CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Some police would gain entry by subterfuge, pretending to be a travelling doctor and shouting that they must use a telephone. They resorted to various devices in the hope that the doors would be opened; other officers adopted the technique of waiting for a departing drinker to leave the door open just long enough for a large police boot to be wedged between it and the jamb, and so they would sneak in. Some even attempted to ‘plant’ undercover cops among the drinkers but this never worked. A stranger in the bar was a real giveaway! In any case, all these tactics were known to the landlords; Pollock’s raiding parties attempted various schemes, but all failed.

  Over a period of some six months, his raiding parties entered about seventy moorland inns and local pubs without finding one which was breaking any of the licensing laws.

  He did find lots of men playing dominoes, lots having earnest discussions about the government, the trades unions and the state of English football, but he never found anyone who was drinking after hours nor did he catch one landlord or bartender selling alcohol after time. And yet on every occasion that he passed those same inns while off duty at night, the lights would be burning, there would be the sound of happy voices from within with cars and bicycles parked outside. He knew they were taking advantage of him, he knew they would be drinking late and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop them.

  The only casualty of his campaign was Sergeant Blaketon; everyone blamed him for the upset caused by the raids. He got letters from the Licensed Victuallers Association, he got stopped in the street by drinkers and landlords to be quizzed about his actions, while some thwarted drinkers even wrote critical letters to the press, claiming that the freedom of the drinking man was under threat. Poor old Oscar began to realize that he had to find a way of halting the menace which was Inspector Pollock. For all his faults, Blaketon did not rigidly enforce the liquor licensing laws — he did use common sense.

  Blaketon was feeling very sore about the whole enterprise when I was in Ashfordly police office one morning. Then Pollock arrived. He caught Blaketon in a particularly black mood due to yet another abortive raid which had failed the previous evening.

  ‘Sir,’ began Blaketon. ‘I think we should halt these pub raids.’

  ‘Give them up, Sergeant? Why, might I ask?’ There was a look of defiance on Pollock’s youthful face.

  ‘Because we’re not having any success, sir, it’s a waste of valuable time and a waste of manpower. It’s getting us nowhere, not one pub has been found offending against the law.’

  ‘Perhaps you feel this way because you are shouldering the blame for the raids?’ smiled Pollock. ‘You should not shrink from upholding the law, Sergeant, however unpleasant it may be.’

  ‘I must say I am getting a certain amount of antagonistic feedback, sir,’ grunted Blaketon. ‘As the first man to enter the premises, the leader of my team as it were, I am thought responsible for the organizing of these raiding parties. I do get rude comments in the streets, and some landlords are refusing to donate any more prizes for our Christmas raffles.’

  ‘Sergeant, you disappoint me,’ said Pollock. ‘You don’t win wars by giving up when the first battle is lost. We shall continue. I shall pursue my policy until I am satisfied that every one of those licensed premises is operating within the law, not just upon one night or for one week, but permanently. And I have not yet reached that state of satisfaction. So I shall expect more late-night examinations of licensed premises in your next quarterly return.’

  ‘As you say, sir,’ sighed a weary Sergeant Blaketon.

  Pollock continued, ‘Now, I am here to examine your register of dog licence inspections, register of explosives stores and your lost and found property books. In your office please, Sergeant. Now.’

  And so they disappeared into the inner sanctum which we called Sergeant Blaketon’s office.

  I must admit I felt sorry for Sergeant Blaketon; in spite of his approach to most aspects of police work, his relaxed attitude towards licensed premises, especially those within Ashfordly section, meant we never had any problems with the landlords. There were very few reports of drunkenness, few occasions of fights or other trouble and all the landlords ran well-conducted premises, even if they did occasionally allow late-night drinking. Not once had we had a complaint from a member of the public about late-night drinking or the general conduct of any pub; Pollock was the only person to make a fuss about it and it seemed he was going to persist with his hard-headed notion of raiding the pubs until the landlords and the customers became heartily sick of our presence. It was no way to gain the respect and co-operation of the public; if something serious occurred, we relied on the co-operation of the public but this stupidity would serve only to alienate them. I knew Blaketon was seeking some means of stopping these raids.

  We all realized that Pollock’s lack of experience let him down in this matter; whenever a pub was causing real problems through late drinking, the simple remedy was to park a police car outside at closing time. Then, as the customers left, at whatever time, a uniformed constable would stop and test every car and ask every driver to take a test to see if he or she was fit to drive. It was a simple but effective way of showing we meant business — and it was a fine way to emptying a pub, even during licensed hours! If Pollock had wanted to gain control over the pubs, that’s how it could have been done. Easily, with no hassle, no confrontations. Just a police car parked silently outside, waiting. But if Pollock was going to continue with his purge, he must be taught a lesson. The question was, how?

