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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Their happiness was rapidly degenerating into something uncontrollable; our peaceful village was about to experience the warlike enjoyment of Liverpool’s back streets combined with the skills of some of the toughest scrappies and layabouts in Yorkshire. I was off duty, too, in civilian clothes; I was a real pig in the middle.

  I had to do something, not only for my sake, but the sake of Gordon and his bride, and for the village. Then, fortuitously, I caught Mary’s eye; she was behind a gathered knot of chortling fools who were encouraging Mrs Pollard to kick her legs higher as the poor photographer tried to get Gordon’s family group on file.

  I signalled to Mary to move aside, and indicated that I wanted to talk to her. She recognised the concern on my face, and inched away from the ogling crowd.

  Where there is a focal point for trouble, one solution is to remove that focal point; on this occasion, it meant neutralising Mrs Pollard in some way. She was the catalyst; she was playing to the audience of Liverpudlian admirers and causing everlasting embarrassment to her unfortunate daughter. Gordon’s relations wouldn’t stand for much more.

  Desperate tactics were needed and as I moved aside to talk with Mary, a dreadful scheme crossed my mind. Even as I reached Mary, Mrs Pollard had kicked the camera’s tripod over and was trying to dance with the photographer, as her grinning clan stood around and clapped like natives during a ritual dance. For my plan, Mary was neutral; very few knew who she was.

  “Mary,” I whispered as she reached me. “Go to the pub and ask George to remove every drop of liquor from the reception, quickly. Have a bottle of wine ready for the top table, for the bride and groom, but tell him, from me, that there’s going to be trouble if this lot have more to drink. Replace the guests’ wine with bottles of tonic water or something non-alcoholic. I’ll take the responsibility for that. Tell him also, I think he’d better close his pub before the reception. We don’t want this lot getting tight in there. Tell him they’re likely to wreck his bar for the fun of it.”

  “Will he do all that?” she asked.

  “Tell him what’s going on, then I’m sure he will. Then, while I create a diversion here, ring the office and get a police car to patrol the street. There will be one in the area, it’ll be patrolling my beat in my absence. Tell them from me it’s important. If there’s a double crew, then that will be better. Got it?”

  She looked at me slyly and I knew what was going through her mind.

  “Best man, eh?” she grinned. “Gordon’s no fool . . . now you know why he asked you!”

  “Rubbish!” I snorted, and returned to the melee as she hurried about her mission. I began my diversion. I took the harassed photographer to one side, and said we needed the bride and groom photographed while shaking hands with each of the guests. I knew this would take a long time, and it might placate some of them; I spoke to Gordon and Sharon who agreed, and so the marathon began. Sharon was viciously cursing her mother who tried to pop up behind the groups, two fingers raised, and the language from the others was boisterous, rude and crude. But this part of the ploy was working.

  The buffet could wait while everyone was pictured, and thanks now to the antics of Mrs Pollard, it was taking a considerable time. This suited me — I needed time. Then I saw Mary pushing through the throng, and she was smiling.

  “I’ve seen George, and he’s going to move the drinks out. He thanked you for the warning. He says the waiter will produce a bottle of wine for the groom and bride when it’s needed — if it’s left on the table somebody will pinch it. He’ll close the pub now, he says.”

  “Good. Now, did you find a car?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Bairstow was in the office when I rang, and he’s coming right away.”

  “Good. I must talk to him without this lot seeing me. When he comes, look out for him, and ask him to drive into the garage. I’ll ring him there from the pub’s phone.”

  “You’re being very devious!” she said, with a worried frown.

  “We’re dealing with a very volatile and devious bunch,” I said. “Just look out for the Ashfordly car, please.”

  Ten minutes went by; Mrs Pollard took another long swig from a bottle she pulled from her handbag, and she paraded before the admiring Liverpudlians to raucous guffaws and loud hand-clapping. Gordon, I felt, was very patient; his poor little wife spent her time in an embarrassed silence.

