CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18)

by Nicholas Rhea

  On the following Monday morning, I rang the motor taxation department of the County Borough of Wolverhampton which was then based in the town hall at Bilston in Staffordshire. As the registration number began with the letters AJW, I knew the vehicle would be recorded with that department, even if the owner of the car lived outside their area — but it wasn’t listed. The number on the old Ford was a false one — it had not been issued. My heart sank. On the day the couple had spoken to me, I had not checked the car; they had been villains on my patch, I had failed to recognise them as such and now Claude had suffered.

  I went to see him. I told him I could not trace the couple who had swindled him because they were riding around in a car bearing false number plates and he seemed relieved.

  “I’m not going to prosecute,” he told me. “And I shan’t get you to try and find them, Constable. I don’t want to get myself tangled up with the law or courts or prosecutions or owt like that. It’s all too much hassle for an old chap like me. Anyroad, that’ll please you. And I’m not going to do any more bed-and-breakfasting so that’ll please George. And so everybody’s happy and I’m a few quid out of pocket after learning a hard lesson.”

  But I was far from happy at my own handling of the affair. I’d let a couple of villains slip through my fingers and so I decided to circulate all police forces a description of the car and its occupants. When Sergeant Blaketon questioned the reason for my decision, I told him — he chuckled at Claude’s dilemma, but did agree that every effort should be made to trace this second team of confidence tricksters.

  But, like the handsome couple who’d tricked their way through our area before them, they were never found.

  Later, Claude told me that if they did return, he had a special egg surprise awaiting them — he’d bombard them with all the bad eggs he collected from now until the day of their arrival. I advised him to wait until I was overseas on holiday before he took that kind of drastic action. I wanted to know nothing about it.

  “It will not be legal, it’s an assault,” I warned him.

  “I’ll make sure you never know about it,” he muttered. “But it’s a sad thing when a chap has to take the law into his own hands.”

  I had to agree.

  * * *

  If Claude Jeremiah Greengrass thought he led a hard life and that others had an easier means of earning their livelihood, then Medwin Isaacs thought that life in the countryside was absolute bliss. For him, a townie by birth and a townie by inclination, the countryside provided a place of solitude and silence; for Medwin, it offered a refreshing change from the hurly-burly, noise and constant presence of traffic and active people, all unwelcome aspects of his daily life in the city.

  His home was a modest terraced house without a garden and it was in the centre of York, not far from Clifford’s Tower. Medwin worked in the city’s offices of British Railways. His job was to purchase equipment and stationery for the multitude of clerks who occupied the multitude of offices which were used to keep the nationalised rail services running on time.

  Some said he did a poor job because the trains were invariably late and when they did arrive, they were filthy but Medwin did not know that. He never used the trains, except on those rare occasions when he could usefully benefit from his concessionary tickets. The moment he finished work on a Friday evening, after a week of persuading the staff they could last a little longer with their present equipment, or borrow an envelope from a colleague or that their ballpoint still had a few days’ worth of ink left in it, he and his wife would pack their Mini and head for the North York Moors.

  Unable or unwilling to afford the finest hotels, they rented a modest variety of tiny country cottages and seemed able to select those which were tucked away at the end of a disused lane or located on the lonesome heights of a stretch of inhospitable moorland. They managed to find the most lonely of places, often discovering cottages without running water or electricity which explained their modest rental. But the more isolated and rustic the cottage, the more they seemed to like it. Such bleak places were Medwin’s idea of absolute bliss.

  Once inside their chosen weekend home, Medwin and Bethany seldom ventured out — they were not keen on natural history, they did not watch birds or study plants, they did not paint or take photographs, ramble along the highways and byways or visit rural pubs to sample their beer or bar meals. In fact, no one really knew what they did once they arrived because they would light a fire, put on the radio or take out a book, and do very little else, apart from those moments when Mrs Isaacs cooked a modest meal by using the ingredients she had brought.

