once courted Arnold in his younger days, did find herself with a new part-time job. She became Arnold’s new driver and I understand Hannah was not very pleased about that!

  7. Greengrass Intoxicated

  Man, being reasonable, must get drunk.

  LORD BYRON, 1788–1824

  The history and purpose of the nation’s liquor-licensing laws makes interesting reading but we can believe erroneously that existing restrictions have always been in force. In fact, they haven’t. The laws governing the sale of intoxicating liquor are comparatively modern, although some early attempts were made to govern excess consumption and drunkenness. For many generations, drunkenness was regarded as the sin of gluttony and to teach their children about its evils, the ancient Lacedaemonians used to get their slaves drunk and show the results to their children “to give them an aversion and a horror of the vice”. The legacy of the sinfulness of being drunk meant that in England drunkenness was punishable by the ecclesiastical courts but by 4 Jac.1 c.5 and 21 Jac.1 c.7 the justices could impose a penalty for anyone found drunk — they were fined five shillings for their first offence. Failure to pay the fine led to six hours in the stocks. A second offence meant a fine of £10 — a huge sum at that time, certainly much more than a year’s wages for a labourer.

  Today, drunkenness, in itself, is not an offence against criminal law although one old statute of James I referred to the “odious crime of drunkenness”. In Britain, anyone can become drunk at home without breaking the criminal law; indeed, there are no age restrictions on children drinking at home (the under-18 rule refers to the bars of licensed premises) but drunkenness becomes an offence when certain other factors are involved. These include being in charge of something like a bull, a loaded firearm, a child under seven years of age or a motor vehicle, or being drunk in places like cafés, inns, billiard halls or on-board passenger steamers.

  Ale has long been sold and consumed in this country as part of our diet, this drink for centuries being safer than a polluted water supply and, in times past, our common law imposed no restrictions on the selling of intoxicants. It was The Alehouse Act of 1828 which formed the basis of the modern rules which govern the sale and supply of intoxicants through a system of licenses for inns, alehouses and victualling houses; successive legislation has perpetuated the system, albeit with changes. One important piece of legislation was the Licensing Act of 1872, parts of which were still in force when I joined the police. Sections of it had then been superseded by many other statutes even though some portions remained effective.

  In its original form, this old Act imposed restrictions on the hours of opening of licensed premises and restricted the times of the sale of intoxicants but it also created a range of offences involving drunkenness. Drunk in charge of a carriage on the highway or in any public place was one example, as was being drunk in charge of horses, cattle, pigs, sheep and steam engines. The offences of being drunk and incapable, or drunk and disorderly in a public place were also incorporated within that Act. Other offences in the 1902 Licensing Act included prohibiting the sale of intoxicants to habitual drunkards, and this Act also provided various powers of arrest to police officers.

  Although the 1990s have seen a relaxation of the rules governing the sale and consumption of intoxicants, the sale of alcoholic drinks in Britain continues to be rigorously controlled, both by excise licenses and justices’ licenses. These restrictions arose during the last century because children, some as young as two years of age, were dying of illnesses associated with the consumption of intoxicants, particularly spirits such as gin. In 1908, a two-year-old died of cirrhosis of the liver and there was a popular notice in inns which said, Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for two pence. Straw free. Drinking and prostitution were rife among ten- and twelve-year-old girls early last century but it wasn’t until 1901 that the law forbade the sale of intoxicating liquor to children under fourteen. Even so, children below that age could buy amounts of one pint or less if it was in a sealed and corked container, the theory being they would take it home to mum or dad with the seal unbroken.

  Any police officer can tell wonderful stories of dealing with happy drunks, but troublesome drunks or violent drunks do not provide such interesting or memorable work. Sadly, over-indulgence in intoxicants sometimes turns normal, pleasant young men into raving lunatics who want to fight everyone and who often end their binge in the cold, dark and highly sobering influence of a police cell, or sometimes in a hospital. Others perform stupid acts while under the influence of beer or spirits such as climbing church steeples, stealing flags from town halls, balancing along the parapets of bridges at dangerous heights, driving railway engines without authority, invading hotels and hospitals for a bit of “fun” to cheer up the residents or patients, or attempting to change the decor of a town centre by removing flowers from municipal gardens and replanting them in obscure places like factory gates or waste metal dumps. The ingenuity of some drunks is quite remarkable. Some display more inventiveness when drunk than they do when sober. Maybe alcohol improves or stimulates parts of the brain?

