“What’s the profit? Do we know yet?”
“Not yet, but I imagine it will be around the £150 mark, an excellent result. It is going to the church steeple fund this year.”
“I liked the gypsy idea — a real novelty,” I nodded in the direction of the heavily clad woman who was demolishing her tent and packing her fortune-telling impedimenta.
“Yes, it was a good crowd puller. She rang me rather late to be mentioned in our posters and advertisements, but word got around.”
“Who is she?”
“Gypsy Rose Lee,” smiled Miss Jenks. “The real one, the one you see at Blackpool in the summer. She rang to ask if she could hire space from us.”
“Hire space?”
“Yes, she rang me and asked what I’d charge to rent a corner of the room.”
“And what did you say?” I asked gently.
“I said we didn’t hire space, but if she really wanted to come and entertain us, she could give us ten per cent of her takings, and they would go to the steeple fund.”
“And she could keep the rest?”
“Yes, the committee felt it was a nice idea. I telephoned them all when I got the request, and Gypsy Rose rang back for our decision. We all agreed, Mr Rhea . . .” her voice trailed away as she explained this to me. “Oh dear, I say, I haven’t broken the law, have I?”
“No,” I smiled. “No, but the gypsy might have. If she’s been taking money for herself, by professing to tell fortunes with the intention of deceiving the public, then she might have committed a criminal offence.”
“Oh, Mr Rhea, it’s all a bit of innocent fun.”
I would have agreed had it not been for my recollection of lots of cash dropping into the palm of that gypsy. If every woman had had her fortune told this afternoon, with some children, that gypsy would have reaped a fortune. I made a hasty calculation in my head and reckoned she’d collected about £70. If she gave £7 of that to charity, it left a huge profit — over £60 — more than a month’s wages for the average man.
The tent had by this time been reduced to a pile of flimsy material which was being packed into a large suitcase, along with the ornate pole. That was now in short sections. The crystal ball had gone, and the other materials were in a large leather bag. Only the woman remained and she was still in her heavy fancy dress. I found that rather odd. Why hadn’t she changed into everyday clothes?
I stared at her, busy with her packing, and the provisions of the Fraudulent Mediums Act 1951 flickered from the dark recesses of my memory. She had taken money . . .
I stood alone, racking my brains, as Miss Jenks counted piles of money into a tin at my side. I was vaguely aware that the gypsy woman was heading for the cloak room, no doubt to change out of her ceremonial dress.
She walked across the floor before us, weaving expansively through the rubbish which remained, and she vanished into the cloakrooms. I chattered to Miss Jenks for a few minutes, and then decided I needed to use the gents. I made for the cloakroom too. One of the cubicles was occupied, showing the “Engaged” sign. And on the floor, I found a pile of flimsy silk and chiffon. I heard a window click . . .
I rushed out and ran down the alley at the side of the village hall. I was just in time to see Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, with his face the colour of chocolate, squeezing out of the gents’ toilet window.
“Hello, Claude Jeremiah,” I beamed. “Going far?”
He said nothing. There is very little one can say when one is caught climbing out of a gent’s toilet window with one’s face coloured chocolate, and with ornate ear-rings dangling from one’s aching lobes. I seized his shoulders and hauled him through, placing him squarely on the ground before me. His wizened, pinched and elfin face twitched as I said, “Pockets — open them all up, turn them out.”
Still without speaking, he obeyed. To give the fellow his due, when he was caught red-handed, he was most co-operative. He produced £62 10s 0d in cash, and there was a further £5 in his wallet.
“The wallet money’s mine, Mr Rhea,” he said, and I believed him. The other was in a separate pocket, and I knew enough of my local villain’s behaviour to realise he’d keep today’s cash takings separate from the other.
Standing there in the back alley, I chanted the provisions of the Fraudulent Mediums Act to him and told him he was being reported for contravening its provisions. I felt sure the Director of Public Prosecutions would be fascinated to learn of this incident at our Jumble Sale, and firmly gripping Claude’s collar, I steered him back into the room to face Miss Jenks.
