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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Sergeant! You’re joking . . .!” I found myself laughing and he was roaring with laughter too, tears running down his face.

  “I’m not joking, Rhea! I wish I was. He had saturated his garden with petrol . . . I mean . . . the whole lot went up like an explosion . . . whoosh . . . all on fire . . .” He was holding his sides now, and laughing until it hurt. “Door frame, door, kitchen window . . . the stuff had dribbled out of his can, you see . . . from the house . . . all the kitchen’s gone . . . he’s lost his hair, eyebrows and most of his clothes . . . what a bloody mess, Rhea . . . what a bloody mess . . . the kitchen’s gutted . . .”

  “Is he hurt?” I managed to ask.

  “Not a bit. Scared yes, but hurt — no. We’re having to rehouse him and his family. They’re sending him to South Bank.”

  I knew South Bank. In those days, it was in the North Riding, although on a heavy industrial suburb of Middlesbrough, and was known for its grime and tough people. Rather like Birmingham, I suppose.

  “He won’t have learned much about the countryside, Sergeant,” I said.

  “I reckon he’s learned quite a bit, Rhea,” he chuckled to himself, wiping the tears from his eyes. “He’ll be able to tell ’em all about straw-burning when he gets to South Bank. He might even become their straw-burning spokesman! I’m sure they burn a lot of straw in South Bank.”

  And I left him to his thoughts.

  Chapter Eight

  Experience teaches slowly, and at the cost of mistakes.

  JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE, 1818–1894

  One branch of the police service which has almost slipped into oblivion since World War II is the Special Constabulary. The sturdy folk who join are a supportive arm of the regular police force, yet they are ordinary citizens; they rise to the occasion in times of strife and social unrest.

  The Specials have a long and interesting history, but came into their own around 1831, the date of the first statute to concern itself specifically with them. In the last century, Specials were used by magistrates during many historic upheavals, such as the Chartist riots, the Rebecca riots, the bread riots, strikes and other types of industrial unrest. As the newly formed regular police forces established themselves, however, the use of Specials declined for this kind of work.

  Specials were marvellous as supporters of the police during the two World Wars, and afterwards their role changed. They were not called upon only in times of tumult, but were welcomed as patrolling officers in uniform, when they supplemented the slender blue line by helping out at all kinds of busy times. Examples of their work include first-division football matches, holiday times at the seaside, Saturday night revels, visits by V.I.P.s and the local police station’s annual Christmas dinner. When every regular officer wanted to be off duty at the same time, the Specials would take over the town and patrol in their dark blue uniforms with such efficiency and smartness that few members of the public realised they were not regular officers.

  By 1965, their appointment and qualifications were set down in a Statutory Instrument known as the Special Constables Regulations, 1965, which stated that a Special Constable should be not less than eighteen years old, should be of good character and health, and be of British nationality. There were no height stipulations, although local Chief Constables could determine the height of their own Specials. Few of them accepted men or women who were less than 5 feet 6 inches tall.

  A formal training programme was established, with a career structure and pensions for those injured on duty. Specials, however, do not receive payment for their work, although expenses can be approved.

  As a consequence, many people with a sense of social duty or vocation, have over the years joined the Specials and have performed useful and dedicated service. To call them hobby bobbies is perhaps unjust, for lots of them serve faithfully as volunteers in other organisations and seem to get themselves involved in almost anything that happens in the community.

  Such a man was Maurice Merryman, the undertaker at Ashfordly. He did not fit the usual image of an undertaker, because he was not tall and gaunt, he did not wear black clothes all day and his eyes were not set in deep, shadowy recesses within a skull-like cranium. Instead, Maurice was short and tubby, with a round, pink face and chubby cheeks. His pale grey eyes beamed from behind thick-lensed spectacles, and he wore very smart suits in all his enterprises, although he did wear black for funerals.

