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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Then there was a tremendous commotion below.

  Lieutenant-Colonel (retired) Jasper Q Clarke ran out of his house, smothered from head to toe in a thick black horrible mess. His eyes were the only white spots about him as they peered beseechingly from the mask fate had donated him.

  I had put the hose down the wrong chimney.

  Chapter Eight

  And many a burglar I’ve restored to his friends and his relations.

  SIR WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT — Trial by Jury

  Sir William Schwenck Gilbert (1836—1911) achieved operatic success when he worked with Sir Arthur Seymour Sullivan (1842—1900), but it was the former who coined the oft-repeated phrase about what happens when “the enterprising burglar’s not aburgling”. Not many other writers feature the burglar in their works — they favour murderers and confidence tricksters, highwaymen or kidnappers and in fact the burglar is frequently portrayed as a simple fellow clad in a striped sweater bearing the word “swag” across the front. In spite of the burglar’s lack of appeal as a creature of drama, his deeds are dark and sinister because he breaks into the castle of man and the plain fact is that burglars are not universally loved by their public.

  None the less, the burglar was greatly loved by lawyers. He made money for them because the nature of the crime lent itself to many hours of legal wrangling, discussion, fee-earning and decision-making in High Courts. He also provided legal authors with a good deal of fascinating copy while the constable in his infancy must learn and understand the intricacies of this crime.

  For hundreds of years burglary could be perpetrated only at night, and this fact alone gave it a certain stature. Today things have changed, and burglary may be committed at any time of the day or night.

  When I joined the police service, therefore, burglary was a night-time crime and had to be prevented at all costs. If a burglary was committed on one’s beat it was considered akin to allowing a murder to happen or a rape to occur, consequently every police officer did everything in his power to prevent burglaries.

  There is a certain fascination in the history of the crime. Ancient legal writers tell how houses, churches and even the walls of cities and their gates were legally protected from being breached by villains who wished to steal. Chester and York are examples of such cities. The earliest known name for the crime was burgh-breche and its Latin name around AD 1200 was burgaria. Today we would not regard breaking into cities through their walls as burglary, but it was once part of this old crime. By the Middle Ages, however, it had come to be applied only to dwelling-houses, although for a time churches were encompassed within its provisions because they were regarded as the dwelling-house of God.

  Such thinking pervaded through the development of criminal law and led to all manner of beautifully argued High Court decisions. Such discussion became facetiously known as legal fiction and included arguments such as whether a tent could be a dwelling-house or whether movable structures like caravans and houseboats, or even flats, were dwelling-houses. A building could be considered a dwelling-house even if no one lived in it at the time, but the main point of the crime, when I joined the police force, was that it could only occur between the hours of 9 pm and 6 am, the period between those times being regarded as “night”.

  Because burglary was regarded so seriously, night-duty constables paid great attention to the likelihood of burglars being abroad on their beats, and a thorough knowledge of the ingredients of the crime was drummed into us; we had to recognise a burglar when we saw one, not because of his striped sweater and bag of swag, but because of his ability to commit acts which were within the wording of the legal definition of burglary. The legal definition was completely changed by the Theft Act 1968, but I can still recall the old one which created such gorgeous decisions in court.

  It was provided by Section 25 of the Larceny Act 1916 and read as follows:

  “Every person who in the night,

  (i) breaks and enters the dwelling-house of another with intent to commit any felony therein;

  or

  (ii) breaks out of the dwelling-house of another having

  (a) entered the said dwelling-house with intent to commit any felony therein;

  (b) having committed any felony in the said dwelling-house shall be guilty of felony called burglary and on conviction thereof liable to imprisonment for life.”

  That definition was instilled into us at Training School so we would never forget it; and it was an interesting crime to study. There was a very helpful mnemonic which helped us to learn its provisions. It was: IN BED.

  We learned the provisions of the crime by writing those initial letters in this manner:

  I — Intent.

  Intent to commit any felony therein.

  N — Night.

  Must be committed at night, i.e., between 9 pm and 6 am.

  B — Breaking.

  There must be a breaking, either constructive or actual. Mere entry without a breaking does not constitute burglary.

  E — Entry.

  The house has to be entered either by inserting some part of the body like a hand or an instrument like a hook on a stick.

  D — Dwelling-house.

  It had to be a dwelling-house of another, not a shop, factory, school, church or other building. These are all catered for in other sections of the Larceny Act 1916. Houses broken into during the daytime are separate offences.

  That, then, was burglary as learned by young constables until 1968 and as we patrolled our beats during those long night-hours we were always alert for the possibility of houses being burgled or were seeking incidents which would exercise the practical side of our instruction.

  For example, did “breaking” include climbing down a chimney, or was the lifting of a cellar-flap within that meaning? In one case the burglar got struck in a chimney because it was of inadequate proportions and he had to be pulled clear. Certainly entry via a chimney was “entry” for burglaries, but could it, in all honesty, be regarded as a “break-in”?

