CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  Edward was a charming man. In his late forties, he was tall and slender, with a head of good, thick black hair which was greying with distinction around the temples. He was always smart in a dark grey suit or a blazer and flannels, and his turn-out was positively immaculate. He was handsome too, with a lean, tanned face and a sensuous walk which attracted many women. But in spite of the opportunities which must have presented themselves, he was never unfaithful to Caroline. Indeed, he was a pillar of the Anglican Church, a very active member of the Parochial Church Council and a sidesman who never missed the Sunday service. He was almost too good to be true as he ran his hotel with scrupulous honesty. Everyone thought he was a perfect specimen of manhood, an example to all. There is no doubt that many people regarded Edward as an example of the ideal husband and businessman, and that many husbands found themselves openly compared with him.

  Caroline was similarly well endowed with good looks and charm. If a little inclined to be plump, she did her best to appear smart on every occasion, when her blonde hair would be set in the latest style, her make-up impeccable, her clothing beautiful and her treatment of others charming and welcoming. A little younger than Edward, she would be in her mid-thirties. Although she lived in a world of expensive tastes enjoyed by expensive people, she was neither aloof nor snobbish. At times she was a real bundle of good humour and warmth, especially on those rare occasions when she was not in the austere company of her proud husband.

  There were times when I did wonder if Caroline would be more relaxed and ‘ordinary’ if Edward was not around. In my view, it did seem that his presence sometimes overawed or even suppressed her, and there were times when I wondered if she was trying desperately to live up to his life-style. I felt he set standards which were not normal for her. Marriage to Edward had perhaps forced her to adopt his particular way of life, but she coped admirably and everyone liked her.

  The Furnells were always happy, always good company and always an example to others. Patrolling policemen were welcome to pop into their hotel kitchen for a cup of tea and a warm-up on ice-cold mornings. That’s how we got to know the couple so well. Our presence served a dual purpose, because if there was any doubt about a guest, we would be told and we would carry out discreet enquiries in case he or she absconded without paying the bill. We had physical descriptions and car numbers well in advance, just in case.

  This enviable state of bliss continued until Caroline started driving-lessons. Edward, perfectionist that he was, insisted on teaching his wife, because he felt he could do it so much better than anyone else. This practice is never recommended for normal husbands and wives, for there is no finer way to generate marital problems than to teach one’s wife to drive. For some reason, a woman behind a steering wheel will steadfastly refuse to learn anything she is taught by her husband, and she will likewise blame him for all that goes wrong. How many lady drivers, when they have had a minor driving upset, have said to their husbands, ‘You made me do that!’

  But Edward was not a normal man. He was Mr Perfect, and so he guided his wife around the town’s maze of quaint narrow streets, pedestrian crossings, junctions, lanes, bridges and corners and through columns of gawping tourists and dizzy townspeople until she was a very proficient driver. Sometimes they went out very early in the morning and sometimes very late at night for Caroline’s lessons, although he did take her into the thick of the daytime traffic whenever his hotel duties permitted.

  And Edward, being so particular about things, sent her to a driving school for the finishing touches before she took her test — even he admitted the experts did have a role to play. And then, one day in late August, Caroline was due to take her driving test.

  Edward was engaged with a conference of businessmen at the hotel, so Caroline walked the half-mile or so to the testing centre in Strensford, where the driving school’s car would be waiting. She said the walk and fresh sea air would calm her nerves before the ordeal.

  An hour later, she returned to the hotel, where Edward was waiting.

  ‘Well, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she breathed. ‘I passed, Edward, I passed. First time! Me, a driver!’

  ‘I knew you would, darling. I just knew. Now, here’s a little present for you,’ and he handed her an ignition key. Outside, on the car park of their hotel, stood a brand-new Morris 1000 in pale blue.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘A present from me.’

  And so the citizens, and indeed the police, became accustomed to seeing Caroline chugging around in her lovely little car, sometimes shopping, sometimes going about hotel business or merely visiting friends.