  Eventually, above the heads of the crowd, I noticed the police car enter the village and glide smoothly along the street. I did not acknowledge it. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mary detach herself from a little mob and talk to Sergeant Bairstow, who then drove onwards and turned on to the garage forecourt. He vanished from view; Mary raised her hand and I recognised the signal.

  “I’m just going over to the pub,” I called loudly to Gordon, “won’t be a tick. I want to check the buffet.”

  He nodded, but the others who heard my words did not react. I began to feel a little happier as I tapped on the front door which George had already locked, and he let me in.

  “Can I use your phone please, George. It’s important.”

  “They’re a rough bloody lot, Mr Rhea,” he said. “We don’t often see weddings like that here.”

  “We don’t George. Now, I’m going to prevent trouble — I hope.”

  He led me to the telephone and I rang Aidensfield Garage, only a few yards up the street, and asked if Sergeant Bairstow was there. He was, and he was brought to the phone.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I announced. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “What’s all the fuss, Nick?” he laughed. “I see you’ve got a right shower here today!”

  “It’s the bride’s mother, a real troublemaker. She’s going to stir up something . . . she’s drinking herself into a stupor and it seems she intends wrecking the wedding reception; she’ll get the backing of these louts for whatever she does. I fear for the reception. I’ve moved all the booze away.”

  “And you want rid of the old lady?” he anticipated my request.

  “Yes.”

  “Any ideas?” he asked me.

  “She’s called Pollard, and she’s one of a rough family clan from Liverpool. They’re all villains, I reckon, and she’s obviously the ring-leader.”

  “Go on.”

  “I thought about having her arrested for something, like suspicion of being wanted on warrant for non-payment of a fine, or anything. Conduct likely to cause a breach of the peace even. Just to keep her out of the way until the reception’s over, and the bride’s left for her honeymoon.”

  “Very devious, young Nick, very devious and highly improper!”

  “But very practicable and a means of preventing crime,” I retorted. “If she stays, they’ll do something bloody awful. She’s out to make the groom suffer.”

  “If we go in there, in uniform, to lift her, we’ll start a riot!”

  “I will bring her here, to the garage. All you do is take her away for a couple of horns.”

  “You say this lot are the Pollards from Liverpool?” he said.

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “Then they are a right set of villains. Right, Nick, you’re on.”

  I was surprised he knew of their reputation. I replaced the telephone and returned to the fray. There was more loud singing and bawdy shouting, and I saw Mrs Pollard stagger to one side as someone tried to dance with her in the street. I approached her.

  “Mrs Pollard,” I whispered, “I’m the best man.”

  “I seen yer, mister best man . . .”

  “We’ve arranged a special picture session for you, in colour,” I whispered. “As a treat, for the bride’s mum. But I don’t want the others to know.”

  “Colour? Me?” and she lifted her skirts to show off those green pantaloons.

  “Sssh!” I hissed. “Just come with me . . .”

  She stooped low, as if ducking under low arches, and we crept away from the crowd; someone shouted after her, but she put her finger to her lips and indicated silence. The man
withdrew, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The walk to the garage was about a hundred yards, and soon we were out of sight.

  “It’s a studio down here,” I said, clutching her arm.

  I took her into the office of the garage, and there Sergeant Bairstow and P.C. Alwyn Foxton awaited.

  “Jessie Pollard?” he asked, and the sight of the uniform sobered her immediately. I was surprised when he used her Christian name.

  “Bastards!” she hissed. “You bastards!”

  “Jessie Pollard,” chanted Sergeant Bairstow, “I am arresting you for failing to answer bail this morning, when you were ordered to appear today at Liverpool Magistrates’ Court on a charge of shoplifting . . .”

  Her reply was unprintable, and she fell to the ground, shouting and swearing, kicking her legs in the air and generally creating a mini-riot all of her own. But Sergeant Bairstow and Alwyn between them were able to cope, and bundled her into the rear seat of the two-door car, then sped off in the opposite direction to avoid her family.

