Soon, we learned that his name was Jeremy Hugh Bentham, that he was thirty-three years old, unmarried, six feet tall with the dark hair of his mother and her rather slender build. He liked sports, so we discovered, and was keen on squash and badminton. Far-sighted young women with rose-tinted spectacles did not lose sight of the fact that one day he could inherit Thornfield House and the wealth that went with it; consequently, some of the dress shops in Ashfordly did a roaring trade in new outfits while the hairdressers, likewise, reported a brisk trade ahead of the impending arrival of Jeremy Hugh. Variations of this kind of speculation buzzed around and enlivened the village for a couple of weeks with no sign of the eagerly awaited young man, and then, quite unexpectedly, I was summoned to a meeting with Sub-Divisional Commander, Inspector Harry Breckon, at Ashfordly Police Station. I had no cause to even consider that this meeting might, in some way, be connected with the impending arrival of Jeremy Hugh Bentham.
Because there was no explanation for the meeting, which was to be on the following Wednesday at 11 a.m., I wondered what on earth I had done wrong and visualized being posted to some far-flung corner of the North Riding of Yorkshire or whether someone had made an official complaint against me. All manner of such eventualities crossed my mind as I motored into Ashfordly and parked my Mini-van in the police station yard a few minutes early. My concern had prompted me to dress in a smart uniform and even to get my hair cut — such formal meetings with one’s sub-divisional commander were not everyday events.
When I entered the police station, PC Alf Ventress was working at the enquiry desk and both he and Sergeant Blaketon were just as worried and as intrigued as I; both knew about the meeting, but neither knew its purpose.
As I walked in, Blaketon said, ‘Rhea, what’s this all about, getting the inspector to come out here for confidential words in your ear? Have you been up to something? Rocking the boat? Upsetting members of the public, our customers? Asking for a transfer?’
‘No, Sergeant.’ I spread my hands to indicate my lamentable lack of knowledge. ‘I have no idea what this is all about. I just hope they’re not posting me to South Bank or somewhere just as bad.’
‘I used to be at South Bank, Sarge,’ muttered Alf. ‘A dreadful place.’
‘For young and ambitious constables, Rhea, South Bank is one of the best training grounds in our force area,’ Blaketon countered. ‘Industrial areas like that, rich with humanitarian problems, domestic activities and hard-drinking steel workers, and located on the edge of Middlesbrough’s teeming metropolis, can teach you a lot. If you do get posted there, don’t object. It’ll be a prelude to promotion, Rhea; it’ll teach you a bit about real police work. You can learn more during one Saturday night in South Bank than years on a rural beat like Aidensfield. And if you want to get yourself promoted, you need that kind of experience. You can’t buck the system, Rhea, so if the powers-that-be want you to go, then go you must, without questioning them, without asking why. Obedience, Rhea, official obedience!’
‘I’d rather be posted to Hull!’ muttered Alf.
We discussed the likelihood of a move to pastures new, even if those pastures were covered with concrete, council houses and blocks of flats, and even if the move was deemed necessary for career purposes. During our deliberations, Inspector Breckon’s Ford Consul pulled into the police station yard. Moments later, the great man emerged. He plonked his cap on his head and came to our office front door. Within seconds, he was striding into the office where Blaketon, Alf Ventress and myself stood rigidly to attention.
‘Morning Sergeant, morning Ventress, morning Rhea,’ he smiled as he entered. ‘All correct?’
‘All correct, sir,’ returned Blaketon. ‘Nothing untoward during the night. No crimes reported.’
‘Excellent, Sergeant, that sort of thing always keeps the bosses happy at headquarters. Now, PC Rhea, let’s go into the sergeant’s office. And you, Sergeant Blaketon, had better join us. And, PC Ventress, I think a sample of your station coffee would not go amiss. Three cups if you please.’
‘Three cups of best Ashfordly nick coffee coming up, sir,’ grinned Alf.
The inspector was a happy, confident fellow in his late forties. With some twenty years police service in uniform, he was a very capable man whose knowledge and common sense I appreciated; should I ever need career advice, or even some help of a very personal nature, then I would never hesitate to seek a word with Inspector Breckon. I knew I could rely on his advice. But this time he wanted to see me — and I had no idea why.
Placing his cap on the side of Blaketon’s desk and a blue folder beside it, he settled in the chair and for a few minutes, as we awaited Alf Ventress’s renowned coffee, he and Blaketon chatted about professional matters, particularly as they related to Ashfordly section. There was talk of amalgamations with other police forces, talk of boundary changes at both national and local level, talk of closing sectional stations like Ashfordly in favour of a merger with Eltering with a group of police stations being under the sole command of a chief inspector.
