“There’s £9,997,” she said, smiling at them.
At this, Dad turned to his son and grumbled, “Thoo silly young buffer, thoo’s brought t’wrong churn!”
Then there was the miller who was eventually convinced that a bank account and a cheque-book was a good idea, and accordingly he deposited his £1000 with a local branch. After instruction from the manager, he went home with his brand new cheque-book and began to pay his bills. At the end of the month, the manager called him in and informed him that he was overdrawn.
“What’s that mean?” asked the miller.
“It means you’ve overspent,” explained the manager. “You’ve spent more than your £1,000.”
“Don’t be so daft!” retorted the miller. “I’ve never seen a penny of it!”
Knowing the true Yorkshireman’s attitude to his money, it is interesting to spend time in one of the local markets, watching and listening to them as they wheel and deal among cattle, pigs, sheep and hens. Even today, there are many weekly markets in the small country towns of North Yorkshire, and it is traditional that the pubs are open all day for the service of suitable refreshment to those attending the market.
Attending market is one of a rural policeman’s multifarious duties and, in my time, it was a regular task to attend for the sole purpose of issuing pig movement licences. These documents were vital if it was necessary to trace the movements of any pig thought to be affected by disease, and the farmers themselves knew and appreciated the value of this security. It was a simple system and it worked very well, both for the benefit of the police, the farmer, the vets and the Ministry of Agriculture.
The duty had many benefits, one of which was the pleasure of listening to the haggling that went on between farmers buying and selling. Even before they began, each knew the price he would either pay or receive, but, traditionally, there was, and still is, a great deal of good-natured haggling before reaching that figure. In addition, there is “luck money”, a vital part of any deal.
A conversation might go something like this.
“How much for them pigs?”
“Fifteen quid apiece, and I’m letting you have ’em cheap.”
“Fifteen quid? There’s no such price for pigs! Nay, lad, thoo’s not on wi’ that sort of game.”
“Fifteen or nowt. That’s my price.”
“I’ll settle for ten.”
“Ten? For these? Nivver. These are good pigs!”
“Ten is my figure and nut a penny more.”
“By, thoo’s a difficult chap ti deal with. These pigs is grand . . .”
“Twelve. Nea mair than twelve apiece.”
“Push it up to twelve pound fifty and we might start talking.”
“We’ll talk when thoo comes down to eleven.”
“Thoo just said twelve.”
“Twelve was ti start thoo talking sense. Eleven apiece and that’s my final offer.”
“Twelve then, mak it twelve apiece.”
“And luck money?”
“Aye, all right. A quid apiece for luck, then.”
So he got them for £11 each. Such a deal can be a long-drawn-out affair, but luck money is always the concluding part of the deal and is always handed over in cash. It is not knocked off the price or added on. It is a cash transaction quite separate from the main deal, and marks the continuance of a very ancient custom in local cattle markets. Its origin is simply a method of bringing good luck to the transaction and the actual amount of money is a matter for negotiation. The conclusion of a deal, and the payment of luck money, is marked by the buyer and the seller slapping the palm of each other’s hand. It is neither blackmail nor corruption, but a long-standing local custom that fills a few back pockets.
Such a purchase, with luck money, found me involved with one of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s business enterprises. Most of his ventures concluded with my giving evidence against him in court, and I wondered if this was to be different.
It seemed that Claude Jeremiah had decided to enter the bacon business and he set about purchasing a dozen small pigs to make the foundations of his new enterprise. He knew that Joshua Sanders of Stang Farm, Maddleskirk, had a suitable litter for disposal and therefore went to see the dour farmer.
Joshua Sanders was noted as a hard and cunning businessman with a shrewd eye for a bargain but with a deep suspicion of those who never paid in cash. He disliked banks and, although he was now beginning to reluctantly accept cheques at the markets, he preferred to deal in ready money.
It must have been with some apprehension, therefore, that he opened his front door one Friday morning to find the notorious Claude Jeremiah Greengrass on the doorstep. Everyone knew of Claude’s reputation as a small-time crook; he was untrustworthy, shady and should always be treated with caution. Joshua faced his potential customer with true Yorkshire grit.
