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

by Nicholas Rhea

  It was the following morning that Alec Mullen rang me.

  “PC Rhea, Aidensfield,” I answered in the usual way.

  “I have a complaint to make, Constable.” He sounded very angry. “It’s a case of fraud.”

  “Who are you complaining about?” I asked. “And what is the nature of your complaint?” I wondered why Mullen had not contacted Ashfordly Police Station.

  “Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.” He spoke the words with venom. “He’s fiddled me, he’s made me the laughing stock of my profession.”

  “What’s he done now?” I asked.

  “He sold me a box of what he said were truffles,” Mr Mullen spoke slowly. “I mean, Constable, I’d never seen a truffle in my life, would you believe, but I took Claude at his word.”

  “So they’re not truffles?”

  “No they are not!”

  “So what are they?”

  “Pignuts,” he spat out the word. “Pignuts, Constable, that grow wild in their millions around here.”

  “But his pig found them,” I said.

  “Pigs do,” he cried. “And so do dogs. Pigs and dogs will dig for pignuts, Mr Rhea, so just you get yourself out to those woods with Greengrass and ask him to show you that truffle patch. I’ll bet it’s covered with a flower that looks like wild parsley or cow parsley, but underneath it there are pignuts. You dig under the roots with a knife and gently take them out . . . kids love them, Mr Rhea. In the past, country folk would dig them up and eat them, but they’re not truffles. I’ve been conned, Constable, and I want action.”

  “I’ll have words with him,” I promised.

  When I arrived at the Greengrass ranch, Claude was about to embark on another truffle-hunting mission. Alfred was at his side, tail wagging in anticipation, having been given a sniff of the basket that Claude was carrying. I decided not to reveal Mullen’s claims just yet.

  “How about showing me your truffle patch, Claude?”

  He was clearly puzzled about my unexpected arrival. “Nay, Mr Rhea, it’s confidential, a businessman can’t reveal his secrets.”

  “Suppose they are not truffles?” I put to him. “Suppose you are selling them under false pretences?”

  “If that’s what you think, then mebbe you had better come and see for yourself, Constable!” he said.

  At that stage, I could see that he believed they were genuine truffles. We trudged across his land towards the wood, and then he let Alfred off the lead. Alfred galloped ahead and was soon digging furiously beneath a tree.

  “There you are, Constable,” Claude beamed. “Another truffle . . . by, he’s the best truffle hound for miles. Sit, Alfred, sit!”

  Alfred, with evident reluctance, obeyed his master and sat as Claude produced a long knife and gently unearthed the root which had attracted Alfred, and he held it up for my inspection.

  “There you are, Constable, a genuine truffle fresh from the ground.”

  “It’s a pignut, Claude,” I said gently. “That plant is a relation of the wild carrot, it produces a tasty root which you’ve just dug up. Pigs and dogs will dig for them . . .”

  “But I thought this was a truffle . . .” There was genuine concern on his face now.

  “Mr Mullen is not very happy about it,” I interrupted him. “In fact, he’s furious, he wants me to prosecute you for false pretences.”

  “False pretences? But he bought ’em off me, he thought they were truffles.”

  I took a specimen with me and decided the best method of approaching the problem, before launching into an official police prosecution, was to take the object to Mr Mullen for his inspection. I drove into Ashfordly and found him at his shop.

  “Yes, that’s what he’s been selling me,” he acknowledged. “My customers sent them all back to me this morning.”

  “But you thought they were truffles?” I put to him. “And you sold them to your customers as truffles. So you are as guilty as Claude.”

  “He told me they were truffles, Constable.”

  “He honestly thought they were, Mr Mullen, just as you did. I’m not protecting him, I’m just trying to imagine what a court of law might think if we went ahead. The publicity might destroy your reputation — it might suggest that Mullens don’t know a pignut from a truffle . . .”

  “I’d never seen a truffle, or a pignut for that matter, but I was angry,” he said. “And embarrassed . . . my customers were most indignant, some were infuriated about it all.”

  “They’ll get over it, I’m sure,” I said. “Better if just your customers know about this, rather than the entire town and surrounding villages reading about it in the papers.”

