Because most of the sale traffic, by this stage travelling in a continuous procession, was heading towards Elsinby on the left of that rural road, Claude decided to walk Lazarus in the same direction, but on the right of the highway. In these particular circumstances, it was a logical thing to do even though the Highway Code recommended riding horses on the left. For one thing, Claude was then facing any oncoming traffic and for another, the busy traffic could flow smoothly along that narrow road.
Sergeant Blaketon was heading in the opposite direction in his shining official police car. Narrow though the road was, there was adequate room for the sergeant’s small vehicle — until he was confronted by Greengrass leading a horse which was carrying a large trunk. Knowing how Claude’s mind functioned, I could guess his behaviour — he would force Blaketon to a halt and then refuse to budge, thus blocking the sergeant’s route. Indeed, this is what happened.
“Greengrass, get that old nag out of my way! I want to get past!” the sergeant had shouted from his driver’s window.
“Lazarus has as much right on the highway as you, Sergeant!” Claude had chuckled. “You are causing the obstruction, not him! You back up, there’s a gateway half a mile up the road!”
As this banter was in progress, cars, vans and cattle trucks leaving Skeugh Heights were chugging past in a continuous procession, oblivious of the drama being played nearby. Blaketon was getting angrier by this stage and bellowed, “Now look, I am not reversing halfway back to Elsinby just for an old horse and an old rogue. You back away, you can turn that animal around and get into a field or somewhere till I get past.”
“Why should I?” was Claude’s response. “I was here first!”
The argument soon developed into a loud and vociferous slanging match with neither protagonist giving way, until Sergeant Blaketon had had enough. He slammed his fist on to the car horn and blasted it as loudly as he could. The effect was dramatic. Lazarus reared in terror, standing on his hind legs and whinnying loudly as the noise alarmed him but in standing on his rear legs, the old trunk slid from its moorings on his back and crashed on to the road surface. It was clearly in a fragile condition because it burst open to spill a selection of old clothes on to the road — and the terrified horse, moving around in its fright, trod on some of the clothes. There was a tremendous explosion — and Lazarus collapsed to the ground, narrowly missing two cars but effectively blocking the road.
“What in the name of . . .” Blaketon climbed out to survey the damage. All traffic had to halt while Claude, his eyes wide with surprise, surveyed the wreckage of his trunk. Gingerly, he stooped down and recovered a shotgun which had been hidden among the clothing — it was a beauty . . . but it had been loaded and Lazarus’s actions had released both barrels.
Happily, the shot had whizzed harmlessly through the hedge.
“Greengrass! Has your horse been shot?”
“No, Sergeant, he always pretends to be dead when he’s upset or frightened.”
“Well, he can’t lie there all day holding up the traffic. He’s not the only one who’s upset and frightened! That gun, Greengrass! It was loaded — and I suspect you are drunk. You are drunk in charge of a loaded firearm and you are drunk in charge of a horse . . . I’ll have you for this, Greengrass.”
“I knew the gun was there, that’s why I bought the trunk, I don’t want those old clothes, but I had no idea the thing was loaded . . . anyway, look at my horse, Sergeant, he’s dead!”
It was while this kerfuffle was under way that I was called to the scene and arrived to find what appeared to be a dead horse in the middle of a traffic jam, with Sergeant Blaketon and Greengrass enjoying a real ding-dong among it all. After being informed of the events which had led to this confrontation, I managed to calm them down but my first priority was to move Lazarus so that traffic could flow again.
“Elijah knows how to revive him,” I said to Claude. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“Aye, but it doesn’t work, Mr Rhea. I’ve blown up his nose and shouted into his ears, but he hasn’t moved. And I haven’t any water to chuck over him, not here.”
“He’s clearly very upset!” grunted Blaketon. “I’m not surprised, anybody who has nearly been shot would be upset.”
“We’ll have to get Elijah to revive him,” I said.
