“It’s important though, because I want to prevent a crime wave,” I told her. “If people think they can steal bikes as easily as they took Mr Whittaker’s, we might have a return visit or two by the villains. Other people running places like yours will suffer from thieves while some unfortunate cyclists will lose their pride and joy.”
“You really think that, Mr Rhea?”
“If someone steals and gets away with it without any real hassle, they’ll try it again, Mrs Simpson. And good bikes of the kind your customers use will bring a lot of cash. We need to take this very seriously.”
“Yes, I agree. I’m pleased you are taking it so seriously,” she said.
“So, have you heard any more about the theft?” I asked. “From the local people? They often see and hear things.”
“I hope the thieves leave me alone. I don’t want them to keep stealing from here. I’d lose my reputation. But no, I haven’t heard anything, although one or two locals have mentioned the crime but they saw nothing, Mr Rhea.”
I told Mrs Simpson about the steps I had taken, adding that I was going to call on the vicar of Thackerston later that night, and then I thanked her for her helpfulness, particularly in lending a bike to Larry Whittaker for his ride home.
“He managed to get home on it even if he was a bit stiff and sore,” she smiled. “He has another lightweight bike; racing cyclists often have two or three machines. He’ll return mine by van in the near future although I said he could keep it. He’s heard nothing about his own bike, Mr Rhea; he seems to accept it has vanished into thin air.”
“We’ve had no other thefts reported,” I told her. “But we do issue a Stolen Cycles Supplement which circulates all bike shops and dealers, so let’s hope we can trace it through them.”
I remained for a short time, chatting about her children who lived away from Crampton and then left. I liked Mrs Simpson but had never discovered her Christian name. Everyone called her Mrs Simpson. Although it was growing dark as I continued to patrol my beat, I did park the van from time to time to make careful searches of several places where the Frejus might have been dumped.
After all, if a child had stolen the bike, or if some passing youth had taken a fancy to it, they’d probably find it difficult to control while riding, bearing in mind its racing frame with steeply angled front forks, its rat-trap pedals fitted with toe-clips, its narrow saddle and its very hard rubber tyres. Riding this kind of sophisticated racing machine was a far cry from pedalling a sedate Hercules or Raleigh roadster.
I had to consider the likelihood it had been dumped, but I did not find it nor did I find anyone who had seen it. By the time I had completed that shift, I felt sure the bike had been spirited away from my patch by someone who would completely disguise it and I would endorse my crime report accordingly. Having completed that search, I decided to visit the Reverend Jason Chandler who was vicar of Crampton, but who held responsibility for the tiny ancient Minster at Thackerston, the venue of the annual Cyclists’ Sunday.
The cycling clubs of Britain called in Thackerston Sunday and came in their hundreds to attend a special church service in the ancient minster, once a teaching centre for the Catholic faith, but now a tiny Anglican church. The event known as Thackerston Sunday had been held regularly since 1925, missing only one Sunday during World War II when the vicar suffered a minor injury through a piece of flying shrapnel as a bomb dropped on the moorland above the village. He’d been walking his dog nearby at the time and had narrowly missed death. The dog had fled, never to be seen again. In addition to attracting cyclists from all the northern counties and further afield, it also attracted top preachers, including the Archbishop of York, several politicians and other people in the public eye.
There was always wide publicity both before and after the gathering; once the morning service was over the assembled cyclists either made their long way home, or continued a tour of the moors after having sandwiches and flasks in and around Thackerston or perhaps calling at a local pub for a snack.
Although Larry Whittaker had promised to alert the CTC and all its associated clubs and members, I felt the Reverend Chandler should be aware of the risk because instead of attracting forty or so cyclists like Mrs Simpson, his congregation would be something like 300, or even more. The church could seat around 180 if they squeezed themselves into the narrow, ancient pews, and the rest would have to stand in the aisles and other available spaces, even spilling outside into the church grounds. Having allowed the Reverend Chandler time to complete his Sunday evening services, I drove into the vicarage grounds and rang the doorbell.
“Ah, PC Rhea,” he greeted me. “Just in time for a sherry!”
He waved me inside, bidding me to leave my cap on the stand in the hall as he led me into his spacious lounge. A coal fire was burning and Mrs Chandler was knitting beside it, also with a large sherry at her side.
“Mrs Chandler,” I acknowledged her.
“Hello, Mr Rhea, do come in,” she smiled, and I felt I was welcome.
Without checking that I really wanted a sherry, Jason Chandler produced a large glass from his cabinet, poured a generous helping of dry sherry and handed the full glass to me.
“Sit down,” he invited, indicating an easy chair.
He was a man in his middle fifties, small and rather compact, with a head of fine grey hair, rimless spectacles and a keen interest in everything around him. He’d written a history of Crampton, for example, then a history of the local parish church, and now he was working on a similar history of Thackerston. “You’ve met Pauline?” he referred to his wife.
“Yes, at the last garden fete,” I reminded him. “You looked after me very well, Mrs Chandler — cool drinks on a hot day are ideal for busy policemen! But, now, well, first I must say I’m sorry to call so late in the evening.”
