A Traveller's Tale

And then a funny thing happened. I suddenly realised that I wasn't miserable anymore. I was actually enjoying life. Finding my Potwell Inn had become less important than looking for it. I suppose it was like that for those chivalric Arthurian knights on the quest for the Holy Grail; it was the quest that mattered, not the grail.

At least that was how it was until one day I fell in with a group of bargemen on the Grand Union Canal a few miles outside Liverpool. They were exchanging reminiscences about pubs they had known. One of them was waxing lyrical about the Admiral Benbow Inn on the Norfolk Broads, and the more he described the pub and its landlady, the more I thought, "That sounds just like the Potwell Inn." I asked him for more particulars about its location. The next day I pointed my front wheel to the southeast, and set off to find it.

The nearer I got to my goal, the more lightheaded I became. When I reached Nutcombe I allowed myself the extravagance of spending the night at an inn where I could get a decent bath and spruce myself up a bit. The thought that I had just one more day's ride ahead of me so exhilarated me that I couldn't resist playing a little prank. There had been a minor squabble between the pub landlord and a brewery salesman about the flagpole out the front. I fastened the contents of my sample case to a length of string, and as I set out early the next morning I tied the string to the halyards and hoist them up the pole.

The next day I found the Admiral Benbow and was warmly received. That was more than six months ago. I stayed on as potman, assistant lock keeper, and general dogsbody, and here I hoped to stay for the rest of my days.

* * *

Surprise Ending

When Lister had finished telling his tale, Potts said, "Phew, that was some story. There's one thing I don't understand though -- the landlady. I expected her to be a bit more... well, a bit more motherly, shall we say?"

Lister looked at her and frowned in puzzlement, "But she is," he asserted. "What makes you think she isn't? Wait until you see her."

It was Potts' turn to look puzzled. "But I have seen her. She was the red haired lady who came to the door with you, wasn't she?"

"Lord love you," Lister laughed, "that was no landlady, that was my wife!" He chuckled merrily at his joke.

"Your wife?" Potts could hardly believe what she was hearing.

"Yes, my wife Muriel -- Mrs Lister. Can you believe it, my dream landlady had been my own sister-in-law all along! After the wedding, me and Muriel had never had a lot to do with her sister Betty -- Bess she now prefers to be called -- and her husband Ossie. There was no ill feeling, it was just that we lived our life and they lived theirs. Then Ossie died a couple of years ago, shortly before I left Shinford, so when Muriel was looking to move, it seemed convenient for her to come here and live with her sister. It suited both of them. You think you're surprised; just imagine what my face must have looked like when I arrived triumphantly at the Admiral Benbow, to be greeted by my own wife!"

"Oh my!" breathed Potts. "Talk about life imitating art. You realise of course that when Mr Polly visited his wife, incognito as he thought, he found her living with her sister?"

"I know," Lister replied. "Spooky, eh?"

"Look," Potts said, "I'm ready for a meal and an early night. Can I stay here? Do you take boarders?"

"We certainly do," Lister replied warmly, "and we'd be honoured to have you. There are no other guests just now, so you shall have the best room. Come in and meet Bess -- Mrs Granger, the landlady. I think you'll like her. Everybody does."

* * *

Potts Stays On

Bess Granger possessed the sort of face that seemed designed to express gentle amiability. The corners of her eyes crinkled with pleasure as she greeted Potts with obvious sincerity. "I'm so pleased to meet you, my dear. Muriel has been explaining to me what you are doing here. Any friend of Les is a friend of mine. Welcome to the Admiral Benbow."

Potts took to her at once, and assured her that Les was not in any danger of a police investigation. Muriel joined the group, and Les looked on benignly, as if he deserved credit for his role in introducing a new friend to the house to cheer them up. The three women were soon chatting gaily, Potts describing her holiday experiences so far, and in turn hearing stories of goings-on at the Admiral Benbow from Bess and Muriel.

Friendly relations having been established, Bess showed Potts to her room. It was a corner room with windows on two sides, looking both northward over Fiddle Broad, and eastward over the courtyard and lock, and beyond. "You'll get the morning sun, my dear. Best close the curtains this time of year if you don't want to be up with the birds," Bess advised. "But it's a nice cool room in the afternoon in the hottest heat wave."

