From the outbreak of the feud, there had been no such bother, the brothers managing to contain their problems within their own bounds, but for some unaccountable reason, the underlying cause of the feud suddenly resurrected itself. No one outside the family knew why this had happened or what had prompted the sudden eruption of feeling, but the first I knew was when someone dumped a lorry load of sand in the middle of a road in Crampton. It was right outside Peter Almsgill’s house.
I was told by a gamekeeper who lived nearby.
‘Mr Rhea,’ he halted me as I drove towards the village. ‘Some daft bat’s dumped a load of sand near the church. It’s blocking Church Lane. I thought I’d better tell you.’
‘Right, I’ll see to it,’ I promised.
As the mound of sand was outside Peter’s home, I went to the door to ask if anyone knew about it. The house was deserted so I went to the builders’ yard and found Mrs Emma.
‘Sand?’ She was puzzled. ‘We’re not expecting any sand, Mr Rhea.’
‘Well, it’s blocking the road outside your house,’ I told her. ‘And it’s blocking your drive.’
She groaned.
‘I bet it’s Paul,’ she sighed.
‘Paul?’ I asked.
‘They’re at it again, Peter and Paul,’ she told me with some resignation. ‘I don’t know what’s set them off, but they’ve started to play stupid tricks on each other again.’
‘I’ll have words with Sandra,’ I offered.
Sandra was in her office at the other side of the yard and nodded. ‘It’ll be our Paul, wanting to annoy Peter,’ she said. ‘I’ll get our men to shift it, Mr Rhea, straight away, with a JCB.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And tell Paul that if he does it again, I’ll book him for obstructing the highway!’
‘I wish somebody would bang their heads together, Mr Rhea. Can you do that?’
‘They’d have me up for assault!’ I laughed.
That episode marked the beginning of a series of ridiculous nuisances which were perpetrated by some unknown persons, but we all knew it was the work of one brother against the other. Unwanted logs were dumped in their drives; shoals of unwanted mail arrived; delivery men turned up with unwanted and unordered goods like tons of liquid cement, coffins, greenhouses and paving stones. Somebody sent Paul five dogs from the dogs’ home; someone else sent Peter a load of useless furniture from an auctioneer’s store; Paul was sent to measure a site for a pigsty and it turned out to be at a ladies’ fashion shop in Ashfordly, while Peter was asked to begin negotiations for a new house: when he went to inspect the site, it was a village pond. And so the catalogue of fun continued, with Peter playing the bagpipes outside Paul’s house at six in the morning and Paul buying a pet peacock which cried all night and day in its paddock next to Peter’s bedroom.
Eventually, some of the villagers did complain because these silly pranks caused them annoyance — the peacocks got out and invaded all corners of the village, stealing hen food and calling incessantly to the distraction of people living nearby; Peter’s bagpipe music, which he claimed was legitimate practice for his musical tastes, was disruptive and upset the vicar, while some of the bizarre range of dumped goods did cause blockages and obstruction to footpaths and lanes. A lorry load of surplus tiger dung from the local zoo was not welcomed, nor was a dumped cartful of raw slaughter-house waste considered suitable manure for Peter’s garden. I warned the brothers from time to time, always avoiding a prosecution where possible by asking them to clear away their mess — which they always did.
Then, one day, I found Paul shovelling a heap of horse manure from his drive, throwing it into a lorry which stood nearby.
‘Another prank?’ I asked.
‘That bloody daft brother of mine,’ was all he said.
‘What set all this off?’ I asked.
‘He sent me a bill for his bloody newspapers!’ Paul said. ‘I wouldn’t have minded, but it was more than mine. He was trying to get me to pay his paper bills!’
‘How much more?’ I put to him.
‘Ten bob,’ he said.
‘In a month?’ (That was the equivalent of 50 pence today.) I added, ‘It was probably a mistake.’
‘Never. There’s never been a mistake before!’
