Tabitha’s most evident weakness was that she never knew what time it was, and she never knew what day of the week it was. How on earth she struggled through her life in such a fog of bewilderment can only be guessed because she had a continuing habit of turning up at events on the wrong day or at the wrong time. It was widely known that if she got the day right, usually with a little help from her friends, then she’d get the time wrong. She’d turn up on Wednesday for Tuesday events, and would arrive at 11 a.m. for something due to begin at 3 p.m. or, much worse, she would turn up for important meetings many hours after they had finished. She never got it right and it was generally said of Tabitha that she would even contrive to miss her own funeral.
Those of us living in Aidensfield knew about these foibles because she provided lots of examples on a very regular basis — she’d turn up at the parish church for morning service on a Saturday instead of a Sunday, she’d arrive at the shop just after it had closed, or she’d book a hair appointment and turn up a day early. She’d book a tradesman to call and fix something in the house, then disappear on a shopping expedition the very day he was due. She’d arrange nice lunches and dinners at home for her friends and acquaintances, and then forget to prepare the meals, thinking her guests were coming tomorrow. Whenever we could, those of us who knew Tabitha would make an extra effort to ensure she got the day and time right and it was Joe Steel at the Aidensfield shop who suggested she had a daily paper delivered.
He suggested that if she destroyed each newspaper on the evening of the day it was delivered, it would ensure she never saw it after the day of publication, consequently she would no longer confuse her days and dates. She should then place the new morning’s newspaper in her kitchen where it would remain throughout the day to remind her of both the day and the date. She’d not have to worry about precisely what day it was — all she had to do was look at the date on the newspaper. The system might have worked if Tabitha had thrown out the old papers on a regular daily basis, but she tended to hoard them in the kitchen while forgetting to collect the present day’s paper from the letter box. Thus she accumulated several days’ papers and this led her to think that a Wednesday was a Tuesday and she’d forget to attend any function or event she might have planned for the Wednesday. Once she realised it really was Wednesday, she’d start preparing for an event on Thursday which she would later forget about because she’d be thinking ahead to Friday’s engagements, eventually believing that Thursday was in fact Friday and that she really should be thinking of preparing her wardrobe for Saturday’s outings.
Sometimes, I thought her confusion was the reason she always wore black — whatever the event or occasion, she always turned up in black which meant she didn’t really have to distinguish between weddings and funerals, or lunch parties and baptisms — that is provided she got the day and time right, which in fact rarely happened. By wearing black all the time, however, she never had to worry about what to wear for any intended destination or predicament in which she found herself.
It might be thought that such vagaries in the personal behaviour of a villager were of little concern to the local constable but, as any competent constable will confirm, it is important that the rural policeman is aware of such peculiarities among the people living on his patch. One never knows when such knowledge will prove useful.
In Tabitha’s case, a problem developed when she drove her little car into the city of Leeds for a shopping expedition. She found a most convenient parking place on a side street very close to the shops, observed that the sign announced ‘Free Parking Permitted this side — Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays’ and left her car neatly positioned there for most of the day. When she returned to it with her purchases, she was dismayed to find a ticket under the windscreen wiper. It was a very formal printed note signed by a patrolling constable of Leeds City Police and it said she had infringed the parking conditions by parking there on a forbidden day and, because this was prior to the days of fixed penalty tickets, it added that she must visit a named police station in Leeds to explain herself and to produce her driving licence and car insurance.
Off she went as directed; she did her best to explain to the desk constable that she had fulfilled the necessary parking conditions. Tabitha was rather upset when the constable pointed out that it was Tuesday, not Wednesday, and that she would have been all right to park all day at the other side of the street. He said she would be reported for the offence of unauthorised parking, and would have to appear at Leeds Magistrates’ Court in due course. She would receive a summons to that effect.