There was an adjoining bathroom updated with all the appropriate fittings. In the bedroom cheerfully patterned chintz adorned the curtains, armchair, and bedspread. Potts gazed approvingly at the bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, and dressing table, and declared herself well satisfied.

"Where would you like your meals served, my dear?" Bess asked. "In your room? Or in the snug? Or you can eat with us in the kitchen if you like."

"I think I'd like to mess with you, Les, and Muriel, if that's okay with you, Bess."

"Nothing I'd like better, my dear. I'll leave you to freshen up. Come down when you're ready."

When Potts came down she had changed into a simple summer dress. She joined Les at the large scrubbed wood table which was being laid by Bess and Muriel. In a corner near the back door a golden Labrador was noisily lapping at a dish of water. The dog padded over to Potts as she sat down, and laid its head in her lap. Water dribbled from its slack mouth and wet her thigh. Potts smiled indulgently and scratched the dog's head. In response a pair of big brown eyes rolled up and regarded her with a soulful gaze.

Muriel handed Potts a small hand towel, saying "I must apologise for Bud. I'm afraid that's his way of saying he likes you."

"Oh, I don't mind," Potts answered. "I like dogs. Bud's beautiful. How old is he?"

"It will be his third birthday soon. I've had him ever since he was old enough to leave his mother. As a matter of fact, I got him on the very day that... the very day the shed caught fire." A short silence followed this reminder of past events. Bess was busy between the range and the table dishing up food. Les and Muriel exchanged a look of sympathetic understanding. Potts studied the pattern on her plate.

The silence was broken by Muriel giving a short laugh. "It was funny, you know. I'd only just got him that Thursday morning, and was desperate to get him at least partly house-trained before Les came home the next day. I wasn't sure if Les would approve of me having a dog, but I wanted some company. So there I was, upstairs with a puppy, frantically spreading newspapers over all the carpets, when the doorbell rings, and it's the police wanting to interview me. I didn't know if I was coming or going. Do you know, I do believe those stupid coppers actually thought I had a man in my bedroom." Muriel suddenly remembered Sheila's occupation, and hastily added, "Oh, I'm sorry, Sheila. I didn't mean to imply that you were stupid."

Potts laughed. "Don't worry, Muriel. I've had some experience of the Shinford police myself, and I was not overwhelmed by the brilliance of their deductive powers."

Bess placed a final dish on the table and announced, "There, that's the lot. Now tuck in before it gets cold." Muriel despatched Bud to his basket, where he lay and observed the four humans enjoying a convivial meal.

The next day, after a good night's sleep and having thought things over, Potts revealed her desire to stay the rest of her holiday at the inn, if they would have her. Bess, Muriel, and Les all welcomed this idea, declaring that she could have no better base from which to explore the area. Terms were swiftly agreed, and Potts settled in.

For the next few days Potts toured the area by day, fortified midway by a packed lunch from the landlady's skilful hands. When she returned to the inn for an evening meal, Les would entertain her with stories of his picaresque adventures. She particularly enjoyed his account of how, having been hired one December as a store Santa Claus by both Harrods and Gamages, he had contrived to swap the sacks over, so that the toys intended for the rich kids went to the poor kids instead.

* * *

Potts alarmed

When Potts came down for breakfast on the fifth day of her stay, Muriel passed a letter to her, saying, "Look what I got in the post this morning. I don't know quite what to make of it." Potts took from the envelope a letter, a cheque for £385/12s/3d, and a statement of account showing an outstanding balance of £0/0s/0d.

The letter was from Polyphema Fashions Ltd, and read, "Dear Mrs Lister, We find that due to an accounting error an invoice was wrongly raised against you and that your pension payments were wrongly credited against it instead of being paid to you. We apologise sincerely for these errors, and are now correcting them. Please find enclosed a cheque for the payments concerned, and a statement showing the erroneous invoice cancelled. From now on future instalments of your pension will be paid direct to you monthly by cheque."

Muriel described to Potts the arrangement that Polyphema's Chief Accountant Thurlow had insisted on, and added, "It looks like they've relented, but I wonder what has made them change their mind?"

"It is strange," Potts agreed, "but don't look a gift horse in the mouth, eh? If I were you I'd bank the cheque double quick and hope for the best." Muriel nodded her concurrence with that view of the matter.

