“He’s worn himself out, Nick — and Alfred! The pair of them have been trudging around graveyards. Claude reckons he’s been cutting grass; it seems he’s got a sudden desire to cut grass in every churchyard for miles around but why he’s doing it remains a mystery. And on top of that, he’s broke, he’s been sat with that single pint all night! It’s not the happiest of sights, is it? Seeing Claude like that?”
“He’s not actually working, is he?” grinned Nick. “The mere thought of that would wear him out and it would make him as miserable as sin!”
“He reckons he’s cutting out of the goodness of his heart, it’s his civic duty or something,” responded George.
“He’s up to something, George. He’d never exert himself like that, not without any pay or reward. He’s definitely up to something that’s a secret and the crafty old blighter isn’t telling anybody what it is.”
“He tore an article or an advert out of my Gazette last night,” volunteered George. “I’ve no idea what it was about, though, because I hadn’t had a chance to read it before he ripped it to pieces! And he never even said thanks.”
“So he’s got some scheme going, eh?” reckoned Nick. “I’ll bet it’s some plot designed to make him a bit of cash!”
“Nick, you are awful!” Kate interrupted them. “You know he’s just cutting grass, tidying graveyards and clearing rubbish. He’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart!”
“Claude never does anything out of the goodness of his heart!” Nick was emphatic. “He’ll pretend he’s doing it out of kindness to his fellow creatures, but he’s broke, I happen to know that. He’s after making some easy cash, Kate, and I’m curious to know how. So, I’ll get him a drink, I want to talk to him.”
“Nick!” breathed Kate. “You’re off duty! Relax!”
“If I don’t catch him for a quick word now, I might not see him for weeks, especially if he’s rushing around more churchyards,” and with that, Nick turned to Claude and called across to him. “The usual, Claude?”
The lonely, tired Claude glanced up and managed to raise a flicker of a smile. “What’s the catch, constable?”
“Catch? There isn’t a catch! There doesn’t have to be a catch if I offer to buy you a drink,” smiled Nick.
“If my feet weren’t killing me, and if I wasn’t broke, I’d never accept a drink from a copper.”
“So there’s a time to break your own rules,” grinned Nick.
“Well,” said Claude. “There comes a time when honourable blokes like me have to swallow their pride, so I’ll have a pint.”
Kate smiled at Claude.
“Nick’s celebrating, he’s got the exhaust fixed on his old car.”
“And to think I let him have the car at a bargain price,” grumbled Claude. “I was robbed! By a man of the law, an’ all. I could have made a fortune from that car on the open market, once I’d got it done up!”
“So have a pint as compensation,” chuckled Nick. “Anyway, it sounds as sweet as a trombone now.”
As George was organising the drinks, Claude said, “While you’re talking about noisy exhausts, constable, has anybody complained about those lads racing past? They’ll be doing somebody some harm one of these days. You ought to be out there nicking ‘em instead of spending time in the pub!”
“I’m off duty, Claude. Even village constables need time off, you know. Anyway, that noise didn’t come from a motor rally,” said Nick. “I’ve checked.”
“I know it didn’t come from a motor rally!” snapped Claude, coming to the bar to accept his pint. “It’s them daft kids, young Thornton and his gang. Killing Pits Club. They’ve no sense, racing through the street like that. Me and Alfred had to leap for our lives the other day, going like hell they were…car after car…”
“What’s these Killing Pits, then?” asked Nick as Kate accepted her drink.
“Village kids have played there for years, Nick. It’s some old earthworks on the moor, at the far end of the village, just beyond the church. Stone Age man used to drive wild animals into pits they’d dug on the moor, and then kill them. Traps, they were. Very effective. Some experts say they’re not old pits but the remains of a Stone Age village. Anyway, whatever they are, they’ve always been called the Killing Pits and kids have always played there, little kids and big kids. The pits are quite safe now, they’re not deep or dangerous, but the land around them is ridged and furrowed, full of hiding places when the bracken’s high. It’s a lovely play-area, but these lads with cars meet there and call themselves the Killing Pits Club.”
