Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  “Don’t remind me! That woman inspector’s been ringing about that, telling us to get out and check all churches.”

  “Right, well, I’ll visit a few on my patch between now and catching up with young Blaketon. Now, did serge get the present we left for him?”

  “No, not yet. He didn’t go into his office this morning,” said Ventress. “He came in here from his car and said he was going straight out, so he didn’t see what we’d bought him.”

  “It was a pair of hand carved book ends,” said Phil. “For his collection of books.”

  “A nice choice,” smiled Nick. “So, he’ll get them later today. Do you think we should move them? Give him them on another day?”

  “No,” said Alf. “No, I think he’d appreciate our thoughts just now. Leave them until he finds them. Now, Phil, you’ll need a bit of cash from us all. How much?”

  “Thirty bob from each of you will cover it,” said Phil.

  “Right,” and as Nick delved into his pocket for a £1 note and a ten shilling note for Phil, he suddenly asked, “And Phil, what was the final score yesterday?”

  “A draw,” he said. “One all. The replay’s on Wednesday, but I can’t see Blaketon giving me time off for that. I’m supposed to be on lates.”

  “You did your bit for Whitby,” smiled Nick. “Well, I’m off to visit a few churches, seeing it’s Sunday. Tell Graham Blaketon I’ve been chasing him, Alf, it is important. Try to get him to agree to a time and place for a meeting.”

  “Right you are, Nick,” said Alf, lighting another cigarette.

  *

  It was the sound of repeated peals of church bells that had caused Sergeant Blaketon to leave the police station in a somewhat sudden and unexplained manner. He was not a church-going man but that Sunday morning, with the trauma of finding Joan so badly injured and then having to cope with her death, he had been overcome by a sense of the power of God, and of the need to be alone with his thoughts.

  He had decided to go to church. He had no wish to be part of a formalised service, he did not want the vicar of Ashfordly or any members of the well-meaning congregation to extend their sympathies to him. If they did, he felt he might be overcome with grief and unable to control his emotions.

  For a senior policeman in uniform to be seen crying was not, he felt, the image that should be cultivated. He therefore decided to visit a church that was away from the town, a village church somewhere on the moors where the morning Sunday service was ended. He needed to be alone, to be in a place of solitude with his thoughts, to come to terms with the death of his wife, or to be precise, his ex-wife, as he had to keep reminding himself A peaceful church was ideal, he realised, and he could always explain his presence there by saying he was checking for signs of the offertory box thief. Not that he should have to explain himself, but he was always aware of the likelihood that someone he knew might arrive and be puzzled by his presence.

  With his mind made up, Oscar Blaketon drove out of Ashfordly and made for the loftier heights of the North York Moors. He drove into the deep dales and then high onto the moors and eventually decided to visit Shelvingby. This was a remote hamlet high on a plateau on the edge of the hill.

  Behind was the awesome and forbidding bulk of the moors, a terrible place in winter, and yet in summer the village was a place of serene beauty. A stream trickled from the heather, rippling over rocks and through gorges before easing to a gentler flow on the floor of the dale below Shelvingby. It was to the 12th century parish church of Shelvingby that Blaketon made his way. It was positioned almost half a mile from the edge of the village, on a flat portion of ground beside the stream.

  He parked his car away from the church, in an old bam down a quiet lane so that it was concealed and then walked towards the Norman doorway. He passed the churchyard en route, peering at the tumble of gravestones over the dry stone wall and thinking that some needed attention. Some of the graves, he noted, were well kept, but others were smothered in long grass and weeds. Such a pity, he felt. He went in through the oak lych gate and pinned into a glass fronted frame just inside the gate, was a notice which said that the service on Sunday morning was 9 a.m. Now it was nearly twelve noon and there was no sign of activity in or near the church. Experiencing a mixture of guilt and embarrassment should anyone see him, he made his way towards the porch.

