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

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘What do you make of her?’ Ian asked when she had gone.

  ‘She comes over as a cold and calculating woman,’ I said. ‘“Chilling” is the word I’d use.’

  ‘The sort who would drive a fellow to suicide to get her hands on his money, eh?’ He floated his thoughts in this way.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her.’ My own views were that she was a calculating sort of woman.

  ‘I’m off for a word with his sons,’ he decided.

  He returned two hours later. The old man had not gone to either of his sons during his anguish, something they both found odd. Each said that in the past old William had gone to one or other of his sons to complain about his new wife: that she was getting through too much money, that she was not caring for him, that she was spending time away from the farm, meeting other men . . .

  ‘So he did know she was being unfaithful, long before this affaire.’

  ‘Yes, he knew, all right. He was moody, they both agreed with that, but he was never suicidal. They think he might have gone for a long walk, to think things over. But they will ask around their relatives and go out and look for him. They know his haunts.’

  ‘Is the farm his own?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, he owns it outright; it’s worth a fortune. He’s changed his will, by the way, only in the last month; Irene does not know he’s done that.’

  ‘So who benefits?’ I wondered.

  ‘The farm and all the stock are willed to both lads. He’s cut her out completely; he reckons if she goes with other men now, she can find some other mug to look after her in old age. He’s had enough of her.’

  ‘So Irene thinks she will get the farm if he dies, eh?’ I asked Ian.

  ‘So the sons tell me.’

  We heard nothing of William Sheldon for the next two days, in spite of searches by his wife, his sons and friends of the family and in spite of our own wide circulation. Then we got a 999 call from a fisherman.

  ‘There’s a body in the beck,’ he said. ‘The River Elter, about a mile downstream from Warren Bridge. It looks like a man.’

  I went with the uniformed police constable, and we drove to the area known as Warren Ings. It lay some three miles from the town centre, and the River Elter wove a deep and winding course through the flat countryside. For well over two miles, the river skirted Sheldon’s land, where it formed a formidable barrier to the south of the extensive farm, I guided the constable to Warren Bridge, where we found the fisherman waiting for us.

  ‘It’s a fair walk down here.’ He showed us a footpath along the edge of the river, and we followed him through the hazels and alders that lined the banks.

  We came eventually to a long, wide curve in the river where, on the bank which formed the outer rim of that curve, there were many thick alder trees whose roots formed a curious array of stems which protruded from the water. The flow of the river had gradually washed away the earth at this point, leaving the roots exposed, but the trees had not been weakened by it. They grew as strong and as firm as ever.

  ‘In that pool,’ said the fisherman, whose name we had learned was Frederick Shearman and who lived at Thirsk. He indicated a deep pool at the far side of those alders, and we approached to see the distinctive shape of a body submerged in the clear water. It looked very deep here, and the body was below the surface, being washed gently by the movement of the flow on this wide curve.

  I studied its position for a few moments, noting that the bank over the position of the body was high and sheer. It was sandy in appearance, and there were sand martins’ nest holes at intervals along the miniature cliff. It was about six or seven feet high, with a sheer drop into the water. A tangle of alder roots was some six or seven feet upstream, but directly below the sheer bank the water looked very deep indeed. I asked the constable to go and radio for assistance; I needed to have the attendance of Gerry Connolly and the police underwater search unit, whose task would be to recover the corpse. In addition, I needed the inevitable doctor to certify death.

  There was no need for heroics at this late stage. No one dived in to effect a dramatic rescue, for that this person was dead was never in doubt. As we waited for the next stage of this development, I wondered if I was looking at the remains of poor old William Sheldon.

  With the eventual arrival of our experts, the body was recovered but, as it came out of the water with the aid of two police frogmen, there was a shock for us all. A cement block had been tied to its neck on the end of a length of rope, and that had kept the body anchored to the bottom of the river.

  The body was that of William Sheldon; his eldest son, Stanley, later had the unpleasant job of making a formal identification of the remains. The post-mortem revealed that death had been due to drowning, which meant he was alive when he had entered the water, and there was a large abrasion to the back of his head. The pathologist could not say what had produced that — it might have been caused by the cement block striking him as it dragged him down, or contact with rocks under the surface, or he might have been knocked unconscious before entering the water.

  At the inquest which followed, the coroner asked the pathologist the questions that we had all been asking ourselves and which, indeed, we had also put to him.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said, ‘tell me this. In your expert opinion, could Mr Sheldon have committed suicide? Could he have walked to the banks of that river, tied the block around his own neck and then jumped in, to be weighted down until he drowned?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he could. He was a frail man but, being a farmer, he could easily have carried that block. It is one of many that are still around the farm buildings. He used them for securing stack sheets against high winds.’

  ‘So a determined man could have committed suicide in this way?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, tell me, Doctor. The abrasion on his skull. Was that sufficient to render him unconscious?’

  ‘Yes, in my opinion it was.’

  ‘And can you say whether that was inflicted before or after he entered the water?’

