Constable Across the Moors Page 5

  “Balderdash!” she snorted. “Do you know what they did in a situation like this? When folks upset them, angered them, scandalised them?”

  I shook my head.

  “The witch took a pigeon, Mr Rhea, a wild pigeon, a wood stoggie we used to call ’em. They made pigeon pie, but they took the heart out and stuck pins into it, into the heart that is. They put as many pins in as they could, lots and lots, and then put the heart into a tin and cooked it. Then they put it near the door, out of reach of cats and things, out of sight.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it made the mischief maker want to apologise for what he’d done. He went to the house and made his peace. It allus works, Mr Rhea.” She spoke her final words in the present tense.

  “And you think Katherine should do that?” I put the direct question.

  “Nay, lad, Ah didn’t say that. Ah said she could do that, because her previous women folk did that sort o’ thing. If she wants to bring you fellers in, then that’s her business.” She spoke those words with an air of finality.

  “Is Ted Agar in, Mrs Atkinson? I ought to talk to him while I’m here.”

  “Try those sheds at the bottom of our yard, he’s down there fettling t’tractor.”

  “Thanks – and thanks for the story of Awd Nan.”

  “It’s true,” she said as I left the warmth of the kitchen to seek Ted Agar. I found him working on the tractor. He had the plugs out and was cleaning some parts with a wire brush, his face wrapped with concentration as I entered the spacious building.

  “Ted Agar?” I spoke his name as I walked in.

  He glanced up from his work and smiled at me. “Aye, that’s me.”

  “I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield,” I announced, thinking this would give him notice of the reason for my presence.

  He continued to work, acknowledging me with a curt nod of his curly black head. He was about twenty-two or three, I guessed, a sturdy youth in dirty overalls and heavy hobnailed boots. His face was round and weathered with a hint of mischief written into his smile.

  “Summat up, is it?” he asked.

  “Have you been annoying Katherine Hardwick?” I decided to put the matter straight to him. “Playing jokes on her, messing up her garden and so on?”

  “Me? No,” he said without batting an eyelid, and without stopping his work.

  “Somebody has,” I said. “She’s upset and if I catch the person, it’ll mean court.”

  “It’s not me,” he said firmly, furiously rubbing at a piece of rusty metal with the wire brush.

  “Then don’t do it,” I said, leaving him. I felt it would be a waste of time, pressing him further. Denials of this kind rarely produced anything beyond those words, so I left him to his maintenance work. I poked my head around the kitchen door to inform old Mrs Atkinson that I’d found him, and said I was leaving. If Agar was the culprit, I felt my brief visit would halt his unwelcome attentions.

  I walked back up the village to my motor cycle and popped over to Katherine Hardwick’s house to explain my action. I went around to the back but she was not in the garden, and I noticed the kitchen door was open. I knocked and stepped inside a couple of paces, shouting “Miss Hardwick? Are you there?”

  There was no reply, so I continued to shout as I entered the kitchen. Her lunch was in the course of preparation, so she must be around. I called again, “Miss Hardwick?”

  “Upstairs,” she shouted. “Who is it?”

  “The policeman,” I shouted back. “P.C. Rhea.”

  “Oh, I’ll be down in a minute,” she replied. “Sit down.”

  I sat on a kitchen chair, holding my crash helmet in my hands. And as I waited, my eyes ranged across the half-prepared meal. A pigeon lay on the kitchen table, plucked clean except for its head. Its innards lay beside it, having been expertly gutted and I saw the tiny heart set aside from the other giblets. There was a small tin beside the heart, and a pin cushion, thick with pins and needles. I thought of Mrs Atkinson and her tales of Awd Nan …

  “Hello,” she returned, smiling broadly. “Sorry, I was upstairs. I was changing out of my working clothes, I’m going into Eltering this afternoon.”

  “I just popped in to say I’ve spoken to young Agar,” I announced. “He denied making mischief, but I’m convinced it was him. I warned him about the consequences of repeating any mischief at your house, so I reckon we’ve seen the last of him. If he does come back, or if anybody else starts those tricks, let me know.”

