Other than to make a mental note of Clarence’s changed circumstances, I did not pursue the matter; after all, it was not of any professional concern to me.
It would be some four months later when I called at his Eltering shop to buy some records. I wanted a selection of Chopin’s music, in particular an album containing his Nocturne in E Flat, Opus 9, No. 2.1 like all piano music, but this is one of my favourite pieces. Clarence was not in the shop that day and so Peggy, his voluble assistant, served me. I made my choice and said,
‘Has he heard any more about his break-in?’
‘Not a sausage, Mr Rhea. But then he wouldn’t, would he?’
‘Why not?’ I was puzzled by her remark.
‘It was the Freemasons,’ she said. ‘Everybody knows that. They want him out — he refuses to resign.’
‘Why do they want him to resign?’ I asked.
‘Those rumours about him, little boys and that. You must have heard.’
‘Yes, but there was nothing in them, was there?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The folks hereabouts all thought there was.’
‘And you?’ I pressed.
‘I just work here,’ she said. ‘I’ve nothing against old Clarence, not personally, and I’ve seen nothing that would make me worry. But, well, you know what gossip is.’
‘But the Masons wouldn’t base their decisions on gossip, would they?’
‘Maybe some of the Masons have little lads, Mr Rhea. Maybe they couldn’t bear to think of him being one of them when the town was rich with rumours, bad though it might be.’
I thought fast. If the Masons had no proof of Clarence’s sexual misbehaviour, then they could not exclude him from the lodge. They could not base such a decision on mere speculation, and if he refused to resign, then they were compelled to retain him, however embarrassing.
‘So how does this break in link him and the Masons?’ I asked, now that she was so chatty.
‘His regalia, Mr Rhea. He’s not told anybody this, I know, but he kept it upstairs, in a cupboard. When he went to the lodge, he called here first to collect his little bag, then off he went to the meeting. Whoever broke in took that bag, that’s all. No money, no records. Just his regalia.’
Now I could see what she was telling me. The rules of the Freemasons say that no brother shall be admitted to a meeting without the clothing appropriate to his rank. Without his clothing, he could not be admitted, and unless he was admitted, he could do nothing about the loss.
If what Peggy said was true, then poor old Clarence had been denied admission to his Masonic meetings in a way that barred him completely. But why? Because of rumour? Because his conduct now lacked the necessary purity, or because he had offended against the Freemason’s concept of moral law? Or had his loss been the action of a rogue Freemason, someone acting without the knowledge of his brothers? Or was it someone unconnected with the Freemasons? Someone who knew how to inflict the maximum embarrassment upon Clarence? I do not know — I could not believe that the Brotherhood would stoop to this kind of behaviour.
Clearly, I could not question Clarence on this delicate matter — he was adamant that nothing had been stolen. Even so, I did tend to believe Peggy’s version of events.
Clarence continued to live in my beat and to run his constantly successful music shop, but not once did I have cause to suspect him of improper behaviour with children. Then he died. It was a very sudden death: when driving to work one day, he had a heart attack in his car, crashed through some railings and ended that final journey on the banks of a stream near Brantsford. His death revived all those memories of the veiled allegations against him, and even then, we had no proof that he had ever committed such low crimes. Clarence was buried in Elsinby churchyard and it was a big funeral, with his mother in attendance, for she was still alive.
I attended out of respect for him and watched his coffin being lowered into the earth.
That night, I was on duty from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m., and my patrol area included Eltering. At half past four in the morning, I was checking lock-up premises, one of which was Clarence’s Music Shop. Peggy was running it until his will was executed — we all thought she would inherit it, which in fact she did.
As I reached into the dark recess of the doorway to turn the doorknob in my check on its security, I was aware of a parcel on the floor. I picked it up; it was wrapped in brown paper with no name on it, so I opened it, thinking it was an item of lost property.
But it contained a number of Masonic items and on one of the leather apron pouches inside the box was the name ‘C’. Denby’.
