Constable at the Gate (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 20)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  “And you don’t have to do dinner for them? Or an evening meal? Or if it rains, they leave the place anyway? They don’t hang around making it look untidy, like they do in hotels?” Claude was deliberating the merits of this scheme.

  “Absolutely, Claude. No lunch, as they call it when they have summat to eat at our dinner-time, no dinner to prepare in the evening when you call it supper-time. It’s a doddle, Claude.”

  “And they pay cash, eh?” beamed Claude.

  “Most of them, yes.”

  “So what about rules and regulations?” continued Claude. “You know, official things. Like having fire escapes and keeping hotel registers, that sort of thing.”

  “Small bed-and-breakfast places, like private houses with just one or two letting bedrooms don’t have to comply with all the rules which affect the larger premises, such as having fire escapes. But I think you’ll need a register — all formal places, even the small ones like pubs, private hotels and boarding houses, have some rules to comply with. You can get a copy from the council, Claude, if you’re serious. And you’ll have to declare the income to the Inland Revenue, for the tax man,” added George.

  At the mention of the income tax man, Claude spluttered into his beer and blinked furiously at the rest of us. “Aye, well, that’s mebbe so, but I can’t see somebody like me making a profit. Not summat that’ll interest the tax man, I mean. Damn it, George, there’s expenses to be knocked off and running costs…”

  “Fair enough, but you have to declare the income anyway, not just the profit. But why are you asking all this?” George was astounded. “You’re not thinking of going into bed and breakfast, are you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Claude blinked rapidly. “I’ve a good-sized house with lots of space doing nowt, six bedrooms all with a rustic outlook, a farmhouse kitchen that they all yearn for these days with beams and things, and some antique furniture…”

  “And a rustic atmosphere with rusty machinery and a few very realistic farmyard aromas added for special flavour!” chuckled George.

  “I can imagine a bedroom full of townies sleeping with their windows open above your midden!” chuckled one of the farmers. “And having to use an outside nettie that hasn’t got a lock on the door.”

  “I don’t need a lock on the door, nobody’s pinched owt from my nettie. Anyroad, what I’ve got is just what townies like,” grinned Claude. “They love to see us local yokels in our natural setting, a bit like a zoo. Now, if I can get ’em to stay with me, I can give ’em a true flavour of rural Elsinby, Aidensfield and hereabouts. If you send your overflow to me, George, I’ll send ’em back to you for their suppers.”

  “They might not want to come again!” chortled another farmer. “You might put ’em off rural life altogether!”

  “That might not be a bad thing in some cases,” George responded. “Some of them have no idea how to behave in the countryside, letting dogs out among sheep, leaving farm gates open, dropping litter, feeding the sheep with ice-creams…”

  “Aye, well, if they came to stay with me, I’d have a list of rules put up, rules of the house, about shutting gates and not giving Alfred ice-creams. They make his eyes water. I think it’s the cold, getting into his teeth. He’s a bit partial to fish and chips though.”

  As the happy banter continued, I had to leave to keep another appointment and must admit I forgot all about this latest Greengrass enterprise. Having been to Claude’s ramshackle, filthy and unkempt ranch, I could not imagine anyone wishing to spend a holiday there, however brief. One hour was more than enough; the prospect of spending a whole night or any longer period there was horrifying. Even so, he did own a very nice property which, in the right hands, would have made a delightful country house in a wonderful moorland setting. But, in the language of the estate agents of the day, it was ripe for modernisation. Some might have said it was ripe — full stop!

  Within a week, a notice-board appeared at Claude’s gate. It was a rough wooden sign bearing in white paint the words ‘Bed and Breakfast. Good rates. Vacancies. Apply Within’. It would be a few days after that, as I was standing in uniform outside the telephone kiosk in Aidensfield, that a small red and rather battered Ford Escort eased to a halt beside me. The woman passenger eased down her window. In her forties and rather plump, she hailed me with, “Excuse me, Officer, can you tell me where Mr Greengrass lives?”

  “Yes, of course,” and I gave her the necessary directions.

  “I understand he does a wonderful Yorkshire breakfast,” she said.

  “Does he?” Momentarily, I had forgotten all about his bed-and-breakfast enterprise and my expression of surprise alerted her.

  “It is the Mr Greengrass who does bed-and-breakfast?” She examined a piece of paper in her hand and read out his address. “Hagg Bottom?”

  “There’s only one Mr Greengrass in these parts, and only one Hagg Bottom,” I advised her. “Yes, that’s him, but I’d forgotten he was doing B and B.”

  “He has been recommended to us by a man we met in a pub at Ashfordly,” she smiled.

  Her husband beamed up at me from his seat. “We’re from Wolverhampton, you see, we do love Yorkshire and the wide open spaces with all that fresh air. They said Mr Greengrass’s house is in a very wild and romantic location.”

  “Well, that’s one interpretation. But I hope you find all you need at Hagg Bottom,” I smiled, reaffirming the route to the Greengrass homestead and hoping the air would be as fresh and romantic as they hoped.