‘Who sent it to you?’ I decided to get to the bottom of this now that he was talking; it was the first time I’d heard him talk of the feud.
‘It was delivered,’ he said. ‘By hand. It always comes by hand, but I reckon he swopped them … Why should I get his bills, eh?’
‘You know Laurie Porteus has retired, don’t you?’ I put to him.
‘So what?’
‘Well, poor old Mortimer’s delivering the post now, and he can’t read. Now, just suppose he slipped the wrong bill through your letter box, and Peter got yours … it could have happened. Have you asked anybody? Peter? Emma? Mrs Porteus? Mortimer?’
He hadn’t asked. I don’t know whether that error had been caused by Mortimer’s mistaken delivery, but Paul did shrink a little at my suggestion and then went indoors.
I didn’t see him for a long time afterwards, but the series of pranks ended. Even so, the feud continued and still now, there are two building firms in Crampton, each called P. Almsgill and Sons. Old Mr Percy has passed on, but Peter’s son, Percy, has since joined his father’s business, and so has Paul’s son, also called Percy. The confusion continues.
*
But the brothers Almsgill were not the only ones to create a mystery for me. If local gossip and innuendo was to be believed, it was the brothers of the local Freemasons’ lodge whose treatment of one of their brethren, if it was true, gave cause for concern.
Due to the mystique surrounding the rituals and rules of Antient Fraternity of Free and Accepted Masons under the United Grand Lodge of England, there is bound to be a lot of unjust and unsubstantiated rumour about them and their brotherhood. Not being a Freemason, I am not in a position to confirm or deny any of that speculation, nor am I in a position to criticize or praise the brotherhood. I do not know the scope of their work, but I understand that they do perform many acts of charity, particularly towards their own brethren and their widows or families. That work is done through their Board of Benevolence. Their desirable good and humane qualities are encompassed within the Antient Charges and Regulations which are read to the Master Elect prior to his installation.
Similar charges of behaviour apply to members of lodges while at their meetings or elsewhere — for example, any Freemason must agree to be a good man who strictly obeys the moral law. He must be a peaceable subject and cheerfully conform to the laws of the country in which he resides. He must promote the general good of society and cultivate the social values, guarding against intemperance and excess. He must work honestly and live creditably.
He must view the errors of mankind with compassion and strive by the purity of his own conduct to demonstrate the superior excellence of the faith he professes. And, like all Freemasons, he may enjoy himself with innocent mirth and avoid all excesses, always saluting his brothers in the courteous manner in which all masons are instructed. And, in the presence of strangers, he is told that ‘You shall be cautious in your words and carriage, that the most penetrating stranger shall not be able to discover or find out what is not proper to be intimated.’ Hence the secrecy of the handshakes and other salutes, and the mystique which surrounds the brotherhood.
In the course of my work, I did come across Freemasons, because several officers, both senior and junior, were members and so were many of the local businessmen who lived and worked within my compass. The introductory handshake, with the thumb pressed into the back of the recipient’s hand, is their way of finding out whether a stranger is a member — a lot of police officers who are not members recognize that handshake and return it, just to see what happens next.
Some outsiders regard the Freemasons as a harmless and curious club for men, while others see it as something sinister because of its rituals,
its secrecy and the wearing of specified jewels, aprons, chains, collars, garter-blue or red silk gauntlets and other regalia.
Knowing of the high standard of behaviour required, and of their acknowledged benevolence towards their brothers, I was surprised to hear of the ill-treatment of one of them.
Maybe stories of this suppposed treatment were inaccurate, or maybe the treatment was justified. I do not know, but I can only relate the story as it appeared to me, an outsider.
