Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I announced, conscious that my helmet was on the pillion of my bike some distance away, and my motor cycle suit bore no insignia. I could be anybody.

  “I saw you arrive,” she said, as if to confirm my belief in the all-seeing eyes of village people. “You were talking to that man with the sports car.”

  “He’s had his jacket stolen,” I informed her. “It’s odd – it was taken during the few minutes he was changing his wheel.”

  “That’ll be Arthur,” she said immediately. “He’s always stealing – he once stole a pair of slippers I’d left outside, and he takes anything – trowels, flower pots. We daren’t leave anything lying about.”

  “Oh, I see,” I now had a name. Just like that. I hate to admit I didn’t know Arthur, but I had to ask where he lived.

  “Where’s he live?” I asked.

  She pointed out of the window. “Of course, you’re new,” she smiled again. “You won’t know him. He’s at Heather Cottage, next door to Mr Taylor, the insurance man.”

  Until now, I had forgotten that this village was the home of Norman the insurance man, and was pleased to be reminded of the fact. I followed the line of her pointing finger and saw a neat cottage built of mellow brick. It had bow windows at the front and a red pantile roof, typical of the area. Next door was a larger house standing in its own grounds, and she confirmed that the latter belonged to Norman.

  I left the little shop just in time to pause at the edge of the road for a tractor and trailer to pass. Behind I noticed Norman’s little grey car and waved an acknowledgement. He saw me, and the procession pulled up at his house. He got out and shouted,

  “Hello, Mr Rhea, good to see you.”

  “And you, Norman,” I walked across to him.

  “What’s this then?” he asked. “Business?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A theft.”

  “Here in Milthorpe?” he asked, eyebrows rising.

  “A motorist stopped to change a wheel,” I explained, “and took his jacket off to work upon it. Someone stole it as he worked.”

  “That’ll be Arthur, next door,” beamed Norman. “You’ll find the jacket there, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, the girl at the Post Office said so.”

  “Come in for a cup of coffee when you’ve got the jacket back,” he invited. “I’m just taking delivery of some bantams.”

  I glanced at the tractor and trailer, and noticed a farm lad standing beside the trailer, awaiting Norman’s instructions. On the trailer stood a large wire-netting cage containing a dozen white bantams.

  Recalling his other acquisitions, I said, “You’re a bit of a dealer, are you?”

  “It’s more of a bartering system,” he told me. “These are insurance premiums. This lad’s father is hard up at the moment, so I’ve accepted these bantams as his monthly payment.”

  “It seems a good system!” I laughed.

  “I’ve got all sorts,” he said. “Look, you go and find Arthur, and then come in. By then, we’ll have this crate of bantams off and my good lady will brew us a cuppa. I’ll show you round my garden, and you can see some of my better insurance premiums!”

  I chuckled at the notion, and opened the gate of Heather House. At the sound of the sneck, an aged black and white cur dog ambled from the rear of the cottage and wagged his tail in greeting. I patted him and approached the front door, the dog following closely with his old grey muzzle nudging my legs and his tail lashing backwards and forwards in happy greeting.

  I knocked and waited. Soon, a grey-haired man with a big white moustache and rosy cheeks opened the door.

  “Yes?” he demanded.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I said. “I’m the new policeman at Aidensfield.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And Ah’m Dawson. Edgar Dawson.”

  So this wasn’t Arthur. I wondered if Arthur was the fellow’s son, perhaps someone who was a bit simple. The dog fussed about as we talked, and I patted his head, an action which caused the tail to wag even more furiously.

  “I’ve come about Arthur,” I said.

  “What’s he pinched now?” the man stood on the top step and glared at me.

  This was an easy interview. “A jacket and wallet,” I told him. “You might have seen the sports car down the village? The driver changed a wheel and had his jacket and wallet stolen as he worked.”

  “Ah’ll skin him, so Ah will!” snapped the man. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. He never stops. Ah’ve thrashed him and belted him, but it’s no good, Mr Policeman … come with me.”

