Constable on the Hill (12 page)

“Your bloody dog made it bigger, didn’t it?” the man had yelled. “Anyroad, my missus has called the police. They’ll be here soon. You’ll go to court over this, mister, you can tell your excuses to the police.”

It was shortly afterwards that I entered the drama. I examined the scene and paid close attention to the hole used by Alfred. The aviary wall was in direct contact with the hedge; Alfred must have nosed his way through the hedge and forced his bulk through a hole in the netting, to find himself in the middle of the unsuspecting flock. And then he’d made the most of it. There’s no doubt he enjoyed those minutes of action.

I took possession of the dead budgerigar for evidence of the crime and informed Claude Jeremiah that he would be reported for summons. His offence was allowing a dog to worry livestock on agricultural land.

When he appeared before the court, he pleaded not guilty. Claude Jeremiah always pleaded not guilty, no matter how the evidence was stacked against him.

The bench, chaired by Alderman Fazakerly, and
comprising
Mrs Pinkerton and Mr Smithers, listened as Sergeant Blaketon outlined the alleged facts and presented the case for
the prosecution. The budgie breeder was first to give evidence and related how he’d found Alfred chasing his flock. He’d witnessed the death of one of his birds and had been present when the defendant admitted ownership of the lurcher in question. He valued the dead budgie at £2 0s. 0d.

I was next and told the court that, acting upon information received, I had visited Pond Cottage and had been shown the dead body of a budgerigar. It was within a wire-enclosed aviary, the floor of which was covered with feathers. Upon making an inspection of the walls, I had located a hole which led through the garden hedge and onto the footpath beyond.

I told their Worships how I had interviewed the defendant who admitted ownership of the dog. Upon being told he’d be reported for allowing his dog to worry livestock, the
defendant
had replied, “Livestock? A budgie isn’t livestock – you can’t get me for that one, P.C. Rhea.” This response was duly noted by the magistrates.

Greengrass went into the witness box, took the oath and gave his version of the incident. He maintained the breeder should have known about the hole – there must have been a small one at least, and he accepted that Alfred had probably enlarged it. But, as he told the court, he felt the term
livestock
did not include budgerigars. The law was to prevent dogs chasing cows, sheep and other domestic animals.

When Greengrass stepped from the witness box, the
Chairman
sought the advice of his clerk, Mr Whimp.

“Is the fellow right, Mr Whimp?”

Whimp, as efficient as ever, had the necessary information to hand.

“The term is defined in the Dogs (Protection of Livestock) Act 1953, Your Worships. It means cattle, sheep, goats, swine, horses and poultry. Poultry is further defined as meaning domestic fowls, turkeys, geese and ducks.”

“There is no mention of budgerigars?” asked the
Chairman
.

“None, sir.”

“Could we include them within the term
domestic
fowl
?”
he asked.

“That is a matter for the court to decide,” Mr Whimp smiled graciously at the assembled members of the bench.

“Damn it all, man,” I heard the Chairman whisper. “There must be some guidance on this. What about domestic
pigeons
? Hasn’t anyone had his pigeons worried by dogs? Or penguins at a zoo?”

“I recall one case, Your Worships, where hand-reared pheasants were regarded as livestock, but only during their captivity. There was another instance where doves were held to be
domestic
fowls
.”

“Doves, eh?”

“Those cases were not reported, sir. The decision is yours, I’m afraid.”

“Hrrumph. I suppose we are all right about the
agricultural
land
bit?”

“That term includes allotments, orchards, arable, meadow or grazing land, sir.”

“But not aviaries?”

“They are not specifically mentioned, Your Worships, although they may be part of a meadow, orchard or
allotment
, of course.”

“Thank you, Mr Whimp.”

In a judicial huddle, the magistrates concluded that the case was unsatisfactory from two standpoints. Alderman Fazakerly addressed the court and the accused.

“Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. The court has very carefully considered this case and feels that budgerigars are not livestock within the meaning of the Dogs (Protection of Livestock) Act. Furthermore, there is some doubt as to whether an aviary can be classified as agricultural land. The case is therefore dismissed. You are free to leave the court.”

