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

  Joseph even consented to her having a hair-do in Ashfordly that Wednesday afternoon, the first she’d had since that very same wedding, and the pair of them set off to walk to the Bannisters’ residence, feeling very self-conscious about walking through the village on a Wednesday evening in their Sunday best, particularly as there was nothing happening at the church. That’s when I encountered them. I was enjoying a summer evening foot patrol around Aidensfield, due to finish at 10 p.m.

  “Hello,” I greeted them. “This looks very formal, Joseph and Mabel! I’ll bet you’re not going to the pub, dressed up like that!”

  “I wish we were!” grunted Joseph. “I could use a long cool pint or two after a hot day in the garden.”

  “Give over, Joseph,” snapped Mabel. “We’re going up in the world, that’s what’s happening, and it’s all due to you retiring from that gooseberry job. You’ve made folks aware of what you’ve been doing on their behalf over the years, and now they’re realising you’ll have time for other things. They’re getting their invitations in already; sensible folks want to get in first before there’s a queue waiting to have us. Leastways, that’s how I see it. You’re important now, Joseph, so don’t you forget it. And mind your manners. Don’t reach in front of folks to get the salt like you do at home, and don’t start tucking in until everyone’s got dished up and don’t light that pipe of yours halfway through the main course like you do at home. We’re going to the Bannisters, Mr Rhea, to a dinner party.”

  And she raised her nose in the air, just a little, but I didn’t miss it. Not everyone was invited to the Bannisters — their circle of professional friends was a far cry from folks who’d worked on the railway, even if it was making sure the tracks were always in their right place upon the sleepers. I doubt if the station master himself would have received an invitation to the Bannisters.

  I must admit I pondered the reason for this unusual event, not at the time associating it with Joseph’s trip to Lourdes, and I wondered if this heralded a whole new social life for Mabel and Joseph. It was still early in the evening, not yet 7.30, and I guessed their meal started at 8 p.m. Not wanting to delay them and wishing them a very enjoyable evening, I left the Marshalls to their evening’s fun.

  Later, I heard Mabel had made Joseph ring the doorbell, telling him it was a man’s job on such occasions. Ladies in smart frocks didn’t ring doorbells, she’d told him, adding they mebbe should have hired a taxi rather than walk up from the village. Joseph, on the other hand, would never see the sense of hiring a taxi when you could walk.

  Completion of my tour of duty that evening was later than intended because one of the villagers, an elderly lady called Emily Arrowsmith, thought she heard intruders in her back yard and rang to complain just as I was entering the house to finish my shift. When I spoke to her, she claimed she’d heard footsteps and heavy breathing followed by someone knocking over the dustbin. When I investigated I did find the bin upturned and the contents emptied. I thought it was the work of a badger; badgers did live in the hillside behind her house. I made a thorough search of the vicinity of her home and found nothing. I told her I would patrol outside for a few minutes in the dark, just to ensure no one was lurking in the shadows, and suggested she went back to bed while I guarded her house. She did go to bed and I patrolled the area, but found nothing. I felt sure she was asleep before I departed because she extinguished all her lights and they were never switched on during my vigil. I remained convinced she’d been disturbed by a rummaging badger.

  On leaving her house, however, around 11 p.m., I caught up to Joseph and Mabel as they pottered home after their evening at the Bannisters.

  “Hello again,” I said, trying not to raise my voice too much because some people along the street were already in bed and I did not wish to disturb them with loud voices in the street. “I’m just heading for home, knocking off time!”

  “Hello, Mr Rhea,” and I thought Joseph sounded a bit gloomy.

  “How was your evening with the Bannisters?” I asked, as I walked beside them, slowing down to their gentle pace.

  “Oh, t’grub was fine,” he said. “I managed to eat quite a lot, didn’t I, Mabel? I’ve no idea what I was eating, mind, but it tasted all right and there wasn’t a great pile of it. It was summat I could cope with, and I can say it was enjoyable. I might even have a French meal now, if I go out somewhere.”

