CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘That’s the one!’ Claude was almost jumping up and down with excitement as he prodded the picture with his finger.

  ‘1836, you said?’ added Alec.

  ‘Yes. All of them have that date on them.’

  ‘I find this most intriguing,’ said Alec. ‘Not necessarily the date but the fact there are so many all bearing the same date. Now, Mr Greengrass, if your coins are in perfect condition, they could be worth anything between fifteen and twenty pounds each.’

  ‘Each?’ he almost shrilled.

  ‘Yes, a William IV half-crown in EF condition — that means Extra Fine — is worth around that amount. Say fifteen pounds per coin to be the lower side. Now, if the coins show wear, even slight wear, then the value drops dramatically, in this case to some eight or ten pounds per coin, and for those with considerable wear and use, the value drops to something like two or three pounds per coin. But you know the laws of treasure trove? You must hand them in, Mr Greengrass, but you will not be out of pocket, by no means. So yes, you have a valuable hoard on your hands. I congratulate you.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how they might have come to be hidden like that, have you?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry, Constable, no idea at all. I confess I am totally baffled by the fact they all bear the same date. That is most unusual . . . most unusual indeed. I wonder if someone has collected them because of the date? Perhaps the date was of some significance to that person? If not, then I am most intrigued. There is only one other explanation for them all having the same date. So, is it possible I might have a look at them?’

  ‘Aye, the constable’s coming with me now, to collect them, and then he’ll set the official wheels in motion.’

  ‘I’ll bring them straight here,’ I promised Mr Hughes.

  ‘And I’ll come an’ all,’ beamed Claude.

  In Claude’s cluttered and dusty living-room, I waited as he prised up the floorboards to reveal the bulky hessian sack. Lifting it out, he passed it to me as he relaid the boards and I took it, then peeped inside. It was extremely heavy and I could see the mass of coins. I shook the bag to make them settle, but I did not think the sound they produced was like modern coins. It was a dull noise, not the nicer sound of silver coins being shaken about. But I said nothing. Perhaps older coins did not have the lovely clear ring of their modern counterparts?

  Twenty minutes later, we were back at Alec’s cottage. I allowed Claude to carry in his precious load and, in the meantime, Alec had cleared the table of his own collection. He invited Claude to pour his treasure onto the tablecloth so that each coin could be examined. Again, I noted the dull sounds produced by the coins — and so did Alec Hughes.

  He looked at me quizzically and I opened my hands in a gesture which he interpreted as one of understanding. I knew what he was thinking. Alec picked up one of the coins and bit it.

  ‘Hey, you can’t eat ’em!’ smiled Claude. ‘I know they’re tasty morsels and they’re going to make me rich, but you can’t eat ’em, Alec.’

  ‘Mr Greengrass,’ said the gentle man, ‘I am afraid I have some bad news for you . . .’

  ‘They’re only worth a fiver apiece, is that it? ’Cos they’re worn round the edges?’

  ‘No, they’re not worth anything. They are valueless, Mr Greengrass, because they are not genuine coins. They are counterfeits, made from base metal . . . see, it’s softer than real silver, there’s a lot of lead in it . . . I wondered whether that was the case when you said they all bore the same date. That’s one clue to counterfeit coins — a counterfeiter makes a mould, you see, from a single coin, and everything that emerges from that mould is identical . . . so you’ve a bag full of duds. I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, Mr Greengrass, so very sorry for you.’

  ‘Duds?’ he almost cried. ‘But why would anybody hide duds?’

  ‘Because their activities had been discovered perhaps? They wanted to hide the evidence . . . coining was a serious crime, Mr Greengrass, with the death penalty in some cases, years ago . . . Now, I have no idea when or where these were made, but they are counterfeits. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, does that mean they’re worth nowt?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Claude,’ I said. ‘In fact, they’re a liability. There’s a whole range of offences covering the possession of counterfeit coins so you have to surrender them. They will be destroyed.’

  ‘I was going to surrender them anyway . . .’

