Claude Jeremiah, with his unrivalled knowledge of the countryside, directed each of the groups to their positions. I found myself with two village men and we were allocated a portion of woodland beneath the towering cliffs through which the river flowed; it was on the Elsinby edge of the wood, about a mile from Aidensfield.
As we trudged towards the venue, Claude Jeremiah caught us and said, ‘I’d better show you this cave, Mr Rhea, it takes a bit of finding, it’s hidden with undergrowth and the entrance is nobbut the size of a dog kennel door. But inside, it’s like a ballroom . . .’
Without elaborating the detail of that search, it is sufficient to say that we found the cave and that I would never have located it without the aid of Claude Jeremiah. Even as he led us to the tiny entrance, we could see the curled-up figure of a little girl in a bright yellow raincoat. She was just inside the cave, lying asleep on a bed of dry leaves.
‘Stephanie?’ I touched her gently and she awoke with a smile. ‘Come along, time to go home.’
‘I came to find Robin Hood’s Cave,’ she said.
‘And you’ve found it,’ I said. ‘Come along . . .’
‘I wanted to look inside but it was dark,’ she spoke sadly. ‘I had no torch.’
I looked at Claude and the other men, then said, ‘OK, I’ve got a torch, come along, we’ll have a look inside, all of us.’
And so we crawled into the dark interior, squeezing through the tiny entrance. As I switched on the torch I realized that Claude had been right. It was massive inside; shining the light on the walls, I reckoned it was as large as the average village church and then, as the torch swept along the dusty, web-ridden walls, Stephanie shouted,
‘There it is . . . look!’
I halted my action and moved the circle of light back a few yards. And there, hanging on a narrow protruding piece of rock was a quiver of arrows and a long bow. Reaching up, it was just possible to reach down the bow and the quiver; each item was smothered in dust, probably from centuries past. None of us could speak.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I whispered.
‘She does,’ smiled Claude.
‘Here,’ I said to Stephanie. ‘You can take these home — then everyone will know you were the person who found Robin Hood’s Cave.’
Following the successful search, we reassembled at the school as, one by one, the searchers emerged dripping and wet from the woodland. It was still foggy but everyone had been recalled and the sergeants were ticking off the names. Mrs Shaw hurried out to meet us, somebody having telephoned her to say we were emerging from the woods with Stephanie safe and sound. Soon we were all gathered before the school; George from the pub had managed to produce some mugs of warm soup and some bread buns. Then Sergeant Blaketon asked, ‘Where’s the inspector?’
Sergeant Lazenby did a quick count of heads, shouting out the names of his constables. Each one responded.
‘That man hasn’t got himself lost, has he?’ grinned Sergeant Blaketon.
‘If he has, I’m not looking for him!’ smirked Claude Jeremiah. ‘I don’t believe in helping the police!’
‘Has anyone seen the inspector?’ Blaketon called to the assembled officers.
‘He was supervising the entire operation, somewhere deep in the trees,’ volunteered one constable. ‘He had his map . . .’
‘Well, he’s not come out of the trees,’ Blaketon observed wryly, and added, ‘Rhea! This is your patch, so it is your responsibility. You’d better go back into those woods and find the inspector! In the meantime, we will wait here and drink our soup!’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I acknowledged. The inspector had a loudhailer with him but its range was limited; I took another with me hoping I could make contact by bellowing through the thing. I could imagine myself shouting ‘Inspector Pollock’ in the dense woodland. But I knew the team would be waiting when I emerged — if I emerged! I hoped I didn’t get lost in that dripping thick fog.
But as I trudged back into the damp and foggy woodland, I found myself forgetting about the inspector — all I could think about was that bow and the quiver of arrows which had been hanging in Robin Hood’s Cave.
2. Tricks in Every Trade
That one may smile and smile and be a villain.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564–1616
There are very few criminals who will boast about their activities to the police but Samuel James Carson was such a man. Although he lived a long way from Aidensfield, in York to be precise, he was known to most of the officers in the police forces across the north of England. Criminal intelligence circulars warned us about his activities and although we maintained a careful watch for him during his law-breaking, he always managed to evade capture. He was a master criminal without a criminal record. We knew that. The public didn’t.
In his early thirties when I was at Aidensfield, Samuel James Carson was a highly professional housebreaker and burglar. He featured in many of our sectional meetings and conferences at Ashfordly police station, and he was the topic of a good deal of police gossip, but I had never met him. Even so, I felt I knew him well because his activities were such a regular feature of our crime circulars and discussions.
Although his speciality was breaking into domestic dwelling-houses, he would occasionally switch to garages, inns or shops — all places where cash was kept.
At that time, prior to 1968, breaking into a house during the daytime hours (i.e. between 6am and 9pm) was called housebreaking, while breaking into a house at night (i.e. between 9pm and 6am) was known as burglary. Burglary was then considered a most serious crime, on a level with robbery and rape. At one time burglary carried the death penalty and even in the 1960s the penalty was a maximum of life imprisonment. At that time, there were very few cases of burglary! By comparison, housebreaking resulted in a maximum penalty of fourteen years’ imprisonment if theft or some other crime was also committed within the premises, and seven years if the breaking was done merely with the intention of committing a theft or other serious crime inside the house.
