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

by Nicholas Rhea

  As I observed this quaint church-going arrangement, I realised I had witnessed a custom which had probably endured for centuries. I could imagine many past Lord Cramptons doing this self-same task from their ponies-and-traps, or from their coach-and-fours, and I now knew that I was working in a village whose ways had changed little since feudal times. The Rolls had replaced the horses; that was one visible sign of these modern times.

  Few outsiders would be aware of this system of calling the faithful to church and I wondered whether the presence of individuals was monitored or checked in any way. Did His Lordship know when anyone had missed the service? And if so, what did he do? It was by pure chance that I had been in the village as this ritual was being executed, and it did give me a vital insight into the regulated mode of life in this charming, if somewhat old-fashioned village.

  That Crampton continued to function along ancient feudal lines became more evident when I realised that the entire village was owned by Crampton Estate. It owned all the farms, the cottages and the shop; furthermore, most of the inhabitants worked on the estate. Some, however, were retired and continued to live in estate cottages for a meagre rent. I did learn, however, that one or two of the homes were now rented to younger village people who did not work for Crampton Estate, having secured work elsewhere. As time progressed, the number of estate workers was dwindling, but nonetheless, the estate had employed the parents and grandparents of these younger people, so the link remained.

  From that time, as I toured the village on my periodic patrols, I did notice that several of the smaller cottages were unoccupied and sadly noted that some were falling into dereliction. Even if Crampton was clinging to its ancient ways, the Estate’s power was being reduced simply because people were no longer working for it and occupying its cottages. Sooner or later, these would be sold, I guessed, perhaps to be revived as second homes for wealthy outsiders, or even to be turned into holiday cottages by the Estate.

  One such cottage was occupied by eighty-two-year-old Emily Finley, widow of the late Archie Finley who had been one of the Estate’s carpenters. After Archie’s death six years ago, Emily had continued to live in their beautiful little home for the tiniest of rents. She was well looked after by the Estate from both the financial and welfare point of view, a fact which made her old age and widowhood as happy as possible. Then Emily died, and I received a telephone call from the Estate Manager, Alan Ridley.

  “It’s Ridley at the Estate Office,” said the voice one lunchtime. “You’ve probably heard that old Mrs Finley’s died?”

  “Yes.” Word had reached me via the rural grapevine. “I had heard. There’s no problem, is there?”

  I was thinking in terms of the coroner and whether the death was in any way mysterious or suspicious; if so, I’d have to arrange a post-mortem, with all the resultant enquiries and maybe an inquest. A Sudden Death, as we termed this kind of happening, entailed a lot of police work.

  “No, nothing like that, Mr Rhea. She died naturally, of old age I’d imagine. Her doctor’s seen her and has issued the certificate. But it’s her funeral on Wednesday in Crampton Parish Church. Eleven in the morning. The Estate is acting as undertaker. We do this for most of our employees and past employees and their spouses, free of charge, of course. There’ll be a lot of cars and people about and we wondered if you would come along and keep an eye on things.”

  “Of course.” I was only too pleased to oblige.

  “I’d like to meet you on site to discuss the parking arrangements for the cortege, and of course, His Lordship’s vehicle and those of the chief mourners.”

  And so I agreed. We fixed a date and time, and this aspect presented no real problems. We could utilise the village street for parking the cars of any incomers, while the church had adequate space to accommodate and park the funeral procession including the vehicles used by His Lordship and the official party. Most of the mourners, being residents of Crampton, would be on foot anyway, for it seemed that Emily had no close family — no children, brothers or sisters.

  The body would remain in the cottage until the day of the funeral, unlike some villages where it would be taken into the church the previous night. It was scheduled to depart from Holly Cottage at ten minutes to eleven and to arrive at the church in time for the eleven o’clock commencement of the service. I decided to arrive at Crampton, in my best uniform and white gloves, by no later than ten-thirty.

  Before embarking on this duty, I consulted Force Standing Orders to see if there was anything I should know about my conduct at a funeral. I learned that the only specific instruction said, “When passing a funeral cortege, members of the Force, of whatever rank, will salute the coffin.”

  Just before ten-thirty that Wednesday, therefore, I presented myself outside Emily Finley’s cottage in the full knowledge that there would be little to do. But I did know that the presence of a uniformed police officer at a village funeral meant a great deal to the relatives of the deceased — for one thing, it added a touch of local stature to the final journey of the dear departed.

  As I approached, I discovered that the entire population of the village had arrived outside Holly Cottage. Old and young alike were there, and I learned that the Estate had given all its workers the morning off so that they could attend the funeral. Dressed in their dark mourning clothes, the villagers congregated around the tiny house, spilling onto the road and across the smooth grass which fronted these pretty little homes. Due to the numbers, I did find myself having to keep them in some sort of order as several pressed forward and obstructed the route the coffin would take. It did mean, of course, that Mrs Finley was assured of a fine send-off. I felt she would have been surprised at the turnout, but on reflection accepted that this response was normal in this village.

