Constable Among the Heather (13 page)

Two nights later I popped into the Brewers Arms at Aidensfield while on a late evening patrol and saw Daniel in his usual corner at the bar. He saw me, smiled briefly and nodded, but on this occasion there was no bravado about his refusing to co-operate with the police. I did not mention the theft before his pals – if he wished to do so, that was his privilege, and after checking the ages of some youngsters in the lounge, I left.

It was five days later when I got a call from Detective Sergeant Connolly.

‘Ah, Nick, glad to have caught you. We’ve some good news – that silver salver of Mrs Price’s. It’s been recovered.’

‘Really? Where?’ I was delighted, more for Mrs Price than for myself.

‘Birmingham. Birmingham City Police have done wonders for us – they’ve set up an Antiques Squad, and one of their lads spotted the salver in an antique shop. The dealer paid £850 for it – so whoever sold it to him knew it was worth a bob or two. But the even better news is that it has a set of fingerprints on it, and we’re hoping they match those of our suspects. That’ll take a day or two.’

‘So when can Mrs Price have it back?’ I asked.

‘It’ll take a while. If we get the villains, we’ll need the salver for evidence, so we’re talking of a couple of months or so at the least. But at least it’s safe, and she will get it back eventually.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant, that’s great news. I’ll go and tell her.’

But when I knocked on the door, Daniel opened it.

‘What do you want?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I’d like to talk to your mother,’ I said.

‘Mother? What for?’

‘About the stolen salver. I understand it is her property, Daniel, not yours.’

His face showed I had scored a point over him. Then Mrs Price came to see who was at the door and beckoned me to enter. ‘Come in, Mr Rhea.’

With Daniel following me into the front room, she showed me the settee and smiled. ‘Well, Mr Rhea, you have some news?’

‘Yes.’ I was so pleased for her as I explained the
developments
. Daniel listened too, but when I’d finished, he said, ‘You mean you came here to quiz my mother after I’d given you all that help?’

‘There were certain things to clarify, Daniel, and a more detailed description to obtain; you were at work. Your mother was most helpful …’

‘I didn’t tell you of Mr Rhea’s visit, Daniel, because I knew how you’d react, you silly man. Anyway, it has paid dividends – the salver is safe again. Safe for you, I might add, although I’m not sure that you deserve it!’

‘But I gave all the information to him, then he comes sneaking into my house asking question, snooping behind my back, poking his nose into my private life …’

‘Daniel!’ said Mrs Price. ‘You are a silly fool.’

‘I’ll go.’ I stood up to leave. ‘I’ll be in touch when we’ve more news, Mrs Price.’

‘I hate the police,’ said Daniel, standing up to follow me to the door. ‘They’re so untrustworthy, so devious …’

Mrs Price just smiled.

Each of us feels entitled to a private life in which we may do as we please within the confines of our own home. If that statement sounds eminently just, the reality is not quite like that, because our private life and behaviour are regulated. For example, we must be careful not to disturb or upset the neighbours in a way that infringes the law.

The truth is that we cannot do exactly as we wish, even within our own home. Instead, there are many rules to restrict the use to which we can put our home. For example, it cannot legally become a brothel or a place for taking drugs, nor can it become a slaughter-house, public house, pawnbroker’s shop, firearms dealer’s premises, nursing home, gaming house, pet shop, theatre or hotel without some official intervention. Furthermore, we cannot do exactly as we wish within our own home, because we might antagonize one of the many official agencies. Running a scrap-metal business from the back yard, a horse-racing establishment from the front lawn, a cats’ home in the garden shed, or rock concerts in the attic might not receive universal approval.

In spite of many restrictions, though, it may still be said that an Englishman’s home is his castle, because we can enjoy a high degree of privacy within its confines. This reassuring old saying comes from the famous lawyer, statesman and jurist Sir Edward Coke (1552–1634): ‘The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury or violence as for his repose.’ The trouble with most of us is that we respect that notion up to a point, for, if we are honest, we
still like to know what the neighbours are doing, and then we might object if their behaviour annoys us.

The snag is that the actions of one’s neighbours can often extend beyond the immediate boundaries of their home, at times affecting the entire community. Simple and acceptable examples might include weddings and funerals which, although based on one’s home, do in varying degrees affect the state of prevailing calm in a village community. Lots of people arrive, traffic is generated, crowds of spectators assemble, curiosity is aroused and the movement of ordinary people is sometimes restricted to permit the procession to pass. We do not object to that, nor do we normally object when something other than a wedding or funeral occurs, particularly when there is a positive increase in the interest shown by a healthy community.

Examples in Aidensfield included a visit by Her Majesty The Queen to nearby Hovingham on the occasion of the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, the visit of Sophia Loren to Castle Howard, along with Peter Ustinov and other famous faces, while filming
Lady
L
, followed by several other camera crews who came later to film sequences for James Herriot’s books.