The whole episode did really upset Tabitha and she came to see me about it. I explained that, in some cases, it was possible for a court to deal with such a minor matter in the absence of the accused but if a summons arrived she would have to obey whatever conditions it imposed, if any. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, I had to tell her; the fact that she had once again got her days confused was no defence. Sorry though I was for her, I had to explain that the due processes of English law would have to take their course and if the summons insisted on her presence before the magistrates, then she would have to obey. Some courts did insist upon the personal attendance of defendants even in minor cases, usually when a new law had come into effect; the personal attendance of offenders tended to generate useful publicity in the early stages and helped to establish the new provisions in the minds of the public. I told Tabitha that she might have infringed a very new parking restriction in Leeds, one which the authorities were anxious to publicise. She went away looking rather glum, but I warned her that if she received a summons, she must be sure to attend the named court — and on the right day!
The summons did come; I served it personally upon Tabitha and took great pains to warn her that she must attend in two weeks’ time on Tuesday at 11 a.m. I told her not to forget. But she did. She turned up on the Wednesday, a day late, by which time her case had been deferred and new process issued. Even though a court was sitting, her case was not scheduled for that day and so, full of apologies, she wrote to the Clerk of the Magistrates. He accepted her apology but warned her that a summons must be obeyed — on this occasion, however, she would be given a second opportunity to attend. A new summons would be issued. She said she was most grateful for his consideration and eventually, the second summons arrived. It stipulated she must attend on another Tuesday, in a further two weeks’ time.
Unfortunately, Tabitha got her days confused on that occasion too. She arrived at the courthouse on the Wednesday, thinking it was Tuesday. On two successive occasions, therefore, she had failed to obey a summons and it was perfectly understandable that the officials of that court felt she had no intention of responding. When she rang the clerk to tender her most sincere apologies, he said she would be given one final opportunity — the hearing would be scheduled for a further two weeks ahead, this time on a Wednesday. Fortunately, due to the volume of work, the court sat on most weekdays and the clerk seemed to think that if she had turned up twice on a Wednesday, then she would do so again.
She didn’t. She arrived the following Thursday. By this stage, the hitherto patient officials had decided that they would get this reluctant female defendant to court.
Using their powers under the fairly new Criminal Procedure (Attendance of Witnesses) Act of 1965, the magistrates issued a warrant for Tabitha’s arrest. Such warrants could be issued when a witness (and a defendant was a witness) had persistently refused to attend court and if the court felt that such witness had no intention of attending.
And so it was that I received the warrant for execution. It ordered me to arrest Tabitha Gumlock of Aidensfield and convey her to Leeds City Magistrates’ Court on Tuesday next at 11 a.m. where she would be dealt with for the outstanding parking offence. Being arrested is a most humiliating experience but I had no choice. I tried to soften the blow by calling on Tabitha in advance and saying that I would come to her house on Tuesday to take her to Leeds for her court appearance — she apologised fo
r being such a nuisance and said I had no need to worry; she would make absolutely sure she appeared on the date in question. I knew she could not be relied upon to do that. I had then to say that things had gone a stage or two further. I had to personally take her to court, I stressed, and would come for her on Tuesday morning.
“Oh,” she said. “I do hope those people at Leeds don’t think I am trying to evade justice. Really, Mr Rhea, I am a most diligent person and have no desire to avoid my responsibilities. So, thank you, I understand how much they want to see me there, so I will be ready for you on Tuesday. What time?”
“I will pick you up at nine o’clock in the morning,” I said.
I must admit that afterwards I wondered if I had done the right thing because I feared that Tabitha would not know which day was Tuesday. However, it was a risk I had to take, there was no alternative short of locking her up straight away, but I rang her the night before, just to remind her. She assured me she would be ready and dressed for court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
As an added form of security, I decided to arrive at her house rather earlier than the appointed hour. I had the warrant in my possession as I hammered on her door at half-past eight. I was in uniform and my little van was full of fuel ready for its trip to Leeds. Tabitha came to the door in one of her finest black outfits; I thought she looked splendid, then she smiled and said, “Oh, Mr Rhea. I am so sorry, I am just dashing off to Newcastle, it’s my niece’s wedding, you know . . .”
