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

  The sisters were quite charming although some considered them rather aloof; various people interpreted their aloofness as an indication of their pretended superiority, but I think it came from their natural reticence, each being rather shy.

  Possibly because of their natural reserve, they did not take a very active part in village affairs, although they could be relied upon to give prizes for raffles or jars of honey and jam for garden fetes, or to provide bunches of flowers for the parish church and useful work for bob-a-job boy scouts. Unlike so many spinsterish sisters, they were not antagonistic towards one another and did spend a good deal of their spare time together, perhaps on a shopping expedition or even on a weekend holiday to the Lake District or in the Scottish Highlands.

  But underneath this aura of respectability and family rapport, there was some rivalry. It was a long time before I became aware of this.

  England is rich with tales of sisterly rivalry, my own county of Yorkshire boasting two wealthy and warring sisters who could not agree where to build a church for the village, and so each built a church of her own. The village thereafter was embarrassed by having two fine churches. In another case, one sister built a church on the site she had chosen while her sister built the tower on her selected site — the result being that the tower was a long way from the church.

  But the Mandeville sisters had not fallen out in such a silly and public way; their rivalry was of a very domestic and private nature. Upon reflection, I suspect that few villagers were aware of any domestic undercurrent between them for it was not the sort of rivalry that would become public knowledge.

  I learned about it when Miss Rosemary received a clandestine visit from a housebreaker.

  One Monday afternoon, Rosemary had driven into Eltering to visit her bank manager and when she returned at four o’clock, she found she had had an uninvited guest. He had broken a glass panel of the kitchen door at the back of the house, turned the key, which she’d left in the lock and had then let himself in to ransack the bungalow, stealing precious ceramics, glassware, some portable antiques such as figurines, vases and candlesticks, some original watercolours and some miniature oil paintings of South American birdlife. A vehicle must have been employed to carry off the loot for it was a daring daylight raid. And no one saw anything suspicious.

  It was her sister, Audrey, who rang me and I promised immediate attention, exhorting the women not to touch anything and to leave things exactly as they were until the arrival of our Scenes of Crime Officers. Some victims of burglars and housebreakers would tidy up the house and dust the surfaces before the arrival of the CID — thus destroying any evidence that might have lingered. Before leaving for Slemmington, I rang the divisional officer to arrange a visit by SOCO and then hurried to the scene. I found them both in Audrey’s bungalow, Rosemary being comforted by her sister with a cup of tea. They assured me that nothing had been touched or moved, and that they had not cleaned the house prior to my visit.

  Then I asked them to show me the damage. I added that I’d need a list of everything that had been stolen with detailed descriptions of the missing items. At that early stage, Rosemary was unable to provide such a list and I asked her to wait until SOCO had examined the bungalow for fingerprints and other evidence; I also felt that after waiting for that couple of hours or so she would have recovered her composure sufficiently to cope with making a comprehensive list. Once I had that list, I could circulate descriptions of the stolen goods to all police forces, and local antique dealers could be alerted to the fact that the thief might try to dispose of his ill-gotten gains.

  When Detective Sergeant Thornton and his SOCO team had concluded their work, I asked Miss Rosemary to compile that list for me, asking her to be as accurate as possible because the sooner we circulated the list, the better were the chances of locating the thief. I knew she would not be able to make a comprehensive list because, in the days and weeks which followed, she would begin to realize that other objects had vanished. People would never miss a certain object until many weeks later when they wanted it for a particular purpose. But we did urgently need a working list with which to begin our circulation and so Rosemary, with Audrey in close attendance, began to examine her invaded home. It was then that I began to appreciate the sisterly rivalry.

  “Two brass candlesticks have gone,” Rosemary’s sadness was evident in her voice. “From the hall, they were on the piano.”

  “What size?” I was making a list in my pocket-book, later to be typed and itemized.

  “Ten inches tall,” she said without hesitation.