The breeder jumped to his feet. “What about my
compensation
?”

“That is no longer a matter for this court,” Alderman Fazakerly spoke with an air of finality.

After the hearing, Sergeant Blaketon said to me, “We slipped up, Rhea. We should have taken him for failing to keep a dangerous dog under control, and sought a court order upon him to keep the lurcher under control. That can include anything done by dogs. I thought we were taking a risk with a worrying charge.”

“He’ll come again, Sergeant,” I smiled with confidence.
“Besides, he’s really done that breeder a good turn. All his budgies could have escaped through that hole, once they’d found it. As things are, he’s only lost one.”

“And will you tell him that?” smiled Blaketon.

Of the dogs which wandered around Aidensfield, the one which caused the most upset was an Alsatian called Emperor. It belonged to a gentleman called Hubert Fishburn who lived in a new bungalow and who was an “off com’d ’un”, i.e. a newcomer to the community. Fishburn worked in York and from what I gathered during casual chats, he was something to do with insurance and worked in a managerial capacity. The tiny patch of land surrounding his miniature home was barely sufficient to keep a hamster, let alone a large Alsatian, so his agile and intelligent pet would take every opportunity to go for walks without waiting for his master.

I had spoken to Fishburn many times about Emperor and he was always most apologetic, usually blaming his wife and two small sons for the freedom enjoyed by the dog. In point of fact, it was not a great nuisance to the community of
Aidensfield
, but only to one poor old man. Unlike the musician’s dog which loved dustbins, this one had only one passion, and that was the garden of a dear old character called Stumpy Sykes.

Stumpy had not worked for years because of leg trouble and coped admirably with his artificial leg. He spent his time in his garden which was superb by anyone’s standard, and he earned a living of sorts by doing all kinds of odd jobs around Aidensfield. If anyone wanted a washer on a tap, a plug fitting to a kettle, a plot of land digging, a car washed or a kitchen painted, then Stumpy was their man. He was tall and lithe with thin black hair and a figure as slender as a child’s. His teeth were brown with nicotine, but his eyes were piercing blue, sharp and alert. He was not married and, to my
knowledge
, never had been but lived in a delightful cottage which sparkled like new. It was a showpiece and was located in the older part of Aidensfield, being frequently photographed by visitors.

His garden was his pride and joy and in addition to
growing prize chrysanthemums and dahlias, he grew vegetables which he sold and flowers which he would fashion into wreaths and posies.

Another of his talents was his ability to cure animals. In this, he had a wide reputation and his secret was a large brown pill, about the size of a walnut. He would shove that thing down the throat of any sick dog, horse, pig, goat or sheep and it always seemed to work. What it contained was a mystery to me, but it never failed. He also cured smaller creatures like cats, mice and hamsters, and even cage birds. In short, Stumpy was a fascinating village character and a stalwart of Aidensfield.

It was very unfortunate that Fishburn’s Alsatian selected Stumpy’s garden for its daily visit. It would jump across the wall and wander around Stumpy’s plants, knocking them down and destroying many in its tour of the garden, and then it would leave its trademark in what was often a very obvious place, like the centre of his beautiful lawn. After many unsuccessful pleadings with Fishburn, Stumpy asked me to talk to him.

I did, but it wasn’t any good. Try as we might, that Alsatian returned time and time again, and always to the same place with the same smelly result. It can be argued that it is no duty of a police officer to stop dogs fouling rose gardens, but in a village the local constable must do all in his power to keep the peace. I could see that this had all the makings of a future breach of the peace. But the dog beat me. Poor Stumpy grew desperate. The show season was
practically
at its height and although he loved animals, he began to hate this one. But good will always triumph over evil, and Stumpy did achieve his heart’s desire. He stopped the dog from entering his garden and he told me about it long after the incident was over.

