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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Well, he helped catch our man!” said Alf, who told me the tale next day.

  Later I told Claude that Alfred was now securely locked in a shed among a lot of rabbits and he said, “Oh, not again! What’s he done now?”

  “You’ve got to go and collect him. He helped us catch a villain,” I beamed. “He’s a police informer, Claude.”

  Claude’s face went a delicate shade of green.

  “That dog allus lets me down these days . . . a copper’s nark . . . I would never have thought it of a dog of mine. He’s taken to mixing with some strange company these days . . . cats, rabbits and coppers! Whatever next?”

  “He’s going to be a dad,” I said.

  10. Greengrass at Christmas

  We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771–1832

  For the village constable of Aidensfield, the approach of Christmas meant three things: keeping an eye upon the nefarious activities of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass; cold and lonely turkey patrols, the name given to spot-checks on travelling vehicles in the search for stolen Christmas goodies; and rehearsals for the annual police entertainment in Ashfordly General Hospital. The officers of Ashfordly section always entertained the patients over Christmas and this included a lively party, the singing of carols, the appearance of Father Christmas and a distribution of presents which were provided from donations received from police and public alike during the preceding year.

  Sergeant Blaketon regarded turkey patrols as the most important of these duties because one of his professional ambitions was to have Claude Jeremiah arrested for unlawful possession of Christmas fare. He knew Claude was prone to taking a few Christmas trees and sprigs of holly without permission and, inevitably, the old rogue was a prime suspect if turkeys were also stolen. I knew Blaketon would dearly like to have the fellow incarcerated in our cells on Christmas Day, if only to teach him a lesson. But to have Greengrass as a house guest in Ashfordly Police Station over Christmas did not appeal to me because it meant someone would have to be on duty to feed him — and probably to look after Alfred too. Maybe Blaketon would volunteer for those tasks? I doubted it.

  It was well known among local policemen that even though other villains had been caught by Blaketon’s network of cold country constables, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass always avoided capture. Somehow, though, he always had a plentiful supply of Christmas trees, holly and turkeys for his regular customers.

  “So,” Sergeant Blaketon said to me just before Christmas, “your next turkey patrol duty is at Gibbet Cross on Thursday night, 10 p.m. until 2 a.m. Stop all passing vehicles and search them for stolen property! And if you catch Greengrass red-handed, bang to rights in possession of stolen property, then I’ll buy you a Christmas drink in the pub of your choice!”

  Thus I was standing near the crossroads at Gibbet Cross one freezing December night during the week before Christmas. I’d walked from home because heavy snow was falling. The roads were becoming dangerous and it would be silly to risk taking a motor vehicle out in such conditions. It meant I had no shelter, though, and crashed my arms around myself to keep warm. I desperately wanted a vehicle — any vehicle — to come and give me something to do, but none did. The roads remained utterly deserted as they grew increasingly snowbound. Surely, I told myself, nobody would venture out on a night like this? My efforts were a waste of time but orders were orders. I could not abandon this duty without Blaketon’s authority, so it seemed I would be here for four wasted hours.

  Standing at that isolated spot, I shivered as the wind blew a flurry of snow into my face. As I played my torch across the landscape, it showed the snow was drifting. No cars would come now! If I’d had a radio, I would have called base to seek permission to conclude this duty, but I had no radio; I was out of contact. I was marooned in a growing blizzard on the North York Moors.

  With snow rising around my ankles, I found myself thinking of the entertainment we were to provide at Ashfordly Hospital. At least it would be warm there! There would be mulled wine, hot mince pies with cream, and Christmas cake. It promised to be sheer bliss and I knew the patients eagerly awaited our concert. For years, the police officers of Ashfordly section had staged their concert in the day room, then toured the wards to entertain the patients, with Father Christmas visiting everyone who was bedridden. Every year, Sergeant Blaketon played the role of Father Christmas and dressed in red robes and a white beard. He made sure every patient, young or old, received a present. For the entertainment, some of us sang, some played musical instruments (Alf Ventress was particularly good on his trumpet), some told jokes and I did my conjuring act. As I stamped my feet to keep the circulation going, and waited lonely and cold at Gibbet Cross, I warmed to the thought of that forthcoming concert — it was on the Wednesday after Christmas so I must rehearse my Chinese linking rings, shrinking cards and disappearing billiard balls.

