CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ grunted Blaketon. ‘Rhea, you never briefed me about this performance.’

  ‘I had no idea, Sergeant, but it’s a bit like the bride kissing a chimney sweep, it brings good luck!’

  ‘Greengrass bringing good luck? I’ll never believe that, so help me!’

  I now saw that Claude had a large cauldron below his table and it was full of a foul-looking brew; he swirled it with a massive wooden spoon as he grinned at the helpless Blaketon, saying, ‘It has to be spiced an’ all, so I’ve brought a few eastern promises along. There’s bits of all sorts in this; it’s t’best bride ale this side of the pyramids, Sergeant. By gum, with a drop of this stuff inside ’em, they’ll have a whale of a time in that marquee, there’ll be a fair bit of hair letting down tonight. You know, if this stuff’s popular, I might patent the recipe. How about that for a money-making idea, eh? Homebrewed bride ale, suitable for all weddings, luckier than horseshoes and cleaner than chimney sweeps . . .’

  ‘Rhea, can’t we stop this?’

  ‘It was Mr Perry-Smith’s idea,’ smiled the usher. ‘A surprise for everyone. He cleared it with the chief constable first, of course, you know, the legality side of things. So, Mr Greengrass, when everyone emerges, you offer them a glass of your bride ale.’

  Claude’s brew was the hit of the day. I tasted some and it was surprisingly palatable, and soon everyone was milling around with a glass in their hands as the first batch of official photographs were being taken. Even Sergeant Blaketon consented to taste a drop and didn’t spit it out and so the bride ale plan had been a successful surprise.

  Then, as everyone was moving away to the reception, Mr Perry-Smith called to Claude, ‘See you at the reception, Claude? Thanks for arranging this surprise.’

  ‘Aye, right, thanks. I am a bit hungry and could just see off a bit of smoked salmon and caviare, washed down with the best champagne . . .’

  ‘And you, PC Rhea.’

  But Sergeant Blaketon, an attempted gatecrasher, had not been invited at the outset and, as we all made our way from the church, I felt rather sorry for him. But it was his own fault — he had no cause to impose himself upon the wedding. Then as the chief constable left the church, he went across and shook Blaketon’s hand, saying, ‘It all went very well, Sergeant, thank you for coming.’ And that was that.

  But as everyone was heading for the marquee, Mrs Perry-Smith noticed Blaketon.

  ‘I’ll send a piece of wedding cake to the police station,’ she called after him.

  * * *

  The financing of an Anglican parish church is a complex affair, with rules governing the use of monies collected in church and more rules governing monies collected outside the church which are destined for ‘church purposes’. Over and above such rules, there is a common-law duty of the parishioners to maintain their parish church in repair which means they are ultimately liable to provide the funds necessary to keep the fabric of the church in proper repair.

  The precise interpretation of this provision has been questioned; in my time at Aidensfield, nothing in the Compulsory Church Rate Abolition Act of 1868 or in the Parochial Church Councils (Powers) Measure of 1921 altered that duty. It was in 1921, however, that the duties and liabilities of the churchwardens relating to the care, maintenance, preservation and insurance of the fabric of the church were transferred to the parochial church council; nonetheless, it remained the duty of the parishioners to repair their parish church.

  One exception was the chancel — in this case, the responsibility for repairs rested with the rector, unless there was a custom for the parishioners to repair it. And it was that custom which led to a problem at Aidensfield. In the case of Aidensfield, it seemed that Henry VIII, prior to creating his Church of England and making himself head of the church instead of the pope, had enshrined that custom in the form of a written order. In simple terms, it said that people living in the parish of Aidensfield were responsible for repairs to the chancel of their parish church. The effect of this was, of course, to make the parishioners responsible for the entire building — on the face of things, a sensible notion.

