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

  “So how long is Joseph likely to remain in hospital, Father? Has the hospital given any indication?”

  “The authorities won’t commit themselves. He’ll be there for a few days of close observation and tests and I think the cancer specialists will take another very careful look at him.”

  “Well, let’s hope he comes through all this,” I said.

  “We shall pray for him at mass every day,” said Father Simon. “But no one can interfere with the Lord’s will — if God wants Joseph to join Him and grow berries in a heavenly gooseberry patch, then Joseph will have to obey that call. God’s will must be done, you see, even if we do not like it or understand it.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Father. I’ll pop in for a word with Mabel,” I said.

  “She’d appreciate that,” the priest smiled. “Well, I must get this lawn cut — I’ve a baptism on Sunday and want the place looking smart for my visitors. See you later, Nick.”

  As Father Simon went to pay for his two-stroke mixture, I prepared to resume my patrol and decided I had sufficient time for a quick visit to Mabel Marshall.

  It was the least I could do in the circumstances. Parking my van outside the cottage, I noticed her in the garden where she was hoeing between those of Joseph’s gooseberry trees which were visible from the roadside. She was wearing her usual household apron but had short red wellington boots on her feet. They were caked with the damp earth as she pushed the narrow-bladed hoe between the trees, taking care not to damage their roots or stems. She worked with considerable speed and precision. One of my first thoughts was that Joseph would be proud of her.

  “Good morning, Mabel.” She had her back to me as I called over the garden wall.

  “Oh, hello, Mr Rhea,” she turned and smiled as she saw me. “Come in, I was just thinking of breaking off for a cup of coffee.”

  “Don’t stop on my account,” I said. “I’ve just heard about Joseph and thought I’d pop in to see how he was, and to see if I can help.”

  “I want to sit down for a few minutes and I’d love a cup of coffee,” she insisted. “My old legs get a bit tired these days and my throat’s as dry as dust . . . so do come in.”

  As she busied herself in the kitchen, producing mugs and plates, some buttered scones and a pot of strawberry jam, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, the kettle was bubbling and singing on the fire. Soon she was handing me a hot coffee and inviting me to help myself to some scones and her home-made jam. We chatted about inconsequential things until she was ready to join me at the table and, when she was settled, I said, “Father Simon’s just told me about Joseph.”

  “It’s all so worrying, Mr Rhea.” Her eyes were moist. “I do know Joseph’s not a young man and I am wise enough to expect illness and disease and even death at our time of life, but it’s all so puzzling, no one being able to find out what’s wrong with him. I just wish they would give me some idea. No one will tell me, you see, not even a hint. I mean, I reckon he’s got cancer of the bowels or stomach or something. Losing all that weight, and his appetite, and now those terrible pains in his stomach . . . well, I think it all points to that. I just wish somebody would have the courage to confirm it, then we would know what the future holds.”

  “So they’ve not given you any idea what the problem might be?”

  “No, nothing. Not the slightest hint. That’s what’s so upsetting, Mr Rhea, not knowing. Nobody will commit themselves. Even Joseph has no idea what’s wrong with him.”

  “He’s said that, has he?”

  “He has, Mr Rhea. He says no one’s told him anything, except to say they can’t find anything wrong.”

  “Doctors and specialists like to be absolutely sure before committing themselves. They don’t have much choice; it would be wrong to give you misleading information or a rushed diagnosis. But if they cannot find anything wrong, they will say so.”

  I tried to ease her worries but knew it was impossible and I could appreciate the dilemma she was experiencing. She could not accept there was nothing wrong with Joseph.

  Being left in that kind of vacuum was worse than knowing it was a fatal disease. If terminal cancer was diagnosed, she could prepare herself to cope. There was very little I could do to help, but I wanted her to know that all of us — the whole village in fact — were sympathising with her at this cruel time. I suspected that Joseph knew more than he was admitting, but no one could force him to reveal his knowledge. There was one small thing I could offer by way of assistance, however.

