Constable on the Hill by Nicholas Rhea

afternoon of certain weekdays, and had broken into several houses over a wide area of the district. Individually, the thefts were not very serious – at each house, two or three pounds in cash would be removed from tins on mantel-shelves, or food would be taken from the larders. Occasionally, an item of clothing would disappear and very infrequently, something with a saleable value would be missed, like a portable radio or small items of jewellery. Taken as a whole, however, the crimes were serious and engendered considerable alarm among the people.
    My detective colleagues had investigated these crimes, many of which had occurred well beyond the boundaries of my beat and concluded they were the work of either a tramp or someone on the run, living locally and stealing in order to survive. It could be the work of absconders from an approved school, but the pattern ruled out a professional thief bent on stealing high-value goods.
    As time went by without an arrest, the women folk began to grow alarmed at the prospect of someone entering their homes and rifling through their belongings. I made a point, therefore, of visiting as many isolated houses as possible, in an attempt to alert the occupants to the criminal’s activities. It was during one of those missions that I came across Stanley George Hatton.
    I discovered his house after bouncing my motor-cycle alongan unkept lane for almost a mile. It was a very isolated place, and a sign on the gate said ‘Brockrigg Farm’. I entered and drove the motor-cycle as far as possible along the muddy track, then parked it against a stone gate post. I removed my helmet and walked the final twenty-five yards to the house. I knocked on the door and waited. Soon I heard heavy footsteps inside and a woman’s voice told a dog to “Git oot o’ t’rooad” before the door opened.
    “Oh!” upon seeing me, she smoothed her rough hessian apron, known hereabouts as a ‘cooarse appron’, and said, “Oh, it’s t’bobby.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I’ve come to give advice about burglars.”
    “Here?” The dog appeared and sniffed at me. It was one of the black-and-white curs which are so prominent in the farms of the region.
    “Hereabouts,” I told her. I called the criminal a burglar whereas the term was strictly wrong. He was a housebreaker because he broke in during the daylight hours. Burglars were those who broke and entered houses during the night, but since that time, the law has changed. All those who break into premises of any kind are now legally entitled to the name of burglar. It is a technicality, but the word burglar has always been easily understood by the general public.
    “Well you’d better have a chat wiv oor Stanley George,” she suggested.
    “Your husband?”
    “Aye, he’s roond there, in yon aud barn, working.”
    “Thanks,” and I followed the direction of her finger.
    The large double-sided barn door was open and I walked in. I expected to find a farmer hard at work, but instead I found a carpenter. The old barn had been converted into a comfortable work-shop and it was full of wooden articles. My first impression was that of a furniture store, but the scent of glue and polish, of wood shavings and of oak told me otherwise. There was a mass of wood shavings on the floor too, and rows of tools hung from the wall. This was a one-man factory.
    A stiff man in late middle age got up from the bench and struggled towards me, limping painfully.
    “Don’t, I’ll come over,” and I crossed the floor towards him.
    He smiled gratefully, and settled back on the stool beside the bench.
    “Rheumatics,” he said wryly. “In me aud legs. Gives me hell, it does.”
    “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I said, holding out a hand. He shook it strongly.
    “Hatton,” he introduced himself. “Stanley George Hatton. Everybody calls me Stanley George. It’s on account of my mother. She had three lads, me and two brothers. She called ’em all Stanley because it was her favourite