  As I busied myself with my thoughts and mental rehearsals, I became aware of a vehicle heading cautiously towards me, its lights picking a slow passage through the thick snow. Who on earth had come out on a night like this? Peering through the whirling snowflakes, I flashed my torch at it.

  The car skidded as its brakes were applied, but when it stopped I realised it was Sergeant Blaketon. He climbed out and said, “Pack it in, Rhea. Nobody in their right mind will go out tonight, let alone go thieving. Go home and put your feet up!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “I’ve not seen a single vehicle tonight — not till you came. I can’t imagine anyone venturing out in this, we’ll be snowed in by morning if this continues. Nobody in their right mind will drive in these conditions.”

  “Except silly old sergeants driving to give their constables instructions to go home, eh, Rhea?” he grinned.

  Then, as if on cue, something was chugging towards us, heading gingerly down the hill towards our checkpoint with lights blazing. It sounded like a pickup truck and it was moving very carefully in the atrocious conditions. Blaketon smiled. It seemed we were in business.

  “Hello, what’s this, then? A customer? Somebody nicking turkeys and Christmas trees, thinking we’d all be sitting with our feet up, I’ll bet!”

  “One before we finish, Sarge!” I called to him. I meant my vigil had not been entirely in vain, even if the vehicle did contain an innocent person, so I waved my torch to halt it. I heard the brakes being applied — but it skidded in the soft snow. Suddenly, it seemed to be slithering rapidly towards Sergeant Blaketon . . . the thing was out of control on the hill as it turned sideways in the wet snow. The driver had lost control!

  There was nothing anyone could do to halt the uncontrolled skid and Sergeant Blaketon tried to run from its path but he slipped in the snow then dived headlong into the ditch. He vanished headfirst into a deep snowdrift and I heard a muffled cry followed by silence as the oncoming vehicle slewed off the road so dangerously close to him. It just missed Blaketon’s parked car and came to rest against a high, snow-covered verge with lights blazing and engine roaring.

  I could see the rear of the truck was full of Christmas trees as the angry driver leapt out.

  “What the . . .” It was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and he was rather short of seasonal joy. “What a bloody stupid thing to do! You can’t stop lorries in snow like this, especially going down hills . . . you daft bloody ha’p’orth! Oh, it’s you, Constable . . . Well, I mean . . .”

  “Blaketon’s hurt.” I ignored his outburst and flashed my torch into the drift as I ran towards the buried sergeant. “He’s in there!”

  All we could see was a pair of boots on the end of some dark trousers, so I began digging with bare hands to free him. Claude buckled down to help. The sergeant had gone headfirst into the deep drift, like a diver from a high board, but he had encountered something rather more solid than newly fallen snowflakes. He’d hit his head on a stone or buried log. When we rescued him, he was unconscious with blood oozing from a head wound.

  “I never did that!
” Claude began. “I never hit him, did I?”

  “No, he managed to get out of the way, Claude, by diving into that drift. But he’s hit his head on something under the snow. Come on, he’ll have to go to hospital in your pickup and be quick about it; there’s room for us all and the weight of your truck will help us get through the snow. It’s quicker than waiting for the ambulance.”

  “Aye, well, I mean, but . . .” I could see he was nervous about my proposal but went along with my suggestion.

  We laid the unconscious Blaketon among the Christmas trees in the rear of Claude’s old truck, covered him with Claude’s old coat and some blankets from the police car, then set off. I remained in the rear to nurse Blaketon, the trees forming a cushioning effect as we trundled and slithered through the blizzard. I would collect the sergeant’s car on our return trip and then take it home, snow permitting.

