She knocked over his sundial and sent a rustic bench into his ornamental pond, while he staggered out of his scratched car and asked if anyone had a whisky. Esme was unhurt, if shaken, and decided not to visit York that day.
My problem was whether to classify that incident as an accident within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act, but Sergeant Bairstow’s advice was invaluable. It was on occasions like this that he excelled, and I was pleased I was not reporting to Sergeant Blaketon.
“A pheasant is not an animal within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act,” Sergeant Bairstow assured me, “and besides, the damage to both cars, slight though it was, was not caused on a road. The Rover suffered minor scratches by a hedge growing on private property, and the Minor’s dents were the result of colliding with a sundial in someone’s garden. Take no action, Nicholas, old son. We don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing, do we?”
“No, Sergeant,” I agreed with some relief.
Chapter Five
And solitude; yet not alone, while thou
Visit’st my slumbers nightly . . .
JOHN MILTON, 1608—1674, Paradise Lost
Quite distinctly, two shots rang out. They echoed through the peaceful valley as I patrolled on foot. My mind was far from police matters as I marvelled at the spring colouring along the length of Rannockdale, and at first, I paid no attention. The entire countryside in his area is riddled with gunmen shooting; they shoot grouse during their season, pheasant and other game during their permitted times, and vermin all year round, consequently a couple of bangs were of no immediate interest.
But they came again. Two very clear shots rang out, and they came from a shotgun, not a rifle. It wasn’t until I heard a shouting match somewhere beyond my ken that I recognised something more than a dispute over who’d shot which animal. There were the unmistakable sounds of vocal threats, so I increased my pace and listened for more indications of the precise location.
I soon found it. As I rounded a heavily wooded corner in the higher reaches of Rannockdale, I saw a track leading across several fields. At the distant end was a solitary farmhouse, and running like fury along that track was a little man in a smart grey suit. He was carrying a briefcase and holding on his trilby hat as he raced towards the Ford Prefect parked at the gate. He was clearly escaping from something.
I could hear the sound of a man’s angry voice emanating from the farm house, and wondered what had prompted this confrontation. I increased my pace, anxious not to place myself in the firing line, but keen to discover whether or not this was a criminal matter in which I should take a professional interest.
As I drew closer to the Ford Prefect, the little man saw me and the expression of utter relief on his face was a pleasure to behold. I was his saviour and he continued to run as if his very life depended on it, ending this gallop to freedom by clambering unceremoniously over the gate.
There he halted and leaned on his car roof as he gasped for breath. I could see that his face was pale and drawn, and sweat was flowing down his cheeks in rivulets. Clutching his chest, he stared at me with an open mouth, unable to speak of this recent horror. The words refused to come and I waited at his side, all the time conscious of the silent house across the fields. Happily, there were no further eruptions from it or its occupants.
After a good five minutes, the little man got his wind back and found he could speak.
“Officer,” he panted. “Officer, thank God . . .”
“Trouble?” I asked.
“You know that man in there?” he put to me.
I shook my head. “Sorry,” I had to tell him. “I’m fairly new, and I’ve never had to call at this house. Who lives there?”
“A lunatic called Chapman,” he said. “Charles Alexander Chapman.”
He continued to draw in deep gasps of breath, and wiped his forehead with a coloured handkerchief after removing his trilby hat. He opened the door and placed his hat carefully on the rear seat, with his briefcase at its side.
“Inland Revenue,” he told me. “I’m Eric Standish.”
He held out a hand for me to shake, and his grip was surprisingly strong for such a small man. I smiled and introduced myself.
“They warned me about him,” said Standish. “It’s my first visit.”
“What happened exactly?” I asked. “I thought I heard shots back there, and shouts.”
“You did,” he confirmed. “Shots from a twelve-bore. He was having a go at me; shooting at me!”
“I knew you chaps weren’t the most popular of visitors,” I tried to cheer him up. “You’re probably more unpopular than us!”
