CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  “I did,” I wondered if he knew what she was like.

  “You found everything in order, did you?”

  “Everything was in order, Sergeant.” I realised what he was getting at, the crafty B! I decided to string him along for a while.

  “Nice woman,” he muttered eventually.

  “Very pleasant.” I was determined to continue this cat-and-mouse game for as long as possible. Dare I admit I hadn’t accepted her generous offer? Or should I let him think I had? His questions told me he’d known what was in store for me, and I now realised why she wanted the policeman to visit her, in order to check her driving documents. How many had been there before me? Had he, I wonder?

  “Alone, was she?” he continued.

  “All alone, Sergeant. Nice house, too. A very nice woman,” I said concluding my written entry with a flourish of my pen.

  “Hmm,” he walked about the small office, his chin cupped in his hand. “I’m pleased everything was in order.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to book her for an offence,” I said seriously. “She gave me a lovely cup of tea and besides, her husband is a barrister.”

  “Yes, he is, Nicholas. He’s away a lot, they tell me.”

  “Yes, he’s a busy man, and a prosperous one by the look of it.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Did she show you round the house, Nicholas? She’s very proud of it, they tell me.”

  “A nice place,” I smiled at him. “They’ve done a fair bit to it, I believe, in the five years they’ve been there. It’s beautifully situated, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never been,” he told me. “I’ve only heard, you know, from lads who’ve been up there, checking her credentials.”

  “It’s the sort of place I’d love to own,” I was thinking of the pittance that policemen earned.

  I wondered how long he would question me in this oblique sort of way, so having completed the entry in the register, I closed the book, slipped it back onto its shelf and prepared to leave. He watched me and made small talk about nothing in particular, chattering merrily as I placed my helmet on my head.

  “I’m going round by Briggsby, Sergeant,” I told him as I started to walk from the office. “I’ve a call to make there — a youngster wants to join the police cadets. I’m seeing him after school.”

  “Cheerio, Nicholas,” he called as I walked out, and as the door had almost closed behind me, I heard him shout, “Did you get your oats then?”

  I pretended not to hear his question. I simply waved a hand in reply, a farewell gesture as the door clicked home. I left him in blissful ignorance, which I reckoned was the best thing to do.

  * * *

  Another interesting encounter with the fair sex occurred when I was on early duty in Eltering. It was my duty to patrol the town’s streets between 6 am and 10 am, due to a shortage of local manpower. Eltering is a small North Yorkshire market town located on the southern edge of the moors. It is therefore appropriately known as the ‘Gateway to the Moors’ but it was never busy during those morning hours. The only regular indications of early morning work came with people like the milkman, the postman and window-cleaners.

  As eight o’clock came around, the town grew more active. People began to move. Some emerged from their homes to catch the shops, to buy papers, cigarettes, milk or coffee, while the policeman spent that time wishing them all ‘Good morning’. It was pleasant, watching the town come to life. In some sense, I enjoyed this duty. It differed greatly from my own rural heaven, but it could be very monotonous from time to time, particularly during the dark winter months. Summer brought a welcome cheeriness to the place, however, and it was a late July morning as I made this early morning patrol around the town, using streets not yet aired. The very early morning workers had left — the eight o’clockers hadn’t yet emerged. I had the town to myself as the church clock struck seven.

  I decided to patrol the Aislaby estate, a new housing complex on the western edge of this charming town. I knew I could walk up there, do a circuit of the streets on foot and be back in town for eight o’clock, in order to make my point on the hour outside the post office.

  With my cape over my shoulder in case of rain, I set off. It was a pleasant stroll. There was nothing criminal to worry me, although I did check a few parked cars to see if their tax discs were displayed. I examined a few lock-up premises en route, to establish that no shop breakers had paid illegal nocturnal visits. But all was in order. All was quiet, as I would report to any sergeant or inspector who might ask. Having performed that perambulation, I made my way back to the town centre, noting that it was about a quarter to eight. The morning bustle was beginning.