  Alec Mullen decided not to proceed against Claude provided the old rogue compensated him for his outlay. I returned to Aidensfield and drove straight to Claude’s house where I found him having his coffee break. He looked rather gloomy but offered me one and I accepted, sitting down at his table. It was laden with pignuts and other odds and ends. “Mullens are not going to prosecute, Claude.”

  His face showed his relief. “It was an honest mistake, but what am I going to do with all those pignuts?” He indicated his recently harvested pile on the table.

  “Give them to the pigs?” I smiled. I picked up a handful to see if they had any scent but there, nestling among them, was a strange, knobbly object with a dark brown skin which was almost black, and it was about the size of a golf ball. This was not a pignut . . .

  “Claude!” I said. “You’ve found a truffle.”

  He smiled and said he would give it to Alex Mullen, as a gift.

  9. Greengrass to the Dogs

  His faithful dog shall bear him company.

  ALEXANDER POPE, 1688–1744

  There can be no doubt that Alfred the lurcher was devoted to Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and it is equally true that Claude was devoted to his dog. The pair went almost everywhere together and each appeared to have an instinctive understanding of the moods and intentions of the other. This might have resulted from the fact that a good poacher needs a good dog, one which is cunning and to some degree independent while at the same time being obedient and loyal to its master. A poacher also needs a dog which understands the ways of both nature and man, especially if that aspect of nature is a pheasant, and the man in question is the lawful gamekeeper whose duty is to care for that pheasant,

  Alfred was such a dog. Flea-ridden perhaps, not the most handsome of creatures either but steadfast towards his lord and master; he was Claude’s best friend and, like his master, he had an instinctive distrust of landowners, gamekeepers, police officers and people who owned shooting rights.

  With dozens of laws, rules and regulations governing the keeping of dogs, it was inevitable that the paths of Alfred and I would cross from time to time. Sometimes he was with his master, sometimes he was alone, but whenever he was alone, I knew that Claude was not far away. Like lots of local dogs, Alfred had his calling places.

  These were friendly households who would allow him to sit by their fireside or have a scrap to eat. Claude would often be in the same house at the same time, having a cup of tea or a chat — if the household welcomed Claude, it also welcomed Alfred and just as Claude liked to visit several widows in Aidensfield, so Alfred would lustily pursue the lady dogs of the village, particularly when they were in heat. This was not one of his most endearing habits, however, and often resulted in him receiving a wallop with a broom handle or a kick in a rather painful place.

  Whatever Claude’s many faults, he never knowingly allowed Alfred to wander out of control, and he knew the rules about dogs running loose at lambing time. In many ways, Alfred was a fine example of the way a countryman’s dog should be loved and cared for. Nonetheless, whenever Alfred noticed my uniformed arrival, he would slink away to warn his master of my presence so that sometimes I would decide to check whether he was wearing a collar, whether his licence was up-to-date or whether his behaviour was likely to cause worry to livestock or lead to complaints that he was n
ot kept under control. His only weakness was lady dogs on heat and he would occasionally defy Claude to embark on a journey of joy and romance. If Claude knew there was a bitch on heat anywhere within a five-mile radius, he would keep Alfred on a lead or ensure he was kept in an escape-proof place.

  It was with some surprise, therefore, that one afternoon I received a light-hearted complaint about Alfred’s behaviour. It seemed he had sneaked into the canteen of the village school and had run off with a string of raw sausages. Cook had shouted at him, but the wilful dog had fled to consume his trophy at leisure.

  Later the same afternoon, the butcher rang me to say Alfred had snaffled a pork chop from the counter and then I was told he had entered a house near the pub to abscond with a leg of chicken — all within the space of a couple of hours.

  Thinking this was highly unlike Alfred’s general behaviour, the combined complaints nonetheless meant I had to pay a visit to Claude’s establishment to get him to halt his dog’s dishonest antics. Claude was feeding his hens as I drove down the rough, muddy track and I noticed Alfred was nearby, lying asleep in a patch of afternoon sunlight.

