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

by Nicholas Rhea

  It was very clear that I was in his good books, and for this I was grateful. To be on the right side of Oscar Blaketon was considered an honour, however short-lived it might be, and for a few minutes I basked in this unaccustomed glory. In his benevolence, Blaketon rambled on about the value of making arrests, of the effect they had on local villains who quaked in their shoes in anticipation of police swoops, and the need to show the public that we were, after all, a law-enforcement agency and not a charitable institution.

  At one minute to midday precisely, we arrived at the entrance to the Recluse’s farm. I opened the gate as Sergeant Blaketon sat stolidly in the passenger seat, then I drove through, closed the gate and climbed in beside him for the final trip. I could sense that Charlie was watching our approach, and at least he could not complain about the timing. We were accurate to the second so I had no reason to fear his shotgun.

  I did realise the car was unmarked as indeed all police cars were in this region. All were a highly polished black colour with uniformed men inside, and it was this distinctive hue which identified them to the local folk. I trusted Charlie was sufficiently au fait with our systems to recognise our car. Happily, he did.

  As we pulled up, I saw that the front door was standing wide open and two very sorry individuals in rough clothes waited just inside, with their hands on their heads. They looked awful; they looked tired, hungry and dirty as they waited in the large entrance hall of Charlie’s farm. They also looked terrified because the wild and bewhiskered Charlie was standing right behind them with his shotgun at the ready.

  Even as we stopped and emerged from the little car, the two men were thrust forward with the barrels of that dangerous weapon, and Blaketon said, “Cuffs, Rhea. Handcuffs, quickly man!”

  I dragged my handcuffs from my pocket — we always carried handcuffs in our left trouser pocket and the truncheon in our right — and I waited as the bearded recluse ushered them completely from his home. Sergeant Blaketon held open the driver’s door and pushed the seat forward, to give them entry to the rear of the Ford. Our cars were two-door saloons for this very purpose — it was a sound idea by our Purchasing Department to buy such cars, except that it was with great difficulty that we could encourage drunks and quarrelsome folks to clamber into the confined space.

  However, these two characters were in no mood for arguing. Meekly, they shuffled out of the house, prodded forward by the twin barrels of Charlie’s gun. With his nose twitching in disgust at the smell that accompanied them, Sergeant Blaketon stood back as they climbed with evident relief into our rear seat.

  They sat down and Charlie slammed the door of his house.

  “Mr Chapman?” Sergeant Blaketon called through the closed door. “I need to talk to you.”

  No reply. Blaketon shouted several more times, but the Recluse had returned to his lair. I knew why the sergeant wished to talk to him — we needed a statement from him, a written account of the events which preceded this arrest. Without it, there was no evidence to put before a court and we might not be able to substantiate a charge of burglary, which was then a very serious crime.

  “Clear off!” came the voice after Sergeant Blaketon’s repeated knocking had made his knuckles sore. “Clear off, and take those ratbags with you.”

  Sergeant Blaketon, straight as a ramrod and immaculate in his appearance, had no alternative. He turned away from the door, whirling around like a sergeant-major on parade, and made for the waiting car. I got in to the driving seat as he headed for the passenger side. The stench from our prisoners was appalling, more so in the confined space of the little vehicle.

  “My God!” cried Blaketon, winding down his window. “What’s happened to you two?”

  The one with short, grizzly hair answered. “He wouldn’t let us go to the toilet, sergeant. He kept us in that bloody room without any food, heat or toilet . . . the man’s a bloody nut-case . . .”

  “You’re nut-cases to think of burgling the old fool’s house,” snapped Blaketon, holding a handkerchief to his nose. “Anyway, you’re both under arrest for burglary.”

  “We can’t deny this one,” the other said. “I’m only relieved to be out of that spot, I can tell you.”

