After a period indoors, ostensibly recovering from his ordeal in hospital, Joseph did venture down the village. One of his first outings was to resume his attendance at mass at 7.30 each morning and soon afterwards, his Aidensfield excursions increased. They included visits to the post office for his pension, popping along to the shop from time to time, looking in at the village hall to ensure things were running smoothly and going to the pub where he enjoyed a couple of pints on a Friday evening. This was the routine he’d followed before his illness and even if his appetite had shrunk, he could still enjoy a pint or two of best bitter with his pals. It was clear that Joseph had no intention of allowing his sickness to confine him to the house and it didn’t take long for the villagers to become accustomed to his rather wasted and haunted appearance. Few discussed his health with him because they assumed he was dying slowly from cancer, and everyone agreed he was doing so with great dignity. They adopted a simple greeting — “Now then, Joseph, how are you today?” to which he would invariably reply, “Not so bad, thanks.”
I do know that some were looking forward to a Guild funeral — it would be a spectacular affair with cloaked, red-hatted members accompanying Joseph’s hearse and walking beside the coffin to the edge of the grave as they joyfully sang all the famous Catholic hymns, some of which upset the Protestants.
Joseph, meanwhile, showed no sign of quitting this world. His condition did not improve but neither did it appear to deteriorate, and each of these signs was regarded as rather ominous. Perhaps the most revealing aspect of his condition, so far as members of the Old Gooseberry Society were concerned, was that his little patch of gooseberry trees appeared to be very neglected. Weeds were flourishing between them and even with my limited horticultural knowledge, I wondered whether they should have been further pruned or given extra manure as the growing season got seriously underway. Joseph must be very poorly if he was neglecting his trees, but in spite of that, they did produce a fine array of flowers in the first flush of spring and there were no spring frosts to damage the new blossom.
His general appearance at that time was dreadful with his gaunt features, skeletal figure and baggy clothes. One local wit remarked he’d seen healthier looking corpses and I must admit I began to wonder whether Joseph had abandoned any hope for the future. His deep religious faith would have prepared him for death, but did Joseph know more than us? Had he been given some truly bad news by his consultants, news he had decided to keep to himself? It looked a distinct possibility and I wondered if he had decided to conceal the truth from everyone, including Mabel and his family. I did not think Joseph would be quite so devious, although he might regard a diplomatic silence as a way of shielding his loved ones from the hurt and sorrow which would follow. I could imagine him not wanting to burden anyone with his worries — after all, he was accustomed to doing almost everything by himself.
If he did have cancer or some other grave disease or illness, I felt sure he would want to fight it or deal with it entirely alone. He wouldn’t expect help from other people and I didn’t think he would relish any overt sympathy or shows of deep emotion.
It was during the height of that concern that I had to call on Jacob Butterworth, the incoming president of the Aidensfield Old Gooseberry Society. It was a routine matter — the renewal of his firearm certificate — but it offered me an opportunity to discuss Joseph’s condition.
“I’ve been to see him,” Jacob informed me. “I’d heard about him going into hospital for that check-up and coming out looking like a skeleton, and I wondered if he wanted me to look after this year’s berry show.”
“A nice gesture,” I commented.
“Aye, I thought it would take the load off his shoulders. He can do without that kind of pressure. There’s a lot of things to finalise between now and August, adverts for the newspapers, posters, that sort of thing, and I thought he might want a helping hand.”
“And did he?” I smiled.
“Not him! He said everything was in hand and he could cope. He said he had no intention of missing this show, because it’s his last one as president. He’s determined to be there and to do all that’s necessary to make it a good event.”
“What did you think of his general condition?” I put to Jacob.
“It’s hard to say.” He shook his head. “He’s lost all that weight and reckons he’s lost his appetite, yet he seems fit enough even if he is a bit slow and tired. He’s out and about the village, doing what he used to do before he got whatever he’s got. That’s good for him. Once, you know, I had an old ewe like that. She went as thin as a rail and stopped eating, and she stayed like that for weeks. Then all of a sudden, she got better, started eating and became fitter than she was before. I’d had the vet in to look at her, time and time again, but he found nowt wrong. It’s a mystery even to this day.”
