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

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘How did you get up that tree, Jacob?’ I asked.

  ‘Climbed up,’ he said.

  ‘Without a ladder or steps?’ I put to him.

  ‘There’s no need for owt like that, Mr Rhea,’ he said with just a trace of contempt. ‘Why bother with ladders when t’trees grow their own steps?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be climbing trees at your age!’ I shook my finger at him in a mock rebuke. ‘You could break a leg or something if you fall down — these are big trees and it’s a long fall from the top! Look how a tumble bruises apples that come down! You’ll be covered with bruises tonight, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Thoo’ll not tell our missus, wilt thoo?’ he asked with a note of pleading in his voice.

  ‘Why not?’ I put to him.

  ‘Well, she’s allus going on at me about climbing trees and picking apples, Mr Rhea, and it’s only way I can pick ’em. So say nowt to her, eh? About me tummling doon.’

  ‘So long as you’re not hurt!’ I submitted.

  ‘Fit as a fiddle,’ he said, straightening his back as if to emphasise his words. ‘There’s nowt ailing me.’

  ‘OK, but remember, no more climbing trees!’

  ‘You sound just like my missus!’ he grumbled as he stooped to begin picking up the spilt apples, groaning with pain as he did so. I helped him and when we’d collected the lot, he went indoors.

  ‘Thoo’ll come in for a cup o’ tea, Mr Rhea?’ he invited me.

  ‘No thanks, Jacob,’ I said. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to get on. I’m supposed to be visiting the garage!’

  Happy that his fall had not resulted in any permanent damage, I left him to recover over a cup of tea. I thought little more about the incident until I saw his wife, Sissy, in the village street a couple of weeks later.

  ‘How’s your Jacob these days?’ I asked after a general chat.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘But his rheumatics is bothering him a bit. He reckons his back hurts; I say it’s with climbing apple trees but he says it’s not. Mr Rhea, mebbe you’d have a word with him about climbing trees at his age. He’ll fall down one of these days, mark my words, and that could be t’end of him. I shouldn’t want to deal with him if he cripples hisself cos he’s tummled oot of a tree at eighty-three, Mr Rhea. He’s a bit awd for that sort of a caper.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ I promised her.

  I did speak to him and said he was too old for that sort of a caper, as Sissy had put it. But it made no difference. He continued to climb apple trees until his death at ninety-two.

  * * *

  Another tale involved Sidney Latimer who was eighty-six. A retired lengthman, his work had involved keeping the roads tidy and well maintained. And, so I learned from the older folks, Sidney had done a very thorough job. In winter especially, he had kept them gritted and open when others near by had been closed in the grip of the weather. Sidney had always taken a pride in “his” roads.

  He lived alone in a pretty cottage just off the main street at Aidensfield and he coped very well with his daily chores, albeit with the help of a lady who popped in to care for him. Like so many of the elderly in and around Aidensfield, he would emerge on a fine day to sit on the bench near the war memorial, there to observe the passing show and to chat with three or four pals of similar age.

  Then he became ill. I was not aware of this for some time, but realised that he was not enjoying his daily walk or his sojourns to the village seat and so I asked after him from his cleaning lady.

  ‘Oh, he’s in hospital, Mr Rhea, at York.’

  ‘Oh, I had no idea! What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

  ‘Old age mainly,’ she said without a hint of sympathy. ‘And his waterworks are giving him pain. They’re seeing to him there, he might be in for a week or two.’

  I rang the hospital to enquire after his progress and was given the usual response, ‘Mr Latimer is as well as can be expected.’

  That did not say a great deal so, one afternoon when Mary and I, with the family, went shopping to York, I decided to pop in and see Mr Latimer. I found him in a ward full of elderly gentlemen, some in a very poor state and clearly approaching the end of their lives. Assailed by the distinctive smell from this geriatric ward, I settled at Sidney’s bedside.

  ‘Now, Mr Latimer,’ I said. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Rhea.’ His old eyes twinkled with delight because he had a visitor. ‘You are looking slim. How’s Mrs Rhea?’

  This was his usual greeting; whenever he met anyone, man or woman of any shape or size, he complimented them upon looking slim.

