CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “All quiet, Rhea?” he asked the routine question.

  “All quiet in the street, Sergeant, a bit noisy in there!” I laughed.

  “No trouble, I hope!” he commented.

  “Not a bit,” I assured him. “It’s all very good natured, and there are some very smart cars there. Racing folk, I believe. They’re giving Doctor Thorne a good party.”

  “Then we shall not intrude, Rhea. I think a quick look into the pub, to be recorded in the register of visits to licensed premises, will be sufficient. You and I will go in, make our presence known to George and leave.”

  “I thought you wanted to meet Doctor Thorne?” I reminded him.

  “If he’s there, which I doubt. But yes, it would be nice to see him again. I will introduce you, Rhea,” and again I noticed a twinkle in his eye. Together, we strode towards the front door, moved along the passage and then into the large bar. It was packed solid with people all talking and laughing; many were strangers to me but among them were several local people, all horse racing enthusiasts, and among them I noticed Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Then one of the revellers spotted our uniforms.

  “Here come the police horses!” chuckled someone.

  “Size fifteen shoes,” laughed another.

  “Fancy a drink, gentlemen?” asked one of the more sober among them.

  “No thanks, not on duty,” Blaketon answered firmly, and then George made his way towards us from behind the bar. “Evening, George.”

  “Hello Sergeant; PC Rhea,” smiled George. “A nice party. No trouble. I’ll get them out on time, Sergeant. They’re all in a good humour, there’ll be no bother.”

  “Good,” smiled Blaketon. “Well, is Doctor Thorne here tonight?”

  “We’re bringing him in right now, he looks fit enough to attend,” said a man with a horsy face. “You’ll stay to hear us sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him, and join a toast?”

  “Well, I hardly think we should,” I heard myself say with my sergeant’s presence very much in mind. “Not under the circumstances . . .”

  “Nonsense!” the man bellowed. “This is a celebration, gentlemen, a celebration spanning more than quarter of a century of success and hard work. I know you’re on duty but, in the circumstances, I think a glass of wine or sherry would not be out of order, not on such an important and sentimental occasion.”

  I knew that Sergeant Blaketon followed his own very strict code of practice when on duty and yet he also had a warm heart. I knew he felt deeply for the doctor whose last party this might be but I was still surprised when he said, “All right, on this one occasion. A dry sherry please and something for the constable.”

  “Same for me,” I followed, still puzzling about his uncharacteristic behaviour.

  “Get him in!” called our host as George organised the sherry, and there was a cheer followed by a lull in the proceedings. Quite unexpectedly, everyone in the bar became silent as someone went to find Doctor Thorne.

  “Where is he?” I asked George.

  “In the yard outside, he’s been very good.”

  George’s comments puzzled me and I saw Blaketon raise his eyebrows and smile at me with just a hint of mystery as he accepted the glass of sherry; I took mine and waited. There was an air of expectancy now, and then someone gave the signal and the entire gathering started to sing. The bar was filled with a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ as the rear door opened. And in came a racehorse.

  Now I realised whose birthday it was. It was the horse’s. And Sergeant Blaketon was staring at the animal, transfixed.

  The sleek and still handsome gelding was led into the bar as everyone rose to their feet and continued the birthday song. The noise and presence of people did not worry the animal — racehorses do tend to become accustomed to the closeness of humans and the celebratory noises they create. I watched in silence, wondering how Sergeant Blaketon would react to celebrating a horse’s birthday then realised he was singing with the rest of them. When the song was over, a man at the back said, “Happy Birthday, Doctor Thorne” and raised his glass. We all did likewise, toasting Doctor Thorne who stood among us all calmly and without any show of fear or anxiety.

  “Thanks George,” said Blaketon putting down his empty glass. “A very nice party. Come on, Rhea, I’ve seen what I want to. It’s time for us to leave.”

  I followed him outside, fully expecting to be given a roasting, but he said, “Rhea, what a brilliant idea, to celebrate that horse’s birthday. I know it’s not the first of January, when horses have their official birthdays, but by Jove, that horse was a good ’un. Do you know I once won fifty pounds on Doctor Thorne . . . the Ebor it was, rank outsider he was then, but he proved himself. Wonderful animal, Rhea. Twenty-nine, eh, and still looking good even if his heart is a bit dicky. A big age for a horse, Rhea . . .”

  “Sarge,” I said as I walked at his side, “did you know the party was for a horse?”

  “Yes, of course I did. Didn’t you?”

  “Well,” I tried to flannel my way out of this, “I knew it was something special, otherwise you wouldn’t have allowed the application to go ahead . . .”

  “I recognised the name, Rhea, and I know the racing tradition which surrounds the Hopbind. But those magistrates had no idea,” he chuckled. “But it was a special occasion, Rhea, and it was quite lawful. If the application had not been within the law, I should have objected, but in my opinion it was a special occasion within the meaning of the Licensing Act.”

  He was always full of surprises, and it was clear that he had enjoyed my slight discomfiture. But as we walked to his car, I heard panting and footsteps behind. I turned to find Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and Alfred trying to catch us.

