Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  I wondered if it was someone with a radio perhaps; a tramp maybe, sleeping rough, or some youngster seeking an opportunity to indulge in Radio Luxembourg after being forbidden to do so at home. But it was none of those.

  As I approached, I could see a woman sitting against a tombstone, and she was alone. She was babbling away in her low voice and suddenly she shrieked with laughter, as if someone had told her a joke, and then she resumed her one-sided conversation. She had grey hair; I could see its light shade against the all-embracing darkness, and even now, as I stood only feet away, she was not aware of my presence.

  I could see a bottle in her hand, a gin bottle I guessed, and all around the grave I could see beer bottles, empty ones. I had to make her aware of my presence and so I shone my torch. She blinked into the light, smiling up at me.

  ‘Who’s that?’ her voice showed no fear, nor was she drunk.

  ‘The policeman, PC Rhea from Aidensfield,’ I said, switching off the light. ‘I heard noises …’

  ‘Sorry, officer,’ she said. ‘I was just having a drink … it’s my husband’s birthday, you see. We were just having a nice quiet drink together, and telling stories like we used to do … that’s all.’

  ‘I thought you were alone,’ I could see no sign of her husband. ‘So where’s he?’

  ‘Down here,’ and she patted the earth beneath her. ‘He’s down here, and I’ve given him his eight pints … it’s his birthday, you see, we always go out for a drink or two or three on his birthday, and on mine …’

  ‘So who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Helen,’ she said. ‘Helen Brough. Alex’s wife.’

  I shone my torch on the gravestone and highlighted the inscription. I saw that the grave beneath her was that of Alexander Brough who had died three years earlier, aged sixty-four.

  I did not know what to do with her. She was hardly drunk and disorderly; she was well dressed and she lived in the village, but she had this bizarre desire to drink at her husband’s grave on celebratory occasions. And she made sure he got his share by pouring the contents of eight pint bottles on to his grave, but always removed the empties. I felt sure he would be happy with the arrangement — and he wouldn’t have to stand anyone a round either!

  My mind raced over the legislation I had been taught — I knew of the Ecclesiastical Courts Jurisdiction Act of 1860 which made brawling in a churchyard an offence. This was hardly ‘brawling’, i.e. any riotous, violent or indecent behaviour. She was not disturbing any divine service or troubling any minister or religion during divine service, although I did recall a provision which forbade the use of churchyards for secular purposes. Was she using it for a secular purpose by sharing a drink with her dead husband?

  That, however, was not a police problem; it was the responsibility of churchwardens.

  If she had been drunk, I might have considered the offence of being drunk and disorderly in a public place but she was not really disorderly, nor was she drunk and incapable, and it was questionable whether a graveyard at night was a public place.

  I could think of no offences under the Noise Abatement Act, the Civic Amenities Act, the Litter Act, the Public Health Act, the Burial Act or the Burial Laws Amendment Act of 1880. The most likely offence was one under the Cemeteries Clauses Act of 1947 which made it illegal to play sports or games, or to discharge firearms (except at military funerals) or to commit any nuisance in a cemetery.

  Was she committing a nuisance? What was a ‘nuisance’?

  I thought the wisest approach was to wait until someone made a formal complaint about her specific behaviour and then we would decide what to do about it. In the mean time, I told her to raise her glass to her husband and as she did, I said, ‘Cheers, Alex,’ then left.

  As I have never received any formal complaint from the churchwarden or anyone else, Helen Brough might still be drinking with her husband on those private celebratory occasions. And I think the beer must have acted as a fertilizer because there was always a splendid crop of snowdrops on his grave.

  2. Stolen Sweets are Always Sweeter

  What would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.

  John Dryden (1631-1700)

  Theft is surely the most common of all crimes. It is committed by so many people in so many circumstances that it is impossible to record or even estimate an accurate total. The number of crimes known to the police bears little resemblance to the actual number committed, and this is particularly so where theft is concerned. Lots of us suffer thefts without reporting our loss to the police, either because we know the person responsible or we do not think any useful purpose would be served in making an official report.

  There can be little doubt, however, that if every theft was reported to the authorities, then it would result in a more accurate and perhaps terrifying assessment of the nation’s criminality. In that way, it might persuade the Home Office to permit police forces to recruit more constables in an attempt to combat the seemingly unstoppable growth of lawlessness. In spite of official denials, there is an acute shortage of uniformed, patrolling police officers.

  As the village constable at Aidensfield, however, I was aware that my patch comprised a high proportion of law-abiding folk, but there were some felons among them.

  Some operated stealthily while others were more open about their crimes; some got caught either by me or by their victims, but several did evade the majesty of the law. Some did not regard their thieving activities as either unlawful or even sinful, somehow convincing themselves that their actions were justified or not the action of a criminal. Many thieves do persuade themselves that they have a right to purloin their ill-gotten gains. Some shoplifters certainly think along those lines, but shoplifting is just one form of theft, and it is a serious crime with a maximum penalty of ten years’ imprisonment.