“I accept that no one likes paying more Income Tax than necessary, but when a fellow ignores all letters and personal visits, there comes a time to call a halt. Head Office sent me to see him, to reason with him, but it’s impossible, Mr Rhea. Totally impossible. He simply won’t let anybody near the place.”
“You’ve been before — not you personally,” I corrected myself, “but your people?”
“Regularly for years. Not one tax man has ever managed to speak to Chapman, not one. God knows how much he owes.”
“Maybe he owes nothing?” I suggested.
“He manages to live without a job,” Standish said. “He’s got investments, we’re sure of it. Property too, we suspect, and we need to make an assessment of his income and his tax liability.”
“It’s a very effective way of avoiding tax!” I laughed. “Has he never paid?”
He shook his head. “Not for years and years. He moved here from a good position with a firm in Newcastle upon Tyne twenty years ago or more, and he’s lived alone ever since. Our people have tried and tried to make contact, and we fail every time.”
“I hope we don’t have to visit him,” I said. “Our uniforms might attract more target practice.”
“I’ll just have to report a failure,” he spoke with a resigned air. “I don’t like reporting failures, Mr Rhea. I like to announce success in my operations.”
He entered his clean little car, started it and left me standing at the gate. I waited a few moments to see if there was any reaction and sure enough, a head appeared from an upstairs window as the car vanished along the forest road.
I could see it was a man with long grey hair and a matching grey beard, but at this distance I could not distinguish his facial features. I did see, however, that he wielded a shotgun.
“And don’t you try it!” he bellowed at me, threateningly waving the gun. “Keep off, all of you!”
And he slammed the window to withdraw into the darkness of his isolated home. I smiled to myself, marvelling at the character of a man who could keep authority at bay for so long. I wandered along my lonely route and into the tiny moorland village where my motorcycle was parked.
For me, this was an exploratory visit, my first trip to Rannockdale village in an official capacity. I was keen to learn about its people and peculiarities, so as always on such visits I had parked the motor bike to walk the streets. On this occasion my action had been rewarded by the encounter with Mr Standish, the tax man.
It was important that I learn more about the eccentric Chapman, and the ideal place to begin was the village store. I pushed open the glass-fronted door and inside, a bell rang. A middle-aged man with a white apron appeared, smiling at me as he wiped his hands on the hem.
“P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m new here, and it’s my first trip to Rannockdale. I thought I’d say ‘hello’.”
“It’s good of you to bother,” he finished his wiping. “I’ve just been tidying some shelves at the back. Jim Freeman. My wife’s called Ann, but she’s out shopping for clothes, she went over to York this morning.”
“I’m at Aidensfield,” I said, removing my cap, “but now that they’ve issued us with bikes, we’re covering bigger patches.”
“I’m always pleased to see you chaps — fancy a coffee? I was about to have one.”
“Thanks,” and he esc
orted me through the shop to the living quarters where he motioned me to sit in a cosy armchair. He told me about the village, its amenities, problems, characters and gossip. I listened with interest, realising he was justifiably proud of the place and its people.
Over coffee, during which he answered the bell twice, I took the opportunity to mention Chapman and the Income Tax man.
Freeman laughed loudly. “Oh, then you’ve been quick to meet our prize character, Charlie Chapman, the Recluse of Rannockdale.”
“Is he really a recluse?”
“He never leaves that house — or at least, no one ever sees him leave. Rates, electricity, Income Tax, social services — they’ve all tried to get in to see him, and he gives everyone the same answer. A shotgun through the window.”
“Doesn’t he ever let anyone in?” I was amazed at this. “What’s he do for food or medical supplies? Money? The essentials of life?”
“There are two people he trusts. I’m one,” he said with some pride. “The other is Miss Stanton. She’s a retired schoolteacher who lives in a cottage near the church.”
“How’s he trust you? Do you get inside?”
