CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21)

by Nicholas Rhea

  CONSTABLE

  UNDER THE

  GOOSEBERRY

  BUSH

  A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

  NICHOLAS RHEA

  Constable Nick Mystery Book 21

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 1999

  by Robert Hale Limited

  © Nicholas Rhea 1999, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-789-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

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  Chapter 1

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  “I’m going to retire, Mr Rhea.”

  I was sitting at a scrubbed wooden table in the sunny kitchen of Joseph and Mabel Marshall’s delightful stone-built cottage in East Lane, Aidensfield. A coal fire was burning in the grate as a sooty black kettle sang on the hob. It was puffing miniature clouds of steam into the room as the lid bubbled and bounced with the fluctuating power of the steam. Their black cat, Sweep, was asleep on the clip rug in front of the fire and the mantelshelf bore an array of brass ornaments, all gleaming in the sunlight which poured through the windows. Some of the brassware caught reflections from the blazing fire too, all adding to the happiness generated by this room. Prominent among the ornaments was a pipe rack containing half-a-dozen briars, an indication of Joseph’s love of his pipe and tobacco.

  A dark wooden crucifix with a white plaster figure of Christ hung on the wall above the fireplace and there was an oval medallion of Our Lady on the rear wall of the kitchen, indicators of the strong, living Catholicism of this couple.

  Sometimes when I called, a string of rosary beads hung from a hook on one of the walls while ever-present on the landing window ledge was a statue of the Sacred Heart, easily visible from the street outside. This visible display of faith was common in most of the Catholic homes of Aidensfield.

  The kitchen table bore warm buttered scones, strawberry jam and a pot of tea along with plates, cups and saucers, while a vase of new daffodils stood on the window ledge. It was a scene of total rural contentment, something very normal but most enjoyable in my daily routine as Aidensfield’s village constable. In this case, it was midmorning and I was enjoying one of those delicious mouth-watering scones with a cup of hot fresh tea prepared by Mabel.

  I’d come to discuss the plans for the next Aidensfield Gooseberry Show — it was several months away, but I needed to confirm the date for my diary so that I could reserve, through Ashfordly Police Station, a quantity of ‘No Parking’ signs and traffic cones, necessities for my formal part in the event. During the summer months, there were heavy calls on ‘No Parking’ signs and cones in our beautiful and heavily visited area of North Riding of Yorkshire.

  I was making plans well in advance because I had no wish for Aidensfield to be swamped or brought to a halt by tourists’ cars and coaches being indiscriminately parked in the lanes and gateways. Cars especially were an increasing problem in the rural beauty spots, often through the thoughtlessness of visitors. To counteract their behaviour, I intended to ensure there’d be a formal parking area in a convenient field because the annual gooseberry show always attracted a crowd.

  Most were serious growers from near and far, but as the populace had become more mobile, many additional people such as day-trippers and tourists turned up out of sheer curiosity. Their parking proclivities had to be controlled because many townspeople thought they could park anywhere in the countryside that did not boast a ‘No Parking’ sign; the vital work of country people had to continue in spite of waves of incoming visitors. Some of them seemed to think that the National Park was a theme park provided only for the amusement of tourists.

  “I thought you had retired, Joseph?” I smiled, teasing him. “You finished on the railway a few years ago, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, I did, but I’m talking of t’ Old Gooseberry Society, Mr Rhea,” he said with all seriousness, removing his smoking briar pipe as he looked steadily at me. “As president, I mean. Retiring as president. It won’t be easy, giving it up, because I’ve been doing t’ job all these years . . .”

  “Forty years!” chipped in the formidable Mabel. “Forty years he’s been running that show. I’ve told him it’s time he handed over to somebody younger! He’s not just president either, he’s secretary and chairman and weighman and publicity man . . . the lot; he does all the running about! He shouldn’t, not at his age.”

  “A one-man band!” I smiled.

  “Yes, but he should give jobs to committee members, Mr Rhea. He’s done it all by himself, even putting chairs and tables out . . .”

  “There’s never been any complaints, Mabel, and every show’s been a huge success, so he’s obviously been doing a great job!”

  Not wishing to take sides in this domestic skirmish, I selected another of her scrumptious buttered scones and smothered it with a thick layer of home-made strawberry jam.

  “It’s getting tougher now, Mr Rhea . . .” began Joseph, puffing at his pipe and filling the room with its distinctive aroma. “And I’m beginning to feel my age, you know . . .”