A range of lesser crimes included warehouse-breaking, schoolhouse-breaking, garage-breaking, shop-breaking, office-breaking and so forth. Also regarded as a very serious crime was sacrilege: i.e. breaking into a church or other place of divine worship; this had also once carried the death penalty but during the 1960s the maximum penalty was life imprisonment.
The Theft Act 1968 altered the entire law relating to breaking into premises and all such crimes were collectively known as burglary, irrespective of the type of premises which was attacked. The penalty for burglary was reduced to a maximum of fourteen years, with life imprisonment for aggravated burglary, i.e. committing burglary while armed with a firearm, explosive or other weapon of offence.
Few burglars now receive anything like the maximum penalty — a period of probation or a fine (often paid by further burglaries) is the normal penalty. And, of course, all breaking offences have multiplied considerably during the past thirty years or so.
But neither the then severe punishment for burglary nor the tough penalties for housebreaking deterred Samuel James Carson from his chosen career. He burgled merrily in and around York and was able to afford a modest but very smart car. I think he could have purchased a very splendid model, but he seemed content with what might be described as a family saloon. Thus equipped, he travelled into the outlying towns and villages to continue his profession, burgling by night and housebreaking by day.
At that time, before the age of the computer, police stations maintained an index of criminals and their activities and we were able to identify most of those who were active. We were aware of the criminals who were operating on our patch, even if the courts refused to convict them. In the ever-present hope that, one day, we would be able to provide the villains with the punishment they deserved, we kept them under observation and noted their movements. In our efforts to secure a conviction, we relied on real evidence (i.e. being caught in possession of the stolen goods) although good circumstantial
evidence would always help to secure a conviction if a defence lawyer was as crooked as the villains.
It was in this way that officers in the police forces surrounding York maintained their surveillance of Samuel James Carson. Our officers knew what he was doing; they stopped his car and searched him many many times, but not once did they produce the evidence necessary to convict him. People might ask how police officers know a person is committing crime when such a person has never been convicted; the answer is that police officers are professionals. Just as an artist knows instinctively when a picture is right, and when a hair dresser knows a hair-style is right without being able to explain why, so a police officer knows who is committing crimes.
Proving such knowledge to the satisfaction of a modern court of law is, however, very difficult and sometimes impossible. But police officers do know who the criminals are, and they know the damage and destruction these parasites can cause to society. And one such parasite was Samuel James Carson. Certainly, he did not regard himself or his activities as offensive in any way. He regarded himself as a professional person, a man whose skills lay in taking money from others in much the same way that shops, bookmakers or dealers take money from their customers. Our intelligence system indicated that he did not think he was being sinful, wrong or even selfish even if he was breaking the law. He knew he was breaking the law, but he did not believe his activities were wrong.
Housebreaking and burglary provided his livelihood and he considered himself the best in his chosen profession. In that, he was probably correct. To his credit, he never carried a firearm, he never used violence against any person or animal, he never raided the homes of the sick or the aged and he would never offer any kind of violence towards the police. He was far too much of a gentleman to lower himself to that kind of behaviour. Furthermore, he never stole jewellery or objects of sentimental value; his only objective was bank notes. Coins were too bulky and noisy to carry away, so he never stole anything but paper money. He never caused damage in the houses he raided, other than a small hole in a ground-floor window or the glass panel of a door. He did this so that he could reach inside and release the window catch or door lock, and so let himself in.
Sometimes, he would borrow a ladder from the garage of his intended target and climb through a bedroom window. One of his boasts was that his ‘customers’ always supplied him with the means of entry — this might include a small brick or stone to smash the glass, a ladder to gain access upstairs, a key left inside a lock or on a piece of string inside the letter box or even under the doormat, a chisel, screwdriver or some other tool in a garden shed to force a stubborn window. Garden spades were ideal for lifting patio doors from their rails, for example.
Samuel James never carried housebreaking tools because his customers were good enough to provide them. Some even helped by advertising their absence — they did this through milk deliveries not being cancelled, newspapers being delivered and left sticking out of the letter box for days on end, lights not showing during dark evenings and similar evidence of a deserted house. He always said his customers made his job that much easier. And so they did.
But to see him walking around the streets, one would never guess he was a criminal. In appearance he was like any other professional person — he might have been a doctor, a solicitor, an accountant, a bank manager or even a high-grade salesman. He was of average height, something around five feet nine inches, and was always clean and tidy. His dark brown hair was cut in the fashion of the period, he wore smart dark business-type suits, polished black shoes and often carried a brief-case.
Whenever the police searched him or his case, there was never any evidence of his burgling activities. The brief-case might contain a map or even his sandwiches, never any housebreaking tools or evidence of his crimes.