  I watched the car leave with a rattle of its exhaust — from the appearance of their vehicle, the couple were not very affluent and I guessed the exhaust would require renewal very soon. The tyres were fairly thin too. It was the sort of car which, if checked by an experienced traffic policeman, would probably produce a book full of faults and offences. Even though I did not check it over, I did make a mental note of its registration number, but the couple were on holiday and not harming anyone, so I never even contemplated any further action. As I watched, it chugged away with an oily smell and the woman gave me a nice smile and a wave of her hand before she closed her window. Nice, ordinary people, I decided, spending their hard-earned cash on a Yorkshire break — but at the Greengrass villa? I felt they could have received a better recommendation. There were plenty of better class bed-and-breakfast places in the nearby villages, all of a very high standard.

  Any one of them would be much more pleasant than dossing down with Claude.

  *

  A couple of nights later, I was in the Hopbind Inn again, this time off duty with Mary. We were having a rare evening out together while Mrs Quarry, our regular babysitter, looked after the children. As we awaited our chicken-in-basket and chips, Claude Jeremiah came in and ordered a pint. This time, instead of asking for his purchases to be put on the slate, he was flourishing a pound note at George, a rare indication that he was prepared to pay on the spot. As the drink was pulled, Claude noticed Mary and I, and called, “And one for the constable and his missus, for sending my first customers round.”

  “Thanks, Claude,” I thanked him as my pint of beer and Mary’s gin and tonic arrived. “Cheers! So how’s the bed-and-breakfast business thriving?”

  “Wonderful!” he enthused. “Those folks you sent, from the smoke somewhere a way off, well, they’re my sort of people. He’s in second-hand metals and she’s summat connected with antiques, she runs a stall on a market. Nice couple — they’ve ordered four brace of rabbits and two dozen fresh eggs to take home with ’em. I’ll tell you what, I’ve told my hens to work overtime, those folks can’t half knock back a good Yorkshire breakfast. Henry and Lily, they’re called.”

  “They like your style, then?”

  “Aye, they do. So much, in fact, they decided to spend a week here. Not just one night, Constable, but six. How about that, George?” he turned and beamed at the landlord.

  “Sounds like a good beginning,” returned George.

  “Aye, and it’s only one lot of sheet
s all week, no towels to need changing… and £1 a night from each of them. Fourteen quid to come, George, more than I earn in a month…”

  “I’m pleased for you Claude,” was all I could think of saying.

  “They’re not coming in here tonight, then? For their suppers?” asked George.

  “No, they’ve gone to Eltering tonight, to the pictures, and they’ll get fish and chips before they come back. They’re here till the weekend. You know, Constable and George, and Missus Constable, I’ve right enjoyed having them, having somebody in the house to care for apart from my Alfred. I might even think of expanding — you know, building a bedroom block on the side of the house, and a special dining room and getting a chef in, and then applying for a licence to sell booze.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” snapped George. “Bed-and-breakfast, yes: selling booze, no. That’s my business, I’d object to that, I can tell you now, Claude. And you’d not be welcome in here anymore, so think on that!”

  “Hang on a minute!” Claude began to look flustered. “I was just, well, talking, George, dreaming if you like, not saying what I am going to do, just what I was sort of thinking about doing…”

  “Well, so long as we know where we stand. If you apply for a liquor licence for your new establishment, Claude, I shall go to Brewster Sessions and object in the strongest possible terms. And I’d make you pay cash for all your purchases from this establishment, on the dot, on the nail, as the law demands.”

  Claude blinked furiously. “Aye well, I can’t see me going that far, George. Eggs, bacon, fried bread and a plate of porridge is about as far as I’ll go for far as the service of victuals is concerned. But I might include an orange juice or grapefruit…”

  “So long as you buy them from me, Claude.”

  “That would depend on your price, George.”

  I smiled at the banter which was going on and began to appreciate the firm demarcation lines which were drawn in the case of any local business. George was not going to allow Claude to poach any of his potential customers. But if that couple from Wolverhampton had seen fit to remain with Claude for several days, then his hosting abilities and his standard of accommodation might be better than expected.

  When our meal arrived, Mary and I concentrated upon enjoying it; we bought Claude and his cronies a drink in return and before we departed for home, I wished Claude all the best in his enterprise and reminded him to be on his guard against confidence tricksters bearing accents, in smart clothes and sporting big wallets.

  It was the following Saturday morning when there was an almighty clattering on my office door. I was off duty, hoping for a relaxed and enjoyable weekend with my young family, and was reading the morning papers over a cup of coffee. As always in such cases, Mary went to answer the knock — she was quite an expert at diverting to Ashfordly Police Station those with non-urgent business who called in my off-duty time or referring them to one of the neighbouring rural beat officers who was covering the area in my absence. In a genuine emergency, of course, I would respond and I soon realised that, in this case, she had decided it was an emergency.

  It was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. He followed her into the house with a look of anguish on his whiskery features.

  “Claude!” I got to my feet to receive him. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened!” he cried. “I’ve been diddled, that’s what’s happened. Conned. Deprived of my rightful dues!”

