CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  Geoffrey, therefore, came home to an empty house on Thursday evening, let himself in and found lots of bare walls and no sign of his precious nudes. His first reaction was that his home had been burgled by someone who knew the value of the paintings, but as he gathered his shocked wits he realized there was no sign of forcible entry and no other damage or tell-tale signs of an intruder. That suggested the culprit was Isabella! As he brewed himself a coffee while trying to look objectively at the situation, he tried to remember whether, prior to leaving for France, he’d said anything or done anything which might have inflamed her open dislike of his pictures. Had she disposed of them in a fit of pique? Was this some way of securing revenge for something he’d done or omitted to do? As he wandered around the house trying to come to some logical conclusion he found Isabella’s note on the desk and decided to ring her.

  ‘It’s Geoffrey,’ he had said, with strained politeness. ‘I’m back, darling.’

  ‘You got my note?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry I had to leave in such a rush, but mother was ill . . .’ and she provided him with an account of her activities while asking about the success of his trip. Not once, he noted, did she refer to the pictures. When she had finished, she promised she would return home on Saturday and it was then he decided to ask about his missing pictures.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, I am sorry. I removed them . . .’

  ‘Removed them?’ he bellowed. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  She explained about Mrs Fisher and Mrs McDonald and he listened, his anger subsiding as Isabella’s reasoning sounded perfectly feasible under the circumstances.

  ‘So, where are they?’ he asked in due course. ‘I’ve searched the house looking for burglars but didn’t find any of my pictures.’

  ‘I had them put in that garden shed, Geoffrey, the one with the green door. On Tuesday.’

  ‘Locked, was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no, none of those sheds have locks as you know, but we’ve never lost anything.’

  ‘That’s because they were used to store junk,’ he said. ‘No one’s likely to steal junk! Those paintings are worth a fortune! Anyway, I’ll go and find them now, then get help rehanging them. But next time you have people in for dinner make sure they don’t object to the finest of art, and if you have to remove and store them in the future make sure you keep them in the house, in a secure place.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Geoffrey, I’m sorry,’ and their conversation ended.

  He hurried out and searched all the garden sheds, only to find every one of them empty. As instructed, Jim had arranged their clearance and even though Geoffrey examined the shed with the green door it was empty too. Growing increasingly worried he searched every other outbuilding on his premises, every parked vehicle, every room in the main house including the attic and even the vegetation beneath his hedges and around the extremities of the property. But there was no sign of his precious nudes. Now very unhappy he rang Isabella again.

  ‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘you did put my paintings in that shed, didn’t you? The one with the green door? You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did, Geoffrey. Why would I say so if I hadn’t done so?’

  ‘They’re not there now,’ he said. ‘In fact, they’re nowhere to be seen. I’ve searched all the outbuildings, the garden, the vehicles, the house, the attic . . . they’re nowhere to be seen, Isabella. They’ve gone. Is this some kind of joke you are playing? I know you dislike those nudes, but they are my pride and joy and . . .’

  ‘I should be your pride and joy, Geoffrey, not some painting of a naked woman with red hair! But I put them in that shed, like I said. If they are not there I have no idea where they are! You’d better speak to Jim about it. He might have moved them somewhere else.’

  ‘He’s not around he’s finished for the day.’

  ‘Then go and see him all the same!’ and she slammed down the telephone.

  Jim Barnes, who lived in Elsinby, was at home when Geoffrey knocked on his door shortly before nine that Thursday evening, and after they discussed the timetable of events it was evident that the pictures had been inadvertently cleared by Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, along with the rest of the junk. Geoffrey was mortified that anyone might consider his pictures worthless junk, but his anger turned into anxiety as he realized two clear days had elapsed — where on earth would the pictures be now? Burnt to cinders? Thrown on to a council tip? Sold to a dealer? There was time enough for them to have reached the Continent or even to be packed ready for transportation to the United States.

  He hurried around to the Greengrass ranch, but Claude was not at home and there was no sign of his truck.