  “It’s most kind of you, Mr Rhea. I really appreciate your help.”

  After some small talk, I left her to her cooking, my brain striving to recall the details of Mrs Atkinson’s story. It was definitely a pigeon’s heart on that table, and the pin cushion was so conveniently positioned next to it …

  Three days later, my telephone rang.

  “Is that P.C. Rhea?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “It’s Katherine Hardwick,” the voice told me. “You called the other day, about young Agar.”

  “That’s right,” I recalled. “Has he been troubling you again?”

  “On the contrary,” there was a smile in her voice. “He’s been to apologise. He said he did it for a lark, but didn’t realise the upset he would cause. I’ve accepted his apology, Mr Rhea, so there won’t be any need for further action, will there?”

  “No,” I agreed. “No, that’s all. There will be no court action. Thanks for ringing.”

  I replaced the phone and reckoned the previous generations of Hardwick women would be very proud of their Katherine.

  Happily for the Hardwick women and those of their ilk, the Witchcraft Act of 1735 had been repealed, albeit not until 1951.

  England had had a long history of cruelty and antagonism towards old ladies who were regarded as witches, and before the 1735 Act, witchcraft had been a capital offence. The last judicial execution for witchcraft possibly occurred at Huntingdon in 1716, when a woman and her nine-year-old daughter were hanged, and the last recorded committal was at Leicester in 1717 when an old woman and her son were charged with casting spells, possessing familiars and being able to change their shapes.

  It was not until 1951, however, that witches were safe from prosecution in England, and the statute which brought about this change was the Fraudulent Mediums Act, 1951.

  The provision of that Act which was of interest to the police was Section I. It created the offence of acting as a spiritualistic medium or using telepathy, clairvoyance or other similar powers with intent to deceive, or when so acting using any fraudulent device when it is proved that the person so acted for reward.

  Those who reckon they can perform miracles of this kind purely for entertainment need have no worries, but those who seek to make money from their so-called powers can expect a file of their activities to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions and they can also claim right of trial by jury if things go that far.

  In the bucolic bliss of North Yorkshire’s Ryedale, I hardly expected to consider a prosecution under the Fraudulent Mediums Act of 1951, but my eyes were opened at the Annual Whist Drive and Jumble Sale held in Aidensfield Village Hall. This was an early event in the year, the social occasion of the spring equinox, when everyone in the village took mountains of junk for someone else to buy, and obliged by buying mountains of someone else’s junk in return. Thus the junk of the village did a tour of the households and much money passed hands for worthy causes such as the church steeple fund, the old age pensioners’ outing fund, the R.S.P.C.A. and other animal charities, including charities for children. Much money was made, and much junk was disposed of, to be returned for re-sale after a suitable period in someone’s home.

  The system was illustrated perfectly when my tiny daughter purchased for one shilling a box camera I had given away five years earlier for another jumble sale not far away. She bore her purchase proudly home, only to find the shutter didn’t work because it was bent. She kept it and donated it to the s
ale the following year. I imagine that camera is still being bought and sold and I’m sure it now qualifies as an antique. If I see it around, I might buy it as a keepsake.

  Because of the large volume of traffic expected at the function, Sergeant Blaketon telephoned and instructed me to perform duty outside the hall that Saturday afternoon. I had to control the crowds, prevent indiscriminate parking and keep an eye open for pickpockets and other villains. I parked the five cars without much ado, I controlled the perambulating crowds which swarmed the street, and kept vigil for local villains. I was not unduly busy.

  The only villain likely to make an appearance was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, and I was somewhat surprised and, I dare admit, disappointed, when he failed to put in his anticipated attendance. Claude Jeremiah liked jumble sales because he bought most of his clothes and furniture from such places, and I know he managed to earn a little extra cash by re-selling items of interest. I liked him there because his presence gave me work – I had to keep an eye on him to stop him stealing things.