  “No,” sister Audrey butted in. “I’ve got the ten-inch ones, yours were the smaller ones, eight inches tall, less valuable, of course. Father gave me the better ones. Rosemary’s weren’t worth a lot — perhaps £15.”

  “But I got the original of Pott’s painting of Rievaulx Abbey and that’s been taken. It’s in oil, in a gilt frame and shows the abbey in springtime, with bluebells in the foreground,” Rosemary beamed at me.

  I was surprised at the fierce glow of pride in her face as she added, “Audrey only got a print of it. No discerning thief would steal a print.”

  “Was it valuable, the painting?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’d estimate it at around £200,” she smiled. “The print is only worth a few pounds.”

  “If the print is an exact copy of the same picture, our photographic department might reproduce it for circulation,” I said.

  And so we went through her home, listing all the items known to be missing and I began to smile to myself as the sisters vied for ownership of the most valuable items.

  As I worked, I gained the impression that their father had tried very hard to make them equal, even to the extent of giving copies of pictures to one while giving the original to the other. Thus Rosemary had some originals, Audrey had others; I reckoned they had roughly the same proportion of each. Some of Rosemary’s china ornaments were larger or more valuable than Audrey’s and some were not, but as I progressed about my work, I found it quite hilarious listening to each woman trying to claim the better ornaments and furnishings. Rosemary kept trying to say that the objects stolen from her home were of far better quality than their counterparts in Audrey’s possession. As we progressed through the bungalow, the claims grew stronger and the sisters grew more agitated as each new loss was discovered, each trying to claim they owned the most valuable example.

  It was inevitable that Rosemary should come to the conclusion that the burglar must have first examined the contents of Audrey’s house before deciding to ignore them in favour of her far superior belongings. She even reached the stage when she was beginning to grow proud of her experience, pleased that the housebreaker had selected her property.

  “He’s clearly a man of knowledge and discernment,” Rosemary told her sister. “I think he rejected your stuff because mine was far more valuable. Consider the objects he’s taken, not one of them is cheap rubbish. It’s all top-quality antiques and ceramics.”

  “That’s being silly!” was the retort.

  “No it’s not. Really, Audrey, I can’t see any self-respecting burglar even thinking of robbing you.”

  Audrey responded, “The man’s a moron, Rosemary, and you know it. He’s gone for kitsch, he’ll sell your stuff on seaside junk stalls and in flea markets, the fellow lacks knowledge of real quality, otherwise he’d have raided my home.”

  I let them ramble on, each trying to score points over the other as I made my notes, marking those items which were duplicated in Audrey’s home and which we could photograph for police circulars, and I tried not to make any remarks which would allow the women to score points over one another. But it was a strange experience, hearing a woman boasting that her burglar was a man of superior quality.

  A week later, Audrey’s bungalow was raided and the MO suggested the culprit was the same man. I was pleased that Phil Bellamy was available to deal with that case.

  Then I wondered whether they’d each claim to
have been visited by the best policeman!

  8. Of Creatures Beloved

  I think I could turn and live with animals,

  they are so placid and self contain’d.

  WALT WHITMAN, 1819–92

  From time to time during my constabulary duties at Aidensfield, I had trouble with a succession of donkeys that lived upon the dubious generosity of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. He seemed to assemble a menagerie of assorted mokes with personality defects or emotional problems; many had been abandoned or were unwanted by other carers. They were sometimes aged and infirm donkeys whose duties on Strensford Beach were over, although many were young ones who seemed to have moods varying between outright anger and sheer stupidity.

  I was never quite sure why he took them into shelter. He maintained it was his love of animals combined with a natural streak of generosity; he said he did not want to see hard-worked donkeys end their lives in misery and, to be fair to Claude, he did care for them and did show them love and compassion. They were well fed when in his care, their hooves and coats were tended and there was shelter of sorts in one or other of his tumbledown outbuildings. I must admit that most of his donkeys appeared to be quite happy but I was never sure what happened to them when their contented Greengrass days were over. They just seemed to fade from the landscape.