  ‘Better luck next time?’ I said, helping Alec to replace the coins in Claude’s sack.

  ‘What about the thing I found ’em in?’

  ‘That might be worth a bob or two,’ I said. ‘And it’s not subject to the law of treasure trove.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s broken!’ he grumbled, the disappointment clear on his face. ‘It’ll not sell for a lot, and getting them things repaired is never a simple matter.’

  ‘You could always bury it again,’ I smiled.

  ‘And fill it with stones, you mean?’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Just in case whoever made them coins comes back for ’em?’

  ‘A nice idea,’ I said, taking the coins from Alec Hughes. ‘Sorry, Claude.’

  ‘Mebbe I should have hung onto them and tried to spend ’em . . .’

  ‘I think not,’ I said. ‘For once, Claude, your obedience of the law has saved you from further trouble. I’ll give you an official receipt and will let you know when they been formally destroyed.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing! And you can keep the sack,’ he muttered, as I carried the heavy load outside.

  * * *

  If Claude’s expectations had risen momentarily due to the finding of his evaporated treasure, then the same could never have been said about young Christopher Kitson’s fruitless search for silver. Chris, as everyone called him, was fifteen; the son of Andrew and Anita Kitson, he was an only child and had developed into a rather serious, music-loving youth who did not enjoy being with a crowd. He was well known around Aidensfield because, during the week, he delivered newspapers from the village shop before travelling into Strensford to attend the grammar school. At weekends, he often visited his grandfather, did his shopping or took the old man out for a trip in his wheelchair.

  Chris preferred to play his violin rather than football or cricket and, while the other lads of his age would be rushing off to local matches or village dances at the weekend, Chris was happy to sit with a book, walk alone on the moors or practise his classical music. Tall, good-looking and with a delightful sense of humour, he was a likeable lad who did not get teased like other youths who had sensitive temperaments. There is no doubt that through his charm and humour, he could deal effectively with anyone who might be tempted to bully or tease him — and he had no shortage of girlfriends. He was a lad who knew his own mind and was not afraid to follow his own instinct rather than be persuaded by pressure from his peers.

  As the village constable, I was well acquainted with Chris. Often, I’d see him during the early mornings going about his paper round and he’d always smile and bid me good morning. In many ways, he was the ears and eyes of Aidensfield, visiting more houses than I during the course of his working week.

  One of his strengths was his ability to respond to minor events along his delivery route — on several occasions, he told me about milk standing on doorsteps for longer than usual or elderly people not opening their curtains. Once he told me about someone who had gone away on holiday and left the cat locked in a bedroom and another time, how holidaymakers had departed leaving the oven on. On his daily rounds, Chris had noticed these things and had wisely alerted me or the relevant families. In this small way, and in many other ways, he showed initiative coupled with a welcome sense of responsibility.

  Like most of us in Aidensfield, we knew of the close relationship between Chris and his grandfather, old Kit Kitson. Old Mr Kitson, also baptized Christopher but known to all as Kit, lived alone in a cottage on the green, his wife having died several years before my arrival as the constable. Kit managed to look after him
self surprisingly well in spite of having to use a wheelchair for his outings — a back injury sustained during his work as a woodsman had caused his disability. In the house, though, he could struggle about his daily routine without the chair, although Anita, his daughter-in-law, did help with his washing and cooking. It was when Anita had undertaken this work in the early days of the loss of Kit’s wife, that young Chris had gone with her and the friendly relationship between grandad and grandson had developed.

  At weekends especially, Chris would spend hours with his grandad who, in spite of working in the tough role of woodsman for a local estate, also had an artistic streak.

