CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  It was then that I heard an approaching vehicle. As I manoeuvred my lifeless noddy bike across the narrow road, a tractor and trailer appeared from behind a farmhouse and moved towards me. It was driven by a roughly dressed youngster with long, straggly hair and a cheeky grin on his face. A large, square five-gallon can stood alone in the centre of the trailer. He stopped the tractor, jumped down from it and came over to me.

  “What’s up?” he asked with a friendly smile.

  “Petrol,” I said, feeling very foolish. “My bike’s run out of petrol.”

  He looked at my crash helmet with POLICE across the front, examined the Francis Barnett with its radio set where the pillion should be, and peered at my uniform numerals.

  “Thoo’s nut our local chap?” he said by way of a question.

  “No, he’s on leave. I was working late last night, and I had to come out here early . . .”

  “Thoo’ll be wanting some juice then?” He didn’t wait to hear my tale of sorrow and despair.

  “I was going to walk up to Brantsford . . .”

  “Neea need,” he said, leaping onto the trailer. “Thoo can ’ave some of this,” and he lifted the big can down. “Tak thy filler cap off.”

  “It needs two-stroke mixture,” I said.

  “This is two-stroke. Cap.”

  I obeyed, removing the cap from the petrol tank; he did likewise with the large red can and began to pour the precious stuff into my machine.

  “Whoa!” I called. “That’ll do. I just need enough to get me to a garage.”

  “I’ll fill her up,” he laughed. “Two-gallon tank, eh?”

  “Yes, but there’s no need . . .”

  “This ’un’s full, mister,” and he kept on pouring. He filled my tank almost to overflowing, smiled and said, “There. That’ll see thoo all right for a mile or two.”

  “I’ll pay,” I offered, starting to unbutton my motorcycle gear. It took a long time to reach my wallet, tucked inside my inner tunic, but in the meantime, the cheerful lad had returned the can to the trailer and was sitting on the tractor seat, ready to move off.

  “How much?” I shouted, still fiddling with buttons and press-studs.

  “Nowt,” he called back. “Thoo can have it for nowt. It’s not mine, anyway.”

  “Not yours?” I cried, but he was moving away. I had a tank full of petrol, so I gave chase but he simply waved me away and shouted above the noise of our engines. “Have it on us, mister.” He turned into a farmyard, leapt from the tractor and vanished indoors, waving me on.

  I do not know who he was and I never saw him again. It was months before I made a return visit to Whemmelby, and I asked after him, but no one seemed to know who I was talking about. I never did know the true owner of that petrol.

  But my petrol problems were far from over. Every month, we had to complete a mileage return which showed the places we had visited, the mileage covered and the petrol consumed. The return would be rigidly checked, as indeed it was, because of the milometer readings and the garage accounts. This system meant I could not show the extra two gallons on my return, for it was not part of the official intake. But my mileage had to be shown correctly — the milometer ensured that.

  The result was that my motorcycle that month registered a somewhat staggering petrol consumption, having apparently covered over 100 miles to the gallon instead of the usual 80. I pleaded total ignorance for the cause of this astounding feat of motoring and swore blind that I had never coasted downhill in my own economy drive. The next thing that happened was that my machine was taken to Headquarters for a thorough check by the county mechanics, and the garage from whom I purchased my official petrol was asked to carefully check its accounts. There were no discrepancies. Officially, my motorcycle had done remarkably well that month, and all supervisory officers showed great interest in its next performance. I had to disappoint them, because things returned to normal.

  Later, when I had time to reflect upon the incident, I did wonder if a friendly farmer had sent that life-saving can on the trailer. Was it coincidence that a tractor and trailer carrying a five-gallon can of two-stroke fuel arrived just in time to save me from a long, perspiring walk? Or had it been neatly arranged by a friendly farmer who had witnessed my dilemma from his breakfast table?

  I shall never know, but if he reads this he will know that I was truly thankful, even if the police garage manager did grow a little more grey around the gills due to the strange behaviour of the Aidensfield motorcycle. If that manager reads this, he’ll know what happened too!