“So it’s those lads who are racing through the village, creating complaints?” Nick realised.
“Aye,” said Claude. “Round and round they go, like bats out of hell. It’s time you put a stop to ‘em, before somebody gets killed.”
“It’s not so much the noise, Nick,” said George, accepting Nick’s money. “But you know what lads are, they race around a circuit, on a time trial basis, and the slowest one has to buy drinks all round when they come in here. Sometimes they’ll do three circuits or three separate trials. Slowest out of three runs, averaging all their times, has to buy the others their drinks. It’s bound to make them take chances, to cut comers and take risks, and that can only lead to dangerous driving.”
“You’re right, of course,” replied Nick. “I’ll look into the matter and put a stop to it. There were some cars earlier tonight but they seem to have stopped now.”
“That means they’ll be in here any minute now!” breathed George. “I’d better get myself organised for a big order.” Claude took his drink across to the table he’d been occupying and so Nick followed; Kate joined them as Nick settled opposite his old adversary.
“Here!” protested Claude. “Just because I allow the law to buy me a drink doesn’t mean I want to be seen drinking with the law!”
“There’s nobody here to see us, Claude,” smiled Nick. “So, this grass cutting enterprise of yours…”
“I knew there was a catch!”
“Come on, Claude, you’re up to something!”
“Me? You’ve a nasty suspicious mind, constable. Here am I, doing a favour for the village and you think I’m pinching it!”
“Pinching what?” Nick asked.
“Grass!” laughed Claude. “You think I’m pinching grass to sell for feeding pet rabbits…”
“Claude, this is serious.” Nick realised he’d been led into a trap that time. “Someone’s raiding offertory boxes.”
Claude reacted. “Now we’re getting down to it! You’re accusing me of thieving, eh? You think I’m raiding those boxes while I’m cutting grass!”
“No, I don’t, Claude! I told you that last time,” Nick tried to calm the situation. “But I do think you might have seen somebody around while you’ve been working. Somebody sneaking in to carry out those raids. That’s what I’m after — the identity of the real thief!”
Claude took a deep breath. “Well, that’s put it straight enough. Now, I’m no grass but I happen to think I’m respectable enough not to rob churches. I reckon that folks who rob charities and churches are real villains. Now, as it happens, I have heard a motor bike, but I saw nothing because I was working a long way from the church doors, you see, in the rough at the far end of the churchyards, more often than not. And I never go into churches with mucky boots on, so I never saw a soul…never saw a soul! Good that, eh? Witty! I’m a witty sort of chap you know, I could have been a comedian, doing the clubs. Never saw a soul in church, that’s clever stuff!”
“Very funny, Claude,” agreed Nick with reluctance. “But did you see the motor bike at all?”
Claude shook his head. “No, not once. I mean, I’m not looking out for trouble, you know, not when I’m cutting grass!”
“So, Claude, let’s get back to basic, back to this grass cutting business. I’m intrigued about it, about your plans and way of working
But at that moment, the door of the pub crashed open and a noisy crowd o
f youngsters began to press into the bar. Youths and girls surged forward.
Nick recognised Graham Blaketon among them. Kate noticed Denis Myers too, but it was Gordon Turnbull who was first in the queue.
“Evening, George. The usual for the Killing Pits Club. That’s nine pints to start with, four gin and tonics…” and then he noticed Nick and Kate.
“Ah,” he halted his order and said, “we have the law in tonight, eh? Good evening Constable Rowan, Doctor Rowan, Claude. Can I get you all a drink?”
“Aye!” interrupted Claude. “You can, mine’s a pint!”
“For you, Claude, I shall be pleased. Mr and Mrs Rowan?” Nick immediately recognised an opportunity to speak to these youngsters about their jaunts from the Killing Pits and so he asked for a pint of bitter, with a gin and tonic for Kate.
Gordon Turnbull, eager to remain in the limelight, shouted to the others. “I’m paying tonight, I’m feeling generous. George, get whatever the others want.”
