Constable on the Hill (13 page)

“It’ll be a pleasure, Sergeant.”

“I know it will. Do you know the house?”

“No, but I’ll find it.”

“It’s a big place just off the main street, there’s white gates.”

“I’ll find it,” I assured him.

“I said one of our men would be there about three-thirty? Does that fit in with your plans, Nicholas?”

“Fine,” I said.

Having dealt with my paperwork, I mounted the trusty Francis Barnett and began my afternoon patrol. With just over an hour to use before my appointment with Mrs
Dulcimer
, I visited one or two farms to check their stock registers and popped into some local stores to warn against a
confidence
trickster who preyed on rural shopkeepers. His trick was to ask for cash in advance, on the pretext that he could supply goods at huge discounts. He’d conned a local
off-licence
into parting with £50 for cut-price whisky and had done a similar trick on an electrical goods shop, taking £40 on the understanding he’d deliver cut-price radio sets. We knew the goods would never arrive and were surprised at businessmen parting so readily with their money to people they didn’t know. It seemed that the opportunity to obtain something for nothing could be relied upon to make a man and his money easily part company. The possibility of gaining summat for nowt never fails to achieve results.

At twenty past three, I drove into Maddleskirk, a long sprawling village with rows of tiny houses, all built of mellow yellow stone with red pantile roofs. I drove slowly, seeking the double white gates of Acorn House and found them next to the church. I drove up the drive which twisted through rhododendron bushes and parked my machine on its stand outside the front door.

It was an impressive house, built in the style of the 1930s with attic windows and a double garage tucked behind the living quarters. The woodwork was pure white and the garden was a picture. The place bore an air of extreme efficiency, and had a colour supplement aura about it. I removed my crash helmet, rang the door bell and waited.

Soon I heard soft footsteps on the inside and the door
opened to reveal a very slender woman with greying hair and a ready smile. Her face was lightly made up, showing off her grey eyes, good teeth and fine skin. She was tall by feminine standards, probably around 5 feet 9 inches, and wore high-heeled shoes, a white pleated skirt and a light summery blouse, open at the neck. I couldn’t estimate her age with any accuracy, but I’d say she was in her middle forties.

“Mrs Dulcimer?”

“Yes, do come in,” she oozed. “I’m awfully sorry to drag you all this way, Officer, but your sergeant is so good, isn’t he? He knows it means a special journey …”

“I was in the area,” I lied easily. “It’s of no consequence.”

“I’m so pleased you could come. I always seem to get myself into trouble when I visit York. It’s a driver’s
nightmare
, isn’t it? But do come in. You’ll have a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” and I stepped inside. She suggested I hang the motor-cycling helmet on the hallstand, but I wore no other protective or waterproof gear because it was a fine summer day. I followed her into the lounge, allowed myself to be settled on her settee and flicked through a copy of
She
while she wafted into the kitchen to prepare the tea. I heard the kettle sing immediately; she had obviously been prepared. Moments later she returned bearing a tray and teapot, with cups, milk and sugar.

She settled at my side. I could smell the perfume as she leaned forward to pour two full cups, asking if I wanted sugar. I shook my head and accepted the cup from her. She chattered away very amiably and told of her motoring
frustrations
in York, the delights of living in the country, the benefits of this particular house and about her family. She had two sons, grown up and now at university. She prattled on about her boys, both studying law and destined to follow in father’s legal footsteps. Mr Dulcimer, I learned, was a busy and successful barrister whose skills took him all over England, a task which meant he was often away from home. I enjoyed her tales; she was highly attractive and easy to converse with.

As our talk progressed, she confided in me, saying she had no money troubles and occupied herself with charity work, church duties and other essential village affairs. She did this
to while away the time when her husband was absent, and to fill her lonely day-time hours. Having finished the tea, she went to a desk in the corner of the room and returned with a buff envelope.

“Insurance and driving licence,” she handed me the envelope. “You’ll find they are in order.”

I examined them and wrote their data in my book. This was necessary because I had to transmit the details to the police officer who had stopped her in York. He would write to Ashfordly Police Station to request the information. I noted the number of the insurance certificate, its dates of validity, the registered number of her car, the conditions under which it was issued and the name of the issuing company. Similarly, I wrote down the details of her driving licence, noting that it was signed and that it was current.

