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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Now then, Mr Rhea,” said Ben, as I waited for their next move. “What’s thy plans for today?”

  “I have no set plans,” I said. “I think I’ll just have a look around, and then think about something to eat.”

  “Right,” said Ben, who appeared to be spokesman for both. “Then thoo’ll have a game o’ dominoes with us, eh? In t’ King’s Head. We allus ’ave a mooch about till twelvish, and then settle in for t’ day with dominoes. There’s sandwiches, pork pies, pickled eggs and crisps in t’ King’s Head. We need a third hand, today. Thoo’ll be there, eh?”

  “Right,” I said, and off they went, with the spaniel trailing behind.

  I wandered around the colourful open-air stalls, listening to the banter of the traders and looking at second-hand books, antiques, furniture, crockery and all the other regular offerings of this busy little market. I enjoyed a coffee in one of the pubs which turned its bar into a coffee shop on market day mornings, and in no time, the town hall clock was striking twelve.

  Somewhat apprehensively, I entered the King’s Head, a fine-looking coaching inn just off the market-place, and spotted Bill and Ben seated at a table with the domino box already before them. Four pints stood beside it, and the spaniel lay beneath the table, apparently asleep.

  “Yan o’ them’s yours.” At my approach, Ben indicated the beers with a wave of his hand. “Flossie’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Play this game much, then, Mr Rhea?” asked Bill, eyeing the box of dominoes as he spoke.

  I shook my head. “Not a lot, we used to play at our training-school, or during break-times when we were on nights.”

  “Then you do know a bit about it. We play fives and threes, threepence a knock,” Ben informed me.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “And it’s Nick, isn’t it?” Then he leaned across and whispered, “We shan’t let on thoo’s a bobby, so thoo’s among friends!”

  “Thanks,” I said, with genuine appreciation. It would be nice, being away from my own patch and being anonymous for a while, but I did wonder who Flossie would be. Then a heavily made-up woman arrived and sat down, sipped from one of the pints, and said, “Who’s your friend, lads?”

  “Nick,” said Ben. “Pal of ours.”

  “Hello Nick,” she said, and took a heavy draught. “Right, highest for off.”

  Bill upturned the box and spread the dominoes face down upon the table and he selected a six four. He had to play first. I was still wondering about Flossie who could have been any age between thirty and forty-five.

  She was a brassy woman with a husky voice and very heavy make-up which was adorned with rich, red lipstick and nail varnish. But to this day, I don’t know who she was or where she came from, or what she did for a living. But she could drink pints of beer with the best of the men, and I was to learn that she could play dominoes too.

  As the game progressed, each of us bought at least one round of pints, and then we had a kitty to take us up to bus time. In between, we had sandwiches, pickled eggs and a pork pie each, which we shared with the spaniel, and the afternoon vanished in a haze of clicking dominoes and coins, shouts of delight, lots of spots totalling five or three or multiples thereof, and several pints of strong Yorkshire ale. Because, on market days, the pubs are open all day, we drank quite a lot.

  I think I lost about six shillings and ninepence in all, but it was a very entertaining and relaxing way of spending a day. We all said farewell to Flossie, and at five-thirty returned to the bus stop, with the spaniel at our heels.

  “We enjoyed that, Mr Rhea, thoo’ll etti come again,” said Ben.

  “It’ll be a long time before I get another Friday off,” I managed to say. “But when I do, I’ll come along. Thanks for inviting me to join your game.”

  “Flossie’d die if she knew you were a bobby,” laughed Ben. “But she’s good fun.”

  “Where’s she from?” I asked.

  “No idea,” he said. “No idea.”

  And then the bus pulled in.

  “If thoo hadn’t bought all them taties and carrots, Mrs Baxter, thoo’d git onto this bus a bit faster,” once more Ben launched into his commentary. “By, Mrs Harrison, Ah’ll bet thoo’s spent all this week’s wages on that there kettle, and I happen to know there’s nowt wrang wi’ that awd ’un o’ yours. Ah’ll bet thoo reckons yon’s a bargain. But what’s your Fred gahin ti say? He nivver likes spending a penny . . . he’s as tight as a duck’s . . .”

