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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “No overnight break-ins? Car thefts? Broken windows not discovered?”

  “No, Sergeant,” and my answer must, by this time, have sounded quizzical. He was going on a bit, I felt, certainly more than usual. In normal circumstances, my “All Correct” speech would have been sufficient, but he was probing now. I realised he was leading up to something; judging by the expression on his face, it was something serious. I began to wonder if a crime had been reported or if some incident had occurred. If so, I was not aware of it and that could infer that I had neglected my duty.

  Somewhat worried by his attitude, we made a brief perambulation of the market square and I noticed that the crowd was now dwindling as the people finally went to their places of work.

  “If you have been so vigilant, Rhea, and have had such a positive command of the situation, how is it that you have found the time to be entertained by a radio programme?”

  “Sergeant?”

  He came to a halt in a quiet recess near the town hall and we stood together as he mustered his speech. “The sugar, Rhea. There am I, sitting at my breakfast-table, when I learn that one of my constables has heard a plea for sugar from this lot here, these broadcasting people. That alone indicates that the constable in question must have been neglecting his duty, that he was failing to work his beat in accordance with instructions . . .”

  “I . . .” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “And furthermore,” his voice rose to stifle any comment I might make, “there is the question of the misuse of police vehicles, that is, the use of an official motorcycle and fuel, to say nothing of police time, to convey the sugar from the police office to these broadcasting people, and there is also the question of the ownership of the sugar, eh Rhea? Was it yours to give away? Was it your personal property? Or was it sugar which belonged to the Police Authority? Was it sugar from a fund of some kind?”

  “But, Sergeant — ”

  “And on top of all that, Rhea, how do you think the public will react to this? Will those listeners, those thousands or even millions of them out there, think that Ashfordly Police have nothing better to do than to act as delivery men for the BBC? We will be the laughing-stock of police forces, Rhea, we will be the butt of jokes from our city counterparts who are coping with murders and mayhem. They will now believe that we occupy our duty time by running cupfuls of official sugar from police stations to broadcasting people who then announce it to the world . . .”

  Sergeant Oscar Blaketon was on top form. All his prejudices and formal police attitudes were emerging as he stood there in the recess near the town hall, giving vent to his concern.

  “But, Sergeant . . .”

  “And Rhea, let us now suppose that the Superintendent or even the Chief Constable himself was listening to that programme! What are they to think about it all, Rhea? How am I to justify your actions; your highly unofficial and thoughtless actions; your neglect of duty in this very public manner; your misuse of police property . . .”

  “Sergeant, I thought — ”

  “I don’t care what you thought, Rhea. What I do care about is what you did. And what you did could amount to a breach of the Discipline Code with the severest of repercussions for you and for the Force . . .”

  I must admit I had not for one moment thought of that aspect. Anyone else, in any sort of job or profession, would have done the same, so why should the police be any different? But, according to Blaketon’s interpretation of the Police (Discipline) Regulations, it did seem that I had fallen foul of those rules, and I knew him well enough to realise that he would have checked the provisions of that code before coming to speak to me. He was not the man to leave such detail to chance.

  As he continued his diatribe, I visualised the punishments that could be imposed for such breaches of the Discipline Regulations. There was dismissal from the Force, with an alternative of a requirement to resign; there was reduction in rank (which didn’t apply to me because, as a constable, I was at the bottom of the scale); a reduction in pay; a fine; a reprimand or a caution.

  I began to feel pale and sick and started to worry about my future, both in the immediate and long term. I knew the Discipline Code was strict and that some supervisory officers reinforced it to the letter . . .

  “So, Rhea,” said Blaketon as he concluded his lecture, “you will submit a report about his incident. In triplicate. And it will be on my desk not later than twelve noon today.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” I said, with evident meekness.

  Having delivered his lecture, he strode away, grim-faced, awesome yet somehow majestic in his unassailable attitude. With my mind ranging across the problem I had now created for myself, I watched the BBC technicians begin to dismantle their equipment and decided I was no longer required. I went across to my motorcycle and mounted it.

  A voice called to me from the assembled BBC personnel. “Thanks for the sugar, Officer!”

  “Cheers!” I responded with a wave of my hand and knew I dare not tell them of Blaketon’s reaction or of my impending ordeal. Communication with journalists about internal police matters was another disciplinary offence, so I left it at that. Dejected and worried, I started the Francis Barnett and motored slowly back to Aidensfield.

  Over breakfast, I told Mary all about it and she thought it was a ridiculous attitude, but at ten o’clock I settled in my office to type the report. I knew it must be totally factual and that I should not try to make excuses; I therefore decided on a plain, simple and honest account of my sugar mission. I would set it out in chronological order.

  At twenty minutes past ten, my telephone rang.

  “PC Rhea, Aidensfield,” I announced.

  “Just a moment,” said a woman’s voice at the other end of the line, “I have the Chief Constable for you.”

  I nearly fell off my chair. The Chief! I saw myself being summoned immediately to Police Headquarters to account for my actions. I saw myself writing out my resignation and looking for another job. My heart thumped as I waited for the great man to speak.