  “Sergeant Blaketon,” cried Claude, “can I have a word?”

  “You can, Mr Greengrass,” beamed Blaketon, surprisingly affable towards his old adversary. “What can we do for you?”

  “That party.” Claude indicated the pub with a nod of his head. “I mean, well, it was for a horse, George got permission to hold it for a horse, so well, I mean to say, it’s Alfred’s birthday next month and I wondered if, well, you know, I could hold a party for him and have George get an extension of licensing hours — ”

  “You want to hold a party for that scruffy dog and get Their Worships to grant an extension of hours, a special order of exemption that is, for the sale and consumption of intoxicants on licensed premises outside permitted hours? All for a dog?”

  “Aye, summat like that.”

  “Right, let’s start at the beginning. Have you got a licence for him?” asked Blaketon. “A dog licence, I mean.”

  Claude halted in his tracks. “Aye, well, mebbe it wasn’t such a good idea,” he blinked. “You can’t expect a countryman’s dog to spend his life dominated by licences, can you, Sergeant? It’s licences for this and licences for that — ”

  “And licences if you want to booze late with your hound. Give him a treat at home; he might like a night in once in a while. Good night, Claude,” grinned Blaketon. “And good night, PC Rhea.” And as Claude shuffled into the darkness, I heard Blaketon’s parting words to me, “If he gets an extension of hours for his dog’s birthday, we’ll have rabbits, budgies and gerbils applying to have parties here. We have to uphold the dignity of the law, Rhea. Remember that. Thoroughbred horses are one thing, mongrels and lurchers are another.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” I said, “But before you go, who was Doctor Thorne? That horse must have been named after someone!”

  “Anthony Trollope, Rhea! Have you read Trollope? It’s the title of the third of his Barsetshire novels — you should read more, Rhea, then you would know more.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I will, thank you and good night.”

  “Good night, Rhea,” and I watched as he entered his car and drove away.

  * * *

  If the village of Elsinby had a strong horse racing tradition, then the entire county of North Riding of Yorkshire catered well for those who f
ollowed the sport.

  There were several racecourses within its boundaries, all policed by the North Riding Constabulary. They included Thirsk, Catterick, Thornaby, Redcar and, by an accident of geography, York’s famous track on the Knavesmire. In the neighbouring Ridings there were other convenient courses, such as Beverley, Ripon, Wetherby, Doncaster and Pontefract, with others in Durham and Northumberland, such as Sedgefield and Hexham. Added to this galaxy of horse racing venues there were several point-to-point meetings, and for those with an interest in the history of horse racing, North Riding could offer historic but disused courses at Richmond, Middleham, Northallerton and Hambleton among others. There is also the famous Kiplingcoates Derby in East Yorkshire. This is England’s oldest horse race which continues to be staged in March every year over its four and a half miles course. The course is officially flat — but try telling that to the riders and their mounts!

  If horse racing was not of interest, there was an opportunity to watch motor racing at several disused airfields, speed boat racing off the coast, massed start cycle racing and time trials on the roads, motor rallies in the forests and on the moors, motorcycle scrambles on farmland and rough terrain, athletics and swimming at several places including many of our schools, aerobatics and jet aircraft in action at several airfields plus the calm of gliding from Sutton Bank Top. The Yorkshire rail network boasts two of the longest stretches of straight railway line in this country — one runs for more than twenty miles absolutely straight from near Thirsk to York and the other some eighteen miles from Barlby in North Yorkshire to Brough in East Yorkshire, each ideal for testing the speeds of railway engines.

  There is a good deal of high-speed rail history in the county. That wonderful record-breaking steam engine, the world-famous Mallard (No. 60022) which broke the world record for steam (126 mph) in 1938 can occasionally still be seen chugging along some Yorkshire routes, including the North York Moors steam railway near Goathland. Officially, though, she now lives in graceful retirement in York’s National Railway Museum, having undergone a thorough restoration.

  There are some long, straight stretches of road too, and some of these are used by the police as their officially approved ‘measured mile’. The measured mile was used by police drivers to check the accuracy of their speedometers — whenever a police officer appeared in court as a witness against a speeding driver, the speedo of the police vehicle involved was checked by timing with a stopwatch its movement along a measured mile. The drive was witnessed and certified, and this was done to counter any allegations of mechanical inaccuracy which might come from the defendant in court.

  The roads of our country, however, are not constructed for motor or cycle racing. Indeed, as a general rule, such speed trials on public roads are forbidden, although there are some exceptions. Mass start cycle racing or time trials for cycles are permitted under certain circumstances and with some conditions. Motor rallies generally occur off the roads and are usually neutralised as they pass along the public highway. In some cases, there are provisions for roads to be temporarily closed to the public to permit the passage of a cycle race or other event.

  These wide-ranging and varied facilities, one would expect, are sufficient to cater for all those who want to enjoy the adrenalin of racing in all its legal forms, in whatever style it is done. Quite literally, North Riding had something for everyone. One essential part of horse racing, however, was the opportunity to place a wager on the outcome, something not applicable to all the pastimes I have highlighted. And placing a bet was something akin to the compulsion for drinking after hours that I have mentioned earlier in this chapter. If punters could not do it legally, they would find all manner of excuses to do so illegally. In spite of that, I often felt that our county provided every kind of racing pastime.

