His Grace was scheduled to leave at five fifteen and I positioned myself near his car to ensure a smooth departure. He was five or ten minutes late leaving and I saluted him as he came through the door. There he paused a moment, and said, “You know, Officer, the Pope would have been proud of that turn-out, eh?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” I smiled as he departed. As the car swept along the village High Street, I turned to find Sergeant Blaketon standing at my elbow.
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, Rhea?” he growled.
“With what, Sergeant?”
“Packing that church with papists?”
“If I was an insurance agent, Sergeant, I would record it as an Act of God,” I said, turning back to find another cup of tea.
* * *
I never really knew whether Sergeant Blaketon disliked members of the Roman Catholic Church, or whether his remarks were deep-seated jokes understood only by himself. In truth, there were few occasions when religion entered my work as a village policeman, but I must confess that on one occasion the rigid faith of a little old lady completely thwarted me.
To put the story in perspective, it began with the death of a Mr Abraham Potter whose home was a lovely cottage in Aidensfield, just up the street from the pub. Awd Abe, as everyone affectionately called him, had been a lifelong Methodist of the strictest kind, never drinking liquor, never smoking, never swearing, never gambling and never working on Sundays. He led an exemplary life and was a true pillar of the chapel. There, he cleaned and gardened, painted and decorated and wrote the notices for Sunday in his beautiful copper-plate handwriting. Then he died.
My arrival at Aidensfield coincided with his death, so I never met Awd Abe. From his reputation, I guessed his name would live on as an example of righteousness and Christian standards. His death meant that his little cottage would be sold and, within a few weeks, the “For Sale” signs appeared in the garden. His relatives had been traced and had agreed to sell the house, but no one had foreseen the conditions he’d imposed upon the sale.
I learned of these by pure chance, for I was patrolling the village street as the estate agents were erecting their “For Sale” boards. As village constables are wont to do, I stopped for a chat.
“Will it sell?” I asked, for rural properties at that time were not fetching very high prices. It was before the boom in country cottages.
“It would, if it wasn’t for Awd Abe,” said the man.
“He’s dead,” I remarked, wondering if he knew.
“Aye, we know, but he’s left a will saying what’s got to be done with this spot, if his nephews sell it.”
“Has he? What’s he said?” I was interested now.
“You knew him?” the man put to me.
I shook my head. “No, he died just before I was posted here.”
“Big chapel man, he was,” I was told. “Very straight sort of a chap. Lived by the Bible, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Awd Abe’s reputation lived on.
“Well, he’s put conditions on the sale of this spot,” the man told me guardedly. “I reckon we’ll have a job selling it.”
“What sort of conditions?”
“Well,” he said. “First, it mustn’t be sold to or occupied by a Roman Catholic. And the person that buys it must not read Sunday papers, mustn’t play cards, mustn’t drink alcohol, mustn’t have children, mustn’t keep animals, mustn’t smoke, mustn’t gamble and mustn’t work on Sundays. And they must be regular attenders at chapel, not church.”
“He will have a job selling it here!” I laughed. “Practically every other family is Catholic and I imagine most folks nowadays read Sunday papers . . . why the Sunday papers bit?”
“He didn’t believe in working on the Sabbath,” said the estate agent’s man. “Anything that had been created on the Sabbath must not enter his house. He didn’t even wash up on Sundays, he was that pernickety about his faith.”
“But the papers are printed on Saturdays,” I said.
“Aye, lots of folk told him that, and they told him about factories making furniture on Sunday, or canning food, farmers working, doctors and so on . . .”
“But he wouldn’t give?”
“Not him,” said the man. “And when we got this house to sell, well, we all laughed. I mean, who’s going to buy it? Who can truthfully agree to those conditions?”
“Search me!” I smiled and went on my way. Lots of the locals would have loved his cottage for it was pleasantly located and well-built, but Awd Abe’s conditions immediately placed it beyond the reach of local folks.
But it did sell.
Word must have spread far afield because a little old lady called Miss Sarah Prudom arrived to inspect the cottage. I didn’t see her arrival, but learned she came from the Doncaster area and was seeking a place in the country for retirement. She’d worked as a laundry manageress, I was told.
As things turned out, Miss Prudom perfectly fitted Awd Abe’s specification. Furthermore, she was an unmarried lady of spotless virtue, and we all felt Abe would have been proud of her. I wondered if they might have married, had they met in life, but perhaps such associations could lead to sins of the flesh. Anyway, Miss Prudom bought Awd Abe’s cottage.
One fine spring day, she moved in with her furniture and books and there is little doubt that her arrival in Aidensfield brought hope to the tiny chapel flock. Abe had gone but his place had been taken by an equally enthusiastic worker, as indeed she was. Miss Prudom soon busied herself about the chapel and fussed over the congregation, visiting them, talking to them, praising them and arranging prayer meetings from time to time.
As the weeks rolled by, it was quite evident that she fitted perfectly Awd Abe’s specifications. She was a lovely little woman, both in charm and in appearance. Her trim figure graced the village as she went about her daily business, for she was always smartly dressed and wore rimless spectacles which seemed to shine beneath her grey hair. Rose-coloured cheeks and a ready smile completed her charming appearance and everyone liked her.
