A Traveller's Tale

"Refresh my memory, Potts. What was that story all about?"

"Well, Sir, in a nutshell it's the story of an unassuming man dogged by misfortune and disappointment until, on the spur of the moment, he simply abandons his former situation and takes to the road, which leads him to a happy and contented life at the Potwell Inn as potman and consort of its plump landlady."

"I see. Go on."

"The parallel's unmistakeable," Potts enthused. "It's all there, the fire, the mistaken identification of the body, his inventive vocabulary. And now he has turned up on our patch, calling himself 'Mr Jolly', and heading for a fictitious Potwell Inn."

"Well, I must say, Potts, you've done a fine job. You've convinced me. We shall have to give the Shinford police all the evidence you have gathered. Write it all up tomorrow, will you, ready to send off to them as an official report. I should warn you, however, not to expect any thanks from them. They might not be pleased to have to re-open a case marked as 'closed' on their books."

* * *

Potts Rebuffed

The Nutchester Inspector's forebodings proved to be justified. Inspector Chandler and Sergeant Lucas of the Shinford police received WPC Potts' report with displeasure. "What are we supposed to do with this then, Bob?" Chandler asked rhetorically. "If we go to Nutshire to hunt for Lister, or ask them to hunt for us, we may or may not find him. Probably not, in my opinion, since they reckon he's staying at a pub which exists only in a book. But if he was found, what then? We'd have to re-open the inquest for a start. That's not so easily done. It wasn't an open verdict, remember, and the widow Lister will almost certainly wheel out that snake Fenning again to oppose it.

"Then we'd have to try to identify the deceased -- some hopes of that succeeding. And if we did nab Lister what would we do with him? We could charge him with embezzlement if his employers decide to renew the charge -- they dropped it before, you remember. Two years ago, we could have got him on that, no problem, but now? Do we know where the witnesses are now? The bank sacked all the staff at the Shinford branch -- the whole kit 'n' caboodle, including the guard, poor bugger, even though he had damn all to do with it. What else could we charge Lister with? Arson? Murder? Manslaughter? Assault? Failing to report a death? There's not a tittle of evidence against him on any criminal count. It's all circumstantial supposition. I reckon our best bet is to kick this one into touch. What do you think?"

Without hesitation Lucas replied, "I couldn't have put it better myself."

* * *

WPC Potts was summoned to Worth's office to be informed of Shinford's response to her report. "I'm sorry, Potts, but I did warn you. They just don't want to know. They say thank you for finding the missing garments, but they are no longer required as evidence, so we are free to return them to the rightful owners, to wit, the late Mr Lister's former employers. They suggest that there are innumerable ways in which they might have come into the possession of Mr Jolly, whom they are not inclined to identify as Mr Lister on the basis of literary allusions, particularly since Mr Lister is officially deceased. They add that there are no outstanding matters within their jurisdiction on which they wish to interview Mr Jolly, but if we feel he may have committed any offences on our patch, we are at liberty to pursue them. It's a bloody shame, because it means that the case is now closed, without you getting any official credit for your brilliant investigation. But rest assured that if you ever have a hankering to transfer to CID, your application will have my wholehearted recommendation."

* * *

Hatchet Discommoded

For several years the audit of Polyphema's annual accounts had carried out by one Josiah Finkle. He reached retirement age, and his place was taken by young Andrew Strong. This put Polyphema's Chief Accountant, Mr Thurlow, to some trouble, as he now had to re-justify transactions and produce documentary evidence which old Finkle had been prepared to take for granted. He did not resent this though, as he could see that young Strong was quick and efficient, and was doing a good job.

Towards the end of the audit, Strong announced, "Nearly done, Mr Thurlow. There is one thing puzzling me though. What are these small monthly payments to Sub Umbra Insurance all about?"

"Oh, them," Thurlow said, and explained the arrangement that had led to the payments.

"Hmm," Strong replied. "A bit peculiar, but if that is what was agreed... I just need to see the authorisation then."

"Authorisation?" Thurlow queried.

"Yes," Strong replied, "Mrs Lister's letter agreeing to her pension being applied in this manner."

Thurlow laughed. "Agreeing? You must be joking. She protested like crazy, or at least her solicitor did. In the end she gave in though."

