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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “You can see the mark in the soil, Ted.” I pointed to it again, and I could see he was thinking hard.

  “Noo, there was a feller up here with a truck like that, seeking work.”

  “When was this?” I began to grow excited.

  “Two days back, no more.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He came to my kitchen door one afternoon, three o’clock or thereabouts, and asked if Ah was looking for casual labour.”

  “Did you take him on, Ted?”

  He shook his head, “Nay, lad. Ah’ve a spot of ditching and hedging that mebbe needs a feller to do it, but Ah didn’t want to take onnybody on. To be honest, Ah can’t afford to pay for jobs like that.”

  “So he left?”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “And who was it? A local?”

  “Ah didn’t ask his name, Mr Rhea. But he gave some name or other. Daft of me when Ah think back, but Ah didn’t write it down. You don’t think at the time, do you? Ah’ve seen him around at market days and sheep sales, mind.”

  “What’s he look like?” I was taking notes now.

  “A little feller, with a sharp face, like a jockey or even an elf! A funny little chap, really. Scruffily dressed, mind.”

  Immediately, I knew my suspect. I said, “And was his van a light blue one, with rust all over? A Morris pick-up, like we thought?”

  He frowned and then nodded. “Aye, now you come to mention it, it was.”

  “Can you remember his name? Try hard.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It didn’t ring a bell, I can’t remember it.”

  “Claude Jeremiah Greengrass?” I suggested.

  “Aye!” his eyes lit up. “That was what he said. A daft sooart of a name if you ask me . . . thoo knows him?”

  “I know him,” I agreed. “He’s a petty thief who lives on my patch near Elsinby. This is just the sort of thing he’d do.”

  “If you catch him, will it mean court then?”

  “You bet it will!” I said. “I’ve been after this rogue for ages, Ted, and he always manages to get away somehow.”

  “Well, Ah’s nut one for takking folks to court, Mr Rhea, nut if I can help it. All Ah want is them sheep back, that’s all.”

  If I knew Claude Jeremiah, he’d have disposed of the animals very rapidly, thus getting rid of the evidence. He must have had an outlet, possibly a crooked market dealer or butcher. But I would go and see him anyway, and immediately.

  “Just get them sheep back, Mr Rhea, never mind about a court. Ah’d hate to get my name in t’papers for summat like that.”

  “All right,” I heard myself saying. “If I get the sheep back, we’ll punish him ourselves, eh? Alive that is — that’s if we get your sheep back alive.”

  “Aye, that’s a deal. And if he’s killed ’em and you can prove it, then take him to Eltering Magistrates. Now that’s what Ah calls a fair deal.”

  “Or if I can prove he’s stolen them and got rid of them?”

  “Aye, all right. But if you get ’em back alive and well, we forget yon court?”

  And so the peculiar deal was struck. I knew I’d stand little chance with Claude Jeremiah; he was cute enough not to keep the animals any longer than necessary, and I knew I would have a very slender chance of proving him to be the thief. But I knew it was him — in my bones, I knew.

  My priority now was to race back to Elsinby and unearth him. I had to catch him before he disposed of the animals, and because he’d stolen them during the night, they could be seventy or eighty miles away by now, or more. I told Ted I’d be in touch if there was any development, and rode off in a cloud of spray from the damp road.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I was cruising down the main street of Elsinby, and turned off the tarmac highway on to the rough track which led down to Claude Jeremiah’s untidy collection of buildings. As I bumped along his road, I heard his lurcher begin to bark. Alfred, the dog, had warned him of my approach, and that’s how Alfred earned his meat.

  I parked the motorcycle and leaned it against a tree about fifty yards from the house and walked the rest of the journey. I saw no sign of Claude Jeremiah or of his pick-up, and so I knocked on the door.

  Seconds later, the man himself answered.

  “Oh, Mr Rhea, this is an early visit. Something wrong?”

  “Where you out last night or early this morning, Claude?” I did not waste time with useless preliminaries. He knew the score as well as I.

  “Out? Me? Good heavens no, Mr Rhea. I had an early night and have just nicely got out of bed.”

  “You weren’t out anywhere near Ted Williamson’s place then? At Keld House?”

