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

by Nicholas Rhea

  He was a fascinating companion. He boasted a fund of interesting stories and seemed to know a little about everything. Fortunately, he was not a boastful type and it was during this conversation that he reminded me of the part played by the little man who sat in the little office at the end of Strensford’s ancient swing bridge.

  From our vantage point, we could see the bridge. It was of Victorian vintage and spanned the middle harbour, the only link between the east and west sides of the town. Being old-fashioned it was operated by the man who sat in the tiny round hut at one end. When a ship came into the harbour and wished to proceed into the upper reaches to berth it had to make its presence known to the bridge man. He would then open the bridge to allow it through. Passages of this kind were done only at high tide, and, as high tide varied from day to day, the town was frequently brought to a standstill as a slow-moving ship sailed upstream between the open halves of the bridge. There was nothing anyone could do about it, and the bridge became a popular tourist sight.

  “I’ll show you something,” he said when we had finished our meal. He started the engine and drove down to the harbour side where he parked in the shadows of the fish sheds with the lights off. “See the little hut on the bridge?”

  “Yes,” I said, for I knew it well.

  “The bridge man will be in there now. It’s manned for two hours either side of high tide. I can see his light on.”

  He flicked the switch of the PA and proceeded to give a first-rate imitation of a ship’s hooter. He gave three blasts, each very slowly and each reverberating above the sleeping roofs of the town. To my ears it was a perfect reproduction of a ship’s hooter and I felt sure the population of Strensford would never know it was a fake.

  “That was good,” I said sincerely.

  “Watch the little hut,” he smiled, getting out his faithful pipe.

  After a few minutes a little man rushed out, peered into the darkness of the lower harbour and then uncoupled some links at the centre of the bridge. He remained on the half nearest our side of the water and I watched the massive bridge begin to open. He had set the mechanism in motion before emerging and, very slowly the two halves split at the centre, each swinging open and moving the entire structure to the sides of the river. When it was fully open the halves halted and I could see the figure of the little man standing expectantly on the edge of his half. He was peering towards the sea.

  Rupert started the car engine and drove out of the fish sheds. When he was on the road, he switched on his headlights and cruised towards the bridge where a closed gate prevented sleepy drivers leaping off the edge and into the water.

  “Evening, Harry,” he got out and shouted at the fellow, who still gazed out to sea.

  “Morning, Mr Langley. You haven’t seen a ship down there, have you?”

  “Not where we’ve been,” smiled Rupert, strolling to the gate and leaning on it.

  “I could swear a hooter went, honest.”

  “Hooter?”

  “Aye, a ship’s hooter, three blasts. The signal to open the bridge. Didn’t you hear it?”

  Rupert shook his head solemnly. “Not me, Harry.”

  “It must be my age,” said Harry walking towards us. He remained with us for about three minutes, during which time no ship materialised from the darkness.

  “I’m going barmy,” he said and re-entered his little hut to set in motion the machinery to close the bridge. He repeatedly uttered sighs and said he couldn’t understand it; he could have sworn he’d heard the signal to open up. Rupert never made the bridge man any wiser and we each received a cup of tea from him. We whiled away an hour in his company, listening to tales of his seafaring days. Like all old men he loved to reminisce.

  And so it went on, each night producing another sound from the strangely constructed throat and lips of PC Rupert Langley. He imitated the crowing cockerel of dawn and I’m sure many a worker has rushed off early because of it. He did a useful motorcycle scrambling sound and wasn’t bad with a corn horn. Howling dogs and braying donkeys were easy, and, on one occasion, he excited an entire coachload of day-trippers.

  This happened in Eltering during a night patrol. The party had enjoyed a full and merry day at the seaside, having concluded their outing with a visit to a late-night club. They had left the club around two in the morning and their coach stopped at an all-night cafe in Eltering for toilets, tea and coffee. Their choice was a transport cafe, very pleasantly clean and a point of attraction for night-duty policemen.

  The truth is that we fancied a cup of tea about 3.30 that morning and decided to visit that same cafe. We arrived in the carpark just as the trippers’ bus began to disgorge its load. Before we had time to climb from our vehicle the entire contents of the coach had formed a long queue in the narrow doorway. It stretched halfway across the carpark, and the solitary fellow on duty would take ages to cope with this lot. We remained in the car, watching the queue with sorrow. The more we thought about our lost cups of tea the more thirsty we became.

  Then I saw Rupert’s eyes twinkling. Out came his pipe, which he lit among clouds of pungent fumes and, as I guessed, he picked up the handset. What was he up to now?

  With the handset close to his mouth he began to produce a sound like a distant wind. It whistled slightly, then gradually intensified and changed its note. Now it was just like a jet aircraft. As Rupert increased the volume of the noise, I realised that the tail-enders of the tea queue were all peering up at the sky, seeking the elusive and noisy aircraft.

  The note grew louder. Then he changed its pitch. Suddenly he produced another sound as if the engine was spluttering and backfiring. It sounded as if an aeroplane was coughing alarmingly, and he followed with a high-pitched whistling, for all the world like a crashing and doomed aircraft. The bewildered queue was buzzing with excitement and anticipation, with all eyes raised to the dark mysterious heavens as the unknown aircraft entered its final seconds.