Strong laid down his green pen and gazed at the Chief Accountant in astonishment. "I can't believe what I am hearing. Please tell me that you are the one who is joking, Mr Thurlow."

"Well," blustered Thurlow, "I admit the arrangement is a little unusual, but..."

"Unusual?" Strong's eyebrows rose, in affinity with the pitch of his voice. "Unusual? That is not the adjective that springs to my mind. I would rather say unorthodox, unjustified, unprofessional, unwarranted, unconscionable, unethical, and very possibly unlawful. You realise, of course, that I cannot sign off these accounts until this matter has been rectified."

With that ultimatum, Strong picked up his papers and left. A chastened Thurlow sought an interview with his Managing Director.

"Good Heavens, Thurlow," the Managing Director of Polyphema Fashions expostulated, "I don't know what you could have been thinking of, agreeing to such an arrangement without consulting me. Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. We shall just have to mop the mess up. First off, cancel that silly invoice for six hundred something pounds, and pay Mrs Lister all the back instalments of her pension that were misapplied. Then ask Sub Umbra to return all those so-called 'reduction of loss' payments. What did you say the Claims Assessor's name was? Walter Hatchet? Right, ask my secretary to get me the Managing Director of Sub Umbra on the phone, will you?"

Even before his call from Polyphema Fashions the Managing Director of the Sub Umbra Insurance Company had not been in a good mood. He had known that it was unwise to include black pudding with his breakfast, but had felt it would be disloyal to his Lancastrian roots to exclude that native delicacy from the fried eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, tomatoes, mushrooms, and baked beans that constituted the rest of the main course. As a result, it was sitting heavily on the porridge and grilled kipper that had preceded it, and was assuaged by neither the toast and marmalade, nor the strong coffee which had followed.

After the phone conversation, his end of which had perforce to consist of repetitive apologies, punctuated at frequent intervals by "I understand" and "I couldn't agree more" and "You're absolutely right" and "Whatever you say", he popped another two antacid tablets into his mouth and washed them down with a swig from the glass of milk which his secretary had hastened to put on his desk as soon as she had seen his face when he arrived.

He flipped a switch on a box and barked, "Elsie, tell Personnel to send me up the file on Walter Hatchet straightaway, and send for Hatchet himself. He's a Claims Assessor or something. I want him in this office pronto."

Hatchet was delighted to be summoned to the Managing Director's office. Two weeks earlier he had suggested to the Chief Claims Assessor that he merited an increase in salary. The response had been "We'll have to see about that." A wiser soul would have understood that to mean either "No" or, at best, "Not yet." Hatchet however, in his egotistical optimism, took it to mean "Yes, I shall do what is necessary to bring that about." In consequence he assumed that his summons to the office of the Managing Director was to receive a reward for his efforts: a rise, or perhaps even a promotion.

Hatchet left the Managing Director's office seething with indignation. Suspended from duty! Without pay! Pending proceedings for dismissal! These unjust decisions all taken by a man obviously unfit for office, venting his dyspeptic spite on innocent employees! It was intolerable!

Hatchet drew himself up to his full height and threw his shoulders back. "Right," he thought, "I'll show 'em! It's all the fault of that damned Lister woman. Let's see their silly faces when I bring her to book!" Before news of his downfall could reach his colleagues he drew the firm's best camera equipment from stock. When completing the requisition form, in the box headed 'Reason' he wrote 'needed for the investigation of a serious case of insurance fraud.' Before leaving the building he phoned Polyphema Fashions and obtained the current address of Mrs Lister.

* * *

Potts Perseveres

Eight months after being rebuffed by the Shinford police, WPC Sheila Potts started her two week summer vacation. For reasons which she did not disclose to anyone else she had settled on a solo cycling tour of the Norfolk Broads. Armed with an Ordnance Survey tourist map of the area and a paperback copy of 'The History of Mr Polly,' she intended to visit every pub in the area until she found Mr Jolly's version of the Potwell Inn.

For the first two days her enquiries bore no fruit. The landlords and regulars of the pubs she visited did not recognise her description as fitting any inn they knew of. She took the disappointment lightly. The weather was fine, and she was enjoying her holiday regardless of whether her quest was successful or not. On the third morning, however, her luck changed.

