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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Come on,” I said to my group. “I’ve got to check you all.”

  Like sheep the six men and six girls followed me along the dark alley until we arrived in the main street, aglow with lights and throbbing with action as the three appliances worked their way into the coming dawn. From the safety of the street I could see the dull red glow that now brightened the sky, and the flicker of red at the distant end of the passage.

  People were standing around in nightclothes, and in the midst of all the activity and interest I drew my little notebook from my pocket, moved the survivors into a shop doorway and prepared to count them.

  “Well,” I tried to be cheerful. “You’re all safe. I’ll need your names, please, for accounting purposes. We’ll have to make a detailed inspection of every affected house and premises to check for missing persons. It’s routine.”

  No one spoke.

  I wondered if they were all in a state of deep shock.

  “Come along,” I coaxed them. “Names. How about you?”

  I addressed a young man with a mop of untidy hair. He looked at the others and his facial expression told me that something was not quite as it should be. I then looked at his companions. Six pretty girls. Six young men. Six young men with six pretty girls, all shy.

  Who owned the cottages? I did not know because Eltering was not part of my own regular beat and these night visits provided only a cursory knowledge of the town.

  I slowly looked them up and down.

  “Local folks?” I asked.

  The one I had addressed shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’re on holiday.”

  “A conference, actually,” chipped in a second youngster, a man.

  And a girl giggled.

  “Look,” I said, my notebook open in the palm of my hand, “I’ve got to take your names because I’ve got to check the safety of everyone. That’s all.”

  I was recalling the ten points I’d learned at Training School, one of which was to keep a record of important matters. I reckoned this was important.

  The first man gave me his name. I noted it and asked for his address. “This address, you mean?”

  “Isn’t this your home address?” I put to him.

  “Do we have to? Give our home addresses?” he asked.

  I was beginning to understand.

  “Look,” I said firmly. “All I’m concerned about is the safety of the people in those cottages. Why you are here does not concern me. If something is bothering you,” and I looked from one to the other, “then say so. I’m discreet enough not to let anything slip, if that’s bothering you. If I know your problem I can cope with it. If I don’t know it . . .” I left the phrase unfinished.

  “Okay,” the spokesman said. “I’m staying at No 3.”

  “What’s the alley’s name? I asked.

  “Cross Alley,” he said. “Houses two to seven are rented as holiday accommodation. No 1 is that store, a toy-shop store. They’re all owned by the same man, the shopkeeper. We’ve rented the cottages for a holiday. There’s no more of us — just the twelve.”

  “So there’s no problem. Now, names, please.”

  Full appreciation of their dilemma now dawned on me. Not one of these men was married to the girl with whom he had been discovered. One could now understand their reluctance to leave the cottages in spite of the threat by fire, and I’ve no doubt they all hoped it would be extinguished before it led to the discovery of their love-nests. But things don’t work out quite like that.

  I took down their names, with two of the girls crying softly into their boyfriends’ arms, and eventually Sergeant Blaketon appeared and asked, “All safe?”

  “All accounted for, Sergeant,” I said with confidence.

  “Smashing. They’ve got the fire under control. The cottage will be a wreck, a total loss I’d say, and the contents. Looks like an electrical fault. You folks will be all back soon. They’ve stopped it spreading. Panic’s over.”

  An hour later I was sitting in No 3 with the young man to whom I had first spoken and his girlfriend. Three firemen were with me, all enjoying cups of tea and biscuits. Sergeant Blaketon and another police sergeant from Malton were in another cottage, and in every house a little party was being held. Outside a pair of vigilant firemen continued to play their hoses into the gutted cottage and kept the smouldering heap of burnt-out toys from breaking into a new blaze.

  By six o’clock that morning it was all over. The firemen had gone, and I was alone with my young couple.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I prepared to leave too. “Sorry you’ve been disturbed.”

  “It won’t get into the papers, will it?” asked the girl, called Susan.

  “The fire? I reckon it will. It’ll be in all the local papers.”

  “Oh God!” she cried. “I hope my husband doesn’t find out.”

  “He won’t, Sue,” the man curled his arm about her. “I’m in the same boat — my Anne thinks I’m at a conference.”

  “Your names won’t be released.” I was the only person with their names. “If the Press do ring tomorrow your names won’t be released by us. If they call here don’t tell them who you are and don’t allow them to take your pictures. Just say you are all safe and intend to continue your holidays.”

  “I’ll tell the others. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, but,” I smiled, “off the record, who are you?”

  “Office workers,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Income tax officials, actually. The chap with this block of cottages owns a shop, as I said. We know him. He let us all book in — we’re six mates from one office — and we said to our wives that we were going off to a conference. These are six girls from the office — they said the same to their folks. Delicate, you see.”

  “Very delicate,” I agreed.

  I felt like asking if any of them worked on my income tax returns, but my question might have been misinterpreted. I remained silent and wished them a happy conference, or perhaps I should have said congress.

  But I still wonder if any of those youngsters deal with my income tax returns.

