During his leisure moments, he wore a well-tailored black suit. I never saw him in a sports jacket or casual wear of any kind; even when cycling to the pub or romping around at a garden fête, he would wear his black suit, and the result of this continual wear was that it had become extremely shabby. At close quarters, I could see that the suit was made of quality material, and sometimes I wondered whether he was descended from a sophisticated family who had fallen on hard times, the suit having perhaps belonged to some long-dead and wealthy male ancestor.
Alternatively, he might have bought it at a jumble sale. It was certainly from a bygone era. When new, it would have been beyond his financial limits and perhaps his social horizons, but it never seemed to wear out and was an undoubted bargain. I’m sure he regarded it as a worthwhile acquisition, and I’m equally sure he cherished it, but a visit to the cleaners would have worked miracles.
In my daily patrols, I had a feeling that, sooner or later in my professional life, I would encounter Daniel’s bigotry. It was almost inevitable in a village the size of Aidensfield, where one’s neighbours and fellow residents live so close to each other. From time to time, I tried to anticipate the kind of problems it would present, and then I endeavoured to work out a series of feasible responses. And, sure enough, that day did arrive — but it brought a curious problem that I had not foreseen.
At five o’clock one evening, which was in fact my day off, there was a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Daniel standing there in his crumpled, greasy suit. He looked far from happy, and I realized that something pretty awful must have happened to persuade him to call voluntarily at the police house.
‘Come in, Daniel.’ I stood back and held open the door.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll say my piece here.’
‘As you wish.’ I had no intention of antagonizing him.
‘Somebody’s pinched our silver tray!’ He rushed out the words as if he was talking treason. ‘T’insurance man says I’ve got to tell t’police, so I’m telling you.’
‘I’ll have to take details,’ I began. ‘You are reporting a crime to me.’
‘T’insurance said I had to tell t’police. I’ve told you, so that’s it.’
‘No, it isn’t it,’ I said. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Daniel. I’ve got official forms to compile if you are reporting a crime. The insurance will expect a full report from us, and I can’t do that without doing my job properly. So either you come in and help me fill in those forms, or I will not be able to complete the necessary details.’
He stared at his feet for a few moments, and I knew he was wrestling with his conscience. I made no comment about his previous antagonism and simply waited with the door held open. With a massive sigh, he stepped over the threshold, and I led him into my office. I must admit I experienced a feeling of success. I seated him beside the desk, drew the necessary crime report forms from the drawer and explained the formalities involved. But he was most reluctant to provide me with all the facts; he saw this as helping the police. In carrying out this interview, I had to drag every piece of information from him.
Through persistent questioning, I did learn that two men had visited his mother that morning, ostensibly to see if she had any old junk or ornaments to sell. They had told a good story and, while one had kept her talking, the other had explored the house. Only after they’d gone had the old lady realized the tray was missing. Daniel was clearly upset, especially at the evil way his elderly mother had been treated by these rogues.
I could see that he was battling with his conscience — he wanted the tray found and the rogues caught, but he did not want to break his lifelong embargo by helping the police. As a consequence, I did succeed in abstracting sufficient information for completion of my official form but not enough upon which to base a thorough investigation. For example, he would not or could not give me a detailed description of the missing tray, save to say it was roughly oval in shape with a handle at each end and legs underneath. It was a large one, some two feet long by twelve inches wide. It sounded more like a piece of silverware from a stately home than a tray from a Yorkshire council house. He offered no description of the two men, nor did he provide me with any of the modus operandi they had utilized.
I decided I would have to talk to Mrs Price but made a mental note to do so tomorrow — and then a thought struck me. Daniel would not have come to seek my official help without some kind of pressure, so did this tray belong to him or his mother? I had assumed it was his property, but now I began to suspect it was very important to her and that that could be the reason for his uncharacteristic visit. I became even more determined to talk to her and would do so when Daniel was at work. In the meantime, I could enter the crime into the official channels with an assurance that further enquiries would be made. Having made this uncharacteristic visit, Daniel rushed away.
At ten o’clock next morning, I paid a visit to Mrs Price and found her at home and quite composed. She was slightly stooped with age, but her hair still bore signs of its original auburn, and her brown eyes were alert and full of life. Upon recognizing me, she bade me enter her smart, clean home and settled me on the settee, insisting that I have a cup of tea.
‘I’ve come about the missing tray, Mrs Price,’ I said.
‘Daniel did not want to bother you,’ she smiled, ‘but I insisted. The insurance company said it must be reported stolen, you see, but, well, Daniel is a bit silly when it comes to dealing with policemen.’
‘I need a detailed description of the tray, Mrs Price, one that we can circulate among antique-dealers and salerooms.’
‘Oh, Daniel said it would not be necessary. He said you’d never do anything to trace it, you’d just record it so the insurance company could be sure it was a crime.’
