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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Quite suddenly, as Albert had indicated, I felt fine. It was almost as if a miracle had happened: the fuzziness cleared like a fog lifting, and I was sure I was no longer under the influence of Potter wine. I realized that the barn offered sanctuary for hikers — or constables who were sweating profusely and perhaps, if the truth was admitted, still just a little unsteady on their feet. And there, in the cool of the afternoon, I found the missing Mr Simon Milner. He was sitting on a bale of hay, singing softly to himself, with two empty bottles at his side.

  ‘Mr Milner?’ I managed to say.

  ‘After goodnoon, Oshiffer.’ He made a clumsy attempt at saluting me. ‘I say, you should neck this sampler . . . sample this nectar . . . er . . . dog of the drigs . . . drink of the gods . . . God is a funderful wellow, eh? Giving us the earths of the fruit . . . providing us with the greed . . . the . . . ingredients . . .’

  By now, I was reasonably in command of my own senses. ‘Come along, Mr Milner, it’s time to go home.’

  He started to sing ‘Time to go home’ in the manner of television’s Andy Pandy programme and waved his hand like that little puppet. I wished his son could see him now. With something of a struggle, I managed to get him back to the van and plonked him in the passenger seat.

  I decided to tell Mr and Mrs Potter that I’d found him. As I went to their door, four more hikers were leaving with bottles of the potent Potter potion, and I now knew why we had so many very merry and excitable hikers in Ashfordly. They had no need of a pub with a supply of this kind available.

  I thanked the Potters for their hospitality and left, driving Mr Milner down to the youth hostel in case his son had alerted them. As I drove away, I heard the radio calling me — and with horror I realized I had been off the air and out of contact for hours. The sergeant knew I was heading for the heights, and in all probability their inability to contact me since eleven that morning would mean I had been posted lost on the moors . . .

  ‘Echo Seven,’ called Control in a voice that rang with exasperation and worry. ‘Echo Seven, receiving? Over.’

  ‘Echo Seven receiving,’ I responded in what I hoped was a matter-of-fact, calm manner. My head was clear. I was horrified to see it was nearly 4.30!

  There was a long silence, and then another voice said, ‘Echo Seven. Location please.’

  ‘Echo Seven, Thorngill Moor, near the Blackamoor Walk route. I have just located the missing man, Mr Simon Milner. He is with me in the vehicle; he is fit and well, no injuries. My intended destination is Ashfordly youth hostel. Over.’

  I could explain my long absence by saying I had obtained several differing clues and conflicting sightings about the hiker’s whereabouts and, due to the uncertainty, it had taken me several hours to locate my quarry. The fact that I had found him would undoubtedly save me from a mammoth bollocking.

  ‘Echo Seven. Upon your return, report to the duty inspector. He wishes to give you advice. A search party has been organized to look for you — you never booked off the air and there has been great concern . . .’

  I groaned as Control gave me a well-deserved reprimand over the air. I knew I had been guilty of the self-same thoughtlessness as the many hikers and, like them, I had imbibed the powerful juices of the Potters. I did not try to excuse myself over the radio but sighed as I turned for home.

  Mr Milner sighed at my side, but he was asleep; he was now in his own world of bucolic and alcoholic bliss; a nice story for his chapel friends when he recovered. But I suppose he could be honest because, after all, even though he had strayed from his ways like a lost sheep, he had not entered a pub.

  As I drove through acres of maturing heather, a very official thought occurred to me. If the Potters were selling intoxicating liquor, they would require a justices’ licence and an excise licence, and they would have to abide by the licensing hours. Or would they need an off-licence, seeing their customers did not drink inside the premises? If customers did enter to drink, the premises could be classified as public house, and in addition there were certain requirements applicable to the brewing of wines and spirits . . .

  I groaned. It all threatened to become very complicated.

  I felt that a word of warning about the laws of selling intoxicants would be my first task, rather than a heavy-handed prosecution which involved the Customs and Excise and the Liquor Licensing laws. But I did not know whether I dare return, because if I did, old Albert would probably ask me to test his Rannockdale turnip, Lairsbeck parsnip or Thackerston carrot. I wasn’t sure I would be able to resist.

