AT first, we thought that it was structural damage caused by the high winds that have come in waves between the rain and the frost this awful Beggarsdale winter.

But when we saw the canteen of my grandmother's bone-handled cutlery scattered over the backyard, we knew something more serious was amiss: it would take a very strange gale indeed to open a drawer in the old Welsh dresser and throw its contents through the back door.

Then Ben the Bucket came panting up The Lane: "I think I disturbed the beggars. They went out down the back. Hope they got nowt important ..."

Of yes, the burglars are back in Beggarsdale. Oh, hum. Boring, boring. Country folk moaning on about rural crime again, I can hear a townie reader say (if, of course, there is such a thing).

But it does tend to concentrate the mind when the victim turns out to be you. Even though we lost very little, thanks to Ben's watchful eye, it still leaves a nasty feeling that your home has been violated.

However, this was a crimewave that had barely reached Beggarsdale, as we discovered when two burly fellows came into The Beggars' Arms that night. They looked like peelers, we thought, and we were right.

The surprise was that they had not come all the way from their base on the Moon to delve into the problems at Curmudgeon Corner. Oh no - our fry couldn't get much smaller because, as it turned out, these guys came from the Fraud Squad, no less, and one of them was a detective chief inspector.

We were all ears after he had announced himself and flashed his warrant card. The Fraud Squad? Are the WI funds thruppance short again?

"We were wondering if anyone has seen the man who bought yon cottage over the road there a few months back?" asked the DCI.

We all knew the cottage in question, of course, for it has been a source of endless gossip since some strange fella paid £185,000 for it last summer - for a two-bed terrace!

"Funny tha should say that but ah don't thin' we've set eyes on Mildew Meldrew since afore Christmas," said Owd Tom with a reflective puff on his foul pipe.

"So that's what he's calling himself now," said the junior copper, a mere Detective Sergeant.

There then followed a period of somewhat confused explanation because no one in the village has ever learned the man's name. He was dubbed Mildew because his cottage stank of it and Meldrew after a certain trainee curmudgeon on the telly.

"Same old story," said the DCI to the Sergeant.

Then he turned to us: "If he does show up, give us a call will you - there's a lot of people wanting to have some serious words with this fella."

"What's he done, then?" we all piped up in unison.

The DCI chuckled: "You probably don't know that he bought that cottage cash on the nail."

We sighed in wonderment. Jetset frowned and interjected: "That may be a bit unusual, Chief Inspector, but it's hardly against the law."

Both detectives laugh and the boss explained: "Depends on who the cash belongs to."

The way things are going, Al Capone himself will be turning up in Beggarsdale next. Our farmers might be going broke - but our country crooks seem to be thriving.

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