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

  And at that moment, the ewe detached itself from the flock and galloped towards Emily Jane; in a trice, she had slipped through the turnstile gate and was safe beside me as the ewe stood at the other side to peer up at her.

  ‘It doesn’t like you swearing,’ I joked.

  ‘Don’t be bloody daft, Constable,’ she said. ‘It’s just ******* well doesn’t like me! I’m not going back in that ******* churchyard while it’s at ******* well at large, I can tell you.’

  As she spoke the sheep glared at her, but this incident meant we now had a beautifully mown churchyard but no one to tend the graves, unless that particular ewe was isolated and banished from the grounds. I mentioned it to Laurie Cunningham who said he’d have words with Gordon to try and ensure that no dangerous sheep were brought here for churchyard-mowing duties.

  It would be a day or two later that I met Laurie in the street and asked, ‘Did you get the matter of the rampant ewe sorted out?’ I asked him.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he grinned. ‘But I had a word with Gordon and he fell about laughing.’

  ‘Try me,’ I was intrigued now.

  ‘That ewe used to be a pet lamb. It was the usual story. The mother died and the lamb was reared on the farm by the family. But they had a labourer who ill-treated it. It was a long time before the kids found out what he was doing, but he would kick and attack the lamb while they weren’t around — and he’d curse and swear as he did so. So that sheep has grown up to be afraid of people who swear — if anyone swears when it’s around, it goes for them!’

  I laughed and asked, ‘So have you told Emily Jane?’

  ‘I have, and she cursed me loud and long, but she has promised not to swear in the churchyard anymore, just in case that sheep hears her.’

  ‘I never thought anyone could stop her swearing, let alone a silly old ewe!’ I laughed. ‘Unless, of course, it was the Lamb of God!’

  ‘There’s many a true word . . .’ he laughed.

  3

  I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions.

  Acts 26.3

  ‘Rhea,’ Sergeant Blaketon said as I answered the telephone one morning as I was about to leave the police house for a morning patrol. ‘Meet me outside All Saints in Aidensfield, will you? Half past ten.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant,’ I responded, wondering about the purpose of this rendezvous. Usually, he arranged to meet me at a village telephone kiosk or some other innocuous place, but a meeting outside the church heralded a departure from the norm. I was curious to learn his purpose and so, a few minutes before the appointed place and time, I parked my minivan outside the church.

  ‘Morning, Rhea.’ He was precisely on time as I’d come to expect, and seemed very bright and cheerful. ‘A very pleasant day. All quiet in Aidensfield, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Sergeant, very quiet,’ I responded.

  ‘Greengrass behaving himself, is he?’ was his next, not entirely unexpected question.

  ‘I’ve no problems recently,’ I assured him, now wondering if Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was the reason for our meeting.

  ‘And I see that your churchyard is in splendid condition, neatly cut and well maintained.’

  ‘We have a very reliable grass-cutting system, Sergeant, we’re all very proud of our churchyard. It’s a credit to the village.’

  ‘And rightly so,’ he smiled. ‘Well, you’ll be wondering why I am here, so I had better tell you. There is to be a wedding at this church, next month, Saturday the eighteenth, if my information is correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ I had a note of the wedding in my diary. There would be a need for a police presence, if only to prevent traffic jams and obstruction in the narrow road outside the church. ‘It’s a young lady from Aidensfield, Sergeant, a Miss Valerie Perry-Smith. She is to marry a gentleman called Fenton, Howard Fenton I believe. He’s a major in The Green Howards.’

  ‘You’re up to-date with your information, Rhea, and that pleases me. Now, you know who she is, do you? This Valerie Perry-Smith?’

  ‘Yes, she’s the daughter of Mr and Mrs Bruce Perry-Smith of the Gables, Aidensfield. He is a company director in the brewing industry; Mrs Perry-Smith does not work, although she does a lot for local charities.’

  ‘All very enlightening, Rhea, but I meant the girl’s connections. Do you realize to whom she is related?’

