‘Well, the day after, Mr Rhea, the Sunday it was, I went to have my usual chat with him and he gave me that whistle. That really surprised me. He wanted me to have it. He knew I’d never be a dancer like him or an MC or anything, but he wanted me to have it. I was really proud, Mr Rhea.’
‘And?’ I knew there was more to come.
He took a deep breath and halted in his walk. ‘I’ve lost it, Mr Rhea. I can’t find it anywhere . . . and I daren’t tell anybody, not my mum or my dad — and certainly not my grandad . . . I mean, he kept it all those years and I’ve lost it so soon . . . it was very precious to him, Mr Rhea. I don’t know what to do. I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve got to find it.’
‘Is that what you were doing when I saw you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, after he gave it to me, I put it in my trouser pocket and I went for a walk to Milthorpe that Sunday evening . . . I’d met a girl, you see, at the dance, and said we’d meet up . . .’
‘And was she there? The girl?’
‘Yes, we walked over the moor and talked. She was nice. I’m going to see her again, next Sunday.’
‘What’s her name, Chris?’ I wanted to know this in case there was any question of the whistle being stolen.
‘She’s called Carol. Carol Fletcher. She likes music, Mr Rhea, like I do. She plays the piano. We get on well.’
‘And the whistle? Did you tell Carol about it? And about your grandad?’
‘Yes, she was interested. I told her all about his dancing days and what he used the whistle for. I showed it to her.’
‘And you’re sure you returned it to your pocket?’
‘Yes, Mr Rhea, I was extra careful. I put it in my left pocket, with my handkerchief and loose change. I have a little wallet in the other pocket; I keep birthday money in it, notes that is, and reminders about birthdays and things.’
‘So what about that Sunday night when you went home? Was the whistle there then?’
‘I never checked, Mr Rhea. When I went up to bed, I didn’t turn my pockets out, you see; I never do that. I got undressed and got into bed, then next morning got up, delivered the papers and went to school. I never checked for the whistle then — to be honest, I forgot about the whistle when I was delivering and when I went to school.’
‘Could anyone steal it at school?’ I put to him.
‘Not that Monday, no. We didn’t have gym or sports, they’re on Wednesdays, so I didn’t have to leave my clothes unattended in the changing rooms.’
‘And you never saw it again? So when exactly did you notice it was missing?’
‘This Monday after tea, when I went up to my room. We’re off school as it’s half term. I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen the whistle. I can only think I must have pulled it out of my pocket with my handkerchief or something. I’ve searched my room and Grandad’s house where I sat and the loo and the places I walked with Carol in Milthorpe and that path across the moors. I’ve been back time and time again, Mr Rhea, to all the places I’ve been since he gave it to me, but haven’t found it. I’ve checked at school as well, in my class-room and where I’ve played and had my music lessons, and all along the village street at houses I call at with papers.’
‘And you haven’t told anyone about the loss?’
‘No, how could I? If my grandad finds out, he’ll be so upset . . .’
‘We do have a lost and found property department, Chris. If someone loses something, it’s often worthwhile contacting the police, then if the object is handed in, we can match it with the loser. We do restore a surprising amount of lost property to the rightful owners.’
‘Oh, I had no idea but, well, I can’t let my parents know, can I?’
‘Right. Give me a description of this whistle and I’ll check our found property registers. At least it’s a start and you could be lucky. Somebody could have found it and handed it in, especially if it’s obviously something unusual or rather precious.’
Chris described the whistle as being about an inch and a half long and rather wide or squat in shape — three quarters of an inch or so.
There was a half-moon shaped hole in the top and the mouth was shaped to accommodate a person’s lips. At the back end there was a small split ring which would take a chain or string and the entire object was made of real silver. It had a slightly uneven surface bearing a carved foliage-type of design and there was a hall-mark at the back, near the split ring, but he did not know its lettering or design. On a small shield-shaped area on the top were the initials C.K. in copperplate engraving, meaning Christopher Kitson.
