CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Are you saying there’ve been other crimes like this?”

  “No, Sergeant; so far as I know this is the only one, certainly the only one in our area, but because the bikes are lined up against the wall as the cyclists eat their meal inside the place, they make easy targets.”

  “A job for our crime prevention teams, then, to warn cyclists to lock their machines whenever they leave them unattended. Right, well, do what you can — and tell the café owner she ought to put a notice up, telling her customers to lock their bikes. And isn’t there that annual church service for cyclists at Thackerston Minster next week? Have words with the vicar and get him to warn everyone who’s coming. We don’t want crime waves in Crampton and Thackerston, Rhea!”

  “Right, Sergeant,” I said, thinking his suggestion was very valid. I should have thought of it myself, but in the rush of the moment, had overlooked Mrs Simpson’s valuable crime prevention role although I didn’t think the vicar of Thackerston could warn all his incoming flock of cyclists. They came from all over the North of England and even further afield.

  “And have words with Greengrass, Rhea,” he added.

  “Greengrass?” I puzzled. “This is hardly his type of work.”

  “He deals in second-hand junk, Rhea, spare parts for all sorts of things from washing machines to sewing machines by way of cars, lorries — and bikes.”

  “I’ll pay him a call,” I assured the sergeant.

  “I’ll bet he has a few old bikes tucked away among that stuff of his, and I bet he does a reasonable trade in spares.”

  “He’d run a mile if anyone offered him that stolen Frejus,” I said. “It’s the sort of bike you’d see used in the Tour de France, not the sort you’d find on a butcher’s round in Ashfordly. And any pieces removed from it would hardly fit your average sit-up-and-beg.”

  “So far as I’m concerned, Rhea, a bike is a bike, and Greengrass is a rogue. Go and see him.”

  Chapter 2

  “Have you any spare parts for bikes?” I was standing ankle deep in mud in the rubbish-strewn foldyard at Hagg Bottom, the untidy ranch of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. The scruffy owner of that esteemed establishment was in front of me with Alfred, his equally unkempt dog at his side. Alfred was sniffing at my legs and I began to wonder if he thought I was a lamp post. I was prepared to beat a hasty retreat at the first sign of any suggestive leg-raising by Alfred.

  “They’re not putting you lot back in the saddle, are they?” Claude chuckled at the thought. “Too expensive on the rates, are you, you and your flash little radio controlled Minivans? I’m all in favour of bikes for bobbies; it means you can’t get anywhere in a rush and it means you get wet and cold with soggy boots and numb fingers and rain down the back of your neck . . .”

  “And it means we can creep up on villains in total silence and catch them red-handed in the act of committing their villainy,” I grinned. “And bikes provide good exercise, they keep the lungs working and leg muscles in trim . . . they’re excellent generators of good health!”

  “So are you buying a bike or summat? What’s all this about? Why are you asking me about spare parts for bikes?” He blinked furiously as he began to ponder the real reason for my presence.

  It was clear he was not keen to give me a straight answer — evidently he thought there was some kind of catch or a subtle underhand reason for my presence. In reality, of course, I never expected a straight answer from Claude Jeremiah Greengrass either, no matter how innocent my questioning. Perhaps I was being rather less than honest? But I was dealing with a rogue of renowned resilience!

  “I just want to know if you’ve any good quality and reliable spare bicycle parts for sale,” I persisted.

  “No, you don’t just want to know that. You know very well I’ve got a shed full of spare parts — chains, gears, wheels, handlebars, pedals, frames, spare tubes and tyres — so what’s all this mystery about? If you just want a wheel or a set of front forks, why not just ask for them instead of being so blatantly devious?”

  “A bike was stolen earlier today . . .” I began.

  “I knew it! The minute somebody comes onto your patch and nicks something, you think I’m the guilty party . . . well, it’s not me. I don’t nick bikes and I don’t buy stolen property. I buy and sell high-quality spare parts for all sorts of machines, garden equipment and household gadgets, all obtained legitimately from my suppliers. Not that there’s much trade in second-hand bikes or bike parts these days, not in these hills. Folks are turning to motorbikes and cars; bikes are becoming an endangered species round here.”

