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

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘When they’re dead, they’re dead,’ said Angus. He was probably harking back to the days when the procedures surrounding death were less strictured. Certainly in some remote places, people died in circumstances which today would warrant a full investigation — but all that was in the past.

  ‘Doctor McGee is following me along,’ I said. ‘He must see the body . . . er . . . your father . . . and certify that he is dead. That’s his first job. Then if he cannot certify the cause of death, I’m afraid a post-mortem must be held. That means examination by an expert who determines precisely what caused death; he’ll find out if it was a heart problem, or something else. Once that’s been established, the funeral can go ahead, with the permission of the coroner.’

  ‘’E’s as dead as a doornail,’ cried Angus. ‘There’s neea need for t’doctor to come and tell us that! And as for t’reason ’e died, it was age, nowt else. ’E was tonned eighty-eight, and ’e just faded away in ’is sleep.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but we do have to do things the proper way.’

  I could see they did not understand the need for all the fuss, and then Dr Archie McGee arrived. Fergus took him to the table and he sat down with a mug of tea, then looked at me for guidance.

  ‘Well, Mr Rhea, what’s the score on this one?’

  ‘It seems that Mr MacKenzie, senior, died in his sleep, Doctor.’

  ‘He’ll be upstairs now, is he? I’ll have a look.’

  ‘No, he’s outside, in a pigsty,’ I said. ‘We are waiting to take you there, after you’ve had your cuppa.’

  ‘Pigsty? Did he die there?’ he asked the twins.

  ‘Nay!’ said Fergus shortly. ‘’E died in bed, but because it was haytime, we couldn’t stop work to git ’im buried. There was no time, Mr Rhea, not a minute to spare. You’ll know what t’weather’s been like, we daren’t miss a day just for a funeral. So we laid ’im in yon pigsty till we got finished haytiming; it’s not in use and we cleaned it out, them put ’im in straw and salted ’im, making sure we turned ’im twice a week. ’E’s out there, as fresh as a posy, waiting to be buried. I mean, there’s nowt wrang wiv ’im, except he’s dead o’ course. ’E didn’t suffer, ’e wasn’t badly,’ e never fell off a ladder or banged ’is head on owt . . .’e just faded away like Ah said.’

  Doctor McGee raised his eyes as if to heaven. ‘And how long has he been there?’

  ‘Since just afore we started hay time. Four or five weeks, mebbe. Actually, Doctor, we got finished haytiming a while back, and we was that relieved we’d got all t’hay ladened in, we forgot aboot ’im for a day or two. It was only when Ah went in t’sty for summat that Ah saw ’im there, so Ah turned him over and rang Harold to git ’im buried.’

  Dr McGee grinned ruefully at me, as Fergus continued,

  ‘I thought it was time we were gitting summat done with t’awd feller. Not that ’e’d have minded waiting, thoo knaws, ’e allus was a patient chap, oor dad.’

  ‘You are supposed to organise the funeral straight away, gentlemen,’ Doctor McGee sighed. ‘You must call a doctor who’ll certify death and get things moving.’

  ‘We couldn’t see t’point in that,’ said Fergus. ‘Ah mean, once ’e was dead, there was nowt ’e could do and nowt we could do, and besides, ’e wouldn’t take any ’arm waiting awhile to get buried. Ah reckon this is a fuss about nowt.’

  McGee drained his tea. ‘I’d better have a look at him. Take us to him, gents.’

  The brothers led us to a row of pigsties and pointed to one with its door closed. ‘In there,’ said Fergus.

  ‘You wait outside,’ he said to them. ‘I’ll have a look at him, PC Rhea had better come with me.’

  Inside, there was the stench of death which is always present around a corpse, but it was tempered by the stronger smell of salt and there, packed in lots of dry straw, was the body of old Mr MacKenzie. It had not decomposed as one would have expected, and no doubt the salt treatment had done something to preserve it. And the straw had kept it cool too, rather like the old system of storing blocks of ice in straw deep within the ice-houses of country mansions. Ice blocks kept in straw could survive for many months without melting . . .

