“Nonetheless, I would like to talk to him,” I said. “I have no idea where to find him at the moment so if he turns up, can you call me? I’m not going to accuse him of stealing your property — it’s just that he must be interviewed, for elimination purposes really.”
“I’ll give you a call,” he assured me.
Jack Shawcross identified the hedge trimmer as his property — he had an invoice bearing the serial number and it corresponded to the machine I had recovered from Thackerston Hall. As I chatted to Jack, a theory developed in my mind because he was sure the mysterious Sandy was no thief — but without speaking to Sandy, I could not write off the incident as ‘no crime’. Sandy had to be found and an explanation had to be obtained from him. It meant I had to retain the trimmer for the time being, just in case it had to be used as evidence in court.
Finally, I made contact with Sandy some three days later. As I was driving towards Ashfordly one afternoon, I saw a motorbike and sidecar, complete with little trailer, heading in the opposite direction. I executed a rapid about-turn and gave chase, eventually overtaking the combination near Briggsby lane end. The rider, a young, sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties, looked shocked at being ordered to a halt by a police vehicle complete with flashing blue light, but he stood near his now silent machine and awaited my interrogation. As I approached, I noted that the trailer was full of gardening tools — spades, forks, rakes, trowels, hedge clippers, some sacks for waste, plant pots and other assorted bits and pieces.
“Is your name Sandy?” I asked him, noting that he appeared to be extremely worried by the predicament in which he found himself even though I had not yet explained the reason for halting him.
“Yes. People call me that.”
“And your real name and address?” I asked. “And your driving licence and insurance, please.”
His real name was Alec Longman, he was twenty-six years old and he lived with his parents at Slemmington; his father managed a shoe shop in Eltering. His driving licence and insurance were in order. I checked with particular reference to the trailer and he was covered for its use for agricultural and horticultural purposes. Satisfied with his identity and documents and noting that he was polite and well-spoken, I said, “Did you leave a Crowne hedge trimmer at Thackerston Grange?”
“Yes, I took it back. I’ve been using it, Mr Rhea, with permission I might add. I always get permission before I borrow anything.”
“I see,” with my formulated opinion in my mind, I began to quiz this lad. “And what about the Flymo, Sandy? You had permission to borrow that?”
“Yes, when I used it, I said how good it was and how useful it would be for another job I had to do, and so Mr Frankland said I could take it anytime . . . so I borrowed it last week.”
“And you took it back?”
“Oh, yes, Mr Rhea. The minute I’ve finished with a piece of machinery or a tool, I make sure I return it, just in case I have to borrow it again.”
“So where did you return it?”
“Well, to Mr Frankland at Stovensby. Mile House is where he lives.”
“And do you borrow a lot of things?”
“Yes, I’m just setting up on my own you see, freelance gardening, but I haven’t been able to afford all the machinery and equipment I need, so my customers let me borrow things, like that Flymo and hedge trimmer, until I get myself fully equipped . . .”
“And big watering cans?”
He frowned as I said that, and asked, “Is there something wrong, Mr Rhea?”
“Sandy,” I said, “you did not borrow the hedge trimmer from Mr Fellowes.”
“Didn’t I?” I could see the frown on his face. “But I took it back to him . . .”
“Yes, you did. You borrowed the Flymo from him, didn’t you?”
“Did I? Well . . . oh crumbs . . . I’ve taken that back to Mrs Pendleton over at Ashley House . . .”
“The hedge trimmer came from Jack Shawcross and he’s found a spade among his stuff, a lovely stainless steel one . . .”
“Oh dear, I borrowed that from old Mr Baker at Elsinby . . . he’ll think I’ve stolen it, won’t he?”
“And there was the question of a wheelbarrow missing from Liz Bolam’s garden centre where a whopping watering can was returned . . .”