  A strange provision relating to fires was drummed into us at Training School, where we were told that it was illegal to allow one’s chimney to catch fire. Anyone whose chimney did catch fire was therefore to be reported and summoned to appear before the local magistrates’ court. If they were found guilty the fine would be a maximum of ten shillings (50p). The statute which created this offence was the Town Police Clauses Act of 1847 which was, and still is, in force in some urban areas. One major problem was learning which urban areas were affected; furthermore, it did not apply to rural districts. This meant that rural chimneys could happily catch fire and belch forth smoke without offending against this law, although the Public Health Act of 1936 did create something called a “smoke nuisance”. This could be dealt with by a local authority.

  Smoke nuisances of the latter kind were not of great concern to the patrolling policeman, although reported chimney fires did mean a visit to the house in question for the purpose of reporting the unfortunate individual whose chimney had let him down. More often than not the case never reached court as the offender would receive an official written caution from the Chief Constable. This was infinitely better than facing a court.

  It must be said that few policemen sought chimney fires; official notification was left to the Fire Brigade, some of whose officers seemed to enjoy reporting these minor disasters to us so that the necessary legal procedures could be implemented.

  In the rural areas, however, it did not really matter to the policeman whether or not a chimney caught fire. It was not illegal on my beat and my time at Aidensfield did not involve me in any such crisis. Certainly, there were chimney fires and much surplus smoke was cast high into the heavens, but summonses were never issued.

  Another factor was that country folk were rather particular about keeping their chimneys clean. They employed some ingenious methods to maintain them in a clean condition, and a goo
d old rural recipe was to burn potato peelings in the fireplace with a dash of salt. This was to prevent an accumulation of soot in the chimney. Many rural men swept their own chimneys, having purchased the necessary equipment, and there were others who reckoned such expenditure was unnecessary.

  Instead, they adopted natural methods, one of which was to obtain a thick bunch of holly and lash it tightly together so that a kind of rough broom head was formed. Ideally it should be wider than the chimney. It was then tied to a long rope, and in order to use this device, two people were needed. One carried the holly to the top of the chimney and perched this on the rim. The rope thus dangled down inside, and the second man seized the end. He then pulled it down inside the chimney and his mate pulled it up again. This was a very effective brushing device but there is nothing to indicate how the man at the bottom kept himself clean. It was reckoned to be a good system for those rural folk who burned only wood because wood-burning residue rested in all kinds of places within the chimney breast. The springiness of the holly was sure to remove it.

  Another system was to obtain a large piece of holly and ensure it was dry. It was then lit so that it burned fiercely and cast via the fireplace up into the chimney. If things worked out correctly the rising draught would carry the blazing object right up the chimney and out at the top thus dislodging the soot along its roaring route. If the holly lodged along its route, the chimney might catch fire, but this served the same purpose, if a little dramatically.

  One of the finest methods was to carry a live hen to the top of the chimney and drop it down. Its urgent flapping during the descent removed all the surplus soot which promptly fell into the hearth and often spilled into the room. If one was not careful, the hen, very relieved at reaching base, ran about in sheer happiness and left a trail of soot as it squawked and flapped in blessed joy. I have no recipe for cleaning sooty hens.

  If rural folks had recipes for cleaning chimneys, they also had recipes for putting out chimney fires. The simplest was to shut all doors and windows and stop up the bottom of the chimney with a piece of sacking saturated in water. In addition some would throw salt on to the fire with sulphur if available. This was considered a good substance to throw into the grate if the chimney was blazing because it exhausted the fire’s supply of oxygen. This seemed a favourite method because the fire starved itself to death.

  I have seen chimney fires roaring like jet aircraft, and at times the chimney stack has grown practically red hot with smoke and flames belching out. Such fires are fed from below by powerful draughts which produce the roaring noise. Surprisingly, little or no damage is done, but one problem in the countryside is that many cottages were built in such a way that timber sometimes entered the chimney breast. The ends of the beams were exposed in the chimney and many farms have wooden beams beneath their fireplaces. Lots of old chimneys have ledges and shelves inside, the outcome of rough building techniques, and if burning soot accumulates in those areas the result can be danger to the house. Hens or burning holly were useless if these areas got alight; the only answer was lots of water.

  A chimney fire of this kind occurred in a small terraced house at Aidensfield as I was patrolling the village. I was first upon the scene. The cottage belonged to a retired postman called Horace Hart, a widower who kept his home immaculate. It seemed he’d forgotten to arrange the annual sweeping of his chimney, and when I arrived it was well alight, belching forth magnificent clouds of dense black smoke in spite of the wet sack Horace had stuffed aloft.

  He had called the Fire Brigade from a neighbour’s house and I decided to await its arrival. There was nothing anyone could do in the meantime. Ashfordly Fire Brigade comprised a happy band of part-timers who had to leave their daytime jobs or their firesides and rush to the Fire Station, praying earnestly that their fire appliance would start.

  As this was late one evening with men about their homes I felt reasonably confident that the brigade would make it. As a crowd gathered to observe events, Horace’s chimney was puffing out huge clouds in fine style. It was a classic chimney fire.

