Constable Across the Moors (10 page)

“No,” he beamed at me benevolently. “I’ve not had a drop – not until this one,” and he lifted his empty glass, and handed it to Sid for a refill.

Sid poured a generous helping and passed it back to Cedric, who tossed it down his throat with a smile.

“Nectar of the Gods,” he addressed the empty glass. “Water of life, aqua fortis, aqua vitae, eau de vie, usquebaugh, perfume of Arabia …”

“Cedric, you must not drink and drive, it’s dangerous – and illegal,” I added.

“No one has ever seen me the worse for drink when I’m driving,” he said quite coherently. “And no one ever will, Mr Rhea, I assure you.”

“But I saw you just now, Cedric …”

“Stone cold sober, Mr Rhea. I was stone cold sober. I’ve told you before, it takes me a long time to get warmed up on a morning.”

Sid interrupted. “He’s right, Mr Rhea. You’ll never see him worse for drink – he drinks whiskies, nothing else.” Again, I noticed the sideways glance from Sid and knew I was wasting my time. Whatever had caused Cedric to drive so awfully was not drink. Maybe he was genuinely slow at getting mobile on a morning. He must be all of seventy and it did occur to me that he might be suffering from an illness of some kind. Perhaps he was rheumaticky and needed time before his ageing limbs functioned correctly.

I left the Brewers Arms and continued along the village to do some shopping for Mary. Later that day, we placed the four children in the rear of our battered Hillman and set sail for the moors, there to enjoy the space and beauty of this fine scenery. And as I motored through Aidensfield after lunch, I saw the lovely Rover emerge from the car park of the pub. I slowed a little, and turned down my window to listen for those awful
noises but it moved beautifully along with never a murmur and never a fault in its driving technique. Cedric was on his way home. He’d been in the pub since ten thirty, and it was now two thirty, with four hours of heavy drinking a distinct possibility.

I watched as the exquisite little car motored happily out of sight, and I never saw a hint of illegal motoring.

It would be four or five days later when I next called at the Brewers Arms. It was late one evening, and I was on a routine pub visit, dressed in uniform to show the presence of the law. Sid was behind the bar, dispensing his wares on behalf of the landlord. He smiled as I entered.

“There’s no trouble, Mr Rhea, not tonight. We’re a bit on the quiet side.”

Sid was a pleasant chap in his mid-thirties, but something of a mystery man. Always pleasant, smart and affable, he was not married and lived on the premises, where he earned a small wage for his bar tending duties and seldom left the building. He was contentment personified.

I told him about a thief who was trying to sell cheap cigarettes; we’d received information that he was attempting to get rid of stolen cigarettes by selling them to pubs and clubs, so I was warning my own landlords to be careful. Sid listened and told me the fellow had not called here; if he did, he would ring me.

As he chattered, he beckoned me to come closer.

“It’s about Cedric,” he whispered confidentially.

“Is he ill?” I asked.

“Alcoholic,” Sid told me. “He drinks pints of whisky, and often spends all lunchtime in here, when his wife is out shopping as a rule.”

“I was sure he was drunk the other morning,” I said.

“On the way here? No, Mr Rhea. He’s like that
before
he gets a drink. Once he gets himself well tanked up, he’s normal. With umpteen whiskies inside him, he returns to normality. Without a drink inside him, he’s a liability.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, Mr Rhea. Ask about the place, ask his wife. Without his whisky, he can’t do anything properly. He shakes and garbles, and is worse than useless. Honest. He rushes up
here, downs a few and within minutes is back to what we’d call normal.”

“That’s crazy! How could I explain that in a court of law? How could I tell a court that Cedric’s sober state is a damned sight worse than others when drunk, and when he’s got a skin full of whisky, he’s as normal as the most sober of judges …” I shook my head.

“We all keep out of his way when he drives here,” he said.

“Why doesn’t he walk to the pub?” I asked what I thought was a sensible question.

“He’d never get here,” said Sid in all seriousness.

“But he’s got loads of whisky at home, hasn’t he? I’ve seen them – he collects bottles of all kinds, there’s hundreds in his house.”

“All locked in cabinets, Mr Rhea, by his wife. I reckon she keeps him short, and she’s got them locked up for emergencies – like when visitors call, and he’s got to be made presentable. She’ll ration him to just enough to meet the requirements of the occasion.”

“I only hope he doesn’t have an accident when he’s sober!” I laughed, but was assured the villagers knew his motoring movements sufficiently well to keep out of his way. I had my doubts about visitors to the place, or holiday-makers, though.

And so I became like one of the local people. I accepted Cedric for what he was. Based on the strict wording of the Road Traffic Act 1930, Section 15, he was not committing any offence when full of whisky because the wording said, “Being under the influence of drink or a drug to such an extent as to be incapable to having proper control of the vehicle …”

When under the influence, Cedric had full and proper
control
.