Then, one day, she appeared to break her strict rules, because she appeared in the village store one Sunday morning. The store opened from 10.30 a.m. until twelve noon, and was patronised by the Catholics as they left Mass, and by others who forgot bits and pieces on Saturdays. The uncharacteristic appearance of Miss Prudom in the shop caused something of a stir, and I was in at the time, just passing the time of day.
She blushed as she entered, for she must have known that all present knew of her strict beliefs, but the shopkeeper calmly asked, “Yes, Miss Prudom?”
“I have friends calling for tea,” she said confidentially, “and they have just telephoned to inform me. I have nothing in the house. Could I have a tin of smoked salmon please, and a lettuce and some tomatoes?”
“Certainly.”
She wanted other items too, and ticked them off a handwritten list as the shopkeeper busied himself with her order. Finally, her basket was full.
“How much is that?” she asked smiling.
“One pound, five shillings and threepence,” he said.
“Will you take a cheque?” she asked him.
“Of course, I will be pleased.”
She opened her cheque-book on the counter and wrote in the correct amount, then said, “I have dated it for tomorrow, will that be all right?”
“Yes, of course, Miss Prudom.”
After handing over the cheque, she smiled graciously at him and said, “Thank you, Mr Woodall, it is most kind of you to allow me to do that. You see, I cannot buy goods on the Sabbath, so this means I’ve bought, them tomorrow, Monday. You have got me out of a dilemma, and I appreciate it deeply.”
“I’m always pleased to help,” and she was gone.
I was amazed at her logic, but have since come across similar faithful who bend the rules, such as those who refuse to drink alcohol, but who buy in bottles of brandy or whisky for medicinal purposes.
But it was Miss P
rudom and her religious beliefs which caused me a headache.
Several months later, her house was burgled. I do not think she was wealthy, but her prim little home did contain some pleasing items of crockery and glassware, in addition to several good pieces of silver plate. These were family heirlooms. Sometime between nine o’clock one Saturday night and six o’clock the next morning, Sunday, a villain broke into her home and stole silver and crockery worth about £200. He entered through the rear kitchen window, which he broke in order to release the catch, climbed in and ransacked the downstairs rooms while she was asleep.
As Miss Prudom rose early on the Sabbath, she discovered the horror just after six and the shock was so great that she did nothing until nine o’clock. As I learned afterwards, she’d simply sat and wept at the sight of her personal belongings strewn across the floor, and at the thought of a strange, uncouth man rifling her treasures as she slept. At nine o’clock, she rang Ashfordly Police Station to report the crime.
Alwyn Foxton was on duty and chanced to be in the office. He listened sympathetically and asked her not to touch anything. He told her he would despatch a policeman immediately to the scene. Alwyn then telephoned me, for I was on duty that Sunday.
“I’ll go straight there,” I said.
Within minutes, I had donned my crash-helmet and heavy coat against the threat of April showers and within two minutes of leaving my hilltop house I was drawing up beside Miss Prudom’s cottage. She came to the door to greet me and her ashen face and red-rimmed eyes told of her solitary distress.
“I’m P.C. Rhea,” I announced. “Your local policeman — we haven’t met formally.”
“You were in the shop the other morning,” she said seriously.
“Yes, I often pop in to talk with Mr Woodall.”
“It’s awful, Mr Rhea, the mess. Just to think that somebody has been in there, while I was in bed, going through my belongings . . .”
“I’ll examine the house first, to give a quick assessment, and then I’ll call the C.I.D. They’ll come to fingerprint the house and examine it for other clues . . .”
“Oh, you can’t come in,” she said pertly. “I’m sorry.”
“But I need to, Miss Prudom. It’s vital that the police come in to examine the scene of the crime. We can’t make a proper investigation without seeing for ourselves . . .”
“No, you don’t understand. Mr Rhea, you are a Catholic, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I confirmed.
“But you see, I do not allow papists into my home. I never have and never will. And today is Sunday too. You must know of Mr Potter’s conditions of sale, about Catholics not entering or buying this house . . .”
“But, Miss Prudom, it is my job. If I am to have even the remotest chance of detecting this crime, I must come inside to see how the criminal has gone about his work. And I need to talk to you, to take a statement from you, to ask about identification of the stolen goods and a host of other things, like values and detailed descriptions . . .”
“I’m sorry, Mr Rhea,” was all she said.
I stood on the doorstep looking at her. She was a sad picture; her eyes were rimmed with red and her pretty face was pale and drawn. She was wringing her hands before her frail body as she kept me at bay and I must admit I didn’t know how to tackle this problem. I felt desperately sorry for her.
“Can I see the window then, at the back? I can examine it from the outside. That will be a help.”
“Yes, that will be all right.”
She led me to the rear of the house and I examined the smashed window-pane. It had been broken with some heavy object, and pieces of glass lay inside, on the window-ledge. Chummy had opened the latch, climbed in and ransacked the place, leaving by the front door with his loot.
I made notes of this, which was all I could see.
Back at the front door, I smiled at her. I remembered one little item.