  Sighing the sigh of a weary man, he led me and the dog around to the rear of the cottage, and into a shed. The shed door stood wide open and he beckoned me to follow inside. And there, lying on the floor beside a grubby rug, was the sports jacket. He picked it up and handed it to me. I looked inside the pocket – the wallet was there and when I checked inside, the cash and the driving licence were present. Nothing had been touched, and the name inside the wallet confirmed it was Simon Christie’s property.

  “Thanks Mr Dawson, I’m delighted. Now, I’d like to talk to Arthur about it.”

  “It’s not damaged, is it?” he asked me.

  I examined the jacket, but other than some flecks of dust from the floor of the shed, it appeared undamaged.

  “No,” I assured him, “it’s not damaged. Now where’s Arthur – I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’ll not understand a word thoo says, Mr Policeman.” There was a twinkle in his eye.

  Suddenly, I began to feel uncomfortable. I could write off the whole affair but felt duty-bound to talk to Arthur and to ask him for an explanation. Larceny was larceny, even though the property had been recovered intact, and I was obliged to take legal proceedings. In those days, it was unlawful to conceal a felony, and larceny was classified as a felony.

  “Can you take me to him please?” I asked, speaking with authority.

  “He’s right beside thoo, lad,” beamed Mr Dawson, and I turned to see the happy dog thrashing his tail as I caught his eye.

  “You mean this is Arthur?”

  “Aye, Ah thought thoo knew that. He’s my dog, twelve years old he is, and a real rogue. Now if yon jacket’s damaged, go and see Mr Taylor next door, and he’ll settle up with t’loser.”

  “Mr Taylor?”

  “Aye, t’insurance man. Arthur’s allus been one for pinching things so I’ve got him insured. He once pinched a workman’s trowel and chewed t’handle to bits. He loves gardening tools. Spades, rakes, owt with a wooden handle. Clothes an’ all. He’ll get on his hind legs and pull clothes off t’washing lines, knickers, stockings, trousers, sheets … you name it, and Arthur’s pinched it. So Ah got him insured and if there’s any damage, Norman’s insurance pays out.”

  “Is there anything else that’s stolen in here?” I asked, looking at the objects that filled the place.

  “No, Ah’ve looked. Ah checks it reg’lar at night before Ah turns in, and if there’s summat that’s not mine, Ah leave it at t’Post Office. Ruth puts it on t’counter and whoever’s lost it gets it back. It’s only strangers that doesn’t understand, Mr Policeman.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I laughed, and the dog’s nose nudged me. I turned to address Arthur, the thieving dog. “Arthur, you are not obliged to say anything, but what you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence!”

  The tail thumped my leg as Arthur acknowledged the official short caution, but he made no reply. I wondered what Sergeant Blaketon would make of this – I wondered about writing a full report and charging Arthur as a joke. I wondered if it would pass through our administrative system and get filed at Headquarters?

  Having recovered the jacket, I returned to my motor cycle and tucked the clothing into my pannier before visiting Norman. The tractor and empty trailer was just leaving, and Norman was at the gate.

  “You’ve seen Arthur?” he laughed.

  “Nobody said he was a dog!” I grumbled. “I could h
ave made a right fool of myself.”

  “Sorry, we all know him. Every time something is stolen in Milthorpe, we know it’s Arthur. Did old Dawson tell you I’ve got his dog insured for causing damage?”

  “He did,” I let myself through his gate. “He sounds a real character, that dog.”

  “He is! He’s always chasing lady dogs too, so I had to insure him against getting bitches pregnant. He once put a pedigree bitch in the family way and there was hell on about it. So Mr Dawson has him comprehensively insured against causing damage and distress of all kinds. Only last year, I paid out twice for getting bitches into trouble – if that dog was human, he’d be doing umpteen prison stretches by now. As it is, we accept him for what he is, a likeable old rogue. His love life would cripple a lesser dog. He’s incredible!”