  That is, except for a scheme devised by Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  My first intimation that something odd was going on came with a complaint from the driver of a milk tanker. He knocked on my door at 8.30 one summer morning and I invited him into the office. His name was Arthur Fletcher and he worked for Ashfordly Dairies; I knew him by sight for he was one of the regular users of the roads on my patch.

  “So, what’s the trouble, Arthur?” I asked.

  “This morning,” he said, “just after half past five as I was starting my pick-up run, these three idiots on horses nearly caused an accident. I had to swerve like hell to avoid ’em . . . all over t’ road they were. I thought you ought to know. I thought I wouldn’t knock you out of bed at that time of day, anyway I was just starting off and it’s a tight schedule, so I blasted my horn at ’em and kept going. I’m telling you now, on my home run.”

  “Racehorses undergoing training, were they?” I asked, for there was a number of training establishments around my beat. They never galloped on the roads, however, although they could often be seen walking towards the turf they used for training.

  “Gypsies more like,” he told me. “Skewbald ponies, shaggy things. Not racehorses, Nick, not in a million years.”

  “There are some gypsies camping on the verge near Stovensby, not far from the disused airfield,” I said. “They seem to come every year about this time. I noticed several ponies and caravans, they have skewbalds among them.”

  “It’ll be them, they’ll be heading for Appleby Horse Fair,” he said.

  “Is that where you saw the horses? Near Stovensby Airfield?”

  “Not far away,” he nodded. “Between there and Brantsford, there’s a long straight stretch of road with a telephone kiosk on the corner. They came belting down there, side by side, going like hell. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade it was, or summat from a spaghetti western. They met me as I came out of the side road.”

  “That’s the measured mile,” I said, and explained the significance of that piece of road.

  “Well, I have no names or description other than skewbald horses, but I thought a word of warning might not be amiss.”

  “I’ll have words with them later this morning,” I assured him, and off he went. Upon his departure, I racked my brains to determine whether or not horse racing was illegal on public roads.

  The only reference I found was one which said it was an offence to ride on any street so as to endanger life or limb and another which stated that it was illegal to ride any horse furiously so as to endanger the life or limb of anyone using the road.

  One interesting fact with the latter offence was that the fine was doubled if the rider of the horse was also the owner.

  During my morning patrol, I motored towards Stovensby. I took the route through Crampton which meant passing the disused airfield which spread across the base of the dale as a mess of broken and abandoned concrete runways. Once a busy airfield, it served the country well during World War II, but was now a mess of derelict buildings, a tatty control tower and abandoned runways which sprouted thistles and other weeds. An ideal place for gypsies to use, I thought as I made for the gypsy encampment.

  As I approached, I became aware of about a dozen horse-drawn caravans with rounded tops, wagon-type bases and tin chimneys sticking up like periscopes; some two dozen skewbald, piebald or dappled ponies and horses were tethered to metal pins which had been hammered into the ground. The animals were grazing along the wide grass verge and were spread out across a considerable distance. I knew I would be unwelcome here. Gypsies, whether the true Romany people or that multitude of mobile tinkers who pretend to be members of that race, tend to be very wary of police officers. They would think I was coming to move them along or serve summonses for something or other.

  I had no thoughts of antagonism towards them, and had had no complaints about their presence or behaviour, other than the horse racing allegation. I knew that true gypsies were a wonderful, clean and honourable race of people but that their open-air lifestyle had been emulated by less savoury characters. There were times it was not easy to decide which was which.

  Parking my Minivan at a discreet distance, I wal
ked slowly towards the encampment, noting the smoke rising from one or two fires, kettles and pans hanging from hooks, the women and children sitting around in the morning sunshine and a few menfolk standing around and talking or sitting on the steps of their wagons. Some other women appeared to be working in the caravans. I sought the leader of this group but knew that if I asked for their names, they would all be called something like Malachi Smith of no fixed abode. During my long walk, I was kept under observation by the men, some of whom were smoking clay pipes.

  “Good morning,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a welcoming way. There was no reply. I stood my ground.

  “I am PC Rhea, the village constable from Aidensfield.” I tried to make some contact. “I have received a complaint about horses racing on the road this morning, the road over there,” and I pointed in the general direction of the measured mile. Again there was no response, merely steadfast and unsmiling faces looking at me. “I am not here to move you on,” I tried. “I just wanted to say that there was almost an accident this morning, if they were your animals, they could have been injured or killed. If you race the animals on the road, they could be injured.”

  This sparked off some kind of animated discussion between several of the men but I could not understand a word because they spoke in a foreign language. I guessed it was Romany, the tongue gypsies adopt when confronted by authority or when they anticipated danger. Then one of them, a man in his late forties with dark skin and very thick, black hair, said in English, “We were told it was in order, mister. The roads are quiet at that time of day. No cars. No people.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The man Greengrass.” And I groaned aloud at the mention of his name. “He is doing a deal with us, he said it would be all right.”