CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  It took me a while to complete the necessary crime report forms. I required the engine and chassis numbers in addition to the more obvious details, and explained it was necessary if the car was altered or broken up; parts of it might still be identifiable and for that reason, our C.10 branch, the stolen car experts, would need those kind of details.

  I made a rapid examination of the dumped and ancient Ford, noted its number on Godwin’s phone, rang the details to Control Room. Efforts would be made to trace its owner and the source of the theft, if indeed it had been stolen. All this took about three-quarters of an hour, and then the telephone rang. It was Mary, slightly breathless.

  “Arnold’s stopped that car,” she said. “He rang from Woodland Hall, that’s about a mile the other side of Craydale. He’s got your thief; he’s at the entrance to the Hall. He says can you go straight away, so he isn’t too late into York?”

  Godwin beamed with pleasure at the news, but I was worried about the state of his car. Thieves have no respect for the vehicles they use so carelessly and so it was with some apprehension that I asked Godwin if he would come with me and drive his own car home. He agreed.

  Twenty minutes later we arrived to be confronted by the results of Arnold’s remarkable bus-driving skill. The thief had been trapped too, so my arrest was easy.

  Afterwards, I learned how Arnold had contrived this. While driving his bus and its assortment of passengers out of Craydale, he’d noticed the red Hillman approaching from behind. When the speeding car was level with the rear of his bus and overtaking it, Arnold had eased over to his offside, keeping pace with the car. The car, now with a very anxious driver at the wheel, had been forced to move over and as the vehicles sped along, Arnold’s mighty bus had moved still further to its wrong side. In that way, it had literally forced the stolen Hillman off the road and into a shallow ditch.

  It had been trapped on one side by the high drystone walls of Woodland Hall and on the other by the bus. The driver had become a prisoner, and the Hillman had suffered some minor damage to the offside front mudguard.

  Afterwards, I discovered that Arnold had given his passengers a running commentary to explain his odd behaviour, but as his bus had drawn to a halt beside the trapped car, a young passenger had leapt out. Quickly, he had placed two large stones from the Hall’s wall behind the wheels of the car, very effectively preventing it from reversing to freedom.

  The bus’s position across the road meant that traffic could pass by, although some did stop to enquire if they could be of assistance at the ‘accident’ but Arnold had declined. And so, thanks to Arnold, we caught a car thief.

  I submitted a report to the Chief Constable about Arnold’s actions. In gratitude Arnold was presented with a ‘thank you’ letter and a helmet badge mounted on an oak plaque. The press publicised the tale too, which gave him and his coach service some useful publicity, but this was minor praise in comparison with the hero status he was awarded by the local people and regular customers.

  On another occasion, Arnold used his bus as an ambulance. I happened to be using the bus at the time. It was a Tuesday.

  Arnold had eased his groaning old coach to a halt outside the gate of Ridding Farm on the moors above Elsinby, where Aud Mrs Owens boarded it for her weekly trip to York market. Inevitably, Arnold and his passengers had to wait as the diminutive figure of Mrs Owens pottered up the long track laden with baskets.

  That Tuesday, however, we noticed two figures making their slow and painful progress towards the bus. One was Mrs Owens and the other was her husband, Kenneth, who seldom appeared in public. His life was spent almost entirely on the farm; he had no car and no wish to see what lay beyond the boundaries of his spread. He led a life of self-sufficiency and seclusion.

  As the couple approached Arnold’s bus, it was evident that Kenneth was hobbling painfully.

  I saw he was using a home-made crutch. It was simply a broom upturned, the head tucked under his right armpit and the shaft supporting his limping progress. His right leg, which wore a Wellington boot, was held awkwardly aloft in a kind of sling which had been created by tying a length of rope about the sole and ankle of the Wellington, then up and around his neck and shoulder. It kept his foot off the ground.