  Apart from being the undertaker at Ashfordly, he drove the local taxi, sold flowers from a market stall, and ran a fruit shop. He was always busy, always cheerful and constantly available to perform a good turn. Maurice was kindness itself, and that is the reason he became an undertaker. He couldn’t bear to think of people being left unburied in cold weather, so he established himself as the local burial expert with a boast that he saw them to their eternal rest in the nicest possible way.

  I think he became a Special for similar reasons. He felt that the law could be enforced in a humane way and even believed there was some good in most villains, a belief not shared by the majority of police officers. But Maurice was undeterred by the misgivings of others and set about patrolling the streets of Ashfordly for his stipulated two hours a month. He saw himself there to enforce the law and to do good to the community.

  One of his spells of duty occurred during the Section dinner. This is one evening out of the whole year when every member of Ashfordly Section, including wives and/or girlfriends, is off duty. They go to a local hotel for a good meal and a dance, and it is a social gathering where everyone can meet everyone else. But as the town cannot be left without a police presence, Maurice comes forward on this auspicious night and volunteers for duty.

  He does more than his required two hours, and happily patrols the streets and supervises the office until normal service is resumed.

  One Friday night, therefore, he was performing this duty in our absence and was enjoying a spell in the office where he had made a cup of tea and was reading police circulars. For Maurice, life was good, and he felt very important because during that evening, the law enforcement of Ashfordly lay in his carefully manicured hands.

  Around ten o’clock, as he sank his third cup of tea, a car pulled up outside Ashfordly Police Station. It generated more than the usual amount of noise, it braked with some difficulty and parked in what some officers might describe as a haphazard manner. The driver’s door slammed as the horn blew accidentally and the lights flickered in unison.

  Maurice pricked up his ears and wondered what was to befall him. The metal gate, which led down the police station path, squeaked then clanged against its support, and there followed the shuffling steps of someone heading erratically for the door. Maurice put down his papers and stood behind the counter, waiting.

  The heavy door crashed open and in staggered a rounded gentleman. He was enveloped in a cloud of whisky fumes and hiccupped many times as he staggered towards the supportive woodwork of the counter.

  “Evening, Officer.” Powerful alcoholic odours enveloped Maurice and his customer as the fellow clung for support. “Not a bad evening, is it?”

  Maurice recognised him as Aubrey Barraclough, a haulage contractor from Brantsford, a man involved in big business and many associated interests. Clearly, the fellow had not recognised Maurice in his blue suit with the shiny buttons; had Maurice been behind the counter of his fruit shop, there would have been instant recognition.

  “Hello, Mr Barraclough,” smiled the helpful Special Constable. “What can we do for you?”

  “Oh, it’s not the policeman, it’s Maurice! I didn’t know you’d joined the Force, Maurice?” and he hiccupped.

  “I haven’t, I’m a Special Constable,” beamed Maurice. “But tonight, I’m manning the station and looking after things. So what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve come to give myself up,” stated Mr Barraclough. “I have drunk far too much and feel I cannot be allowed to drive home.”

  “Oh,” said Maurice, wondering what he should do with the fe
llow. “I’m not sure of the procedures.”

  “Well, I will walk home. I am too drunk to drive . . .”

  “No,” said Maurice, “I cannot allow that. If you leave your car outside, and I let you go, then I will be asked awkward questions. I will be asked why I didn’t proceed against you, and that could result in you losing your driving licence. I would have to find a doctor to examine you to determine whether you are fit to drive, and there are all sorts of complications. I cannot let you walk home and leave the car.”

  “You are the officer in charge of law enforcement, Maurice, so what do you suggest?” Barraclough swayed rather violently and clutched at the counter to maintain his upright stance.

  “If you leave the car outside, I will have to formalise things by arresting and charging you. That’ll mean a night in the cells, and a court appearance tomorrow, with lots of publicity for you.”

  Barraclough shook his head, an action which made him spin rather like a waltzing top which was losing its momentum. “No, I just wanted to leave the car, that’s all.”