  ‘I can say it was inflicted when he was alive, sir, and we know he was alive when he entered the water. It is possible that someone knocked him unconscious with a heavy blow to the head, tied the weight around his neck and threw him into the river. That is not impossible but I cannot state with any certainty that that is what actually happened. We can only speculate upon what actually occurred, and I cannot speculate further upon the available evidence.’

  ‘But you can confirm that he died from drowning?’

  ‘I can. If he had been dead when he entered the water, there would not have been water in his lungs. I have tested the water found in his lungs and confirm it is the same as that which flows in the River Elter.’

  ‘And that is significant?’ asked the coroner.

  The pathologist continued: ‘Yes, sir. This means he was not drowned elsewhere and brought here for disposal. I confirm that he died from drowning, sir. But whether he was thrown in or threw himself in is something I cannot say. Nor can I say whether or not he was conscious when he entered the river.’

  Having listened to this evidence, the coroner summed up.

  ‘We are told by the second Mrs Sheldon that her husband was suicidal, but no note has been found; we are also told by his sons that, although he was moody and upset at his wife’s self-confessed unfaithfulness, he was not suicidal. So there is a conflict of evidence here. However, I must place on record that his body was found in the River Elter and that he was alive when he entered the water, in a state of either consciousness or unconsciousness. His death is due to drowning, and there was an abrasion on his head which was sufficient to render him unconscious. I am not prepared to accept that William Sheldon took his own life; there is no evidence of that. Nor can I speculate under what precise circumstances his body came to be in the river — it is possible that a third party or parties knocked him unconscious and threw him into the river, his head weighted down so that he drowned. I therefore record a
n open verdict.’

  This caused a buzz of interest in the court, for such a verdict was rather unusual, and the following day’s newspapers bore headlines such as ‘Mystery of Farmer’s Final Hours’.

  Mrs Sheldon, with enormous suspicion hanging over her, left the farm to live in Wales, and the two sons moved back. Bernard Balcombe also moved on, having taken a job with another animal feeds firm in the Midlands.

  So the facts surrounding the death of William Sheldon remain a mystery, and it was only three weeks after the inquest that I came to the end of my period as an Aide to CID. I left with happy memories and with this puzzle in my mind. Even now I still ponder over William’s death, wondering whether it was murder or suicide.

  We shall never know until someone confesses.

  That case was the last in which I was involved as a Constable in Disguise. I wondered if, over those interesting months, I had sufficiently impressed those faceless Powers-that-Be who decide the progress of one’s career and whether, at some distant time, I would join the CID. Gerry Connolly did say I’d fulfilled his expectations and that he hoped one day I would be selected for a detective training course as a prelude to joining the CID. But I knew that such a transfer could not be immediate — even if I had been successful in my recent work, I would have to await a vacancy and there were many ambitious young officers queueing for very few CID posts.

  In the meantime, I returned to my beat at Aidensfield, there to continue my work as a rural constable in the stunning countryside of North Yorkshire.

  THE END

  BOOK 10:

  CONSTABLE

  AMONG THE

  HEATHER

  A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

  NICHOLAS RHEA

  1. Daffodil Duty

  In nature, there are neither rewards nor punishments

  — there are consequences.

  ROBERT GREEN INGERSOLL, 1833–99

  High on the moors above Aidensfield there is a lonely farmstead. A farmer and his wife worked its upland fields all their married life; it was a tough, never-ending task with little monetary reward but they raised a family and saw their small heather-encircled property increase in value. When retirement beckoned, the couple sold their farm to settle in a cottage at Elsinby.

  During their working life, they had never had a holiday, but twice a month or so the husband had enjoyed a day at the cattle mart, while occasionally his wife had gone shopping to York or joined a WI outing to Scarborough. So far as a longer holiday was concerned, neither had had any wish to go away and, besides, someone had to care for the livestock for twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

  As a retirement present, their children decided to send the couple overseas. They selected a trip to Switzerland which would include all the excitement of flying and the sheer joy of exploring a foreign country. On the first night, when their parents would be in their room, the children rang them at the hotel to see how they were coping.

  From the discussion that followed, it was evident they were thoroughly enjoying themselves, and then their son asked, ‘Dad, what’s the view like from your bedroom window?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ said the old man. ‘But there would be, if it wasn’t for all these mountains.’

  I mention this yarn because the people who live on the heights of the North York Moors are so accustomed to dramatic and long-distance views that vistas from other places are often disappointing. It is claimed that upon the moors you don’t have to go seeking views; they offer themselves to be enjoyed. Such visitors as William Wordsworth and John Wesley have admired some of our views, modern tourists now come and attempt to identify distant towns and hills from the many vantage-points, and there is even a claim that the towers of Lincoln Cathedral can be seen from one particular place — and that cathedral stands over one hundred miles to the south. Certainly there are views which extend for fifty miles or so, and without doubt many are stunning in their range. Examples include the famous vista from Sutton Bank Top on the A170, the broad expanse around Chimney Bank Top at Rosedale, the view of Eskdale from Lealholm Bank Top, and the panorama of Whitby from the summit of Blue Bank near Sleights. From Ralph Cross between Castleton and Hutton-le-Hole, there is a view of almost 360 degrees, and from Ampleforth Beacon you can see the North York Moors National Park towards the coast, the Dales National Park towards the Pennines and even the Wolds to the south.

