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

by Nicholas Rhea

  I am not quite sure when I was made aware of these facts, but they are the kind of information that a village police officer assimilates during his day-to-day contact with the people. I had never been inside Sadie’s large brick house, nor had I ever spoken to Aunt Sadie; indeed, other than my formal greetings on the footpath, I had never held a conversation with Irene.

  And then, by one of those peculiar flukes of circumstances, two motorcars collided in Aidensfield village street just as Sadie was heading towards the post office to buy some stamps. She saw everything, and one of the drivers had the foresight to take her name before reporting the accident to the police.

  This singular act meant that I had to call upon Aunt Sadie to take a written statement from her. I needed her account of the accident because she was the only independent witness. As I walked up that grass path to the rear door of the long, interesting building, all these little facets of Irene’s life registered in my mind.

  It was a Tuesday evening when I knocked, a late spring evening with darkness yet to come. The back kitchen door needed a coat of paint; it was black and the old paint was peeling off; following my knock, I heard footsteps and Irene answered.

  “Oh, hello,” I said in recognition. “Is Miss Sadie Breckon in?”

  “It’s my aunt, I’ll bring her,” and she dipped indoors in a trice, vanishing into the dark interior and leaving me on the stone doorstep.

  Soon, the lady of the house arrived and smiled at me, albeit with some concern on her face.

  “Miss Breckon?” I asked. “Sadie Breckon?”

  “Yes, is it about the accident?”

  “It is,” I said. “I believe you witnessed it.”

  “Yes, I did. Come in. It’s Mr Rhea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, we haven’t met,” and I stepped into the dark house, removing my cap as I did so, and then I shook hands with her. She led me through the back porch, where I noticed a stock of coal and Irene’s bicycle. We entered an old-fashioned kitchen where there was a Yorkist range with a coal fire blazing cheerily in the grate. The timeless picture was completed by a kettle singing on the range, a floor of flagged sandstones and several clip rugs scattered about the room. It was like stepping back half a century or more, but the place was beautifully warm and snug.

  I passed the scrubbed wooden table, stepped down into the next room and found myself in another old-fashioned area. There was an old horsehair settee, lots of rugs and plants about the place, and ancient pictures on the walls, many depicting long-dead ancestors. It was a veritable museum. Irene was standing in front of one of the chairs.

  “This is my niece, Irene,” and I smiled at her.

  “Yes, we pass each other most mornings, don’t we, Irene? I’m pleased to meet you,” and the girl shook my hand delicately, her eyes not meeting mine as she blushed. Her cheeks turned a bright red and she knew this was happening, so she sat down and buried herself in a book.

  “She reads a lot,” her aunt said. “Romances, gothics, that sort of thing, filling her head with all kinds of notions.”

  “There’s not a lot for a young girl to do in the village,” I sympathised with Irene.

  “They can get into trouble anywhere!” snapped the aunt, and I had no idea what lay behind that remark.

  Now that we were in the room, as it was termed, she settled me on the horsehair settee and smiled. “Well, tell me what you want to know, Mr Rhea.”

  I reminded her briefly about the circumstances of the collision and she nodded in agreement. “Yes,” she beamed. “I saw everything. Such a silly man. I wrote his number down,” and she disappeared into an adjoining room to locate a piece of paper. I looked about the room and smiled at Irene who caught my eye with a shy glance before Aunt Sadie returned flourishing a piece of paper. It was a comparatively simple task to get the statement written down in chronological order, and she was quite happy to add her signature at its conclusion.

  That short visit was my first to this strangely old-fashioned home, but it did enable me to speak to the shy girl whom I saw most mornings. Thereafter when she passed, she would hold her head high and smile at me, sometimes returning my wave of greeting. I did notice, on Sundays, the youth with the motorcycle who parked near the chapel railings, as the congregation left. Sometimes, I noticed the surreptitious glances or signs that passed between him and Irene, and felt sorry for the restricted life of this pleasant girl.

