Thus if anyone saw a poacher’s dog at work and ordered it to ‘come here boy’, it would immediately run away. The order ‘go away’ or ‘go home’, would result in the dog coming to the heel of its master. It was part of a cunning system to ensure that no poacher’s dog was ever caught by a gamekeeper, police officer or landowner. By the time of my spell of duty at Aidensfield, this ruse had been discovered and so most poachers had ceased to make use of it. None the less, poachers’ dogs were still notoriously difficult to catch.
There was a great deal of interest in the dog training aspect and I was asked if the police-dog handlers would come to show how their Alsatians were trained. They readily agreed; their skills were appreciated and it was this kind of expert advice that made the new dog lovers’ club both popular and successful.
It was inevitable that the club decided to stage its own dog show. This time it would be open to all dogs whether male or female, and whether of pedigree birth or not. There were classes for various breeds, classes for pups, classes for toy dogs, working dogs, sheep dogs and a whole host of others, with the inevitable ‘best dog of the show’ contest. The organizers, having learned from the Afghan/Alfred fiasco, did make a good job of the arrangements and, most certainly, no bitches would be admitted if they were in season. A state of calm should therefore prevail.
One of the classes was for the ‘Best Working Dog’ and as I examined the list of entries, I was surprised to see that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass had entered Alfred. There were no classes for lurchers, some purists refusing to recognize them as being a pure breed, and so this class seemed to provide an opportunity for Claude to show off his best friend.
The dogs had to be presented to the judges by no later than noon that Saturday; the dogs would be walked before the judges, examined and adjudicated upon before 2.30 p.m., after which time the public would be admitted. Members of the public would be able to tour the dogs on exhibition and witness further categories, such as the obedience section and the final walking of those dogs that had been placed on the short list for the best of breed, best in category and best in the show.
I decided to pay a visit to the show, purely out of interest. As I walked towards the main door just after the public had been admitted I was surprised to see Claude Jeremiah Greengrass galloping out with a look of absolute distress and misery on his face.
‘Claude!’ I knew something awful had happened. ‘Claude, what’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Alfred’s been stolen, Mr Rhea. That’s what’s wrong. Gone, he has. Spirited away. You can’t trust anybody these days!’
‘You’re mistaken,’ I said. ‘If you left him there to be judged, he’ll be with one of the officials, surely?’
‘He’s not, I’ve checked. Nobody’s seen him, he’s been spirited away, that’s always a risk with valuable animals. Alfred is a rare dog, you know, Mr Rhea, the only one of his kind in these parts . . .’
I had to check his complaint, and when I entered the hall it was busy with members of the public and proud dog owners. Some exhibitors had rosettes pinned to their cubicles, and others were awaiting the final judging sessions, but when Claude took me to a section marked ‘Miscellaneous Working Dogs’ there was no sign of Alfred. There was a hook at the back of his stall, and I knew he would have been attached to that by either a chain or a lead.
‘He was there, Mr Rhea, he was chained to that hook, sitting as good as gold when I left him, not making a fuss.’
‘Was he a winner, did he get on the short list?’ I asked.
‘No, there’s no other lurcher in the show, Mr Rhea, so he’s a winner without coming here . . . no, he’s been nicked. I asked that chap over there,’ and he pointed to one of the stewards, ‘but he said he has no idea where Alfred’s gone.’
I approached the steward, who couldn’t help; he’d come on duty at two o’clock, and said that Alfred had been absent at that time. I decided I had to make enquiries from the show secretary, for I had no wish to log this as a crime if there was some other explanation. Knowing Alfred, he’d probably sneaked off upon some doubtful enterprise, but it did mean someone must have released him from the securing hook in his stall.
The show secretary, Major Kennedy, was very helpful, checking all his judges’ returns until he said, ‘Well, Mr Rhea, Alfred was in his allotted position at five minutes to one. That’s when Mr Evans, the working dogs judge, assessed him.’
‘Did he win?’ beamed Claude.
‘No, sorry, Mr Greengrass. The record just says — “examined, no award made”.’
