CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  I parked outside the front door, knocked without response, tried it but it was locked, so I hurried to the rear, noting that all the curtains, upstairs and downstairs, were closed and that no unexplained vehicles or people were in the grounds. By now, it was around eleven o’clock in the morning and I would have expected the curtains to have been open, except for the nets of course, and I began to fear something terrible had happened to Eric. The rear door was closed and locked too; I knocked and shouted Eric’s name without response, and so I did a complete circuit of the exterior, seeking either another door or even a window which might permit me to enter. I found nothing. Even though the account of an empty-sounding house, or even just an empty room, was puzzling, I began to feel there had not been a raid on Eric’s house. I feared he might be in some other kind of trouble. I resorted to further knocking on the doors, rapping on the windows and shouting Eric’s name at each window and door, but gained no response to any of these tactics and so, before embarking on the alternative of breaking in, I radioed Alf from my van.

  ‘I’m at Shakespeare House, Alf,’ I told him as a form of sit-rep. ‘I’ve done a recce, the place does not appear to have been broken into, all doors and windows are closed and locked with the curtains drawn. There’s no sign of intruders. I’ve knocked on all doors and windows and shouted for Mr Robshaw, without response. Can you check with the exchange to see if the phone is still off the hook with those noises coming through it? If it is, it looks as if the house-owner is in need of help so I’ll have to break in.’

  ‘Right you are, Nick. Remain on air while I ring, it’ll only take a moment.’

  His call to Mrs Browning confirmed the worst — the line was still open and odd noises were still emanating from Eric’s receiver which was clearly off the hook. Repeated action by the exchange staff had failed to elicit any sensible response and so I knew there was no alternative. I had to break in and I had to do so with the minimum of damage. I selected a small rear window, probably a kitchen window although I could not see inside due to the closed curtains, smashed the glass with a hammer from my van’s tool kit, loosened the catch and prised open the frame with a screwdriver. Before climbing in I shouted my name because I did not want Eric Robshaw, if he was ill, to think his house was being attacked.

  ‘It’s PC Rhea,’ I called several times. ‘I’m coming in, Mr Robshaw, to see if you are all right . . . It’s PC Rhea . . .’

  Although many of the villagers referred to him as Eric behind his back he was always Mr Robshaw to his face and I do not know how his Christian name came to be so generally known. I guessed it might have been through the postman or post office seeing his mail. Not wishing him to come and hit me over the head and shoot me as an intruder, I shouted ‘Mr Robshaw’ repeatedly as I fought with the closed curtains and struggled headfirst through the window to find myself in what appeared to be a utility room. It was quite empty, save for a yard brush standing in one corner. However, I did eventually reach the floor, stood up and brushed the dust off my uniform, then called his name as I began to explore the ground floor of this spacious house. As I moved along the tiled floor which led from the utility room I found myself in the kitchen and decided to open the curtains.

  Apart from a cheap table, a single chair and a few items of crockery on the shelves, the kitchen was empty and the tiled floor uncovered, but I had no time to stand and stare. Shouting his name, I moved quickly into the entrance hall, also empty and wondered how to find the staircase. I went into the lounge — it was deserted too, with bare floors and walls, and closed curtains. I opened them, because I needed light, and found another door leading into a rear vestibule — and there I found Eric Robshaw.

  There was a flight of stairs and he was lying at the foot in what appeared to be a very untidy heap with the telephone, which seemed to have rested on a ledge at the foot of the stairs, just out of his reach. I think he had grabbed the wire and pulled it off the shelf where it normally stood. In a moment, I was at his side, feeling his pulse and shouting at him in the hope that my presence and voice might do something to revive him. There was blood on the stone floor and blood on his head; he was dressed in grey silk pyjamas, I noted, with one slipper on and the other midway down the stairs — also devoid of a stair carpet. But he was alive!

  I lifted the handset and hoped someone was listening at the other end — I felt sure the exchange would be keeping a close vigil upon this saga.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Hello, yes, is that Mr Robshaw?’ I recognized Mrs Browning’s voice.

