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

by Nicholas Rhea

  If the system was designed to baffle the burglar, it did not succeed because the burglar never got the chance to study the sequence of our beats anyway. They were never fully manned.

  In the Clock’s favour, it certainly confounded the unfortunate office-bound constables who spent their time ringing telephone kiosks in the hope that someone might answer. There were times when the whole town was alive with the sound of bells and many a worker has risen early thinking his alarm was sounding. And many a citizen has answered the telephone to find a puzzled policeman at the other end asking if he, the citizen, could see a policeman nearby. Policemen are never around when they’re wanted.

  In fact, it was probably this system which gave rise to that popular legend when, in truth, the policemen couldn’t find a policeman when they wanted one.

  It was with such a wealth of experience in the art of working nights that I was posted to Aidensfield which was considered a progressive station because it did not operate the Clock.

  My arrival in this lovely village coincided with that period of change between the old and the new so far as village bobbies were concerned. The old idea had been to place the bobby on a rural beat and let him work the patch at his own discretion. He was never off duty and no one bothered whether or not he worked a straight eight-hour shift. He did his job as he saw fit; if he fancied digging the garden one afternoon then that was fine so long as he coped with any incident that arose.

  I came to Aidensfield at the end of that casual but effective era, for the new idea was that even country bobbies should patrol for an eight-hour day on set routes.

  If anything cropped up after those eight hours or before they began, the duty of attending to it would be passed to another officer who was patrolling the district. That’s if he could be found . . .

  The result was that, along with my colleagues, I had to work night-duty shifts in a rural area. This was not a very frequent occurrence, certainly not as often as one week in three, the system to which I had become accustomed at Strensford. On average, it worked out that I patrolled a full week of nights once in every seventeen weeks during my term at Aidensfield. One advantage was that instead of using the motorcycle, I was allowed the luxury of a motorcar in which to patrol. It had no heater and no radio, but it did have a roof and a windscreen. It was an ancient Ford of doubtful reliability and it had a well-tested tendency to proceed in a straight line at bends in the road, especially when the driver was asleep.

  I wasn’t sure whether I would enjoy night-duty on this large rural patch, but one fact was certain — there was no way of avoiding it.

  Chapter Two

  Humour is odd, grotesque and wild,

  Only by affection spoil’d.

  JONATHAN SWIFT — To Mr Delany, 10 October 1718

  On a late autumn night I left Mary and the infants in bed, locked the door of my hilltop police house and drove my motorcycle four miles into the sleepy market town of Ashfordly. This quiet place housed my Section Office and as I coasted the final ten yards into the garage to avoid waking nearby children, I noticed the tall, ramrod figure of Oscar Blaketon waiting outside. He was unsmiling and at his most severe.

  I parked my machine in the garage and made sure it would not tumble over before lifting my sandwiches and flask from one of the panniers and my peaked cap and torch from the other. Thus equipped, I walked along the side of the police station and entered the tiny office. Blaketon was already inside waiting for me.

  “You’re late, Rhea! Ten o’clock start, you know. Not quarter past,” and his fingers tapped the counter to emphasise his words.

  “I booked on at ten, Sergeant, at Aidensfield. It’s taken me ten minutes to get here. I was on duty during those ten minutes . . .”

  “Clever sod, eh? Look son, when I was a lad, policemen began their shifts ten minutes before the starting-time, not ten minutes after.”

  “I did a few minutes in my own office, Sergeant, before I set off . . .”

  “Ten o’clock start means ten o’clock. Here. Not at home. Right?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” It was impossible to argue when he was in this mood.

