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

by Rhea, Nicholas

  As the townspeople and shoppers halted to observe this circus act, they realized it wasn’t a couple of wild beasts in the throes of mortal combat. It was a couple of women in fur coats. One coat was yellow and spotted like a leopard and the other was thick and brown, for all the world like the hide of a grizzly bear. And this was a summer day in June! Their wearers were fighting in a manner reminiscent of a bout between a lioness and a tigress. Even the noises and clawing were similar.

  That it was a duel to the death was not in doubt. Nothing else could have produced such a rabid outcome, and so the crowds of the market-place and the people of the town wandered across to watch. Some were already striving to find the best vantage point as several from the hotel emerged to watch. Among them were more women in expensive fur coats and large, outrageously silly hats.

  Here was entertainment of a very superior kind. As the pair of women, fur coats flying, legs askew, skirts above their waists and shoes cast into the far corners of the market-place, buckled down to their conflict, so the crowd began to cheer them as they would have done in bear-baiting days.

  Some shouted for the leopard lady, others for the grizzly, and that was the situation which prevailed as I hove to. It was the cheers of the enthusiastic crowd that attracted my attention as I was parking my mini-van to commence a foot patrol of the market square. At first, I had no idea what was happening, thinking that the crowd’s interest was in the antics of a market trader. Some stallholders were greatly entertaining, like the one who juggled with full dinner services or performed magic deeds with sharp knives and turnips. As I strolled across to the crowd, I became aware of the shrieking and screaming that was rising from the depths of the cheering masses. Here indeed was something of great interest.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked a man standing at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘It sounds like a bloody scrap between a couple of hundred farmyard cats,’ he laughed. ‘But it’s two snooty women tearing themselves to pieces.’

  If his assessment was correct, I had to halt the affair — brawling in a public place was definitely not the sort of thing to entertain market-day crowds, and it did seem worse because it was between two women. One did not expect this from ladies.

  I pushed through the crowd, my uniform creating a buzz of conversation from the onlookers, and when I reached the ringside, I appreciated the attraction and extent of the tournament. With the expanse of thigh, suspender, stocking-top, all revealed by rising skirts, this had the sex-appeal of women wrestling naked in mud, because these two were literally tearing the clothes off one another’s backs.

  The exceptions were the fur coats which seemed impervious to damage. But blouses and skirts had been ripped off, stockings shredded, shoes kicked away, handbag contents scattered …

  There were a few boos and unwelcome whistles when I stepped forward to bring the proceedings to a dignified halt; I waded in, wary of course that both protagonists might turn on me with their nails, high heels and handbags. On reflection, I think I arrived just as each was realizing they were tiring rapidly, that no outright winner was likely and that they were making themselves look ridiculous. And it would be a costly bout so far as replacement clothes were concerned.

  I shouted to them, demanding that they halt their battle, but at first their shrieks drowned my voice and so I had to push into the scrimmage and seize each by the collar of her fur coat. There wasn’t much else left to grab at that stage, but I held them apart at arm’s length. Each was now six feet from the other with me in between.

  For a few brief moments, their arms flailed, their feet kicked and their voices rose to a pitch of high excitement, but all to no avail. They were now fighting thin air. It was a technique we used to separate fighting dogs. I simply held them apart until they had calmed down.

  They were a sorry sight, their smart hair-styles gone, their make-up ruined, tears and mascara running down their cheeks, their feet bare and even bleeding, their reputations gone, and their fine clothes in tatters. It had been a considerable affray, but now, as I held them apart wondering what to do with them, both began to weep. The gross embarrassment of those public moments began to eat into their silly brains.

  I decided to take them into the hotel whence they had emerged, albeit keeping them firmly apart. By now, the crowd was silent, wondering firstly what had started the rumpus and, secondly, what I was going to do about it. Those were my thoughts too. I decided the onlookers would never know the answer to either question, hence my decision to take the aggressors indoors. As I propelled the female gladiators inside, I saw the hotel manager hovering in the background looking decidedly worried, but he did step forward to close the door against the inquisitive crowd, some of whom were on the verge of following the drama to its lawful conclusion.

