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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Mrs Tweddle took our plates and placed them on the Aga; then she lifted an equally large glass dish of rice pudding from the oven. It had a tough brown skin on top, and the contents beneath were creamy and thick. She spooned generous helpings on to our first course plates and I now knew why we’d cleaned them so thoroughly. I must admit I was surprised at this but I later learned it is a widely practised custom on moorland farms. And it saves washing up!

  After the final cup of tea with cakes and biscuits, Norman bade farewell and I was left with John. He produced a whisky bottle because it was our first meeting, and over a strong draught we completed his application form for renewal of his certificate. I collected the half-crown fee and left the farm, having made new friends.

  As things often tend to work out, I bumped into Norman many times during my farm visits. His little grey car would be negotiating tricky farm tracks and moorland roads as he went about collecting his premiums and offering advice to his many customers. I learned that his honesty was such that everyone left their doors open, from big farms and houses to tiny cottages and bungalows, and he knew where each person left his premiums. I never knew the name of his company because everyone called it Norman’s Insurance, and this is how I came to refer to it. The money left on tables or doorsteps was always for Norman’s Insurance.

  But his activities began to interest me. He appeared to be something of a general dealer because I often saw him carrying rolls of wire netting, hunting boots, old pictures or other objects to his car. On one occasion he carried a brace of pheasants, and on others I saw him variously with a three-legged stool, a brace and bit, a clip rug, two hunting prints, a car tyre, some brass lamp holders from an ocean-going liner, a garden bench, a scythe, a butcher’s bike, a side of ham and a Victorian fire screen.

  During the times we passed or met one another, he never enlightened me about his extra-insurance activities, and I did not ask. One does not pry too deeply because it indicates a betrayal of trust, but I did consider asking around to discover what he was up to. But, in the event, that course of action became unnecessary.

  By chance, I was called urgently to Norman’s village of Milthorpe because a visitor had reported his jacket and wallet stolen. It seems he had removed them while changing the wheel of his sports car, and when he’d finished the job, his sports jacket, and the wallet it contained, had vanished. I was on patrol at the time, astride my Francis Barnett, and the radio summoned me to the scene of this foul crime.

  It took me thirty-five minutes to arrive, and I found the irate motorist waiting near his Triumph Spitfire. I eased to a halt, parked the motor bike and removed my crash helmet. I left it on the pillion.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “Are you the gentleman who has lost a jacket?”

  “Not lost, constable. Stolen,” affirmed the man. He was tall and well-spoken with expensive clothes which spoke of a nice line in tailoring. His hair was plastered across his scalp with some kind of hair cream and he seemed totally lacking in humour. On reflection, it’s not funny having your belongings stolen while changing a car wheel.

  “Tell me about it,” I took out my pocket book. He told me he was Simon Christie from Southwark, having a touring holiday alone in the moors. His wallet contained some sixty pounds in notes, together with his driving licence and other personal papers. The jacket, he explained, was of Harris tweed, tailor-made in London and worth a lot of money. I didn’t doubt it.

  I asked how on earth he’d managed to get it stolen.

  “That is something you are here to establish,” he said haughtily. “Look, I got a puncture in my front offside tyre, and stopped right here to change wheels. I removed my jacket and placed it on the railings at the rear of the car. I worked on the wheel at the front, and when I’d finished, my jacket was gone.”

  “How long did it take to change the wheel?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes, maybe less,” he said.

  “And did anyone walk past while you were working?”

  He shook his head. “I’d swear that no one came past, constable. I’d swear it.”

  “Are you sure it’s gone? It’s not in your boot, is it?”

  He sighed the sigh of a man who’d hunted everywhere, but raised the boot lid. No jacket. I looked in the car, under the car, over the hedge and everywhere. It had vanished.

  “I’ll make enquiries in Milthorpe,” I promised. “Can I contact you locally if I find it?’

  “You sound hopeful, constable?” There was almost a smirk in his voice.

