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

by Nicholas Rhea

  She was in the missel, the local name for the cow-house, and responded by shouting, “Aye, Ah’m coming.”

  She met me in the doorway of the missel, a surprisingly small and compact lady with iron-grey hair tightly curled about her head. She was barely five feet tall, with a fresh round face, and bright clear blue eyes. She was dressed in an old grey working jacket, known as a kytle in North Yorkshire, beneath which was a well-used grey skirt and a colourful Fair Isle pullover. She appeared to be wearing lots of other skirts about her waist, but I think one garment was a hessian apron, known as a coarse apron, and another was her daily house skirt. I don’t know why she chose to wear such a volume of skirts.

  Thick brown stockings covered her legs, and on her feet she had ankle-length Wellington boots and short, heavy socks.

  I guessed she would be in her early forties, in spite of the grey hair, for she had a neat figure, from what I could see of it, and her eyes were youthful and very pretty. I tried to imagine her out of her rough, working clothes and guessed she would be very, very pretty, but I doubted if anyone would ever witness that event. I wondered if her husband had ever seen her in a pretty dress.

  “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I announced myself. “You rang me at Ashfordly.”

  “Aye, that’s me,” and she wiped her hands on a piece of rag before emerging into the daylight. “Come in ti t’house.”

  Off the telephone, her voice was surprisingly quiet, and she almost ran across the yard, with her little wellies twinkling at her rapid pace. She opened the door and went straight in, never halting to remove the dirty boots or any of her outer clothing.

  “Sit down,” and she pointed to the plain scrubbed table.

  I obeyed by pulling out a chair, and with no more ado, she set about making tea in a large brown pot which stood on the Aga in the corner of the kitchen. Then she produced a plate of scones and cakes. She placed all these before me, never asking whether I wanted anything to eat or drink, and I knew this was customary on the moorland farms. Any visitor, at any time of the day or night, was expected to partake of such hospitality.

  Eventually, she sat in front of me, and smiled. It was a pretty smile, and beneath the rough exterior, there was a lovely woman. I wondered if she knew how pretty she could be?

  “By, you got here quick!” she smiled. “Ah’d hardlings got yon telephone put down when Ah heard that bike o’ yourn.”

  “Luckily I had no other commitments,” I said. “Now, you are Mrs Blake?”

  “Aye, that’s me. And none o’ that Concordia thing, think on!” she blushed just a little. “If anybody calls me by my first name, it’s Conny, nowt else. Just Conny.”

  “I think Concordia’s a nice, unusual name,” I commented.

  “Well, you might, but Ah don’t.” She picked up a scone and started to eat. “Now, what do you want to know, Mr Policeman?”

  “This egg money, where did it go from?”

  “This drawer, right here,” and she pulled open one of the drawers in the table we were using. From my seated position at the other side, I could see it contained a good deal of cash, as well as bills, receipts and other bits of paper.

  “You mentioned five pounds,” I reminded her.

  “Aye, that’s the one Ah’m sure about.”

  “And when did it vanish?” I took out my notebook and began to tabulate the facts I needed.

  “Sometime yesterday.”

  “Morning or afternoon?” I tried to localise it a little more. “After eight in t’morning and before tea-time — half-past four.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Ah’s positive!”

  “And it was definitely five pounds? Was it five one-pound notes, or a single five-pound note?”

  “Five separate pound notes, Mr Policeman. I know, because I put a pencil mark on their corners, all five of ’em.”

  “Then some money’s gone before?”

  “Well, Ah wasn’t exactly sure about that. Ah’ve been having a feeling for a week or two that my egg money’s been going, and my husband said he wasn’t helping himself, nor was that lass who works here.”

  “Your husband? He’s out today, is he?”

  “Aye, he’s gone across to Thirsk Mart with some cattle. And this lass comes three days a week, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, to do the house and a bit of work outside.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s called Katy. Katy Craggs.”

  “Is she a local girl?”