  If a person smashed a window in order to climb in, that is actual breaking, but the legal fiction of criminal law was stretched to its limit by calling some entries constructive breaking. For example, if our enterprising burglar tricked his way into a house or bullied his way in and thus got someone else to open the doors and break the continuity of the building, that was known as constructive breaking. We were told that this properly fell within the maxim “qui facit per alium facit per se”, which was probably very important. But suppose the criminal climbed through a window that had not been glazed or simply opened a door which was not locked? And suppose he broke into a cupboard?

  These and many more imponderables exercised our minds at Training School and provided marvellous ammunition for examination questions. Having studied all aspects of the crime and learned the value of all the words in the definition we were presented with baffling questions — we were asked about evil-doers who broke into houses with an intent to rest their weary limbs and not commit felonious deeds therein. Were they burglars? Should we consider some other form of nocturnal illegality? One enterprising felon said he’d entered a house at night to see the ghosts which were said to haunt it while another said he’d entered to attack a horse. The latter raised the question of whether a stable is a dwelling-house. It might be if it is attached to a dwelling-house . . . but the fellow did not intend to kill the horse but merely to stop it winning a race. Is that felony? And suppose a boy broke into a house to wind up all the clocks?

  Thus our mental gymnastics continued in the shape of examination questions and finally, having studied past centuries of case law, we were cast out to apprehend real burglars.

  In truth they were very few. If such offences did occur, they were usually recorded as “housebreaking” because it is not easy to prove beyond all doubt that the crime had been committed during the night. Apart from making the police station statistics less alarming by revealing a spate of illegal nocturnal “enterings” at the h
ouses of others it was far easier to prove that a housebreaker had paid a visit. For example, if a householder woke up at 6.05 am to find his house had been broken into during the night, how could he prove it had occurred before 6 am? Not a chance! It might have happened at 6.02 am, so it was recorded as housebreaking, an infinitely less serious breach of the law. By this method, the police prevented many burglaries.

  On my rural beat at Aidensfield I could ponder upon Gilbert and Sullivan’s burglars and cut-throats, gurgling brooks and merry village chimes, but I did wonder if such evil-doers ever paid visits to my beat. The first indication that they did visit me came one lovely summer evening.

  I was patrolling in Eltering, performing one of my periodic night-shifts in the small market town and made my midnight point outside the post office. It was known to the telephone operators who occupied the first floor that policemen stood outside that kiosk at approximately midnight. Sometimes, if a friendly operator was on duty, we would be invited in for a cup of tea, always taking care to dodge the sergeant.

  On such an evening, therefore, I was studiously loitering beside the silent kiosk when the upper-floor window opened, and a man’s head appeared, framed in the light.

  “Officer,” he said, not recognising me as a local policeman. “There’s burglars, I think.”

  “Burglars!” Horror made little mice with chilly feet run up and down my spine. “Where?”

  “Either in the Youth Hostel or at the Youth Club,” he said. “I’m not sure which.”

  My mind rattled off the definition. A youth hostel could be a dwelling-house but a youth club? Could that be classified as a store? School? Warehouse? Or even a dwelling-house if someone lived on the premises?

  “Why can’t you be sure?” I asked from below.

  “They’ve a party line,” he said. “They’ve knocked the telephone off the hook and I can hear them — they’re talking, and I’ve heard money rattling.”

  “And you don’t know which place it is?”

  “No,” he said, and at that moment Sergeant Bairstow appeared adventitiously from the shadows.

  “Trouble, Nicholas?” he asked.

  “Burglars, Sergeant,” and I gave a brief account of my puzzling conversation with the telephone operator who still dangled from the upper window waiting for instant action from us.

  “We can’t ring them to find out, can we?” He rubbed his chin.

  “No, Sergeant,” I agreed with this diagnosis.

  “So it’s either the Youth Club or the Youth Hostel,” he said, still rubbing his chin. “And they’re still inside, eh? This will be great, Nicholas, if we catch ’em red-handed. Right, we’ll investigate,” and he turned his eyes heavenwards. The operator had, in the meantime, vanished inside, but returned to announce, “They’re still there, and they’re smashing something open. I can hear them.”

  “Thanks, we’re off to attend to it. Don’t alarm them.”

  Twenty yards farther along the road Sergeant Bairstow halted and it is prudent to recall that this was long before the days when policemen had radio sets and motorcars. Our assets were two feet each, and our problem was that the two buildings in question were at least a mile from each other.

  “We’ll check the Youth Club first, together. It’s the most likely to be done,” he advised.

  The decision made, we hurried along the narrow streets to the building which housed the Youth Club. It had once been a school and was perched on a patch of land adjoining the river which twisted through Eltering. It was a tall building of Victorian bricks and boasted a lot of attics, staircases, roof windows and hidden corners. It was surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall inside which was an area once used as a playground. Now it was marked with lines for a multitude of ball-games. The fourth side abutted the river from which entrance on foot was impossible.

  If the burglars were in here how had they entered?