  “Keld House, Mr Rhea? Why should I go to Keld House?”

  “Looking for work, maybe?” I smiled.

  “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Yes, of course. I did go to see him. I was looking for casual work, Mr Rhea, harvesting, potato picking, hedging and ditching, anything, but that was a day or two ago.”

  “And he didn’t have a job for you?”

  “No, Mr Rhea, he didn’t. Why, has he one now? Is that it? You’ve been up there checking your livestock registers and he’s changed his mind? He liked me and wants me to work for him?” There was a wicked gleam in his bright eyes.

  “No, he has no job. But he has lost some sheep, Claude.”

  “Sheep? Lost? I’ve not seen sheep up there, Mr Rhea, not me. Oh no.”

  “Stolen, Claude. His sheep were stolen, and I know you were there.”

  “Stolen? Not when I was there, Mr Rhea, surely?”

  “No, last night, during the night or maybe early this morning. Eight gimmers, Claude Jeremiah, in a pick-up just like yours.”

  “There’s lots of those little Morrises about, Mr Rhea, lots of them.”

  “So you didn’t steal his sheep, then?”

  “Now you know me, Mr Rhea. I’d never steal sheep, not me. I know I’m light-fingered and a worry to you, but I’m not a sheep-stealer. Not me.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take a look around your place?”

  “Mind? You’ve no right to search my place, Mr Rhea, no right . . .”

  “But you don’t object, surely, do you? I mean, shall I radio my control and get a search-warrant issued? Then our C.I.D. can come here, in force, lots of them, and really search your house and premises . . .”

  “There’s nothing here, Mr Rhea, nothing.”

  “Then let me see your pick-up.”

  “It’s in that shed.” He pointed to a shed with a large wooden hasp as its lock. “There are some sheep there, as well, Mr Rhea. Don’t let them out, they’re waiting to be collected.” And his voice trailed away.

  “Eight?” I asked.

  “How did you know that?” he regarded me with a steady stare.

  “With blue marks on their left flanks?”

  “Yes,” he said, wilting now. “That’s very astute of you, Mr Rhea. I got them for a friend . . .”

  “You stole them from Ted Williamson,” and I then remembered my unusual bargain with Ted. “Show me, Claude, and no mucking about.”

  Resigned to his fate, he took me to the shed and inside was his little vehicle, but it was jacked up and the rear tyre was missing.

  “I just got home,” he said grimly, “and was coming down my lane, when I got a puncture. There was a bleb on the inside of the tyre, Mr Rhea, so I got landed with those sheep . . . look, I’m sorry . . .”

  And in a wire pen at the far end of the shed were eight gimmers contentedly chewing hay, their blue rumps readily visible.

  “My spare had a puncture as well,” he said. “It’s not my day, Mr Rhea.”

  “It is your lucky day, Claude Jeremiah,” I said. “If you get those sheep back to Ted’s this morning, he will not take you to court.”

  His eyes lit up. “Really? Mr Rhea? That’s gen, is it?”

  “It is,” I said, somewhat sadly, and then a car entered the yard. I looked out and saw it was the mechanic from Elsinb
y Garage. He climbed out and took a pair of wheels from his boot and trundled them over to this shed.

  “Oh, hello, Mr Rhea. Not a bad morning. Claude — your tyres — one new tyre fitted and one puncture mended. Two pounds three and six please.”

  “I haven’t any money,” said Claude.

  “Then I take the wheels back and you’ll get ’em when you pay . . .”

  “Just a minute, Graham.” He changed his mind and dug deep into his pocket. He found the necessary cash and paid the mechanic who drove away contented.

  “Now, Claude Jeremiah,” I said. “Right now you replace that wheel and you take those sheep back to Keld Head. I’ll wait until you do and I’ll follow you to the farm. Right now, with no more messing about.”

  “But, Mr Rhea . . .”

  “It’s that, or court, Claude Jeremiah, and for sheep-stealing hereabouts, you’re risking prison, you know.”