  ‘No, it’s PC Rhea, Mrs Browning. I’m with Mr Robshaw, he’s alive but he needs an ambulance urgently. Can you call one? Shakespeare House, Aidensfield, I’ll wait with him. He’ll need urgent medical care the moment he arrives at hospital.’

  ‘What’s happened to him? Are they likely to ask?’

  ‘I think he’s fallen downstairs and injured himself severely,’ I said, having considered the general appearance of the scene and the abandoned slipper halfway upstairs. ‘There’s blood from a head wound too, so tell them that. I’ll open the front door for the ambulance-men and will make Eric as comfortable as I can until they arrive.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, and I replaced the phone in case she wished to call me back.

  Although police officers are taught first aid there are occasions when it is unwise to move or attempt to treat a severely injured person. Movement might aggravate an injury, particularly if the spine, neck or head are involved and so, although I wanted to do something positive for Mr Robshaw, I decided it was unwise to touch him or move him. I talked to him, telling him who I was, and that help was on the way, and I think he responded with movements of his eyes and fingers. As always happens on such occasions, it seems that the ambulance took an eternity to arrive but in fact it was probably less than ten minutes. I had no idea how long Mr Robshaw had lain in that awful position but felt it had not been all night — the telephone operator had probably alerted the supervisor very soon after Eric had knocked the handset off its rest in his vain attempts to raise help.

  Within minutes, therefore, the casualty was being whisked off to hospital, apparently unconscious and badly injured, and I was left alone in Shakespeare House.

  I rang Alf Ventress from Mr Robshaw’s phone to update him and said I would remain in the house for a while in an attempt to secure the window I had smashed and then to secure the entire house during Eric’s forced absence. Also, I had to try to ascertain whether Eric had any relatives who should be told. Probably, he’d have a desk or writing bureau containing his personal papers.

  Opening all the curtains, I began with the ground floor, but the house was empty. There was not a stick of furniture in any of the rooms, no three-piece suite, no dining suite, no chairs, no carpets, mats or rugs, no pictures or ornaments. Nothing. So, I went up the carpet-less stairs (the ambulance-men had taken the slipper with them for use in hospital) and began to search the upper rooms. With the exception of one all were absolutely empty.

  One of them was clearly Eric’s bedroom for it contained a single bed, an armchair, a wardrobe and chest of drawers; there was a brightly coloured rug on the floor too and on the walls were several oil paintings — valuable ones, in my opinion, and a radio set. In the adjoining room were several bookcases with dozens of novels and history books, but nothing else. I peeped into the bathroom; it was plain and simple with a hand basin, a toilet, a white enamel bath but no shower unit. The only place I might find names of next-of-kin was therefore the bedroom and his chest of drawers but, in spite of a careful search, I found only his spare clothes, all neatly washed and ironed, but no personal papers. As if to completely satisfy my curiosity I made a thorough search of every room in the house and found nothing. Eric had no one.

  His house was like him — he was all show and style but appeared to be otherwise empty. His house was the same — an empty shell, outwardly handsome and interesting, but utterly barren and deserted inside. So,
what about all those antiques and valuables the local folks had reportedly seen entering the house upon his arrival? Where had they gone?

  But I could not spend time pondering the mystery of Eric Robshaw. Before leaving the house, though, I rang Mrs Browning at the exchange to thank her for being so helpful and to explain what had happened to Eric; then, from my van, I radioed Ashfordly Police Station to provide Alf Ventress with an up-to-date account. But Sergeant Blaketon answered my call.

  ‘Was Mr Robshaw attacked, Rhea? Was he attacked and has he had property stolen, do you think?’

  ‘No, Sergeant, there was no sign of a break-in. The house was locked when I arrived. I think he fell downstairs, one of his slippers was abandoned on the steps.’

  ‘Even so, you’d better go and have words with him in hospital, Rhea, when he’s fit to be interviewed, just to confirm he’s not the victim of a crime.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Sergeant.’

  ‘And make sure the house is secure before you leave.’