  The door into the yard was locked, so I had to climb over the wall. As it was over ten feet high I had to get a “leg-up” from Sergeant Bairstow, but in no time I was perched on top and faced a long drop into the yard beneath. I lowered myself gently and dropped the final feet, striking the concrete well below street level. I was now alone in the enclosed area and moved gently across the yard, seeking indications of felonious persons. I tried the two doors which led into the buildings — there was not a sign of a break-in. The place was in darkness and was secure. I shone my torch on all the windows — all were locked and not one was broken.

  Somehow Charlie Bairstow had clambered to the top of the wall and sat astride it, shining his torch on to all the roof windows, the roof lights and other likely places of entry. Nothing. It seemed this place was secure.

  “I’ll check the river side,” I said. This meant inching my way along the side of the premises through a narrow alley full of old bottles, leaves and tins until I found myself peering over a high wall above the river. And there, moored to the wall, was a small rowing-boat. It was empty and parked on a patch of thick black mud.

  My heart began to thump. They were here, inside, right now. If we could surround the building we’d get them!

  I shone my torch along the wall and found a likely place of entry — a window set high in the riverside wall. I could just see it if I stood precariously on the wall, hanging on to a tree and leaning out across the exposed mud. But that window was not broken, nor was it open. I could even see the catch — it was locked. Maybe they’d got inside and closed the window to conceal their presence?

  I ran back to Sergeant Bairstow and whispered to him.

  “There’s a rowing-boat down there,” I said. “It’s tucked into the bank just below a window, but the window is locked.”

  “I’m coming down,” and he lowered himself gingerly into the yard. After I had showed him the stationary vessel, we both checked every inch of that building and found not a solitary indication of felonious entry. Wherever possible we shone our lights through ground-floor windows but never saw any indication of villainy.

  “That boat’s got nothing to do with it,” he announced. “I’m sure of that. It’ll be a club boat, a privately-owned one even. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Let’s get the key-holder out,” I suggested, wondering how we were going to climb out of the yard. The wall was far too high.

  “Ring the office from the kiosk up the street,” he said. “Tell them to get the key-holder out and come here as fast as possible. Meanwhile, we’ll check the Youth Hostel. I’m convinced the burglars aren’t here.”

  In spite of the boat I had to agree. We managed to climb out of the yard by teetering along the riverside wall and into the back garden of a neighbouring house. From there we tiptoed into the street via the garden path. Before leaving, we made a final check but came away satisfied that not a solitary window or door had been burgled. That Youth Club was as safe as Fort Knox.

  “It’s a queer job,” he said for no apparent reason as we turned for a final look at the deserted building. I felt it was offering us a challenge; was the felon inside, laughing at us? If he was, he must have gone through the roof.

  “Come along,” Charlie Bairstow said. “Youth Hostel next. I wonder if that telephone operator was imagining things?”

  In a very isolated position, the Youth Hostel was known to have cash on the premises, in addition to food and drink. It presented a very likely target, so we hurried about our business. It stood near the castle, about a mile out of town and this meant a long, panting hike through the streets. With Sergeant Bairstow puffing and panting, we both climbed through narrow alleys to the long, low-roofed building. It had once been a row of miners’ homes and had long since been converted into a youth hostel of considerable charm.

  It was in total darkness. Like the Youth Club it was difficult for two of us to surround it, so we each went a different way, each creeping around the peaceful spot. We examined doors, windows and other points of possible entry. I found nothing insecure and met Sergeant Bairstow heading toward
s me.

  “Nothing, Sergeant. It looks secure.”

  “So does my half,” he said. “Test mine, and I’ll do yours.”

  And so both of us concluded a complete tour of the Youth Hostel without finding any insecurities. There was no trace of felonious entry. Our next task, to be completely certain, was to rouse the warden.

  She was a fierce lady of indeterminate age and sex, but, considering we knocked her from her slumbers about one o’clock in the morning, she was surprisingly affable. When she had learned of our business we were invited inside; there we searched the office and examined the entire building, including the safe. And the telephone was still on its stand. This place hadn’t been burgled. So it must be the Youth Club.

  We declined her cup of tea saying our inquiry had taken a turn for the urgent and hurried back into town. My legs were aching after the variety of exercises they had recently endured, and Sergeant Bairstow was panting like “a broken winded gallower”, as we say in North Yorkshire. Before long, we were back at the dark and brooding Youth Club. The key-holder hadn’t arrived yet.

  “I’ll check again,” so I ventured down the neighbouring garden path and along the wall which bordered the river. And I noticed the boat had vanished!

  “Sarge!” I called, ignoring the need for caution. “Sarge, here!”

  He came panting to the wall top and I worried momentarily for his safety as I pointed to the vacant space.

  “That boat’s gone,” I said stupidly.

  “We’ve missed ’em,” he sounded very sad. “You know, Nicholas, I’ve never caught a breaker red-handed in my whole career. And I could have tonight, eh? And they were there all the bloody time . . . How did they get in? It must have been a duplicate key job.”

  As we discussed that and other possibilities I heard the sound of a large key in the lock of the gate which led into the yard, and I went with lighted torch to greet the key-holder. Sergeant Bairstow followed. A small meek man wearing a sweater and old slacks entered and blinked as our lights picked out his pale face.