  With the stinking burglars continuing to fill the car with pungent fumes, we drove through the pure countryside air with our windows wide open. To cut a long story short, they were placed in our cells and we found clean sets of clothing for them. They readily admitted housebreaking, a lesser crime than burglary, and made voluntary statements to that effect. They told how Charlie had caught them and detained them, but we got no supporting statement from him. The Detective Inspector felt the courts would accept the men’s own voluntary admissions as valid evidence.

  These young burglars from Middlesbrough were each given a three-month Borstal sentence due to their age and previous record, and it was a good crime to be written off against our sectional record. For several weeks Sergeant Blaketon re-lived the moment of that arrest, telling all his pals and superiors about it, and there is no doubt it was the highlight of his month.

  Then there came a note from Force Headquarters. It was to remind us that the firearm certificate held by Mr Charles Alexander Chapman of Rannockdale was due for renewal. It asked that an officer visit Mr Chapman to inspect the .22 firearm in question, that he supervise the completion of the relevant forms and obtain the requisite fee.

  “Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, “I think the time has come for us to visit this man. I know his past record, and of his obsession with keeping people out of his premises, but this is a matter of law and we are officers of the law. I intend to visit Mr Chapman to discuss the renewal of his firearm certificate. I am sure he will look favourably upon us due to our recent part in the arrest of his burglars.”

  With no more ado, Sergeant Blaketon instructed me to accompany him and we set off to enforce the law upon the impudent recluse. Sergeant Blaketon was at his bristling best, eager for the opportunity to come to terms with the eccentric man and he had the necessary forms in his briefcase. With the confidence of his kind, we could not fail. I enjoyed the trip across the forbidding moors, through avenues of pines and silver birches and across rippling streams. I had time to admire the outstanding views as we cruised into the remote valley which was the old man’s home.

  We pulled up at the farm gate and parked the car on the spot I’d found the Income Tax man’s Ford Prefect all those weeks ago.

  “You remain here, Rhea,” instructed Sergeant Blaketon. “This is a task for a mature officer. It needs the skill of someone with deep experience and an understanding of the human mind. If two officers walk to that door, it will unnerve the fellow, so I will approach alone. I will take the renewal forms with me, and I will politely ask him to complete them as prescribed by the Firearms Act, 1937. Observe my approach, Rhea, and learn by my manner.”

  “Certainly, Sergeant,” and I watched with bated breath as he tried to open the gate, but it had been tied with rope after our recent visit. He had to climb over, not the most impressive of actions by a man of his calibre, but soon he was striding manfully and majestically along the track to the distant front door. I watched with fascination and anticipation. Men like Sergeant Blaketon, with a wealth of experience beneath their belts, could certainly teach youngsters like me how to deal with the great British public. I had a lot to learn.

  I observed him striding confidently towards the house, but as he approached, I noticed the familiar grey hair and beard emerge from an upstairs window. I did not shout a warning — I couldn’t, for I was in the car some distance away, but Charlie must have said something to the striding sergeant because he halted in his tracks and looked up at the bedroom window.

  I saw the barrel of the shotgun appear across the window sill, and it was quite evident that Charlie was issuing threatening words towards my sergeant. It was equally clear that my sergeant thought he was joking.

  As a multitude of past visitors had come to appreciate, the Recluse of Rannock
dale never joked with people who trespassed on his land, even if they were clad in the resplendent uniform of a British police sergeant. Having given Sergeant Blaketon his marching orders, and having had those orders repudiated by a stubborn, rule-bound sergeant, Charlie resorted to the only means at his disposal. He pulled the trigger.

  A barrage of lead shot spattered the ground alarmingly close to Sergeant Blaketon’s feet and it caused lots of little eruptions of earth. It was rapidly followed by a second barrel, at which more earth erupted about Sergeant Blaketon. Charlie shouted something at him and I saw Sergeant Blaketon change his mind about staying to talk. I saw him do something I’ve never seen him do before or since. He started to run.

