Local legend said you could literally eat a meal off the kitchen floor without getting the tiniest mite of dust in your spaghetti Bolognese. It was the sort of house which 99 per cent of all known germs never dared to visit.
Then one spring weekend, Mrs Cornforth was unexpectedly called away to visit a sick aunt in Newcastle-upon-Tyne and, for the first time in his married life, Richard found himself alone. Quite unbelievably, he was left in charge of the marital home, a situation rather like a canoeist unexpectedly finding himself in command of the Titanic.
But the truth is that, in Richard’s case, he was almost in charge. Esme, his wife, had organized his meals, leaving notes to tell him when to put certain casseroles in the oven and when to eat the baked items she had left. He had to wind the grandfather clock, feed the cat, shake the doormat and make the bed — she’d left him little notes to jog his memory, and secondary notes to tell him where to find the first notes. There were additional notes too, explaining about ordering meat from the butcher, greens from the grocery van, a pint a day from the milkman and the best trout or plaice from the visiting fish-man. In spite of these commandments, Richard was to a large extent left to his own devices — she hadn’t told him when to go to bed, for example, or when to get up.
What Esme hadn’t bargained for, however, was that one of Richard’s nag-free nights was a Saturday. It was not an ordinary Saturday either.
Richard, during the course of his employment, had often heard about the masculine fun that accompanied Saturday nights, especially when his workmates went off to watch football or cricket and afterwards went out to the pub. He’d heard that they went either to celebrate a win or drown their sorrows if their team lost. Whatever the outcome, they went to the pub and had chicken and chips in a basket, or fish-and-chips from the chippy in Eltering High Street, followed by a few pints.
Although Richard had been a reasonable sportsman during his youth, he had never taken part in a sporting event since his marriage to Esme at the ripe old age of twenty-two. It was during a conversation at work that his colleagues discovered Richard had a moment of freedom, a chance to enjoy a brief new life, something akin to the twenty hours of a mayfly’s existence. Ever eager to make him happy, they lost no time persuading him to join them for a taste of bliss on that particular Saturday.
They knew he needed a good night out; he knew he needed a good night out and, hopefully, Esme would never know a thing about it. It was with some excitement, therefore, that on that fateful Saturday night, Richard joined the Heather Ales annual spring staff outing when it had been decided they would attend Eltering football club to witness Eltering play in the final of the Heather Ales Moors Trophy competition. This was a cup to be played for by all the market towns which surrounded the North York Moors; it was a fiercely fought competition and Eltering had never won the trophy in its twenty-five-year history.
Now, they had a strong team which was highly fancied and they had thrashed all comers. On that Saturday, therefore, there was every chance the cup would be theirs and, as Richard’s employers, Heather Ales, had donated the trophy, it seemed fitting that all the employees, or as many as possible, should witness the match and join any subsequent celebrations. Richard had agreed it was a good idea.
Eltering won by five goals to two, a resounding victory, and after the presentation of the trophy, there was a buffet supper, with drinking and dancing at The Bay Horse in Eltering. Richard, having been given a lift by a friend, was one of the packed host in that comfortable old inn. The drinks flowed, the food was good, the music was divine, the dancing was wonderful and Richard had the time of his life. His natural exuberance astonished his workmates, his sense of fun cheered them while his capacity for buying drinks warmed their hearts.
The woman with whom he danced away the evening told him he was handsome and clever, so he bought her lots of drinks and lots for himself, the result of which he felt very romantic and loving. But all too soon, the marvellous evening was over; like Cinderella, it was time for Richard to go home. By now, of course, he was broke and, worse still, he was paralytically drunk. The colleague who had given him a lift to Eltering knew he lived somewhere in Aidensfield, having picked him up at the war memorial, but did not know to which of the houses Richard belonged.