“Fine,” I said, pushing the documents back into the envelope. “All in order.”

“With my husband being so involved with the law, I can’t afford to take chances,” she smiled. “More tea?”

“No thanks,” I closed my notebook and slipped it back into my tunic pocket. “I’d better be going.”

“Oh, must you?” she asked softly. “There’s enough in the pot for another cup,” and before I could refuse, she began to pour. I shrugged my shoulders in cheerful resignation and accepted the second cup. It tasted good, I must admit, and I found her a charming person. I could imagine her being the centre of attraction at any function, whether formal or
informal
, for her range of topics was remarkable. She seemed well read but soon she turned her attention to me. She asked about my growing family, my work and my impressions of this area, and it wasn’t long before I realised she had steered the conversation around to her own home.

“We haven’t been here long either,” she was telling me, sipping delicately and smiling at me. “We had a house in York, then moved out to Stillington. We came here about five years ago. My husband likes this village – it’s not so flat as York and we love the moors. They’re so handy for walks, you know. We found this house quite by chance, motoring here one week-end, and it was just right for us. Spacious, detached and in very good order. We did a bit of work upon
it, mainly on the interior, but the fabric was sound.”

“It’s a very nice house,” and I told her how much I would like a house of that sort, when eventually I left the Force.

“Would you like a look around?” she asked pleasantly.

In all innocence, I said I would love to have a look around. She showed me the ground floor, the dining-room with its oak suite made by Mousey Thompson of Kilburn, the kitchen with its fabulous fitted range, the study with Mr Dulcimer’s enviable law library and filing system, the veranda with its array of potted plants and the garden beyond. There I admired an ancient sun-dial, the goldfish pond and the crazy paving. To say it was beautiful was an understatement; it was worthy of inclusion in one of the Sunday colour supplements. She was a fortunate woman and I felt a twinge of envy as we returned to the lounge. I caught the occasional whiff of perfume as she walked close to me, sometimes very close.

“Would you like a look upstairs?” she ventured.

“Thank you,” I said, with even more innocence. After a ground floor of such opulence and taste, what would the bedrooms be like?

She led me up the wide carpeted stairs, showed me the tiled bathroom with its pale green fittings and the shower unit in the corner, the boys’ bedrooms, the guest room with its bathroom
en
suite
and finally, her room. This was exquisite; the predominant colour was pink, with matching curtains, carpet and bedspread. I could sense she was excited, her voice trembled as we talked. She came very close to me.

“It’s beautiful,” I said with genuine feeling.

“Like me?” she cried and to my total astonishment, she literally threw herself onto the bed and in a single movement, flung her skirt across the room. She was naked beneath. From the waist down, she wore nothing at all as she lay on that gorgeous silken cover, smiling up at me.

But there are certain things that do not come within the scope of a policeman’s duty, and that was one of them. I fled. In something of a daze, I returned to Ashfordly Police Station to enter the details of Mrs Dulcimer’s documents in a register kept for the purpose. It took a long time because my mind was still reeling from this experience, or perhaps the lack of it! But we had been warned of women like this at Training
School, and all kinds of ghastly ends to one’s career had been threatened if any of us succumbed. As I wrote the details in the register, Sergeant Bairstow entered the office.

“All correct, Sergeant,” I trotted out the automatic
response
.

“Good,” he returned. “Anything to report?”

“Nothing, Sergeant,” I said.

“You, er, visited Mrs Dulcimer, did you?” he asked, his merry eyes watching me carefully. I noticed a definite twitch at the corners of his mouth, the beginnings of a smile, maybe?

“I did,” I wondered if he knew what she was like.

“You found everything in order, did you?”

“Everything was in order, Sergeant,” I realised what he was getting at, the crafty B! I decided to string him along for a while.

“Nice woman,” he muttered eventually.

“Very pleasant,” I was determined to continue this
cat-and
-mouse game for as long as possible. Dare I admit I hadn’t accepted her generous offer? Or should I let him think I had? His questions told me he’d known what was in store for me, and I now realised why she wanted the policeman to visit her, in order to check her driving documents. How many had been there before me? Had he, I wonder?

