“But you work as well. You’ve got part-time jobs.”
“Yes, Ted said I should do that, so I could get myself nice clothes and things. A bit of spare cash, pocket money for me, for little extras. But everything else came from the smallholding’s income, Mr Rhea. You see, we can earn a living from a smallholding, if we work hard and act sensibly. We’ve proved that.”
I did not want to get into a discussion about this illogical way of running a business but I did need to circulate details of those stolen pay packets, and I did need to call the Scenes of Crime department and ask them to come and examine the place for fingerprints or other evidence.
“Dot,” I said, “can you put the kettle on? I could use a coffee — and I’m sure you could. You can use the kitchen and other parts of the house. Just keep clear of the office and that broken window. I’m going to radio for our Scenes of Crime team to come and examine the site of the break-in and your office for fingerprints and any other evidence, and I’m going to circulate a description of those missing pay packets. If you like I can ask our office to ring some of the farms in the Brantsford area, to see if Ted can be contacted and asked to come home. We have a list of farmers in this area; we keep notes of those whose stock registers we have to check.”
“That would be nice,” she said, looking a little more cheerful. “I want him to know as soon as possible.”
Preparing the coffee would occupy her while I went about the business of radioing Ashfordly Police with an update and with my further requests. Alf Ventress cheerfully agreed to telephone a few farmers in the Brantsford area with a view to tracing Ted Cowton and said that the fact the stolen money was in pay packets would help enormously if we traced the culprit — it seemed as if the villain had considered them a convenient way of transporting the haul. He could have stuffed them all into the pockets of his clothing or he might have used a carrier bag of some kind. Having notified the Scenes of Crime department and completed those calls, I returned to Beckside Cottage where Dot had made two mugs of coffee; she’d also produced some home-made jam tarts. I settled at her side to await the arrival of our fingerprint experts — about forty minutes, they assured me.
I explained what my colleagues would be doing now — circulating details of the crime, keeping observation for suspects and so forth, and I told her what to expect when the Scenes of Crime officers arrived. I also questioned her about the people who had come into her office and who might have known about the unopened pay packets and succeeded in obtaining a few names. They’d all be interviewed as soon as I could trace them.
The ginger-bearded Ted returned to Beckside Cottage just as the Scenes of Crime van was arriving, and I was able to brief both about the break-in.
Ted was able to provide us with a more detailed total of stolen money — £675 15s. 0d. to be precise, all in those small buff-coloured pay packets, fifty-six of them containing slightly different amounts — and while Detective Sergeant Brownlow and Detective Constable Parkin embarked on their scientific examination of the scene, fortified with Dot’s splendid coffee made with fresh milk, I obtained the necessary written statement from Ted. It was not within my brief to criticise him for not spending his salesman’s wages and for working so hard for so little return, but it was part of our general crime prevention role to advise people, particularly those in business, to take greater care of large sums of cash. He listened patiently as I produced my well-rehearsed advice about using safes that were impossible to move from their mountings, and were locked securely with the keys hidden from potential thieves. Also, I told him about making sure all his surplus cash, particularly large sums, was banked, and that his premises were strengthened against intruders.
He said, “I did intend banking it eventually, Mr Rhea, but I had to prove to myself that I did not need the money . . . by leaving the envelopes unopened. I could tell myself the cash was not available. I suppose I just let the system continue week after week without really thinking about it. Even if I’d banked it, though, I might have been tempted to dip into those funds when things were tight and, by not banking it, the bank manager would never know about it. He’d see that I was making a success of the smallholding without any outside income. My own system, daft as it might appear, worked for me and Dot. You must admit it has proved I don’t need that cash, hasn’t it?”
“It’s proved you don’t need to work at your salesman job,” I said. “Just think, though, you could have spent all those hours on your smallholding instead of chasing farmers to sell cattle food; the extra time with your business would have increased your income from the smallholding and given you more time to relax . . . and think of the income tax savings too. Anyway, those are my thoughts. Now, are you insured for larceny, housebreaking, burglary and so forth?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Contact your insurance representative and he’ll contact our headquarters for an abstract of our crime report. I hope they compensate you . . .”