Someone had returned Clarence’s regalia.
10. The Feast of Christmas
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
Christmas is a time for forgiving and for giving and in the country districts especially it is a period of true happiness and genuine friendliness. People visit one another, they help one another, they invite one another into their homes to share a drink or a meal and they give presents to people who have befriended them or helped them during the year. People such as the dustman, the milkman, the postman, the paper delivery lady and others are duly rewarded with suitable gifts, and we all go around with happy smiles on our faces.
Country policemen get Christmas gifts too. Some unwise souls regard these as attempted bribes, something to persuade the constable to turn a blind eye to minor breaches of the law, but in the mind of the rural dweller, there is no such evil intent. The present is given as a means of saying a sincere ‘thank you’, and if the constable persists in not accepting it, then the donor may be hurt or offended. Some givers will say it is not for the policeman, but for his wife and family, but whatever the circumstances of such a gift, it is never intended as a way of diverting the constable from doing his duty. City constables might have different views on such actions.
The truth is that country people know their constables as individuals and would never respect one who shirked his duty for whatever reason. Without their respect, he could not
undertake his work. If the constable has to summons a countryman who has just given him a brace of pheasants, then that must be done without fear or favour. The pheasant-giver would not expect any favourable treatment, nor would he get it.
I became acutely aware of such matters about a week before Christmas when I called on a farmer called Dick Ferguson who lived at Thackerston. His well-tended farm was called Broom Hill and the house stood high above the village; the hillside below was covered with acres of broom, as it had been for centuries. It was a riot of brilliant golden yellow in the early summer.
Dick, a stockily built man in his early sixties, had long specialized in pig farming. He exhibited his best stock at local agricultural shows and was a frequent prize-winner, but he was a down-to-earth and highly practical man. I don’t think Dick had an enemy in the world either. This might have been owing to his great honesty or even his generosity — at shows, he could be found in the bar, buying drinks for friends and competitors alike, while at home he was generous to the village hall, the WI, the church and all the local organizations. He always ensured they had enough prizes for their raffles or enough fresh food for their entertaining.
He’d even go down to the hall to help set up tables or sweep the floor if necessary. Nothing was too much trouble for Dick.
Just before that Christmas, I had to visit him to obtain a witness’s statement. He’d been driving home from Harrogate when he’d witnessed a minor traffic accident in Knares-borough. Two cars had collided and a man had been injured. Typical of Dick, he’d stopped at the scene to help and had given his name to the injured man before the ambulance had carried him off. I had to interview Dick to establish exactly what he’d seen. It was a chill day in early December and I called at mid-morning.
‘Come in, Mr Rhea. Sit thyself down and have a drink — it’s very near Christmas,’ were his opening words.
‘A soft drink, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m driving!’
‘Sensible chap, thoo’s as wise as a jinny owlet.’ And his wife, Dorothy, produced two mugs of coffee, two buttered scones and a slice of gingerbread each with a slice of cheese to accompany it. Thus fortified, I settled down to the interview, first eliciting the story as Dick saw it. He was a good witness, giving me a clear account of precisely what had occurred, and I wrote down his words, getting him to sign his statement which would be sent to Knaresborough Police for whatever action they deemed necessary.
‘Will I have to go to court?’ he asked.
‘It depends,’ I said. ‘If that man in the Ford Cortina is prosecuted for careless driving — and it does seem he was at fault — then you might have to give evidence. That’s if he pleads not guilty. If he admits careless driving, I don’t think they’ll call you, but what you’ve just told me will help the Prosecution Department to decide whether or not to summons him.’
‘So if I do have to go to court, I’ll just tell ’em what I’ve told you, as straight as a bulrush?’
‘Just that. Give them facts, not opinions,’ I advised him, and then I explained a little of the procedure in a magistrates’ court, detailing what would occur if a careless driving case was heard. He’d never been in court before and I felt he’d benefit from a little foreknowledge. I answered a few of his questions about the intricacies of giving evidence and warned him of the sort of cross-examination he might have to endure. He seemed to understand it all and thanked me for my guidance.