  “Well,” said Maurice in his kindest mood. “You drove it here and you are aware of your condition. You talk lucidly, and you are coherent. I believe you are not too drunk to drive it home, Mr Barraclough, so I suggest you go back to the car and drive home slowly.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. That would solve all your problems.”

  “You really think so, Maurice? You are a very good policeman, Maurice, a very good one. Yes, all right.”

  And Barraclough turned and made for the door. He achieved some success and emerged into the fresh air, whereupon he headed, with a little swaying of the legs and much more hiccupping, towards his waiting car.

  No professional police officer would have allowed that to happen, but Maurice was a helpful, kind-hearted undertaker with a penchant for wearing police uniform, and he did not appreciate the problems he thus created.

  With a monstrous crashing of gears and a blaring horn, Aubrey Barraclough launched his Daimler upon the town of Ashfordly. Being late at night, (and ten o’clock is late in those peaceful places), the streets were quiet, which was fortunate, because Barraclough’s Daimler performed what can only be described as terpsichorean movements along the highways and byways of Ashfordly. The lovely car waltzed and screeched around corners as it made for the market place with the intention of taking the road to Brantsford.

  Its meandering journey could not hope to end in success, and one of its prime reasons for failure was a keep-left bollard at the junction with the market place and the road to Brantsford. When driving along the wide road past the market place, Barraclough had noticed the illuminated sign and recognised it as the beginnings of his final run home. He therefore accelerated.

  His beautiful car collided magnificently with the bollard, and crumpled to a halt. This threw him forward into the windscreen and caused the bonnet to burst open like the mouth of a gigantic hippopotamus. It is said that Barraclough hiccupped twice, put the car into reverse and dragged it clear. He stepped outside, slammed the bonnet shut and set off in his intended direction.

  After travelling only five hundred yards, he collided with a stationary Morris Minor which was parked harmlessly outside a cottage on the outskirts of Ashfordly, and this time his efforts were spectacularly successful. The Morris, just home after a trip to Malton, was lovely and warm, and when Barraclough’s speeding Daimler rammed into it, the petrol tank split wide open and the Morris burst into flames. In a very short time, those flames also licked the thwarted Daimler and within minutes, both cars were wildly ablaze. The surrounding houses flickered in the fight, and the heat made the road surface bubble as the tar melted.

  Barraclough managed to scramble clear and ran for his life, while the owner of the Morris, just tucking into an apple-pie supper, rushed out to see his pride and joy in an advanced state of incineration. He dashed next door to call the Fire Brigade and the police, while the distant darkness concealed the unsteady departure of Aubrey Barraclough.

  Because the Fire Brigade at Ashfordly comprised part-timers who were now in the pubs, and as the only police presence was Maurice, it took some time to gather wits and equipment. Eventually, these emergency services arrived at the scene.

  By the time they did arrive, the Morris was burnt to a cinder and the Daimler had all the appearances of a cast-off shell. Only its number plates were identifiable, so Maurice stated he knew the culprit.

  “It’s Aubrey Barraclough!” he cried, and promptly began searching the remains of the car for the remains of Mr Barraclough, doubtless with some kind of commercial motive at the back of his mind. But no Aubrey or part of Aubrey was found.

  “He’ll have run for it!” snarled the owner of the Morris ashes. “He’ll want to avoid being done for drunken driving. He’s always drunk . . . it’s time the bloody police did something about him!”

  “I’ll make a report about it,” suggested Maurice, not really knowing what he was supposed to do next.

  The cunning Aubrey had stumbled down one of the alleys between the cottages, and had found a pedal cycle. Hearing the commotion in his wake, he had jumped on to the cycle with enough sense not to switch on the lights, and with an almost silent swishing of tyres had begun his escape run. By now, he was slightly more sober than hitherto, and knew how to keep his balance; he also knew which way to turn the pedals and the handlebars. As more officials and onlookers began to gather at the scene of the blaze, the dark figure of Aubrey Barraclough, on someone’s stolen cycle, moved quietly along the dark road, homeward bound. He could always claim somebody had stolen his Daimler . . .