“Miss Jenks,” I said, “this is your gypsy. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass to be precise, and he has a donation to make to your charity. Isn’t that right, Claude?”
I shook his collar.
“Yes, Mr Rhea,” and I handed her the £62 10s 0d.
She was sufficiently fast-thinking to appreciate the situation, and I noted the quick smile as she looked at the abandoned suitcases and unpacked tent.
“There was the question of rent for that space, Miss Jenks,” I said. “Mr Greengrass and I had a discussion outside, and we agreed that £5 was a reasonable sum for the afternoon. Mr Greengrass will be happy to oblige, I’m sure.”
“But Mr Rhea, there’s all that money . . .”
“Rent, Claude, or it’s a file to the D.P.P. my lad . . .”
“Yes, Mr Rhea.”
He pulled out his wallet, extracted five pound notes and gingerly handed them to Miss Jenks. She smiled, issued a receipt and pushed the cash into a money box. “Mr Greengrass, this is most generous. I do believe this jumble sale’s profits are the best we’ve ever had, thanks to you. I must make a note in the minutes. Maybe you’d come again next year?”
“I’m sure he will, Miss Jenks, and on the same terms, Claude Jeremiah?”
And, as we say in the force, he made no reply.
Chapter Three
Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.
SIR W. S. GILBERT, 1836—1911
One of my greatest delights was to ride the sturdy little Francis Barnett across the wild acres of stirring moorland which lie to the north of Aidensfield. Lofty roads and rough tracks interlace across the more accessible regions of the heathered heights while prominent summits dot the horizons to mark the extremities of the more remote parts of the unpopulated portions. But even those far-flung borders conceal beauty and mystery, and are worthy of exploration.
Many is the time I have parked my little machine on the roadside at some eminent outcrop, to sit and admire the panoramic spread below. Mile after mile of uninhabited land, some of it moorland but much of it comprising green valleys, can be seen from countless vantage points. A succession of artists have attempted to capture the expansive attraction of the moors and dales, but few have painted a memorable reproduction. One or two have captured the exquisite purple of the heather, and some have caught the sheer enormity of the emptiness within the ranging hills. A true picture of the landscape eludes many. The hardiness of the residents has also defied interpretation by striving artists and the region is virtually ignored by novelists.
I have often considered myself fortunate to be paid a salary for touring these moors and valleys, whereas visitors pay substantially to explore them. That is the chief prerequisite of the country constable in North Yorkshire.
But if the countryside is replete with attractions, then so are the people who scrape a living from these hills. Sheep farming dominates but in the lowland districts, the farmers manage to eke out a living through versatility and hard work. Few of them take a holiday or even a day off because their work and responsibility make full-time demands upon them and their families. Because their work is their entire life, they are utterly happy and deeply content, a rare thing in any era.
On my visits to the more distant areas, I made regular calls at the lonely farms. These were chiefly to inspect stock registers or to renew or verify firearms certificates, and it meant I was known to every farmer in the district
. The homesteads comprised every kind of farm from the huge, multi-owned premises run by a manager, to the tiny single-cow farm with a few hens and pigs, but which somehow maintained a man and his wife.
I learned to negotiate cattle grids, unmade tracks, water splashes, woodland ravines and every type of obstruction on the way to these premises, and I could cope with all sorts of gate, bulls, pigs and abandoned farm machinery. But almost without exception, my admission was friendly and courteous. At every place, I could expect a cup of tea or coffee with a slice of fruit cake, and in most cases something seasonally stronger, like whisky or brandy if warranted by the occasion.
Many of the farmers expected more from me — they expected me to sit down and eat their huge dinners, called lunch in less civilised areas. These are invariably massive, the logic being that the working man’s body is in need of powerful fuel to keep it going correctly. The bigger the man, and the heavier his workload, the more fuel he needs to sustain him during a long working day. This logic seems eminently reasonable, because most of the farmers were huge, muscular men who kept working without a rest from dawn until dusk, their only sustenance being repeated doses of massive meals. As one farmer explained, “Thoo needs mair petrol for bigger, faster cars than for little cars, and they go better an’ all. Ma lads is all like big cars, so Ah need ti feed ’em well.”
