“I’d love one, Sid,” and with no more ado, he produced a coffee pot and poured a steaming mugful. I removed my uniform cap and settled on a stool at Cedric’s side. He looked in the bloom of youth now, sitting high on that stool with his back as straight as a ramrod, and his white moustache bristling with energy. His thick white hair bore no signs of thinning and his eyebrows matched his hair, thick and white, all set in a healthy pink face. His clothes were neat too, all cavalry twills, Harris tweeds and wool shirts with brogue shoes and green woollen socks.
As I talked about nothing in particular, I realised I’d often seen his car here, never thinking he was in the pub. I thought he parked it as a matter of convenience for the shop or the post office, because at home I’d never seen him drink heavily. True, he’d shown me his collection of malt whiskies, but I’d never seen evidence of alcoholism. But now, sitting at his side as he rhapsodised over the drink and recalling the method of the Rover’s arrival, I realised I had a hardened drinker on my patch – and a motorist into the bargain.
This was long before the days of breathalysers and samples for laboratory analysis. In order to secure a conviction for drunken driving, it was necessary to prove beyond all doubt that the driver was under the influence of drink or drugs to such an extent as to be incapable of having proper control of the vehicle when driving or attempting to drive on a road. This was done by doctors; they were called by the police and conducted hilarious examinations of suspects by making them walk along white lines chalked upon the floor or asking them to add up sums of figures which not even the doctor could calculate correctly. The outcome was that many grossly drunken individuals managed to survive those primitive tests to escape conviction for an offence which so easily caused death to others. This was the reason for the introduction of the breath tests and the need for scientific analysis of the blood or urine to determine the alcohol level in the body. Thus, the guesswork and favouritism was eliminated.
But none of this affected Cedric. He was drinking long before such progress came to harass drunks. I looked closely at him. There was no sign of drunkenness. He was sitting unaided on a bar stool, with no back rest and he was not swaying nor was his speech slurred. He was conducting a most rational conversation with myself and Sid, and it was certainly not feasible to consider him drunk in charge of his vehicle. This differed from drunken driving because a person could be in charge of his van or car even when asleep in the back seat. Cedric was in charge of his car right now, sitting at that bar with the keys in his pocket …
But he was not drunk.
Once more, I recollected the pained howls from his car as it negotiated our village street and concluded something must be wrong with it.
“Is the car all right, Cedric?” I ventured to ask during a lull.
“The car? It’s fine, Mr Rhea. Why do you ask?”
“I was walking up the village as you left home. It sounded as if the gears were fighting to jump out of their little box.”
“My fault,” he laughed. “I’m not at my best first thing, you know. I’m getting like my old car, I need a few minutes to get warmed up.”
I laughed it off, but did notice Sid gave me a sideways glance. At the time, I failed to read any significance into his action, but some time later I came to realise what he was trying to tell me.
On several occasions afterwards, I saw Cedric leave the pub at closing time after lunch, each time manoeuvring his lovely Rover out of the car park with the smoothest of motions and the utmost skill. There was never a rattle or a grating of gears; his driving was perfect. No drunk could achieve that standard of driving, I told myself.
It would be four or five months later, when I was again walking in the village in civilian clothes, enjoying a day off duty. I overheard the noisy approach of a car. The din was terrible; gears grated, brakes screeched, tyres fought with the road and sometimes the horn blared. I turned to find Cedric’s immaculate car bearing down on me. I stood aghast, watching the lovely old car struggle along the main street, and then it turned into the pub car park. I watched.
Cedric climbed out. Or rather, he staggered out. He ambled haphazardly across the empty park towards the front door of the Brewers Arms, and vanished inside seconds after the stroke of ten thirty. I was off duty, but Cedric had been drinking …
I hurried inside, and was in time to see him struggling to mount the bar stool. Sid was helping him and in moments, Cedric was perched high on the stool beaming at a full glass of whisky on the counter. Before I could climb the few steps into the bar, he picked up the glass and drained it at a gulp.
