CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Nicholas Rhea

  As we toured the superb grounds, no other problem presented itself — the seating arrangements had been finalised and we all thought the new gate was an asset especially for the admittance of any emergency vehicles, and for getting waiting vehicles off the road. But I knew it was also a liability because it had allowed access by Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and his new mobile canteen.

  It was later that Saturday when I was patrolling the inns of my beat that I noticed Sergeant Blaketon’s car parked in Ploatby High Street, awaiting my arrival. I eased my minivan to a stop and climbed out.

  “All correct, Rhea?” Sergeant Blaketon emerged from his car and approached me.

  “Yes, all correct, Sergeant.”

  We discussed the state of the local pubs that Saturday night but during my rounds I had not encountered anything or anyone that would provide cause for alarm.

  “Greengrass out drinking, is he?” asked Blaketon.

  “He’s in the Hopbind at Elsinby tonight,” I said, “having a pint or two with some scrappies. Probably fixing a deal of some kind.”

  “He’s been quiet lately,” was Blaketon’s next comment. “Too quiet, if you ask me. He’s plotting something. I’ll bet.”

  This conversation provided me with the ideal opportunity to mention Claude’s involvement in tomorrow’s Bishops Walk. I knew I must inform Blaketon.

  “Sergeant,” I said, “just one thing. The refreshments at tomorrow’s walk . . .”

  “It’s one of the reasons I’m going, Rhea!” he beamed. “Those Aidensfield women know how to lay on a good feed, believe me. Those ham sandwiches and homemade fruitcakes . . . they’re scrumptious!”

  “Not this year, Sergeant,” I said quietly. “There’s been a change of plan.”

  “Really? Well, so long as the standards are maintained, I shall still look forward to my tea . . .”

  “You might not, Sergeant,” I heard myself say. “There’s a mobile canteen this year, with hotdogs and soup and things . . .”

  “Really? Well, after a long walk, you can certainly work up an appetite . . .”

  “It’s Claude Jeremiah’s canteen, Sergeant,” I had to interrupt him. “Claude has set himself up with a mobile hotdog stall, and soup and things, and he’s got permission to serve the bishops and clergymen tomorrow.”

  There followed an ominous silence and I could see Sergeant Blaketon’s face going whiter and whiter as he struggled to come to terms with my news.

  “Rhea, you are not serious! Tell me you are not serious about this?”

  “John Goodenough has confirmed it, Sergeant,” I said meekly. “The WI and parish ladies are not doing teas this time, Greengrass has got the job. There’s a new gate at the priory, so he can get his canteen off the road and into the premises.”

  “Look, Rhea, you’ll have to find a way of stopping him. I can’t have this, not when my friend has invited me to the event as his special guest. Test his tyres, check his licence, find out if he’s got a Refreshment House licence . . . anything . . . but just stop him from trading.”

  “I can’t. Sergeant, I’ve gone into all that. It’s a private party on private premises. The public won’t be buying his food . . . besides, we can’t stop him now, there’s no time to find a substitute and, apart from that, I have no power to prevent him doing this.”

  “You disappoint me, Rhea!”

  I tried to explain that the commissioning of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass to supply food and victuals at Briggsby Priory was nothing to do with the police service, and certainly no concern of mine. If John Goodenough had seen fit to employ Claude, it was good enough for me. In spite of Claude’s dodgy reputation, I had no right to impose Sergeant Blaketon’s opinions on others.

  “If that man embarrasses me in front of my important friend, Rhea, you’ll be working nights for a month!” were Blaketon’s parting words.

  * * *

  The walk was very pleasant. The afternoon was dry and fine, if a little cool, but perfect for a mid-distance stroll by middle-aged and elderly clerical gentlemen.