  From time to time, however, he would gather a younger and very frisky animal into his care. Quite often, this was a stallion with a strong sense of desire to breed with anything on four legs. This did not please the neighbours because one source of annoyance was the stallions’ habit of braying extremely loudly. Their terrible din, a sort of hee-hawing mixed with massive intakes of air and bouts of wheezing like a farrier’s bellows, was said by some to be a means of communication with other neighbourhood donkeys and said by others to be an amorous love-song, a sort of donkey serenade. It might have been nothing more than a means of letting people know the donkeys were there and in need of companionship, because donkeys are sociable animals and love the companionship of their own kind, as well as that of humans, horses or other animals. Their habit of braying loudly, as in the case of the Greengrass stallions, might have been their way of protesting about the behaviour of their wily master or his lurcher dog, Alfred; Alfred would sometimes hitch a lift on the back of an unwilling donkey. The dog would stand astride the cross-marked back of the donkey and would defy all attempts by the donkey to throw him off. In some ways, Alfred was quite a showman — some reckoned he had a touch of the circus in his blood.

  The most recent addition to the Greengrass stable, a lively stallion called Basil, caused further disturbance in and around Aidensfield because he constantly and noisily fell in love with lady ponies.

  He appeared to prefer them to female donkeys and lost no opportunity in making his odd desire known far and wide. It was fortunate for him, but unfortunate for the ponies and their riders, that there were lots of pony mares in the district upon whom Basil could lavish his unrequited love. It is known, of course, that donkeys and horses will cross breed to produce hybrids called mules but this riveting piece of natural history was of little consequence to the pony owners and riders with whose mounts Basil fell headlong and helplessly in love.

  He had found a way of escaping from the Greengrass ranch, apparently through a piece of loose fencing, and once free would pursue the object of his lust through the lanes, woods, fields and villages until he had achieved his purpose. He would ignore the whips, feet and shouts of the riders as he tried, from time to time, to consummate his passion with the pony rider still in the saddle. Little girls received stern warnings about Basil’s activities and were told that if Basil appeared on the scene with a glint in his eye, the girl and her pony should gallop for shelter in the nearest donkey-proof building. Some did wonder why, if Alfred the lurcher could ride upon a donkey, why couldn’t a donkey try to ride upon a pony? Parents did not have an easy time explaining Basil’s public passion to girls of tender years, although it was evident that some did quickly learn the facts of life, even if it was through regularly witnessing the unashamed actions of a lovesick and very lusty donkey.

  Because he could be a confounded nuisance to pony riders as well as a danger to motor traffic, I found myself repeatedly warning Claude Jeremiah Greengrass that he faced prosecution for allowing livestock (i.e. the donkey) to stray upon the highway, or that I might even book him for obstructing the highway and that he might find Basil impounded. Claude did make an effort of sorts, but Basil could defy everyone — when he wanted love and adventure, no one could stop him. If his passion was aroused, no compound could detain him and he was quite capable of leaping a five-bar gate if a desirable pony chanced to wander by.

  A fine example of Basil’s precociousness occurred one Wednesday morning when I received a call of desperation from the vicar, the Reverend Roger Clifton.

  “Nick,” he panted. “I’ve just dashed in from the street, I’m ringing from the vicarage, there’s rather an embarrassing, er, well, demonstration going on down here. It involves that donkey of Mr Greengrass’s.”

  I groaned.

  “Have you rung him?” was my first question.

  “Yes, but there’s no reply.”

  “So what’s the donkey doing now?”

  “It’s got a pony, a female I suspect, cornered in the lychgate of my church and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, it’s trying to mount the pony. The donkey is in, well a high and well-advanced stage of passion, if you understand.”

  “It always is,” I groaned.

  “Yes, but this time it’s especially embarrassing . . .”

  “You’ve tried chasing it off?”

  “It bares its teeth at me or anyone else who approaches, and, well, it is in a very rampant state. It could be dangerous, Nick, the donkey gets very angry when anyone tries to chase it away from its desired intention, but this situation is rather worse than normal, actually . . .”