I remained a few more minutes chatting to Dick and Dorothy in their comfortable lounge about local matters, and he offered me a Christmas whisky, a lovely malt. Most reluctantly, I had to refuse — to drink whisky in uniform and then drive a police vehicle would be very stupid, but I did appreciate his gesture. I accepted a bitter lemon, however, a token of the proffered Christmas spirit, and wished them both seasonal greetings.
As I got up to leave, he said, ‘Come wi’ me, Mr Rhea.’
He led me into a huge beamed kitchen, and hanging from the ceiling on strong metal hooks were dozens of cured hams. At that time, some people, like Dick, still did their own pig-killing and ham-curing, using methods handed down from generation to generation. A strong home-cured Yorkshire ham was one of life’s great treats and the farmers in this region would slice off pieces as they required them and cook them for breakfast. I’d been brought up to similar practices, surviving the Second World War with the fruits of the countryside — pheasants, grouse, salmon, home-cured ham, home-grown potatoes, soft fruit and apples, home-produced milk, cream and cheese, brambles and wild mushrooms — it all formed part of the luxury of rustic living. Broom Hill, thanks to Dick and Dorothy, was perpetuating that highly desirable style of life.
‘Somebody’s been busy,’ was all I could think of saying as I gazed on this forest of suspended hams.
‘Heat from working kitchens is good for ’em,’ he said. ‘They alius used to hang hams in t’kitchen rafters. You have to know t’right method, right time to salt them, and then t’right amount of salt, saltpetre, vinegar and a spot o’ sugar — then hang ’em up like this, where there’s a bit of smoke from t’kitchen fire, not so as they get too dry mind or too hot … If they get too dry and hot, t’skin gets as tough as bog oak …’
He stood on a chair and lifted one of them down, passing it to me. I took it in my outstretched arms and almost dropped it — it was so heavy, like a huge, weighty stone.
But I held on to it. I could smell the strength of that ham; I could imagine it sizzling with roast potatoes … it was mouth-watering.
‘This is what a ham should be like,’ I complimented him. ‘I’ll bet it tastes smashing …’
‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘Take it. For Christmas, for t’missus and your bairns.’
‘No,’ I protested weakly. ‘I can’t, not all this!’
‘Well a few slices isn’t any good to anybody,’ he said. ‘It’s yours, take it.’
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘How much he asks … nowt, dammit man. It’s Christmas, you’ve been good to me, explaining about that court business, so it’s me saying thanks to you, Mr Rhea. Nowt no less, nowt no more.’
I persisted with my weak refusals, but succumbed. A ham this size would last us months. I bore it home in triumph and Mary was overwhelmed — like me, she was born and bred in the Yorkshire countryside and knew the wholesome value of a home-cured ham. There was a hook in the pantry and I hung it there to await the time we cut the first slice.
About a week later, there was a knock on the door and when I opened it, Dick was standing there, carrying another equally huge ham on his shoulder. For the briefest of moments, I thought he’d forgotten about giving me the first one, and that this was another …
‘Come in,’ I said.
He stomped in and I helped him to lift the enormous ham from his powerful shoulder, still wondering why he had come.
‘You’ve still got that ham I gave you, have you?’ he asked in his blunt Yorkshire way.
‘Yes, untouched, Dick. We’re saving it for a special occasion.
‘Aye, well, good. Well, I hope you don’t mind me coming like this, but I’d like it back — and this ’un’s yours, not that first ’un.’
I was puzzled for a moment, and said, ‘But they look the same to me.’
‘Aye, well, they’re not. That first ’un’s for t’Brewers Arms, so I’ll leave this new leg and if you give me t’old ’un back, then we’ll say no more about it.’
