CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I had no idea you were in the ice-cream business, Claude?’ I wondered what sort of licence was required to run a mobile ice-cream business from a vehicle but that was no concern of mine. It was a council matter.

  ‘It belongs to a pal of mine, Constable,’ said Claude. ‘He’s gone to a funeral today, so he said I could use his van and sell the ice-cream. I’m off up to the Six Standing Stones later — after I’ve done Elsinby, Crampton and the rest of Aidensfield. It’s a good day for ice-creams, Constable. I should do good business on those moors.’

  ‘You’re not attempting the walk then?’

  ‘Me?’ he burst. ‘Not at my age, Constable! You’ll not get any of the local folks with any sense tackling that walk on a hot day like this. It’s climb, climb, climb all the way to them big stones on the moor top . . . It’s for youngsters, Constable, it’s for fit folks under forty, I reckon. No good for pensioners. I’ll be there to witness the bumping but I’ll be in this van and I reckon I’ll sell the whole vanful to those folks who reach them Six Standing Stones.’

  Leaving him to his sales, I turned to see Sergeant Blaketon parking his police car outside the Aidensfield Stores. Looking as smart as ever, he strode across to me complete with walking stick and sturdy boots, then he beamed. ‘I thought I would join you today, Rhea. It’s a lovely day for a stroll in the countryside.’

  ‘Delighted to have you with us, Sergeant,’ I said, thinking it was more than a stroll.

  ‘And is that Greengrass with that ice-cream van? Is the walk too much for him?’ Then he bellowed across to his old adversary, ‘Perambulation of the Aidensfield boundaries too much for you, is it, Greengrass?’

  ‘When you’ve done that walk as many times as me,’ retorted Claude, ‘you’ll know every stone along every inch of the way. What I don’t know about Aidensfield parish boundaries could be written on your little fingernail, Sergeant Blaketon, with room to spare for the Lord’s Prayer.’

  ‘Well, I shall be going,’ said Blaketon. ‘I am not afraid to set an example to our younger friends!’

  ‘Happen I might sell you an ice-cream when you reach the Six Standing Stones then?’ beamed Claude.

  ‘I might just indulge in one of your finest cones, Greengrass,’ said Blaketon. ‘That’s if that creaking old truck of yours will survive the day!’

  ‘And if those creaking old legs of yours survive half the day!’ chuckled Claude, beaming to his amused audience.

  I was then aware of Josie and other members of the parish council ushering everyone into a manageable group and one of them shouted, ‘Right, everyone. Time to go. Keep together please, we don’t want to lose anyone.’

  And so the Perambulation and Beating of the Aidensfield Parish Boundaries got underway. Chattering happily we all formed a neat crocodile as Rudolph Burley, the auctioneer and current chairman of the parish council, led the way. I decided to take up a position at the rear of the procession in case there were any stragglers.

  Sergeant Blaketon joined me, although from time to time he darted ahead to chat with some of the participants. I could see he was really enjoying himself; it was a total change from his usual office routine and he seemed more relaxed than normal. The children loved him.

  It wasn’t long before the heat of the day and the tough climb began to take its toll. The final mile or so to the summit, at well over 1300 feet, produced one of the steepest climbs within the North York Moors and some of the hikers had to halt and rest. Even the children were finding it tiring and I could see that Sergeant Blaketon, clad in his thick uniform as I was, was perspiring profusely but refusing to give in. He would show them that he was quite capable of leading the way to the Six Standing Stones and on several occasions, I saw him holding hands with some of the children to give them encouragement.

  It was with some relief that we all arrived at the Six Standing Stones, albeit in varying stages of exhaustion.

  The stones are a landmark for miles, each rising some eight or ten feet from the ground and standing in a rough circle over an area about the size of a tennis court. The wind and weather had produced grotesque shapes upon some of them and the place was a popular picnic site with both locals and visitors. In the shadows of the stones, therefore, we sat on the dry grass and small rocks to gather our strength and to enjoy our picnic lunch. During our trek, Claude had arrived in his ice-cream van and was proving hugely popular as Alfred wandered around and sniffed the heather.