  ‘She’s fine thanks,’ I told him, pulling up a chair. ‘She’s in town, shopping, she sends her best wishes and hopes you’ll be home soon.’

  ‘It’s my waterworks, Mr Rhea, they say. I reckon I need a good plumber not a doctor. But they say I’ll be home before long.’

  He was very alert and we chatted for some time about village matters. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and in his younger days must have been an impressive sight. He had married, I knew, but his wife had died several years earlier and, so far as I knew, there had been no children. Sitting propped up on that hospital bed, he did look rather vulnerable and somewhat smaller and more fragile than usual. During the course of our conversation, he said he got a bit lonely.

  ‘It’s not like being at home, is it? At home I can pop out and see folks, there’s allus somebody about, or something to do, even if it’s just popping into a shop or the post office for my pension. Here, I just have to lie down and do as I’m told. These old lads in here aren’t much company, are they?’

  He looked along the ward at his companions and sighed.

  ‘Just lying there fading away, that’s all they’re doing. There’s not a lot of excitement unless it’s some poor sod who’s cocked his toes.’

  It must be awful, seeing one’s companions dying one by one, but he seemed unperturbed. He was fully convinced he would be allowed home very soon.

  ‘There must be somebody I can tell about you being in here, Mr Latimer,’ I suggested. ‘The village folks know you’re here

  ‘They never come!’ he grumbled.

  ‘Relations, then? Old friends? Shall I write to them and say you’re here?’

  ‘Apart from folks around Aidensfield, there’s only my old schoolteacher. Taught me when I was a lad, she did. You might tell her, I allus send her a Christmas card.’

  Now I thought he was going senile but wary of his reactions if I showed disbelief, I said, ‘Where’s she live? I’ll tell her.’

  He delved into his bedside cabinet and pulled out a battered old pocket diary, years out of date. Flicking through the pages until he found the place, he said, ‘No 18 Ryelands Terrace, Eltering. Miss Wilkinson. Taught me my three Rs at Ashfordly Primary she did. 1886 she was there. Lovely woman. Lovely as they come. She’ll be interested to know I’m here. Allus kept in touch, she has.’

  To humour him, I made a note of the name and address in my private diary and promised I would tell her. This seemed to please him greatly and our next half-hour was spent in casual chatter about nothing in particular. I could see he was tiring so I said my goodbyes.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Rhea,’ he smiled as I stood up. ‘My word, you do look slim. Now, you won’t forget to tell Miss Wilkinson, will you? And you will come again?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come again,’ I assured him, and left to collect my wife and family from the cafe where they’d been having tea with one of Mary’s friends.

  I must admit I gave no more thought to Mr Latimer’s supposed schoolteacher, but a few days later, I was patrolling Eltering. I had driven there in my mini-van because I was scheduled for a two-hour foot patrol in the town; there was a shortage of local officers that afternoon. And then, quite unexpectedly, I found myself walking along Ryelands Terrace. The name had meant nothing until now and when I saw the nameplate on the wall of one of the houses, it caused a flicker of reaction in my mind. At first, I coul
d not determine why it should interest me and then I recalled my chat with old Mr Latimer.

  Pulling out my diary, I found my note about Miss Wilkinson, the primary schoolteacher who’d taught him around 1886; she had lived at No 18. Now full of curiosity, I decided to walk along to No 18.

  When I got there, I found an elderly lady tidying her front garden. She was slender and small, with a neat head of tidy grey hair and she carried a paper sack. She was collecting fallen leaves which had been blown from some nearby sycamores. She smiled warmly as I approached.

  ‘Leaves are such a nuisance, Constable, aren’t they? Every autumn, they blow into my garden, and every autumn I clean them out!’

  ‘They are!’ I sympathised with her. ‘My wife makes compost from them, we find them a nuisance really, but we can make use of them!’

  ‘Yes, I give mine away,’ she smiled. ‘To the old gentleman who lives next door. My garden is much too small for me to worry about compost.’

  I wondered if I dare ask about Miss Wilkinson, Mr Latimer’s old teacher, for it was such a long time ago that she’d taught the old man. Maybe she had married and this was her daughter? Or a younger sister? Maybe this lady had no idea who lived here before her . . .