After breakfast, Potts went for a spin on her bicycle to get some fresh air and exercise. On her way back, nearly home, she saw a red two-seater Singer Roadster with the top down, parked on the verge of the lane. She stopped and looked around but could not see or hear anyone about. There was a flat topped haystack in the field, and she thought that the car's owner might be behind it. She looked into the car. There was the usual jumble of odds and ends, and in the open glove compartment she could see a few business cards scattered. She reached in and retrieved one. It read, "Walter Hatchet, Claims Assessor, Sub Umbra Insurance Company."

Hatchet's appearance on the scene, coinciding as it did with Muriel's letter from Polyphema, aroused dark suspicions in Potts' mind. She forthwith turned her bicycle around and rode a short distance back the way she had come. She soon found what she was looking for, a tree overhanging a rail fence. She dismounted and climbed up the fence and into the tree. From that vantage point she could see the top of the haystack. On it a man was lying prone, propped up on his elbows, looking through binoculars. She raised her eyes and saw that the glasses were pointing straight towards the Admiral Benbow.

She swiftly descended and rode as fast as she could to the inn. She dropped her bike in the yard and ran inside. "Where's Les?" she loudly demanded of a startled Muriel. "Whatever you do, keep him inside. He mustn't show his face outside on any account."

At that moment Les came down from upstairs, where he had been cleaning the bathrooms. "Hello, what's all the commotion about?" he asked. Bess had been in the kitchen but she too now came to see what the raised voices meant. Potts swiftly described what she had seen in the lane. Muriel and Bess both gasped in horror and looked close to tears. Les was downcast, and said, "That's a facer. What are we going to do then?"

"You've got to stay inside, for starters," Potts said, "and I've got an idea how we might get rid of our nosy parker." Turning to Bess she asked, "Where's the nearest police station?"

"Constable Blossom operates from a police house a couple of miles away."

"Has he got a car? How long would it take him to get here?"

"He doesn't have a car. He does his rounds on a bike."

"We need him here as soon as possible. Can you find his number for me?"

Bess had already picked up the phone and was dialling. The number was apparently familiar to her. "Joe will come quicker if I ask him," she explained. Her ears went a little pink as she added, "We have an understanding. What do I tell him?"

"Just say that we've got a peeping tom." Turning to Muriel Potts said, "You come upstairs with me and while we get ready I'll tell you what we're going to do."

* * *

Hatchet Watches

Hatchet's fevered imagination had persuaded him that he might obtain evidence of Mrs Lister's enjoyment of ill-gotten gains in the form of photographs, for example snaps of her driving around in a Rolls Royce limousine, swathed in mink and bedecked with diamonds. He saw himself as a dogged and persevering sleuth, prepared to keep watch all day, every day, for weeks if necessary.

He found a suitable point from which to monitor his quarry, a haystack overlooking the Admiral Benbow. The stack was flat topped, roofed with a thatch of straw which in turn was covered by a sheet of tarpaulin tied down with ropes. There was a ladder lashed to the side of the stack to facilitate access, but even so Hatchet was exhausted by the time he had got to the top with a pair of binoculars and a tripod, each in its own leather case, and another large leather case which contained a camera, a long telescopic zoom lens, an assortment of other lenses, and several rolls of film.

He disengaged himself from his impedimenta and lay down on his front with the binoculars to his eyes. The Admiral Benbow and its surroundings sprang clearly into view with no sign of any activity. Within half an hour he was thinking of abandoning his vigil. The surface on which he was lying put him in mind of hair shirts and beds of nails. He could feel cramps and numbness beginning to threaten muscles he was not normally aware of, and absolutely nothing had happened at the inn, other than the pell-mell arrival of a female cyclist who had hurtled into the yard, dropped her bicycle, and fled into the pub.

Unquestionably a foolish tourist who had found herself caught short by an urgent call of nature, he deduced with his usual acuity.