  To see a figure of the majesty of Oscar Blaketon in full flight with repeated barrages of lead pellets spurring him on his way, is indeed a rare sight. It was more so because he was holding his cap on with one hand and clutching the firearms certificate renewal forms in the other. He reached the car by leaping across the gate with a single bound, and he collapsed at my side as I moved into the driving seat. He was panting like a broken-winded horse, and perspiration was swilling down his cheeks and neck. I’ve never seen him in such a state of panic, and his breathing was tortuous as he signalled me to drive rapidly away. I drove off and saw the grey-haired old buzzard waving his gun in triumph.

  “The man’s an idiot,” Sergeant Blaketon gasped when he regained some of his breath. “An absolute idiot. I’ll get him certified, Rhea, so I will.”

  He lapsed into a long silence as I drove steadily back to Ashfordly where I knew his wife would have his lunch ready. He didn’t speak any more until I pulled into the police station car park.

  “Rhea, if you mention this to anybody, I’ll have you transferred to Gunnerside.”

  And with that parting remark, he walked away, not quite so erect and certainly more dishevelled than he had been at the start of this enterprise. I wondered what I had learned from his demonstration of human understanding, but I never told a soul about it.

  Chapter Six

  It is a silly game where nobody wins.

  THOMAS FULLER, 1608—1661

  It would be remiss of me to suggest that a rural policeman’s job is all work and no play. Certainly, in my time as a village constable the position demanded a twenty-four-hour responsibility even though our duty sheets showed that we worked eight-hour shifts. In truth, an eight-hour day was a rarity because people called or rang with problems, and it was understood that we attended to all matters that came our way, even though we were officially off duty or on leave.

  Only for special tasks were we instructed to work more than eight hours. The public didn’t know this — they simply arrived at the door to complain of being raped or robbed and we had to attend. To win time off in lieu, however, was most difficult. Supervisory checks were made of our daily tally of hours worked and woe betide us if we were shown to have worked less than an eight-hour day. The bits we worked over the eight were lost to us; we donated them to the uncaring public.

  Even so, we were allocated days off duty. On the duty sheets, they were shown as R.D. which means Rest Day, and they moved forward two at a time, being Monday/Tuesday one week, Wednesday/Thursday the next, Friday/Saturday after that, with Sunday/Monday to follow, ad infinitum. As this ritual progressed, it became a great achievement to secure a Saturday/Sunday weekend off duty. On this kind of rota system, Saturday/Sunday weekends came around very infrequently, and were consequently cherished as a gift from the gods, or perhaps from Sergeant Blaketon. In practice, however, something always happened to cause our Saturday/Sunday weekends to be altered. Some incident would occur through which it became necessary to work on those sacred days, and this served only to galvanise us into positive action designed to secure that cherished time off.

  Sergeant Blaketon was noted for his ability to find excuses to cancel our weekends off. He had a thing about policemen working when no one else did, such as Sunday evenings, Monday mornings very early, Good Fridays and a host of other occasions which he dredged from his years of compiling police duty sheets. He appeared to think it was good for us. After a while, we learned to tolerate his quirks and we came around to the notion of never expecting a proper weekend off. When one did arrive, it was a bonus rather than a right, and we all know how pleasant it is to receive the occasional bonus.

  Through working almost every Saturday/Sunday, however, the discerning constable begins to yearn for a weekend off and contemplates the best ways of getting his weekends free. One of those ways was, and still is, to participate in police sport. Basing my logic on the understanding that if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I renewed my acquaintanceship with the sporting section of my local constabulary.

  Being a Yorkshireman, this meant playing cricket. All Yorkshiremen are supposed to play cricket and any who fail to reach a passable stage in this most remarkable of rural games are not considered genuine Yorkshiremen. I had reasoned that if I wanted a Saturday off duty now and again, to be with my growing family, the easiest guarantee was to join the Divisional Cricket Team. If I did this, I would be sent to play at selected rural pitches within our Division, and I could take along my wife and four tiny supporters. We’d all get an airing.

