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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “P.C. Rhea,” I muttered into the mouthpiece.

  “Roger Clifton at the vicarage,” the voice said. “Have I got you out of bed, Nicholas?”

  “I was just getting up,” I lied easily. “What’s the problem?”

  “My sheep. I mean the church sheep. Someone’s stolen them,” he sounded very agitated.

  “Stolen them?” I repeated his words in disbelief. “Who’d steal ten sheep?”

  “Lots of people get their sheep stolen,” the vicar remarked, and he was right. Sheep stealing was a profitable crime, especially on the moors where many animals were spirited away for handsome profits paid by unscrupulous butchers and hotels. Sometimes, a single animal was taken; sometimes dozens. I groaned at the news. A case of sheep rustling from the churchyard was the last thing I wanted.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” I promised. There was little urgency with this. If the animals had been stolen, they’d be lumps of unidentifiable meat by now, and if they hadn’t been stolen, they’d turn up somewhere else. I could afford to treat this alleged crime with a lack of desperate urgency.

  I made myself a hearty breakfast before journeying down to the vicarage and I walked to give myself some exercise. I knocked on the vicarage door, and Roger Clifton answered. He was dressed in a casual sweater and light trousers, looking most unlike a man of the cloth.

  “Come in, Nicholas,” he invited. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’ve just finished my breakfast.”

  We went into his cosy book-lined study and he seated me before his desk. I took out my notebook to record the details of this dastardly crime.

  “Right,” I smiled. “Tell me about the country’s most recent case of sheep rustling.”

  “You could be hanged for this, you know,” he said in all seriousness. “Not many years ago, a man was hanged on the moors above this village, for stealing one lamb!”

  “Nowadays, they take you to court, tell you to be a good man, and give you money from the poor box!” I agreed, “So what’s happened, Roger?”

  “I checked my flock last night just before eleven,” he said. “All ten were there. I counted them, as I always do.”

  “To make you sleep better?” I said, but he failed to see the joke.

  He continued as if I’d not spoken. “And this morning, I went to unlock the church at quarter past seven, and they’d gone. I checked the whole place, in case they’d sheltered under one of the yews or even got into the boiler house, but there’s not a sign of them.”

  “Was the church gate open?” I asked.

  “No,” he was adamant. “No, it was closed.”

  “There are no other means of exit from the churchyard?” I put to him.

  “None,” he assured me.

  “Did you hear vehicles in the night? Sounds of animals being moved?”

  “Not a thing,” he said. “There was nothing different this morning, except the animals had completely vanished.”

  “‘Go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel’,” I quoted from St Matthew.

  And Roger replied, smiling, “‘I saw all Israel scattered upon the hills, as sheep that have not a shepherd’.”

  “Touché,” I said. “So they’ve been stolen, you think?”

  “What else can I think?”

  “Let’s take a close look at the fencing around the churchyard.” I had to say this. We police officers seldom take anything for granted, and I knew that a tiny gap in the wire was sufficient for these silly animals to stray through. And if one went, the rest would surely follow.

  With Roger Clifton hard on my heels, I began my examination near the gate and turned right, thereafter following the line of the boundary around the large churchyard. Whoever had wired this before the judging of the Best-Kept Village contest had done a good job, for the wire was securely anchored to thwart adventurous ewes. As we carefully examined the western boundary, there was a tremendous bellow from the road behind us.

  “Vicar?” came the shout. “Are you there?”

  That voice was unmistakable. It was Rudolph Burley, our loud auctioneer.

  “Here, Rudolph, behind the second yew tree, with P.C. Rhea.”

  We could hear the squeak of the gate as it opened and the crunch of heavy footsteps on the path. We waited until the bulky figure of Rudolph appeared.

  “Ah, there you are! Are you looking for your bloody sheep, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” smiled Roger Clifton. “I think they’ve been stolen.”

  “Stolen my Aunt Fanny! They’re all in my garden, every one of those bloody silly animals, and they’ve eaten all my beans, my sprouts and most of my flowers!”