  Norman’s wife, Eva, was a charming woman who produced a hot cup of strong tea and a plate of scones, and soon we were all chattering like old friends. Norman told me of his bartering system, explaining how the hill farmers upon the moors had very little cash. All their work went into real estate and property, so when they died, their families inherited a great deal, while the unfortunate farmer had worked for a pittance all his life.

  Norman’s system involved many deals. He told me about one farmer who did all his gardening, one who did his painting and plumbing, another who repaired his car and others who regularly donated eggs, bacon, ham, milk and potatoes as methods of payment for their insurance premiums.

  After the cup of tea, he led me down the garden. The bantams were pecking happily at their new piece of earth, and a peacock stalked majestically up and down in a cage. “From the big house,” he said confidentially. “Times are hard all over.”

  Two goats and a Siamese cat were shown to me, and a new pedal cycle graced the garage. The real gems were in a long narrow shed at the far end of the garden. He opened the doors to reveal a veritable treasure trove of objects, most of which would be ideal curios for a rural museum. The walls were hung with old advertising signs in enamel, house signs and shop signs; every kind of gardening implement and carpentry tool was there, many of them obsolete, and along the base of one wall there were stone troughs and foot scrapers set in stone. It was an Aladdin’s cave of rural objects, of obsolete items which would never again grace the homes of our people and which would, but for Norman’s care, have disappeared for ever.

  “All these have been collected in lieu of insurance premiums,” he told me. “I could sell some of the things, but if anything’s got historic or sentimental value of any kind, I like to keep it. I’ve a three-seater tandem in that shed at the bottom of the garden, and a 1927 motor cycle in full working order. I can’t sell stuff like that, can I? But I do sell a lot – I’ve got to, to keep my books right!”

  I spent a fascinating hour with him, and wondered how many rural insurance agents traded in this way.

  But it was time to leave.

  I thanked Norman for his interesting tour and assured him we’d meet again. I invited him and Eva to pop into my hill-top house any time, and off I went.

  While driving through Brantsford on the way home, I noticed Mr Christie’s sports car parked outside a small café and decided I should reveal to him the results of my enquiries. I pulled up and parked the motor cycle on its stand before entering the café. I left the jacket in my pannier for the moment, just in case he was not in here.

  But he was drinking a cup of tea and as he recognised me, his eyebrows rose sharply.

  “Ah, constable! And have you detected the crime of the century?”

  I smiled diffidently at him.

  “Yes,” I said. “I saw your car and thought I’d mention it. I have your jacket and your wallet – and the cash. It’s all there.”

  He drained the tea and said, “No, really?”

  “I’ll fetch it in for you.”

  “No, I’m leaving. I’ve paid, by the way,” and he followed me outside where I unstrapped my pannier and lifted out his precious belongings. He readily identified them as his property and checked the contents of his wallet at my request. Nothing was missing, and I then asked him to check everything for damage. There was none.

  “Constable, this is marvellous. You’ve traced the thief too, I take it?”

  “Yes, and I have cautioned him about his future conduct!” I smiled.

  “You’ll be proceeding to court though?” he queried.

  “Not on this occasion,” I told him with all seriousness. “The matter has been dealt with and my enquiries are over.”

  “But constable, I am a solicitor, and I know that it is an offence to conceal a felony …”

  “There was no felony, Mr Christie,” I interrupted him.

  “There was a theft …” he began.

  “It was no felony,” I continued.

  “Who took my jacket?” he demanded. “Are you covering up for a local thief or something? This is serious.”

  “His name is Arthur,” I said, “and he is a twelve-year-old cur dog.”

  Christie paused as if not believing my words.

  “A dog?” he grinned suddenly, not sure whether I was joking.

  “A dog.” I told him about the insurance scheme which catered for Arthur’s incurable kleptomania.

  He laughed loudly in the middle of the street, and slung his jacket over his shoulders. “Well done, constable, well done. Yes, I like it – a nice one. A dog, eh? Called Arthur?”

  “Yes, Mr Christie.”

  “I don’t believe you!” he chuckled. “But I like your style. Wait until I tell them in London about this.”

