Suffice to say, following PC Hills initial investigation of the crime scene (and following the discovery of the refuse sack of letters found dumped in a back alley in Skipton a mere two doors down from the bijou residence of notorious local petty criminal, Timmy Dickson), I contacted all those individuals whose letters now form a part of the official evidence, informing them that their post couldnt be returned or forwarded on until it had been formally declassified as such.
Next, I initiated an official mail-out to the entire village (also enclosed, Rog, translated into the obligatory three languages I chose Portuguese, Mandarin and Xhosa) to try and discover if anyone had posted a letter on the evening of Dec. 21st, which had not for some reason been retrieved in the Skipton cache.
Nobody had, although Rita Bramwell couldnt be entirely certain. She said she thought she might have sent something, but that she wasnt sure what it was, or to whom it was addressed (shes several wires short of the full radio, Rog). As it transpired, she had actually sent something (case letter 13).
When I then asked her if she had received my earlier communication (informing her that exactly such a letter was being held by us, as evidence), she hotly denied that I had sent her one although her husband, Peter Bramwell, later found it stuffed down the back of a chaise longue, and was kind enough to apologize to me for his wifes behaviour.
I subsequently sent Mrs Bramwell a photocopy of her own letter (in an attempt to dispel her confusion). Her response was not at all as I had expected it to be. She hotly denied having sent it in a long and erratic email making a series of wild, unsubstantiated claims and accusations one of which was that it had been forged, and that I myself was in the frame as one of the suspects for the crime (we all had a good chuckle at that in the staff canteen)!
Several people were, you will be stunned to discover, Rog, a little peeved by the news that their post would not be immediately returned to them (you may have seen the bilious squall of angry letters in the local rag, Rog), but this is Burley Cross, after all: a tiny, ridiculously affluent, ludicrously puffed-up moor-side village, stuffed to capacity with spoilt second-home owners, southerners, the strange, the artistic, the eccentric and the retired (most of them tick all of the above boxes, Rog, and several more besides although Im sure I dont have the natural intelligence, fine vocabulary or social acuity to do them all justice here Matt Endive (Sr) case letter 4 who perfectly exemplifies those latent, Burley Cross characteristics of tragic retard and unalloyed fat-head combined, called me a bumped-up little northern grammar-school oik, only yesterday on the phone, and then, when I laughed him off, said I was tragically out of my depth and riddled with contumely. I responded quick as a flash, Rog. I said, Are you sure you dont mean contumacy, Mr Endive from the Latin com = intense + tumere = to swell?
A long silence followed, Rog, and I dont mind admitting that I enjoyed every damn second of it although, in retrospect, I think he probably did mean contumely).
Of course you know better than anybody, Rog, what kind of problems were up against here: to say Burley Cross is Little England writ large, would be like saying Stilton is a dairy product with blue bits running through it (i.e. an understatement, Rog, and a considerable understatement at that).
A long silence followed, Rog, and I dont mind admitting that I enjoyed every damn second of it although, in retrospect, I think he probably did mean contumely).
Of course you know better than anybody, Rog, what kind of problems were up against here: to say Burley Cross is Little England writ large, would be like saying Stilton is a dairy product with blue bits running through it (i.e. an understatement, Rog, and a considerable understatement at that).
This is, after all, the same place where the local councils decision not to install a speed-bump last year caused a mini-riot on Pancake Day which was later Recorded for Posterity, that Future Generations Might Read and Weep, in a seven-hundred-line epic poem, (still pinned up on the notice board outside the local shop, with copies available for sale inside):
The butcher got the worst of it, when spade and axe did fall,
The baker put up quite a fight, when caught up in the brawl
(Ironically, there is no baker in Burley Cross, Rog, and never has been, either, so far as I am aware.)
Before I finally wind up, Rog, heres a little something extra that might just pique your interest: while nobody was willing to admit to having had a letter stolen during the theft, two people were determined to make it publicly known that the letters written in their names were not penned by their own hands (the first, Rita Bramwell, as mentioned previously; the second, Tom Augustine, whose letter about a little incident at the public toilets I found especially informative, Rog if deeply unedifying).
A final, brief aside, Rog: I couldnt help remarking on how many letters had been sent on the day of the robbery. The number seemed unusually high in these text- and email-friendly times (even taking into consideration the pre-Christmas rush). I was about to launch some half-cocked investigations re The Royal Mail (Consignia, et al.) when PC Hill happily set my mind at rest on the issue.