  “From Whemmelby. Her husband has a small spread up there at Foss End, and she comes to work for me, to earn a bit. Two kids, she has, an’ all.”

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “Middle twenties, Ah’d say. Nice lass, a good worker.”

  “Honest?” I had to ask.

  “Oh, aye, dead honest. She’s never done owt that would cause me to worry, Mr Policeman.”

  “And your husband? Would he take any money for the mart, or his expenses?”

  “Not without leaving a note in here, or telling me. Ah’ve asked him about this and he’s not got it. If he had, he would tell me. He said Ah should call you fellers in.”

  “Does anyone else work here?” I put to her helping myself to another buttered scone.

  “No, just us.”

  “And regular callers? Do folks call here?”

  “Not a lot. Hikers pass along that ridge near where you came down, and sometimes we get a salesman or two.”

  “Neighbours then?”

  “T’nearest must be half a mile away, and he allus comes on a tractor, so Ah’d know when he came.”

  “Before I start making enquiries,” I adopted my official tone, “I’ll have to be certain, in my own mind, that the money is being stolen.”

  “Ah wouldn’t have troubled calling you if it wasn’t,” she said solemnly. “Ah wanted to be certain in my own mind first.”

  “You’ve told your husband of your suspicions?” I asked. “Oh aye, he said Ah should call in your chaps.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Katy? Nay, Ah’ve never voiced anything to her, not about getting t’police in.”

  I paused, knowing that the girl would have to be interviewed, either to ascertain whether she was the thief, or whether she had seen strangers or indeed anyone else around the farm on Wednesday. The other alternative was to say nothing to the girl, and to set a trap.

  My pause for thought caused Mrs Blake to look at me carefully, and then say, “Now, Mr Policeman, don’t say you suspect that lass!”

  “I don’t suspect anybody in particular,” I said, “I was just wondering which was the best way to tackle this.”

  “There must be somebody out there who creeps in when Katy’s doing upstairs or cleaning the milk things,” was Mrs Blake’s assessment.

  “I think a trap is the answer,” I said after hearing this remark.

  “What sort of a trap?” I could see the horror on her face and realised she’d be thinking in terms of rat-traps or rabbit snares, or even those huge, iron-jawed mantraps that were so popular in Victorian times.

  “I don’t mean anything that will hurt the thief!” I stressed. “We can coat the money in the drawer with a powder that reacts to fluorescent light. If it is stolen, we can examine all the suspects and see if their hands have touched your money.”

  “Oh, Ah see. Aye, well, Ah reckon that’ll be all right. When would you want to start?”

  “If the money’s been going each Wednesday, we’ll have to come next Tuesday and set it up.”

  “Ah’ll be in.”

  “Don’t tell a soul about this, except your husband,” I added as an afterthought. “Once that money is marked and put in the drawer, neither you nor he will have to touch it.”

  Conny Blake said she understood, and I promised to return to the farm the following Tuesday, with a detective to begin our operation.

  We arrived about four-thirty that afternoon, and enjoyed more scones, cakes and tea before planting twenty pounds in the
drawer, in mixed notes, all of which were recorded in our notebooks by their serial numbers. Each one had been treated with magic powders provided by our Criminal Investigation Department. If anyone touched the money, the powder would transfer to their hands, and under the searching rays of an ultra-violet light, the powder would show upon their hands, even after several days of washing. The suspect would never know the evidence was upon him. This simple but effective method is used to trace thieves who prey on their fellow workers or who rifle jackets or handbags in toilets and changing rooms. It is ideal for trapping petty thieves who operate from the inside.

  We left Conny and her strong silent husband that Tuesday evening, with instructions not to tell a soul; they must not touch the money, and were told to ring me on Wednesday night if the notes had disappeared.

  They didn’t tell a soul, and the money did disappear. Another five pounds in £1 notes vanished sometime on Wednesday, so Conny rang me at home.

  My first job must be to interview Katy Craggs. She must be seen, if only for elimination purposes. I did not tell Conny of my immediate plans but said I had a little initial enquiry to make and would visit them later in the evening.

