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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Yes, he went there a long time ago — I hope you find him — if you do, officer, can you say tea will be ready at five o’clock?”

  “Yes, of course,” and I left her to her cleaning.

  I walked along the main street, bidding “Good afternoon” to several residents and finally reached Stone House, Miss Crowther’s home. It was a large, Victorian building of sombre grey stone and boasted a rather genteel but unkempt appearance. I had to lift the garden gate to open it, for it needed new hinges, and made my way to the front door. I rang the bell and it sounded somewhere inside, upon which I eventually heard inner doors opening and closing as someone came towards me. Then the front door opened.

  A short, dumpy and smiling woman answered; she was clad in a long purple dress with a knitted shawl over the shoulders and smiled a warm welcome.

  “Ah,” she said, “You must be Police Constable Rhea?”

  “Yes,” I acknowledged.

  “It’s so kind of you to call,” she oozed, “I’m delighted you have found the time. I do like the policemen to call on me, to make themselves known so that when I’m in trouble, I know who they are. That makes it so much easier to approach you, and it gives us all that much more confidence . . .”

  As she ushered me inside her rambling home, she babbled on and guided me into a large lounge expensively furnished with Indian carpets and complementary furnishings. She motioned me to sit down and I obeyed.

  “Now,” she said. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Well, actually,” I began, “I didn’t come to stay . . .”

  “Nonsense, you can’t call without some hospitality in return,” she breathed. “I do like to give my policemen a drink or two. Biscuits?”

  And before I could answer, she whisked away towards her pantry somewhere along the corridor and returned with a plate full of chocolate biscuits. She placed these on a low table, which she eased towards me and said, “Tea won’t be a jiffy.”

  At that, she settled on the chair opposite and began to ask about my family. I happily obliged, occasionally trying to explain the real purpose of my visit, but it was quite plain she’d interpreted this as a purely social call, a “get-to-know-you” exercise. So I played along with this, knowing it would please her. She told me of her father, a senior army officer in India years ago, and of her brothers who were very clever and doing well in London, one a barrister and the other in exports of some kind. She spent well over forty minutes telling me all about herself and asking all about me. She was a charming lady, most articulate and well read, and I knew I was going to have difficulty getting away. Furthermore, I had to find out where Mr MacDonald had gone — perhaps he was still in the house?

  I managed to include his name in the conversation as I found myself telling her the names of those people with whom I’d made contact in the short time I’d been here. When I mentioned Alex MacDonald, she said,

  “Oh, nice man. Very nice man. I had him in here before you came. He came to fix my television set, it was doing funny things. He’s good at fixing things, is Mr MacDonald, very good.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” I said, thinking of the broken clock key in my pocket.

  “He said he was going down to old Mr Nash’s house,” she said.

  “I’ll see him later,” I said. “It wasn’t important.”

  “Well, I mustn’t keep you,” she beamed. “It was so kind of you to call. Do call again, anytime you like, and we’ll have tea.”

  And so I walked into the fresh air, rather baffled by her warm reception, but determined to call again and hear more of her fascinating life.

  I knew Mr Nash. He was an old gentleman who had retired from a life in the city, something to do with accountancy, and I often chattered to him in the street, or in the shop. I knew he would welcome me, and that he was a kindred spirit of Alex MacDonald. I found his neat semi tucked well into the corner of a new estate, and walked up the path. He was gardening and observed my approach.

  He raised a soil-stained hand in greeting as I strode along his path.

  “Hello, Mr Nash. Still tidying up then?”

  “There’s always work in a garden,” he said, leaning on his rake. “But it keeps me busy. My wife has gone into York, looking for a new dress, so I pretended I had this patch to get raked over urgently . . .” and he grinned wickedly at his private conspiracy.

  “I’m looking for Alex MacDonald,” I said. “I heard he was here.”

  “Yes, he was. I got him to fix the overflow in my roof. The confounded thing keeps overflowing every time we have a bath, and as he’s such a good plumber, I thought he’d fix it. He hasn’t been gone long.”

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “Up to Joe Steel’s.”