  I knew all this because people talked about Mr and Mrs Isaacs — invariably, the cottages they rented belonged to the local farmers. In the past, they had been used by agricultural workers but when the Isaacs arrived, they were not too welcome — the farmers knew they’d never sell them eggs or milk because they brought their own city-purchased supplies. In fact, they never bought anything in the village shop — no newspapers, supplies of any kind, food or groceries. No good wholesome country food was ever purchased and they made no contribution to the village economy. They simply drove to their cottage, closed the doors and remained there until late on the Sunday evening when they drove back to York so that Medwin could return to work on Monday morning.

  That somewhat unrealistic existence appeared to be their idea of country life. I knew something about them because the sister of a friend of mine worked in the same offices as Medwin and she often talked about his quaint ways. At work, it seems he was a little Hitler, ruling his precious kingdom with an iron hand and not allowing the office staff to acquire new envelopes, reams of paper, pencils, blotting paper or even paper clips unless he was satisfied they had truly exhausted their previous allocation.

  One could only imagine his mental anguish upon receiving a requisition for something as expensive as a new typewriter or office chair; he delayed such issues for months on end, wondering whether British Railways could afford such luxuries for its menial staff. It seems he did not favour office tea swindles either, preferring to work at his desk without a tea or coffee break or a ten-minute rest from his arduous task.

  On top of all that, he disliked hilarity in the workplace. In truth, British Railways had a wonderful servant in Medwin — on the face of it, it seemed he saved them a fortune by preventing waste by the staff, but in fact his stockroom cupboards were always full of out-of-date stationery which he had never issued. That was his idea of saving money — and he always wrote on both sides of scrap paper. There were times I wondered if he was in charge of buying new railway engines or carriages because the existing ones did not seem to be the best — they seemed to be very old ones which were being run until they conked out somewhere between King’s Cross and Edinburgh. And if you saw some of the brushes and mops used by the carriage cleaning staff you’d think they’d been used since the beginning of the railways . . .

  There is no doubt that the Medwin mentality did, I believe, infiltrate British Railways to a remarkable depth. Britain’s taxpayers would have no idea how much the Medwins of this world were striving to reduce their contribution to the costs of running British Railways.

  My first meeting with Medwin came one Sunday morning in September. It was a cool but sunny morning and I had just returned from Mass. He arrived on my doorstep about ten o’clock when I was still dressed in civilian clothes.

  At that time, I had never met him, consequently I did not immediately realise that the little flat-capped gentleman with the black moustache and round spectacles was Medwin.

  “Good morning,” I smiled as I opened the door to him.

  “You are the constable?” He looked me up and down, his hard grey eyes scrutinising my mode of attire.

  “PC Rhea,” I said. “I’m not on duty just yet, that’s why I am wearing civilian clothes.”

  “Ah, the luxuries of country life!” He attempted a smile. “Perhaps I should not trouble you, Constable. I can return when it is more con
venient.”

  “No,” I said. “If you’ve come far, I’m sure I can either help you or ask a duty officer to come and visit you. So, what’s the problem?”

  “Noise,” he said. “I wish to lodge a complaint about excessive noise.”

  “This morning?” I asked. “Is it troublesome at this moment?”

  “It is,” he nodded gravely. “Very troublesome, if I may say so.”

  “Then tell me where it is,” I invited him.

  “Those fields across the dale.” He pointed somewhere in the wide beyond. “Motorcycles, dozens of them. Roaring about the place.”

  “Ah.” I knew the place. “It’s an approved track. They’re scrambles riders . . .”

  “Scrambles?” He frowned, puzzled at my expression.

  “Cross-country motorcycling,” I tried to explain. “Young lads with specially adapted bikes race around a rough, muddy, stone-ridden course. It takes tremendous skill and courage. They use a track on land at Hawthorn Grange, it’s out of the way and well off the beaten track about two miles from here. The farm has lots of scrubland, sir, and no one objects to the lads using it for their scrambling — both in practice and in competition. At this time of day, I expect they’ll be practising for a series of races later this afternoon.”

