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

by Nicholas Rhea

  I could hardly anticipate Harland’s Intake becoming as busy as Lourdes, and so I said, “Claude, that’s not holy water. It’s a moorland spring, nothing more.”

  “It’s been blessed by St Aiden, Constable!”

  “I very much doubt it. Besides, he came here thirteen hundred years ago; the water he blessed wouldn’t have hung around all this time. The water you’re bottling has been flavoured by hundreds of generations of moorland sheep, not blessed by a good and holy saint,” I added.

  “I hope you’re not going to spread doubts about the quality of my water!” he grumbled.

  “Would you drink it?” I put to him.

  “That’s nowt to do with this. This is a businessman’s dream — you get your ingredients for nowt, you scrounge empty bottles from the hotels and chip shops, and you take time filling ’em with pure water. Then you sell ’em. It’s all profit, Constable, there’s no outlay. Well, except for getting the labels printed, they’ll be ready tomorrow. That’s what I call a bloody good business!”

  “In other words, you wouldn’t risk drinking this water?”

  He blinked furiously, trying to avoid my gaze as he countered with, “If it’s good enough for Alfred to drink, it’s good enough for folks to buy!”

  “There will be folks who are daft enough to buy your water, Claude and if they do, you deserve some credit.” I then turned to the real reason for my presence. Claude could offer no help on the Co-op raid and I left him as he emerged from the shed to refill his watering can from St Aiden’s Well on the moor above his home.

  A couple of days later I was in Joe Steel’s shop in Aidensfield. He was serving Miss Wynn who lived in Lingside Cottage on the outskirts of the village and, as I awaited my turn, I noticed on one side of the counter, a row of six former sauce bottles bearing smart new labels on white paper with dark blue printing. I picked one up for a closer look. Each was filled with a clear liquid and labelled Holy Water — Fresh from St Aiden’s Well. 2s. 6d.

  Underneath in smaller print, was the wording. Pilgrimmes from farre and wyde came to drynk ye water as a miraculous cure for all pestilences, plagues, maladies and diseases. Ye ancient holy well, newly discovered in ye most secret of locations, is flowing again after 1300 years with 50,000 gallons ye day of ye holiest of water this side of Lourdes. Amen.

  “Joe,” I addressed the shopkeeper when my turn came. “You haven’t bought this stuff from Claude, have you?”

  “Bought it? Not likely. But I said he could put some here for sale if he wanted, with a bit of commission for me if any are sold, that’s if anybody’s daft enough to buy water from Claude’s intake. He seems to think tourists will flock to drink it.”

  Even as I spoke, I noticed Miss Wynn pick up a bottle as she was leaving the shop. After examining the label, she placed half-a-crown in payment on the counter and shouted her thanks to Joe. The astonishing thing was that another five people did buy Claude’s holy water. Every bottle had gone by closing time. The following day Joe told me that they had all been snapped up by villagers and that he had ordered more stocks. And one of the buyers was Dr Alex Ferguson’s receptionist!

  I discovered this when I called on the doctor. As I entered the surgery, I noticed Miss Wynn, her skin a peculiar shade of green, waiting for the doctor to examine her. Coming into the waiting room to call in the next patient, Dr Ferguson noticed my arrival — he knew I had come to ask about the progress of a statement he was making about the casualty of a recent road accident. The accident had occurred the previous week and the casualty had complained of suffering from shock, a condition later diagnosed by Dr Ferguson and I needed a statement to that effect from the doctor who had attended the scene. Happily, it had been prepared and was awaiting my arrival.

  “I’m sorry for the delay, Nick,” smiled Alex Ferguson, handing me the envelope. “But my receptionist is ill, she’s not been in today. Tummy trouble. There’s a lot of it about, a bug going round the village, I think.”

  “You as well, Miss Wynn?” I asked, thinking her face looked like a dollop of green chewing gum.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so . . . I do need something for my stomach, Doctor.” She arose to follow him into the surgery.

  As she was walking towards the surgery door, I joked, “You need some of that holy water of Claude’s, he reckons it’s a miracle cure for almost anything!”