“Tabitha,” I said firmly, “it’s Tuesday, it is your day for going to court in Leeds.”
“Oh no, Mr Rhea,” she said. “It is Wednesday. I know because I checked in my diary, the wedding is today, you see, and I must dash because I have to be at the church before eleven o’clock . . .”
“Tabitha, I am here to arrest you.” I had to shock her into recalling the purpose of my visit. “We are due in court at Leeds at eleven o’clock,” and I showed her the warrant. “It’s my job to get you there.”
“Is it really Tuesday?” She looked deflated as the possibility dawned upon her.
“Yes, it is,” I smiled. “And tomorrow is Wednesday. Tomorrow, you can go to the wedding — if you’d gone to Newcastle today, the church would have been deserted, wouldn’t it? You’d have got there on the wrong day and might have missed all the fun.”
“Yes, I would, wouldn’t I? What a blessing you came for I was just about to leave, you know. In another ten minutes, I’d have been chugging up the Great North Road in my little car. So things have worked out well, haven’t they? For a change.”
“I suppose they have,” I said.
“Then I shall plead guilty, Mr Rhea. I wasn’t guilty, you know, not really. I did park in Leeds that Wednesday.”
“Tuesday,” I reminded her.
“No, it’s Tuesday today, you’ve just told me so, haven’t you?”
“I meant it was Tuesday when you parked on that restricted area . . .”
“Was it really? I don’t like Tuesdays, Mr Rhea, they always cause such problems.”
“Come along,” I said, ushering her into my van. “Let’s have a day out in Leeds.”
Tabitha was fined £5 and I wondered if it was worth all the fuss, then on the way home she asked, “Mr Rhea, is it this Wednesday that I must attend that wedding, or next Wednesday? It’s Wednesday now, you see, and I am rather confused . . .”
“No, it’s Tuesday today,” I reminded her.
“Ah, yes, Tuesday’s child is full of woe,” she sighed.
“No, I said. “Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Tuesday’s child is full of grace.”
“I am a Tuesday child,” she smiled at me.
“I can see that,” I told her, thinking she had conducted herself with extreme grace in the formal atmosphere of Leeds Magistrates’ Court. I did hope she would remember to go to Newcastle tomorrow — I decided I would call upon her early tomorrow morning, just to remind her. The wedding would not be the same without her.
Chapter 5
“Is that the policeman?”
“Speaking.” It took me a while to answer the shrilling telephone because it was only half-past six in the morning and I had to clamber out of bed, find my slippers, gather my wits and then work my way downstairs to the office without falling over the cat or disturbing my wife and children. On a cold and dark winter morning, answering the phone in my chilly office was not the most pleasant of experiences. One of these days, I thought to myself, the Force will decide to install bedside extensions for country constables even if such things were then regarded as a luxury rather than a necessity.
“I thought you’d gone out,” said the deep voice at the other end of the line. “I thought I’d mebbe missed you.”
“It’s only half-past six . . .” I yawned and tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes. “I was in bed . . .”
“Bed? At this time of day? I’ve been up two hours; I’ve got milked, had my breakfast and got mucked out and now I’m wanting to start hedging in my front garden and somebody’s pinched my trimmer.”
“I was working late,” I tried to excuse myself, but he wasn’t listening.
“Late? What’s that? I never stop work, there’s no such thing as late in our house,” was his response.
“Who’s calling?” was my next question.
“Who’s calling? Well it’s me; you know me well enough; you’ve been up here plenty of times.”
“Sorry, I can’t recognise the voice,” I had to admit.
“Well, you’ve heard it plenty of times and I never go far away from here. It’s not often folks mix me up with somebody else.”
“Sorry, that doesn’t help.” I was now responding to the new day, with my intellect improving almost by the minute and I had even managed to find a ballpoint and a note pad while holding the phone to my ear. “So, who’s calling?”