  I decided it might be best to overlook this particular episode, due to my own involuntary involvement and, to be precise, I had no direct proof of their sale to customers. Hints yes, but not proof.

  But I could not shirk my duty. I decided that I must return to advise Dot and Albert on the illegality of selling their wine, if only to give Ashfordly and its people a break from merry ramblers.

  I did learn afterwards that news of this establishment had reached the rambling clubs that passed this way and that most of their members made a point of calling for refreshment. Perhaps if the Potters opened a licensed restaurant, they would be able to make some money? I might put that idea to them.

  Because they were not at that time licensed, it did mean that Mr Milner had not disgraced himself by frequenting a pub. But right now I had to get Mr Milner home and prepare myself for a telling-off by the inspector.

  ‘Come on, Mr Milner,’ I said to the inert figure in my passenger seat. ‘It’s time to go home . . .’

  ‘Time to go home, time to go home.’ In his fuddled state, he started to sing and wave ta-ta.

  4. April Fool!

  A joke’s a very serious thing.

  CHARLES CHURCHILL, 1731–64

  When our eldest child, Elizabeth, started at the village school, we felt sure she would quickly learn all that was necessary to equip her for the future. Each afternoon, we would ask what she had learned that day, and it seemed that she was progressing very satisfactorily. Then one day she announced she had learned about April Fool jokes. I could not ascertain whether this gem of wisdom had come from the teachers or her classmates, but with the solemnity that only a 5-year-old can muster, she did say that the jokes must end at noon on 1 April and that nobody must be hurt by the pranks. This suggested a sense of responsibility.

  Because this fruitful portion of learning had come to my notice in mid-March, I had forgotten about it by 1 April. Like almost everyone else, though, I was aware of April Fool jokes — indeed, police officers throughout the country play jokes upon each other or their bosses, taking care never to harm or disrupt the public peace in so doing. I have recounted several of these in earlier Constable books (see Constable through the Meadow).

  For example, one mild joke involved an alteration of a list of telephone numbers in the police station — the superintendent’s private number was listed as the ‘new’ number for the speaking clock. When an unsuspecting constable checked the time at 3 a.m., his enquiry was not well received.

  Another constable had his private car number placed on the stolen vehicle index and as a result got stopped countless times by officers of other forces while on his way to a fishing match. Some constables have been told to check mortuaries for security, only to see ‘corpses’ sit up in the darkness. Another was confronted by a road-sweeper who was cleaning the town’s street at 3 a.m. This rookie constable, having been told to stop and interview all suspicious people seen around at night, spoke to this character. The sweeper said he liked cleaning the streets at this time of day because it was quiet and they didn’t get messed up again before he finished. In fact, the heavily disguised road-sweeper was one of his colleagues whom, as he was new to the town, the rookie did not recognize.

  I have been guilty of some jokes too, several of which have appeared in print, such as the reported discovery of a gold mine in the grounds of Coultersdale Abbey, a North Yorkshire ruin, the appearance of the legendary boves in England from which
we get the saying ‘Heaven’s a bove’, and the location of a colony of miniature blind sabre-toothed tigers in an ancient Yorkshire caving system.

  In addition to these pranks, there have been offers of lead-free pencils, UFO sightings, cars with self-repairing punctures, and the stone-by-stone removal of Whitby Abbey to a new site.

  I liked John Blashford-Snell’s account of a tribe of natives who carried their heads under their arms, and Richard Dimbleby’s famous television documentary about the spaghetti harvest. And there are many others that have appealed to my sense of humour.

  But I did not like 5-year-old Elizabeth’s April Fool joke.

  It began one Saturday morning, when she was off school. She was out of bed rather early, and I should have expected something of a mischievous nature from the knowing grin on her face. But, like a lamb going to slaughter, the significance of the date had temporarily escaped me as I concentrated on lots of paperwork which I had to complete before going on duty. I ignored the danger signs exhibited by Elizabeth, one of which involved her hanging around my office while looking distinctly pleased with herself.