  “This is a very small community, Mr Christie,” I said in reply. “If anyone has stolen your jacket, someone here will have seen the culprit. These folks have eyes everywhere.”

  I made a deliberate attempt to sound confident, for I imagined his coat had been lifted from the verge by a passing tramp or hiker. If so, the locals would know where he was. I had complete faith in my ability to recover this property and emphasised that point.

  “I’m staying at the Crown Hotel in Ashfordly,” he said. “I’ll be there for a further four nights, constable.”

  “I’ll be in touch before you leave,” I assured him.

  Having obtained a detailed description of his jacket and of his wallet, I watched him leave with a roar of his throaty exhaust, and set about detecting Milthorpe’s crime of the century. When beginning enquiries in any village, it is prudent to begin at the post office. Village post offices are replete with gossip and information about local people and their affairs, so I strolled into the tiny, dark shop with its multitude of scents, dominated by soap and polish.

  At the sound of the door bell, a young woman appeared and smiled sweetly. She would be in her late twenties, I guessed, and had pleasing dark hair and a ready smile full of pure white teeth. She was very young to be a village post mistress, I thought.

  “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I announced, conscious that my helmet was on the pillion of my bike some distance away, and my motorcycle suit bore no insignia. I could be anybody.

  “I saw you arrive,” she said, as if to confirm my belief in the all-seeing eyes of village people. “You were talking to that man with the sports car.”

  “He’s had his jacket stolen,” I informed her. “It’s odd — it was taken during the few minutes he was changing his wheel.”

  “That’ll be Arthur,” she said immediately. “He’s always stealing — he once stole a pair of slippers I’d left outside, and he takes anything — trowels, flower pots. We daren’t leave anything lying about.”

  “Oh, I see,” I now had a name. Just like that. I hate to admit I didn’t know Arthur, but I had to ask where he lived.

  “Where’s he live?” I asked.

  She pointed out of the window. “Of course, you’re new,” she smiled again. “You won’t know him. He’s at Heather Cottage, next door to Mr Taylor, the insurance man.”

  Until now, I had forgotten that this village was the home of Norman the insurance man, and was pleased to be reminded of the fact. I followed the line of her pointing finger and saw a neat cottage built of mellow brick. It had bow windows at the front and a red pantile roof, typical of the area. Next door was a larger house standing in its own grounds, and she confirmed that the latter belonged to Norman.

  I left the little shop just in time to pause at the edge of the road for a tractor and trailer to pass. Behind I noticed Norman’s little grey car and waved an acknowledgement. He saw me, and the procession pulled up at his house. He got out and shouted,

  “Hello, Mr Rhea, good to see you.”

  “And you, Norman,” I walked across to him.

  “What’s this then?” he asked. “Business?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A theft.”

  “Here in Milthorpe?” he asked, eyebrows rising.

  “A motorist stopped to change a wheel,” I explained, “and took his jacket off to work upon it. Someone stole it as he worked.”

  “That’ll be Arthur, next door,” beamed Norman. “You’ll find the jacket there, I’m su
re.”

  “Yes, the girl at the post office said so.”

  “Come in for a cup of coffee when you’ve got the jacket back,” he invited. “I’m just taking delivery of some bantams.”

  I glanced at the tractor and trailer, and noticed a farm lad standing beside the trailer, awaiting Norman’s instructions. On the trailer stood a large wire-netting cage containing a dozen white bantams.

  Recalling his other acquisitions, I said, “You’re a bit of a dealer, are you?”

  “It’s more of a bartering system,” he told me. “These are insurance premiums. This lad’s father is hard up at the moment, so I’ve accepted these bantams as his monthly payment.”

  “It seems a good system!” I laughed.

  “I’ve got all sorts,” he said. “Look, you go and find Arthur, and then come in. By then, we’ll have this crate of bantams off and my good lady will brew us a cuppa. I’ll show you round my garden, and you can see some of my better insurance premiums!”