  I began to wonder where this quiz was leading but it was evident that Miss Perry-Smith had some very important relations and it was equally evident that they would be coming to her wedding. I began to wonder if there were royal connections, or whether the young lady had links with the government or someone in high office such as the sheriff of the county or the Lord Chief Justice.

  ‘No, Sergeant,’ I had to admit. ‘I don’t know the family background all that well.’

  ‘She is the niece of the chief constable no less,’ he told me in hushed tones, as if he was imparting a major secret. ‘That means he and his wife will be attending that wedding, Rhea, and you know what that means?’

  I was tempted to say it would mean the presence of Sergeant Blaketon in his best uniform, with his hair neatly trimmed and his boots brightly polished. He would want to show everybody, but especially the chief constable, that the police of Ashfordly and Aidensfield were the smartest for miles around and quite capable of controlling traffic at such a prestigious event. But I took a deep breath and said, ‘It means I shall have to be present outside the church to make sure everything goes smoothly, especially from a traffic and crowd-control point of view. I do have the date in my diary, Sergeant, and shall make sure my duties allow me to be present.’

  ‘Good, I knew I could rely on you, Rhea. Now, for that day, I would suggest you get yourself a decent haircut, wear your best uniform brushed and pressed to perfection with not a cat hair in sight, and you should make sure your boots are polished until you can see your face in them. Furthermore, you should have well-prepared plans for car-parking and for whatever occurs outside the church and in the village street. Contingency plans, Rhea, a course of action already prepared . . . be professional, Rhea, a lot depends on you. With the chief constable present, we need to present ourselves as perfection itself. Not a thing must go wrong, Rhea, is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, Sergeant.’ I felt like saying that most of the problems were the responsibility of the best man and wanted to add that the chief constable, in his off-duty moments, would not be interested in my role at the wedding. He’d be far too engrossed in family matters to bother about what I was doing. So long as things went smoothly without any major problem with traffic, he would be happy, I was sure. My own view was that a low-key police presence was advisable.

  ‘His wife and Mrs Perry-Smith are sisters, Rhea, that’s the relationship. Very nice people, the Perry-Smiths . . . they’re going to have the reception in a marquee in the grounds of their house. I know about it because George at the pub has applied for an occasional licence to run a bar at the event, after the first round of free drinks and champagne, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure George will not cause me any problems,’ I said. ‘He can cope with any trouble-makers without my intervention. Besides, I don’t expect a drunken orgy, not with this family and their guests. And I don’t think we need worry about official police visits to the drinks tent while the chief constable is there.’

  But Blaketon wasn’t listening. ‘You know, Rhea, this might be the biggest social event in the district this year. A society wedding, eh? An ideal opportunity to show the quality of the local constabulary to people of standing and influence. Thinking about it, Rhea, I might just arrange my duties so that I am available on the day, here with you, to help you, to supervise the arrangements and to ensure good order and tranquillity at all times.’

  ‘I am sure there will be no problems, Sergeant.’ I groaned under my breath at the prospect of his interference. ‘I’ve had similar weddings at this church, several bigger than this one will be, and no
ne has caused any problems. There’s a need for a bit of traffic control on the main road as the guests are arriving and leaving the church, but that’s all. I can manage very easily on my own, thanks.’

  Knowing Blaketon’s attitude towards people he considered to be influential, I realized there was no way I could prevent him performing his duty at the wedding. He wanted to be there, he wanted to present himself to the chief constable as a man who could organize a very efficient operation, even if that operation consisted of nothing more than a few minutes of very low-key traffic control. To be honest, there was no real need for a police presence at all, but in a village it is always good to show the uniform on such occasions. Even so, I knew the villagers would never object to a few minutes’ traffic congestion outside the church if a wedding was the reason. But Blaketon wanted to impress someone and so, after our brief meeting, we examined the church, the street outside and the adjoining open spaces which could be utilized as car-parking areas. Having imparted his advice, Sergeant Blaketon left me.

