Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 5

  ‘You don’t think I’d stoop to stealing a Christmas tree, then give it to the children’s home, do you, Mr Rhea?’

  If his denials had not been so pathetic, they would have been funny, and I know that all of my colleagues could tell similar stories about dear old Tin Lid. But the inevitable happened. He was arrested by a new detective because he was suspected of stealing seventeen dozen clay plant pots in assorted sizes. It was alleged he had taken them from a garden centre he’d visited on his scrap round, but they were not to be found anywhere. Most certainly, they were not on his premises.

  I became aware of this when visiting Eltering Police Station because I saw his name in the charge book. He was then reclining in the cells, having been unsuccessfully interrogated by the new detective, a man called Littleton. Sergeant Bairstow hailed me.

  ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘We’ve got Tin Lid down the cells, he’s been lifted for nicking some plant pots but denies it. Littleton’s sure he’s our man, but he’s admitting nothing.’

  ‘Was he caught with the stuff?’ I asked.

  ‘No, and it’s not on his premises.’

  ‘Then why involve me?’ I asked with interest.

  ‘You know him, have a word with him for us. He talks to you. Get him to admit the job, that’s all. Take a voluntary from him, then we can wrap this case up. When he coughs, we’ll release him on bail.’

  I read up the case papers and learned that Tin Lid had been seen near the garden centre in question; furthermore, he had been there around the material time and he’d been in possession of his van. It did seem possible that he was the culprit and it was the sort of thing he’d do, although I suspected he’d be content with one plant pot rather than two hundred. Full of curiosity, I went into his cell, taking with me a cup of hot sweet tea.

  ‘Now then, Tin Lid,’ I said, sitting on the hard bed at his side. ‘What’s all this about you stealing plant pots?’

  ‘Not me, Mr Rhea. I never touched ’em. I was near that spot, I’ll admit that, but I never took the pots.’

  ‘I believe you, Tid Lid,’ I said.

  I went out and told Sergeant Bairstow that in my opinion, Tin Lid was not guilty — I knew that because he had not delivered his usual strange denial. That omission convinced me. I don’t think that either Littleton and Bairstow immediately accepted my view for each went into the cell to re-interview Tin Lid, but he never admitted that theft.

  I do know that Sergeant Bairstow spoke to Tin Lid in words to the effect that, ‘If PC Rhea believes you, Tin Lid, it’s good enough for me.’

  He was released without charge. Next day, he was passing my police house when he halted and knocked at my door.

  ‘Hello, Tin Lid, this is a surprise!’

  It was, because he never volunteered to visit the police.

  ‘You told them you believed me yesterday, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘You know an honest man when you see one. I’m not a copper’s nark, Mr Rhea, but the chap that pinched those pots is Sacky Conway from Eltering. That’s my way of saying thanks.’

  ‘Thanks, Tin Lid.’ I invited him in for a cup of coffee, but he said he had to dash off. I rang Sergeant Bairstow who was on duty at Eltering and gave him the tip.

  ‘Thanks, Nick. Somebody tipped you off, eh?’

  ‘An old friend, serge,’ I said. ‘A chap who just can’t tell a lie!’

  3. Artful Deceivers

  Of wiles more unexpert, I boast not

  John Milton (1608-74)

  When it comes to the practice of dishonesty and deceit, the human being shows extraordinary skill. It is a fact of life that some very shrewd and clever people turn to dishonesty as a livelihood or hobby, and one wonders what satisfaction they achieve by denying others their lawful and rightful ownership of goods or services. Criminals are usually very selfish people.

  Police officers are very aware that where money is involved and where any new thief-proof procedure is developed, some cunning rogue will devise a method of beating the system in order to steal. Their cunning is legendary. Nothing is foolproof; no procedure or security system is totally secure against the wiles of a cunning and persistent criminal, and society will always have to tolerate dishonest people.

  I’ve come across seemingly meek old ladies who were skilled shoplifters; I’ve come across people who never paid their grocery bills or other debts — and in these cases, the police are powerless to act because these are civil debts.

