CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 12)

by Nicholas Rhea

  And I left man and dog to continue their chores. My next journey was to Ashfordly police station where I had to formally record the crime and to circulate it in our various publications. But Sergeant Blaketon was not at all pleased.

  “You’re not serious, Rhea?” he bristled. “Who’d pinch a maypole? It’ll have been taken down for redecorating or whatever they do. Maintenance. Repairs.”

  “No, Sergeant,” I said. “That’s all been done. It had just undergone its annual service and had been reinstated, all new and shining bright. Then it was spirited away during the hours of darkness, sometime between nine o’clock last night and eight o’clock this morning.”

  “There’s no market for stolen maypoles, Rhea, not like jewellery and antiques . . .”

  “It’s not even an antique maypole, Sergeant,” I couldn’t resist that retort. “I can’t see any antique dealer buying it.”

  “I can’t see anybody in their right minds taking it, Rhea. Are you sure it’s been stolen? This isn’t a prank of some kind is it? Somebody preparing for April Fool’s Day? A stunt of some sort?”

  I explained that I had considered all those possibilities and after making enquiries from the local people, plus a search of all likely maypole hiding-places and an interview with Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, I had to conclude that it was a genuine crime. This meant it would become part of our crime statistics, and if we didn’t trace the thief, it would become part of our “unsolved crime” figures. It would look as if there was a crime wave in Slemmington.

  “It won’t look good in our crime stats, and monthly returns, Rhea,” worried Sergeant Blaketon.

  “Then we’ll have to trace the culprit,” I said. “How about writing me off normal duties to concentrate on detecting this heinous crime?” I suggested.

  “Don’t be so bloody daft, Rhea,” was all he said.

  The inspector at Eltering, the superintendent at divisional headquarters and the detective superintendent at force headquarters, all queried the crime; each thought the maypole’s disappearance was nothing but a prank. In spite of their reservations, however, a genuine crime report had been made and so the fate of the Slemmington maypole became part of our official crime statistics.

  I returned to Slemmington later that day to continue my enquiries, the only development coming from a young mother who’d been awake at night tending her crying baby. Around 2 a.m., she’d heard the noise of a heavy vehicle moving slowly through the village but hadn’t looked out to see what it was.

  If she had, I reckon she’d have noticed the removal of the said stolen property.

  Three days passed without any useful maypole-detecting information coming into my possession. Slemmington Parish Council was growing increasingly concerned about my lack of results and were putting pressure on Jack Lawson to obtain a replacement. Meanwhile, the local weekly paper had not yet been published and so wider publicity among the public had not yet been achieved. It was a harrowing time for all.

  And then the following day, as in all good detective stories, a piece of timely good fortune came my way. Living in a large converted farmhouse on the edge of the moors near Lairsbeck was a retired military gentleman, who rejoiced in the name of Colonel Cuthbert Cruikshank-Carstairs. Three days after the maypole vanished, I had to visit him about the renewal of his firearms certificate and, as always, he welcomed me into his spacious, book-lined study while his wife brewed some strong coffee from home-ground beans. Colonel Cuthbert, as everyone called him, was an authority on country life; he wrote books and articles for magazines like The Field and Country Life and lectured to organizations ranging from the Women’s Institute to adult educational courses about all aspects of rural living. His expertise ranged from fox hunting to folk lore by way of local customs, rural superstitions and ancient herbal cures.

  Knowledgeable about all kinds of wildlife from fish to flowers, birds to bees and ferrets to foxes, he was a veritable treasure-house of country knowledge. Having completed the business of my visit, we chatted over our coffee and he asked me what was happening in the constabulary world beyond his village. I told him about the maypole theft and he smiled.

  “Revenge,” he beamed. “That will be Waindale getting their own back.”

  “Waindale?” I must have sounded puzzled because he laughed at my reaction.

  “You’ve not heard about the feud?” he asked.

  “No,” I had to admit, wondering why, if there was a feud between Waindale and Slemmington, Jack Lawson hadn’t told me.

