The End of the Road

Humphrey Snoad was on his way to London in his Jaguar Mk V saloon. His secretary, Miss Violet Vance, was in the passenger seat alongside him. She sat turned towards him, with one arm along the back of his seat. Her position impeded his driving because her body was pressed against his left arm, and her knees were in such close proximity to the gear lever that contact with her legs was unavoidable whenever he wished to change gear. Snoad was a patient man, however, and made no complaint. His tolerance extended to forgiving Violet's lack of secretarial skills. Snoad believed that there were more important things in life than shorthand and typing.

Proceeding south on the B6803 he saw with surprise that workmen were erecting a sign indicating Honeypot Lane as the recommended route. Obediently, he turned into it. He threaded his way along the lane and around the first bend, avoiding the workmen on both sides of the road. Suddenly the Jaguar's engine coughed, hiccupped twice, and stopped. Snoad coasted into the side of the road, switched off the ignition, and studied the dashboard to see what was amiss. His examination revealed that the choke knob was fully out, Violet having discovered that in that position it made an excellent hook from which to hang the small silver lamé bag in which she was wont to carry the necessary equipment for the maintenance of her face and nails.

"Oh, Mr Snoad, you're not going to tell me that you've run out of petrol, are you?" she asked girlishly. "That's so old hat."

Snoad delicately removed the vanity bag from the choke control and gently handed it to her. "No, the carb's flooded, that's all. We just have to wait a few minutes for it to clear." He pushed the knob back in and got out of the car. "You're lucky it isn't a broken fan belt," he said. "I might have had to ask you for one of your nylons to replace it."

"Well, I guess you'd be entitled to, Mr Snoad," she replied. "The merchandise belongs to the buyer, doesn't it?" The car was too close to the fence for her to alight from her side, so she slid across the front seats, hitching her skirt up to swing her knees over the gear stick, and swivelled her legs out of the driver's door. Snoad eyed the display appreciatively, but the merchandise he was assessing was not the hosiery.

* * *

Albert Parkin ran a dairy herd. Whenever he had any surplus or spoiled milk, he supplied it to his brother John to feed to his pigs. Ron, Albert's most junior farmhand, would load the churns onto a flatbed trailer, hitch it to a tractor, and drive it the length of Honeypot Lane from one farm to the other. He was accustomed to relieve the boredom of this task by imagining that he was behind the wheel of a racing car travelling some twenty times faster than his true speed. In his head he would hear the trackside commentary: "And here comes Hawthorn in the Thinwall Special, taking Lavant Corner in superb style, hanging the rear end out in a four-wheel drift as only he can. This looks like being a lap record!" Suiting his actions to the words as closely as he could, he would flatten out the first right-hand bend by approaching it from the left-hand side of the road, bearing right towards the inside apex of the curve, then heading back into the left-hand side beyond it.

He was therefore somewhat put out to find workmen erecting two road signs, one on the left-hand side just before the curve, and another on the right-hand side just after, requiring him to take a serpentine course in order to avoid them. He had no sooner cleared the second group than he found himself heading towards the rear end of a Jaguar, parked with the offside door wide open, forcing him back to the extreme right-hand side of the road. As he came alongside the offending vehicle he turned his head to the left with the intention of offering some colourful advice to the driver, but froze when he saw two female legs exposed in a manner the like of which he had never encountered except in his dreams and certain magazines which he sometimes bought from a back-street shop in Nutchester.

He was jolted out of his momentary trance when the right hand front wheel of the tractor left the road. Hurriedly he jerked the steering wheel left. The resulting twitch to the tow bar pulled the right-hand wheels of the trailer into the ditch. The trailer tilted, churns tumbled, and milk flowed. Ron switched the tractor's engine off, and heard the commentator in his head saying excitedly, "Hawthorn's in trouble! He's come to a stop off the track! The back markers he was lapping ignored the blue flags, and obstructed him. There'll be a stewards' enquiry into this incident, that's for sure!"