  “But it is so intrusive, Constable. I wish to lodge a formal complaint under the Noise Abatement Act.”

  “The Noise Abatement Act does not apply to that kind of noise nuisance,” I advised him. “You’ll have to contact the local authority, at the council offices. They deal with such things. They will serve a notice on the organisers or someone responsible, ordering them to abate the nuisance — that’s if they are satisfied there are genuine grounds for complaint. It is not a police matter.”

  “Really? I thought country policemen dealt with everything that was unlawful?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “There are lots of nuisances and civil laws which are not within the province of the police service. I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful but I shall be visiting the scramble meeting later in the day. I will mention your complaint to the organiser.”

  “Thank you, Constable. Now, you will need my name — I am Medwin Isaacs,” and he gave me his address, adding he was staying at Stable Cottage which was in High Garth Lane above Aidensfield. And off he went.

  I had no intention of registering this grumble as an official complaint for I had done my duty by referring Medwin to the local authority. I doubt if he would succeed in having the noise levels reduced — when the use of the land had been suggested as a possible site for scrambles meetings, the problem of noise had been one of the considerations and, in spite of a few objections at the time, the proposal had been approved.

  As the site was on my beat, I was very aware of any potential problems which might be created and for that reason, always kept in close touch with the organisers of the meetings. But the scrambles course was very remote and the noise little more than the buzzing of a hive of bees.

  It was known, of course, that the people who objected most vehemently were those who came to live in the village from elsewhere. The long-term residents did not complain — and we’d had incomers complain about the smell of pig farms, the noise of bird scarers, smoke from bonfires, the movement of farm machinery in the early hours of the morning, the sound of milking parlours, grain driers and more. It was amazing how many townies came to live in the countryside and promptly began to grumble about ordinary rural activities. And Medwin Isaacs seemed such a fellow.

  It was during that time that Middle Mires Cottage was put on the market. It was a remarkable place, a very old stone-built house of beautiful proportions if rather on the small side with limited accommodation. It was sited in the middle of a small garden surrounded by a drystone wall. Totally unmodernised, it had no running water, electricity, mains drainage or inside toilet; the loo was a small stone shed in one corner of the garden while a lean-to shelter offered cover for a small motor car, motorbike or a wheelbarrow beside the house. Furthermore, there was no road to the house. Access was via an unmade lane which twisted and turned between two high hedges before emerging into a large open field. Middle Mires Cottage was in the middle of that field, and the rough track led across the grass to the cottage gate.

  It was about a mile and a half from the nearest part of Aidensfield, that being a Dutch barn belonging to High Mires Farm, and the name of the house gave a clue to its past. That field had once been marshy ground in the dale below High Mires, hence the name of Middle Mire. Years ago, the marsh had been drained to form the present field and although it was low-lying and not far from the stream which flowed along the foot of the dale, it was not subjected to flooding. The field was now cultivated and variously used as a meadow, grazing ground and for growing wheat or barley. Currently, it sported a healthy crop of ripening wheat.

  But Medwin and Bethany noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign, went to inspect the premises and immediately fell in love with it. This was their dream cottage — small, isolated, rustic, uncluttered with harmful modern innovations, surrounded by nothing but fields and nature and deep in the North Yorkshire countryside. Being prudent people, they had substantial savings and, wishing to fulfil their lifelong dream of living in a rustic idyll, they bought it. I discovered that the village had some newcomers when I was in Joe Steel’s shop-cum-post office one Monday morning.

  “I see Herbert Bainbridge of High Mires has got rid of that old cottage of his,” Joe remarked during our chat about village matters.

  “Knocked it down, you mean?” I could not see the place had any modern commercial value.

  “No, some idiot from the town has bought it. Some folks’ll buy anything,” he grinned. “Herbert was thinking of gutting it and using it as a barn or something similar, but decided he’d cash in on the craze for buying country cottages.”