“No, we take things up to the front door. There’s a dog kennel outside the front door, and we place our things in there for him. I leave groceries once a week, and when I get there each Wednesday afternoon, he’s left a note outlining the following week’s requirements. I take other things for him — the mail, milk, stuff like that. I always leave them in the dog kennel with the note of the price, if any, and next time I go, the money is there, exactly right.”
“He’s got a gun,” I said. “I know a shotgun doesn’t need a certificate, but has he a rifle?”
“Yes, he’s got a .22 rifle which he uses for killing rooks and wood pigeons. The policeman comes once every three years to renew it. I take it up, leave the forms in the kennel and next time, I collect the filled-in forms and the money.”
At that time, a shotgun could be held without a shotgun certificate, although a gun licence was needed if the gun was taken outside the home; today, gun licences have been abolished and a shotgun requires a shotgun certificate to authorise its possession by anyone, and other firearms, except air weapons, require firearms certificates. From what I’d seen already, I knew I’d have problems with Chapman if I had ever to renew his firearms certificate. That day would surely come.
Over the following weeks, I learned that Chapman had earned his nickname “Recluse of Rannockdale” due to his habit of writing reams of letters to people in authority. All his letters were written on beautifully printed notepaper in green typewritten characters. He claimed he was Lord Rannockdale, a cousin of the Queen, and rightful heir to several estates in the North Riding; on some letter headings, he styled himself MP, and others comprised various business letter headings, happily of fictitious firms. The recipients of his letters must have wondered who was producing such gems, but I did learn that many were aware of his activities because of constant attention by the local and national press.
It was a local newspaper which had christened him “Recluse of Rannockdale” and the title had stuck. Every time he received wide publicity due to some idiot testing his defences for a giggle, the result was more people attempting to gain access to his house or visiting his farm with crazy notions. Some took along pressmen or cameras, for the Recluse had become something of a national celebrity. All this began some years before I arrived on the scene and in recent times, the publicity had dwindled considerably. The village people knew of his desire for the utmost privacy and respected it, and these days he lived his life almost as he wished. He was out of the nation’s limelight.
That was until two burglars called.
Late one winter’s evening, they decided to break into Charlie’s farmhouse. What prompted them to embark upon an enterprise of this kind, in remotest Rannockdale on a winter’s evening, is still something of a mystery, but it seems they had popped into the village inn for a quick drink. They were a highly professional team of burglars from Middlesbrough and their skills had earned them a comfortable living beyond the law.
It was that same skill that almost cost them their lives. Somehow, they managed to get into Charlie’s house without him realising, a feat which had defeated every caller for years. Perhaps the passage of time had helped, for there’d been no concerted attack on his home for years. We reckoned he had been lulled into a false sense of security. Be that as it may, the skilled pair had broken in and had started to rifle Charlie’s precious belongings.
He had a lot of things worth stealing, like antiques, jewellery, silverware and cash, and he kept them in a bedroom. It was to that very bedroom that the hapless pair went by the light of a torch in the very early hours. They reached the room, picked the lock and entered. And there lay Charlie’s treasure. They could scarcely believe their luck; it was a veritable treasure trove.
They began to place these riches into pillow cases which they used as sacks, and then Charlie approached. They heard him coming; just in time, they heard his quiet steps and saw the glint of his torch as he moved along the long corridor.
One of them, Ginger Mills, slammed the be room door just in time, and rammed home the lock on his side. He and his pal, Cat Christon, were locked in.
Being professionals, they appreciated this gave them time to think and plan; the householder would go downstairs to ring for the police, and while he was down there, they’d sneak out with the loot. They’d go downstairs and, if necessary, tackle him and immobilise him. So they waited; time was on their side.
Suddenly, the door panels were splintered into fragments as the twin barrels of Charlie’s twelve-bore discharged themselves and his voice called, “You can stay there, you bastards. If you climb out of the window, I’ll be waiting . . . if you move along here, I’ll be waiting . . .”
