CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 12)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Got you!” Lord Ashfordly sounded pleased. “Leave it with me, I’ll call you when I’ve done my Sherlock Holmes bit.”

  It would be three days later when he called me.

  “Mr Rhea,” he almost whispered into the telephone, “I have a wine-glass which our friend has handled, no one else has touched it.”

  “I’ll be there right away,” I promised him.

  Lord Ashfordly told me he’d asked the butler to test a new claret and the fellow had used the glass, which now stood on a tray on a side table in the office. The butler had offered to clear away the glass after the tasting, but his Lordship had suggested he leave it for the maid. After all, that was her job. And then Lord Ashfordly had locked the tray and the glass in his safe. I took possession of both the tray and glass.

  Taking infinite care with the samples, I placed them in a secure box and took them home from where I rang our Force Scenes of Crime department and asked if they would check the items for fingerprints. I told them the full story and completed the necessary forms. They said it would be no problem. Two days later, the SOCO van arrived, having been on another investigation in the vicinity, and a detective constable took away the exhibits.

  The next day, I received a telephone call from Lord Ashfordly. “He’s gone,” he said. “Chaldecott-Montefiore has left my employ, Mr Rhea. He’s just vanished. Gone like a puff of wind.”

  “Has he taken anything from the house?” was my first question. “Anything of yours, I mean.”

  “No, not a thing. He’s just packed his bags and left, he’s not even taken his personal papers.”

  “He’ll get some new ones in another name,” I said. “He doesn’t need the ones he’s left behind. Did he give a reason?”

  “Not to me, but I’ve asked the other staff if they know why he left. It seems he had words with the maid about the removal of that wine-glass, Mr Rhea, and she said she’d not moved it nor even seen it . . . I think he was suspicious of what I’d done, I think we flushed him out, Mr Rhea.”

  “All that suggests he was a con man,” I laughed. “But our own results aren’t through yet. I’ll let you know what turns up, sir. You’ll be applying for a new butler now?”

  “Well, actually, there is a chap in town, he had to leave his post as waiter in one of my hotels, not in the best of health, you know, but I think he can cope here, so I’m offering him the post. And I do know him of old, Mr Rhea.”

  The Metropolitan Police did ring to say there was no record of anyone called the Earl of Labberford, and that the address was now occupied by tenants who were law-abiding and who had no idea who either Labberford or Chaldecott-Montefiore were. When the results of the fingerprint check came through, I learned they belonged to a confidence trickster whose real name was Charles Brown. He had a string of convictions in dozens of false names which included Crispin Carnegy, Nicholas Rochford, Auriel Blake-Edwards, Guy Furness-Brown, Dougal MacTavish-Rochford, Benedict Irvine, Peter Charles Monthiem-Muirhead, Derek Kelligan, Owen Walwyn-Jones and many more. His last conviction had resulted in two years’ imprisonment for stealing silver from a country house where he had secured work as the butler.

  I rang Lord Ashfordly to acquaint him with the character he’d welcomed to his home, and also to say that it looked as though the Earl of Labberford was also a fictional character. He thanked me, saying he was pleased that our joint actions had warned off the villain before he’d had the chance to steal anything.

  Lord Ashfordly did say he’d done some of his own detective work too, by using his London contacts, and he had also discovered that the supposed Earl of Labberford did not exist. The address was genuine, it had been rented for a few months by a man called Jean-Paul Vericompte who had vanished. His appearance was remarkably similar to that of Gilbert Chaldecott-Montefiore. Lord Ashfordly was able to tell me more than Scotland Yard had bothered to unearth.

  “The cunning of the fellow!” Lord Ashfordly had apparently enjoyed his piece of detective work and I felt he would relate the tale at many a dinner party. “Damned clever really, it’s a shame he was such a villain. If he’d used his brains properly, he might have been a success in life. Charming fellow, Mr Rhea, damned good in many ways. Sorry to burden you with my problems.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “That’s why I’m here, to prevent crime.”

  “I wonder where he’s gone?” asked Lord Ashfordly.