  “He’s never won the Supreme Championship, Mr Rhea,” Mabel interrupted, determined to say her piece. “Far too busy organising things, that’s his trouble. What with doing bits for St Aidan’s like opening up and locking the church every day, and tidying up the graveyard and then being secretary of the Guild and helping out at the village hall, he’s never got time for things at home — except them gooseberries of his!”

  “Lots of village institutions would have trouble surviving if it wasn’t for volunteers like Joseph,” I added feebly.

  “Mebbe so, but so far as his gooseberry job’s concerned, he’s been neglecting his bushes so he could run things, rushing his work, forgetting to do things like pruning at the right time and not putting muck where and when it’s needed. He’s producing berries only half as big as he could do with just a bit of extra attention. He could have won the Supreme time and time again, but he never has! It’s time he did, Mr Rhea, before he’s under six foot of soil. It is daft, isn’t it? Him
being the organiser, knowing more about gooseberries than them other lot put together, and yet never winning the main prize! By, I’d like to see his name on that trophy! So, Mr Rhea, I say it’s time he packed in, handed over to somebody younger and got down to growing a champion berry. The Supreme Champion, I mean, the heaviest berry in the show. He could do that, Mr Rhea, if he set his mind to it — he could even win the world championship if he shaped himself.”

  “It would be nice if he did have his name engraved in silver, wouldn’t it?” I agreed. “The year’s Supreme Champion of Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society.”

  “I want him to do that, Mr Rhea, just once. He’s quite capable but he’ll never do it so long as he keeps doing all them jobs. That’s what I’ve told him — I’ve said it’s high time he handed over to somebody else, somebody younger, before it’s too late.”

  “My berries have allus been good ones,” Joseph managed to interrupt her as he produced another cloud of smoke. “Nobody can say they were poor; I’ve allus been in the top few . . .”

  “But never the top one, Joseph!” she snapped. “For all your work over forty years, you’ve never made the top. And it’s time you did! It’s time you took things a bit easier and concentrated on that prize. He is turned seventy-five, Mr Rhea, time’s getting short . . .”

  “He doesn’t look it,” I felt compelled to say. “He’s obviously had a very contented life!”

  “That’s because I’ve tended him so well,” and she smiled suddenly, a surprisingly nice smile, and a proud one. “He’s never gone without his dinner and he’s always had clean collars and shirts on Mondays, without fail, both when he was working and since he retired from the railways.”

  “Everybody says he’s a very lucky chap, having you around.” I knew that the people of Aidensfield regarded Joseph and Mabel as a devoted and happy couple even if she was rather domineering at times. There was always a warm welcome at their small cottage and they could often be seen walking together along the lanes and down the fields — friends as well as man and wife. Unless, of course, the walks were Mabel’s idea of putting on a public display of wedded bliss. Certainly, she’d always been ambitious for Joseph, even if he had never become a station master or chairman of British Railways.

  Joseph was very popular in Aidensfield and district and was known locally as a Big Catholic. He was known equally well as a Big Gooseberry Man, but the terms did not necessarily mean the same thing. A Big Catholic was one who followed his or her faith with unswerving devotion, attending daily mass as well as Sunday mass and working for the church in various ways. A Big Catholic took the collection, helped with the cleaning and flower rotas, tended the graveyard, worked on the maintenance of the building, assisted the priest on the altar, never missed mass on Holy Days of Obligation, took communion regularly, went to confession, attended benediction and always responded to calls for help by the priest or any member of the congregation.

  Joseph did all those things and more, because he was also chairman and secretary of St Aidan’s Guild, a somewhat unique but very historic organisation. Dating to pre-Reformation days, it was an ancient type of funeral club, one of the few of its kind to survive.

  Its members paid a very low monthly subscription which was invested so that deceased members could be given a decent burial irrespective of their wealth or status. The guild also ensured that regular masses would be said for deceased members, particularly upon the anniversary of their deaths. In the event of a death, guild members would attend the funeral in their long grey cloaks with red sashes and linings. The guild would make all the arrangements for the funeral, even digging the grave and arranging refreshments afterwards, and thus no one need suffer a pauper’s funeral. The long grey cloaks, worn by male and female members, were originally designed to conceal the clothing of poor and rich alike, thus being great levellers, and the cloaks were owned by the guild. When a member died, the cloak was returned for subsequent reissue to an incoming member.

  Joseph Marshall was therefore a very Big Catholic, a term which had nothing to do with the size and shape of the person concerned. The word ‘big’ was also used on the North York Moors to indicate strength or status because I’ve heard of big winds, big rivers and big bulls, just as a renowned breeder of black-faced sheep would be a Big Blackface Man or a famous pig breeder would be a Big Pig Man.