He drove a clean, smart but modest car which he changed frequently — his cars were always of average appearance like a Ford Cortina, Hillman Minx or a modest Vauxhall and his only hobby was horse racing. Through that he could, if the occasion demanded (such as an income tax investigation), explain his cash income.
Carson’s confidence in his own infallibility was such that he would boast openly to the police, and even to people like shopkeepers and landlords, of his criminal activities. Even on holiday, when people quizzed him about his job, he would say he was a professional burglar. Few believed him. We knew he did this because he once told a man he met in the Lake District; the man happened to be an off-duty police officer who quietly passed on the details of Carson’s whereabouts at that time.
Among his claims was that he had bought his terrace house in York with the proceeds of crime; he bought his clothes, food and furnishings with cash from the same source and in fact, every penny he spent was the proceeds of crime. But because it was all in cash, taken from houses all over the north of England, it was impossible to prove the origin of the money. Few people kept a list of their bank-note serial numbers and so there was no proof that the source of his cash was illegal.
We, the police, knew where it was coming from, but we could never prove it.
Like all local officers, I regularly received circulars about his activities; we were even treated to a black-and-white photograph of him in several police publications. But, to my knowledge, Samuel James Carson had never ventured across the moors to Aidensfield yet. I was always vigilant, knowing that one day — or more likely, one night — he might arrive.
I fully expected him to target the village for one of his raids because there were some good-quality dwelling-houses in the vicinity, many owned by people who kept a lot of cash on the premises. The one thing I did not anticipate, however, was that he would actually buy a cottage and move into the village as one of the residents. But that is precisely what he did.
At first, I did not associate the Mr Carson who bought No 2 Hilltop Terrace with Samuel James Carson, the burglar from York. The house, a neat stone-built three-bedroomed property with a nice garden and garage, had been on the market for a few weeks and it was George Ward at the pub who told me it had been sold.
‘It’s a businessman from York who’s bought it,’ he told me one morning. ‘A smart-looking young chap, self-employed businessman, he said he was. He said he’d always wanted a cottage in the country and this place was ideal; quiet, off the beaten track, plenty of room inside, not overlooked, recently modernized. He paid cash, an’ all, no mortgage, so he must be earning good money.’
‘Do you know him at all, George?’ I was always interested in newcomers to Aidensfield.
George shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say I do. He came in here for a drink and a sandwich once or twice when he was considering buying the cottage. He looked around it a few times with the estate agent before he made his mind up. Carson, he said his name was.’
‘Decent sort of fellow, was he?’ I asked.
‘Yes, very. A real pleasant young chap, the sort we could do with in Aidensfield.’
Even though George had supplied me with the man’s name, I must admit I did not immediately associate it with Samuel James Carson. Then, in due course, Carson moved into the house. I saw a small removal van parked outside one morning, but no sign of the new owner. I did not intrude — after all, there was no reason. Then, about a week later, I was on patrol one morning when I small a small green Austin car at the garage. A smart young man was buying some petrol and when he handed over the cash, I saw his face. I knew I had seen it somewhere before and when I heard the petrol pump attendant say, ‘Thank you, Mr Carson,’ I realized who was now living on my patch.
My heart sank. It was Samuel James Carson, the north’s most successful housebreaker, burglar and full-time criminal. I must admit I was in a momentary quandary and before I could decide what action I should take, he jumped into his car and drove out of the village. I did, however, have time to note the registration number.
A check with the vehicle taxation department would confirm the name of the owner — just in case it wasn’t the Carson in whom I
had some professional interest! I returned to my police house and rang the taxation department at Northallerton. They supplied the name of the owner of the car.
It was indeed Samuel James Carson of 2 Hilltop Terrace, Aidensfield. A man who never overlooked the smallest detail, he had immediately registered his new address with the vehicle taxation department. That one small action by him made me realize he was a man to be reckoned with; quite clearly, he thought of everything to avoid confrontation with the law, so to convict him of a crime was never going to be easy.
My next task was to break the glad tidings to Sergeant Blaketon. I rang the office at Ashfordly. He was there.
‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ I greeted him. ‘I’ve got some very interesting news for you.’
‘I hope it’s good news,’ he sniffed. ‘I could do with some good news. I think I’ve got the flu.’
‘Well, this should clear your head,’ I laughed. ‘You remember those circulars about Samuel James Carson, the York burglar?’
‘Yes?’ There was a question in his voice.
‘We’re all supposed to keep a look-out for him,’ I strung him along. ‘To report sightings and so forth for the CID, so that the Crime Squad can monitor his movements . . .’
‘Rhea, are you trying to tell me that Samuel James Carson has just driven through Aidensfield?’ he sniffed.
‘No, Sergeant. I’m reporting that he’s just bought a house in Aidensfield. He’s coming to live here, he’s one of my villagers now; he’s one of the residents of this village whose life and property I must protect.’
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 3