He knew the offending Alsatian came into his garden late in the evenings, and as the early autumn began to draw its cloak of darkness about the dale, the furtive visitations of the dog were shrouded in gloom. Stumpy could sit at his bedroom window and watch its arrival. He did this one night while armed with a loaded shotgun. His love of animals compelled him not to load the gun with a conventional cartridge.
Instead, he loaded this weapon with a sand cartridge. It was full of sand instead of lead shot, and they are not difficult to make from ordinary cartridges.

The big dog had duly arrived to carry out its intended purpose and from his vantage point above his garden, Stumpy took aim. With a tremendous bang, and at very close range, the gun was discharged and a wave of fast-moving sand hit the dog. It ripped every shred of fur from its hind quarters, leaving the front half of Emperor covered with normal hair but the rear was totally bare, like a plucked chicken. The dog howled in pain and surprise as it galloped home, its nudity embarrassing to behold.

Hubert Fishburn’s surprise was total. He had no idea what had happened to his dog and he did not come to me. However he did go to see Stumpy, but only because Stumpy was the acknowledged expert on all animals and their
ailments
. Fishburn had no idea that Stumpy had caused Emperor’s acute embarrassment. Stumpy had examined the dog.

“I reckon it sat in some lime,” said Stumpy, seriously. “Up in them fields, you know, where they’re liming t’land. Funny stuff is lime, it burns flesh and fur. I reckon your dog’s done that, rolled in it, mebbe.”

“Will it grow again?” asked Hubert.

“It might, with the right treatment,” Stumpy advised him.

“You can treat it, can you?” There was a pleading tone in the man’s voice.

“Aye, I reckon I can, but it’ll cost you,” said Stumpy, eyeing the anxious man.

“How much?”

“Depends,” said Stumpy.

“On what?”

“On how long we’ve got to continue the treatment.”

“But how much? I mean, do I pay per visit, or for the stuff you use, or what?”

“Each visit, two pounds inclusive should do it. I reckon ten or twelve visits will see him all right.”

“Starting tonight?”

“Aye, if you like, fetch him up to our house.”

It seems that Fishburn had a terrible job coaxing the dog
through Stumpy’s garden gate and into the shed at the rear, but as the owner held the dog by its head, Stumpy began to smooth a thick, greasy ointment across the barren areas. It took him about a quarter of an hour, and he accepted the two pounds, saying, “Come back next week, same time.”

I had seen Hubert once or twice, coaxing the unwilling dog into Stumpy’s shed, and was told part of the story at the time. I knew better than ask Stumpy at that stage, but the weekly visits continued and the hair began to grow.

Finally, Stumpy said, “There we are, Mr Fishburn. I reckon that’ll do now. The new hair’s coming along fine, and that dog’ll be back to normal very soon. That growth has a few weeks to go yet before it’s fully grown, but it’ll come along nicely now. There’s no bald patches. You don’t need me any more. It’ll grow thick and fine in its own good time.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr Sykes, really I don’t. That lime must have been strong stuff.”

“You never see cows sitting in it,” smiled Stumpy. “I should keep your dog away from it in future.”

“Oh, I will. He doesn’t seem very keen on going out alone.”

“Doesn’t he now? I reckon he’s learned his lesson, eh?”

“I think so. Well, thank you for all you’ve done. I really am most grateful. I’m amazed that you knew what it was and how to treat it.”

“A lifetime of experience, Mr Fishburn,” said Stumpy, accepting the final two pounds. “A lifetime in the countryside and a close knowledge of all animals.”

And so Hubert Fishburn went off very happily. One evening, I popped in for a chat with Stumpy and he told me this tale, laughing until the tears ran down his cheeks.

“Has it ever been back to your garden, Stumpy?” I asked, laughing with him.

“Never, Mr Rhea. It never comes near the place now.”

“That stuff you used to make the hair grow – what was it?” I put to him.

“It would have grown without it, Mr Rhea, but I thought I’d make him pay for all the damage his dog has done to my flowers. I got over £20 out of him for my cure. That makes us just about square.”

“All right,” I persisted. “But what was the stuff you rubbed on that dog?”

“Well, Mr Rhea,” he said cautiously, “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“I promise,” I wondered what was coming next.

