Norman put this to his company and they agreed. After inspecting each safe and studying their individual security systems, which were designed to prevent one another from snooping, the insurance company agreed to continue the ladies on risk. I was happy too, and for a while there were no more ringing bells, flashing lights and emergency calls from Slape Wath Farm. Each lady kept her personal key secure in her own safe and they learned to use these to set the alarm each night upon retiring, and each time they vacated the farm.
Peace reigned, and the treasures were protected.
It would be several weeks later when I received a sad telephone call from Frances Kirby. She rang about ten thirty-one Friday morning, and just caught me before I vanished into my hilly beat.
“Mr Rhea,” she burbled into the telephone. “You’ve got to come, it’s Jack.”
“Jack?” For a moment I’d forgotten about their live-in handyman.
“You know, Jack that works for us.”
“Oh, that Jack! What’s happened?”
For one horrible moment, I thought he must have absconded with their best silver, antiques and money, but she was speaking gently and with some feeling. Her voice was about to crack and I wondered what awful thing had happened to Jack. I thought of accidents, sudden death, electrocution, drowning, maiming by cows . . . all sorts of ghastly occurrences flashed through my mind.
“He’s gone, Mr Rhea. He’s gone and left us. It’s our Rene’s fault, the silly bitch . . . she won’t leave him alone. I’ve told her and told her again and again, but she’s been chasing him like a love-sick virgin . . .”
She prattled on about Jack’s absence and I found myself suppressing a smile. I remembered what Joe Steel had told me about them driving away their menfolk and guessed this was just another in a long line of absconding lovers. Jack must have grown heartily sick of coping with two of them.
“How old is he?” I interrupted her chatter.
“Fifty-two,” she said without hesitating.
“Then there’s nothing I can do,” I began to tell her. “If a grown man wishes to leave home or his place of employment, it is not a matter for the police . . .”
“Ah’m worried,” she cried. “Mr Rhea, Ah’m so worried. It’s not a bit like him, not like him at all, and Ah think he might have come to some harm. Oh dear, Ah wish that silly sister o’ mine would lay off . . . he’ll never marry her, Ah could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t in love with her, Mr Rhea, not Jack. It was me, really, thoo knows, Ah was t’one he favoured . . .”
“Look, Cis,” I said. “Shall I come up to see you? Maybe he’s just gone off for the day?”
“No, he’s gone forever. He’s locked his bedroom door and bolted. Gone.”
It happened that I was about due to visit Slape Wath Farm for a routine stock check and I decided to pop in today. After all, I could make a cursory search of the premises, just in case poor old Jack had got his head fast in some machinery or fallen into a midden. It would show interest from me.
I shouted through to Mary that I had changed my intended destination and would not be back for lunch. One of the farmers in those moors would feed me before nightfall, I was sure. I was just heading out of my little office when the telephone rang again. I was tempted to ignore it, but realised it might be something more urgent than Frances’s missing man.
“Aidensfield Police, P.C. Rhea,” I announced myself.
“Mr Rhea? This is Rene Kirby. You must come at once.”
“What’s the matter, Rene?” I wondered if Cis had now fallen into the midden or got her head fast in a pig trough.
“Jack,” she said with tears in her voice, “He’s gone, Mr Rhea.”
“Yes, I know. Frances rang a few minutes ago. I’m coming up to see if I can help.”
“Rang? She rang? The scheming bitch! She’s driven him away, Mr Rhea, so she has. All that courting and lovey-dovey slop she’s been dishing out to him. She’s after him, Mr Rhea, she won’t leave the fellow alone, poor sod. Double rations of apple pie, more custard than a fellow can cope with, best crockery at tea-time — name it, she’s done it for him.”
“Has she?” I was astounded by this revelation. What more could a fellow want if he was getting double rations of custard?
The more she ranted about her sister, the more I appreciated the words of our village shopkeeper. Now I knew what life was all about at Slape Wath Farm.