Such talk was, at that time, fairly common-place, but I did know that there was an element of truth in it. The Boundary Commission had made certain recommendations which included, among other things, the establishment of a new county called Cleveland which would embrace industrial Teesside and include large areas of the North Riding and County Durham. In our region, there was to be another new county called Humberside which would span the River Humber and encompass parts of Lincolnshire, the West Riding of Yorkshire and most of the East Riding. Worse still, the abolition of the three Ridings of Yorkshire had been suggested. Yorkshire without the North Riding, West Riding and East Riding was unthinkable . . . but the proposals were based on that kind of radical, unrepresentative and illogical thinking and, if they were implemented, the police forces of the area would have to endure dramatic changes with the smaller forces being absorbed within the larger ones. The future looked bleak — it promised a good deal of turmoil along with some jockeying for positions of authority by ambitious police officers which, they hoped, would lead to promotion.
Such was the talk prior to the arrival of Ventress’s coffee and I began to wonder if I was to be involved with those changes. Perhaps a posting to headquarters to become involved with the administrative work surrounding that dramatic upheaval?
When the coffee arrived, it halted all such discussion; I don’t think it was anything to do with the quality, taste or curious appearance of the liquid in the cups, rather it was due to the fact it was time to proceed with the business of this meeting. As we stirred our coffee, enhanced by ample amounts of sugar, Alf took his leave, raised his eyebrows at me in a gesture which registered his curiosity, and closed the door behind him. I wondered if he might linger awhile outside in a brave attempt to determine the reason for all this secrecy.
‘Well, let’s get down to business,’ said Inspector Breckon, picking up the blue file and opening it before him. As the file fell open, I saw the words ‘Highly Confidential’ across the front. ‘You’ll be wondering what all this is about?’
‘Yes, sir, I must admit we are,’ said Blaketon.
‘Well, it is of more concern to PC Rhea, but I felt you ought to be made aware of the contents, Sergeant,’ began the inspector. ‘Now, PC Rhea. You have a family living on your patch, in Aidensfield itself, by the name of Bentham?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed, and, anxious to display my local knowledge, added, ‘Leonard and Alice Bentham; they live at Thornfield House. He’s a retired barrister, sir, he retired due to ill health and she is a colour consultant, very respected in her profession. They used to live in London and came to live in the area because of the calm lifestyle of the moors.’
‘I suspect he came for other reasons if the truth was known,’ said Breckon. ‘Well, PC Rhea, you have not mentioned his son? Jeremy Hugh?’
‘He’s due home any time now, sir, he’s been working overseas for a number of years. He’s coming home to look for fresh work,
possibly in this country. He is thirty-three, unmarried and quite good at sport, so local intelligence informs me.’
‘Your local knowledge is impressive,’ smiled the inspector. ‘But, sadly, you have been rather misinformed. Jeremy is coming home, PC Rhea, but not from overseas. He’s coming out of prison. An English prison. On licence. He’s been inside for the past twelve years, doing time for murder. He’s a lifer.’
‘Murder?’ I could not prevent myself calling out the word.
‘He’s a convicted murderer, Rhea. Now, I must tell you that there was a strong case for convicting him of manslaughter rather than murder. According to this file, the jury discounted the defence submissions that the evidence supported a verdict of manslaughter and he was convicted of murder. Afterwards, some newspaper reports said the jury was prejudiced against Jeremy because he was from the professional classes and had had a public-school education, but the upshot was he got the mandatory sentence for murder — life imprisonment. You know how unreliable and biased some juries can be, especially when they think something has been influenced by class distinctions, but the judge realized what had happened. His response was to recommend leniency due to the exceptional circumstances, and that is why Jeremy has been released on licence after serving only twelve years.’
‘What did he do, sir? Am I allowed to know?’ I was shocked by this revelation and on the spur of the moment could only think of that question.
‘There was a fight outside a night club in London. Some yobbos attacked Jeremy and his pals — Jeremy happened to be carrying a flick knife which he used to defend himself. The thugs used boots and fists, and so when Jeremy’s knife severed an artery of one of them, he found himself arrested for murder because the chap died. The argument was that Jeremy did not meet force with like force — the prosecution, quite rightly, argued that a fist is no match for a knife. The fact he was carrying the knife — something not disputed in court — influenced the jury and they believed he had gone out with the deliberate intention of stirring up trouble and using it. Jeremy said he always carried it: he was a keen angler and used it for gutting fish and so forth. The judge, in his summing up, did try to steer the jury towards a manslaughter verdict based on the self-defence issue, or even a justifiable homicide verdict, but the jury would have none of it.’
‘So Jeremy’s education and upper-class accent got him a life sentence?’ I said. ‘That shows the supposed fairness behind left-wing socialist attitudes!’
‘That’s one interpretation. The other is that the old pals’ act has provided him with a rather early release — his father was a barrister, remember, and was well acquainted with most of the judiciary. Whether or not his early release will prompt friends of his victim to seek him out for further revenge is something I do not know, but the purpose of this meeting, PC Rhea, is quite simply to let you know that a convicted murderer is coming to live on your patch.’
‘Have I any official role to play?’ I asked.
‘It is a condition of his licence that he reports any change of address or personal circumstances, like getting a job or marriage, to the police — to you, in this case. He has already nominated his parents’ address as the place he will live upon release. There might be other conditions to his licence, like reporting to the police once a month, or liaising with the probation service. Those details have not been finalized — or if they have, I have not been informed.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him, sir,’ I said.
