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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “You’ve not been in?”

  “No, but the Reverend Newby has.”

  “Has he?” chorused the plotters. “When?”

  “Just now. He flew past me, I’m afraid, on his way home, and wouldn’t stop to talk. Perhaps he was very upset at his wife being reported . . .”

  “How did he come to check the mortuary, Sean?” Bairstow’s tone hardened.

  “When I was interviewing his wife he suddenly remembered that he had left it open for a body to be taken in, a sudden death of a tramp. He is a key-holder on behalf of the chapel, you see. He thought he would rush around just to check while he was on his feet. As I said, Sergeant, he’s been but did not stop to talk to me. One cannot always be popular, can one, if one does one’s duty? The poor man. Fancy having a wife who doesn’t care enough about her vehicle to see that the lights are correct and in working order.”

  “The mortuary is locked now,” said Sergeant Bairstow softly.

  “I’ll just check it to be sure, Sergeant. I believe in doing things myself, just to be on the safe side. Shall I see you again?”

  “Not tonight,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “Tomorrow perhaps, eh, Vesuvius?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” smiled Vesuvius, who didn’t really like ministers of religion either.

  Chapter Ten

  Oh woman! Lovely woman! Nature made thee to temper man.

  THOMAS OTWAY — Venice Preserved

  It was Ogden Nash in his declining years who said he preferred to forget both pairs of glasses and to pass his time saluting strange women and grandfather clocks. The performance of night-duty is somewhat similar because the creatures one sees in the fading light may be precious friends of the opposite sex for whom a whistle might be appropriate, or they might be ogres in the form of sergeants, inspectors or even superintendents from whom constables prefer to conceal themselves.

  During that overwhelming tiredness which descends at the dead of night other shapes can be seen, horrid, ghostly outlines which are the figments of sheer exhaustion coupled with an overworked imagination and bad eyesight. It is these misshapen things that, I am sure, gave rise to tales of medieval monsters, dragons, evil spirits and devils. In a normal state of health and vision these can be seen to be trees, rocky outcrops, lampposts, pillar-boxes and even reflections.

  Apart from seeing visions, there is little doubt that the night-hours have a randy effect upon the male person, and policemen are no exception. The ratio of ordinary males to police males is such that there are many more ordinary males who feel randy at night and who seek to satisfy their lusts in strange places. This is not to say policemen don’t satisfy their lusts — it is merely to point out that any night will witness fewer lusty policemen than lusty males of other kinds. The satisfaction of lust can become illegal, but more often than not it is merely embarrassing, sometimes to the participants and sometimes to the beholders.

  Patrolling constables often stumble across couples who are actively engaged in a demonstration of mutual affection. This is one of the unforeseen concessions of working night-duty, for if one cannot enjoy those pleasures oneself because of one’s devotion to duty, there seems no reason to deny the same pleasures to the people under one’s care.

  Love therefore continues unabated at night. It happens in bed, in doorways, in cars, in alleys and shop doorways, in cinemas, in seaside shelters, hotel bedrooms, Italian gardens, and even on the top of ornamental rockeries and beside fishponds.

  If it happens out of doors, it is fairly certain the policeman will find it and be suitably embarrassed. It is possible that if it happens in bed, the policeman will be involved. If that sentence can be interpreted in more ways than one, what it really means is that love in bed can cause what we term “a breach of the peace”, if the man and woman are not married to each other. These rows or disturbances are known as “domestics”; love really has little to do with such traumatic events, although sex has a lot to do with it, and it is not uncommon for a man to leap into bed with a woman who is not his wife, then for the husband to return and make a disturbing discovery. It happens all the time and trouble brews; the police are called, and another domestic problem is wrapped up with a summons and lots of local publicity.

  Ingenious and skilful lovers find places where they cannot be caught and where prying eyes cannot see them. In truth there is no such place, but lovers are blind to this simple fact. Off they go in their passion-wagon to carry out their nefarious activities in conditions of total secrecy, while in truth the whole world knows they are at it. Little men with binoculars and dirty raincoats know about them, children know about them, poachers and gamekeepers know about them, other lovers know about them, and you can bet your last penny that the local policeman knows about them. Unlike the rest, he keeps this information to himself because it might become useful ammunition at a later date. Exactly how useful will never be known in advance, but the natural caution of a constable tells him that secrecy is by far the best policy if he catches a local celebrity in furtive turmoil with “another woman”. Such information is carefully noted for future reference.

  Incidents of this kind so often involve people you would never believe would get into such interesting situations. Policemen learn never to be amazed at anything, but there are times when we are truly surprised.

  One of my surprises involved Miss Prudence Proctor. For some months I did not know she existed, but gradually the name cropped up on male lips from time to time, and I began to grow curious about the personality who bore that name. By dint of careful, if oblique questioning, I learned that she lived in Elsinby, occupying a small cottage which nestled behind some trees. It was therefore out of sight from the road through the village, and the approach was along a short, muddy lane. The lovely yellow stone cottage with its red pantile roof squatted among the trees and there was a patch of pleasing rose-garden and lawns before it.