And, at that stage of the evening, Richard did not know either, or perhaps it is more truthful to say, he was unable to explain where he lived. As a consequence, he was assisted from his colleague’s motor car and settled in a swaying position upon the lower steps of Aidensfield war memorial. The time was about 12:30 and it was now Sunday morning as his cheerful voice sang about Nellie Dean as well as producing some bawdy renderings of exceedingly rumbustious rugby songs. He remained on the steps of the war memorial to offer his rendition to the public but it is fair to say that the people of Aidensfield did not know the identity of the tuneless moron who was making such a din in the middle of the village, nor did they seem to appreciate the fine baritone voice which emanated from his lips. Several of them telephoned me with ardent requests for me to extinguish the racket and then to lock up the noisy crowd.
Half asleep, I crawled out of bed, put on my uniform jacket and trousers, and made my way into the centre of the village. I parked the van on the edge of the green and even above the noise of its engine, could hear the awful moaning sounds and strange music that came from the vicinity of the war memorial.
Upon my arrival, I saw that it was not a crowd, it was Richard, singing a Territorial Army camp-fire version of ‘Eskimo Nell’ in several different voices.
The fumes, which issued from his wide-open mouth told me he must have consumed half of Heather Ales’ daily output of beer, and the words which came from the same place told me he had no idea who he was, where he was or what he was. He was blissfully happy — but I was not. Nonetheless, at such an early hour of the morning, I had no wish to be faced with the awful chore of making written reports about his conduct, nor did I wish to antagonize him or his wife by arresting him for being drunk and disorderly. The simple solution was to take him home — if he continued to sing in the house, it was no concern of mine, although the neighbours might complain. The Noise Abatement Act of 1960 did make provision for those who created noise and vibration to the annoyance of the public but whether its provisions would cope with Richard’s music was something I dared not anticipate at that moment.
Like most of the village, I knew that Esme was away for the weekend and for that reason, the task was less fraught than it would otherwise have been. Upon reflection, of course, if Esme had been at home, this would never have happened. However, I struggled with Richard as I manoeuvred him towards the front door of his house and I managed to find the key in his pocket. I opened the door, switched on the light and said, “Home Richard. You’re home. In you go. Mind the step.”
The rapid change in his demeanour was both astonishing and bewildering. He appeared to sober up almost immediately. “No, Mr Rhea, I can’t. I cannot go in, I must not go in.”
“But, Richard,” I was puzzled. “This is your house, isn’t it? I’ve got the right place. The key fits . . .”
“Yes, Mr Rhea, yes indeed it is, but . . .”
“She’s away, Richard, Esme’s away, I can take you in . . .”
“Good heavens no, Mr Rhea, my word, no. Not at all, no. I must not go in.”
I propped him against the door pillar, shouted Esme’s name and then said, “See, she’s not there, the coast is clear.”
“I’ll stay out, Mr Rhea, in the garage, in my car, that will solve matters, no trouble there, no trouble at all . . .”
“Look, what on earth’s the matter? I can’t leave you out here, you’re in no fit state and besides, if you stay here you’ll freeze or you’ll start singing again, and no one can abide the noises you make. So come on, in you go,” and I took his arm.
He pulled free, saying, “No, I can’t, Mr Rhea, no, not now . . .”
“But why?” I shouted at him. “Why won’t you go in?�
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“I haven’t got my slippers on,” he said quietly. “Esme says I must always put my slippers on before I enter the house, the floors, you see, they’re all highly polished.”
“Then take your shoes off,” I suggested.
“No, Esme says sweaty feet make marks on the polished floors, Mr Rhea.”
“Where are your slippers?” I asked.
“In a box outside the back door,” he said.
“You’re joking!”
“No, Mr Rhea, I’m not.” His voice remained slurred during these exchanges, but the threat of Esme had indeed driven most of the drunken influences from his body. I supported him as he panted and puffed along the path at the side of the house and eventually we came to what appeared to be a dog-kennel. It was outside the back door and I shone my pocket-torch inside; a pair of man’s slippers waited for their owner’s homecoming.
“Put them on,” I said.