‘Then Daniel is wrong, Mrs Price. We will circulate a full description to every police force in the United Kingdom, to Interpol and to all antique-dealers, salerooms, silversmiths and others who might be offered it. And, of course, our CID will make local enquiries about the men who took it.’
‘Then a photograph would be useful?’ she smiled. I found her to be an amazingly alert and wise old woman, with a keen brain and a wry sense of humour.
‘It would be ideal.’
‘Then I have one or two.’
She ferreted about in a cupboard near the fireplace and produced an old leather-bound album which she opened. Inside were lots of old prints, some secured in the book and others loosely assembled. But in time her bent old fingers found the ones she sought, and she passed them to me. I found myself looking at a silver salver. It was exquisitely ornate and bore a coat of arms in the centre.
‘Daniel could not put a value upon it, Mrs Price,’ I told her, ‘but this seems to be a very valuable piece of silver.’
‘It is, Mr Rhea, in terms of both money and sentimentality. Now Daniel could not put a value upon it simply because I have never given him any idea of its worth.’
‘I put it down as £10,’ I confessed to her.
‘I’d put it much closer to twenty times that, Mr Rhea. Now listen. When Daniel was a youth, he was rather impetuous and liable to do silly things, and so I have never revealed the full nature of that salver to him. He knew it was a family heirloom but thought it was just an old tray I had inherited. In fact, it is the only thing I have which can be traced through my family — the tray was made in 1779; it bears that date. The coat of arms is my family crest.’
I did not ask about the circumstances of the family, but she did say her grandfather had tried to sell the family silver, hence the photographs were intended for the catalogue, but her own mother had rescued this salver. It had been withdrawn and given to her mother, and now it was hers; when she died, it should have passed to Daniel. She had sent Daniel to report the theft, not realizing how much detail I would require and not appreciating his own lack of knowledge of what should have been a fascinating inheritance. My mind now flashed to the old suit that Daniel habitually wore — had
that also come from grandad? It seemed that Daniel was of noble ancestry, but just how far back in history I could not guess. It might be a subject for some genealogical research — even by Daniel, if he so wished.
Thanks to my visit and the alertness of Mrs Price, I did walk away with a detailed description of the salver, a far better idea of its value and a very useful photograph. I also managed to obtain reasonable descriptions of the two thieves — apparently, one of them had said he’d like to go to the toilet, and she’d allowed him upstairs to the bathroom. The salver had been kept on a dressing-table in the spare bedroom — the thief had seen it and had somehow smuggled it out of the house, probably stuffed up his jacket. Nothing else was missing.
When I informed Detective Sergeant Gerry Connolly, he was pleased the matter had been recorded — and he was delighted with the photograph. He told me that in recent weeks a team of two supposed antique-dealers had been operating in the area, and Mrs Price had been their most recent victim. Their MO was simple: they entered houses occupied by elderly folks under the pretext of inspecting and valuing goods, and while one kept the householder occupied, the other would find an excuse for exploring the house. They removed anything that took their fancy. And now, thanks to her, a fairly comprehensive description of the men was available — she had been able to fill gaps left by other old folks. But, more important to the Prices, the salver was identifiable. The coat of arms in the centre made it unique, and so copies of the photo were made for the widest possible distribution.
Two nights later I popped into the Brewers Arms at Aidensfield while on a late evening patrol and saw Daniel in his usual corner at the bar. He saw me, smiled briefly and nodded, but on this occasion there was no bravado about his refusing to co-operate with the police. I did not mention the theft before his pals — if he wished to do so, that was his privilege, and after checking the ages of some youngsters in the lounge, I left.
It was five days later when I got a call from Detective Sergeant Connolly.
‘Ah, Nick, glad to have caught you. We’ve some good news — that silver salver of Mrs Price’s. It’s been recovered.’
‘Really? Where?’ I was delighted, more for Mrs Price than for myself.
‘Birmingham. Birmingham City Police have done wonders for us — they’ve set up an Antiques Squad, and one of their lads spotted the salver in an antique shop. The dealer paid £850 for it — so whoever sold it to him knew it was worth a bob or two. But the even better news is that it has a set of fingerprints on it, and we’re hoping they match those of our suspects. That’ll take a day or two.’
‘So when can Mrs Price have it back?’ I asked.
‘It’ll take a while. If we get the villains, we’ll need the salver for evidence, so we’re talking of a couple of months or so at the least. But at least it’s safe, and she will get it back eventually.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant, that’s great news. I’ll go and tell her.’
But when I knocked on the door, Daniel opened it.
‘What do you want?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I’d like to talk to your mother,’ I said.
‘Mother? What for?’
‘About the stolen salver. I understand it is her property, Daniel, not yours.’
His face showed I had scored a point over him. Then Mrs Price came to see who was at the door and beckoned me to enter. ‘Come in, Mr Rhea.’
With Daniel following me into the front room, she showed me the settee and smiled. ‘Well, Mr Rhea, you have some news?’