  In the ensuing weeks, he continued to remind me about the wedding and mentioned that, on a recent occasion, he had been to Force Headquarters where he had actually encountered the chief constable in one of the corridors. He had taken the opportunity to tell the chief that preparations for the efficient conduct of his niece’s wedding were in hand. I groaned. Blaketon had no style. I would have thought the chief would not have wanted any police officer to attend that wedding — I felt he would prefer a relaxed occasion without any of his subordinates being in a position to observe his off-duty behaviour.

  As the date approached, the father of the bride came to see me about car-parking and to discuss the other arrangements in which I might be involved, such as the security of the wedding presents. I outlined my plans and explained how I proposed to deal with the guests’ cars on the day, saying that spaces had been reserved close to the church for the official cars. I assured him I would remain in and around the marquee so long as the presents were vulnerable and gave him some suggestions for their added security. He said my overall scheme was very sensible and practical, and then he invited me to join the guests in the marquee for something to eat and drink during the reception. He gave me an invitation card and promised that a place would be set aside for me.

  It meant that I was to be a guest at the wedding, a real guest!

  I thanked him; I would look forward to that, and knew that Mr Perry-Smith’s action would have been approved by the chief constable. In effect, it gave me a rare opportunity to have a drink of alcohol while on duty . . . but there was no mention of a similar invitation to Sergeant Blaketon. I thanked him again and we parted, but I decided not to mention either my invitation or my present-guarding duties to the sergeant. The days raced forward and the day of the wedding arrived very quickly. The time of the wedding service was 3 p.m., with guests beginning to assemble at the church shortly after 2 p.m.

  After lunch, therefore, I changed into my smart best uniform, gave my shoes an extra polish and made sure no stray strands of hair were poking from my cap. I reckoned I was smart enough both to park cars and guard wedding presents, and off I went, walking instead of taking my official van. That would be one less vehicle to take up valuable parking space and, should I be offered champagne or wine, there would be no worries about drinking alcohol and then driving.

  When I arrived at the church, the best man and ushers were already there. I outlined my part in the event, explaining how they could help me guide the cars to their allocated parking places with emphasis upon keeping all traffic moving. They understood perfectly. Happy that there would be no major hitches, I settled down to guide the procession of cars into their parking places. And then Sergeant Blaketon arrived in his highly polished police car.

  ‘You can’t park there, Sergeant.’ I went across to him as he was positioning his car in the space reserved for the groom’s parents. ‘Those places are for the official cars. Guests are over there.’ I pointed to a space on the edge of the moor. ‘Could you go over there?’ and I indicated a space about a hundred yards distant, far enough to be out of the way of incoming vehicles.

  ‘Where’s your van?’ he demanded, not looking very pleased.

  ‘At home, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I left it to reduce the pressure on parking space.’

  ‘And where will the chief constable be parking?’ was his next question.

  ‘He’s one of the guests, he’ll be over there,’ and I indicated the areas I had earmarked.

  ‘But surely his will be one of the official cars, Rhea . . .’

  ‘No, Sergeant, they include the bride, the bridesmaids, the bride’s parents, the groom’s parents, immediate family . . .’

  ‘I can’t say I like that at all, Rhea, the chief constable being relegated to the status of an ordinary guest.’

  ‘He is an ordinary guest, Sergeant; this is not an official engagement for him. There are some very important and high-ranking military officers here too, and they’re also being treated as ordinary guests. I’ve discussed it with Mr Perry-Smith and neither the chief nor the army officers want preferential treatment from us; he stressed that. The day belongs to the bride and groom, not the chief constable!’

  ‘Well, I can’t say I agree with all that, Rhea, but it’s their show,’ and he drove away to park. I smiled to myself; that was one small victory for me.