  On the walk from Aidensfield church to Briggsby Priory, I accompanied them on foot in my uniform, guiding passing cars past the procession and generally ensuring that no undue problems or traffic congestion occurred en route. On the way, I found myself chatting to several of the participants, including the archbishop, and realised they were charming, gentle people. Clearly, this day out was popular with them all; once they arrived at the priory, there would be a short service of prayers and hymns, and then they would break into informal groups to enjoy the tea which awaited them in the ruins. There was no doubt that some healthy appetites had developed. Sergeant Blaketon did not join the walk, but I knew he would arrive at the priory in due course, in the full splendour of his police uniform.

  As the walkers approached the priory, I increased my pace and managed to get a hundred yards or so ahead of the procession; I wanted to open the new gate to admit them smoothly so they would not gather en masse around the entrance.

  We did not want to cause a blockage of the road — a congregation of clergy milling around the narrow lane might cause an accident. But as I hurried towards the gate, I saw the ghastly psychedelic pink outline of a mobile canteen. A panel along one side of the rear section had been opened to form a counter, rather like an ice-cream van, and a small blackboard hanging on the outside bore a menu written in chalk. Black smoke was puffing from a tall tin chimney and the intense, but not very savoury, smell of cooked sausages and bacon wafted towards me on the gentle breeze.

  I groaned at this vision of awfulness. Then, from inside, I was greeted by the familiar tones of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass who I saw was wearing a grubby white apron and a chef’s hat. He beamed.

  “How’s this for an enterprise, eh, Constable? Got it for a song, I did, this old canteen . . . now, what can I get you?”

  “Nothing just now, Claude,” I said. “They’re coming in for prayers and hymns before they eat . . .”

  “Aye, well, I’m ready when they are. Full menu, good prices, fine food. You can’t beat that combination, Constable. I wonder why I never thought of this before? Serving food’s allus a good moneymaking business. Hot tea and coffee, cakes and scones, cooked foods galore . . . and I have a surprise for them vicars,” He winked conspiratorially.

  “Surprise?” I asked, not daring to ask what it was.

  “Aye, it’ll surprise and entertain ’em, Constable. It’ll make their day memorable, I’d say. They’ll talk about it for weeks afterwards; in fact it wouldn’t surprise me if they asked me to attend their own church functions after this . . . You’ve got to have a gimmick, Constable.”

  “And when do you propose to deliver this surprise?” I wondered what sort of gimmick he was talking about.

  “While they’re all queuing up for their teas, I thought I’d put on a bit of entertainment.”

  “Entertainment?” I puzzled.

  “There, Constable, I’ve said too much . . . Anyroad, I think it’ll make my service unique in the annals of mobile canteens.” He was clearly proud of his awful pink vehicle and just hoped he wasn’t going to sing or play a loud radio. All these chaps wanted was a bit of peace and quiet among the historic ruins. “Now, if you’ll allow me to prepare for the rush . . .” and he turned away to work on his counter.

  The clergymen were now filtering into the grounds where the custodian had arranged chairs and benches in a haphazard fashion. As the men settled themselves down after the exertions of their walk, John Goodenough moved among them, checking that the more elderly were not suffering and that everyone had finally reached the ruins. None had been lost en route. Goodenough then asked them to bow their heads in prayer which he led, following which they sang a hymn without any musical accompaniment. Afterwards, the archbishop would say a few words. It was during this singing, that I noticed the arrival of Sergeant Blaketon. I went to meet him.

  “Rhea!” was his first word as he pointed to the Greengrass canteen. “What is that monstr
osity?”

  “It’s Claude’s canteen,” I said, as the hymn-singing filled the air around us. “And he’s got a surprise for us, he says.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this, Rhea,” he muttered. “Whoever let that man in here with that contraption needs his head looking at. Has anybody sampled the Greengrass wares, yet?”

  “Not yet, Sergeant, they’ll start when the service is over.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be first in the queue!” he muttered. “Let somebody else get poisoned! Come along, Rhea, let us patrol the grounds while our friends are getting themselves into a holy mood.”