  But sometimes I wonder if the criminal law and its interpretation of the word ‘dishonesty’ should now apply to those who deliberately obtain goods or services with no intention of paying. One’s actions are often proof of one’s intent and where a person regularly and systematically defrauds tradespeople of their just monies, then surely a crime is committed?

  It is a sad fact too that so many dishonest people appear to be trustworthy and as such are the last that anyone would suspect of roguish deeds. Examples of this occurred in two interesting cases on my patch at Aidensfield. Neither reached the courts for in both cases it was impossible to prove any breach of the criminal law, but the morals of each case were certainly of the lowest kind. For that reason, they are worthy of record.

  The first involved a spinster lady called Penelope Stirling who was highly respected in Ploatby where she lived. A church organist, she arranged the ladies’ flower rota and it was known she had worked in London before retiring to Yorkshire. She’d be in her early sixties when I moved to the area. Her home was a neat little detached house known as Miller’s Cottage, and she ran a small, pale-blue Austin mini saloon. She was a fussy little person, always popping in and out of houses in Ploatby, Elsinby, Maddleskirk, Aidensfield and elsewhere, giving a helping hand to those less fortunate than herself.

  When Meals on Wheels became so popular, it was Miss Stirling who volunteered to operate it in our district.

  In short, Miss Stirling was a treasure, a wonderful volunteer helper in all kinds of ways, even if she was very prim and rather humourless. I became aware of her through her voluntary work for I’d noticed her going busily about her many social activities. In winter, she was very recognizable in her fur coat, fur hat with ear warmers and the curious fur muff which kept her hands warm. She wore heavy tortoiseshell spectacles, and when she was fully clad in her furs, all that I could see of her features was her sharp nose and rosy cheeks. She darted about the villages like a busy jenny wren. In summer, she wore a light-coloured belted raincoat and a plastic headcover.

  She called at my house one day seeking donations for the Red Cross, and introduced herself. Afterwards, I often noticed her little car parked outside houses around my patch. Everyone spoke very highly of her — she shopped for the elderly and infirm, she ran errands for the sick, she dusted and tidied the homes of those unable to fend for themselves and took elderly ladies for trips into the countryside or to the seaside. The old folk all loved her and she demanded nothing in return. Her actions were entirely voluntary and done out of good will.

  In spite of her help to others, I came to realize that Penny, as everyone called her, was a very lonely woman.

  Although she visited the homes of so many people, I knew of none who had been invited into her house and none who had actually stepped inside. Even regular callers such as the milkman, the butcher and the insurance man had never been inside. She dealt with each on the doorstep. Her home life seemed sacrosanct and almost secretive.

  Another intriguing factor was that I never saw her with any of her own family — she seemed to have no aged mother or father, no brothers or sisters, no visiting cousins. Even more curious for a woman in her position, was that there seemed none of that range of nephews and nieces who might call. Lots of maiden ladies had nephews and nieces who visited them. But Penny Stirling hadn’t anyone; she was totally alone, and in time I realized she had neither a cat nor a dog. There was no living thing in her quiet home, apart from herself. I wondered if she was happy there.

  I never did discover precisely what her occupation had
been, other than she made it known she had worked in London; those to whom she had imparted this information assumed she had been employed in a big office somewhere, a civil servant perhaps, a top secretary or something similar.

  Among her interests beyond social work was attending sales of furniture or house contents at local farms and cottages. These occurred on a fairly regular basis and I was usually informed by the auctioneers about an impending sale in case there was a traffic problem. Some farm entrances, for example, were on dangerous bends in the road, and, in some cases, house contents were displayed prior to the sale by making use of village greens, roadside verges and any available space. Minor problems could arise.

  These sales were very popular, with one species of sale-goer being the city antique dealer who came into our villages in the hope of securing some hitherto unrevealed treasure. There is no doubt some did buy wonderful things — I once saw a book dealer flush with pride at buying a job lot of old books in a cardboard box. His earlier inspection had shown it to contain a rare old Bible. Auctioneers and buyers are full of such stories.