  Then the crash. How he produced this I do not know, but he crouched over the handset with his hands cupped about his mouth as he produced the most realistic and horrendous sounds of an aircraft in its final agony. He followed this masterpiece with the muffled roar of its inevitable crash, accompanied with more distant rumblings and explosions. Then there was a long period of extreme silence. The queue members were stunned and bewildered.

  “Let’s go,” he announced.

  Lights blazing and two-tone horn blaring he spun the wheels of the police car as he emerged from the carpark, wheels and tyres shrieking as he vanished along the road. A matter of yards away he turned suddenly right. I had no idea what he was up to, but once off the main road he manoeuvred the car through the back lanes of a housing estate and minutes later reappeared at the cafe. He doused his lights and waited a short distance away.

  All the waiting queue members were scrambling aboard their bus, with the driver urging them to hurry. Then the bus raced off the way we had just travelled, everyone anxiously seeking the scene of the plane crash. When it had gone, we pulled into the carpark for the second time, parked and emerged triumphant from our seats. We were enjoying a lovely cup of tea by the time the bus returned. Everyone was in a state of high excitement, and we said it was a false alarm. We couldn’t explain the noises they’d heard.

  It was a foregone conclusion that one night something would go wrong. A talent of that kind used in these circumstances must inevitably bring trouble of some kind, and I think Rupert knew this. His twinkling sense of humour and love of people and their reactions kept his talent within reasonable limits and it is fair to say that no harm was ever done. He knew when to stop and many victims of his jokes never knew they had been hoaxed. Many of his impressions resulted in little more than talking points or unexplained mysteries.

  It was said that the inspector and the sergeants knew about his activities, but he always took care to practise his deception when no supervisory ranks were around. Very occasionally he would direct something specifically towards them. He
could imitate footsteps, for example, and I’ve seen him sit in his car in the shadows and imitate a woman’s high heels clip-clopping along a footpath. And I’ve seen the smile of expectancy on Sergeant Bairstow’s face as he waited for the vision of loveliness to appear. Then Rupert would materialise instead. I’ve known him imitate a galloping horse at night with the same result. It was all good, harmless fun.

  But in the early hours of one spring morning things went wrong. I was with him at the time and can smile now, although it provided a few hair-raising moments.

  It was a lovely morning in late April and we had almost completed a full night’s tour of duty, being scheduled to come off patrol at six o’clock. It was about a quarter to five and the sun was striving to make the coming day warm and beautiful. The dew of night covered the choice grass about us and the birds were waking the countryside, all competing for the crown of champion of the morning chorus.

  We had concluded a long, careful patrol of the district and had a few minutes to spare before returning to Ashfordly, where I would book off duty. Rupert brought the car to rest on a small hillock at the side of a rural lane, a vantage point regularly used by sightseers during fine weekends. It provided a fine view of Ryedale and was perfect for a picnic. Behind us were the open moorlands, stretching loftily into North Yorkshire, but before us, on the bottom side of the road, was a pasture full of very contended cows. As we parked, they peered balefully at us, as cows tend to do, and one or two took a step nearer out of sheer curiosity. This is a feature of cows — they do like to know what’s going on, but within a few minutes they had accepted as harmless the big black shiny creature with bright eyes. They returned their attention to the succulent grass.

  There must have been fifty all told. They were all chewing their cud and munching very noisily without a care in the world. Their only worry would be milking-time in a couple of hours or so, followed by a gentle meander back to this field. It was a life of sheer pleasantry, and these cows looked very satisfied with their lives.

  “I can do a lovely randy bull noise,” announced Rupert, taking out his pipe.

  I laughed. “Randy bull noise?”

  “A bellow, I think it’s termed. It has quite a dramatic effect on cows, you know, particularly in the spring.”

  “Has it?” I wasn’t convinced.

  “That’s when a young cow’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of randy bulls,” he said.

  I chuckled at his description. “What happens?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  With no more ado he laid his pipe to one side, switched on the PA and cupped the handset in his hands. He bent to his task and there emerged from the loudspeaker on our front bumper the most awful bellowing noise. I watched the cows. Without exception they pricked their ears and looked in our direction. As one they stared at the big black bull who was calling to them so lovingly.

  “See! I’ve got their attention!” he smiled, returning to his task.

  He repeated the love-sick bellowing and the amplified noise echoed about the landscape. The cows loved it. They began to walk towards us. The entire herd was moving.

  He repeated the exercise, his eyes closed tightly with concentration as he fought to produce exactly the right sound. By now, the herd was in full gallop, responding to his music . . .

  “Hey!” I nudged him. “They’re coming for us . . .”

  “Just curiosity,” he replied. “Cows are like that,” and he didn’t look up from his work as he began another love-call. This final one galvanised the eager cows into a frenzy of activity, and the entire herd was now in full flight and heading for our car.

  At the approaching thunder of hooves he looked up.