  The hymn-singing and prayers lasted for about quarter of an hour during which time Blaketon and I executed a tour of the ruins. Throughout our stroll, he could not take his eyes off the eye-flickering pink shape that stood just inside the gate with dense black smoke issuing from its chimney. There was obviously a small stove inside the vehicle to provide the heat for cooking. In fact, the smell of cooking which now began to pervade the whole of the ruins was not too bad — it was appetising, in fact, and I found myself licking my lips in anticipation of a savoury sandwich of some kind. Then came the sound of the mighty Amen followed by the voice of John Goodenough exhorting his friends to queue at Claude’s canteen for their teas.

  “I’m going to find my friend,” announced Blaketon. “I’ll join him in the queue for tea.” And off he went to find Bishop Matthew Timothy.

  Claude had witnessed the move towards his canteen and started the engine of his vehicle; then Claude did something in the cab of his vehicle upon which the most awful noise sounded across the grounds. It was like a church organ which was badly out of tune and it was playing a ghastly version of “Abide with Me”. I hurried towards the canteen and was first in the queue.

  “Claude, what on earth is that racket?” I shouted at him above the noise.

  “My organ,” he beamed. “Look underneath . . .”

  I looked under the vehicle and there somebody had fixed a range of organ pipes, they had been fitted to the floor of the vehicle, reaching from front to rear like several exhaust pipes and in the cab was a small keyboard which operated from a type used in a pianola.

  “Good, eh?” he beamed. “I just flick a switch and the exhaust fumes are fed through those organ pipes . . . then I set the keyboard off and I’ve got organ music. I thought these chaps would appreciate that, eh, Mr Rhea? A grand bit of music, don’t you think?”

  The noise which came from the canteen sounded like a cross between a fairground organ and an out-of-tune bull bellowing its death throes, but the vicars, canons and bishops were heading towards it. And among them I saw Sergeant Blaketon and his friend, closely followed by the stately figure of the archbishop.

  I ordered a hotdog, a slab of fruitcake and a mug of tea and turned around to find a place away from the awful din. I could see the embarrassment on Sergeant Blaketon’s face as he joined his friend in the queue, but as I found a chair and settled down for my feed, I realised catastrophe had struck.

  Something had gone wrong either with Claude’s organ-pipe exhaust system or his stove, or both, as the entire canteen, along with dozens of people queuing for food, were enveloped in a cloud of dense black smoke. I could not see the canteen now, all I could see was a mass of thick smoke in the middle of which was Claude’s canteen, an archbishop, an archbishop-in-waiting, several bishops, one police sergeant and dozens of vicars.

  I heard them coughing; I saw Sergeant Blaketon rush out of the cloud doubled up as he coughed and coughed. He was trying to escape the black fumes which were making his eyes water and his lungs strive for fresh air. His face was black too, with panda-like white eyeholes . . .

  I ran to the scene.

  “Claude!” I shouted. “Switch the engine off!”

  “I can’t, summat’s gone wrong with my stove. I can’t see the key, I can’t find my way into the cab,” was the spluttered response. Then he rushed out of the rear door into the fresh air, his face black and his clothing covered with a thick black deposit. “Or mebbe one of my organ pipes is blocked and it’s coming up from underneath . . . or summat . . .”

  “Greengrass!” came the voice of Sergeant Blaketon. “I’ll have you for this, so I will . . .”

  “I do a good range of smoked bacon . . .” was Claude’s weak response.

  Actually, my food, which I had secured before the disaster, was quite tasty and I did enjoy it, but few of the others managed anything to eat that day. Eventually, I switched off the engine. The noise and the smoke faded away, but in the meantime, Claude’s entire stock of food had become contaminated and several of the congregation were sitting down wiping tears from their eyes in the midst of blackened faces while coughing as if each had swallowed a swarm of flies. The archbishop did not look very happy at all. I think the chimney of the stove was the cause of the problem, but didn’t wait to find out.

  “If I see that monstrosity on the road, Greengrass,” bellowed Sergeant Blaketon to the amusement of the vicars. “I’ll have you. I’ll bet you haven’t a licence for music and I’ll bet there’s something in the Construction and Use Regulations and the Road Traffic Act which forbids organs being used under vans. I’ll throw the book at you, Greengrass!”