  Without a word, he bent to the task of replacing the wheel and within five minutes, the truck was roadworthy. The spare was thrown into the rear, and I instructed him to herd the sheep aboard. He succeeded without a great deal of trouble, as they were already confined in the building, and within fifteen minutes, we were heading for Keld House.

  Ted was delighted. His wife was overcome because some of these had been pet lambs, and I smiled as they were replaced in their paddock in exactly the same way he’d removed them. He reversed his truck into the gate, lowered the tailboard and shooed out the animals.

  “Is that it, Mr Rhea?” Claude asked me, anxious to be off.

  “Not quite, Claude,” I smiled at him, and I saw the look of anxiety on his face. “You’ve a debt to pay, haven’t you?”

  “Debt? Here? I don’t owe money, Mr Rhea, not here.”

  “No, but if it wasn’t for Mr and Mrs Williamson’s generosity, you’d be under arrest and sitting in a cell at Ashfordly Police Station. You’d be waiting for a court appearance on a serious criminal charge and even prison.”

  He said nothing, but lowered his head.

  “Ted,” I addressed the farmer. “This morning you told me you needed some hedging and ditching doing, and couldn’t afford to pay anybody?”

  “Aye, things are a bit tight,” he confirmed.

  “Claude is good at things like that, he’s very handy about a farm, Ted, and can turn his hand to anything. He won’t need paying, of course, and he has volunteered to help you as an act of contrition.”

  “I have?” asked Claude.

  “You have, just now. You will work here until Ted has got caught up with his outstanding jobs. For nowt, Claude. You work for nowt, and if you go away, or pinch anything from here, or anywhere else, we’ll activate the sheep-stealing charge. That’ll get you several years in clink, my lad.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” said Mrs Williamson.

  As we discussed the tasks that awaited him, I could see Claude wilting at the thought. We entered the kitchen for a celebratory cup of tea laced with a fair helping of whisky, and I recalled the old days of threshing and harvesting on these moors.

  Everybody helped one another; they loaned equipment and man-power so that all could reap their harvests as quickly as possible, and I smiled to myself.

  As I drank my tea, I reminded Ted and Claude of this system, which continued to operate in some areas.

  “Can you remember the days when you all helped each other, Ted?” I asked, hoping he would recognise the drift of my conversation.

  “By gum, aye,” he smiled. “Grand days, them. Did thoo know, Claude, we needed fourteen fellers to work on a threshing day. There was t’engine driver, forkers, corn carriers, stack builders, a lad to see t’engine allus had water, and a few more besides. We all helped out, thoo sees, lending men and machinery, moving across these hills and getting all these crops in as fast as we could.”

  “You can still lend a man, Ted,” I smiled. “I know Claude will let himself be lent out, for nothing of course. Didn’t you say you were going over to High Rigg next week?”

  Ted was quick-thinking and agreed with my fictitious work idea. I knew he would offer Claude to High Rigg Farm, and I knew the little man was fixed up for work for several weeks to come. All for no pay.

  It would have been cheaper to have paid a fine in court.

  And, of course, it would have been better not to have stolen those sheep.

  But I still had not managed to win a conviction against Claude. I could wait. One day, he’d come. One day . . .

  Chapter Nine

  I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,

  this many and many a year.

  ALEXANDER BROME, 1620—66

  Sergeant Charlie Bairstow and I were sitting in his official car, discussing a spate of vandalism which had broken out in the village of Elsinby. Our talk was not so much a plan of action, but more a small symposium of ideas for the total eradication of vandalism by saturating the village with police officers. That, in reality, meant regular visits from me. The time was approaching ten o’clock one Wednesday evening in early May and the night was dark, albeit with a hint of brightness over the distant horizon.

  We were not in Elsinby at this time; in fact, I was performing a late motorcycle patrol across the whole range of Ryedale and Sergeant Bairstow had found me just outside Malton, on the minor road to Calletby.

  “Evening, Nick,” he’d greeted me in his usual affable way. “Take your helmet off and sit with me a few minutes.”

  And that is how I came to be sitting at his side in the tiny police car some distance off my own beat. We did not make any great progress in our battle against vandals but I enjoyed the opportunity to air my views about this creeping menace, and the discussion added welcome interest to my lonely patrol.