  As we pondered the long-term ill-effects of his actions, it was Sergeant Blaketon who told Pollock he had received some prior knowledge that there was to be a late-night drinking session at the Chequer Board Inn on Cockayne Moor. Cockayne Moor was a lofty area above Rannockdale and the inn was perhaps the most isolated of all those upon the moor. Once, long ago, a drovers’ road passed this way and the ancient inn had served the drovers while their long lines of foot-sore cattle rested on their way from Scotland to York. Now, the inn was popular with hikers and tourists; it stood alone surrounded by nothing but open moor, the nearest house being five miles away. Few policemen ever raided the place and so it was a true haven for serious after-time drinkers. They came from far and wide to sample the fresh moorland air and the gorgeous golden bitter which had the flavour of heather within its bouquet. The Chequer Board Inn had a large clientele from Middlesbrough, Redcar and the smaller communities around Teesside. And it did not lie within Ashfordly section, therefore it was not the responsibility of Sergeant Blaketon and his officers. It did, however, stand within Strensford sub-division and it was consequently within the jurisdiction of Inspector Pollock.

  I was working in Ashfordly police station one Saturday morning, completing a road accident report, when Sergeant Blaketon came through. He was smiling. I was surprised by this: he appeared to be in a very good mood.

  ‘Listen to this conversation, Rhea,’ he said. ‘I need a witness. I am about to ring Inspector Pollock at Strensford.’ With no more ado he dialled Strensford police station on the internal network and said, ‘Sergeant Blaketon here, put me through to Inspector Pollock, please.’

  He waited as the connection was made and then I heard him say, ‘Ah, good morning, sir. Blaketon here. Yes, all’s correct. Now, my reason for ringing, sir. It concerns late-night drinking. I’ve received a tip-off, sir, from one of my informers. There is to be a late-night drinking session at the Chequer Board Inn; no, the licensee has not applied for an extension of hours nor has he notified us of a private party.’ Blaketon beamed at me as he made that call, adding, ‘Well, sir, I cannot help, it’s not within Ashfordly section, sir. It’s just over my boundary. It’s part of Challonford section. But I thought I had better pass along the information, should you wish to take action.’

  And that was it.

  Blaketon could see my puzzled expression and said, ‘You heard me make that call, Rhea, eh? I was not secretive, it was all done openly.’

 
‘Can I ask why I had to witness it?’

  ‘I am hoping that Inspector Pollock raids that pub tonight,’ he beamed. ‘I want him to know that I passed the information to him openly and not in a conspiratorial manner.’

  And with that, he returned to his office, chuckling to himself.

  The whole story emerged later. The chief constable of one of the smaller police forces in the Midlands had rented a country cottage on the moors in order to celebrate his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Having been born and bred in the North York Moors, he had lots of friends and relations in the vicinity, including the chief constables of Middlesbrough, Durham, the North Riding of Yorkshire and Sunderland. All had been invited to a huge party at the Chequer Board Inn. There was a total of sixty guests, and dinner had been provided in the dining room. It was a good night, highly enjoyable and highly successful.

  At midnight, Inspector Pollock and his party of two sergeants and eight constables were position around the isolated inn, waiting and watching. The place was humming with activity; the chink of coins could be heard as money was dropped into the till. Among the cars parked outside were two coaches and one overnight camper. The inn was ablaze with lights and full of people. Pollock realized that the men had to come outside to visit the toilet and had issued instructions that the raid would commence at 12.15 a.m. precisely because he had noted that the exit door was never locked. There was the point of entry.

  He had no idea that inside were five chief constables, several local dignitaries, magistrates and county councillors as well as family members of those important guests.

  At 12.15, Pollock gave the order. ‘Enter the premises, immobilize all the drinkers, label each glass and specify its contents . . . report the licensee for selling drinks after licensing hours and report all the drinkers for consuming intoxicating liquor otherwise than during licensing hours. Right, men. Go!’

  This time, due to the certainty of his actions and the volume of customers present, he led the raiding party. Once inside, he shouted for attention; he ordered everyone to stop whatever they were doing and announced that this was a police raid. All drinks would be seized as evidence. All names would be taken . . . the licensee must not move!

  A deathly hush had fallen as the army of police officers went to work with Inspector Pollock leading the action, shouting orders and demanding co-operation.

  After watching him for a while, and after smiling as the constables sniffed the drinks in an attempt to identify them, a tall gentleman stood up and said,

  ‘Inspector Pollock. I am your Chief Constable. And these gentlemen here are also chief constables . . . now, I think this little bit of fun can cease . . .’

  Pollock was flustered, but only momentarily. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I received information that after-hours drinking was occurring on these licensed premises and, in accordance with my statutory powers, I have entered the premises to find everyone drinking . . . sir, with due respect, the law applies to everyone and if you and the other chief constables are found to be drinking alcohol after the permitted hours, I shall have no alternative but to report this matter.’

  At this, there was loud applause from the party. It seemed they all thought this was a stunt performed as entertainment for the guests but the Chief Constable raised his hands for silence and said, ‘Inspector, we are celebrating the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary of Mr John Lodge, the Chief Constable of Stamfordshire. As you may know, he holds a senior post within the Salvation Army and he does not drink alcohol. It is a condition of any social gathering which he arranges that no one drinks alcohol. We are all drinking non-alcoholic drinks.’

  The expression on Pollock’s face changed from one of authority to one of doubt; he looked around. His sergeants and constables, one by one, said, ‘This is orange, sir . . .’