‘You won’t tell my folks or grandad, will you?’ he pleaded with me.
‘No, of course not,’ I assured him. ‘Right, I have to visit Ashfordly Police Station this afternoon so I’ll check our found property registers. If the whistle has been handed in I’ll make sure it comes back to you without anyone knowing.’
Sadly, there was no record of Chris Kitson’s whistle, but I did make an entry in the Lost Property Register in the hope that someone might find it and report it to us. Feeling sorry for the lad, I did a brief tour of the half-dozen or so antique and second-hand shops in Ashfordly, asking about the whistle and describing it to the shopkeepers, just in case someone had found it and sold it, but again drew a blank. It began to appear that young Chris would have to be honest with his grandfather and admit to losing the heirloom.
I returned to Aidensfield that Friday afternoon, but did not make the mistake of visiting the Kitson household to relay the bad news to Chris; instead, I would await the opportunity of catching him in the street and I managed to do this on the Saturday morning.
He was delivering the papers and noticed my approach in the Mini-van, waiting to speak with me. I eased the van to a halt and climbed out.
‘Sorry, Chris,’ I began. ‘There’s nothing in our records, and I called at the second-hand shops too — but no luck.’
‘I have to see Grandad tomorrow,’ he said gloomily. ‘He left a message with Dad; he wants me to take the whistle back as he’s got a pal coming for tea and wants to show it to him.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘So it’s hands-up-and-be-honest time, is it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I feel so awful, Mr Rhea . . .’
‘You’ve been over all the ground again, have you? Revisiting all the places you’ve been to since he gave it to you?’
‘Everywhere, Mr Rhea. School, home, the street — and Carol and I must have searched every inch of the path between here and Milthorpe.’
‘It could still be in your house.’ I was speaking almost to myself, and then I had a brainwave. ‘You said you might have pulled it out with your handkerchief?’ I reminded him of an earlier suggestion.
‘Yes, I did that once. I sneezed, whipped my handkerchief out and the whistle came with it, and fell onto the floor. I heard it fall that time.’
‘So if you could pull it out like that, so could someone else,’ I said.
‘Nobody uses my handkerchief, Mr Rhea!’ he said with some disdain.
‘But I bet your mum digs into your pocket when she wants to do the washing,’
I suggested, ‘When’s washing day?’
‘Mondays,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, she goes through my pockets for handkerchiefs on Sunday nights, and I leave my other stuff on the bed on Monday mornings.’
‘Has she a washing machine?’ was my next question, thinking that if the whistle had fallen into the works, it would have jammed or, at the least, caused some kind of obstruction.
‘Yes, one of those new twin tubs,’ Chris said. ‘But she puts all the dirty washing into a big basket first and sorts it . . .’
‘I think you need to search that basket, the drying ground of your garden and anywhere else your handkerchief might have got to, even the washing machine and its pipes,’ I suggested. ‘Even if the whistle was wrapped in your hanky, it might have fallen out during some stage of the washing process without your mum noticing it.’
‘I never thought
of that,’ he said, with some show of relief and gratitude. ‘Thanks, Mr Rhea. I’ll do it the moment I get back.’
To cut short a long story, Chris rifled the dirty washing basket and found his whistle. It had become wrapped in his handkerchief as his mother had removed it from his pocket and she’d not noticed. The handkerchief had been placed in her dirty washing basket and then, as his mum had lifted out each item to examine it and grade it as whites or coloureds, the whistle had slipped out to fall without a sound onto the remaining clothes, from where it had worked its way to the bottom of the heap of clothing.
There it had remained undiscovered for almost a couple of weeks — it would have been found eventually, I am sure, but only if Mrs Kitson had completely emptied the basket. And that happened on very rare occasions.
Understandably, Chris was mightily relieved. He told me he would save his paper money to buy a silver chain so he could hang the whistle on it from a hook on his bedroom wall. There it would remain in full view until it was required and then he’d wear it around his neck.