  “I do not!” she snapped. “That’s what made me ill! And Mrs Lucas down the road . . . poor old thing, she’s been sat on the toilet ever since six o’clock this morning.”

  Dr Ferguson halted in his doorway and turned to face us. “What’s all this about?” he asked.

  I explained about Claude’s new enterprise and Miss Wynn confirmed she had bought one of the bottles, drinking half its contents before going to bed last night. During the night she had experienced the most awful stomach pains, followed by nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea. Dr Ferguson listened and nodded, saying he’d had other patients in this morning, all with the same symptoms.

  “I think St Aiden’s Well needs to be examined by a holy-water expert!” I laughed.

  “And I think Claude Jeremiah Greengrass should be made to drink a gallon of the stuff!” grunted the doctor. “Come in, Miss Wynn, let’s see if we can find something to settle your stomach.” I went straight over to Joe’s shop and suggested he withdraw the water from sale, whereupon he said that a further ten people had bought supplies. Six were from Aidensfield, but the others were holidaymakers in a car passing through. He had no idea who they were, but would take it from his shelves until he had had some proof from Claude that his water was not contaminated. Claude had been producing more bottles than were on sale in Aidensfield — according to Joe, he’d taken supplies to Elsinby, Ashfordly, Ploatby and several other villages with stores and post offices. In the meantime, Joe said he would ensure he had plenty of toilet rolls and stomach powders on sale.

  I thought I had better warn Claude not to offer any more of his miracle water for sale and drove my minivan out to his ranch. He was not in, however. The doors were locked and there was no sign of Alfred either. I would return later. As I was leaving a local farmer called Sam Lester was heading towards me on his tractor. He halted, climbed down and came to speak to me.

  “Is he in?” were Sam’s first words. Sam was a man in his early fifties who always wore a flat cap over his lank fair hair, and who always appeared in need of a shave. He was scruffily dressed in his working clothes and a black and white Border collie accompanied him. Sam worked Swinney Top Farm on the moors above Aidensfield, his house enjoying one of the most spectacular views in Yorkshire. He specialised in black-faced sheep and Highland cattle.

  “No, he’s out,” I said. “I’ll come back.”

  “Will he be in the pub tonight?” Sam asked, as if I knew every one of Claude’s movements.

  “No idea, Sam, but that’s where he usually gets to. Can I give him a message if I see him?”

  “Has your missus bought any of that holy water of his?” was Sam’s next blunt question.

  “I hope not,” I informed him. “It seems to be making everybody sick.”

  “It’s put our Cynthia on the bog for most of today!” he snapped. “Running and shouting about the house, she is, when there’s work to be done. Just wait till I get my hands on Greengrass! Holy water my foot! It’s liquid manure he’s selling!”

  “Don’t take the law into your own hands, Sam,” I warned him, as he stomped away. Moments later, he was returning along his route and I was following, wondering how many other people had gone down with Claude’s syndrome.

  I failed to locate Claude that afternoon; he had not been seen around Aidensfield and I began to wonder if he had fled the country. Dr Ferguson was seeking him too, hoping to persuade him to withdraw his water before the authorities decided to test it, but Claude had vanished. He turned up in the pub that evening and I happened to be in; I was off duty and had popped in for a quiet pint or two, arriving an hour or so before Claude, but th
e night promised to be anything other than relaxed with Claude Jeremiah Greengrass in the bar. It seemed he had gone over the moors to Pickering to conclude a deal for a house clearance, and so he had missed all the fuss about the effect of his holy water.

  In his absence, however, the locals, with George’s cooperation, had concocted some kind of plot against him, knowing he would come into the bar that evening, and the details had been finalised before my and Claude’s arrival. I was asked not to mention holy water if Claude came in, so I had no idea what was going on. The ringleader was Sam Lester and there were others with him who did not usually drink this early.

  As the evening progressed, however, their plot was revealed. From his jacket pocket, the now smartly dressed Sam produced a bottle of the size that contained medicine from the doctor and showed it to his pals. It was full of water and bore a smart label saying, St Cuthbert’s Mineral Water. 2s. Pure water from St Cuthbert’s ancient well.

