“Alfred, show some respect!” bellowed Claude. “Remember where you are…Alfred!”
Claude’s shout of horror arose because Alfred had stopped at an old tombstone, one leaning over and caked with the lichens of centuries past.
Alfred had cocked his leg and was directing a hot stream at the edge of the tombstone, a look of absolute pleasure and relief on his bewhiskered features.
“Alfred, lay off! That’s hallowed ground, you can’t go around doing that sort of thing here…Alfred!” and Claude began to shamble across to the dog.
But Alfred’s joy was such that he ignored Claude, at least for the duration of his achievement. By the time he had ended his moment of bliss, Claude had arrived and stooped down to brush the dog away from the grave. And then he saw the inscription.
At the top of the stone were the initials RIP, and then it said, “Sacred to the memory of Linus Otto Perryhawk, late of Aidensfield and a stalwart of this parish, who departed this life 4th July 1776 aged 46 years.”
Beneath was added the words,
“Beneath lie mouldering into dust,
A carpenter’s remains;
A man laborious, honest, just;
His character sustains.”
“Alfred, I could kiss you,” cried Claude. “This is him! We’re rich. And it’s opening time in Aidensfield, time to celebrate I reckon. Hang on, I’ll have to write all this down…now, where’s my pencil…and notebook
Claude searched his pockets for the pencil and notebook he had brought especially for this job and had just completed his copying of the inscription when he heard the distinctive sounds of a small motor cycle. It was approaching the church gates but then it halted some distance away. Claude, mindful of Constable Rowan’s inquisition about offertory box thefts, ducked down behind the gravestone, calling Alfred to his side with a low owl-like whistle.
Alfred, trained to be silent at this poacher’s command, obeyed instantly. And so man and dog waited behind the tombstone. Claude recalled that motor cycle noises had been heard in the vicinity of earlier thefts as his khaki overcoat merged with the lush vegetation at this distant end of the graveyard. And then he saw a young man heading for the gate. He was walking from the far side of the church, having left his machine round the back. At this point, he was too far away for Claude to see who it was, but the youth marched quickly along the path towards the porch, looked around himself for signs of other people, and then boldly walked into the church.
CHAPTER XVI
Waiting in the gloom, Nick’s heart began to pound as he heard footsteps approaching. Through the narrow gap between the door and the doorpost, he saw shadowy movements and then the door was eased open very slowly and very quietly. Nick remained in the shadows, his dark uniform almost invisible and he moved behind the sheltering pillar. Blaketon was still in the side chapel, apparently oblivious to Nick’s presence and similarly oblivious to the approach of the newcomer.
The door was pushed wider and a head appeared; Nick couldn’t be sure who it was at this stage, the light behind the incomer making him appear as a silhouette, but it was a man, and he was entering the church in a very stealthy manner. Suddenly, he was moving faster. Once he was inside, he left the door standing open, probably to facilitate a swift escape if indeed he was the thief, and then moved quickly across the floor of the church towards the offertory box.
Nick now realised that this was indeed the thief he was seeking. The man, head down and dressed in a dark anorak, pulled a large screwdriver from the inside of his anorak and then tested the lid of the offertory box. It was closed and locked. Even though the fellow’s intentions seemed to be very clear, Nick knew he must wait until the right moment.
He must catch this man in the act of actually breaking open the box because he must obtain evidence of his criminal intent. If Nick did not wait until that moment, a court might dismiss any charge against the felon. To catch the fellow merely in possession of a screwdriver as he approached the box was not enough to satisfy some courts. The fellow could say he was a woodworker and was going to put some cash into the box…after all, anyone could be carrying a screwdriver and possession of a screwdriver wasn’t illegal. So Nick had to wait until the fellow was actually breaking into the box. There would be some damage but it was a small price to pay for the arrest and conviction of a persistent thief.