  And off he strode towards his waiting car. I watched him drive away in a flurry of exhaust fumes and wondered what he would tell his sophisticated colleagues about law enforcement in rural North Yorkshire.

  4

  “There are two classes of pedestrians in these days of reckless motor traffic – the quick and the dead.”

  Lord Dewar

  In my extreme youth, lady drivers were a rarity and when one witnessed a member of that fairest of sexes driving a motor-car, the sight was enough to make one stand and stare, before broadcasting the sighting to one’s friends. Ladies as passengers were not uncommon, but it is fair to say that the skill of guiding a moving motor vehicle from place to place was usually entrusted only to the male of the human species.

  Gradually, however, the ladies began to assume the mantle of masculinity and independence, and in addition to smoking or wearing slacks instead of skirts, they took lessons in the art of driving motor-cars. It wasn’t long before ladies were driving all sorts of vehicles but I cannot recall my first sight of a lady behind the wheel. It cannot have been that unusual or important.

  Certainly, this form of emancipation occurred long before I joined the Police Force, consequently by the time I had passed through training school, ladies were frequently seen at the wheel. We were taught diplomacy when asking their age, and admittedly, there was jokes or tales about their driving. One instructor told us how he’d stopped a lady motorist in Middlesbrough for driving at 40 miles an hour in a built-up area, to which she retorted, “Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t been driving for an hour, and I certainly haven’t done forty miles.”

  There were those who hung their handbags on the chokes and wondered why the car engine throbbed and smoked; there were those who pointed at scenic things through open windows and confounded those driving behind into thinking all manner of things which were far from the truth, and there were those who depended upon a man to keep the machine roadworthy after their exertions.

  It must be said that there were many ladies who coped admirably with the motor-car and its moods. One lady who thought she fitted into this category was Esme Brittain, a lovely looking woman in her late forties who drove a white Morris Minor. She was blessed with a pneumatic figure, jet black hair and lovely white teeth, all enhanced by dark eyes and gorgeous legs. She had been married but the outcome of that association was something of a mystery because the male hal
f had vanished long ago, leaving Esme with her little cottage and a Yorkshire Terrier. There were no children of the union, and Esme earned her living by teaching pottery and selling her distinctive products to tourists and craft shops.

  Esme was a charmer. Of that there was no doubt, and many a hunting male had attempted to change her tyres, check her batteries and clean her plugs but she politely and firmly rejected and resisted all approaches, however oblique. Although she never said so, the villagers felt she’d been let down by her erring husband to such an extent that she trusted no man. It must be said, however, that she never criticised her missing husband, nor did she grumble about his absence. She lived as if he’d never existed and perhaps she had the ability to blot him from her life and memory. I shall never know, but she certainly kept all men at a respectful distance, particularly from her emotions.

  Nice as she was, and beautiful as she looked, Esme in a car was a threat to society. She reduced the most innocent of motor-cars to the status of a guided missile, and floated through heavy traffic as if she were a balloon which would bounce off obstructions. How she avoided accidents was never known, because her driving ability was appalling in the extreme. She had no idea of road sense, car care or any of the niceties of motoring. She just climbed in and set off, heedless of other road users. Yet she survived.

  Such was her reputation that the local people kept well out of her way. The moment Esme was mobile, everyone kept off the streets until her little Morris Minor was safely beyond the outskirts of Maddleskirk. What happened beyond those boundaries was none of their business, and they had the sense not to find out.

  The trouble was that Esme’s adventures frequently became my business. Her erratic excursions invariably had a startling conclusion, and if she entered any of the conurbations within striking distance of the village she could be guaranteed to collect a summons for obstructing the highway, illegal parking, lack of proper lights, careless driving or some other trifling traffic infringement. Esme’s trouble was that she never reported to the local police as advised in the tickets which were plastered about her windscreen after such indiscretions, consequently when the distant police traced her through the registration number, I was given the task of interviewing her for her regular and multifarious misdeeds. In this way, I became acquainted with the lovely Esme.