“Nonsense, it’s only eight o’clock!” he smiled. “So what can we do for you?”
I explained about the cycle theft at Crampton and told him what Mr Whittaker intended to do with regard to warning other clubs and individuals, but I then referred to the forthcoming Thackerston Sunday and asked if he could help in any way to advise the incoming cyclists to adopt some kind of security for their machines.
“I’m in daily contact with the organisers,” he assured me. “All I can do, Mr Rhea, is tell them what you’ve told me and ask them to warn their club members. A high proportion of our congregation are not club members, they’re individuals who come along for the day. I fear we are not going to be able to warn everyone.”
“I realise that, but if you could warn as many as possible, then I’m sure word would pass among them as they assemble for the service. I will come to patrol outside the church during the service, my uniform should deter any likely thief, and I would imagine the cycling clubs will recruit volunteers to guard their machines.”
“Right, I understand. Some do stay outside the church anyway, late-comers as a rule because we can’t accommodate them all inside. But I’ll stress the risks every time I speak to any of them during the coming week, whether they’re organisers or just members of the congregation.”
“Thanks, that will be a great help.”
“Good, then before I commence the service — it begins at eleven o’clock by the way and runs for about an hour — I’ll give members of the congregation a further reminder and enough time to pop outside to secure their bikes or to arrange guardians if they think it’s necessary. Sadly, we can’t warn everyone.”
“That’s all I want, I couldn’t ask for more cooperation,” I smiled, sipping the sherry. “I just hope that the Thackerston Sunday isn’t a target for our cycle thief.”
“I shall pray for him,” smiled the vicar. “Now, Mr Rhea, while you are here, perhaps you could settle a mystery for me.”
“Of course,” I told him. “If I can. Just ask.”
“I’ve heard on the proverbial grape vine that Joseph Marshall has resigned as president of Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society. To be
honest, I can’t believe it. I didn’t get to the meeting. I had a church event to divert me. He’s been there years, hasn’t he? A true rock of foundation! I just cannot imagine Joseph being happy without some commitment to his beloved gooseberry show — and I must admit I can’t imagine the show running without him.”
“Yes, he has decided to retire but he doesn’t leave until after the next show,” I confirmed. “It’s a pity because he was a good president. He would always listen to others but at the same time always knew his own mind. He had acquired a lot of wisdom over the years, Mr Chandler. And he used it to good advantage.”
“It won’t be easy to find anyone quite so good but I do accept that change isn’t always a bad thing. So who’s the new president going to be?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea, I haven’t heard. I couldn’t attend the meeting either; I was on duty that evening, doing a spell in Ashfordly,” I had to admit. “The candidate has to be drawn from members of the committee, so that narrows the field somewhat, and I think there has to be a two-thirds majority in the voting. Only committee members can vote, too, and it’s done on voting slips — secretly! Joseph has proposed a candidate, I believe. Anyway, it’s clear you have a keen interest in the Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society. Are you a member?” I asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes I am, as a matter of fact, although I’ve never shown my berries neither am I on the committee. In the years I’ve grown them, they’ve never approached anything like the required sizes, they’re more for making pies than creating astonishment in the eye of the beholder. But I was thinking of having a go this year, oddly enough. Just the other week, I read that some gooseberries flourish under sycamore trees and the next day I discovered that a young sycamore had established itself in my garden. It’s almost an omen, isn’t it? It is now quite tall, and, Mr Rhea, my berries are direct descendants of genuine Aidensfield stock. Lord Kitchener variety, they are. White ones. So I do quality to show my berries.”
“I sense there’s a lot of interest this year,” I said. “Perhaps Joseph’s decision has focused a few minds on the society and its aims.”
“You could be right, but if we are members, we should really play our part. So this year I might just do a spot of judicious pruning, swot up on the best food for my trees and see about competing — with a bit of divine assistance from above! I think our local show is a wonderful thing. To concentrate solely on gooseberries is a marvellous idea, so unique — no flowers or vegetables or children’s drawings or the work of amateur artists . . . just gooseberries of immense proportions. Wonderful stuff!”
“From time to time, incomers try to change the rules so they include flowers and fruit and so on,” I told him. “But we’ve managed to resist them so far — thanks to Joseph Marshall. He would never let newcomers change anything, even though some have managed to wheedle themselves onto the committee.”
“I wonder why incomers always try to change things?”
“It’s usually those who are not genuine country people,” I commented.
“Perhaps that’s the reason. They come from towns and cities, and move into a village because they have a dream of what village life is like, and promptly try to change things so that we’re downgraded into something dreadful like suburbia with street lights, traffic lights, no parking signs and speed limits. And they object to the smells and sounds and character of the landscape, like crowing cockerels, muddy roads and pig manure! It makes me wonder why they want to come and live here.”
“Well, a good winter with a few feet of snow and freezing fog often sees them rushing back to the city streets,” I laughed.
“It was good of you to call, Mr Rhea. And I do hope the new gooseberry president is worthy of his office, whoever he is,” said the vicar.
And on that note, I left, making a mental note to attend the Thackerston Cyclists’ Service next Sunday morning. I felt I had done what I could so far as preventing further cycle thefts was concerned and after a final patrol of my beat, returned home at ten o’clock that evening and booked off duty.