  “It was Italian,” said Mabel gently. “Our meal, Joseph, it was Italian, with Italian wine. They’d been to Italy, you see, Mr Rhea, for their holidays, and thought we’d like to try some of the local food. Very nice too, I must say. Very nice indeed.”

  “Well, it came from somewhere over there, one of them foreign places, with bits of fried bread floating in t’soup.”

  “They’re sending him to Lourdes, Mr Rhea. That’s what it was for. It seems all those fundraising efforts for the church were really to raise money for Joseph. They thought a trip to Lourdes might cure him. They’ve paid for his seat on a bus with expenses for hotels and things.”

  “Lourdes, eh? That sounds great! I’ll bet that surprised you, Joseph!” I tried to sound cheerful and happy for him as I escorted them along the street, but I could see that he was far from pleased. In fact, he looked really miserable.

  “Well, I must admit I was a bit taken aback, Mr Rhea. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, they caught me by surprise and although I don’t want to appear ungrateful, I’m not one for going that far from home . . .”

  “I can’t get him to go anywhere, Mr Rhea. I wouldn’t say no to a trip to Blackpool or even to see the sea at Bridlington,” said Mabel. “As for Lourdes, well, I think it’s a wonderful idea and somewhere I’ve always wanted to see, but now he’s got the chance, he should go!”

  “You’re not thinking of refusing, Joseph, are you?” I asked.

  “Well, Mr Rhea, I’ve responsibilities in this village and I can’t abdicate them just for a trip to Lourdes. It’s not as if I’m seriously badly; I’m not. You were there in the hospital at Scarborough when them specialists said there was nowt wrong with me, so why send me to Lourdes? Why pray for miracles and things when I’m not ill? I reckon that seat should be taken by someone who’s really poorly.”

  “But you have lost weight, Joseph, and your appetite has not recovered. Obviously there’s something not quite right with you.” I tried to encourage him, if only for the sake of those who’d helped raise the money. “A trip to Lourdes might just put right whatever it is.”

  “Some chance of that, Mr Rhea. That’s not what miracles are for! Miracles are for curing folks who can’t walk or see or hear. Lourdes is full of crutches folks have left there when they’ve been cured in that grotto. I’ve seen pictures of them. To be honest, Mr Rhea, I can’t see me going to Lourdes looking like a skeleton and coming back looking like I was before I lost all them pounds.”

  “It doesn’t work as fast as that . . .” I tried to explain.

  “It does, Mr Rhea!” said Mabel. “Those folks who’ve left their crutches behind got cured straight away, and Jesus didn’t hang about when he cured Lazarus after he’d been dead four days.”

  “Well . . .”

  “And that chap who couldn’t see was cured straight away when Jesus spat in his eye. So why can’t our Joseph get his weight back straight away? You answer me that, Mr Rhea. After all, a miracle is a miracle.”

  “I won’t try to answer you in the face of that kind of argument, Mabel. All I can suggest is that Joseph goes to Lourdes to gain whatever benefit he can. It’s a wonderful opportunity and he shouldn’t miss this chance.”

  “I’ve got to think it over,” Joseph said quietly. “My first reaction was to refuse outright, and give the seat to someone more worthy, but those folks said the whole village had worked so hard for me. For me, Mr Rhea. I reckon that it would be churlish to refuse. It’s that side o’ things that’s got me thinking.”

  “Don’t be too hasty in making a decision,” I advised him.

  �
��Nay, I can’t be too long making my mind up because there’s summat none of ’em have thought about,” he said, pulling his pipe from his pocket. He halted in the street, stuffed some tobacco into the bowl then lit it with much puffing and sucking, making us await his comments.

  “Go on, Joseph,” I invited. “What haven’t they thought about?”