  That meant the village shop.

  By this stage, I was most interested in Awd Alex, as Stumpy had called him. I’d been sent to him because he was a useful welder, but already this afternoon he’d fixed Miss Crowther’s television set and Mr Nash’s plumbing. Why had he gone to the shop — it was closed on Saturday afternoons?

  “How long since?” I asked him.

  “Not long — maybe an hour, no more.”

  I was determined to track down the elusive Alex MacDonald, and after passing the time of day with Mr Nash and admiring his garden, I walked back up the village to the shop. Although it was shut, I knew Joe Steel would respond to my knocking. He did, and seemed pleased to see me.

  “Hello, Mr Rhea. Trouble?”

  “No trouble,” I smiled. “Sorry to bother you, Joe, but I’m looking for Alex MacDonald.”

  “Oh, he’s gone,” he told me. “I had him here not long ago — an hour ago, not much more. He does a spot of wine-tasting for me, you know. I get wine in for my customers and he tastes samples for me — he knows a bit about his wines, he’s very good with German whites . . .”

  “Where did he go from here?” I heard myself ask patiently.

  “Mrs Widdowson,” he said. “She’s having trouble with her lights. They keep going out — there’s a bad connection, I think, or a short somewhere. Bulbs keep blowing or the lights keep flickering. He’s gone round there to fix them for her.”

  “Thanks — I’ll see if he’s there.”

  “He left about forty minutes ago,” he said.

  I knew I was getting warmer. The time-lapse was growing less and less as I pursued the elusive Alex around the village. Joe told me how to find Mrs Widdowson and I located her in a lovely bungalow just off the main street. She was washing her windows from a short step-ladder and would be a lady in her early fifties. She wore a flowered head-square and flat shoes.

  “Hello,” I shouted across to her. “Mrs Widdowson?”

  “Yes,” she returned my smile with that inevitable look of apprehension.

  “I’m looking for Mr MacDonald,” I announced. “I was told he was here.”

  “Yes, he was, Mr Rhea,” she knew my name. “He came to fix my lights — it was a bad connection, he said. He fixed it for me. He left, though, about half an hour ago. He doesn’t take long, fixing things.”

  “He doesn’t!” I said. “Thanks — sorry to have troubled you.”

  “He said he was going over to Partridge Hall,” she offered. “You know, that farm down the Elsinby Road.”

  “I know,” I called, deciding to complete this tour. I had to visit the Dinsdale family at Partridge Hall sometime in the near future, to interview Terry, their seventeen-year-old son. He’d been involved in a motorcycle accident near Manchester last week, so I could conclude these two missions together. The walk to Partridge Hall took about twenty minutes. I walked towards the spacious entrance of this lovely old building which was really a large farmhouse set among sycamores. It stood on an elevated site with ranging views across the open countryside and was clearly the home of an industrious and wealthy family.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. Soon, a young woman with neat blonde hair tied with a ribbon appeared from a corridor and smiled at me.

&nb
sp; “Hello,” I said. “I’m P.C. Rhea. Is Terry Dinsdale in please?”

  “Terry?” she frowned. “Is he in trouble?”

  “No,” I assured her. “It’s about his accident last week, the one near Manchester. I’ve got to take a statement from him — it’s for the local police. I think he was more of a witness than a casualty?”

  “Yes, he was overtaken by a motor cyclist who crashed into a van. Terry fell off his motor bike because of it, but wasn’t hurt. I think he’s out. Just a moment, I’ll fetch mum.”

  She disappeared the way she had come and soon a mature woman with identical blonde hair and lovely smile materialised from the house. She was dressed in painting clothes — an old apron, old dress and a clear plastic hat on her head. She carried a paint brush, the handle wrapped in a rag.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want to interrupt important work!”

  “It’s all right, I’m decorating our lounge,” she said. “Susan said it’s Terry you want?”

  I explained the reason and she smiled. “Yes, he told us, but he’s out, Mr Rhea. He went off to York with some pals. I expect him back about half-past six.”

  “I’ll call again.”