  Corpses were kept in mortuary fridges for months or even years, and those old ice-houses would keep game fresh for months too. This pigsty was beautifully cool and dry; it was also rat-proof and I wondered how long old Mr MacKenzie would have kept ‘as fresh as a posy’ in here. Maybe for months, even if it was an English summer.

  Dr McGee began his examination; it was very thorough due to the curious circumstances, and he stripped the nightshirt off the stiff old man to check for wounds or marks of violence, turning the body over and meticulously inspecting it. From where I stood, I saw no marks likely to raise suspicion, but I watched the doctor’s careful work.

  ‘You never treated the old man, Doctor?’ I asked as he conducted his examination.

  He shook his head. ‘Once, years ago, he went down with a stomach problem, but that was ten or twelve years since. Looking at him, and bearing in mind he’s been out here for weeks, I’d say he died from old age, from natural causes.’

  ‘Would you certify that?’ I put the important question to him.

  ‘It would require a post-mortem to determine that with any accuracy.’ He spoke honestly. ‘The pathologist would have to examine the heart, brain, internal organs, lungs, throat muscles, the lot — you know the routine as well as I do. There are ways of despatching old folks, as you well know, to make it look like a natural death.’

  ‘So do you think this is a suspicious death?’ I put him on the spot once again.

  ‘To be honest, no. These chaps are too basic for that. Besides, if they had done the old chap in, they’d have got rid of the body, not kept it in cold storage until they could fix a proper funeral. Look, PC Rhea, if we go through all the official motions, with a PM, the coroner, publicity and so forth, these old characters are going to be made to look fools, aren’t they? And nothing will be achieved.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘They will look a bit daft.’

  ‘I am prepared to certify first, that he is dead, and second, that he died from natural causes, from old age in fact. In spite of these odd circumstances, there is no doubt in my mind that the old boy died naturally, although, to be totally honest, we should really have a post-mortem due to the time lapse since he died. But I will stick my neck out and issue the necessary certificate, without going through all those formalities. I think it is totally unnecessary in this case.’

  ‘Fine, that’s all I need, and thanks. We can get this over now. That’s all Harold needs to organise the funeral.’

  And so Dr McGee wrote out the necessary certificate and gave it to the brothers.

  ‘That’s all you require,’ he said. ‘Give this to Harold Poulter and he’ll attend to the rest of it. He’ll see the registrar for you as well, leave it all in his hands.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor,’ said Fergus. ‘Ah never realised dying meant sike a carry-on.’

  ‘I’ve dated the death certificate for today,’ said McGee. ‘That means the official date of your dad’s death is today, do you understand?’

  Angus nodded. ‘A bit like t’Queen, eh?’ he said slowly. ‘She’s got an official birthday and a real one, so our dad’s got an official day for dying and a real one.’

  ‘Yes,’ said McGee, ‘but don’t mention the real one!’

  ‘Do we ’ave to do owt else, then?’ asked Angus. ‘Is that it? Is t’official bit ovver with?’

  ‘Nearly, but Harold the undertaker will see to the rest of it for you. You’ve done your bit.’

  ‘Dying’s fussier than Ah thought it would be,’ said Angus to his brother. ‘So think on, and get me buried quick if Ah goes afore thoo!’

  ‘And we’ll ’ave to get yon pigsty disinfected, we’ve a sow due to farrow next week, and we can’t let t’young ’uns live in a sty that needs disinfecting. It’s time we got oor awd dad shifted somewhere more p
ermanent.’

  And so the funeral went ahead and they made their ‘more permanent’ arrangements for their father’s long-term rest. So if you visit the churchyard at Lairsbeck, you will see the tombstone of Alexander Cameron MacKenzie who died aged eighty-eight. The date on his tombstone is 4th July, but that is neither the date of his actual death nor of his funeral.

  It is the date Dr McGee examined him in that pigsty.

  Chapter 9

  Something very childish, but very natural.

  SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772—1834

  Children take part in a large proportion of a police officer’s work, sometimes through the fault of others such as cases of neglect or cruelty, sometimes as victims through the commission of crimes, sexual assaults, family arguments and maintenance defaulters, sometimes by accident when they are knocked down by motor vehicles or suffer death by drowning or from any other cause. Other matters within our scope were the employment of children, dangerous performances in places like circuses or theatres, harmful publications which might affect them, smoking by juveniles, their general care and protection, their education and a whole host of other matters. Abortion, child destruction, infanticide, concealment of birth and the abandonment of children all came with the realm of our duties.

  Our law books and police procedural volumes devoted entire chapters to the law, practice and procedure relating to children and young persons but I cannot determine precisely what proportion of my duty time was spent on matters relating to them. It was certainly a substantial amount and indeed, the criminal law of England does rightly devote many statutes or parts of statutes to children and young persons. Indeed, it divides them into neat categories and we had to learn, parrot-fashion, a table of relevant ages at which certain crimes and offences might be committed against youngsters.

  For example, a mother causing the death of her child under one year old could be convicted of infanticide; it was an offence to abandon a child under two so as to endanger life or health; there was a crime committed by suffocation of a child under three when it was in bed with a drunken person over sixteen; intoxicants must not be given to a child under five unless for medicinal reasons, and children over five must receive a proper education. It was an offence to be drunk in charge of a child under seven in a public place or on licensed premises and, at that time, a child under eight was not held criminally responsible for his or her acts. That age was subsequently raised to ten.

  This table of ages included youngsters up to twenty-four, with a mass of information concerning those in their teens — there was drinking in pubs, owning and using firearms, driving motor vehicles, marriage, betting, pawning goods or dealing in rags plus a list of penalties open to them if they committed offences or crimes. Much of this legislation was designed for the care and protection of children and young persons and it was our duty to enforce those laws.

  In criminal law, the word ‘child’ meant a person under the age of fourteen, and ‘young person’ meant a person who had attained the age of fourteen but was under the age of seventeen. The term ‘juvenile’ included both children and young persons, thus referring to all those under 17, while ‘adult’ was a person aged seventeen and upwards, but aspects of these definitions have now been changed.

  It follows that we spent a lot of time learning the mass of laws which affected children and young persons, and we also spent considerable time enforcing the awkward laws which seemed to attract rebellious youngsters, such as drinking underage, driving underage, betting underage, smoking underage, using firearms underage, having sex underage and being employed underage. There were times when even police officers felt the law was silly — for example, a person can take the responsibility for getting married and having children at 16, but cannot buy a pint of ale in the bar of a pub until reaching 18. A person of seventeen could be in sole charge of an aircraft in motion but should not be sent betting circulars until reaching 21.

  However, it was not the task of the police service to question the laws of the realm, however illogical they might be, for those laws were made by Parliament and our job was to enforce them without fear or favour. In fact, our enforcement of the law is always tempered with discretion for without that, the country would become a police state. If we rigidly enforced every law, life would be intolerable; imagine the furore if we prosecuted everyone who drank, smoked or placed bets while underage or experienced their first groping sexual encounter with someone under the permitted age. One learned judge made it clear that the latter laws were not for the prosecution of youngsters having a tumble in the hay.

  But many of our dealings with youngsters were outside the scope of the law; they were simply ordinary everyday happenings which involved a policeman and a child, and I had a marvellous example of this when Mrs June Myers lost her purse. A pretty young mother with two children, she came to my police house at Aidensfield to report the loss.

  When the doorbell rang that Saturday lunchtime, I answered it to find the fair-haired June standing outside with her daughter; this was Melanie and she was seven. I invited them into the office, but June turned to look behind herself, and there, hiding behind the hedge at my gate, was her son. This was Joseph and he was nine.

  ‘I won’t come in, thanks, Mr Rhea, it’s Joseph, he won’t come near you.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked as the little face peered at me through the foliage.