‘Yes.’ I was so pleased for her as I explained the developments. Daniel listened too, but when I’d finished, he said, ‘You mean you came here to quiz my mother after I’d given you all that help?’
‘There were certain things to clarify, Daniel, and a more detailed description to obtain; you were at work. Your mother was most helpful . . .’
‘I didn’t tell you of Mr Rhea’s visit, Daniel, because I knew how you’d react, you silly man. Anyway, it has paid dividends — the salver is safe again. Safe for you, I might add, although I’m not sure that you deserve it!’
‘But I gave all the information to him, then he comes sneaking into my house asking question, snooping behind my back, poking his nose into my private life . . .’
‘Daniel!’ said Mrs Price. ‘You are a silly fool.’
‘I’ll go.’ I stood up to leave. ‘I’ll be in touch when we’ve more news, Mrs Price.’
‘I hate the police,’ said Daniel, standing up to follow me to the door. ‘They’re so untrustworthy, so devious . . .’
Mrs Price just smiled.
7. Private Lives
The only trouble is, we do not understand
what is happening to our neighbours.
JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, 1836–1914
Each of us feels entitled to a private life in which we may do as we please within the confines of our own home. If that statement sounds eminently just, the reality is not quite like that, because our private life and behaviour are regulated. For example, we must be careful not to disturb or upset the neighbours in a way that infringes the law.
The truth is that we cannot do exactly as we wish, even within our own home. Instead, there are many rules to restrict the use to which we can put our home. For example, it cannot legally become a brothel or a place for taking drugs, nor can it become a slaughter-house, public house, pawnbroker’s shop, firearms dealer’s premises, nursing home, gaming house, pet shop, theatre or hotel without some official intervention. Furthermore, we cannot do exactly as we wish within our own home, because we might antagonize one of the many official agencies. Running a scrap-metal business from the back yard, a horse-racing establishment from the front lawn, a cats’ home in the garden shed, or rock concerts in the attic might not receive universal approval.
In spite of many restrictions, though, it may still be said that an Englishman’s home is his castle, because we can enjoy a high degree of privacy within its confines. This reassuring old saying comes from the famous lawyer, statesman and jurist Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634): ‘The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury or violence as for his repose.’ The trouble with most of us is that we respect that notion up to a point, for, if we are honest, we still like to know what the neighbours are doing, and then we might object if their behaviour annoys us.
The snag is that the actions of one’s neighbours can often extend beyond the immediate boundaries of their home, at times affecting the entire community. Simple and acceptable examples might include weddings and funerals which, although based on one’s home, do in varying degrees affect the state of prevailing calm in a village community. Lots of people arrive, traffic is generated, crowds of spectators assemble, curiosity is aroused and the movement of ordinary people is sometimes restricted to permit the procession to pass. We do not object to that, nor do we normally object when something other than a wedding or funeral occurs, particularly when there is a positive increase in the interest shown by a healthy community.
Examples in Aidensfield included a visit by Her Majesty the Queen to nearby Hovingham on the occasion of the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, the visit of Sophia Loren to Castle Howard, along with Peter Ustinov and other famous faces, while filming Lady L, followed by several other camera crews who came later to film sequences for James Herriot’s books.
During my constableship, Aidensfield itself was host to a surprising number of very famous people, ranging from British prime ministers to one of Charlie Chaplin’s daughters, via cousins of the American president and several foreign princes and princesses. All were highly identifiable in a village of fewer than 200 souls. Nonetheless, in the midst of all this excitement, the village people afforded these guests a welcome degree of privacy. Word of their presence rarely reached anyone outside the community, the press never got to hear of their visits, and these famous folk could pop into the Brewers Arms or walk across the local moors without fear of being accosted by admi
rers, photographers and hangers-on.
As the village constable, I was often privy to these occasions, being asked by the hosts to ward off any unwelcome attention should it arise. I think it is fair to say that the people of Aidensfield became accustomed to having the famous and wealthy as guests in their pretty village.
Their discretion and loyalty to such a visitor were tested during one long, hot summer.
The story, which involves the private lives to two people, centres upon the old blacksmith’s workshop. When the last blacksmith of Aidensfield ended his craft, an enterprising young man called Kevin Bell purchased the premises and turned it into a craftsman woodworker’s shop. He began to produce handmade goods of every kind, from large items of furniture to such small objects as serviette rings, ashtrays, egg cups and three-legged stools.
Like so many local woodworkers, he carved an emblem upon his work. Hereabouts we have the Mouseman of Kilburn who carves everything in oak and then adorns it with his famous mouse trademark; there are those who identify their handicraft with acorns, lizards, owls and other distinctive marks. Kevin chose his own name for his logo and carved a bell upon his products. His work was good, his furniture was sound, and his application implied a determination to succeed. And so he did. He would never become a millionaire but he would and did become a respected craftsman.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 85