  Years ago, there was a charming old drunk in York. He was utterly harmless and always cheerful, yet on frequent occasions he could be found littering the city centre after serious drinking sessions in his favourite pub. He would find himself arrested for being drunk and incapable in a street or public place, hauled before the magistrates and fined something like ten shillings (50p). He had more than 400 such arrests to his credit as a consequence of which he became such an expert in the arrest procedure at a police station, that all the newly appointed constables would practise on him. Whenever he was discovered in his oft-inebriated state, any newly appointed constable, still wet behind the ears and in need of practical experience, would be sent to arrest him. After being placed in the cells to sober up, our helpful drunkard would then guide the constable through the complexities of the arrest procedure — and a very good tutor he was too. He took each nervous constable through the steps one by one until the task was satisfactorily concluded. Sometimes I wish he could have been rewarded for his tutorship of young constables. Maybe they could have bought him a drink?

  Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was not so helpful. Claude was not a habitual drunkard however, nor did he become violent or abusive after a session in the pub. If he had had far too much to drink, he would simply go to sleep — this could happen anywhere. On various occasions, he was found snoozing in the gents’ toilets, snoring in a corner of the bar, slumbering in a pigsty, napping among George’s new tulips and reposing beside a milk stool in the byre of a nearby farm. A surfeit of alcohol invariably knocked him out — a most satisfactory outcome since instead of becoming belligerent, he would lapse into a deep sleep.

  However, if he had had just a little too much to drink, he was liable to remain awake and do
silly things — one New Year’s Eve he decided to play the bagpipes in the main street of Aidensfield at 2 a.m., which did not endear him to the local population, and on another he decided to hoist a flag on top of the village hall at 3 a.m. but fell off the ladder he had borrowed from a builder’s yard. He landed head first in the village horse trough whereupon he sobered up fairly quickly, particularly as Sergeant Blaketon, on a night patrol, happened to arrive as he was extracting himself from the trough.

  He was almost charged with stealing the ladder but managed to persuade Blaketon that he had borrowed it to look for a leak in the roof. Not really believing Claude’s excuse, Sergeant Blaketon had enjoyed the sight of Claude’s indignity in the trough and, later, the owner of the ladder said he would have given Claude permission to use it had he asked, although such permission might not have been readily given at three o’clock in the morning.

  It was this propensity for silly alcohol-induced behaviour that resulted in Claude’s appearance at Ashfordly Magistrates Court on several occasions. Invariably, he could not be charged with being drunk and disorderly because that implied some kind of ruffian behaviour such as fighting or causing damage, nor could we consider a charge of being drunk and incapable because he was capable of doing things, even if they were extremely stupid.

  One example concerned an adventure with a pogo stick. During his multifarious dealings in junk, Claude had acquired a second-hand pogo stick from a retired circus performer. He had been told that the pogo stick had once been owned by the world-famous clown, The Great Garibaldi, and that he had broken the world record on that very instrument in 1938, amassing a total of 101,101 jumps without placing a foot on the ground. Claude had believed the story, and went around telling everyone that The Great Garibaldi had actually owned this very stick, long before these sticks became so popular in the 1970s.

  Having bought the pogo stick, Claude thought it would be rather useful. Although pogo sticks are known to have existed as early as 1921, they reached their peak of popularity in Britain in the craze of the early 1970s when everyone seemed to be jumping on them and using them as means of transport. A pogo stick comprises a single metal shaft with footrests some six inches off the ground at either side; a powerful spring is concealed within the hollow shaft near the base and to the bottom of the spring is attached a strong rubber ferrule. In its relaxed mode, the spring protrudes and is compressed into the shaft when anyone climbs aboard. Users leap on to the footrests and, through skill in keeping their balance, can proceed in large, spring-assisted kangaroo-type hops on this one-legged stilt. A competent pogo-stick jumper can cover a large distance in a short time, or can remain in the same place while jumping up and down — a very useful activity. Indeed, in 1985, the record for pogo-stick jumping was established in America. A man managed 130,077 jumps in March of that year, but he probably performed all these in one place.

  All this happened some years after Claude’s acquisition. Having purchased this interesting object, Claude found he could not sell it — among the people of Aidensfield, there was little demand for pogo sticks, even those with long and famous histories. If he was to sell it, he decided that he must be capable of demonstrating its facilities and so, for a while, he practised in what he hoped was the seclusion of his ranch. People did see him in action, however, and according to some eye-witnesses, he soon became very proficient on his one-legged stilt. He used it to trek across the moors, to visit his hen run and to shepherd his flock of sheep. Then, in a fit of bravado having achieved some success on board his pogo stick, he decided to ride it to the pub. Upon arrival, he parked it in the umbrella stand.

  Having enjoyed a drink or two, and faced with the trip home in the dark, Claude wondered whether he needed a white light to the front of his stick and a red light to the rear if he was to take it on the public highway. As there was no sign of my presence in the street, the slightly inebriated Claude leapt aboard to execute a short journey of several hops before returning to earth with a bump. He found it difficult to control the pogo stick when he was full of beer; the stick fell over and, even when it remained upright, it refused to proceed in a straight line.