I rushed in.
“Cedric,” I cried. “For God’s sake no more … the way you drove that car …”
“Ah, Mr Rhea,” he turned to greet me, smiling all over his rosy face with his eyes full of happiness. “Good to see you. Have a drink – I see you’re not on duty.”
“No thanks,” I declined, partly due to his state. “I can’t drink that stuff this early. Look,” I tried to talk to him. “I’ve just seen you drive in here, Cedric, and you must have been drunk, the way you drove your car …”
“No,” he beamed at me benevolently. “I’ve not had a drop – not until this one,” and he lifted his empty glass, and handed it to Sid for a refill.
Sid poured a generous helping and passed it back to Cedric, who tossed it down his throat with a smile.
“Nectar of the Gods,” he addressed the empty glass. “Water of life, aqua fortis, aqua vitae, eau de vie, usquebaugh, perfume of Arabia …”
“Cedric, you must not drink and drive, it’s dangerous – and illegal,” I added.
“No one has ever seen me the worse for drink when I’m driving,” he said quite coherently. “And no one ever will, Mr Rhea, I assure you.”
“But I saw you just now, Cedric …”
“Stone cold sober, Mr Rhea. I was stone cold sober. I’ve told you before, it takes me a long time to get warmed up on a morning.”
Sid interrupted. “He’s right, Mr Rhea. You’ll never see him worse for drink – he drinks whiskies, nothing else.” Again, I noticed the sideways glance from Sid and knew I was wasting my time. Whatever had caused Cedric to drive so awfully was not drink. Maybe he was genuinely slow at getting mobile on a morning. He must be all of seventy and it did occur to me that he might be suffering from an illness of some kind. Perhaps he was rheumaticky and needed time before his ageing limbs functioned correctly.
I left the Brewers Arms and continued along the village to do some shopping for Mary. Later that day, we placed the four children in the rear of our battered Hillman and set sail for the moors, there to enjoy the space and beauty of this fine scenery. And as I motored through Aidensfield after lunch, I saw the lovely Rover emerge from the car park of the pub. I slowed a little, and turned down my window to listen for those awful noises but it moved beautifully along with never a murmur and never a fault in its driving technique. Cedric was on his way home. He’d been in the pub since ten thirty, and it was now two thirty, with four hours of heavy drinking a distinct possibility.
I watched as the exquisite little car motored happily out of sight, and I never saw a hint of illegal motoring.
It would be four or five days later when I next called at the Brewers Arms. It was late one evening, and I was on a routine pub visit, dressed in uniform to show the presence of the law. Sid was behind the bar, dispensing his wares on behalf of the landlord. He smiled as I entered.
“There’s no trouble, Mr Rhea, not tonight. We’re a bit on the quiet side.”
Sid was a pleasant chap in his mid-thirties, but something of a mystery man. Always pleasant, smart and affable, he was not married and lived on the premises, where he earned a small wage for his bar tending duties and seldom left the building. He was contentment personified.
I told him about a thief who was trying to sell cheap cigarettes; we’d received information that he was attempting to get rid of stolen cigarettes by selling them to pubs and clubs, so I was warn
ing my own landlords to be careful. Sid listened and told me the fellow had not called here; if he did, he would ring me.
As he chattered, he beckoned me to come closer.
“It’s about Cedric,” he whispered confidentially.
“Is he ill?” I asked.
“Alcoholic,” Sid told me. “He drinks pints of whisky, and often spends all lunchtime in here, when his wife is out shopping as a rule.”
“I was sure he was drunk the other morning,” I said.
“On the way here? No, Mr Rhea. He’s like that before he gets a drink. Once he gets himself well tanked up, he’s normal. With umpteen whiskies inside him, he returns to normality. Without a drink inside him, he’s a liability.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, Mr Rhea. Ask about the place, ask his wife. Without his whisky, he can’t do anything properly. He shakes and garbles, and is worse than useless. Honest. He rushes up here, downs a few and within minutes is back to what we’d call normal.”