“Alone, was she?” he continued.

“All alone, Sergeant. Nice house, too. A very nice woman,” I said concluding my written entry with a flourish of my pen.

“Hmm,” he walked about the small office, his chin cupped in his hand. “I’m pleased everything was in order.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to book her for an offence,” I said seriously. “She gave me a lovely cup of tea and besides, her husband is a barrister.”

“Yes, he is, Nicholas. He’s away a lot, they tell me.”

“Yes, he’s a busy man, and a prosperous one by the look of it.”

There was another long pause.

“Did she show you round the house, Nicholas? She’s very proud of it, they tell me.”

“A nice place,” I smiled at him. “They’ve done a fair bit to it, I believe, in the five years they’ve been there. It’s
beautifully
situated, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never been,” he told me. “I’ve only heard, you know, from lads who’ve been up there, checking her credentials.”

“It’s the sort of place I’d love to own,” I was thinking of the pittance that policemen earned.

I wondered how long he would question me in this oblique sort of way, so having completed the entry in the register, I closed the book, slipped it back onto its shelf and prepared to leave. He watched me and made small talk about nothing in particular, chattering merrily as I placed my helmet on my head.

“I’m going round by Briggsby, Sergeant,” I told him as I started to walk from the office. “I’ve a call to make there – a youngster wants to join the police cadets. I’m seeing him after school.”

“Cheerio, Nicholas,” he called as I walked out, and as the door had almost closed behind me, I heard him shout, “Did you get your oats then?”

I pretended not to hear his question. I simply waved a hand in reply, a farewell gesture as the door clicked home. I left him in blissful ignorance, which I reckoned was the best thing to do.

Another interesting encounter with the fair sex occurred when I was on early duty in Eltering. It was my duty to patrol the town’s streets between 6 am and 10 am, due to a shortage of local manpower. Eltering is a small North Yorkshire market town located on the southern edge of the moors. It is therefore appropriately known as ‘Gateway to the Moors’ but it was never busy during those morning hours. The only regular indications of early morning work came with people like the milkman, the postman and window-cleaners.

As eight o’clock came around, the town grew more active. People began to move. Some emerged from their homes to catch the shops, to buy papers, cigarettes, milk or coffee, while the policeman spent that time wishing them all ‘Good
morning
’. It was pleasant, watching the town come to life. In some sense, I enjoyed this duty. It differed greatly from my own rural heaven, but it could be very monotonous from time to time, particularly during the dark winter months. Summer
brought a welcome cheeriness to the place, however, and it was a late July morning as I made this early morning patrol around the town, using streets not yet aired. The very early morning workers had left – the eight o’clockers hadn’t yet emerged. I had the town to myself as the church clock struck seven.

I decided to patrol the Aislaby estate, a new housing complex on the western edge of this charming town. I knew I could walk up there, do a circuit of the streets on foot and be back in town for eight o’clock, in order to make my point on the hour outside the post office.

With my cape over my shoulder in case of rain, I set off. It was a pleasant stroll. There was nothing criminal to worry me, although I did check a few parked cars to see if their tax discs were displayed. I examined a few lock-up premises
en
route,
to establish that no shopbreakers had paid illegal nocturnal visits. But all was in order. All was quiet, as I would report to any sergeant or inspector who might ask. Having performed that perambulation, I made my way back to the town centre, noting that it was about a quarter to eight. The morning bustle was beginning.

As I made my slow, methodic way down the gently sloping gradient into the town centre, I became aware of some urgent activity ahead of me. A policeman can sense when something is happening – people begin hurrying towards whatever it is. Everyone wants to see it, so they can talk with authority in the pubs, clubs and offices, and there is a tangible scent of excitement in the air. Those symptoms were happening in Eltering right now. Men were hurrying towards some
unknown
incident just out of my sight. Whatever it was, it had literally brought the town centre to a halt. There was a car with its driver’s door standing open, a butcher running with his blue-and-white striped apron flapping about his knees, a milkman dashing along with a crate rattling at his side, a pedal cycle lying in the gutter, its rear wheel spinning
uselessly
.