“Noo then, Claude Jeremiah,” greeted Joshua blandly.
“Good-morning, Mr Sanders.” Claude smiled at the big man, his tiny pinched brown face wrinkled in the morning sun. “I hear tell you’ve a litter of pigs for sale.”
“That might be right.” Joshua was exercising his traditional caution. “There again, it might not. Who wants to know?”
“Me. I’m after buying some pigs,” beamed the little man. “I’m getting established in the pig-breeding business, you see, and I need some good stock. Bacon’s always a good investment.”
“Well, now then.” Joshua rubbed his bristly chin. “That’s a capper,” he was flummoxed for a moment or two. “Ah’ve more or less promised yon litter to a bloke from t’far side of Thirsk. Ah daren’t let him down . . .”
Joshua was stalling. There were two reasons why he didn’t want Claude Jeremiah to have these animals. One — he probably wouldn’t pay for them, and two, if this was one of Claude Jeremiah’s enterprises, everything connected with it would go wrong. The miserable little pigs would probably die from neglect and starvation . . .
“I can pay good money for them . . .” began the little man, pulling out his wallet. It was full of personal papers, and a cheque-book lay inside. “I’ve a bank account.”
Knowing Joshua as I did, I guessed his brain was working very rapidly at this stage, desperately seeking some cast-iron reason for not selling his stock to Claude Jeremiah. But Claude Jeremiah was also cunning.
“Ah allus deals in cash,” Joshua said by way of dismissing the nuisance.
“I’ve an old aunt in Australia who’s left me a large amount of money,” announced Claude Jeremiah. “She always wanted me to enter a business of some kind, and I’ve now got enough money to stand any loss I might make during the first couple of years. I want to employ a man to help me, and I intend to learn all about pigs.”
“Old aunt?” Joshua’s eyes opened wide at this revelation.
“Yes, on my mother’s side. Aunt Jemima. You’ll have seen her about the place, Mr Sanders. She’s a tall woman with a bun at the back of her head, always voted Liberal and kept Yorkshire terriers. Loaded, she was. She went to live in Australia about nine or ten years ago . . . bought a sheep-ranch out there and made thousands. Well, she died and I’ve inherited a share of her money. I know you’ll keep this to yourself, but I got over £15,000. Naturally, I want to put the money to good use . . . I’ve had sties built at my place and need some good stock to start my enterprise . . .”
Claude Jeremiah’s well-rehearsed yarn would not have tempted a city businessman, but, in spite of his caution and in spite of his knowledge of Claude Jeremiah’s past, this talk of wills, big money, faraway places and deceased aunts weakened the resolve of Joshua Sanders. But it was not completely weakened — that was impossible.
“Well, now young man,” he said gently. “We might have a deal. If thoo reckons my pigs is good enough for you, and thoo pays a bigger price than that other chap was reckoning on, thoo can ’ave ’em.”
Claude Jeremiah’s pinched face broke into a happy smile.
“Come, Ah’ll show thoo yon litter,�
�� offered the farmer.
It seems that Claude Jeremiah was highly impressed by the pink piglets as they ran and grunted about their large cosy home in a dry building. Accordingly, the traditional bidding began.
“Ah can’t take less than £12 apiece,” Joshua leaned on the gate and solemnly shook his head.
“I was thinking more on the lines of £8,” came in Claude Jeremiah.
“There’s no such price for decent pigs, not like these,” and Joshua made as if to leave the building.
“Nine?”
“Mr Greengrass, thoo’s very near insulting me with offers like that. £9 for these pigs? Nay, lad, thoo’ll have to think harder than that. Thoo’d better try Aud Yeoman rather than me. His scrawny animals might fit that price.”
“His pigs die after eight or nine weeks,” said Claude Jeremiah. “He’s got the kiss of death on pigs, has that chap.”
“Well, that’s the sort of pig thoo can expect with an offer like this. Nine quid a pig! Ah’ve never heard sike rubbish.”
“Ten, then?”
Joshua rubbed his bristly chin once more.
“Mak it eleven and we’ll begin talking.”