  There are many more, some well known and others which can be found only by leisurely exploration. These viewpoints draw visitors to the moors, and when people arrive in large numbers, they often cause problems for many people, including village constables.

  In the mind of a constable, it is a constant source of amazement that ordinary people can generate so much extraordinary work or create so many complexities as they occupy themselves upon this fair earth. In our quiet moorland villages during those peaceful days in the mid-1960s, we knew that, when the summer season began, usually around Whitsuntide, it would, for a few short months, change the pace of our gentle life. There would be an influx of people, cars and litter. There would be an increase of lost and found property, outbreaks of petty violence and drunkenness, and misadventures by the daft and unprepared, as well as many unforeseen problems. Rarely a week would pass without a blemish of some kind.

  These problems have led the moor folk to question the merit of sharing their inheritance with others who care so little for it, and there are times when one wonders if we should attempt to deter those who spoil the blessed tranquillity and beauty of nature’s finest places. Perhaps we should increase our efforts to convince outsiders that the whole of Yorkshire is a land of pit-heaps, back-to-back streets and factory chimneys. It’s an image we managed to cultivate in the past, and it might prevent the thoughtless and careless from plaguing our landscape.

  Such thoughts often occurred to me as I patrolled the more popular parts of the southern aspect of the moors. It was on such a tour of duty, one bright and sunny Sunday in early March, that I was experiencing a cool breeze that brought goosepimples to the flesh and a threat of rain or even snow on the higher ground. It was not the sort of day when you’d expect an influx of tourists but, with Easter close at hand and with some workers using the last of their annual holidays before 31 March, I found that the honeypots of the moors were busier than expected. I think the bright sunshine was responsible — people loved to drive onto the moors in such conditions.

  An added bonus was that, after a shower of rain, the clarity of long-distance views was remarkable. Some seemed to stretch almost into infinity, and picnickers would sit in their cars to admire distant places. It gave them the feeling of being on top of the world.

  In my official minivan with its blue light on top, I was enjoying a 9 a.m.–5 p.m. shift, and it didn’t escape my notice that I was getting paid to tour the moors while others were having to do so in their own time. During the first few hours, I found little to harass me. I had spent time report-writing in the office at Ashfordly, followed by an hour in Brantsford, where I patrolled the market town on foot as the church bells rang. After this, I decided to drive onto the heights above Lairsbeck, with its scattering of cottages around the tiny chapel. There was a Forestry Commission plantation nearby and, over the months, we had received occasional reports of damage to several units of fire-fighting equipment. These were left unattended around the perimeter of the trees, and we wondered at the mentality of those who destroy or damage life-saving equipment — I would inspect them during my visit. I would also eat my sandwich lunch on the moors. Just like a tourist, I’d find a view of my very own! My decision made, I drove to the top of Bracken Hill. I would park there and enjoy a walk along the heathery ridge with its own fine views of Lairsdale.

  Once I was out of the sheltering fabric of the van, the wind was chilling and more than fresh in spite of the sun; a brisk moorland walk would be an excellent appetizer.

  And so it was. A leisurely ramble around the plantation sho
wed that the fire-fighting equipment had not been interfered with; this pleased me, and I decided upon a short diversion from the route back to my van. This took me across the open moor, where a skylark was singing and black-faced sheep roamed without hindrance. Up here, there are no fences to contain the sheep: they live almost as wild animals, each instinctively remaining within its own patch of heather or ‘heeaf’. ‘Heeafed yows’ (ewes) are those which are mature enough to remain within their own territory and, at that time of the year, many were carrying unborn lambs. Others had already given birth to delightful black-faced infants, and the tiny lambs were tough enough to survive the bleak conditions which prevailed.

  I enjoyed the brisk walk and found myself upon a little-used track which led back to the car-park. As I strode across the heather, moving rapidly to keep warm, I became aware of a Bedford personnel-carrier which was parked on a nab top. A nab is a protruding piece of land. This one overlooked Lairsdale, and the vehicle was positioned so that its passengers could enjoy the views on all sides. Someone had selected the ideal place for a picnic.

  As I approached, a large brown-and-white mongrel, the size of a greyhound, leapt from the rear doors. It was fussing about in a state of some excitement and was immediately followed by three laughing children. Dog and children galloped away in a frenzy of barking and shouting, and there seemed to be a large family with the vehicle. As it stood with its rear doors wide open, I could see the wooden seats which ran along each side, with three seats in the front, one of which was the driver’s. The driver, a tall man in his fifties, with greying hair, was laughing and calling encouragement to the children and the dog, and at that moment I felt happiness for the family in their exuberance.