  I had no idea how restricted it was until she halted one morning with tears in her eyes. I was sitting astride my machine, doing little more than while away five minutes before making a point at Maddleskirk Abbey telephone kiosk. Irene halted her bicycle in the manner adopted by so many lady riders — she didn’t use the brakes, but allowed her left foot to scud along the ground until the bike was compelled to halt beside me.

  I smiled.

  “Good morning, Irene. How’s that aunt of yours?”

  I saw tears in the girl’s eyes, and immediately wished I hadn’t sounded so jovial.

  “I don’t care!” she said. Her calm face had a sullen pout and an air of utter misery.

  “Something wrong?” I wondered why she had stopped to talk to me.

  “I don’t know who can help me,” she wept gently. “I was always told by Aunt Sadie that policemen are there to help people . . .”

  “Yes, we are. If it’s something I can help with, I’ll be only too pleased to listen. Do you want to talk here?”

  “There’s nowhere else.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Besides, I mustn’t be late.”

  “Well,” I spread my hands in a gesture of openness, “here I am.”

  “It’s Aunt Sadie,” she said. “She . . . well, Mr Rhea, she’s so old-fashioned . . . you see, I have met this boy . . . and . . .”

  I finished the sentence for her, “And she won’t let you meet him?”

  Irene nodded.

  I continued, “Is that the young man who comes on a Sunday, with his motorbike?”

  “Yes, I’m not allowed out to meet him, you see, not at all, never. He sees me at work, when I make his coffee . . .”

  She explained about the bread deliveries and I began to understand. She told of the tribulations in her sheltered life, and I felt very sorry for her. I began to wonder if Aunt Sadie was really the girl’s mother, and whether Aunt Sadie had experienced some unfortunate love affair in her sheltered past . . . perhaps this was her way of protecting this quiet girl from a similar fate?

  I listened carefully, and realised it was beyond my powers; although I had every wish to see this girl happy and content, I felt it was not part of a policeman’s duty to interfere with domestic arrangements. Yet I did not like to tell Irene this; she had come to me seeking help.

  When she had finished her catalogue of sorrow, she said, “And now, Mr Rhea,” then burst into a flood of tears, “Andrew says he will not come to see me any more, not after chapel, and not for coffee . . . he’ll bring a flask, unless I meet him after work, or take him home . . .”

  “I can understand him saying that, Irene,” I said. “He drives an awful long way just for a glimpse of you on Sundays, and if his only chat is over a quick coffee, with folks standing around, I’m surprised he’s been so persistent and faithful to you. Many lads would have given up weeks ago.”

  “Yes, I know, but he loves me, you see. He honestly does.”

  “I don’t doubt it for one minute, Irene. But have you told your aunt about him?”

  “Told her? Oh, no, I daren’t do that! She’s never let me go out alone, and if she knew I had a boyfriend she might stop me going to work . . . she’s very funny about boys . . .”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “Mr Rhea, you must help me. Please. Can’t you just ask her to let me see him?”

  “It must have taken a lot of courage for you to approach me?”

  “There’s nobody at work, they’d just laugh at me. They don’t understand. I thought about the minister at the chapel, but he’s friendly with Aunt Sadie a
nd, well, you are a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” I was thinking fast. “Look,” I said, “will you be at chapel this coming Sunday?”

  “We never miss.”

  “And Andrew? Can you persuade him to ride out once more?”

  “I think so. Have you something in mind?”

  “I was thinking. I have to see your aunt about a small query in that statement of hers. It’s just a question of clarifying a small point. I could catch her outside the chapel on Sunday, and you could walk on and talk to Andrew. I’ll discuss my point with her, and then I’ll tell her what a nice lad you’ve found. I’ll do my best to break the ice for you. How about that?”

  Although my bland assurances cheered her immensely, I knew I was treading on very thin ice. If things went wrong, I could be blamed for all sorts, but I am a sucker for a pretty face with problems.

  “Tell Andrew, won’t you?” I said. “If a policeman turns up when he’s parked there, he might think he’s going to get moved on or something. If he drives away, our plans will be ruined.”