  “I think we should all sing, ‘O Bread of Heaven’,” grimaced Greengrass in the face of Blaketon’s onslaught.

  “Might I suggest ‘Lo! He comes with clouds descending’?” chuckled Bishop Matthew Timothy at the side of Sergeant Blaketon.

  * * *

  Even in the 1960s, there were some 3,000 different rules and regulations governing the use of motor vehicles upon our roads. Generally speaking, the driving and use of motor vehicles on private premises did not, and does not, come within the scope of the road traffic laws and consequently police officers did not and do not concern themselves with such matters. Even in the mid-1960s, when a motor vehicle was upon a road, it was highly likely that either it or its driver was committing an offence of some kind. Few motorists can honestly say they have never committed a traffic offence; many have just been fortunate enough never to be caught or prosecuted.

  One whose vehicles were always regarded by the police as “dodgy” was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. It is fair to say that if one or other of his vehicles was stopped and checked, something illegal could be discovered, even without examining the vehicle in great detail. I had no wish to persecute the fellow, however, and found that a quiet word often resolved a problem. For example, I would ensure he taxed his vehicle, got it insured, made sure the brakes were up to standard or that the windscreen wipers worked properly — or made sure that he observed what other rule he was currently breaking. It was one of Claude’s jokes that taxing and insuring an old vehicle didn’t make it run any better and his chief concern was whether his old truck or van would reach its destination without breaking down. That was more important to him than any bits of official paper that might be required to keep it on the road.

  If Claude did break the law, however, he often managed to do so in a quite spectacular way.

  I was often reminded of the time he infringed Regulation 20 of the Motor Vehicles (Construction and Use) Regulations 1964 and, at the same time, managed to pose a question about interpretation of the provisions of section 77 of the Road Traffic Act 1960, as amended. In simple terms, he fitted the wrong sort of horn to his car and activated it as he was passing an elephant on the North York Moors. The consequence was that he collided with the elephant and ran off the road while the elephant escaped unscathed.

  The law about horns on cars, officially known as audible warning instruments, said that no motor vehicle, other than those used by the emergency services, should be fitted with a bell, gong, siren or two-tone horn. The logic for this was simple — these instruments were all designed to warn the public of the urgent approach of an emergency vehicle of some kind. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, however, managed to acquire an audible warning instrument for his old pickup truck and it played the fi
rst few bars of “Colonel Bogey”, the well-known military march written by K.J. Alford. He drove through Aidensfield playing his tune to the delight of the children and the annoyance of residents but always managed to avoid me. It was sometime before I learned of the presence of the Greengrass audible warning instrument — and it was Sergeant Blaketon who told me.

  “Tell that man Greengrass to get rid of that horn, Rhea, its illegal. He blew it in Ashfordly High Street this morning and made me drop the eggs I’d bought.”

  “I’ve never heard it, Sergeant,” I had to admit.

  “It plays ‘Colonel Bogey’, Rhea, bloody cheeky if you ask me, an insult to upright people, playing that in a street or public place. People never sing the proper words when they hear it . . . you know what they sang to it in The Bridge on the River Kwai . . .”

  “I’ll have words with him, Sergeant.”

  “You’ll do more than that, Rhea, you’ll order him to have it removed, otherwise he goes to court.”

  I found Claude at his ramshackle ranch where he was feeding his hens. At my approach, he grinned and said, “Let me guess, Constable, you’ve been sent to tell me to get rid of my new horn?”

  “You made Sergeant Blaketon drop his eggs this morning.” I had to smile at my vision of that incident. “Blasting him from behind with ‘Colonel Bogey’ isn’t exactly a relaxing trick. You know it’s illegal, a horn of that kind.”

  “No it’s not, Constable.” He blinked furiously at me, grinning at the same time. “I checked. Two-tone horns are illegal, mine’s not a two-tone horn. It’s a multi-tone horn; there’s more than two notes and the suppliers told me they’d carried out their own research into the law. It’s not illegal.”