  I was working mornings, which was especially pleasing on a Saturday, and I now had a four-hour route to perform. This had been predetermined by the sergeant. I had to begin at 9 a.m., patrol to Elsinby for a 10 a.m. point at the telephone kiosk, followed by points at Crampton kiosk at 11 a.m., Briggsby at noon and then back home to book off duty precisely at 1 p.m. ‘Point’ was the name we used to indicate the time and place we had to be for a possible rendezvous with the sergeant or other senior officer. During this patrol, I would visit a few outlying farms to check some stock registers and discuss the renewal of one or two firearms certificates.

  At ten minutes to nine, I went into my little office which adjoined the police house at Aidensfield and telephoned the police station at Ashfordly. This was a daily ritual to see whether any messages awaited me. I was given a list of stolen vehicles, details of a couple of overnight crimes, and the description of a missing woman. It was a very routine start to my day.

  I had to depart from my house at nine o’clock precisely. All my supervisory officers, and Sergeant Blaketon in particular, were keen on precise timing. Nine o’clock meant exactly that, not a minute past nine nor even a minute to nine. And I knew Sergeant Blaketon was on duty this morning; that meant he could be sitting outside my house in his official car, checking on whether or not I had managed to climb out of bed following my 1 a.m. finish this same morning. In his mind, punctuality was of paramount importance, and I do believe we sacrificed many fruitful enquiries and duties in order to be at a specific place at a specific time, just in case Oscar Blaketon was checking.

  But on this fine spring morning things were going to plan. I had my cap on, my notebook was up-to-date and everything was in order by two minutes to nine. I kissed Mary and the children goodbye, still not comprehending the menace of Elizabeth’s knowing grin. I went into the office for my van keys — I kept them on a hook under the counter.

  They weren’t there. They were not hanging in their usual place. I was sure I’d put them there last night when coming off duty. It was where I always hung them. I checked my uniform pockets without success, then rushed upstairs to see if they were on the bedside cabinet. They weren’t. I checked my pockets again . . . then the bedroom floor, the bathroom floor . . . downstairs into the kitchen, into the downstairs loo, back to the office again . . .

  ‘Have you seen the van keys?’ I shouted to Mary as the clock struck nine. She was busy in the kitchen, washing the breakfast pots.

  ‘You always put them on that hook in your office.’

  ‘I know, but they’re not there.’

  ‘They must have fallen off. You’re so careful with your keys, especially official ones,’ came the voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Then you haven’t seen them?’

  ‘No, I never do! I have no need to.’

  ‘I haven’t put them down on the draining-board or the breakfast table, have I?’

  ‘No, I’ve cleared the table, I’d have seen them.’

  I groaned. I decided to peep outside to see if Sergeant Blaketon had arrived. Fortunately, he had not. The coast was clear, which allowed me a few more minutes to continue my frantic search. I retraced my routine procedures, checking all the likely places again and again, and it was then that I realized that Elizabeth was following me around and scrutinizing all my actions — grinning the whole time.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ I asked, halting a moment in my anguish, ‘have you seen daddy’s keys? The keys for the police van?’

  She clenched her lips and smiled in her silence. Mary had come through to my office at this stage and witnessed this behaviour. Elizabeth’s grin was rather like that of the Mona Lisa with teeth.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Mary recognized the mischief in that smile. ‘Have you got daddy’s keys?’

  The response was a more firmly clenched mouth and fixed smile, with her tiny, round face going red with the effort of containing herself.

  ‘Look, Elizabeth,’ I said, ‘Daddy’s got to go to work and he must have the van keys. He can’t get into the van without them — he can’t switch the radio on and can’t go to work.’

  There was a spare set of keys, but they were kept on a board in the sergeants’ office at Ashfordly police station, and I had no wish to allow Oscar Blaketon to learn of my dilemma by requesting them.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ Mary now took up the challenge, ‘if you have got daddy’s van keys, you must say so, He has to go to work, and the sergeant will be very cross if he doesn’t go out in the van. Now, where are they?’