  Inside the hotel’s foyer, I released my grip on the furry collars, but stood between the two women.

  Each was in her mid-forties and each looking decidedly humble by this time.

  ‘Well,’ I said, wondering if I sounded like a schoolmaster lecturing his erring pupils. ‘What was all that about?’

  Neither of them spoke. Each stood with her head hung low, in half-attire, as if the awful shame of the past few minutes had suddenly dawned. The manager, a smooth-haired man called David Sanderson, stepped forward.

  ‘It was about an umbrella,’ he said quietly.

  ‘An umbrella?’ I asked in disbelief.

  ‘It had been left here, last month in fact. These ladies are members of the Ashfordly Ladies’ Luncheon Club, you see. They love to parade in their fur coats and expensive hats … well, one of them left an umbrella behind after the last meeting.’

  He paused as if to imply that the brolly was a Very Important Thing, then continued, ‘Today, when I showed it to the ladies, this lady,’ and he indicated the one in the leopard-skin coat, ‘said it was hers. She thanked me and was walking out with it …’

  ‘It’s not Rebecca’s, it’s mine.’ the one in the grizzly-bear coat now came to life. ‘I said it was mine all along … I left it behind last time I came … it is mine, I keep telling her that.’

  ‘It’s not, you silly bitch, it’s mine,’ spat her foe. ‘I’d know it anywhere, it’s mine …’

  ‘Hold on,’ I shouted, stepping between them again lest battle be resumed, ‘We’re not going to suffer another fight, so just keep quiet, both of you. I’ve never seen such unruly behaviour from anyone, let alone women who pretend to be quality examples of their sex. You fight like alley cats instead of acting like the sophisticated women you pretend to be … So, Mr Sanderson, where is the brolly now?’

  ‘Mrs Fenner took it out with her …’

  ‘And she snatched it from me …’

  ‘No I didn’t, I just wanted to look at it …’

  I shouted at them again in my schoolmaster’s voice, and said, ‘Well, if neither of you have got it, then it’s still outside, so it seems. After all this commotion, you’ve dropped it, one or other of you. And your shoes are still out there, as well as things from your handbags and bits of clothing …’ They looked at themselves, now horrified.

  ‘I’ll send someone out to collect their belongings,’ offered Sanderson, and I said it was a great idea. The women, chaperoned by Sanderson and I, then adjourned to a more private place, a small ante-room away from the stares of hotel staff and residents. The two warring women sat with their backs to each other as Mr Sanderson and I waited for the residue of their cannonade to be brought in.

  ‘I hope this disgraceful display does not detract from the high reputation of the hotel,’ Sanderson said. ‘This is most certainly not the sort of behaviour one expects …’

  ‘It’s all her fault,’ hissed Mrs Fenner.

  ‘It’s not mine, it’s yours,’ shrieked the other, whose name I later learned was Mrs Porter.

  ‘Quiet, the pair of you,’ said I.

  Sanderson went on, ‘I must really take a long hard look at the luncheon club’s future with us. I thought they we
re ladies — they call themselves ladies, but they behave like alley cats …’

  We were denied any more of his ramblings when a waitress from the hotel’s dining room staff entered bearing shoes, handbags and other assorted belongings which had been gathered from the battlefield outside.

  ‘Has the crowd gone?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes, Mr Rhea, they’ve all gone,’ she smiled.

  ‘Thanks for searching for all these things,’ I smiled. ‘Did you find the missing umbrella?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I searched everywhere, it’s gone. I think someone’s stolen it,’ she added.

  And so they had. I went out and made another very thorough search, even looking under parked cars, into the branches of trees and along the patch of garden in front of the hotel, but it had gone. Now they would never know who was the true owner, but because I did not know who owned it, I could not record it as a crime. After all, who was the loser?

