Constable Among the Heather (10 page)

I recognized him as the deputy chief constable’s official driver but did not know his name.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Caught you. I’m PC Hughes, David Hughes. DCC’s driver.’

‘PC Rhea, Nicholas; Nick.’ We shook hands.

‘The boss spotted you as we drove past,’ said Hughes. ‘He asked me to take you back to the car.’

‘Something wrong?’ I wondered why on earth the deputy chief constable would want to talk to me. He wasn’t in the habit of calling on constables like this.

‘No. He wants to visit your office. There’s no one in just now.’

I approached the gleaming black Humber Snipe, flung up a smart salute and said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as he lowered his window.

‘Hop in, Constable,’ he invited, and so I did. As we cruised away, he said, ‘I’m in the area and thought I’d give the station an official visit. It’s locked.’

‘Sergeant Bairstow is on day off, sir,’ I told him. ‘And Sergeant Blaketon went over to Brantsford.’

‘And you are PC Rhea, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, wondering how he knew my name. I was later to learn he had an amazing memory for numbers – he’d seen the numerals on my shoulders. He was a charming man, easy-going but efficient.

When we arrived at the station, I unlocked the door and escorted him inside. PC Hughes waited outside in the official car. The DCC examined the cells, the books, the general state of the place and the daily occurrence book. In keeping with the procedures for such a visit, he would then make an entry in the occurrence book to record the event.

‘Well, your sergeants and colleagues keep the place in good order, PC Rhea,’ he said. ‘I wish all our stations were so efficiently kept. Now, I’ll just sign your occurrence book and then I’ll be on my way.’ And he began to tap his pockets as he sought a pen. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I must have left my pen in the office.’

‘You can borrow mine, sir,’ and I produced my ballpoint.

‘I’ll need one for the rest of the day,’ he said. ‘Can you issue me with one from your stock?’

I explained Sergeant Blaketon’s book procedures, and the DCC smiled. ‘I’ll witness your signature for the issue of one ballpoint to me,’ he said, with just a trace of humour in his eyes. But when I opened the cupboard door and stepped inside, he
followed and exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned! This is like a museum!’

He went inside and picked things off the shelves to examine them, chuckling and shaking his head as he found treasures from a bygone age. There was even an old-fashioned stalk telephone, a copper kettle, a leather-bound book with no entries at all, a Victorian pen-holder and stacks of old files.

‘PC Rhea,’ he said suddenly, ‘am I right in thinking there was a charity stall on your market-place today as I came past?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s for the parish church. They’re raising funds to repair the bell tower.’

‘Then all this surplus stuff must go. Have it taken to the stall now and get rid of it. It is no use here; in fact, I issued an instruction several months ago for all such clutter to be cleared out. This lot will help a deserving cause.’

‘I’ll inform Sergeant Blaketon, sir.’

‘It’s no good relying on old Oscar, PC Rhea. I served with him at Scarborough years ago. I know him too well. No, we’ll do it now, you, me and PC Hughes.’

And so we did. We loaded the rear seat and the boot of the DCC’s official car with what amounted to a cache of antiques and surplus but unused domestic goods of ages past, such as old tins of polish and brush-heads. The stallholder was delighted. The DCC left a note for Sergeant Blaketon to explain what he’d done, and I resumed my patrol.

Later Sergeant Blaketon said nothing to me, and when I did next peer into his cupboard, I saw he’d used the space to accommodate more stocks. Among the boxes, I noticed three gross of toilet rolls. The one in No. 1 cell had just five sheets left, but even with such a colossal supply, I wasn’t going to ask him for a replacement just yet.

When patrolling the moors around Aidensfield, I soon discovered that the Storeman Syndrome is not confined to those employed in formal organizations. It exists among individuals too. There are many examples of those who simply cannot throw anything away, in case it might come in useful for some obscure future purpose.

