Then there was movement. I froze.
Deep in the blackness of the miniature cavern I detected movement. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but something definitely moved. I daren’t budge, not now. My leg had developed pins and needles, but I dare not shift it. I was delighted when Belinda’s familiar mask appeared, moving from side to side as she sniffed the air, her sensitive snout unerringly guiding her to my pile of raisins. She found them and grunted in what I took to be a note of satisfaction, and then I saw her family. Four miniatures of herself lurked in the background and as she grunted at the food, they all emerged to join the feast. They would be very handsome brocks, I knew, when they grew up.
I watched in silence and remained utterly motionless, lest I disturb this fascinating family breakfast. When they had consumed the small meal, they all looked about and sniffed the air. I’m sure they scented me but remained close to their mother, who seemed to reassure them that this alien smell was friendly. I talked softly, and the cubs all darted off but returned seconds later when I continued to speak in a low voice. I held out a handful of raisins, which Belinda took from my still hand, but the cubs did not venture so close to me. They remained behind her, clustered in a cautious knot and then as their mother continued to enjoy her early morning snack they began to play and tumble with one another, apparently oblivious of my presence.
Belinda finished her meal and I was gladdened to see her join them in a hectic five minutes of boisterous play. Then quite suddenly they all stopped, and she ambled off down the slope with her playful brood romping behind.
I never saw them again.
Many weeks later I learned that Belinda was probably the sow cub found by a local farm lad. That cub had been orphaned by dogs during a raid on a local sett and the lad, who lived in nearby Ploatby, had taken the cub home. There he had reared it with affection but had left the district soon afterwards. The cub had been returned to the wild. Reports which reached me suggested that the badger, now fully grown, was sometimes seen in the locality and fed with titbits by gamekeepers and farmers. If this was the same sow it would explain her lack of fear of me.
Later that year I found a badger’s body near the roadside. I was sure it was one of Belinda’s cubs because it was near their crossing-place. The badger had a fractured skull and was badly injured about the body, a casualty of a modern motorcar accident.
Although I went to the sett from time to time I never saw Belinda or her family and I often wonder what happened to them. Badgers’ families occupy their homes for centuries, and I did wonder if she had met some horrific fate at the hands of an unscrupulous human animal. I will never know.
In those days, badgers were not protected by law, but in January 1974, the Badgers Act of 1973 became effective and protected this creature of whom Winston Churchill said, ‘You are the most ancient of Britons’.
The badger has lived for centuries in North Yorkshire and this rural county welcomes his presence among us. It is very significant that the nation’s first prosecution under that new law was undertaken within North Yorkshire, an indication of our local respect for Brock.
But I wonder if the law would have protected Belinda from her fate?
Chapter Five
He did not know that a keeper is only a poacher
turned outside in, and a poacher is a keeper
turned inside out.
CHARLES KINGSLEY — The Water Babies
For extremely personal reasons Claude Jeremiah Greengrass took a late stroll in Brock Rigg Wood. This is an afforested area on the hills above Aidensfield and, like much of the district, it is owned by the Forestry Commission. Members of the public are permitted to walk along its tree-lined roads for the purpose of birdwatching or nature study, and the procedure is to obtain the requisite pass from the local office. This document must be produced upon demand to anyone authorised to ask for sight of it.
So far as I know, Claude Jeremiah did not possess such a document and indeed that was not the kind of formality that would unduly worry him. He rarely bothered with licences of any kind. His woodland stroll in the small hours of a September morning was destined to involve me because I was engaged upon one of my periods of night-duty.
The trouble started when Claude Jeremiah found a set of antlers lying on the ground of the forest. It was a magnificent full set, abandoned due to the normal processes of nature, by a male red deer. For this cunning little fellow the antlers presented an opportunity to make a shilling or two by selling them to a local antique shop. Mounted on a polished mahogany base, they would look beautiful above the door of someone’s house, so Claude Jeremiah promptly decided to take them home. He would clean them, and fix them to a suitable plaque, and sell them.
