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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “And what’s up there?” I put the obvious question.

  “Paintings,” he said. “Lots of paintings.”

  “Valuable ones?”

  “They’ll be valuable, or he wouldn’t have ’em,” said Albert. “Then I saw him one day at a sale, buying up all the old oils and watercolours.”

  “Thanks, Mr Peacock,” I smiled.

  “No saying how you knew, eh?”

  “Not a word,” I promised.

  I went back immediately.

  He answered the door and was clearly surprised to see me so soon.

  “Hello, Mr Hatfield,” I beamed. “I just got down to the bottom of the village when I realised I hadn’t looked in your loft.”

  “Loft?” he blanched.

  “Yes, looking at your cottage from down the village, there’s clearly a loft. I wondered if you had anything up there that we might sell to raise the money.”

  I could see his mind working. For a person who collects or hoards, money is of less value than the goods in question, and I knew his brain was working rapidly.

  “You said you’d call back tomorrow?” he put to me.

  “I did.”

  “Will you do that then? It won’t be a wasted journey this time. How much is it?”

  I told him once again and emphasised that I must be given cash, for on occasions of this kind cheques were not acceptable.

  “I’ll have it ready,” he said frowning. “You won’t want to be in my loft, will you?”

  “Not if the money is available tomorrow at this time,” I told him.

  I called again as promised and it was there, in cash, down to the last penny. I endorsed the warrant in his presence. This effectively killed the document and I issued him with a receipt.

  The formalities over, I smiled.

  “I might see you next year, Mr Hatfield?”

  “I’ll have the cash ready,” he said, “but I might give them a run for their money, like this time.”

  “I don’t mind the trip,” I said.

  Afterwards, I wondered what kind of pictures he had collected and I speculated upon their value. But it seemed I would never know the answer.

  But I reckoned that Charlie Hatfield would pay his rates so long as I was the village bobby.

  “Did he pay?” smiled Sergeant Bairstow, but the smile vanished as I produced the cash and the endorsed warrant.

  “How did you manage that?” he asked.

  “By causing a little distress,” I said.

  Chapter Five

  What a pity it is that we have no amusements

  in England but vice and religion.

  REV. SIDNEY SMITH, 1771—1845

  When the Reformation swept the valleys and moors of the North Riding of Yorkshire, it missed one or two areas. These became known as hotbeds of Papists or Centres of Catholicism, depending upon which God you worshipped. The statutory new Anglican religion did its best to fill the pews wrested from the Catholics but in the passage of time this failed. Anglican churches are emptying as the Catholic are refilling. Wesley had to go too; he tried to reform the reformed and his efforts produced a crop of chapels right across the hills, many of them nestling in remote places to echo with the voices of song-happy dalesmen.

  Eventually they too began to lose their fervour. History repeated itself and the Catholics returned to build new churches. They built a monastery at Maddleskirk and monasticism returned to the dales. As time went by, the old religious wounds were healed and the various faiths mixed in business, in pleasure and in matrimony, but seldom in church. Inevitably, a little of the old misunderstanding and antagonism remained, so the Catholics went to Mass in their churches or abbeys, the Anglicans attended services in their ancient places and the Methodists went to chapel and sang with great gusto. The many other little faiths did their stuff too. Everyone seemed content.

  No one made any real attempt to understand the other’s point of view, all believing God was of their faith, but as the second half of the twentieth century entered the history-books there did appear a softening of attitudes. The new movement became known as ecumenism which really meant Catholics could attend services in Protestant churches, and Protestants could join Catholics in prayer. Real and sincere efforts were made by those in charge of the various religions and places of worship, and it was pleasing to see all faiths joined together in prayer on occasions like Armistice Day or the induction of vicars or welcoming of priests.

  While all this ecumenical chat was being encouraged by religious leaders, no one bothered to tell those of their faith who seldom attended church. Those in the happy circle knew all about ecumenism, but that great mass of the public who didn’t go to church were not informed about the new developments. Many stalwart members of every faith therefore steadfastly refused to bend their opinions, and this caused me something of a problem at a local funeral.