  Nine months later, our circulars told the story of the theft of a substantial amount of silver-plate from a mansion at Arridgeford in the Yorkshire Dales. The butler, who’d vanished, was the chief suspect; he had given the name of Ogden Garnon-Evans but his description was remarkably similar to that of Gilbert Chaldecott-Montefiore.

  I rang the village constable at Arridgeford with an account of my own experience at Ashfordly and said we had a set of fingerprints if they were of any value.

  Then I rang Lord Ashfordly to pass on that piece of news — it would add to the stories he would relate to his guests.

  3. Do You Really Have to Go?

  I pray thee leave.

  MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1563–1631

  Most of us have had the experience of guests who have outstayed their welcome, but by any known standards, the staying power of Henry Hubert Houghton was exceptional.

  Shortly after my arrival at Aidensfield, I heard his name mentioned in hushed tones and was advised not to show the hand of friendship towards him. Being fairly new to the district, I understood this to indicate that Henry was a rogue of some kind, or an undesirable fellow, the likes of which young constables should not befriend, but when I first saw him, he seemed a perfectly reasonable gentleman. Middle-aged, well spoken, smartly dressed and of fairly affluent means, he looked like any normal middle-class man albeit with perhaps just a hint of lingering ginger, a profuse moustache, a penchant for smoking a pipe full of pungent tobacco and a wardrobe full of expensive, tweedy clothes placed him firmly within the country set, and certainly not within the realms of local villains. I don’t think he followed a profession but he did seem to have a fairly comfortable life style; he was a bachelor who lived in a large house and ran a vintage Rolls Royce.

  Most certainly, there was no reason to suspect that he was a sexual deviant, mentally sick or a villain of any kind, so why should I keep him at a distance? I was enlightened somewhat further when another villager warned me never to invite Henry Hubert Houghton for dinner or even for a cup of coffee.

  “I’ve already had a veiled warning about him, but he seems a decent enough chap,” I said. “He’s not a rogue so I’m at a loss to know why I should keep clear of him.”

  “Oh, he’s decent enough, and honest,” said my informant. “But there’s one major problem with him — if he gets into your house, he’ll never leave. He’ll be there all night, mark my words. And I mean all night, not just an extra hour or two. That’s the problem with Henry, he just won’t go home.”

  When I first heard this, I thought it was an indication that Henry perhaps stayed a fraction longer than was mannerly, something that lots of people did from time to time, but I was to learn that this was an understatement. If Henry got into anyone’s house, he stayed — and stayed — and stayed.

  My first direct experience of this phenomenon came from Dr Alex Ferrenby. I espied the bearded doctor ambling down the village street around ten o’clock one morning; he looked as if he’d been up all night for his hair was awry and there were large black rings around his eyes.

  “You look a bit rough, doctor,” I smiled at him.

  “Rough?” he coughed. “I look a bit rough, I feel a bit rough and I am a bit rough. More than a bit rough, Nick, old son. I’m shattered, mentally, physically and emotionally.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Nope, not a thing. I’ve got my football pools to get off today — got to get my priorities right — so I’m off to the post office for a postal order and then, God willing, I’ll crash out on the surgery lounger for a few hours.”

  �
��A late-night call-out, was it?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” grunted the old doctor. “I wish it had been. No, it was that confounded fellow Houghton. I should never have invited him, I know him well enough to avoid having him, but, well, it was his birthday and I felt sorry for him. So he came for a meal last night and just would not go. I mean, I tried, I said it was bedtime, I even put my pyjamas on and the milk bottles out, but he just stayed and stayed . . . I went to bed and left him — he was still there this morning, sitting on my settee with a glass of whisky in his hands. I’ve left him again just now, perhaps he’s still there!”

  “I’ve heard about his staying power,” I chuckled. “I thought it was exaggerated local folk lore or common talk.”

  “Talk? It’s not mere talk, old son, it’s genuine. He just won’t go. Don’t you ever let him come to you for dinner, Nick; he’ll stay all night. I mean it. That’s good advice from a sincere friend.”

  Over a period of months, I began to hear other like tales of Henry Hubert Houghton and warned Mary about him, not that we would have any reason to invite him as a guest. But it did make sense to be prepared for the worst. I began to wonder how I would persuade him to leave should we ever be faced with the problem. Short of physically carrying him from the premises there seemed no polite way of persuading him to leave.