  Within minutes, the guests were arriving with increasing frequency and there was a flurry of activity as they parked, smartened their clothes, posed for photographs, kissed and renewed old acquaintance before eventually entering the church. The chief constable, his wife, son and daughter arrived and entered the fun of the moment before entering the church — Blaketon threw up a smart salute but the chief either did not see it or chose to ignore the sergeant. Blaketon seemed to be treading on hot-bricks — he could not keep still, although he did simmer down once the chief had entered the church. And then it was 3 p.m., everyone went inside, save the official photographer.

  The bridal cars began to arrive; first the mother of the bride, then the bridesmaids and finally the bride beside her father in a splendid white Rolls Royce, hired for the occasion.

  ‘Everything going all right?’ called Mr Perry-Smith as he stood with his daughter on his arm, ready to make an entry.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘No problems at all.’

  ‘Good, now for the important bit!’ he grinned, kissing his daughter. ‘Come on, Val, it’s down to you now!’

  And so they processed into the church. As the organ played the bride into the church, I said, ‘I’m going to stand at the back, Sergeant, and watch her get married.’

  ‘A good idea,’ he said, joining me. And so, as the bride joined the groom before the altar, Sergeant Blaketon and I slid into the back of the church to enjoy the ceremonial. But one of the ushers spotted us.

  ‘Bride or groom?’ he grinned.

  ‘Bride,’ I said, showing my invitation.

  And so we took our seats. As the music continued, Blaketon leaned over and said, ‘Rhea, are you a guest?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’ I showed him the official invitation. ‘I’m invited to go to the reception.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all he said. ‘And I take it you will not be drinking on duty?’

  ‘I have the chief constable’s permission,’ I said, hoping I was not telling an outright lie.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He suggested I be invited to keep an eye on the presents, but to be a guest at the same time.’

  ‘All I can say is don’t make a fool of yourself, Rhea, remember you are in uniform.’

  ‘Of course, Sergeant,’ I smiled, as the organ ceased.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began the vicar. ‘We are gathered here before God and in the face of this congregation . . .’

  Like all church weddings, it was a moving occasion and although it took about an hour, it seemed to be over far too quickly. I decided to dash outside ahead of the bride and groom, and left my seat as the fi
nal hymn was being sung; Blaketon followed but when we got outside, he said, ‘God help me, Rhea! What’s he doing here?’

  Standing beside a rickety trestle-table full of empty beer glasses and jugs, which he’d erected near the lychgate, was none other than Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. There was some kind of Calor gas cooker burning beneath the table and his filthy old truck was parked right outside the entrance. The smell he was producing was far from pleasant. With me trotting behind, Sergeant Blaketon galloped down the path, calling, ‘Greengrass, get yourself and that awful vehicle of yours out of my sight before I have you arrested. And shift that table and whatever you’ve got on it. And under it.’

  ‘I’m here officially, Sergeant,’ beamed Claude. ‘I’m fulfilling an ancient Aidensfield custom.’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it, you’re not!’

  At that point, one of the ushers came out of the church and hurried to talk to Claude. ‘Ah, you’ve made it, Mr Greengrass. Everything all right?’

  ‘Apart from this daft copper trying to kick me out,’ grinned Claude. ‘For a bloke who’s more ancient than a lot of my customs, he knows nowt about ancient customs, do you, Sergeant Blaketon?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Sergeant Blaketon, and I must admit I was beginning to wonder too.

  ‘Bride ale, Sergeant.’ Claude was enjoying this. ‘I’m supplying bride ale to all the guests, in accordance with our custom.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to sell intoxicating liquor without a licence, Greengrass!’ Blaketon was working himself into a very official mood now. ‘And I’ll have you know the chief constable is in that church, and if you think you can break the law on my patch before his very eyes . . .’

  ‘Break what law?’ chuckled Claude. ‘I’m not breaking any law. I’m not selling the stuff. I’m giving it away, free, gratis and for nowt. It’s my own brew, Greengrass’s Home Brewed Barn Stormer, and I’m giving it away to all the guests. It has to be warmed up, you see, Sergeant, hot ale. That’s what the heater’s for.’