  As I made my slow, methodic way down the gently sloping gradient into the town centre, I became aware of some urgent activity ahead of me. A policeman can sense when something is happening — people begin hurrying towards whatever it is. Everyone wants to see it, so they can talk with authority in the pubs, clubs and offices, and there is a tangible scent of excitement in the air. Those symptoms were happening in Eltering right now. Men were hurrying towards some unknown incident just out of my sight. Whatever it was, it had literally brought the town centre to a halt. There was a car with its driver’s door standing open, a butcher running with his blue-and-white striped apron flapping about his knees, a milkman dashing along with a crate rattling at his side, a pedal-cycle lying in the gutter, its rear wheel spinning uselessly.

  And so, quite naturally, I speeded up my regulation pace. I began to hurry. I had no idea what had happened, but the chances were that it would involve the police. Unexpected incidents usually did. I simply followed the growing number of hurrying men. Where they came from, I will never know, although the clatter of closing doors, the abandoned cars, the shops standing empty and the number of early morning businessmen provided me with a good clue. Somehow, word of the incident had spread like wildfire.

  Just around the corner, I found the main clutch of men. They were standing around the entrance to an alley just off the centre of the town, so I used my elbows to good advantage. I pushed my way to the front.

  “What’s going on?” I asked in what I hoped was a voice bearing some hint of authority.

  A shirt-sleeved man answered. “It’s a young woman,” he grinned. “Starkers. Down there — she’s told us to keep out.”

  “Down there?” I pointed down the alley. It was a narrow passage between a shop and an hotel, and it had a corner at the distant end. She’d gone around the corner, and I heard her shout.

  “Don’t any of you dare come down here, not one of you, or I’ll scream.”

  “Who is she?” I asked of anyone who might answer.

  “Dunno,” one of them said. “She’s bollock naked, Officer. Not a bloody stitch on. She was running down the street, crying.”

  “When?”

  “Just now,” he confirmed. “A few minutes ago. She bolted down there, like a scared rabbit.”

  “And you all ran after her, eh?”

  “Cor. Not ’arf, Officer,” grinned one of them. “I mean, it’s not every morning a naked woman runs down the street, is it? Not in Eltering, any road.”

  “How old is she?” was my next question.

  “Early twenties, mebbe. Beautiful too, lovely knockers on her.”

  “All right, lads.” I tried to defuse the situation. “The fun’s over. Imagine this was your own daughter or wife, eh? It might be, mightn’t it? She’d be scared, wouldn’t she? With a lot of sex-starved blokes chasing her through the streets.”

  They murmured something non-committal and there were lots of bawdy comments about running in the opposite direction if it had been the wife, but at least I had gained their attention. They refused to leave just yet, however. They wanted to have another look at her. I had to save this slip of a lass from a fate worse than death.

  “Hello,” I shouted down the passage. “I’m a policeman. It’s P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield. You can’t stay there a
ll day — the town’s coming to a standstill.”

  “I’m not moving. Tell them to go away.”

  “You can’t go through the streets like that!” I called to her, although I’d not yet had the pleasure of viewing her body. “I’ve got a cape, you can put that around yourself. It will cover you up, and we can get you home.”

  There was a long pause, during which the assembled men began to make ribald remarks about my intentions, and then she said, “All right. Just you.”

  This was one of the perks of the job, and so with wolf whistles and calls of encouragement, I walked the few yards along the alley to meet her. She was cowering behind the corner of the wall, in the lee of a tiny outbuilding of some kind, and her bare arms did their best to cover her nakedness. She had sandy hair and a face covered with freckles, but her body was young and luscious. She wore no shoes — she hadn’t a stitch on.

  “I’m married,” I said as if that made any difference and with a flourish, I removed my cape from my shoulder. “Here,” I offered it to her. “Try this for size.”