And as George worked on the order, Gordon came across to Nick and seated himself at the table.
“How’s that car of yours, Mr Rowan? You ought to join our club, you know. We’ve some beautiful cars, our members have a bit of style. Well, some of them have.”
“You’re not holding races or time trials around the moors, are you, Gordon? You and your Killing Pits Club?”
“We wouldn’t even consider it, constable!”
Nick allowed that remark to pass. “It’s illegal, you know, running motor vehicle races or time trials on a public highway. And if you organise such a rally, you must notify the police and provide precise details of the route, the time and date, the number of contestants — with a limit of a hundred in some cases — and so forth, and your contestants must obey all the rules of the road including speed limits while the rally is operating.”
Gordon smiled smoothly at Nick. “We’d never break the law, Mr Rowan, that’s a cardinal rule of our club. We never drink before we drive, and tonight one driver in every car will have a soft drink. We’re very keen to obey the law.”
“I have been getting complaints about noisy cars speeding through Aidensfield,” Nick told him.
“Then it must be some other organisation,” said Gordon. “Rest assured it’s not us, Mr Rowan!”
And with that remark, Gordon rose from his chair and bade them enjoy their drinks while he rejoined his companions.
Claude looked at Nick.
“Smooth talking young sod!” he grumbled.
“I’ll keep an eye open for them, Claude,” Nick assured him.
*
That night in the Myers household, Graham Blaketon was preparing for bed. He was sharing a room with Denis, each occupying a single bed in the back bedroom.
As Graham changed into his pyjamas, he glanced across the room towards Denis. Denis was in his own single bed in the sparsely furnished bedroom and Graham saw him pick up a bottle of pills from his bedside cabinet and swallow one. The act of taking the pill was aided by a drink from a glass of water.
“Are you ill or something?” Graham asked, with a hint of concern in his voice.
“I’ve got this rash,” said Denis, and he rolled up his pyjama sleeve for Graham to see his arms. “It’s an allergy, so the doctor says. I’ve got to take these pills.”
“It’s not something catching, is it?” asked Graham, just a little worried.
“No, it’ll soon clear up. These pills are good. They’re pretty powerful, mind. The doctor says I’ve not to drive after taking them, and I can’t drink either, I can’t even have one alcoholic drink. And she’s signed me off for a week!”
“So that’s why you were drinking tomato juices! Well, so long as I don’t catch it!”
“No, there’s no fear of that. Well, I’m going to crash out now, I’m shattered.”
“Me too,” said Graham, thinking over Gordon’s refusal to allow poor Denis to run around the circuit. “Goodnight.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Denis sliding between the sheets.
“Mum might let us borrow the car again, tomorrow,” said Denis. “Then we could have a real nice outing, eh?”
CHAPTER VII
Having thoroughly enjoyed Terence Rattigan’s Separate Tables at Whitby Spa Theatre that Friday evening with Margaret, Joan Forrester spent Saturday morning alone in the town. She wanted to do a little sightseeing, particularly around the harbourside and along the piers, but she also had some shopping to complete. Margaret was unable to accompany her that morning because she was at work — she worked in a building society office in Baxtergate which closed at one o’clock. As a consequence, Joan was alone to enjoy her morning in Whitby’s quaint old streets.
Her primary task was to find a suitable birthday present for Oscar. Even though they’d been divorced for some years now, she always tried to remember his birthday and always sent him a card at Christmas, along with a small gift. At times, he seemed so very much alone because he’d never formed a new relationship with a woman. Although he was dour and at times humourless, Joan knew that Oscar still cared deeply for both her and Graham.
So far as a present was concerned, she had no idea what to buy, except that it must be something from both she and Graham but as she strolled around the old streets she found a delightful second-hand bookshop in Silver Street. That reminded her of his love of the Brontë novels.
