I calculated the length of this circuitous journey and felt she would travel at least twice the true distance, but on the appointed day she sallied forth full of confidence with a grey-haired lady passenger beaming hopefully from the front seat.
She allowed herself two days to reach her destination, and I was somewhat surprised when she rang me from Penrith in Cumberland, and then from Chester, to find out where she’d gone wrong. But she arrived safely three days later, having covered nearly eight hundred miles in large circular routes.
My plan hadn’t helped because she’d missed several turnings and I’d not counted a new one-way system in Leeds. I couldn’t remember including Leeds in my route, but did not argue.
I did wonder how she’d get back.
She returned a fortnight later and in the following days, I received twenty-five requests from police forces to visit her and report her for parking infringements, one-way street offences and careless driving on that trip, and they included places as far apart as Lancaster, Lincoln, Huntingdon, Warwick, Chippenham and Gateshead. But her Morris Minor hadn’t a scratch, and neither had she.
* * *
In communities as small as Aidensfield, Maddleskirk and the like, there is usually one eccentric motorist whose deeds are widely known to the local people, and they contrive to keep well out of the way when the said eccentric is in motion. But these villages had Esme and another. Two of them in such a small area seemed destined to bring chaos.
Cedric Gladstone was the other’s name, and he lived in a nice bungalow on the edge of Aidensfield with his lovely wife and two spaniels. Cedric was a retired motor engineer, a short, tubby gent with rimless spectacles and a bristling white moustache who had, in his working life, been something of an expert at his craft. In his retirement, he spent a lot of time in his workshop, making objects which no other craftsmen would tackle due to the time and patience needed. He fashioned objects like keys for grandfather clocks or winding handles for gramophones, small tools for specialist tasks and knick-knacks for household use. He did this for fun, although he was not averse to accepting gratuities in the shape of bottles of whisky as payment for his craftsmanship.
Cedric ran an old Rover car, a lovely 1949 model in a delicate shade of tan with darker brown mudguards, and this was his pride and joy. He had spent years with this car, having bought it new, and upon his retirement had managed to acquire a comprehensive stock of spares. By this prudent advance planning, Cedric was able to keep his car on the road when others fell by the wayside or ended their life on waste tips and scrap metal dumps.
I liked Cedric. I loved to chat with him in his workshop as he filed and soldered precious little pieces of metal together to create some implement useful for an obscure task. Even in his advancing years, a pride of creation and inventiveness remained. He showed me some of the things he’d produced — trowels, a ball-point pen, thousands of keys for hundreds of jobs, a toasting fork with a shield to protect the hand from the heat of the fire, all sorts of gadgets for working in car engines, a rack for shoelaces, a toothbrush holder and so forth. It’s fair to say I spent many a happy hour watching him at work in his hessian apron and battered old flat cap.
But in that beautiful car, Cedric was a changed person. His big problem was drink, and I must admit it was a long time before I realised he was an alcoholic. I might have guessed because his home was stacked with an infinite variety of whiskies, collected over many years from the Highlands of Scotland, and drunk deeply every day by a thirsty Cedric. He was a frequent visitor to the local inns where he happily drank their whisky, or the whisky of anyone who would pay for the pleasure of seeing it vanish down Cedric’s throat.
It is difficult to recall exactly when I became aware of this black side of Cedric’s character. Certainly, his lovely Rover was at large most days, always immaculately polished and chugging beautifully along the lanes or through the villages as Cedric and his wife, Amelia, went about their business and pleasure. I had often seen the car during my patrols, and there was never any reason to halt it or to check the driver for illegalities. It had always been carefully driven, then one spring morning, sometime after arriving at Aidensfield, my professional attention was drawn to the car.
It emerged from the drive of Cedric’s house and someone was grating the gears. There was an awful noise as metal fought with metal, the gears doing their best to mesh under some intolerable handicap. I stared at the immaculate little car, wondering if it was being stolen, but saw that Cedric was driving.