  I found a set of keys hanging in a kitchen cupboard and located a piece of plywood in his garage which would secure the window I had smashed. I spent a few minutes boarding up the window, went around the house to open all the curtains, albeit leaving the nets in position for security reasons.

  With the bunch of keys, I let myself out of the front door, locked it and took the keys with me. I would deliver them to Eric Robshaw when I went to the hospital and in the meantime would keep a watchful eye on the premises.

  After checking with the hospital by telephone that afternoon, I learned that Eric was severely injured, and the ward sister suggested I did not bother him that day, nor indeed the following day; he had a broken skull, two broken ribs and severe bruising on most of his body, but she did say he was as comfortable as he could be. He’d been lucky, she said; if he had lain much longer without discovery he could have died. It was a miracle he’d managed to grab the telephone’s cord and pull it from the shelf so that his plight could be heard — that, and the action by the operator, had saved him. She did ask if I knew of any next-of-kin and I had to tell her that, to my knowledge, there was none.

  It would be three days later when I went to interview Eric about his fall — I wanted to be sure he had not been attacked — and, with his doctor’s permission, went during normal visiting hours. Because he had no relatives Mary suggested I take him something and so I bought some grapes and magazines, along with a bunch of flowers for the ward. And I dressed in civilian clothes so that my visit would not look too formal. As I walked down the long ward I could see Eric propped up on his pillows with a bandage around his head and his face looking as if he’d survived ten rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. But he was elegantly clad in his silk pyjamas, the ones in which I had found him, and in spite of his bandages he looked the perfect gentleman.

  ‘Mr Rhea.’ The charm oozed from him even in his plight. ‘How kind of you to come.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Robshaw. It’s nice to see you sitting up and looking so cheerful; you’re certainly much better than when I last saw you.’ I settled on a chair beside his bed and gave him his presents then returned his house keys to him, explaining that I’d had to break in and that the window needed a proper repair.

  ‘I’ll see to that. But how kind of you, Mr Rhea, to do all this for me. I must thank you most warmly for everything you’ve done . . .’

  ‘It was Mrs Browning at the telephone exchange,’ I told him. ‘She raised the alarm, she’s the one to thank.’

  ‘She has been in touch with the hospital, Mr Rhea, isn’t that thoughtful of her? She said she will be coming in to see me and her staff have bought me something too; they sent that card, signed by them all. Isn’t that nice . . . I had no idea people could be so nice and the nurses here are wonderful. I’ve never had so many people fussing over me . . . never in my entire life.’

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like to be told?’ I had to ask him. ‘Relations? Friends?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no one. I’m all alone in this world, Mr Rhea. I shall survive. I am a survivor, you know.’

  ‘I have to ask you what happened, Mr Robshaw, to complete my report.’

  ‘I tripped when my slipper came off and I fell, Mr Rhea, nothing more sinister or complicated than that. Happily, I was able to pull the phone off the shelf by grabbing its wire, otherwise I might have been there yet.’

  ‘My concern is to establish whether it was an accident or whether you were attacked, Mr Robshaw.’

  ‘Attacked? Good heavens, no. Who would want to attack me?’

  ‘People do sometimes get attacked in their own homes, by intruders looking for valuables.’

  ‘I have nothing worth stealing, Mr Rhea, as I am sure you now realize . . . you will not tell anyone, will you? About the house?’ And now he looked worried, as if I might be responsible for revealing his secret to the world.

  ‘Tell anyone what?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, about the state of it, being so empty with no furnishings, no beauty inside.’

  ‘That is no one’s business but yours,’ I said. ‘It is nothing to do with anyone else and I have no intention of gossiping about it; it has no bearing on what happened to you — now I know your belongings haven’t been stolen!’

  ‘I am ashamed of it really, Mr Rhea, my lack of furnishings.’

  ‘You have no cause to be ashamed, Mr Robshaw.’

  But it seemed he wanted to tell someone, and it just happened that I was conveniently on hand at that time.

