“It’s a real mystery,” was all I could think of saying.
“You’re right. It is a mystery. Even Nurse Margot is baffled. I’ve told Father Simon and he’s saying mass every day this week for Joseph.”
“Well, I’m sure Dr McGee will find out what it is, and then set about having it put right.”
“I hope so, Mr Rhea, I really do hope so. I’m not used to having an invalid in the place; he’s always had such good health. And fancy this happening just when he decided to retire from being gooseberry president. I thought we were in for a long period of being able to do things together and go places instead of always worrying about berries and getting ready for show day.”
“You fancied travelling, did you?”
“I did, Mr Rhea. I’ve always fancied going to foreign parts, to Rome to see the Pope and to Lourdes or Fatima. And London and Edinburgh, and the Lake District, Paris even or Spain . . . I had such plans for us, Mr Rhea. Such lovely plans.”
“You’ve got to look on the positive side of things.” I tried to help her cope with this. “His illness might not be serious.”
“Oh, well, I’ll just have to cope with whatever comes,” she said.
I had to try and raise her hopes just a fraction. “People do get mysterious ailments from time to time and in most cases they clear up just as mysteriously as they arrived. It might be that he’s just gone off his food for some obscure reason, and in a few days he’ll be as right as rain.”
“But he’s never been off his food in all his life, Mr Rhea. He’s always eaten everything I put in front of him. Never picked and poked at it.”
“There’s always a first time, and he is getting older. People’s appetites do grow smaller, you know, as they get older.”
“Oh, I know all about that but this is different . . . he looks so thin. I can hardly believe it’s him. He’s lost stones. That’s the really worrying part. I do hope you’ll say some prayers for him, Mr Rhea.”
“Of course I will,” I promised, knowing how much her faith meant to her.
In spite of her belief in the power of prayer, her face betrayed her very deep concern. I knew she was worried that he might have cancer — that was what most of the village thought was wrong with Joseph. Certainly, some of the signs were there such as the sudden loss of weight and lack of appetite, but at least he was not in pain and not suffering from any other visible signs. I remained with Mabel for another twenty minutes or so but it was not a happy respite from my daily duties although I did feel that my presence, and my chat with her, was of some assistance in her rather solitary vigil. I’d make sure the parish priest, Father Simon, was aware of the seriousness of Joseph’s condition and I knew he’d pop in to comfort her.
I had to leave before Joseph returned from the surgery because I had another appointment but I did make a mental note to visit him as soon as possible. Later that same day, I popped into Joe Steel’s shop-cum-post office, a courtesy call upon my daily round. His emporium was one of my regular calling points because he overheard most of the village gossip and saw most of the comings and goings of locals as well as visitors. From my point of view, he was a good contact in the centre of Aidensfield.
We chatted about local crime with me referring to the racing cycle thefts and Joe saying the GPO were getting worried about the increasing number of people who were managing to obtain free telephone calls from kiosks by various fraudulent means. And then he mentioned Joseph Marshall.
“Have you seen old Joseph recently?” he asked me.
I nodded, explaining I’d called at the house only that morning to learn he’d gone to see the doctor.
“He came in here for his pension and looked like death warmed up,” said Joe Steel. “He’s as thin as a rail, Nick, the flesh has just dropped off him. I asked if he’d been to see the doctor, but he wouldn’t go . . .”
“He’s there now,” I assured the shopkeeper. “Mabel’s persuaded him to go but I don’t know the outcome.”
“I don’t like the look of it.” Joe Steel shook his head. “Losing weight as fast as that often means cancer, you know. It happened to an aunt of mine, poor old thing . . . she was dead within six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s all it took — six weeks, and nobody could do a thing to help her. Not a thing. We just had to watch her fade away.”
“Joseph’s symptoms could indicate something else,” I said, trying to sound more cheerful. “I’m sure there are other things that cause a sudden weight loss and a lack of appetite. Some people can literally worry themselves into being ill.”