And as if to emphasise those words, he released a further barrage at the door. The little balls of lead shot peppered the door and blasted the interior of the room where two very alarmed burglars now crouched in fear of their lives.
He kept them there for two whole days and two whole nights, sometimes enforcing his threats with barrages of lead pellets at the shattered door. Naturally, the burglars kept out of the way, using a wall as a shield.
Then Charlie sent for the police. Early one morning, he placed a note in his kennel and this was intercepted by Mr Freeman at the shop and he rang me.
“Where are they?” I asked, surprised that Charlie’s burglars had not been encouraged to leave with their backsides peppered as mementos of their visit.
“He’s got them locked in the bedroom,” he told me over the telephone. “Two, he thinks. He’ll allow you to call and arrest them. He says you must be there at twelve noon today, and he’ll deliver them to you at the front door.”
“Is he sure they’re burglars? They’re not just daft youths who got in for a dare?”
“He says burglars in his letter, Mr Rhea, and I’m sure he’s right.”
“O.K.” I assured him. “Tell Charlie I’ll come with a police car.”
I rang the section office at Ashfordly and Sergeant Oscar Blaketon answered.
“Sergeant,” I said, “It’s P.C. Rhea. Can I use the section car today?”
“You’ve a motor bike, Rhea. Has it broken down or are you just feeling idle?”
“No, Sergeant,” I reasoned with him. “It’s needed to carry two burglars. I want to go up Rannockdale to arrest them.”
“Rannockdale? Who bothers to get burgled up Rannockdale?” he asked aghast. “There’s nothing up there to be burgled.”
“They’re being held in a farm house,” I informed him. “That old man who’s known as the Recluse of Rannockdale has got them,” and I explained the curious circumstances.
“Oh, well, in that case you can use the car.” There was a hint of reluctance in his voice, “but I’ll come with you. It’s not often we arrest burglars out here, Rhea, so you’ll need support. You’re coming down to the of
fice now, are you?”
“I am, Sergeant.”
Ten minutes later, I eased my Francis Barnett into the police station yard at Ashfordly and parked it against the wall. I took my crash helmet inside and hung it on a peg, replacing it with the flat cap from my pannier.
“You drive, Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, standing majestically before me in his superbly fitted uniform. He was ready to go, eager to be moving into action, but knowing him as I did, I made a careful check of the essentials. I checked the oil, water, battery and tyre pressures of the car, I made sure the lights worked, and the horn, and the windscreen wipers, and then I checked all the doors, the bonnet and the boot to ensure they closed properly. Sergeant Blaketon was a stickler for rules and routine, and I dare not omit anything. Having made a rigid check of this drill before moving out, I drove sedately across the moors in strict accordance with the driving system taught at police motoring schools.
On the way, I explained about the Recluse. I told Sergeant Blaketon how I’d learned a good deal about his life style, and he listened carefully, sometimes chuckling at the antics of Charlie Chapman, and sometimes tut-tutting at Charlie’s law-breaking enterprises. Blaketon had heard about him, of course; most of the local people had read of his exploits and the police, in one form or another, often caught the brunt of his anti-social behaviour.
“So what’s the arrangement, Rhea? If this madman shoots everybody who puts a foot on his drive, how are we going to get the burglars out?”
“It’s all arranged,” I assured him. “We must arrive at his front door at twelve noon precisely, and he will pass them out to us.”
“Twelve noon?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I confirmed.
“You’ve obviously established some sort of rapport with this character, Rhea,” and before I could tell him the truth about the note in the dog kennel, he said, “You know, this will make the Superintendent very happy. He’s been nagging about our lack of arrests, Rhea. When compared with other sections, we are not in the same league — no arrests for crime, no public order troubles or travelling thieves. But this is a good one — two burglars at one go, Rhea. Yes. It’s good, and it will improve our figures.”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 70