  With a weak smile, she opened it and draped it about her body. It came down to her knees. If she walked through the street wearing it, no one would know she was naked beneath. At this time of day, comparatively few people were about anyway — all those who were abroad were, at this minute, swarming around the exit of this alley.

  “All right,” I shouted at the waiting voyeurs. “The show’s over, lads. She’s covered up now. Off you go and let the lady through.”

  One or two of them drifted back to their jobs or morning chores, but the inevitable handful remained.

  “Can you face them?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Come on,” I took her arm, holding it through the folds of the cape, and led her from the passage. A cheer went up from the assembled crowd and she blushed furiously, although recognising the good-humoured affection behind their noise. They drifted away as I accompanied her through the streets, using the quieter routes.

  Once the initial audience had dispersed, no one paid any attention to us. The sight of a girl in a long cloak was not unusual, nor was it odd that a policeman should walk along the street chatting to a local person. By the time we reached her home, she was quite affable.

  “Well?” I asked eventually. “What was all that about?”

  She smiled. “Sex,” she said. “I wouldn’t let him, so he threw me out. The door’s got a Yale lock and it clicked behind me. I couldn’t get back in. I was crying and I panicked.”

  “Where?”

  “Just round the corner from here,” she pointed. “Up one of those alleys.”

  “Why run right through the town?” I asked.

  “I’ve a friend down there,” she said. “Janice. A good pal. I thought she’d let me in.”

  “But at eight o’clock in the morning? With the town just getting busy?”

  “I didn’t know it was eight o’clock” She laughed now. “I thought it was about five, and it wouldn’t be busy.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked her.

  “I’ll go home. I’ll show you where I live and then you can have your cape back.”

  “I thought you said it was along one of these alleys?”

  “That’s where I was last night, with this feller. I don’t live there, I live further along.”

  “Boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Sort of,” she nodded. “He went crazy, honest, when I said no. I got out of bed and said I was going home, so he kicked me out. Pushed me downstairs and out of the door.”

  “What will your mother say when you turn up like this?”

  “It’s not my mother I’m worried about,” she said frankly “It’s my husband!”

  “Husband?” I cried.

  “Yeh, luckily he’s away at sea. I hope he doesn’t find out or he’ll kill me.”

  “I won’t tell him,” I promised her.

  We reached her house, a small cottage just off a side street near the Co-op, and I had to force a window with my pocket knife, because her key was at the other place, in her clothes. I managed to open a window, climbed inside and released her latch to let her into her own house.

  “Thanks,” she breathed, and thereupon removed my cape. She stood before me unashamed and proud, smiling at me. She asked, “Are you staying a while?”

  “No,” I had to say. “Duty calls.”

  “I think you policemen are wonderful,” she winked at me, closing the door as I left. “Do call again, won’t you?”

  “I might,” I said, knowing full well that I wouldn’t go near the place. It would be several weeks later when I was patrolling the town during the evening. A pretty young woman stopped me outside the chip shop, offered me a chip and said, “Hello”.

  “Hello,” I said, accepting the chip but not recognising her.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she smiled. “I’m all dressed up now.”

  “Ah!” I realised who it was. “Sorry, I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on. You’ve had a new hair-do too?”

  “You are observant,” she grinned, offering me another chip. I accepted her chips and learned her first name was Sylvia.

  * * *

  “I must stress that this is an informal chat at this stage, P.C. Rhea,” said the Superintendent. “It might lead to an official complaint against the police, however. I am anxious to hear your side of the story.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was in the Superintendent’s office at Divisional Headquarters, wondering what was coming next. He lifted a file from his desk.

  “This,” he said, “is a complaint against you.”

  I’d always regarded myself as the epitome of good behaviour and I was shaken by this revelation. I knew that a lot of police officers welcomed complaints about their men because it proved they were doing their job. But that didn’t take into account the mental anguish when one heard a complaint about oneself.