“Miss Prudom,” I said. “You were in the shop the other Sunday and you bought some food.”
“Yes.”
“That was an emergency, wasn’t it? And I noticed how you paid by cheque, dated Monday, to avoid buying them on the Sabbath.”
“Yes, but it was a dire emergency . . .”
“Then so is this. The police might be able to catch the criminal if we can come inside . . . I could always date my reports tomorrow, you see . . .”
“You miss the point, Mr Rhea. The point is that papists must not enter my house. That is the point, it’s nothing to do with the Sabbath.”
“If Christ lived here, would He let me enter?” I asked her.
She remained very silent and her bright eyes regarded me solemnly, before adding, “But He doesn’t live here. I do.”
I felt like quoting the Parable of the Lost Sheep but knew I was fighting a losing battle. “Well, Miss Prudom, what can I do? A crime has been committed on my beat, and I am responsible for recording the fact and investigating the matter. I cannot do my work, which could lead to the arrest of the criminal, without examining your house.”
“Mr Rhea,” she smiled sweetly. “I have nothing against you personally. You must realise that. It has long been the practice in my family never to associate with or to encourage popery in any shape or form. You must allow me to exercise my principles.”
“Even if it means post-dating a cheque to allow you to buy goods on the Sabbath?” I was angry now and utterly failed to understand the hypocrisy in her. I could have argued all day and all night but it would not have made any difference to her bigotry. I knew it would be unchristian of me to begin a pitched theological battle on her doorstep, and besides, she had suffered the ignominy of a burglary. I did not wish to add to her obvious distress.
I left, saying, “I’ll get another officer to call on you.”
It was with some sadness, therefore, that I returned to my house on the hill and telephoned the office at Ashfordly. As Alwyn Foxton answered the telephone, my experience of the bishop’s visit to Elsinby came to mind.
“Is Sergeant Blaketon there?” I asked.
“I’ll put you through,” he said.
“Blaketon,” came the solemn response. “Something wrong, Rhea?”
“I’ve a problem I think you might solve for me, Sergeant.”
“Oh, something you can’t cope with?” I thought I detected a faint hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes,” I said, “a woman.”
“Women are always problematical,” he propounded. “I thought a young lad like you would be able to charm a woman.”
“Not this one,” I said. “She’s a fierce chapel-going Methodist.”
“So?” he boomed.
“So she won’t let me into her house to investigate a burglary,” I said, “and if any of the C.I.D. are Catholics they won’t be allowed in either.”
He roared with laughter. I could hear him at the other end of the line, chortling in his happiness as I explained the problem.
“Nice one, Rhea, yes, a very nice one. Serve you right for getting our Anglican church full of papists the other week. Right, leave it to me. I’m with Miss Prudom on this one. I’ll sort it out.”
And so he did. She allowed him to enter her premises whereupon she provided all the necessary help and information. The C.I.D. were called too and Sergeant Blaketon first warned them not to bring a Catholic — she’d know if they did, he warned them. She could smell ’em. Through his help, the crime was reported in the formal way and the necessary documents were completed. Miss Prudom provided a very detailed list of all the stolen goods and in the course of the next few days we circulated the information to all police offices in the locality. This was standard procedure.
Sadly, the burglar was never found. He committed several similar crimes in and around the North Riding over the next few months, and then he stopped. His hallmark was the method of entry and exit, and the type of property he took, but we never caught him. Perhaps another police force came across him, perhaps he was arrested
elsewhere. We shall never know.
The sequel to the yarn, however, was the criminal’s return of a photograph. It showed a very young Miss Prudom with her father and it was endorsed to that effect on the rear. The picture was probably fifty years old or more and I’m sure it was of sentimental value to her. For that reason, it was returned to her through the post.
She called at my police house to inform me of this event and I invited her in so that I could amend the list of stolen goods. She entered my house without hesitation and we concluded that piece of official business. I considered questioning her ethics on this occasion, but decided against it.
She’d probably say the police house didn’t qualify in her rule-book due to its official function, so I didn’t ask. There seemed to be no point.
Chapter Six
What is this that roareth thus?
Can it be a motor bus?
ALFRED DENIS GODLER, 1856—1925
One of the inescapable features of a police officer’s life is to be told incessantly about parking tickets. In company, the moment one’s true occupation is known, out come all the harrowing tales of parking problems; he is told how the speaker parked only for the briefest of moments while he changed his library book/bought himself underpants/waited for the wife/suffered from dampness on his coil or got involved in some other accident of history. Never is a motorist at fault in such circumstances; everyone else is, especially the police.
Police officers who suffer from such ear-bending sessions can sympathise with doctors who are bored about operations, solicitors who are cornered by convicted innocents and plumbers who can’t get away from rattling taps or overflowing cisterns. For this reason, policemen who go on holiday seldom admit their true occupation — only a masochist would do that. Holidaying constables announce to their audience that they are variously employed as clerks for the government, officers in local authority employment, out-of-work salesmen, bingo callers or members of other sundry occupations. I know one policeman who, when on holiday, always tells his new-found friends that he is a button salesman. He reckons that’s the best conversation-stopper there is — after all, what can anyone ask about that?
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 52