“That’s crazy! How could I explain that in a court of law? How could I tell a court that Cedric’s sober state is a damned sight worse than others when drunk, and when he’s got a skin full of whisky, he’s as normal as the most sober of judges …” I shook my head.
“We all keep out of his way when he drives here,” he said.
“Why doesn’t he walk to the pub?” I asked what I thought was a sensible question.
“He’d never get here,” said Sid in all seriousness.
“But he’s got loads of whisky at home, hasn’t he? I’ve seen them – he collects bottles of all kinds, there’s hundreds in his house.”
“All locked in cabinets, Mr Rhea, by his wife. I reckon she keeps him short, and she’s got them locked up for emergencies – like when visitors call, and he’s got to be made presentable. She’ll ration him to just enough to meet the requirements of the occasion.”
“I only hope he doesn’t have an accident when he’s sober!” I laughed, but was assured the villagers knew his motoring movements sufficiently well to keep out of his way. I had my doubts about visitors to the place, or holiday-makers, though.
And so I became like one of the local people. I accepted Cedric for what he was. Based on the strict wording of the Road Traffic Act 1930, Section 15, he was not committing any offence when full of whisky because the wording said, “Being under the influence of drink or a drug to such an extent as to be incapable to having proper control of the vehicle …”
When under the influence, Cedric had full and proper control.
I could evisage a legal puzzler should he ever collide with some other person, animal or car, but he never did. In his happy state of aqua vitae, he was in perfect control of himself and his car. When sober, he was a terrible liability.
I must admit I was concerned about my pair of unusual motorists. Esme went sailing through life in her immaculate Morris, getting eternally lost and turning left at every junction or crossroads, while Cedric cruised about with his veins full of aqua vitae. Then the inevitable happened. They were both driving along the same stretch of road at the same time.
No one will ever be sure what happened, but it seems that Cedric’s Rover had emerged from his gate with Cedric in a stone-cold sober state. It was shortly before his ten-thirty trip to the Brewers Arms. At that precise moment, Esme was chugging happily along in her little car, intending to visit York and its maze of one-way streets, there to collect a few parking tickets and make many left turns.
But as Cedric clanked and jerked out of his drive, Esme was horrified to see a pheasant run into the middle of the road immediately ahead of her. Had she been able to make a swift right turn, she would have missed the stupid bird, but Esme could not make a right turn. She therefore attempted to turn left.
This put her Morris right across the path of Cedric’s Rover as it surged out of the drive, and he was either lucky enough or alert enough to take avoiding action. Faced with the oncoming Morris Minor, he did something to the steering wheel which put him through the hedge at the opposite side of the road, while Esme careered straight down his drive and on to his lawn.
She knocked over his sundial and sent a rustic bench into his ornamental pond, while he staggered out of his scratched car and asked if anyone had a whisky. Esme was unhurt, if shaken, and decided not to visit York that day.
My problem was whether to classify that incident as an accident within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act, but Sergeant Bairstow’s advice was invaluable. It was on occasions like this that he excelled, and I was pleased I was not reporting to Sergeant Blaketon.
“A pheasant is not an animal within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act,” Sergeant Bairstow assured me, “and besides, the damage to both cars, slight though it was, was not caused on a road. The Rover suffered minor scratches by a hedge growing on private property, and the Minor’s dents were the result of colliding with a sundial in someone’s garden. Take no action, Nicholas, old son. We don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing, do we?”
“No, Sergeant,” I agreed with some relief.
5
“And solitude; yet not alone, while thou
Visit’st my slumbers nightly …”
John Milton 1 608–1674; Paradise Lost
Quite distinctly, two shots rang out. They echoed through the peaceful valley as I patrolled on foot. My mind was far from police matters as I marvelled at the spring colouring along the length of Rannockdale, and at first, I paid no attention. The entire countryside in his area is riddled with gunmen shooting; they shoot grouse during their season, pheasant and other game during their permitted times, and vermin all year round, consequently a couple of bangs were of no immediate interest.
