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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Never!” cried the defendant.

  “Is anything known against the accused?” Alderman Fazakerly asked Sergeant Blaketon.

  Blaketon read out a list of his previous convictions, petty as they all were.

  “Hm. Nothing serious, and no previous deer-poaching, eh? Well, Mr Greengrass, on this occasion we are prepared to grant you an absolute discharge. This means that, although you have been found guilty, there will be no penalty and no conditions as to your future conduct.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir, very kind indeed,” and the relief was clear in his voice.

  Sergeant Blaketon jumped to his feet.

  “Would Your Worships care to make an order for the disposal of Exhibit ‘A’?”

  “Ah, of course. Well, as it was clearly found on Forestry Commission land, it must belong to them. The court therefore orders that the antlers be restored to the Forestry Commission. Perhaps Mr Carruthers will accept them?”

  Carruthers smiled. “In the event of a penalty other than a fine, Your Worships, I am authorised to donate them to the defendant, as a gift.”

  “Then let it be done,” smiled Alderman Fazakerly.

  And the weathered face of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass broke into a cheeky smile. Flint, on the other hand, turned a deep purple, and failed to appreciate this court’s administration of rural justice.

  Poachers are an integral part of village life. They are not all of Claude Jeremiah’s calibre, although a rural beat like Aidensfield certainly possesses its share of grouse-grabbing villains. Most are local folks, men whose ancestors have been poachers over countless generations and for whom poaching is a natural pastime like walking or breathing. Coping with them is never difficult because the gamekeepers know them and know how to deal with them, albeit unofficially at times. For the gamekeeper and the local poacher the eternal contest is almost like a game — sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. In many cases a friendly rivalry exists, although it can be a serious contest at times.

  Part of the reason for the cosy attitude is that the poaching laws are so mysterious to those who do not understand their requirements. They create offences which are not theft, but which involve trespass. There are many offences within the scope of the poaching laws, and the illegality is created when poachers trespass in pursuit of game. The actual taking of game cannot be theft because the creatures are wild by nature, consequently it is trespass which forms the basis of the offences.

  This makes it fun for the poacher. The sport can be compared with schoolboys sneaking into gardens to steal apples, although it must be said that there is big money in poaching and that pinching apples from gardens is theft!

  It is the likelihood of big money that attracts carloads of highly skilled and ruthless poachers from the cities. These are the real villains, and they are a far cry from the village poacher who takes the occasional pheasant or salmon for his family lunch. These rogues journey into the rural regions of Yorkshire, there to give the estates a ‘bashing’, as they term it. They’ve even been known to use explosives to stun fish in rivers in order to collect them in large quantities, while some of the cunning methods used to catch game-birds are fascinating. For example, raisins are sometimes soaked in brandy and this gets pheasants so drunk they cannot fly off. A drunk and disorderly pheasant is a curious sight.

  My beat was attractive to poachers because it was the location of several large country estates. Some possessed the traditional lord of the manor and a large mansion for him to live in. These people were good to me and were good to the local residents, consequently none of us disliked people of quality. In fact, they were good for the district because they provided work for the communities and therefore helped preserve village life. Their extinction will be a tragedy for England.

  For the poachers of industrial West Yorkshire, however, the presence of such happy hunting-grounds within an hour’s drive of their back-to-back homes or high-rise flats was very tempting and challenging. There were reports of luscious pheasants, succulent partridges, juicy salmon and other culinary delights, all waiting to be taken by skilful and daring men, and quite free of charge too. All that was needed was a little time and patience. One of my regular and important duties was to liaise with gamekeepers and keep their lordships informed of trends and poaching intelligence. Like all country policemen I reckoned it would be nice to arrest an organised bunch of poachers.

  An opportunity to do that arose one autumn evening. I was on night-duty and had elected to patrol the village on foot, for it was a Saturday. On that night especially, the local people liked to pop out to the pub for a noggin or two. I entered the Brewers Arms at Aidensfield shortly before 10.30 to pay my customary uniformed visit. I knew the appearance of a uniformed bobby was appreciated by most landlords who wanted rid of hangers-on and who liked to go to bed at the same time as everyone else. I poked my head around the door to let everyone know I was about. The place was full; there was noise, laughter, happiness and music and there seemed to be no juvenile boozers or troublesome characters.

  I waved across the sea of heads at the landlord, who saw me and waved back. Word would get about that the law was prowling and the drinkers would go peacefully to their homes. One or two locals made jokes about my presence and I was preparing to leave when the landlord hailed me.

  He didn’t shout for me; he just raised his hand and I recognised the signal. He wanted help or advice. This pre-arranged signal did not attract attention, so I went outside to wait. He followed and joined me soon afterwards, panting slightly.

  “Glad I caught you,” he said. “Did you notice those men in the corner?”

  I shook my head. The place had been packed and, besides, not all the regular patrons were known to me.

  “Strangers,” he said. “I don’t know them, but Sam overhead them talking.”

  “Go on, George,” he was also called George, like the landlord of the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby. I wondered if all landlords were known as George.

  “They were talking of giving his Lordship’s river a bashing tonight,” he told me. “Sam definitely heard them. Salmon, you know.”

