“Ah!” she beamed. “You’re just in time for coffee. Would you like some, Officer?”
“I’d love one,” I said and followed her inside. She kept a beautiful home, furnished with genuine antiques and interesting paintings. The carpets were thick and lush, the furniture of good quality and the decor of a very professional standard. Everything in the house showed taste and discrimination. She led me into her beautiful lounge which overlooked the street where I noticed a tray already set with coffee and waiting on a low table. It bore a silver coffee-set, with delicate china cups. Two cups. And the coffee pot was steaming appetisingly.
Over coffee, she told me more about her running battle with Jackson. She agreed that today’s visit to the police had terrified him, and he’d fled. That was her explanation of the empty house and I accepted it. But that was not all. Now she’d got a captive audience, she insisted on letting me know about his other activities. It seemed he would enter her house when she was out and move things around. He’d change the position of her ornaments or tilt the pictures. He’d enter the bedroom too, and interfere with her clothing, hiding things so she couldn’t find them. And, horror of horrors, he examined her underwear in the drawers and cupboards; she knew, because they’d been moved. He played drums at night and had sent swarms of invisible insects into her kitchen, where they’d contaminated the food. And then he sent rays through the walls, invisible rays which kept her awake at night and gave her bad dreams.
And as I sipped her delicious coffee from exquisite china cups, I realised she was crackers. She was clean, presentable, charming and well-spoken, but she was nuts. Judging by the house, she was comfortably off and money was not a problem. On the face of things, she was everything a favourite aunt might be. But she was as nutty as the proverbial fruit cake. I couldn’t say whether she was batty enough to be certified, but she was certainly very odd.
It took me a long time to escape. She talked on and on about Jackson, regaling me with horrific tales about his interference with her life and his domination of her daily routine. When I began to ask specific questions, however, it transpired she had never seen him. She could give me no description at all. I wondered if he was a meths-drinker or just a character who passed in the night. An hour and a half later, when eventually I managed to leave, I found Sergeant Bairstow back in his office. He smiled graciously as I entered.
“Well, Nicholas, did you kick Jackson out of that house?”
“Jackson!” I cried. “Who is that man? Why does he cause her so much trouble? I think she’s imagining most of it.”
“All of it,” he said. “She imagines all of it. There is no Jackson; it’s all in her mind. She’s lonely, she likes male company and she’s never had a feller. She’s a frustrated virgin, Nick, and that’s why she’s like that. That’s how they grow up when they’re frustrated. She needs a bloody good man to sort her out, if you understand what I mean. Today, she’s had a charming young man in for coffee and that will keep her going for a week or two. She’ll go to bed with you, in her mind’s eye that is, but she’ll be back to see us, mark my words.”
“You set me up for that one, didn’t you?” I laughed.
“We always let the new lads deal with Miss Fraser, Nick, she loves them, you see. It gives her deep satisfaction — that’s what we are here for, isn’t it? To satisfy the public.”
I gave a lot of thought to poor old Miss Fraser just in case I was on duty next time she called. As things worked out, I was on duty again at Ashfordly when she came to the station. It was about a month later.
“He’s been at it again, Officer,” she told me seriously. “Blue powder again.”
“Not all over your stair carpet?” I cried.
“No, in the frying pan this time. All over my cooking utensils.”
“I’ll be around shortly to have words with him,” I promised.
An hour later, I knocked on her door and she invited me in for coffee as before. I accepted because she was entertaining and the coffee was excellent. This time there were biscuits.
I told her I had dealt with Jackson once and for all. I told her he would never trouble her again, ever.
“What have you done with him?” she asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“I’ve arranged for a deportation order,” I said seriously. “Jackson is to be deported to Australia. The order becomes effective at noon next Friday, when he will be transported to Australia. He sails from Southampton.”
She did not speak for a long time. Then she smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
“He’ll never trouble you again,” I assured her. I had no trouble leaving after imparting this news. She seemed numbed and I left her, having gained the impression that she was sad. Nothing happened for several weeks after that visit, and we saw nothing of her. Then an inspector from Eltering called me into his office.
“What the hell have you been up to, Rhea?” and he waved a letter at me.
“I’ve got this letter from the Home Office,” he glared at me. “It concerns a complaint they’ve received from a Miss Fraser of Ashfordly and it has come to me via the Chief Constable. There’s hell on in high places, Rhea.”
I blushed deeply. I wasn’t aware that I had done anything to justify a complaint, particularly one which involved the Home Office. I knew that the Home Secretary was responsible for all law and order in the country, so had I broken some golden rule?
“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” I said, not knowing the basis of her complaint.
“Do you know the rules about emigrating to Australia?” he asked. “They don’t accept convicted criminals — if you have convictions for crime, you cannot begin a new life in Australia. They don’t want convicts, not anymore.”