  It wasn’t long before the dog realized there were titbits on offer from some of the children, and this prompted him to stay around while the food was available. I took the opportunity to sit and enjoy a few moments with my own family, Mary having driven here with our brood of four and our picnics. Sergeant Blaketon was sitting with Rudolph Burley and they were enjoying a bottle of beer apiece; I saw one child carry to each of the venerable gentlemen a large ice-cream, a gift from Claude. It was a happy scene, nicely captured by the official photographer who had walked with us. I did a quick count and calculated that about sixty people were completing the walk, with a further thirty or so joining us at the Six Standing Stones. A turnout of almost a hundred villagers was very good in my estimation and so far there had been no incidents like nettled knees, twisted ankles or blistered feet.

  Soon, the children began to gallop around among the Six Standing Stones, playing hide and seek and other chasing games, and that was the cue to resume the next stage of our journey. Josie shouted to them and gradually everyone packed their bags and prepared for the second half of the trek.

  But before setting off, there was a formality to complete. It was time for the famous bumps.

  ‘All right, everyone, it’s time for the bumps. Six bumps in the middle of the Standing Stones. Now, we need the youngest person on the walk. Hugh Robinson, I think that will be you!’ Josie’s knowledge of the infant class was useful there.

  ‘Yes, miss.’ A small boy with freckles and carroty hair came forward, embarrassed but at the same time proud to be the one chosen for this important task.

  ‘How old are you, Hugh?’ Josie asked.

  ‘Six and a quarter, miss.’

  ‘Is there anyone younger than Hugh?’ she asked of the gathering.

  Among the perambulators, there wasn’t anyone younger, although younger children had been brought to the picnic. Hugh was therefore escorted into the centre of the Stones and asked to lie down on the grass. Then, after explaining what they were going to do, two large men, members of the parish council, lifted him up by his hands and feet and gently bumped him six times on the ground. His mother and father stood by as the photographer took pictures and Hugh’s pals cheered him — from that day, Hugh and his pals would never forget that the parish boundary extended to the centre of the Six Standing Stones. Hugh was applauded by all for his spirited participation.

  ‘Now for the adults. It’s the turn of the oldest man on the perambulation.’

  I looked around the gathering.

  Most of the men were in their late thirties and early forties, parents of the children, and I could not see anyone who might be described as elderly. As anticipated, the older folks had travelled by car to join the perambulators at the Six Standing Stones. The result was that no one came forward, but everyone looked at Rudolph Burley. As chairman of the parish council, he was the obvious choice.

  ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘I did come here expecting to be bumped, but I see I’m not the oldest man on this perambulation. That’s you, Sergeant Blaketon.’

  ‘Me?’ Sergeant Blaketon looked around as if he could not believe his ears. ‘But I’m not a parishioner of Aidensfield, I don’t qualify.’

  ‘That is immaterial, Sergeant.’ Josie had approached him and was smiling sweetly into his eyes. ‘All that the custom demands is that the oldest man on the perambulation is bumped, not the oldest parishioner. The rule is quite clear.’

  ‘Nobody told me that!’ he spluttered.

  I could see that poor old Blaketon was far from happy about this and he beg
an to look around in despair, his eyes catching mine as he said, ‘Do something, Rhea!’

  ‘How old are you, Sergeant?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s my private business,’ he muttered.

  ‘Go on, Blaketon, be a sport, get yourself bumped and make a bit of history . . .’ Claude Jeremiah had left his ice-cream van to enjoy this situation. ‘Now you know why I didn’t do the walk . . .’

  ‘This has nothing to do with you, Greengrass!’ bellowed Blaketon.

  ‘Right.’ I had to try and calm the situation and tried to act as mediator. ‘I reckon it’s between you, Sergeant, and Rudolph, so if you both write your birthdays on a piece of paper and give them to Josie, she will decide who is the oldest and she will keep your precious secrets. No cheating, mind!’

  They agreed with my plan and as I had some paper in my pocket, I gave a piece to each man.