  I think it is fair to say that, in some cases, the act of stealing is an addiction — sometimes I wonder if there should be Thieves Anonymous just as there is Gamblers Anonymous and Alcoholics Anonymous. But the scheme would surely fail because thieves would steal from one another at their meetings …

  Most police officers can give examples of compulsive thieves, people with the magpie mania. In Maddleskirk, for example, there was a milk roundsman who could not resist stealing things left in the yards and gardens of the houses to which he delivered his pintas. He had a penchant for children’s trikes, but as the villagers all knew of his weakness, they never reported his crimes. They simply went to his house and reclaimed their missing goods. He stole anything and everything he could carry home, his range of trophies varying from zinc horse troughs to garden tools via trikes.

  If it was left out in the open, Gold Top Gareth would pinch it. He never sold or disposed of his ill-gotten goods, and so it seems it was a genuine addiction.

  But can theft ever be justified? For example, is it wrong for a man to steal a loaf of bread when he is starving? Is it wrong for him to steal a loaf for another man who is starving? This type of question is guaranteed to produce argument and discussion, with Robin Hood being quoted as an example of the merits in stealing from the rich to provide for the poor.

  Such a Robin Hood type of character did operate on my beat, and I nicknamed him the Pilfering Poet. His crimes were never really serious, but they were annoying and, of course, they did not improve my crime statistics. Furthermore, they made my crime detection returns look positively sick!

  The Poet’s first reported crime was the theft of some hens. I was called to the premises of a poultry farmer at Elsinby and he led me to one of his henhouses. It stood in a large field some distance from the farmhouse and was one of dozens of similar wooden structures upon the premises. Jonathon Murray of Whin Bank Farm showed me the scene of the crime. He had locked up his hens the previous night at dusk, but when he’d come to let his birds out that morning, there was only one left in this particular henhouse. The door was closed and it was evident that the raid had occurred during the night. He’d lost twenty-three
Rhode Island Red crossed with Light Sussex hens.

  Hens of this breed were famed as good layers, but of that henhouse-full, only a solitary bird remained, clucking with pleasure at his arrival.

  But the thief or thieves had left a curious note. It was hanging on the door and read,

  We’ve taken your hens to feed the poor

  But we’ve left you one to breed some more.

  It was written in blue ballpoint pen on lined writing paper and hung from a hook inside the door. I took it down and asked,

  ‘Any idea whose writing this is, Jon?’

  ‘Nay, Mr Rhea.’ He had lived on these premises all his life as man and boy, and shook his grey head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘And your other henhouses?’

  ‘All present and correct, Mr Rhea. They’ve not raided any o’ them.’

  ‘Have you had any other hens stolen recently?’

  Again he shook his head, ‘Nay, lad. Never a one.’

  I searched the ground around the henhouse for indications of any unusual boot prints or other clues, but found nothing. We returned to the farmhouse where Betty Murray produced three plates of scones and cakes, with a mug of coffee apiece, and I waded through this mammoth ’lowance break as I took written details of the crime. I kept the poetic note and promised I’d do my best to find the culprits.

  Although the note was couched in royal ‘we’ terms, I suspected the thief was a lone operator. I had no idea why I felt this but later thefts reinforced that original gut-feeling. Jonathon did not honestly feel he’d get his birds back, but had had the sense to let me know about the crime in case similar ones were occurring nearby. But there weren’t any others. I’d had no poultry thefts reported for some time, certainly none with this particularly poetic modus operandi. I made the usual inquiries at butchers’ shops, hotels and other likely outlet points, but produced a blank. Nobody had seen Jonathon’s poultry, dead or alive, dressed or undressed.

  The next poetic theft was from the garden of a retired agricultural mechanic called Clive Gill. His garden was always a showpiece for he grew and exhibited a range of splendid flowers, specializing in chrysanthemums and dahlias. In his retirement, he produced gorgeous blooms which were in demand at weddings, funerals and every kind of special occasion.

  Everyone liked Clive; he was a most friendly and jolly man. He rang me at nine one morning.

  ‘Mr Rhea,’ he said in his slow voice, ‘you wouldn’t believe this, but somebody’s pinched my best spade. It’s a stainless steel one, worth a few quid of anybody’s money …’

  ‘Are you sure?’ was my first question. ‘You’ve not lent it to anyone, have you? Or put it in a different place?’

  ‘No, nowt like that. In fact, the thieves have left a daft note behind …’

  ‘I’ll come straight away,’ I promised him. Already, I had the feeling that this would reveal another of those poetic MOs. I was right.

  Clive lived in a delightful stone-built roadside cottage between Aidensfield and Elsinby and so I walked the mile or so, enjoying the sparkle of the mild spring morning. I spotted a wren busy with his nest building; a woodpecker hammering at an elm and a weasel darting across the road ahead of me. I arrived at Clive’s cottage just before 9.30 and his wife greeted me. Pretty with her rimless spectacles and round, rosy face, she was a modest, tiny lady in her early sixties whose skills with flower arranging were invariably in demand at the local churches and chapels. She was also a keen member of the WI and was always prominent at WI events.