On the face of things it was a perfectly reasonable decision. The snag was that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass did not know the provisions of Section 2 of the Deer Act, 1963. This probably had little bearing on events because, if he had known, it would not have made the slightest difference to his actions. He would still have taken those antlers from the wood; he was that sort of villain. Acting in accordance with his instincts, therefore, he began to walk in triumph from the pine forest, proudly bearing aloft a particularly fine set of red deer antlers.
But even the best-laid plans go wrong: Claude Jeremiah had not bargained for the presence of Mr Archibald Flint. Mr Flint was a gamekeeper employed for the sole purpose of discouraging poachers and vandals. He was a dedicated keeper with some years’ expertise and there were few men in the area who knew more about wild life and the host of laws which protect nature from poachers and their ilk. Flint was a genuine expert both in practice and in theory.
Having heard the twig-crackling approach of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass around one o’clock that morning Mr Flint sought refuge among the shadows of his hilltop kingdom. He was able to silently follow Claude Jeremiah about the woods and watch every move he made.
Because he was a stealthy man with many years of practice Mr Flint had followed the blissfully happy Claude Jeremiah for a considerable time before the latter had accidentally stumbled across the discarded antlers. It is interesting to speculate upon the thoughts ranging through Flint’s skull as Claude Jeremiah’s torch identified them as something special. And when Claude Jeremiah picked them from the ground Flint must have suffered chest pains. By 2.30 that morning Claude Jeremiah was leaving the woods with the antlers firmly in his possession. It was then that Archibald Flint pounced. He made threatening gestures with his twelve-bore shotgun and encouraged Claude Jeremiah to walk in front of it to a small gamekeeper’s hut on the edge of the forest.
It was soon after this stage that I entered the story. Mr Flint telephoned our Divisional Office to announce his success and I was dispatched in the little Ford car to rendezvous with Flint and Greengrass in the isolated hut.
An oil lamp was burning because someone had stolen the electric bulb, and I found Mr Flint sitting at one side of the rough wooden table with Claude Jeremiah sitting at the other. His brown, leathery face was wrinkled in disgust as the sombre gamekeeper maintained his vigil with the gun pointing directly at him across the table. The antlers in dispute rested on the table.
I entered breezily and said, “Well, Mr Flint, what is it this time?”
Flint poured out the story of his careful surveillance of the prowling poacher and during this account Claude Jeremiah sat motionless and speechless. He had been to court enough times to know that any interruption was futile. It was far better to hear out the opposition because he’d then know the strengths and weaknesses of the other’s story. He would get his opportunity to deliver a speech in due course.
I listened as the gamekeeper spoke in short, clipped phrases as if giving evidence in court, but I did not make any comment. I just gathered facts. I lifted the antlers, examined them and said, “Well, Claude Jeremiah?”
“There’s nothing wrong in helping myself to a set of antlers, Mr Rhea, is there? They was lying on the ground. Like a lump of wood. I didn’t
poach the deer they belonged to, did I? He knows I didn’t. It was just the antlers.”
“He didn’t kill the deer, did he?” I asked Flint.
“He did not,” said Flint emphatically. “He took antlers. Antlers are part of a deer. It’s in the Deer Act, Constable. It is an offence to take deer.”
“I did not take deer, Mr Rhea,” cried Claude Jeremiah, and I must admit I felt sorry for him. If I’d found his handsome set during one of my patrols, I might have been tempted to keep them.
“Is it alleged that he took a deer?” I put to Flint.
“Deer and part of deer are the same; Section 9. By taking part of a deer he’s committing an offence which is equal to taking a whole deer. Antlers are part of a deer, Constable.”
“Show me.”
The gamekeeper sighed and produced a small handbook from his interior pocket. He flipped it open at the relevant page. I peered at it in the flickering light and saw the vital words.