"So, it seems, young lady, that you're trying to find the public house from which Welles drew his description of the Potwell Inn in The History of Mr Polly." The words came from an elderly gentleman of scholarly appearance who had followed her out of a pub. She was pleasantly surprised. She had not mentioned any of those particulars in her enquiries, so her companion's identification confirmed that her description of the inn she sought had been effective. "You'll not find it in these parts, I fear" he went on. "More than one hostelry claims the distinction. There's one in Berkshire for instance, and another in Kent I believe, but none that I know of in Norfolk. In any case, Welles might easily have combined the characteristics of a number of inns to create the Potwell, or even have cut it out of whole cloth."

She smiled admiringly at him. "Full marks, Sir. You have correctly identified the inn I was describing, but I am not trying to find any inn known to Welles. What I am looking for is an inn, somewhere in the Broads, with characteristics which might remind someone of Mr Polly's Potwell Inn."

"Ah, that's another matter," he replied. "Here, come and sit by me while I see if I can think of any."

She sat beside him on a bench against the front wall of the pub. He took a pipe from his pocket and sucked on it, unlit, contemplatively. "Let's see now," he mused. "What are we looking for? A ferry across a river, manned by a potman from an inn? Plenty of ferries in these parts, but none associated with an inn as far as I know. A green sward running from the inn to the river? Hmm, I can think of a few, but none particularly Potwell like. A comely plump landlady? Ah, there's a consummation devoutly to be desired, but all too rare these days, I fear. We are fortunate to be blessed with bonny Bessie."

"Bonny Bessie?" she asked.

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Bess Granger. Runs the Admiral Benbow. Do you know, that could almost be made to fit your description. It's not on a river, but it is on a canal. It doesn't operate a ferry, but it does operate a lock. It doesn't have a green sward, but it does have a paved court. And as for the landlady, well all I can say is that Mrs Granger could be a stand-in for Megs Jenkins any day of the week. Worth a try, I'd say."

She agreed and asked for directions to the inn.

* * *

The Admiral Benbow

In 1873 an enterprising industrialist named Josiah Grind built a canal connecting the River Trug to Fiddle Broad. The canal was intended to be a shorter route for river traffic seeking to make its way to a coastal port, and Grind's intention was to place a bar across the canal where it entered the Broad, and to charge a toll for the privilege of passing. To act as a toll house he built an inn, which he called The Admiral Benbow. The canal he modestly christened 'The Grind Canal.'

The project was not without its difficulties. Grind began to run out of funds, with the result that his canal grew steadily narrower as it progressed until, by the time it reached its destination, it was only wide enough to accommodate two narrow boats side by side, making it unusable by the larger craft. His problems were further increased by developments in the upper reaches of the Trug which, by dredgings and other works, provided shorter, and therefore cheaper, outlets to the sea.

Grind persevered. To the few bargemen who used his canal he provided refreshments and overnight lodgings at the Admiral Benbow, and moorings on Fiddle Broad for their craft. Even this modest trade, however, was soon put in jeopardy by a whim of nature. Whilst theoretically tidal, the canal was far enough from the sea for the effects to be insignificant. The water rose and fell only an inch or so, and the tidal effect was felt only as a slight difference in the rate of flow through the canal -- until, that is, the disastrous year of 1895. In that year, due to a concatenation of lunar and planetary dispositions and extreme wind conditions, there befell a period of unusually low Spring tides. Simultaneously the catchment area of the River Trug experienced unprecedented rainfalls.

The combination of these phenomena increased tenfold the difference in water level along the canal, turning its flow into a seething torrent of white water. Navigation upstream was utterly impossible, and only a suicidal kayaker would contemplate a downstream voyage. The heavenly bodies and the weather soon resumed their former innocuous habits, and the placidity of the canal was restored, but the boatmen vowed not to risk their craft on it unless a lock was built.

Grind felt he had no choice. By his order, the stretch of canal which ran alongside the yard in front of the inn was converted into a lock chamber, with gates at its top and bottom ends. The gates were both left open as a rule, but the boatmen took assurance from their existence that the canal now stood ready to cope with the conditions of 1895 should they ever recur (which they never did). Grind consoled himself with the thought that either of the otiose gates would serve to replace the former bar for the purpose of checking potential toll payers.

