Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Read online

  He pointed to a space on his shelf. ‘Over there, Mr Rhea, is a scarce edition of six volumes, a complete collection of all seven novels of the Brontë sisters.’

  ‘There are only five volumes here,’ I said pointedly. ‘Perhaps you are reading the sixth?’

  ‘No, that nice Miss Stirling asked if she could borrow it — she loves the Brontës, you see. It’s Charlotte’s Jane Eyre that’s missing. I let her take it — she’ll return it soon, she assures me. She does call a lot, you know. She looks after me, she’s very nice.’

  I saw the nurse glance at me and I knew what was going through her mind; without her saying anything, I knew she had encountered Miss Stirling’s ‘borrowings’ before. Other patients must have mentioned it.

  ‘Mr Salter wants to have the contents of his house sold, and the proceeds given to the Brontë society,’ she told me.

  ‘But those volumes, well, surely you’ll donate those as they are?’ I suggested. ‘You’d not sell them.’

  ‘Miss Stirling, who knows antiques, said the Brontë society already has a set of these, and she said she’d been in touch with them at Haworth and they’d said that cash from the sale of my collection would be of greater benefit,’ he said. ‘In the future, they need to extend the visitors’ part of the premises at the parsonage, you see, and are keen to raise funds for building work.’

  ‘Did she say that?’ I said, my own eyes reflecting my scepticism. ‘I’ll check for you, shall I? If I ring them and mention your books, they’ll tell me what’s best — but don’t tell Miss Stirling what I’m doing!’

  ‘I think Mr Salter would appreciate that,’ said the nurse. And the alert Mr Salter smiled.

  The society did say that, of course, all bequests were most gratefully received and that funds for improvements to the facilities were always welcome, but that his complete set of the sisters’ works was a ‘must’ for their library and museum. If Mr Salter would donate those books, the society would be forever grateful … and he was invited to visit the parsonage to make the presentation.

  I had great pleasure, therefore, in knocking at Miss Stirling’s door one day to ask for the return of Jane Eyre as Mr Salter was being taken to Haworth, with his nurse, to present the entire set to the Brontë Society. If looks could have killed, I would have shrivelled and disappeared, but she did produce the volume and hand it over.

  ‘I always intended giving it back to him,’ she snapped.

  ‘And all those other things you’ve borrowed from old folks,’ I heard myself saying against my better judgement, and I then heard myself running through a list of the things I knew she’d borrowed. And then I added, ‘And I’ll be visiting the old folks to see what’s missing, and the auction rooms …’

  She spat at me, her tiny features a picture of hate and spite as she slammed the door in my face. Three months later, she sold her house and went to live in Scotland. But she did not arrange a sale of her own house contents. I suspect it would have been like Aladdin’s Cave.

  *

  Among life’s parasites is a high proportion of idle and useless siblings who sponge off their parents. One man who silently suffered the waywardness of his two sons was a shopowner called Leonard Carroll. His two sons were Raymond and Graham, Raymond being the elder by some two years. Mrs Carroll had died several years previously, before I was posted to Aidensfield, and so I never knew her.

  Following her death, Mr Carroll’s domestic chores were undertaken by a cleaning lady.

  Leonard Carroll had opened a shop in Ashfordly just after the Second World War; it was originally a one-man business which sold household goods like pots and pans, cleaning materials and some garden equipment. Through his hard work and enterprise, the business had flourished until it had grown into the market town’s only department store. Gradually, Mr Carroll had purchased the adjoining properties until his store, old fashioned though it was, sold almost everything that might be required to furnish a home or dress a family. Carpets, curtains, soft furnishing, dining suites, bedroom suites, ladies’ and gents’ clothes, shoes, school uniforms — all could be purchased from Carroll’s.