“Well, you see, my sister came to stay with me a few years back, and she left a jar of that stuff that women plaster over their faces. Cold cream, I think they call it. I used that on his dog.”

If Sergeant Blaketon was tall, severe and somewhat
humourless
, my other sergeant, Charlie Bairstow, was round and happy with a bubbling sense of humour. He was an older man and had been a policeman all his working life. His pleasant nature led him to adopt a very philosophical outlook on life. It was his belief that no one should be arrested unless there was absolutely no other way of dealing with him. Although he was a very good practical policeman and a first-class sergeant, he liked the easy life. His pink face wore a perpetual smile and his hair always seemed to have endured a very stiff breeze. Jolly was a word which would describe him.

He was on duty one Sunday morning when I had to perform a four-hour stint at Ashfordly. I had motor-cycled in from Aidensfield and was working in the tiny office when I heard his voice. It called from the Sergeants’ Office.

“This one’s for you,” he shouted from his sanctum.

I looked out of the office window to see a tall, smart woman approaching. She walked stiffly along the footpath towards the front door and as she came into the building, Sergeant Bairstow vanished with remarkable agility through the back entrance and hurried into the garden. I wondered why.

But the woman was standing before me at the far side of the counter and smiling sweetly into my face. She had a very ‘peaches and cream’ complexion, nice brown eyes, smart grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She stood very erectly before me, wearing a hat of deep cherry-red with matching shoes and handbag. Her coat was obviously expensive and I got the impression she was wealthy and influential. She might even be a magistrate and would be about sixty years old.

“Good morning, madam,” I greeted her.

“Good morning,” she spoke very pleasantly with a refined accent. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, madam. P.C. Rhea, stationed at Aidensfield.”

“Ah, well,” she began earnestly. “It’s about that man who’s been pestering me. I’ve been here before, you know, he’s a real menace. I’ve got to keep coming here to ask for your help. Jackson is his name.”

I pulled a scrap pad towards me and began to make notes.

“Jackson, eh?”

“Yes, he’s been at it again, Officer. Annoying me. He’s always annoying me, you see.”

“Could I have your name and address please?” it was always wise to begin at the beginning.

“Miss Fraser. Josephine Fraser. I live at 43, Prince Terrace. I’m a retired office worker, young man. Now, can you please do something about Jackson?”

“What’s he done, Miss Fraser?”

“Done? He’s sprinkled blue washing-up power all over my staircase. And it’s not the first time. He must be stopped. He goes on and on, doing things like that all the time. It gets everywhere – I paddle it into my carpet …”

“How did he get into your house?” I asked, wondering whether he’d broken in. Had I a housebreaker on my hands? An arrest, maybe?

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” and an anguished look appeared on her calm face. “But he gets in all the same. I can’t keep him out.”

“Where does he live?” was my next question.

“Next door to me, Number forty-one,” she said. “What an awful neighbour.”

“It is not our policy to become involved in domestic issues,” I tried to explain. “Have you seen a solicitor about him? If you arranged for a solicitor’s letter to be sent, asking him to cease his activities, you’d surely find he would stop.”

“Stop? He would not, young man. I’ve tried everything, I can tell you. Everything,” and her voice began to rise in volume and pitch. “I’m about at my wits’ end, you know. Everything that is possible has been done and he still keeps pestering me. All I want is for you to have a sharp word with him, and I know he’ll stop, at least for a while.”

Charlie Bairstow had not returned from his urgent mission, so I asked to be excused for a second and went to seek him. I wanted to ask if we, as the local police, got ourselves involved in Miss Fraser’s troubles which appeared to be nothing more than a very localised domestic dispute. But he’d vanished completely.

“I’ll pop around later this morning and warn him off, Miss Fraser.”

“I would be most grateful,” and with that she turned on her smartly dressed heels and left the station.

Half an hour later, still with no sign of Bairstow, I locked the office and walked round to Prince Terrace. I found No. 43. It was smart and clean with a bow window, a glass-fronted door and neat curtains. It was evident that Miss Fraser was a decent-living woman. Next door, however, was not quite the same. No. 41 was almost derelict. I walked up the path, knocked on the rotting door of No. 41 and it slid open beneath the touch of my hand.