  “This was a special bike, Claude. And I know you didn’t take it. I’m not accusing you. It’s out of your league, anyway. It’s a racing bike, an Italian one, Frejus make. Worth over two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred quid for a bike? If I pay a fiver for one, I think I’ve been robbed. At that price, it must be gold plated or mebbe it’s jet propelled?”

  “It’s a specialist’s bike, Claude. A racing cyclist had it stolen from Crampton today, at lunchtime. From outside Mrs Simpson’s restaurant. I just wondered if you knew anything about a local trade in expensive second-hand bikes.”

  “Not me, Constable. I can fix you up with top-of-the-range rubber pedals or bells with a very beautiful ringing tone that won’t frighten old ladies, or even front wheels that’ll take ten times your weight, but not summat as flash as that.”

  “But you’ll keep your ears and eyes open, just in case you hear something during your travels, or perhaps an incautious remark from one of your wide range of valued customers?” I put to him.

  “I’m no copper’s nark,” he muttered.

  “What’s your lorry insurance say about carrying livestock?” I asked, changing the subject completely. “I thought your insurance covered you for goods other than livestock. I’m sure I saw you carrying a load of sheep . . .”

  “Well, in that case I might just keep my ears to the ground, Constable. Just between you and me, you understand.”

  “Good man,” I beamed.

  “Nothing promised, mind.”

  “OK. And I might not ask to see your insurance certificate this very minute, but nothing’s promised for the future! Like tomorrow,” I countered.

  “Right, well, it seems we understand each other. But in all honesty, Constable, I can’t see why anybody would pinch a bike worth as much as that. It’s like pinching summat like the original Laughing Cavalier or the Blue Boy, or running off with the Crown Jewels — everybody would recognise the loot. Why would anybody risk pinching a bike like that?”

  “My thoughts precisely, Claude. Either it’s been taken by somebody who knows precisely what he wanted in which case it’ll not be seen again in its present form, or else it’s been nicked by an opportunist who had no idea what he’s got his filthy hands on.”

  “If an expert has nicked it, you can bet your bottom dollar it’ll never appear on the roads again in the same colours. It’ll be repainted, restyled, new bits fitted . . . and it might be sold for a fraction of its real value.”

  “Spoken like a true connoisseur of crime, Claude!”

  Well, us bona fide second-hand dealers have to be very careful; we’ve got to know what’s hot and what’s not, otherwise we get your mates in the CID coming round to inspect our yards and stock. But if I got that bike offered to me, Constable, I’d not touch it with a barge pole, no matter what the asking price.”

  “But you would give me a ring and you would note the name of the chap and take the registration number of the vehicle that brought it to you . . .”

  It was now Claude’s turn to balk at such a suggestion and to change the subject which he did very swiftly. “So what’s all this about old Joseph Marshall, eh? Giving up his gooseberry work.”

  “He’s not giving it all up,” I corrected Claude. “It’s just his presidency he’s giving up. He wants to spend more time tending his trees; he intends competing in the future.”

  “Well, I hope he
never wins!” snapped Claude. “For all his church-going and holiness, he once did me out of a first prize, did Holy Joe. When he was supervising the weighing, I should have had a winner with my Thatcher — in fact, I would have had a winner with that berry, but according to him, it was only worth second place. That’s after he made me cut off a bit of its stalk . . . that bit would have just put it in the winning place, Constable. Them extra few grains would have made all the difference, the weight of a magpie’s tail feather it was. As narrow as that.”

  “You’re only allowed a certain length of stalk, Claude, you know that. Stalks do add weight to a berry. You can’t include half a bush in your exhibits, that would be unfair. Joseph’s as honest as anyone on this earth. He was just doing his job.”

  “Exceeding his duty, you mean. Being officious. Getting his own back on me just because he said I’d once sold him a bagful of rotten apples, and that was an accident . . . I’ve never been a fan of the gooseberry society since then; his holier-than-thou attitude put me right off. Fancy praying for a win and then chopping my stalk off! I am on the committee, you know, been there years and never been sacked. My name’s still there even though I never attend meetings these days . . . being a successful self-employed businessman, I’m much too busy.”

