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

  Indeed, so valued was Victor that the estate manager had agreed to keep him in employment even though he had passed the retiring age of sixty-five. But as he approached seventy, the estate manager, a Mr Taylor, felt it was time for Victor to retire. Victor had not wanted to finish but had reluctantly agreed.

  Lately, he had begun to feel his age, a fact gently pointed out to him by Mr Taylor who had realized that Victor was slowing down and tiring easily. Besides, as Mr Taylor had pointed out, Victor had enough interests to keep him busy at home. During his life, he had assembled a large flock of hens which he kept at his cottage, he had pigeons in a loft, a family of ferrets, several Golden Retrievers, an unknown number of cats and even a tame roe deer. In retirement, he could spend more time with his beloved animals and so, at last, he warmed to the idea of having more free time.

  During his life, he had been totally content in his work, his father having been employed in a similar capacity for the old Lord Ashfordly. Victor now lived in the house previously occupied by his father. That house was owned by the estate but it had been occupied by the Pymans for many years. Victor had been born there and had lived there as a child; indeed, he had lived there all his life, sharing the house with his parents until their deaths. He had married late but had produced no children and his wife had died some five years before I came into contact with him. Now, therefore, Victor was the sole occupant but, having no heirs, the family’s long occupancy of that quiet woodland cottage would come to an end when Victor departed.

  I was never sure how Mr Taylor intended to deal with Victor’s cottage so far as his retirement was concerned because, sadly, Mr Taylor died suddenly from a heart attack.

  We shall never know what his intentions were because it was the long-standing practice of the estate that, unless there were siblings who continued to work for the state, the occupants of estate-owned houses would have to vacate the premises upon their retirement. Alternative accommodation would be found for them and their family. If there were no available estate cottages, then a council house would be arranged.

  The way for a family to retain an estate-owned house was to persuade one of their offspring to work for Lord Ashfordly and in the past, lots of them had done this. They had thus remained in their home, with their parents living with them in retirement. Through this system, an estate cottage was occupied by the same family for many generations and many had died in the house in which they had been born. But in the 1960s, there was a changing attitude towards working for the aristocracy and there was no commitment to the continuity of family service. Young people were moving away and besides, few desired to be employed in what they regarded as humble work. When their parents retired, therefore, there was no one to take over the family home on the estate. Other workers moved in, often being recruited from afar, and few had the commitment of those past workers. Some cottages, located in Ashfordly town, were sold and so the overall atmosphere on the estate had changed dramatically within a few years.

  For Victor, therefore, having followed in his father’s footsteps, there had been no trouble finding a house — he had simply continued to live in the cottage where he had spent his happy childhood, and now, approaching the age of seventy, he hoped he would be allowed to die in peace in the same old house. But if Mr Taylor intended to allow Victor to remain, he had never told anyone; he had died before making those intentions known either to Victor or to the estate management.

  A new estate manager was appointed at rather short notice and he arrived at this critical stage of Victor’s life. Official wheels grind very slowly but very surely and quite suddenly, Victor found himself served with an order to quit Woodland Cottage. And if he went, it would mean that all his beloved livestock would also have to go. And you couldn’t keep pigeons, hens, dogs, cats, ferrets and a pet deer in the garden of a town house or on a council estate.

  It was Victor’s misfortune that, at this critical moment of his life, there had been a change of estate manager. The newcomer was from Hertfordshire, a Mr Simon Furnace, and from the day of his appointment, things seemed to go wrong for Victor. There can be no excuses for sloppy work and bad personnel management, but there can be reasons. Victor was an unwitting key character in the sad drama which followed.

  During the change-over from one regime to the other, there had been a lamentable breakdown in internal communications.

