CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Yes, I’ve asked him to,” and he entered the small office, removing his hat as he did so.

  “Now, sir,” I made a formal greeting. “How can I help you?”

  He placed his battered suitcase on my desk and opened it. Inside was a collection of assorted clothes and personal belongings, and I waited for some enlightenment.

  “Officer,” he said. “I left London this morning, from King’s Cross, and I put my suitcase on the rack. It contained my overnight things, and a dark suit.”

  I looked at the contents of this case. This belonged to a woman, for there were feminine underclothes, perfumes, slippers, blouses and so forth.

  “So this isn’t yours?” I guessed.

  He shook his head and for the first time, I saw tears in his eyes.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I offered by way of some consolation.

  He nodded and I made him sit on my office chair. The poor man was obviously distressed, and at this stage I had no idea of the real reason.

  I called to Mary and in spite of preparing lunch and coping with four tiny offspring, she produced two steaming cups. I closed the door and watched him sip the hot tea as he composed himself.

  “I must have picked up the wrong case,” he said despondently. “Mine is exactly like this one, officer, and when I got off at York, I must have collected this. It’s got stickers on, you see, and mine was plain, so I should have noticed, but I didn’t spot them until I was almost here, in the taxi.”

  “So yours is still on the train?” I ventured.

  He nodded, and I noticed the returning moisture in his pale grey eyes.

  “Look, Mister . . .”

  “Frankland,” he said. “Herbert Frankland.”

  “Look, Mr Frankland, there’s no need to get upset. I’m sure we can trace your case very soon. I’ll ring the British Transport Commission Police at York and ask them to search the train at its next stop. Let’s see . . .”

  I made a rapid calculation, bearing in mind the time he dismounted at York and the time at present. I reckoned his train would have passed through Thirsk, Northallerton, Darlington and even Durham. With a bit of fast work, they might catch it at Newcastle, before it left for Edinburgh. During the time it remained at Newcastle, the railway police could search for Mr Frankland’s missing case.

  I explained to him my plan and he seemed relieved.

  “Er,” he said after I had explained my intended action, “There is one problem, Mr Rhea.”

  “Yes?”

  “In my case,” he faltered in his short speech, “there is a small silver casket.”

  “Yes?” I acknowledged, not having any idea of its contents.

  “It, er, contains ashes, officer. The ashes of my dear wife, Liza . . .” and he could contain himself no longer. He burst into a flood of tears and I had no idea how to cope. I stood up and patted him on the shoulder, saying he shouldn’t get upset and we’d surely trace the missing suitcase. After a short time, he dried his tears and apologised for his lapse, making a brave attempt to control himself.

  I sympathised with him. “I know how you feel . . .”

  I asked if he could give some indication of the location of the coach in which he travelled. Was it near the front? The middle? The rear? Before or after the restaurant car?

  Gradually, I produced some idea of his whereabouts on that fateful train, and having satisfied myself on the time of his departure from King’s Cross, I rang the railway police in York. They were marvellous; their well-tested routine would be put immediately into action, and when the train halted at its next stop, they would have it searched for the missing case. I described it and its contents, but felt there was no need to rub in the fact that it contained the ashes of Liza Frankland, née Stockdale. I then described the case now languishing in my office with its load of feminine apparel. Somewhere, a lady would find she had the wrong case, and I wondered if she would leave the train with Herbert’s case and not realise the error until she arrived home. This could cause immense problems but I did not voice this concern to Mr Frankland.

  “The casket,” I said once I was sure the railway police were in action. “Is it recognisable for what it is?”

  “It’s a nice casket,” he said, shaping it in the air with his hands. “The lid is firmly secured and on the side there is a panel with her name. It just says Liza Stockdale. I used her maiden name, because she’s home, you see . . . or she was coming home . . .”

  He told me all about his wife’s links with this area, and I listened to his fascinating story.

  “Is the casket a particular model? I mean, is it recognisable to someone like me?” I asked at length.