The gentleman concerned was called Clarence Denby and he owned a thriving music shop in Eltering. For a small North Yorkshire market town, it was a superb shop, selling everything from pop music to the classics by way of sheet music, records, books about music and musicians, instruments and portraits of artistes and composers. Clarence’s shop was popular with young and old alike for he was knowledgeable about all aspects of his art and could talk pop with teenagers just as he revealed a remarkably deep knowledge of the classics, including opera and ballet. *
Clarence did not live above the shop, however. He owned a very pretty cottage beside the stream in Elsinby and he shared it with his mother. Mr Denby, senior, had died many years ago, leaving what was then a young widow with a small boy. Mother and son had lived together ever since, even though Clarence was, at the time of this story, getting on for fifty years of age. His mother was still alive and approaching her eighties, and still caring for her son. She washed his clothes, cleaned the house and prepared his meals.
Clarence had never married, but in its wisdom, nature had not made him very attractive to the opposite sex, or even to his own sex. In short, Clarence Denby was not a very pleasant man. Despite his musical knowledge and his expertise at running his business, and despite the business rapport he enjoyed with his customers, he was without any close friends.
For one thing, his appearance and general demeanour militated against him. He was a short, very fat man, barely five feet tall, who perspired persistently and heavily. On a hot day, this made the atmosphere in his tiny shop somewhat pungent and the townspeople often asked one another whether Clarence ever bathed. No one asked him directly — if they did make remarks about the midden-like atmosphere which wafted among the quavers and crotchets, they’d ask if he had a dead rat under the counter or whether someone’s dog had either died or had an unfortunate accident among his LPs. Clarence’s only response was to allow the shop door to stand open in high summer. His ill-fitting clothes were always shabby and greasy too — his enormous rounded belly required him to wear braces upon his trousers, and he wore a belt as well, but it appeared to be a useless girdle about his huge stomach. The belt had no known purpose, while his jacket was never fastened. Customers were greeted by a massive expanse of grubby white shirt which was eternally bursting at the buttons, a soup-stained tie with a loose knot, and acres of dark, greasy material which comprised his jacket and trousers.
Clarence’s face, often described as pudgy, matched his overall appearance. It was round and fat with a multiplicity of chins, giving his eyes a distinctly piggy appearance. He wore tiny steel-rimmed spectacles which perched on the end of his bulbous nose, while his dark, greasy hair was sparse upon his balding dome, but thick about the ears and back of the neck. To add insult to injury, he had a very high-pitched voice and a peculiar wart to the left of his main chin.
In spite of all these unavoidable handicaps, Clarence’s shop was popular, if only for the quality of his musical wares and his own superb knowledge. That he was an expert in musical history was never in doubt, but it seemed he did not play any instrument — at least, no one had seen or heard him in action.
In the shop, he had a middle-aged woman assistant called Peggy who tended the counter while he looked after his books during busy times, and, in local terms, it seemed that Clarence was a success. His shop was always well stocked and always busy with customers, and this aura of success was confirmed when he became a member of the Freemasons.
I would sometimes see him pottering along to meetings in Eltering, carrying his little bag of regalia, and would pass the time of day with him. He never paused for long, for he always seemed to be anxious to go about whatever business it was in which he was currently engaged. Sometimes I wondered whether he was afraid of policemen, perhaps because his mother had threatened to call one whenever he was a naughty boy.
Then, nasty rumours began to circulate about Clarence. I was never sure how the stories began, but because he lived on my beat, they did concern me. It was said that Clarence was interfering with small boys. It was claimed that part of his reason for stocking the latest pop music was to encourage young boys to visit his shop and to go upstairs to a private room to listen with Clarence.
As police officers, we were all interested to know whether or not there was any substance to these reports, but in spite of maintaining very discreet observations in and around the shop in Eltering, we could never produce any real evidence of this behaviour. I kept an eye open at Elsinby, looking out for Clarence bringing young boys home or taking them for rides in his car, but I never saw anything that would cause me to be suspicious. He was also a keen supporter of the Anglican church in Elsinby, acting as church warden and being a member of the Parochial Church Council, and so I kept an eye on his behaviour with choirboys. But, again, I saw nothing that would give rise to concern.