  My acquaintanceship with Mr Carroll began when I was posted to Aidensfield because we bought a lot of our furniture from his shop; he always allowed generous credit with time to pay when we were short of cash. He treated everyone like that, especially young people trying to establish their own homes, as we then were. Len Carroll was a kindly man who was liked by everyone.

  Over the months, I was to learn that his sons had always taken advantage of his generosity. At school, they’d never been short of pocket money but had constantly been in trouble for disorderly behaviour in class. Raymond was something of a bully while Graham teased small boys; he did tricks like throwing their satchels away or pouring ink over their books. When these horrors left school, they drank heavily and drove fast cars … Len found them posts within his own store, but they proved to be useless and also a liability. Two members of staff had refused to work alongside them. There was some talk of Raymond fiddling the accounts in his department. Some said Leonard had been too soft with the boys after the death of their mother; some said he’d spent too much time with the business and not enough with his sons, but whatever the reason behind their rotten behaviour, they continued to sponge off their kind-hearted father as they grew into objectionable adults.

  Local knowledge, gleaned through keeping my ears and eyes open, informed me that Len had frequently paid their debts, Raymond once running up a huge bill with a local bookie and Graham owing a fortune to a garage for a succession of damaged cars and their petrol. By the time I arrived in the district, Raymond was in his late forties, unmarried but with an eye for the women, while Graham, in his early forties, had unsuccessfully tried to run his own shops. Each of his many schemes had failed because of his inefficiency and mismanagement.

  Not many months after our arrival at Aidensfield, I discovered that Leonard was approaching retirement and had decided to end his active involvement with the store. He would continue to own it, however, but would appoint a manager.

  When these new plans were put into operation, his two sons rapidly found themselves no longer able to sponge from him. He made sure his own money was beyond their reach and was known to have said he intended to enjoy his few years in retirement without their parasitic demands. He openly said he had done enough for them — now they were on their own.

  In the months that followed, I got to know him fairly well because he sold his large house in Ashfordly and came to live in a more modest home at Aidensfield. There he began to attend Mass at St Aiden’s Catholic Church. Until that time, I did not know we shared the same faith and I was pleased when he joined the work of the parish with great enthusiasm.

  He had reached sixty-five years of age by that time and we all knew he had made his will. We knew because he had stipulated that upon his death his entire estate, except for the shop, be sold and that the proceeds should go to the NSPCC. He felt that many deserving children would benefit. The shop, he said, was to be made into a trust, the trustees ensuring that it continued for the benefit of the town and its people. In the event of the shop failing to remain a viable business, then it must be sold and the proceeds donated to the NSPCC.

  The two wayward sons were left entirely out of his will. He openly said they had had enough from him; they had had their opportunities, they had enjoyed his generosity and they had failed to make good use of his fatherly assistance. Now it was too late — they would not inherit his shop or his money.

  It was no secret in the village that they were very hurt and angry; they were bitter and they argued with their father, saying they’d reform if he would change his will in their favour. But he had heard it all before and steadfastly refused. His mind was made up.

  This information filtered to the villagers, as such information is wont to do in close communities, and we were all pleased. No one had liked the sons’ treatment of their kind-hearted father and we all felt they had bee
n justly rewarded for their past stupidity and the hurt they had inflicted on their father. But they did not give up. They began to visit him at his home, even staying for the weekend under the pretext of caring for him. He told me,

  ‘They keep on at me to change my will in their favour, Nick, but I’ll not give in, not now. I know they’re my own flesh and blood, but I’ve given them lots of chances to make good, more chances than most lads would ever get.’

  Their pressure clearly worried him and I felt pleased he was able to talk to me about his concern. Then he had a heart attack. Father Luke, the parish priest, had found him collapsed in his kitchen and had rushed him into intensive care. Len had rallied; his sons did visit him as did many villagers, including myself. In time, he was back at home, albeit under doctor’s orders to take things easy.