  “Shall I send him up to your house?” she offered.

  “If he rings first to tell me when he’s coming, that would be fine,” I consented.

  “He won’t be prosecuted, will he?” she asked, with all the worried expressions a mother can produce.

  “Not from what I saw of the report from Manchester,” I confirmed. “I’ve been asked to take a witness statement from him, nothing more, although I will have to record details of his driving licence and insurance. That’s routine.”

  “All right, Mr Rhea, I’ll get him to ring you when he comes in.”

  “Thanks — now, a small thing while I’m here. I’m looking for Mr MacDonald and understand he’s here.”

  “Yes,” she smiled, and I felt a great sense of relief. “Did you want to speak to him?”

  “Very briefly,” and I pulled my key from my pocket. “I want him to fix this, and have been chasing him all afternoon.”

  “Come through,” she invited, and I followed her along the elegant corridors of this beautiful old house and into a room which reeked of fresh paint. The floor and furniture were covered with white sheets and there, perched high on a step-ladder, was a silver-haired gentleman with a deeply tanned face. He was the picture of health and he turned to look down as I entered the room. He was clad in a white smock and put something down on the tray at the top of his ladder. Above was a highly ornate ceiling, rich in plaster work and decorated across its entirety. He was doing something to the plaster work.

  “Mr MacDonald,” the lady announced. “This is P.C. Rhea, he wants a quick word with you.”

  “Guilty as charged!” he raised his hands in the air and laughed, then descended the tall step-ladder. “Hello, I’m Alex MacDonald.” His voice had a pleasing lowland lilt.

  I showed him the key and he smiled. “No problem,” he said. “Is it from a gramophone or a clock?”

  “A grandfather clock,” I said.

  “I’ll fix it next week. Will you be at home on Wednesday morning?”

  I made a rapid mental calculation, and said, “Yes, I’ll be in my office until ten o’clock, at the Hill Top. But I can call in at your place.” He took my key and popped it into his pocket.

  “I take a lot of catching,” he smiled. “Wednesday is my day at Ashfordly — I go to the bread shop, you know and bake their fruit cakes for them. I can drop your key in as I pass the house.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Really fine . . .”

  My business over, I left the room and Mrs Dinsdale escorted me to the front door. “He’s remarkable,” she was saying. “He’s putting gold leaf on to my ceiling, making a marvellous job too. We only decorate that ceiling once every fifteen years or so, and it’s a job finding someone who can do that gold leaf work. I was lucky getting Mr MacDonald.”

  “Yes, you were,” I agreed. I reached the door, and as I was about to leave, I heard footsteps behind me. Alex MacDonald was hurrying after me.

  “Oh, Mr Rhea,” he panted. “If that grandfather clock of yours grows awkward, you know where to find me. I’ll fix it for you — re-set the timing, weights, and so forth.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled, as I left the premises. I wondered if he was any good at working night duty for bored policemen!

  * * *

  Ted Williamson from Keld House rang me at seven one morning and cried, “Mr Rhea, thoo’ll etti come quick. Ah’ve had some sheep pinched during t’night.”

  I didn’t ask any more questions, but donned my motorcycling gear and set out across the hills to his remote farm. It lay at the end of a deep, narrow valley high on the moors, and was extremely isolated. His sheep ran across the moors with no hedges or walls to contain them and they formed a major contribution to his meagre living standards. He did, however, keep a few sheep closer to the house and these were in a small paddock adjacent to the building. These had been bred by hand by his patient wife, the lambs of mothers who had either rejected them or who had died during lambing time. Those orphans had grown into fine animals, thanks to her attention.

  The noise of my arrival brought him from the kitchen and he was waiting on the concrete path as I struggled to park my bike upon an irregular and stony farmyard. At last I had the machine balanced on its stand, and removed my crash helmet which I placed on the seat.

  “Morning, Ted,” I greeted him. “Sad affair, eh?”

  “Aye, lad, it is. Now, them sheep o’ mine roam across yon heights with nivver a theft from one year end to t’next; some get knocked down and killed by cars, but thoo can expect that. Sheep aren’t t’brightest o’ creatures, are they?”