  It was a mighty cold journey for me but we reached Ashfordly Hospital without any major mishaps and the duty doctor said Blaketon was concussed. He said he might soon regain consciousness, but he didn’t. He lapsed into a coma which continued into the Christmas holiday. Instead of being available for duty, or to entertain the patients, he had become one. I must admit we were all very worried about him. None of us had ever seen our sergeant so vulnerable and helpless.

  “Blaketon still hasn’t regained consciousness, Nick,” said Alf Ventress one day. “He’s in a coma. We’ve tried all sorts to revive him, talking, making familiar noises, but nothing works. Nobody knows what’ll bring him out of it. Poor old Oscar. So who’s going to be Father Christmas for the hospital concert?”

  As we pondered a suitable candidate, I remembered those trees in the back of Claude’s pickup; I was sure they had not been lawfully obtained, but in the drama of that night, I hadn’t had the time to check. Events had overtaken me and, as they’d be gone now, there was no way I could investigate the source of those trees without the necessary supporting evidence. Nonetheless, I reckoned Claude owed me a favour or two for past help I’d given him; I would ask him to play Father Christmas.

  “You’re not serious,” he blustered when I went to see him. “Me play Father Christmas at a coppers’ party?”

  “I’m deadly serious, Claude, otherwise I might start asking about those trees you had in your truck that night.” I tried a bit of bluff.

  “Aye, well, I suppose I might just do it, not for your lot, mind, for the hospital and the patients, you understand.” He blinked at me nervously.

  And so, with Claude as Father Christmas, the entertainment went ahead. In the wards, our efforts were appreciated and then it was time for Father Christmas to tour the hospital. We had given the bearded, red-cloaked Claude a sack of parcels bearing the names of all the patients, young and old alike. He visited each bed in turn, chatting to the patients and making them laugh. He was surprisingly good in this role and his banter did cheer them up. And then he came to the final bed — Sergeant Blaketon’s. For him, we had a rare edition of Jane Eyre, one of his favourite novels, but he was still unconscious.

  Claude took the gift from his sack.

  He spoke softly to me as he placed the parcel on the bedside cabinet. “I never thought I’d see Blaketon like this . . . it’ll be a happy Christmas without him pestering me all the time! It’s a right tonic for me, is this, seeing Blaketon out of commission.” And suddenly, Claude leaned over the still form of the sergeant, grinned wickedly and shouted loudly into Blaketon’s ear, “A happy Christmas, Sergeant Blaketon!”

  “Greengrass?” With that, Sergeant Blaketon opened his eyes and jerked upright in bed. The first thing he saw was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and the vision caused his eyes to open wide in disbelief. Then he fell back as he shouted, “And where did you get those Christmas trees from? Lord Ashfordly’s estate, was it?”

  “I’m off,” cried Claude.

  He scuttled from the ward, ripping off his white beard as Blaketon’s voice followed him along the corridors.

  “Just you wait Greengrass! Running me off the road like that . . . and what about those Christmas trees? Where did you get them from? I haven’t finished with you yet, Greengrass, so it’s no good lurking inside those robes. I’ll have you, Greengrass, so help me . . .”

  Claude’s familiar voice had done the trick; it had jerked Blaketon out of his coma and he was rapidly returning to his former self.

  “I’ve just had a nightmare, Rhea!” he snapped, when he noticed my presence at his bedside. “I dreamt I saw Greengrass dressed up as Father Christmas. Anyway, what am I doing here?”

  “Happy Christmas, Sergeant.” We all gathered around his bed and began to sing, “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night”.

  * * *

  In addition to the annual police concert at Ashfordly Hospital, there were many traditions in Aidensfield and one of them decreed that no one need be alone for their Christmas dinner. Every solitary person in Aidensfield was guaranteed companionship on Christmas Day if they wished. I was reminded of this when the widowed Mrs Brewster declined the villagers’ invitation to the annual party.

  While some people were invited in by friends and neighbours, others joined a community party at the village inn. A collection throughout the village during the year paid for the meal and any spare cash was used to buy logs for pensioners. As the village constable, I was a member of the committee which made these arrangements.

  “So how many are coming, George?” I was making one of my regular calls at the pub.