  I returned to the gathering, and saw that the photographer was having some success. I waited until everyone had been pictured, and then shouted over their heads that it was time to eat.

  It is not necessary to recount the progress of the reception, except to say that I stood before the gathering and apologised for the lack of alcohol by saying the hall was a temperance hall. The only alcoholic drinks permitted were those for the bride and groom. There was a lot of muttering and shuffling of feet, but as the reception got under way, the good food kept both sides happy.

  I also announced the absence of the bride’s mother by saying we had arranged a surprise for Mrs Pollard, a special photographic session in Malton, and so she could not attend the reception. Actually, it was true, because her photo would be taken in the cells. She might be back to see the departure of the bride and groom, I said, and everyone cheered. George’s food was splendid, and the drinks he had supplied seemed to placate the turbulent crowd. The speeches were well received, and by two o’clock, it was time for bride and groom to leave. Two o’clock was also the official closing time for the local pubs, and so another little crisis was averted. The pub was officially shut.

  Gordon and his happy bride got away safely and I was pleased. Mrs Pollard’s real moment of triumph, whatever it was going to be, had evaporated, and she spent the rest of the day in Malton Police Station awaiting an escort from Liverpool Police. She was not going to miss her court appearance a second time.

  Two days later, when I saw Sergeant Bairstow, I said, “Thanks for coming to the rescue, Sergeant. You saved the day.”

  “No; thank you, Nick. That woman was wanted for jumping bail in Liverpool. She was Jessie Pollard.”

  “Was she?”

  “Not long before your wife rang with that weird message, we received a call from Liverpool to say she’d jumped bail. They knew she was attending her daughter’s wedding somewhere near Ashfordly, and suggested we knock her off after the wedding. We checked with churches and register offices in the area, and the Aidensfield wedding was the only one. We were going to sit and wait until things were over, then move in and arrest her for Liverpool. She’s a right villain, they say.”

  “So if she had not jumped bail, you might not have come to my rescue?”

  “That’s an academic question, Nick old son,” he grinned.

  But I wondered how many grooms had commenced their married life by getting their mother-in-law arrested.

  Chapter Nine

  And they are gone; aye, ages long ago,

  These lovers fled away into the storm.

  JOHN KEATS, 1795–1821

  Irene Hood was a shy, bespectacled girl of around nineteen when I first became aware of her existence. She was not the prettiest of young ladies but she had a lovely personality and charming manners, each made more attractive by her modest behaviour and quiet life-style.

  Every morning, she would push her red pedal cycle down the grassy track beside the large house in Aidensfield where she lived, and would ride along the leafy lanes to Maddleskirk Abbey where she worked in the kitchens. I was never quite sure what her duties were, but it was something fairly mundane like looking after the vegetables and laying the tables for the daily turn-over of 120 meals. This undemanding work kept Irene content and her meagre earnings enabled her to buy sufficient clothes for her needs, and helped her to maintain her bicycle and save a little in the post office.

  Her mouse-like existence came gradually to my attention; sometimes when I was on early patrol, I would park my Francis-Barnett near the telephone kiosks either outside Maddleskirk Abbey or near Aidensfield Post Office. If I chanced to be at either place between twenty minutes to eight and ten minutes to eight, I would see Irene on her polished bicycle heading towards the Abbey.

  In winter, she rode with her head down against the fierce winds which drove through the valley, and she wore a khaki-coloured anorak with a hood which concealed her face. On her feet would be sensible rubber boots and thick leggings, so that the figure beneath all this clothing remained rather a mystery.

  By the time summer came, the same bicycle bore a young lady with short sandy hair, heavy spectacles and a working smock of dark green which covered sensible dresses and legs which wore thick brown stockings and flat shoes. The face beneath the spectacles was pale and slightly freckled, and she had grey/green eyes, nice sound teeth and, when the mood took her, a pretty smile.