  “Your garden? How . . . ?” spluttered Roger.

  “I don’t know how. I just know they’re there, and I want them out mighty smartly.”

  “Oh dear, I’ll have to get Sam Skinner. They’re his really, you know, just on loan to the church, and he’ll drive them out. He has a good dog, you see . . .”

  “There must be thick end of fifty quid’s worth of damage to my garden, Vicar, and it’s getting more expensive by the minute!” and he stormed away to protect his produce.

  “You go and phone for Sam,” I advised Roger, “and I’ll check this fence right round. Somebody could have put them there for a laugh, you know.”

  “Nobody would do a thing like that, would they?”

  “Wouldn’t they?” I smiled. “Off you go.”

  While he was telephoning Sam, I found the gap. There was a point where the wire had to negotiate some rocks and this created a fold in the wire; the fold produced a gap, which one of the sheep had located. It had widened the wire with its snout as it ferreted for fresh greenery, and very quickly had made a hole large enough to push through. The adventurous ewe had found herself at the other side of the hedge, the rest had followed, and all had made for some available and succulent greenstuff, which happened to be in Rudolph’s extensive and beautiful garden. By first light, they had reduced part of his garden practically to the prime state of the churchyard, not a pleasant sight for a carefully cultivated corner.

  “He’s on his way.” Roger Clifton returned and we went around to Rudolph’s to await Sam and his sheepdog.

  Sam Skinner was a retired shepherd who kept a Border collie and several sheep as a form of active interest rather than for making money. He was an expert in all matters relating to sheep, and I watched as he entered Rudolph’s garden, with his little dog at his heel and a long crook in his hand. As the dog saw the sheep, its ears pricked up and it looked at his master for guidance.

  Sam gave a low whistle and the dog sat on its haunches, waiting for the next command.

  “Where d’yer want ’em, Vicar?” called Sam.

  “Back in the churchyard, Sam,” Roger Clifton said. “With as little mess as you can make.”

  “One of you ho’d this feller’s gate oppen, and t’other ho’d t’choch gate wide,” he said. “My dog’ll do t’rest.”

  As we went about our part of the operation, I heard Sam start to count the animals, and he used the old-fashioned North Riding dialect method of totalling them.

  “Yan, tan, tethera, methera, pimp, sethera, lethera, hovera, dovera, dick.”

  That was ten, and fascinating to hear. He waved the crook over their heads and whistled; the dog, with its head low, began to circle the assembled sheep and gradually rounded them up. Soon, they were a tidy group on the lawn of Rudolph’s lovely garden, with the dog crouched flat beside them, waiting.

  Sam checked that both gates were open, and with more whistles accompanied by the occasional gesture from his hand, he began to move the group, almost as one animal. They went towards Rudolph’s gate as Roger waited, standing as still as a ramrod. The sheep hesitated before going through, but once one had made the break, the others would follow. Sam’s dog encouraged the first to do this and seconds later, all were through and being guided along the lane towards the churchyard.

  I held the church gate wide
open and did my best not to alarm the oncoming flock. Man and dog, working beautifully together, guided the first through my gate, and in a matter of a few seconds, every sheep was back inside the churchyard. Very quickly, they lowered their heads and began to graze.

  Roger came towards Sam and me as we waited at the gate. “Thanks, Sam,” he smiled his gratitude. “We couldn’t have done without you.”

  “Thoo’ll niwer keep ’em all in there, Vicar, not now they’ve grazed all that grass off. There’s nut enough for ’em all. You could do wi’ only half that lot.”

  “Is that so? Is that why they got out?”

  “Could be,” Sam was non-committal. “Maybe they were seeking summat fresh and juicy, like Rudolph’s flowers.”

  “Look, if you think five would be enough . . .”

  “Ah do, and Ah’ll tak five away right now,” and he whistled once more. The dog scuttled into the churchyard once again, and by using a complicated system of whistling, Sam ordered it to separate five sheep from the others, one at a time, and he gathered these in a corner.