Peering around the pillar, Nick saw the man look towards the altar; Blaketon was out of sight from that point and Nick knew that the sergeant would be deep in concentration, so much so that he was blissfully unaware of anyone else at that moment. Then Nick saw the blade of the large screwdriver; it flashed momentarily in the light from the open door as it was inserted between the lid and the side of the offertory box. There was a crunching of wood as the man exerted pressure upon the screwdriver by leaning his weight upon it and it was at that instant that Nick moved towards him.
On silent soles, he crossed the stone floor of the church, creeping up to the thief from the rear and still not recognising the man. As the box lid was levered off with a crisp sound of breaking wood, Nick seized him from behind.
At the same time, he hissed, “Police. Stay right where you are, don’t move an inch! You’re under arrest.”
The man, shocked and surprised by the sudden turn of events and the arms which immobilised him from behind, produced a loud cry of alarm and suddenly flopped to the floor, taking Nick by surprise. Nick was forced to release his hold.
Now the man was escaping. He threw the screwdriver to the floor with a loud clatter as Nick leapt forward again, this time grabbing an arm as the man was heading for the open doorway. Nick held on, he managed to trip the man with a well aimed kick at his ankles and as he stumbled, Nick saw that it was Gordon Turnbull.
“Gordon, you! Of all the people…”
But Turnbull was fighting like a wild cat, arms and legs flailing as Nick struggled to detain him. But Turnbull was now immobilised, even if he was thrashing wildly. Nick had him in a very effective arm lock.
“It’s no good, Gordon, I recognise you…stop struggling,” and at that moment, Nick heard the familiar voice of Sergeant Blaketon saying,
“Nice one, Rowan. Caught in the act, eh? That’s how we like it,” and he stooped to the floor to pick up the fallen screwdriver. “And we’ve got some real evidence, eh? I reckon this screwdriver’s blade will match the plaster casts of the marks we’ve found on other offertory boxes, don’t you, Rowan?”
“I’m sure you’re right, sergeant,” smiled Nick, looking at Blaketon. He had his cap on, his face was its usual stem self and there was no sign of his grief. Blaketon was back at work, back at being a policeman.
Held in the arm lock with his head and back bowed beneath the pressure, Gordon Turnbull was weeping.
“Look, I’m sorry…I really am, Mr Rowan, I’ll repay everything, I’ll repair any damage…”
“You can tell that to the court and to the church authorities, Gordon,” said Nick quietly. “Now, it’s handcuffs time.”
With Blaketon standing before the dejected Gordon, Nick pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slipped them upon Gordon’s wrists, locking them securely before Gordon’s stomach. The young man now looked defeated and deflated, a picture of misery and regret.
“I’m sorry, I really am…I don’t know why I did it…”
“Money, perhaps?” said Nick. “Greed, maybe? Trying to keep up a lifestyle to impress your friends? I wonder what they’ll think of you now, Gordon?”
“Take him to my car, Rowan,” said Sergeant Blaketon. “It’s in a barn near Ashberry Farm, nicely concealed.”
Then Blaketon turned to Gordon Turnbull and said, “It’s Ashfordly Police Station for you, young man, and then an appearance at the magistrate’s court. So, I suggest you start thinking hard about what you’ve done.”
The lad made no reply as Sergeant Blaketon continued, “We would appreciate a list of all the other churches you’ve raided and then the court can take all those
cases into consideration. It’ll wipe the slate clean at one go, a tough lesson, but all of your own making. All right, Rowan, off we go. We’ll come back for your bike when we’ve dealt with this young thief.”
Marching Gordon before him, Nick left the church as Sergeant Blaketon accompanied him and as they emerged into the bright sunlight of that Sunday, the first person they saw was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Accompanied by the faithful Alfred, he was carrying a scythe and a strickle, and had a happy smile on his face. At exactly the moment that Nick saw Claude, Claude saw Nick and Blaketon. His smile of triumph and happiness vanished in a trice.
“What the…” snapped Claude. “Are you lot spying on me? Can’t a chap go about his lawful business on a good Sunday without half the county constabulary trailing him?”