  I learned, through more diligent inquiries, that the back of the house excited a good deal more interest than the front, particularly among the male population. This was due to its balcony. It seems that the balcony had been constructed by a previous owner and it led from the French windows of the main bedroom, now excitingly occupied by Miss Prudence Proctor. She lived alone, I discovered, and for many weeks I never set eyes on the lady.

  Eventually I noticed her walking proudly down the village street en route to the post office. At the time I did not know that this was the Prudence Proctor of whom I had heard so much because she was a very smart middle-aged woman walking erect and confidently towards me. She would be about forty years old, I estimated, with dark hair bound about her head and lashed into a tight bun. Her face was pink and pleasant, and she had a lovely smile. She nodded “good morning” to me as I patrolled along my way. She wore a sober grey two-piece costume, white blouse with a red bow at the throat and a pair of black court shoes. She carried a black handbag and did not wear a hat.

  From her appearance I judged she was either a top businessman’s secretary or a schoolteacher, or maybe someone in the professions like a doctor, dentist or barrister. I was to learn subsequently that she had no known occupation and appeared to live on private means, although she did occasional work with the BBC on audience surveys and similar statistical experiments. She was not married and, I understand, never had been. She lived alone in that delightful cottage and kept two ginger cats. She was quiet, law-abiding, attractive, and articulate — the sort of woman any man would be pleased to know, on both a professional and personal level.

  At our first meeting, she stopped me to ask advice. She had a nephew, she said, who was shortly leaving school and he had expressed an interest in the police service as a career. He wanted to join as a cadet and hoped to become a full-time member of the regular force.

  After outlining the necessary qualifications I offered to obtain some leaflets and brochures for the lady and asked her name. Then it was that I learned she was the famous Miss Prudence Proctor of Acorn Cottage, Elsinby.

  Her
physical appearance made me unsure whether I was talking to the person whose antics set the village men aflame with passion from time to time. But if local information and gossip was accurate, then this indeed was the lady. After noting her name and address and promising faithfully I would secure the necessary information, I bade her “good morning” and off she went, walking proudly about her business.

  I found it very, very difficult to accept that this was the woman whose name was always on the male lips of Elsinby.

  There must be some mistake; they must be wrong. This was a straight, serious even dowdy woman, and I began to wonder if the men were involving me in some weird and obtuse type of Yorkshire joke.

  A week later I received the necessary literature from our Recruiting Department and decided to call at Acorn Cottage to deliver it. I undertook this duty during an evening patrol and it would be around seven o’clock when I called. Prudence answered my knock dressed in a long, close-fitting woollen dress. Over a cup of tea she told me that she had knitted it herself. She provided me with biscuits, and I answered all her questions about a policeman’s life. In all, I spent about an hour in her company and found her very intelligent and interesting.

  I saw no more of her for several weeks. Because of what I had heard, I must confess I did not seek her out, nor did I venture to call upon her to find out how her nephew had progressed with his application. The next time she crossed my line of duty was one night in early August. The air was balmy and mild with the scent of honeysuckle and roses, and all about Elsinby the cornfields were a glow of yellow. The summer fruit was ripening — blackberries, apples, pears, plums and wild berries abounded, and the late summer was ideal. It was a lovely time to live in a rural community.

  I was on night-duty and had decided to drive the little Ford around my own patch to check some of the pubs. Day-trippers and visitors were in the district and some tended to abuse the hospitality of the landlords by staying late. This created antagonism among the local drinkers because it was their privilege to drink after hours, being friends of the licensees. Such privileges must not be abused.

  For this reason I liked to pop into my local pubs just before closing-time to eject everyone, and the appearance of the uniform was generally sufficient to do the trick. At 11.10, therefore, I popped into the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby, which was heaving with warm bodies and thick with heavy smoke.

  “Time, gentlemen, please,” called George when he espied me, and the usual deathly hush descended. Gradually everyone drank up and left, one by one, the visitors being the first to remove themselves, and the local folks hanging back as they always did. During the exodus, one of them sidled up to me and whispered, “Full moon tonight, Mr Rhea.”

  This was Isaac Samuels, a local poacher.

  “Is it?” I asked, wondering why this should be of interest to me.

  “Aye, midnight or thereabouts. Full moon.” He could see I was not comprehending the hidden significance of this occurrence. “You know!” he said, pointing vaguely to a locality behind the pub, somewhere out in the woods.

  I scratched my head. “Sorry, Zaccy,” I had to admit defeat. “I’m not with you.”

  “Full moon,” he repeated in a stage whisper. “You’ll be there, eh?”

  I must have looked decidedly stupid because he led me outside and said, “Acorn Cottage — we’re all going up there, now.”

  “Why?” I asked in total innocence.

  “Thoo knows,” he said, his old head nodding in its own secret language. “Full moon . . .” and he nudged my arm, grinning all the while through his assorted black teeth.

  “Can I come?” I had to ask, wondering if their full moon sojourn was legal.

  “Aye, course you can. We all are.”

  “Show me,” I was interested and still did not link this with Prudence.