During my constableship, Aidensfield itself was host to a surprising number of very famous people, ranging from British prime ministers to one of Charlie Chaplin’s daughters, via cousins of the American president and several foreign princes and princesses. All were highly identifiable in a village of fewer than 200 souls. Nonetheless, in the midst of all this excitement, the village people afforded these guests a welcome degree of privacy. Word of their presence rarely reached anyone outside the community, the press never got to hear of their visits, and these famous folk could pop into the Brewers Arms or walk across the local moors without fear of being accosted by admirers, photographers and hangers-on.

As the village constable, I was often privy to these occasions, being asked by the hosts to ward off any unwelcome attention should it arise. I think it is fair to say that the people of Aidensfield became accustomed to having the famous and wealthy as guests in their pretty village.

Their discretion and loyalty to such a visitor were tested during one long, hot summer.

The story, which involves the private lives to two people, centres upon the old blacksmith’s workshop. When the last blacksmith of Aidensfield ended his craft, an enterprising young man called Kevin Bell purchased the premises and turned it into a craftsman woodworker’s shop. He began to produce handmade goods of every kind, from large items of furniture to such small objects as serviette rings, ashtrays, egg cups and three-legged stools.

Like so many local woodworkers, he carved an emblem upon his work. Hereabouts we have the Mouseman of Kilburn who carves everything in oak and then adorns it with his famous mouse trademark; there are those who identify their handicraft with acorns, lizards, owls and other distinctive marks. Kevin chose his own name for his logo and carved a bell upon his products. His work was good, his furniture was sound, and his application implied a determination to succeed. And so he did. He would never become a millionaire but he would and did become a respected craftsman.

But there was a mystery about Kevin.

He came to live and work in Aidensfield some months after my own arrival, but he was not a local man. He came from York, having nurtured a dream of becoming a rural craftsman, and I respected him for having the nerve to put his ambition to the test. He was a tall man, around thirty years old, with a slightly balding head of light brown hair; slim and powerful, he played cricket and squash.

Everyone liked Kevin – he became a welcome and important asset to Aidensfield. He made his home in the limestone cottage adjoining the old blacksmith’s shop. This had been the home of a succession of blacksmiths, many of whom had been content to live in rather primitive conditions, but Kevin’s woodworking skills and DIY ability turned it into a dream house.

The mystery which puzzled the local people involved his family.

An older woman came to live there, a Mrs Marie Bell, and we discovered she was Kevin’s mother. She was in her mid
fifties, we estimated, for her blonde hair was turning grey. She became a part of the village community by joining the Women’s Institute and helping with parish church matters. In time, I learned that her husband had died, and so she had come to live with her unmarried son in Aidensfield. The arrangement seemed a good one, for it meant that Kevin had someone to look after his precious house, to ensure he was adequately fed and his clothes were washed. Mum and son appeared to have none of the problems that can accrue when different generations live together.

There was also a small boy, about seven years old. He came at the same time as Mrs Bell and was called Robert. As he was of a build and colouring similar to Kevin’s, everyone assumed he was a late arrival in the family. Without asking or prying, they assumed that Mrs Bell had produced him just prior to her menopause, a time when many women are likely to conceive. The Bells did nothing to change that assumption.

Young Robert joined the local school, accompanied Mrs Bell to the shop or upon bus rides in Ashfordly, went to other children’s houses for parties and invited them back, and took part in most of the village’s events. Everyone called him Robert Bell, he called Mrs Bell ‘mummy’, and he related to Kevin as if the latter was an elder brother.

But I was to learn the truth.

As with so many of these family secrets, the truth came out quite accidentally and, having learned it in that way, I had no intention of making anyone else aware of young Robert’s ancestry. The names I am now using are, of course, not the family’s real ones, but I have been allowed to reveal that secret in this book – not that it is of earth-shattering consequence.

It seemed that some years earlier Kevin and a girl called Teresa Craven had had a long and enjoyable relationship whose result was Robert. Because Teresa had been eighteen at the time and on the threshold of a major career, Kevin said he would bring up the boy in the hope that perhaps she would one day marry him and settle down to motherhood. The caring Kevin had no wish to prevent Teresa’s following her career – it was a most noble gesture, I felt. Then, when Kevin’s father died, Mrs Bell took over the responsibility for the little lad;
it was a voluntary offer from a family which, I had already learned, was thoroughly nice and decent.

A bonus was that Teresa was now making a name in her chosen career, and she did visit her son from time to time. And she remained on good terms with Kevin – he seemed quite content to give her all the freedom she desired until she decided to settle down, marry him and raise their son.