  It took me three quarters of an hour to ride the Francis-Barnett from Aidensfield to Foss End at Whemmelby, and as I parked my motorcycle against the drystone wall which bordered this smallholding, a young, dark-haired woman was hanging baby clothes on the line, to dry in the fresh mild breeze of these pure heights. She smiled as I approached, and waited happily in the garden as I opened the latch gate. I was not going to like this interview.

  “Hello,” she smiled, as fresh as the April breeze which caressed my face. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “I’m from Aidensfield,” I told her, trying not to be over affable at this stage. “I’m P.C. Rhea. Are you Katy Craggs?”

  “Yes?” She was a lovely girl with jet black hair and eyebrows, and very dark brown eyes set in a pale, smooth face. She was well built if a little on the sturdy side, and had surprisingly large hands with rough fingers. I noticed these as she stood before me, clutching a bag of pegs and some tiny blouses.

  “Look, this is not easy,” I began, standing at the gate. “Is your husband in?”

  “Terry? No, he’s gone down to Brantsford to get some petrol. Did you want to see him?”

  “No, it was you,” I began. “You do work for Blakes at Laverock Farm?”

  She nodded. “I go there three days a week, yes. Scrubbing out, cleaning the bedrooms, looking after the dairy and working about the house.”

  “You were there today?”

  “Yes; is something wrong, Mr Rhea?”

  “Yes, there is. Some money has been stolen.”

  That awful look of discovery on her pretty face will haunt me for years. At first, her eyes and cheeks showed no sign of guilt, but within seconds her dark eyes had misted over and tears formed in the corners, to spill over and run down her cheeks. And her lovely, pale face coloured to a deep blushing pink. I knew she had taken the cash — now I had to prove it.

  I continued, “I must ask you if you have taken any money, without authority, from Mrs Blake’s kitchen drawer?”

  “You’d better come in,” and she wiped away a tear, using the child’s blouse clutched in her right hand.

  I ducked as I entered the low door of the cottage, and she led me into the kitchen. It was small and dark, for it was located at the back of the house in the shadow of the hill, but it was clean and tidy. She almost collapsed on to a kitchen chair, so I took the washing from her and placed it on the draining board.

  I sat down beside her.

  “Well?” I asked, not wishing to take advantage of the situation to make the girl feel any worse than she did.

  She nodded.

  “Look,” she said, “I had to, for the children. I only get £2 a week from Terry . . . two pounds to feed the bairns, clothe them, buy groceries . . . I went to work to earn more, but he takes it off me for the car and his nights out . . .”

  She broke down and told me everything. The children were in bed, and I think her husband must have remained in Brantsford to have a drink. I obtained a long, signed statement from Katy who admitted stealing £5 a week from Mrs Blake’s egg money over some six weeks. I also included the reasons for her thefts and made sure the statement contained details of the money from which she had to feed and clothe her little brood. At that time, a reasonable week’s wages was around the £15 to £18 region.

  I took possession of today’s five £1 notes, and gave her a receipt for them; there had been no need for the fluorescent light test, although I felt the sergeant might want to put these notes under the fight to prove they had come from Laverock Farm, and that Katy had taken them, should she later retract her confession.

  I cautioned Katy in official tones and told her she was not being arrested, because there was no need. I would proceed by summons instead; in due course, she would receive a summons to attend Eltering Magistrates’ Court, when she would be charged with stealing £5 from Laverock Farm.

  “What will happen to me?” she sobbed.

  “It’s hard to say, but I think you’ll be put on probation,” I said. “Now, I think you need assistance and advice. I will ring the local probation officer tomorrow, and get them to come and see you. Will you be in?”

  “Yes, the children will be here . . .”

  “I’ll tell Mrs Blake next.”

  “She’ll sack me . . .”

  “I’ll tell her the reason. Look, this is not the end of the world, Katy, and there is a lot of professional help and advice available. Now, what about your husband?”