  “Years ago,” he said, “Waindale had a lovely maypole, the tallest in this area. The villagers held a May Day festival every year and there is little doubt it was the finest display for miles around. The other villages were jealous, some tried to compete by arranging their own maypole dancing but none could match Waindale’s dancing and none could produce a maypole of such impressive height. But of all the competing villages, Slemmington almost succeeded. Lord Ashfordly donated them a fine pole from his woods, it was not quite as tall as Waindale’s but it was a very fine specimen. The acquisition of a fine pole encouraged Slemmington to recruit and train its own fine troupe of dancers led by a lovely maiden called Susanna Browning.

  “But the trainer of the Waindale group got his eye on her. He wooed her and wed her, thus taking away Slemmington’s leading dancer. Well, no one could forgive Waindale for that act of piracy and so, the next thing that happened was that Waindale’s fine maypole vanished overnight. Miraculously, at that very same time, Slemmington acquired a very tall one, far taller than any of its earlier specimens. The suspicions were always there, rumours abounded. It was said that if Slemmington couldn’t have Susanna, they would have the finest maypole. There is no doubt that the Waindale-ites believed Slemmington had purloined their pole, but the Slemmingtonians have always denied they were criminals.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “March 1766,” he told me. “In March 1866, Slemmington was raided overnight and its maypole was stolen. A similar one was found in Waindale, but no one could prove it was the same pole. Sadly, Waindale’s maypole ceremonies never maintained their earlier attraction and, in 1907, they ended. Waindale has never had a maypole, or a maypole ceremony, since that time. In contradiction, Slemmington’s ceremony has flourished.”

  “And now,” I said. “It is March 1966, two hundred years since the feud started.”

  “Exactly,” beamed Colonel Cuthbert. “The anniversary of the original battle. So it would not surprise me that if you were to pay a visit to Waindale, you might find a handsome maypole sitting in the old socket

  “I was there early last week,” I said. “There was no maypole on the green then.”

  “Precisely,” he said.

  I thanked him and after leaving his comfortable house, drove through the winding lanes and across the windswept moors to Waindale. This is a tiny community comprising a few stone cottages and a couple of farms around the village green, but there is no inn, no post office, no shop and no church. Its only feature is a telephone kiosk, although there is a timber-yard on the outskirts. There was rarely any reason for me to visit Waindale but now, as I drove in, I could see the enormous maypole which dominated the skyline.

  It was rooted firmly into the old concrete-surrounded socket. To my inexpert eye, it looked identical to the one, which had vanished from Slemmington but to my official police officer’s eye, I knew there was no way of proving, to the satisfaction of a court of law, that this was that very same pole. As I studied the mighty edifice, I noticed that the top bore the metal carving of a team of shire horses drawing a wagon. That type of wagon is known as a wain in this area; wagons were once constructed here and the village was rich with skilled wainwrights, hence the name Waindale. A local farmer, Robin Hartree, noticed my interest and wandered across.

  “Now then, Mr Rhea,” he smiled. “Two quick visits, eh? It’s not often we see you hereabouts on such a regular basis.”

  “It’s not often I need to come,” I sa
id. “I only come like this every hundred years or so when somebody decides to pinch a maypole.”

  “Ours is safe enough,” and his eyes twinkled. “Nobody’s pinched ours.”

  “But somebody’s pinched one from Slemmington,” I said.

  “They got their famous big maypole by pinching it from us, Mr Rhea. They’ve always made do with second-hand maypoles.”

  “And Waindale doesn’t?”

  “Nay, lad, ours are allus new ’uns, just look at that paint, glistening like new. We’re reviving our old custom, in honour of Susanna Browning. You’ll not know of Susanna Browning?” he grinned.

  “But I do,” I said, telling him the story as told to me by Colonel Cuthbert.

  And when I finished, I told him that I knew all about the story of the oft-stolen maypoles, adding that it might just be a coincidence that there was a timber-yard on the edge of Waindale, a business belonging to a man from Waindale which had all the gear necessary for lifting tree-trunks from the woods and maypoles from their sockets.