  Having diplomatically settled that point, he went on to inform me of my responsibilities over the next eight hours, not forgetting to remind me of that disputed fifteen minutes. It transpired that I had to patrol the district in the official car and was expected to make points on the hour, every hour, at nominated telephone kiosks. I had to take my meal break at Eltering Police Station, the local Sub-Divisional Office, a key to which was on the car keyring. That being the halfway stage. I must then make the return journey via the same kiosks. It seemed simple enough. My eleven o’clock point would be at Thackerston Kiosk, my midnight one at Waindale and my one o’clock at Whemmelby. During the period 1.45 am until 2.30 pm, I would be in Eltering Police Station enjoying a meat sandwich and a cup of coffee from my flask. After that I had to return via Whemmelby at three, Waindale at four and Thackerston at five. I would book off duty at Ashfordly at six and travel home, bleary-eyed, cold and undoubtedly hungry, to knock off at 6.15 am.

  “There’s a book of unoccupied property,” he shoved a huge leather-bound volume across the counter. “Check ’em all. Houses, golf clubs, shops — the lot. Poachers’ll be abroad, I reckon, and late-night boozers. Don’t go to sleep in that car — it runs off the road if you do. There’ll be a supervisory rank on duty in Malton — a sergeant or possibly an inspector — and he might pop out to meet you somewhere. So be there. Also, the Malton rural night patrol will be doing the southern end of the patch — you might meet him at Eltering. The lads usually meet there for a chat — nothing wrong in that so long as you don’t exceed your three-quarters of an hour meal break. Don’t abuse the trust I place in you, Rhea.”

  “There’s no radio in the car,” I said inanely, wondering what the procedure was if the car broke down in a remote area, or if I needed assistance of any sort.

  “True,” he said, turning into his office. “True, there is no radio in the car.”

  Realising that my statement of the obvious would excite no further comment from Oscar, I turned my attention to the Occurrence Book. It revealed nothing of immediate interest, save a stolen car which had already been found abandoned in Scarborough. I noted some unoccupied premises from the leather-bound volume and, anxious to be off, I lifted the car keys from their hook. I checked that the office fire was stoked up sufficiently to remain burning until my return and said, “I’m off, Sergeant.”

  There was no reply.

  I dropped the latch as I made my exit, making sure I had my door key to re-enter at six. In the garage the little Ford Anglia awaited me. I unlocked the driver’s door and climbed in. It was a very basic car with no trimmings, the only interior extra being the official logbook which had to be completed after every journey. Every purchase of oil or petrol had to be entered and I checked the book to ensure that my predecessor, whoever he was, had complied with that instruction.

  Happily, the log was up to date. Before venturing out I remembered another essential check, a visual examination of the exterior. This was done to check whether the vehicle had suffered any damage that might be blamed on me.

  During that era policemen seldom drove cars regularly on duty. That was considered a privilege rather than a right and the exceptions were the crème de la crème who had been selected for motor patrol duty. It was considered a luxury to have the use of a mechanically-propelled conveyance, owned and paid for by the ratepayers. If any of us accidentally marked an official car by reversing into a gatepost or scratching it in any way we were grounded for ever. The result was that policemen who damaged cars never admitted it. The cunning offenders parked in garages or tight corners so that an unsuspecting driver would take out the vehicle without noticing the blemish. Once you were driving, the vehicle was your responsibility, which meant that any scratches, dents, bumps or bruises were deemed to have occurred through your carelessness. No arguments or excuses were entertained. It was even po
intless arguing that the car had been damaged in your absence — it was your fault for leaving it in such a vulnerable position. Every driver therefore carefully checked every nut, bolt, screw, indicator light, panel, glass etc, before turning a wheel.

  Various intellectual giants within the Force considered it wise to bump the night-duty car on the grounds they’d be forbidden to drive for eternity and thus unable to perform night-duty. Even greater intellectual giants felt this was not a wise move because they would have to patrol at night either on foot, on cycle or on motorcycles. The point was well taken. Apart from the chilliness of the latter possibility, motorcycle patrols in rural areas at night were guaranteed to make dogs bark, hens cackle, residents to arouse early and poachers to learn of our whereabouts. Being conscientious individuals we were careful with official vehicles.