“They might not, if it wasn’t locked up,” he said gloomily. “Besides, it wasn’t business money, was it? It was personal — and some companies aren’t happy about making compensation for stolen cash.”
“I can’t really help you with that side of things, but at least you can prove how much was really stolen!” I smiled. “Not many people keep their pay packets unopened for a whole year or more.”
“If I’d been working full-time on the smallholding, he’d not have broken in, would he? I’d have been there to keep an eye on the place.”
“Right,” I said. I could see that he was already rethinking his entire philosophy; the shock of the break-in had caused him to reappraise the whole idea of working at one job while trying to juggle that work with the demands of his smallholding and its complement of livestock and plants. But I had to leave.
I had done what was necessary from my point of view, and the Scenes of Crime officers would soon complete their examination. We would continue to search for the thief and I would begin by asking questions around Elsinby, just in case someone had witnessed a visitor anywhere near Beckside Cottage. Meanwhile, Ted and Dot would have to repair the damage and adopt a new and more sensible method of dealing with all their cash, not just Ted’s income from selling cattle food.
To cut short a long story, we did trace the thief. It was a small-time pig dealer who lived at Stovensby. In his late forties, he was struggling to survive on his own smallholding, supplementing his income by dealing in second-hand agricultural machinery along with a spot of labouring work during the harvest or potato-picking time.
He knew Ted; he knew Ted’s routine and the fact he and Dot would be away from his premises that morning. He’d also known that Ted’s cash box contained all those unopened pay packets and had paid a visit to Beckside Cottage that morning, ostensibly to ask about buying another of Ted’s pigs. Happily, he’d been spotted driving his rusting pick-up truck in the village by Gilbert Kingston, the postman, and he told me. A visit to his rundown smallholding at Stovensby quickly recovered most of the cash, still in its neat little pay packets.
As a direct result of that raid, however, Ted did see the sense in not working at his supposedly spare-time job. He gave it up and concentrated full-time on his smallholding, eventually developing a thriving market garden. Later, this modest but thriving spread expanded into a busy garden centre.
He branched out into selling seedlings, flowers, fruit bushes, shrubs, garden tools, ornaments and so forth. This was such a success that the pigs, cows and other livestock were eventually sold and I must admit that, at times, I felt a little envious of Ted and Dot. Their dream had come true, even if it had changed course slightly and even if it took the actions of a petty thief to provide the impetus.
* * *
Another smallholder of local renown was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. His ramshackle ranch on the edge of the moor could be described as a smallholding, although few people regarded it in a very favourable light. Most thought it was a rubbish tip which happened to su
rround a battered old house. The land was always full of rusting machinery, rotting cartwheels, discarded household furniture ranging from beds to easy chairs, old car seats, damaged pieces of car bodywork, old tyres, oil drums and spare parts, discarded pots and pans, tin baths and anything else that no one appeared to need or want. The site boasted a small complement of hens and stray cats plus, of course, Alfred, the flea-ridden lurcher. From time to time Claude also purchased a large animal such as a pig or a calf or even a few moorland sheep, invariably hoping to make a small profit by selling these animals; but, for Claude, his plans rarely worked as he hoped.
Residents of the village found it odd, therefore, when a billy goat appeared on the ranch. Had the goat been a nanny with kid-bearing potential and an ability to produce rich, health-giving milk for ailing humans, none of us would have been particularly surprised. That would have been quite sensible.