  I chuckled at the notion, and opened the gate of Heather House. At the sound of the sneck, an aged black and white cur dog ambled from the rear of the cottage and wagged his tail in greeting. I patted him and approached the front door, the dog following closely with his old grey muzzle nudging my legs and his tail lashing backwards and forwards in happy greeting.

  I knocked and waited. Soon, a grey-haired man with a big white moustache and rosy cheeks opened the door.

  “Yes?” he demanded.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I said. “I’m the new policeman at Aidensfield.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And Ah’m Dawson. Edgar Dawson.”

  So this wasn’t Arthur. I wondered if Arthur was the fellow’s son, perhaps someone who was a bit simple. The dog fussed about as we talked, and I patted his head, an action which caused the tail to wag even more furiously.

  “I’ve come about Arthur,” I said.

  “What’s he pinched now?” the man stood on the top step and glared at me.

  This was an easy interview. “A jacket and wallet,” I told him. “You might have seen the sports car down the village? The driver changed a wheel and had his jacket and wallet stolen as he worked.”

  “Ah’ll skin him, so Ah will!” snapped the man. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He never stops. Ah’ve thrashed him and belted him, but it’s no good, Mr Policeman . . . come with me.”

  Sighing the sigh of a weary man, he led me and the dog around to the rear of the cottage, and into a shed. The shed door stood wide open and he beckoned me to follow inside. And there, lying on the floor beside a grubby rug, was the sports jacket. He picked it up and handed it to me. I looked inside the pocket — the wallet was there and when I checked inside, the cash and the driving licence were present. Nothing had been touched, and the name inside the wallet confirmed it was Simon Christie’s property.

  “Thanks Mr Dawson, I’m delighted. Now, I’d like to talk to Arthur about it.”

  “It’s not damaged, is it?” he asked me.

  I examined the jacket, but other than some flecks of dust from the floor of the shed, it appeared undamaged.

  “No,” I assured him, “it’s not damaged. Now where’s Arthur — I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’ll not understand a word thoo says, Mr Policeman.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

  Suddenly, I began to feel uncomfortable. I could write off the whole affair but felt duty-bound to talk to Arthur and to ask him for an explanation. Larceny was larceny, even though the property had been recovered intact, and I was obliged to take legal proceedings. In those days, it was unlawful to conceal a felony, and larceny was classified as a felony.

  “Can you take me to him please?” I asked, speaking with authority.

  “He’s right beside thoo, lad,” beamed Mr Dawson, and I turned to see the happy dog thrashing his tail as I caught his eye.

  “You mean this is Arthur?”

  “Aye, Ah thought thoo knew that. He’s my dog, twelve years old he is, and a real rogue. Now if yon jacket’s damaged, go and see Mr Taylor next door, and he’ll settle up with t’loser.”

  “Mr Taylor?”

  “Aye, t’insurance man. Arthur’s allus been one for pinching things so I’ve got him insured. He once pinched a workman’s trowel and chewed t’handle to bits. He loves gardening tools. Spades, rakes, owt with a wooden handle. Clothes an’ all. He’ll get on his hind legs and pull clothes off t’washing lines, knickers, stockings, trousers, sheets . . . you name it, and Arthur’s pinched it. So Ah got him insured and if there’s any damage, Norman’s Insurance pays out.”

  “Is there anything else that’s stolen in here?” I asked, looking at the objects that filled the place.

  “No, Ah’ve looked. Ah checks it reg’lar at night before Ah turns in, and if there’s summat that’s not mine, Ah leave it at t’Post Office. Ruth puts it on t’counter and whoever’s lost it gets it back. It’s only strangers that doesn’t understand, Mr Policeman.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I laughed, and the dog’s nose nudged me. I turned to address Arthur, the thieving dog. “Arthur, you are not obliged to say anything, but what you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence!”

  The tail thumped my leg as Arthur acknowledged the official short caution, but he made no reply. I wondered what Sergeant Blaketon would make of this — I wondered about writing a full report and charging Arthur as a joke. I wondered if it would pass through our administrative system and get filed at Headquarters?