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘But now that I’m here, I wonder if you know of a Miss Wilkinson who used to live here. She was a teacher in the primary school at Ashfordly in 1886.’

  ‘That’s me,’ she said primly. ‘I’m Miss Wilkinson.’

  ‘You!’ I did not know what to say. ‘But, she must be older than you . . . she taught a friend of mine, a Mr Latimer . . .’

  ‘Sidney Latimer,’ she smiled. ‘Yes, of course. He was in my class, a very good pupil and very bright. He did nothing with his life, Officer, he could have done anything he wanted, that man. Wasted his talents. Such a shame.’

  I was still not sure we were discussing the same Sidney Latimer, so I said, ‘Well, he’s in hospital actually, in York. He’s had a minor operation and asked if I would inform Miss Wilkinson, his teacher . . .’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. He must be, oh, what? Eighty-six now? He was eight when I taught him, Constable, and I would be getting on for twenty, I think.’

  ‘So you really were his teacher?’ I was astounded.

  ‘Yes, of course! I’m well into my nineties now, you know, but still going strong!’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Sidney was a nice boy, Constable, and I’ve always been interested in his welfare. Always. I shall go to visit him in hospital.’

  ‘Shall I arrange a lift for you?’ I heard myself offering.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I will use the bus. There is a very good bus service from Eltering to York and I will enjoy the outing. Thank you for telling me about Sidney, I will certainly pay him a call.’

  And so she did. He was delighted and I was amazed.

  I sat down and worked it out; if he was eight in 1886, he’d been born in 1878 and at the time I met him, he was about eighty-six. If she was twenty in 1886, which was feasible for a teacher in a primary school, she’d have been born in 1866 which meant she was around ninety-eight!

  Even now, I find myself surprised that a man of eighty-six could keep in touch with his primary school teacher. And, following her visit, Sidney Latimer did get well and returned home to continue his life in Aidensfield.

  * * *

  Another sad but funny tale occurred during a summer soon after I arrived at Aidensfield. It involved a pair of twin bachelor brothers and their aged father who farmed in an isolated dale to the north of Aidensfield. The sons were Angus and Fergus MacKenzie, and their father was Alexander Cameron MacKenzie, a man in his eighties. No one was quite sure of the twins’ age, but they must have been around sixty years old.

  In spite of their names, they were Yorkshiremen, although I’m sure a distant ancestor must have journeyed this way from the Highlands. They occupied one of the most remote farms in the moors; it was called Dale Head and it stood high on the slopes of Lairsbeck, at the end of a long, rough track. The MacKenzies dealt chiefly in sheep, although they did breed Highland cattle, and seemed to scrape some kind of a living from their lofty farmstead. Theirs was a life of constant work with no time for relaxation.

  Money was always short; they were clearly hard up and were seldom seen in the village or nearby market towns. Mrs MacKenzie had died some years ago, but the twins had never married; they’d never seen the point of having to keep one or two extra people in the house. And so, over the years, they existed in the little stone farmhouse with its stupendous views across the moors. I called infrequently to check their stock register, and that was my only contact with them. I called, drank a mug of tea, signed their book and departed. I probably called once every month or even once every two.

  On one occasion when I called in late May, Angus met me and produced the necessary book which I signed. I had seen Fergus in the foldyard and on this occasion, I was not invited to stay for a cup of tea in spite of my long drive.

  ‘We’re getting set up for haytime, Mr Rhea,’ Angus told me. ‘It’s allus a thrang time for t’likes of us.’

  I knew what he was saying. Thrang is the local word for “busy”, and for a moorland patch like this, every day counted. Haytime up here was fraught with risk from the weather, and so they had to work rapidly and positively to succeed, taking swift advantage of the limited sunshine and drying winds. And with only two fit men and one old man to do all the work, it was a lengthy procedure. Later, however, I thought about that missing mug of tea. It was unusual, but at the time I did not pay any heed to this departure from the normal.

