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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Around April one year, I was off duty with influenza when the telephone rang one Sunday morning. Mary answered it, and came to me after dealing with the call.

  “That was Brother Franklyn,” she explained, and the expression on her face told me something was wrong. Lying in bed with red eyes and a running nose, there was little I could do for the monk, but I asked what had happened.

  “How did you know something was wrong?” she put to me.

  “Your face, darling! It tells a million stories. What’s happened to upset you?”

  “Brother Franklyn’s doves,” she said softly. “You know them?”

  “Sure,” I smiled through my running eyes. Everyone knew of the doves, for they flew around the village, their wings whistling as they twisted and turned overhead, as if by some spoken command.

  “Somebody’s killed them,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Most of them, anyway.”

  “Killed them?” I cried.

  She nodded. “Yes, last night, during the night. They broke into one of his lofts and they’ve strangled them all, wrung their necks and smashed the unhatched eggs.”

  “Poor Franklyn,” was all I could say. “All of them?”

  “No, just one of the lofts, the big one. He’s got the little loft left, untouched. He says he can breed again.”

  “What a bloody awful thing to do.” I was angry and upset at the cruelty of the persons who did this.

  “He’d phoned Ashfordly but got no reply, so he rang us, just to alert the police.”

  “You’d explain I was off duty with flu?”

  “Yes, so I said I would ring Ashfordly Police Station as soon as I knew someone was in.”

  “There’s not a lot anyone can do now, unless someone saw the culprits,” I said. “Does he think the bastards will come back and have another go at his loft?”

  “I’m sure the possibility was on his mind,” she told me.

  “O.K. Do your best to raise someone at Ashfordly. I’d love to catch the thugs that did this, and do the same to them.”

  “That’s not allowed.” She shook a finger at me. “Thugs can misbehave, but not policemen.”

  An hour later, the telephone rang again and I heard Mary’s voice from my resting place upstairs, but I could not distinguish her words. She came up to me, announced the caller had been Brother Franklyn and that he’d changed his mind about requesting police action.

  “That’s typical of a monk!” I almost shouted through my thick throat. “Somebody does him a favour like that, kills all his livestock, destroys a loft that’s taken years to accumulate and what’s he do? He’ll go into the abbey church and pray for them to be forgiven! And the vandals will escape Scot free!”

  I laid in bed for a further three days until I felt fit enough to venture from the room. I spent a couple of days finding my feet and my increasing strength, and I returned to work three days after that. It would be another two or three days later when I found myself on a foot patrol near the Abbey of Maddleskirk. The first person I saw walking towards me, en route from the post office, was Brother Franklyn.

  “Good morning, Brother,” I hailed him. “Good to see you.”

  “And you, Nicholas,” he smiled broadly. “Have you recovered from your bout of ’flu?”

  “Yes, all clear now. It’s good to be out and about. I hate being confined to bed.”

  “I’m sorry I rang you about my doves when you were ill. I had no idea, or I wouldn’t have troubled you.”

  “You weren’t to know,” I assured him. “I was only sorry you changed your mind about calling the police.”

  “I called in the heat of the moment,” he said. “After I’d discovered the carnage, the police were the first people who came to mind.”

  We strolled together along the road in front of the magnificent abbey and he said, “I’d like to talk about it. Fancy a beer?”

  “I’d love one.” So he took me into the monastery guest room where he furnished me with an earthenware pint pot full of deliciously cool beer. He had one too, then told his tale.

  “After I’d tried to contact the police at Ashfordly, I rang your home and found you were ill. On reflection, that was a good thing — from my point of view,” he qualified his remark. “It gave me time to cool off, to reconsider my action. I had a long hard think about what had happened and decided to call off the police. After all, what could you do? The culprits had long since gone and even if you had any idea of who they were, you’d have a most difficult job proving it, for court purposes. There’d be a lot of work for nothing, so I cancelled your official involvement.”

  “I wanted to get my hands on those vandals.” I sipped the beer and it was delightful.

  “And me,” he smiled. “And me. Oh, I wanted to get my hands on them too, and wring their necks!” and he clenched his huge fists about his pint pot.

  “Why call it off then?” I asked him.

  “You are a trustworthy man, aren’t you?” he asked me suddenly. “I can trust you — I can talk to you in confidence, even on delicate matters?”

  I wondered what on earth was coming now. “Of course,” I assured him.

  He drew a deep breath. “Well, Nick,” he spoke seriously. “It was like this,” and he proceeded to tell me this story.

  It seemed he’d been very concerned about his second loft and had a gut feeling that the vandals would return for an attempt upon that one. He’d discussed this with his pals in the school rugger XV who’d been incensed and who had produced a plan of action. The entire school rugger team and reserves would lie in wait for the killers the following Saturday night. At first, Franklyn had been reluctant to agree but he knew his players were furious about the death of his birds, and they might allow it to affect their playing. This could purge it from their systems. So he agreed, in the interests of the game.