“So what are you doing here, Greengrass?” bellowed Sergeant Blaketon.
“Minding my own business,” retorted Claude. “Doing my service to the community, cutting grass, aren’t I?” and then he realised that Gordon was being marched between the officers with his hands in cuffs. “Hello, so what’s Gordon been doing?”
“Raiding offertory boxes, Greengrass,” said Sergeant Blaketon. “Only we were waiting for him this time. So what are you doing here? His look-out perhaps? A double act, was it? Greengrass keeping a vigil for the police while Gordon breaks into the boxes, each taking a share of the proceeds. Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”
“No, Mr Blaketon,” whispered Gordon. “Claude’s nothing to do with this, I’m on my own.”
“So what are you doing here, Claude?” Nick asked his old adversary.
“Making money, aren’t I?” beamed Claude.
“You told me you weren’t charging the vicars for cutting their grass?” Nick said, holding onto Gordon’s arm.
“I wasn’t, it’s all free is that, part of my community service,” grinned Claude. “I’ve tidied hundreds of neglected graves, I have, and found some Greengrass ancestors
“So the money-making, Claude?” persisted Nick. “How come you’ve made money out of all this?”
“Well, I can tell you now because my Alfred has made a big discovery today, you see, here in his churchyard,” smiled Claude. “This rich Yank is seeking his roots, see, and can’t get over the pond to visit all our churchyards to find his ancestors. So he advertised for help, he’s put money into a solicitor’s office, the cash is waiting for the chap who finds the grave. Well, it’s here, I’ve found it. Linus Otto Perryhawk no less, famous in America, I’ll bet.”
“Really?” smiled Nick. “You’ve made yourself an honest bit of money, eh?”
“Aye, I have that. And he might even give me a free trip to New York to see the sights, eh? So I’m in the money, and it’s all legal.”
“All right, Claude,” grinned Nick. “I believe you, many wouldn’t.”
“Well, it does show a bit of enterprise, and perhaps will show this young thief there are ways of earning money without stealing from churches and charities. Come along, Rowan, it’s time to deal with this thief. The Inspector will be pleased.”
Claude watched them march Gordon towards the gate and then said, “Gordon, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I’m no angel, but I’d never rob a church.”
And Gordon hung his head low as he was taken to the waiting police car.
At Ashfordly Police Station, Gordon was searched and then placed in the cell while Nick checked the list of offertory box thefts which had occurred in recent months. He made a list of every one, with its location and the amount estimated to have been stolen, together with the MO of the crimes. In all cases, wooden boxes had been attacked with a screwdriver bearing a three-eighths of an inch blade. And when all these were presented to Gordon Turnbull, he readily admitted each one and this was incorporated in a lengthy statement of confession.
He also admitted stealing cash from some shops he had entered quite legitimately, sneaking his hand into the tills while the assistant’s attention was elsewhere. He had no idea of the precise amount he had stolen over the past two years, but it came to several hundred pounds. And it was all to finance his desire for smart cars and pretty girls.
While Nick was dealing with the arrest and charging procedures, Sergeant Blaketon went into his office. His first shock was the volume of flowers lying around the walls and floor, then the birthday present and cards on his desk and finally the handwritten greeting stuck high on the wall. For a moment, tears came into his eyes; he had no idea that the public thought so highly of him, and as he opened his present, he was touched by the gift of book ends from the men at his station. He went back into the enquiry office where Alf Ventress was manning the phone while Nick entered Turnbull’s details on the charge sheet.
“Er, Ventress, Rowan, I don’t quite know how to put this, but, well, I’d like to thank you for your kindness, the present, book ends…and all those flowers from the townspeople…it really does restore one’s faith in human nature…” and then, his eyes brimming with tears, he hurried back into his office saying, “And it’s made my birthday a little happier by being able to ring that woman to say we’ve caught the offertory box thief!”
In his office, calmer now but with moisture glistening on his cheeks, Sergeant Blaketon picked up the telephone and dialled Whitby Police Station, asking for Inspector Murchison.