  She smiled and wiped away a tear. “Yes, I’ll tell him this morning.”

  On Sunday, some twenty minutes before chapel was due to finish, I drove down the village in full uniform and parked near the railings. Andrew was already there. I removed my helmet, approached him and we shook hands. He impressed me as a very genuine lad, tall and confident with a head of carroty-coloured hair and a ready grin.

  “Hello, you must be Andrew,” I said.

  “And you are Mr Rhea. It’s good of you to try this for us.”

  “I only hope Aunt Sadie gives a little. You’ve an uphill battle there, young Andrew,” I warned him. “She’s a peculiar old thing, you know.”

  “I know, Irene’s told me all about her.”

  I went over the plans and asked him to keep his fingers crossed. We occupied ourselves with small talk until the first of the congregation emerged. Aunt Sadie came out with Irene following closely, almost hiding herself as if to avoid the confrontation that must surely follow.

  “Right, Andrew?”

  “Yes, Mr Rhea,” and I walked away from him. “Miss Breckon?” I called loudly for I wanted her to see me leaving this lad’s presence; I wanted her to know I had been talking to him, the suggestion being that I knew him.

  “Oh, Mr Rhea!”

  “I’m sorry to bother you just after chapel, but I have a small point to clarify in your statement. I have it here . . .” and I began to delve into my uniform pocket for the necessary papers.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Irene walk away from her aunt and move steadily towards the waiting Andrew. I kept her occupied. “The problem is the car number you quoted,” I began, “You said it belonged to the green Vauxhall, or the green car as you said, whereas both drivers state that the number you wrote down belongs to a tan car, a Hillman it was. Can we check it, please? You’ve got your piece of paper?”

  This was the genuine enquiry which I was using to its ultimate; as I spoke, I saw Sadie’s eyes follow Irene, so I said, “I’ve just been talking to that young man. He’s very nice and says he knows Irene from work.”

  “She didn’t tell me she knew any men!” she retorted.

  “Oh, it’s just an acquaintance,” I said. “Do you mind if they chat while we check this number?”

  She looked at Irene, now smiling at Andrew, and I knew I had confused her.

  “Yes, you’d better come in, Mr Rhea. Irene,” she called, “dinner is at twelve.”

  It was now half-past eleven. Was this a clear half-hour for Irene, or a reminder for the girl to come indoors and help with the preparation? But I strode inside with her and she had kept the piece of paper with the car number; it was tucked behind the tea caddy on the mantelpiece. She had written several snippets of information on it, and the car number was quite clearly recorded. It said “green” beside it.

  I saw Aunt Sadie screwing up her eyes as she tried to recollect the precise sequence of events, and then she said, “No, you are right, Mr Rhea. The word ‘green’ refers to the driver’s jacket. A green jacket, not a green car.”

  “In that case, I’ll need a supplementary statement to correct the first one. Can we do it now?”

  She looked out of the window; Irene and Andrew were in full view; I had suggested this to him — “Don’t go out of her sight!” I’d warned him.

  It took only five minutes to complete my formalities and I took my leave of her. The Sunday dinner was cooking and its lovely smell filled the kitchen.

  “That smells good!” I said. “You’re making me feel hungry.”

  “I believe in good food, Mr Rhea, and a good life,” at which she looked out of the window again.

  “Miss Breckon,” I asked, following the line of her gaze, “would you allow Irene to meet that boy again if she wanted?” She looked at me steadily, and her eyes went moist, just a shade.

  “If she must!” she stammered. “But I want no trouble . . . none. Not from lads . . . I know what they can be . . .”

  “Perhaps if he always came when you were here too . . .”

  “Well, of course that would be all right. I mean, that’s how things were done in the old days, before all this permissiveness. Girls introduced their beaux to their parents and there were always chaperones on hand . . . besides, Mr Rhea, it is not the duty of a girl to invite a man to her home. It is the duty of the man to call and seek permission from the parents or guardians, if he wishes to escort a girl . . .”

  “If that young man called here, could he walk in the village with Irene?” I put to her, surprised at her old-fashioned views.