  He nodded. He explained it was a standard make and gave the name of it; it was obtainable from most undertakers for cremations, and the name of the deceased engraved as part of the service. Mr Frankland explained her name was in capital letters, and it gave the date of her death, the sixth of June. His story helped to compose him and I felt it did him good to tell me all about his romance and marriage.

  “Well,” I said eventually. “The Transport Commission Police will search the train when it gets to Newcastle or Edinburgh. Are you staying in the area?”

  “I’m at the Ashfordly Hotel, in Ashfordly,” he said. “I’ve booked in for tonight. But you see, I had arranged for a funeral at Lairsdale at two o’clock today . . .”

  “I’ll ring Pastor Smith,” I said. “If your suitcase turns up, they’ll see that it is sent back to York and it could be back with you today; you might only have to delay matters a short while. Look, Mr Frankland, you go to your hotel now, and have lunch. Stay there until I ring you — I’ll let you know the minute I hear something.”

  “And Pastor Smith?”

  “I know him personally,” I soothed him. “I’ll explain the problem and I know he won’t mind. He’ll be only too pleased to accommodate you at a time convenient to you both.”

  I rang Pastor Smith and explained the situation upon which he readily agreed to wait. At this, the unhappy fellow seemed a little more hopeful and he left my office to resume his journey. I kept the case of women’s clothing. I heard the taxi rumble away towards Ashfordly, and broke for lunch.

  I did not know whether to laugh or cry over his dilemma. For the poor old man, it must be harrowing in the extreme, but the thought of someone’s wife being lost in this way, was hilarious when viewed dispassionately. I hoped the British Transport Commission Police would locate the lost property before the lady passenger walked away with it.

  I enjoyed my lunch, over which I explained to Mary the delicacy of this problem. Understandably, she sympathised with the old fellow and after lunch I enjoyed some coffee before resuming my decorating. Two o’clock came and went with no word from the Transport Commission Police.

  At quarter to four, P.C. Hall from the Transport Commission Police called my office.

  “Hall here, B.T.C. Police,” he said. “We’ve searched the entire train, but that case isn’t there. It stopped at Thirsk, Northallerton, Darlington, Durham and Newcastle before we searched it, so the case must have been removed by the owner of the one you’ve got. She’s bound to realise the mistake sooner or later and call us.”

  “I’d appreciate a call, it’s rather urgent,” I said.

  “It’s just a lost suitcase, isn’t it?” he retorted, having dealt with thousands like this.

  “No, it’s more than that.” I decided to explain and he listened carefully.

  “The poor old codger!” he cried. “Oh, bloody hell! Look, I’ll have our lads give the train another going over in Edinburgh, but I’m not too hopeful. I’ll ask our Lost and Found Property people to check their records for today as well. The poor old devil . . .”

  I rang Pastor Smith to explain the situation upon which he murmured his condolences, and then I rang the hotel to speak to Mr Frankland. I told him the result to date, but stressed the BTC Police were making further searches. He appeared resigned to the fact that his belo
ved Liza was lost forever, but said he’d stay at the hotel for two or three days if necessary.

  At five o’clock, I rang Ashfordly Police Station to acquaint Sergeant Bairstow with the story, in case the BTC Police rang him tonight while Mary and I were at the pictures. He listened with interest and launched into a bout of laughter, telling me the old story of the woman whose husband had been cremated and who retained his ashes in the house. She had them put into an egg-timer, and her logic was that he’d never worked in his life, so he was going to damned well work now! Another had placed the casket of her father’s ashes on the mantelshelf and someone thought it was pepper, while another accidentally sold her husband’s ashes during the sale of the house contents after his death. His fate was never known. Sergeant Bairstow had a fund of stories about ashes of deceased folks, and I had unwittingly provided him with another. I failed to view it in his light-hearted manner.

  Obligingly, he took details of the affair, with names and all the necessary facts, and said he’d cope if I was away from the house. I explained the need for Pastor Smith to know fairly quickly, and for Herbert Frankland to be told at the Ashfordly Hotel.