I have heard it said that everything comes in useful once every seven years. On one of my moves to another house, I found a coiled and lengthy piece of wire in an outbuilding. In its prime, it had been an old-fashioned television aerial. Following the belief that it might be useful one day, I kept it – and some ten years later found it ideal for cleaning out drains. Policemen do tend to keep things ‘just in case’. Storerooms and cupboards throughout the land are full of things which are kept ‘just in case’. It is true, of course, that, if one disposes of any one of these items, it will be required two or three days after the dustman has carted it away. That might explain why my garage is full of odd bits of apparently useless paraphernalia, all of which I believe have some potential destiny.

But scattered about the moors and dales are people who keep things for best, who reserve rooms for special events which seldom seem to happen, who keep drawers full of linen which is never used, and crockery which has never been sullied with food or drink. The front doors of such homes are rarely opened, and visitors are invariably welcomed in the kitchen. Even now, I find myself in this category – our callers come to the kitchen door. It’s a matter of custom, not discrimination. In my tours of duty I had occasion to visit many such places and came to realize that it was not an unusual aspect of moorland life. In fact, it was very much a part of the prevailing practice.

The typical situation was like this. A householder or family living on a farm, or in a country house or cottage, would live in the kitchen. This was a plain, functional place, often with a bare stone floor, but with a couple of Windsor chairs for comfort and with a bare wooden table for all meals. There was rarely a dining-room – all meals were taken in the kitchen. Elsewhere in the house would be a sitting-room; this was more comfortable, perhaps with rugs or even a carpet on the floor, settees and easy chairs and a welcoming fire. There would be sideboards too and pictures on the wall.

But in addition to these there was the best room, sometimes knows as ‘the house’ or in some areas as ‘the parlour’. This was often at the front of the house, close to the seldom-used front door. Judging from those I have seen, they were dark and airless and always smelt of mothballs. The window was
never opened, the rooms usually faced north and so attracted little sunshine or light, and they were full of ‘best’ things which were to be used only on special occasions and which had, in many cases, been passed down from one generation to the next. Wonderful old antique furnishings, a firescreen, cushions, rugs, the carpet, easy chairs, crockery, drawers full of unopened linen such as pillowcases, sheets and serviettes, smart cutlery, a selection of ancient books, some antique ornaments, a piano, the family Bible and the inevitable, well-thumbed album of family photographs. Most rooms of this type that I had occasion to visit reeked of Victoriana and must have been an antique-collector’s dream – in some there was even an aspidistra in a heavy brown pot. Throughout the life of the contents, they had seldom been used, having always been kept for best.

‘Best’ seemed to imply family gatherings such as
christenings
, weddings and funerals (especially funerals), although if an important visitor called, the room might be put into use. It would have to be someone very important indeed to justify preparation of that room, for the status of the visitor had to be substantial before the fire was lit and the room made welcoming. Routine calls by vicars, vets, van-drivers, valuers and visiting relations did not quality – there had to be something special about the call and the caller.

The degree of high importance was generally something associated with the family. I doubt whether the Queen, if she called without warning, would be shown into that room, and the same might be said of the lord of the manor, although if cousin Freda came all the way from Canada to trace the family tree, the lady of the house might get her duster out and ‘do’ that room.

If the room was maintained for very important family occasions, its contents were likewise separated from the rigours of the daily routine. Gifts given to the husband and wife at their wedding, for birthdays, at Christmas and anniversaries were seldom used – they were put away for a special occasion. Drawers in such rooms and indeed in bedrooms and other parts of the house contained unopened parcels dating from the wedding day of the occupiers. I found this an intriguing practice. Things needed from day to day, such as household crockery, were used with alacrity, but special things, such
as presents, were never used – they were always put away. I was never quite sure why, although it happened with such regularity.

Having once been put away for a special occasion, such an item rarely saw service, because there was never an occasion special enough to justify unwrapping it or opening it. Whatever occurred never quite seemed to qualify for the ceremonial use of Aunt Emily’s gift of china, Uncle Jasper’s white sheets or Cousin Ermintrude’s canteen of cutlery.