  “Well, you can tell none of them Guild sub-committee is a Big Gooseberry Man, can’t you?” He blew clouds of smoke into the cool night air and I must admit it smelt beautiful. Some pipe tobacco produced a most pleasurable aroma and this was one example.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said. “They’ve gone and booked a seat for me on that bus. It leaves on July twenty-sixth, Mr Rhea, and doesn’t get back until August second. Sunday, that is. The day before the berry show . . . now, what sort of folks make arrangements like that, eh? Here’s me, on my last berry show as president, having to be away when all the last-minute jobs have to be done. And then there’s the question of my prize berry . . . big berries need attention, Mr Rhea, in that final week. How can I see to my berry if I’m away in Lourdes? You answer me that!”

  “Oh dear.” I did not know how to react. “But your new president could do whatever has to be done for the show, he’s already promised that.”

  “Mebbe so, but that doesn’t settle t’question of my own gooseberry, does it? The one I’m aiming will win the Supreme, that is.”

  “I thought all your berries were little ones!” I joked.

  “There’s allus secrets to be kept, Mr Rhea.” He sucked at the pipe and blew more smoke into the night air. “Now I’m going to think it over pretty seriously, but I reckon I’ll have to turn down the Lourdes job. I can’t see I’ve any choice. How can I go off to foreign parts and leave that berry of mine just hanging there, eh? It’s like leaving a new-born lamb without any warmth and food . . . they’re tender things, is big gooseberries. They need mothering, especially in them last few days. They can burst at the slightest mistreatment or jolt or get knocked off with raindrops and there’s them wasps to cope with. Who’s going to do all that if I’m gallivanting around Lourdes saying lots of Hail Marys? That won’t do owt for my berry, will it?”

  I could see where his priorities lay. By this time, we had reached the parting of our ways. He and Mabel would walk along the terrace to their own little cottage, doubtless talking late into the night about the dilemma now facing Joseph. I could understand his reservations, yet I wondered if he was finding excuses for refusing the trip. The short answer was that if he went to Lourdes, he’d probably have to abandon any hope of competing in this year’s competition but he must consider his health. That should be his priority.

  “Mabel could look after your berry,” I said.

  “He’d never let me near his real berry trees, Mr Rhea!” she retorted. “It’s more than my life’s worth to go anywhere near them.”

  “I’d say your health was more important than any big berry, Joseph. With good health, you’ll be around for lots more years to grow lots more big berries . . .”

  “Aye, but this year’s my last as president,” he began.

  “That same thought has struck me,” interrupted Mabel. “If you are very sick, Joseph, without realising it, then a trip to Lourdes might cure you, mightn’t it? You’ve got the faith, you’re not a doubter. It’s all them doubters who never get cured. If you go, God might look upon you with favour and make you better. Then you’ll be here alive and well with lots more chances to win the Supreme.”

  “What are you saying, Mabel?” he frowned.

  “I’m saying Mr Rhea’s right. If you don’t get cured of whatever’s wrong, you could die tomorrow, or next week, or next month or next year. From whatever you’ve got.”

  “You mean I should go and leave my berry?” he puzzled.

  “Yes I do. If you get cured, you’ll be in better health and have more time and energy for growing bigger and heavier berries.”

  “You mean you really think I should go?” He sounded highly surprised and even just a little suspicious of her overt encouragement.

  “Well, with this trip and with your faith, you’ve got a chance to have lots more chances at growing a prize-winning big berry, but you’ve only one chance to go to Lourdes and mebbe get a cure. Without a cure, you might not be able to grow big berries ever again. This is the most important thing that’s ever happened to you, Joseph, so don’t mess it up, for all our sakes. I don’t want you to die just for t’sake of one big berry! Just you think about that!”

  He paused, puffed at his pipe and said, “I’ll think on it,” and began to walk home. I left them and walked up to my police house on the hill, wondering what Joseph’s decision would be.

  * * *

  The following Sunday I could not attend mass as usual because I had been ordered to attend Ashfordly Police Station at 10 a.m. for our briefing for Exercise Rat-Trap.

  It meant I did not see Joseph, consequently I could not have a chat with him about his decision on the Lourdes trip. It wouldn’t be long before I did know, I was sure. However, clad in casual civilian clothes as instructed, I reported to Ashfordly Police Station. Outside on the street, I noticed a small white van without any identifying markings upon it; it had darkened back windows and two aerials protruding from the roof: an undercover observation vehicle. Also, parked against the inside of the railings, was a beautiful red racing cycle secured to the rails with a padlock and chain.