  Over the years, collections had been made on a regular basis and most of the necessary work had been undertaken. The church seemed to be in good repair. But apparently there had been problems with the chancel for some years; precisely what those problems were had never been made public but money had been raised by the parishioners and used for work that was, in effect, little more than a cosmetic exercise.

  It had involved superficial repairs such as filling in cracks and painting them over or treating any dampness with modern cover-up methods. The new vicar, the Reverend Christian Lord, sensed that something more serious was wrong and that the underlying problem had never been identified. As a consequence, he decided to arrange a thorough examination of the building by experts. It was then discovered that the ancient wooden beams beneath the floor of the chancel were rotten. Over many decades, water had seeped into the foundations and the thick supporting beams were like soggy blotting paper — urgent and major repairs were needed. The task of removing everything from the chancel, including the altar, was daunting, but if the floor was to be repaired and sealed to prevent a repetition, it had to be done. There was no alternative. The next stage was to determine the cost. The first all-inclusive estimate came to a staggering £95,000.

  It was then that The Revd Lord settled down to examine ways of raising the money; officially designated the rector of Aidensfield, he came across the old law that the rector was responsible for the upkeep of the chancel, except in the case of Aidensfield where it appeared to rest with the parishioners. But on reading the rule carefully, the wording did not say ‘parishioners’, it said that people living within the parish of Aidensfield were responsible for the chancel — and that included everyone, not merely those who attended the Anglican church. According to that wording, it included Catholics, Methodists, Quakers, non-Christians — the lot. Furthermore, it said that the constable was responsible for collecting the money!

  Armed with this discovery, Christian Lord asked if I would mind popping in to have a chat with him — he said it would be better done at the rectory because all the relevant papers were too many to carry with him. I agreed. After explaining his discovery, he said, ‘I realize this has nothing to do with the police, Nick, but as the constable is mentioned in the statute, I thought you had better be told. It looks as though you have to go around and gather the money.’ He looked worried as he imparted this piece of information.

  At that stage, however, he did not tell me how much money was required.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Christian!’ I cried. ‘That reference is to the old parish constables of centuries ago, not the modern policeman.’

  ‘It’s all written down here, Nick. “It shall be the duty of the constable of Aidensfield to collect the monies.” It’s all here, in black-and-white. You are the constable.’

  ‘But it’s not part of a policeman’s duties to go around collecting dues for the established church, Christian. Those days have long gone — you need an official collection agent, someone appointed especially to undertake that duty.’

  ‘The whole thing’s going to cause an immense fuss,’ he said. ‘Look, do you know how many regular parishioners I have?’

  ‘No idea,’ I shook my head. ‘I’m a Catholic, I go to my own church.’

  ‘Sixty at the outside. Twenty regulars, the others mainly at Christmas and Easter. Now, if I ask them to pay for those repairs . . .’

  ‘Which is their statutory duty!’ I smiled.

  ‘And which will cost £95,000,’ he grimaced.

  ‘How much?’ I almost shouted.

  He repeated the figure. I did a rapid piece of mental arithmetic and worked out that each of his parishioners had to find around £1583 — some three or four years’ wages for the average person living on these moors. It was then that he revealed that the wording referred to all the people living within the p
arish, rather than those who attended the Anglican church. That would considerably reduce individual payments, but I said, ‘But, Christian, you can’t make them pay! There’s non-Christians, Catholics, Quakers and others.’

  ‘There is provision for us to seek a court order to compel payments.’ He hung his head as he uttered those words. ‘Things were harsh in the days of Henry VIII!’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ The aftermath of Henry’s actions led to two or three bleak centuries for Catholics in England with executions and confiscation of their lands and property. ‘Look, if the people of the village were asked to give money, or attend a fund-raising event or buy raffle tickets, they’d support your case, but you can’t go demanding money from them. I know the Catholics would support you — they want the church to be in good condition when it’s returned to them!’ It was an old comment, often used, and I couldn’t resist it. ‘So how many people live in the parish of Aidensfield?’