  He was a long way off seventy years of age, but the pressures of work had finally made him pay the price and he was never fully fit again. He did potter in his garden, he did visit the store once or twice a week, and he did work for the parish, making sure the grass and paths about the church were tidy, doing running repairs to the fabric and so on. But he was far less active than the Leonard Carroll we all knew. Whenever I saw him, he looked pale and under pressure. We discovered that the reason was Raymond, his eldest son.

  ‘He never lets me alone,’ Len confided in me one day. ‘Always harping on about changing my will … he says he’ll reform, he’ll run the store like I wanted him to … but I can’t trust him, Nick, not now … he’s made such a mess of his life, he’s let me down so often. I’d far rather my money went to help some poor kids who’ll appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s your decision,’ I said. ‘No one can advise you, Len, no one.’

  ‘I just wish they wouldn’t keep on at me, it’s so bloody tiring, Nick. I’m dreading their visits now. Graham’s at it as well - I think Raymond’s persuaded him to nag at me.’

  I did my best to console him, and was tempted to warn off the roguish sons, but knew that such family matters were really no concern of mine, however unpleasant the sons’ treatment of their ailing father. Sadly, we all knew that Leonard was very ill indeed, we knew that he was dying.

  He suffered further heart attacks and it wasn’t long before he was confined to his bed, with a nurse calling regularly. One Sunday, after Mass, I called in to see him and was surprised to see both sons leaving, each looking happy. When I arrived at his bedside, his nurse made me a coffee and I settled down for a chat. I said I’d seen Raymond and Graham departing.

  ‘I’ve altered my will,’ he said with resignation. ‘In their favour … I had to, Nick, they just kept on at me … mind, I haven’t signed it yet. My solicitor’s drawing it up in legal jargon, and he’ll fetch it as soon as it’s ready. Will you be a witness when I sign it? I’ve asked Father Luke to be the other witness …’

  ‘Yes, of course, but are you sure you want to do that? To alter it in their favour?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said wearily. ‘Aye, I am. I’ve just told the lads, I want a bit of peace now.’

  The next thing I knew was that there was an urgent call for my presence at Len’s bedside. I was on patrol at the time and Mary, my wife, managed to ring Divisional Headquarters who called me on the radio in the van and diverted me to Len’s house. When I arrived, I saw the doctor’s car, the nurse’s car and those of his two sons. I hurried inside. A solicitor met me on the stairs. I recognized him as Mr Mitchell from Eltering whom I’d often encountered in court and he said,

  ‘Mr Rhea, Mr Carroll is dying. Father Luke is with him now. He’s given him the last rites. The doctor says there’s no hope. I’m here with his will … as you know, he changed it at the last minute, and the sons are here …’

  ‘They would be!’ I said. ‘Has he signed it yet?’

  ‘No, we’re waiting for you. He wanted you to be one of the two witnesses — Father Luke is the other. Father Luke specifically asked that you be here.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said somewhat reluctantly, for I had no wish to overtly delay things, even if it did mean the sons benefiting. That would have been against Len’s last wishes and the priest knew that. I followed Mr Mitchell into the bedroom, but in those short moments, things had already happened. Len had died.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Dr Archie McGee stood up as we entered. ‘I’m sorry … he just went …’

  ‘But he signed his will before he died,’ said Raymond coldly, and no one could miss the look of triumph on his face.

  Father Luke had the document in his hand and nodded. ‘It was touch and go … Raymond had to hold his hand, he moved it … I’m sure Len was still alive when he signed … just …’

  I could have felled Raymond there and then, forcing a dying man’s hand like that … but I could not argue because I had not been in the room at the precise moment and neither had the solicitor. But Father Luke seemed content with this bizarre turn of events.

  Dr McGee closed Len’s eyes. ‘The precise moment of death is never easy to determine,’ was all he contributed.

  Whatever the precise moment of Leonard Carroll’s death, his sons now had the amended will which bore their father’s important signature. But it was not yet witnessed, and no one, other than the solicitor, knew the precise contents of that will. I was later to suspect that Father Luke did know something of his parishioner’s deepest wishes.