  As I attended these sales, I became aware of Penny Stirling’s familiar figure. She attended most and almost always bought something. She seemed to know her antiques, often buying glassware, china and books; I also noticed that she was most willing to purchase incomplete sets of objects. While most of us would wish to purchase a complete set of glasses, cutlery or books, Miss Stirling bought incomplete ones. At Elsinby one day, I saw her bid successfully for an incomplete set of the works of Charles Dickens. Two volumes were absent, and so the price was far lower than it would have been for the full set.

  It was her purchase of that set of books that alerted me to her devious and highly suspect behaviour, because within a month I saw that same set of books for sale in a York shop.

  This time, the set was complete. The missing volumes were present and I knew it was the same set because of the name inscribed in the front of each volume. Old folks would write their names inside their books and each of these contained the signature ‘R.J. Stewart’. So where had the two missing volumes come from?

  It was the contents of the Stewarts’ home that had been sold recently, and at which Penny had bought the incomplete set. I knew, from local knowledge, that Penny had been caring for the old and widowed Mrs Stewart before her death, undertaking such chores as driving her to the shops, washing her clothes and cooking her meals.

  My suspicious police mind began to operate and, for a time, I did wonder whether I was grossly wrong in my assessment of Penny’s character and motives. I hoped I was; after all, she did do an enormous amount of charitable and beneficial work, but I had to find out whether there was more to her — and I had to do so with the utmost discretion.

  I was uncertain how to begin my inquiries, for I did not want to give even a hint of my suspicions to another soul. But providence was on my side because, within the month, another of Penny’s ‘patients’ died and the contents of her house were put up for auction. She was Mrs Elsie Baker and I made a point of attending that sale.

  Mrs Baker lived in a terrace-house in Aidensfield and, before her death, she had left instructions that her house and its contents be sold and the proceeds given to cancer research. She had not been a wealthy lady, but since her husband’s death had kept a nice house with some interesting glassware. She had no immediate family who might inherit her belongings.

  Having ensured there would be no obstruction of the highway due to the crowd and the furniture, I watched the proceedings. There was little of interest until some very fine engraved wine glasses were held aloft — and the auctioneer announced that it was an incomplete set. There were only two glasses instead of the required three. The bidding proceeded slowly and, sure enough, Miss Stirling was making her bids. I joined in with one or two bids, if only to push up the price she would pay to cancer research, but the glasses were knocked down to Penelope Stirling. I noticed the fierce glow of pride on her sharp features.

  When it was all over, I managed to find a quiet corner for a chat with the auctioneer, Paul Sandford. I asked about the wine glasses.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘I saw you bidding, but if that set had been complete, they’d have been worth much more.’

  ‘Does Miss Stirling often buy incomplete sets of things?’ I asked.

  He glanced at me as if reading my mind or knowing of my suspicions, then said, ‘She does. I must admit that over the years I’ve noticed her doing that. Sets of books, glassware, china objects, cutlery, condiment sets, candle sticks … mainly household things you’d expect to find in complete sets. I can guarantee that if I offer an incomplete set of any worthwhile objects in this locality, she’ll bid for it — and get it. Anyway, Mr Rhea, why are you interested in her deals?’

  I told him about the Dickens volumes and of Penny’s charity towards those whose goods were later put up for auction. I decided to voice my suspicions to him. ‘I think she’s borrowing things from those people while they’re alive — and not returning them. She’s doing so when she knows they’ll soon go to meet their heavenly maker, and then she goes to the auction to buy the rest of the goods. She then makes up a complete set and trades it in for a massive profit. She’s clever, Mr Sandford. She’s too crafty to remove the entire sets because that would raise questions.’

  ‘People aren’t as devious as that, surely!’ he protested.

  ‘They can be,’ I assured him.