  With the grand opening neatly performed at 2.30 pm by the vicar’s wife, and with my public order and parking duties enforced without incident, I entered the hall for a survey of pickpockets and ne’er-do-wells. Mary had brought the children, all four of them, and our family formed a crowd in its own right. The Rhea procession had entered some time earlier, and satisfied that crimes were not being committed, I looked about to see what I could purchase. The tiny hall was full, a pleasing sight, with nice people making faces at each other and complimenting the ladies for baking cakes, mending old clothes and manning stalls.

  I found Mary and our little entourage and helped her guide the family around the stands, examining vintage baby clothes, looking at battered furnishings and cracked crockery, and deciding not to buy anything. And then I spotted the fortune teller.

  This was a new idea. As my eyes settled on the ornate tent in a corner in front of the stage, I found it most impressive. The tent had the appearance of a small Arabian structure, circular in shape with a tall centre pole and flags flying from the top. The drapes were open down the front and the mysterious interior was coloured deep purple enhanced by golden curtains with a green centre support. In front of the opening was a table, also covered with purple and gold drapes, and upon the table was a crystal ball and several other implements used by a gypsy fortune teller. A large notice pinned to the tent told us this was Gypsy Rose Lee.

  Behind the ball sat the gypsy herself. She was a small woman with a deeply tanned face, most of which was smothered by a veil which covered the nose and mouth. Her head was swathed in brilliant silken bands which cascaded down the rear of her neck, and her voluminous sleeves billowed as she sat before the crystal ball. Her hands were heavy with jewellery, and a tiny bowl of incense burned inside the tent, sending a strong aroma about the hall.

  It was a most impressive display, and I watched with fascination because every woman in the place seemed to want her fortune told. I heard the chink of silver as money changed hands, and was surprised to see the growing queue of women, all eager to have their palms read or their fortunes told for the princely sum of five shillings.

  I was kept fairly busy during the sale. Children got lost, people misplaced belongings, old ladies lost keys and purses, some teenage lads became a shade too boisterous and an exploding fuse put all the lights out. Mary and the children appeared to enjoy the occasion, but left early because the youngsters had exhausted themselves as only tots can. I helped Mary take the family up to my house on the hill and returned to the Hall to be present at the conclusion of this momentous event.

  By five o’clock it was all over. The cake stall was deserted, and only crumbs remained; the soft drinks now comprised many crates of drained bottles, and the assorted stalls of junk had little left, other than the annual complement of totally unsaleable rubbish. This would come out again next year. I chatted to Miss Jenks, the secretary and treasurer of the Village Hall Committee and expressed my pleasure at a well conducted event.

  “Thank you, Mr Rhea.” She was a retired school-teacher of the old kind, stern and humourless. “We have done well, but then we always do.”

  “What’s the profit? Do we know yet?”

  “Not yet, but I imagine it will be around the £150 mark, an excellent result. It is going to the church steeple fund this year.”

  “I liked the gypsy idea – a real novelty,” I nodded in the direction of the heavily clad woman who was demolishing her tent and packing her fortune-telling impedimenta.

  “Yes, it was a good crowd puller. She rang me rather late to be mentioned in our posters and advertisements, but word got around.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Gypsy Rose Lee,” smiled Miss Jenks. “The real one, the one you see at Blackpool in the summer. She rang to ask if she could hire space from us.”

  “Hire space?”

  “Yes, she rang me and asked what I’d charge to rent a corner of the room.”

  “And what did you say?” I asked gently.

  “I said we didn’t hire space, but if she really wanted to come and entertain us, she could give us ten per cent of her takings, and they would go to the steeple fund.”

  “And she could keep the rest?”

  “Yes, the committee felt it was a nice idea. I telephoned them all when I got the request, and Gypsy Rose rang back for our decision. We all agreed, Mr Rhea …” her voice trailed away as she explained this to me. “Oh dear, I say, I haven’t broken the law, have I?”

  “No,” I smiled. “No, but the gypsy might have. If she’s been taking money for herself, by professing to tell fortunes with the intention of deceiving the public, then she might have committed a criminal offence.”