  Then, one busy morning in early September, something went wrong. No one is quite sure what happened, but the little car ran out of control down Captain’s Pass with a panicking Caroline at the wheel. She collided with some iron railings outside a café which acted like a spring, for she bounced off and slewed across the road like a shot from a gun. Having been catapulted across the road in this manner, miraculously missing other cars and wandering pedestrians on its terrifying journey, her little car mounted the opposite footpath and careered across an ornamental garden. It concluded its short but impressive journey among a jumble of rocks, cotoneasters and geraniums. The Council’s Parks Department were not very pleased about it.

  Fortunately, Caroline was not hurt, although she was rather embarrassed, and the immaculate little car suffered some plants in its radiator grill, a badly dented door panel, buckled wings and other minor abrasions. As a result, the machinery of law began to move, the police were informed and I arrived at the scene.

  It was a ‘damage only’ accident involving just one vehicle, with no personal injuries, so there were few problems. Willing helpers manhandled the car out of the flowerbed, and it was still driveable; meanwhile, the shaken Caroline was muttering something about a black dog running over the road and causing her to lose control.

  Having ensured she was not hurt, I had to ask for her driving licence and insurance; she did not have them with her and therefore opted to produce them at Strensford Police Station within the legally stipulated five days. This was standard procedure in such a case. I did not expect any further proceedings, although I had to chant the words of a ‘Notice of Intended Prosecution’ at her, this being a statutory formality at that time in case there followed a prosecution for careless driving or some other more serious driving offence.

  I asked if I should take her home and she declined. She insisted she was fit to drive, and in any case she would like to break the news to Edward herself. So off she went.

  I was not at the police station when she arrived to produce her documents but shortly afterwards was summoned to see Sergeant Blaketon.

  ‘Rhea,’ he stood before me at his full majestic height. ‘This Mrs Furnell of yours, the accident on Captain’s Pass. She’s been to produce her documents. You’ll have to go and see her — her driving licence is not valid, and this being so, neither is the insurance on that car. It’s your case, so you’ll have to follow it up.’

  When I looked at the details of her licence in the Production of Documents Book, they were for her provisional one, which had expired, albeit only a week earlier.

  ‘She’s probably brought the wrong one in,’ said Sergeant Blaketon. ‘Go and sort it out.’

  When I arrived at Furnells, Caroline was not her normal, immaculate self. She was alone in the office as Edward attended to some business at the bank, and she gave me a coffee. But she was paler than usual, her lovely eyes looked dark and sad, her hair much less tidy than normal and her general demeanour much less confident.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ she looked steadily into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You produced an out-of-date licence,’ I said, probably unnecessarily. ‘It was your old provisional one. I need the new one, the one that was valid on the date of your accident. If it was a provisional one too, I’ll need the driving examiner’s slip to confirm that you passed y
our test, or, of course, I’ll need a full licence.’

  She hung her head.

  ‘I didn’t. I failed,’ she said slowly. ‘I failed that bloody driving test, officer! And I daren’t tell that perfect bloody husband of mine! I daren’t tell him I was a failure! He does not recognize anything that’s second rate, he can’t tolerate anything that’s a failure, so I told him I’d passed. And when I said I’d passed, he gave me that car — it was all ready and waiting for me. He never thought I’d fail, you see. Never. So what could I do? I daren’t tell him, not after all that.’ She was weeping now. ‘So I got myself into a trap . . . a snobby, awfully stupid trap. I don’t know what he’ll say when I tell him.’

  She wiped her eyes, and her make-up began to run down her cheeks. She looked anything but elegant and self-assured.

  ‘He doesn’t know? Not even about the accident?’ I was incredulous.

  ‘No. I got the car fixed — it wasn’t damaged much . . . but this will get my name in the papers, won’t it? He’ll have to know now, won’t he?’