  He liked ballroom dancing and dance music, loving the big bands of his era and possessing hundreds of records of his heroes like Victor Sylvester, Eric Delany, Glenn Miller, Ted Heath and other masters of dance music. In his fitter days, Kit Kitson would travel miles to dance — which is where he had met his late partner, Iris. From dancing the modern waltz, foxtrot and quickstep in local village halls, Kit had established himself as such a good dancer that he’d been sought as a partner for ladies who wished to dance competitively, in both the old time and modern styles. And so dancing had been his life — always supported fully by Iris. He had also once played the trumpet in a local dance band, the Moortones. The Moortones played regularly in villages across the moors, their ‘home’ being Milthorpe Village Hall with its wonderful sprung floor. This hall, set in remote moorland, was favoured by hunt balls, wedding dances, annual dinner/dances and similar important events — invariably with music by the Moortones.

  Due to Kit’s wide knowledge of ballroom dancing in all its modes, he’d been asked to judge many competitions across the north-east of England and had acted as MC at important events in some of the area’s finest hotels and dance halls. As MC, Kit had had to wear an evening suit with highly polished black shoes, and it had been his job to organize and call the dances, establishing his authority with a silver whistle.

  But his back injury had put an end to all that. Now, well into his seventies and unable to dance any more, he enjoyed his memories and his recorded music.

  There is no doubt he was so pleased he could share these with his grandson. Fortunately, young Chris did enjoy music of all kinds and although he had not shown any desire to acquire his grandfather’s skill in ballroom dancing — to my knowledge he had never been to any of the local dances — it was due to his grandfather’s influence that he decided to learn an instrument. This had led to his ability with the violin.

  Then someone decided to stage an old time dance at Milthorpe Village Hall.

  Although the new rock-’n’-roll dancing and its vigorous variant was popular, the older people preferred the classic style of what had become known as old time, or even ‘olde tyme’ dancing but opportunities had become fewer for dancing the valeta, the dashing-white-sergeant or the lancers or even a modern waltz and foxtrot. The majesty and polished skills of that beautiful age had vanished in the noise of pop-singers’ discs accompanied by wild and uncoordinated acrobatics.

  The Milthorpe Old Time Dance was the idea of Molly Potter. She hailed me in Aidensfield village street one Monday morning and told me of her proposals, adding that it might be a good idea to have intoxicants for sale during the dance. She sought my advice on the legal aspects of that idea, and I explained accordingly. The suggested date for the dance was Saturday, 20 September and I said I would note it in my diary so that either I, or other police officers from Ashfordly, could patrol the village to ensure there was no trouble.

  ‘That’s our only worry,’ she said. ‘I do know that troublemakers are likely to turn up and cause fights, but there’s no way I can stop them coming, is there?’

  ‘You could make it ticket-only admission,’ I said. ‘And make them so expensive that none of the rabble would want to bother to come. Or you could form a club — the Milthorpe Old Time Dance Club — and then limit the event to members only who bought tickets in advance. That way you could pick and choose your members and keep the rabble away. It would make life easier for you and for the police.’

  ‘That’s an idea!’ she said. ‘A dance club . . . yes, Mr Rhea, I like that.’

  In that casual way, the idea for a dance club was formed and Kit Kitson found himself being invited to become president. He accepted with great delight and on the Friday before the big dance, I happened to see young Chris delivering his morning papers in Aidensfield.

  ‘It’s your grandad’s big night, eh?’ I smiled. ‘His first event as president of the new dance club!’

  ‘He’s really looking forward to it,’ grinned Chris. ‘And he’s taking me. He wants me to see what real dancing is like, so he says. Dad and Mum are going as well; we’re all going in their car. Grandad has been asked to MC the lancers, just like he used to . . . he’s found his whistle and is busy swotting up all the moves!’

  The dance was a huge success with 120 people attending and not one iota of trouble. Such was the happiness it generated, that it was scheduled to become an annual event, and word of the new dance club in Milthorpe soon spread with people from neighbouring villages applying to join. There would be regular club nights too. But during the following days, I noticed a change in young Chris Kitson.

  The first intimation was sight of him walking across the moors from Milthorpe, using a well-established path which crossed the fields and moors; via this route, Milthorpe was only a couple of miles from Aidensfield, whereas the route by road was nearly four miles. It would be about ten days after the dance and I was visiting a farm on the edge of the moor above Milthorpe. I spotted his lonely figure trudging along the path with his head down and his hands in his pockets. It was half term, so I knew he was not playing truant.