  “You’d better sit down.” I waved him towards the settee while Mary went off to fetch him a coffee. He sat on the edge, wringing his hands and looking a picture of abject misery. “So, what exactly has happened?”

  “Them folks you sent me.” His eyes stared into mine as if it was all my fault. “Them customers. They’ve gone, that’s what. Without paying. And they’ve taken a dozen new-laid eggs and two brace of rabbits… and paid not a penny, Constable. I call that highway robbery!”

  “I did warn you, Claude.” I hoped I did not sound as if I was crowing over his dilemma. “I warned you and George about confidence tricksters who leave without paying… so how much do they owe?”

  “Well, I mean, bed and breakfast for seven nights at a pound each, that’s fourteen pounds. Four rabbits — five bob each. Another quid. And a dozen eggs. Three and six.”

  “Fifteen pounds, three and sixpence,” I said. “And you would have a register for them to sign upon arrival, I take it? With their name and address? I said you’d need one.”

  “Well, no, I mean, I never thought it was really necessary, not when I was in the business in such a small way…”

  “Claude, I told you that if you are in the hotel business…”

  “Hotel?” he cried. “It’s not an hotel, it’s my second-best bedroom!”

  “But you are taking in people for reward, sleeping there for one night or more. That means you must keep a register. The rules apply to any premises where lodging or sleeping accommodation is provided for reward — you should obtain their names, addresses and nationalities, and retain the records for at least one year.”

  “Aye, well, I didn’t, did I?”

  “And now you expect us to chase those unknown people to an unknown destination and have them prosecuted for failing to pay you for illegal accommodation — and thus generating publicity that might create some interest by the tax man…”

  “But, well, Constable, it’s not right, is it? Folks breaking the law and getting away with it!”

  “It’s not right at all, Claude. So you, as an upstanding citizen and man of principle, what would you wish me to do? Report this and go through all the procedures, or let you send the couple a bill first?”

  “But I told you, I don’t know who they are.”

  “Did you note their car number?”

  “No, why should I do that? They were decent folk, like me.”

  “Well, if you didn’t note it, I did, that day they asked me about your facilities. I’ll try and trace them through the motor taxation department at County Hall. And I might be able to have them prosecuted for obtaining credit by fraud — but it would mean you’d have to come to court as a witness for the prosecution.”

  “Witness for the prosecution? Me? You must be joking! I’m not a grass! I just want you to do summat…”

  “Well, I can’t proceed without an official complaint and a statement from you, then, when we catch them, you’ll have to appear in court in due course, to tell the magistrates what happened.”

  “But them folks are kindred spirits of mine, Constable. Friends, even. We was right friendly, getting real close we were. First-name terms and all that. So I can’t take them to court… I can’t grass on my own kind… can I?”

  “They’ve done you out of your money, Claude, don’t forget. Fine friends they turned out to be! But I’ll tell you what; I’ll try and find out who they are from their car registration number. I can’t do that until Monday anyway. When I get their details, I’ll give them to you, and you can send them a bill. If they pay up, you won’t have to go to court.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “That’s when I’ll want you to become a witness for the prosecution, to make your official complaint about the offence you allege they have committed.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” he grunted. “So are you going to circulate details about them? To warn others not to get taken in like me?”

  “If you make an official complaint, Claude, yes.”

  “All this officialdom isn’t the sort of thing I go for.” He was most reluctant to get involved in anything which hinted at a court action. “Can I think it over?”

  “Do that,” I suggested, and off he went.

  On the following Monday morning, I rang the motor taxation department of the County Borough of Wolverhampton which was then based in the town hall at Bilston in Staffordshire. As the registration number began with the letters AJW, I knew the vehicle would be recorded with that department, even if the owner of the car l
ived outside their area — but it wasn’t listed. The number on the old Ford was a false one — it had not been issued. My heart sank. On the day the couple had spoken to me, I had not checked the car; they had been villains on my patch, I had failed to recognise them as such and now Claude had suffered.

  I went to see him. I told him I could not trace the couple who had swindled him because they were riding around in a car bearing false number plates and he seemed relieved.

  “I’m not going to prosecute,” he told me. “And I shan’t get you to try and find them, Constable. I don’t want to get myself tangled up with the law or courts or prosecutions or owt like that. It’s all too much hassle for an old chap like me. Anyroad, that’ll please you. And I’m not going to do any more bed-and-breakfasting so that’ll please George. And so everybody’s happy and I’m a few quid out of pocket after learning a hard lesson.”

  But I was far from happy at my own handling of the affair. I’d let a couple of villains slip through my fingers and so I decided to circulate all police forces a description of the car and its occupants. When Sergeant Blaketon questioned the reason for my decision, I told him — he chuckled at Claude’s dilemma, but did agree that every effort should be made to trace this second team of confidence tricksters.

  But, like the handsome couple who’d tricked their way through our area before them, they were never found.

  Later, Claude told me that if they did return, he had a special egg surprise awaiting them — he’d bombard them with all the bad eggs he collected from now until the day of their arrival. I advised him to wait until I was overseas on holiday before he took that kind of drastic action. I wanted to know nothing about it.