  “Thanks,” I valued this information. “Has the river been done before?”

  “Once or twice, down at Victoria’s Bend.”

  “Victoria’s Bend?” I didn’t know it.

  “Halfway between here and Ploatby. It’s a wide, sweeping bend in the river, and I’m told there’s salmon in there, lots of them. It’s named after Queen Victoria — she used to come and stay at the Hall and liked to sit down there near the river in the summer. It’s been called Victoria’s Bend ever since.”

  “I know it now,” I recognised it from his description. “Right, thanks George. I’ll inform the keeper.”

  “He’s in hospital, broken ankle,” George said.

  I cursed under my breath. I’d have to cope myself for I was the only policeman on night-duty, although Sergeant Bairstow was on patrol elsewhere in the Sub-Division. I peered at the two suspicious men through a side window, so I’d know them again, then rang the sergeant from my own office. He was out and his wife did not know where he was, but she did inform me that he was expected back about one o’clock in the morning. He was obviously supervising several night-duty constables.

  I decided to visit the location of the anticipated bashing in order to familiarise myself with the layout of the ground, river and trees. I walked along the rocky path which followed the line of the bubbling water and came to the long, sweeping curve in question. I knew this to be the haunt of succulent salmon and, wondering about their habits and movements, I spent some minutes there, trying to work out the likely movements of the poachers.

  In order to catch them I would have to wait in hiding until they proved the purpose of their visit by lowering lines or nets into the water. Those actions alone would be proof of their intent and I could give such evidence in court. But I had to see them do it. I found a convenient clump of bushes about fifteen yards from the river bank and c
oncealed myself behind it. From here I had a clear view up river towards the direction from which the anticipated poachers would come. I looked at my watch.

  It was just after eleven o’clock.

  I waited for about an hour and a half and began to wonder if my time was being wasted. Maybe we’d panicked? Maybe it was a joke between the two men? I thought of all the other things I could be usefully doing, like drinking tea in friendly houses or shaking hands with yet more doorknobs in Ashfordly. Maybe the pub had done this to get me out of the way so they could drink late? All manner of thoughts, nice and nasty, passed through my mind as I waited among the shrubbery and then I became aware of the approach of two men.

  They walked very quietly, using the same path I had walked along. Even in the gloom I could see they carried rods, nets and gaffs, and wore waders. They were well equipped for their mission. As they neared me, I could hear them whispering softly and soon they found a small promontory about fifty yards beyond me. They settled upon this, rigged up their rods, nets and gaffs and prepared for their vigil. I watched them all the time, making notes of the precise time and their actions. I waited. It would be nice to catch them red-handed with a salmon — that would be perfect proof. Should I wait for that? Or pounce now? I had enough proof to justify action.

  Suddenly the water broke violently and there developed a fierce thrashing and lots of vile cursing; they’d got one, a big one, judging by the fight it was creating. The water turned white about their feet as they gradually hauled the catch towards the shore. I saw the glint of the cruel gaff as it embedded itself into the flesh of the fish. Still thrashing wildly the gleaming fish was lifted bodily from the water and cast deftly on to the bank where the men pounced upon it. It would be swiftly killed.

  As they worked on their prize I crept from my hiding place and was upon them before they realised I was there. I said all the proper things about being caught poaching, cautioned them officially and “seized” their lines, rods, gaffs and nets, plus the salmon. That was my evidence. I had half expected them to make a run for it, but they didn’t. They accepted their arrest most peacefully and I marched them back to the village and up the hill to my police house. They made no excuse and never attempted to escape from me. I was thankful, if surprised, at their meek submission.

  I rang Sergeant Bairstow because he would have to officiate in the office as they were charged. He was now at home, it being half past one in the morning, and I passed on my glad tidings. He grumbled and cursed because I’d got him out of bed, but I chose to ignore his feelings as I prepared to drive my prisoners into his office. He would charge and bail them.

  In the car the two poachers remained silent and I found it most surprising that these men were models of good behaviour. I’d heard of poachers attacking bailiffs, gamekeepers and policemen while in the act of making arrests, and I’d also heard of poachers running into the darkness never to be seen again. But these characters never spoke a word in anger and never gave me a minute’s trouble.

  They provided their names and addresses. Both lived in York and seemed quite blasé about us keeping their expensive tackle. Charlie Bairstow bailed out each man in the sum of £25 to appear at Eltering Magistrates’ Court in two weeks’ time to answer several poaching charges. They hadn’t a licence to fish for salmon or trout and were to be summoned for several fishery offences. All these were listed, and the police would act as agents for the Fishery Board because there were offences involving their activities on private land.

  At the conclusion of the formalities the men apologised profusely for their actions and left the office. I remained behind to provide a quick account for Sergeant Bairstow and he listened intently.

  “Nice work, Nicholas,” he smiled. “You’ve made a couple of good arrests there. Night poaching, eh? The magistrates will love this one.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Now you’d better go and get the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes, others, Nicholas. There will be others, probably several of them.”

  “There was only that couple, Sergeant.”