  I was to learn that Dr Ferrenby had literally propelled him from the house. Others had done likewise — and Henry Hubert was never offended by those drastic measures. Indeed, such treatment became normal for those who had to deal with him and I began to suspect that he had come to terms with the fact that all his departures would be forced upon him. I think he had reached the stage where he would never leave unless someone pushed him out of the house. One clever lady had offered to take him shopping in York upon finding him still sitting in her lounge when she came down for breakfast and he’d gone shopping with her, but once in York, she’d managed to lose him among a crowd of American visitors. Somehow or other, he’d found his own way home. It seems that the ploys for evacuating Henry Hubert were many and varied, and I did realize that his vagueness and lack of appreciation of events going on around him meant he was never upset by this treatment. Armed with this knowledge, I felt sure I could cope should I be faced with such a problem.

  It was inevitable in a small village like Aidensfield that the challenge would eventually arise — and so it did. I was about to leave home at 8:30 one morning for a patrol of Aidensfield and district in my police van, when the telephone rang. I answered it to find a distraught lady at the other end. It was Mrs Riley who lived in a fine house overlooking the green at Slemmington.

  “Mr Rhea,” she breathed. “Thank God I caught you . . . Henry Hubert is here, he’s been here all night just sitting in my lounge and I must go out, I’ve an appointment, but he won’t leave . . . can you help me?”

  I hesitated. Domestic matters of this kind were hardly within the scope of a police officer’s duty, but in a rural community, the constable always tries to help where possible. This seemed a good means of establishing good relations with the public while helping a lady in dire distress.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I promised her.

  Mrs Riley, a handsome woman in her late thirties, was waiting at the front door, wringing her hands and almost on the point of tears. “Oh I do hope I’m not being a nuisance, but he just won’t go . . . my husband asked him to join us for dinner last night, Mr Rhea, God knows why. When it got to midnight we dropped hints but he just sat and sat, and so, in the end, in sheer desperation, we went to bed and left him on the sofa. He was still sitting there this morning, I don’t think he’d been to sleep and I don’t think he even noticed we’d gone to bed.”

  “He’s always like this,” and I explained what I’d learned about the fellow. “I’ll take him home.”

  “I would be so grateful,” she sighed. “I really would.”

  “Come along, Henry.” I gently eased him to his feet by taking his arm. “Time to go home.”

  “Oh, really? That’s awfully kind of you, Mr Rhea,” and he thanked Mrs Riley for a splendid meal and warm hospitality. He seemed to think that whatever was happening to him was quite normal and as he had no transport of his own, having come by taxi, I settled him in the passenger seat of my police van. He sat there very quietly, rather like a huge warm teddy bear, but when I was driving away from Slemmington, the radio burbled into life with my call sign. I responded, hoping this wasn’t a call-out to an emergency for I didn’t want to be lumbered with Henry Hubert if I had to cope with a traffic accident or anything else of a serious nature.

  “Location please,” requested the radio set and I recognized the distinctive voice of Sergeant Blaketon broadcasting from Ashfordly police station.

  “Slemmington, heading towards Brantsford and Ashfordly,” I responded.

  “Received. Please attend High Row House, Thackerston, home of a Miss Morris. Report of intruders. Over.”

  Thackerston was some distance from my present location so I asked, “Understood. ETA — twenty minutes. Is there another mobile in the vicinity who can attend more speedily?”

  “Negative,” came Blaketon’s blunt response. “This is not considered urgent, the intruder might be a cat in the loft. The lady has heard noises up there. You’re on duty, Rhea, you’re the nearest, you will attend. Over.”

  “Ten four,” I responded.

