A Traveller's Tale

Hatchet looked hard at the constable, suspecting him of irony, but Blossom's face continued to bear an expression of simple innocence. All the same, Hatchet was not pleased to be associated with the word 'cheap,' nor to be called a dick, whether private or public. He had at last succeeded in getting to his feet, albeit somewhat unsteadily, and decided to assert his dignity.

"Now look here, my good man, I am the Claims Investigator for a well-known company, the Sub Umbra Insurance Company. And I am here investigating a very serious case of insurance fraud. Here is my card."

Blossom took the proffered card, although he had already procured an identical one from Hatchet's car, and knew that it described him as a Claims Assessor, not a Claims Investigator. He said, "Serious case of insurance fraud, eh? Well, they don't let us country bobbies anywhere near big stuff like that. You'll be working with Scotland Yard then, I presume?"

"Well, er, no, not with Scotland Yard."

"Ah, it'll be East Anglia CID then, will it, Sir?"

"Well, no, the police aren't actually involved." Seeing the stony expression on Blossom's face, Hatchet hastily added, "not yet, that is."

As if talking to himself Blossom slowly intoned, "Serious case of insurance fraud, but not reported to the police." Then addressing Hatchet he said with apparent modesty, "This is obviously too important to be within my jurisdiction. I shall have to refer it higher up. Let's go and talk with my Sergeant. Is that your car in the lane, Sir? The red two-seater Singer Roadster?"

"Yes, that's mine," Hatchet confirmed, but Blossom had not finished speaking.

"The red two-seater Singer Roadster with the expired Road Fund Licence?"

"It's in the post," Hatchet said, semi-automatically.

"In the post," Blossom repeated. "That's surprisingly common, did you know that, Sir? Every time I find a vehicle with an expired tax disc, I learn that the renewal is in the post. Shockingly slow, the postal service must be. Applications for renewal piled counter-high in post offices across the land, I shouldn't wonder. I don't know why the Postmaster General doesn't do something about it. Now if you'll just come down from there, Sir, we can go and see my Sergeant."

Hatchet picked up the tripod, but as he reached for the camera bag, Blossom said, "I'll take that, Sir." Surprised by the constable's apparent assistance, Hatchet handed him the case. Blossom looked inside it and removed all the exposed rolls of film, putting them into the pocket of his tunic. He then handed the case back to Hatchet.

They both descended and stood by the Singer. Hatchet removed the binoculars and camera from around his neck and threw them onto the passenger seat, along with the tripod and the camera case. He went to get into the car, but stopped and exclaimed, "The ignition key's gone!"

"Don't worry, Sir. It's safe in my pocket."

"I need it to start the car," Hatchet said condescendingly, as if addressing a child.

"Start the car, Sir?" Blossom exclaimed in wonder. "Surely you weren't thinking of driving an unlicensed vehicle, and without insurance too?"

"It is insured," Hatchet protested. "The insurance hasn't expired."

"Are you sure of that, Sir? Can you assert with confidence that you are familiar with all the provisos of your policy? Are you certain, for example, that you have not warranted to have your vehicle regularly maintained by a mechanic authorised by the manufacturers of said vehicle or their appointed agents? And to keep written records of same? You'd be surprised what crafty clauses insurance companies slip into the small print to avoid paying out on claims. Or perhaps you wouldn't, being in the trade, as it were. It's quite possible that your policy requires you to keep your vehicle fully taxed at all times."

"So how are we going to get to wherever we're going?" Hatchet asked petulantly.

"You will have to walk, Sir, but don't worry, it's only two or three miles, and it's a lovely day for walking, isn't it? You'd better take your personal belongings with you. There's not much crime in these parts, but it's best to be on the safe side, don't you think so, Sir?"

Hatchet reluctantly retrieved the binoculars, camera, and camera case from the car and draped all three around his neck, too weary to bother stowing the camera and lens back in the case. He sloped the tripod over his shoulder like a rifle and took a suitcase from the vehicle's barely adequate luggage compartment. Thus laden he began to trudge slowly in the direction indicated by the constable, away from the inn that had been the object of his observation.

Blossom slowly followed on his bicycle, stopping now and then to savour the rear view of Hatchet's forlorn figure. "That'll teach you to bother my Bessie," he thought with a satisfied smile.