  ‘If it’s true, what can we do about it?’ he asked. ‘There’s nothing illegal in borrowing things, is there? And if the owner dies before the object is returned, so what?’

  ‘Precisely!’ I said.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on her,’ he promised. ‘If she is doing that, she’s denying lots of relations and other benefactors their dues. And as we handle most of the local auctions, I can check her easily enough. Pop in to my saleroom when you’ve time to spare and we’ll have a look at the records of some recent sales.’ It was several months later when I called, his commitments and mine conspiring to prevent us meeting earlier. There had been no further local house content sales in that time, and when I settled before his old desk, it was clear he had already done his own research.

  ‘I’ve checked back several years,’ he said. ‘We keep detailed records of our sales and, in the past four years, your Miss Stirling has regularly bought part sets of all manner of things. There is a definite pattern — she obviously knows her antiques and knows exactly what to buy. As we said earlier, it’s chiefly domestic stuff — glasses, cutlery, volumes of books and so forth. She seems to know when the person is going to die because I remember one or two families’ relations asking where certain items had gone — they’d visited their aunts, mothers, dads or whatever shortly before their deaths and some had noticed things were missing. The old folks couldn’t remember what they’d done with them — in fact, I do wonder if that woman was taking them without the knowledge of her old folks. But she does seem to know the very personal circumstances of each old person and whether there will be a future sale of house contents — it’s often folks who have no dependent relatives or those who want to donate something to charity.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she was systematically stealing from the old folk,’ I ventured. ‘Being a so-called friend, she could take away bits and pieces without them knowing or being suspicious about her motives. She could do that by asking to borrow things — everybody does it.’

  ‘Can you proceed against her for that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s almost impossible to prove her guilty intentions,’ I said. ‘All she need say is that either she borrowed the objects intending to return them, or that the old person had given her the items. Besides, some old folks don’t remember their actions very clearly.’

  ‘So it’s not theft to borrow a book and not return it?’

  ‘It’s theft to borrow a book with the intention of not returning it,’ I said. ‘But to prosecute in such a case, we must prove that int
ention. That’s virtually impossible. How could it be proved that a person took it with the intention of permanently depriving the owner of it? It’s the proving of the taker’s intention at the time of taking it that presents legal difficulties. Borrowing, in itself, isn’t theft …’

  ‘Could you prosecute her to frighten her off? Even if you failed to get a conviction, it might stop her antics.’

  ‘We’d have difficulty, all our key witnesses are dead!’ I smiled ruefully. ‘Our prosecution department would never let it proceed. Besides, no court would convict her.’

  ‘So what can we do?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to stop her, if only for the sake of the genuine benefactors.’

  ‘I’ll give the matter some thought,’ I promised him. ‘And I’ll keep in touch.’

  Over the ensuing months, I watched Miss Stirling continue to visit her old folks, and there’s little doubt she was a kindly and hard-working volunteer. And then I learned that poor old Abraham Salter was dying. He was a retired schoolmaster, a bachelor with no known relatives, and he lived in a rented estate cottage at Crampton. He had cancer, I discovered, and was not expected to live beyond Christmas. And, I noticed, he was being visited regularly by Miss Stirling.

  This situation had all the hallmarks of those earlier episodes, and so I decided to keep an eye on developments. I decided I must visit old Mr Salter and found a reason when there was yet another scare about bogus council workers; men were entering the homes of old folks under the pretence of checking their water supply, and they were then stealing money and other goods. I toured all the old folks on my patch, warning them about these villains. And one of the old men on my list was Mr Salter.

  The nurse was with him when I arrived, and she made us a cup of tea, saying it was nice that he had a visitor. In spite of his severe illness, he was mentally alert and I had an enjoyable talk with him. Our conversation turned to books, for I saw that his room was lined with them, and it transpired that he was an authority on the Brontës, but, owing to his work, the fact he had never owned a car and now his state of health, he had never revisited the famous parsonage since seeing it as a child, nor had he joined the Brontë society. He reckoned membership would not be of benefit to him.