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

  It was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  ‘See that?’ He nodded towards Trevor Whiting. ‘Good catch, eh?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘He saved the day, I reckon. The elephant’s calmed down, I see.’

  ‘But that bat’s not allowed here, is it?’ He was trying to annoy me. ‘A wild animal, not a working creature like the rest of those here today . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I grinned. ‘This service is for working animals, so surely a cricketer is allowed to bring his bat?’

  And Claude groaned as the combined voices of man and beast rose to the heavens.

  * * *

  The vicar’s innovative idea of raising money through his service for working animals had been a resounding success and his Peacock Service raised nearly £850, a very useful sum indeed. But he had another fund-raising idea. He would allow brass-rubbing to be conducted within the church.

  In the 1960s, brass-rubbing reached its zenith as people found themselves with more leisure time and easier access, through the motor car, to churches with interesting contents. Some wanted to do more than just aimlessly wander around during their weekends, so brass-rubbing blossomed as one hobby which provided an added interest. The notion of brass-rubbing as a hobby for the ordinary man seems to have developed around that time although a few discerning people had been enjoying it for some time before it became so popular.

  In effect, the early style of brass-rubbing was quite simple. A person located a fine brass monument to a long-dead person, usually a king, queen, bishop or knight.

  The brass memorial to the murdered King Ethelbert in Hereford Cathedral is a good example of one which is — or was — constantly rubbed. The king sits with his head in his hand, having had it chopped off by Offa, King of Mercia, round 794 AD.

  The graves of people of distinction were often beneath the floors of parish churches, minsters and cathedrals and were each marked by a massive brass plaque set in the aisle. The oblong brass plate, generally some eight or nine feet long by three feet or so wide, bore an etched image of the occupant of the grave, invariably in full uniform, robes or armour, or in some kind of formal dress.

  The name of the deceased along with his or her date of death, and probably a suitable inscription from the Bible, were usually incorporated in the design. These brass grave-covers or sometimes brass memorials without a grave and displayed on walls, were wonderfully executed and even now many of them exist with clear markings and legible inscriptions. Inevitably, some have been worn down by centuries of passing feet or rigorous cleaning, but some have been preserved in a remarkably good condition.

  The purpose of brass-rubbing is to take a copy of the design on such a commemorative plaque. It is done by laying a large piece of paper over the portion of the design which is required and then gently rubbing the paper with something like a soft wax crayon, graphite or even cobbler’s wax. The design on the brass is then transferred to the paper.

  Some enthusiasts were content to rub only a small portion of a large plaque — say the face or a Latin inscription — and they made use of sheets of artists’ cartridge paper for this purpose. Others of a more adventurous nature took along rolls of lining paper used for walls and ceilings and spread these across the entire plaque, and then spent hours rubbing until they reproduced the entire scene.

  Like a length of wallpaper, these huge rubbings could then be rolled up and carried away to be later displayed at home. On the positive side, brass-rubbing did preserve the designs on the memorials, but on the negative side, the activities of thousands of brass-rubbers began to wear away the designs and rendered some of the more delicate work illegible.

  Some churches, especially those with very historic or famous brass memorials, began to curb the activities of enthusiasts either by limiting their numbers or charging them a fee to take a rubbing. And that is what the Reverend Lord decided. As part of his fund-raising activities, he would charge a fee of £1 for every brass-rubbing, large or small.

  The Anglican parish church did contain several interesting brasses, some being full-length epitaphs laid in the floor while others were smaller memorials attached to the walls. Brass-rubbers had been seen in the church from time to time, so it was known that the Aidensfield brasses were of interest to those enthusiasts. A charge of £1 for every rubbing did not seem extortionate. The vicar announced his levy from the pulpit one Sunday and followed it with a note in the parish magazine, posters in church plus a collecting box built into the wall and bearing the legend “Brass-Rubbing Fees — £1 per rubbing”. Then he settled down for the funds to flow in.

  None of this was remotely connected with my police duties, although every rural constable should be aware of events within his parish, consequently I knew of the brass-rubbing scheme. It was with some surprise, therefore, that while patrolling on foot in Ashfordly, I came across a full-length brass-rubbing of a fourteenth-century knight in a second-hand shop. It was not particularly well executed, in my opinion; the images were rough and rather sloppily done. I felt almost as if the entire rubbing had been completed in haste or even by a child. For a moment, I wondered if it was the work of a schoolchild, some kind of class project perhaps. From a distance, it looked passable, but did not bear close scrutiny.

  Surprisingly, it bore a price tag of £5. 10s. 6d. When I looked closer, I realized it depicted the memorial to Sir Ranulph de Aidensfield, a knight who died in 1503. I had seen this memorial on the floor of Aidensfield parish church and knew where it had come from. The rubbing was done on a length of roof-lining paper with a black wax crayon. I thought little more about that brass-rubbing until I met the vicar outside the Aidensfield Stores. We chatted about parish and village matters, as one tends to do in such circumstances, and then I said, ‘How’s the brass-rubbing enterprise going?’