  That was the reason that poor Victor found himself with a notice to quit Woodland Cottage. In fact, this was a perfectly normal procedure because the council would not rehouse people unless they’d been given an order to quit their tied houses. What normally happened was that people in Victor’s position were told they would receive a formal notice to quit but not to regard it as anything personal; it was all part of the system and it was done so that they could then inform the council of that fact, and the council would have to rehouse them. If such tenants voluntarily left their tied houses, the council would not rehouse them. Thus these notices were important to the tenants, but due to an administrative clanger, no one had told Victor of the real purpose behind his notice. Mr Furnace probably thought Victor had been told by Mr Taylor, whereas he had not; there was no doubt Victor was under the impression he could stay in Woodland Cottage for the rest of his life.

  The shock of receiving the notice to quit was almost fatal, but once he’d gathered himself together, he thought the estate was rejecting him after all those years of work. It is an understatement to say he was extremely upset. In his loneliness, his sorrow turned to deep anger, and his deep anger turned into determination. He became determined that no one would force him, or his animals, to leave Woodland Cottage.

  It is a fact in many such cases, that if there is a gross error at the outset, then that error is compounded during subsequent developments.

  In his abject misery, poor old Victor did not seek help from anyone; from that initial anger and misery, his mood turned to one of dogged determination as he began to take measures to barricade his home against all comers. The new management, on the other hand, became increasingly agitated at the old man’s determination to stay put and could not understand his attitude. As time went on, Victor passed the age of seventy and thus ceased to be employed by the estate, but he stubbornly refused to leave the cottage, and so the estate’s notice to quit was eventually reinforced by a court order. A copy was served on Victor. Even at that stage, the management thought Victor would have taken steps to secure for himself a council house, or at least would have warned the council of his impending homelessness, but that had not happened. Victor had no intention of living in a council house. He was sitting tight in the only home he had known as the official wheels were put inexorably in motion. Victor was about to be evicted.

  The lack of communication, which grew worse instead of better, convinced Mr Furnace that Victor was a troublemaker, and Victor regarded Furnace as an evil man who now represented the true nature of Lord Ashfordly. Furnace became determined to have the old man out of Woodland Cottage with the minimum of fuss because, he claimed, it was needed for a new estate worker, while Victor was determined to stay with his menagerie. It seemed that an unhappy confrontation of some kind was inevitable.

  At that time, one of the worst duties that could befall a police constable was to be ordered to attend an eviction. When a tenant ignored the court order to quit the premises, the next stage was for the bailiffs to move in.

  Quite literally, the bailiffs’ task was to remove all the furniture and belongings of the tenant, then remove the tenant and secure the premises against the evicted person and/or the family. It was a very distasteful duty; it was even more distasteful for the police officer who had to attend. Every police officer hated being associated with this sort of thing, for their duty was not to evict the family — their duty was to prevent a breach of the peace. It was inevitable, however, that the victims of the court order regarded the police as officers who were helping to enforce the court order. This was not so — enforcement of such court orders was ne
ver a police matter but as we stood by to prevent fights and attacks on all parties, it was inevitable that we got the blame.

  There was, however, a little-known Act of Parliament called the Small Tenements Recovery Act of 1838, still in force in the 1960s, by which a warrant could order a police officer to effect an entry, by force if necessary, to eject the tenant and remove his furnishings so that the owner could recover possession of rented accommodation. I thanked God that I had never known that statute ever be used in my part of Yorkshire and that I had never had to enforce such an order. And I hoped I never would be put in that terrible position.

  It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I found myself instructed to present myself at Woodland Cottage, there to prevent a breach of the peace while bailiffs evicted the tenant, a Mr Victor Pyman. This was the first intimation I’d had of any trouble with Victor — and I thanked God that I was not being ordered to carry out the eviction.

  I decided to visit Mr Furnace, the new estate manager, to find out precisely what had prompted the issue of legal process in this case. As he called me into his office with its stuffed birds, display of antlers and beautifully polished oak panelling, the first thing that impressed me was his utter pomposity and total lack of interest in people. What on earth had prompted Lord Ashfordly to appoint him was beyond me. He was one of those rare people who immediately persuade others to dislike them.