  Sanderson and I talked to the two warriors but neither would admit being at fault, nor would they agree about ownership of the missing brolly. From my own point of view, the theft of the umbrella had been fortuitous. I’m sure that if we had recovered it, the dispute would have continued. Now, they had nothing to fight about and I said that I would take no action against them. If either wished to claim the other had assaulted her, then the remedy was to take out a private summons. I explained this could be done by contacting a solicitor. I knew that the police would not wish to become involved, and I suggested that any claims for damage to clothing should be sorted out between them. This had a calming effect and, quite surprisingly, the two women suddenly turned and clung to one another, sobbing their sorrows into the thick fur of their respective coats before going to the ladies’ room to repair some of the damage.

  I did hear later that both had resigned from the luncheon club, but I never did find out who really owned the disputed umbrella. But why did they fight with such determination over something as trivial and replaceable as an umbrella? I did wonder if there was another aspect to the story, whether, for example, the husband of one was illicitly seeing the other. But I did not pursue the matter.

  Due to their high-profile fight, however, the luncheon club had become a laughing stock, the townspeople chuckling for many months over that drama.

  They made fun of the women and their ridiculous behaviour in trying to outshine each other with their expensive and outlandish hats, fur coats, gloves and shoes. Discerning ladies were suddenly quite embarrassed to be associated with it.

  The umbrella story became part of the folklore of Ashfordly, and today the missing object is probably hanging upon someone’s coat hook. Perhaps it was removed by the true owner? But where did it go? And what was so special about that umbrella? The mystery remains.

  *

  Umbrella owners will know that objects of that size can easily disappear without trace, even within one’s own home, but an infinitely more puzzling event involved the disappearance of something considerably larger. And, like that umbrella, the mystery remains.

  I was on patrol one winter’s night, working a late turn, i.e. from 2 p.m. until 10 p.m., when the puzzle developed. That tour of duty promised to be pleasant because my beat was quiet and I had no pressing commitments. I could check on vulnerable premises, visit a few friendly farmers and cottagers, make inquiries about any outstanding crimes and generally perform useful public relations duties by visiting pubs, popping into shops and other places open to the public. I’d show my uniform where it mattered; I’d visit old folk who were alone or worried and generally reappraise the welfare of those at risk.

  Such work is an important part of the rural bobby’s duty; consequently, leisurely patrols of this kind provided an opportunity to maintain vital contact with a wide range of people.

  The afternoon passed without incident and I did fulfil many of my plans. By the time I returned home for my meal break, from 5.45 p.m. until 6.30 p.m., darkness had fallen and freezing fog was threatened. When I left the house, however, the sky was clear with the stars twinkling in the blackness above, but the air contained that distinctive hint of an imminent hard frost. I was cosy in my official van with the heating system working at peak level but was determined not to be lulled into any false sense of security, because there was a threat of ice on the roads. The forecast warned of a severe frost later that night and said it would persist for several days. The council’s gritting lorries had been out earlier in the evening to spread salt along the roads and I decided I would park my van and walk where possible.

  I would undertake the main part of my evening patrol on foot, making calls in Aidensfield, Elsinby, Ploatby and Crampton before knocking off at 10 p.m. There was no point in risking a motor accident on the icy roads, although I did need the van to travel between the villages.

  It would be shortly after 8.30 p.m. when I received a radio call from the Control Room.

  It seemed that a man from Crampton, Mr Geoffrey Dixon, who worked for a petrol supplier, had been walking his dog between Crampton and Thackerston a few minutes earlier when he had discovered a serious traffic accident. It had happened at the foot of Oak Lea Bank just outside Crampton. A small car appeared to have collided with a horse; the car was on its side in the ditch while the horse was lying injured at the scene; the car driver was not with his car and appeared to have wandered off, probably suffering from concussion. His car, it seemed from the report, was badly damaged. Mr Dixon had rushed to the nearest house from where he had telephoned. I was directed to the scene, and Control reminded me to drive carefully because of the ice. It seemed that the accident had occurred on a very slippery road surface. A vet had been called too, but the horse had no rider with it.