“I’ve heard Joseph’s neglecting his berry trees,” I said. “That’s unlike him. It shows he’s far from well.”
“I don’t think he’s neglecting them, Nick. There’s time enough yet for feeding them and doing whatever pruning or thinning out he thinks is necessary. And he did have a cracking show of blossom. If he’s intending to win the Supreme this year, he’s mebbe being a big crafty, leading folks up the garden path, in a manner of speaking, and letting ’em think he’s not interested when I’ll bet he’s got other trees behind the house, out of sight, with potentially monster berries on them. He’ll be tending them as if they’re his beloved bairns, you’ll see. I’ve known Joseph long enough not to be bamboozled by a few neglected berry trees!”
“That sounds very devious to me!” I laughed.
“Berry growers are like that, Nick! Up to all kinds of tricks.”
“Even so, I think lots of people in Aidensfield would like to help Joseph in some way, even if it means seeing to his berry trees if he becomes too ill to cope.”
“I don’t think he’d allow that, Nick. If he has got cancer, like most folks seem to think he has, then he’s in the hands of God — and his doctors of course. I reckon he’s best left alone to get on with life as he thinks best.”
“So you think we should all stop fretting about him?” I put to the dour sheep farmer.
“I do, Nick. I think it’s best. Let him be. Joseph’s happier left to his own devices. And if he wants a helping hand, Mabel will make sure he gets it!”
I had to admit that was my assessment too. I respected Jacob as a man of great wisdom and common sense, and decided to make an effort to stop worrying about Joseph Marshall and his big gooseberries.
* * *
In the meantime, Sergeant Ray Craddock had arrived to take charge of Brantsford Police Station upon the retirement of Charlie Bairstow. We’d given Charlie a fine retirement party at the Brantsford Hall Hotel, along with a gift of a pair of binoculars, something he wanted. The superintendent had spoken of the loss we would all feel upon his departure and he’d had his photograph taken for the Brantsford Chronicle. Charlie told us he was retiring to Scotland where he hoped to follow his hobbies of bird watching, salmon fishing and drinking malt whisky.
Owing to his own duty requirements, Sergeant Craddock had been unable to attend Charlie’s farewell party and I did not encounter him for some time following his posting.
His main responsibilities were in Brantsford and he would cover Ashfordly Section only when Sergeant Blaketon was away for a considerable period, such as a spell of annual leave, or on a course, or perhaps if he fell ill. There might be an occasional visit by Craddock when Blaketon was enjoying one of his weekly rest days, but that would generally occur for a specific reason. Ashfordly and Brantsford were about eight miles apart, each with their own clutch of rural beats surrounding them, but with the advent of more motor vehicles and better communications, it did seem sensible to share the supervisory work of these two neighbouring sections.
During the past weeks, there’d been no further racing cycle thefts in my area although there had been several in other parts of the no
rth-east. They had occurred at roughly the rate of one every weekend, some in our county and others in neighbouring areas. Once in a while, however, there was no such theft. As with the previous cases, each stolen machine was a valuable racing cycle which had been taken on a Sunday from an assembly of similar bikes left unattended. Still anxious to solve the two crimes which had occurred on my beat, I continued to scan the Stolen Cycle Supplements as they arrived, but they recorded nothing which helped my investigation. One problem was that each stolen cycle was described in very scant detail with no real information about the actual mode of the theft.
For my own peace of mind, I continued to make a search of likely hiding places on my beat while asking people like gamekeepers, farmers and ramblers to maintain a lookout for abandoned bikes in isolated areas, but it was all to no avail. No one found any abandoned bikes.