  Rudolph scribbled on his and passed it to Josie, closely followed by Blaketon. She studied the dates and said, ‘It is you, Sergeant Blaketon. You are three months older than Mr Burley.’

  ‘Bump Sergeant Blaketon, bump Sergeant Blaketon!’ Claude began to chant.

  The children took up the challenge, swiftly followed by Alfred barking in unison. Soon the ring of stones and the moorland air was filled with the music of children, young and old, chanting as Sergeant Blaketon, blushing furiously and trying to appear nonchalant, walked forward for his ordeal. He took off his uniform cap and jacket, handing them to me for safe keeping, and I knew that he had no wish for himself to be photographed in uniform while undergoing this treatment.

  ‘Come on, do your worst!’ he called, and four sturdy men came forward. He lay on the ground and extended his arms and legs for the bumpers to seize, and then to the cheers of everyone and to the barking of Alfred the dog, he was ceremoniously raised and lowered until his buttocks touched the ground. The requisite six bumps were achieved with much sweating and groaning from the volunteers but as Sergeant Blaketon got to his feet, everyone cheered.

  Then the children held hands and danced around him. Alfred chased them, barked, entering the spirit of the occasion.

  ‘We like the sergeant, we like the sergeant,’ they began to sing, as Alfred began to howl at the noise produced by their piping voices. Suddenly, it was all over and I handed him his cap and jacket.

  ‘You did well, Sergeant.’ I had to say something.

  ‘If you tell Ventress or any of the others about this . . .’

  ‘Sergeant.’ It was Rudolph Burley. ‘That was very good of you, to enter the spirit of the occasion like that. I congratulate you.’

  The adulation he had received now made Sergeant Blaketon feel much happier and he muttered something about the police supporting community projects. As the perambulators gathered to begin the second section of their trek, those who had joined us at the Stones gathered to wave us off. They would go home soon, I was sure; already Mary was packing our car with the remnants of our picnic and Claude was preparing to move his ice-cream van to another location. Once the people returned to their homes, word of the Sergeant’s part in this renewal of beating the bounds would get around and his part would be appreciated. And as I watched him walking ahead surrounded by happy children and parents, I was proud of him.

  ‘He’s like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn,’ I said to Rudolph, as we began the second section of the journey. ‘See how those kids are following him.’

  ‘Underneath that stern official skin, there’s a real human being, isn’t there?’ he smiled.

  ‘That’s what being a police officer is all about,’ I said, striding forward.

  2

  Cursed shall be the flocks of thy sheep.

  Deut. 28.18

  For more years than anyone could remember, Emily Jane Taylor, a spinster of the parish of Aidensfield, had tended the graves in the Anglican churchyard. She spent hours there, always alone. On hot days, cold days, wet days and dry days she could be seen throwing out dead flowers, adding water to empty vases and even cleaning the tombstones when she felt it necessary. She clipped the yews and trimmed the hedges, and for years had mown the grass, initially with a scythe and later with a motor mower which had been donated by a benefactor. It was due to her efforts, and hers alone, that the churchyard was always in such pristine condition, an oasis of admirable tidiness.

  It was one of the few churchyards in the vicinity which could be guaranteed neat and tidy upon every day of the year. It was a place of pride for the villagers and a source of joy for visitors. There is little doubt that the immaculate condition of Aidensfield churchyard helped to swell the coffers of the church, because suitably impressed visitors would mark their appreciation by dropping coins into the offertory box. That income, over the course of a year, was considerable and the church depended upon it.

  For all sorts of reasons, therefore, Emily Jane was a treasure. Members of the congregation who had suffered the loss of dear ones knew that the graves would be cared for year after year with little or no effort on their part. Their mourned ones would not be neglected when the living were on holiday or after their initial distress had dwindled into forgetfulness or even downright neglect. Somehow, Emily Jane managed to find flowers for all the graves, even though bereaved families forgot to supply them in the passage of time.