  My official role in the affair was that of traffic policeman. The deceased, a man called James Bathurst, was well known around Elsinby and Aidensfield, having served on the parish council, the county council, the Police Standing Joint Committee and the parochial church council. A widower of seven or eight years, Mr Bathurst had lived alone in a lovely house which had been his family home for generations.

  There had been Bathursts in Elsinby for hundreds of years, proof of which was very evident upon the gravestones and upon the various rolls of honour affixed to the sturdy walls of the parish church. The family was Anglican through and through; Bathursts had supported the church in all its troubles, donating pews, stained-glass windows, altar-cloths and many other things as and when necessary. Verily, they had been a marvellous family and generous benefactors.

  I did not get to know James Bathurst very well, for he died soon after my arrival at Aidensfield. I did know, however, that he had not been in very sound health for some months and that he had been more or less confined to his house. A lady from the village went in daily to feed him and clean the premises, and it seems he had had a very pleasant and fulfilled life.

  The one problem was that he never produced an heir, male or female. This meant he was the last of the Bathursts, for he was an only son. Finally, therefore, the Bathurst dynasty ended and I was privileged to direct traffic at the funeral of the very last member. I was present during a moment of local history.

  Money for the funeral came from the provisions of his last will and testament, and the house was to be sold by auction. I knew all this and I was told by his solicitor that the funeral would be a massive affair. It was he who requested my presence to ensure that the hearse got to the church, that the mourners found parking-places and that the passing traffic flowed freely on its way. I agreed, for this was part of my duty as the village constable.

  What I did not realise was that Mr James Bathurst had upset Elsinby and district in such a way that many of the residents felt deeply snubbed and very hurt. On his deathbed, he had decided to join the Roman Catholic church.

  Some local Anglicans, distant relations and other interested bodies were later to attempt to contest his will because he had decreed that he be buried within the grounds of the little R.C. church of St Francis of Assisi, and that the proceeds from the sale of his house and other belongings be given to various Catholic charities.

  In the days before the funeral, I learned of the various rippling undercurrents but felt such problems were not my concern. My sole duty was to attend the funeral and ensure the smooth flow of traffic and easy passage of people.

  In spite of parish mutterings, the funeral was fixed for 2 p.m. one Saturday in April at the Catholic Church of St Francis of Assisi at Elsinby. It is a pretty little church with a neat graveyard nearby and is almost opposite the Anglican parish church. I visited the locality before the funeral, making my decisions about who should park where, and what to do with the hearse. There was plenty of room; I could foresee no problems.

  In spite of the parochial upset, a large crowd comprising faithful of all denominations was anticipated, alo
ng with various dignitaries from the organisations he had supported. The Catholics, of course, were cock-a-hoop with pride that such a noted person had joined them albeit in the final moments of his long life. They totally rejected the suggestion that he had become a Catholic simply to prevent the death of an Anglican. And, being a Catholic myself, I was also pleased about it, and knew dear old James would find peace in the long silence that was to come. It was Abraham Cowley who said, “An eternal now does always last.”

  At 1.15 p.m., therefore, I positioned myself outside the church and was vaguely aware of the grave-digger, old Dusty Miller, wandering into the pub with a shovel over his shoulder. He had completed his part in the event. Minutes later, the mourners began to arrive, all wanting a front seat as Father Brendan O’Malley watched over them. Suddenly, I was busy. I parked cars, bade “good afternoon” to lots of solemn folk and ushered them all into the tiny church which soon boasted standing room only.