It appeared to be the custom to offer a seat at the table to any stranger who chanced to arrive at meal time. Inevitably, there was enough food to cater for an army of unexpected visitors, and the meals were never made from fancy food. It was all good plain Yorkshire grub, substantial and tasty, comprising local dishes like potato and onion pie, or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, or joint of lamb with roast potatoes. Home-made soup was invariably offered, with sweets like steamed treacle puddings, apple pie and custard, or fruit pies of most kinds. Rice pudding was common, as was any milk pudding, and a cup of tea concluded the meal, with buns, ginger bread or fruit cake. These were everyday meals, not feasts for special occasions.
This typical farm dinner (lunch) was followed by a light tea around five o’clock which was something like a fry-up of sausages, black puddings, potato, bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with a light sweet like tinned fruit and a cup of tea with buns, cakes or biscuits. Supper was similar . . .
Because the farmers of the moors ate so well and so bounteously, they beamed with health and the hard slog of their daily toil never appeared to have any ill effects. The volume of their unceasing toil would shame today’s so-called workers, and their appetites would make a Roman feast look like a Sunday School tea party.
After a few months of patrolling and visiting my friends on the moors, I learned never to pack myself a meal. I also learned not to return home for my refreshment breaks. I ate with whomever I called upon around midday or at any meal time and it was deemed discourteous to refuse this hospitality. Thus I had many superb eating houses on my daily rounds, and my moorland patrolling became a gastronomic delight.
This applied equally to other routine callers, like the postman, the vet, the electricity-meter reader and similar officials. It was during this merry round of epicurean duty that I became aware of another regular visitor to my farms.
Sometimes, the fellow was leaving as I arrived and we would hold gates open for one another; sometimes he followed me in and we would eat at the same table with eight or nine farm workers, but no one bothered with introductions. I began to wonder who he was. He appeared to visit the farms with the same frequency as myself, and always availed himself of the mountainous meals.
He used a small grey Austin A35 car, immaculately kept with its chromium shining and its coachwork polished in spite of frequent muddy excursions. He was a smart man in his forties with neat black hair, who was invariably pleasant and courteous. We passed the time of day many times, without progressing beyond that basic formality.
Inevitably, we would meet one day with sufficient time for an introductory chat and this happened one spring morning shortly before twelve noon. I arrived at Howe End Farm near Langbeck after a tortuous ride up a stone-ridden incline, and my mission was to check the particulars of Farmer John Tweddle’s firearm certificate, which was due for renewal. As I parked my motorcycle against a pig-sty wall, the little grey Austin chugged into the farm yard and came to a halt at my side. The neat man with black hair climbed out, clutching a briefcase in his hand.
“Morning,” I smiled, removing my crash helmet. “You’ve survived the bumps, then?”
He laughed. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve grumbled at old John about his road, but he never does anything about it. He reckons if folks really want to visit him, they won’t mind a few bumps and buried rocks, and if they don’t want to come, they deserve to suffer a bit.”
“I’m P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m the new policeman over at Aidensfield.”
“This is a bit off your beat, isn’t it?” He closed his car door.
“Not now,” I said. “Since they issued us with motor bikes, they’ve closed some beats and extended the boundaries of others. I cover a large patch now, including this end of the moor.”
“And me,” he said, offering me his hand. “Norman Taylor, insurance man.”
We shook hands warmly.
“I’ve noticed you coming and going, and having those massive meals,” I laughed. “It seems all and sundry can just stop and eat with them.”
“They’re offended if you go away unfed at dinner time. It’s as natural to these folks to feed their visitors as it is for, say, a policeman to give advice to a lost motorist. I think it stems from the days when visitors took days rather than hours to reach these remote places. If anyone came, they’d need feeding before they left, and I reckon these folks are continuing that custom. They haven’t realised that our cars and bikes get us from place to place within minutes rather than hours.”