But the unheralded arrival of a fierce-looking billy goat with massive horns created something of a stir. It was of the English breed with a handsome fawn coloured coat, a black stripe down its spine, a black tip to its tall and a black smudge down the front of its forehead, this somehow emphasising its wicked-looking horns. The snag with billy goats is that they can become rather rampant and uncontrollable and that’s when they display inordinate strength and determination. Also, they produce a rather offensive smell, particularly in hot weather, although, as one villager pointed out, “It couldn’t be any worse than the smell in Greengrass’s kitchen, especially after he’s been cooking sausages.”
I had to call at Hagg Bottom, the home of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, one morning and noticed the goat tethered to a stake in a paddock at the side of the house.
“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it and I know nowt about it,” he said, emerging from the house at the sound of my approach. “Whenever anything’s gone wrong, you coppers always come here blaming me . . .”
“I’m not here to blame you for anything, Claude,” I laughed. “I just wondered if you’d like to buy a raffle ticket.”
“A raffle ticket? First prize a week in a police cell, second prize two weeks in a police cell, or do I win a meal for two in the police canteen or a chance to throw rotten codfish at Blaketon . . . now there’s a thing. I might enjoy that.”
“It’s for the Police Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund,” I told him. “Threepence a ticket, but to you — a book of ten for half a crown.”
“I don’t support the work of the police, Constable. You ought to know that by now.”
“First prize is a week’s holiday in a nice hotel in Scarborough, and then there’s the usual things like bottles of whisky or sherry, cakes, a meal for two at the Royal Hotel in Strensford, a voucher for ten pounds to spend in the Coop and lots of other valuable prizes still to be announced. It’s drawn in a month’s time.”
“I don’t support the police,” he repeated. “Didn’t you hear me first time?”
“This is not for us, Claude, it’s for the widows and orphans of policemen killed on duty while doing their best to keep society calm and secure so that you can go about your lawful business with confidence.”
“I haven’t got half a crown to spend on raffle tickets, I’m just a poor self-employed businessman, struggling to earn a crust for me and my Alfred.”
“I see you’ve just bought a goat.” I nodded towards the animal in question. “How much did that cost you?”
“Nowt,” he said. “It was given to me. By a mate of mine. He can’t cope with it, not after it ate his wife’s best knickers when they were drying on the line, and I happened to want something to keep that rough patch of land in order, summat that would eat anything, especially nettles and briars and elderberry bushes. I reckoned if it could cope with Alice Hamilton’s knickers, it would soon clear my rough patch. So he gave it to me. I’ve called him Oscar, after Sergeant Blaketon.”
“He’ll give you a load of trouble,” I warned him.
“Blaketon’s always giving me trouble!” he replied.
“I meant the goat,” I retorted. “Billy goats are strong; give him half a chance and he’ll be off down the village after those nanny goats that live near the beck.”
“I’ve got him staked in, Constable, and that rope’ll hold an elephant. It’ll take more than a love-crazed billy goat to uproot that stake and get away from me.”
“These chaps have been known to do that, Claude. Give them the scent of lust and they’ll move heaven and earth . . .”
“He’ll have to move my stake before he moves heaven and earth,” chuckled Claude. “When I hammer a stake into the ground, it stays hammered in. Now, was that all? I have work to do, you know, I can’t stand about here talking all day. Us busy entrepreneurs have to make use of every minute of the day, just to keep our heads above water.”
“Right, I’ll go, Claude, when you’ve bought a raffle ticket.”
“I’ve told you, I haven’t any cash right now . . .”
“I see your truck’s licence is overdue for renewal, Claude,” I smiled.
“Well, I might just have one book, then, for half a crown. It’s in the house, my money, I mean. Just wait there and don’t touch my goat.”
He returned with half a crown and I gave him raffle tickets, wishing him luck in the draw.
“You should have got nanny goats, Claude, and let them earn money for you. There’s a big demand for goats’ milk, for making cheese and for giving to invalids; it’s very good for poorly people, Claude. You could make a good income — and you could breed from the nannies.”