I knew that none of the missing bikes had been traced either. Quite often, ‘borrowed’ bikes were found abandoned somewhere and restored to their losers but these fine machines had completely disappeared. I did not receive any call or visit from Sergeant Craddock to further discuss his missing bike — clearly, he knew about my lack of success but understood the difficulties of solving such crimes.
Furthermore, he was in an ideal position to know how all the enquiries were progressing.
The fact of his arrival in Brantsford had momentarily slipped my mind, but very soon afterwards I did get a call from him. It was a summons by radio while I was in my Minivan patrolling the moors above Briggsby. He instructed me to proceed immediately to Stovensby where he had halted a suspicious character on the edge of the disused airfield. He told me to head for the main entrance where I would see his official car, adding that my presence was required because the detained man had given my name as a referee to his good character. Clearly the sergeant doubted the fellow’s claims and so Craddock wanted me to confront him to confirm or deny that claim.
Stovensby was around fifteen minutes’ drive away. It was a small hillside village with a chapel and a pub but little else other than a single street of stone cottages. Spread across the base of the valley to the immediate south of Stovensby was a disused wartime airfield comprising the remains of the runways, a deserted air-traffic control tower, empty and damaged dormitory blocks, and assorted other neglected buildings such as hangars and workshops.
At the mention of Stovensby and suspicious characters, I thought he must be referring to Tin Lid Talbot, the petty thief and scrap dealer who operated from a scrapyard on Stovensby airfield. Until recently, Tin Lid had lived in a prefab at Crampton but had just moved to new accommodation on the old airfield, close to his emporium of rust and rattles. He’d managed to buy, for a rock-bottom price, one of the old, deserted workshops which he’d converted into a primitive kind of dwelling house. It reclined among his piles of scrap metal and assorted junk, and I think he paid the landowner a modest rent for the rest of his establishment.
I knew Tin Lid Talbot very well — his real name was James Edward Talbot who was in his late forties. He was a stooped, thin man of medium height and build, with dark, greasy hair, bad teeth and filthy fingernails. He always wore wellingtons, winter and summer alike, and had acquired his nickname from his old habit of collecting metal lids from almost any kind of container, ranging from dustbins to treacle tins. He never seemed to sell his collected lids, for the pile grew larger and larger on the old airfield, and he never stopped adding to it. I have no idea what he intended to do with his mountain of tin lids.
He was a sneak thief, too, but when he was caught, he always denied his involvement while simultaneously admitting his guilt. I’ve given a longer account of his crimes in Constable by the Stream, but this is an example of his behaviour. If he sneaked into someone’s house and stole cash which resulted in an interview by the police, he would say, ‘You don’t think I stole Mrs Brown’s money and used it to pay off my grocery bill, do you?’
A visit to the grocer would confirm he’d done exactly that. Or he might say, ‘You don’t think I stole those plant pots and sold them to that market gardener at Whemmelby, do you?’ or ‘You don’t think I stole those silver spoons and hid them up my chimney, do you?’
In spite of his frequent confrontations with the police, Tin Lid regarded me as a friend because I’d once secured his freedom. I’d achieved that because I knew the way he framed his denials, and on that occasion I knew from the words he used that he was not guilty of the offence for which he was the prime suspect. So had Craddock caught Tin Lid Talbot in possession of stolen goods?
Those were my thoughts as I gave an ETA of fifteen minutes, but Craddock closed the transmission without providing any further information. I arrived to find Sergeant Craddock, tall and smart in his uniform, standing beside a red lorry which, even from a distance, I knew belonged to Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. I eased to a halt and climbed out of my Minivan whereupon Claude materialised beside me. He was not in the happiest of moods.
“Constable Rhea,” he bellowed, “will you explain to this little Hitler that I am a law-abiding citizen in business on my own account, and I buy and sell second-hand goods which are not stolen . . .”
“Ah, PC Rhea, we meet again,” beamed the new sergeant as he strode forward to begin his account of this confrontation.
“No news of your cycle, Sergeant?” I asked.
“I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I shall never see it again.”