  I went out to the pictures with Mary that night and returned home about eleven o’clock. The babysitter said there were no messages, so I turned in, tired but content.

  Sunday was another rest day for me, and I intended to complete the painting and decorating which had been interrupted yesterday. Before doing so, I rang Ashfordly office, but got no reply. I wondered if Liza’s ashes had been found, but felt I would have known. I knew the BTC Police at York would have called me, and I felt a tinge of genuine sorrow for poor Mr Frankland. He’d be sitting alone in the hotel, just waiting and able to do nothing.

  At half-past ten, I was in the middle of slapping some wallpaper on the bedroom wall, when there was a loud knocking on my front door. I cursed, but was obliged to answer. Mary had gone to Mass with the two elder children, for I’d attended early in order to get my decorating done. Grudgingly, I answered the door.

  A large, unkempt farmer in his early forties stood there in corduroy trousers and a dark sweater, while a Land Rover waited outside. I didn’t know him.

  “Morning. Is thoo t’bobby?” he looked me up and down, and I laughed an answer. I noticed he had a brown suitcase in his hand.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m decorating. I’m P.C. Rhea.”

  “Oh, well, this is important,” and he held up the case. Its significance did not register at that moment. “Can Ah come in?”

  “Aye,” I said, stepping back and he followed me into the office.

  “This is a funny sooart of a gahin on,” he began in the broad dialect of the moors. “Yon case isn’t our lass’s,” he said brusquely, “but she got it off t’London train yesterday, by accident she reckons.”

  “The London train?” now I was taking an interest. My heart missed a beat.

  “Aye, she’s at Univosity doon there and came up yisterday for a break. She’s gitten a brown case just like this ’un, and somebody’s switched ’em. Ah reckon somebody’s got hers and they must know by now, so Ah thowt Ah’d tell you fellers. Well, there’s neeabody in at Ashfordly, so Ah thowt Ah’d better come here, cos thoo’s t’nearest bobby.”

  “Did you look inside this case?” I asked.

  “She did, and Ah did a quick peep. Nut a nosey peep, thoo knoaws, but eneeagh ti see it’s a feller’s suit and bits and bobs. There’s summat wrapped in tissue paper but Ah didn’t oppen it up. That’s nut my business.”

  I lifted the other case from the floor and placed it on my desk, flipping open the lid. I saw the amazement on his face.

  “Is this your daughter’s stuff?” I asked.

  “Noo that’s a capper,” he said. “Noo that’s a real capper. Aye, Ah’d say it was her stuff, but she’s in t’Land Rover. Ah’ll shout her.”

  A tall, pretty teenager ran into my office, smiling at her father as he pointed to the case on my desk. “Is yon case thine, lass?”

  She blushed at the lingerie and clothing which was on display and said, “Yes, it is. Good heavens . . . how . . . ?”

  I decided not to mention the contents of the article wrapped in tissue paper, but did tell them about the poor gentleman who’d picked up the wrong case when he got off at York. The girl told me she’d got off the train at Thirsk, where her father had met her in the Land Rover, and she’d not realised the mistake until late last night. She’d put her case on the top of her wardrobe at home, her toiletries being carried in a shoulder bag, and had gone to get the case this morning to do her washing. Then she’d found the man’s stuff inside, and had not investigated further. This was the typical action of an honest dales person — they did not snoop into things that weren’t their business.

  I was highly relieved. I pushed aside the tissue covers of the casket and saw the silver beneath, but did not enlighten this couple of its significance. Now there were the usual formalities to complete. The girl would have to sign for her case in my found property register, and I would have to record her as the finder of the second case. Eventually, Mr Frankland would sign for his own goods.

  “Right,” I said. “You are the owner of the case of lady’s clothes?”

  The girl nodded.

  “I have to make an official record of your receipt of this case,” I explained. “What’s your name?”

  “Stockdale,” she said. “Liza Stockdale.”

  I had the name half-written in my book before I realised its significance.

  I felt faint.

  “Liza Stockdale? From Crag End Farm, Lairsdale?” I spoke faintly.