  They had examined the area about the loft and had worked out the likely parking places for the villains’ vehicles. Having done this, they had evolved a plan to deal with one or more unofficial cars that might arrive in the area. Once the passengers had left any vehicle, they would let down the tyres and remove the rotor arm, thus effectively immobilising the vehicle. They would then wait until the culprits were approaching the loft; at that stage, the team would pounce. They would set about dealing with the ruffians as only a rugby XV can.

  That was the plan.

  According to Brother Franklyn, the villains did arrive. Around one-thirty in the morning, a car crept into the grounds of Maddleskirk Abbey, parked behind a wall and four youths emerged. This had been spotted by one of the concealed members who had promptly activated their ‘peace plan’. They called it that because the dove is the emblem of peace.

  Without exception, those boys were massive, powerful youths of seventeen or eighteen, and one of them removed the rotor arm of the car. Once the invaders were out of earshot, two of them let down the tyres, and so the trespassers were marooned within the grounds of the abbey. Meanwhile, the marauding gang had made their approach to the small loft as anticipated, although their movements were now monitored every inch of the way. And as they had begun their climb up the steps, their approach had been completely cut off. They found themselves surrounded by twenty powerful youths, all hell-bent on having a whale of a time at the expense of some ugly villains.

  Brother Franklyn was in bed at the time, which I felt was a very diplomatic move because he could justifiably claim not to be involved in this episode. The four villains had been given ‘the treatment’; they had been severely thrashed to say the least, and had then been cast fully clothed into the slime-covered disused outdoor swimming pool. After an enforced swim there, they had been allowed out, and their shoes had been removed. They had then been sent on their way home to the nearby market town of Harrowby, a walk of ten miles or so. It was rough treatment for a set of cowardly rogues. After minutes, their shoes had been returned, but it was still a long, long walk.

  “So there we are,” smiled Brother Franklyn. �
�That’s what happened.”

  “I don’t want to know about it,” I said.

  “They daren’t tell you, dare they? You’d have them for killing my birds?”

  “I would, but you’d best not mention this to a soul!” I advised.

  “I won’t, I won’t,” he breathed.

  “I must be going, Brother,” I stood up to leave. “Thanks for the beer, and thanks for telling me about it. I feel better now — my mind is at rest. Justice has been done. Really, they have received their punishment, haven’t they? Goodbye.”

  “Peace be with you,” he said, showing me the door.

  Chapter Ten

  That year, Christmas arrived all too quickly. It seemed but a week or two since our arrival at Aidensfield and the changing weather, the darkening nights, the cooling of the air had descended upon us almost without warning. The clocks had gone back an hour, the summer birds had left our valleys and the land had reverted to its dullest clothing. It was as if the countryside had gone to sleep, and I was reminded of Keats who wrote:

  Ah, bitter chill it was!

  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

  The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,

  And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

  But the countryside was far from trembling, even though the owl might be cold and the hare trembling. Like the dormant plants and the animals who hunt for survival, the weather means little to the policemen of Great Britain. They must work throughout the seasons — it means cold nights, wet feet, chilled hands and a longing for warm soup, hot coffee and cosy firesides. It means, after eight hours of frost-laden night duty, the heaven that is a snug bed containing a warm, soft woman.

  Out there in the great chilly wilderness that is North Yorkshire, the work of the policeman must go on which means that policemen must tolerate the cold, and they must tremble, like the hare, in the chilly atmosphere. Motorcycling in such conditions was appalling, so I took my car as often as possible, hiding it from the sergeants behind haystacks and in the yards of friendly farmers. I could therefore embark upon rapid foot patrols of my area to keep myself warm. I risked being called on my official radio, for I had none in the car, but I could always plead that I was in an area of poor reception, or engaged upon enquiries about current crime or missing persons, an act which took me away from the radio. In any case, I continued to make hourly points at telephone kiosks consequently I was never long out of contact with my Divisional Headquarters.

  This highly unofficial strategy meant that my winter patrols weren’t too bad. I took care to keep warm, I had lots of friendly calling places around my beat and I made sure that I had lots of enquiries to undertake, enquiries which took me indoors to sit beside warm fires and to enjoy numerous cups of tea and coffee, and/or glasses of proffered spirits.

  Work under those conditions had considerable appeal, and I was aware of the old saying, “A good policeman never gets wet.”

  At home, the children were beginning to realise it was a season with something extra to offer. Father Christmas was very much alive in our family and even though a police house chimney is perhaps narrower than most, I ensured that letters were posted into its lofty darkness. I’m something of a traditionalist in that respect, for I love the joy that Father Christmas brings to youngsters during that season of goodwill and plenty. To abolish Christmas would be to abolish a slice of childhood.

  Happily, by this time we had found a baby-sitter in a million, a steadfast lady of the moors who stood no nonsense from anybody, man, woman, child or animal, but who would sit till dawn if necessary and who would let us know in plain terms if something did not suit her. Her philosophy about children was “If they yell, I’ll skelp ’em”. Mrs Quarry was a treasure. It was fortunate we had found her before the Christmas season which, incidentally, begins at the end of October and develops into a hectic and expensive round of dinners, dances, parties and other associated functions.