  The coffin and its contents were already inside, having been previously brought into the building. The hearse had long since gone, for the graveyard lay just behind the church. James would be speeded to his eternal rest with the full splendour of a Requiem Mass, intoned by a priest in black vestments. It was truly a moving occasion, and even some hardened atheists, Methodists and Anglicans were moved to tears by the Irish eloquence of Father O’Malley’s tribute to the deceased. In the Latin parts of the Mass, he spoke with rare feeling and, even though the Latin was incomprehensible to most of those present, it sounded fine and noble.

  Then came the interment. Six powerful lads of Elsinby, dressed in sombre black, prepared to carry the coffin to the grave. Seated at the back, I made my move — I hurried outside to ensure the little gate was open, and found the undertaker looking somewhat harassed.

  “Mr Rhea,” he breathed in sepulchral tones. “There’s no grave!”

  “No grave?” I cried.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve been right round the churchyard, looking for somewhere to put the flowers, but there’s no grave. They haven’t dug one . . .”

  “But I saw Dusty Miller with his spade . . .” I cried.

  “They’re coming . . .” and he galloped into the graveyard once more to make a final search. I didn’t know whether to tell Father O’Malley or not; after all, the undertaker might have been mistaken. So I decided to let the procession pass.

  With Father O’Malley leading the way and with six sturdy red-faced lads bearing the coffin the procession was moving towards me and my little gate. I stood aside to let them through. I tried to catch Father O’Malley’s eye, but his head was deep in prayer and he was intoning aloud from a Missal as he led the mourners through the tiny opening and along the side of the church. He was heading for the graveyard beyond. I joined the procession, being swept along by a tide of mourners and all the time stretching my neck for sight of the foraging undertaker. I saw him dodging about, ducking behind tombstones as the multi-person crocodile crept around this sacred ground.

  Luckily, he spotted me and ran towards me, tugging at my sleeve.

  “I’ve been right round the place, there’s no grave!” he hissed.

  “How long’s it take to dig one?” I asked him, thinking we might get Dusty to dig a large enough hole.

  “All day,” he said. My heart sank.

  “I’ll get Dusty,” I said. “He’s in the pub — maybe he’s got the day wrong, or the time.”

  “What’ll I do?”

  “Keep ’em going round the churchyard until I get back,” I said. “Father O’Malley’s got his head down, so if you go in front and lead him round in circles he’ll never notice. He’ll just follow your heels.”

  “Those lads will drop the bloody coffin!” he cried. “It’s heavy, you know, good solid oak. And Jim was a big bloke.”

  “They’re tough youngsters,” was all I could say as I hurried away.

  I dashed from the churchyard and held onto my helmet as I ran down to the pub. George was just locking up and seemed surprised at my perspiring and panting figure.

  “Thirsty, Mr Rhea?” he smiled. “I’ve just closed.”

  “Is Dusty here?” I panted.

  “Nay, he went over to the church,” he said. “Said summat about filling in Bathurst’s grave.”

  “There is no grave!” I called. “He’s forgotten to dig it.”

  “Forgotten?” cried George. “Not Dusty, he never forgets. It’ll be there . . .”

  So I left. I was running back when I recollected my earlier sighting of Dusty with his spade. If he had been going to the pub, which he was when I saw him, he hadn’t come from the Catholic Church of St Francis of Assisi. A horrible thought dawned on me. I halted my gallop, turned on my heels and ran into the grounds of the Anglican parish church of St Andrew.

  The place was full of tall tombstones and crosses, but in seconds I located him. He was standing against the wall at the far end of the churchyard. He saw me and waved his spade to draw my attention.

  “Over here, Mr Rhea,” he shouted.

  “Dusty!” I was breathless as I came to rest before him. “Is this for James Bathurst?”

  “Aye, it is,” he confirmed.

  “But it’s in the wrong churchyard!” I panted. “It should have been over there, at St Francis.”

  “Nay, lad, it shouldn’t,” he clenched his teeth, placed the spade against the wall and crossed his arms. “This is t’ right spot.”

  “No,” I said, gaining my breath. “He became a Catholic on his deathbed, and his funeral is over there. Father O’Malley’s looking for his grave right now.”