The police house from which Blossom operated was equipped, unusually, with a cell of sorts, an iron cage about the size of a large wardrobe, furnished with a single chair. After being given a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and an opportunity to use the toilet, Hatchet found himself confined in these straitened quarters. He was not there for long, however. Within two hours a police sergeant arrived by car and, after a conference with Blossom, drove a hand-cuffed Hatchet to the police station in the town. Blossom immediately conveyed this good news to Bess Granger, and was gratified by her response.

The following morning Hatchet appeared before the local magistrates charged with driving without a road fund licence or insurance, impersonating a police officer, theft of photographic equipment and materials, conduct likely to lead to a breach of the peace, violation of public decency, lewd and obscene behaviour, and loitering with intent to commit an offence.

He was convicted of the motoring offences, his insurance policy turning out to contain just such restrictive clauses as Blossom had foretold, and was fined £200. He was acquitted of impersonating a police officer, and was remanded in custody to stand trial for the remaining offences at Southeast Norfolk Quarter Sessions in three months time, the prosecuting solicitor having intimated to the magistrate that the charges, involving as they did the reputation of two irreproachable gentlewomen, warranted more severe penalties than were available to the lower court.

Hatchet had engaged a solicitor who applied for bail on his behalf, but the police sergeant had no difficulty in persuading the bench to reject the application. He had been in touch with Sub Umbra and had spoken with the Chief Claims Assessor there. He suggested to the magistrate that Hatchet's lies about his employment indicated that he was a slippery customer who would make a run for it if given half a chance.

Blossom conveyed this development also to Bess Granger. She had replied, "Oh, thank you, Joe. I'm ever so grateful." The breathy emphasis that she had placed on the word 'ever' raised hopes in his chest as to the form her gratitude might take.

* * *

Potts Returns Home

When Potts returned to duty, she was told that Inspector Worth wanted to see her. She found him in his office. "You sent for me, Sir?"

"Yes, Potts. While you were on leave, this memo from the Chief Constable was circulated. There's a shortage of CID officers, and applications are invited from suitable serving officers. In view of your work on that Nutcombe affair, I thought you might want to apply. I'd be willing to recommend you."

"Thank you, Sir, but I'd rather stay where I am."

"Really? Why's that? I would have thought you'd find CID more interesting."

"The way I look at it, Sir, is that CID are only concerned with solving crimes, but we in the uniformed service are more concerned with protecting people, and to me that is more interesting."

"I see. I forgot to ask, did you enjoy your leave?"

"Yes, thank you, Sir."

"Meet anyone interesting?"

"One might say so. I made a few new friends."

"Where was it you went? The Fens or the Broads, or somewhere like that, wasn't it?"

Potts wondered how the Inspector knew that. She had taken care not to share her holiday plans with any of her colleagues. He must have gone to some pains to learn of her destination. "Yes, Sir. I went on a cycling tour of the Broads."

"Yes. Wasn't that where your chap Jolly or Polly or whatever he was called was heading for? Still, I suppose you chose the Broads because it's good cycling country. No hills."

"Yes, Sir. Very flat, Norfolk."

The Inspector showed no sign of recognising the allusion. She sighed inwardly. If only he were a little more sophisticated, she thought, she could quite go for him. Oh, well. "Will that be all, Sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Potts. You may go."

She started to leave, but paused in the doorway, arrested by an unexpected sound behind her. She turned to see Worth studying papers on his desk while softly singing to himself, "I'll see you again, whenever Spring breaks through again." He looked up and caught her eye. "Well, Potts, what are you staring at? Didn't you know that we all have private lives?" He smiled and gave an uncharacteristic wink.

She replied with her most dazzling smile. "I know it now, Sir."

"Off you go, then. Oh, and Potts, I'm glad you're staying with us. I'd be awfully sorry to lose you, you know."

"No fear of that, Sir. I'd be sorry to lose you." As she closed the door on her way out, he heard her singing, "Some day I'll find you, Moonlight behind you..."

* * *

Hatchet on Trial

Any student of jurisprudence wishing to learn why the courts of Quarter Sessions were abolished in 1971 would do worse than to study the proceedings of the Southeast Norfolk Quarter Sessions as exemplified by the trial of Walter Harvey Hatchet in 1963 on charges of theft of photographic equipment and materials, conduct likely to lead to a breach of the peace, violation of public decency, lewd and obscene behaviour, and loitering with intent to commit an offence.