  Chapter Three

  The existence of the Slemmington Hunt was revealed to me shortly before eleven o’clock one morning. I had been on half-nights the previous day, i.e. working from 6 pm until 2 am, and had climbed from my lovely bed at ten o’clock. I had staggered bleary-eyed into the kitchen to find Mary had taken the car and the children, and had gone shopping in Ashfordly. I was alone, and it was time for breakfast.

  After hunting in vain for the milk to add to my cornflakes, I realised it had probably just arrived and went outside to seek it. As I lifted the three creamy-tops from their resting place on the front doorstep, there was a thundering of mighty hooves accompanied by a deafening jangle of harness very close to me. I was rather surprised to see a massive horse leap across my garden fence. It galloped across the lawn and vanished over my far railings in a fog of minute pieces of flying earth, leaving my lawn like a recently used tank route. Sitting astride the animal was a man wearing a black riding cap, a red hunting jacket (called pink) and white jodhpurs and he shouted, “Tally-Ho” or something vaguely similar. Then silence descended.

  I was not sure whether this was really happening and as I gazed after that apparition in an attempt to determine ‘yes’ or ‘no’, untold numbers of similar creatures accompanied by baying dogs, leapt the railings at the east of my garden, shouted in strange voices and vanished over the fence at the other side. They hooted and galloped down the hill into Aidensfield to disappear forever from my sight. Straggling hounds followed, baying and sniffing, and one of them looked at me with baleful eyes, thought the better of it and ran to join his pals.

  It probably took a mere second or two for this incident to act itself out, but it seemed an eternity. I stood on my doorstep, rubbing my eyes and wondering if I was in the middle of a dream about the Valkyries but the battered surface of my lawn bore evidence of genuine horses. The place was riddled with hoof marks. A multitude of tiny sods littered the place, rather like the main track at York Racecourse after the Ebor Handicap is over. It had happened all right. I was too tired and amazed to be angry; I simply stood and gaped at the holes, all neatly shaped like horseshoes.

  It occurred to me, quite suddenly, that the fox might be somewhere in my house. The front door was open, but I didn’t think it had darted between my legs. The garage doors were open too, and so was the side door into the passage. I hastily closed the front door, deposited the milk bottles and made a hurried search of my premises. I saw nothing of a fox. The hunt did not return, so I enjoyed a comparatively peaceful breakfast, wondering if this sort of thing was a regular occurrence.

  Perhaps one of the most mysterious aspects of the hunting set is their ability to make strange noises via the mouth. Their ‘yoiks’ and ‘tally-hos’ carry a tone of unreality and some of their yodelling is impossible to copy or impersonate with any degree of authenticity. It seems that the ability to yodel is something bred into that class of person, something which he emits only when on horseback and only when the hounds are milling around. Sometimes, as I sat in my kitchen listening to them in the distance, I wondered if huntsmen practised their calls. To be as proficient as that on a cold and frosty morning must take years of practice and hours of devoted throat-warbling. I believe Peter Ustinov had great difficulty emulating the sound when filming “Lady L” at nearby Castle Howard. He tried in vain to yodel like a North Yorkshire huntsman and even though he was coached by some first-class exponents in the art, the tru
e sound eluded him. He spent many an hour walking around the estate in full cry, and I often wonder what the locals thought about him. For that matter, I wonder what the foxes thought about him.

  Be that as it may, those who participate in such pastimes are a race apart. True huntsmen are born, not made. Robert Smith Surtees in his Handley Cross sums it up by writing: “’Unting fills my thoughts by day and many a good run I have in my sleep. No man is fit to be called a sportsman wot doesn’t kick his wife out of bed on a haverage once in three weeks.” Although I had been born and bred in the fox-hunting and otter-hunting territory of the North Riding moorland, I never took part in any of those sports. Other than attempting to follow a hunt on foot, my only involvement in such matters was a shooting trip with my grandfather. It was during one of the annual February pigeon-shoots. Armed with a .410 shotgun, and aged only sixteen, I tramped the hills with him, shooting at hundreds of pigeons and hitting none. I don’t think I was capable of hitting them, not because I was a bad shot — I wasn’t — but somehow my love of birds and animals caused my aim to wander. My only hint of success came when I shot at an unsuspecting pigeon which was about to land on a distant tree. I released both barrels and the only result was the angry appearance of a man who had been sheltering beneath that very tree. In his moments of solitude, he had been showered with falling twigs and spent lead shot, but escaped with his life. So did the pigeon.