  Later, I realised I had not seen the old man around the buildings either, and once more, this was unusual. Down in the dale and in the surrounding hamlets, no one thought it odd that old Mr MacKenzie had not been seen. He seldom ventured out anyway, his lads making sure they did any shopping that was necessary. I must admit that his absence did not bother me, for I knew of his habits and routine. It was more unusual to see him than not to see him! It was only after the events which occurred later that I realised the significance of all these odd facets.

  It began with a call from Harold Poulter, the undertaker.

  ‘Mr Rhea,’ he said quietly over the telephone. ‘I’ve a rum sort of a job on. I thought I’d better give you a call.’

  Harold dealt with most of the local funerals and we had a good working liaison due to my own official involvement in the investigation of sudden, violent or unusual deaths. Harold knew which deaths should be investigated by the police and so a call from him had to be taken seriously.

  ‘Yes, Harold, what is it this time?’

  ‘It’s poor awd Alex MacKenzie, you know, from Lairsbeck. He’s tipped his clogs.’

  ‘Ah’, I said partly to myself, ‘that’s why I haven’t seen him around, he must have been ill.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure about that, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘But it’s a funny affair if you ask me.’

  ‘Go on, Harold,’ I invited him to continue.

  ‘Well, them twin lads of his, they’ve had him up there for weeks, Mr Rhea, never got around to fixing a funeral. I mean, I wonder if you fellers’ll need a PM or inquest or summat. Seems he’s been dead for weeks.’

  ‘Weeks? How many weeks, Harold?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunno, and they’re not sure either,’ he said. ‘They’ve had no doctor in, they say they know when a pig’s dead or a cow, so they know when a feller’s gotten his time overed.’

  I groaned.

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘In a pigsty,’ said Harold. ‘They put him there because it’s a cool spot and he would keep a while. He wouldn’t stink the bedroom out, so they said.’

  ‘I’d better get up there,’ I said. ‘Have you told Doctor McGee?’

  ‘No, I thought you’d best know first.’

  ‘OK, right, I’ll have a ride up to Dale Head and let you know what happens. I’ll ring Doctor McGee before I go.’

  Wh
en I spoke to Doctor McGee, he asked whether I thought it was a suspicious death, like a suicide, or even murder. I had to say I had no idea at this stage; a visual examination would help to determine the future police action, but in view of what Harold had told me, I felt the presence of a doctor was advisable.

  ‘Right, I’ll see you there,’ he said.

  I arrived in advance of Dr McGee and knocked on the tatty kitchen door. In need of a coat of paint, it was opened by Angus, a thin, large-boned fellow with gaunt cheeks and an unkempt head of sparse ginger hair which was greying around the temples. He smiled a welcome, showing a mouth full of huge yellowing teeth which looked as solid as the rocks around the farm and which had probably never seen a dentist in half a century.

  ‘Noo then, Mr Rhea,’ he said, opening the door. ‘We was expecting thoo.’

  Inside, Fergus, who was almost identical to his brother, albeit perhaps a little more robust in his appearance, was sitting at the end of the plain wooden kitchen table. Around him was a collection of mugs along with the teapot, a half-full milk bottle and a sugar bowl.

  ‘Thoo’ll have a cup o’ tea, Mr Rhea?’ Fergus asked. I was pleased to see this routine had been re-established.

  ‘Thanks, Fergus,’ and I settled at the table with Angus at my side. I waited until I had the mug in my hands and said, ‘Harold Poulter would tell you why I had to come?’

  ‘Aye, ’e did, Mr Rhea. Unusual death, ’e said. But, Mr Rhea, there’s nowt unusual aboot oor father’s death. ’E just passed on, like awd folks do. In ’is sleep, no fuss or bother. We’ve ’ad cows pass on like yon. Nice as yer like, Mr Rhea, so, well, Ah’ll be honest, Ah can’t understand why awd Harold wouldn’t just let us git on wi’ t’funeral and git t’awd man buried. It’s time we did summat wiv ’im.’

  ‘There are always formalities when a person dies.’ I tried to be courteous. ‘Forms to fill in, a doctor’s certificate to obtain, the registrar to see, things like that. You can’t bury a human being like you’d bury a sheep.’