“Anyone in?” I shouted inside.

No reply. I knocked again and entered, loudly proclaiming my presence and asking if anyone was at home. The place was deserted; there was no furniture and it was riddled with dampness and rot. I wondered if the villainous Jackson was a tramp, sleeping rough in this place.

I made a detailed search of the house. Apart from a stray cat, it was empty and there were no indications of recent human habitation. When tramps live in a house, there is always something to reveal their presence, like dirty cups, rotting food, cigarette ends, the foul smell of unclean humanity and so forth. But this place bore none of those signs. I left and decided to acquaint Miss Fraser with my action. It seemed that Jackson had left his address, possibly due to her threatened police action. I knocked on her door and it was opened almost immediately.

“Ah!” she beamed. “You’re just in time for coffee. Would you like some, Officer?”

“I’d love one,” I said and followed her inside. She kept a beautiful home, furnished with genuine antiques and
interesting
paintings. The carpets were thick and lush, the furniture of good quality and the decor of a very professional standard.
Everything in the house showed taste and discrimination. She led me into her beautiful lounge which overlooked the street where I noticed a tray already set with coffee and waiting on a low table. It bore a silver coffee-set, with delicate china cups. Two cups. And the coffee pot was steaming
appetisingly
.

Over coffee, she told me more about her running battle with Jackson. She agreed that today’s visit to the police had terrified him, and he’d fled. That was her explanation of the empty house and I accepted it. But that was not all. Now she’d got a captive audience, she insisted on letting me know about his other activities. It seemed he would enter her house when she was out and move things around. He’d change the position of her ornaments, or tilt the pictures. He’d enter the bedroom too, and interfere with her clothing, hiding things so she couldn’t find them. And, horror of horrors, he examined her underwear in the drawers and cupboards; she knew, because they’d been moved. He played drums at night and had sent swarms of invisible insects into her kitchen, where they’d contaminated the food. And then he sent rays through the walls, invisible rays which kept her awake at night and gave her bad dreams.

And as I sipped her delicious coffee from exquisite china cups, I realised she was crackers. She was clean, presentable, charming and well-spoken, but she was nuts. Judging by the house, she was comfortably off and money was not a problem. On the face of things, she was everything a favourite aunt might be. But she was as nutty as the proverbial fruit cake. I couldn’t say whether she was batty enough to be certified, but she was certainly very odd.

It took me a long time to escape. She talked on and on about Jackson, regaling me with horrific tales about his interference with her life and his domination of her daily routine. When I began to ask specific questions, however, it transpired she had never seen him. She could give me no description at all. I wondered if he was a meths drinker or just a character who passed in the night. An hour and a half later, when eventually I managed to leave, I found Sergeant Bairstow back in his office. He smiled graciously as I entered.

“Well, Nicholas, did you kick Jackson out of that house?”

“Jackson!” I cried. “Who is that man? Why does he cause her so much trouble? I think she’s imagining most of it.”

“All of it,” he said. “She imagines all of it. There is no Jackson; it’s all in her mind. She’s lonely, she likes male company and she’s never had a feller. She’s a frustrated virgin, Nick, and that’s why she’s like that. That’s how they grow up when they’re frustrated. She needs a bloody good man to sort her out, if you understand what I mean. Today, she’s had a charming young man in for coffee and that will keep her going for a week or two. She’ll go to bed with you, in her mind’s eye that is, but she’ll be back to see us, mark my words.”

“You set me up for that one, didn’t you?” I laughed.

“We always let the new lads deal with Miss Fraser, Nick, she loves them, you see. It gives her deep satisfaction – that’s what we are here for, isn’t it? To satisfy the public.”

I gave a lot of thought to poor old Miss Fraser just in case I was on duty next time she called. As things worked out, I was on duty again at Ashfordly when she came to the station. It was about a month later.