“You’re having me on, aren’t you, Mr Rhea? You know very well who it is all the time but you want to know if it really is me . . . well, it is. It me, Jack Shawcross from Broadgate . . . there you are, you knew all the time, didn’t you? Nobody mistakes me, Mr Rhea, not a bloke of my size.”
“Right,” I said, writing down his name. “I realise who it is now, Jack. So you’ve lost your hedge trimmer?”
“Not lost it, Mr Rhea, it’s been nicked.”
“Stolen,” I wrote on the pad. “How?”
“How? Well, some light-fingered bugger has been in my outbuildings and cleared off with it. Without asking, I might add.”
“Anything else gone?”
“No, nowt else.”
“Was it locked in? Was the shed broken into?”
“Broken into? It hasn’t a door — you know the spot as well as me. It’s that lean-to behind our cowshed, where I keep my lawnmower and other gardening things.”
“So when did it go? Yesterday? When did you last use it?”
“Last year, when I did my garden hedges.”
I groaned. If the thief had had a whole year’s start, it was highly unlikely I would be able to trace him or the stolen property, but I had to go through the motions of investigating the crime and entering it in our records. I decided there was no urgency, not if the property might have vanished at any time during the past twelve months.
“I’ll come along to see you, Jack,” I promised. “Will you be in all morning?”
“Well, I’ll not be cutting my hedge, that’s for sure,” he grunted. “But I’ll be around. Ten minutes then?”
“More like half-past ten,” I said, replacing the phone.
I struggled back upstairs and, having decided not to climb back into bed tempting though the idea was, shaved quietly with a wet razor, washed and donned my uniform. Most surprisingly, Mary and the children were not disturbed by all this activity — perhaps there was an argument for not having a bedside telephone. At least when it rang in the office, it did not sound in the bedrooms to raise the whole household — luckily, I was a light sleeper and usually managed to hea
r it if it rang during the night. I made myself some breakfast — cereals, toast and coffee — and then found myself wondering what to do to fill the time. I was not scheduled to start duty until nine o’clock, but it was not yet 7.30.
I decided to surprise Sergeant Blaketon and everyone in Ashfordly Police Office by booking on duty earlier than expected. Few of us ever volunteered to work early — there were more than enough organised duties of the early kind to get us out of bed at the crack of dawn. I rang the office and told the office duty constable that I was reporting on duty earlier than expected because I’d had a crime reported and was going to visit the scene. I provided brief details along with my intended destination. And so it was that, by quarter to eight and now feeling wide awake, I was en route to Broadgate Farm, Briggsby, to investigate the matter.
Jack Shawcross was a huge man; he must have been six feet seven inches tall with a chest like a barrel. He had a shock of very dark brown hair with no sign of balding even if he was in his late fifties, and this was enhanced by a thick bushy beard of the same colour and intensity. Powerful in every sense of the word, he ran a large and very successful mixed farm, but he was always in a rush in spite of getting out of bed at the crack of dawn and working until the end of every day. When I arrived, he was carrying a hay fork while clad in denim overalls and Wellington boots.
“You took your time!” grumbled Jack as I walked across the farmyard to meet him. “It could be anywhere by now.”
I ignored him and asked him to show me the shed from which his hedge trimmer had been stolen. It was completely open and full of other tools and implements, mainly those used in domestic gardening. Some were in fairly new condition and others were rusting badly. I noticed a very smart steel spade among the tools.
Their home was one of several lean-to shelters which backed onto a high brick wall. The other sheds contained barrels and cans of fuel, sacks of potatoes, cattle feed, small pieces of farming equipment, milk churns, rat traps and snares, a couple of ploughs, three harrows, a pair of seed planters, a trailer with rubber-tyre wheels, disused cartwheels, various lengths of rope and much more, the uses of which were unknown to me. I wondered if he really knew what was here.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 9