‘Aye, well, I expect yon judge’ll be coming back to have another look, mebbe he went off to bring a second opinion feller, Alfred’s quality was mebbe that good that no one judge could believe his eyes. So where is he?’
‘Well, Mr Evans has gone for his lunch, and I had mine at one o’clock, but must admit I never saw anyone remove your dog.’
It was far from easy making enquiries with Claude Jeremiah always trailing behind me, but by a process of elimination of officials it seemed that no one had seen Alfred leave the hall, either alone or with another person. I did learn, however, that the last person to have seen Alfred in his stall was Philip Crawford, a veterinary surgeon who lived in Aidensfield. He had a practice at Strensford, but often volunteered to help with Aidensfield events — on this occasion he was the show vet.
There was nothing in the secretary’s files to show what the outcome of Crawford’s inspection had been but I did detect a certain caution in Major Kennedy’s demeanour. I felt sure he was withholding some information, but I failed in my efforts to gain any more from him. The only thing I did learn was that Mr Crawford had gone home for lunch. He was expected to return within half an hour or so. I said I would wait.
‘Why would a vet want to see my Alfred?’ asked Claude.
‘He examines all the dogs in the show,’ said Major Kennedy. ‘We hire him to ensure that all dogs are fit to be here, his job is to check for illness, injuries, diseases and so forth, anything that might render a dog unsuitable for show purposes.’
Kennedy looked at me with steady eyes, almost as if willing me to remove the troublesome Claude, but Claude hadn’t finished.
‘Well, there was nowt wrong with my Alfred. Anyroad, I can’t hang about here doing nothing,’ he grumbled, and I could see the relief in Kennedy’s eyes. ‘My Alfred’s gone and he could be anywhere out here, lying hurt . . .’
‘I’m sure he has come to no harm,’ said Kennedy reassuringly.
‘What about your house?’ I suggested. ‘Has he returned there? If he slipped his lead, he might have gone home. I know he often goes out alone and always returns to base by himself. He knows his way back to your house, doesn’t he?’
‘Shall I go and have a look?’
‘I think that’s a good idea,’ I suggested, with the distinct feeling that Kennedy wanted to be rid of Claude.
I was delighted when he said he’d drive his old pick-up to the smallholding to check for signs of Alfred. I said I would remain here to continue my enquiries. With Claude out of the way. Major Kennedy relaxed.
I asked him, ‘Is there something I should know, Major Kennedy?’
‘Just that Claude’s dog hasn’t been stolen,’ he whispered almost conspiratorially. ‘Please keep this incident in low profile, Mr Rhea, we do not want a fuss, especially among the other exhibitors. May I suggest you visit Mr Crawford while Claude is absent? And depending upon what he tells you, may I then ask for the utmost discretion?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I was puzzled by this attitude and wondered what grave secrets lay with Alfred the lurcher. I decided that if the show secretary did not wish to tell me, then the answer must lie with Philip Crawford. Crawford lived in a large detached house on the outskirts of Aidensfield but within a ten-minute walk, and so I left the hall to visit him. He was just finishing his lunch as I knocked on his door and he invited me to have a coffee with him. I accepted.
‘I’m here about the lurcher that was re
moved from the show,’ I began. ‘Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s dog.’
‘The infamous Alfred,’ smiled the vet. ‘Yes, he’s here in a kennel in my back yard. He’s locked in, Mr Rhea.’
‘A prisoner? Can I ask why?’
‘He’s covered with fleas, Mr Rhea, he’s a walking flea pit. He should never have been allowed into that hall among the other dogs. So I removed him quietly, led him out of the back door and across the fields to my house. A small sub-committee, convened within a couple of minutes, decided we should not inform the other exhibitors, that the matter should remain secret. If any of them had known about this flea carrier, most of them would have withdrawn their dogs in the fear they’d become infected with the Greengrass flea strain. Some of those owners have spent hours grooming their dogs and some have spent a fortune on shampoos and beauty treatment. It would be awful if they became alarmed about Alfred’s fleas. So it was a case of discretion being a better solution than valour. I smuggled him out of the show before anyone knew what had happened. I’m sorry if I caused you extra work, but he’s in one of my kennels now, smothered in flea powder.’