In contemplating this logic, I doubt if that predetermined visit by Her Majesty would be of sufficient importance to bring out such treasures. She’d probably be given a drink of tea in a mug bearing a picture of her grandmother, but she might be allowed to sit on the best sofa in the best room to sip it; if she came to a family funeral, however, the best room would be available.

Probably the most upsetting incident which involved such a room happened one hot July day. It was just after 10 a.m. and I was prepared to patrol Aidensfield and district in my little van when Dr Archie McGee from Elsinby knocked at the door. He was dressed in his plus-fours as usual, and I never knew whether he was doing his rounds or going shooting.

‘Ah, Nick,’ he beamed in his affable way. ‘I’ve just driven past Mrs Gregory’s place and there’s a light on. I thought I’d mention it – she’s away, you know. She’s gone to her sister’s funeral in Bradford.’

‘It must be something serious to get her away from home,’ I smiled. ‘But how long’s she been away?’

‘Day before yesterday,’ he said. ‘I came past last night and there was no light.’

‘Me too,’ I said. ‘I came past at half-past eleven last night, and it was all in darkness. Thanks, Doctor, I’ll have a look. Did you stop at the house?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve an appointment at Malton Hospital. Got to be going,’ and off he went.

Mrs Gregory’s house, known as Southview, was only a few hundred yards from my own police house, but I took the van because of its radio capability. I parked outside. It was a magnificent house, a stone-built double-fronted building with
a tiled roof and oak windowframes. It stood in its own grounds and was tucked deep into the hillside midway down Aidensfield Bank, with expansive views to the south.

I knew Mrs Gregory by sight. She was a lady in her mid seventies, I guessed, and she had been a widow for years. She had no children, but I did know she had sisters in various parts of Yorkshire. The house revealed something of her status – although she was a Yorkshirewoman from a simple background, she had married well, because her house was what is often described as ‘a gentleman’s residence’ or even ‘a gentry house’. I knew little of her husband, for he had died long before my arrival in the village.

Upon leaving my van, I could see the light burning in one of the front rooms, so I knocked on the front door, and when there was no reply, I tried the back. Again there was no response, so I examined the windows. Those at the front and rear were secure but as I went around the side, where the house wall was literally a yard from the limestone cliff face near where it had been built, my heart sank. A small pantry window had been smashed and was standing open. I knew better than to climb in that way, for evidence of forensic interest might be adhering to the framework.

I returned to the doors and tried the knobs. The back door opened easily – the key was in the lock on the inside, and chummy had used this route as his exit. As I entered, aware of the need to proceed with great care, I knew the house had been burgled. My heart sank. This was probably the first time for years that Mrs Gregory had been away, and I could only feel deep sorrow on her behalf. But it was time to set in motion the official procedures and then to trace Mrs Gregory.

I did make a quick tour of the stricken house, just to ensure that the villain was not still hiding, and then closed the doors as I set in motion the investigation. I called the CID in Eltering, who said Detective Sergeant Gerry Connolly and Detective PC Paul Wharton would attend within the half hour. In the meantime, I left the van outside the house and walked down to the post office-cum-shop to ask Joe Steel if he knew how I could contact Mrs Gregory. He did; he gave me her sister’s home number. I returned to the van and radioed Force Control, asking them to
contact Mrs Gregory with the sad news and ask her to ring me before coming home. Then I stood outside the house to await the might of the local CID.

Connolly and Wharton came and commenced their
investigation
. The curious thing was the state of one room. The entire floor was covered with masses of wrapping paper and screwed-up newspaper. It covered the tops of flat surfaces, such as the table and sideboard, and even filled the spaces beneath chairs and bookcases. The room looked like an expanded version of our children’s bedrooms on Christmas morning.

‘What’s all this, Nick?’ asked Detective Sergeant Connolly, showing me the rubbish.

‘No idea,’ I had to admit. ‘I’ve not been in the house until today.’

‘It’s neat and tidy otherwise, but we can’t tell what’s gone until she returns. Certainly the place has been done over, and it looks like an expert job. We’ve not found any marks.’

By that, he meant there were no fingerprints, which
suggested
the work of a professional thief rather than a local lad who had broken in for kicks.