“That’s a lot of money for a chap to find for starters, Mr Sanders. What about me taking just half a dozen then? That would be £66 . . .”
“Nut a chance. It’s all or nowt. A dozen or nowt, Claude Jeremiah. Twelve quid apiece.”
“Tak eleven pounds ten bob each?” he queried.
Joshua leaned on the gate and pulled a large briar pipe from his jacket pocket. He began to poke and prod it and eventually lit the fearsome machine to produce clouds of sweet-smelling smoke.
“Ah’ll tak eleven pund ten bob apiece then, on one condition.”
“Condition?” Claude’s eyes beamed with satisfaction but seconds later changed to a hue which indicated suspicion. Joshua was up to summat.
“Aye. At that price, thoo sees, Ah’s letting them pigs go for next to nowt. It’s a giveaway price.”
“It’s a fair price, Mr Sanders. The market price isn’t as high as that. You can get good store pigs for £10 each . . .”
“But not of this quality, young man, not of this quality,” and he waved the pipe around like a conductor’s baton as if to emphasise his claims.
“What’s this condition then?” asked Claude Jeremiah, cautiously.
Before announcing the condition which he was to impose upon Claude Jeremiah, Joshua had recognised the little man’s anxiety to buy the pigs; he’d also taken account of his reputation as a confidence man and concluded that the tale about Aunt Jemima’s fortune did not sound true. Joshua therefore needed some kind of surety, for he knew Claude would try to dodge paying cash. It was to be a dreaded cheque transaction.
“Well.” Joshua puffed at the pipe. “Ah’ve an awd donkey down them fields. Nice friendly donkey, it is, used at the seaside for giving kids rides before it came out here to retire.”
“Yes?”
“If thoo wants them pigs at eleven and a half quid apiece, thoo’ll have to buy yon donkey an’ all.”
“But I don’t want a donkey . . .”
“And Ah don’t want to sell them pigs at £11 10s 0d apiece.”
“What would I do with a donkey?” asked Claude Jeremiah.
“Sell it, mebbe, in time.”
“What sort of price were you thinking for the donkey then?”
Joshua pursed his lips. “A giveaway price really, fifty quid.”
“Fifty!”
“Aye.”
“Look, Mr Sanders, I don’t want a donkey . . .”
“But thoo dis want twelve good pigs, for a knockdown, giveaway price . . . them’s my terms, Mr Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. And cash for t’donkey.”
“Now look, I can’t find that amount of money . . .”
“Then thoo dissn’t get my pigs.”
A long silence then descended as Claude Jeremiah gave this proposal his most earnest consideration.
“Forty,” he said. “Cash, for t’donkey.”
“Forty-five,” countered Joshua.
“Right, £45 for the donkey, cash. And a cheque for the pigs?”
“Twelve pigs at £11 10s 0d each. That’ll be £138,” said Joshua like lightning, puffing at his pipe.
Out came Claude Jeremiah’s cheque-book and he wrote a cheque for that amount. Then he delved into an inner pocket of his old coat, well away from his wallet, and surreptitiously produced £45 in notes, which he passed to the waiting farmer.
“What about my luck money?” asked Joshua.
That cost Claude Jeremiah another £5, cash.
“Right,” said Joshua. “Thoo can take them pigs when thoo’s ready, but t’donkey stays here.”
“Stays here?” cried Claude Jeremiah.
“Aye, until that cheque gets through yon bank. That story aboot a rich aunt dissn’t seem true ti me, so yon donkey stays put until that cheque is paid inti my bank.”
“But you can’t do that . . .”
“Ah just have,” grinned Joshua. “Good-morning, Mr Greengrass.”
Claude Jeremiah returned later in the day with a cattle-truck and loaded the twelve pigs. Joshua however had been active during Claude’s absence. Realising that Claude might not take them home, but might instead sell them immediately for a profit, he had effectively prevented this by charging a very high price. Claude would have to keep them for a month or two in order to make any profit, upon his payment for the donkey, but just in case the cheque did bounce Joshua rang all the dealers that afternoon to warn them that the Greengrass pigs had been vomiting and seemed to have diarrhoea. That was enough to put any farmer off a deal; swine-fever was the last thing they wanted on their premises.