I took the new one and went to the pantry where I lifted, down the original, then as I handed it to him, I asked,
‘Dick, just what is the difference, if you don’t mind me asking? I can’t see anything different …’
‘Salt, Mr Rhea. That ’un for t’pub,’as got a lot more salt on it. Salt’s good for beer sales, you see, Mr Rhea. When t’regulars eat sandwiches made from that ham, they’ll guzzle gallons o’ beer afterwards. It’s an arrangement I have with George — I alius gives ’is hams an extra dollop or two of strong salt. They’re as salty as Lot’s wife.’
‘So it’s a good job we didn’t eat it!’ I laughed.
‘Aye, you’d have been as dry as our vicar’s sermons!’ he chortled.
Having accepted the swop, I asked, ‘How about you then, Dick? You’ll be a bit dry after lugging that ham up here?’
‘Just a bit,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a nice malt whisky,’ I said. ‘How about having a Christmas drink with me?’
‘If I get as tipsy as a fiddler’s bitch, I can alius walk home,’ he said, following me into the lounge.
*
Dick’s generosity was in direct contrast to the attitude of old Mr Morley. Well into his seventies, he lived alone in a neat but somewhat isolated brick-built bungalow beside the road leading from Thackerston to Ploatby, and few of the villagers, if any, knew his Christian name. Everybody called him Mr Morley — when his wife was alive, she had always referred to him as Mr Morley, and never as ‘my husband’ or ‘our Fred’, or whatever his name was.
Because of the loneliness of his bungalow, I would pop in when I was passing, especially if the weather was wintry, because his route to the shops was easily cut-off by snow. I would ask if he needed anything from the shops and, from time to time, he would ask me to bring something back, such as a tin of baked beans or packet of corn flakes. I know the other callers did likewise. His only mode of travel was an old black bike which he’d had for years, but he rarely left his home — he had no need to. When he did emerge, he always wore a black beret. The sight of the little man in the black beret, aboard an old black bike, was a familiar one in those lanes, especially in the summer months. I think he sold some of his flowers in the local shops.
His neighbours, distant though they were, were kind to him, doing his errands, shopping for his clothes, giving him food and sometimes taking him hot meals. A nearby farmer’s wife always cooked his Sunday
lunch, for example, and took it to him on a tray, a journey of about a mile and a half.
Mr Morley did have relatives, but they lived in the Midlands and, in any case, were not very close to him. He had no sons or daughters, those relations being distant cousins so far as I could establish. He had never been to visit them, and, so far as anyone knew, they had never come to see him. His only link with most of them was the occasional Christmas card, but one of them, the daughter of one of his distant cousins, did send him a Christmas cake every year.
For all the kindness displayed by his neighbours, old Mr Morley never returned their generosity, not even asking them to sit down for a cup of tea or to share a Christmas drink. I don’t think he was mean or distrusting; I think he simply did not think about inviting any one to share a few quiet moments with him.
On the few occasions I had been inside his house, I had found it clean, tidy and well decorated. Some elderly men, living alone, tend to ignore the appearance of their paintwork and wallpaper, but to give Mr Morley his due credit, he did keep a nice home. His garden was also neat and tidy, for he spent a lot of time among his flowers and vegetables, but never gave any to his callers.
Conversely, they did not expect anything for their generosity, but sometimes I felt that the farmer’s wife who brought his Sunday lunch would have enjoyed the occasional gift of a bunch of his lovely flowers, and some of the ladies who did his shopping would have welcomed a bag of carrots or sprouts.
But those thoughts were not important; the important thing was to make sure he was cared for, and in that we all took our turn, albeit without any requests either from Mr Morley or anyone else. He was alone and so the villagers looked after him.
Then, one day, just before Christmas, I received a privileged insight into his character. It was a bitterly cold day as I halted my van outside his garden gate. I was passing and thought I’d pop in to ask whether he needed anything, but as I walked up the path to his back door, I saw that it was standing open. I rapped and called out, ‘Anyone around? Are you there, Mr Morley? Hello?’
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 18