“It makes me think I should retire and take things easier before my number’s up!” said Joe. “Too many folks retire and then die before they can enjoy themselves. I’d like to pack up this post office and shop and have time to do a bit of travelling, to see the world before I’m too old. I’m beginning to think we all spend too much of our lives working.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I intend to retire early. But if you do leave, you might like to know that Sergeant Blaketon was talking about taking over a village post office when he retires,” I said whimsically. “He’s got to retire from the police when he’s fifty-five — unless he gets promoted to an inspector and then retirement comes when he reaches sixty. But as things are, he’ll still be young enough to take on another career. Maybe you should mention it to him?”
“Really?” He sounded very keen. “I might just do that, Nick! It’s not easy finding suitable candidates, especially for village post office work. A lot of our dealings are confidential and there’s the security aspects of the money we handle. An ex-policeman sounds like an ideal choice!”
As I left the post office-cum-shop, I realised that Joseph Marshall’s sudden and dramatic change of appearance was causing wide concern around Aidensfield. He was one of the stalwarts of the village, a character known to everyone and liked by all. Like me, all the other villagers would be anxious to know the outcome of his visit to the doctor, but a further two or three days passed before I learned that Joseph was being sent away for medical tests. His first session had been arranged for the following Monday at Scarborough Hospital, any subsequent examinations being dependent upon the result of that one.
I gleaned this piece of gossip from Arthur Drake, the butcher, another of the gooseberry society’s committee members; Arthur was a Big Gooseberry Expert, famed for his Yellow Woodpeckers. I decided to visit Joseph and Mabel and called one teatime, just before knocking off duty.
It would be about half past four when I tapped on the door and called out, “It’s PC Rhea.”
“Come in.” Mabel’s voice came from the kitchen.
I found her alone in the kitchen, ironing some bed linen.
“The kettle’s boiling, I’ll make some tea,” she offered.
“No thanks, Mabel,” I declined on this occasion. “I’m heading for home and my own tea will be ready in a few minutes. I don’t want to spoil my appetite with your scrumptious buns and cakes.”
“Is it Joseph you want?” was her next question.
“I just came to see how he is,” I said.
“He’s not very well at all.” She spoke very softly and I thought I detected a tear in her eye. “He’s very tired and he’s gone for a lie down, Mr Rhea.”
“Well, don’t disturb him. I’ll call again. I just wondered how things had gone at the doctor’s.”
“Doctor McGee couldn’t find anything wrong with him, Mr Rhea, so he’s sending him to a specialist. He goes on Monday, to Scarborough. His heart and lungs are all right, there’s no blood coming from anywhere and no blockages in his innards and he’s not rheumatic, so Dr McGee is quite baffled. He can’t say what’s wrong with Joseph; it’s a right mystery, but he’s told Joseph to stop smoking his pipe.”
“That won’t please him! But I’m sure we’ll soon know what it is, Mabel, as soon as the specialists have had a look at him. Then they can start to put him right.”
“I wouldn’t be too sur
e about that, Mr Rhea. From what I know, it looks as if he’s got cancer somewhere, in his insides mebbe, intestines or stomach or somewhere like his lungs with all that smoking. It’s eating away at him, I think, and if that is the case, there’ll be nowt anyone can do. Except God. Only God can work miracles, not them doctors, but Father Simon’s going to say a mass every day for Joseph . . .”
“Even cancer can be treated, if it’s caught early enough.” I was touched by her simple faith but felt I had to add a practical note. “So you mustn’t be too gloomy.”
“No, I know I should keep cheerful for Joseph’s sake but when I see how much weight he’s lost, Mr Rhea, it makes me think he must be riddled with the disease. Mebbe he’s had it for years without anybody realising, not that he’s ever shown signs of it, mind. He’s never short of breath and has never coughed up blood.”
“That’s encouraging,” I smiled. “So how’s he getting to Scarborough on Monday? Can I help with a lift perhaps? Or is he going by ambulance?”