“Well, I think I got most of the things back to where they’d come from, Mr Rhea, but it does look as if I’ve made a few mistakes. That’s the problem with doing so many odd jobs, I forget where I’ve been and where I got things from and folks are so helpful, you know, letting me borrow things until I get myself fully equipped. I hope I haven’t upset any of my regular customers, that’s the last thing I want to do!”
“We’ve had several reports of thefts of gardening tools,” I told him. “They’ve all occurred at places where you’ve worked and in all cases, something’s been left behind, some other item of garden machinery or equipment.”
“Maybe I should keep a diary or a list of places I go to and where I borrow things and where they’ve got to go back to.”
“I think that would be a good idea. Now, the snag is that I have to convince my bosses that you are not a thief, Sandy. So, let’s think about that hedge trimmer, the one that you borrowed from Jack Shawcross at Broadgate Farm, Briggsby, if you remember.”
“Did I?”
“Yes you did. Now, did Jack give you permission?”
“He said I could borrow it any time I wanted, Mr Rhea, so long as I got it back to him the minute I’d finished with it. But you say I took it somewhere else?”
“You took it back to Philip Fellowes at Thackerston. So was Jack around when you borrowed it?”
“No, it was daytime, Mr Rhea. I was passing one day and knew I wanted a lightweight hedge trimmer for another job, so I just went into his farm. I knocked on his door and shouted around, but neither he nor his missus were there so I just took it, like he said I could. But the snag is I took it back somewhere else, so he’d think it had been stolen, wouldn’t he? I was there, you see, working on his garden the week after I’d taken it, so he’d see me there and know I would have taken it back, like I said I would. So what did I leave there, Mr Rhea?”
“A very nice stainless steel spade . . .”
“Oh dear . . .”
“Look, what are you doing now?”
“Well, I’m on my way to a job at Maddleskirk.”
“Right, well you almost pass Briggsby so I reckon you and I should pop in to see Jack Shawcross and you’d better explain things, then I’ll get him to say you did have permission to take the trimmer. That means I can write it off as ‘no crime’ and you won’t get yourself arrested!”
As things transpired once I got delving into his movements, Sandy had borrowed lots of items from several other places whose owners had not missed their property or who had not troubled to report its absence to the police. In all those cases where we had reports of larceny, the owners were revisited and without exception, all said they had given Sandy permission to borrow their equipment whenever he wanted. In those cases where the losses were reported as theft, however, he’d returned to the premises to remove the items while the owners happened to be elsewhere and, of course, had not returned them. When we examined Liz Bolam’s timetable in more detail, she’d popped out of the market garden to have her hair done, leaving it in the temporary care of another part-timer who’d forgotten to mention Sandy’s flying visit to acquire the wheelbarrow.
Happily, Sergeant Blaketon accepted Sandy’s explanations and in all cases, the reports were written off as ‘no crime’. All the missing objects were recovered and Sandy got himself a small notebook in which he recorded all his visits, with particular emphasis upon those occasions he borrowed equipment. As time went by, however, he managed to buy his own gardening equipment and graduated to a small van with his name along the sides.
One morning the following spring, he arrived at my police house. It had a very well-tended hawthorn hedge along the front, the result of hours of car
eful cutting by me and my predecessors. I’d been absent on a course of three weeks’ duration and in that short time, the hedge had begun to look rather unkempt — and its state had attracted the attention of Sandy as he was driving past.
“I owe you an apology for all that time you put in, Mr Rhea,” he said as he called. “You remember, when you were looking for thieves when I’d got the stuff . . . so shall I cut your hedge for you? As a way of saying thanks. It’s the least I can do, I could have got arrested and locked up . . . and I’ve got my own trimmer now.”
I smiled. “Yes,” I said, “that would be very helpful — but on one condition.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“That you don’t leave anyone else’s garden tools behind!”
* * *
Two other people caused minor headaches among the people of Aidensfield while I was village constable. They were Geoffrey and Joyce Rudd of Three Howes Farm who spent their time fighting with one another. Their never-ending battles were part of local folklore, and yet they remained married.