  “God!” he cried, and in an instant started the engine. He rammed it into first gear and we roared from our vantage point as the leading cow crashed through the fragile hawthorn hedge in a passion of lust. She was followed by all the others and as we roared along the road the entire herd galloped after us.

  My final memory that night is our speeding car tearing along a rural lane, hotly pursued by fifty love-sick maidens, all with their tails in the air.

  Thus ended my first lesson with the Road Traffic Division.

  Chapter Seven

  Keep the home fires burning while your hearts are yearning.

  LENA GUILBERT FORD — “Keep the Home Fires Burning”

  In their early days some police forces combined law enforcement with firefighting and indeed many pioneer police officers were equally skilled in both roles. As the police became more professional and their area of responsibility more specific their firefighting duties were cast aside. Today the Fire Brigades and the Police Service work side by side at many incidents and indeed continue to share buildings in some places. The modern policeman does not possess a fund of stories connected with firefighting, although I do like this old yarn.

  In the days when police did fight fires a large blaze broke out in a well-known store in York, and the police were called to the scene. Unfortunately, their horses were all engaged upon a ceremonial occasion and none was available to haul the firefighting appliance to the fire. Undeterred, the chief rushed into the street and halted the first vehicle he saw, a large cart drawn by two equally large horses. He commandeered these for the job.

  After skilfully harnessing them to the fire-tender the firefighters climbed aboard and whipped the surprised horses into a gallop. Unaccustomed as they were in this task the gallant animals responded magnificently and were soon galloping through the quaint streets, en route to the blazing building.

  The machine careered across the River Ouse bridge, and there was the fire. The driver tried to bring his team to a halt, but they were having none of that! They continued past the seat of the fire and, in spite of yells, shouts, whips and other methods, they refused to stop. The horses eventually ran themselves to a standstill some three miles on the road to Tadcaster. From that date spare horses were available in case of emergencies.

  When I joined the Force those days had long passed, and the Fire Brigade was a modernised unit noted for its extraordinary speed, coupled with sheer efficiency and ability. Even though we were two quite distinct organisations, however, the police initial training course contained instructions on how the police should cooperate with the Fire Brigade.

  If my memory has not faded, a complete lesson was devoted to the police duties and responsibilities at fires. This was considered necessary because the work of a police officer inevitably brings him to the scene of most fires and it was, and still is, essential that a patrolling bobby knows what to do when faced with an emergency of this kind.

  We were taught that, when patrolling our beats, we had to familiarise ourselves with the locations of all turncocks, principal fire hydrants and their water supplies. For the latter we often relied on rivers, canals, reservoirs, tanks and the like. We had to know the local procedures for calling out the Fire Brigade and were exhorted to discover the whereabouts of essential equipment like blankets, ropes, sheets, sand, tarpaulins, sacks, ladders, buckets and a host of other useful things.

  Another aspect of our local knowledge was that we were expected to know who was likely to be in a particular building at any one time, or who to contact out of normal office hours.

  It was always useful to know if a building had a resident caretaker and which buildings were deserted at night, weekends, holidays or other times. The intricacies of emergency firefighting apparatus had to be understood and it was prudent to visit buildings with a view to learning the location and modus operandi of those items.

  All this was drummed into us at Training School in a one-hour lesson and we were then compelled to learn, parrot-fashion, our responsibilities at the scene of a fire. These were resolutely hammered into our brains, just as children learn their arithmetic tables and alphabet. The result was that we never forgot them. I remember our responsibilities, for they conveniently provided ten answers, which made them a very handy examination question.

 
They were:

  (a) ascertain whether the fire service has been called; if so, by whom. If not, do so IMMEDIATELY;

  (b) save human life;

  (c) save animal life;

  (d) save and protect property;

  (e) prevent stealing;

  (f) assist the Fire Brigade;

  (g) divert traffic where necessary;

  (h) keep a record of important matters;

  (i) if the building is unattended, inform the owners or key-holders;

  (j) in large outbreaks, ensure police reinforcements are available.

  Once those points were firmly implanted in our brains it was deemed acceptable to turn us loose to hunt for fires. In reality, there was a lot more to the practical application of our duties, but those ten points did remain implanted in the brains of police officers who assisted at fires. It was rather like checking off a shopping-list.

  In addition to those pertinent points there was the responsibility of knowing what to do at the scene if we were the first to arrive. For example, we had to attempt to cut off the fire’s supply of air, we had to search buildings for casualties and beware of weakened walls or floors. In the event of chimney fires we were advised to help the householder remove the fire from the grate and shift any inflammable material from the vicinity of the fireplace. Rugs, furniture, curtains and so forth had to be taken away from the heat and one suggested method of stifling the blaze was to shove wet sacks up the chimney. I learned that finding wet sacks was never easy.

  We must always be aware of the risk of inhaling smoke or lethal fumes and were told to crawl about burning buildings on our hands and knees to avoid those problems. This is the advice given:

  “Remember, heat rises and with it, smoke. When in smoke, CRAWL and keep your nose and mouth near the floor. You will get air, you will see, and you will not trip up.”