  If I drove Henry Hubert home first, it would add a further quarter of an hour on to the journey to Thackerston even if I could get him out of the van immediately; I wondered why Sergeant Blaketon couldn’t have driven to Thackerston to check out the intruder report; he was much closer than I and could be on the scene before I reached the halfway stage. As I pondered the reasons for his lethargy, I did wonder if he was perhaps afraid of searching lofts for things that made mysterious noises . . . but of course, I would never suggest that! As I drove along, I felt it would be a risk taking Henry Hubert with me. If he settled himself into High Row House over a cup of Miss Morris’s coffee, he’d be there all day and he might even stay all night too. In view of the lack of urgency and the suggestion that there was no rampaging housebreaker, I decided to offload Henry en route, and what better place than Ashfordly police station? As my journey took me right past the front door, it would, I hoped, be a simple matter to drop off Henry and he would have a bit of companionship too because Sergeant Blaketon was clearly in situ, keeping out of the way of nerve-racking tasks. I felt Henry Hubert would be a good companion for Sergeant Blaketon!

  Minutes later, I drove into the yard of Ashfordly police station, helped Henry Hubert out of the cramped little van and escorted him into the front passage of our highly polished police station.

  “Who’s this, Rhea?” Sergeant Blaketon looked up from his typewriter as I bustled Henry inside. The expression on Blaketon’s face indicated that he thought I’d arrested a housebreaker. I had to disillusion him.

  “This is Mr Houghton, Sergeant, he was stranded at Slemmington and I was taking him home when I got your call. He lives in Aidensfield. But I thought, in view of the urgency of my call-out, I could drop him here, he can catch a bus home from the market-place. There’s a timetable on our noticeboard, that’s why I brought him, to have a look at it . . .”

  “Rhea, you are not supposed to give members of the public lifts in official vehicles except in an emergency duty situation. We are not a taxi service . . .”

  As he launched into the official ruling about the use and misuse of official vehicles, I rushed out, jumped into the van and roared away towards Thackerston. I chuckled to myself — I thought my disposal of Henry Hubert had been very neatly done and I congratulated myself.

  When I arrived at Miss Morris’s pretty cottage, she told me how she’d heard strange noises in the loft; they were still there. I listened. It was weird, a sort of scratching sound accompanied by loud rustling movements in the roof void.

  I could understand why a maiden lady in her seventi
es should be worried. I made a search of the house downstairs and could find no sign of a forcible entry and she said she’d not let anyone in. The cottage was detached and so it was impossible for anyone to creep into the loft from adjoining premises; the loft door was in position above the landing and so I was sure there was no one lurking up there. However, I decided to climb in to investigate.

  I discovered that the noises came from a pair of starlings. They had entered the loft through a hole beneath the tiles and were busy constructing their nest. The sound of their claws and the rustling of their movements among the rubble and the loft insulation had been amplified — this kind of problem was a regular event for country folk. Upon my arrival, the birds fled through the hole and flew off, so I blocked it with some heavy pieces of rubble I found lying about the loft. I didn’t think they’d be able to return.

  She was very relieved when I explained and offered me coffee. Having dealt with this intruder, I relaxed over the warm drink, then radioed Ashfordly police station to make a situation report. Sergeant Blaketon answered.

  “Ten four,” he acknowledged, and then added, “Rhea, that man you brought is still here, he will not leave to catch his bus . . . I have asked him to go, I even gave him a coffee at my own expense, but he’s just sitting on the bench in our entrance hall . . . you’d better come and take him away.”

  “I’m not supposed to use my official vehicle for carrying members of the public,” I reminded him. “Besides, Sergeant, I have an appointment at The Aidensfield Arms in quarter of an hour, I’m meeting the chairman of the parish council to discuss an occasional licence for a parish event . . .”

  “But, Rhea, this fellow will not leave the police station, I can’t get him out . . .”

  “I’m sure a man of your vast experience will cope with him, Sergeant,” I said. “Over and out.”

  * * *

  Some unfortunate people will refuse to leave premises for perfectly sound reasons and such a person was Victor Pyman. For the whole of his working life, he had been employed upon Lord Ashfordly’s estate. He had no particular trade but if anyone asked what he did for a living, he would say he was an estate worker. This included a wide range of skills, from felling and dressing timber to erecting and maintaining fences, hedging, building rough roads, repairing stonework and roofs, ditching, cutting grass, tractor driving and even repairing heavy machinery. Victor, like his father had been, was a very versatile man and an undoubted asset to his employer.