  ‘Very slow,’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘At least the income is small and slow in arriving. I’m not sure whether anyone is visiting the church to take rubbings, though; if they are, not everyone’s putting money in our collecting box, although I can report a few pounds of income from that source.’

  ‘Have you been selling rubbings to local second-hand shops?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not that commercial!’ he laughed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw a rubbing in Ashfordly.’ I explained what I had seen.

  ‘Five pounds ten and sixpence?’ he was shocked. ‘Who on earth would charge that?’

  ‘The shop is asking that; they’ll need to make their profit on the sale. I’d guess they’d come down a bob or two if a buyer was prepared to bargain,’ I submitted. ‘But whoever sold it to the shop probably got two pounds ten or even three quid for their trouble.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me nor, dare I say, any of the parochial church council,’ the vicar was adamant. ‘But if people are selling the rubbings, there’s clearly a market for them. I wonder if I should put some on sale in the church?’

  ‘You’d need someone there all day to look after things,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and I can’t arrange that; it’s a practical impossibility. It’s a pity, Nick, that kind of profit should be going into church funds and not the pocket of some enterprising brass-rubber.’

  ‘Or brass-neck!’ I laughed.

  And even as I spoke those words, the identity of a local brass-neck came to mind. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  The vicar smiled.

  ‘You’re not thinking of Claude, are you?’ he put to me. ‘It’s the sort of brass-necked cheek he would employ.’

  ‘I must admit the standard of craftsmanship was about his level,’ I said. ‘But he’s not committing any offence by doing that, is he? Anyone can take a brass-rubbing and sell it, or reproduce it.’

  ‘If it is him, I suppose I could ask for a share of the proceeds, for church funds,’ mused Christian Lord.

  ‘And if I were you, I’d be prepared for a massive disappointment,’ I had to warn him. ‘Claude is not exactly the most generous of people.’

&nb
sp; I assured him that during my routine patrols around the village, I would pop into the church as usual, but henceforward would be extra vigilant for indications of surreptitious brass-rubbing.

  I stressed I could not stop Claude, or anyone else, from taking rubbings, nor could I enforce the £1 fee, but I would be observant merely out of personal curiosity.

  In the weeks that followed, I never saw Claude anywhere near the church and neither did the vicar. But I did see two more rubbings of Sir Ranulph in Ashfordly.

  ‘Should I tackle Claude about it?’ I wondered one morning a week or so later as the vicar and I were chatting.

  ‘No, I’d rather you didn’t,’ he said. ‘If it is him, I think he is putting his fee into the box. That is all I have asked of anyone.’

  ‘Claude putting money in a collecting box? You can’t be serious!’

  ‘There were two £1 notes in the box last week, Nick, and you saw two rubbings for sale. I don’t know if there is a connection, but I would like to think so.’

  I could not believe that Claude would be so honest, even inside a church and so, next time I was on duty in Ashfordly and saw that one of the rubbings remained unsold, I went into the shop. I could not contain my curiosity any longer.

  ‘That brass-rubbing.’ I pointed to it as it was on display in the window. ‘It’s very interesting.’

  ‘It’s not been stolen, has it?’ The sight of my uniform immediately made the shopkeeper nervous.

  ‘No,’ I assured him. ‘It’s from a memorial in Aidensfield parish church,’ and I explained about the knight thus depicted. ‘I was curious to know who the artist is.’

  ‘It’s not a very good reproduction,’ said the shopkeeper, a man in his late fifties with a bald patch and a rosy round face as he shook his head. ‘But I feel sorry for her. She does those at the rate of about one a week, brings them in here and I sell them. I give her four pounds for each one, poor old thing.’

  ‘So it’s not Claude Jeremiah Greengrass?’

  ‘Him?’ laughed the little man. ‘He’s not capable of doing this kind of work, but they sell, Constable. If I can make a few shillings I am happy, and it means that Mrs Shepherd has food in her pantry for another day or two.’

  ‘Mrs Shepherd?’

  ‘Her husband died about a year ago,’ he told me. ‘He wasn’t well off; he worked on a farm. She tries to make ends meet in all kinds of enterprising ways.’

  ‘Such as baking cakes and pies for the shop, cleaning the church for no payment and making brass-rubbings at the same time?’ I smiled.

  ‘I would think that’s very likely,’ he said. And I left for home. I was in two minds whether or not I ought to inform the vicar of my discovery but, after some thought, I decided that I should. After all the church could afford to be charitable to someone who was showing charity towards it.

  6

  Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots? Then may ye also do good that are accustomed to do evil.

  Jer. 13.23

  Every year, at the end of the summer term, a small group of volunteers from the Fairfax College for Boys attended a camp in the forests near Aidensfield. These were staff and senior pupils aged about eighteen. The pupils had completed their school life, so the summer camp preceded their admission to university or served as a prelude to their careers.