  Primitive though it was, the car was pleasant and undamaged, so I started the well-tuned engine and began to drive from the garage. Suddenly Sergeant Blaketon was right in my path and flagging me down with his torch. I stopped, wound down the window and asked, “Is there a message, Sergeant?”

  “There is,” he said.

  I sat in silence to await the words he wished to impart, but he merely stood by the car, immobile and severe. It dawned on me that he wanted me to get out, which I did.

  “Oil, water, tyres, lights, indicators,” he said woodenly. “Elementary. Always check them. Always. Before every journey. It’s laid down in orders. You didn’t.”

  I didn’t argue. I knew he always checked such things. He would stride around the car, looking at the aforementioned points before moving off. He performed this ritual every time, so I now did the same. Up went the bonnet and I found the oil and water levels to be fine. Indicators working, tyres at correct pressures . . .

  “Goodnight, Rhea,” he said, turning on his heel and vanishing into the office. I drove off, thinking about him. I remembered watching him reverse the little car from the police station drive a few weeks earlier to allow a visiting inspector to remove his car. Oscar Blaketon had got out of the Ford, performed a fleeting moment’s traffic duty on the street to guide out the inspector, and then, before driving the police car back into the garage, he had performed his ritual of checking oil, water, tyres, lights and indicators. Such was his devotion to the rule-book, even though his ten-yard journey had been broken by only half a minute.

  With this salutary lesson in my mind, I began my first tour of rural night-duty as Aidensfield’s local bobby. The district around Aidensfield is a land of small communities, many of which boast a single shop-cum-post office, their sole business premises. Even these, however modest, must be examined by night patrols and it was a simple process to patrol in the car between the villages and to check their sparse premises before sallying to the next stop. Until 10.30 each night there was the additional task of checking the public houses, but once the night life of the area ended at 11, the world was mine.

  Over the next few days a routine developed. I would arrive at Ashfordly at quarter to ten and check the car noisily so that Oscar Blaketon satisfied himself that the task was done. I would then sally forth into the unknown, making my expedition around the telephone kiosks and checking vulnerable properties in between times. One curious fact that emerged was that in every village there was a light burning, no matter what the time of night I passed through. I knew there was always someone about, someone awake in addition to myself. It meant the patrolling policeman is never totally alone and this is a reassuring fact, although it does mean that we have to be careful when we water our horses or enjoy a quick nap in the car.

  One continuing problem at night was keeping awake. Even though the car did not possess a heater, warm air blew in from the engine and this had the effect of making even the most alert of occupants drop off to sleep. The solution was to open a window or park up and take a walk. Unfortunately, this remedy often came too late and the little car has frequently terminated its journey in a field or ditch, happily without serious damage. One can appreciate that, after a full week of nights, the chief purpose of the patrolling policeman is to remain awake; it is even possible to fall asleep while standing outside a telephone kiosk. When excessively tired, night-duty becomes very, very tedious.

  The most welcome place during those tedious patrols was the police office at Eltering. It had a coal fire which burned all day and all night in a well-worn, but tidy room and this produced a very homely atmosphere. The chairs were antiques, being old and wooden in the Windsor style, and there was a clean but worn rug before the fire. To spend three-quarters of an hour here during a meal break on nights was extremely pleasant, if only because it offered companionship for a short time.

  My colleagues who patrolled the rest of the Sub-Division also used this office for their meal breaks and quite frequently the night car from Scarborough, a fast, sleek black patrol car with a crew of two, would call in for a chat and a meal. It was customary for everyone to meet there at the same time and even the duty sergeant would come to join the chatter, laughter, card school or whatever amusement was currently popular. There could be a domino school, for example, or even a Monopoly contest.