I had no idea how many men the quaint pair had driven away, but I did appreciate that Jack was just one of a long, long line. I would go to the farm to express my sorrow and show interest in their dilemma, then maybe if I talked about agricultural shows and prize-winning pigs or sheep, I’d get them to forget the departed Jack.
But it didn’t work. When I arrived at the farm, I found them both in the kitchen, sitting at opposite sides of the table with a pot of tea between them and three mugs awaiting. Big Cis saw me first and came to greet me, her eyes red with crying. Rene also sported two red-rimmed eyes, and sniffed into a lace handkerchief.
“Mr Rhea, oh, Mr Rhea, Ah’m so glad you’ve come . . .”
Rene added, “because we’ve not seen him for hours and hours and there’s been no call, no letter . . . and it’s not like Jack . . .”
“He would have said something, you know, left a note for me . . .”
“For me, you silly bitch, for me.”
“Ladies, ladies!” I cried, settling down at the table. “All this bickering will do no good. Now you both love him?”
I was relying on Joe Steel’s past assessment to deal with this situation.
There was a long silence, then Cis nodded.
“Yes, he was such a nice, kind man . . .”
“And so good to the animals, Mr Rhea. The way he handled a . . .”
“Pig or a sheep was magic to watch. Superb, he was, Mr Rhea, a real man . . .”
“And a friend, Mr Rhea, a real friend.”
I listened to this double-sided conversation, and remembered what Frances had said when ringing me this morning.
“Frances,” I said, “you told me he’d locked his bedroom door and bolted?”
She nodded fiercely.
“She’s driven him away, Mr Rhea,” butted in Rene. “He’s cleared off, never to return. Every time Ah find myself a nice man-friend, she gets her claws into him and frightens him off . . .”
“She frightens him off, not me. Throwing herself at him like that . . . baking cakes for his birthday, I ask you! And sending Valentine cards!”
“Hang on, hang on!” I shouted above their banter. “Look,” I raised my voice and caught their attention, “did you set your burglar alarm last night?”
My change of tactic surprised them and both regarded me with puzzled expressions.
“Burglar alarm, Mr Rhea?” asked Rene.
“You mean our alarm, Mr Rhea?” followed Cis.
By this time, I was heading towards the control-box of their system and saw the familiar key in the lock, with a length of string dangling from it. A cotton reel hung on the end.
“Ah!” I said, spotting this. “This should not be here, should it?”
“It was awkward, going upstairs to our safes, Mr Rhea . . .”
“We kept forgetting and t’alarm kept going off, and so we hid a key in t’knife drawer . . . that’s t’one, t’key we all use, us and Jack that is, it’s t’only one left . . .”
“If Norman’s Insurance company saw this, they’d never cover you again, you know. There’s no point in having a burglar alarm if you leave the key in all the time . . .”
“Nobody’s going to burgle us, Mr Rhea, nobody . . .”
“Our geese and dogs will stop ’em, Mr Rhea . . .”
Then I guessed where Jack was.
“Look,” I said, “when you go to bed, you turn the key and set your alarm. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mr Rhea, we do that,” they both spoke at once.
“And you leave the key in?”
“No, we put it in the k
nife drawer, so we both know where it is.”
“Would Jack know where it is?” I put to them.
“No, he thinks we put the keys in the safes, because that’s what we told the insurance man,” again they spoke together.
“So if Jack had come downstairs last night and crept away, he’d have set off the alarm, wouldn’t he?”
Cis nodded and so did Rene.
“Yes, Mr Rhea.”
“Yes, Mr Rhea.”
“But he didn’t set it off, and Cis said his bedroom door was locked, so that means he’s still in the room, doesn’t it?”
As I said it, I visualised him lying dead on his bed, having suffered a massive heart attack during the night. I’d dealt with many sudden deaths of this kind and this sounded like another. It looked as if I was going to be busy.