  With this devious plan at the back of my mind, I singled out the cricket captain of our Division. I had to wait several weeks in the spring, but one fine April evening, I came across him in Eltering Police Station. I had popped in to record someone’s production of an insurance certificate and driving licence. Sergeant Alex Benwell was there, checking some Court Sheets. He was my passport to free weekends.

  “Evening, Sergeant,” I removed my cap and hung it on a peg near the back entrance, trusting my greeting was affable and warm.

  “Now, lad,” he grunted while fingering down a long list of defendants due to appear at next week’s Eltering Magistrates’ Court.

  I felt it unwise to disturb him for he was clearly engaged upon a matter of grave importance, but he broke the ice by saying, “Put the kettle on, will you?”

  “Yes, sergeant,” I acquiesced for the sake of free Saturdays. In no time, the leaky station kettle was singing and I had found some stained mugs and a tin containing tea leaves. I produced a useful brew in an earthenware teapot with a cracked spout, and waited for him to leave his Court Sheets. Soon he came into the tiny rest room, smiled and sat on a rickety chair.

  “Now, lad,” he said for the second time. “Good brew, is it?”

  “Like my mother makes,” I said, realising he had no idea what sort of tea my mother makes. I poured a generous mugful which he inspected carefully before sipping noisily.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Aye, not bad at all. Your mother sounds as though she knows summat about making tea.”

  “She likes a strong pot,” I agreed. “The sort that a spoon can stand up in.”

  He laughed loudly, “Aye, we used to call it tonsil varnish when I was in the Army. It was powerful stuff.”

  He sipped again, and then eyed me carefully. “Rhea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sergeant. I’m at Aidensfield, the new man there.”

  “You sound like a Yorkshireman?” he said, his heavy face studying me.

  “I am,” I confirmed with deep pride. “Born and bred in Eskdale, I’m as Yorkshire as anyone can be.”

  “Then you’ll play cricket,” he said by way of a statement rather than a question.

  He’d introduced the subject! Him, not me. I recognised my golden opportunity to get into the team.

  “Yes,” I said confidently. “I was captain of our village lads’ team, and used to play in the second team as an adult.”

  I daren’t admit I’d never scored more than fifteen, and wasn’t a very good fielder or bowler . . .

  “If you’re a Yorkshireman,” he was saying, “you’ll do for us. Next Saturday? What are you doing next Saturday?”

  “Has the season started?” I asked.

  “Week after,” he slurped his tea and smac
ked his lips. “By, you make a sound brew, young man. Next week, we’re practising. Down at Eltering nets here, on the town playing fields. Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’m on late turn,” I told him. “That rules me out.”

  “Who allocated that shift to a cricketer?” he bellowed. “No cricketer gets a late turn on a Saturday. I’ll have words with old Blaketon. From now on, you don’t work late on Saturdays. So be at the nets at two o’clock.”

  “Yes, sergeant, but suppose Sergeant Blaketon won’t change my duties?”

  “He will,” was all he said, draining the dregs with his customary noise. “Thanks for the tea, lad. What’s your first name?”

  “Nick,” I said.

  “Nick,” he repeated, getting up from his chair. He was a massive man with a huge girth and legs like tree trunks. He almost waddled from the tea room, but his jovial face revealed a soft, gentle nature beneath his hard exterior. He seldom visited our stations, for he was the town sergeant over at Staddleton, a market town just inside our Divisional boundaries. Only infrequently did he venture into our Section, and I’d been fortunate enough to meet him.

  I found myself wondering how he could run and field, for men of this size were notably ungainly, and he seemed to move with ponderous lethargy across the office. But he was a contact worth cultivating and I chattered away to him, discussing the job and his views on how rural bobbies should operate. He talked a lot of sense and I liked him from the start.

  Later that evening, I met Sergeant Blaketon at a point in Thackerston, and told him all was quiet. I must be brave and broach the subject of cricket . . .

  “Oh,” I said, hoping my expression would excuse the nature of my forthcoming request. “Oh, Sergeant, I met Sergeant Benwell at Eltering earlier this evening.”

  He eyed me with considerable suspicion.