As I said to young Chris Kitson the next time I saw him, ‘Your efforts to recover the family heirloom were well worth the whistle.’
‘Is that a quote from Shakespeare?’ he asked with a smile.
‘To answer that one, you’ll have to launch another search,’ I laughed.
2
The joys of parents are secret,
and so are their griefs and fears.
FRANCIS BACON, 1561–1626
It was a long time before I realized that Mr and Mrs Bentham of Thornfield House, Aidensfield, had a son. So far as I was aware, the well-off, affable and very likeable couple, now in late middle age, had no children — none lived with them, in my recollection none had ever called to see them and there was no evidence of any grandchildren. No paddling pools were stored in the outbuildings, no toboggans lingered in the garage and no beach balls awaited discovery in the garden borders. Young people never seemed to be invited to the house and none of the village children was ever invited there to play or have parties.
However, the Benthams did not dislike children or young people; on the contrary, they appeared to enjoy contact with them at events such as the school’s Open Day or fetes in the village. Nonetheless, they lived the kind of life which did not involve young family members or grandchildren and which, in addition, implied they were comfortably off with no financial worries. Certainly, their home, Thornfield House, was a gem; set on a hillside in seven spectacular acres overlooking the dale below Aidensfield, it was built of local stone with a pantile roof and boasted six bedrooms, two bathrooms, a double garage, conservatory and three reception rooms in addition to a south-facing kitchen.
Being the local constable, I wanted to know about the couple and discovered that Leonard Bentham had retired early due to ill health.
A stout man of average height with broad shoulders, a good head of fair hair and a distinctive moustache, he was noted for the smartness of his expensive attire and the magnificent old silver-coloured Alvis car he used constantly. He had been only fifty-two upon retirement, but, at the time I was the village constable at Aidensfield, he was in his early sixties. In spite of his health problem, he looked quite fit, but he had a serious heart condition which could be aggravated by stress or undue physical activity. To prolong Leonard’s life, his doctor had recommended he desert the turmoil of London in favour of the calmness of a home on the North York Moors with lots of fresh air and the opportunity for gentle, physical exercise. And Leonard Bentham had heeded that advice, coming with his wife to live in the village a few years prior to my arrival.
He and his wife, Alice, had quickly settled into Aidensfield life and were popular residents, both serving on the parochial church council of the Anglican church and involving themselves with charities and local events such as the annual Blessing of the Plough or village fête. They provided valuable support for national charities and both served on a selection of local branch committees, ranging from the Red Cross to the Royal National Institute for the Blind via Aidensfield Flower Show and Ashfordly and District Motor Club.
Over a period of months, I learned that Leonard had worked in London as a barrister where he had specialized in income tax matters and he’d made sufficient wise investments to be able to retire early. This, like his health problem, was no secret — he had explained it many times to friends in and around the village.
I believe he had inherited money from his parents and from an uncle, too, and thus the rather premature termination of his career did not impose any financial strain upon him. Indeed, he continued with some consultancy work for which he received a handsome retainer and substantial fees and thus he was able to potter around his small estate and occupy himself in a gentle, meaningful way which did not threaten his health.
Alice, his wife, was more active in the village and beyond than her husband. Younger than him by a couple of years or so, she was a slim, well-dressed and highly attractive woman with long dark hair tied at the back in a pony-tail, who liked to wear full-length, flowing dresses, rich with pastel colours. She worked as a consultant in colour co-ordination, giving advice to large stores, hotels, stately homes and similar places of renown. In spite of her high reputation in that profession, she did not ignore the village’s needs and was regularly asked for her ideas of up-to-the-minute colour schemes for the village hall, the pub and even the local shop — and she obliged, giving her expertise free of charge.
Most of my contact with the Benthams came through visits to the house in the course of my work. Leonard Bentham owned a .22 rifle and a shotgun which he used on his land for the destruction of vermin and this meant I had to make periodic visits to his home to renew the respective certificates. From time to time, there were other reasons to call at the house — to warn against confidence tricksters or unscrupulous workmen offering their doubtful services, for example, or to discuss various village matters.