  But as we sat and talked, I heard someone running towards the car. The darkness made it difficult to identify the sex or state of the runner, but soon there was a frantic tapping on Sergeant Bairstow’s window.

  “By, I’m glad I found you fellers.” A thick-set farm youth with corduroy trousers and an old tweed jacket was addressing us, having quickly opened Sergeant Bairstow’s door.

  “Summat wrong?” Bairstow used the local pronunciation.

  “Aye, Sergeant,” the lad said. “In yon barn of ours. There’s a man and I reckon he’s dead. He’s laid out on our straw, and I wouldn’t guess how long he’s been there.”

  “You’ve not touched anything?” asked Sergeant Bairstow.

  “Not a thing, Sergeant, not a thing. Ah wouldn’t touch yon feller for all t’gold in China.”

  “Come on, show us then,” and Sergeant Bairstow opened the rear door. The youth climbed in smelling strongly of pigs and guided us to the barn. It was situated about four hundred yards along the village street, and down a narrow, unmade lane. The lad was called Alan Dudley and farmed for his father; he was on his way to a telephone kiosk when he spotted our conveniently parked car. He was highly excited and chattered about his discovery as he showed us the barn. There was no light, but he located a storm lantern which he’d left near the entrance, and produced matches to ignite the wick.

  Sergeant Bairstow carried a powerful torch from the car and together we entered the dark recesses of the large Dutch barn. Alan Dudley guided us unerringly to the distant corners by clambering over loose bales and piles of unstacked straw.

  He halted and revealed his find by holding his lantern high to flood the corpse with a dim light. Sure enough, there was the body of a man. He lay in a prone position with his head cradled in his arms and his legs curled up in what might be described as the foetal position. The fellow was dressed in a rough grey suit with black boots, and a flat cap lay on the straw a few inches from his head. His hair was filthy and had once been fair, but was now a curious shade of tarnished gold. I guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties and he appeared to be a tramp or a roadster of some kind.

  “You came straight to us?” Sergeant Bairstow asked gently.

  “Aye, I did,” said Alan
. “Fair turned me, it did, seeing that lying there.”

  “You’ve not touched him then?”

  “Not me, sergeant, never. Not a thing like yon.”

  “I can’t say I blame you,” and as Alan stood aside, Sergeant Bairstow and I edged forward in the pool of light, treading carefully upon the straw. I watched as my superior squatted on his haunches at the side of the body and touched the whiskery face.

  “Warm,” he said with some relief in his voice, “and he’s alive.”

  “Alive?” cried Alan Dudley. “He looks dead to me.”

  “He’s alive all right,” and Sergeant Bairstow lowered his head to listen for breathing, then swiftly sat upright, holding his nose. “Drink,” he sighed. “Meths. This fellow’s a meths drinker, he’s paralytic. God, he stinks!”

  I went closer and sniffed the atmosphere. For my trouble, I caught a terrible whiff of the powerful odour which rose from this sleeping man. Alan came too, and creased his face in disbelief. The stench was terrible.

  “We’re fetching some sheep in here tonight,” said Alan, looking down at the visitor. “He can’t stay, some of them awd rams’ll half kill him.”

  “He’s our problem, Nick,” said Bairstow softly.

  “It’s your car, sergeant,” I reminded him, for my motorcycle was parked nearby.

  “Help him into the bloody car then,” and with Alan lifting and sweating, and with me hoisting the limp fellow to his feet, we managed to half-carry, half-bundle the limp lump of meths-sodden humanity towards Sergeant Bairstow’s car. With much puffing and panting, he squeezed him into the rear seat and laid him flat. The stench in the car was appalling, and I didn’t regret being on the motorcycle tonight. I wondered what Sergeant Bairstow would do with the fellow, and realised with horror that I was the only constable on duty tonight in this section. The problem could be mine.

  We thanked Alan for his help and praised him for his public-spirited action, but wondered what on earth we could do with the meths man.

  “Follow me, Nick,” Bairstow ordered. I obeyed. I climbed aboard my Francis Barnett and followed the car for about two miles. Then he halted.

  He left his car and approached me as I sat astride my motorcycle, awaiting further instructions.