  Bill and Ben settled on their special seat, the spaniel slid beneath another and I occupied one, midway along the aisle. Then, as the old bus creaked away from the market, the singing started.

  Led by Ben and a woman whom I did not know, it seemed that the entire complement of passengers joined in a happy programme of real sing-along songs like ‘Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’, ‘Ilkley Moor Bah’t ’At’, ‘Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner’, ‘Blaydon Races’, ‘Shine on Harvest Moon’ and many more of that popular range. Bill and Ben produced bottles of beer from their pockets and so did several of the other passengers, women included, and a party atmosphere was rapidly generated.

  The spaniel joined in by howling as some of the notes reached a high pitch, and I reckoned my own awful voice would not be condemned. So I joined in the noise too.

  We would be around half-way home, when the bus eased to a halt in Partington. As it began to brake, Bill stood up and Ben clambered down the steps.

  He jumped out as the bus halted, and so did Bill; the spaniel followed and so, because I now considered myself a member of their party, I did likewise. Others followed and said their cheery goodbyes, and the bus pulled away. We watched it leave as it echoed to the sound of happy singing; by now, the Merryweather Coaches Mobile Choir were well into ‘Home, Home on the Range’. As it vanished around the corner en route to Aidensfield and Ashfordly, Bill, Ben, myself and the dog stood on the side of the road in silence. No one said a word. I have no idea how long we remained there in our little group, but I wondered if this was part of their market day ritual.

  At length, I said, “Well, what now?”

  Ben looked at Bill.

  “Thoo got off,” he said. “Why?”

  “Ah didn’t,” countered Bill. “Ah just stood up to find my handkerchief. Thoo was t’ one ti get off. Ah just followed.”

  “Ah thought thoo was getting off!”

  “And Ah thought thoo was getting off.”

  “And I thought you were both getting off,” I added.

  The dog wagged its tail.

  “Thoo was getting ready to get off!” snapped Ben.

  “Nowt o’ t’sooart,” retorted Bill. “Ah just stood up to dig deep for my handkerchief, then thoo jumped off.”

  “Ah just jumped off because Ah thought thoo was gahin ti jump off . . .”

  And so we stood there like three stupid Charlies, the bus now weaving its ponderous way through the distant lanes as the spaniel looked at us for guidance.

  “It’s a long walk back to Aidensfield, Mr Rhea,” said Bill slowly, reverting to the formal mode of address now that our day was drawing to a close.

  The walk home was about six miles, many furlongs of which were steep rising hills, but there was no alternative. How on earth we came to be here still seemed something of a mystery, but we started our long walk. The spaniel seemed to be enjoying this part of the day, for it frolicked in the hedgerows and along the floral verges of the long, winding lane.

  “At least your dog’s happy about it,” I said to Ben as we got into our stride.

  “It’s not my dog, Mr Rhea,” said Ben.

  “Nor mine,” added Bill.

  “Well, it isn’t mine,” I felt I had to clarify that point. “Whose is it?”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “No idea,” he said. “But he’s a grand little chap, reet good company. He comes wiv us ivvery Friday on that bus, follows us aroond t’ market and then ’as a pork pie in t’ pub. He likes yon pie and comes home on t’bus as well. He n
ivver pays a fare, ’cos nobody claims him, but Aud Arnold doesn’t mind.”

  I could have inspected the spaniel’s collar to determine the identity of his owner, but he was some distance ahead of us now, sniffing and fussing about the roadside vegetation. To be honest, there seemed no point in worrying about his owner — clearly, this dog was his own master, just like Bill and Ben, and he would go home in his own good time. They were three of a kind, carefree and content, with no responsibilities and no one to answer to. They went where they pleased; they did as they liked, and thoroughly enjoyed their method of existence.