  He lifted the sneck on the huge studded oak door and it echoed inside the building, and so, leaving the door slightly ajar, he entered. As a mark of respect, he removed his cap and carried it. Inside, the light filtered through the beautiful colours of stained glass windows, and there was an air of dampness about the building. Centuries of decay had attacked some of the woodwork and stonework, but the church was still standing on this riverside site as it had for some 700 years. He padded down the aisle, noting the kneelers, the prayer books resting on shelves in the pews, a candle burning near the altar and the brass lectern with its massive eagle motif. He stood for a few moments, somewhat in awe of the mystical presence which enveloped him, and then he noticed a small side chapel.

  A Lady Chapel. It was a relic of Catholicism when it would have been dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Now the church was Protestant with the visible trappings of the old faith tom out and discarded. The chapel was dark, lit only by one small window in the high wall and there were no candles here.

  He went across to the Lady Chapel and selected one of the empty pews, then knelt upon a kneeler which was already in position on the floor. Placing his cap on the pew at his side, Oscar Blaketon bowed his head, found a prayer book in the pew and opened it. Selecting a page at random, he found he had opened it at a prayer for the dead and so began to pray. But it was too much. He started to weep as his emotions overcame him in this place of peace.

  CHAPTER XV

  One of the outposts of Nick’s beat was the village of Shelvingby. It was a small and remote community on the edge of the moors; it boasted a village inn which was popular with shooting parties and hikers, it had some splendid views, a street of sturdy stone cottages, a disused Methodist chapel and, in the valley below, the beautiful old parish church. There was not even a shop or a post office; there was no resident vicar either, the church being one of several served by the vicar of Slemmington. The villagers never created problems for Nick, they were a very law abiding community. His only regular visits were for his quarterly checks of the stock records of local farmers and a bi-weekly visit to the pub around closing time. Most of his other visits were occasioned by minor traffic accidents involving visitors to the moors or ramblers who managed to lose themselves upon the surrounding hills.

  It followed that the church was rarely visited by Nick and it was this lack of regular supervision that prompted him to turn towards Shelvingby that Sunday morning. On several occasions after the spate of thefts had started, he’d visited other churches closer to Aidensfield but Shelvingby, due to its remoteness, had not received similar attention. Possibly for the same reason, it had never suffered a raid.

  That did mean, Nick considered, that it might be on the thief s shopping list and as Nick motored along the beautiful lanes, he felt he must check that lonely old church this morning. From his local knowledge, Nick knew that the service started at 9 a.m. and ended around 10 a.m. and that did suggest the giving of Sunday morning offerings. These would be placed in the offertory box, easy money for a visiting thief.

  The ride from Aidensfield to Shelvingby comprises a series of steep hills on narrow lanes, a winding, undulating route which offers spectacular views across Rannockdale to the north and Craydale to the south. When Nick arrived in the village, mindful that the thief might be in residence, he decided to conceal his motor cycle. He left it on the outskirts, behind an old stone bam in a quiet field, and walked towards the church via a path across the fields. There was a brisk breeze this morning and he soon found himself enjoying the bracing moorland air. It brought a glow to his cheeks and he found himself thoroughly enjoying the stroll.

  As he approac
hed the church, however, he was aware of a vehicle parked among conifers about a hundred yards from the churchyard. The conifers were growing on common land, he knew, and there was a narrow green lane leading to them; Nick decided to inspect the vehicle which looked like an old pick-up truck. When walking along the road, Nick noted, the truck was out of sight, perfectly concealed behind the trees, and it was sheer luck he had seen it. It could only be seen from the fields.

  Policemen did need a piece of good fortune from time to time, and he wondered whether providence, or even God, was looking down upon him this Sunday morning. Was this the thief — had reports of visiting motor cycles been misleading? Nick’s heart began to thump as he crept along the lane, hoping to surprise a possible thief. But the pick-up belonged to Claude Jeremiah Greengrass! Nick could recognise that battered old truck anywhere!