I persuaded Sergeant Blaketon to call Ashfordly Police Station on his car radio with a request that Alf Ventress, the duty constable, ring Skeugh Heights to ask Elijah to come quickly. He was there within minutes, looking down at his old horse. In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered to see what the problem was.
“Lazarus you bloody nitwit!” Elijah shouted, kneeling close to the horse’s head. “You can’t play dead in the middle of a road like this . . . come on, you daft old bugger, don’t take the huff, I’ll see you again soon.” And he shouted into the ears of the inert horse.
But there was no reaction from Lazarus.
“You’ve really upset him!” snapped Claude at Blaketon. “I’ve never known a man upset a horse as much as you have.”
“Greengrass, you are drunk and you are liable to be arrested if you don’t shut up. Besides, it was your shotgun, your loaded shotgun, that frightened him, not me.”
“It was you blasting that horn that upset him, not me. Anyroad, I didn’t know it was loaded. Who’d be daft enough to store a loaded gun among clothes?”
I left them to their arguing as I stooped beside the still horse. Elijah was still attempting to revive him, hoping to perform his noted “back to life” routine. But it wasn’t working this time.
“I think he really is dead, Mr Rhea,” he said at length, looking into my face with misty eyes.
“The shots didn’t hit him, did they?” I could see no sign of injury on the horse.
“Nay, it’s just that he got his time over,” said Elijah. “Mebbe he couldn’t live without me, eh?”
“You could be right. I’d better get a vet,” I said. I asked among the motorists if there was a veterinary surgeon among them, and there was one in the traffic queue, right at the back and well beyond the range of this incident. Someone ran to fetch him. A smiling man in his fifties, he came forward at my request and examined Lazarus.
“I’ve known him for years, this old horse. I never imagined you’d sell him, Elijah.” He stroked the still face and caressed his ears. “Playing dead has been his party trick for as long as I can remember, but he’s not playing now, Elijah. He’s gone, his heart has stopped. There’s no sign of life. I shall certify him dead.”
“I paid good money for him,” Claude began.
“Shut up, Claude!” I snapped at him, seeing tears rolling down the cheeks of poor old Elijah. “You bought a saddle, and got the horse for nowt. You’ve still got the saddle.”
“Poor aud lad.” Elijah was standing beside his old friend, repeating those words over and over again as I sent for a tractor and trailer to remove the corpse. Claude had sobered up by this time, and Blaketon had calmed down. By the time we cleared away the mortal remains of dear old Lazarus, traffic was flowing, good humour had returned and Claude had accepted the situation. His purchase of the old trunk had been his reason for attending the sale, knowing of the valuable old gun which was hidden inside, and he was content.
Someone offered him a lift home, along with his tack, trunk and gun, and he accepted before Blaketon tackled him again about his inebriation. He allowed Elijah to take the remains of Lazarus away for burial — there was no way Elijah would allow a knacker’s yard to have the remains. He would bury Lazarus in the garden of his new cottage.
“I don’t think we can proceed against Claude,” I said to Sergeant Blaketon when the traffic was moving and the queues had faded away. “He wasn’t really drunk, just a bit tipsy. He was sober enough when it was all over.”
“I wonder if he has a gun licence for that weapon?” mused Blaketon. “I might just pop in tomorrow to ask him . . .”
I groaned, but Sergeant Blaketon drove off with a
smile on his face.
That night, I sat before my fire with a novel, thinking over the day’s events. Had anyone been the loser? I wondered. Claude had got his gun and a saddle he could sell, and he had never wanted to buy Lazarus anyway. And Elijah had got him back — even if the old horse was dead.
Then my telephone rang. It was Elijah.
“You’ll never guess what’s happened, Mr Rhea.” He sounded very happy.
“No, what’s happened, Elijah?” I asked.
“Lazarus. I went out to wash him down and when I put the cold water on his nose, he came round, as large as life. Back from the dead again, Mr Rhea. By, he is a real sod, is aud Lazarus! You can never tell where you are with him!”