  “I had no idea you were a Big Gooseberry Man, Claude?” I was genuinely surprised at this revelation. I’d never seen him at any of the shows.

  “I’ve been a member for years. Like my father before me and his father before that. I’ve grown some good berries in my time. I’ve got my trees round the back of the house, genuine Aidensfield trees grown from family cuttings. Come on, you can have a look at them, just to show you I can tell the truth!”

  And before I could tell him I’d rather call back another time, he was leading the way to the rear of his ramshackle house, scattering squawking hens and quacking ducks on the way and opening the string-held broken gate to admit us to the back garden. I felt obliged to follow. Alfred the dog galloped ahead of us, probably hoping that something exciting was about to happen and then I found myself tramping through a spacious bed of nettles and briars as we made for a small area of cultivated ground. Immediately beyond that cultivated patch were some gooseberry trees, as yet without new foliage, and they occupied what I felt was a rather dark and shady corner of Claude’s garden — if this rather unkempt patch could be called a garden. It looked more like a rough shoot to me or a portion of land the moor was about to reclaim.

  The rear wall of Claude’s house occupied one side of the gooseberry patch while another border appeared to be the wall of a wooden shed of some kind. The two other sides of the gooseberry patch were open and I could see there was about a dozen trees, but they were smothered with goosegrass, convolvulus and tall strands of dead grass. It was a miracle they produced anything.

  “There you are, the Greengrass forest of gooseberry trees,” he beamed with obvious pride. “My inheritance. Part of the family history.”

  “You’ve done well to keep them alive and flourishing, Claude. So when did you last show a berry?” I asked him.

  “A few years ago.” He frowned and blinked as he tried to recall the actual time. “I can’t remember exactly, but it’s not since I had to cut my stalk off. That ruined it for me, I lost all confidence in them powers-that-be.”

  “You know Joseph’s never won the Supreme Championship,” I commented.

  “Too busy with his organising, Constable. But now you mention it, I’ll make sure Holy Joe never does win it!” grinned Claude. “If I thought he was going to seriously have a go for the Supreme, I might be tempted to tend my trees a bit better and feed ’em with top-quality muck, then do a bit of pruning and thinning before I submit my entries. Stalks or no stalks, I still know how to grow a big berry or two.”

  “I’ve heard Joseph is going for it this year,” I smiled. “The Supreme Championship, I mean. To mark his retirement. And he does know his berries — if anybody can grow a winner, it’s Joseph,” I said.

  “If that’s what he’s up to, then it’ll be my aim to stop him and to win this year!” chuckled Claude. “I can just see his face . . . and I’ll make sure all his stalks are cut off! If Holy Joe thinks we’re all going to sit back and let him win just this once because he’s retiring, he’s got another think coming!”

  “He’s a very decent and friendly sort of chap!” I defended Joseph.

  “Joseph Marshall? He’s not. He’s as cunning as a cartload of monkeys, make no mistake about that. As deep as they come is Holy Joe, Constable. Don’t you let yourself be fooled by his friendly rustic nature or his hands clasped in supplication.”

  I decided to make my own judgement about Joseph as I changed the subject once again. “Aren’t your trees growing in too much shadow?” I commented. “They won’t get enough sun there, will they?”

  “They’ve done all right so far.” But I was aware that, following my remarks, he did study them with renewed interest.

  “Being in the shade like that, won’t it encourage powdery mildew on your berries?” I continued. “That shed’s shielding them from most of the day’s sunshine and I’d say they’re a bit short of regular ventilation in that corner. A flow of regular fresh air and gentle moorland breezes wouldn’t do them any harm.”

  “It’s my new hen house. I had it built there a few years back as there’s nowhere else to put it. I know it’s blocking the sunshine and obstructing the breezes, but I’ve never bothered because I’d given up showing big berries — until now, that is.”