  “Then tell him it’s here,” said Dusty.

  “But it’s the wrong place, wrong religion . . .” I tried to explain.

  “Nay, Mr Rhea. This is Bathurst territory, this piece of land. All his ancestors are here, every single one of ’em. This is where yon Mr Bathurst gets buried, not over there among all them papists.”

  “But he became a Papist . . . er Catholic,” I tried. “It was his personal choice.”

  “On his deathbed, not in his right senses at the time. Nay, Mr Rhea, I can’t accept that. Here he’s buried or not at all,” and his jaw jutted in an act of personal defiance.

  I dithered for what seemed an eternity, then dashed back to the other church. The procession had done one complete circuit of the churchyard to the music of Father O’Malley’s intonations — up one side, across the bank and down the other with everyone seeking the elusive hole in the ground. They were now setting off upon their second exploration and the lads bearing the coffin looked all in. Sweat was pouring from them and they would soon have to have a rest . . .

  “Father.” I hurried to the front of the queue and spoke quietly to him.

  For a moment, he ignored me and I thought I’d get an Irish blasting, but he recognised the concern in my voice.

  “Yes, my son?”

  “The grave,” I whispered. “It’s over in the Anglican churchyard, with the Bathurst ancestors.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” he burst. “That bloody man Miller!”

  “The lads with the coffin are nearly all in,” I warned him. “What shall I do?”

  “Keep walking beside me, my son, while I ponder this one,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “Now, what would God do in a situation like this? God would never get Himself into a situation like this, would He now? There’s a hole in the ground over there and all holes in the ground are the same. Earth to earth, dust to dust. But it’s not Catholic consecrated ground. It’s Protestant land, fit only for sheep and hens. But he’s a man, and a man needs a decent burial . . . most of us like to be with our loved ones in our eternal rest . . . but the Anglicans will be claiming him as theirs . . . but we get the proceeds of the will, eh? We sell the house for Catholic charities . . . we can use money to put a plaque in our church, so we can, telling the world where he’s buried and how he was converted . . .”

  I listened to his one-sided conversation and turned to look at the poor
bearers. They were buckling at the knees, their eyes were bulging and their faces were red with the pain of their burden. Strong fit farm lads they were, but there is a limit . . .

  “Rest awhile on the stone bench beneath the Anglican lych-gate,” he said to them. “’Tis apparent he’s to be buried at the other side.”

  Most adroitly, he guided the long, straggly procession around the graveyard and out onto the road. The grateful bearers placed the coffin on the slab beneath the lych-gate and the entire procession halted. Father O’Malley addressed them.

  “It seems there’s been a bit of poaching,” he said. “Dusty’s dug the grave at the wrong side of the road, so he has. So we’ll bury him there, poor man. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

  And so, after a brief consultation with the vicar, James Bathurst was laid to rest among his ancestors and relations. I knew that Father O’Malley would erect a memorial plaque on the wall of St Francis of Assisi, so the truth would prevail. As we adjourned to the house for the traditional ham tea, Dusty lovingly filled in the grave and arranged the floral tributes about the new earth. He came into the house an hour later, ready for his refreshments and I saw one or two of the villagers congratulate him. I wondered if this had been Dusty’s own idea, or whether some of the stalwarts had put him up to it.

  But it didn’t matter. With the coming world of ecumenical understanding was one grave any worse than any other?

  The last word went to Father O’Malley. I was fortunate to be nearby as he cornered Dusty Miller over his cup of tea.

  “Dusty Miller,” he breathed at the little fellow. “This was all your doing, I’ll be bound.”

  “He’s resting in his rightful place,” stated Dusty.

  “Then you’ll rest in my churchyard, Dusty Miller,” said Father O’Malley. “If I can convert a Bathurst, I’ll make short work of you, my lad. Mark my words, and like it or not, you will be buried in the churchyard of St Francis of Assisi. I’ll get you, so help me!”