‘So he stays here until the show is over?’
‘Yes, under house arrest, as you might say. I’ll release him when the show’s over.’
‘OK, I agree. I’ll get back to the hall and tell Claude we haven’t located him yet. It might be best to spread the tale that he appears to have run away — perhaps his discarded lead might lend strength to that tale?’
Crawford smiled, gave me the old leather lead and I returned to the show. And so, to ensure that the show continued without disruption or alarm, I said I had found the lead lying in the long grass near the hall’s south-facing wall. When Claude returned, I showed it to him.
‘He’s escaped, Claude,’ I said. ‘He’s run off. The vet saw him when he examined him, he has to examine all the competitors and he was in the hall at that time.’
‘He wasn’t at home when I got there. I’ll skin him alive if he’s been up to summat!’ snarled Claude.
And so the Aidensfield and District Dog Show concluded without any alarm; prizes were won, honours were achieved and the general opinion was that it had been a well-conducted and successful event. But as the dogs left with their proud owners, I did notice that several were scratching themselves rather vigorously. I said nothing.
Claude’s Alfred would end the day without any fleas, thanks to a caring vet and a liberal coating of powder, but the legacy of his show appearance was that several other dogs had been infected. I knew of no criminal offence with which to threaten Claude, but I would be careful how I patted Alfred in the future. Later that night I rang Claude.
‘Has your Alfred turned up, Claude?’ I asked.
‘Aye, he’s back, Mr Rhea,’ said Claude. ‘I don’t know where the hell he’s been, but he’s covered in powder and smells like a hospital sick bay.’
6. On with the Dance
Love’s but a dance.
HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON, 1840–1921
One of the more pleasant aspects of working as a rural constable was that there were few real trouble spots on one’s patch. Problem places like night-clubs, football grounds and city centre pubs were unknown in villages like Aidensfield, Crampton and Elsinby; fights, mayhem and senseless violence were virtually non-existent. I must admit I was delighted with my work in such a peaceful haven, but we rural bobbies did have compassion for our town-working colleagues. They had to contend nightly with fights and disturbances in the vicinity of such places while we enjoyed a calm and contented way of life.
Even so, trouble could arise in rural areas. The two places most likely to attract it were the village pub and the village hall when dances were in progress. Fortunately, the landlords on my patch all kept their pubs in good order, often quelling trouble before it started, and it was very rare for the police to be called to a disturbance at any rural inn.
When dances were held at the village hall, however, they did seem to attract an unruly element. At one stage, weekly dances were held in Aidensfield village hall, but the ensuing trouble and vandalism quickly brought these dances to an end.
The weekly dances had ended just before my arrival; I recall my predecessor telling of one awful night when all the huge windows of the hall were put out by vandals during a bout of drunken stupidity. But that sort of violence was rare. The usual kind of bother consisted of punch-ups between rival gangs of youths. A gang would arrive from Thirsk with the sole intention of setting about another gang from Mahon, with Aidensfield as their battle ground. There was no reason for these fights, other than the fact that the Thirsk lot disliked the Mahon lot. And vice versa, of course. So the happiness of the dances was ruined, a sad thing for those who came for a good fun-filled time free from such idiocy.
In comparison with city problems, though, our type of trouble was fairly petty stuff; none the less, the villagers were not prepared to tolerate it. They did not want to suffer fights in the street, vandalism to property in the hall or in the village, discarded beer bottles on the green, cast-off ladies’ underwear behind the hedgerows or chip papers dumped in smart gardens. The noises resulting from loud music, revving cars and shouting youngsters were all added nuisances which the people of Aidensfield felt they could do without.
So, after representations from the community, the village hall committee decided it would not allow the premises to be used for weekly dances. Even if the fees did help to pay the bills, it was a chore they could do without.