  Having recovered the jacket, I returned to my motorcycle and tucked the clothing into my pannier before visiting Norman. The tractor and empty trailer was just leaving, and Norman was at the gate.

  “You’ve seen Arthur?” he laughed.

  “Nobody said he was a dog!” I grumbled. “I could have made a right fool of myself.”

  “Sorry, we all know him. Every time something is stolen in Milthorpe, we know it’s Arthur. Did old Dawson tell you I’ve got his dog insured for causing damage?”

  “He did,” I let myself through his gate. “He sounds a real character, that dog.”

  “He is! He’s always chasing lady dogs too, so I had to insure him against getting bitches pregnant. He once put a pedigree bitch in the family way and there was hell on about it. So Mr Dawson has him comprehensively insured against causing damage and distress of all kinds. Only last year, I paid out twice for getting bitches into trouble — if that dog was human, he’d be doing umpteen prison stretches by now. As it is, we accept him for what he is, a likeable old rogue. His love life would cripple a lesser dog. He’s incredible!”

  Norman’s wife, Eva, was a charming woman who produced a hot cup of strong tea and a plate of scones, and soon we were all chattering like old friends. Norman told me of his bartering system, explaining how the hill farmers upon the moors had very little cash. All their work went into real estate and property, so when they died, their families inherited a great deal, while the unfortunate farmer had worked for a pittance all his life.

  Norman’s system involved many deals. He told me about one farmer who did all his gardening, one who did his painting and plumbing, another who repaired his car and others who regularly donated eggs, bacon, ham, milk and potatoes as methods of payment for their insurance premiums.

  After the cup of tea, he led me down the garden. The bantams were pecking happily at their new piece of earth, and a peacock stalked majestically up and down in a cage. “From the big house,” he said confidentially. “Times are hard all over.”

  Two goats and a Siamese cat were shown to me, and a new pedal cycle graced the garage. The real gems were in a long narrow shed at the far end of the garden. He opened the doors to reveal a veritable treasure trove of objects, most of which would be ideal curios for a rural museum. The walls were hung with old advertising signs in enamel, house signs and shop signs; every kind of gardening implement and carpentry tool was there, many of them obsolete, and along the base of one wall there were stone
troughs and foot scrapers set in stone. It was an Aladdin’s cave of rural objects, of obsolete items which would never again grace the homes of our people and which would, but for Norman’s care, have disappeared for ever.

  “All these have been collected in lieu of insurance premiums,” he told me. “I could sell some of the things, but if anything’s got historic or sentimental value of any kind, I like to keep it. I’ve a three-seater tandem in that shed at the bottom of the garden, and a 1927 motorcycle in full working order. I can’t sell stuff like that, can I? But I do sell a lot — I’ve got to, to keep my books right!”

  I spent a fascinating hour with him, and wondered how many rural insurance agents traded in this way.

  But it was time to leave.

  I thanked Norman for his interesting tour and assured him we’d meet again. I invited him and Eva to pop into my hilltop house any time, and off I went.

  While driving through Brantsford on the way home, I noticed Mr Christie’s sports car parked outside a small café and decided I should reveal to him the results of my enquiries. I pulled up and parked the motorcycle on its stand before entering the café. I left the jacket in my pannier for the moment, just in case he was not in here.

  But he was drinking a cup of tea and as he recognised me, his eyebrows rose sharply.

  “Ah, constable! And have you detected the crime of the century?”

  I smiled diffidently at him.

  “Yes,” I said. “I saw your car and thought I’d mention it. I have your jacket and your wallet — and the cash. It’s all there.”

  He drained the tea and said, “No, really?”

  “I’ll fetch it in for you.”

  “No, I’m leaving. I’ve paid, by the way,” and he followed me outside where I unstrapped my pannier and lifted out his precious belongings. He readily identified them as his property and checked the contents of his wallet at my request. Nothing was missing, and I then asked him to check everything for damage. There was none.