  ‘Four hundred and fifty in round terms,’ he said. ‘There are two hundred and fifty houses in the parish.’

  ‘So if every household was asked to pay the cost, each paying the same amount, you’d be asking £380 from every house. Slightly less than a year’s wages for some of our local people. That’s a crippling demand, Christian. You can’t do it, it’s evil.’

  ‘I have no alternative,’ he said slowly. ‘None at all.’

  ‘You mean you are going ahead? But I refuse to knock on people’s doors, as a village policeman, to collect debts of that kind. I cannot do it. It’s not part of my official duties, and I won’t do it when I’m off duty either!’

  ‘I knew you could not accept, but I had to ask. I will now send a letter to everyone in the village to put my case. And then I’ll await the flack!’ he grimaced.

  ‘You know you’ll never get money by using those tactics!’ I wondered why he was smiling.

  ‘But I will get publicity’ He smiled now. ‘Someone is bound to inform the newspapers and the publicity might jerk the Church Commissioners and the diocese into doing something . . . they’re dragging their heels at the moment. No one wants to know about our problems.’

  The Reverend Lord did send his letter and the accompanying demand for £380 per household to everyone living in Aidensfield and it produced a furious response. Some even went to the rectory to vent their anger by hammering on the door and shouting abuse, others just ignored it, many felt it was nothing to do with them and some didn’t even open the letter, thinking it was a circular of some kind. But his ruse worked.

  One of the recipients rang the Daily Mail and within days a reporter and photographer had arrived and the story made national news. There were photographs of the chancel, as yet untouched by the workmen, quotes from the experts who had discovered the cause of the problem and before too long, the village of Aidensfield was featured on television, radio and in other papers, both local and national.

  One result was unexpected — people who had read about the dilemma facing the parish sent in donations; small cheques and postal orders flooded into the rectory. One man sent a cheque for £3,000 saying his ancestors were buried in Aidensfield and he loved the church; a national newspaper organized its own appeal; people in the vicinity offered to organize money-raising events ranging from concerts to guessing the weight of pigs and the village rallied to the support of the Revd Lord. Thanks to the publicity, £19,000 had been raised or promised within a week, an astonishing sum, but it was enough for the authorities to give the go-ahead for the work to begin.

  And I did not have to traipse around the village to collect the money! But when the work started, it meant that services could not be held in the church and so the Catholics offered their building to the Anglicans until the repairs were finished.

  ‘And,’ said Father Adrian, the Catholic priest, at mass before the Anglicans arrived for their first service, ‘whilst they are using our church, we shall give them half our profits from bingo to be used for repairs to their chancel. After all, we do want the church to be in good condition when it is restored to us.’

  ‘Amen,’ said someone in the congregation.

  Today, the chancel of Aidensfield Parish Church is sound and in a state of excellent repair. Most of the money was raised within eighteen months, and I believe the balance was finally paid ten years later, thanks to an on-going series of raffles, whist drives and other money-raising events — plus a continuing sum from the Catholics’ bingo sessions.

  But that old custom concerning repairs to the chancel remains in force. Perhaps a village constable in the year 2464 will be asked to help to collect the funds again and I wonder what the reaction of that community will be?

  4

  I was found of them that sought me not.

  Rom. 10.20

  Turkeys are usually associated with Christmas dinner but I remember, some years ago, a campaign was launched by turkey farmers to persuade people to eat turkey at other times of the year. Easter was one of the suggested occasions, this being recommended as a good turkey-eating time due to the celebratory nature of that popular Christian festival but the real hope was that we would eat turkey all the year round. After all, there is no reason to restrict the eating of turkey to the Christmas holiday or to any other festive occasion.

