Many is the time I noticed her diminutive figure trotting through the village at night, having been babysitting or attending a function of some kind. She always seemed to be trotting — a tiny lady with thin legs and arms, she was in her late sixties and dressed in slightly outdated clothes. One of her regular outfits was a thick, long blue overcoat with a large fur collar and a pair of black boots — granny boots as the local children called them. There was no mistaking her when she was trotting about the village.
Then, one Monday morning, I received a call from her.
She was ringing from the public telephone in the village but did not want to state the nature of her business in case her conversation was overheard by someone passing the kiosk. She asked if I would call and see her. As I was about to begin my day’s tour of duty, I said I’d be with her in half an hour, my first visit of the day. When I arrived, there was a welcoming fire in the grate and even though it was not long since breakfast time, she had a pot of tea and some buns on the table.
After the preliminaries, she apologised for being so mysterious then said, “I’m having money stolen from me, Mr Rhea.”
“By someone breaking in?” I asked, having not noticed any sign of an intruder.
“No, from the back door. I leave my money out for the milkman. He calls early you see. The night before it’s due, I put it near the back door, under a plant pot. I put it there last night, Mr Rhea. Three shillings. A half-crown and a shilling, there was. That meant I expected sixpence change. This morning, he left a note saying the milk money was due. I had a word with him, Mr Rhea, and told him I had left my money out — and I expected sixpence change which he hadn’t left me. But he said it had all gone. So someone has stolen it, you see. They must have, mustn’t they? If it’s not there.”
When dealing with some people, a police officer must bear in mind their age and a possible lapse in their memory. While not wishing to disbelieve Nanny Lack, I did wonder if she had simply forgotten to put out her milk money but I had to try and establish whether or not she had really done what she claimed.
“Show me,” I invited.
Outside the back door there was a small clay plant pot standing upside down and she lifted it to show me her hiding place — and there was a half-crown and a shilling. It was her milk money, all safe and sound.
“But it’s there . . .” She looked at me, disbelief on her tired face. “It wasn’t there this morning, Mr Rhea. I know it wasn’t.”
I was tempted to say that we all make mistakes, but instead, I said, “Show me the note the milkman left.”
It was tucked behind the clock on her mantelpiece and she drew it out, handing it to me. In ill-formed pencil lettering on a piece of lined paper, it said, ‘Milk 3s. Stan’. In other words, three shillings was owed.
“That’s how he lets me know when I forget,” she sounded apologetic. “I don’t often forget, Mr Rhea.”
“I’m sure you don’t. And you didn’t forget this time?” I put to her.
“No, I was most careful. I remember because I hadn’t got three shillings in exactly the right money, so I put a bit extra out — three and six it was — and knew he’d leave me some change. It wasn’t there when he called, Mr Rhea, honestly, otherwise why did he leave the note? And I checked before I went to ring you.”
“You checked again, under the plant pot?”
She nodded. “Yes, just in case I’d not seen it when I first checked.”
“And there was no money there?”
“That’s right, Mr Rhea. There was nothing under my plant pot then. I wasn’t seeing things, Mr Rhea, honestly. But it’s there now . . . I just don’t understand . . .”
In spite of her age, I was inclined to believe her. I knew that the mind could play tricks, but I also knew that unpleasant people could do despicable things to others for motives which seem inexplicable. These things happened from time to time and I hoped it wasn’t happening here. It could be a solution to her problem, though.
“Has this happened before?” I asked, having returned to her table to finish my cup of tea. Sitting opposite and sipping from her cup, she hesitated for a moment and then nodded, saying, “Yes. I must admit I wondered if I was going loopy but I’m not, Mr Rhea. I’ve been very careful. In this case, I am certain what I did and what happened.”
“How long has this sort of thing been going on then?”
“I moved into this cottage just over six months ago,” she said. “I suppose the first time it happened was about three months ago. Well, what I mean to say is it was the first time I realised it wasn’t me being forgetful or silly.”
“So what happened on those earlier times?”
“The insurance man comes once a month. I leave him a ten-shilling note. I pay half a crown a week for some life insurance, to bury me when I go. Well, he comes every four weeks on a Friday, but I like to go to Ashfordly market on a Friday. I catch Arnold Merryweather’s bus before the insurance man comes so I leave the money out for him, on the window ledge of the outside toilet. I’ve done it ever since I came to live here. The inside ledge, that is. I leave my book as well; he signs it when he gets the money and leaves it.”
“And what happened last time?”
“Well, I put the money out as usual, with my insurance book, on the Friday morning. The ten-bob note was inside the book, tucked into the right page for him to receipt but when I got back from market, the book was still there but no money. I thought he’d been and got his money, but when I took the book back into the house and opened it, he’d put a note inside saying I’d forgotten to include the money. Then next morning when I went into the loo, the money was there, on the window ledge, all by itself.”
“The same note, do you think? Not coins?”
“It was the same note, Mr Rhea, it had an ink stain on one corner. I’d know it anywhere. It was as if someone had moved it and then replaced it.”