  “So if you can’t move your shed, why not move your berry trees to a new location? Put them somewhere where they can get sun and better ventilation? Even if you don’t intend showing the berries or growing giants that will astound the world, you’d be sure of a good crop, enough to provide for a tasty gooseberry pie or two.”

  “Well, if I’m going to beat Holy Joe’s berry this year, I’ll have to do that, Constable. Freshly tilled ground with a spot of good mannishment might help an’ all. And none of these fancy modern chemicals, they make your berries taste of nowt. I’ve a patch out there, in the sunshine, that used to hold my midden heap, it should be pretty fertile I’d say, virgin ground almost.”

  “It sounds ideal,” I agreed.

  “It is. I once grew a prize-winning marrow there. This could be a serious berry-growing year for me now that you’ve told me what cunning old Holy Joe’s up to.”

  “I wish you the best of luck!” I grinned at Claude’s new resolve.

  “I’ll need it. Now I’ve got work to do, and I know you’ve got to find your cycle thief, and Alfred wants his tea . . .”

  “I get the message. I’ve got people to see as well, Claude. Well, thanks for the guided tour of your berry patch, and I hope all your stalks are little ones. And don’t forget to keep an eye open for stolen bikes!”

  He grunted some sort of reply but did not accompany me off his premises and disappeared indoors to make a meal for himself and his dog. After spending some time wiping the mud off my boots, I motored away, intrigued by Claude’s reaction to Joseph’s impending assault on the Supreme Championship. I had no idea there was such feeling within the gooseberry world and wondered how many other people would want to defeat Joseph out of spite. Fair competition was one thing — revenge was quite another. I was becoming very interested in the outcome of this forthcoming contest and wanted to see the huge berries that would be featured. Every year there were hopes that a world champion would be produced — would that happen this year, I wondered? The world champion was, quite simply, the heaviest gooseberry ever grown in the world. In 1952, prior to my time as the constable of Aidensfield, that was achieved by Tom Ventress of Egton Bridge, a village deep in the North York Moors not far from Whitby.

  He was renowned for growing huge berries, but his mammoth 1952 specimen weighed 30 drams and 8 grains. It was talked about for years afterwards — and still is.

  But more immediately, I had other important things to concern me. A c
rime for example. First, I drove back to Crampton for a chat with Mrs Simpson; she’d already placed a large handwritten notice on the noticeboard of her café to warn her customers about cycle thefts and there was a note to the effect that bikes could be brought into her garden and parked on the inside of the wall rather than the outside where they were so vulnerable.

  “I don’t want my reputation or my income affected by thieves.” She was a small and rather independent woman whose husband had died in the war. She earned her living by making full use of the spacious family home as a café and doing most of the cooking and baking herself. She was renowned for her chocolate cakes and fruit loaves. Her hair was turning grey now but her pleasant round face usually bore a smile and she seemed very happy in her chosen work. Certainly, cyclists from a huge catchment area knew of her and her food but her establishment was patronised by other diners too. But cyclists were her favourite, possibly because she and her husband had been keen cyclists in their youth, albeit preferring to tour rather than race.

  “I wondered if there is any kind of link between you and the other CTC approved places,” I asked, noting she had closed early for this March Sunday.

  Nonetheless, she produced a mug of tea for me and a piece of apple pie and I settled at a table to enjoy myself.

  “Not really,” she said. “The CTC itself is the only link. Why?”

  “I think all places where cyclists gather and leave their machines outside for a considerable period of time, should be warned about this theft, and the likelihood of others. And we need to warn cyclists who attend other events in large numbers.”

  “Like Thackerston Sunday you mean?”

  “Yes, that’s one example, and I’m sure there are others in the region.”

  “The man who lost his bike, Mr Whittaker, said he would ask the CTC to contact other places like mine, all their recommended cafés for example, and to warn all the affiliated clubs,” she smiled. “And he said he would send a note up to Cycling, that’s their magazine, but he didn’t think his efforts would produce much in the way of publicity because his is the only bike to have been taken. As he said, it’s hardly a crime wave, hardly a major problem.”