I watched in considerable horror, wincing at the thought of unseen damage as the lovely vehicle emerged on to the road to groan its way into the village. As I was on foot, I was not in a position to chase him, although I did follow its path, listening to the clonking noises and the agonising screeching of the protesting gears. The din ceased somewhere along the village street.
Minutes later, I found Cedric’s car. It was in the car park of the Brewers Arms, neatly parked and driverless. I checked my watch — it was ten thirty, opening time. I decided to pop in to see if Cedric was ill or in need of help and found him perched on a bar stool chatting amiably with Sid, the resident barman. He looked very content and relaxed, and in his hand was a double Scotch.
“Ah, Mr Rhea, can I tempt you?” he held the glass high, his grey eyes glistening with evident pleasure as he scrutinised the bronze contents.
“No, thank you, Cedric, not when I’m on duty.” I couldn’t face a whisky or any alcohol at this time of morning.
“I’m having a coffee, Mr Rhea,” Sid offered. “There’s some in the pot.”
“I’d love one, Sid,” and with no more ado, he produced a coffee pot and poured a steaming mugful. I removed my uniform cap and settled on a stool at Cedric’s side. He looked in the bloom of youth now, sitting high on that stool with his back as straight as a ramrod, and his white moustache bristling with energy. His thick white hair bore no signs of thinning and his eyebrows matched his hair, thick and white, all set in a healthy pink face. His clothes were neat too, all cavalry twills, Harris tweeds and wool shirts with brogue shoes and green woollen socks.
As I talked about nothing in particular, I realised I’d often seen his car here, never thinking he was in the pub. I thought he parked it as a matter of convenience for the shop or the post office, because at home I’d never seen him drink heavily. True, he’d shown me his collection of malt whiskies, but I’d never seen evidence of alcoholism. But now, sitting at his side as he rhapsodised over the drink and recalling the method of the Rover’s arrival, I realised I had a hardened drinker on my patch — and a motorist into the bargain.
This was long before the days of breathalysers and samples for laboratory analysis. In order to secure a conviction for drunken driving, it was necessary to prove beyond all doubt that the driver was under the influence of drink or drugs to such an extent as to be incapable of having proper control of the vehicle when driving or attempting to drive on a road. This was done by doctors; they were called by the police and conducted hilarious examinations of suspects by making them walk along white lines chalked upon the floor or asking them to add up sums of figures which not even the doctor could calculate correctly. The outcome was that many grossly drunken individuals managed to survive those primitive tests to escape conviction for an offence which so easily caused death to others. This was the reason for the introduction of the breath tests and the need for scientific analysis of the blood or urine to determine the alcohol level in the body. Thus, the guesswork and favouritism was eliminated.
But none of this affected Cedric. He was drinking long before such progress came to harass drunks. I looked closely at him. There was no sign of drunkenness. He was sitting unaided on a bar stool, with no back rest and he was not swaying nor was his speech slurred. He was conducting a most rational conversation with myself and Sid, and it was certainly not feasible to consider him drunk in charge of his vehicle. This differed from drunken driving because a person could be in charge of his van or c
ar even when asleep in the back seat. Cedric was in charge of his car right now, sitting at that bar with the keys in his pocket . . .
But he was not drunk.
Once more, I recollected the pained howls from his car as it negotiated our village street and concluded something must be wrong with it.
“Is the car all right, Cedric?” I ventured to ask during a lull.
“The car? It’s fine, Mr Rhea. Why do you ask?”
“I was walking up the village as you left home. It sounded as if the gears were fighting to jump out of their little box.”
“My fault,” he laughed. “I’m not at my best first thing, you know. I’m getting like my old car, I need a few minutes to get warmed up.”
I laughed it off, but did notice Sid gave me a sideways glance. At the time, I failed to read any significance into his action, but sometime later I came to realise what he was trying to tell me.