  “Well, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I’d say Waindale has only got what’s rightly theirs, and that doesn’t mean I’m saying the pole came from Slemmington.”

  If indeed this was the Slemmington pole, then it did not rightly belong to Waindale because this particular pole had been a recent gift to Slemmington from Lord Ashfordly.

  Even so, I did have some sympathy with the Waindale folk who were, even after the passage of two centuries, still smarting over their lost maypole.

  When I returned to see Jack Lawson, he launched immediately into a tirade of anger without waiting to hear my news. He said he was furious because during the night someone had left the village’s metal fox, minus the maypole, on his front doorstep and this piece of cheek had been aggravated because he had managed to find a replacement pole, but it was a mere 36 feet tall instead of 72 feet — only half the size of the missing one.

  “Calm down, Jack,” I said. “I think I’ve found your missing pole,” and I told him of my discoveries, not forgetting the story of Susanna Browning.

  “I never thought anybody would remember that anniversary,” he said. “I mean, I read about it when I was a lad, in an old local history book, but it’s never been mentioned for generations. To be honest, we don’t pay much attention to it in this village, it happened two hundred years ago so it’s really got nothing to do with us now. Anyway, Waindale’s got our maypole, so when do we get it back?”

  “I can’t prove it’s yours, Jack,” and I explained the legal difficulties. “All I can say is that there is a pole which matches yours exactly, and it is standing on Waindale village green.”

  “But it is ours, Mr Rhea!”

  “I know that and you know that, but there’s no way to prove it if Waindale deny they removed it. Now listen, if someone was to remove that pole and replace it on Slemmington green, then put the smaller one in its place, I’d say the same logic would apply. One pole is just like another . . .”

  “Are you saying no questions would be asked?”

  “I’m saying it would be difficult to distinguish one brightly painted maypole from another, especially one with a fox on top . . .”

  “I’ll make a fuss about erecting our new one,” he grinned. “That’ll mislead Waindale . . . I’ll have words with our Maypole Action Committee. When’s your night off, Mr Rhea?”

  “Friday,” I said.

  On Saturday morning, I made a point of touring Slemmington and noticed the tall, gleaming maypole with the fox on top. It was in position on the green and a small committee of men were admiring it. I stopped and Jack came over to me.

  “We’ve got a nice new pole, Mr Rhea,” he grinned. “Exactly the same height and colour of the one we lost.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “I trust you’ve anchored it well into its base?”

  “We have,” he said. “Concreted it in and we’re erecting a secondary structure around the base, like a flagpole has, to give it added security. You and Mrs Rhea will be coming to our May Day ceremonies?”

  “I might look in,” I said. “Well, I must be off. I thought I might have a look at Waindale’s new maypole.”

  “They tell me they’ve got a good ’un, Mr Rhea, but not quite as tall as ours.”

  I smiled as I drove away. Waindale did indeed have a fine maypole and it was considerably smaller than the one I’d seen there earlier. Robin Hartree saw me examining it and came across for a word.

  “Someone’s given us a nice new maypole, Mr Rhea,” he smiled.

  “Someone must love Susanna Browning,” I countered. “You’ll be celebrating May Day perhaps?”

  “Now we’ve got a maypole of our own, we might just do that,” he said. “But none of us here knows owt about maypole dancing, Mr Rhea; we need someone to show us how to cope with all those ribbons and things.”

  “There’s some very knowledgeable folk in Slemmington,” I said. “They’ve some maypole experts there, I’m told, quite friendly folk they are, when you get to know them.”

  Each village was therefore quite happy with the outcome of the great maypole mystery and each village now stages its own maypole ceremonies. The feuding has been suspended until 2066, but the lack of positive and legally acceptable identification of each pole meant the police could never be sure that the precise pole that was stolen had ever been replaced.

  Replacement by a substitute meant that the original was still recorded as missing and because of that, the crime is still listed as “undetected”.