I could evisage a legal puzzler should he ever collide with some other person, animal or car, but he never did. In his happy state of aqua vitae, he was in perfect control of himself and his car. When sober, he was a terrible liability.

I must admit I was concerned about my pair of unusual motorists. Esme went sailing through life in her immaculate Morris, getting eternally lost and turning left at every junction or crossroads, while Cedric cruised about with his veins full of aqua vitae. Then the inevitable happened. They were both driving along the same stretch of road at the same time.

No one will ever be sure what happened, but it seems that Cedric’s Rover had emerged from his gate with Cedric in a stone-cold sober state. It was shortly before his ten-thirty trip to the Brewers Arms. At that precise moment, Esme was chugging happily along in her little car, intending to visit York and its maze of one-way streets, there to collect a few parking tickets and make many left turns.

But as Cedric clanked and jerked out of his drive, Esme was horrified to see a pheasant run into the middle of the road immediately ahead of her. Had she been able to make a swift right turn, she would have missed the stupid bird, but Esme could not make a right turn. She therefore attempted to turn left.

This put her Morris right across the path of Cedric’s Rover as it surged out of the drive, and he was either lucky enough or alert enough to take avoiding action. Faced with the oncoming Morris Minor, he did something to the steering wheel which put him through the hedge at the opposite side of the road, while Esme careered straight down his drive and on to his lawn.

She knocked over his sundial and sent a rustic bench into his ornamental pond, while he staggered out of his scratched car and asked if anyone had a whisky. Esme was unhurt, if shaken, and decided not to visit York that day.

My problem was whether to classify that incident as an accident within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act, but Sergeant Bairstow’s advice was invaluable. It was on occasions like this that he excelled, and I was pleased I was not reporting to Sergeant Blaketon.

“A pheasant is not an animal within the meaning of the Road Traffic Act,” Sergeant Bairstow assured me, “and besides, the damage to both cars, slight though it was, was not caused on a road. The Rover suffered minor scratches by a hedge growing on private property, and the Minor’s dents were the result of
colliding with a sundial in someone’s garden. Take no action, Nicholas, old son. We don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing, do we?”

“No, Sergeant,” I agreed with some relief.

Quite distinctly, two shots rang out. They echoed through the peaceful valley as I patrolled on foot. My mind was far from police matters as I marvelled at the spring colouring along the length of Rannockdale, and at first, I paid no attention. The entire countryside in his area is riddled with gunmen shooting; they shoot grouse during their season, pheasant and other game during their permitted times, and vermin all year round, consequently a couple of bangs were of no immediate interest.

But they came again. Two very clear shots rang out, and they came from a shotgun, not a rifle. It wasn’t until I heard a shouting match somewhere beyond my ken that I recognised something more than a dispute over who’d shot which animal. There were the unmistakable sounds of vocal threats, so I increased my pace and listened for more indications of the precise location.

I soon found it. As I rounded a heavily wooded corner in the higher reaches of Rannockdale, I saw a track leading across several fields. At the distant end was a solitary farmhouse, and running like fury along that track was a little man in a smart grey suit. He was carrying a briefcase and holding on his trilby hat as he raced towards the Ford Prefect parked at the gate. He was clearly escaping from something.

I could hear the sound of a man’s angry voice emanating from the farm house, and wondered what had prompted this
confrontation
. I increased my pace, anxious not to place myself in the firing line, but keen to discover whether or not this was a
criminal matter in which I should take a professional interest.

As I drew closer to the Ford Prefect, the little man saw me and the expression of utter relief on his face was a pleasure to behold. I was his saviour and he continued to run as if his very life depended on it, ending this gallop to freedom by clambering unceremoniously over the gate.

There he halted and leaned on his car roof as he gasped for breath. I could see that his face was pale and drawn, and sweat was flowing down his cheeks in rivulets. Clutching his chest, he stared at me with an open mouth, unable to speak of this recent horror. The words refused to come and I waited at his side, all the time conscious of the silent house across the fields. Happily, there were no further eruptions from it or its occupants.

After a good five minutes, the little man got his wind back and found he could speak.

“Officer,” he panted. “Officer, thank God …”

“Trouble?” I asked.

“You know that man in there?” he put to me.

I shook my head. “Sorry,” I had to tell him. “I’m fairly new, and I’ve never had to call at this house. Who lives there?”

“A lunatic called Chapman,” he said. “Charles Alexander Chapman.”

He continued to draw in deep gasps of breath, and wiped his forehead with a coloured handkerchief after removing his trilby hat. He opened the door and placed his hat carefully on the rear seat, with his briefcase at its side.