  It didn’t take long to become acquainted with the men who shared this cosy spot on night-duty. The most fascinating was a huge, grizzle-haired constable whose name was Alf Ventress. He hailed from Malton and his night-shifts came around approximately the same as mine. This meant we often met in Eltering Police Station over our meals. He was far more experienced than I, for he must have completed more than twenty-five unglamorous years in the job. A typically dour Yorkshireman, he rarely spoke to anyone while eating, but sat in the same chair each time to munch his packed meal. His chief mission was to consume his bait and drink his coffee without interruption.

  His uneventful career had not given him reason to be polite or smart, and his uniform was never tidy. It always needed pressing, his boots were forever in need of a polish, while his shoulders and upper tunic were constantly covered with a combination of dandruff and cigarette ash. He chain smoked when he was not eating and the other lads tended to leave him alone. It was not policy to interrupt him because he had something of a reputation for being short-tempered. No one had actually seen him angry, but it was the way he looked at troublemakers through heavy eyebrows — it made them shrivel with anticipation of a display of anger, yet he never erupted.

  For all these reasons he was nicknamed Vesuvius, the name arising from the fact that he was always covered in ash and likely to erupt at any time.

  I soon learned he disliked a crowd and, if we were alone, he was good company, reminiscing and telling me yarns about his younger days in the Force. When the Scarborough motor patrol crew arrived, however, the office became alive with their chatter as they recounted hair-raising stories of their exploits and exciting dramas in which they had been involved. Their experiences made us foot patrol lads look very mundane.

  Vesuvius listened but never tried to compete with them and, over the months, we all became familiar with his routine for eating his meal. His wife, whose name we never knew, always packed a cheese sandwich, two hard-boiled eggs, a piece of fruit cake and a bar of chocolate. His diet on nights never changed and he swilled it all down with a flask of steaming, dark coffee.

  I can see him now. He would stride into the office, huge and menacing, as if daring anyone to occupy his fireside chair. Having settled his bulk into the seat he would stretch his legs until his feet rested on the hearth and would then open his bait tin. Out would come a clean white serviette which he spread across his lap and he would position his tin on the floor at his side. The flask of coffee stood like a sentinel beside it.

  First out were the two hard-boiled eggs. He always held them aloft, one in each hand, and brought them together in front of him with a loud crack. This is known as egg jarping in the North Riding, and the action forms a type of game in some areas. This sharp action broke the shells, whereupon he peeled them and dropped the waste on to the serviette in his lap.
He would then consume both eggs very rapidly before tackling the cheese sandwich. His noisy enjoyment was a treat to observe.

  One night I was first into the office and within two minutes the two motor patrol lads entered. They were called Ben and Ron.

  “Vesuvius in yet?” Ben asked.

  “No”, I said, “but he’s due at any time.”

  He had obviously been in earlier because his bait tin stood on the counter, and so Ron lifted the lid as Ben took two eggs from his own pocket. He exchanged them with those from the bait tin, concealing Vesuvius’ eggs in his coat pocket. He closed the lid and waited. Nothing more was said or done.

  Five minutes later the big man entered. Without a word he sat down, lifted his bait tin from its resting-place, stretched out those huge legs towards the hearth and smiled. I watched, wondering what was going to happen next. Ben and Ron sat opposite with long, straight faces, talking earnestly about football.

  Vesuvius sat back in his chair and covered his lap with the white serviette, licking his lips with anticipation. I watched him take two eggs from his tin. I was unable to turn my eyes from them as he smiled fleetingly, licked his lips again and opened his arms wide with an egg clutched in each fist. He brought them together smartly as he always did.

  They were fresh eggs. There was a sickening, sploshing noise as Vesuvius was suddenly smothered in bright yellow egg yolk and streamers of uncooked egg white. His hands were dripping while pieces of smashed shell clung to his face and hair.

  He roared, “That bloody woman!” and stormed out to wash himself.

  Ben and Ron burst into fits of laughter and I joined in their fun for it seemed the prank had been played upon Vesuvius many times in the past. On each occasion he blamed his wife for failing to hard-boil his eggs and we often wondered what was said to her upon his return home at six.