  No one was quite sure of Emily Jane’s age — certainly, she was well past fifty and might even have been in her seventies but she had always appeared very fit, healthy and active. She enjoyed a modest but independent income and led a contented lifestyle, even though she had never married. Her mode of dress — a battered old raincoat, Wellington boots and a multicoloured woolly hat with a pompom — prompted some to believe she was eccentric or, as some might put it, ten pence to the shilling. Yet her mind was alert and in spite of her Arcadian appearance, she was devoted to the churchyard and its peaceful occupants. Indeed, it was her main activity.

  So thorough and dependable was she that both the parochial church council and the congregation were content to leave the care of the grounds to Emily Jane. She was allowed to perform her self-imposed tasks without anyone instructing or guiding her, even though her constant devotion was something of a mystery to the rest of us. For one thing, she never attended church and showed no interest in religious matters and, so far as anyone knew, she had no family or relatives in Aidensfield churchyard. Indeed, to our knowledge, she had no family anywhere, living or dead. There was one rumour, however, which suggested she had once been in love.

  Some people hinted that her youthful heart’s desire had either died in his twenties or been killed in the First World War. Others said that her lover was a local man who was buried here — having discarded Emily Jane to marry someone else — and that Emily Jane had committed herself to his grave for the rest of her days. To keep his name a secret from the world, she tended all the graves so that no one should ever know to which she was truly devoted . . . but even that yarn had never been substantiated. Certainly, I had no idea about the dramas or romances in her life prior to my arrival at Aidensfield.

  My own contact with her came during my regular checks on the church treasures. From time to time, wandering villains plundered quiet village churches, emptying the offertory boxes or even stealing brass candlesticks from the altar, sometimes extending their thieving to other valuables like antique chairs or tables.

  In spite of the risks, which seemed to increase by the year, everyone was loath to lock the church doors and consequently security was something of a worry. I made it my policy to be seen, in uniform, in or near all the churches on my patch at very frequent but irregular intervals; it was a modest form of deterrent, but better than nothing. It was during such visits that I encountered Emily Jane. At first, she ignored my presence, preferring to work quietly without any interruption from me, but when I realized who she was and what she was doing, I made a point of introducing myself. To help me in my job and to protect the parish treasures for the benefit of all, she could be the eyes and ears of Aidensfield church,
a real-life guardian angel.

  Once I had made the initial approach, she would pause during her labours for a chat with me, telling me about the people in her care, the history of the church, who had been popping into the building either for a look around or simply to offer a quiet prayer. Over the months, I became quite fond of the untidy little woman and realized she had a very sharp and well-tutored mind. She was well read, well bred and well educated and, in spite of the speculation about her motives, we all regarded her work for the churchyard as a most valuable contribution to the community.

  If she had a weakness, though, it was her language. Practically every sentence contained several swear words, some of a moderately mild nature and others which were more fitted to a life on the ocean wave or a rugger club’s changing room. I had never heard anyone swear quite like her, but I don’t think she realized what she was saying. I don’t think she ever considered it might be offensive to some of the more refined listeners of the parish or to casual visitors. Another associated problem was that she talked to herself as she worked, consequently visitors to the churchyard might hear a strong female voice, somewhere out of sight behind a tombstone, saying, ‘I’ll make ****** sure this ****ing grave has ****ing flowers on it before I go home’ or ‘Where’s the ****ing watering can gone now?’

  Such entertainment did not interest or unduly trouble most of the locals. Even the most sensitive people tolerated Emily Jane’s choice language because all knew her very well indeed.

  She used the same language in the shop or when visiting friends and they understood that it was never intended to be inflammatory or rude. And, after a time, I must admit I grew accustomed to hearing her flowery language and rarely gave it a second thought, although I hoped she would modify it when children were nearby. Under the Profane Oaths Act of 1745, still in force, it was an offence to profanely curse or swear, while the Town Police Clauses Act of 1847 also made it illegal to use profane or obscene language in any street or urban place to which the public had access. In addition, there were byelaws which sought to control bad language but to prosecute her would have seemed rather heavy handed, particularly as no one ever lodged a formal complaint about Emily Jane’s vocabulary.