  Fairfax College, spread across a prime site in the valley between Aidensfield and Maddleskirk, was a Catholic private school of international renown. The summer camp was one of its more recent innovations. Its purpose, apart from being a form of relaxation after the exams, was to encourage character-building, teamwork, individual skills and personal confidence. Held under canvas, the camp continued for slightly longer than a week — Friday afternoon arrival through to departure on the morning of the Saturday a week later — but it included canoeing and swimming in the three small lakes in the forest, outdoor survival techniques, moorland and mountain rescue, trekking with maps and compasses, escape and evasion exercises, rock-climbing in the Dales, wild-life recognition with particular emphasis on plants and animals which could be utilized as food, the construction of shelters and a host of associated outdoor topics.

  It was a few tough days with the boys producing their own meals, and there is little doubt that it rapidly identified leaders and followers. It highlighted strengths and weaknesses, developed skills hitherto unknown and, in some cases, produced compassion for those less able to care for themselves, especially in adverse conditions. The boys clearly enjoyed it — there was always a rush of applications for the annual camp. In recent years, some of the earlier participants had returned to act as instructors with the newest intakes and there was no doubt the week-long exercise produced a high degree of camaraderie. The police were often involved too, with their experts helping to tutor the boys in first-aid, radio communications, underwater rescue, search techniques, moorland and mountain rescue and sundry other subjects which formed part of a rural police officer’s knowledge and duties. The army and RAF, ambulance service and other support services as well as skilled individuals also found themselves being asked to contribute skill and advice.

  The camps had been running for some six or seven years prior to my arrival at Aidensfield and, from a police point of view, presented no undue problems. The only occasional worry sometimes occurred at the end of each camp, on the final Friday evening, when the participants had a wild party with bottles of beer and home-made food to celebrate their return to civilization on the Saturday. But that party never intruded upon the village because it was restricted to the forest and few villagers were aware of it; furthermore, the revellers were made to clean up afterwards.

  The success of these camps attracted the interest of Ruth Lord, the vicar’s wife. A quietly spoken but very practical lady in her early forties, she had quickly made herself extremely popular in the village. One reason for her popularity was that she had a natural ability to span the class divisions. She could relate to a working-class woman in a council house or an inarticulate farm labourer just as easily as she could attend an upper-class soiree or a middle-class cocktail party. She treated everyone with due respect and charm; in short, everyone liked and respected her.

  One morning in late February I received a telephone call from her. She wanted to discuss something of importance, but stressed that at this stage, it was highly confidential. Having no idea what this might be, I said I was happy to oblige and added I would be patrolling Aidensfield that afternoon. I could pop into the vicarage if that was convenient. She said it was ideal and we agreed to meet at 3 p.m.

  ‘Tea, Nick?’

  ‘Thanks.’ When I arrived, she led me into the lounge and settled me in a deep armchair. Beside it stood an occasional table with biscuits upon it, and within a few minutes, she produced a tray bearing a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and china cups. As she busied herself with serving the tea, I made small talk about the weather and village events, and eventually she settled opposite me. A slightly tubby lady with dark brown hair and sparkling eyes, she was dressed casually in a pair of slacks and a sweater and looked totally relaxed and comfortable.

  ‘You’ll be wondering what the mystery is about?’ she began as she sipped from her cup.

  ‘I must admit I have no idea why you want to see me,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not often I get called to a mystery at the vicarage.’

  She said there was no real mystery and reminded me about the Fairfax College camps, saying that she had visited one of them last summer. She had been most impressed by the entire atmosphere, particularly the spirit of comradeship and happiness which had been generated among the boys.

  ‘I know those boys are from upper-class homes,’ she went on. ‘They are public-school boys from affluent backgrounds and they are the offspring of accomplished parents, but it did occur to me that other boys might also benefit from the camps.’

  ‘From comprehensive schools you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking so much
of those children. I was thinking of those with a more deprived background. Borstal boys in fact.’

  ‘Borstal?’ I cried. ‘But they’re the real hard cases, Ruth. They’re the ones who have appeared before the courts many times and are sent to Borstal because there’s nowhere else to put them.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘But I am sure some of them would benefit from the kind of experience produced at the camps. There must be some benefit in mixing with educated boys of their own age, learning that there is a world other than crime and deprivation and actually experiencing that kind of world, even if it is temporarily in a tent in the middle of a forest. Some Borstal boys have never spent a night in a tent, nor have they explored the countryside. They know nothing about caring for others, nothing about working as a team . . .’

  ‘I don’t think the villagers would take kindly to convicted youths being allowed to roam free in the forest — and be close enough to Aidensfield to break into a few homes and shops.’

  ‘I know there’ll be opposition, Nick, which is why I wanted to test my suggestion on you before I took it any further. I don’t envisage a lot of Borstal boys coming here . . .’

  ‘If too many did come, they’d take over the camp,’ I warned her. ‘Some of those hard kids can be extremely violent. They’d finish up running the camp for their own purposes, bullying the schoolboys into submission.’

  ‘I can see the risks, but those selected would have to prove their worth before they came,’ she said. ‘I suppose the Borstal governor could select them following their good conduct over an extended period, or they might volunteer, of course. They might be the ones almost due for release but if, say, five or six came as an experiment, that might provide us with some idea whether the scheme would succeed.’