“My son’s taking him in his car, thanks. Alan that is. Joseph has to stay in hospital until the results come through, and then they’ll decide what to do. Our Alan will collect him when it’s all over.”
“I hope it all goes well, but don’t be frightened to ask if you need help. Tell Joseph I popped in,” I said, and left the sorrowing Mabel as, full of my own sadness, I made my way home to the police house on the exposed hilltop at Aidensfield.
Over our evening meal, Mary told me she’d heard about Joseph’s condition from someone in a shop at Ashfordly, so it seemed that Joseph’s plight was being shared by his friends and acquaintances. That news, as news does in a small community, was rapidly passed around and prayers were being said in all the local Catholic churches. Had Joseph been just a retired railwayman there would not have been such great interest — it was his role as the Big Berry Man of Aidensfield and as a Big Catholic too, that had endeared him to so many. Everyone wished him well during his stay in hospital.
It was during this time that the Stolen Cycle Supplements began to arrive on a regular basis from Durham Constabulary, Middlesbrough Borough Police and West Riding Constabulary due to their Ripon theft. Happily, I could secure back copies dating to the beginning of the series of crimes and in my spare moments, began to study them.
I hoped they would provide me with some extra clues but those early readings did not produce anything of particular value. No suspects nor even any vague descriptions of suspects had been listed, from which I deduced none had been observed, and no known thieves or receivers of stolen goods were suspected. I knew that all known cycle thieves and receivers would have suffered more than one visit from their local CID and uniform patrols, and I began to consider that the crimes were the work of someone without a criminal record. It could be someone unknown to any police officer and someone who had all the outward appearances of being honest and trustworthy. The crimes presented an interesting mystery and so I retained the circulars and filed them with the intention of having another look at them in due course. There must be some clue there, I felt, but it might take time for me to recognise it.
On the Monday following, Joseph Marshall went into hospital for his tests. I do not know their precise nature nor do I know what the medical experts were seeking, but I do know that they found nothing wrong with Joseph. Mabel was horrified at the negative news because she rang me to say that Joseph had asked her to inform me.
I was not sure why I had been selected for this chat, but said I would pop down to her cottage without delay. As always, the tea was mashed and the cakes were placed on the table; it was after normal teatime when I made this visit, around six o’clock on an early spring evening with the birds singing and the leaves bursting from the boughs.
There was a hint of the marvels to follow in the shape of May blossom and acres of colourful wild flowers which would coat the floor of our woodlands and decorate the edges of the moor. Wood sorrel, violets, vetches and bluebells would dominate the coming weeks with the season’s daffodils dying away after their early spring offensive. The tiny wild daffodils of Farndale and other moorland valleys would become history yet again, while the damp meadows would produce buttercups while speedwells adorned the footpaths and byways.
“So what’s the news?” I asked Mabel.
“Joseph said he wanted you to know and Nurse Margot. I tried to get hold of Margot,” said Mabel, “but she’s out on a case, so I thought you might help. I don’t understand all this official jargon. I think that’s what’s bothering Joseph. With your legal background, he thought you’d understand things.”
“What jargon?” I asked.
“Well, this chap rang from the hospital to say Joseph could come home. I think he said there was nowt wrong with him,” and with that she began to weep. I put an arm around her shoulders in a clumsy attempt to comfort her and she rapidly gained control of herself, blowing her nose loudly and wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
“So what did the man say?” I asked gently.
“Well, Mr Rhea, I can’t remember exactly, but he used a lot of big words and medical terms which meant nowt to me but I somehow got the impression they’d tested Joseph for cancer and heart problems and stomach trouble and found nowt. So they want him to come home. I’ve got to ring our Alan to go and fetch him tonight.”
“Well, that’s very good news, Mabel. He’s coming home and they’ve found nothing wrong with him. It must be good news.”