  “I’ve been having complaints about your dog!” I said, after parking the van.

  “Look, Constable, when a bitch is on heat, he’s like me — uncontrollable.”

  “Complaints about him stealing, Claude, and shoplifting.”

  “My Alfred is no thief, Constable! He’s like me, well brought up and honest.”

  I outlined the complaints and Claude shook his head. “Nay, lad, it’s not him. He’s been here with me all afternoon; we’ve been fencing and ditching. Never been away from the place, neither me nor him.”

  “A good alibi, eh?” I said. “Look, Claude, Alfred is a most distinctive dog, there’s no other dog like him and I have at least three witnesses to say he was the raider.”

  “I’d say my Alfred was being set up for those crimes, Constable, it’ll be some other dog, disguised to look like him. There might be a Fagin who’s training dogs to go out and nick household goods, eh? Think of that . . .”

  “Claude, this is serious. You know what happens to dogs that are not kept under proper control?”

  “You’d never have Alfred put down when he’s innocent, would you? This is victimisation of the innocent, Constable, and there could be a miscarriage of justice if you’re not careful. Alfred is innocent, mark my words.”

  Knowing I would never persuade Claude to admit that Alfred had strayed that afternoon, I returned to Aidensfield village and informed the complainants of my action, saying Claude would ensure Alfred would behave in the future. But he didn’t. In the days that followed, several householders told me they had chased Alfred out of their kitchens after he’d grabbed a mouthful of food, on one occasion vanishing with half a pound of butter between his teeth. Someone else had seen him chasing hens about a paddock, a farmer had ejected him from a milking parlour whereupon the fleeing dog had knocked over a pail of fresh milk, and a cat owner had heard a kerfuffle upstairs which, it had transpired, was Alfred cornering the cat on top of a wardrobe.

  On each occasion, Claude had an alibi for Alfred. In one case, Claude had been motoring on the road between Ashfordly and Aidensfield at the time Alfred was accused of raping a miniature dachshund — and Alfred had been in the vehicle with Claude, having been to the vet for some treatment. I checked the times of the alleged misconduct with the time Alfred had been injected by the vet and it was impossible that Alfred could have been the culprit. But who would disguise their dog as Alfred?

  The answer came a few days later from Claude himself. In a state of some excitement, he came hammering on my office door one lunchtime and said, “Constable, come to my place right away. I’ve summat to show you.”

  “What is it?” I was wary of anything Claude might wish me to do.

  “The solution to the Aidensfield crime wave!” he grinned, and so I followed his old truck in my minivan. I noticed that Alfred was in the front passenger seat but when we arrived at the ranch, Claude led me to an outbuilding and there, incarcerated behind a stout wooden door, was an exact replica of Alfred.

  “How about that, then?” beamed Claude. “It means my Alfred is innocent, like I said all along.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted your word, Claude, but who is this chap?” The likeness to Alfred was astonishing — even at close quarters the dogs were like twins, even down to the sly look in the eyes and the greyish white curly hair. I noticed the dog was wearing a collar, but it contained no name and address.

  “I reckon it’s Alfred’s twin brother, come to pay us a family visit,” smiled Claude. “I found him in my kitchen, helping himself to Alfred’s dinner.”

  “Alfred wouldn’t be very pleased about that!” I quipped.

  “He never batted an eyelid, Constable, he went over and sniffed at the visitor, then they shared the grub. Blood’s thicker than water, eh?”

  “Blood? You mean these dogs really are related?”

  “I am serious, Constable. This really could be Alfred’s twin brother, returning to his roots. There was two of ’em, you know, when Alfred was born. I reared ’em both; the other was bought by a chap in Strensford.”

  “Who was it? Can you remember? Maybe we could contact him?”

  “I’ve no idea, Mr Rhea. He turned up here one day with a smart car full of kids and bought that pup for cash. A fiver he paid, if my memory serves me right. But you know what I think?”

  “Tell me, Claude.”