  ‘He’s frightened of policemen,’ she said. ‘He thinks you’ll lock him up!’

  ‘I’m not frightened!’ beamed Melanie from her mother’s side.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ I smiled, ‘so what on earth’s given Joseph that idea?’

  ‘Some of the kids at school, I think. He won’t say much about it, but I don’t like to leave him there with all the traffic passing . . . so . . .’

  ‘Joseph is silly,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Be quiet, Melanie,’ said her mum.

  ‘I won’t hurt him,’ I said loudly so he might hear, ‘so what’s the problem, June?’

  She explained how she had been to Ashfordly on the bus only this morning to do some shopping and had lost her purse. It contained a few personal belongings and about £10 in cash, too much for her to lose.

  With Melanie adding her comments, I took details and promised I would see if it had been handed in. As she waited at the door, I rang Ashfordly Police Station, but at that stage, there was no record of it. However, I assured her that if it was handed in, it would be restored to her in due course. Off she went, with Joseph running ahead to keep out of my clutches and Melanie waving a brave goodbye.

  That afternoon I had to visit Ashfordly Police Station on a routine matter and was in time to see a middle-aged lady departing. As I entered, PC Alwyn Foxton said,

  ‘Ah, Nick! Just in time. That purse you rang about, it’s just been brought in. Found in the market place under a seat. The finder’s just left.’

  I checked the contents and sure enough, it belonged to June Myers, and the money was intact. I told Alwyn I’d deliver it to Mrs Myers later in the day, and would provide her with the name of the lady who had been so honest in handing it in. And, of course, I would obtain the necessary official receipt for it and its contents.

  I knocked on the door of the Myers’ council house at teatime and it was opened by young Joseph.

  Upon seeing me standing there in full uniform, he gave a sharp cry of alarm and bolted back indoors, shouting and crying for his mother. Alarmed at his outburst, she rushed from the kitchen and expressed relief when she saw me at the door. I gave her the good news about her purse and she invited me in while she signed my official receipt. During this short item of business, Joseph hid behind the settee, peering out at me with tearful eyes. I learned that Melanie was out playing with friends.

  ‘Mr Rhea isn’t going to hurt you!’ she said to the child. ‘He’s brought mummy’s purse back, look!’

  He looked at it, apparently puzzled that a policeman should be doing something helpful, and then he retreated
behind his protective settee.

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you, Joseph,’ I spoke to the unseen lad. ‘I’m here to help your mum, we’ve brought her purse back.’

  There was no reaction from him. I didn’t seek him out; that would have raised his fears even more, so I left quietly with June’s delight being my reward. She said she would write a letter of thanks to the finder.

  It was some three weeks later when I received a phone call from Alan Myers; he was June’s husband and he worked at an agricultural engineers’ depot in Ashfordly. I think he was a welder and he rang me from work.

  ‘It’s Alan Myers, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had a call from our June. Somebody’s pinched Joseph’s bike, It’s a new one an’ all. We got it for his birthday . . .’

  ‘Where did it go from?’ I asked.

  ‘Outside our house, sometime since last night. It got left out, Mr Rhea, by accident; it’s our own fault, but I thought you might come across it.’

  ‘I’ll have a walk down there this morning, Alan,’ I assured him. ‘Is June in? I can see her for a description of it.’

  ‘Aye, she rang me from a neighbour’s, said she’d be in all day.’

  ‘Good, I’ll do my best.’

  When I arrived, both Joseph and Melanie were at school and I obtained the necessary written statement from June Myers. This included an account of the bike’s location, its description and a sentence to say that no one had any authority to remove it. It was a Hercules, a small blue cycle with white mudguards and a white pump. The seat was white too and it had a chainguard and lamps back and front. Almost new, it was clean and in very good condition. It was the miniature of a gents’ full-size bicycle.

  I promised June I would circulate its description to all local police stations and patrolling officers, and that it would appear in our monthly Stolen Cycles Supplement which was distributed to all cycle dealers. But, in my heart of hearts, I was doubtful if we could recover it.