On several occasions afterwards, I saw Cedric leave the pub at closing time after lunch, each time manoeuvring his lovely Rover out of the car park with the smoothest of motions and the utmost skill. There was never a rattle or a grating of gears; his driving was perfect. No drunk could achieve that standard of driving, I told myself.
It would be four or five months later, when I was again walking in the village in civilian clothes, enjoying a day off duty. I overheard the noisy approach of a car. The din was terrible; gears grated, brakes screeched, tyres fought with the road and sometimes the horn blared. I turned to find Cedric’s immaculate car bearing down on me. I stood aghast, watching the lovely old car struggle along the main street, and then it turned into the pub car park. I watched.
Cedric climbed out. Or rather, he staggered out. He ambled haphazardly across the empty park towards the front door of the Brewers Arms, and vanished inside seconds after the stroke of ten thirty. I was off duty, but Cedric had been drinking . . .
I hurried inside, and was in time to see him struggling to mount the bar stool. Sid was helping him and in moments, Cedric was perched high on the stool beaming at a full glass of whisky on the counter. Before I could climb the few steps into the bar, he picked up the glass and drained it at a gulp.
I rushed in.
“Cedric,” I cried. “For God’s sake no more . . . the way you drove that car . . .”
“Ah, Mr Rhea,” he turned to greet me, smiling all over his rosy face with his eyes full of happiness. “Good to see you. Have a drink — I see you’re not on duty.”
“No thanks,” I declined, partly due to his state. “I can’t drink that stuff this early. Look,” I tried to talk to him. “I’ve just seen you drive in here, Cedric, and you must have been drunk, the way you drove your car . . .”
“No,” he beamed at me benevolently. “I’ve not had a drop — not until this one,” and he lifted his empty glass, and handed it to Sid for a refill.
Sid poured a generous helping and passed it back to Cedric, who tossed it down his throat with a smile.
“Nectar of the Gods,” he addressed the empty glass. “Water of life, aqua fortis, aqua vitae, eau de vie, usquebaugh, perfume of Arabia . . .”
“Cedric, you must not drink and drive, it’s dangerous — and illegal,” I added.
“No one has ever seen me the worse for drink when I’m driving,” he said quite coherently. “And no one ever will, Mr Rhea, I assure you.”
“But I saw you just now, Cedric . . .”
“Stone-cold sober, Mr Rhea. I was stone-cold sober. I’ve told you before, it takes me a long time to get warmed up on a morning.”
Sid interrupted. “He’s right, Mr Rhea. You’ll never see him worse for drink — he drinks whiskies, nothing else.” Again, I noticed the sideways glance from Sid and knew I was wasting my time. Whatever had caused Cedric to drive so awfully was not drink. Maybe he was genuinely slow at getting mobile on a morning. He must be all of seventy and it did occur to me that he might be suffering from an illness of some kind. Perhaps he was rheumaticky and needed time before his ageing limbs functioned correctly.
I left the Brewers Arms and continued along the village to do some shopping for Mary. Later that day, we placed the four children in the rear of our battered Hillman and set sail for the moors, there to enjoy the space and beauty of this fine scenery. And as I motored through Aidensfield after lunch, I saw the lovely Rover emerge from the car park of the pub. I slowed a little, and turned down my window to listen for those awful noises but it moved beautifully along with never a murmur and never a fault in its driving technique. Cedric was on his way home. He’d been in the pub since ten thirty, and it was now two thirty, with four hours of heavy drinking a distinct possibility.
I watched as the exquisite little car motored happily out of sight, and I never saw a hint of illegal motoring.
It would be four or five days later when I next called at the Brewers Arms. It was late one evening, and I was on a routine pub visit, dressed in uniform to show the presence of the law. Sid was behind the bar, dispensing his wares on behalf of the landlord. He smiled as I entered.
“There’s no trouble, Mr Rhea, not tonight. We’re a bit on the quiet side.”