  I tried to marshal my thoughts in an attempt to justify my actions. I clung to the telephone, nervous and worried, as his secretary connected me.

  “Chief Constable,” I heard his crisp response.

  “PC Rhea, Aidensfield, sir,” I answered.

  “Ah, Rhea. I have been in touch with your Divisional Headquarters and they tell me that you were the constable on duty at Ashfordly this morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” I admitted, quaking.

  “And am I right in thinking that you were responsible for supplying some sugar to the BBC during that morning broadcast?”

  I swallowed. So he had been listening, just as old Blaketon had feared.

  “Yes, sir,” my voice must have sounded faint and weak as I croaked my reply.

  “Bloody good show!” he said. “That was an excellent piece of public relations, Rhea. It gave the police a sympathetic and human image, and I was delighted it was my force which had done it. Excellent, well done. I just wanted you to know that I was delighted, and so was the Government Inspector. He heard the broadcast too and was delighted. He has just called me.”

  And so, in one single moment, all my worries and tensions evaporated.

  “It’s good of you to ring, sir . . .” I managed to splutter.

  “Not at all. It’s the least I could do. Keep up the good work, Rhea,” and he ended our conversation.

  I sat in my chair as a feeling of release swept over me. Now, I had the perfect ending for my report to Sergeant Blaketon.

  To conclude it, I added this sentence, “At 10.20 a.m. today, I received a telephone call from the Chief Constable who had heard the broadcast in question. He congratulated me on my actions and stressed the public relations value of the publicity. The HMI also expressed his pleasure in similar terms and had conveyed his appreciation to the Chief Constable with a request that it be transmitted to me.”

  At half past eleven, I signed my report and drove into
Ashfordly with it. Sergeant Blaketon was on the telephone as I walked into the office, so I placed my report on his desk and walked out.

  Never again did he refer to the matter.

  On another occasion, it was the police who needed assistance and I found myself involved in that episode too. The ingredients were an ancient ruined abbey, a religious service, some severe car-parking problems and a stubborn Yorkshire farmer.

  In the spring of the year, Ashfordly Police Station received a visit from Father Geoffrey Summerson, the Roman Catholic parish priest. Sergeant Bairstow was on duty at the time and warmly received his visitor.

  Father Summerson was a small man who had passed his sixtieth birthday; he had been at Ashfordly for many years and ran a happy, busy little parish. He was constantly involved in events and happenings in the town and his diminutive, but powerful personality made him popular with all faiths and even with those who professed no known religion.

  His frail figure, with a somewhat gaunt and hungry appearance, belied a bundle of energy which he used for the good of both the town and his parishioners. At first sight, he looked humourless and severe, with a sallow skin drawn tight over thin, high cheekbones. Small, pale eyes glinted from behind rimless spectacles and his hands were never still. He was fond of gesticulations; constantly emphasising his words with sweeping gestures or meaningful movements of his thin arms and surprisingly long and slender hands. They were the hands of an artist or musician but I do not know whether he possessed either of those talents.

  That day, however, he arrived at the police station on foot, clad in his dark grey suit and dog collar. I was on the telephone at the time, receiving a long, involved message about warble fly. I saw the priest being invited into the sergeant’s office and guessed it indicated a matter of some importance.

  I concluded my call and at a wink from the sergeant, put on the kettle for some coffee.

  “Well, Father,” Sergeant Bairstow was always happy and cheerful, “what can we do for you this bright, spring morning?”

  “Good of you to see me, Sergeant,” began the priest. “It’s about Waindale Abbey. It is within your province, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Bairstow. “It’s on our patch.”

  Waindale Abbey is one of several beautiful ruins dotted around the area. Wrecked by the Commissioners of Henry VIII during the Reformation, it sits beside the gentle River Wain where its impressive location and magnificent broken outline give testimony to its dramatic past. Today, it is a popular tourist attraction where its mellow stone and lofty columns give no hint of the role it once played in the economic life of the locality.

  “This year marks the thirteenth centenary of the foundation of the Abbey,” began the priest. “It is one of the oldest ruins in the land and dates to the earliest times of Christendom in this country. So,” he went on, “we — that is the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, with the blessing of members of the Anglican faith I might add — have decided to mark the occasion. We are going to hold a Concelebrated Mass with the bishop and priests of this diocese. It will take place in the ruins and the proposed date is 24 August, that’s the Feast of St Bartholomew, patron saint of the Abbey.”

  “So that will mean a considerable influx of people and vehicles, Father?”

  “Yes, I estimate there’ll be well into tens of thousands. Bus loads, cars, foot and cycle pilgrims, priests, nuns and laity — they’ll come from all the northern parishes and even further afield. That is why I am here, to give you due notice, so that you can make your own plans.”

  I took them a cup of coffee each and settled down in the front office to enjoy one too. They continued their chat and I could hear every word. It was not a confidential meeting.

  “We appreciate adequate warning, Father, then we can arrange our duties to cope. Will you want a police presence inside the Abbey grounds, do you think, or merely on the outside to cope with the traffic and crowds?”

  “Certainly on the outside, Sergeant. As for the interior, well, I imagine our pilgrims will behave, although a discreet police presence is never amiss.”

