CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Read online

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  A persistent animal problem came in the shape of Miss Fiona Lampton’s pony. Miss Fiona spoke with a horsy accent, dressed in horsy clothes and mixed with horsy people. She had a horsy face with matching teeth and it could be said that even her laughter had a ring of the equine. She was a spinster of the parish, aged about thirty-eight years, give or take a little, and she lived on private means. She had no known occupation but was never short of cash; somehow she contrived to run a large, sporty car which was seldom clean, but always in a hurry.

  She kept several horses but one of them was a pony, a delightful creature with a long, straggly mane and an equally straggly tail. The unfortunate animal caused me lots of problems because it had mastered the ability to open the gate of its paddock. Having perfected this trick, it would regularly unlatch the gate and take an unaccompanied stroll down the village street of Aidensfield. Horses were not unusual in our village street, but this one, whose name was Topsy, had a liking for lawns, garden flowers and lettuce. This made it rather unpopular.

  During its perambulations, it would push open garden gates or simply wander through the new open-plan estate, there to feast upon the flavour of the month, sometimes tulips, sometimes dahlias and occasionally prize chrysanthemums. Many complaints were levelled at Miss Fiona but they seemed to slide from her masculine shoulders like rainwater from a plastic mac. She agreed that Topsy was a naughty boy, in fact a bloody naughty boy at times, and she promised she would make him behave. Several villagers suggested a change of both latch and field, but she explained that Topsy was like Houdini — he could open any latch.

  Eventually the problem landed on my doorstep. One or two of the more vociferous villagers decided it was time to do something official. In their eyes, that meant action by the constabulary.

  I listened to their listed complaints and suggested they sent bills for damage to Miss Fiona; several had already considered that action and had sent bills, which had been promptly paid. One or two had made their garden gates more difficult to open, but as Miss Fiona said, Houdini the horse could open them. The villagers had wisely decided that a padlock on Fiona’s field was not a good idea because other people required access via that field to their own premises. Locks were therefore beyond consideration. Miss Fiona had tried placing Topsy in different paddocks, but he opened those gates too. If he wandered from the nearest paddock, into the village street, at least we knew where he was.

  I promised I would do what I could, but the truth was I had no idea what to do. Everything that was possible had apparently been done, both by Miss Fiona and by the villagers. The pony seemed unstoppable.

  I wondered if she should be asked to sell it, then a day or two later I met the lady in the street. She cried, “What ho, Officer,” and slapped her thigh with a riding crop.

  “Ah!” I hailed her. “Miss Fiona. Just the person — I’d like a word with you.”

  “Is it about that bloody animal of mine?”

  “The pony,” I confirmed. “Yes, there’s been a complaint, from several villagers.”

  “He is a bloody nuisance, Officer, and no doubt about it. A downright bloody nuisance. I can’t keep him in that field, or any field for that matter. Daren’t put locks on, what? Might cause problems of rights of way and things. Damned nuisance, isn’t he?”

  “You’ve horses in that top field of yours,” I reminded her. “Couldn’t Topsy go in there? He might like the company of other horses, and that might encourage him to stay.”

  “Not on your bloody nerve, Officer,” she cried, horrified. “I keep my best animals in there — they’d kick poor old Topsy to death. No, I can’t do that.”

  “He’s a danger to traffic,” I said. “There could be an accident.”

  “Not with Topsy, Officer, not with Topsy,” she boomed. “Marvellous on the road, you know, better than a dog even. Hears oncoming cars and gets in the side. No problems there.”

  “He eats people’s flowers and growing vegetables. One chap reckons he lost an entire garden full of prize dahlias.”

  “I paid, I always do. Good compensation. They’ll have to tolerate Topsy, Officer. There’s nothing I can do, I’m sorry.”

  “You could sell him.”

  “Sell him? He was a gift from an admirer of mine! No, I couldn’t sell him, he’s a real pet.”

  “Miss Fiona,” I said, trying to appear threatening. “I might have to consider a prosecution, for letting him stray on the highway.”