“He’s been at it again, Officer,” she told me seriously. “Blue powder again.”

“Not all over your stair carpet?” I cried.

“No, in the frying pan this time. All over my cooking utensils.”

“I’ll be around shortly to have words with him,” I
promised
.

An hour later, I knocked on her door and she invited me in for coffee as before. I accepted because she was entertaining and the coffee was excellent. This time there were biscuits.

I told her I had dealt with Jackson once and for all. I told her he would never trouble her again, ever.

“What have you done with him?” she asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.

“I’ve arranged for a deportation order,” I said seriously. “Jackson is to be deported to Australia. The order becomes effective at noon next Friday, when he will be transported to Australia. He sails from Southampton.”

She did not speak for a long time. Then she smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“He’ll never trouble you again,” I assured her. I had no trouble leaving after imparting this news. She seemed numbed and I left her, having gained the impression that she was sad. Nothing happened for several weeks after that visit, and we saw nothing of her. Then an inspector from Eltering called me into his office.

“What the hell have you been up to, Rhea?” and he waved a letter at me.

“I’ve got this letter from the Home Office,” he glared at me. “It concerns a complaint they’ve received from a Miss Fraser of Ashfordly and it has come to me via the Chief Constable. There’s hell on in high places, Rhea.”

I blushed deeply. I wasn’t aware that I had done anything to justify a complaint, particularly one which involved the Home Office. I knew that the Home Secretary was
responsible
for all law and order in the country, so had I broken some golden rule?

“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” I said, not knowing the basis of her complaint.

“Do you know the rules about emigrating to Australia?” he asked. “They don’t accept convicted criminals – if you have convictions for crime, you cannot begin a new life in Australia. They don’t want convicts, not any more.”

“I heard of something like that, sir. Isn’t it connected with the ten-pound passage scheme?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, his face breaking into a smile. “It seems that you have arranged the deportation to Australia of a very dangerous criminal called Jackson. Miss Fraser is demanding an enquiry into the matter – she wants the Home Office to investigate the system which allows a notorious villain like Jackson to dodge the rules. How did he get through Customs? How did he evade the Special Branch? Why has Australia accepted him? The Home Office has asked the Chief Constable for a full report.”

“It was like this, sir …” I stuttered.

“I don’t want to know, lad! Just write the report, will you? I’m sure the Home Secretary will be very amused to know how you dealt with a man who puts blue powder into frying pans and who conjures up swarms of invisible insects from the air. But I think you had better arrange for the return of
this man, Jackson, before we have a diplomatic incident.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven’t got rid of him, have you, Rhea? You’ll have to come up with another idea, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” and I crept away to write my report.

A few months later, I was subjected to another of Sergeant Bairstow’s orders. Technically, the mission was no part of my duty; it was an extension of my role as village constable, but he considered it important enough to justify particular action on my part.

I received his phone call just after lunch one Friday when he updated me with the daily messages. Having concluded that essential part of the conversation, he said, almost in passing, “Oh, Nicholas, there’s a little job for you. It’s just off your beat, in Maddleskirk, but as you’re out and about this afternoon, I thought you might do it.”

“Willingly, Sergeant,” I agreed, having forgotten about his disappearing trick when Miss Fraser called.

“It’s a Mrs Dulcimer and she lives at Acorn House. Audrey Dulcimer.”

“I’ve got that, Sergeant,” I wrote down her name and address.

“She’s had another of her confrontations with a policeman in York, and she must produce her driving licence and insurance certificate. It’s a regular occurrence with her – she’s always getting booked for parking or for obstruction in York, and she dislikes coming all the way into the office, merely to produce her documents. It means a special journey, so she gives me a ring and I ask someone to call around. It’s not a special journey for you because you’re out and about anyway. So pop in, lad, it’s a courtesy job. I realise it’s her
responsibility
to fetch in her papers, but we do try to oblige where possible, eh?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Good. Glad to know you’ll co-operate. Be kind to her, she’s a barrister’s wife. Nice woman, good house. And I’m sure she’ll give you a cup of tea as well.”