“I heard of something like that, sir. Isn’t it connected with the ten-pound passage scheme?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, his face breaking into a smile. “It seems that you have arranged the deportation to Australia of a very dangerous criminal called Jackson. Miss Fraser is demanding an enquiry into the matter — she wants the Home Office to investigate the system which allows a notorious villain like Jackson to dodge the rules. How did he get through Customs? How did he evade the Special Branch? Why has Australia accepted him? The Home Office has asked the Chief Constable for a full report.”
“It was like this, sir . . .” I stuttered.
“I don’t want to know, lad! Just write the report, will you? I’m sure the Home Secretary will be very amused to know how you dealt with a man who puts blue powder into frying pans and who conjures up swarms of invisible insects from the air. But I think you had better arrange for the return of this man, Jackson, before we have a diplomatic incident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t got rid of him, have you, Rhea? You’ll have to come up with another idea, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” and I crept away to write my report.
* * *
A few months later, I was subjected to another of Sergeant Bairstow’s orders. Technically, the mission was no part of my duty; it was an extension of my role as village constable, but he considered it important enough to justify particular action on my part.
I received his phone call just after lunch one Friday when he updated me with the daily messages. Having concluded that essential part of the conversation, he said, almost in passing, “Oh, Nicholas, there’s a little job for you. It’s just off your beat, in Maddleskirk, but as you’re out and about this afternoon, I thought you might do it.”
“Willingly, Sergeant,” I agreed, having forgotten about his disappearing trick when Miss Fraser called.
“It’s a Mrs Dulcimer and she lives at Acorn House. Audrey Dulcimer.”
“I’ve got that, Sergeant,” I wrote down her name and address.
“She’s had another of her confrontations with a policeman in York, and she must produce her driving licence and insurance certificate. It’s a regular occurrence with her — she’s alwa
ys getting booked for parking or for obstruction in York, and she dislikes coming all the way into the office, merely to produce her documents. It means a special journey, so she gives me a ring and I ask someone to call around. It’s not a special journey for you because you’re out and about anyway. So pop in, lad, it’s a courtesy job. I realise it’s her responsibility to fetch in her papers, but we do try to oblige where possible, eh?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good. Glad to know you’ll co-operate. Be kind to her, she’s a barrister’s wife. Nice woman, good house. And I’m sure she’ll give you a cup of tea as well.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, Sergeant.”
“I know it will. Do you know the house?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“It’s a big place just off the main street, there’s white gates.”
“I’ll find it,” I assured him.
“I said one of our men would be there about three-thirty? Does that fit in with your plans, Nicholas?”
“Fine,” I said.
Having dealt with my paperwork, I mounted the trusty Francis Barnett and began my afternoon patrol. With just over an hour to use before my appointment with Mrs Dulcimer, I visited one or two farms to check their stock registers and popped into some local stores to warn against a confidence trickster who preyed on rural shopkeepers. His trick was to ask for cash in advance, on the pretext that he could supply goods at huge discounts. He’d conned a local off-licence into parting with £50 for cut-price whisky and had done a similar trick on an electrical goods shop, taking £40 on the understanding he’d deliver cut-price radio sets. We knew the goods would never arrive and were surprised at businessmen parting so readily with their money to people they didn’t know. It seemed that the opportunity to obtain something for nothing could be relied upon to make a man and his money easily part company. The possibility of gaining summat for nowt never fails to achieve results.
At twenty past three, I drove into Maddleskirk, a long sprawling village with rows of tiny houses, all built of mellow yellow stone with red pantile roofs. I drove slowly, seeking the double white gates of Acorn House and found them next to the church. I drove up the drive which twisted through rhododendron bushes and parked my machine on its stand outside the front door.
It was an impressive house, built in the style of the 1930s with attic windows and a double garage tucked behind the living quarters. The woodwork was pure white and the garden was a picture. The place bore an air of extreme efficiency, and had a colour supplement aura about it. I removed my crash helmet, rang the doorbell and waited.
Soon I heard soft footsteps on the inside and the door opened to reveal a very slender woman with greying hair and a ready smile. Her face was lightly made up, showing off her grey eyes, good teeth and fine skin. She was tall by feminine standards, probably around 5 feet 9 inches, and wore high-heeled shoes, a white pleated skirt and a light summery blouse, open at the neck. I couldn’t estimate her age with any accuracy, but I’d say she was in her middle forties.
“Mrs Dulcimer?”
“Yes, do come in,” she oozed. “I’m awfully sorry to drag you all this way, Officer, but your sergeant is so good, isn’t he? He knows it means a special journey . . .”
“I was in the area,” I lied easily. “It’s of no consequence.”
“I’m so pleased you could come. I always seem to get myself into trouble when I visit York. It’s a driver’s nightmare, isn’t it? But do come in. You’ll have a cup of tea?”
“Thank you,” and I stepped inside. She suggested I hang the motorcycling helmet on the hallstand, but I wore no other protective or waterproof gear because it was a fine summer day. I followed her into the lounge, allowed myself to be settled on her settee and flicked through a copy of She while she wafted into the kitchen to prepare the tea. I heard the kettle sing immediately; she had obviously been prepared. Moments later she returned bearing a tray and teapot, with cups, milk and sugar.