  Each working morning therefore she rode this cycle to work and each evening at four thirty she rode it back to Aidensfield. My regular trips along the lane between the Abbey and Aidensfield made me aware of this girl’s journeys, and I mentally logged this information as a piece of my growing store of local happenings, which might or might not one day be of value. At that stage, I did not know the girl’s name, or where she lived.

  As time went by, I sometimes noticed her pushing her cycle up the grassy path at the side of a long, low house built of brick. At the time this knowledge meant nothing to me, but as the weeks and months passed, I learned that the brick house was owned by a Miss Sadie Breckon, and that the quiet girl was Irene Hood, her niece.

  At least, everyone said it was aunt and niece. Some persistent gossip hinted the girl was the natural daughter of Sadie Breckon, and that she had been adopted with a changed name for appearances’ sake. Whatever the history of the two women, they kept themselves very much out of village activities, and Miss Sadie’s only trips were to the post office for stamps and to the shops for her groceries. Where they bought things which would not be obtained in the village, no one knew, unless they resorted to catalogues for their clothes and furniture.

  Sadie Breckon did not have a job, and I do not know how she supported herself; the house was huge and was probably paid for, but there were running expenses, rates and heating plus the day-to-day living costs of the two women it sheltered. Irene’s income would barely support her, so I guessed that Sadie must have a private income.

  Over the following months, I observed that young Irene had become unhappy. Although it is no part of a village policeman’s duties to make unhappy girls happy I was a little concerned; my observations were born of regular sightings of the girl, and of the telling change in her facial appearance. Instead of the open, placid face I associated with my early sightings of Irene, there was now a morose appearance. I hoped it did not herald some unpleasant work for me — young girls with problems were liable to do awful things to themselves, but I felt Irene was too sensible to behave stupidly.

  On several occasions, I passed her in the street when I was walking along the footpath. She would pass by with a sad smile, but would never speak unless I bade her “good morning” or “good afternoon”. Then she would smile her quick reply before scurrying off, head down, into Aunt Sadie’s long brick house. I got the impression of a lonely, unhappy teenager.

  I think it is fair to say that these observations were made in passing moments; they were fleeting impressions of a young girl without sex
appeal. A mouse. Almost a nonentity. A girl who never mixed, and whose life-style behind those brick walls was of no interest to anyone. Probably, I would have forgotten all about Irene had it not been for Andrew Pugh.

  Andrew drove the bread-van which called at the Abbey’s kitchens every day around eight-thirty; it came from Scarborough on a regular run, and I used to see it entering Aidensfield, where it called at the shop, and then went along the lane towards Maddleskirk Abbey. I never had cause to talk to the driver or to become acquainted with him, and it was some time later that I learned of Andrew’s name and job.

  It seemed that after Andrew had unloaded a massive daily order of bread, teacakes and buns at the Abbey, he would chat to the shy girl who brewed him a quick coffee. That girl was Irene. From those morning chats there developed a stronger liaison, and it wasn’t long before Irene found herself deeply in love.

  Andrew, it seems, had also fallen head over heels in love with this shy country lass. She was so refreshingly different from the loud, forceful girls he knew at home, and he became spellbound with her calm face and smiling eyes. But he lived at Scarborough which was an hour’s drive from Aidensfield. He did possess a motorcycle, but that was not the solution to his problem. The snag was that Sadie wouldn’t let Irene out of the house after work. If Andrew wanted to see her other than during his quick morning coffee break, he had to drive out of Scarborough on a Sunday morning and park in Aidensfield. He knew that Sadie and Irene walked side by side to the little Methodist chapel at 10.30 a.m. and back again at 11.30 a.m. each Sunday morning.

  But cups of coffee in a monastery kitchen, and sly casts behind Aunty’s back near the chapel railings, are no way to conduct a romance. This was the reason for Irene’s misery. There must have been love if Andrew bothered to drive nearly forty miles on a Sunday morning for little more than a glimpse of his beloved in her best clothes.