  “Worse? Why?”

  “That funeral of Mr Tomlinson, he died at Strensford earlier this week and expressed a desire to be buried here. Well, the cortège has just arrived and we can’t get the coffin or the mourners into the church or even into the churchyard. The donkey’s in the gateway, you see, and it’s got a pony cornered there; it is all so very embarrassing with its massive private parts on display, and panting all over the pony as the mourners don’t know where to look . . .”

  “Who does the pony belong to?”

  “Fiona Lambton. She had hired it to a young girl called Molly Forster, but when the donkey made its overtures, Molly ran home and left the pony to its fate. The pony’s not saddled up although it has a halter on . . . I’ve rung Miss Lambton too, she’s not at home either and, well, the mourners are getting a bit restless and the donkey won’t stop, it just keeps trying, Nick, and failing, I might add. The more it fails, the more determined it becomes. The poor pony doesn’t like it either.”

  I promised I would attend immediately and decided to walk down to the church rather than drive; at least that would give me a few minutes longer to try and think of a suitable course of action. I must admit that, as I paraded down the village street in my police uniform, I did not think that the image of the constabulary in action was enhanced by having to cope with a rampant and shameless donkey whose lustful intention was so blatantly obvious.

  When I arrived, the cortège was stationary and all the mourners were still seated in the shining black cars with suitably glum expressions on their faces while trying not to look at the romantic natural scene being played out before their very eyes. The undertaker had left his place in the passenger seat of the hearse and was wiping his perspiring brow with a huge white handkerchief, while the vicar stood within the safety of the churchyard. And, tucked beneath the sheltering archway of the lychgate was Basil, as rampant as ever as he tried to mount the whinnying pony which he had managed to detain within the confines of the enclosed gateway. As Basil moved around in a circle, sometimes mounting the pony for the merest of
moments before slipping off to try again, the vicar blushed and the undertaker, Josh Durbridge, shouted at the copulators and tried to shoo them away. But Basil bared his teeth at anyone who dared to interrupt his ardour and so no one dared even to attempt to drag him away.

  “Thoo’ll etti deea summat, Mr Rhea,” Josh wiped his brow again. “There’s some varry straight ladies in yon cars, maiden ladies who’ve nivver knawn where babies came from let alone how donkey stallions get their kicks, and Ah can’t say Ah knaw what effect this’ll have on ’em, seeing summat that size. T’vicar might have some bother on his hands when this carry-on’s all ovver.”

  “One way of treating a man who’s a bit rampant, Josh, is to chuck a bucket of cold water over him,” I suggested.

  “Or mak him tak a cold shower!” chuckled the undertaker.

  “Would it work with a rutting donkey?” I asked. “A hosepipe? Cold water directed at his tender bits . . .”

  “It’s worth a try,” he said.

  I went towards Roger Clifton and asked, “Have you a hosepipe and a water supply? Cold Water?”

  “Yes, we use it in the churchyard,” he smiled.

  “Let’s see if we can dampen Basil’s ardour,” I suggested.

  As Basil continued to exercise his cupidity, we connected a length of hosepipe to a tap in the corner of the churchyard and Josh examined the nozzle.

  “We need ti git a fair pressure up,” he said, twisting the nozzle until he seemed satisfied. “A bit o’ power’s needed . . . right, Vicar, ton t’tap full on, give it some welly.”

  As Josh directed the hose towards the donkey, Roger Clifton turned on the tap and we all waited.

  There was a hissing somewhere, the hose wriggled as the water surged through and suddenly a stream of ice-cold water burst from it. Josh aimed it at Basil. But Basil was not going to be deflected from his lasciviousness by a drop of water and as the stream hit him, he ignored it. I knew that Josh was aiming for a certain part of the donkey’s anatomy but that was not so easy to achieve in the circumstances and so Josh played the hosepipe over the donkey’s back and head, moving it around as he tried to find the centre of Basil’s desire and lust.