“He’s right,” I said to Claude Jeremiah. “It means court for you.”
“I’ll be a witness,” volunteered Flint.
I knew of no power to arrest Claude Jeremiah for this offence, therefore I made a note of his personal particulars, which I knew by heart anyway. I cautioned him in the traditional way by telling him he was not obliged to say anything, but whatever he did say would be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. I concluded by saying he would be reported for taking a deer at night contrary to the Deer Act, 1963.
“I just took the antlers, that’s all,” was his reply, which I noted.
I let him go but retained the antlers for evidence. I told Mr Flint that he would be informed of the court date in due course and that Claude Jeremiah would receive a summons. The formalities over, I gave Claude Jeremiah a lift back into Aidensfield and dropped him near his home. During that short trip he expressed his hatred of gamekeepers in general, and Archibald Flint in particular, but refused to tell me why he’d been prowling around Brock Rigg forest during the night. After our chat I resumed my patrol.
In Eltering police office I entered the saga in my notebook and checked with Stone’s Justices Manual on the veracity of Flint’s claim. That reference book appeared to support his belief that antlers were classified as entire deer and I found no previously decided cases which might counter this. In short, it would be for our local court to determine this important issue.
Within a few days I had typed my account of the incident and had obtained a long written statement from Archibald Flint. He compiled his statement as a policeman would and appeared overjoyed at actually catching this notorious local poacher red-handed. I’ve no doubt that Claude Jeremiah had been in those woods on many previous occasions without being caught, so perhaps this was justice of a kind. But we were not judging previous occurrences, and I submitted my report through Sergeant Blaketon, who agreed with everything Flint said and informed me he would recommend prosecution.
At first I did wonder if a written caution might have been appropriate rather than a hearing in court, but later agreed with Blaketon’s decision. With a man like Flint pushing for a conviction it was best to let Eltering Magistrates’ Court decide the issue. The matter would thus receive a public hearing.
In due course summonses were issued and the participants instructed to be at Eltering Magistrates’ Court at 10.30 am one Thursday morning. Alderman Fazakerly was Chairman and his accompanying magistrates were Mrs Pinkerton and Mr Smithers, with the efficient Mr Whimp as clerk of the court. The hearing opened with the usual applications for extensions of hours at local pubs and our case was first on the agenda.
“Claude Jeremiah Greengrass,” called the usher, and the untidy figure of my beat’s most notorious criminal shuffled forward and stood before the assembled Bench.
“Is your name Claude Jeremiah Greengrass?” asked Mr Whimp.
“Aye, it is,” smiled Claude Jeremiah having answered this question in this court many times before.
“Listen carefully as I read out the charge. When I have finished you may plead either guilty or not guilty. Is that understood?” Greengrass nodded.
“Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. You are charged that, on Friday, 27th September last, you took a deer during the night — that is between the expiration of the first hour after sunset and the commencement of the last hour before sunrise, contrary to Section 2 of the Deer Act, 1963. How do you plead?”
“I didn’t, sir. All I took was a pair of cast antlers, honest.”
“Am I right in thinking it is your intention to plead not guilty?”
“Yes, sir, I’m not guilty. I didn’t take a deer, Your Worships, I found a set of antlers, old ones they were. That’s all.”
“Thank you. You will get an opportunity to address the court. In the meantime you may sit down until it is your turn to give evidence. The offence with which you are charged is a summary offence and must be dealt with by this court.”
Mr Whimp sat down with a flourish typical of magistrates’ clerks everywhere as Sergeant Blaketon rose to address their Worships. He was a fine figure of a man, standing in this rural centre of justice as he outlined the facts of the case. He summarised the evidence which would be given by Archibald Flint and called the gamekeeper to the witness box. Flint gave a textbook account of the incident and concluded by producing Exhibit “A”, the antlers, duly labelled.