  ‘It depends. You see, if you’ve no provisional licence in force, it could mean your insurance is automatically invalid too. And you were driving unaccompanied by a qualified driver. And you had no “L” plates on. There’s a lot of offences, Mrs Furnell. I’ve got to report you for them all.’

  I had to go through all the formalities of notifying her of an impending prosecution for those offences and possibly a ‘careless driving’, but the decision about a prosecution was not mine. Ultimately, it rested with the Superintendent, who would study my report and make up his mind from the facts which I presented.

  A few days later, I did see her driving around town again, with ‘L’ plates up and with a driving instructor at her side. She waved as she passed me. But I had finished my tour of duty at Strensford before she appeared at court.

  I do not know what fate she suffered before the magistrates, although it would probably involve a fine of some kind with endorsement of her new licence for the insurance offence. I do not know how Edward accepted this blemish to his reputation, but I like to think that he, being a perfect gentleman, had treated his unhappy wife like a perfect lady.

  * * *

  The other case was very similar. It happened because Nathan Fleming loved his wife so much that he kept a guilty secret from her.

  I had frequently seen Nathan about town because he was one of those characters that everyone knows, likes and respects. He seemed to be everywhere, a truly ubiquitous character. He was a member of one of Strensford’s oldest fishing families and owned several fishing boats which plied from the town’s picturesque harbour. In addition, he had a couple of wet fish-shops, a whelk stall and a little van which toured the outer regions of the town on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

  I was never sure of his age. He was one of those men who could have been anything between forty-five and sixty, a stocky, powerful man with the swarthy, dark features of the indigenous fisherfolk. More often than not, he had a few days’ growth of whiskers on his chin, and when about town he invariably wore a dark blue ganser with a high neck, even in the height of summer, along with blue overalls and heavy rubber sea-boots. The ganser’s name is a corruption of guernsey, the name for a thick, dark blue woollen jumper which originated in Guernsey on the Channel Islands. A jersey comes from Jersey too. Those boots came up to his thighs when on the boat, but he rolled them down when not on the boat, so that when he walked he looked like a tiny man in a pair of giant seven-league boots.

  A distinctive aura surrounds a Strensford fisherman. It is difficult to define but doubtless comes from centuries of extremely tough work in appalling conditions on the North Sea. His clothes are sensible and ideal for the task, if almost a uniform; his skin and face are hard, weather-beaten and tanned; his language is also hard and liberally spiced with a dialect all of his own, a dialect that even his colleagues from Scandinavia can understand.

  These fishermen live in a closed community, their families having lived and worked here since Viking times. It is rare, indeed very rare, for them to marry outside their own kind.

  That is why Nathan’s wife was so different. She was not from a Strensford fishing family but hailed from the Midlands. It seems she and Nathan had met as young people when she came to Strensford for a holiday, and much to everyone’s surprise they married. She became the brains behind his various business enterprises, but she was not like the wives of the other fishermen.

  Those other wives had emerged from days, fairly recent days, when the women virtually lived on the fish quays, drying the fish in the open in summer, gutting crans of herring and stones of cod, packing them in large ice-boxes, mending nets and baiting lines in spite of the weather and in spite of the hour. Being a fisherman’s wife was hard, very hard.

  Laura Fleming had had none of those experiences. She’d been reared near the Trent, the daughter of a shopkeeper in Stoke, and she had no intention of sitting all day among stinking fish and their bloody innards. So, by her own conduct, she was a woman apart, but a thoroughly decent woman who became a loved and respected member of Strensford society. She was President of the Townswomen’s Guild, a strong Methodist and sincere chapel-goer as well as a tireless worker for charity.