  I was to learn that fox-hunting is almost a religion in Aidensfield and district. Because of the damage to my lawn, I made enquiries around the village in an attempt to establish my legal rights. I was told, quite politely, that the local hunt had the right to cross and re-cross my land, and indeed lots of other land in the locality. I failed to find anything to state otherwise and it seemed that this was one of those grey areas of law where no hard-and-fast rule existed. It had been happening for generations, and probably would continue to happen until the socialists banned the sport.

  Thankfully, the hunters hadn’t leapt into the lower part of the garden where it was thick with equipment and children’s toys. I did wonder what would have happened if one of the horses had got its head fast in the children’s swing or put a foot through a cloche. It seemed I had to allow them access to my lawn. But after that occasion, they never leapt my way again. One of the reasons may have been that whenever I learned they were hunting in our area, I parked my car outside my garage, right in the path of any horse that might leap my garden fence. If a horse landed on that, it would be another insurance job.

  That single brush with the hunt was my only personal complaint against them. I spoke to the Master of Fox Hounds about it, and he was polite but firm in his right to hunt across land in the vicinity. Like many other people, whether from town or country, I found the sight of the meet very thrilling. At times, there were as many as 25 pairs of hounds, 200 horsemen and upwards of 100 foot followers meeting in the grounds of the great houses of the district. The spectacle was fascinating, all colour and excitement, and the party would enjoy the traditional stirrup-cup before setting off in pursuit of old Reynard the cunning. It was a fine sight and one of the essential parts of the English countryside.

  Whether or not one agrees with the hunting of foxes, the sight of a hunt in full cry is guaranteed to thrill. The cunning of the fox, the skill of the hounds and the uncanny knowledge of the hunters, all combine to make the day memorable for everyone. A kill is seldom of any great importance — the fun, they say, lies in the chase.

  For centuries in these hills, men have pitted their wits against the fox. Today, there seem to be just as many foxes; it has been said that hunting them destroys the weaklings and therefore breeds a strong strain thus proving the adage ‘only the strong survive’. The foxes are experts too — they win by ‘going to ground’, as otters ‘go to couch’; some foxes are tempted by the skills of foot hunters too. For example, some foresters spotted a fox making towards them. They were down-wind of him, beyond his range of scent, so they tried to coax him into coming nearer. They did this by taking a blade of grass, placing it between the fingers and thumbs and blowing gently to make a whistling noise. Children often do this. The fox pricked up his ears at the sound. Was it a screaming rabbit? Something else he should investigate? But he was not fooled; he lowered his head and vanished into the undergrowth. Minutes later, the hunters arrived with their hounds, but he had gone.

  On balance, I am not offended by either hunts or hunters, and I have no personal grudge against foxes. They don’t carve up my lawn.

  * * *

  Fox-hunting was just one of the rural sports practised on my beat. The others included coursing, fishing, shooting, gliding, hiking, football, cricket, billiards and table-tennis. There were probably others. I frequently questioned the meaning of ‘sport’ in this context — high-bred rurals consider ‘sport’ includes blood sports, i.e., hunting, shooting and fishing, whereas others of more lowly origins think of football, cricket, dominoes and school sports days. I suppose I could add bare-fist pugilistics, bear-baiting and public executions. The list is virtually endless.

  The point is that I, as the village bobby, had to know what was happening upon my beat. As I lived and worked in a lush green part of the countryside, full of large country estates, it was sensible to familiarise myself with the sporting events occurring about me.