  ‘I’ve signed it,’ said Father Luke as we assembled downstairs. ‘You need not shrink from being a witness, Nick. This is his will and you know his signature.’

  The solicitor handed me the document and I saw the wavy handwriting of the deceased man; I had seen his writing often enough and did recognize it as Len’s work, even if it was very shaky. I looked at the priest; he knew my views on the two sharks lurking in the background, awaiting the moment their lives would be changed. But Father Luke merely smiled at me and nodded. ‘Go ahead, Nick, it was Len’s wish.’

  ‘If it’s his wish, I’ll sign,’ and so I did.

  Later, I was to be very pleased that I did witness that signature and that the will had been made. Len had altered his will in his sons’ favour, but not in the way they had envisaged. He had still left his shop in trust and had left the bulk of his estate to the NSPCC as he had originally decided. But he had changed his will to set aside enough money for each of the sons to be buried in church. And that was all.

  Upon their deaths, their funerals would be paid for out of his estate, and when it was all over, any residue would be paid to the NSPCC …

  I felt they would remember their father and their own waywardness for a long, long time.

  4. The Devil Looks After His Own

  Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

  Robert Browning (1812-89)

  The sight of two women locked in mortal combat is never a pretty sight, even if the women involved are ravishingly beautiful. They fight vigorously with a lot of screaming, oath-laden catcalls and other accompanying noises: there is much swishing of handbags and hair-pulling.

  A female joust can result in skulls being dented by hand-held high-heeled shoes and facial flesh being bloodied by lethal finger-nails which are like rapiers. To say that women fight like spitting, claw-wielding wild cats is a fairly accurate description, as those who have witnessed violent feminine contests can testify. After such hostilities, the contestants look like savaged rag dolls that have, quite literally, been dragged repeatedly through a hedge of vicious thorns.

  A woman fighting a man is quite different — she will throw cups and saucers at him, or fling the first thing that comes into her hands even if it does contain treacle, tomato soup or wet nappies. There is generally a good deal of shrieking and other sound effects, plus the inevitable gallons of tears. If she knows the man well enough, this bout will end in oceans of salty tears and lots of urgent, healing kisses.

  But the wise man will not consider the contest to be finished at that stage — one careless word can re-activate the entire war machinery.

  B
ut if there is anything worse than two women fighting in the privacy of their own homes, it is the sight of two women doing battle in a public place. Most police officers have had to cope with female wars, often contested over garden walls or in backyards, and waged with weapons like rolling pins, clothes props and broom handles. Over the years, these bouts have provided some good entertainment, with the added bonus of some juicy gossip to follow. This is especially so if the objective of the battle was a man beloved by both parties.

  But if the war-zone is a public place, then a new dimension is added and, in legal terms, the matter can become a Breach of the Peace at the very least, or involve a serious wounding offence or an affray at the most.

  Like most of my colleagues, I’d sorted out a few border skirmishes between neighbours or relations but I must admit I was surprised at the sight of one particular feminine combat. It burst into action one Friday afternoon when I was on duty in Ashfordly. At the time, the market-place was full of colourful stalls as the traders shouted and sold their wares. Crowds of people, locals and holidaymakers alike, were milling around the market-place, chatting and enjoying the hot June sunshine when the double doors of the King’s Head hotel burst open with a resounding crash.

  It was the prelude to some great entertainment. The doors of well-designed pubs always open outwards to facilitate any necessarily swift ejection processes, and those of the King’s Head then proved ideal for this purpose. As the twin doors crashed against the outer walls, there tumbled from the depths within a spitting, claw-wielding leopard and a ferocious tooth-gnashing grizzly bear. Each was endeavouring to tear the other to pieces; their warring was like a cross between bear baiting and gladitorial sparring, with a few spitting wild cats thrown in for good measure.