  “What about getting to see him? I’ll be happy to take you through to Scarborough,” I offered. “With the sort of hours I work, I am often free during the afternoons, when visitors are allowed. Sometimes, it’s hard for friends and relatives to get time off in the afternoons.”

  “Thanks, Mr Rhea. I’ll let you know, but I’m all right at the moment. My sons can take me, and Ron next door has offered, and Father Simon . . . everyone’s so very kind.”

  “Well, don’t be frightened to ask.”

  “No, I won’t,” she assured me.

  “I’d like to see Joseph myself but don’t want to get in the way of any family visitors. If I do go, you can come with me, so don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “Thank you, Mr Rhea.”

  “I noticed you tending his berry trees,” I smiled.

  “He’s determined to compete this year,” she said, sniffing back a tear. “He said how nice it would be if he could win the Supreme just this once, in his last year as well, his last year as president that is. But, apart from what I’ve seen him do in the garden, I know nothing about growing prize berries, Mr Rhea. I’ve already left it to him.”

  “He’ll tell you what to do, though?” I put to her. “He’ll make sure you always do the right things.”

  “Oh yes. Even from his hospital bed, he keeps reminding me of jobs. He’s had no strength lately, he got tired in no time so I helped him before he went to Scarborough. The main thing is to keep weeds down so they don’t take up any of the nourishment intended for the berries, and so they don’t block out the sunshine or stop air from circulating through the trees. Joseph’s already done a fair bit of manuring and pruning; he managed his March pruning. Now, I’ve got to make sure his trees have enough moisture, not too much though, but the berries have formed now, Mr Rhea, the blossom’s gone. It was a good spring without any hard frosts and the bees got busy fertilising the flowers, so the trees are now full of very presentable young berries. Lots of them. Now I know Joseph always picked a lot of them off — he did his first thinning back in late May and was very careful which ones he left on.”

  “There’s where the skill comes in!” I agreed.

  “You’re right. He always seemed to know which ones to take off, so those left behind would grow to their biggest possible size. There’s more thinning to do and some more netting to fix, against the birds.”

  “You can do that, can you?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, I think so. Thinning’s the tricky bit, Mr Rhea, knowing which ones to leave on the tree to the very end, and where to leave them so they get the best of the sun and so they’re out of the wind and away from birds and wasps and so on. And there’s sometimes a bit of summer pruning which has to be just right to let the air and sunshine in, and keep mildew off. Joseph has always said the right amount of pruning at the right time and in the right place is the secret of berry success but everyone has different ideas.”

  “You’ve a lot to remember.” I smiled at her concern.

  “I have!” she expostulated. “I don’t know how I’ll cope if he’s in hospital for any length of time.”

  “You could get help. I’d say some of those jobs need the services of an expert,” I suggested.

  “And I’m no expert!” She sounded worried at this realisation.

  “You could always ask another grower to help,” I suggested, and the moment I uttered those words, I knew it was a crazy suggestion.

  “Nay, Mr Rhea, I can’t do that! I can’t let
competitors see how Joseph’s berries are coming along, and I mustn’t let any of them near his berries.”

  “I realise that now . . . it was silly of me . . .”

  “They might nobble them, Mr Rhea,” she went on. “You’ve no idea the dirty tricks some of them serious berry growers get up to. If somebody sets his heart on winning, he’ll not let anything stop him, least of all the berries of another grower . . . it’s the easiest thing in the world to brush against a rival’s best berry and make it drop off the tree when it’s ripening fast, or puncture a really big one with a thorn or a needle . . . or just pick the best off when nobody’s looking and pretend it’s the birds . . .”

  “And has Joseph got a few secret bushes with big berries tucked away in a hidden corner of his garden?” I laughed.

  “’Course he has! They’re out of sight from the road, in that far corner of our back garden near the compost heap, gated off with nets covering them, but he’s not had much time to bother with them this year. That’s always been his problem, Mr Rhea, being too busy to deal with them special trees and being ill hasn’t helped. There’s still a lot of grass and nettles and other rubbish growing around them, stuff that should have been moved months ago, but I’m not going to touch them. I wouldn’t dare. Joseph wants me to tend those in the front garden. He wants folks to see those berries, so they think all his berries are like that, not very big ones. He aims to lull them into a false sense of security, so he said. Well, I can see to these few trees with no problem.”