“It’s Blaketon, ma’am,” he announced himself.
“Look, sergeant, I’m terribly sorry about the loss of Mrs Forrester…I had no idea, I mean, yesterday, when I despatched you to the scene. Had I known, I would have ordered some other officer to attend.”
“That is quite all right, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “I have my duty to do without fear or favour, and I have some very good officers here to help me. They were in control.”
“Yes, well, I do extend my deepest sympathy to you.”
“Thank you, now I have some better news,” and he told her about the arrest of Gordon Turnbull and his admission of a string of other crimes. Inspector Murchison expressed her appreciation of that work and said that the officers of Ashfordly section had done some very good work this weekend. Work of the highest calibre.
“They are very sound officers, ma’am,” said Blaketon with some pride. “Even if they do watch football matches through holes in the fence when they’re supposed to be on car parking duties!”
“I’m beginning to realise that,” she had to admit. “Now, sergeant, there is the question of the inquest on Mrs Forrester and the possibility of a prosecution of the other person involved in the fatality, Denis Myers. Clearly, the file will take some time to prepare bearing in mind the delay in obtaining the reports on vehicle examinations and any medical evidence that is required. I am wondering, in view of the circumstances, whether you feel it would be better for another officer to prepare the fatal accident file. Perhaps one from outside Ashfordly section?”
“The moment I realised my ex-wife was the casualty,” said Blaketon, “I placed the responsibility for dealing with the incident in the hands of PC Rowan, ma’am. He is a young officer but he is very capable and I have no qualms about leaving him in control. I know he will compile a full and comprehensive report about the accident, and he will be totally impartial in his assessment of any responsibility.”
“I admire your confidence in your men, sergeant. All right, I’ll leave it with Rowan. Now, how about taking the rest of today off, sergeant? No one would expect you to be working today.”
“I’d rather be at work, ma’am, than moping around in my house all alone. I am in very good company here, my men are showing a lot of compassion and support, so I don’t want to be anywhere else. But thank you for your thoughts.”
And so Oscar Blaketon took a deep breath and went back to speak with Rowan and Ventress.
“Serge,” Nick spoke quietly. “On the subject of the accident, I still need to speak to Graham. I believe he stayed the night at your house?”
“He did, but he took my private car this morning and drove Mrs Myers i
nto Whitby to visit Denis in hospital. He’s not back yet.”
“Maybe, when he does get back, you’d let me know?”
“He didn’t see anything, Rowan, he told you that in the hospital.”
“I’d still like to take a statement from him, sergeant,” insisted Nick.
“As you wish, Rowan,” said Sergeant Blaketon. “Now, how are things progressing with the offertory box thief?”
“I’m ready to charge him with that attempted theft at Shelvingby, sergeant, and with all the others he has admitted. I’ve prepared the charge sheet. It’s ready for your signature.”
“Good, well, bring him from the cell. I’ll charge him and then we’ll bail him out to appear at court next Saturday.” And so the work of Ashfordly Police Station was getting back to normal.
CHAPTER XVII
By Sunday evening, both Nick and Kate were exhausted. The combination of the overnight duties last night coupled with an early start that morning and the emotional pressures of dealing with the loss of someone so close to them had mentally and physically drained both. Neither had any wish to go out for a dinner. Instead, they had helped one another to make a meal which they would eat from trays before the blazing fire at Aidensfield Police House. Both were now off duty and so they had changed into something casual, each vowing not to answer the telephone if it rang. This evening was for them, to be alone and to relax.
Their enjoyment of the meal was leisurely and wholesome and after washing the pots, they settled down to read. Both liked reading; Kate enjoyed a whole range of classic novels, ranging from Dickens to Thomas Hardy while Nick preferred non fiction — he was studying the history of the British motor car. As they read, they had a glass of wine; as the relaxing evening moved on, each began to feel tired and ready for bed.
“I think I’ll turn in,” Kate announced. “I know it’s still early but I’m shattered, Nick.”
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