  “Ah’ll away with them five,” he said. “Mak sure that wire fence is sheep-tight, or they’ll be out again. Who’s going to pay Rudolph, then, Vicar? Me or you?”

  “Oh, it will have to be the church,” agreed Roger Clifton, nodding his head quickly. “Definitely the church.”

  “Then you’ll be holding a bring-and-buy sale for church funds, eh?” beamed Sam. “Come, Rex.” At a further whistle, Rex brought five puzzled sheep out of the churchyard and Sam walked down the street, a happy man as the dog followed behind with yan, tan, tethera, methera and pimp.

  It did occur to me that an outsider hearing him count the sheep might believe those curious words were the sheep’s names. In fact, it is a very old system. The ancient Greeks counted in this way: “Hen, duo, treis, tessares, pente, hex, hepta, octo, ennea, dekem”, while the Red Indians went, “Eem, teen, tether, fether, fip, sather, lather, gether, dather, dix”.

  As I pondered old Sam’s skills, the Reverend Roger Clifton leaned over the gate and said, “You know, Nicholas, it is a long time since we had a bring-and-buy sale for church funds.”

  “Why not sell anything that’s made from wool?” I suggested. “Have a wool sale.”

  “Nice idea; I might even get Rudolph to auction some of the garments!” he chuckled. “He’d be very keen to raise as much as possible!”

  “You could do worse.” I left him to his thoughts, and wondered how the shepherds of old counted up to fifty or a hundred. One day, I would ask Sam.

  Chapter Six

  Blake is damned good to steal from!

  HENRY FUSELI, 1741–1825

  It was one of those beautiful April mornings when no one in the world should have worries or cares. The sun was shining with more than a hint of the summer warmth to come, and the sky was a rich blue between the puffy white clouds which hurriedly crossed from one horizon to another. The countryside in Ryedale was a rich fresh green, with new foliage on the boughs and young buds desperately wanting to show off their blooms. There was a strong feeling of spring, both in my mind and in the song of the birds about me.

  I was riding my Francis-Barnett motorcycle across the hills into Ashfordly. I was not going upon any specific business, for it was one of those days when there was a lull in my daily routine. I had served all my summonses, seen all my farmers about their stock registers, checked all the firearms certificates that were due for renewal, and completed all my written work, including files on two traffic accidents and one case of housebreaking.

  In my panniers, I had two reports which I was going to drop into Sergeant Bairstow’s tray this morning, and then the rest of the day was mine. It was the perfect time to wander in bliss about the countryside. I would collect any incoming mail from Ashfordly Police Station — there might be some enquiries to make, or people to interview, but failing that I was free to tour the exquisite patch of England which formed my beat. I could explore new areas of my patch and meet new people, both vital to a village policeman. Local knowledge is so important, so this Thursday promised to be very enjoyable.

  Ashfordly Police Station was deserted when I arrived. I let myself in with my official Yale key, put on the kettle for a cup of coffee, and set about removing my motorcycle suit. I would spend ten minutes here, sifting through official orders and instructions and checking the mass of crime circulars which came from neighbouring police forces. By the time I had removed my ungainly suit and dropped my correspondence into Sergeant Bairstow’s tray, the kettle was boiling. I made a cup of typical awful police station coffee, flavoured by the powdered milk we used, and settled down at the counter with the file of recent legislation.

  Then the telephone rang. Telephones always ring when one is at one’s most leisurely, and I must admit I was tempted to ignore it. For one thing, Ashfordly wasn’t on my tour of duty for today, so whatever the call was about, it was really the problem of the local duty officer.

  But on the other hand, it could be Mary making efforts to contact me, or it could be somebody in need of urgent help . . .

  I put down my file, took a quick sip at the hot coffee and picked up the mouthpiece.

  “Ashfordly Police,” I announced.

  “Is that the police station?” demanded a loud voice. It was a woman and I got the impression she wasn’t accustomed to using a telephone. By the sound of her voice, she didn’t need one!

  “Yes,” I said. “Can I help?”

  “My egg money’s getting pinched,” she shouted.