  It was a Yorkshireman, William Strickland of Boynton in the East Riding, who introduced turkeys to this country. Contrary to popular belief, these birds do not come from Turkey, but from South America. It was while sailing with Sebastian Cabot that Strickland found himself in charge of a ship which carried a few strange-looking birds from America back to England. These were quickly and easily sold for fourpence each, a high price at the time. Strickland realized that these quaint creatures might find a wider sale and so he developed the importation of turkeys to such an extent that he was soon chartering his own ship to bring them into Britain. Such was the success of his venture, that he bought Boynton Hall near Bridlington, became the squire in 1549 and was knighted. George II gave his approval to this new-found meat and eventually the royal park at Richmond became a thriving turkey farm, producing some 3000 birds for the royal palate.

  Even today, some of the largest producers of turkeys are in East Yorkshire, with the British consuming more than seventeen million turkeys every year. In spite of continuing attempts to convince us they are excellent at any time of the year, most are consumed at Christmas.

  Whilst appreciating their popularity, I must admit I was surprised to find a turkey in the outbuilding which was attached to my police house at Aidensfield. It was a few days before Easter and I was enjoying my days off, on this occasion a Saturday and Sunday together, a rare treat. With the children, Mary and I had been shopping on the Saturday morning and after lunch in a local café, we returned home. I was hoping to tidy the garden that same afternoon because my parents and my in-laws were coming for lunch on Sunday. I wanted the place to look as neat as possible and so there was a lot of preparation on the Saturday — my task was to make the garden look presentable after the winter neglect while Mary concentrated upon the house.

  Determined to tackle the worst of the rubbish, I went into the outhouse to seek my gardening tools. There was no door on this outhouse — it was part of a passage which extended the width of the property between the house and the garage. The builders had produced a small cave-like structure which could accommodate things like the lawnmower, spade and a selection of hoes. It was always open, the through-passage sheltering the outhouse entrance from the worst of the weather. But anyone could walk into that outbuilding. Thus I went in to get my gardening tools and there, on a battered old table I used as a workbench, was a large cardboard box.

  I hadn’t left it there and it had not been there earlier that morning. Puzzled, I opened it and inside found a fresh turkey. It was dead and quite naked, having been expertly plucked and dressed. Beyond all doubt, it was ready for the oven.

  Like all rural constables at that time, I knew that country people proffered their appreciation by giving v
illage bobbies presents like pheasants, grouse, rabbits, hares, salmon and the like. In many cases, these items of game were dressed ready for the oven, but from time to time, such gifts needed plucking or dressing. In all cases, though, there was never any question of bribery or corruption — it was a simple way for country people to express their thanks for some past act of kindness by the constable. It was not for overlooking petty offences or a means of persuading us to close our eyes to some future breaches of the law. It was a thank-you — nothing less and nothing more.

  But as I stared at the turkey, I could not recall any incident which would have merited such a thank-you present. I could not recall performing any extra assistance in recent weeks to anyone on my patch. The turkey presented a puzzle, therefore, but a welcome one. I searched the interior of the box for a note, but there was none, neither was there a scribbled message on the walls of the box. Whoever had left this turkey did not wish to be known. It was an anonymous gift. I could only guess that it had arrived that morning while we were away from the house. It seemed very fresh and it had come at just the right time. Had I mentioned to anyone that Mary and I were entertaining our respective parents for lunch on Sunday?

  I could not recall chatting to anyone about it during my rounds — but in the circumstances, the arrival of the turkey was extremely fortuitous. Puzzled but quite delighted, I carried my trophy into the kitchen and plonked it on the table; it must have weighed twelve pounds or more, and then I called Mary.

  ‘I got a joint of beef for tomorrow,’ she said upon inspecting the huge bird. ‘But will that turkey go in the oven?’ was her next thought.

  She opened the door and, after a bit of squeezing into our largest roasting tin, she made sure the bird did fit the oven.

  ‘I can keep the meat in the fridge; we can use it later in the week,’ she said. This bird will be fine but needs cooking straight away. Who gave it to you?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I explained. ‘Have you done anyone a favour recently? Or mentioned tomorrow’s family lunch?’