Next was an expert witness from the Forestry Commission, a Mr FNZ Carruthers who told the court that the antlers were those of the red deer (Cervus elaphus scoticus), a species which frequented the plantation, although rare in other parts of England. It was plentiful in Scotland.
I was then called to give my evidence. I had to tell the court that, acting upon information received, I proceeded to Brock Rigg Plantation where I saw the accused and a set of antlers. I told the court of my brief interview, my cautioning of the defendant and his replies. I told of my seizure of evidence which I had labelled Exhibit ‘A’ and now produced.
When Mr Whimp asked Claude Jeremiah if he wanted to ask me any questions he leapt up and asked, “Did I have a deer with me, Mr Rhea?”
“No, Your Worships,” I said. “Just a set of antlers.”
“So I didn’t take a deer,” and he sat down in triumph.
There being no further prosecution witnesses and no defence witnesses, next in the box was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. He elected to give evidence from the witness box and solemnly took the oath before beginning his account.
“I’ve always wanted a set of antlers, sir, to hang on my wall. I knew they’d put red deer in those woods to see if they would breed. You don’t get many red deer in England, sir, do you? Scotland, yes, but not England. Anyway, I went up that night for a look around, just in case there was some lying discarded, you understand. The bucks discard their antlers, you see, knock ’em off on tree branches. Well, I found yon set, nice pair they are too. Just lying on the ground. So I picked ’em up and got to the edge of the wood when Flint caught me. I didn’t kill the deer to get them antlers, honest. They was just lying there.”
No one wished to put any questions to Claude Jeremiah Greengrass because the facts were not in dispute, and he was allowed to stand down. Alderman Fazakerly leaned from his lofty seat and whispered to Mr Whimp. I heard the loud whisper.
“I fail to see the point of this case,” he said. “The fellow has obviously not killed or taken a deer, even if it was at night.”
“No, sir,” advised the patient Mr Whimp. “That is not the allegation.”
“Isn’t it? Then what is?”
“The case is based on the definition of a deer, sir.”
“Oh,” blinked Alderman Fazakerly. “Is the prosecution trying to say that a set of antlers is a deer?”
“That would appear to be the interpretation, Your Worships,” smiled Mr Whimp. “The relevant authority is in the Deer Act, section 9,” and he handed up a copy of Stone’s Justices Manual, open at the correct page. I knew what it said, for I had read it some days
ago. It stated that for the purposes of the Deer Act, ‘a deer means deer of any species and includes the carcass of any deer or any part thereof.’
“The antlers are not a carcass, are they?” simpered Mrs Pinkerton.
“No, but they are part of one,” grunted Mr Smithers. “And they are part of a deer. The Act says that part of a deer is a deer.”
“It seems a bit hard on the fellow, doesn’t it?” the Chairman whispered. “It’s not as if he’s been poaching red deer, is it?”
“The Act says it is illegal to take deer at night,” Smithers spoke bluntly. “He’s admitted that, so he’s guilty. Part of a deer is the same as a whole deer. The law says so.”
“Mrs Pinkerton?” asked the Chairman.
“The law is the law, so I must agree,” she simpered.
“Thank you,” the Chairman smiled. “I also agree. He’s guilty. What about a penalty?”
The advisory Mr Whimp came to the rescue. “The offence carries a maximum fine of £20 for a first conviction,” he said smugly.
Fazakerly pursed his lips. “I’d prefer an absolute discharge on this occasion. As you are aware, that is legally a penalty and a conviction, although it carries no fine or other sanction.”
They all agreed, so Alderman Fazakerly raised his head and addressed the assembled court, including Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
“Claude Jeremiah Greengrass,” he cleared his throat in a judicial manner. “The Deer Act was created to protect these beautiful creatures from poachers, and Parliament has seen fit to regard parts of a deer as equivalent to the complete animal. Because you have admitted taking antlers at night you are therefore guilty of the offence as charged.”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 29