He obeyed. Now he was at home, he would obey my orders, just as if I was Esme. Sitting on the back doorstep, he managed to remove his shoes and replaced them with his slippers whereupon I said, “Right, in we go. Back to the front door.”
“Not the front door, Mr Rhea. I’m never allowed to use the front door, that’s only for funerals and weddings.”
“Then we’ll use this door, the back door.”
“I didn’t bring the key, I took the front door key by mistake, Mr Rhea, and I can’t go in there, not now . . .”
“Wait there,” I said sharply.
I went into the house via the front door, leaving a mud trail along the gleaming passage, which led into the kitchen, then I padded across a shining white-tiled kitchen floor to the back door. I unlocked it, opened it wide and said to Richard, “There, we’ve solved that one. In you come, Richard.”
“Thank you Mr Rhea.” He seemed most relieved. “Thank you . . . now, what can I tell Esme, about tonight . . .”
“Nothing,” I said. “You tell her absolutely nothing.”
“But she’ll know . . .”
“Not if you clean those footmarks off the hall and kitchen floor.” I pointed to my own marks. “That can be your punishment for coming home in this condition. I’ll not say a word!”
He smiled and closed the door as I left.
But as I walked away, I heard a woman’s voice from upstairs crying, “Richard? Is that you? Where have you been? I want an answer, Richard, I want an answer this minute, I’m coming down . . .”
I left hurriedly. Esme had returned just as unexpectedly as she had departed, and as I had no wish to be on the receiving end of her tongue-lashing, I scurried away. As I trotted to my waiting van, I saw the door of Richard’s house burst open as he also fled into the sheltering darkness of the night. Then I lost him. I have no idea where he spent that night, but wherever it was, he remained silent, perhaps knowing that if he sang, Esme would find him.
I do not know what transpired between him and Esme after his brief taste of freedom but he did appear to join more events in the village and his confidence increased. He even brought me a pint of beer in the pub one night.
* * *
Another bossy wife came to my notice when a hiker reported finding some stolen property, namely a bottle of Scotch whisky, hidden in a cavity in a drystone wall.
The wall runs along the side of the lane in Rannockdale, a remote dale which contains a scattering of farms and lonely stone-built cottages. It is an ancient wall and was then in a tumbledown condition with many large holes within its length. It was hardly the place to be patronized by thieves or disposers of stolen goods, but the bottle of whisky was new and unopened. The fact that it had been thrust deep into the cavity suggested it had been hidden there, so it could hardly be classified as lost property. Some furtiveness had been involved; skulduggery was suspected.
“You’d better keep observations on that wall, Rhea,” ordered Sergeant Blaketon. “It sounds to me like the sort of thing that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass would do. If he, or anybody else, is dumping stolen goods on your patch, it could mean somebody’s coming out to collect them. A hotbed of receivers, Rhea, a nest of felons under your very nose, so you’ve got to nip this crime ring in the bud, eh? You’ve got to arrest them. And if it is Greengrass, I want him inside. Right?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said, knowing that if Greengrass had stolen the whisky, it would have been drunk long ago; Claude would never risk leaving any of his treasures for others to enjoy. So began a long, fruitless period of keeping unproductive observations on the activities of Claude Jeremiah and also upon a length of drystone wall some three miles long by six feet high.
The problem was that other valuables were later found hidden in various parts of that wall and I felt sure Greengrass was not responsible. Somehow, they were always placed there while I was not keeping watch, but having said that, it is difficult keeping a simultaneous watch on every hole in a wall of that length. To achieve that degree of observation, a posse of constables would be required to keep watch for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Over the following weeks, visitors, local people, farmers, shepherds and ramblers came to me with things they had found in the wall — a bottle of sherry, a pack of 200 cigarettes, a shot pheasant, several boxes of chocolates, a hardback novel, some bottles of beer, tins of fruit, packages of butter and margarine, jars of jam and marmalade . . .
