He wasn’t happy about the key so visibly hanging behind the open letterbox, but felt there was little he could do that night. He’d speak to the office workers at a later date.
“Some folks deserve to be burgled,” he said as he strode away.
I began to wonder if I would ever deal with a genuine burglary, but it was my old adversary, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, who remedied that defect. Quite suddenly he found himself charged with burglary but the circumstances were bizarre, to say the least. They could only happen to Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
Once upon a time, as the best stories begin, there lived in the hamlet of Briggsby a highly desirable young lady whose husband was supposedly sailing around the world on a Merchant ship. He had never been seen in the village, and to relieve her extensive boredom the young lady sought solace in other men. Many paid visits at late hours and spent a considerable amount of their free time comforting her and seeing that her taps did not drip.
She lived in a picturesque cottage just off the main street. It was in a quiet cul-de-sac, a veritable dream house rented from the local estate and cared for by a succession of male visitors. The lady in question, called Cynthia, was a pretty creature in her late twenties. Rather petite and slender in stature she had pleasing dark eyes, a mop of black hair and a skin which attracted the sunshine so that it always bore enviable honey tans. Her generously proportioned figure was equally interesting and she had a passion for tennis and other games where short shorts were worn. These activities allowed her to display those lovely brown limbs and magnificent brassiere outline.
That Cynthia was highly attractive was never in doubt, and even the ladies of Briggsby realised this; the men, on the other hand, did not worry too much about the absent husband and indeed, were very happy that he never turned up. Many took to walking their dogs past her house at night, and some would pop down there to change a wheel on their cars because it was a traffic-free lane. Others would ask to borrow her ladder, and some would allow her to use their lawnmowers. Cynthia had a lot of friends among the men.
She gained even more admiration when it was learned she went to bed without the encumbrance of a nightdress. Furthermore, it was understood on good authority that she did deep-breathing exercises and chest-expanding motions in front of un-curtained windows. As this was a very quiet rural lane ending in a cul-de-sac it might be thought that no one would notice such activities. The truth was that the track was almost permanently full of men and dogs, cars and cycles with punctures, wheelbarrows with broken bearings or men merely passing that way because it was the shortest route to somewhere or other.
Word of Cynthia’s overt charms eventually reached the ears of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Claude, being a somewhat devious and cunning fellow, did not resort to the blatant ruses of the villagers, but decided, after a few beers, to explore the situation for himself in his own inimitable manner.
He selected one Friday night in August, a balmy evening replete with the scent of roses and honeysuckle. It was the night of the full moon and he had been to Ashfordly for a drink or two, having travelled there on his trusty cycle. He was meandering his weary way home, around midnight, when he chanced to pass the road end which led to Briggsby. Cynthia’s hamlet. Her accessibility had frequently tantalised him and he had often considered the things he’d like to do to her and with her. Now he had an opportunity to put his dreams into action and turned his front wheel firmly towards Briggsby’s main street. Very soon he was cycling down the street on well-inflated tyres, and without tell-tale impediments like lights and conscience.
Unbeknown to Claude Jeremiah the object of his passion was lying in bed awaiting the arrival of an adventurous lover. She had done her chest-expanding exercises and gone through her deep-breathing routine, to the enjoyment of a nearby field, and now lay in bed, naked, to await her visitor. The man, it seems, had assured her of a most unusual evening, with excitements galore, promising a variety of skills he’d learned in the Middle East when serving with the Marines. Cynthia lay in bed, anxious and eager, and in her moments of blissful dreaming almost lapsed into a fitful sleep. It is fair to say that her romantic expectations had clouded her powers of observation, because it was at that moment that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass arrived outside her house.
The audience had dissipated and he was alone, and he stood for a few moments, outside her privet hedge, to contemplate the situation. He knew of the ladder others had borrowed, and rapidly made a sortie to the side of the cottage. He found it beneath an open shelter and bore it triumphantly to the peaceful garden. Acting very silently and with extreme care, he placed it against her windowsill.
The window was open, he noted, as were the curtains. He had anticipated this, having done a little homework. Inside, he knew, lay the deliciously naked Cynthia; the beer in his belly and the moon in the sky had given him a drive unknown for years, and at this stage all caution was thrown to the winds. He stepped into her garden, moving wraithlike across the lawn until he was at the foot of the ladder. His poacher’s skill took him this far without a sound. Then, in an unexpected spasm of urgency, he removed all his clothes, with the exception of his socks. For reasons best known to himself he retained his socks. It might have been to stop splinters getting into his feet, but no one really knew the reason for this action.
Fully aroused by this time and perfectly capable of carrying out the rapist’s act which he intended Claude Jeremiah climbed the ladder, hoping for instant action. Standing firm and upright on the ladder he reached the windowsill, spotted the catch on the window and released it to raise the bottom half of the already open sash window. It slid gently open with the faintest sound. He thought lasciviously of the lovely woman lying just inside.
At this stage of the expedition he could see her lovely shape beneath the thin sheet, inviting and welcoming. He sat astride the window ledge to manoeuvre himself into the room. Her bed was close to the window, and he sat there, gazing at the tantalising creature so close to him. One leg was dangling outside the house, the other inside; he was literally half inside and half outside the house.