  Geoffrey thought he might be in the pub and so he headed in that direction, only to meet me on the forecourt as I was about to pay one of my official visits.

  ‘Just the man!’ he breathed when he saw me. ‘Just the man, Constable. Now, I am not sure whether I am about to report a crime to you, or whether I am the victim of sheer bad luck, or whether there is a conspiracy of some kind surrounding contentious articles of my property . . .’

  ‘I’m all ears!’ I invited him to explain.

  We walked along the lane beside the pub, away from interested ears, and he told me the whole story in considerable detail, hence my ability to provide this account. When he had finished, I said, ‘Well, Greengrass is in the pub, his truck’s on the car park, so we can have a word with him but if he removed the paintings in all innocence, as part of the other stuff he was asked to shift, then he’s not committed a crime. Your only recourse is to take civil action to recover the pictures — unless he willingly returns them to you.’

  ‘I hope he’s not dumped them somewhere!’ He was hoarse with emotion now. ‘Or sold them to some unscrupulous dealer. I mean, Constable, if Greengrass recognized the value of those paintings, he’d want to sell them for what he could get, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He would indeed,’ I had to admit. ‘You did imply that whoever removed your rubbish could sell anything they took?’

  ‘I did, I don’t deny that, but never in my wildest dreams did I think my wife would place my art collection among the rubbish.’

  ‘So, let’s talk to Claude,’ I said. ‘It’s not really a police matter, I ought to say, but when dealing with the Greengrasses of this world a police uniform is always helpful.’

  Claude was drinking with his cronies when I found him and first protested at my intrusion upon his leisure time, but when I referred to the alleged theft of some valuable paintings from Elsinby Manor he agreed to accompany Geoffrey and I upon a little walk away from flapping ears.

  ‘I never stole them!’ He spoke with force and passion when I put the situation to him. ‘I was asked to clear those sheds and told I could sell anything I wanted if I could get a bob or two for it, otherwise it all went to the council tip. You ask Jim Barnes, he got me to do the job.’

  ‘We know that, Claude,’ I tried to pacify him. ‘All Mr Cunningham wants to know is — where are his pictures? They shouldn’t have been put in those sheds, you see, it was an accident.’

  ‘Well how was I to know that?’ Claude bristled. ‘I just did what I was told.’

  ‘Yes, Claude, we’re not saying you did anything wrong,’ Geoffrey now spoke to him. ‘All I want is my pictures back, that’s all. So, where are they?’

  ‘Well,’ Claude blushed. ‘I sold ’em, to a chap in York. A dealer. Art and antiques dealer. He reckoned he had a couple of customers who were looking for a range of pictures like that . . .’

  ‘How much did you get for them?’ was Geoffrey’s next question.

  ‘That’s a matter between me and him,’ said Claude. ‘Us entrepreneurs don’t discuss our profit margins or details of big deals, you should know that, Mr Cunningham.’

  ‘One has to respect confidentiality in business matters, Claude,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘But if you got less than five thousand pounds, you were robbed!’

  ‘Five thousa
nd?’ blasted Claude. ‘That cheating sod gave me five hundred and I thought I’d done well . . .’

  ‘They’re insured for eight thousand pounds, Claude, and I want to get them back. That’s all. You’re not in trouble. All I need to know is that dealer’s name, so I can go and talk to him.’

  ‘And what do I get out of all this? A load of expense and trouble and you asking for your money back!’

  ‘That dealer owes me the right kind of money; they’re my pictures not his. I need to see him — and I need to do so very urgently before he parts with them. And now I know what he paid you, I can do business with him, I’m sure.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s a chap called Rattenby; he’s got an antique shop just off Coney Street in York.’

  ‘I know him,’ said Cunningham. ‘Thanks, Claude. I’ll go immediately, I know his home address.’

  I was not involved in any more of that incident, but Geoffrey Cunningham did secure the return of his collection intact, although he had to pay £500 to reclaim it from Rattenby.