  “Oh, Mr Rhea, it’s all a bit of innocent fun.”

  I would have agreed had it not been for my recollection of lots of cash dropping into the palm of that gypsy. If every woman had had her fortune told this afternoon, with some children, that gypsy would have reaped a fortune. I made a hasty calculation in my head and reckoned she’d collected about £70. If she gave £7 of that to charity, it left a huge profit – over £60 – more than a month’s wages for the average man.

  The tent had by this time been reduced to a pile of flimsy material which was being packed into a large suitcase, along with the ornate pole. That was now in short sections. The crystal ball had gone, and the other materials were in a large leather bag. Only the woman remained and she was still in her heavy fancy dress. I found that rather odd. Why hadn’t she changed into everyday clothes?

  I stared at her, busy with her packing, and the provisions of the Fraudulent Mediums Act 1951 flickered from the dark recesses of my memory. She had taken money …

  I stood alone, racking my brains, as Miss Jenks counted piles of money into a tin at my side. I was vaguely aware that the gypsy woman was heading for the cloak room, no doubt to change out of her ceremonial dress.

  She walked across the floor before us, weaving expansively through the rubbish which remained, and she vanished into the cloakrooms. I chattered to Miss Jenks for a few minutes, and then decided I needed to use the gents. I made for the cloakroom too. One of the cubicles was occupied, showing the “Engaged” sign. And on the floor, I found a pile of flimsy silk and chiffon. I heard a window click …

  I rushed out and ran down the alley at the side of the village hall. I was just in time to see Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, with his face the colour of chocolate, squeezing out of the gents’ toilet window.

  “Hello, Claude Jeremiah,” I beamed. “Going far?”

  He said nothing. There is very little one can say when one is caught climbing out of a gent’s toilet window with one’s face coloured chocolate, and with ornate ear-rings dangling from one’s aching lobes. I seized his shoulders and hauled him through, placing him squarely on the ground before me. His wizened, pinched and elfin face twitched as I said, “Pockets – open them all up, turn them out.”

  Still without speaking, he
obeyed. To give the fellow his due, when he was caught red-handed, he was most co-operative. He produced £62 10s od in cash, and there was a further £5 in his wallet.

  “The wallet money’s mine, Mr Rhea,” he said, and I believed him. The other was in a separate pocket, and I knew enough of my local villain’s behaviour to realise he’d keep today’s cash takings separate from the other.

  Standing there in the back alley, I chanted the provisions of the Fraudulent Mediums Act to him and told him he was being reported for contravening its provisions. I felt sure the Director of Public Prosecutions would be fascinated to learn of this incident at our Jumble Sale, and firmly gripping Claude’s collar, I steered him back into the room to face Miss Jenks.

  “Miss Jenks,” I said, “this is your gypsy. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass to be precise, and he has a donation to make to your charity. Isn’t that right, Claude?”

  I shook his collar.

  “Yes, Mr Rhea,” and I handed her the £62 10s 0d.

  She was sufficiently fast-thinking to appreciate the situation, and I noted the quick smile as she looked at the abandoned suitcases and unpacked tent.

  “There was the question of rent for that space, Miss Jenks,” I said. “Mr Greengrass and I had a discussion outside, and we agreed that £5 was a reasonable sum for the afternoon. Mr Greengrass will be happy to oblige, I’m sure.”

  “But Mr Rhea, there’s all that money …”

  “Rent, Claude, or it’s a file to the D.P.P. my lad …”

  “Yes, Mr Rhea.”

  He pulled out his wallet, extracted five pound notes and gingerly handed them to Miss Jenks. She smiled, issued a receipt and pushed the cash into a money box. “Mr Greengrass, this is most generous. I do believe this jumble sale’s profits are the best we’ve ever had, thanks to you. I must make a note in the minutes. Maybe you’d come again next year?”

  “I’m sure he will, Miss Jenks, and on the same terms, Claude Jeremiah?”

  And, as we say in the force, he made no reply.

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