  “This is cheaper than yours, Claude!” grinned Sam. “My wife saw yours, then I saw this for sale in Ashfordly and reckoned it’s a better bargain.”

  Claude grabbed the bottle and examined it.

  “It’s a smaller bottle, so it should cost less, besides, where’s this St Cuthbert’s Well?” he asked Sam.

  “I’ve no idea, but this is better tasting than yours, Claude. There’s a slight hint of lemon with just a touch of ling and blackberry flavour, and it includes a slight fizz when it’s opened. And it’s not smaller than yours, it’s just a different shaped bottle. Good value for money, I reckon. I thought I’d show this bottle to George, in case he wants to stock it and sell it here. Then mebbe Joe in the shop will stock it.”

  “He stocks mine, he can’t sell inferior stuff!”

  “Well, he reckons this is better than yours, Claude. Want to taste some for yourself?”

  Claude blinked furiously as he was placed in this compromising position, but he dare not admit he had never tasted his own product. He took the bottle, opened it and sniffed. His nose wrinkled as he attempted to define the flavours mentioned by Sam, and then he took a sip.

  “You need a good swig,” said Sam. “To get the proper effect, that is.”

  “Aye,” said another man. “A real good sip . . . now my wife’s got some of your water, Claude, so maybe this’ll persuade her to change to Cuthbert’s.”

  Claude had drunk well over half a bottle of the new potion without commenting on its bouquet or taste and we all watched with deepening interest.

  “So,” asked Sam eventually, as Claude paused.

  “I must admit this tastes good,” Claude said. “I can taste liquorice in this one, I think, or summat strong and good for the body . . .” and he drank more. The men smiled knowingly as he sampled the water.

  “Do you reckon folks’ll stick with my holy water?” asked Claude, having drained the bottle. “I mean, this is good stuff, but not a patch on mine . . . if I bring my prices down, they might stay with mine. Quality allus tells in the long run.”

  “I should get your trousers down and prepare for a lot of short runs,” grinned Sam. “That is your water, Claude.” And he proceeded to explain what had happened to others who had consumed far less than Claude. They’d all had the runs.

  Claude looked at the bottle . . .

  “You can’t do this to me . . .”

  And then Dr Ferguson came into the bar.

  “Claude Greengrass!” he boomed. “I’ve been looking for you all day. Do you realise that dozens of my patients have been condemned to a day on the toilet because of your holy water? Now, listen to me, either you withdraw that stuff or else I get the authorities to test it, and you could get fined or sued or something for the trouble you have caused.”

  Claude’s face was a picture now.

  “How long’s it take to work?” he asked Sam.

  “Just time for you to get home and get established on the bog, and with all that water inside you, you’ll be there all night and all day tomorrow . . . and if you sell that miserable stuff again, I’ll have your guts for garters!”

  And with that warning lingering in his ears, Claude clutched his stomach and ran from the pub.

  “What’s matter with him?” smiled Dr Ferguson, after ordering a whisky.

  “He’s had a taste of his own medicine,” grinned George from behind the bar.

  * * *

  Another of Claude’s trouble-spots was his chimney sweeping enterprise. From time to time, armed with his sooty collection of bags and brushes, he could be seen trudging around Aidensfield as he tried to win custom from wary villagers, but those of long standing in the community knew better than to employ him. After hearing about or experiencing his clumsy attempts to rid their chimneys of soot and other deposits, they preferred the services of professionals from Ashfordly or Strensford. Claude’s reputation for leaving more mess than there was when he started his work, resulted in him rarely finding that kind of employment.

  Newcomers, however, were never party to such well-kept secrets. If they saw a notice in the shop window saying, Chimney Sweeping. Local Contractor. Renowned for clean, tidy and swift Work. Reasonable rates. Contact C.J. Greengrass, then they would apply and he would turn up with his equipment. As a rule, such people never employed him again. Indeed, it has been said that the effect of Claude upon their new life drove them back from whence they came.