  My shifts did not allow me to attend every function, nor did my pocket, so we opted for the Ashfordly Police Christmas Dinner-Dance, held in the second week of December at a local hotel. Sergeants Bairstow and Blaketon had organised it with volunteers from the other lads in that town, and it was to raise funds for police widows and orphans. Being a late arrival in the district, I found myself free from official dance duties that night.

  Mary and I decided to go along and to make this our sole Christmas fling. One reason was that we were hard up, a situation that has been with me ever since, for I had had a brain-storm a few months earlier and had purchased a brand-new car. What on earth possessed me to do such a thing on a police constable’s pittance, with three youngsters and a fourth nearly there, I’ll never know. But I had done it. It was a red Hillman saloon and it cost me, brand new, £609 on the road. It was the first and last new car I’ve ever purchased, and it ran for well over 100,000 miles. We loved it. Naturally, we took it all over before the frosts and ice played havoc with the highways of the region, and it was our Christmas present to each other. For that reason, we had to economise, therefore we settled for one Yuletide function.

  Mrs Quarry insisted that she baby-sat for us that night, even though the dance did not conclude until 2 am. We agreed to this. Mary had the statutory hair-do, but had to make do with an existing dress, while I dug out my only dark suit, brushed it, pulled in my belly and decided I must wear it. I had nothing else. Armed with a pocket full of cash, we left the children in the capable hands of Mrs Quarry and sallied forth into Ashfordly, very excited and looking forward to the dance. The car went beautifully and we arrived at Ashfordly at 7.30 for dancing at eight. We adjourned to the bar where we met our colleagues and friends, and in no time the function was going with the proverbial swing.

  A tombola room was set aside from the dance hall and it was separated from the bar by a passage. It was like Aladdin’s cave, piled high with prizes all donated by local people. There were bottles of spirits, boxes of chocolates, wines, Christmas cakes, game birds, silverware, glasses, cutlery et al. It looked almost like a display of wedding presents; we played tombola and won a box of chocolates.

  Alwyn Foxton was the man in charge of this department and he said, “You can leave your prize here if you like, Nick. It’ll save worrying about it during the dancing.”

  And so, like many other winners, we left our trophy on the table behind the glittering display and went off to enjoy the dance. The floor was excellent, sprung to take the rhythmic movement of skilled dancers, while the walls were decorated with original oil paintings by a local artist. They depicted our moorlands with purple heather and blue skies. High above was the buffet supper, served on a balcony which ran around the room and from where the diners could sit and view the dancing below. Supper was to be served at nine-thirty, a sit-down buffet.

  The night disappeared in a haze of enjoyment and warmth. At functions of this kind, there is always so much to do, so many old friends to greet and to chat with, so much entertainment and so much chatting-up-of-pretty-women. The time flies without anyone realising. The leader of the little five-piece orchestra announced that it was time to eat, and we all adjourned upstairs for the feast of a lifetime. We were back within half an hour, to resume our merry-making.

  Then I spotted Sergeant Bairstow, looking very harassed.

  “Ah, Nicholas!” he spotted me in the middle of a Boston Two-Step. “Have you a minute?”

  I led Mary to the side, bowed my ear against the noise of the music and heard him say, “It’s bloody embarrassing, is this. But did you play tombola earlier this evening?”

  “Yes, Mary won a box of chocolates. Black Magic, I think.”

  “Well,” he coughed and ran his hand through his untidy hair. “Somebody’s pinched the lot. They’ve cleaned out the whole bloody room — there’s nothing left.”

  “That is embarrassing,” I whispered.

  “A lot of the stuff hadn’t been won, so that’s not too important, but what about all those prizes, like y
ours, that had been put to one side, for safe keeping? We’ll have to replace them.”

  “Forget ours,” I said. “But you can’t replace them, Sergeant, can you? You don’t know what they were. And if you announce what’s happened, everyone will start claiming bottles of whisky or silverware, won’t they?”

  “Aye,” he said dejectedly. “They will. We’ll have to buy them all replacement prizes, and that’ll ruin us. It’ll take all our profit — and more.”

  “Why not announce that the tombola room has closed, as all the prizes have been won,” I suggested. “Then ask the prize winner to see you, in person, to claim their prizes before they leave. Ask them individually what they won, and then tell them what’s happened. Offer to buy a substitute tomorrow. I’ll bet a lot of them will dismiss the affair and forgo their prize.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he sighed. “What a bloody thing to happen. I hope the Press doesn’t hear about it.”

  They didn’t, or if they did, they did not print anything. I was still amused by the incident as we left the dance at 2 am. By that time, word of the theft had percolated to most of the revellers and they thought it hilarious. Not many of them made claims upon the prize list, and if I know those folks, there’d be no false claims. The final outcome was not unpleasant, and we maintained a bank balance.

  Outside that night, however, a covering of seasonal snow had fallen and it lay about two inches deep, “reg’lar away” as the locals term it. In other words, it was a level covering of that depth, unhampered by winds. For that reason, I drove with extreme care in my new car, the drink I’d enjoyed earlier having long since vanished from my system. The dancing and the superb meal had nullified the effects of any alcohol, and so I manoeuvred my shining vehicle through the forests and lanes as I neared my house on the hilltop.