  “If you must, you must,” she said, and stalked away, thrashing her thigh with the crop. I watched her stride down the street, her body swaying in time with her leg movements, and I wondered what the answer could be. I didn’t want to book the woman, but if she persisted in allowing Topsy the freedom of the main street, it would be necessary. It would be necessary too, if I was to appease the villagers; at least it would prove I had done something. If Sergeant Blaketon heard about it, he’d start asking questions and he’d demand a prosecution. But would court action stop the horse?

  It was perhaps fortunate that Sergeant Bairstow met me a few days later and asked if I had any problems. I thought it a fine opportunity to discuss the pony, as he was such a seasoned and experienced police officer.

  He listened carefully with his gentle smile and when I had concluded, he said. “I don’t think we need report her for summons, Nicholas. I mean, it’s a well-behaved animal, isn’t it? It’s not dangerous to people — it doesn’t go around biting and kicking them. It knows what to do in traffic and it doesn’t cause severe problems.”

  “It eats flowers and lettuce,” I reminded him.

  “That’s a civil matter, lad, not a crime. And she pays compensation. What more can the injured parties expect? We must not involve ourselves with civil matters.”

  “I must do something, Sergeant. That woman must be taught that the pony is her responsibility.”

  He smiled faintly. “Suppose it wasn’t a horse or a pony. Suppose you found it. What would you do?”

  “I don’t follow.” I had to admit I was confused.

  “Well, suppose it was a pet cat or a dog, or something like a hamster or little lad’s rabbit. You found it in the street. What would you do?”

  “I’d take it to the owner’s house, if I knew where that was.”

  “Exactly, Nicholas,” he smiled again. “And suppose the owner was out?”

  “I’d put it somewhere safe until they returned.”

  “Of course you would,” he said. “I mean, if the kitchen door was open, you’d probably pop it in there, wouldn’t you? Or if a hen-house was open, you’d use that . . .”

  “She has no hen-houses,” I said. “And her stables are locked when the horses are in the fields.”

  “But she always leaves her kitchen door open, doesn’t she?”

  “Does she?” I asked, surprised at his local knowledge.

  “Always,” he nodded gently. “We had trouble with her once before — it was a randy stallion she kept. It fancied everything from articulated lorries to poodles, and I often called to see her about it. She sold it to a circus, I think. I’ve no idea what kinds of tricks it got up to. I seem to remember they had to keep the elephants out of its way.”

  “You’re not suggesting I put it in her kitchen, are you?” I asked, horrified at the suggestion.

  “I wouldn’t suggest a thing like that, Nicholas!” he said, leaving me to my thoughts.

  During that summer, I must have received a further half-dozen complaints about Miss Fiona’s pony, and one day I was in the village street when Topsy came trotting along, utterly alone.

  This was my moment of decision. I was faced with the problem in person.

  “Topsy!” I shouted, and the pretty pony came willingly to me. It nuzzled its face under my arm and I patted its head, as it rubbed itself against me.

  “You’ve done it again,” I heard myself say to the animal. “Come along, it’s time for action.”

  Holding its long mane, I walked the
length of the street and several villagers smiled their greetings. I said I was taking Topsy home for tea, and they smiled, some with happiness and other with expressions of bewilderment. I reached Miss Fiona’s house. It was a lovely cottage with a large white gate opening onto the road. Inside the gate was a converted farmyard, with outbuildings all around, all locked. Her cottage was on the left as I entered. It had a white door of the old stable-door type, and this led directly into her kitchen.

  I knocked.

  There was no reply. I reached up for the latch of the top half of the door and found the pony’s muzzle nudging my hand. It managed to press the sneck and the door swung open on oiled hinges, swinging with its own weight to rest inside the kitchen.

  “Clever stuff,” I stroked its head. “Can you smell the metal or something?”