  “I’ll mark the date in our duty diary,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “You’ll not have the time of the service yet?”

  “No, those matters are to be finalized, but it will be during the afternoon, probably beginning at 2.30 p.m. or 3.00 p.m. But some people will arrive much earlier; some will bring picnics, I know, and they will give the day a holiday atmosphere, a form of celebration.”

  “Good, well, Father, thank you for this advance notice. You’ll keep in touch please, about the timing and other details?”

  “Of course, and don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything more you need to know.”

  Father Summerson left and Sergeant Bairstow came into the front office. “You heard all that, Nick?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It looks like being a busy day.”

  “You’re telling me! There’ll be lost children to consider; wandering old ladies; lost and found property; toilet facilities to provide; car and coach parking . . . There’ll be other traffic in the valley, trying to squeeze past the pilgrims on those narrow lanes, and the local residents will play hell about it all. We’ll have to ensure access for any emergency vehicles and there’ll be litter; first aid facilities to think about; possible crimes like pickpockets or other thefts . . .”

  “It’ll keep us busy for weeks!” I laughed.

  “And for that remark, young Rhea, consider yourself involved right from the start! Right now, in fact. Come along, we’ll go and inspect the scene, shall we?”

  In the Sergeant’s official car, we drove the four miles or so across the hills and into the valley of Waindale. The lanes were peaceful, with the hedges just bursting into the fresh green leaf, while the fields and woodlands were changing into their spring colours. Flowers like wild daffodils and celandines adorned the verges and birds sang in marvellous harmony as we dropped down the steep incline into the lovely valley. To give the monks due praise, they certainly knew how to select an ideal site.

  The tiny village with its cluster of yellow stone cottages, some thatched and others with red pantile roofs, reclined beneath the shadow of the hillside, while the magnificent Abbey occupied a huge, flat site deep in the valley.

  “You know, Nick,” breathed Sergeant Bairstow, “this view never ceases to thrill me. It really is incredible, those woods, the fields, the river down there — see? And the Abbey, silent and just a little mysterious . . . I’ve seen it with a mist around it at dawn; I’ve seen it at night in the light of a full moon, and at sunset too . . .”

  I knew what he was trying to say. There was a magic about the place, an indefinable atmosphere rich with the scents of history and drama and it was something I’d experienced on the occasions I’d come here.

  We eased our little police car into the car park and emerged to breathe the crisp, fresh air of Waindale.

  “And to think we get paid for this!” smiled Sergeant Bairstow. “Come along, let’s have a critical look at the interior.”

  After explaining our purpose to the lady in the little wooden hut at the entrance, we walked around as we tried to envisage how the huge congregation would be accommodated; where the altar should be sited both for safety and for vision. We wondered whether crowd-barriers were needed and which was the best place to site the portable toilets, the first aid centre, the lost children tent and other essentials.

  We had to ensure that the village was free to go about its normal business, and we must be equally sure that ambulances could gain access to any possible casualties in the crowd. Thoughts of this kind were part of any exploratory visit and Sergeant Bairstow was sufficiently experienced to be aware of the requirements. We both knew that an Operation Order would be needed to cope with all the problems of the day, and as a plan formed in his mind, he decided it was an ideal opportunity to make use of our band of local, dedicated special constables.

  My next contact with Father Summerson came through a telephone
call. I was in Ashfordly at the time and accepted the call.

  “It’s Father Summerson,” he said. “I’m ringing about the Abbey celebrations.”

  “It’s PC Rhea, Father. I am familiar with the event so far.”

  “Good, well I thought you’d better know that we have received some intelligence from our parishes. At this stage, we believe that the congregation will be in excess of 20,000 — it might even rise to 30,000. I thought you had better be aware of these numbers.”

  I found it difficult to visualise such a crowd in Waindale Abbey, and expressed that point.

  “Oh, the Abbey will accommodate them,” he said with some assurance. “There is plenty of space. It is the traffic that worries me, Constable. From what I hear, most will be coming by coach but there will be many cars.”

  I realised that the volume of incoming traffic would be similar to that which arrives at a popular race meeting, but this was no racetrack and there was a distinct lack of parking space. There were none of the facilities necessary for coping with such numbers. In short, we, and the church organisers, were to be faced with a car-parking problem of some magnitude. It could not be left to chance or ignored.

  I thanked him for this advance information and wrote the details on a note for the attention of Sergeant Bairstow. He contacted me a couple of days later and said, “Nick, I’ll pick you up at half past nine this morning. We’ll have another look at Waindale Abbey — it’s about the parking problems.”

  We stood in the centre of the tiny official car park and calculated that it would accommodate no more than twenty cars — and at an average of four persons per car, that was a mere eighty people.

  “That’ll just about cater for the official party,” Bairstow said. “And there’s nowhere else. They can’t park in these lanes — they’d be blocked in no time. So young Nicholas, what are we to do?”

  “We could organise parking elsewhere and bus them in here,” I suggested.

  “Have you ever tried that? It causes chaos and delays. Besides, don’t forget many of these folks will not be in organised parties. They’ll drive to the dale in their own transport, and they’ll come right here. We have no control over them.”