WITH the first Easter trippers beginning to trickle into the dale earlier in the week, one particular visitor was not all that welcome. Although, as it turned out, we were pretty lucky to have him.

The Inspector, who is in fact a Detective Inspector, has become something of a regular in Beggarsdale in recent years.

He investigated a series of robberies on holiday homes a few years back and, more recently, the case of the fraudulent "financial adviser" who lived briefly in Quarry Row while fleecing hundreds of gullible investors out of their life savings.

They, of course, were duty calls but the Inspector seems to have got to like the place and has indeed come back for the odd weekend to stay - alone - at the Beggars' Arms.

We suspect his marriage is on the rocks but, thankfully, no one has chosen to pry into his private life.

So when he turned up on Monday and booked the last available room for a few nights, we locals were at once flattered - and not a little flustered.

For we have been half expecting to feel the heavy hand of the law ever since Owd Tom let fly with his 12-bore at someone trying to steal his quad bike.

The would-be thief made his escape but by no means unscathed: blood was found on the saddle so there is little doubt that Tom hit the mark.

And, for a couple of weeks now, we have been living in dread of another Tony Martin case (he was the Norfolk farmer, kiddiewinks, sent to jail for shooting dead a young burglar).

So when the Inspector called to book his room, the Innkeeper at once sent out a general alert.

And the next few days was spent in a tense game of cat-and-mouse as we tried to discover if his visit was a) official or b) private.

Now the Inspector likes a drink, particularly Rams' Blood bitter (abv 5.5 per cent) so he was plied with the stuff for the next three nights.

Even Tom himself put his hand down from time to time, which some of us thought was pushing his luck to the point of potential disaster, what with penal servitude being a distinct possibility.

But, as you would expect, the Inspector is no mug and played our fumbling probing with the skill of an experienced fly fisherman, which in fact he is.

Yet, all the time, he gave us the distinct impression that he knew fine well what we were trying to get at - but didn't have the nerve to ask outright.

He didn't drop so much as a grain of info, never mind a crumb, even when Maggots Money-Grubber treated him to a VIP session at his new trout farm in the old quarry which is set to open for business in the next few weeks, having been delayed by a flash flood that swept away most of his fish a few weeks back.

Maggots even let his guest keep a couple of nice rainbow trout, which the Innkeeper's wife cooked to perfection and served with a complimentary bottle of Chilean sauvignon blanc. But not a word.

However, with the Beggars' fully booked from today, he checked out on Wednesday morning and, in doing so, handed the Innkeeper an old match box, which he rattled ostentatiously.

"I think you know who these belong to," he grinned.

The Innkeeper frowned and slid open the box. Inside were a dozen or so lead pellets.

"They took them out of a young villain's backside at Mar'ton hospital," said the Inspector.

"Fortunately, if he had chosen to press charges, he would have ended up in the nick for a very long time so we managed to change his mind.

"Happen he could have ended up in the same cell as Owd Tom..."

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.