It was at this stage that events staggered him almost to the point of impotence. By the light of the moon two bare white and sensuous arms reached from the bed as the naked shape of Cynthia cast aside the sheet, seized him in a particular place with a squeal of enjoyment and literally dragged him on to her bed. Never one to waste an opportunity Claude Jeremiah enjoyed himself as only a wildly encouraged man can under such uninhibited circumstances, and after a frantic breathless thirty minutes with never a word spoken he flopped at her side, exhausted but deliriously happy. No one would ever believe this, no one.
Not yet satisfied and wishing to attempt something even more exciting she reached out with a sexy hand and switched on the light.
And she screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
It was the wrong man.
Her unexpected and violent reaction to his presence galvanised the naked Claude Jeremiah into the speedy escape action for which he was noted in poaching circles, and he vanished down the ladder in his socks. As he clambered to safety, she rang the police, crying “Rape, rape, rape.”
By sheer chance I happened to be in Ashfordly as the 999 call came through, and with Sergeant Blaketon at my side I drove urgently to Briggsby. There we interviewed the greatly distressed young lady and promptly mounted a search for the rapist in black socks. We found his clothes at the bottom of the ladder and immediately, I knew who it was.
“I know who these belong to, Sergeant,” I announced proudly.
“Then you must arrest him,” he said. “Burglary.”
“Burglary?” I cried.
“Yes, PC Rhea, burglary.”
“What about the rape accusation?”
“We must interview the lady at length, in the presence of a policewoman,” was all he said.
While he waited for the policewoman to be roused and called to the scene I went in search of Claude Jeremiah. I knew he was either
faced with a two-mile walk across the fields in his stocking feet or a very chilly cycle-ride. I searched for his cycle and failed to find it. He’d be riding home, bareback! I jumped into the trusty little Ford and simply drove along the most obvious route to Claude Jeremiah’s home.
I found him about a mile from Briggsby, bathed in perspiration and as naked as the day he was born, except for his socks.
He halted as I pulled up beside him.
“Evening, Mr Rhea,” he said affably. “Nice night.”
“Lovely,” I agreed. “Where have you been?”
“Visiting a lady friend,” he said. “Then she got stroppy and kicked me out.”
“Where?”
Standing on the verge in his socks and beginning to shiver in the cool breeze, he told me his story. I allowed him to ride home with me in close attendance, so that he could put on some clothes. We’d need his discarded articles for evidence of his presence, should he decide to dispute that.
“She invited me in, Mr Rhea,” he insisted as I later drove him to the police station at Ashfordly for further questioning. “I’ll tell you what I did.”
And he repeated the story that I have told. As we waited for Sergeant Blaketon and the policewoman I brewed a cup of tea and we sat down to enjoy it. Claude told me quite candidly of his adventure that night and was clearly shaken when I informed him we might consider charging him with rape, and would certainly charge him with burglary.
“I’ll admit I intended to rape the nympho,” he said, “but there was no need, Mr Rhea. She grabbed me and the next thing she was doing everything to encourage me. She went wild, honest. It was great, smashing. I’ve never been done like that in years. It was when she put the light on that she made the fuss.”
Sergeant Blaketon returned with the policewoman and when Claude Jeremiah explained his part in the incident Oscar Blaketon looked utterly baffled. We locked Claude Jeremiah in a cell as we discussed the case. He had the woman’s side of the tale.
She had been expecting a lover. She admitted that. Cynthia had been promised an exotic evening full of Oriental mystery so when the ladder and the naked man appeared at her window she thought it was her Knight in Shining Candour. Unable to contain her ardour she had seized him expertly and had clearly admitted she’d dragged him into bed, actively encouraging what followed. Her story tallied exactly with Claude Jeremiah’s.
“It’s hardly rape, Sergeant,” I recalled the definition of the crime. Rape was defined as ‘unlawful sexual intercourse of a woman against her will by force, fear or fraud’. Certainly Claude’s activities had not been against her will, nor had there been any force, fear or fraud of the kind required by law to fulfil the definition. He had not fraudulently gone about his business.
“There is a definite burglary, PC Rhea. We can get him for that. He intended rape when he entered the room. That qualifies as burglary.”
Together we examined the essential points of the crime in an attempt to determine which offence fitted the latest exploit of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. To be guilty of burglary his actions that night would have to include all the points of the definition. I remembered the mnemonic — IN BED.
I — Intent. I knew there must be an intent to commit a felony — any felony. Rape was a felony. That intention must have been in his mind at the time of breaking and entering her house. This could be a tricky point to prove. Claude Jeremiah certainly had had that objective in his mind before entering; in fact, it had been in his mind right until he’d got his leg over the windowsill. I visualised interesting legal battles over this point.
N — Night. Yes, this fitted the definition. It had occurred around midnight.
B — Breaking. There must be a breaking-in. I knew that the mere lifting of a window already open and not fastened in any way could not be construed as ‘breaking’. But he had opened a catch on this one; he admitted that. He had further opened an already open window. Was this sufficient to constitute a ‘break’? The court must decide.