  “A wise man!” I grinned.

  “A good move because, bingo — it was snapped up by this townie.”

  “So who are our new pseudo-villagers?” I asked.

  “A funny little chap called Isaacs and his wife. Medwin and Bethany. He works for British Railways in York. He won’t last long — one good winter will see him off! We’ve found that’s the finest means of reminding townies that the countryside is not suburbia with smells — a thumping good blizzard or two works wonders and sends ’em all rushing back home.”

  “He called to see me a few weeks ago,” I recalled. “Grumbling about the noise of scramble bikes.”

  “Oh, crumbs! He’s not a grumbler, is he?” Joe frowned. “We can do without incoming grumblers.”

  “I fear he might be!” I warned him, knowing he would spread the word among the other villagers if Medwin proved to be a persistent complainer. And he did turn out to be one — and the person at the rough end of most of Medwin’s grouses was Farmer Herbert Bainbridge, the man who’d sold him the cottage. There being no telephone at the cottage, Medwin had arrived at the farm kitchen door shortly after eight one morning to register his first complaint.

  “I wish to make a complaint,” he said to Mrs Bainbridge as she confronted him.

  “What about?” she asked.

  “The noise,” chirped Medwin. “Shooting noises.”

  “It’s bird scarers,” she smiled. “They’re automatic bird scarers; they’re timed to go off every few minutes and sound like gunshots. They scare the birds off our crops, Mr Isaacs, and off our neighbours’ crops. We all use them.”

  “But I did not come here to listen to the constant sound of shooting! It started first thing this morning . . .”

  “They begin at dawn when the birds wake and begin to feed. This is the countryside, Mr Isaacs.” Jessie Bainbridge was a friendly woman. “You’ll soon get accustomed to such things and in a very short time, you won’t even notice the noises.”

  “I notice all noises, Mrs Bainbridge. I think I shall have to write to the council about this, and get something done.”

  “You do that,” she smiled sweetly
at him. “Yes, you do that, Mr Isaacs.”

  Medwin’s next grumble came when the Bainbridges began to harvest their corn. The combines began work the moment the grain was sufficiently dry and they worked late into the night, the monotonous roar of their machinery rumbling long and loud in the darkness. Several worked in tandem and the rumble and roar of their movement echoed in the still of the early September evening. It was this which compelled Medwin to knock on Mrs Bainbridge’s door at ten o’clock one evening.

  “Mrs Bainbridge, I have to rise early to drive to York for work and I need to be guaranteed a good night’s sleep, yet here I am listening to the constant roar of that thing in the fields.”

  “A combine harvester, Mr Isaacs.”

  “But do you have to cut the stuff at this time of night? Don’t you people ever sleep?”

  “We work when there’s work to be done, Mr Isaacs. As a country lover, I thought you would realise that. There’s no union rules here, you know, no office routine, no set hours or overtime or timed meal breaks. We work until we finish and there’s no way you and your townie ideas will change that!”

  “Then I shall write to the council and register a formal complaint,” he muttered, stomping away — and she just smiled. She’d tell Herbert about this visit when he finished for the night.

  It was inevitable that I learned of Medwin’s grumbling; his non-stop nattering soon became the talk of Aidensfield where his constant grouse was about noise in the countryside. Poor Herbert Bainbridge and his wife were the most long-suffering because Medwin complained about cockerels crowing at dawn, cows mooing in the early morning as they ambled in to be milked, hens cackling when they laid eggs, tractors chugging, combines roaring and corn driers humming. He even had the audacity to comment about the noise of rooks cawing in the trees at High Mires Farm and of the metallic sounds which emanated from the farrier’s shop as the farrier fashioned horseshoes for some of the local riding stables and horse racing establishments.

  Now that Medwin was living permanently in the countryside, the occasional noise which had hitherto disturbed him only at weekends was now a permanent fixture of his new world.