Theirs was a very remote holding tucked away at the end of a long, narrow lane which led to a cleft in the moors. The road ended at Three Howes — there was nowhere to go once one reached the house, but Geoffrey and Joyce owned the farm and, in spite of their stormy relationship, had successfully worked it all their married life.
Their main income was from sheep-rearing, but they also kept poultry, cattle and a few pigs. The house enjoyed a spectacular and very beautiful setting on heather-covered slopes and even if it looked slightly unkempt and in need of paint, it was secure, dry and very comfortable. The couple were in their late fifties when I first encountered them. Geoffrey, with his fair hair now turning grey and thinning, had a ruddy face full of character. He was a stocky moorland farmer who habitually wore overalls; he never looked entirely clean and many of us wondered if he ever had a bath. Joyce, heavily built with long grey hair tied behind in a ponytail, and legs like tree trunks, was equally unkempt and she gave the impression of being as strong as any man. Certainly, she could heave sacks of meal around as if they were domestic bags of sugar. Each had a loud and powerful voice, each could use bad language to its fullest extent, especially to each other, and each drove the farm tractor as if it was a racing car showing its paces at Brands Hatch.
Not surprisingly, the pair had no children and it was inevitable that, as the Rudds grew older, people began to wonder about the fate of the farm. Would it be sold, or was there someone who might inherit the place? There were fairly persistent rumours of nieces and nephews living in the Teesside area and it was generally thought they would benefit from the eventual death of the couple. In spite of that, some local speculators had their eyes on the farm — some thought it ideal for conversion into a small hotel, others saw it as a place of retreat from a hectic city life and one or two local farmers thought it might complement their own spreads if they could acquire the land and perhaps sell the house as a separate unit.
One constant source of surprise was that the Rudds continued to live and work, together. Their everlasting warfare continued outside the home too; they’d continue their antagonistic behaviour in the village, in the streets, in the shops and even in the church. One could only imagine what life might be like within that remote farmstead but few, if any, had ever witnessed the daily confrontations between the Rudds in their own home.
It seemed that neither of them was shy about their behaviour because whenever Geoffrey and Joyce came into the village, they would tell us in graphic detail about their most recent row. Inevitably it was about something trivial, like not bringing in the bucket of coal for the fire, or failing to have a meal ready on time, or listening to the radio with its sound turned to the highest volume, or losing the toothpaste, or leaving the hot water tap running to drain the supply, or lighting the fire with today’s newspapers instead of yesterday’s.
The real problem, however, was that Geoffrey and Joyce hated one other — at least, that’s what they wanted everyone to believe. Although they remained married and lived in the same house, they claimed to utterly detest one another. They slept apart, although Joyce — being married to Geoffrey — did do his washing and his ironing, and she prepared his meals which he ate alone in his own part of the large house, while Geoffrey continued to provide financial support for his wife. Their famous rows would be broadcast about the village shop or pub and, sometimes, they would both arrive at the same time, one by tractor and the other by car, when their row would be openly continued in the shop to the astonishment of all.
Some sensitive folks did not approve of their choice use of ripe language, but in spite of their angry exchanges, the Rudds never came to blows — at least, no one thought they did. I had no reason to think that either of them was beating the other — each was strong enough and powerful enough to do lasting damage to the other if they so wished, which is perhaps why they never started. It seemed that their arguments were all powerfully verbal.
In the pub, after such a battle, Geoffrey would say, “By, I really do hate that woman of mine . . . I’d rather have a dog as a friend any day, dogs are such good pals, faithful and biddable and they don’t lose the lids off marmalade jars neither . . .”
And at the WI meetings, Joyce would grumble, “I’ve never come across such a difficult man as my Geoffrey. You try getting him to change his socks more than once a month, or asking him to put the lid on the toothpaste or wash his own pots . . . and he always belches after my Yorkshire puddings. Manners? He has none. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word . . .”