  “I think the owner couldn’t cope; lurchers are country dogs, Constable, and need wide open spaces. That chap was a townie. I reckon he’s driven out to these moors and chucked that dog out of his car, abandoned him, left him to fend for himself. Folks do that, you know, when they grow tired of looking after dogs.”

  “I know they do, Claude, and it’s heartless. So are you going to keep this stray?”

  “Well, I may as well hang on to him for a day or two, in case anybody comes looking for him. I mean, I may be wrong about him being a stray. He could have run away, be somebody’s pet and is hungry. There may be an advert in the paper at the weekend, eh?”

  “It’s possible. Right, I’ll make a note in our records in case anyone reports him missing. Now, Claude, I really do appreciate your concern for that dog. You’ll keep him locked up, though? We don’t want folks complaining again, especially if they think it’s Alfred. I’ll tell those people who’ve complained to me that Alfred is innocent,” I assured him. “So, it seems your family’s expanding.”

  “If I feed him well enough, he won’t go stealing grub from folks’ homes.” Claude sounded very positive.

  Three weeks later, there was no indication in our records that anyone had reported the Alfred-look-alike as missing from home, nor had Claude received any communication from an anxious owner. It seemed Claude had acquired a second Alfred — and he called the new arrival Ambrose. One sunny afternoon, I noticed Claude walking down the street with both Alfred and Ambrose in tow, both clearly under training. I noticed that Ambrose was wearing one of Alfred’s old collars, complete with Claude’s name and address. To my mind, this indicated that Claude was taking his new responsibilities very seriously and he told me that Ambrose appeared to have ceased his travels now that he was being well fed and cared for. Certainly, the dog seemed very content with its new life.

  “So you’re keeping him, are you?” I put to Claude.

  “May as well,” he said, “I don’t want to see him put down, and it seems nobody’s worried about him.”

  “You’ll need a dog licence for him,” I said,

  “Dog licence?” There was horror on Claude’s face at my suggestion and he began to blink — then he shook his head. “No, Constable, I’m exempt.”

  “Exempt? Of course you’re not exempt. You are the keeper of that dog; you don’t have to be the owner to be responsible for getting a dog licence. If a dog’s in your care or custody, or on your premises, the law says you are the keeper. And if you are
the keeper, you must take out the licence.”

  “Aye, I know all about that, but packs of hounds are exempt, aren’t they?”

  “Packs of hounds? But Ambrose isn’t a pack of hounds?”

  “Him and Alfred are!” beamed Claude. “How many hounds does it take to make a pack? I’ll bet that’s summat old Blaketon hasn’t thought about, eh? These two dogs are hounds, Constable, and I’m running a pack of ’em! You might even say I was the master of hounds, eh? Mebbe I should get a pink jacket?”

  “I’ll have to check on that!” I said, not being totally sure of the law governing packs of foxhounds and their liability for dog licences. Leaving Claude to think he had triumphed, I went home and took my Moriarty’s Police Law off the shelf to check on the exemption for hounds. To give Claude his due, there was no definition of the term “hound”, consequently it could apply equally to foxhounds, bloodhounds, otter hounds and, one might suppose, to any other sort of hound. I was not sure whether, for legal purposes, there was a distinction between a hound and a dog and didn’t think Elvis Presley’s song “Hound Dog” was any help. However, when I read further into the Act, I discovered that the exemption applied only to hounds under the age of twelve months which belonged to a master of hounds and which had never been entered in or used in a pack of hounds. Untrained hound pups in other words.

  I returned to Claude, clutching my copy of Moriarty.

  “Claude,” I said, as he settled me at his table and I opened the book at the required page. “You may be a master of hounds, Alfred and Ambrose may well be the hounds in question, but the exemption from a licence applies only to hounds under twelve months of age which have not been entered in or used in a pack of hounds. I reckon yours are more than twelve months old. I know Alfred is more than twelve months old, and you said Ambrose was his twin brother.” He blinked at me as I went on, “And they have been used in a pack. I saw you, Alfred and Ambrose walking down the street nicely under control and being trained, which they would be, with you being the master of hounds and they being the pack, small pack though it is! Claude, the short message is that you need a licence for Ambrose.”