  “But he doesn’t want you to touch those in the back garden?”

  “It’s more than my life’s worth, Mr Rhea. I’ll just leave them alone. Anyway, he might be out of hospital soon, then he can tend his own berries. There’s still a few weeks left . . . and if anything’ll get our Joseph out of his sick bed, it’s the thought that he’s going to miss the berry show.”

  We chatted for about half an hour, with Mabel reminiscing about past happy memories in her long marriage to Joseph, referring to her children and grandchildren as her eyes misted over while she talked. She mentioned her unfulfilled desire to travel overseas, their closeness to the church and Joseph’s Guild membership, but refrained from referring to the Guild’s role in funerals. As she chattered, it was almost as if she was talking to herself, as if I was not in the room. I did not interrupt because I felt it would be good for her to unburden herself in this way but suddenly she realised what she was doing and halted her flow of words. I smiled, thanked her for her hospitality, reminded her about my offer of transport to Scarborough Hospital, and left. I walked away from the cottage with a distinct feeling that Joseph Marshall’s wife was coming to a swift conclusion but hoped he would survive long enough to see his berry win the Supreme. And I just hoped he would die without any of the terrible pain that sometimes accompanied cancer. Feeling that I should be offering more solace but not knowing how to go about it, I climbed into my waiting Minivan and drove away, heading for Waindale where a man wanted to renew the firearm certificate which authorised him to possess an elephant gun.

  * * *

  While Joseph was in hospital during the heat of that June, my normally peaceful patch at Aidensfield experienced its third bicycle theft. Like the previous occasions, it happened on a Sunday, but this time the crime was committed in a very remote area, high on the moors above the hamlet of Lairsbeck.

  I received a telephone call from the kiosk in Lairsdale, a lonely valley deep in the moors comprising a scattering of farms, the tiny hamlet of Lairsbeck with little more than half-a-dozen houses, a telephone kiosk, a chapel and a thriving community of large wood ant-hills under a forest of pine trees.

  As on previous occasions, I asked for a brief description of the bike so that I could swiftly circulate details of the crime to our mobile patrols and was not surprised to learn the missing bike was an expensive racing model, this time built by a small specialist manufacturer called Stratton Cycles. It was a gents’ lightweight machine with a 24” frame coloured sky blue with silver lettering on the down tube; it had drop handlebars with blue handgrips, silver-coloured lightweight mudguards with the rear one bearing a red reflector, a racing saddle, rat-trap pedals fitted with toe-clips, 27” alloy racing wheels fitted with tubular tyres and a small saddlebag containing the minimum of tools, a spare tubular tyre, some tomato and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of blackcurrant juice. The value was high, around £220, and it did not require a genius to associate this theft with the earlier ones. I assured the caller that I would immediately circulate the details and asked him to wait beside Lairsbeck kiosk, stressing I would meet him there in about twenty-five minutes. Next, I radioed Alf Ventress at Ashfordly Police Station with a request that he circulate the details as soon as possible, and adding that I was en route to meet the victim of the crime.

  As I approached the kiosk, I saw a tall, thin man waiting nearby. He was standing against one of the pines which surrounded this part of the hamlet, and when he saw my police van, he hurried towards me.

  I could see he was more upset than angry, so I settled him into the seat of the van and recorded the necessary details. As we talked, I explained I had searched the roads during my long journey up the dale, and that all my patrolling colleagues were already in possession of a description of his missing cycle. We had done everything possible up to this stage.