“But they can’t be right, can they? Those experts. You know and I know that everybody who saw Joseph said he was ill. He was as thin as a rail. He’d lost very near half his weight and he wasn’t eating. There must be something seriously wrong with him, mustn’t there? How can they say there’s nothing wrong with him?”
“Who was the man you talked to? Can you remember?”
“Yes, he made me write his name down and his telephone number, in case I wanted to know more.”
“Right, I’ll give him a ring right now. I’ll say I’m a friend of the family just clarifying the situation. Can I use your phone?”
And so I found myself talking to a Mr Forbes who was a consultant of some kind. He was most helpful and affable, but explained, in medical terms which I found baffling, that no one could find anything wrong with Joseph Marshall. No cancer had been found and his lungs were clear. There were no problems with his digestive system or heart or blood or liver, kidneys and spleen. For a man of his age, he was remarkably fit and healthy, even if he was as thin as a rail and rather weak with no appetite.
I listened to this fellow, quizzed him about the role played by other specialists and concluded that everything possible had been done. It was clear that those who had examined Joseph had concluded he was not suffering from any known disease or illness.
I thanked Mr Forbes, adding that Mrs Marshall was making arrangements for Joseph to be collected this evening by private car. Next, I asked whether the family could have a formal statement detailing the examinations and he said a complete account would be sent to Joseph’s GP, Dr McGee of Elsinby. I knew nothing more could be done at that stage and rang off.
“They say there’s nothing wrong with him,” I reiterated to Mabel. “Or to be precise, they can’t find anything wrong with Joseph. So let’s have him brought home where you can keep an eye on him. You can see if he improves his weight or eating habits, and if not, have another word with Dr McGee. He might call for a second opinion at another hospital.”
“There must be somebody somewhere who can tell us what’s wrong, Mr Rhea?”
“I’m sure there is, but let’s get Joseph home first.”
“Right, it’ll be nice to have him here, however ill he is.”
“Watch him carefully to see if he loses more weight. If he does, I think the worries will renew themselves. If he remains static and starts to gain a few pounds, then it might mean he’s on the mend. And keep in regular touch with your doctor.”
“Yes, but to lose all that weight, Mr Rhea, there mus
t be something wrong somewhere . . . that’s what I am trying to say, that’s what I’m trying to tell those medical people.”
“They know that, Mabel. They accept that but the crux of the matter is that their tests don’t show anything wrong. So we must watch and care for Joseph and, if necessary, get a second opinion. And have words with Father Simon about all this.”
“Right, well, thank you, Mr Rhea. I do appreciate your help . . . I’ll ring our Alan right away.”
And so the arrangements were made for Joseph Marshall to come home.
Chapter 4
Joseph’s homecoming was rather discreet. Although his friends in Aidensfield and elsewhere wanted to show their concern, they realised he would want only peace and quiet for a while. He’d want nothing more than the companionship of his wife in the familiar surroundings of their home. Wisely, they refrained from calling, if only for a couple of days.
In spite of his temporary isolation, however, news of his condition filtered into village gossip because one or two people had in fact been to visit Joseph. There was the butcher’s delivery van driver, Ted Fryer, Margot Horsefield, the district nurse, Father Simon, the parish priest, and Joe Steel from the shop who’d popped in with a few groceries. His neighbours, Ron and Ethel Collins, had called too and Mabel had had a few close friends and relations to see her. The information they’d all gleaned entered the village’s rapid-communications system and enabled us all to learn something of Joseph’s current condition — even if accuracy was not a particularly strong element.
The truth was there had been little change in his condition since coming home. His weight had remained fairly static with no further dramatic loss, and his appetite had failed to return. The news that surprised everyone was that no serious illness or disease had been found, and although that should have been regarded as very welcome and positive, most of us greeted it with scepticism.
Everyone knew Joseph was seriously ill — you had only to look at him to realise that, consequently a feeling developed that the hospital had sent Joseph home to die peacefully among his friends and family. People rallied around to help him achieve that.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 6