  Among the neighbours who gathered to watch was the man in the adjoining cottage. His interest was not difficult to understand for he emerged spluttering and coughing his anger that such a thing could happen, especially as the two houses were linked. This was Lieutenant-Colonel (retired) Jasper Q Clarke, who lived there with his sister and who pompously strutted about the village organising the lives of others and complaining incessantly about the noise from children, aircraft, tractors, radio sets, ice-cream vans, cars, motorcycles and seagulls. Some bicycle bells also annoyed him.

  Fortunately for him no one had complained about the noises made by Lieutenant-Colonel (retired) Clarke, but his anti-social activities did excite comment among the locals. He was a smart little man with a bristling grey moustache and grey hair cut in a military style. He wore hacking jackets and cavalry twill trousers, brogue shoes and occasionally a monocle. So perfectly did he play his part that sometimes I wondered if he was a confidence trickster pretending to be a retired army officer, but his credentials seemed genuine.

  His presence among the observers led to comments about black deposits falling upon his garden and house and the dangers thus presented to his property by the inferno in the chimney right next to his. He kept darting into his own house to check it wasn’t ablaze, and it seemed his sister was away for the evening. He had reason to worry, however, because these cottage fireplaces were back-to-back, with their chimneys rising parallel with one another. They emerged in one chimney stack, albeit with separate chimney-pots.

  With the anxious little man pacing up and down, the village awaited the arrival of Ashfordly Fire Brigade. When it arrived twenty minutes later the chimney was still belching black clouds and Horace continued to dampen the sack which filled the base of his stack. Clearly, the internal timbers or sooty deposits on the ledges inside were still burning, and this was dangerous.

  Unfortunately for Horace it seemed that Thirsk Races had been held that evening, and every member of the Fire Brigade save one had taken the opportunity to watch a local horse. It had won, and they had gone out celebrating; they had not yet returned. The Fire Brigade therefore arrived in the person of one man, and he was driving the appliance.

  He knew it was a chimney fire before embarking upon this trip and was prepared to tackle the blaze alone, an idea that held some hope. In my capacity as local constable, however, I offered my help, casually mentioning my RAF Fire Fighting Course and the instruction received at Police Training School.

  The fireman, a butcher from Ashfordly, said he appreciated my offer of assistance. He would have to operate the machinery of the fire appliance and asked if I could manage the hose. Proudly, I said I knew how to hold a nozzle and knew all about shouting “Water On” and “Water Off”.

  Thus the firefighting team was prepared. After inspecting the seat of the fire the fireman announced that something inside the chimney was ablaze. This confirmed our diagnosis. It might be sooty accumulations, or it might be some exposed timbers, either of which needed water to extinguish it. Horace was therefore advised to remove all his furniture from the room in question because the resultant mess would be pretty ghastly. Aided by the onlookers we had the room clear within five or ten minutes and removed the sack from the chimney. This created some extra smoke and served only to feed the fire.

  Because I was operating the hose I had to climb the ladder of the fire appliance with the hose and direct the jet down the chimney. Through a series of switches on the fire appliance a ladder crept skywards until it came to rest very close to the belching chimney. My duty was simple — I had to climb the ladder in the manner taught me at the RAF Fire Fighting Course and direct the nozzle down Horace’s chimney until the fire was extinguished. It was a simple task.

  I began my journey. The ladder shook and trembled as I climbed in the approved style, clutching the hose in the recommended manner. Finally I reached the chimney stack. Thick smoke was pouring ou
t and my eyes began to smart. There was barely room to breathe among the swirling clouds as they moved about me, sometimes totally enveloping me and sometimes letting me bathe in the glow of the many lights below. In spite of the heat from the chimney and in spite of the effects of the smoke and in spite of the darkness and danger, I managed to seize the nozzle in the correct hold and direct it into the chimney-pot. My eyes were aflame by this time, smarting and running with tears, I was coughing violently, my hands were burning, and I turned my head to avoid the thick, rising mass of muck and soot.

  But the all-important nozzle was in position. I was ready. Half closing my eyes against the swirling, stinking cloud I reached out and by touch confirmed that the nozzle was firmly inside the chimney-pot. I shouted, “Water On”.

  There would be a short wait as the water rose to the occasion, and through smarting eyes, I looked down upon the little crowd below. Lieutenant-Colonel (retired) Clarke had rushed indoors yet again to check his house and all eyes were upon me. Lights and torches beamed their rays in my direction, and from my vantage point I could see the powerful jet of water thrusting its way along the hose. I watched mesmerised as the flat empty hose thickened rapidly and grew round as the water approached the nozzle. It straightened out the bends and jerked the hose into life, forcing it to kick against the strain. At that precise moment the wind changed direction and I was totally smothered in a moving mass of smoke. The hose was bucking in my grasp.

  When this happens the force is tremendous and threatens to jolt the nozzle from your grasp. It must be held firm at all costs otherwise it can leap from your grasp and cause severe injuries to anyone nearby. Blinded by the smoke and heat I hung on for all I was worth. The nozzle moved within the chimney-pot — I felt it slide under the pressure, but the smoke concealed it. I clung to it as it writhed and bucked in my tight grip and listened as the powerful jet gushed down the chimney. Once it was pouring out of the nozzle I settled down to hold it tightly in position, my eyes smarting and my lips dry with the dirt and heat.