  I began to wonder whether I was envious of them as we strode out of Pattington. But once away from the cottages, Bill, Ben and I were subjected to the effects of the beer and desperately found ourselves having to attend to the needs of nature. We found a tall and sheltering hawthorn hedge, climbed over a five-bar gate into a field and stood behind that hedge like three sentinels as we watered the undergrowth to the accompanying sounds of intense relief. The spaniel joined us by cocking his leg against the gatepost.

  Thus satisfied, we renewed our walk home, and had walked but half a mile when it started to rain. Instead of complaining or attempting to shelter, the happy pair began to sing ‘April Showers’ in the style of Al Jolson. The dog howled as they reached the higher notes and the rain intensified with every passing minute.

  I was pleased no one knew me, for we must have seemed a strange quartet of men and beast. But I enjoyed walking along with this strange, happy-go-lucky trio of market-attenders; perhaps I did feel just a hint of jealousy over their carefree way of life.

  As I contemplated their mode of existence, and as the increasingly heavy rain saturated my clothes and hair, I began to wonder what Mary would think when she realised I hadn’t come home on the bus. A meal would be ready and she would be tired after hosting all those children, so I pondered upon her reaction when eventually I did walk into the house, weary, beery and wet.

  Explanations would not be easy but I was pleased I didn’t have to make my excuses to Sergeant Blaketon. I was reminded of an old piece of Yorkshire wisdom which goes, “Being late home from t’ market often spoils a good bargain.”

  I lengthened my stride and joined the singing of ‘April Showers’.

  Chapter 3

  When other lips and other hearts

  Their tales of love shall tell.

  ALFRED BUNN, 1796—1860

  To those who have never been, North Yorkshire’s image is seldom that of a land of sylvan beauty. They don’t think of it as being graced by charming villages full of thatched cottages and peaceful ponds. But North Yorkshire’s Ryedale, reclining on the southern edge of the North York Moors, can shatter those illusions, if indeed they lurk in the mind. For Ryedale is a valley of thatched cottages, peaceful inns and village ponds. There are charming woodland glades, ruined castles and abbeys, quiet streams and a countryside so gentle that it would be more in keeping with the south or the west of England.

  One of the most photographed of England’s thatched cottages is to be found here; it graces many a box of chocolates and country calendar. There are thatched inns too and many of the villages boast interesting collections of thatched homes. Some are remote and some are positioned at the side of our main roads. Some have been modernized and some have had their thatch removed, while several are the old-fashioned cruck houses.

  Most are single-storied and contain oak beams which are dark with age. They derive from the early long-houses of the dales, being built with little architectural skill, but with the essentials of rural life in mind. Quite often, the family lived at one end and their livestock at the other, but these lowly homes were functional and cheap both to construct and maintain.

  Cruck houses, many of which still stand, were constructed from early in medieval times until late in the seventeenth century. Pairs of oak trees were used, each pair being shorn of their branches until a tall, straight trunk remained. These were positioned with the thick portion on the ground, and the tips were then drawn together and linked with a ‘ridge tree’ to form a letter A. When standing upright, one or two spars were fixed to them so that the ‘A’ shape had two or even three crosspieces.

  Several of these ‘A’ shapes were used, each erected some five yards from the other, and they formed the framework of the cottage. They were linked lengthwise to one another by more beams and spars. Stone walls, a flagstone floor and a thatched roof completed the building, and many of these stand today.

  When I arrived at Aidensfield to occupy the hilltop police house with its lovely views of the valley, I found great delight in locating these delightful cottages. At one time, I considered making a register of them, purely for my own interest, but somehow, never found the time. Perhaps this interest in old houses coincided with a sudden interest in buying and renovating ancient country cottages. People everywhere wanted to buy them and occupy them, and there was a ready market for all kinds of ancient piles.

  Wealthy people from the cities bought all manner of hovels and spent much time and lots of money ‘doing them up’. Some of the results were horrific, but it is fair to say that many were tastefully restored and brought back to life when, without this surge of interest, they might have been left to fall into total ruin.

  Perhaps rural folk did not appreciate the architectural or historic significance of these little homes. They allowed them to be sold off, seldom making a bid to buy them. For them, the houses were often “That awd spot up t’rooad that’s tummling doon and leeaks like a coo shed”.