  Claude, however, was not forced to return his money — that was a measure of Geoffrey’s relief at tracing his beloved works of art. The odd thing was, though, that Rattenby told Geoffrey that two ladies, twin sisters who had a department store in Newcastle, had shown great interest in the entire collection. It seemed they were redesigning their famous store and wanted a more modern image — even though they didn’t touch alcohol or stock lingerie, it seemed they loved classic art and had no objection to the nude form, whether male or female, provided it was tastefully portrayed in an artistic manner. They really would have loved that collection of nude redheads but Rattenby had to tell them the sale had been withdrawn for personal reasons — and I don’t think Geoffrey mentioned any of that to Isabella.

  * * *

  Another problem arose through a wealthy incomer to Crampton, a village which lay a couple of miles from Aidensfield. This new arrival to our patch of rural peace highlighted a problem which continues in many villages even today — that of naming houses. Because many of the villages around the North York Moors tend not to have main streets the houses are not numbered consecutively. Some houses don’t have names and they have become known by the name of an occupant or some distinguishing feature, such as Miss Fenton’s House, the White House, Three Chimneys or The Blacksmith’s Cottage, and there are many obvious ones such as The Police House, The Vicarage, The Surgery, School House, Old School House, Old Vicarage, Station House, The Post Office House, The Poplars, The Oaks, Beech House, Church View or Honeysuckle Cottage.

  Many are tucked away along quiet lanes, lots of them don’t bother to display a nameplate and thus deliverymen and even the emergency services have difficulty finding these places. This is especially difficult on a dark, winter night when the village roads are deserted and there is no one from whom to ask directions. To add to the problem, some villages contain more than one house or cottage with the same name — The Cottage can appear several times in one village. Rose Cottage is another favourite which is often used for several places within very small area and to those I could add Beckside, Riverside, Moorside, Ash Cottage and dozens more. In time, the local people are able to easily distinguish one from the other invariably relying upon the identity of the occupants, but even so, there can still be difficulties.

  This was highlighted when I discovered three farms all called Abbey Farm, and all within the same locality on my beat. Added to this problem was that two were owned by people called Gilham and the third by a man called Gilholm. If there was one redeeming feature, it was that Arthur Gilham’s Abbey Farm lay within the parish of Aidensfield while Adam Gilholm’s Abbey Farm was just across the river in Crampton parish. Then Alan Gilham built a new farm and called it Abbey Farm.

  The reason for the name arose because, in medieval times, the land upon which all the farms stood had once belonged to Crampton Abbey. When the abbey was destroyed and totally eradicated in that first wave of attacks upon the Catholic Church the building which had been the grange (the place where the monastery’s grain crops were stored) survived Henry VIII’s destruction. It was the only part of the former abbey to have survived; the rest had been razed to the ground.

  After standing derelict for two centuries, the grange was reoccupied and developed into a farm, making use of some of the former lands of the abbey. Unlike the Victorian craze for calling such places The Grange this farm had become known as Abbey Farm, Crampton.

  Directly across the river, however, was the former site of the abbey church and, somewhere in the early eighteenth century, the owner of the land sold it to a developer who had been surprised to find tons of beautiful stone buried under the mounds around the river side. These were the stones of the old abbey church and so he built a splendid farm with outbuildings on the site — quite logically, this became known as Abbey Farm too, but because it was across the river from the other Abbey Farm, and in a different parish, no one was unduly concerned. After all, one Abbey Farm was in Crampton and the other in Aidensfield, even if they were separated only by the width of a small river. The similarity of owner’s name did not appear until shortly before my arrival in Aidensfield when Abbey Farm, Aidensfield was owned by Arthur Gilham, with its neighbouring Abbey Farm, Crampton being owned by Adam Gilholm.

  The problem was exacerbated after World War II when the local estate decided to sell off some of its land. Parcels of land offered for sale included some which bordered Abbey Farm, Aidensfield but because Arthur Gilham could not afford to buy, it was offered on the open market — and bought by a man called Alan Gilham. He was not related to Arthur.