Together, Norman and I walked to the back door which was standing open and he entered without knocking. He walked straight to a teapot on the mantelpiece, lifted the lid and took out a £1 note. He made an entry in a book which lay beside the teapot and smiled at me.
“Monthly insurance premium,” he said. “She always leaves it here.”
“They’re trusting folk,” I commented.
“They are; they trust those who call, as if they were their own family. Mrs Tweddle is a good payer, she never forgets to leave her £1 for me once a month.”
“I’m looking for John, his firearm certificate’s due for renewal.”
Norman looked at his watch. It was twelve o’clock, and he said, “He comes in for his dinner at quarter past twelve. Elsie will be here soon — there’ll be a potato and onion pie warming in the Aga.”
And he sat down.
I pondered over my next action; I ought to go into the buildings to seek my customer and Norman recognised my hesitation.
“Sit down,” he advised me. “They’ll be in soon, and it’ll save you chasing about the place.”
I settled in one of the Windsor chairs and he occupied the other. We talked about our respective jobs, and it transpired he lived at Milthorpe, a hamlet on the northern edge of my beat. His agency embraced the whole of the North Yorkshire moors, a huge slice of countryside with scant population, and he told me how he enjoyed every minute of his work.
As we talked, a large rosy-cheeked woman entered the kitchen.
“Hello, Elsie,” greeted Norman.
“Hello, Norman. Nice morning,” she smiled happily. “By, Ah’ve just been down hedging in our five acre. Ah’m famished — have you checked the pie?”
“No, P.C. Rhea came and we’ve been talking.”
“Oh,” she said, looking at me. “Thoo’ll be after our John?”
“Firearm certificate,” I told her. “It’s due for renewal.”
“He’ll be in soon,” and she went about her business of examining the pie in the Aga. A delicious smell wafted into the kitchen as she opened the door and examined her handiwork. There were no introd
uctions, no fuss over me, no false niceties. I was here, and that was it.
She lifted the steaming pie from the oven and prodded the thick, brown crust with her finger. It was contained in a huge brown earthenware dish and there was enough for a table of eight or nine people. She placed it on the Aga to keep warm and laid the table. She set four places, I noted, four knives, four forks and four spoons. No table cloth and no condiments. There was a good deal of pleasant small talk between herself and the insurance man, and then big John entered. He saw me and Norman, nodded briefly and went to the sink where he washed his hands thoroughly with a grease-removing agent, then swilled his face with cold water.
“Bin greasing machinery,” he informed us. “Spring time comes fast, eh? Winter’s gone and next thing we know, it’s time to get cracking, and my awd tackle allus gits rusted up.”
Having washed, he plonked himself in a chair at the table and his wife pulled a hot dinner plate from her Aga and filled it with a massive helping of steaming potato and onion pie. The crust must have been an inch thick, and the pie filling consisted of sliced potato, onions and gravy, masses of it. The pie had no bottom or sides — just the rich food with a heavy lid of luscious pastry.
“Norman,” and she filled a plate for him, and then looked at me. “Sit there, Mr Rhea,” and she pointed to the fourth chair. It was not a request and not really an invitation. Because I was here, it was understood I would eat.
I was not used to this hospitality and my face must have registered surprise. Even though I knew of this custom, its manner of execution was strange to me.
“Come on, Mr Rhea,” said John munching at the crust. “There’s no time to waste.”
And so I found myself tackling a gorgeous pie. It needed no flavouring with salt or pepper, but there was far too much. I daren’t leave any, and was on the point of finishing the first helping when she ladled a second dollop on to our plates. How Norman coped I do not know, but I must admit I struggled. Eventually, I cleaned it all away. I saw Norman and the others cleaning up the gravy with a lump of pie crust held in their fingers. Luckily I had some left, so I copied them. The result was four very clean plates.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 66