  As I toured the lanes of Ryedale, therefore, I became aware of all the thatched cottages in their various locations and in their various stages of repair or disrepair. From time to time, I saw our local thatcher at work — we called him a theeaker — and marvelled at his casual skills. Sometimes the cottages would be completely gutted and rebuilt, with all their ancient oak interior woodwork and flooring being removed and replaced with modern fittings.

  But occasionally, someone would come along and buy a remote thatched cottage, then proceed to restore it in its original form, albeit with modern benefits such as damp-proofing, up-to-date plumbing, central heating and electricity. When done properly, such a house could be a delight, a real gem.

  It was during my patrols along the lesser known byways around Aidensfield that I discovered Coltsfoot Cottage, a pretty country home if ever there was one. Tucked behind a tall, unkempt hawthorn hedge and almost hidden among a paddock thick with tall rose bay willow herbs, it had a thatched roof, whitewashed walls and tiny Yorkshire sliding windows. These were, and indeed still are, a feature of some moorland and Ryedale cottages.

  Owned by one of the local estates, it had for years been occupied by an elderly man who paid the tiniest of rents and who therefore lived in a rather primitive manner. His toilet was an earth closet; he had no hot water and no electricity and the floors were sandstone flags. The estate had offered to implement a full modernization scheme but old Cedric had declined.

  Having lived in the house since birth, he had no wish to change either it or his way of life. Dark, damp and neglected, it was a tumbledown old house and was known to date to the seventeenth century. But the interior was lovely; dark oak beams, an inglenook, tiny cosy rooms and a position of almost total seclusion gave it the status of a dream cottage. It was the kind of house that the country cottage-seekers of that time were desperately hunting, and was probably more attractive because it was so very ripe for modernization.

  From the quiet lane which passed the front gate, it appeared to be unoccupied and derelict, although there was a patch of garden which produced hollyhocks, delphiniums and several varieties of rose. Some of these climbed the walls and smothered the thatched porch with colour in the summer, mingling so beautifully with the honeysuckle.

  When Cedric died, the estate decided that it would be too expensive to bring the cottage up to contemporary standards. The subsequent rents would never justify the expense and so it was placed on the market
. And even as the estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ signs were being erected, a wealthy insurance broker from London chanced to be passing.

  With commendable speed and decisiveness he bought it; the price being very low due to its lamentable condition. But, like so many townspeople of the time, his great wish was to own a picturesque and isolated cottage wherein he could live a life of rural bliss far from the pressures of his high-flying career. It was a place he could ‘do up’; it needed thousands of pounds and many man-hours spending upon it, but the new owner of Coltsfoot Cottage was prepared to do all that. He wanted the perfect hideaway and he had found it.

  In my role as the village policeman, I had to be aware of events on my patch, and so I kept a discreet eye on the empty cottage.

  I did not want it to be vandalised or occupied by unauthorised visitors such as squatters who might come across it and establish a commune there. But within weeks of the purchase, the new owner began to make his impact. He came every weekend and sometimes during the week; he did a lot of the work himself, although he did employ contractors for the specialised tasks. The theeaker came to re-thatch the roof; a plumber came to install hot and cold water, a bathroom, shower and central heating while the electrician wired the house for lights and power.

  A damp-course was installed; the garden was cleared; the walls were re-pointed and whitewashed and the woodwork was either varnished or painted. The exterior rubbish was cleared with the assistance of a JCB, and a drive and parking area constructed to accommodate his Rover and her MGB. This was laid with gravel which crunched when anyone walked across it, and then a small conservatory was added at the rear, partly as a draught-proofing scheme and partly to grow flowers and cacti.

  Within a year, Coltsfoot Cottage had been transformed. Happily, roses still climbed up the white walls and trailed across the porch; but now, with its new roof of clean thatch and sparkling exterior, it was the ideal dream cottage. Modern, clean but incredibly beautiful, I would have loved to have been the owner, but such things were not for constables. This man had money, and he knew how to use it.