“Did you tell anyone about it?”
“No, what could I say? I thought it might be me going funny, getting forgetful in my old age, so I never said anything to anybody. I saw the insurance man in the street later and squared up with him and he said he was sure there was no money when he called. He said he had looked all over, including the floor in case the note had fallen off or got blown away when he moved the book. But it hadn’t; it wasn’t there, he was sure about that.”
She told me two more similar stories, one about money she’d left out for the Sunday newspapers and the other for a Christmas club into which she paid monthly throughout the year. In both cases, the collectors claimed she had not left out the necessary cash but then she found the money afterwards, each time in its rightful place, the very place she had left it.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling you in, Mr Rhea, I’m sorry if I’m a nuisance,” she was very apologetic. “I hope you don’t think I’m going senile.”
“I’m sure you are not,” I tried to reassure her. “The milkman’s note suggests you were telling me the truth today, and the insurance man’s means of receipting your book suggests the same for that occasion. So who knows where you put your money and when you leave it out?”
“Quite a lot of people, we all do it,” she said. “We’ve never had bother before, Mr Rhea. Not with thieves, that is. You can trust anybody living here.”
“But your money has not been stolen, has it?” I smiled. “What you are saying is that it’s being taken away and then replaced. That’s not theft — it’s mischief. Now why would anyone want to do something like that?”
“To make me look silly,” she said. “To make me look daft in front of the local tradespeople.”
“So if that is the case, who would want to do it?” I pressed her.
“Are you serious?” She frowned as she looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Do people do that sort of thing?”
“The world is full of very odd people, Leonora, and some will do some very weird things for all kinds of very strange reasons. So, is anyone jealous of you? Or have
you upset anybody lately?”
She did not respond for a while and then said, “I do know that Peggy Lapworth once had her eye on this cottage. But you mustn’t even hint I said so . . . she is a friend. We go to whist drives together.”
“Why did Peggy want the house?”
“She’s in an estate house, Mr Rhea, in Dale Street. Number seven. Before your time, her husband worked on the estate, general maintenance side, and when he died, she wanted a smaller place. She always said she treasured this one. There was no smaller house then, and none so beautiful as this one with its riverside setting. I know she coveted the cottage, Mr Rhea, but it became vacant about the time I retired, so I got it. I didn’t ask for it, by the way, I’d have been quite happy in another one, but Lord Jeremy wanted me to have it.”
“And you think Peggy was upset by that?”
“She never told me she was but I heard from other people — and she didn’t speak to me for a fortnight after she knew I’d got it. I had no idea what was wrong at the time, but I found out later.”
“But she’s got over it?”
“I think so — at least, I thought so until this carry-on started. I did suspect her, Mr Rhea, but didn’t like to say so, with her being a friend.”
“Not a very pleasant friend, if I might say so!” I grimaced.
“She has her good points, Mr Rhea, even if she has a streak of jealousy in her. She’ll always look after folks who are ill, for example, and do their shopping and washing and things. I wouldn’t want to lose her friendship over this. Money’s not everything and we’re all a bit dishonest if we’re honest with ourselves.”
I smiled at her logic and asked, “And Peggy knows where you put your money for collectors?”
“Yes, she does.” There was a look of sadness on Nanny Lack’s face as she heard herself finally condemn the woman whom she had long regarded as a friend — and still wanted to keep as a friend.
“There is one snag with this tale, a legal complication,” I had to explain to her. “If Peggy is taking the money and returning it later, she is not committing a crime. She is not stealing it because she is not permanently depriving you of your property. Legally, if she took your money and replaced it with some of her own, then technically she would have stolen your personal coins or notes even if she replaced them with the equivalent value, but I doubt if there would be a prosecution under those circumstances. But the fact that she replaces your own cash means she is not a thief, Leonora, and that means I can’t prosecute her. It’s a bit like borrowing, except it’s done without permission.”
“I’m sure it’s my own money that comes back,” she said. “Like that ten-shilling note, it was certainly mine. Does that mean you can’t help me?”
“It means I can’t help you officially,” I had to say. “But I think we can give her a fright. You’d have to take the milkman and insurance man into your confidence.”
She smiled wanly and nodded her agreement.
“It would be nice to know that I’m not going daft!” she grinned. “Honestly, there was a time I thought I was losing my marbles!”
“Right,” I said. “I think we might prove your mind is still working properly.”
It meant I would have to obtain some crystal violet powder from our scenes of crime department and use it to coat some coins or notes which were placed deliberately so that Peggy Lapworth would remove them. I suggested that Nanny Lack should put out her money as usual in the coming weeks, say for a month, to see whether it disappeared on a regular basis. She could always pay her collectors as well and I would pop in to see if the money was disappearing as she claimed.
It was. Over the next four weeks, all her regularly placed monies were removed before being collected by those to whom they were due, and then replaced afterwards. Now, of course, Nanny Lack knew what was going on and ensured that her delivery men received their dues. When I called, I learned that Peggy Lapworth had never said anything to Nanny Lack about this and I did quiz Nanny about the likelihood of there being another suspect — but there wasn’t. Indeed, Nanny had laid wait one night and had actually seen Peggy arrive under cover of darkness to remove the milkman’s cash. It was time for my part in the affair.