  Then the hearse arrived. But it wasn’t a motor hearse, nor was it a horse-drawn vehicle. Some villages, I know, did make use of a black horse-drawn hearse with a smartly groomed black horse to draw it, but this was something entirely different. Between the ranks of assembled people, there appeared six young men smartly dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties and bowler hats. I blinked as I saw them; they were all so like one another that they were difficult to tell apart. They resembled sextuplets, I thought, for they were like peas in the proverbial pod and they even moved in unison. In sombre silence, they were guiding something towards the cottage. It was a small four-wheeled trolley constructed of smart oak, with metal springs, spoked wheels and pneumatic tyres. Planks of oak formed two platforms, one above the other, the top one being about waist height. This polished and well-oiled vehicle, reminiscent of a pram without its cradle, moved silently and smoothly at the hands of its attendants. I noticed that Alan Ridley followed, now acting in his capacity as Estate undertaker. He was also clad in a black suit and bowler, and the little procession came to rest at the door of Mrs Finley’s cottage.

  Like everyone else, I stood in respectful silence to observe the proceedings and then the six men, preceded by Alan Ridley, moved indoors. They left the trolley outside. After a few minutes, the six emerged bearing the coffin on three strong slings which passed beneath it.

  With obvious experience of similar small houses, they manoeuvred the coffin from the cramped space within and did so without dislodging the solitary wreath which lay on top. They hoisted the coffin onto the trolley, folded and stored the slings, then Alan Ridley approached with several more wreaths in his arms. These were carefully arranged on the lower level of the trolley hearse. When everything was in position, the funeral procession moved off. I walked ahead to halt any oncoming traffic that might arrive. To the sound of a tolling bell, the sombre procession filled the narrow confines of Middle Street as it climbed slowly towards the church; the six men did not have an easy task, guiding and pushing their precious load up the slope, but they succeeded.

  They grew redder and redder in the face as the climb steepened and at the top, the vicar awaited beneath the lych-gate, the traditional resting place of corp
ses on their way to burial. His Lordship and Her Ladyship also waited at a discreet distance, standing close to the main door. Beneath the wooden cover of the lych-gate, the six bearers halted for just a moment to regain their breath and wipe the perspiration from their brows, and then the vicar began to recite the preliminary prayers. At this stage, the coffin, still on its wheels, was steered into the church. As it moved down the aisle, the accompanying mourners filed silently into their seats.

  I saw Lord and Lady Crampton enter their pew as the coffin arrived at its position before the altar. I stayed at the back of the church.

  At eleven o’clock prompt, the service began.

  Even though I had never known Emily, I found both the service and the interment to be very moving. I gained the impression that the Estate and its workers were like a large and happy family; a true community which was being eradicated through the progress of time. Had Emily been buried by her few relatives, the church would not have been so full, nor would her funeral have been such an important event for the village. As things were, she was given a fitting farewell by those who knew and respected her. Following the interment, there was the traditional funeral lunch of ham in the Tenants’ Room at the Hall. Everyone was invited, including myself.

  There, I was privately thanked by Alan Ridley for the small part I had played, and I learned that the six bearers were three brothers and their three cousins. They all worked on the Estate as carpenters, stone masons, electricians and plumbers. Acting as bearers during Estate funerals was one of their regular additional commitments.

  As I motorcycled home afterwards, I realised why this village did not feature greatly in any of my crime returns or in the Divisional Offence Report Register. It was due, I felt, to the family atmosphere of Crampton and the close relationship between everyone who lived and worked here. That closeness affected both their working and private lives.

  I had no doubt that if a small crime did occur, a theft for example, it would be dealt with locally and I would never know about it. Perhaps the threat of dismissal from employment by the Estate caused everyone to be law-abiding, and I did know that the Estate dealt with any local disputes between neighbours. There were no domestic disputes in Crampton of the kind that officially concerned me, but I knew that this feudal type of existence was drawing to a close. And with its decline would come social problems and community strife.

  As the deserted cottages were sold and occupied by outsiders, so this enduring family atmosphere would be diluted and the problems and difficulties of the outside world would afflict the village. The Estate would lose its paternal control for better or for worse, and I wondered if this would happen during my period as the village constable. After all, we were in the second half of the twentieth century, but it was pleasing to know that this kind of contented and untroubled life did continue in part of the English countryside.

  But there was one occasion when I had to deal with a small outbreak of trouble in Crampton. Curiously, it arose as an indirect result of Emily Finley’s death. Perhaps, to be more precise, it arose because of her empty cottage, but it did mean that I had to take out my notebook and begin the steps necessary to institute criminal proceedings.

  To set the scene, it became the policy of Crampton Estate to sell off those empty cottages for which they had no foreseeable use. This applied especially to those which required a lot of renovation and modernization. As cottages became vacant, in the way that Emily’s did, the Estate had to decide whether they were required for new workers, married staff, larger or smaller families or retiring employees. The work force was contracting; it was happening everywhere in the countryside and fewer cottages were needed. Nonetheless, Crampton Estate did occasionally take on new workers from outside.