  I reached down for the lower sneck but the intelligent animal was with me. With its nose, it depressed the handle and the door swung open, to lodge beneath the upper half. The way into the kitchen was clear. I led Topsy inside and left him standing on the tiled floor, as I closed the door behind myself. I didn’t think he could let himself out because the doors would only open inwards — whether the horse would reason that, I did not know. But I left the house feeling very happy. Fiona now had a horse in her kitchen. I was to learn later, that this had registered in Topsy’s head. Each time he let himself out of his field, he made his unerring way to the kitchen, opened the door and let himself in.

  It would be several weeks later when I met Miss Fiona.

  “Ah, Officer!” she beamed. “I’ve good news for you.”

  “Really?” I wondered what it could be.

  “Topsy!” she said. “He’s with a riding school at Eltering now. I donated him on a permanent-loan basis. He remains my property, but they use him for lessons; they feed him and so on. Good wheeze, eh? He’d found a way of opening my kitchen doors you know. Let himself in, opened the bloody fridge and pinched all my vegetables and fruit. The bloody animal!”

  “He’s an amazing horse,” I smiled. “Very intelligent.”

  “Too bloody intelligent!” she laughed.

  When I told Sergeant Bairstow, he smiled quietly. “It was better than taking her to court over the pony,” he said.

  “Yes, it was,” and I knew the villagers regarded my action as being very correct. Several asked if I had considered joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  Chapter Nine

  With an abbey full of Benedictine monks virtually on my doorstep, it was not unexpected that I should become involved with the church in one or more of its forms. Life within the shadows of an abbey was fascinating — the Benedictines of Maddleskirk are Roman Catholics but their philosophy is that all men are children of God and therefore to be treated with the respect due to them. There were precious few religious barriers and even members of the Wee Frees of Scotland would find a welcome within the portals of that mighty Christian church, an invitation that was not expected to be reciprocated. But true men of God are full of forgiveness.

  Monks in long black cloaks, or tee-shirts and jeans, or sports gear, wandered about our countryside and were part of the scenery. Because they were a living part of the local populace, they had lost a lot of their mystique. The villagers found the monks very human, very kindly and very knowledgeable, as was expected of an ancient and historic teaching order, and it was not unusual to find oneself enjoying a pint of beer in the pub with a monk standing next to one, also enjoying a pint.

  Soon after my arrival in Aidensfield, I discovered that their local ecumenical movement had already started. The two chief faiths of the district, Anglican and Roman Catholic, were friends. They shared churches, they shared services and they even shared priests. The latter came as a surprise to me, having been schooled in the village the Reformation had missed, i.e., Egton Bridge in North Riding’s lovely Eskdale. I had been reared in the ancient Roman Catholic faith which tended to isolate Catholics from other faiths, but out here, this thriving Catholic monastery was the centrepiece of rural life where other faiths were openly accepted and the views of their adherents respected.

  This important lesson was given to me about nine-thirty one Sunday. It was a bleak, wintry morning with sleet in the air and a powerful easterly wind blowing across my exposed hilltop. I was enjoying a weekend free from police duties, when Sunday morning meant attending Mass with the family. We had breakfasted and were washing up in the kitchen when I spotted a bedraggled figure at my garden gate. He was propping a pedal-cycle against a gate post and through my steamed-up window I watched him enter the garden and make for the front door. His head was bowed against the driving sleet and his clothes blew in the cruel wind.

  I dried my hands as I went to answer the door and found a young man standing before me, sensibly dressed in heavy cycling gear. He was saturated about the face and feet, his outer clothes were dripping and he looked nigh frozen to death.

  “Good morning,” he smiled apologetically, the words finding difficulty in leaving his frozen face. “I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

  “Certainly,” I agreed, bidding him enter the house. He did, and I closed the door. It was bitterly cold outside; the temperature was dropping and it wouldn’t be long before the sleet turned to snow. And with this wind, there’d be problems in this locality. Lanes would become blocked with drifts and lonely farmsteads would be cut off. But all that was later . . . now, I led him into the office where his dripping clothes would not damage anything. He stood on my polished floor, making pools on the shining surface.