Twentieth century legislation later outlawed the levying of tolls on the Broads, and so deprived Grind's successors of that source of income. As compensation however, the office of keeper of the lock was vested in perpetuum in the proprietor for the time being of the Admiral Benbow Inn, who thenceforth received a stipend from the Crown in return for maintaining the lock in serviceable condition.

* * *

Lister Found

Nine o'clock of a bright summer morning saw Potts approaching the Admiral Benbow. On the right hand side of the road, or rather lane, for it scarce warranted being classed as a highway, ran the Grind Canal. She could see the inn ahead of her, separated from the waterway by a broad paved courtyard which was furnished with a few rustic benches and tables. Beyond the inn stretched the wide expanse of Fiddle Broad, glistening silver in the morning sun. As she got nearer she could see that the stretch of canal upon which the courtyard abutted was actually a lock with both gates open, which she thought unusual. A male figure dressed in a blue boiler suit was at one of the lock gates, using a paint brush to daub parts of its metalwork with grease from a can. She judged him to be between forty and fifty years of age.

She stopped and dismounted to take in the scene. As she watched, a man and a lad emerged from the inn, exchanged greetings with the boiler-suited worker, and disappeared around the corner of the building. A small cabin cruiser -- only two-berth she guessed -- came up the canal and entered the lock. In the bow sat a plump lady wearing large sunglasses, a red baseball cap, a white blouse tied under her imposing bosom, and a blue pleated skirt. At the helm was a portly middle aged man dressed in navy blue canvas shorts and a yachting cap. His chest was covered in curly grey hair, and his back was lobster red from unaccustomed exposure to the sun.

He cut the cruiser's engine as it entered the lock, and they drifted slowly through, the patriotically attired lady fending the vessel off from the lock walls with a paddle. There was a cheerful exchange between the man on shore and the yachtsman, who seemed to be asking directions, for the other pointed north across the Broad. As the cruiser left the canal its engine restarted and it put-putted slowly away.

The lane veered to the left to run round the rear of the pub, but Potts wheeled her bicycle straight forward, off the lane and onto the courtyard. She pulled it up onto its prop stand and sat at one of the tables.

The man stopped what he was doing at the lock gate and moved swiftly towards her, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Good morning, Miss. Can I get you anything?"

"A cup of coffee wouldn't come amiss," she replied smiling.

"No problem, Miss," he answered and strode smartly into the pub.

He was back within minutes with the drink. She noted approvingly that he had scrubbed his hands and changed his garb. He was now wearing a short sleeved Aertex shirt, khaki shorts, and leather sandals.

"On holiday, Miss?"

She nodded an affirmative and took a sip of coffee, surprised at how good it tasted. She looked up and found him regarding her with an amused smile. "You thought it was going to be instant, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, especially as you returned with it so quickly."

"Ah, you were lucky there. The Missus had just made a fresh pot for me, and there was enough for you too."

"It's good. Freshly ground beans?"

He beamed with pride. "Correct. You've got good taste. It's nice when a customer appreciates good stuff."

A motor barge appeared from behind the inn and entered the lock. Its long deck was loaded with crates, barrels, and sacks. It was crewed by the man and boy Potts had seen leave the inn earlier. The lad was moving among the cargo, testing the ropes which secured it. The man stood in the open wheelhouse at the stern. As the vessel passed slowly through the lock under power, its pilot shouted across, "So long, Les. See you again in three or four weeks."

Potts' companion shouted back, "Fine, Greg. Have a good trip." Turning to Potts he added, "Salt of the earth, old Greg. Ex-navy, you know. Commanded a mine sweeper." He looked her frankly up and down, and went on, "Let me see if I can guess what you do for a living. I reckon you're a games mistress at a posh girls' school. Am I right?"

She laughed. "Nowhere near. Now it's my turn. You're ex-navy too, right?"

"Yes, but only National Service."

"I thought so from the knots. And your name's Les?"

"You heard Greg call me that. What knots?"

"Les Jolly, would it be?"

He looked at her astounded. "Now where did you get that name from?"

"From the register of the Red Lion in Nutcombe, and the knots were those on its flagpole, Mr Jolly, or should I say Mr Lister?"