  Sergeant Blaketon frequently quizzed me about rural affairs of this nature, for the subject seemed to fascinate him. He had spent much of his police career on the industrial fringes of Teesside, where they bred racing pigeons and grew leeks, consequently our type of sport intrigued him. I could always answer his queries and this appeared to satisfy his curiosity, although I never did learn his true opinions on sport and the gentry. I suspect the truth was that he considered himself aloof from such matters. He enforced the law — he did not hold opinions. With a head of thick black hair, thick black eyebrows and a figure like a prize fighter, he was an impressive sight. Furthermore, he was honest, straight and completely trustworthy. But he was unbending, I was to learn. He disliked his men exercising what he termed ‘loose discretion’. I learned he was rigid with the public too — there were no ‘warnings’ from Oscar Blaketon. If someone offended against the law, he booked them. The painful decision whether or not to prosecute offenders was therefore avoided by him, and his technique ensured that the problem rested with someone higher up the promotion ladder. That’s what promoted people were paid for.

  For example, if he found a motorist parked without lights, he booked him. If he saw a drunk, he arrested him. If he stopped a motor-vehicle, he checked every document it carried. Some of us weren’t as keen as that — we would switch on the lights of parked cars, we would put drunks into a taxi and send them home, and we would give friendly advice to those who erred slightly. Oscar might adopt our rural ways in time, we felt, for I learned he had arrived at Ashfordly only weeks before I came to Aidensfield. We were both new to the locality.

  Knowing of his rigid attitude, I wondered why he allowed Alwyn’s chrysanthemums to flourish in the female cell. I learned, by way of an answer, that Sergeant Blaketon hated gardening; if Alwyn was not permitted to use the cell, his glorious display would have to occupy a prominent position in the garden next door to Blaketon’s house. Blaketon must have realised that his wife would react violently to such a gorgeous floral display so close to her kitchen window, and he was happy that she never set eyes on it. It seemed he was content never to examine the female cell. No one saw him enter it. Knowing Blaketon, however, I knew that procedure would have been among his priorities upon arrival here. He’d obviously opened the door, seen the blooms and made a very rapid decision. He was a man with a fast-moving brain, I decided.

  It was his attention to detail and his rigid adherence to the rules, that caused me to think twice when George Ward, landlord of the Hopbind Inn, Elsinby, asked if he could run greyhound races in a local field.

  My initial reaction was to wonder why he had asked me and to say, “Go ahead”,
but the figure of Oscar Blaketon loomed uneasily in the background. We sometimes called him “Occurrence Book” because of his initials; this was an essential document at police stations, a record of every incident that happened, and it was known as the “O.B.”. My knowledge of O.B.’s adherence to rules halted me.

  “I’ll let you know,” I told George. “When do you want to run them?”

  “Friday nights,” he said. “We were thinking of having half a dozen races or so, around Harold’s field down Ploatby Lane. Starting at seven-thirty, I reckon, and finishing about half nine. One race every twenty minutes, give or take a minute or two.”

  “How many competitors?”

  “Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve a lot of runners, and if we advertised it we’d get loads in from all over.”

  “A big affair, then?” I suggested.

  “Oh, aye. We’d have traps and a proper track, you know. Electric hare and all that. Bookies too.”

  “Not just a bit of village fun, then?” I put to him.

  “Not really. There is a demand for this, you know,” he spoke seriously. “I’ve asked among my mates.”

  “The cars?” I asked. “Where would you park them?”

  “In Harold’s field. It’s big enough to take a circular track, and there’s room for a hundred cars.”

  “Noise?” I tried to anticipate the reaction of the village to this proposal.

  “No problem,” he assured me. “The field is nearly a mile out of Elsinby.”

  “It seems O.K. to me, George, but I’ll check with the sergeant and let you know. When do you hope to start?”

  “Three weeks on Friday.”

  I relayed all this information to Sergeant Blaketon and he frowned heavily. “Greyhound racing at Elsinby?” He rubbed his chin. “It can’t be legal.”

  “Why not, Sergeant?” I asked in all innocence.

  “Dunno,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t sound legal, does it? It’s not in a proper stadium for a start.”