  So what was Claude doing here? Poaching? Then Nick remembered Claude’s grass-mowing enterprise and wondered if the scruffy old character was working in Shelvingby churchyard this morning. He was not in the pick-up, that was sure. Nick prowled around the vehicle, peering into the rear section and into the cab, but there was no Claude, no Alfred and no sign of any ill-gotten gains.

  Leaving the vehicle, Nick walked through the small copse of sheltering trees and emerged at the other end with the church in full view. And there, swishing his scythe among the yews at the furthest end of the churchyard, was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Nick decided not to reveal his own presence, not at this stage, just in case Claude was in league with the offertory box thief. Although Nick did not readily suspect Claude of being responsible for these despicable thefts, the old rascal might be a look-out man, using his mowing chores as some kind of cover for a share of the proceeds? And so Nick crept away, not revealing his presence to Claude.

  He made a quick search of the lanes near the church but failed to find any other vehicle nearby, so Nick then made his way to the porch. He was surprised to find the church door standing open just a fraction. He knew these old church door snecks made a loud rattling noise whenever the door was opened, so was the thief here? Working inside perhaps?

  Nick crept in. He eased the heavy door open very very gently, making not a sound, and he stepped inside, easing the door to its former position. So far, he had not made a sound. The gloom was considerable; in fact, it was extremely dark inside and he had to stand silently for a few moments so that his eyes could adjust to the changed light. Standing in the shadows behind the door, he surveyed the interior of the musty old church, noting the columns, the altar and pulpit, the side chapel to his right and the base of the tower to his left. There seemed to be no one here, and yet that door had been ajar.

  On silent soles, Nick went over to the area near the front and saw the offertory box fixed to a wooden panel on the wall. It was wooden too, but it was intact. He tried to lift the lid but it was firm; it was secured by a stout padlock so had he disturbed the thief? The fellow could be hiding here, there were plenty of dark comers, including places like the vestry and even the bell tower itself. Nick knew he’d have to search the entire church. But if the thief was hiding, then he must know Nick was here!

  He could be concealed and he would be armed with the instrument he was using to smash open the boxes. Nick knew he must take great care during the next few minutes. Removing his helmet out of respect for the house of God, Nick started by creeping along the wall from the door, heading towards the Lady Chapel. His soft soled boots were noiseless and as he reached the chapel from the rear, he saw a dark figure kneeling in one of the pews, head bowed as if in prayer.

  Nick halted. It looked like the vicar. Nick felt he was intruding now. The presence of this person did account for the partially open door, but, as Nick took stock of the situation, it did occur to him that this could indeed be the thief, pretending to be a man of prayer! Nick needed to take a closer look. He moved a yard or so further along the stone floor, his presence not making the tiniest of noises and then he had a shock. He saw the chevrons of the sleeves of the dark coat, he saw the police cap lying on the pew, he saw the familiar grey hair and ears of Sergeant Blaketon! So this is where he was!

  Nick decided not to interrupt Sergeant Blaketon in his grief. Clearly, the fellow had been seeking some remote and secluded place to kneel in prayer, somewhere to remember Joan. Perhaps this was one of their favourite places? A walk in the dale and a visit to the church for quiet moments together? Nick knew he must never intrude and so, leaving Blaketon with his head in his hands, either in tears or in prayer, Nick retreated.

  He moved away from the chapel, edging back towards the door while wondering how he was going to search the rest of the church without disturbing Sergeant Blaketon. He regained the entrance without any problems; the door was still open just a fraction and it was at that moment, that Nick heard the faint sound of a motor cycle. The noise filtered through the open door. It was a small machine by the sound of it but it stopped somewhere out of sight. Nick peered through the crack but saw nothing. Whoever it was had parked a short distance from the main entrance.

  Nick’s heart began to beat now; this time, it might be the thief…quickly, he moved away from the door and concealed himself in the darkness behind a pillar at the rear. From here, he could see the door and the offertory box.

  Nick settled down to wait.