  “Summat up?” asked her father.

  “I, er,” I didn’t know how to broach this one. “Why is she called Liza?” I heard myself ask.

  “Oh, it’s after an aunt of mine,” he said. “Ah never knew her, but she cleared off with a soldier way back in t’First World War, and never came back. My dad — that was her brother — thought the world of her and she never wrote or anything. He allus talked about her, my dad did. So Ah called my first lass after her . . . just to keep t’name going, thoo sees, for my dad.”

  “So the family wanted her to come back?”

  “Aye, of course. Yon soldier was a nice chap, by all accounts, did the right thing by her, he did. We lost touch — she was t’only member of oor family to do a thing like that. Headstrong lass, they said, but all right, not a disgrace to us.”

  “Is your father still alive?” I asked gently, my nervousness causing my voice to waver.

  “Is thoo all right, Mr Rhea?” he asked me. “Thoo’s gone all pale and shaky. Aye, my dad’s alive. He’s turned seventy-five now, but he’s as fit as a fiddle.”

  “Look,” I said. “You’d better sit down, both of you,” and I pulled up chairs for them.

  “Nay, lad, thoo’d better sit doon!” he laughed, but he took the seat.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this . . .”

  “Summat wrang?”

  I did not know how to break this news to them. I could tell them about the old man waiting so patiently in Ashfordly, or I could show them the casket bearing this girl’s name. Would the shock be too much for them, or should I tell Mr Frankland first? These were sturdy, practical folk, not given to whims and fainting sessions, so I decided to tell them the story.

  “Mr Stockdale and Liza,” I said. “Yesterday, a man called at this house with your suitcase. He’d come up from London and had got off at York, one stop before you, Liza. He mistakenly took your suitcase, and realised when he was on his way to Ashfordly by taxi. He called here and left it with me, and I tried to trace that other case, his case, which he’d left on the train. The railway police are still looking for it.”

  She smiled, “And I got off at Thirsk, taking it with me because it was the only one left and because it was just like my own . . .”

  “Yes,” I said. “Now, this is the sad bit. That old man was on his way to a funeral. His wife’s funeral. She died last w
eek in London, and he was bringing her ashes to be buried near her home.”

  “Oh!” she said. “And I had them in that case?”

  I chewed my lips. She did not show horror, just sorrow for him. Her father regarded me steadily, and I knew I must now lift the casket from the case.

  “Yes,” I said. “This is the casket,” and I lifted the tissue-wrapped casket from its resting place among the smart clothes of Mr Frankland. I removed the wrappings and revealed the name. I turned it towards them so they could read it.

  “Liza Stockdale!” the girl gasped. “My name?”

  Her father’s gaze never left me. “Thoo means this is my Aunt Liza’s ashes?”

  I nodded.

  “By . . .” he said. “By . . . then she came home after all? Right back to Scar End! And by t’hand of her namesake . . . noo that caps owt!”

  I handed the casket over and his big, clumsy hands lovingly cradled it. “Thoo said there was gahin ti be a funeral?”

  “It should have been yesterday, Mr Stockdale, and Pastor Smith was going to conduct it. He wouldn’t realise the Mr Frankland who arranged it was a relation of yours.”

  “And that poor awd chap thowt we didn’t care?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then thoo and me and oor Liza’ll have to put him right, Mr Rhea. Come on, let’s find him.”

  “But I’m in my mess . . .”

  “That dissn’t matter a damn, lad. Fetch yon cases — Liza, sign up, and let’s be off.”

  We found Mr Frankland sitting in the lounge of the Ashfordly Hotel, reading the Sunday papers. He looked pale and sickly, but smiled when he saw me. His smile turned to clear relief as he saw the young girl carrying two identical suitcases towards him. He stood up to welcome the curious party consisting of a policeman in decorating gear, a farmer and a pretty girl.

  “You were on the train!” he smiled at Liza. “I’m so sorry, it was all my fault. Is that my case, officer?” The relief was evident in his voice.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s all there, intact, thanks to this young lady.”