  ‘Clive’s in his greenhouse, Mr Rhea,’ and she pointed in the general direction. ‘I’ll have some ’lowance ready when you’ve done.’

  I found him re-potting some young green plants, and I marvelled at his natural skills as he upturned the plant pots and tapped out the small growths before transferring them to larger ones. He never spilt a bit of soil — I’d have had soil all over the floor if I’d been attempting that.

  ‘There’s the note, Mr Rhea,’ he nodded towards a shelf at the other side of his greenhouse. I found a note on lined writing paper, written in blue ballpoint pen. This one said,

  We’ve taken your spade, your garden is weedy

  we’ll make sure it’s used to till for the needy.

  ‘They’ve a bloody cheek,’ he said. ‘My garden’s never weedy!’

  I asked the usual questions about where he’d left the spade, what it looked like and whether he recognized the handwriting of the note, and then adjourned to the house for a hefty bout of eating Mrs Gill’s sumptuous ’lowance. In addition to everything else, she produced a delicious slab of apple pie and this kept me busy as I compiled my crime report.

  ‘If they’d wanted an old spade for the needy, I could have given ’em one,’ Clive said. ‘I’ve dozens in my shed, but that was my best ’un, a newish ’un, an’ all.’

  I told him about the missing hens and their note, and promised I’d do my best to recover his lost spade, albeit with little confidence in my own ability to retrieve it. Even if I did find it, it would be difficult proving its true ownership.

  Looking at the poem, I realized once more that the note was couched in the plural and I began to wonder about the identity of the poor and needy who were recipients of this odd selection of stolen property. Were the goods genuinely being handed over for some charitable purpose, or was this just a poetic ploy by the thief or thieves?

  Within the next few months, more stolen goods vanished at the hand of the mysterious poet. A fruiterer lost some of the stock from his wagon and this note was left:

  Apples, pears and plums galore,

  We’ve given them away, you can get some more.

  A lady who had been spring cleaning her cottage had left a kitchen chair outside the back door. She intended taking it to a local upholsterer for repairs to its cane seat. One night, the chair vanished and a note said:

  The chair you left outside your door

  Will come in handy for someone poor.

  A greengrocer discovered that part of his delivery of fresh vegetables, left outside his shop doorway in the early hours by the wholesaler, had vanished. The note said:

  We’ve taken some peas and artichokes

  To be used in soup for our old folks.

  When a florist found several vases of display flowers missing at Ashfordly, a note was left which said:

  Your lovely flowers will cheer the room

  Of one who has to live alone.

  In many cases, the stolen goods were items of food or associated with food. Without exception, the victims said that if the thieves had only asked, they would have willingly donated the items, or something similar, if it would ease the plight of someone less-well-off than themselves. None could understand why the thieves bothered to steal goods which would have been freely donated.

  Within a space of about nine months, dozens of these minor thefts occurred, the hallmark of each one being the poetic MO.

  My Pilfering Poet was certainly causing me a headache, but not once did I get any clue as to his identity; no one had seen or heard anything which might lead to him, her or them.

  No vehicles had been heard or seen at odd hours, although it did seem that the crimes were the work of someone who was around at night, or in the very early hours of the morning. I did wonder if it was a driver regularly passing through the district, someone who was not local. My colleagues and I made inquiries at all the charitable and welfare organizations in the locality in the hope that we might identify the destination of the stolen goods, but we produced no information. The handwriting was never identified, while the writing paper could have come from any cheap pad.

  Then, as suddenly as he had started, the Pilfering Poet ceased his activities. For weeks, no more notes were left and I wondered if it was someone who had moved from the district, or if the travelling pilferer had had his route altered. But I had to submit progress reports to show that I was continuing to investigate the crimes. Then, just before one month’s end, I got the following note from S
ergeant Bairstow:

  The Inspector hopes you’ll make the time

  To trace the suspect of your poetic crime.

  I decided to enter the spirit of the occasion and submitted the following progress report:

  I’ve made inquiries all around

  But not a single clue I’ve found.

  The crimes all happened in the night

  With victims safely out of sight.

  Done with guile and some great stealth

  To benefit those who lack the wealth

  To make their own ends meet with ease.

  From garden spades to tins of peas —

  The range of thefts is quite bizarre

  But no one’s seen or heard a car

  Or van or bike or other steed

  To carry spoils to those in need.

  Our villain’s silent, clever and shrewd

  I think it must be Robin Hood.

  I did not receive any response to my own modest poetic effort but neither did I trace that thief or thieves.

  *

  All criminals use an MO. The Pilfering Poet’s MO was his habit of leaving behind a suitable verse. The initials MO mean modus operandi, which translated into English is ‘method of operation’. In many cases, it is possible to identify a criminal through his or her MO; some burglars, for example, always break in through a rear window, some use an upstairs window, some climb fall pipes and break in through a bedroom window. Some smash their way in while others drill holes in the woodwork of windows; some use master keys.

  Others always have a meal in the attacked house, some write graffiti on walls, while highly nervous types will pee or do worse on the floor or carpet. Many a burgled householder has found a heap of stinking excrement on their finest rug — and it wasn’t left by the dog.