The question that people who were new to their acquaintance always asked was, “Geoffrey, if you hate your wife as much as you say you do, and if she hates you just as much, and if you both spend your life arguing and fighting with each other, then why remain married? Why not get a divorce, or even live apart?”
“I can’t do that!” he would retort. “She’s my wife, even if I do hate her guts, and remember, when I got married I promised to keep her for better or for worse. I think the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He wanted me to promise that. He must have known what she was like all along. I’ve certainly got the worse end of it all, but divorce? Live separated from her? You don’t do that sort of thing if you’re married! She’s my wife and that’s it . . . just because I’m married to her doesn’t mean to say I’ve got to like her.”
People who spoke to Joyce received a similar kind of response — they had married and made promises to the effect they would support one another, so that was that. The idea of divorce or separation never entered Joyce’s head either.
Then one day when I called at the farm for my usual quarterly check of their stock register, I found Joyce in the kitchen all alone. It seemed Geoffrey had a dental appointment in Ashfordly and when I arrived, she was sitting with a pile of official-looking papers spread around her on the table.
“Sit there, Mr Rhea.” After finding the books for me, she pointed to the clear end of the kitchen table. “I’ll fettle a cup of coffee and I know you’d like a bit of home-made apple pie and Wensleydale cheese.”
As she busied herself preparing my snack, I checked his register and it was up to date; I signed and dated it, and pushed them aside as she settled in her chair.
“You look busy,” I said. “All that paperwork! I’ve got to cope with more and more of it and I know you farmers have mountains of forms to deal with.”
“This isn’t farm accounts or monthly returns, Mr Rhea, I’m checking Geoffrey’s papers to see if he’s made a Will but I can’t find one.”
“Your solicitors will know,” I said.
“Aye, but I don’t want to trouble them, not just yet. Word might get back to our Geoffrey. Now you’re here, though, you might be able to help with a small matter. I’m not sure whether I should see the vicar about it, or my solicitor, or who. So you’re a likely starting point.”
“Well, I’ll help if I can.” Country police officers were regularly asked for h
elp and advice by people on their beats. “So what can I do?”
“You might know that us Rudds have a sort of family grave in Aidensfield churchyard, the Anglican Church that is. Generations have been buried there, all in one corner, not far from those yew trees.”
“I didn’t know,” I had to admit, “but I know that some families occupy the same general area of a churchyard generation after generation.”
“Well, me and our Geoffrey are the last in the line, you see. When we go, there’ll be no more Rudds of Aidensfield. We shan’t be having a family at our age, and our nephews and nieces live away from here; besides they’re not called Rudd. They’re my sister’s bairns, separated from the Rudds by my family blood — thank God! So they’ll never be buried in our plot.”
“Right,” I said. “That’s a pity, isn’t it? When a family name dies out.”
“In some cases yes, but so far as the Rudds are concerned, it’s not a minute too soon. They ought to be exterminated with our Geoffrey being first in the queue and I for one shan’t be sorry to be known as the last . . . anyway, Mr Rhea, it’s always been the custom for a Rudd man and his wife to be buried side by side in the family plot.”
“Oh, I see. How nice.”
“No it isn’t. It’s not nice at all! I have no intention of being buried side by side with our Geoffrey. I want my own space. I don’t mind being laid to rest in the Rudd plot — after all, my name is Rudd, but I’ve no wish to spend the rest of eternity lying beside a chap like him. No way, Mr Rhea, not the way he snores and besides, he never changes his socks from one month end to another and some of his personal habits aren’t the sort you’d expect in polite society. Have you ever seen him scratch himself? And do you know when was the last time he washed his hair? Well, I shan’t tell you but it’s a few Christmases ago. So I intend to alter my Will, you see — to make sure I don’t get stuck next to him in that grave. And I wondered if he’d made a Will saying summat else. If he has, I don’t know what he’s said, but it’s always been understood, without having to say so, that a Rudd will always lie beside his wife in the burial ground.”
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 11