  His name was Philip Henderson; he was 27 years old and worked in a processing plant at ICI, the giant chemical factory on Teesside. The cycle was the product of years of saving from his wages, and he’d only had it for two months; he was devastated by the loss. I asked him to show me from where it had been taken and he said it was some distance away, at the foot of Napier Howe. Napier Howe was a hill on the moors above Lairsbeck, almost two miles from our current position and so I drove him there. Leaning against a dry stone wall at the base of that hill were dozens of colourful bicycles, some expensive racing models like the one that was missing, and others of the tourist type. I couldn’t see that any were locked or secured in any way, but their owners were sitting on the ground about halfway up the hill. They were having a picnic and Philip had left them to run all the way to the kiosk to break his bad news to me.

  “So it went from there, did it?” I pointed to the wall against which the others were resting.

  “It was at that end of the wall,” he said, indicating the right of the line, the point nearest any approach from the lower dale.

  “Locked?” I asked.

  “No, there’s never been a need.”

  “So where were you, and the others, when the bike was taken?” I had to ask.

  “We were on the hilltop,” he said. “Or, to be precise, assembled around the summit, perhaps a little lower than the actual top. You see, we had come to pay a tribute to our club founder — Alan Bannister. We’re the Napier Wheelers, that’s the club he founded. He died in 1958 and he wanted his ashes scattered on Napier Howe because it was one of his favourite places. He named the club after the hill. So every year, we come here on the anniversary of his death.”

  “And every one of you was on the hill — how long were you there?”

  “One of our members is a vicar, so he said a few prayers. I’d say we were on the summit for about three-quarters of an hour. No more.”

  “And your bike was taken in that time?”

  “Yes. I parked it there when I arrived about half past ten; the little service of commemoration started at eleven and my bike had gone by twelve. I noticed it had gone when I came to get my lunch out of the saddlebag. I couldn’t find my bike; I thought it might be hidden by some others, but it wasn’t. It’s gone, as clean as a whistle.”

  I asked if he had seen anyone near the machines during their short service, but he shook his head. Then I approached the others and asked them the same question, but none had noticed anyone lurking nearby, nor had any vehicle been heard or seen. Somehow, the thief had managed to locate these bikes, steal the one of his choice and spirit it away within yards of the assembled cl
ub members.

  I did tell Philip about the other thefts — he admitted that his club secretary had told members about the crimes but no one thought the thief would strike in such a remote place as Lairsbeck, especially with the owners so close to their machines. I asked how he intended getting home, and he said he had phoned his brother from the kiosk and he was already on his way by car to collect him.

  The interesting thing about Lairsdale was that the moorland valley did not contain a through-road. A narrow lane meandered along the bottom of the dale, passed through Lairsbeck and then petered out some three miles ahead. From that point, it became an unmade moorland track which led to several farmsteads; then, even further into the hills, it degenerated into a footpath capable of being used only by hikers and ramblers. No motor vehicles or even a cycle could negotiate the narrow, rock-strewn route through the hills. This meant that, if the thief had used a motor vehicle to spirit away the cycle, he must have returned the way he had come. Even if he had ridden it away, he could not have escaped through the head of the dale. From that, I deduced the thief must be making use of a motor vehicle to carry off his trophies — and it was probably one which concealed the load, such as a covered pick-up truck or van. As we had never received any report of more than one cycle being stolen at a time, I realised that a solitary bike, with its wheels removed and handlebars twisted around, could even be accommodated in a saloon car. That was another possibility.

  I began to wonder if I had passed the thief en route today but felt not.

  This crime, with all the hallmarks of a professional job, would surely have been committed very soon after the group had arrived at their destination and that would have allowed the villain to be clear of the dale by the time the theft was discovered. But how did the thief know the cycles were at this remote place? It was not the sort of place anyone would pass by chance — you had to make an effort to get there.

  Clearly, the thief knew the movements of the cycling clubs on their Sunday outings — another indication of his professionalism. A list of meetings must be in circulation somewhere. As I pondered that aspect, I realised that someone must have seen a vehicle or a lone cyclist heading down this dale on the stolen machine. I’d call at the farms and cottages along the roadside to ask the occupiers if they’d seen anything remotely capable of spiriting away a stolen bike. Thus I had another crime and another puzzle to solve.