  Clearly, he needed more practice and as he worked on his new hobby, his unique skill became the talking point in the pub. Claude responded with a well-rehearsed history of the stick, stressing that it was world-famous as well as being a record-holder. It wasn’t long before someone bet Claude that he could not hop a specified distance along Aidensfield’s main street aboard his new toy.

  One warm evening in late summer, the regulars in the bar began to ply him with free beer as the challenge grew stronger. By half past nine, the challenge had been accepted by a well-oiled Claude. It was quite simple — on board his rubber-ferruled pogo stick, he had to hop along the street from outside the pub to a point opposite the post office. It wasn’t very far — perhaps a hundred yards at the most — but for Claude to win the bet, he had to cover the entire distance without putting either foot on the ground. Having spent hours practising at home, he felt completely confident that he would win the bet — if he did win, £5 would come his way from wagers collected by George Ward, the landlord; if he lost, he had to buy drinks all round.

  At the appointed time, the crowd of about two dozen regulars trooped out of the pub and gathered around as Claude had a couple of extra drinks before setting off. The light had almost faded and darkness was beginning to envelope Aidensfield, so the assembly around the pogo stick passed unnoticed by most of the villagers. On the street outside the pub and surrounded by his fans, Claude was in need of great encouragement if he was to attempt this feat; after all, successful completion would be an achievement never before accomplished in the history of the world.

  “Ready, Claude?” asked George, when Claude had sunk a third pint of courage to the resounding cheers of the assembled witnesses.

  “As ready as I ever shall be,” muttered Claude, his words slightly slurred by this stage.

  “Right, when I shout ‘go’, get aboard that stick of yours and set off. You’ve got to reach the post office without putting a foot down. God knows how you’re going to steer that thing so watch out for cars and buses; remember you haven’t any lights and it hasn’t any brakes either, but I suppose you know how to control it.”

  “There’s only me knows how to control it, I’m the expert and I don’t need a steering wheel,” muttered Claude. “Have you got that five quid set aside for me?”

  “I have, so your money’s guaranteed. All you have to do is get to the post office without stopping and without putting a foot down. Ready?”

  “Aye,” murmured Claude, without much enthusiasm.

  It was about this time that Sergeant Blaketon entered the village in his official police motor car with me in the passenger seat. We were executing an evening tour of all the licensed premises on my beat, a chore that Sergeant Blaketon liked to perform with me about twice a year. This was our final call. We had our sidelights burning as we cruised slowly along the street, Blaketon alert as always for bikes and cars travelling without their obligatory lights.

  “It’s been a very quiet evening, Rhea,” he said with some pride. “I must say that your motorists all obey the lighting regulations and you keep all your licensed premises in good order. All very well conducted, if I may say so.”

  I was tempted to remind him that they were not “my” motorists nor “my” licensed premises, but my words would have made little or no impact because he held me responsible for whatever happened on Aidensfield beat. I told him that I rarely had problems with the local motorists and that I was fortunate in the landlords who ran the pubs — they all kept good houses. As we drove through Aidensfield, I became aware of a crowd outside the pub. Men were milling around the doorway and, bathed as they were in the light from the interior, it was difficult to see clearly in the exterior darkness but they were loudly cheering something or someone in their midst. They were making quite a lot of noise, but I had no idea what was happening. Blaketon no
ticed them too.

  “What’s going on outside the pub, Rhea?” he asked. “Sounds a bit like a riot to me.”

  “Mebbe they’re betting on snails racing across the road,” I suggested.

  “Betting is not allowed on licensed premises, Rhea, so I think we should investigate,” was his reaction to my attempted joke and then the familiar features of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass appeared above the heads of the others, his crown of thin white hair highlighted in the glow from the premises. I groaned inwardly. What in the name of Beelzebub was Claude doing now?

  “Is that Greengrass on a soap box, Rhea?” Blaketon asked as the car drew closer. “Is he about to make a speech? This I must hear!”

  And as we drove nearer, it was eminently clear that the cheering crowd was oblivious to our presence.

  Then, as we were preparing to find a parking place in front of the pub, a manoeuvre which meant crossing to the other side of the road, the circle of men suddenly broke ranks and some of them stepped aside as Claude Jeremiah Greengrass burst out of their midst on board his pogo stick. He was concentrating so hard upon the task which faced him, with his eyes looking down at his feet, that he did not see our car as we were in the tricky process of turning across the road. He had no idea that we were moving towards him. With three huge spring-loaded bounds in the space of a split second, he was directly in front of the police car and Sergeant Blaketon did his best to brake, but a collision was inevitable. With a sickening thud, we collided with Claude’s stick as he flew forwards and landed on the bonnet with his face pressed against the windscreen. He found himself gazing directly into Sergeant Blaketon’s angry glare. We stopped with a squeal of brakes.

  “Greengrass, get your filthy self off my bonnet!” shouted the sergeant, bringing the car to a halt and climbing out. “I have just polished that bodywork!”