“Aye, well, that’s my long-term plan, you see. Breeding goats. When Oscar’s settled in and got to know me and is friendly with Alfred, I’ll introduce him to some nanny goats. He’ll be at stud, you know, like a prize stallion. Or a bull. He’ll earn his keep, Constable, you mark my words.”
I left Claude with his dreams of wealth and success, then continued my patrol. It was a quiet spell so far as police work was concerned and I managed to sell useful numbers of tickets for the Christmas raffle as I made my routine calls. It would be several nights later when I received a frantic telephone call from Mrs Roe at Heather Cottage. It was eleven o’clock and I was about to climb the stairs to bed, but I could not ignore the call.
“Aidensfield Police,” I announced.
“Jessie Roe, Mr Rhea, can you come? Somebody’s trying to break my gates down!”
“I’ll be with you in two minutes,” I assured her and after shouting upstairs to Mary with the news, I raced from the house and leapt into the Minivan. I arrived at Mrs Roe’s place within a couple of minutes and in the light from my vehicle headlights found Claude Jeremiah’s billy goat repeatedly ramming the solid wooden gates with his head. He must have been there for ages. As I watched from the safety of my vehicle, I saw that a length of rope was attached to the goat’s collar but that it had a frayed end. It looked as if Oscar had chewed through the rope to gain his freedom. For a moment, I wondered why Oscar was battering these high solid gates, then remembered that Mrs Roe kept nanny goats.
They were inside those gates and when I wound down the window, I could hear them bleating. The plaintive sounds served only to excite Oscar even more and encouraged him to batter the stout gates with even greater vigour. The problem was how to cope with Oscar when he was in such a determined mood. The loose end of rope offered what was perhaps the only solution, but if I tied him to the tree which stood nearby, he might chew through the rope again, and repeat his performance. And if I left the security of my van to physically discourage Oscar’s lustful efforts by dragging him away, he would turn his violent attention to me and I had no desire to be butted by an angry and frustrated billy goat.
As I contemplated the scenario, I realised that the person responsible for this animal was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, and so he should come and deal with it. But I felt it was necessary to provide the worried Mrs Roe with an explanation for the rumpus and the only way into her house was through those gates — and the goat was mak
ing sure I did not pass. I couldn’t ring her from the police van and so, believing that Oscar would not stray from here, at least during the next few minutes, I returned home. It took only a minute or so. From there, I rang Mrs Roe to explain the hammering at her gates and to reassure her it was not a violent criminal wanting to rape or burgle her. I explained that I was on my way to get Claude to deal with the ramming raider and then drove out to the Greengrass ranch. I wondered if Claude would be in the pub, enjoying a late drinking session, but he wasn’t; I caught him just after he’d climbed into bed and he was in his pyjamas when he responded to my heavy knocking.
“If you’re selling more raffle tickets, I don’t want any!” he spluttered. “Why are you frightening the wits out of decent folks by knocking them up at this time of night?”
“Because your billy goat is frightening the wits out of decent people by knocking them up at this time of night,” I said.
“Oscar?” There was disbelief on Claude’s whiskery face.
“He’s down at Mrs Roe’s, and if he’s there for much longer, you’re going to be faced with a big bill for the repair of her gates.”
“It’s not Oscar, Constable, he’s tied up. He’d never get loose from here.”
“He has, Claude, I’ve seen him. I think he’s chewed through his rope. If you want to keep him on your premises, you’d better use a chain from now on, or lock him in a shed.”
“Somebody’s let him loose, that’s what. Vandals, folks wanting to get me in bother.”
“You’ll be in deeper bother if you don’t go and deal with him,” I said.
“I shouldn’t have introduced him to Mrs Roe’s nannies,” he muttered. “It’s gone and put ideas into his head . . . will you give me a lift to Mrs Roe’s?”
“I will, but I’m not running you back, nor am I giving that goat a lift in my van. He’s making a dreadful stink . . .”
“That’s goat lust for you, Constable. Them lady goats love it. Hang on while I put some wellies on, and a top coat.”
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 4