We chose a Monday when both the milkman and the Christmas club collector were due. Nanny Lack would announce to Peggy that she was going off to Brantsford on the morning bus and would be away until teatime that day. Peggy would know that the milk money and the Christmas club money would be left in their usual hiding places by Nanny Lack. On the Sunday, therefore, having obtained the necessary crystal violet powder, I coated the milk money and the Christmas club subscription coins with a liberal coating of the powder and placed them in their hiding places. The milkman and the Christmas club collector would be paid earlier by Nanny, and would thus not have to call at Nanny’s that day. There was no need to involve them in the plot.
“So what happens now?” asked Nanny, full of interest.
“If Peggy takes the money,” I said, “her hands will become coated with the powder. She won’t realise that until she puts them in water — and then they’ll turn bright purple. She won’t be able to wash it off — it’ll last for weeks.”
“Oh, dear, poor old Peggy . . .”
“It’s not poor old Peggy, it’s sly and scheming old Peggy,” I said. “She’s lucky she’s not going to be taken to court over this! Even if it’s not stealing, we might have had her bound over to be of good behaviour . . . that’s how we deal with nuisances.”
“Couldn’t you just have a word with her?”
“I could, but she’d know you had suggested her as a likely culprit and that would cause friction between you. And I need proof of her actions before I can consider a court action — the purple hands will provide that, should I ever need it.”
“You won’t interview her then?”
“For your sake, no. There is no need, not on this occasion. I might reconsider things if she does it again. But I think she’ll get the message this time, Nanny, I’m fairly sure of that.”
And she did.
Peggy’s hands turned a bright and enduring purple colour and for a long time she refused to come out of the house. When she did emerge, a group of school children waiting for their bus noticed her and immediately called out, “Peggy Purple Paws”. And the name stuck. But Peggy Purple Paws never misbehaved again. I avoided taking her to court and she retained Nanny Lack’s somewhat cautious friendship.
Chapter 5
By exciting emulation and comparisons of superiority, you lay the foundations of lasting mischief.
SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709–94
One lunchtime, I had occasion to pop into the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby while I was on duty. Visiting the pub was always a pleasurable part of my routine but in this instance I wanted to combine it with a warning to George Ward, the landlord. I had news about a couple of confidence tricksters who were thought to be touring the area, fleecing the owners of boarding houses and hotels. George was now at risk from them because he had started to use his spare rooms as bed-and-breakfast accommodation. This was an increasingly popular practice even among ordinary householders in the North York Moors now that tourism was increasing and I wished to put him on full alert.
Information received from other hotels and boarding houses had established that their ploy was to obtain accommodation or food, or sometimes both, and then leave without paying. Sometimes they would stay for only one night although in one case they had remained a week to accumulate a substantial debt which included dinners, wine and accommodation. It was known they had run up bills in Ashfordly, Brantsford and Harrowby, invariably at the best hotels, and checks on the addresses they had logged in the hotel registers showed them to be false.
Of the couple, the man was some six feet tall and well dressed in a blazer, flannels, white shirt and striped tie; in his mid-fifties, he spoke with a cultured accent, smoked a pipe and had grey hair which was neat and well-trimmed. He had a habit of opening his wallet to rev
eal a lot of money and speaking of his yachting holidays in the Mediterranean while mentioning famous people with whom he was acquainted. None of the swindled hotels had noticed whether or not he had a car, but his suitcase was an expensive one fashioned from the best leather. It was the showmanship of a typical confidence trickster. He was accompanied by a smart lady who was almost as tall as him; she was slim and elegant, beautifully dressed in a crisp navy-blue suit with a white blouse and black high-heeled shoes. She also spoke with a cultured accent and had beautiful blonde hair, red fingernails and wore lots of gleaming jewellery. They had all the appearances of a wealthy and trustworthy couple and had signed into the hotels as Mr and Mrs Douglas Jefferson, albeit with a variety of smart addresses, all of which were fictitious.
A couple of skilled confidence tricksters like this were very difficult to catch because they oozed charm and confidence and were quite capable of conning the most experienced of hotel or boarding house keepers. All we could do was warn their likely victims, and so I was touring all the inns, boarding houses and bed-and-breakfast establishments on my patch. It was during this mission, therefore, that I went into the bar of the Hopbind Inn to find a knot of countrymen enjoying a lunchtime pint. Among them was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass with his faithful companion, Alfred the lurcher.
As I entered, I could hear them discussing horse racing but at the sight of my uniform, Greengrass shouted, “Hey up, the law’s here! Come for a pint, have you, Constable? Not that I can afford to buy you one, me being broke.”
“Not when I’m on duty Claude,” I gave the standard answer. “Everything all right is it, George?” I turned to the landlord.
“Fine, thanks, Nick. No problems.”
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 11