  “The facts are clear, Constable.” A tall, fair-haired man with a narrow, cruel face, he stood with his back to the fireplace of his office with his heels on the fender, and he did not offer me a seat or a coffee. “The stupid oaf will not leave the house, the house belongs to the estate, and the estate is seeking repossession. Pyman has been there five years longer than normal, he’s had all the time in the world to secure another home. It’s time for him to go, that’s all there is to it. It’s my job to house my current workers and I need that cottage for a new man. Pyman has had the usual notice to quit, which he has ignored.”

  “Perhaps he needs help,” I ventured. “He is an old man.”

  “That is not my function, Mr Rhea. The situation is that Pyman is ignoring the court order to vacate the house. Your job, as I understand it, is to stop Pyman doing anything stupid, like shooting at us or attacking the bailiffs. I fail to see why you need to come and discuss it with me.”

  I could see Furnace’s secretary looking at me through the adjoining door as Furnace pontificated from his fireside perch, and I knew by her face that she, and, I suspected, the other office staff, were far from happy with this idiot in charge. As he bore on about maintaining the efficiency of the estate, I found myself incredulous at what I was hearing. I knew Victor was not the troublemaker that this fellow was implying and I realized the poor old fellow could never expect a sympathetic hearing from this obnoxious character. But duty was duty. As a policeman, I was supposed to do my duty without fear or favour but I must admit that my sympathies were with Victor.

  Even if it might be said I was exceeding my duties, I decided to have a word with Victor. Having listened to Furnace I was uncertain about my reception from poor old Victor, but went to see him nonetheless. I parked on a grassy area beneath some sycamores within sight of Woodland Cottage and walked towards the building. Hens were pecking about the place and at my approach, two of Victor’s retrievers barked and raced towards the white-painted fence which surrounded the house.

  I noticed Victor’s pale face at one of the downstairs windows and waved towards him.

  “Victor, it’s me, PC Rhea,” I shouted. “Can I have a word?”

  The window opened and Victor shouted, “What do you want?”

  “A word with you,” I called back. “A quiet word.”

  “There’s nowt to say, Mr Rhea. If you’ve come to chuck me out, I’m not going and that’s that.”

  “I haven’t come to chuck you out, Victor. I’ve come for a chat.”

  “You think I believe that? All them papers I’ve got, threatening me with bailiffs . . .”

  “Victor, those papers are nothing to do with me or my colleagues.” I stood my ground. “I just want a chat.”

  He hesitated; he was from a generation who could trust the police and I did know he’d been friendly towards the Ashfordly officers in the past. Victor was a true countryman, as honest as a person could be.

  “Hang on,” he said, closing the window.

  Minutes later, the front door opened and he peered out, as if checking to see if I had any colleagues among the trees, but when he was satisfied I was alone, he bade me enter. We went into his kitchen where a kettle was singing on an old-fashioned hob over the fire. Without a word, he made a pot of tea, produced some scones from a tin and pointed to a chair at the polished pine table.

  I told him I had just come from Furnace’s office and explained what had transpired, then asked for his version of events. He told me, his old eyes brimming with tears as he related his family’s long occupancy of Woodland Cottage, concluding by saying, “And to think it’s all come to this, chucking me out with nowhere to go . . . it’s disgraceful, I never thought his Lordship would stoop to such a thing, the old Lord would never have, he was good to his staff . . .”

  “Hang on, Victor,” I said. “Has Lord Ashfordly spoken to you about this?”

  “Spoken? No, how can he? He’s in Switzerland, skiing, been there weeks . . . nobody knows where he is, he’s touring, moving from hotel to hotel. He’s due back on Wednesday but it’ll be no good talking to him, not now, not when his office has done this.”

  “Those papers, Victor, you’ve got them handy?”