  He led me stealthily out of the back door of the Hopbind Inn and along a stony lane with a row of cottages and a school at one side. We turned left at a junction in the lane and I found myself tramping across leaf mould and grass as he took me by the light of the moon through a woodland glade.

  The path was clearly defined by the passage of many feet and we climbed through picturesque wooded areas in almost total silence. As a poacher he could negotiate woodland more silently than a ghost, and I was equally accustomed to being silent, although I couldn’t compete with him in these surroundings. We made our way steeply into the wood until we veered left and returned towards the village, albeit at a higher level.

  Within five minutes we were in a wooded glade, deep among the trees, and I was surprised to find about twenty men there, all totally silent. Some turned and smiled as I made my way into the arena. I now realised we were directly behind the home of Miss Prudence Proctor. It was now that I saw the famous balcony, showing clearly in the night due to its coat of brilliant white paint. The cottage was in darkness.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Isaac.

  “Thoo’ll see,” was all he said, nudging me and laughing softly. “Thoo’ll see, Mr Rhea.”

  It was clear that no further enlightenment was to be given, so I waited for about twenty minutes, wondering if Sergeant Blaketon was looking for me. I daren’t leave now for I was sure all was going to be revealed. Several more gentlemen arrived to make a considerable audience in the wood, every one of them standing silently behind Acorn Cottage.

  Then things began to happen. The French windows of the bedroom were opened on to the balcony and I could just distinguish two long smooth arms pushing them open. The bedroom inside was in darkness, and then lights came on. These were not the normal household lights, but were in brilliant and exotic colours — red, green, purple and many others, all combining to give a low, vibrant hue to the room. Pulsating music then began to sound from that room; it was a tune I did not recognise, but it had a hint of gypsy magic as it came from the record-player, amplified so that we could hear it clearly. Finally, Prudence appeared.

  Silhouetted against the colourful background and sensuously bathed in alternating colours was a tall woman in swirling drapes of some lightweight fabric, silk, maybe, or satin or even something more flimsy. To the stirring intensity of that music she began to dance on the balcony. Her hair, long and dark, swirled as she moved, and her eyes flashed in the changing light.

  The long-playing record provided a selection of vibrant music which grew faster and faster and more furious as we watched. The lights changed all the time, sometimes very low and dim, exchanging suddenly to bright and piercing rays as they focused on the entrancing woman who danced before our eyes. Faster and faster went the music, faster and faster went Miss Prudence Proctor until the thin veils began to disappear. With the skill of a professional strip-tease artiste, she began to remove her veils, one by one, gracefully and sensually, all the time maintaining perfect time to the changing mood of the music.

  I looked at the men. They were transfixed. Their eyes were glued on the unbelievable scene before them, and I smiled. They’d have to pay pounds for this sort of entertainment in the city, yet here she was, free and totally uninhibited, providing an exotic evening for her audience in a Yorkshire wood. As the music intensified, so did she. As the first record finished, the second dropped into place to continue the rhythm as more veils were discarded. It was clear that every single one was going to be removed tonight.

  And they were. One by one she removed her seven gossamer veils in movements that spoke of total devotion to her art. She was aided by a lovely body against a backcloth of moving light and throbbing music. In that sylvan setting, her rustic audience made not a sound. There were no whistles, applause or shouts — nothing. It was as if they knew that any sound from them would stop the show, perhaps forever. It would be like waking up before the end of a wonderful dream.

  But the display did end. The final veil was discarded in a smooth and beautiful movement to reveal the mature splendour of this strange and compelling woman. At that point the music stopped, and the lights went out. She vanished
as suddenly as she had appeared.

  Silently the awestruck men returned home through the wood, not speaking and not making a sound. They would tell their wives they’d been talking late at the pub, and no one would be any wiser.

  “Does she know you lads watch her?” I asked Isaac when we neared the village.

  “Nay, lad,” he laughed. “She’s no idea.”

  Personally I doubted this, but did not press the matter.

  “How did you know she’d do that?” I asked him.

  “It’s full moon,” he answered. “She does it at every full moon.”

  He made that statement as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did.

  If frustrated ladies wish to prance around naked at full moon in the privacy of their own homes, it is barely a police problem. On the other hand, there are many ladies who are not frustrated and who relieve their pent-up emotions by love-making in all sorts of unlikely places. While this is likewise not a police problem per se, it is true that many a night-duty constable has helped cars out of rivers and bogs in which they have inexplicably found themselves while their occupants were busy with other things. Similarly, many a policeman has stumbled across couples busy in public places like carparks, pub forecourts, and even in the street. I was once told of a naked pair hard at it in the back seat of their Ford Consul in full view of the incoming customers at a local pub. They seemed totally unabashed by the interesting display they were providing, and, although none of the drinkers complained, the landlord did ring me about it. He didn’t want the reputation of his pub tarnished by powerful rumours of open-air orgies.

  I proceeded to the scene, as we say in official jargon, and sure enough the story was accurate. A naked man and woman were very actively making love in the car, apparently oblivious to the fact that their performance was in a very open and public carpark. Acting in the best interests of the general public, I tapped on the window. After the passage of a moment or two, it was wound down by a man looking very flushed about the face and perspiring somewhat from his recent exertions.