The chairman of the bench was Colonel Finchley-Fawcett, the senior Justice of the Peace for the county, proud of his reputation of having commanded the last regiment in the British Army to have abolished flogging. It is uncertain whether he was in favour of its use as a judicial punishment, as he was frequently heard to remark that it was "too good for them." He did his best to compensate for its absence by lavish use of the maximum penalties permitted by "those damned Bolshevik social workers in Parliament."

On his right he was flanked by Alderman Albert Brittle, eighty years old, hard of hearing and dim of eyesight, who could be relied on during court proceedings to give a passable imitation of the dormouse at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, and on his left by Reginald Miller, a grocer's assistant, whose appointment as a Justice of the Peace arose out of an unfortunate typing error by a junior in the offices of the County Council. Reg accepted the honour as a wondrous benefaction, and subsequently tiptoed gingerly through his judicial duties in much the same apprehensive manner as he negotiated his path around the crates of eggs in the store where he worked.

In front of the justices' bench, at a table on the floor of the court, sat Cyril Simpkins, Clerk of the Peace, appointed to that office by his uncle, Colonel Finchley-Fawcett. The Colonel had not approved of his sister Maud's marriage to 'that nosey newspaper wallah Simpkins,' but felt bound to give her offspring the benefit of his influence, especially as it did not entail any monetary outlay on his part. While coarser elements of society might stigmatise such behaviour as nepotism, the Colonel was of better bred stock amongst whom it was dignified as noblesse oblige.

These four represented Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, in the dispensing of royal justice, as signified by the Royal Coat of Arms embossed in plaster relief which occupied much of the wall behind them. Not one of them held any legal qualifications. Cyril could have delegated his function as Clerk of the Court to a solicitor, but both his uncle, the Colonel, and his father, Sidney Simpkins, editor of the local paper, urged against that course. They both considered that it would be a foolishly quixotic extravagance to share the fees.

Proceedings were opened by the prosecuting solicitor, Quentin Hunter. He was familiar with the way that magistrates of the Colonel's ilk dispensed justice, and knew that little or no effort was required from him to obtain a conviction. He had once heard a magistrate expostulate to a reluctant jury, "Of course he's guilty. He's in the dock, ain't he? You aren't going to suggest that British Police go around arresting innocent people, I hope."

Hunter offered in evidence Exhibit A, the camera and its accessories taken from Hatchet, and Exhibit B, a number of printed photographs. He called PC Blossom to describe the circumstances of Hatchet's arrest and attest to the seizure of Exhibit A, and a police technician who testified that Exhibit B were prints made by him from the exposed films in Exhibit A.

Its provenance having thus been established, Exhibit B was handed up to the magistrates' bench. Colonel Finchley-Fawcett leafed through the photographs slowly, harrumphing over each one. A few he found significant enough to warrant a double harrumph. He passed them all to Alderman Brittle, who gazed blearily at the pack, muttered, "Hmm, yes, very nice, hmm, yes," and passed them back again. They then went to Reg Miller, who looked at the first two or three, blushed, and handed them swiftly back.

When the bench had finished with them the photographs were passed, one by one, along the line of jurors. Some of the ladies among them had been knitting ("Well, there's no need to let it be an absolute waste of time, is there?"), some of the men had been engaged in filling in their football pools coupons ("You've got to have something to keep you awake, haven't you?"), and others had been conducting research into the likely outcomes of sporting events such as the 2.30 at Kempton Park on the morrow ("It's nearly as good as the library reading room for quiet thought.")

The appearance of the photographs produced an immediate demonstration of a conscientious devotion to duty. Knitting needles and wool were unhesitatingly thrust back into handbags, pools coupons were promptly set aside for later, and newspapers were hastily folded, as the jury turned its attention to a scrupulous examination of the evidence. Audible murmurs were suggestive of their interpretation. The ladies seemed inclined to put the photographs into a historical perspective -- "In my young days..." The men seemed more intent on ensuring that none of their fellows overlooked crucial clues -- "Cor, look at that."