They were already galloping upstairs, their voices shrill and harsh as they careered towards the bedroom of the object they worshipped so dearly. Both were hammering on the door as I reached it, panting slightly from the steep climb.
They stood aside, gabbling incessantly and wiping their flooding eyes as I stepped forward and turned the knob. Nothing. It was locked and I guessed the key was on the inside. I knocked many times and shouted loudly.
“Jack? Are you there?”
There was nothing, not even a groan of pain or a half-hearted attempt to reply. I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. And as I hammered on the door and shouted, I could faintly discern the peculiar smell I’d noticed previously when looking around the rooms. Now, I thought I knew what it was. If I was right, Jack wasn’t dead.
“Well?” they both asked at once, expecting me to perform a miracle.
“Have you a ladder?” I asked.
“Ladder?” they chorused. “What for?”
“To look into his room,” I said seriously. “I think he’s in there and I think I know what’s the matter.”
“He’s there?” they shouted. “You mean he hasn’t left us?”
“I’ll have to see.” I didn’t promise anything, but we all trooped downstairs and out into the foldyard. There hanging on a wall inside a shed was a long ladder, and I carried this to his bedroom window. Propping it carefully against the wall, I began my climb of exploration.
As I reached the bottom pane, I peered inside and knew my diagnosis had been correct. I could see Jack laid on the cover of his untidy, unmade bed, and he was out like the proverbial light. His head lay on the pillow and his mouth was wide open, an invitation to flies and passing spiders, while his hands lay palm upwards at the end of outspread arms. His feet, bare and black, hung over the end of the bed, and he was dressed in blue striped pyjamas. He was not a pretty sight.
From my position on the ladder, I could peer right into the room, and saw evidence of my suspicions. That smell had been alcohol, gallons and gallons of it, the sort that reeks when poured down human throats without ceasing, year after year, and which fills rooms like this when empty bottles are left around. Jack Holtby was an alcoholic. Even from this distance, the room bore the classic signs. There were bottles everywhere. Stout, beer, spirits, full ones and empties, all littered about the place, filling every spare inch of space. The window ledge, the mantelpiece, the top of the wardrobe, the drawers, the dressing-table — all were full of bottles, standing or lying, empty and full, and the floor was similarly littered. The fellow was as drunk as a newt.
I opened the window in the manner used by enterprising burglars and clambered inside, knocking bottles aside. The stench was appalling. Holding my breath, I raised the window to its full height to allow some fresh air inside, and noticed the two anxious faces below.
“I’m checking,” I yelled at them. “He’s here.”
“Oh!” they cried, putting their hands to their mouths. “Is he ill?”
“I think so,” I deigned to answer, and picked my way through the minefield of bottles towards the bed. I felt him; he was warm. He was therefore alive and I could just hear his faint breathing. I slapped his cheeks, but got no response. He was out cold, stoned out of his mind and I wondered if the ladies had driven him to drink . . .
Probably not. Probably, he was well on the way to alcoholic oblivion before getting this job, and this made it easy for him to avoid prying eyes. To be tucked away out here with two doting spinsters must have been a gift from the gods. No wonder he’d kept himself to himself.
I unlocked the door with the key left in the lock and made my way downstairs. They were hurrying towards me with worried expressions.
“Is he ill?”
“Or dead? Fallen and hurt himself?”
“Has he ever asked either of you for drinks?” I put to them.
“Yes,” each said in perfect unison, “but he told me not to tell my sister. I got him drink from the village when I went down . . .”
“As a secret? A special favour because you loved him . . . ?” I smiled.
They didn’t answer. Each was blushing, each had been skilfully used by this chronic alcoholic and each had served only to keep him well stocked up with booze of every conceivable kind. And last night, he’d reduced his stock by a fair margin.
“He’s drunk,” I said. “He’s out like a light, totally and finally sloshed. He’s an alcoholic, ladies, the room is full of bottles.”