  “He’ll probably half kill me!”

  “Shall I stay and tell him?”

  “No, thanks all the same. I’d rather do it myself.”

  She was gathering herself together, and I said, “If you’d asked Mrs Blake, she’d have loaned you the money . . .”

  “I don’t borrow, it gets people into debt and needs repaying . . .”

  “Are you going to be all right if I leave you?” I asked, knowing that some women would resort to tablets or other drastic solutions in a situation of this kind.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, and because I believed her, I left the house.

  Mrs Blake was horrified. The news hit her terribly hard, and she said if she’d thought it was Katy, she wouldn’t have called the police. She’d have talked to the girl to see if she needed help.

  “Look, Mr Policeman, can this be stopped? Ah mean, does she have to go to court?”

  “I’m afraid she does,” I said. “Once a crime is officially reported to us, we must follow the procedure which is laid down. I am going to ring the probation service about Katy, because she does need help.”

  “Ah’ve a few friends in high places too, Mr Policeman, and Ah’ll get her sorted out. Ah’ll go and see her tonight; her job’s safe, by the way. She’s a grand lass is that, and she shouldn’t let that husband of hers ruin her like he has.”

  “I agree entirely,” I said.

  To complete the story, Katy appeared at Eltering Magistrates’ Court, charged with larceny of £5 from Mrs Blake, and Mrs Blake came to speak in defence of the girl. The probation service was represented too, and told the story of her hardship; her husband bravely came to court in his best suit and said he had no idea housekeeping cost more than the money he’d been giving her. He now gave her £10 a week, and paid the electricity, the coal, the rates and the rent of his smallholding.

  After hearing the case, the Magistrates wisely gave Katy a conditional discharge for the larceny, the conditions being, (a) that she repaid the £5 which was no trouble because the money was available after being shown in evidence, and (b) that she agreed to being placed on probation for a year. She agreed to both conditions.

  I watched them leave court, Katy, her husband and her employer, all friends, and all wiser through Katy’s offence. There is no doubt it was totally out of character, and that it was her cry for h
elp. In her case, it succeeded.

  I saw her several weeks later, shopping in Brantsford, and stopped her. She looked very sheepishly at me, but when she saw my mission was one of concern, she smiled.

  “We’re all fine, thank you, Mr Rhea. My husband is lovely to me now, he is, honest. He really cares, and Mrs Blake took me back.”

  “You’ve a nice future to look forward to,” I said, not being able to think of anything else. As I strode back to my motorcycle I thought of the words of John Gay, who wrote, “One wife is too much for one husband to hear.”

  It had taken drastic measures to make Terry Craggs hear his wife’s call, but when he had been compelled to listen, he had responded. He deserves credit for that.

  * * *

  It would be around the same time that another theft caused us a few headaches. I went into Ashfordly Police Station around half-past nine one Sunday morning because I had been instructed to patrol this lovely market town for a couple of hours. Sergeant Blaketon was away on a week’s holiday, and P.C. Alwyn Foxton had caught a dose of influenza. Because the town was therefore short-staffed, I was brought in for the morning, and Sergeant Bairstow said he would cover during the afternoon.

  But when I arrived at Ashfordly Police Station, Sergeant Bairstow was already there, and he looked very worried.

  “Nick,” he asked in a very confidential manner, “when did you last see the county bike?”

  I couldn’t answer immediately because I had not used the huge black bicycle for months, and then only once to rush into town to catch the post.

  “It must be seven or eight months ago, Sergeant.” I knew it was a vague answer, but it was the best I could muster.

  “It hasn’t gone for repair, has it?”

  “If it had, it would go to Watson’s in Church Lane. It’s the only place that does cycle repairs.”

  “When you are out this morning, pop in and ask if he’s seen our bike, will you?”

  He dropped the subject at that stage, and within the hour, I popped into Watson’s. Even though it was a Sunday, the small garage was open and a mechanic was lying beneath a car, doing something to its exhaust pipe.