  * * *

  The next piece of villainy in Slemmington’s crime wave also occurred on the village green. It involved the scorer for the cricket team which was known throughout the district as The Chadwicks. The Chadwicks was Slemmington’s village team, but the entire team comprised men with that surname — brothers, cousins, fathers, sons, grandfathers and uncles. The team had been playing for years, always comprised entirely of Chadwicks; even the reserves were called Chadwick so it required a scorer with more than average acumen to keep track of their runs, wickets, bowling and resultant analyses.

  Such a man was Cyril Pulling, a bespectacled and meticulous clerk who worked in the accounts office of a nearby animal feeds production company. Small, neat and extremely tidy, Cyril was married with an equally neat and tidy wife and two equally neat and tidy children. The house was small and neat and the family ran a small and neat Morris mini car.

  Cyril’s Saturdays during the summer consisted of scoring for The Chadwicks and he drove to all their matches in his immaculate little car. It was always polished and gleaming; in spite of having two small children, Cyril’s car was never full of childish things like sweet papers, toys and games, neither were its windows greasy with finger marks.

  Cyril was a serious fellow; he tackled his scoring duties with the same commitment as his company results or his own income tax returns, but he never seemed to smile. Those who knew him realized that this was his means of enjoying himself, of getting himself out of the office. Even if it meant working with columns of figures, Cyril regarded it as a holiday and therefore a welcome break. Scoring for The Chadwicks was his relaxation.

  Unfortunately, his serious nature often meant he was a butt for jokes and one Saturday, when he parked his beautiful car behind the pavilion at the edge of Slemmington’s village green, he left the doors open and the key in the ignition switch. The temptation was too much for three of the village lads. While the first half of the match was in progress, they pushed the little car onto the lane and down the gentle slope, then drove it into an old barn just across the narrow bridge and closed the barn doors. This was their idea of a joke; they never thought for a moment that their prank would be considered theft of a motor vehicle.

  Cyril noticed its absence during the break when he went for his sandwiches and flask; realizing he had left his key with the car, he knew he had been foolish and that someone was now driving around in his pride and joy. Cyril knew precisely what to do when a crime was committed and s
o, without wasting a moment, he dialled 999.

  I was on patrol between Ashfordly and Eltering that afternoon and when I received the call on my radio, I diverted to the cricket ground and arrived within ten minutes. Play had not resumed so I was able to talk to Cyril; I doubt if he would have abandoned his scoring just to talk to me had I arrived after the recommencement of play. I had the registration number — that had been circulated after his 999 call — but I needed more detail and listened as he explained about parking it. As we chatted, I noticed three youths hanging around and watching my activities, but did not regard their interest as unusual or significant. When play resumed, I decided to search the vicinity for the car — we always searched the area when a crime had been reported. I began by driving along the lane.

  Very quickly, I spotted the wheelmarks in the soft grass and the three sets of footprints, one at the steering-wheel side and two at the rear . . .

  Equally quickly, I saw the flattened grass at the entrance to the old barn. It had been depressed by the opening and closing of the huge doors; I could also see the twin tracks leading inside. It was the work of a moment to find the car.

  As I hauled open the heavy doors, I became aware of the presence of those three youths, all about sixteen and all watching me from behind the shelter of a thick hedgerow. They thought I could not see them . . . either they had hidden the car as a prank, or else it had been concealed here to be collected later by the thieves or perhaps a receiver.

  Either way, I could deal with the matter. I radioed Control and requested that Scenes of Crime be informed, asking them to attend to examine the car for fingerprints and other evidence. The good news was that the Scenes of Crime vehicle was in the vicinity, having just attended an office-break-in in Strensford. It would arrive within a matter of minutes.

  I closed the barn doors to await their arrival, thus securing the car. In the absence of a lock on the barn, I parked the police van in front of the doors and locked it, then returned on foot to the village green. I went into the pavilion and waited for the over to finish before informing Cyril of my discovery. He was delighted; I said the car did not appear to be damaged but that our Scenes of Crime people were en route and the car would be restored to him once they had concluded their investigation. I then said I suspected a prank by the three youths who, by now, were outside the pavilion watching me chat to Cyril. From their demeanour, I thought they were plucking up courage to talk to me.