But they came again. Two very clear shots rang out, and they came from a shotgun, not a rifle. It wasn’t until I heard a shouting match somewhere beyond my ken that I recognised something more than a dispute over who’d shot which animal. There were the unmistakable sounds of vocal threats, so I increased my pace and listened for more indications of the precise location.
I soon found it. As I rounded a heavily wooded corner in the higher reaches of Rannockdale, I saw a track leading across several fields. At the distant end was a solitary farmhouse, and running like fury along that track was a little man in a smart grey suit. He was carrying a briefcase and holding on his trilby hat as he raced towards the Ford Prefect parked at the gate. He was clearly escaping from something.
I could hear the sound of a man’s angry voice emanating from the farm house, and wondered what had prompted this confrontation. I increased my pace, anxious not to place myself in the firing line, but keen to discover whether or not this was a criminal matter in which I should take a professional interest.
As I drew closer to the Ford Prefect, the little man saw me and the expression of utter relief on his face was a pleasure to behold. I was his saviour and he continued to run as if his very life depended on it, ending this gallop to freedom by clambering unceremoniously over the gate.
There he halted and leaned on his car roof as he gasped for breath. I could see that his face was pale and drawn, and sweat was flowing down his cheeks in rivulets. Clutching his chest, he stared at me with an open mouth, unable to speak of this recent horror. The words refused to come and I waited at his side, all the time conscious of the silent house across the fields. Happily, there were no further eruptions from it or its occupants.
After a good five minutes, the little man got his wind back and found he could speak.
“Officer,” he panted. “Officer, thank God …”
“Trouble?” I asked.
“You know that man in there?” he put to me.
I shook my head. “Sorry,” I had to tell him. “I’m fairly new, and I’ve never had to call at this house. Who lives there?”
“A lunatic called Chapman,” he said. “Charles Alexander Chapman.”
He continued to draw in deep gasps of breath, and wiped his forehead with a coloured
handkerchief after removing his trilby hat. He opened the door and placed his hat carefully on the rear seat, with his briefcase at its side.
“Inland Revenue,” he told me. “I’m Eric Standish.”
He held out a hand for me to shake, and his grip was surprisingly strong for such a small man. I smiled and introduced myself.
“They warned me about him,” said Standish. “It’s my first visit.”
“What happened exactly?” I asked. “I thought I heard shots back there, and shouts.”
“You did,” he confirmed. “Shots from a twelve-bore. He was having a go at me; shooting at me!”
“I knew you chaps weren’t the most popular of visitors,” I tried to cheer him up. “You’re probably more unpopular than us!”
“I accept that no one likes paying more Income Tax than necessary, but when a fellow ignores all letters and personal visits, there comes a time to call a halt. Head Office sent me to see him, to reason with him, but it’s impossible, Mr Rhea. Totally impossible. He simply won’t let anybody near the place.”
“You’ve been before – not you personally,” I corrected myself, “but your people?”
“Regularly for years. Not one tax man has ever managed to speak to Chapman, not one. God knows how much he owes.”
“Maybe he owes nothing?” I suggested.
“He manages to live without a job,” Standish said. “He’s got investments, we’re sure of it. Property too, we suspect, and we need to make an assessment of his income and his tax liability.”
“It’s a very effective way of avoiding tax!” I laughed. “Has he never paid?”
He shook his head. “Not for years and years. He moved here from a good position with a firm in Newcastle upon Tyne twenty years ago or more, and he’s lived alone ever since. Our people have tried and tried to make contact, and we fail every time.”
“I hope we don’t have to visit him,” I said. “Our uniforms might attract more target practice.”
Constable Across the Moors Page 9