When the last of the photographs had been recovered from the jury (with some difficulty, one of the prints having become mysteriously wedged into the jacket pocket of the foreman of that body, until spotted by a sharp eyed usher who had plans of his own for the disposition of Exhibit B), Mr Hunter called his final witness, Horace Cutting, Claims Department Manager of the Sub Umbra Insurance Company. Mr Cutting told the court that the items in Exhibit A were the property of his company, and that Hatchet did not have permission to take or use them. He further testified that at the time of the offence Hatchet was no longer employed by the company and that his activities were in no way commissioned or authorised by the company.

Mr Hunter then declared that the case for the prosecution was closed.

Hatchet had initially engaged a solicitor, who had advised him to plead guilty and invoke the mercy of the court. Hatchet had rejected that advice and was conducting his own defence. The evidence of the police witnesses he accepted without question, but Cutting he had hoped to call as a witness in his own behalf, and he felt betrayed by his appearance for the prosecution. When invited to question the witness, therefore, he was eager to do so. "Mr Cutting, please Sir, tell them I was following up on the Polyphema claim."

Hunter stood. "Your Honour, a leading question, surely?"

"Eh, question? What question? I didn't hear a question." The Colonel was tetchy, annoyed at have his mental reappraisal of the photographs interrupted.

"Whether it was a question or not, Your Honour, the accused was clearly attempting to lead the witness."

"Was he, by Jove?" Having no idea what the prosecuting solicitor meant, the Colonel decided to pass the buck. "Was the accused clearly attempting to lead the witness, Mr Clerk?" He leaned forward and fixed his gaze upon his nephew.

Cyril Simpkins was as innocent of knowledge on the subject as the Colonel, and he looked imploringly toward the seat in the public gallery where his father Sidney was sitting. Simpkins senior fulfilled his paternal obligations by giving his son an emphatic nod. Relieved, Cyril turned back to the bench and firmly announced, "Yes, he was, Your Honour."

Colonel Finchley-Fawcett, aware that he was still no wiser, wondered how the matter would have been dealt with by any of his military heroes, Caesar, or Wellington, or Napoleon. No -- Alexander, he was the man. This was a Gordian knot if there ever was one. With a satisfied smile he turned to Hunter and said, "Well you'd better tell him not to then, Mr Prosecuting Solicitor."

If Hunter was taken aback by being asked to assume a judicial function at a trial in which he was one of the contending parties, he did not show it. Inwardly praying that the circumstances might never come to the attention of an appellate court or the Law Society, he explained, "You must not lead the witness, Mr Hatchet." Hatchet's response was a baffled look. Hunter elaborated. "You may ask the witness a question, but you must not tell him how to answer it."

"Then how can I get him to explain that I was only working on a case?"

"You must ask him simply if you were."

"Oh." Hatchet turned to the witness box. "Mr Cutting, was I only working on the Polyphema insurance claim?"

The witness's reply was short and sharp. "No, you weren't."

Deflated and defeated, Hatchet gave up. He could not help suspecting that his examination of the only witness who could have helped him had not gone as well as it might.

The Colonel was getting impatient. "Well, are we done now then?"

Hunter rose. "The prosecution does not wish to address the jury, Your Honour, but perhaps the defence does."

The Colonel was grateful for the hint, and glared at Hatchet. "Do you want to address the jury then?"

Hatchet's spirits rose. With renewed confidence he announced, "Yes m'Lud, I do." He had seen many courtroom dramas at the pictures, and knew how this scene went. Here was where defending counsel demolished the case for the prosecution and won a last minute acquittal from an astonished jury. "May I leave the dock to do so?"

The Colonel leaned forward and made a whispered enquiry of the Clerk. The Clerk looked towards the public gallery. Sidney Simpkins nodded. The Clerk twisted round and whispered a reply to the bench. The chairman of the bench gave his judicial ruling. "Yes, all right then, you may." He managed to make it sound like a generous personal concession, rather than a constitutional right.

Hatchet took a few strides up and down in front of the jury, then he stood facing them with his feet slightly apart. The Colonel's lips tightened into a suggestion of a smile, and his hand moved towards his gavel.

Hatchet grasped the lapels of his jacket, and rocked to and fro onto his toes. A cadaverous grin grew on the Colonel's face as he grasped the gavel and raised it. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Hatchet began. "My learned friend has told you..."

Crash! The gavel came down with a force which almost snapped its handle. "He's not your learned friend," the Colonel spat out malevolently.