“I’m delighted, Elijah, I really am,” I said with feeling. “I know how much you thought of him.”
“But is he my horse now, Mr Rhea, that’s what I want to know? That’s why I’m ringing you this late. I mean, I did put the poor aud chap up for sale and Claude did buy him . . .”
“Claude bought a saddle and some other tack,” I said. “He had no idea he was getting Lazarus as well. But you’d best have words with him tomorrow, eh?”
And he rang off, a happy man.
I went straight round to visit Claude, wanting to prevent any trouble he might cause with poor old Elijah over the ownership of Lazarus.
“But that’s my horse, Mr Rhea, I paid good money for him!” he protested.
“No, Claude, you bid for a saddle and tack, which is what you got. Might I suggest you let Elijah keep the horse — and maybe, because he has nowhere to keep Lazarus when he moves into his cottage, you could rent him grazing on your premises . . . that way, you’d earn a bob or two without the expense of keeping the horse.”
“I’ll have to think about it, Mr Rhea,” he muttered, and from the tone of his voice and the gleam in his eye, I felt he was already dreaming up some devious scheme. I felt he would put pressure on Elijah to return the horse to the official new owner.
“Well, Claude,” I smiled. “While you are thinking about it, I might be thinking about asking if you have a licence for the gun you bought at auction, and I might be considering submitting a report about you being drunk in charge of a loaded firearm, and drunk in charge of a horse . . .”
“Mebbe Elijah could keep Lazarus, eh?” he grunted.
“It’s up to you, Claude,” I said as I walked out of his house.
8. Greengrass in Business
You do not even know your own foolish business.
THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, 1694–1773
One of the prevailing problems for police officers, which seemed particularly prevalent in the 1960s, was the dishonest person who failed to settle his or her household debts, or the crooked businessman or woman who produced inferior services or products and then passed them off as works of quality. Simple examples include those who do not pay their bills at the local shop or garage, and those who perform third-rate work which is later discovered to be defective, usually after payment has been made.
One very common occurrence in the 1960s was work performed by what became known as the Leeds Gangs because it was rogues from Leeds who started the trick. A number of men, usually two or three, would arrive at a house which was occupied by an elderly but well-off person. They would point out that while driving past, they had “happened” to notice that the chimney stack appeared to be faulty or that the roof looked as if it was in a dangerous condition or even that a tile was missing or broken. Most generously, and even in a friendly manner, they would offer to inspect the roof or chimney in question at close quarters, but would then terrify the householder into thinking the entire roof or chimney was in imminent danger of collapse, or that the leaking roof would produce colossal rain damage unless it was repaired immediately.
Having alarmed the householder, the next step was to offer to repair the damage — with a substantial sum of cash in advance “for materials” — and when the task was done, an inflated cash payment was demanded for the work. The work was invariably of poor quality or even totally unnecessary and some of the gangs simply took the cash given to them to “buy the materials”, and never returned.
A similar trick operates in the 1990s with groups of men offering to resurface private household drives with tarmacadam. An inflated cash payment is demanded, and the work is either unnecessary or of abysmally low standard. Because there is no criminal deception, the police are powerless to prevent these abuses. The borderline between such practices and criminal offences has always been very blurred indeed, and the operators manage to stay on the right side of the law — but only just!
The problem is that the victims often approach the police for help in such cases, usually in the belief they have redress through criminal law. The sad truth is that a high proportion of such matters are of no concern to the police because they are civil disputes. At times, it can be very difficult explaining this to an aggrieved person who may feel that the police don’t care and that they are not interested in their problems. The truth is that little or nothing can be done by the police if no crime has been committed. A crime is not the same thing as a civil wrong.
An added problem is that retribution through the civil courts is difficult and sometimes enormously expensive, even if it were possible to produce a case against the perpetrators. After all, who is to judge whether work is poor? The workman would surely insist it was up to standard and if a price was agreed before the work was done, it is very difficult to win redress from any source.