  *

  For Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, it seemed as if his urgent mission was never going to be accomplished. He had trudged around almost every churchyard in, around and upon the North York Moors without even a hint of success. He had chopped down acres of long grass, mown countless crops of nettles and hacked his way through briars, hawthorn shrubs and bottery bushes. He had rediscovered lost graves, tidied neglected graves, struggled with the inscriptions on ancient graves and even found the graves of some long forgotten Greengrass ancestors, such as great great great uncle Jeremiah.

  But he had not found what he sought.

  On that Sunday morning, therefore, disillusioned by his lack of success, he was on the point of ending his quest. His feet were sore, his legs were tired and his scythe was blunt through striking many marble gravestones and lots of concealed and broken flower pots and it was well past opening time at the Aidensfield Arms. Day after day he had slogged away with his scythe, trudging among thousands of graves while plodding what seemed hundreds of miles with his blisters and aching limbs. And for what? Nothing.

  At Shelvingby that Sunday morning, therefore, he decided that if he did not succeed today, he would cease his mission. He’d had enough and besides, Alfred was getting bored. The shaggy mongrel had chased rabbits, dug holes, barked at mourners and cocked his leg against fresh pots of flowers while his lord and master had been studying ancient inscriptions upon hundreds upon hundreds of graves.

  Claude sat down on a flat-topped grave for a rest. Alfred came to his side and nuzzled his head against Claude’s leg; Claude rubbed his ears and stroked his faithful dog.

  “He’s got to be somewhere, Alfred,” he spoke softly to the dog. “That man’s got to be buried somewhere…if we’ve looked at one grave near Aidensfield, we’ve looked at dozens.”

  Alfred whined in sympathy as Claude pulled the tattered piece of newspaper from his coat pocket. He read it again, just to be sure he was on the right track.

  The short feature told how an American industrialist called Jasper J. Perryhawk had recently discovered his English roots. His ancestors came from a village near Aidensfield in the North York Moors having lived in and around the moors for generations. It seems that in 1778, a Silas Perryhawk, along with his wife and seven children, had emigrated to America from Aidensfield. There he had settled to found a new family in the United States, and the present Jasper J. was a direct descendant. The last of the English Perryhawks, however, was Linus Otto Perryhawk. Father of Silas, he had died on 4th July 1776, the very day of the Declaration of Independence for the United States of America.

  Jasper J., now rich and successful, wanted to relocate the grave of L
inus Otto. Jasper was himself not very fit now, being 82 years old, and it was his life’s ambition to find that grave before he died. He had searched his own family tree from the sources he had amassed in the USA, but had produced no success. He was too frail to travel to England, and so an American news agency had sent the story to the British newspapers in the hope that someone might read of the old man’s quest and even find the grave and inform old Mr Perryhawk.

  Mr Perryhawk had lodged £150 with an English solicitor and that money was awaiting the person who located the grave and then provided proof of both its existence and whereabouts to the solicitor. The solicitor’s name and address were given — he lived and worked in Ashfordly.

  And so Claude had set out upon that mission, thinking it was an easy way to earn £150. After all, a man’s average wage was about £850 a year, so £150 was a very useful sum.

  Claude had not told anyone of his quest. If he let anybody else know about this, they might find the grave. And so he’d tom out the newspaper cutting and had set out to find the grave of the long-lost Perryhawk, pretending to be cutting grass and tidying churchyards. But so far, he’d found nothing, although he had chopped down a lot of long grass.

  Alfred was whining now, anxious to be off, his big dark eyes looking into those of his master.

  “You’re a slave driver, Alfred Greengrass,” said Claude struggling to his feet. “By, I don’t know, there’s no rest for the wicked…if you pardon the expression,” and Claude raised his eyes as if to heaven. “Come on, Alfred, it’s time to go. We’ve finished now.”

  The moment Claude began to move, Alfred recognised the signs and dashed off, barking and chasing among the tombstones, flushing out sparrows and robins, frightening a family of rabbits and making some shrews squeak in alarm. He was a very happy dog.