  ‘Isn’t that young Kitson?’ I commented to the farmer, Frank Mitchell.

  ‘Aye, it is. He’s been up there a few times this week,’ replied Frank. ‘Allus alone, head down like that . . .’

  ‘He’s like a poet creating a poem!’ I said. ‘Or a composer working on a tune.’

  ‘It’s a pity he’s got nowt better to do,’ grinned the farmer. ‘I could use a spare hand if he’s looking for summat to occupy him!’

  ‘He’s usually busy with something or other.’ I tried to protect the lad because I liked him. ‘It’s not like him to mooch about like that.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s not doing any harm to anybody,’ said Frank. ‘Not like some that use that path, setting fire to t’moor or leaving rubbish behind.’

  During that week, I realized that Chris Kitson was spending a lot of time walking alone and in apparent misery along the path between Aidensfield and Milthorpe and although I accepted his behaviour was none of my business, I did have some concern for the lad. If something was bothering him, he should not have to deal with it alone. An opportunity for a chat with him came the following Friday.

  It was almost a fortnight after the dance and I was undertaking an early foot patrol of Aidensfield. I came upon Chris who was walking briskly towards the railway station with his satchel of newspapers. I knew he delivered one paper at the station and another at Beckside Cottage half a mile or so beyond, and so I fell into step beside him.

  ‘Hi, Chris,’ I said. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘No, not at all, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘I’m on an early route,’ I explained. ‘Our office makes us do these early patrols once in a while, to make sure we get out of bed! We have a set route to walk, usually over a period of four hours. I started at six this morning.’

  ‘I like the early morning,’ Chris smiled. ‘Everything’s so fresh. I don’t have to get up so early during half term, but I enjoy the mornings and don’t like lying in bed all day.’

  ‘I saw you on the moors the other day,’ I said. ‘I was visiting Frank Mitchell at Rock Head Farm; you were walking along with your head down as if you had the worries of the entire world pressing on your shoulders!’

  He turned and smiled at me; it was a wan smile, then he lowered
his eyes and blinked and I could see something had upset him. I halted. Quickly, I looked around and established that we were alone on the edge of the village. Knowing that our conversation could not be overheard, I asked, ‘Is something wrong, Chris? Something bothering you?’

  The slight movement of his head indicated that something was troubling him and, after taking a deep breath, he turned to me and said, ‘Mr Rhea, you can keep secrets, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I can. We’re trained to respect confidences.’

  I waited and then he began to walk again, heading in the original direction and I strode to keep pace with him. I decided not to press him to reveal the cause of his distress — if he wanted to share his burden with me, then he would do so — and I did not lose sight of the fact that he was only fifteen years old.

  ‘You know my grandad, Kit Kitson?’ were his next words.

  ‘I do indeed,’ I smiled. ‘A wonderful man, Chris.’

  ‘Yes, he is and I adore him, Mr Rhea. I would hate to do anything that would upset him . . .’

  ‘I can imagine how you feel,’ I said.

  ‘You know about his dancing, and when he was MC?’

  ‘I knew he had done that sort of thing when he was fitter,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘Well, he had a silver whistle, Mr Rhea. Real silver, it was. He used it during his MC work, blowing it to control the dancers; he’s had it years. It was specially made, Mr Rhea, a dance MC’s whistle, with his initials on it. He was really proud of it.’

  ‘He never showed it to me,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well, you know the Milthorpe Dance? A week last Saturday?’

  ‘I do indeed, a very happy event.’

  ‘Grandad did his MC bit there, Mr Rhea, calling for the lancers, but with his injured back and his age, he said he didn’t think he could ever do it again. It was a long time since he’d done that sort of thing and he found it very tiring. He told me he would retire there and then. And he did.’

  ‘A nice way to end his dancing career.’ I struggled to find a suitable comment.