“Inland Revenue,” he told me. “I’m Eric Standish.”

He held out a hand for me to shake, and his grip was surprisingly strong for such a small man. I smiled and
introduced
myself.

“They warned me about him,” said Standish. “It’s my first visit.”

“What happened exactly?” I asked. “I thought I heard shots back there, and shouts.”

“You did,” he confirmed. “Shots from a twelve-bore. He was having a go at me; shooting at me!”

“I knew you chaps weren’t the most popular of visitors,” I tried to cheer him up. “You’re probably more unpopular than us!”

“I accept that no one likes paying more Income Tax than necessary, but when a fellow ignores all letters and personal visits, there comes a time to call a halt. Head Office sent me to see him, to reason with him, but it’s impossible, Mr Rhea. Totally impossible. He simply won’t let anybody near the place.”

“You’ve been before – not you personally,” I corrected myself, “but your people?”

“Regularly for years. Not one tax man has ever managed to speak to Chapman, not one. God knows how much he owes.”

“Maybe he owes nothing?” I suggested.

“He manages to live without a job,” Standish said. “He’s got investments, we’re sure of it. Property too, we suspect, and we need to make an assessment of his income and his tax liability.”

“It’s a very effective way of avoiding tax!” I laughed. “Has he never paid?”

He shook his head. “Not for years and years. He moved here from a good position with a firm in Newcastle upon Tyne twenty years ago or more, and he’s lived alone ever since. Our people have tried and tried to make contact, and we fail every time.”

“I hope we don’t have to visit him,” I said. “Our uniforms might attract more target practice.”

“I’ll just have to report a failure,” he spoke with a resigned air. “I don’t like reporting failures, Mr Rhea. I like to announce success in my operations.”

He entered his clean little car, started it and left me standing at the gate. I waited a few moments to see if there was any reaction and sure enough, a head appeared from an upstairs window as the car vanished along the forest road.

I could see it was a man with long grey hair and a matching grey beard, but at this distance I could not distinguish his facial features. I did see, however, that he wielded a shotgun.

“And don’t you try it!” he bellowed at me, threateningly waving the gun. “Keep off, all of you!”

And he slammed the window to withdraw into the darkness of his isolated home. I smiled to myself, marvelling at the character of a man who could keep authority at bay for so long. I
wandered along my lonely route and into the tiny moorland village where my motor cycle was parked.

For me, this was an exploratory visit, my first trip to
Rannockdale
village in an official capacity. I was keen to learn about its people and peculiarities, so as always on such visits I had parked the motor bike to walk the streets. On this occasion my action had been rewarded by the encounter with Mr Standish, the tax man.

It was important that I learn more about the eccentric Chapman, and the ideal place to begin was the village store. I pushed open the glass-fronted door and inside, a bell rang. A middle-aged man with a white apron appeared, smiling at me as he wiped his hands on the hem.

“P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m new here, and it’s my first trip to Rannockdale. I thought I’d say ‘hello’.”

“It’s good of you to bother,” he finished his wiping. “I’ve just been tidying some shelves at the back. Jim Freeman. My wife’s called Ann, but she’s out shopping for clothes, she went over to York this morning.”

“I’m at Aidensfield,” I said, removing my cap, “but now that they’ve issued us with bikes, we’re covering bigger patches.”

“I’m always pleased to see you chaps – fancy a coffee? I was about to have one.”

“Thanks,” and he escorted me through the shop to the living quarters where he motioned me to sit in a cosy armchair. He told me about the village, its amenities, problems, characters and gossip. I listened with interest, realising he was justifiably proud of the place and its people.

Over coffee, during which he answered the bell twice, I took the opportunity to mention Chapman and the income-tax man.

Freeman laughed loudly. “Oh, then you’ve been quick to meet our prize character, Charlie Chapman, the Recluse of Rannockdale.”

“Is he really a recluse?”

“He never leaves that house – or at least, no one ever sees him leave. Rates, electricity, income tax, social services – they’ve all tried to get in to see him, and he gives everyone the same answer. A shotgun through the window.”

“Doesn’t he ever let anyone in?” I was amazed at this.
“What’s he do for food or medical supplies? Money? The essentials of life?”

“There are two people he trusts. I’m one,” he said with some pride. “The other is Miss Stanton. She’s a retired schoolteacher who lives in a cottage near the church.”

“How’s he trust you? Do you get inside?”

“No, we take things up to the front door. There’s a dog kennel outside the front door, and we place our things in there for him. I leave groceries once a week, and when I get there each Wednesday afternoon, he’s left a note outlining the following week’s requirements. I take other things for him – the mail, milk, stuff like that. I always leave them in the dog kennel with the note of the price, if any, and next time I go, the money is there, exactly right.”