  I’d seen her once or twice. I’d noticed her supervising the assistants in their shops or at the summer-time whelk stall. She was a smart woman in middle age who enjoyed a light, peachy complexion which was such a contrast against the dark ruggedness of the other fisherfolk. Her features alone marked her out as a stranger among the local people, and her uncharacteristic mode of speech was another difference. Her mousy hair, just turning grey when I knew her, was always tightly tied in a bun, and she always wore sensible shoes, thick stockings and clothes which concealed her figure. Like Nathan, she was always busy with something, either running the shops, raising money for worthwhile causes, such as the Royal National Lifeboat Institution or various other maritime charities, or going about chapel business.

  Being a policeman means that it is possible to acquire a knowledge of people without even realizing it; as citizens like Laura go about their daily routine, and as the policeman does likewise, their paths cross, they chat and they begin to discover more and more about one another, albeit unintentionally. Gossip, parade-room chat and frequent talks with my Strensford colleagues all provided little snippets about Nathan and Laura which I stored in my memory, usually subconsciously. It was all part of local knowledge, such an asset in police work.

  The other fishermen’s wives accepted Laura; there was no antagonism, and this may have had something to do with the fact that she was the wife of the respected Nathan Fleming, or it could have been due to Laura’s own personality and quiet charm. Or a combination of both.

  But it was Nathan I saw more than his wife. When he was not on his boat or seeing to his whelk stall, he was driving his van around the outskirts, pulling up in the streets as his customers flocked to buy what he described as the freshest fish in town. Whenever he stopped near me, I would gaze in admiration as he wielded his knife to provide every customer with a choice piece of the right weight, and he always found a morsel for the cats which rubbed their chins against his van wheels during these sales.

  There were times when I wondered when he slept or took a break from his fishing and the business it generated. He was always busy, always to be seen around town, always happy and pleasant with people, always making a pound or two here and a shilling or two there. He did not run a car, so I wondered how he spent his hard-earned cash, although his home was beautiful. It was a large, old house which his wife, with her tasteful talents, had decorated and renovated, but I wondered when he found the time to enjoy it.

  He did employ others though; sometimes a young man would serve at the whelk stall, or wheel barrow-loads of fresh fish from the quay to the shops, or drive the van because Nathan was at sea. But the moment he returned, he did those tasks himself, apparently tirelessly.

  As policemen are pron
e to do simply by keeping their ears and eyes open, I did learn what Nathan had secretly done with some of his hard-earned money. He did a lot of cash dealing, and over the years he had managed to siphon off a considerable amount of money. This had accumulated to such an extent that he had difficulty knowing what to do with it. To spend it on new equipment or a new business venture might exercise the curiosity of HM Inland Revenue who could begin to ask awkward questions. Worse still, I learned, was that he had managed to accumulate this nest-egg without the knowledge of his dear Laura. That alone suggested cunning of a very high standard.

  According to tales which were circulating the police station, through Joe Tapley’s intimate knowledge of the fisherfolk, Nathan had kept his growing wad of cash on his boat. It had been concealed from everyone behind a clever piece of panelling, but the time had come, several months before my arrival in Strensford, for Nathan to do something about it. There was too much even for the place of concealment so he had either to confess to its presence and spend it on the business or bank it, every action being likely to arouse official scrutiny of his income.

  The other alternative was to buy something expensive, such as an oil painting or piece of furniture, but that would cause Laura to ask too many questions. Besides, he wasn’t one for admiring paintings or acquiring furnishings of excess quality.

  So he bought a racehorse.

  Very few people knew about this acquisition; it was a very odd thing to do because Nathan had never shown any interest in either horses or racing. We did wonder if it was done upon the advice of another businessman, the logic being that horse-racing, especially betting on the outcome, is one of the finest and speediest ways of getting rid of money.

  Joe Tapley was one of the few people who knew of Nathan’s purchase, and I know he did not spread the news indiscriminately. Nonetheless, he did tell me during one of our lone patrols, and he provided me with the history of Nathan which I have just related. This revelation and life history were prompted when we saw Nathan hurrying to his boat at 3.30 one morning.