They looked at each other and didn’t speak.
“I’ll call the doctor,” I said. “I think he needs medical attention of some kind. Can I use your telephone?”
“Of course, Mr Rhea.”
When I called again three months later, Jack had gone. They introduced me to another man, a grey-haired slim man in his fifties. He sat with them at their kitchen table, sipping coffee and I saw the familiar light in their eyes.
“This is Ernest Wallace,” beamed Cis. “He’s been with us a few weeks . . .”
“He came from Waversford Estate, Mr Rhea, with very good references . . .”
“I know he’ll be well looked after,” I smiled, pulling up a chair. “Welcome, Mr Wallace.”
I made a mental note to check his character and I wondered how he’d cope with a moorland burglar alarm and two love-sick spinsters.
Chapter Eight
In works of labour, or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
ISAAC WATTS, 1674—1748
Because it was Saturday, the grandfather clock had to be wound up. I opened the ancient glass door which covered the face and reached to the top of the case for the key. I kept it there because it was out of reach of the children and I knew where to find it each winding day. The key was a curious shape, being a tiny tunnel with a handle welded at one end, and it was used to wind the eight-day clock. It looked something like a miniature starting handle for a car.
As I wound up the faithful old clock, the key suddenly broke in my hand. The delicate handle had come away from the barrel of the antique key, and I could see it was nothing more than a straightforward welding job. The repair could be quickly affected.
At first, I thought of Awd John the blacksmith, but on second thoughts appreciated that his skills were more directed towards the repair of larger objects like ploughs and gates. I had never seen him tackle anything of a delicate nature, and I wondered if anyone in this village could fix my key. It was more than a soldering job, I realised, otherwise I would have done that myself. Welding was the only sure way of effecting this repair. The garage might have done it, but they closed on Saturday afternoons.
Accordingly, I decided to ask around the village, and the first man I saw as I patrolled on foot about the village centre was Stumpy Sykes.
“Now, Stumpy,” I made the traditional greeting. “How’s tha gahin on?”
“Middling,” was his reply. Everything Stumpy did was middling — never good, never bad. If he was ill, he was middling; if he was fit and well, he was middling. If he won a prize in the flower shows, his plants were fair to middling, and whatev
er the weather, it was middling.
“Stumpy,” I said, taking the broken key from my pocket. “Is there anybody who can fix this?”
He solemnly regarded the key and nodded slowly. “Deearn’t trust Awd John wi summat like that. Welding ploughs and fixing rainwater pipes is right up his street, but fixing delicate things like yon is not in his line at all. Try Awd Alex.”
“Alex?” I puzzled.
“Aye, that cottage yon side o’ t’garage. He’s a retired clockmaker, well into his seventies, but he can fix owt.”
I’d not come across Awd Alex and learned his surname was MacDonald. Mr Alexander MacDonald to be precise, and he lived with his wife in a lovely cottage with a porch and climbing plants all over the front. The place shone like a polished cream-strainer. I knocked on the door, using a brass knocker in which I could see my own reflection, and soon a smart lady in her sixties answered. Her pretty face expressed surprise at the sight of my uniform but she rapidly gained her composure and said, “Yes?”
“Oh, I’m P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m looking for Mr MacDonald.”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong, is it?” she asked the question everyone asked when finding a policeman at the door. I noticed she carried a yellow duster.
“Oh, no,” I smiled and pulled the key from my pocket. “It’s this — I’m told he can fix it.”
“Well, yes, I suppose he can, officer.” She spoke with a faint Scots accent. “But he’s out just now. You can find him up at Miss Crowther’s — you know her place?”
I shook my head.
“Stone House,” she said, pointing along the village. “You could leave the thing if you want — he’s got a workshop up the garden.”
“No, I’ll explain how it needs fixing,” I smiled. “I’ll find him. Miss Crowther, eh?”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 75