E — Entry. This had certainly occurred. I felt the court would have to think carefully about this aspect. Entry by part of the body was sufficient and I wondered precisely what she had seen silhouetted that night. Which part of his excited body had been first to enter her house? This was very important because the intent to rape must be present in the accused’s mind at the precise moment of entry into the dwelling-house. The court’s discussion on this aspect could be interesting.
D — Dwelling-House of Another. That point was satisfied.
“Well, PC Rhea, it’s your case. Do we charge him with burglary or not?”
“We might consider ‘Entering a house in the night with intent to commit a felony’,” I suggested by way of negotiation.
“No good,” he said. “It’s a question of intent. A question of precisely when he had in his mind the intention of rape. If he broke in, or merely entered without breaking in, with such an intent in his mind at that precise instant, we’ve got him for something. Burglary maybe, some other lesser offence perhaps.”
“Let’s charge him and let the court decide,” I suggested, thinking of Eltering Magistrates in all their splendour.
That was our only hope. We could not dismiss the offender because the public could allege complicity, negligence or inefficiency on our part, so we had to proceed, even though proof of any precise crime was difficult to produce. It all depended upon the verbal admissions of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, who was astute enough to talk his way out of anything.
Due to its serious nature burglary was not triable at the local magistrates’ court, for it was an indictable offence and must be tried before a jury; it could, however, be dealt with at Quarter Sessions.
Before Claude Jeremiah appeared at Quarter Sessions or the Assizes the magistrates would have to consider all the evidence in what were known as Committal Proceedings. These were designed to determine whether or not there was sufficient evidence to justify a trial at High Court, so our local magistrates would have to listen to both sides of the drama. Having listened they would then decide whether or not Claude Jeremiah Greengrass should stand trial.
With due solemnity the magistrates assembled on a date shortly after the alleged crime, the bench comprising Alderman Fazakerly, Mrs Pinkerton and Mr Smithers, with the precise Mr Whimp as Clerk of the Court. Claude Jeremiah faced this impressive array of personages as Mr Whimp fussed over the pile of papers in front of him.
Because this was a committal hearing Claude Jeremiah was not given leave to plead because the purpose of this exercise was not to establish innocence or guilt. It was merely to satisfy the examining magistrates (Fazakerly, Pinkerton and Smithers) that there was enough evidence against the accused to justify a trial.
Sergeant Blaketon, being the prosecutor on this occasion, made a short speech which outlined the facts. Witnesses were then called, Cynthia being the first. As she was examined in the witness box her statement was taken down on a typewriter. It was a long laborious process known as ‘taking depositions’, but it had to be done. Having made her statement, Claude Jeremiah could cross-examine her. Being the man that he was he did not bother with solicitors or counsel, knowing sufficient about the law to conduct his own defence. He knew he was not a burglar.
“Cynthia,” he began, knowing his Christian name technique would impress their Worships. “The Court has heard how you were lying naked in bed, waiting for your lover. I appeared at the window. Did you or did you not take hold of me and pull me into your bed?”
“Yes, but I thought…”
“Did you recognise me?”
“Well, I thought…”
“What did you see exactly?”
“Just an outline, on the windowsill…”
“Before that?”
“The ladder. The noise roused me, I was dozing. Then you, somebody, climbing up. Standing on the windowsill or ladder maybe, to lift the window. Just an outline, like a dark shadow.”
“But outside?”
“Yes, outside.�
��
He turned to face their fascinated Worships. “At that state, Your Worships, I must admit I had the intention of raping Cynthia. But that intention vanished as I entered the building.”
“Go on,” invited Alderman Fazakerly, leaning forward and drooling slightly.
“Cynthia,” said Claude Jeremiah eloquently. “Did any part of my body enter your house as I stood on the top rung of that ladder?”
The court, and Cynthia, burst into a fit of filthy laughter, for one’s idea of a sock-clad, rampant rapist, all rarin’ to go, standing naked atop a ladder with perhaps a portion of his anatomy protruding into the dwelling-house of another, was too much to bear.
“No,” she said eventually.
“Thank you. The point is, Your Worships, that I did not enter that house while my intention was to commit rape. What happened next, Cynthia?”
“I closed my eyes.”
“Ah!” said Alderman Fazakerly, relieving the tension of the court. “Why did you close your eyes, my dear?”
“I thought it was my friend — a lover — I wanted to pretend I was asleep, he likes that, you see…”
“So you didn’t see what the accused did next?”
Claude Jeremiah filled in the next stage of the story. “I unlatched the window at the sides where it was locked, lifted it and sat on the window ledge. I put one foot inside and one arm inside. Half of me was inside, and half outside. My head was inside, I think…”
“Then what?”
“Cynthia,” said Greengrass beaming like a barrister in full flow. “That’s when you saw me.”
She nodded.
“What did you do?”
“I thought it was Arthur. It looked just like him, the outline, you know…”
More giggles.
“So I just grabbed him and pulled him on to my bed. It was just under the window.”
“And you encouraged me, actively, to have intercourse with you?” smiled Claude Jeremiah, almost delirious at the memory of that night.
“Well, yes, but I thought…”
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 17