  Kenneth’s age was a matter of debate. He would be well over fifty, probably nicely into his sixties. Today, he wore some soiled corduroy trousers which bore evidence of many years of work and milking cows, and a rough, grey denim jacket, hereabouts called a kytle. A battered, flat cap decorated with a patch of cow hairs sat low upon his head and concealed most of his thin, weary face. The cow hairs were from his habit of resting his head on the flanks of the cows as he milked them.

  His wife gave little support as poor old Kenneth made his slow, difficult way towards the bus. I was about to offer my help, but Mrs Owens anticipated this by calling, “Leave him be! He’ll manage best on his own.” Kenneth had a very difficult job manoeuvring himself up the steps into the coach, but with some help from Arnold and Hannah, and some cursing from his little wife, he made it and hopped into a seat. There he sank onto the wooden framework with an audible sigh of relief.

  “And what’s up wi’ thoo, Kenneth?” asked Arnold as he slammed the bus into gear and began to guide it away.

  “’E fell off an haystack,” said Mrs Owens. “’E reckons ’e’s brokken ’is leg. ’E should ’ave been watching what ’e was doing, that’s what Ah say.”

  “Where are you taking him then?” It was Hannah’s turn now as she hovered with her ticket-machine.

  “’Ospital,” was the reply.

  “He can’t walk from the bus station . . .” said Hannah.

  “Nay, so you can tak ’im, it’s only down a few side streets,” she said. “Tak him on t’ way in,” she shouted at Arnold. “Leave him there. Ah’ll see to t’ milking and t’ hens tonight.”

  Hannah looked at Arnold who was now in the driving-seat with his back to this little drama, but he simply said, “Aye, right-ho.”

  “So that’ll be one return to York and back, and one to York only, for ’im,” Mrs Owens ordered her tickets.

  “Are you leaving him?” Hannah asked.

  “Might as well,” said Mrs Owens. “’E’s nobbut a nuisance about the spot like this, huffing and sighing from morning ‘til night, and Ah shall ’ave his hens ti feed and eggs to collect, then there’s t’ cows to muck out and milk . . .’e’s as well off in ’ospital oot o’ my road.”

  The subject of this discussion sat and said nothing as he gazed out of the window of Arnold’s coach, his injured leg sticking into the aisle and his broom standing like a sentinel as he clung to it.

  “Do you think he’s broken his leg?” Hannah asked as she spun the handle of her ticket-machine.

  “Aye, Ah reckon so,” said Mrs Owens. “There was a mighty crack when ’e landed and his foot wobbled a bit. So Ah made ’im keeps ’is welly on, and then ’e couldn’t walk on it cos his foot end went all floppy. After a day or two like that, we reckoned it was brokken. So Ah thowt we’d better get him seen to.”

  “When did it happen?” asked Hannah aghast.

  “Thursday or Friday last week it would be. Ah’ve not ’ad a day’s work out of him since, so Ah thowt Ah’d better tak ’im to ’ospital.”

  We overheard this curious exchange, but the placid Arnold simply drove on and collected more people along the route. In York, he diverted his bus from its journey and drove through some side streets until his bus full of people arrived at the Casualty Department of York City Hospital.

  There, a repeat performance occurred as Mrs Owens, with help from several passengers, including Arnold, Hannah and myself, manipulated Kenneth and his brush off the bus. Once he was established on his feet outside, Mrs Owens pointed to a sign which announced, ‘Casualty Department’.

  “In there,” she ordered Kenneth and got back on to the bus.

  “Aren’t you staying?” asked Hannah.

  “Ah am not!” said the redoubtable
lady. “’E’s old enough to fend for ’imself and Ah’ve no time to fuss over a thing like that. Ah’ve got work to do in town. So come on, Arnold, let’s be off,” and she made her way to a seat.

  Arnold hesitated for a few moments to make sure poor old Kenneth completed the short journey, but a nurse discovered him and eased his final yards into the building. Arnold then continued his journey.

  On his first return trip, with Mrs Owens still somewhere in York, Arnold did make a second detour and personally called at the hospital to enquire about poor old Kenneth. He learned he had suffered a broken leg and that he would be allowed home when the doctor was satisfied the bone was healing and that the plaster cast was performing its function.