  As he began to craftily calculate the best way of extricating himself from any responsibility for the destruction he had left behind, he felt the soothing wind in his hair and the coolness of night upon his cheeks. His podgy legs pressed the pedals and caused his breath to become heavier and more rapid as time progressed. It wasn’t long before he actually began to enjoy this sobering-up exercise; he experienced the exhilaration of youth as the cycle sped along its way.

  Those of you who know the road from Ashfordly to Brantsford will recall that it weaves through the countryside in a most interesting manner. Some two miles out of Ashfordly, it dips quite suddenly as the highway races down a slope to cross a stream, and at the crossing place, the road turns quite suddenly to the left, before rising to continue its picturesque way.

  In a car, that point can be dangerous, but local people such as Aubrey are familiar with this place; they always cope with it, even when slightly intoxicated.

  But Aubrey was more than slightly intoxicated; furthermore, he was not in his Daimler with its wonderful brakes and high-quality headlights. Without any headlights to guide him, he hadn’t realised he’d come to this point. He reached the summit aboard a pedal cycle of unknown quality, in darkness, and he was singing blissfully to the stars as he pedalled along.

  Almost without warning, Aubrey began to gather speed as the cycle started its descent, and it was quite apparent that the bike was going faster than Aubrey wished. He used the brakes, but they were not as efficient as those of his Daimler, especially when carrying seventeen stones, so the cycle refused to reduce its onward pace.

  Very soon it was bouncing along at Daimler pace, and Aubrey took his feet off the pedals. He began to wobble; he began to shout for help, but none was forthcoming. By all accounts, his onward path took him across the grass verge at the bottom of the slope, and the cycle collided with the off-side parapet of the bridge.

  The cycle stopped but Aubrey did not. We are told that he became airborne for a short distance before the cold waters of Ashford Gill cushioned his heavy return to earth. There must have been an almighty splash as Aubrey arrived at this point, and it is a well-known fact that cold water in abundance has a wonderful ability to aid the sobering-up of most drunks.

  It is believed that this water did help to sober up Aubrey, because the abandoned and buckled cycle led to his discovery on the ba
nks of the stream. He was found lying there with his huge belly in the air, all damp and cold, and he was fast asleep. When he was roused, he was very, very sober, and promptly denied everything.

  But scientific evidence and eye-witness accounts are marvellous, and within two months Aubrey appeared before Eltering Magistrates’ Court. He was charged, among other things, with dangerous driving, malicious damage, failing to report an accident, larceny of a pedal cycle and riding a bike without lights.

  For poor Special Constable Merryman, there was the inevitable blasting from the mouth of Sergeant Blaketon, and the unenviable thrill of becoming an object lesson in all future lectures and training sessions, for both specials and regular officers. The Merryman Incident, as it became known, was a lesson in how not to deal with drunken drivers.

  But Maurice was retained because of his value on our Section dinner night. We all benefited from his special brand of policemanship.

  It was Alexander Pope who produced those famous words “To err is human”, but lots of us forget the words which follow, for they are “to forgive, divine”.

  If the police officers of Ashfordly learned anything from Special Constable Merryman’s mistakes, it was that mistakes can occur even if the intention is honourable. Poor Maurice Merryman’s intentions were always honourable, and with that knowledge in mind, I found myself wanting to assist the less fortunate. Police officers are constantly meeting those who need help and guidance, and lots of unofficial and unpublicised assistance is given by them. But could such help ever be wrong? Could there be a time when help from a police officer was a mistake? I was not afraid of making a mistake, for mistakes happen to everyone, but could I forgive or be forgiven if I did?

  The opportunity to find out came one Sunday morning when I was off duty. I was cutting the lawn outside the front of my hilltop police house when Gordon Murray came to the gate.