  Some of them required a house, and Emily’s cottage had become vacant at the very time the Estate was considering the appointment of a trained accountant. Its increasingly complicated book-keeping now required those kinds of skills and so Emily’s little house was earmarked as a possible home for this new member of staff. Over the weeks following her death, I noticed that the house had been renovated. Scaffolding appeared outside and pointing of the stonework was undertaken. New tiles were fitted to the roof and piles of stones, bricks and cement appeared in the garden as internal structural changes were made. A new bath was fitted and the kitchen was brought up to the standards of the period; the house was re-wired too and a partial damp-course installed.

  Around this time, one day in May, I had to visit the Estate Office about some cattle movement licences and was offered a coffee by Alan Ridley.

  “I see Mrs Finley’s cottage is nearly finished,” I said after we had concluded our official business.

  “Give it another week,” he said. “It looks nice now. I wish she could have seen it, the work was long overdue. But we can’t do that kind of job with folks living in them. Besides, old folks don’t like upheaval or changes to their homes.”

  “You’ve appointed an accountant, I hear?” I put to him.

  “Yes, a woman. A Miss Rogers. Jean Rogers. She starts a week on Monday.”

  “And she’ll occupy that little house?” I was updating my local knowledge of the village.

  Alan laughed. “In theory, yes. In practice, no. You know,” he added almost as an afterthought, “I think you ought to be in Crampton a week on Monday, say from eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “Really, why?” I asked, slightly puzzled.

  “That’s the day we hand over the keys to Mrs Finley’s cottage,” he said, and I detected a distinct twinkle in his eye. “But we give them to the Maintenance Foreman; he arranges the housing moves. Might I suggest you are outside Mrs Finley’s house just before eight?”

  “You won’t be expecting trouble, will you?” I asked, wondering what lay behind his suggestion.

  “No,” he said, “but I think you’ll find it an interesting experience.”

  So I arranged my duties to accommodate this unusual suggestion and on that Monday morning, I decided to perform one of my rare foot patrols around Crampton. I began at seven-thirty and enjoyed the morning stroll; the village was full of rich blossom and in places, the clean, crisp air was heavy with varied scents. Birds were singing and the morning was dewy and bright, with the sun gaining in strength as it rose in the sky. It was a moment from a corner of heaven.

  Just before eight o’clock, I made my way around to Middle Street, towards Mrs Finley’s cottage, as everyone called it. Few people referred to it as Holly Cottage. I was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered. It comprised men, women and children and I must admit that this baffled me. The sight made me wonder what was about to happen and why I was really here.

  Then Alan Ridley arrived on foot. He acknowledged my presence with a brief nod and stood before the front door of the cottage, awaiting eight o’clock. As the church clock struck the hour, the Maintenance Foreman, a dour Yorkshireman called Charlie Atkinson, came forward. He was dressed in his overalls and ready for work.

  As the clock was striking, Alan handed over to him the two keys of Mrs Finley’s cottage, one for the back door and one for the front.

  Charlie then called, “Sidney and Alice Brent!”

  A man came forward and accepted the keys. At the same time, Sidney Brent handed some keys to Charlie who announced, “George and Ann Clifton.”

  The Cliftons came forward, accepted the Brent keys, and then passed up some of their own.

  “Alex Cooper,” and an elderly man emerged from the crowd to accept the Cliftons’ keys. He handed some back to Charlie, and so the process continued with about twelve families waiting to hand over their keys and accept others in return.

  During this short ceremony, Alan Ridley moved to my side.

  “Well?” he asked quizzically. “Have you got it worked out?”

  “No,” I admitted. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re re-housing,” he smiled. “Or, to be exact, our tenants are re-housing themselves.”


  “All these?”

  He nodded; already, those who had been first in the queue, were disappearing hurriedly towards their homes.

  “All of them,” he said. “In a few minutes, all hell will break loose. The Brents will be coming here, to occupy Mrs Finley’s cottage, and they’ll want to be in right away. But that’s Charlie’s problem. Come along, let’s go.”

  He began to walk along the village towards his own office in the Hall and I fell into step at his side.

  “So what’s going on?” I asked as we distanced ourselves from the gathering.

  “It’s an old practice on this Estate,” he adopted a serious voice. “When we appoint someone to our staff, we offer to house them. It happens everywhere — tied cottages, you know. And so we select one of our empty houses and modernize it. We clean and decorate it, as we did with Mrs Finley’s.”

  “But all those people handing in keys . . .” I began.

  “Yes,” he said. “At some time in the past, long before my arrival here, this kind of thing caused an upset in the village. In appointing and housing newcomers in refurbished homes, we created the situation where workers of long standing were living in properties which were below the standard we offered to the newcomers. The newcomer’s home was always refurbished and modernized, in the way you’ve just seen. So the tenants decided that whenever a house became vacant and was modernized, the longest serving tenant should move in, if he or she wanted to.”

  I realised how things worked.

  “So they all move up a notch?” I put to him.

  “Yes, the whole village waits for an empty house like this. On the day, they’re packed and ready, and so, in a few minutes, the Brents will move into Mrs Finley’s nice cottage, and then the Cliftons will move into the Brents’, old Alex Cooper will move into the Cliftons’ . . .”

  “And your new accountant? Where does she fit into all this?” I asked.