  I went inside to find a posse of constables clad in all manner of very informal civilian clothing. It looked rather like a ramblers’ outing, but not quite as smart. Alf Ventress, himself dressed like a grouse-beater in plus-fours and deer stalker, was busy preparing mugs of coffee, while the two sergeants, Blaketon and Craddock, were in Blaketon’s office finalising their plans. Space within such a small police station was extremely limited, the only large room being the public enquiry office. The sergeant’s office was too small to accommodate such a group, and the only other spaces were the cells and the cell passage. This meant our briefing would be open to the public who might pop in to report lost dogs or found purses, but we would cope.

  At a nod from Craddock, Ventress disappeared down the cell passage and returned with a blackboard which he set up in the enquiry office; it showed a plan of the car park and surrounds of the Moon and Compass at Craydale all drawn in white chalk and highlighted with red dots.

  The red dots, we were to discover, were the location of policemen in hiding. As Craddock positioned himself before the blackboard and made sure his notes were in order, Ventress went once again into the cell passage and emerged with some field radio sets, our sophisticated communications system for this exercise, and he plonked these in a heap on the floor. Clumsy and sometimes ineffective, we would have to rely on those sets — this was some time prior to the introduction of personal radio sets for police officers. As there were insufficient chairs and insufficient space to accommodate them anyway, we had to stand to listen to the forthcoming words of wisdom.

  In looking around at the assembled crime-busters, I had no idea what Blaketon’s fashion-sense would dictate although I knew that Craddock would be in cycling gear because I was sure it was his racing cycle secured to the police station railings. After a good deal of banter about one another’s sartorial elegance, the door of the sergeant’s office opened and Blaketon, dressed in what appeared to be part golfing outfit and part hiking gear, with a small rucksack, emerged, followed by Craddock in his cycling shorts, T-shirt and cycling shoes. Someone produced a wolf-whistle at which Blaketon started to respond with a well-chosen put-down about this being a serious police exercise and not an occasion for joking, but Craddock deflated the situation with a smile on his face while taking a deep bow as if performing before an audience. His instinctive response eased the slight tension that prevailed and we all chuckled.

  From that moment, the atmosphere was one of friendly cooperation. As we waited for some action from our leaders, we
chatted about the thefts, swopped yarns about similar exercises which had gone wrong and pondered the outcome of Exercise Rat-Trap. Even Blaketon smiled and he moved amongst us, and then he said, “All right you lot, settle down and pin your ears back. This operation is very important, it’ll put Ashfordly Section in the limelight if we can bring this cycle thief to justice, so I want your fullest cooperation. Sergeant Craddock will now address you.”

  For the benefit of those unfamiliar with the crimes, Craddock first outlined the on-going series, highlighting those in our area and making comparisons with others which had occurred within the jurisdiction of neighbouring police forces. He made reference to my own theories about the large-framed and rather specialised cycles, the lone thief using a maroon-coloured pick-up and the fact that the thief might well be dressed as a cyclist while committing his crimes. That would make him very difficult to recognise as someone suspicious, he pointed out, trying to ensure that we were all very alert during the forthcoming exercise. He also pointed out that the fellow probably stole the machines by riding them to his waiting vehicle which would be securely concealed but ready for a rapid getaway. The fact he had been operating for more than a year without ever being spotted in action meant he was clever, skilful and determined. It would be like catching a shadow, Craddock smiled, adding, “But we can do it, lads.”

  Having provided the background to the crimes, Craddock next allocated each of his red spots to a particular constable.

  He explained there’d be a further briefing upon arrival at the Moon and Compass although these would have to be done with the utmost discretion, but as a prelude he gave instructions to each officer. Because of my more extensive knowledge of the crimes, my hiding place was in the deciduous wood behind the pub car park; from there, I had to observe the car park and the movements of people using it, with particular emphasis on the parked cycles.