  The problem with newcomers was that they were often dewy-eyed townies with impracticable expectations of country life. Blissfully unaware of the harsh realities of living on the moors, they bought rundown cottages that no wise rustic would even contemplate living in even if they were modernised and restored. Many of these incomers spent their weekends sitting before log fires as they listened for the sound of the curlew or the cuckoo. It generally required only one blizzard-ridden, freezing winter to persuade them that it wasn’t heaven after all.

  The snag with log fires is that they soon clog up the chimneys with their carbonised deposits and while the swiftest and most effective means of clearing the grime is a roaring chimney fire, such a method can set the entire house alight — along with any neighbouring properties. Such a fierce inferno will surely attract the interest of passers-by who immediately summon the fire brigade. A really good chimney fire in full throttle sounds like the roar of Victoria Falls, and tongues of fire will shoot from the top to emulate the finest of flame throwers. However efficient they may be, they are not recommended for cleaning chimneys.

  In fact, chimney fires were unlawful by virtue of the Town Police Clauses Act of 1847, which was still effective in urban areas when I was a serving constable. A person who allowed a chimney to catch fire could be fined ten shillings (50p). It was a defence to claim that the fire was not due to any omission, neglect or carelessness and if the court believed that, it could result in a not guilty decision. Generally, it was reckoned if a chimney did catch fire, it must have been due to some carelessness, such as allowing too much soot or excessive deposits to accumulate through a lack of regular chimney clearing.

  I must admit that Claude did not use such drastic measures, even on the most difficult of smoke-stacks. From time to time, though, he did use one traditional method — if his brushes failed to dislodge a stubborn mass, he would pack the fireplace with holly twigs and set fire to them. The up-draught would carry the blazing holly into the chimney to dislodge a substantial amount of soot and loosen the rest. The loose soot would fall into the hearth where it could be collected.

  In addition to these methods, Claude had his own bizarre way of coping with the many troublesome flues in and around Aidensfield. Because most of his commissions entailed him working on older properties, and because he lacked modern sophisticated suction equipment, his unique method was often required. As these properties were often occupied by weekenders or rented as holiday cottages, word of Claude’s methods seldom passed from one hapless visitor to another. The people who bought these old houses were often dreamers but I think it is fair to say that Claude
gave them a nightmare vision of rural life — this was especially so in the case of the Mr and Mrs Crowberry of Rigg Side Cottage, a lonely hovel on the hills between Aidensfield and Ashfordly.

  Amelia Crowberry, née Leatherleigh came from a wealthy family and existed on an allowance from daddy; she had met and married a weird youth called Abraham Crowberry whom the police would describe, without any hint of political incorrectness, as a layabout. Amelia, well into her mid-thirties, slightly overweight and wearing little rounded spectacles, kept him in the manner to which she felt he ought to be accustomed which meant she did everything for him.

  She paid with daddy’s generous allowance. Abraham never did a stroke of work, sometimes sitting and thinking all day and sometimes just sitting. I was never sure whether daddy had ever met Abraham but in the circumstances, I felt he hadn’t; no self-respecting dad would encourage his offspring to mate with and maintain such a useless specimen of the male human animal.

  Wanting to commune with nature and having a massive desire to save the planet from people like huntsmen, fishermen, rabbit-catchers and whalers, the happy couple bought Rigg Side Cottage from a local farmer. They made the shack habitable, reroofed it and installed a flushing toilet, hot and cold water and electricity, then spent their days playing flutes and worrying about the effects of pollution, the cruelty of nature, nuclear reactors, the under-privileged in Liverpool and whether flowers held the secret of eternal life. And they burnt lots and lots of logs on their open fire.

  It didn’t take long for their living room chimney to become clogged with the deposits of burnt birch, beech and blackthorn, not to mention conifer wood, hawthorn and sycamore and all the other timbers they collected from the local woodlands. In need of a clean sweep, they contacted the local expert — Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. After assuring themselves that he used only traditional methods without resorting to any fearsome, atmosphere-polluting or planet-destroying chemicals, he was hired.

  An account of what followed was told to me by Amelia when she came to complain about Claude’s methods.