* * *
In the week that followed, I learned that the new president of Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society was Jacob Butterworth, a 59-year-old sheep farmer from Rock Head Farm, Aidensfield. A sturdy man of medium height with broad shoulders and a thickset figure, his trade mark was a red waistcoat which he wore whenever he dressed up to leave the farm. He wore it with his sports jacket or with his best dark suit, and without exception he always loomed smart and well-dressed. Some said his ruddy complexion matched his waistcoats, for he did have a very weathered face, huge hands and whopping feet which he usually encased in brogue shoes.
Jacob specialised in the blackface breed which he ran on the open moors above his premises and he was chairman of the local branch of the Blackface Sheep Breeders’ Association. Also a stalwart of the Old Gooseberry Society, Jacob was a popular choice who was known across the entire North of England as a very fair man with a deep knowledge of every aspect of rural life. An expert in many subjects, he was modest by nature and yet he was a highly successful farmer whose wife, Lorna, had recently been appointed secretary of Aidensfield Women’s Institute.
They were much involved in various other aspects of Aidensfield community. Their three grown-up sons were all working within an agricultural background — Stephen was a veterinary surgeon, Terry was a livestock auctioneer and Frank was a gamekeeper. It transpired that Jacob’s stock records were due for their quarterly inspection by me and so, very soon after the announcement of his new appointment, I found myself sitting at the huge scrubbed wooden kitchen table enjoying a large mug of coffee and a plate of apple pie and cheese. This was my ten o’clock snack; all the farms in the area provided such snacks for all their callers. Jacob’s stock register was on the table before me — it was up to date and in order, as I knew it would be, and so I added my signature beneath the final entry and then said, “So you’re the new gooseberry president, Jacob, I hear?”
“Aye, Mr Rhea, I am. I tried to tell ’em I was a bit too busy with other things, but our committee voted me in and said they thought I’d be the right bloke for the job. Anyroad, we’ve only a handful of meetings a year, and the annual show. And I shan’t do every job like old Joseph did — as soon as I’m in the hot seat, I’ll be looking for a secretary and a weighman and a chairman of committee. I’ll spread the workload around — there’s plenty of blokes on that committee who’ve nowt to do. But they’ll soon find themselves taking a bit of responsibility, or resigning!”
“The committee won’t object to all those sudden changes, then?” I laughed.
“Not if they think it’s their own idea!” he chuckled. “I’ll make sure they give their approval to it all — I’ve sat on a few committees in my time, Mr Rhea, and I know how to get ’em to do what I want! And another thing, I expect ’em all to set an example by submitting berries to the annual show.”
“A sort of do as I do and not do as I say,” I smiled.
“Aye, well, the way I see it is that it’s no good being on the committee if you sit there and do nowt. That’s my reasoning, Mr Rhea.”
At that moment, I thought of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, a long-term committee member who never seemed to attend a meeting. I was sure there were others like him. But even now, I could see Jacob was going to make a good impact — and I felt sure his work would strengthen the society, and not weaken it as would the introduction of fruit and flowers to the show tables. The committee had chosen well — and the society was going to be in good hands for the foreseeable future. With a forceful president like this, I might even try to grow my own giant berries!
The week passed without any further memorable incident. The following Sunday, I attended early mass at St Aidan’s and again helped Joseph with the collection. I thought he looked rather pale and thinner around the face, but I passed no comment. He did not complain that he was feeling unwell and so, in spite of a twinge of concern, I refrained from drawing attention to h
is gaunt appearance.
Soon afterwards, I found myself heading for Thackerston in full uniform to perform my crime prevention duties outside the ancient, tiny Thackerston Minster.
Although the Cyclists’ Service was not due to begin until 11 a.m., I decided to arrive around 10.15 a.m. because by that time, people would be assembling, even if they were merely chatting outside and renewing acquaintanceships from previous years. In spite of my early start, there was a gathering of about forty cyclists when I arrived, and they had assembled outside the little stone church to chat and sip coffee from their flasks. Their bikes were lined up against the iron railings which bordered the lane — Church Lane was about a hundred yards long with a car park at the end and it would accommodate hundreds of bikes against its boundary railings. Some bikes were already chained to the railings and others bore padlocks and chains around their wheels. One group had a huge chain through several machines and this anchored them all to the iron rails behind. I wondered how on earth that chain had been transported here, for some of these cyclists had ridden a long distance — trips of more than a hundred miles were not unknown — but after parking my van in the church car park, I moved among the riders, chatting and telling them about last week’s theft.
I was pleased to learn that a considerable number had taken steps to secure their bikes, so clearly our efforts had borne fruit, although many did turn up without any form of security for their machines. My uniform would have to protect the vulnerable — that’s if our thief did turn up. If he did arrive, however, it would not be easy spotting him among such a large crowd, particularly if he dressed in cyclist’s clothing. The church’s access road, the car park and the church itself were thronged with colourful people, men and women of all ages and more than a scattering of children. In some respects, it was like a crowd of spectators at the Cup Final.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 4