She settled at my side. I could smell the perfume as she leaned forward to pour two full cups, asking if I wanted sugar. I shook my head and accepted the cup from her. She chattered away very amiably and told of her motoring frustrations in York, the delights of living in the country, the benefits of this particular house and about her family. She had two sons, grown up and now at university. She prattled on about her boys, both studying law and destined to follow in father’s legal footsteps. Mr Dulcimer, I learned, was a busy and successful barrister whose skills took him all over England, a task which meant he was often away from home. I enjoyed her tales; she was highly attractive and easy to converse with.
As our talk progressed, she confided in me, saying she had no money troubles and occupied herself with charity work, church duties and other essential village affairs. She did this to while away the time when her husband was absent, and to fill her lonely daytime hours. Having finished the tea, she went to a desk in the corner of the room and returned with a buff envelope.
“Insurance and driving licence.” She handed me the envelope. “You’ll find they are in order.”
I examined them and wrote their data in my book. This was necessary because I had to transmit the details to the police officer who had stopped her in York. He would write to Ashfordly Police Station to request the information. I noted the number of the insurance certificate, its dates of validity, the registered number of her car, the conditions under which it was issued and the name of the issuing company. Similarly, I wrote down the details of her driving licence, noting that it was signed and that it was current.
“Fine,” I said, pushing the documents back into the envelope. “All in order.”
“With my husband being so involved with the law, I can’t afford to take chances,” she smiled. “More tea?”
“No thanks,” I closed my notebook and slipped it back into my tunic pocket. “I’d better be going.”
“Oh, must you?” she asked softly. “There’s enough in the pot for another cup,” and before I could refuse, she began to pour. I shrugged my shoulders in cheerful resignation and accepted the second cup. It tasted good, I must admit, and I found her a charming person. I could imagine her being the centre of attraction at any function, whether formal or informal, for her range of topics was remarkable. She seemed well read but soon she turned her attention to me. She asked about my growing family, my work and my impressions of this area, and it wasn’t long before I realised she had steered the conversation around to her own home.
“We haven’t been here long either,” she was telling me, sipping delicately and smiling at me. “We had a house in York, then moved out to Stillington. We came here about five years ago. My husband likes this village — it’s not so flat as York and we love the moors. They’re so handy for walks, you know. We found this house quite by chance, motoring here one weekend, and it was just right for us. Spacious, detached and in very good order. We did a bit of work upon it, mainly on the interior, but the fabric was sound.”
“It’s a very nice house.” I told her how much I would like a house of that sort, when eventually I left the Force.
“Would you like a look around?” she asked pleasantly.
In all innocence, I said I would love to have a look around. She showed me the ground floor, the dining-room with its oak suite made by Mousey Thompson of Kilburn, the kitchen with its fabulous fitted range, the study with Mr Dulcimer’s enviable law library and filing system, the veranda with its array of potted plants and the garden beyond. There, I admired an ancient sundial, the goldfish pond and the crazy paving. To say it was beautiful was an understatement; it was worthy of inclusion in one of the Sunday colour supplements. She was a fortunate woman and I felt a twinge of envy as we returned to the lounge. I caught the occasional whiff of perfume as she walked close to me, sometimes very close.
“Would you like a look upstairs?” she ventured.
“Thank you,” I said, with even more innocence. After a ground floor of such opulence and taste, what
would the bedrooms be like?
She led me up the wide carpeted stairs, showed me the tiled bathroom with its pale green fittings and the shower unit in the corner, the boys’ bedrooms, the guest room with its bathroom en suite and, finally, her room. This was exquisite; the predominant colour was pink, with matching curtains, carpet and bedspread. I could sense she was excited, her voice trembled as we talked. She came very close to me.
“It’s beautiful,” I said with genuine feeling.
“Like me?” she cried and to my total astonishment, she literally threw herself onto the bed and in a single movement, flung her skirt across the room. She was naked beneath. From the waist down, she wore nothing at all as she lay on that gorgeous silken cover, smiling up at me.
But there are certain things that do not come within the scope of a policeman’s duty, and that was one of them. I fled. In something of a daze, I returned to Ashfordly Police Station to enter the details of Mrs Dulcimer’s documents in a register kept for the purpose. It took a long time because my mind was still reeling from this experience, or perhaps the lack of it! But we had been warned of women like this at training school, and all kinds of ghastly ends to one’s career had been threatened if any of us succumbed. As I wrote the details in the register, Sergeant Bairstow entered the office.
“All correct, Sergeant,” I trotted out the automatic response.
“Good,” he returned. “Anything to report?”
“Nothing, Sergeant,” I said.
“You, er, visited Mrs Dulcimer, did you?” he asked, his merry eyes watching me carefully. I noticed a definite twitch at the corners of his mouth, the beginnings of a smile, maybe?
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 12