It was stated though, that the hall could be rented for the annual Hunt Ball and consideration would be given to renting it for specified other dances if the organizers could guarantee good behaviour. In the case of the Hunt Ball, the high price of the tickets kept away the rabble and I never suffered any problems during those events. Similarly, other high-quality organizations rented the hall for their dances, charged high entrance fees or made them all-ticket affairs, and so eliminated bother.
After a period of tranquillity, therefore, the committee saw no reason to deny use of the hall for the annual dance of the Ashfordly, Elsinby and Aidensfield Indoor Plant Society. People who spent their spare time growing plants in greenhouses, conservatories and on kitchen window-sills were hardly the sort to cause public disorder or grievous bodily harm to one another. The committee gave its approval and the dance was arranged for the last Saturday in August. It would run from 8 p.m. to midnight, all dances then having to end before Sunday. There would be a buffet supper and George Ward gained approval from the magistrates to have a bar in the premises until 10.30 p.m. It was an all-ticket dance and knowing the type of person who would be present I did not foresee any problems. Most of them were genteel people of late middle age whose biggest excitement in life was seeing a Cymbidium devonianum burst into flower or nursing an ailing Kalanchoe beharensis back to life.
When Inspector Pollock met me on the Wednesday afternoon prior to the dance, he said, ‘I see from the duty sheets that you have a dance in the village hall on Saturday? Is this likely to cause a threat to the community? Public disorder? Illicit sales of drugs? Mayhem in the streets? Knifings? Drunkenness?’
‘No, sir,’ I said with confidence. ‘I expect it to be trouble-free,’ and I explained the nature of the event, stressing the peaceful qualities of the organizers and the anticipated revellers.
‘I can authorize the dog section to be present,’ he said. ‘Two dogs, two handlers, one van. They’re a very good deterrent. And the Task Force . . .’
‘I can cope on my own, sir,’ I assured him. ‘I’ve always managed to deal with problems at local dances, and this is no exception. In fact, so far as policing is concerned, this dance will be the easiest I’ve had to deal with in years. They’re plant enthusiasts, sir. Lovely people. I cannot see them causing trouble anywhere, and certainly not in the streets.’
‘Well, all I’m saying is that support is available if you need it, PC Rhea. And I shall be on patrol myself, so I might pay you an official v
isit.’
‘I shall be here, sir,’ I said.
On the evening of the great event, therefore, I paid an early visit to the hall and found the massive figure of Jim Blake acting as doorman. Jim was a retired railway worker and was the ideal shape and size to act as bouncer. Single-handed and by his physical appearance alone, he’d keep any crowd of yobbos under control. As we chatted, the dancers were beginning to arrive and I was pleased to see several young people among them. They were probably members of the families of the plant enthusiasts, and they all seemed decent and well-behaved. Inside I could hear the music from a six-piece orchestra as they played old-fashioned dances like the Eva three-step, modern waltz, foxtrot, St Bernard’s waltz and other old favourites. This would never attract the ruffians who resorted to such dances simply to cause trouble; I was enjoying the music and my feet were tapping to the gentle rhythms.
By nine o’clock that evening, the hall was full and the music was filling the night air outside. Inside there was the happy sound of chatter as the dancers whirled and frolicked to the music. Even the youngsters were joining in, I noted, and when I popped inside to show my uniform at George’s bar, there was a good-natured aura within the hall.
‘A nice crowd,’ I commented to Jim on the door.
‘I wish all dances were as peaceful as this,’ he smiled. ‘I could have got old Mrs Brownlee to act as bouncer for this and I could have gone to the pub!’
‘Are there any more to come?’ I asked him.
‘A few,’ he said. ‘Some will have gone to the pub before coming here; they always do that, even though there’s a bar here. I close the doors at half past ten; if you want to get in, knock three times and I’ll respond. But I’ll allow no more entries after then, even if they have tickets.’
‘That’ll help to keep trouble at bay!’ I said, knowing that a late influx of drinkers was always likely to cause problems even if they were not allowed in.
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 11