Oscar collected specialist editions of the books and had accumulated a very comprehensive selection. Joan decided that a Brontë novel, particularly Wuthering Heights, would be ideal if it was an edition he did not have. She realised she was unsure of the current situation with his collection, but decided to visit the shop.
Joan spent some time browsing along the shelves of musty old volumes and then, almost like a miracle, she found a battered old copy of Wuthering Heights. Pulling it carefully from the shelf, she turned the cover and, with hands quivering, realised it was one of the first Blackamoor editions. First editions were always sought after, even though a collector might have several — they could be used for bartering, for swopping for other volumes or even for sale. They always brought a good price. The shop assistant, a small man with a rounded face beneath a head of smooth shiny skin, came from the rear of his premises and noticed Joan holding the book.
“A very rare copy, madam,” he said. “Very collectable. It’s one we got in from a house clearance, the only Brontë novel in the entire house. It’s a pity the others were not there too. That one arrived yesterday in fact; it went on the shelves only this morning!”
“Is it very expensive?” she asked.
“I’m asking £10 for that one,” he said. “It’s lower than some similar volumes because the spine needs expert attention but I suppose £10 is rather a lot.”
Joan knew that a good hardback novel cost around 12s. 6d at that time which made the Brontë book seem expensive, but she knew it would increase in value.
“I’ll take it,” she smiled. “It’s for my ex-husband, a present from me and our son.”
“A wise purchase, madam. Shall I wrap it?” offered the shopkeeper.
“Thank you, that would be nice.”
“And I do have gift tags,” offered the little fellow as he opened a drawer and passed one to Joan. While he wrapped the novel in brown paper and string, Joan began to write her message on the tag.
*
While Joan was enjoying her morning in Whitby, Nick was patrolling the villages around Aidensfield, calling at all the churches to check the security of their offertory boxes. Elsinby, Ploatby, Craydale, Briggsby, Brantgate, Waindale, Falconbridge, Fieldholme, Whemmelby and Gelderslack — he arranged his route to include each of these small communities, some in very isolated locations. Happily, none of the offertory boxes had been broken into and he logged each visit in his official notebook. In those cases where there was a resident vicar, he paid a call to remind him that a thief was touring the villages and preying on the contents of those small wooden boxes. He sought extra vigilance f
rom the vicars and congregations, and all promised their co-operation.
He knew that his presence in the villages would have been noticed by the residents and if the thief was a person from any of these communities, that might just act as a deterrent. Word of police interest would rapidly spread.
While Nick was executing his duty by calling at all the village churches, so Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was going about his own lawfully imposed task by doing likewise, albeit not in the same sequence or at the same time. Armed with his scythe and strickle, and with Alfred in attendance, his first call that morning was at Stovensby, and his next was at Thackerston.
At Stovensby, he tied the unprotesting Alfred to a tree as he began a tour of the older tombstones, inspecting them for names and dates but, like so many of these graveyards, the less modem of the memorials were all smothered in long grass. Lots of neglected stones had fallen to the ground and were overgrown while others were tilted at alarming angles. Some parts of the graveyard, deserted by modem grave-tenders, were seriously overgrown, so much so that those comers looked like unexplored wasteland.
And so Claude found himself once again hacking away at the growth with the tip of his scythe, cutting away the tough old grass so that he could read the entire inscription. In some cases, the inscriptions continued to the very base of the gravestone and he began to think his task was going to be unproductive. Stone after stone received his treatment, but none revealed what he sought.
He spent nearly two hours at Stovensby without success and said, “Come on, Alfred. Off we go again. Thackerston next…”
*
At Ashfordly police station, the telephone was ringing in Sergeant Blaketon’s office. He snatched at it, hoping that it wasn’t another vicar or churchwarden ringing to report a theft. But it wasn’t; it was Inspector Murchison.
“This afternoon’s football match, sergeant,” she began. “I take it you have selected your finest officers? We need to put on a good show, you know, we need to keep the peace in a friendly but very positive manner.”
“I have selected the cream of Ashfordly section, ma’am,” said Blaketon. “The very best.”
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 6