  ‘This is bitter lemon . . .’

  ‘This is lemonade . . .’

  The Chief Constable went on, ‘And as we are not drinking alcohol, we are not committing any offence. There is no law to say we cannot remain on licensed premises after hours, and there is no law which says the landlord cannot sell soft drinks after hours. Therefore, there was no requirement to apply for an extension of hours, nor was there any need to notify the local police of a private party.’

  And at that, the entire party erupted into cheers and Inspector Pollock slunk out of the pub, followed by his smiling constables. He drove away without saying a word.

  And that marked the end of Pollock’s Public House Purge.

  4. Poetic Justice

  ’Twas a thief said the last kind word to Christ;

  Christ took the kindness and forgave the thief.

  ROBERT BROWNING, 1812–89

  Among the many very interesting houses on my beat was one called Poets’ Corner. It occupied a splendid riverside site at Crampton where its well-kept lawns and gardens sloped gently to the edge of the water. At the bottom of the garden, among some thick reeds, there was a small pier which jutted into the water where the family, called Eastwood, maintained a tiny rowing boat which they used for trips along the river. The boat was always moored near this jetty and I often thought its open aspect was a security risk. A burglar could easily row his own boat to this point, raid the house from the rear, and escape with his loot without anyone seeing or hearing him. And yet the house had never, to my knowledge, suffered such an attack.

  The house itself, a fine Georgian structure of dark moorland stone with a blue slate roof, stood at the top of the garden, with more lawns separating it from the road which twisted and turned through the picturesque village. The main windows overlooked the river with spectacular views across the dale beyond.

  It was a house that appealed to all who had had the good fortune to visit it and the Eastwoods were regarded as friendly and welcoming people. There were two large entrance gates which opened on to the road; these led into the garden and then into a parking area in front of the house. There was lots of space before the house and the garden was occasionally open to the public for charitable purposes, such as raising money for the Red Cross or for the repair of the church roof. Thus a lot of people had visited the gardens, which were beautifully maintained and full of interesting shrubs, flowers and rock plants.

  Its chief attraction, however, was the unique collection of statues of famous British poets. Mrs Judith Eastwood, a lady in her mid-sixties, was widely known as a collector of such statues — over the years she had scoured salerooms, antique shops and cottage sales in her search for these statues and her collection was now regarded as the finest in Britain. Indeed, it was perhaps the only one in Britain and included some items in wood or stone; others were fashioned from a type of plaster like the statues found in many Catholic homes. One or two were even made from glass, some of them solid, others hollow. Other materials included marble, Whitby jet, brass and even concrete!

  Several were very large, almost the size of human beings, while others were of a more modest size, perhaps standing two to three feet tall. Some were a mere eighteen inches high.

  She had some miniatures too, these being only six inches in height. These were kept indoors, as were all the most valuable or fragile examples. Some of her statues were several centuries old, such as a wooden one of Shakespeare. The larger ones, particularly those made of stone and some of the wooden ones, stood out of doors and occupied prominent positions about the garden. During the winter months the wooden ones would be taken into an outbuilding to avoid the weather, but in summer all the more robust examples reappeared in the garden to stand like silent sentinels, surveying all before them.

  I don’t think Mrs Eastwood knew precisely how many statues she owned; there were umpteen Shakespeares in stone, wood, glass and plaster, countless Miltons and Bacons, several Cowpers, Swifts, Tennysons, Wordsworths, Shelleys and John Donnes and miscellaneous minor ones such as Walter Pope and Sir Thomas Wyatt. She claimed that every British poet of note, born before 1900, was represented and her knowledge of British poets was such that few d
oubters had the expertise to challenge her claims. It would have been a nigh impossible task to discover which were missing.

  It was this collection which brought visitors to her garden on its occasional open days; in addition, various poetry societies and parties of aficionados from the poetry world would enjoy private visits by appointment. With such a diverse crowd of visitors, I must admit that I worried about the security of her statues.

  I had no idea of their individual monetary value since there did not seem to be a large market for such statues — I knew of no other collector who would want to steal them. But one Monday morning in late June Mrs Eastwood rang me. Someone had stolen a wooden statue of Geoffrey Chaucer.

  I drove to the house and my first task was to examine the scene of the crime. Mrs Eastwood, a tall, very slender and rather handsome woman with dark, greying hair, led me into the garden along a maze of paths. Eventually we halted beside a bed of roses. There was an empty stone plinth on top of a small, ornamental drystone wall.

  ‘He was there,’ she pointed to the empty place. ‘He was standing right there last night, I checked. And now he’s gone, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘You’ve searched the garden?’ I asked. ‘Sheds, outhouses, places where it might have been hidden?’

  ‘Everywhere. My husband and I searched every single hiding place, including the reeds beside the river, the boat and the compost heap at the far end of the garden. He’s gone.’

  I was intrigued by the way she referred to the statue as ‘he’, almost as if she was referring to a real person, and, after conducting my own search of the area for clues such as footprints left by the thief, I began to note the necessary details. One factor to consider was whether Geoffrey could be quite easily carried away by one moderately strong person.