From time to time in my years at Aidensfield, I’d had reports of sneak thieves, people who enter houses through unlocked doors to steal the first thing that they see, such as a radio set in the kitchen, the butcher’s money or a nice vase. Also, from time to time, I’d seen Alfred, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s lurcher, mooching about the streets; sometimes he had a slab of wrapped butter in his mouth or a teacake or, more likely, a mutton chop, a chicken leg or a joint of roast beef. Alfred was in fact responsible for a lot of unreported crime in Aidensfield, but I did not think the dog or its master had taken to hiding goodies in a drystone wall. Sergeant Blaketon was not convinced, however.
“I can’t totally accept that Greengrass is not the culprit. I’ll bet he’s behind this, so have you spoken to the local shopkeepers, Rhea?” asked Sergeant Blaketon one afternoon. “This is mainly the sort of stuff anyone can buy from the village shops. Or nick from kitchen tables. That dog of his is a four-legged crime wave. Has Greengrass become a shoplifter and has that bloody dog of his been learning lessons from squirrels? Hiding things like this . . .”
“I don’t think so,” I confirmed. “I’ve had words with them all, but they’ve not been raided, nothing like this has been stolen. They all know Claude Jeremiah well enough to keep an eye on him, but he’s no shoplifter, Sergeant. I’ve had no reports of break-ins at shops or houses either, so I doubt if this is stolen property after all. It’s more like someone just getting rid of it . . .”
“Why would they do that? It’s all good quality stuff, it’s not rotten or condemned, is it?”
“And it’s brand names, Sergeant,” I said. “Good stuff.”
“Exactly, it’s just the sort of daft game Greengrass would play. It’s definitely a Greengrass sort of going-on if you ask me, Rhea,” he sighed. “Well, keep at it.”
Then one Monday morning, I was in Joe Steel’s shop when a rambler hailed me. He was in his sixties and warmly clad in hiking gear.
“Ah, Constable,” he said, producing a tin of peaches from his anorak pocket. “I found this, I thought I’d better hand it in. It was hidden in the dry stone in Rannockdale, near the footpath to Flossie’s Foss. I wondered if there’d been a raid, it hasn’t been there long, the tin’s not rusty or anything.”
Flossie’s Foss was a local waterfall, foss being a local word for a high waterfall along a beck or stream. I thanked him and explained what was happening so far as hidden goods were concerned, took his name and gave him a receipt.
When he’d left the shop, Joe said, “I gave that tin for the village hall raffle, Nick, last week. I’m sure it’s the same one, I recognize
the dent in the side.”
“That dent wasn’t made by Alfred’s teeth, was it?” I asked.
“No, it got damaged in transit. That’s why I thought it was a good raffle prize, I’d have had some small difficulty selling it.” He examined it more closely and confirmed that it was indeed the very same raffle prize he had donated.
“Have you given other things for raffle prizes recently?” I asked and I then listed some of the found articles. When he said they all sounded like raffle prizes, I went home and checked the dates of events at the village hall. Almost invariably, there had been an event in the hall shortly before the discovery of the hidden articles. But why would anyone conceal a raffle prize in a drystone wall miles from anywhere?
I decided to keep discreet observations in the vicinity of the village hall during the course of the next function. The first event during my new strategy was a whist drive in aid of Rannockdale village hall funds, and there was to be a raffle. I decided to patrol the village that evening and, on the pretext of wishing to buy a raffle ticket, I went into the hall just before the drive started and bought a full book of tickets while eyeing the choice of prizes. There was the usual stuff — a leg of ham, a pound of sausages, tins of fruit, vegetables, bottles of whisky, rum, gin and sherry, some bottles of beer, a box of chocolates, some soap and perfume and sundry other worthy prizes.
As I strode out of the hall clutching my tickets, I tried to memorize the names of everyone present — it wasn’t easy, but among the fifty or so faces I did notice the whiskered features of Don Ledger. In his early fifties, he sported a huge grey moustache which seemed to wrap itself around his cheeks in large curls and thus he was recognizable in any crowd.
CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 8