“I know nowt about stolen bikes!” shouted Claude. “We’ve been through all that!”
“So, Sergeant,” I addressed Craddock very formally. “What’s the problem with Claude?”
“You do know this man?” asked Craddock.
“Yes, I do,” I had to admit. “He lives on my beat, at Hagg Bottom. He describes himself as a self-employed businessman. I’ve known him since I came to Aidensfield.”
“And would you say he is a person of good character?” There was a cold smile on Craddock’s face as traces of his Welsh accent sounded strange against this Yorkshire background.
“Claude is not a thief and he is not a violent man.” I tried to sound diplomatic in the presence of the subject of our discussion. “But I think he would admit that he has had a few brushes with the law in the past, minor matters involving motor vehicles such as no insurance or excise duty, one case of speeding I believe, and another of no driving licence, as well as no dog licence, trespassing on the railway, malicious damage to a rhubarb plant, illegal distilling of whisky and, if my memory serves me right, one conviction for being drunk while playing billiards.”
“That’s juvenile stuff, done when I was young and daft. I’m not a criminal!” Greengrass bellowed at the sergeant.
“No convictions for receiving stolen goods, then? Larceny? That sort of serious crime?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I had to admit.
“No, I’ve not!” shouted Claude.
“Except one case, Claude!” and I recalled one such conviction. “Receiving a load of stolen manure . . .”
“That was dumped on my land without my knowledge, and I got the blame because some copper found it and I couldn’t explain where it had come from. And I still don’t know who put it there, but the magistrates confiscated it and used it on the courthouse rose bushes. I hope they wilted and got greenfly!”
“Hmm,” said Craddock. “Not exactly a criminal record of the top league, is it? No burglaries, arson, armed robberies, embezzlements or housebreakings . . . it’s all very petty stuff, Mr Greengrass.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before Constable Rhea turned up. I’m not a big-time criminal. I might have been a bit daft in my younger days and made mistakes, but all I’m doing now is trying to make an honest living.”
“So, the question is,” — Craddock walked across to the rear of Claude’s old truck — “what are you doing with all these barrow wheels?”
When I peered into the back of the wagon, it was full of barrow wheels. They were piled high in no identifia
ble order and comprised large ones and small ones of every conceivable colour and style. There must have been hundreds, but there was not a wheelbarrow in sight. Some time ago, I’d noticed a pile of such wheels in one of Claude’s outbuildings. This load was probably that very same pile.
“What am I doing with them? I’m taking them to a customer, that’s what I’m doing. I told you that before you called in cavalry reinforcements.”
“Who, Claude?” I asked. “Who’s your customer?”
“Tin Lid Talbot,” he said. “Me and Tin Lid go back a lot of years, and he has markets for things I collect. Like second-hand barrow wheels. And he does a good trade in second-hand weathercocks, used drain pipes and old frying pans.”
“So where have they come from, these wheels?” asked Craddock.
“From barrows I’ve rescued from scrap heaps, rubbish dumps, gardeners who want rid of ’em and anywhere else you care to think of. Folks bring their wheels to me, Sergeant, when their barrows fall to bits. I’m renowned for the quality of my second-hand barrow wheels. Some barrows will outlast their wheels and some wheels will outlast their barrows. But it means there’s a big market for second-hand barrow wheels — barrow wheels collapse or crumble after years of work in gardens, but can folks get replacement wheels for their old barrows? ’Course not. You try finding a wheel to fit your old barrow — your barrow will have years of life left in it, if only you can find a wheel. But you can’t get them in the shops because styles and sizes change, so it means spending money on new barrows — but I can fill a gap in the market. I can refit old barrows. Me and Tin Lid can find wheels for almost any make or model of old barrow you care to mention, even those dating to before the war. Old wheels for old barrows, Sergeant. It’s a very good line of business.”
“So you sell yours to Tin Lid?” I said.
“We work together; he sells ’em for me and I pay him a bit of commission. He has contacts, you see, in the gardening and horticultural world.”
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 7