The outcome was that Claude was compelled to keep the pigs for a month or so, whether he liked it or not, and meanwhile the donkey remained on Joshua’s farm.
As Joshua had anticipated, a week after the deal the cheque bounced. There were no funds. It had been a confidence trick after all and, when this became known, I was called in.
Mr Sanders invited me to join him in a large whisky and a slice of gingerbread as he explained how he’d been conned into parting with £138 worth of pigs for a worthless cheque. I was not told of the donkey at that stage. So far as I knew therefore, I had a case of false pretences on my hands, and a ready-made suspect for the crime.
“Ah doesn’t want this to go to court,” said Sanders when he’d finished his tale.
“Hang on, Mr Sanders,” I said. “If you report this to me on an official basis, I’ll have to take Claude Jeremiah to court. He’s committed a criminal offence.”
“But if Ah knew he’d try it on, and took steps to deal with it myself, Ah’ve not been conned, eh?”
“Er, no,” I had to admit.
He then told me about the donkey deal and I laughed at the notion. I wondered who’d conned who — Claude had unwittingly paid for the pigs at a moderate price.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“See him and put the wind up him,” said Joshua.
“That’ll do no good!” I laughed. “Claude Jeremiah’s my one regular court attender. He knows more about dealing with the court than anyone I know. You’ll not put the wind up him.”
“Well, Ah thought you might do summat, just to cap him.”
“Come on, Mr Sanders. You’ve got something up your sleeve. What is it?”
“Well, Ah sees it like this. He’s not paid for them pigs, so that makes ’em still mine. Right?”
“It might need a civil court action to definitely state that,” I told him.
“Nay, be damned,” he growled, “Ah’ll not have that. Them’s my pigs, Mr Rhea, and mak no mistake about it.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Tell him you know about his dud cheque, tell him he might go to court for false pretences or whatever you said it was, and then give him another month to pay me. Cash.”
“He’ll never pay you! You shouldn’t h
ave sold him those pigs!”
“But you’ll do that, for me, eh?”
“It might get him off the hook, and I’ll forget about the donkey?”
“Aye, for now.”
Claude Jeremiah Greengrass had won so many battles against me and my colleagues that I felt justified in going along with Joshua’s little scheme. After all, if he had not been deceived in any way by Claude Jeremiah’s stories, the episode was nothing more than a bad business transaction and therefore of no interest to the police. So I went along to Claude’s home and told him what I knew.
From the little man, I got a tale of woe and sorrow. He told me how he’d bought the pigs knowing of a ready market for them, but old Joshua had stopped all that by telling everybody for miles around that there was summat wrong with the animals. And no one would pay the price he’d paid.
“So, Mr Rhea, I can’t sell the pigs to get my money back. If I’d sold them straight away, I’d have made enough to pay Mr Sanders and a little bit for me on the donkey deal.”
“Claude Jeremiah,” I said. “I know you too well. You would have made a profit, but kept the lot for yourself and you never would have paid Sanders. I know that, and he knows that. But he’s made a very generous offer — he’ll allow you one month to pay. You’ve a month to make £138 and square up with him. Otherwise it’s court for you.”
“A month? I’ll never make that sort of cash in a month, Mr Rhea, besides, he’s got my donkey.”
“If you choose to let your donkey graze on his land, that’s a private deal between yourselves,” I dismissed the problem.
I left Claude Jeremiah to his worries and told Sanders what I’d done. He smiled and asked me to go and visit the farm in a month’s time. I made a note in my diary.
A month later to the day, I made the bumpy journey to Stang Farm and found Joshua in the stackyard, smoking his pipe.
“Ah heard yon bike coming up our lane,” he said. “It’ll be about Greengrass, eh?”
“Has he paid?” I asked.
“Not a penny. I knew he wouldn’t. Right, Mr Rhea, my cattle-truck’s ready. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” I cried.
“Greengrass’s place, to pick up my pigs.”
“You’re retrieving them?”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 48