  “Aye, in my bureau,” and he produced a sheaf of them which he spread on the table. I fished through them, finding the notice to quit which the estate had issued, pinned to the back of which was another letter. This was a note explaining how, upon receipt of the notice to quit, the recipient should make application to the council to be rehoused; the note also explained that the purpose of the notice to quit was indeed to persuade the council to allocate a council house and it advised the recipient to take the notice to the council offices. Then I saw that the notice was dated almost ten months ago.

  So poor old Victor had been notified of the procedures. I suspected he had not understood the purpose of the letters, which were couched in legal jargon. Or, of course, he had never even read the letter. In the shock of reading the notice, he might not have turned it over to study the small print attached to it. And I was conscious of the fact that the deceased Mr Taylor might have promised he could remain in the cottage. But notwithstanding all those possibilities, it would have been good personnel management for someone to have come out and explained things to him in simple terms.

  When I began to explain the contents, it was clear that he had not read all the correspondence, he had not discussed it with anyone nor had anyone come to enlighten him.

  I asked whether Taylor had made any promises about the house and he said, “Well, he did say he’d keep me on, Mr Rhea, working. That meant I could stay here

  “But you know that when a person retires, the estate needs the house for someone else

  “Aye, well, but we’ve been here years, Mr Rhea, our family has used this old house for longer than I can remember and I thought I could stay.”

  What precisely had been said to Victor was uncertain, but there was no doubt that the whole affair was, in simple terms, a cock-up. That he was being badly treated was not in doubt, at least not in my mind, and I did not know whether I could halt the relentless machinery of the British legal system.

  The bailiffs were due on Thursday; it was Monday now.

  When I explained it all to Victor, saying how other workers in his position had been found nice accommodation, he assumed his stubborn attitude.

  “That’s mebbe so, Mr Rhea, but I don’t want a council house. I want to stay here, with my animals. That’s all. It’s not a lot to ask and I’ve not long for this world, not at my age.”

  “So you’re staying put?
”

  “Aye, I am. If they carry me out of here, Mr Rhea, they’ll carry me to my grave.”

  “Mr Furnace said they need the house for another worker,” I said. “You can’t hold up the work of the estate.”

  “There’s no other worker coming here, it’s just an excuse, Mr Rhea. They’re going to turn this into a holiday cottage, they don’t want more staff, they’re cutting back on workers now. When I finish, they’ll not replace me, Lord Ashfordly told me that himself, months ago.”

  “Is that right about the cottage?” I asked. “It’s going to be used by holidaymakers?”

  “It’s as right as I’m standing here, Mr Rhea. My home, I was born here, and it’ll be used by folks who don’t know me and who don’t care a jot . . .”

  This news did make me angry; it was not the fact that it was to become a holiday home but the fact that the estate had misled the authorities about the future use of the house.

  I was also annoyed that an old man had been made to go through such agony and turmoil. At that moment, I decided that something should be done. But what?

  “Leave it with me, Victor,” I said, hoping that I sounded confident I could help him. “I’ll see what I can do — but if I can’t stop things, I might be back on Thursday,” and I explained why I might be back and that it wouldn’t be a pleasant visit for either him or me. If I couldn’t halt the inexorable wheels of the British legal process, he might not regard me in such a trusting manner.

  As I left the cottage, I had no idea how I should tackle this problem; in truth, it was nothing to do with me and in that respect, Mr Furnace was correct. Even so, I could stick my neck out in a vain attempt to get the estate to reconsider their decision; I could alert Lord Ashfordly to the situation, but he was away until just before zero hour; I could speak again with Simon Furnace to ask him to rethink the situation and seek the court’s permission to withdraw their warrant or I could have a word with the court authorities themselves about the legal aspect of supplying false information in order to obtain a warrant. That could, in some circumstances, be regarded as perjury, although I did know that the estate did have the right to evict Victor in any case. Whether the future use of the cottage as a holiday home was material to the issue in question was a matter for debate.