  When Mrs Owens caught the bus on its second return run, she said, “Ah’ll write ’em a note, Arnold, to see ’ow ’e’s getting on, and when ’e’s fit to come ’ome, mebbe you’ll call and pick ’im up?”

  “Right,” said Arnold, not wishing to cause a flutter in the Owens’ household by saying an ambulance would bring home the injured farmer.

  Kenneth was brought home in due course and I found him hobbling about the premises with his pot leg as he fed the pigs and mucked out the cows.

  He seemed quite content and said very little about his sojourn into city life. I realised that country folk like Kenneth and his wife were so self-reliant that they rarely ever asked anyone for help. If they wanted something doing, they did it themselves; their method of coping with Kenneth’s broken leg was an example of that independence.

  Arnold’s bus service, however, called at another market once a week; this time on Fridays at the small market town of Galtreford. Arnold’s second coach was utilised, with a relief driver as a rule.

  I heard that when this bus travelled via Galtreford, there was a good deal of wheeling, dealing, buying and selling on board before the bus actually arrived. By studying the Public Service Vehicles (Conduct of Drivers, Conductors and Passengers) Regulations 1936, I learned it was illegal to beg, sell or offer for sale any article in the vehicle . . .

  But, in rural areas, one closes one’s eyes to a great deal, and really, I felt, this problem was not really mine. It could be argued that the enforcement of such rules was really the responsibility of the Traffic Commissioners, not the police.

  So the minor infringements continued and they helped everyone aboard to feel content and happy. In fact, a trip to Galtreford market on Arnold’s bus seemed to be a very jovial and happy affair.

  Judging by the accounts which came to my notice, it was more of a party than a domestic outing or a bus trip. Songs were sung, for example, and drinks were handed around, albeit never to the driver when he was behind the wheel.

  My very discreet enquiries led me to believe that a trip to market was a very sociable occasion which included community singing. This was led by two Aidensfield characters nicknamed Bill and Ben. In their late forties, they were inseparable and had been pals since their schooldays. They went everywhere together. Bachelors with no regular means of financial support, they went to Galtreford market every Friday.

  Their real names were Arthur Grieves and Bernard Kingston; Arthur was ‘Bill’ and Bernard was ‘Ben’. Each lived in a small rented cottage and undertook casual work in the area. They found employment on farms at potato picking time, harvest time and hay time; they took jobs on building sites, or washed windows — in fact, they would do anything anywhere for a small fee. They always worked together and it was their unhampered lifestyle that allowed them the freedom to go to market each Friday.

  Arthur (Bill) was the elder by a few months and had lived in Aidensfield since birth. His mother, widowed in her twenties, had reared him but had died before I was posted to this beat. He was a dour character who said very little, and whose main interests appeared to be darts and dominoes at the Brewers Arms.

  A stocky man, he had a square, weathered face with skin as tough as leather and thinning hair which encircled a tanned bald patch. In his mode of dress, he always appeared smart because he constantly wore a dark suit, a white shirt, a dark tie and black shoes, but closer examination would show that the suit was a little threadbare, the shirt could have done with washing and ironing while the tie bore evidence of several pub snacks and spilled beer. But from a distance, he looked fine.

  Ben was more casual; taller than his friend by perhaps three inches, he was lean and angular, with a good head of dark, curly hair and a loping gait. Always untidy, his clothes generally seemed too wide or too long; sometimes he wore a grey suit, sometimes a pleasing sports jacket and flannels and occasionally, he would appear in casual wear such as jeans or a bright-squared shirt which made him look like a Canadian lumberjack.

  Ben was rarely seen without a smile on his face; he always appeared to be happy with the world, and as he lived with his aged parents, he never had to worry about cooking his own meals or washing his own clothes.

  All that kind of chore was done for him, and it was perhaps the influence of his mother which explained the size of his clothes. Maybe she still treated him as a growing boy who required clothes just a fraction too large so he could grow into them. I think she failed to realise he had matured. Like Bill, he spent a lot of his time in the Brewers Arms playing darts and dominoes.