  “Egg money?” I groaned inwardly. Here was the report of a crime, so my planned carefree day had evaporated in a loud conversation.

  “Aye,” came her stentorian reply. “Egg money. Ah put it in my kitchen drawer and somebody’s pinched it.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Since yesterday afternoon.”

  “And how much has gone?”

  “Five pounds,” she shouted.

  “And who is that?” I needed these facts for the initial record of this crime report.

  “Blake,” she said. “Mrs Blake, Laverock Farm, just out o’ Gelderslack.”

  “And your first name, Mrs Blake?”

  “You want a lot o’ personal stuff, Mr Policeman,” she bellowed, “There’s nut monny fooalks knows my name. I’m not one for gitting personal wi’ fooalks.”

  “I need it for my official report,” I shouted back. “Then I’ll come and see you.”

  “There’s no need to shout, Ah’s nut deaf,” she said, following which there was a long pause before she added, “Concordia.”

  “Concordia,” I repeated, writing down the name.

  “Aye, that’s what Ah said.” She sounded embarrassed. “But Ah’d rather be just Mrs Blake if you don’t mind.”

  “That’ll do me. I’ll come and see you about it. What time would be suitable?”

  “Anytime will do me, Mr Policeman, Ah’s allus about the place. If there’s no reply from t’house, come and shout about the buildings. Will it be this morning?”

  “Yes, within the hour,” I said.

  “By gaw, that’s quick,” and the phone went dead.

  After completing my office work, my reading and my coffee, I re-dressed in my motorcycle suit in case of April showers and locked the office. I didn’t know Gelderslack too well, but enjoyed the journey because it took me from the floor of the dale high into the surrounding hills. Here, the countryside changed dramatically from the sylvan beauty of the valley to the rugged and rocky heights, replete with heather and bracken made happy by the song of the skylark. I had to stop at a cross roads to consult my Ordnance Survey map for the location of Laverock Farm, and found it along a lofty, rough moorland track.

  The farm buildings nestled in a miniature valley of their own where the grass was green and the moor had not made any inroads. Mr Blake, and Laverock Farm’s many occupants before him, had struggled over several hundred years to claim this piece of land from the moor, and it would
be a never-ending battle to keep it green and free from bracken. If that farm was ever abandoned, the creeping bracken would envelop the cultivated patches and conceal them for ever. But now, it was a veritable oasis in this wild region, a memorial to the farmers whose work had produced it.

  As I negotiated my motorcycle along the tricky route, I was not looking forward to this enquiry. It had all the hallmarks of what we call an “inside job”, more so when one took into consideration the isolated location of the farm. The theft of egg money was scarcely the work of an opportunist thief out here, and the disappearance of the cash must therefore throw suspicion on everyone who either worked there or lived there. Crimes like this always left a nasty feeling. The moment I began to ask questions, everyone would be under suspicion; they would suspect one another too, and I think it is fair to say that every police officer detests the thief who steals in this way. They are detestable because they steal, of course, but also because they cast doubts upon the honesty of everyone else in a small community or organisation.

  I had to negotiate three gates before reaching the farmyard, not an easy task when struggling with a motorcycle on a track of this kind, but by eleven o’clock I was hoisting the machine on to its stand on a concrete area outside the Dutch barn. I removed my helmet and gloves, placed them on the pillion, then walked across to the house.

  Although the whole complex was a little shabby and weatherbeaten, I could see that it was clean and the fabric was sound; a coat of paint would have transformed the whole outfit, but its location in this tiny valley of the moors was delightful. As I walked towards the house, I could see the rim of the moors above me on all sides, while the sloping fields and bank sides beyond were rich with silver birch trees and conifers of various kinds. Somewhere out of sight, I could hear a stream rapidly flowing over jagged rocks, and a skylark sang in the sky above. Here was true tranquillity.

  I knocked on the green door of the farmhouse and waited. There was no reply, so I opened it and shouted inside. Again, no reply. I remembered Mrs Blake’s advice to shout in the buildings, and therefore began a tour of the farm, shouting her name.