  “Fifteen so far.” George had a list before him. “Including Sergeant Blaketon and Claude Jeremiah Greengrass — Claude never misses!”

  “How about Mrs Brewster?” I asked. “Has she changed her mind?”

  “She never comes,” explained George. “She’s waiting for that son of hers to return home. She puts logs on the fire, his slippers under his rocking chair, sets a place for Leonard, does turkey for two, pudding for two, even Christmas crackers for two.”

  “Where is he?” I did not know Leonard Brewster.

  “He’s dead, Nick. He caught the phantom coach, they reckon,” explained George. “He left the house one Christmas Eve. It was blizzard conditions on the moors and all the roads into Aidensfield were blocked. He got lost in the snow somewhere on the old road to Lairsbeck. It’s not used now, that road, it’s overgrown with heather. But they never found him, Nick. There was no shelter up there; he must have died. He’d never have stood a chance of survival in that weather. It was all of twenty years ago. He’d be in his fifties now, if he’d lived.”

  “Why did he go up to the moor if the weather was so bad?” This puzzled me.

  “He was in the Home Guard, Nick, it was wartime, 1944. He wasn’t a regular soldier because he worked on a farm, but they reckon he saw a light on the moors, Christmas Eve it was. He wondered if somebody was in trouble out there, thought they needed help, so he went out to look. But he never came back. He vanished, Nick. Totally. Not a trace was ever found.”

  “There was a search for him?”

  “Oh, aye, but not till next day when the alarm was raised. Everybody turned out. They had to cope with deep, drifted snow, but no one found anything. Not a sign, his body was never found, not even a bit of his clothing. Some said he’d caught the phantom coach, they reckoned it was t’only way anybody could have got off them moors in such a blizzard . . .” George laughed uneasily. “I mean, in that sort of snow, folks can lie buried for months. There’s drifts twelve feet deep, with snow lasting till May or June . . . terrible conditions can develop up on those moors, and it happens so quickly.”

  “So his mother still waits for him on Christmas Day?”

  George nodded. “Aye, just like the day he vanished. She’d got his dinner ready and waited for him to come home, but he never did. Even now, after all this time, she can’t accept he’s dead. If only they’d found something, a bit of his clothing, his boots, his watch . . . anything to let her know his fate, one way or the other. Nobody’s ever found a sign
of him from that day to this. She’s been waiting ever since, poor old thing. His slippers are always under the rocking chair, waiting for Leonard.”

  “I’ll have another word with her,” I assured George. “I might persuade her to join the rest of the village for her Christmas dinner.”

  “Well, others have tried without persuading her, but she’s welcome, Nick,” smiled George. “Tell her that.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Now, what’s this about a phantom coach?”

  “There was a terrible blizzard one Christmas Eve, blinding anybody who was daft enough to go out in it. The York-Pickering-Whitby stagecoach was routed through Aidensfield but that night, it took a wrong turning. You couldn’t see a thing in that driving snow. The coach was empty, except for the driver and it was due to terminate at Whitby for Christmas. The driver couldn’t see the road ahead and by mistake, he turned along the old road which goes over Jack Cross Rigg. The horses must have got terrified and bolted, and on the way into Lairsbeck, the coach ran away down a gradient, and the whole lot toppled over a precipice into the beck. The coachman was killed. Leonard Atkinson, he was. He’s buried in our churchyard. They found him along with the wrecked coach and all four dead horses three days later. Nowadays, they say the phantom coach and four races along that old road on Christmas Eve with the coachman shouting and its lanterns showing through the blizzard . . . daft really, but you know how folks love yarns like that.”

  “So when Leonard Brewster vanished, they said he’d caught the phantom coach?”

  “Aye, the weather was the same when he vanished, you see, Nick. It was Christmas Eve, and he did disappear without trace. Hereabouts, when anybody disappears on the moors, folks say they’ve caught the phantom coach. It’s often seen before anyone vanishes . . . and folks do vanish up there.”

  “Our files contain lots of cases of people who have vanished on those moors.” I knew that bodies could lie there for months without discovery. “But do people claim to have seen this phantom coach?”