  With that definition in mind, the term Big Gooseberry Man or Big Berry Man to be more precise, has two meanings. It means one who is keenly associated with the growing of prize gooseberries or with the aims of the Old Gooseberry Society, but it can also mean a person who actually grows very large gooseberries. Joseph Marshall was therefore both a Big Catholic and a Big Berry Man.

  Mabel, on the other hand, had never had a job other than her household duties. They’d had three children, two sons and a daughter, now adults with families of their own. They lived away from the village but kept in close touch with their parents, but Mabel’s love of her family had kept her fully occupied and totally content. That devotion was now focused upon her grandchildren although she was a granny who preferred children to be seen or not heard. Now in her early seventies, Mabel had seven grandchildren who were frequent visitors and I knew she doted on them even if some regarded her as rather strict.

  She was a short and rather stout woman with a round pink face and a head of pure white hair, always neatly styled. Around the house, she always wore a flowered apron over a blue skirt and white blouse, removing it only when she went outside or locked up for the night. She attended village events and functions, but in spite of her forceful views, had never accepted responsibility for anything outside her home, except helping with the cleaning and flower arrangements in St Aidan’s Church. Like Joseph, she was also a Big Catholic who claimed she could clean a candlestick far better than any youngster, and that the flowers from Joseph’s garden were better than any bought in a shop.

  She was quite happy to be one of the crowd and not to take a leading role in any aspect of village life, although she had once been offered the post of president of the Women’s Institute. Generally regarded as a very high honour, Mabel had not been tempted and had politely declined.

  On this early spring morning, therefore, we continued to chat for a while with Joseph reminiscing over some of the highlights of his berry-growing career and, as he spoke, he filled the room with clouds of pungent smoke. Listening to him, though, I could sense that he would miss the involvement and excitement of his leading role in the world of giant gooseberries, and yet he was resolute in his decision to retire. I think Mabel was the force behind his decision, however, but it was probably a good thing for him.

  “Have you told anyone else about your intention?” I did not wish to be responsible for spreading his news around the village until he had made it public.

  “I’m doing it tonight,” he said softly. “We’ve a meeting of the Old Gooseberry Society: I’m going to make it official.”

  “I won’t say a word until it is official,” I assured him, adding, “It’ll come as a surprise to them, won’t it?”

  “I should think it might,” was all he said, but I knew he’d never talk about such private moments in advance of his big announcement. It made me realise that I was rather privileged to learn of his decision in this way, then I wondered if he would also relinquish his church work and other voluntary commitments. Whatever he decided, he would be difficult to replace.

  Before leaving the house, I obtained the formal date of the show from him — Monday, 3rd August which was Bank Holiday Monday. The show would be in Aidensfield village hall and the exhibits would be collected from 10.30 a.m. until 1 p.m. and weighed as they arrived.

  Prizes would be awarded, the winner being determined by weight alone. The size and appearance of a berry was not a factor in deciding a winner and thus personal opinions could be discounted. So delicate were the scales that they were taken into the village hall on the day prior to the show so they could adjust to the temperature, and then th
ey were tested for accuracy — they were even capable of weighing a pigeon’s breast feather. No berries would be accepted after 1 p.m., and once they had been weighed, they would be laid out on the tables beside their exhibitors’ names. They’d be separated into their classes and colours — yellows, reds, greens and whites — with certificates for the winners of each class, with the shining silver Aidensfield Cup for the show’s heaviest berry — the Supreme Champion. The show would be open to the public from 2.30 p.m. until 5 p.m. That was the pattern every year and on this occasion there seemed to be no need to change that routine.

  Although I could have guessed the date and timings (it was always held on August Bank Holiday Monday), I did need this kind of formal confirmation from Joseph just in case there had been a sudden change of venue or opening times. I noted the facts in my pocket book and would later enter them in our events diary at Ashfordly Police Station, along with the name and telephone number of the organiser — Joseph Marshall for this one final time.

  “Right, thanks, Joseph.” I made my move to leave the happy home. “I’ll attend to the parking side of things, and the security of exhibits and so on. I’ll be in touch a few times before the big day, but I hope your decision to retire is accepted, even though no one wants to lose you.”

  “There’s no such thing as an indispensable man,” said Joseph, with just the tiniest show of emotion and I guessed he didn’t really believe those words. “If you want to know how much you’ll be missed, you put your hand in a bucket of water and when you take it out, the hole that remains is a measure of how you’ll be missed. That’s what my old dad once told me. And it’s right! I mean, Mr Rhea, we’ve got used to being without Winston Churchill, haven’t we?”

  “We have,” I agreed. “But he didn’t run Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society, did he?”