  Then this incoming Gilham undertook some research and excavations which revealed the foundations of the former monastery including the dormer buildings, refectory and kitchen, all domestic quarters of the monks who had inhabited the former abbey. He wanted to build a modern farmhouse but with such a reservoir of good quality dressed stone he decided to build his new home of old stone, using as much as he could find buried on site. And so, a new farm appeared on that part of the former abbey — and Mr Alan Gilham decided to call it Abbey Farm.

  Arthur protested loudly at this proposal, but Alan persisted, using the argument that his was the rightful name because Arthur’s farm stood on land formerly occupied by the church part of the abbey — so Arthur should really call his premises Church Farm. In spite of Arthur’s long protests, supported by his pal Adam Gilholm from Abbey Farm, Crampton, the completed new house and its modern outbuildings were named Abbey Farm, Aidensfield. It seemed there was no law to prevent the use of identical names even if there was confusion within the post office, the council offices, the water companies and others with official interests in the properties. All were able to offer suitable advice to Alan Gilham, as I understood they did in no uncertain terms, but he was not legally bound to take any notice.

  One minor problem occurred on a regular basis when one or the other of these farmers telephoned anyone. Gilham and Gilholm sound almost identical, particularly when spoken quickly in the dialect of the North Riding of Yorkshire. In both cases, the name sounds rather like ‘gillum’, although whenever they did make a phone call they stressed their Christian names. In Adam’s case he made sure the recipient of his call knew that he was ringing from Crampton, not Aidensfield.

  And so, when I arrived in Aidensfield, I had three Abbey Farms on my beat, all standing within little more than a couple of square miles, two of them occupied by Gilhams with an Aidensfield address. While acquainting myself with the history of these places it took me a while to sort out in my mind which person owned which but, like the other local people, the problem faded as familiarity grew. Even so, there were times when I had to ponder whose firearms certificates were due for renewal or whose stock registers were due for quarterly inspection and, in the long term, I think the two A. Gilhams suffered most, if only because each regularly received mail belonging to the other — which was opened more often than not — and because business callers like commercial
travellers, vets and others sometimes arrived at the wrong place.

  There is little doubt the local people felt that Alan Gilham, in his new home, was at fault for his insistence on naming his construction Abbey Farm, but he was determined never to change its name. History was on his side, he claimed. A likeable if stubborn character he got on surprisingly well with his neighbours and there was no reason to believe there was enmity between the two Gilhams in Aidensfield, or their near-namesake across the river in Crampton.

  Then a major problem arose. One dark night, fire broke out in a haystack and one of them dialled 999, gasping out the address which sounded like ‘Gillum, Abbey Farm’ before the rest of the address was lost in the trauma of that moment.

  The fire brigade was locally based and comprised a band of gallant volunteers rather than full-time fire officers and so, when they received the call-out, they were told by someone at Fire Headquarters that the emergency call had come from ‘Gillum, Abbey Farm’ with the rest of the address being lost. The recipient of that call, a part-timer at Brantsford, assured Headquarters he knew Gilham at Abbey Farm, Crampton, and so they would head for that farm. As the first fireman to arrive at the station was an agricultural machinery mechanic who had also dealt with Adam Gilholm at Crampton, it was perfectly logical for him to support that decision, and so the Brantsford Fire Brigade appliance set out for Adam’s Abbey Farm at Crampton.

  As they approached Abbey Farm, Crampton with blue lights flashing and sirens sounding at ten o’clock that night it became increasingly obvious they had gone to the wrong place, because there was no fire at this farm and a large blaze could be seen in the distance, across the river. That meant a considerable detour, but their arrival had alerted Adam Gilham and he rushed out to see what the commotion was about. He was quickly able to tell them that the fire was at Abbey Farm, Aidensfield but from this distance, in the dark, he couldn’t be quite sure which Abbey Farm! He offered to telephone one or other of them to find out, but the firemen said there was no time and besides, the farmer would not be sitting by his phone — he’d be out there with his hosepipes and hayforks. Adam said that Arthur Gilham’s Abbey Farm was first on their route from here and so the brigade turned out and bolted into the darkness with all lights and sirens in full action.