With a man like Claude Jeremiah Greengrass operating on my beat at Aidensfield, it is fair to say that I received many calls from a host of highly dissatisfied customers but there was little one could do — officially — to rectify the matter. Most of his business transactions were unsatisfactory indeed and although I did threaten him with action in the criminal courts if any of his dodgy activities justified my intervention, he continued to behave in a very dubious manner. One example was his holy-water enterprise.
On one of my routine patrols during a bright spring morning, I wanted to ask if he had been offered any cigarettes or bottles of whisky which had been stolen from the Co-op at Strensford. I arrived to find him working in an outbuilding. With a battered old watering can and a funnel, he was filling dozens of empty sauce bottles which stood on a table before him. Alfred, his faithful dog, was lying at his feet but slunk away as I approached.
“Now, Claude,” I said as I walked into the dark shed, “stocking up with water, are we? Do you know something, I don’t? Is there a drought on the way?”
“It’s nowt to do with the law what I sell, Constable!” he said. “It’s a new business I’m setting up. All above board. Legal and that.”
“It’s not gin, is it?” I laughed. “It looks like water to me.”
“It is water,” he chuckled. “Pure, moorland water.”
“And you’re going to sell it?” I felt I was missing something important because I could not imagine sane Yorkshire folk spending their hard-earned brass on bottles of moorland water when bucket-loads could be obtained quite free of charge with a modicum of effort.
“It’s from that well in Harland’s Intake,” he said. “I bought the intake, which means the water that flows there is mine.” Intake was the name given to an area of moorland which had been enclosed many years earlier; a dry-stone wall had been constructed around the moorland in question to form a small paddock. Such intakes were invariably named after the person who first enclosed them. Harland’s Intake lay above Aidensfield on the edge of the moors and Claude used it for grazing some of his sheep.
“So what’s special about this water?” I knew he was waiting for me to ask the question. “Folks will only buy it if there’s something very special about it.”
“There’s a spring in the corner of the intake,” Claude grinned. “Alfred was digging for rabbits there one day and uncovered it. There was this lovely flow of water trickling from underground, fresh and tasty as wine, it is. It bubble
s up in one spot, runs a few yards down my land in a natural drain, then vanishes underground again. Wasted really. Now I happened to be talking to a chap who knows this part of the world like the back of his hand, and he said it was St Aiden’s Well.”
“Really? Can that be verified?”
“Oh, aye,” Claude beamed, with a look of satisfaction on his face. “Just you take a look at that old book over there.”
As he continued to fill the bottles, I located a battered old leather-bound book on a shelf. It was open at a page which described the well. There was even a line drawing of St Aiden’s Well, and a map showing its location. According to local legend, St Aiden had been engaged on missionary work in this area around AD 643 and had established a short-term camp-site on the moor. He had chosen the area now occupied by Claude’s intake because of the never-ending supply of fresh, pure water from a moorland spring. Thus the spring had become known as St Aiden’s Well. It had been regarded as a holy well because the water was so pure and health-giving that it was said to effect remarkable cures. Normal water in those times was foul and polluted; it caused terrible disease and plagues. Pure water did not actually cure people, it merely failed to make them ill, and so the people thought it was miraculous.
For many years, St Aiden’s Well had been a shrine with pilgrims trekking from far and wide to sample the goodness from its waters. During the Reformation, the well had been covered up and pilgrims were fined if they came to pray here — the new Protestant faith did not like overtly religious fervour and sometimes confused it with superstition. Now, it seemed, the rabbit-digging Alfred had rediscovered the holy well. And Claude intended to cash in upon his good fortune.
“It’s holy water, you see, Constable, and there’s a big demand for the stuff. This could be the next Lourdes. It could become a place of pilgrimage; folks from all over the world could be coming to Aidensfield to take the waters.”
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 13