  “I should consider it, Mr Rhea,” she said pertly.

  “You will not be angry with Irene for talking to him alone, now?” I asked, tongue in cheek.

  “No, if that young man is an acquaintance at work, then it would be discourteous to ignore him. I can see they are behaving in a perfectly proper way, and I have no objections.” She spoke rather stiffly, I felt, as she paid great attention to the old-fashioned rules of courtesy.

  “Shall I tell Irene to come in when I leave?” I asked.

  “I think the young man should make himself known to me,” she stated. “I think that is his primary duty.”

  I wondered where she had unearthed these Victorian ideas, but it seemed she was agreeable to Irene’s courtship on condition it complied with those outmoded guidelines. How on earth Irene was supposed to know those old rules, or how Andrew was supposed to equate with them, was something they would have to learn for themselves. But the ice had been broken.

  I left the house and walked over to them. Both smiled at me, Irene with a definite look of apprehension on her face.

  “She’s fine,” I said, “but she’s living by some Victorian book of etiquette, I think. Andrew, this all depends on you. She will allow you to walk out with Irene, if you make a formal request. That means going to the house now, introducing yourself, and behaving like a gentleman of a bygone age. You must ask the guardian of Irene — that’s Aunt Sadie — for permission to meet with her and walk with her. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “She’ll see me now?” He seemed amazed.

  “She’s fine,” I said, “but she’s living in a different world from us. Once you can understand that, you’ll get on with her. Right, get yourself over to that front door and tell Aunt Sadie who you are, where you are from, and tell her you’d like to escort Irene. That’s how it used to be done.”

  Irene smiled. “Come along, Andrew, or should I call you Mr Pugh?”

  “He’s Mr Pugh for the time being!” I laughed, and left them to their new role. As I started my motorcycle and turned it around, I saw them crossing the road towards Aunt Sadie’s red-brick house.

  Next time I saw Irene, she stopped her bicycle and smiled at me. She looked relaxed and happy.

  “That Sunday, Mr Rhea, well, Aunt Sadie invited Andrew to stay for dinner. She allowed him to walk me up and down the village
because he’d knocked on the door and asked. We had Sunday dinner together, with her as chaperone. It was quite nice, and we all went for a walk in the afternoon.”

  “So she was better than you thought, eh?”

  “Mmm, much better. In fact, she’s taken a liking to Andrew. He can come every Wednesday evening and Saturday evening to walk about, and we can meet after chapel on Sundays. She says he can have Sunday dinner with us and we walk out in the afternoon.”

  “Well, let’s hope things work out for you. You’re lucky to find such a nice lad, Irene.”

  “I know,” and she blushed as she remounted her trusty bicycle and pedalled off to work.

  Over the following few months, everything seemed fine with Irene and Andrew. He did not object to his visits being arranged and supervised by the watchful Aunt Sadie, and seemed happy to accept this as a condition for seeing Irene. I did not visit the house any more, although I would have welcomed an opportunity to view the entire premises. It was more like a Victorian museum than a modern household and as I passed from time to time, I noticed the aspidistras in the windows, and a pair of green witch globes dangling from a curtain rail. Truly, it was a house of the past.

  But if the house and Aunt Sadie were relics from a past age, Irene and Andrew wanted to live and love in accordance with the norms of the twentieth century. This must have presented considerable difficulties and I wondered if Aunt Sadie abided by the words of Robert Browning when he wrote, “All’s love, yet all’s law.”

  But if Aunt Sadie’s strict rules about love frustrated their lives, I have no doubt that the happy pair were fortified by words from Sadie’s own Bible which said, “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.”

  As the weeks passed from spring into summer, their friendship and love grew stronger. The virile Andrew, who must have been a man of infinite love and patience, wanted to spend some time alone with his Irene. And Irene, being a blossoming girl, wanted to spend time alone with Andrew.

  Aunt Sadie contrived to frustrate this event; she was a chaperone to beat all chaperones, one who could not be dodged or avoided, and one whose duties were clearly fixed in her old-fashioned head.