  “No, they’re a bit dim,” I agreed, following him to the kitchen.

  “But them in that paddock, well, they’ve been hand-reared by our Maud and some is as tame as a cat. Some rotten sod has pinched ’em from that paddock.”

  “How many?” I put to him as I pulled a chair from the table. It scraped noisily upon the sandstone floor, and I sat down without being asked. It was expected that visitors did this.

  “Eight,” he said. “Eight gimmers, nice animals, well fed. Nice for meat, Ah’d say, plump and fleshy. Not run to bone like them awd ewes up on t’top. Some butcher’ll have ’em by now, Ah reckon, cutting ’em up.”

  “Morning, Mr Rhea,” Maud, his plump, rosy-cheeked wife came in with a large metal teapot and said. “Tea?”

  “Thanks.” She began to pour a huge tin mug full, a pint pot with a metal handle.

  “What are they worth, Ted?” I had to ask for my crime report.

  “Fifteen quid apiece, Ah reckon.”

  I sipped the tea and they settled before me, sitting around the table as I produced a long sheet of paper from my inside pocket. This was a crime report, and I had to enter all the relevant details upon it. I began with the standard questions about their names, ages, addresses and occupations, and eventually got down to the basic facts of the crime. From what Ted told me, he’d checked the paddock last night about ten o’clock before turning in to bed, and at quarter to seven this morning, he’d come downstairs to find the gate open. He knew he’d locked it last night — he’d checked that very fact before going to bed.

  About a dozen sheep were still in the field, huddled in a corner, and he believed they’d been terrified into moving there in the dark, and had not strayed since.

  “Could it be hikers?” I asked. “Maybe somebody’s walked through and just left the gate open? Could your sheep have wandered off?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Nay, lad, nivver. If that had happened, they’d still be on my land somewhere. They’re not — they’ve been takken off in a truck of some kind.”

  “Truck?”

  “Van mebbe. Summat light, I reckon, like a pick-up or a small van.”

  “How do you know that?”


  “There’s tracks in that gateway. Drink your tea, and Ah’ll show you.”

  Meanwhile, I wrote into my report a description of the eight missing gimmers, the name used for young female sheep not yet ewes. All were nine months old, female of course, and marked on their left flank with a splotch of blue dye. After completing those short but essential formalities, I asked Ted to take me to the scene of the crime.

  “That gate,” he said.

  And in the soft earth were the unmistakable tracks of a vehicle of some kind. It had reversed into the gateway, a fact revealed by marks of its front wheels made during that manoeuvre, and there was a slight indentation a few feet into the field where a long tailboard or ramp had rested. I knew how the thief had operated — in the darkness, he would park his vehicle in the open gate and simply drive the sheep towards the truck. There may have been a dog, and he must have had lights of some kind, but it was a simple manoeuvre. Once he’d got a handful of animals aboard, he would drive off.

  I squatted on my haunches to examine the marks. They were the conventional tyre marks of a four-wheeled light vehicle, and I guessed it was a pick-up of some kind, possibly a Morris. Then I noticed the irregularity in one of the rear tyre marks.

  From the impressions in the soft earth, it was clear that the tyre had a defect on the inside wall, and it looked like a bubble of rubber. I knew the fault — it had once happened to my car. The tyre wall was weak and the pressure of air caused the tube and the tyre to bulge like a round bubble. If it caught a sharp stone or a nail, a puncture was inevitable. Sometimes, if the blob grew very large, it would make contact with the springs of the vehicle and create a nuisance, if only because of the repetitious noise as the wheel turned. But in time, that would rub a hole in the outer casing.

  I showed this to Ted.

  “Now that’s a capper,” he said. “Ah nivver noticed yon.”

  “Does it ring a bell?” I asked. “Has anybody been up here lately with a vehicle like this? I reckon it’s a small pick-up, four wheels, all single and with a tailboard that comes down, like a ramp.”

  “And with a blob on t’rear tyre, eh? On t’inside?”