  “Do you know a Miss Angela Hamilton in your village?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. She’s a big chapel woman, a do-gooder and all that. She’s very pleasant — in her early forties, sir. A bit prim and proper maybe, if you know what I mean.”

  “I sensed that from her letter. Now listen. She accuses you of infidelity. She has been observing your movements, P.C. Rhea, and alleges that you, a family man and father of three children, have been visiting some of the ladies of the village at late hours. Miss Hamilton has a record of those dates and times. Your police motorcycle has been seen in close proximity to their homes — there’s a widow called Mrs Christian, a young blonde called Kay who hasn’t been in the village for long, a woman whose husband goes away on business for long periods, and several others. All, according to Miss Hamilton, are ladies of doubtful virtue.”

  “Oh?” I replied. This latter snippet was news to me. They were all nice women, so far as I knew.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” he asked me.

  “There’s not much more I can say, sir, because my motorcycle will have been near or right outside everyone’s house at some time or other. How long has this supposed orgy been going on?”

  “Over the past four or five months.”

  “I can’t remember all my movements, sir,” I said honestly. “Damn it all, I’ve kept observations in the village, I’ve made crime enquiries, I’ve renewed firearms certificates and done a host of other jobs which entail visiting other people’s homes at all hours.”

  “I am sure there is a perfectly logical explanation, P.C. Rhea, so I want to hear your story before I decide whether or not to take official action. But remember I’ve got this written complaint about the conduct of one of my men, and it must therefore be investigated. I’ll supply you with the alleged dates and I want you to go home and explain, in writing, the presence of your motorcycle outside those places at the material times. Go home and write up your report, and I’ll decide what further action to take.”

  I told Mary all about it. Being a good wife, she sympathised
and affirmed her trust in me, whereupon I adjourned to my office to find all my old pocketbooks. I now had the chore of checking every date mentioned in Miss Hamilton’s letter.

  “She’s in the ideal position to spy on people, living right in the middle of the village,” Mary observed. “And her a pillar of the chapel! Fancy spreading malicious rumours like that! I’ve a good mind to go and tell her what I’d like to do with her!”

  “Hold on, girl, that would only make matters worse. Let’s find out why I was at those houses, and why my motorbike was around at the times she mentions.”

  It wasn’t a long job to unearth the information because my pocketbooks told all. For each of the dates provided in Miss Hamilton’s accusation, there was a true explanation — crime prevention advice to the young widow; Kay Hartford, the blonde newcomer, had a firearm certificate for variation, and the wife whose husband was away on business had twice found footprints in her garden and wanted police action. I had kept observations on her garden from another building and from time to time, called to acquaint her with my action to stop prowlers. And so it went on until I had a complete answer to all her charges.

  I typed these into a full report and submitted it to the Superintendent.

  “Thank you, P.C. Rhea, for your co-operation,” the big man said. “I’ll drive out to have a word with this woman myself. She’s a mischief-maker.”

  But his action did not stop her.

  The bishop of the Anglican diocese received a complaint from Miss Hamilton, who had reported that the vicar’s estate car had been seen outside certain ladies’ homes at strange hours. This resulted in the vicar being called to the bishop’s palace for a down-to-earth chat. Similarly, it seemed the postman had been dallying too long at specified calling places and the Co-op van driver seemingly spent too long upon his deliveries.

  The Head Postmaster of the area and the manager of the Co-op duly received letters from Miss Hamilton. As things tend to happen upon such occasions, it wasn’t long before the Co-op driver happened to mention this to the postman, who in turn laughed about it as he talked to me. I thus became aware of the whole story. It didn’t take much intelligence to realise that the complaints from the frustrated Miss Hamilton were all levelled against men in the public eye. The same ladies featured in all her letters. Invariably, they were attractive women. It was therefore in the course of my duty that I popped in to see the vicar, the Reverend Clifton, to ask about his chat with the bishop. His bishop, it transpired, had been most uncharitable about it, apparently more concerned about the tarnished image of the church than the personal dilemma of his vicar.