‘I don’t think that is what we have to do, PC Rhea. The reason for this meeting is merely to acquaint you with the fact that you have a convicted murderer, released on licence, living on your patch. I must add that this information is highly confidential. No one outside this office must be made aware of Jeremy’s record — so you must live with his secret, PC Rhea. He is not regarded as violent or as a potential re-offender, but if he does commit any other relevant crime, then, of course, he will be in breach of his licence and could be returned to prison. He knows that, of course.’
Breckon then passed me a photograph of Jeremy Bentham and I could see the likeness to his mother. Although this was an official prison photograph, the man did look like a professional person rather than a professional villain. It would not be difficult to recognize him when we met. I could now understand why his parents had left London for a new life in the remoteness of the North York Moors, and I could see how they had planted and nurtured the idea of a son working overseas.
To some extent, I could even understand why they had not displayed any photographs of him. I guessed that any such photos had been carefully retained in his bedroom, a sort of shrine to his memory, secure from public scrutiny. To display them in a place where visitors could see them was a means of inviting questions, which they did not want. In their own way, his parents had done, and were doing, all in their power to help their son; having given him support in the past, now they were faced with helping him to reintegrate into society. I could also understand the reason for their frequent absences from home — they would have been visiting him in prison. But they had ensured that Jeremy and his unfortunate past were not known in this part of the world. Thanks to the careful ground-work by his parents, Jeremy could reconstruct his life as he wished — he had no earlier reputation to live up to. And I had no desire to obstruct him in his attempt to rehabilitate himself.
Breckon added that the file would not be lodged at Ashfordly Police Station, and said that no one else must know of Jeremy’s past. Apart from his parents, the only two people with a knowledge of his criminal record would be Sergeant Blaketon and myself. I departed from the police station in something of a daze and with Alf Ventress clearly dying to know what had transpired at the meeting, but I left him in blissful ignorance as I drove home wondering how I would cope if any of my children became involved in serious crime. I hoped I would find the strength to provide all the love and support they might need.
As I approached the village, I realized that Jeremy was about my own age . . . he’d need male company of his own peer group, so could I become friends with him? Knowing his past, would I buy him a drink in the pub, or join him in the cricket team, or would I be able to treat him as just another ordinary young fellow in the village? Would I worry if I saw him at a village dance or, more especially, if I found him arguing with thugs?
Would I become concerned if he joined any of the activities in the area? In short, I knew I had to treat the man as an equal — but I knew that would not be easy.
In pondering those questions and while contemplating my future conduct, I began to think that my police experience in Aidensfield was infinitely more educative and interesting than any Saturday-night shift in industrial South Bank, with or without the complications of hard-drinking steel workers.
Then, first thing the following morning, I received a telephone call from Leonard Bentham.
‘Ah, PC Rhea. Glad I caught you. My son is coming home on Thursday next and I think you and I need to have a chat about it. As you know, I do have a legal background which makes me believe you might already be aware of his impending arrival.’
‘Yes, I am aware of it and I do know the background. I can call this morning,’ I said. ‘How about eleven o’clock?’
‘Yes, that will be fine,’ said Leonard Bentham. ‘Coffee will be on.’
And thus the rehabilitation of Jeremy Hugh Bentham began in Aidensfield.
* * *
Another person with a secret was Adelaide Powers, Miss Adelaide Powers to be precise. A spinster of the parish of Aidensfield in her mid-sixties, she was a retired headmistress of a Midlands grammar school who had returned to the village of her youth to occupy the former home of her parents. They had died some years earlier, leaving the house and contents to Adelaide, and their departure from this earth had enabled her to return to the village after a busy teaching life. Adelaide, an only child, had in fact been reared in the house which, in the past, had been owned by her mother’s mother. Thus the female line of this mode
st dynasty had lived in Glebe House for a century or more. No one knew the fate of the house once Adelaide left this world because she had no children, although one village elder felt there were some distant cousins in Scotland who might eventually surface. Adelaide, of course, could make a will and leave her house, contents and money to the local cats’ home, but most felt sad that such a lovely old house should end its long association with Adelaide’s family.
The house occupied a quiet site on the edge of the village. Behind it was an orchard with apple and pear trees which also contained a garden shed, summerhouse and goldfish pond, and a garden with rows of soft fruit bushes and a spacious vegetable patch. The house was large and roomy, being built of local stone with a tiled roof; there was a conservatory on the western wall in which grew a grape vine, while the double frontage sported splendid bay windows and a fine porch over the solid oak front door.
Furnished with antiques, it was a very comfortable home and Adelaide was very happy there. Having been headmistress of a busy school, she liked having people around her and there was usually someone or some event in the house — meetings of the Art Club were held in her spacious lounge, she hosted occasional meetings of various working parties of the parish council; she had ladies in for sherry, lunch or afternoon tea; she started a Local History Society with meetings in her house and had regular reunions with former colleagues, some of whom came to stay for the weekend to enjoy outings to the moors and coast.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 4