  “That’s right. They would be the advance party, sent deliberately to get caught. Think about it, Nicholas. Think about tonight’s events. Those men enter a local pub where strangers are immediately recognised, and they begin talking about giving his Lordship’s river a bashing. Why do that? Why tell the locals what they’re up to? You are told, and you lie in wait — they turn up laden to the eyeballs with fishing gear and you arrest them. A good job, well done. But it’s all too easy, Nicholas. Did you notice how they left this office? They didn’t ask for a lift anywhere, did they? I’m bloody sure their car isn’t in Ashfordly, not when they were drinking in Aidensfield pub. Someone would be waiting for them. Now they’ll all go back to Victoria’s Bend and give those salmon a real bashing. The money they’ll make tonight will pay the fines of the two volunteers and everyone will be happy — except his Lordship.”

  I considered his theory. It seemed feasible and I must admit that I had been surprised by the submissive attitude of the two poachers. I thought it all over right from the start and reckoned Charlie Bairstow was right.

  “I’ll go back and arrest the others, Sergeant.”

  “Not on your own, you won’t. This needs more of us — the next lot won’t be as gentlemanly as your first catch.”

  “There’s only you and I,” I said.

  “Then I’ll organise help,” he assured me. “I can rustle up a constable from Eltering, and I believe the dog section is on patrol in Malton. They’ve been to a late-night dance — they can be here in half-an-hour.”

  “Shall I go and keep observations?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No, think it through, Nicholas. What is going through their minds right now?”

  “They’ll be waiting until the coast is clear,” I said.

  “And is it clear? If you were a villain, doing what I believe they’re doing, would you consider the coast to be clear?”

  “No, not until the bobby has gone to bed.”

  “Exactly. They’ll be waiting for you to turn in.”

  “I’m on nights,” I said.

  “They won’t know that. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t pretend to go to bed, is there?”

  “Ah!” I got the gist of his thinking, then realised my pretended return for bed would arouse Mary and the children.

  “Right,” he said. “Go home. Park your motorbike in the garage and go into the house. Go through all the motions of going to bed — lights on downstairs, office light on. Office light off, kitchen light on as if you’re having a cup of coffee. Bathroom and bedroom lights. OK?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Then when the house is in darkness creep out and make sure no lights are on. Meet me at 2.30 behind the Brewers Arms, on foot. Wait there until I arrive with reinforcements.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I’m sorry if it disturbs your family, but it’s a worthwhile job.”

  I left Ashfordly police office on my motorcycle and chugged noisily home. I hoped my furtive activities would not cause too much upset among my family, but they were accustomed to the strange comings and goings of my motorcycle. I placed the machine inside the garage and went through the routine of booking off duty and going to bed. Inside the house I switched on the kitchen light as I walked through to the office and switched on the kettle for a coffee. In the office I sat at my desk to write up my notebook as I would have done. Then I switched off the office light, adjourned to the kitchen and brewed myself a drink. I took it into the living room, making sure all the lights were on, and I enjoyed the brief rest. Upstairs there was not a sound. I hadn’t wakened them.

  Having enjoyed the drink I pretended to climb the stairs to bed. Lights went off and on as I went about my fictitious movements, but there was not a murmur from the family. It made me realise how easy it is to burgle a house . . .

  Once all this performance wa
s over I crept out of the house, which I left in total darkness, and made my way on foot down to the village. It was about 2.20 and there was not a soul about. I crept into the pub carpark and was greeted by the rapid flash of a torch. Sergeant Bairstow had arrived.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “And not a murmur from the kids.”

  “Good, let’s go. Is there an approach for us that isn’t direct from here?”

  “We can go through Home Farm fields,” I told him.

  “Lead on,” and I realised he had an army of policemen with him. Two men whose names I did not know were in the shadows, each with a police dog and there was another tall, senior police constable whom I guessed was from Malton.

  We marched through the darkness with me leading the way. We did not speak as I led them through a small copse and into the fields of Home Farm. We kept close to the hedges, which provided shelter, and after twenty minutes I halted them.

  “The river is down there,” I said, pointing to the brow of a small hillock. “Behind that hill the bank goes fairly steeply towards the river. The banks are lined with bushes and trees. The curve known as Victoria’s Bend is down there — that’s the favourite place for salmon.”

  “I don’t know what to expect,” said Bairstow. “I don’t know how many we’ll find — if any! I imagine there’ll be those we nicked earlier and their mates. Maybe two carloads. Seven or eight of ’em,” and he outlined a plan of action. We would use our torches or police whistles as signals.

  “The dogs can cope,” said one of their handlers, when I expressed concern that the poachers might be armed.

  “We’ll use one dog at each side of them,” said Bairstow. “And one of us at each side too. I’ll stay with Nick — he knows the lie of the land.”

  Two constables, one of whom was a dog handler with his Alsatian straining at the leash, vanished to my right and were quickly lost in the shadows. They moved silently across the turf, climbed the fence and were soon moving through the woodland towards the river bank on my right. Bairstow, the other dog handler and I crossed the fence to our left and clambered down the hillside. I felt we were making far too much noise, but Bairstow didn’t call for silence.