These included such knotty problems as the serving of alcohol to the public at church events or the management of traffic if a visitor-friendly fête was held on the village green. The Benthams were away from home quite a lot, too, sometimes for just a single night during the week and occasionally for weekends or a longer holiday. Whenever this happened, I would be asked to keep an eye on their house and invariably there was a thank-you card in my letter-box the day after their return. Whatever the reason for my visit, I was always made to feel welcome; as the local people invariably said, ‘There’s no edge on the Benthams, they’re really nice folks.’ And so they were.
On the occasions I had visited the house or spoken to the couple, there had never been any reference to a family. It was not the normal subject for a conversation unless, of course, there was some common ground. If they’d had a son about my age, I am sure they would have discussed him with me, particularly if he had entered the law as his profession. I calculated that if they’d had children, then they would be about my own age or perhaps a little older — in their late thirties perhaps. The chances were that if they did have children of that age, there would be grandchildren around the age of my own young brood — but that topic was never raised and I never asked. It wasn’t the sort of thing one discussed without invitation, although I was aware that I had never seen or heard the voices of little ones at Thornfield.
As if to reinforce their childlessness, I did notice that no family photographs adorned the mantelshelves; neither were there any on display in any of the rooms that I had visited — although I had never ventured into any of the bedrooms.
Added to this, neither of them mentioned any family — thus I assumed, quite naturally, that Leonard and Alice Bentham either had not wanted or could not have, any children. The matter was not a talking point; it was an accepted fact and no one in the village ever considered the Benthams’ lack of family to be any way unusual. But quite unexpectedly, the situation changed.
A local painter and decorator mentioned in the pub that the Benthams’ son was coming ho
me after several years of working abroad. He knew that because he’d been asked to redecorate the son’s bedroom at Thornfield House. This was the first anyone had heard of a son and initially, those who heard the painter’s version thought he was imagining it or that he had misunderstood some other information. Then Joe Steel, from the shop, came up with the same story — Leonard and Alice Bentham’s son was coming home shortly after a long time working overseas. Little else was known at that stage, but Joe was adamant that the tale was correct — he had been told by none other than Leonard Bentham himself.
It was Joe Steel who then passed the news to me.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, wondering why there had never been any previous reference to a son.
‘Sure as I’m standing here talking to you, Nick,’ affirmed Joe. ‘Leonard told me himself. He said his son is coming home after a long spell abroad; Leonard came here to say he intended to increase his regular orders for bread, vegetables and so on. “One extra mouth to feed in the very near future”, he said. And he’s had the lad’s bedroom redecorated, to make it more suitable for a man rather than a youth.’
‘Well, if he told you, it must be right,’ I had to admit.
‘He said it won’t be permanent, Nick. His lad has ended his contract and will be looking for other work; he was with a civil construction firm apparently, building roads and bridges. If he gets work either here or overseas again, he’ll be off once more, but I got the impression his folks expect to have him around the place for a few weeks until he gets himself fixed up with something.’
News of the impending arrival of the hitherto unknown son of the Benthams did generate a good deal of excitement in Aidensfield. The cricket and football teams wondered whether he was a good player or any use as an umpire or referee; available young women in the village (and their mothers) wondered if he was single, good-looking and wealthy in his own right; some of the smaller local businesses, particularly those associated with the building trade, wondered if he had skills to offer them, while Aidensfield garage felt he might like to buy a car or a motorbike if he was going to remain a while. The Women’s Institute wondered if he would give them a talk about his experiences overseas; the vicar thought he might have time on his hands which would enable him to cut the grass in the churchyard and weed the path, while the parish council felt it should arrange its next election of members to cater for his arrival. And lots of others had their own plans for the young fellow when he arrived — after all, the darts team at the pub was usually short of good players and there was always room for a thrusting and confident person on the village hall committee. Thus, in its own way, the impending arrival of Bentham junior was of great interest to many Aidensfield residents.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 3