This gem of local knowledge came to me through a colleague who served in York City Police. I learned this piece of news when he and I performed duty together at York Races – officers from the North Riding of Yorkshire were drafted in to perform duty at the races, and I found myself working with Tim Lewis. We chatted and he told me that a friend of his had moved to Aidensfield – that friend was Kevin Bell. And so, in this manner, I learned something of Kevin’s past. It was during this chat that Tim told me about Teresa’s career.

‘Does the name Terry Craven mean anything to you?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Should it?’

‘Not unless you’re a tennis buff,’ he said. ‘She’s our great white hope for Wimbledon.’

‘Oh,
that
Terry Craven!’ I had heard the name; in fact, she had been featured only recently in the national newspapers.

Tim went on to say she had been born in York but had moved away with her parents, returning from time to time to visit relatives. She was a talented and highly promising tennis player and had been offered a scholarship at an American university. There she would be coached in the very best of techniques by some of the world’s finest exponents. Shortly before going to the USA she had come to York for a holiday, where she had met Kevin and become pregnant. And, Kevin being Kevin, he had promised to bring up the child so that Teresa could follow her career.

In my time at Aidensfield, she had completed her American course and was now part of the world tennis circuit, playing in tournaments at all the major venues – and she was winning. She was high in the list of British seeded women players, being one of our top exponents. From my friend Tim, I understood that when her tennis career was over and her world tours ended,
she would marry Kevin and settle down to being a mum for Robert. It was a remarkable tale.

Terry did visit Aidensfield on a regular basis. When her hectic lifestyle permitted her to take time off, she would come to stay quietly in Aidensfield. She stayed with Kevin and his mother and would go for long walks with young Robert. I think he thought she was an aunt – certainly, the other children referred to her as ‘Aunt Teresa’. I’m sure most of the village thought so too, although I suspect many did realize the true relationships within that happy family. Her other role, as a leading British ladies tennis-player, was hardly mentioned; those who did not follow tennis would never know of her, for she had not yet become what is termed a ‘household name’, nor was she universally recognized in airports and public places.

Then things began to go wrong.

I was in the bar of the Brewers Arms one Friday lunchtime in early May, making one of my routine uniformed visits, when a long-haired young man burst in. He rushed across to the bar, ordered a pint and started to chatter to the locals. He sat at one of the tables with some regulars and bought them all a drink, a bonus to their usual lunchtime pint. At first I paid no heed to his behaviour, thinking it was someone known to these characters. Then he came over to me.

‘Ah, the village constable, the fountain of all knowledge, the man with everyone’s secret tucked in his notebook. Constable,’ he smiled at me, ‘can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks. I’m on duty,’ I said.

‘Well, you might be able to help me. The name’s Craig.’ And he said he was a reporter for one of the less savoury of the Sunday national newspapers. As he talked, I caught the eye of one of the men at the table he’d just left – the man shook his head slowly from side to side. I knew they had not co-operated.

‘It depends,’ I said cautiously. ‘If it’s anything to do with the force, we do have an official spokesman.’

‘It’s nothing to do with the force, Constable,’ he said, sipping his pint. ‘It’s local knowledge I’m after. You’ll know of Terry Craven?’ I shook my head. ‘But you must, the tennis player … the next great British Wimbledon champion …’

‘Sorry, I don’t follow tennis.’ I pretended to be ignorant. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Look, you can’t be much of a village guardian if you don’t know her; it’s not a him, it’s a her, Terry as in Teresa, not Terence. She comes here a lot. Stays in the village, according to my sources …’

‘Really? We get lots of very famous people here,’ I said. ‘A tennis-player doesn’t make a lot of impact, I’m afraid. Are you sure you haven’t got this village confused with Aidensford in Surrey? Some do, you know.’

‘No, I have not. Aidensfield is the place. She comes here for quiet holidays. Somebody must know her … it’s the tiniest bloody village I’ve ever been in … everybody must know everybody else’s business …’

‘If they do know, they respect each other,’ I said. ‘Now, do you lads know her?’ I asked the men at the table and also the barman whose name was Sid. They all shook their heads and muttered their denials. It was a convincing act on their part.

‘Why do you want to know?’ I asked.

‘There’s a tale doing the rounds saying she’s got a bairn, an illegitimate kid, farmed out. I’m onto the story, I’m after an exclusive …’

‘You’ve got the wrong spot here, mate,’ said Sid. ‘As Mr Rhea says, you must be thinking of Aidensford down south.’

It was evident that the reporter realized there was a
conspiracy
of silence, and he stormed out. The moment he’d gone, Sid put into operation the unofficial but highly effective Early Warning System we had created. This served all the businesses in the village and surrounding areas. If one received a visit from, say, a con man or someone trying to pass dud cheques, that business would ring another three, who in turn would ring another three and so on, thus warning everyone within a very short time. This useful system was now being operated for the benefit of Teresa Craven.