  “Are you going far?” I asked, surprised that anyone would cycle in this weather.

  “Crampton,” he rubbed his hands to encourage circulation. “At least, I was. My bike’s got a puncture and I wanted to ring the abbey for help.”

  “The abbey?” I wondered if he was talking about a pub.

  “Maddleskirk Abbey. I’m a monk,” and he opened his waterproofs to reveal his dog-collar. “I’m on my way to Crampton to play the organ for the ten o’clock service.”

  “Oh!” that explained his journey. “I see,” and I then pondered slightly. “But you’re Catholic monks, aren’t you? Crampton Parish Church is Church of England?”

  “That’s right,” he smiled. “The vicar rang us up in a panic. It seems his organist fell ill last night with ’flu, and he asked if we could help. The Abbot agreed, as he always does, so I’m en route to play their hymns like a good Anglican.”

  “I thought Catholics weren’t allowed to attend Protestant services?”

  “They weren’t. It’s a long story, as you know; the differences between our faiths are historic, and the Abbot regards our churches as two sisters who aren’t on speaking terms. It’s a temporary state of affairs, in his opinion. Eventually, they will learn to speak with one another and then I’m sure we’ll find we have a lot in common. The Reformation did a lot of harm, but in the end it will be shown to have done a lot of good. In the end, we’ll all be one church again, just as God intended. This is just one of the ways our Abbot has of making those two silly sisters take a long close look at each other, and to make them realise that they do share a lot of common ground.”

  “He sounds a very sensible man,” I said.

  “He is, he’ll go far. Now, could I use your phone please? I’ll get the monastery garage to send a car out for me.”

  “I’ll run you down,” I offered. “It’s only a couple of miles.”

  And so I did. I said I’d ring the abbey upon my return and arrange collection of his cycle, as I’d be at Mass myself, in the village Catholic church. I did that and later that afternoon, I mended the puncture in his back wheel. He called a day or two later and had a cup of tea, telling me he’d welcomed the experience of playing in an Anglican church. He’d enjoyed listening to the hearty Anglican singing. It transpired that the vicar hadn’t announced him as a visiting Catholic monk, but had simply identified him as a visiting priest, without telling the congregation of his faith or place
of origin.

  “Isn’t that cheating?” I asked. “Surely those good Anglicans should have known you were a Catholic? They would think you were a visiting member of their own faith?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked me. “I was there to play the organ not to convert them or to argue about religion. I think one old lady summed it up afterwards — she came to me, shook me by the hand and said, ‘That was fine playing, vicar’. She said it was plain to see I was a man of God. She was right, you know.”

  And off he went. I saw him cycle past several times in the future and he always waved.

  My next spell of duty involving the church came with a telephone call from a passing motorist.

  “Ah!” he said breathlessly into the mouthpiece. “Is that the policeman?”

  “It is,” I confirmed.

  “Oh well, there’s been an accident. There’s a car on its roof between Thackerston and Aidensfield. It’s in a field, just past the quarry,” and he rang off before I could ask for more details.

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and he’d caught me just before I left the office on my rounds. I told Mary I was just popping down the road to deal with an accident, and there I’d be for about an hour. The Sergeant could find me there, if he came visiting.

  Mounted on my trusty motorcycle, I drove slowly down the gently sloping incline which led from my house into the village of Thackerston, about two miles away. I sought indications of the accident but arrived in Thackerston without finding any sign of trouble. Had it been a hoax call?

  The fields lay to the south of the road and I’d kept my eyes peeled as well as I could while riding a motorcycle and watching the road ahead, but there was nothing. There were no signs on the road, no broken glass, no deposited mud, no skid marks or other debris. I began to feel sure I’d been dragged out on a false call. I mounted the bike and made the return journey, remembering that the caller had mentioned the quarry. The quarry lay roughly between the two villages, so I parked my motorcycle near its entrance and walked along the verge, seeking the accident.