Not once did we receive any complaint from the parents of small boys about his behaviour, and yet, in spite of our absence of evidence and the lack of any complaint, the rumours persisted. All of us, including the CID, tried to pin down the stories; we tried to ascertain whether or not there was any substance to the tales, but found absolutely nothing.
So far as we were concerned, Clarence was not harming the children, but the public continued with their innuendoes and veiled allegations against him. I do know that we were criticized for not prosecuting him, but for what? Unlike the public, we had undertaken observations and a very comprehensive investigation into his behaviour without finding any cause for concern. We could not proceed against a man on the strength of unsupported rumours.
I do not know whether Clarence knew of these scurrilous tales, but his business did not seem to suffer. People still patronized his premises and bought his musical offerings. And then, one night, someone broke into the shop.
The broken glass of the door was discovered by one of our night patrols and the constable rang me, asking if I would rouse Clarence and ask him to come to the shop. This was the procedure we adopted for informing keyholders of breaks into their premises; we preferred the personal touch rather than a cold phone call in the dead of night. It was 6.30 that morning when I called at his house; he was at home and answered my knock. I gave him the bad news and he said he would go immediately. His presence was needed so that the constable who’d discovered the break-in could tour the shop and determine if anything had been stolen.
Having been aroused early, I made a tour of my beat before going home for breakfast but I did not see Clarence until that evening when he came home from the shop.
‘Hello, Clarence.’ I was in Elsinby when he turned his Morris into the drive of his house. ‘What was the outcome of this morning’s alarm? Anything stolen?’
He shook his fat head. ‘Nothing, Mr Rhea. The door’s glass panel was smashed through. I think your people are recording it as malicious damage, not shopbreaking.’
‘You’ve not been upsetting anyone, have you?’ I put to him. ‘Someone having a go at your shop out of revenge?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, not that I know of.’ He was open with me as he added in his high-pitched voice, ‘I thought it might have been kids, hard-up teenagers pinching current hits, but none’s been taken. It could be damage — it might even be an accident, Mr Rhea. You know the sort of thing. Some couple courting in my shop doorway and one of them puts an elbow through the glass.’
‘You could be right. Well, we’ll keep our ears and eyes open, Clarence, and if you hear anything from your customers that might explain who did
it and why, give us a call. We’d like to get the matter cleared up.’
‘Yes, of course, Mr Rhea,’ and he vanished indoors to a hot meal lovingly prepared by his aged mother.
A couple of days later, I was talking to the constable who had discovered the smashed glass and discussed it with him.
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he told me. ‘That glass was smashed near the lock, and when I got there, the lock had opened and the door was standing ajar. It’s a Yale, chummy had reached inside the broken door to release it.’
‘But Clarence says nothing was stolen?’ I put to him.
‘I saw no signs of larceny,’ he admitted. ‘The till hadn’t been touched and, so far as I could see, none of the stocks of records had been touched. I wouldn’t know about instruments — some of those guitars, for example, are worth a lot. But Clarence reckons nothing was touched.’
‘And you? What’s your gut feeling?’
‘I think something was taken from that shop,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Clarence lost something he doesn’t want to talk about — you do know about those rumours?’
‘Someone wanting to blackmail him, you mean?’ I asked. ‘Had he got something there, I wonder, that would associate him with little boys?’
‘It’s a thought,’ my colleague acknowledged. ‘But what can we do? If he says nothing has been taken, how can we trace it?’ And so the mystery of the damage to Denby’s Music Shop remained unsolved. Meanwhile, I had noticed a new development — Clarence was no longer attending his Masonic lodge in Eltering. For a time, this seemed of little or no significance because, so far as I knew, a Mason could resign his membership at any time.
I knew also that a Mason could be excluded from his lodge if there was sufficient cause, provided that a notice in writing was served upon him. That notice had to contain particulars of the complaint made against him. So had someone made a complaint against Clarence?
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 17