He was about to lower the glasses from his eyes when the door of the inn opened and two female figures emerged. Both were carrying towels and bottles. They stood and looked skyward, as if seeking portents. One was a tall redhead, in her thirties he judged; the other was dark, shorter, and younger. Neither of them fitted his idea of what Mrs Lister looked like, although he had, he now realised with unaccustomed chagrin, failed in the elementary precaution of acquiring a photograph of that lady. But what caught his startled attention most was that both ladies were wearing two-piece bathing costumes upon which no more material had been wasted than the minimum required for the avoidance of arrest.

Seemingly having found the celestial omens favourable, they spread beach towels in the centre of the courtyard and lay down to sunbathe, stretching themselves languorously. As Hatchet watched, the younger woman sat up, uncapped a bottle, and started to spread a lotion over her arms, legs, and torso. After a while she began to anoint her companion also.

It occurred to Hatchet that the zoom lens offered a higher magnification than the binoculars. Moreover, the camera would provide a permanent record for subsequent forensic perusal. Swiftly he discarded the glasses and retrieved the necessary items from the camera case. He had some difficulty loading the camera with film and attaching the lens, not being accustomed to the procedure and hampered by his prone posture, but despite these handicaps he at last succeeded, hoping that he was not too late. He need not have worried. He was now getting a closer and clearer view than before and saw that the two women were still engaged in mutual lubrication.

Using the camera bag as support for the mighty lens, he began taking photographs. The sunbathers appeared to be giggling and engaging in badinage. From time to time they pulled open the edges of each other's garments and slipped their hands inside, presumably to make sure that there was no margin of bare skin left unprotected, but the way that the recipient would wriggle suggested that an element of horseplay had entered into their activity. Their writhings resulted in brief but frequent flashes of anatomical features not usually revealed by conventional costumes.

Hatchet snapped away liberally, zooming in and out with abandon, humming gently to himself a paean of thanksgiving for the inspiration that had led him to stock the camera bag with so many rolls of film. By the time that he was onto the fourth roll, he had learned how to change a film with the minimum loss of time.

The redhead rolled over onto her front, and the other started to oil her back, unfastening the upper garment and laying the straps out sideways. After a time the anointee resumed her former position on her back, but in doing so she contrived to hold onto the top so that it still covered her. In a little while however she released her hold and stretched her arms wide. Only the force of gravity was now keeping the top half of the two-piece costume in place. All Hatchet's attention became devoted to the scene in the viewfinder, and his finger itched on the shutter release button, ready for the moment when a gust of wind, or a movement by the sunbather, would...

"Good morning, Sir."

* * *

Hatchet Surprised

Hatchet was more than startled by the unexpected greeting, he was convulsed. He tried to turn round, look over his left shoulder, and rise to his feet all at the same time. Hampered as he was by two straps around his neck -- he had not bothered to divest himself of the binoculars before donning the camera -- and the unbalanced weight of the powerful telescopic lens projecting from the front of the camera, this effort resulted in an undignified contortion which he rightly feared might make him look ridiculous. He saw the head and shoulders of a helmeted policeman projecting above the level of the roof. The florid face beneath the helmet was expressionless. Hatchet surmised that the constable was standing part way up the stack's ladder.

"Er, I, er, this isn't what it looks like," he managed to blurt.

"What does it look like, Sir?" Blossom smoothly asked.

"Well, I mean, you might think, seeing me taking photographs of young ladies sunbathing..."

"Is that what you were doing, Sir? Taking photographs of young ladies sunbathing." Blossom repeated Hatchet's words slowly and distinctly, as if committing them to memory.

By now Hatchet had managed to get up on his knees. He realised, with no little chagrin, that this put him in the posture of a supplicant, but the top of the stack was too yielding to enable him to get to his feet, encumbered as he was by his accoutrements. He was annoyed that this country bumpkin of a policeman had somehow contrived to put him on the defensive. He forced a short confidential laugh, and said with an ingratiating smile, "You and I are on the same side, you know. We're both in the same business."

"Are we, Sir? I carry an official document to show what business I am in." Blossom fished in the top pocket of his tunic and produced his warrant card, which he held out for Hatchet to see. "No doubt you'll have one of these too, Sir, being in the same business."

"Well, er, no. No, I'm not exactly in the police force. I'm a private investigator."

"A private detective," Blossom breathed in apparent awe. "Well I never. I thought they only existed in the pictures and cheap novels. And here I am, talking to one in the flesh, a private dick, no less. Who would ever believe it?"