  ‘I have no money, Mr Rhea, not a penny and no skills. I looked after my parents, you see, they were both handicapped. Physically, I mean, so I cared for them. Dad made money, he was clever with the stock market, and when they died I got the house and all their wonderful antiques. Dad invested in antiques. It was my inheritance, they said, but there was no money, no cash. Not when the various debts had been settled. And so, with no work skills, I have used those antiques to pay my way . . . sometimes I pay tradesmen with antiques, a sort of bartering system and sometimes, I would sell a nice piece to raise money . . . that is how I have lived, Mr Rhea, but I keep up appearances. That is so important, isn’t it, to maintain standards; and keep up appearances. That is why I employed specialists from afar, Mr Rhea, you see I could tell them I was just moving in or just moving out and so my gradually depleting stock of furnishings would not look unusual. My parents always insisted on that, that standards had to be maintained whatever the cost.’

  ‘But surely not if you impoverish yourself in the process!’ I smiled.

  ‘There is still the house,’ he said. ‘If necessary, I shall sell it and move into something smaller, and use the profits to pay my way. But soon I shall get a state pension . . . how nice that will be. I have managed to maintain my contributions, you see. It will be my first regular income. My parents told me it was not fitting for someone in my position to work, you see . . . so I never have worked at a job, other than looking after them. So, there you are. A mystery solved. You thought someone had broken in and stolen all my possessions, didn’t you?’

  ‘It has been known to happen,’ I had to admit, thinking my response might make him happy. ‘We’ve had instances where entire houses have been cleared by thieves equipped with furniture vans! I’m pleased it did not happen to you and thanks for being so open with me.’

  ‘So, thanks to a loose slipper my charade has been exposed. Maybe I should not have been so silly, struggling to maintain appearances, but having had such a limited background, what can one do?’

  ‘You’ve survived a nasty fall, Mr Robshaw, so now you have some time to think about your future.’

  ‘My experience in hospital has already taught me that it would be nice to be able to invite people in for a chat and a glass of whisky or something, and to have real friends, without worrying about the furnishings . . . or lack of them.’

  ‘Now that you’ve reached that decision I am sure you will find a way. Now, shall I tell the vicar about your acci
dent?’

  ‘Do you think he would be interested?’

  ‘I am sure he would, and I am sure he would pop in to see you, and perhaps someone from the congregation might come along too . . .’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Mr Rhea.’

  When he came out of hospital Mr Robshaw went to stay in a convalescent home recommended by the vicar, and while he was there, he put Shakespeare House on the market. It sold very quickly to two families who wanted to turn it into a small guest house and with the proceeds Mr Robshaw was able to buy and furnish a small cottage in Thackerston. I popped in to see him on a regular basis, and Mrs Browning — a widow — became a very frequent visitor. Eric once told me he’d never been able to form friendships due, I think, to his childhood, but Mrs Browning persuaded him to go out for meals, to concerts and for outings to the countryside.

  But Eric Robshaw never lost his ability to be stylish. Whenever I saw him with his new lady friend I noticed that he walked with a silver-topped black cane.

  * * *

  But if Shakespeare House contained its very own secret then so did South View, a charming olde worlde cottage on the approaches to Thackerston. South View stood back from the road with a paddock in front of it and, as the name suggests, it commanded wonderful views to the south. It was a small cottage built of the local mellow limestone and it had a roof of red pantiles. A rustic arch had been constructed over the front door and this was rich with wild roses and honeysuckle during the summer, while the garden around the house was always a riot of colourful blooms. People passing the house would regularly stop and take a photograph because, even in the depths of winter, the cottage always looked so charming and appealing. It was the sort of pretty country cottage for which so many townspeople long.

  For a time, after my arrival as the village constable, South View was owned and occupied by an elderly gentleman who lived alone. His two sons and one daughter, themselves in their late fifties, lived away from Thackerston. His wife had died fairly recently but he had continued to live in the house and to care for himself, fortified by regular visits from his children and their children. His name was William Stoney, he was well into his eighties, and he was a retired quarry worker. After his wife’s death he cooked his own meals, washed his own clothes and cleaned his own house with remarkable success.