  I knew the hill in question. It was steep and the downward slope terminated in a sweeping corner to the left; drivers often experienced trouble negotiating it and in winter it was made worse because water oozed from the fields above and ran across the highway. In severe conditions, it froze to produce a very slippery and sloping surface. I had no doubt that this was the cause of the accident. It would take me ten minutes to arrive at the scene and I gave that ETA (estimated time of arrival) to Control; they did say that owing to the probability that the driver had wandered off in an apparent concussed slate, an ambulance had been called.

  What looked like concussion could sometimes conceal a more serious internal injury.

  Off I went to deal with the accident, driving very carefully through our narrow lanes with the stars twinkling above. My route took me through Thackerston and thus to Oak Lea Bank from its lower end. I parked the van on a wide grass verge some distance from the foot of the hill, took a powerful torch from the van and walked to the notorious corner.

  But there was nothing to be seen. I saw the anticipated patch of thick ice which spread across the road, but there was no sign of an injured horse or a damaged car. The beam from my torch played across the road ahead of me and then, in the ditch just below the corner, I found evidence of the car’s recent presence. There was damage to the hedge and the fence behind it, with some broken headlamp glass and red light glass upon the frozen grass and the inevitable twisted pieces of chrome strip. Chrome strips always seemed to fall off accident-damaged cars. These bits had come from a Ford Anglia. I searched everywhere along that roadside and even ventured into the adjoining fields, thinking the impetus of the car might have propelled it across one of the hawthorn hedges. But there was no damage to any of the hedges and the car was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the horse. I spent some considerable time in the darkness, checking and re-checking in my search, but the scene was deserted.

  I walked the entire length of that hill with my torch, examining the ditches, gates, hedge-bottoms and all places that either a horse or a car might be concealed. But I found nothing, nor did I find the concussed driver. As I hunted, the ambulance arrived and I explained the situation to the driver; then a vet from Harrowby, a Mr Marriott, turned up to attend the horse.

  Together, u
sing the headlights of our vehicles and with torches blazing, we undertook another search of every inch of that hill and its verges, but found neither horse, car, nor man. We did, however, discover a large spot of fresh blood in the road and guessed it had come from the horse. We also found further fragments of smashed glass in the centre of the road and I noticed some piles of mud, good indications of the precise location of a collision. In a collision which involves a motor vehicle, such piles of mud invariably fall from the undersides to identify the point of impact.

  ‘So what do you suggest, constable?’ asked the vet in his light Scots accent.

  ‘First, I’ll check with Control,’ I said. ‘They might have given me the wrong location.’

  I called them on my radio and they confirmed the location. According to them, we were all standing precisely at the scene of the reported accident.

  ‘So what next?’ persisted the vet.

  ‘I need to have a word with Mr Dixon, the man who reported it. He didn’t ring me, he rang our Control Room,’ I explained. ‘They diverted me here. He lives in Crampton, I know his house. I can be there and back in two minutes — I’ll ask him to come and show us where it happened.’

  The vet looked at the ambulance driver and both agreed to wait for those extra minutes, just in case we had been directed to the wrong place. If we had, then their skills may be needed elsewhere. I hurried off to Geoff Dixon’s cottage in my van and he answered the door.

  ‘It’s about the accident you reported, Geoff,’ I began.

  ‘It’s at the bottom of Oak Lea Bank, Mr Rhea. I rang your headquarters.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing there. I’ve got a vet and an ambulance down there, as well as myself, and we’re all looking for casualties — but there’s nothing. Can you come and show us exactly where it happened?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll get my coat.’

  He directed me to the place I’d already visited and stood in the road, baffled. We all stood and looked at him.