“He’s got a gun,” I said. “I know a shotgun doesn’t need a certificate, but has he a rifle?”

“Yes, he’s got a .22 rifle which he uses for killing rooks and wood pigeons. The policeman comes once every three years to renew it. I take it up, leave the forms in the kennel and next time, I collect the filled-in forms and the money.”

At that time, a shotgun could be held without a shotgun certificate, although a gun licence was needed if the gun was taken outside the home; today, gun licences have been
abolished
and a shotgun requires a shotgun certificate to authorise its possession by anyone, and other firearms, except air weapons, require firearms certificates. From what I’d seen already, I knew I’d have problems with Chapman if I had ever to renew his firearms certificate. That day would surely come.

Over the following weeks, I learned that Chapman had earned his nickname “Recluse of Rannockdale” due to his habit of writing reams of letters to people in authority. All his letters were written on beautifully printed notepaper in green typewritten characters. He claimed he was Lord Rannockdale, a cousin of the Queen, and rightful heir to several estates in the North Riding; on some letter headings, he styled himself MP, and others comprised various business letter headings, happily of fictitious firms. The recipients of his letters must have wondered who was producing such gems, but I did learn that
many were aware of his activities because of constant attention by the local and national press.

It was a local newspaper which had christened him “Recluse of Rannockdale” and the title had stuck. Every time he received wide publicity due to some idiot testing his defences for a giggle, the result was more people attempting to gain access to his house or visiting his farm with crazy notions. Some took along pressmen or cameras, for the Recluse had become something of a national celebrity. All this began some years before I arrived on the scene and in recent times, the publicity had dwindled considerably. The village people knew of his desire for the utmost privacy and respected it, and these days he lived his life almost as he wished. He was out of the nation’s limelight.

That was until two burglars called.

Late one winter’s evening, they decided to break into
Charlie’s
farmhouse. What prompted them to embark upon an enterprise of this kind, in remotest Rannockdale on a winter’s evening, is still something of a mystery, but it seems they had popped into the village inn for a quick drink. They were a highly professional team of burglars from Middlesbrough and their skills had earned them a comfortable living beyond the law.

It was that same skill that almost cost them their lives. Somehow, they managed to get into Charlie’s house without him realising, a feat which had defeated every caller for years. Perhaps the passage of time had helped, for there’d been no concerted attack on his home for years. We reckoned he had been lulled into a false sense of security. Be that as it may, the skilled pair had broken in and had started to rifle Charlie’s precious belongings.

He had a lot of things worth stealing, like antiques, jewellery, silverware and cash, and he kept them in a bedroom. It was to that very bedroom that the hapless pair went by the light of a torch in the very early hours. They reached the room, picked the lock and entered. And there lay Charlie’s treasure. They could scarcely believe their luck; it was a veritable treasure trove.

They began to place these riches into pillow cases which they
used as sacks, and then Charlie approached. They heard him coming; just in time, they heard his quiet steps and saw the glint of his torch as he moved along the long corridor.

One of them, Ginger Mills, slammed the be room door just in time, and rammed home the lock on his side. He and his pal, Cat Christon, were locked in.

Being professionals, they appreciated this gave them time to think and plan; the householder would go downstairs to ring for the police, and while he was down there, they’d sneak out with the loot. They’d go downstairs and, if necessary, tackle him and immobilise him. So they waited; time was on their side.

Suddenly, the door panels were splintered into fragments as the twin barrels of Charlie’s twelve-bore discharged themselves and his voice called, “You can stay there, you bastards. If you climb out of the window, I’ll be waiting … if you move along here, I’ll be waiting …”

And as if to emphasise those words, he released a further barrage at the door. The little balls of lead shot peppered the door and blasted the interior of the room where two very alarmed burglars now crouched in fear of their lives.

He kept them there for two whole days and two whole nights, sometimes enforcing his threats with barrages of lead pellets at the shattered door. Naturally, the burglars kept out of the way, using a wall as a shield.

Then Charlie sent for the police. Early one morning, he placed a note in his kennel and this was intercepted by Mr Freeman at the shop and he rang me.

“Where are they?” I asked, surprised that Charlie’s burglars had not been encouraged to leave with their backsides peppered as mementos of their visit.

“He’s got them locked in the bedroom,” he told me over the telephone. “Two, he thinks. He’ll allow you to call and arrest them. He says you must be there at twelve noon today, and he’ll deliver them to you at the front door.”

“Is he sure they’re burglars? They’re not just daft youths who got in for a dare?”

“He says burglars in his letter, Mr Rhea, and I’m sure he’s right.”

“O.K.” I assured him. “Tell Charlie I’ll come with a police car.”