It transpires that an extremely attractive, young lady Nina Springhill has recently started work in the post office, and, since her employment there, the volume of post being sent from the village has significantly increased (not only that, but an unprecedented number of pensioners all male have reverted to the traditional way of receiving their bi-monthly pay-outs: at the counter, as opposed to having it paid directly into their bank accounts).
I was only too happy to check the veracity of this tip-off myself, Rog, a week or so back, when I dropped into the PO to buy a book of stamps (in fact I bought three two more on successive visits) which Sandy later came across on wash day while going through my pockets.
When I staggered home from work that night, there they all were, formally arranged on the kitchen table, like pieces of evidence in fact I think there may have been five of them, in total and Sandy standing next to them, pointing, with a face like thunder, demanding to know who I was planning to write to, and why.
(I mean all this fuss and nonsense over seven little books of stamps, Rog! Whatever next, eh?!)
So thats pretty much the sum of it, Rog. I do hope my paltry insights have proved moderately useful as I step graciously aside severing the spell-binding umbilical of this case once and for all and redirect my energies to solving Skiptons ever increasing backlog of run-of-the-mill murders, arsons, rapes, indecent assaults etc. (and, of course, in case I ever get too smug and complacent: the perennially fascinating mystery of Mrs Compton-Reess nomadic recycling bin; they found it in Hurston on Friday, then, on Sunday, a bemused call from the Laundromat in New Leasey).
Hush, my boy! Hush! Whats that I hear? Is it the trusty rattle of Mrs Spokess tea trolley?
Before it arrives, Rog, I should probably alert you to the fact that Timmy Dickson, our main suspect for the crime (this type of activity is right up his street, Rog or should I say right up his back alley, Rog? Arf! Arf!), has a perfect alibi. He was bedridden in hospital in Leeds that week, after his electronic tagging device rubbed up against the delicate flesh of his calf, generated a blister, and provoked a nasty case of cellulitis (transpires hes allergic to penicillin, Rog, and blew up like a balloon when they pumped him full of the stuff!).
Fishing Saturday week, Rog? Its been too long! How are your shifts? Im free in the p.m. from one, if thats any good to you. The following week Im thinking of heading off to Royal Dornoch for a round or two (they say it has the same latitude as Moscow!) with Richard Usbourne (always useful to have a shrink handy on the links, eh, Rog? Although in your case, a pathologist might be more in order!).
I do think Ive earned it, Rog, all things considered. PC Hills little problem put the kibosh on me joining Sandy on her annual pilgrimage to County Wicklow to lay flowers on her fathers grave (I was planning to join her for the first time this year possibly taking the opportunity of popping in on Druids Glen, afterwards, on the sly!). Sandys still bearing quite a grudge after making the trip on her own.
When I mentioned that I might be heading off to Royal Dornoch over breakfast this morning (which, for the record, I made myself theres still quite an atmosphere of rancour in the house over the stamps issue), Sandy suggested that I might enjoy taking a short trip up my own backside, instead, then added, as a vague afterthought, Although that might be a little difficult, Laurence. Im not sure if youve actually returned from the last one yet.
Ho ho!
The truths we speak in jest, eh, Rog?
All the best,
Sergeant Laurence Everill
PS To touch, Rog: tango, tangis, tangit, tangimus, tangitis, tangunt
PPS Hmmn. A lovely warm slice of Treacle Spice Tray-bake and a steaming mug of tea! Yes. Thatll do nicely, thanks.
[letter 1]
For the exclusive attn of
Ms Linda Withycombe
Environmental Health Technician,
Wharfedale District Council
The Retreat
Saxonby Manor
Burley Cross
21.12.2006
Dear Ms Withycombe1,
Here is the information as requested by yourself on Friday, December 19, during our brief conversation after the public meeting re the proposal for the erection of at least [my itals] two new mobile phone masts in the vicinity of Wharfedale. (I dont think it would be needlessly optimistic of me to say that the nays definitely seemed to have the best of things that day2 so lets just hope those foolish mules3 at the phone company finally have the basic common sense to sit down and rethink what is patently a reckless, environmentally destructive and fundamentally ill-conceived strategy, eh?)