Bobby McGee

Chapter Fifty-eight. A Burglar?

Chapter Fifty-eight

A Burglar?

"P.C.McGee, The Reverend Wade here."

McGee sighed. What could it be this time?

"What's the problem, vicar?"

"There was a fight tonight at the Whist Drive."

McGee couldn't believe it. The card game was another of the vicar's attempts to raise funds to pay for the re-roofing of the church. Every Monday night villagers met at the Memorial Hall, a local community centre, to play partner whist. Admission was a shilling. Usually fifteen tables were in play, so the sum of three pounds was normally taken at the door. 50% of this was taken for the fund, and the remaining one pound ten used as prize money- enough cash to buy a week's groceries.

"What were they fighting about?"

"There was some accusation of cheating."

"Who was involved?"

"I'd rather not say, constable."

"So, what do you want me to do?" said McGee, striving to hide his exasperation.

"I was wondering if you might show up once in a while, act as a sort of deterrent? I would really appreciate it."

"I'll see about it."

*****

The following Monday, McGee dutifully made his way to the Hall. It was a clear moonlit night with a hint of frost in the air so McGee decided to walk. His route went past #136. He looked to see if Caroline was home. A Rover was parked in her driveway. Probably someone from the pantomime committee.

McGee's evening wasn't a complete waste. He kept the peace, and emerged two hours later with a box of Dairy Milk chocolates under his arm. Much to the chagrin of the regulars, he had won the raffle. On his walk home, he was accompanied by Mrs. Miller, the landlady of the Miner's Arms. She was a notorious busybody, and a source of useful information. She often shared her gossip with McGee, in exchange for his turning a blind eye to after-hours drinking at the Miners. This arrangement proved to be mutually profitable.

"I thought the vicar was in a pretty bad mood tonight," she said.

"So he should be - needing a police presence to keep order at a whist drive. That's a bit much. I bet he's still upset about the vicarage gates too."

"I heard about that. Any suspects?"

"That's privileged information, Nancy."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"Of course you did."

They both laughed.

Midway through their walk they passed the War Memorial at Cross-a-moor. The plaque, listing the names of soldiers killed in two world wars, had been defaced, and the metal chain surrounding the cross, stolen.

"Only foreigners could have done this. Must have been those Romanies," said Nancy.

"Fletch suspects them. I thought it might be the tinkers, they seem to hoard all types of metal, but they claim to know nothing about it. I can't believe there were no witnesses. That was a hefty chain."

"And who would scratch such offensive words on the plaque? Surely not village kids?"

"I'm not so sure about that, Nancy. Some pretty crude graffiti has been popping up around the village lately."