  ‘April Fool, Daddy!’ she grinned, her tight little mouth now opening as she could contain herself no longer. ‘Daddy’s an April Foo-hool!’ she chanted.

  I should have realized; I should have connected her wicked grins with the arrival of All Fool’s Day, but I had not. I had to laugh at my own stupidity. I’d been well and truly caught.

  ‘All right, Elizabeth, you made daddy an April Fool. Now, can I have the keys?’

  ‘I have to keep them hidden till twelve o’clock,’ she said solemnly. ‘You’re not a real April Fool if you get them back before twelve o’clock, and I know when twelve o’clock is. It’s when both pointers are on twelve.’

  ‘No, Elizabeth, you mustn’t,’ I tried to reason with her. ‘You have made an April Fool out of daddy because he could not find the keys, so you’ve won. Now, I’d like my keys.’

  ‘They said at school to wait till twelve o’clock,’ she announced, that resolute line appearing on her face. ‘And I’m not telling you where the keys are. Daddy.’

  ‘Elizabeth . . .’

  ‘You’re an April Fool if you can’t find them!’ she began to chant.

  Then the telephone rang.

  ‘You answer it,’ I entreated Mary. ‘If it’s the office, tell them I’m on patrol. Say I went out at nine.’

  Mary did so. I heard her announcing that to whoever was calling, and she came back to say, ‘It was Eltering office. You haven’t booked on the air. They were checking.’

  ‘They’ve booked me on now, have they?’

  ‘They said it must be bad reception. Come on, Elizabeth, don’t be silly . . .’

  ‘I am not being silly!’ she stamped her feet. ‘April Fooling daddy is not silly. Everybody will be doing it.’

  It became very evident that Elizabeth was not going to reveal her hiding-place. It was no good wasting time arguing — time was pressing and I had to do something positive. I did consider making all the clocks and watches show the time as twelve o’clock but I didn’t think that would fool her. My only option was to go on patrol, otherwise I could be in serious trouble from Sergeant Blaketon and, because the van was now out of commission, I needed some alternative transport. I decided to use my own car, hiding it where necessary. I could make those hourly points, and if any senior officer challenged me, I could claim either that the radio reception was poor or that my van would not start.
Both were correct! And then, after twelve noon, I could return home when, hopefully, Elizabeth would return my keys.

  As Elizabeth stood with a grin of triumph upon her face, I knew I should remonstrate with her, and yet it seemed such a cruel thing to do when she was flushed with triumph. I could not be angry with her, not now. My own frustration had evaporated, and so I decided I would regard her triumph as a genuine victory. I praised her for her cleverness and headed for my car.

  Fortunately, she had not hidden its keys, and so I made my way to the first point. I must admit I did so with some trepidation because, if the office had been trying to raise me on the radio, I would be subjected to a form of inquisition. But as I stood beside the telephone box at Elsinby there was no phone call and no visit from the ever-vigilant Sergeant Blaketon. From ten o’clock until eleven, I continued to visit outlying farms in my own car, the change in my transport not causing a flicker of interest in the farmers upon whom I called. At eleven, there was no telephone call at Crampton kiosk and I decided that, immediately after my noon point at Briggsby, I would drive home, hopefully to retrieve the keys from Elizabeth so that I could complete my tour of duty in official transport. Looking back upon the events of that morning, I suppose I had a charmed existence, because there were no official calls at the telephone kiosks, which in turn meant no one had been endeavouring to raise me on the radio.

  Having completed my noon point, therefore, again with no calls from the office, I rushed home. Upon my return, Elizabeth was waiting with a triumphant smirk on her little face, and I admitted to her that I was an April Fool of the very best kind. I had not been able to prevent her trick from enduring until noon, and I knew I should be the subject of some discussion at school on Monday.

  ‘So, Elizabeth,’ I smiled, ‘where are my van keys, please?’