Sid was a pleasant chap in his mid-thirties, but something of a mystery man. Always pleasant, smart and affable, he was not married and lived on the premises, where he earned a small wage for his bar tending duties and seldom left the building. He was contentment personified.
I told him about a thief who was trying to sell cheap cigarettes; we’d received information that he was attempting to get rid of stolen cigarettes by selling them to pubs and clubs, so I was warning my own landlords to be careful. Sid listened and told me the fellow had not called here; if he did, he would ring me.
As he chattered, he beckoned me to come closer.
“It’s about Cedric,” he whispered confidentially.
“Is he ill?” I asked.
“Alcoholic,” Sid told me. “He drinks pints of whisky, and often spends all lunchtime in here, when his wife is out shopping as a rule.”
“I was sure he was drunk the other morning,” I said.
“On the way here? No, Mr Rhea. He’s like that before he gets a drink. Once he gets himself well tanked up, he’s normal. With umpteen whiskies inside him, he returns to normality. Without a drink inside him, he’s a liability.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, Mr Rhea. Ask about the place, ask his wife. Without his whisky, he can’t do anything properly. He shakes and garbles, and is worse than useless. Honest. He rushes up here, downs a few and within minutes is back to what we’d call normal.”
“That’s crazy! How could I explain that in a court of law? How could I tell a court that Cedric’s sober state is a damned sight worse than others when drunk, and when he’s got a skin full of whisky, he’s as normal as the most sober of judges . . .” I shook my head.
“We all keep out of his way when he drives here,” he said.
“Why doesn’t he walk to the pub?” I asked what I thought was a sensible question.
“He’d never get here,” said Sid in all seriousness.
“But he’s got loads of whisky at home, hasn’t he? I’ve seen them — he collects bottles of all kinds, there’s hundreds in his house.”
“All locked in cabinets, Mr Rhea, by his wife. I reckon she keeps him short, and she’s got them locked up for emergencies — like when visitors call, and he’s got to be made presentable. She’ll ration him to just enough to meet the requirements of the occasion.”
“I only hope he doesn’t have an accident when he’s sober!” I laughed, but was assured the villagers knew his motoring movements sufficiently well to keep out of his way. I had my doubts about visitors to the place, or holiday-makers, though.
And so I became like one of the local people. I accepted Cedric for what he was. Based on the strict wording of the Road Traffic Act 1930, Section 15, he was not committing any offence when full of whisky because the wording said, “Being under the influence of dr
ink or a drug to such an extent as to be incapable to having proper control of the vehicle . . .”
When under the influence, Cedric had full and proper control.
I could envisage a legal puzzler should he ever collide with some other person, animal or car, but he never did. In his happy state of aqua vitae, he was in perfect control of himself and his car. When sober, he was a terrible liability.
* * *
I must admit I was concerned about my pair of unusual motorists. Esme went sailing through life in her immaculate Morris, getting eternally lost and turning left at every junction or crossroads, while Cedric cruised about with his veins full of aqua vitae. Then the inevitable happened. They were both driving along the same stretch of road at the same time.
No one will ever be sure what happened, but it seems that Cedric’s Rover had emerged from his gate with Cedric in a stone-cold sober state. It was shortly before his ten thirty trip to the Brewers Arms. At that precise moment, Esme was chugging happily along in her little car, intending to visit York and its maze of one-way streets, there to collect a few parking tickets and make many left turns.
But as Cedric clanked and jerked out of his drive, Esme was horrified to see a pheasant run into the middle of the road immediately ahead of her. Had she been able to make a swift right turn, she would have missed the stupid bird, but Esme could not make a right turn. She therefore attempted to turn left.
This put her Morris right across the path of Cedric’s Rover as it surged out of the drive, and he was either lucky enough or alert enough to take avoiding action. Faced with the oncoming Morris Minor, he did something to the steering wheel which put him through the hedge at the opposite side of the road, while Esme careered straight down his drive and on to his lawn.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 69