  Close as their bachelor friendship was, there was never a suggestion there was anything sinister or unsavoury in their behaviour, and no one even considered theirs was a homosexual relationship. It wasn’t; they were two heterosexual men who loved a good time and who, in reality, had never grown up. Theirs was a life of casual ease with no responsibilities.

  This eternally juvenile aspect of their existence had led to their outings at Galtreford market; ever since leaving school, they had made the weekly trip on Arnold’s bus. Their mission was to wander around the market and then adjourn to one or other of the local pubs to sample the ale, play darts or dominoes and meet some of their acquaintances, especially those of the female sex.

  When Bill and Ben got among the women, there would be banter and chatter, but nothing else; certainly no dates and no real courtships arose from these carefree meetings.

  On the return journey these lads, as everyone called them in spite of their age, would lead the community singing on Arnold’s bus. The more I heard about this outing, the more I thought I’d like to experience a trip to Galtreford market. I did not want to catch Arnold by identifying possible breaches of the many bus laws, but felt I’d like to experience the in-bus entertainment which seemed to cheer all those who travelled that route. I knew that singing on a bus was only illegal if it annoyed the passengers, and was sure this did not — how could it annoy if everyone joined in?

  My opportunity came one Friday when I was having a day off duty. It was my long weekend. I had Friday, Saturday and Sunday off duty, a welcome sequence which came around once every seven weeks. On this date, it coincided with Mary’s turn to have the local children’s play-group at our house.

  Several mums with tiny tots took turns in hosting a play-group; it allowed some of those harassed young ladies to take time off from their children, to enjoy a short shopping spree or to have their hair done and relax in other ways. Even though our four youngsters, aged between one and five, would make a class of their own, we both knew it was beneficial for them to mix with others of their age before starting primary school. So we joined that lively group.

  On that Friday, it was made plain that if I remained at home, I’d be in the way. Because Mary might need the car to ferry home some of the visiting children, I felt the occasion presented me with an ideal opportunity to disappear by jumping onto Arnold’s bus and experiencing the delights of Galtreford market.

  And so, as I stood at Aidensfield bus stop at half past nine that morning, I was joined by Bill and Ben. As we waited, no one said a word and eventually others joined the little queue, including a large brown and white spaniel.

  Eventually, Ben looked at me, his curiosity getting the better of him. He asked, “Gahin ti mar
ket then, Mr Rhea?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about this outing, so I thought I’d come along.”

  “Then stick wiv us, Mr Rhea, we’ll show you what’s what, me and my mate. Do you play dominoes? We could do with a third hand.”

  “You’re on,” I said as Arnold’s bus came into view. The little queue clambered aboard and from the outset, it was evident that Bill and Ben had their own seat. The spaniel pushed its way through the queue and slid beneath one of the other seats from where it eyed everyone, almost as if it expected to be ejected. But it wasn’t.

  Bill and Ben’s seat was the first one inside the door, a prime position because it allowed Ben to pass comments about everyone who entered and, if necessary, to lend a helping hand to any aged person. As there was no conductress on this bus, (Hannah had travelled into York on the other one), their help was appreciated, even when spiced with bawdy remarks.

  Ben’s running commentary included remarks like “Howway, Mrs Preston, we can’t hang about all day just ’cos thoo’s gitten arthritis” or “If thoo taks onny longer gittin in, Elsie, this bus’ll run oot o’ petrol,” or “Now then, Phyllis, leaving t’ old man again, are we? Ah’ll bet ’e’s chuffed about that. ’E’ll have that little milkmaid in ti mak ’is coffee this morning, mark my words!”

  It was all part of the ongoing entertainment and Ben held forth with his chatty line of banter at each stop. The driver was one of Arnold’s pool of part-timers and he bore the chatter in silence as he accepted the fares and guided the old bus towards Galtreford. It pulled into the market-place, halted with a groan of brakes, and everyone, including the spaniel, spilled out on to the cobbles to go their separate ways. It was just ten-thirty.