* * *

The Engineers Department of the County Council had routinely notified Nutshire Constabulary of the impending work on the B6983, in case the resultant obstruction might require traffic control measures. This was the cause of some amusement at Police Headquarters, but to humour the local authority Police Inspector Worth was ordered to take the requisite action, it being left to his discretion as to what, if anything, that entailed. Worth assigned newly qualified Policewoman Sheila Potts to maintain along that route a free flow of traffic, which he expected to be nil.

Full of enthusiasm for her first solo assignment, WPC Potts pedalled her bicycle along Honeypot Lane. Blushing pleasurably from the remarks of the workmen at the eastern end, where she had entered, she made little effort to control her skirt as she approached the workmen at the first bend, and was rewarded by admiring wolf whistles. As she rounded the bend, however, she was sharply reminded of her official responsibilities by the sight of a tractor and trailer in the ditch one side of the road, and a stationary vehicle the other side just beyond it. Here was a situation requiring constabulary control, and she hastened towards it.

* * *

RAC patrol man Harry Green was riding his motorcycle and sidecar along the B6803. He stopped when he saw the work going on at the end of Honeypot Lane. After examining the road map which had been issued to him, he asked one of the roadmen, "What's going on here then? I thought this was just a track to the farm."

"Used to be," the workman replied, "but the council adopted it a bit back. It's a through road now, the B6983."

"Blimey," Green replied, "wonders will never cease. I suppose I'd better add it to my route." He remounted his machine and rode slowly into the lane. As he rounded the first bend, he saw before him a stationary Jaguar at the left-hand side, beyond which was a tractor and trailer in the ditch on the right. Beyond that again was a policewoman on a bicycle pedalling rapidly towards the scene. He manœuvred his machine around the Jaguar and looked back anxiously at its double bumper. Ah, thank goodness, there was the familiar blue and white badge indicating RAC associate membership. It would not have done to find a vehicle of that class sporting the chromium plate and yellow enamel of the plebeian AA. He dismounted and addressed Snoad. "Good morning, sir. Can I be of assistance?"

* * *

There had been a daring prison escape that morning. Taking advantage of the complacency of one of their custodians, two prisoners had stolen the truck which collected the waste bins and had driven off. They were now on their way to a pre-arranged meeting for a change of getaway car. The alarm for the vehicle they had taken would have gone out almost immediately, and they were fearful of running into a road block.

"Christ, Frank, can't you go any faster? Put your foot down, for Gawd's sake," Stan complained anxiously.

"Don't be daft," Frank replied. "The limit's forty along here. We're doing thirty-nine now. The last thing we need is to be stopped for speeding. It can't be far now," he added reassuringly. "This is the B6804. We turn off somewhere along here, up a quiet little by-road Charlie's found, where he'll be waiting for us in a clean car."

"What if he ain't there?"

"He will be, don't worry. He won't let us down. He'll be parked nice and quiet. All we have to do is stop, get out of the truck, and get in the back of Charlie's car. He'll drive away, leaving the truck where it is. It won't take a minute, and the truck won't be found for hours - days, even."

* * *

Fred Digby looked admiringly at the love of his life, a 1925 Robey steamroller. Its panels were painted in British racing green with gold lining, polished twisted brass rods supported the canopy, and other visible parts were newly painted with black gloss enamel. The six foot smoke stack was matt black, embellished by a polished brass collar. It was all fired up and ready to go. Fred mounted the footplate and drove it at walking pace into Honeypot Lane.

* * *

"Here it is!" Frank said, relief evident in his voice as he turned into Honeypot Lane. "We're nearly home and dry!"

His exultation turned to disbelief as he rounded the first bend and found himself behind a steamroller trundling slowly along the middle of the road.

* * *

Charlie approached Honeypot Lane on the B6803 driving a totally legal Ford Pilot. He was rattled to see the roadworks in progress, but reckoned that if he kept his head and acted normally, it need make no difference to the escape plan. He turned into the lane and drove slowly along it. As he rounded the first bend a policewoman stepped into the middle of the road and held up an imperious hand to stop him. There was a stationary tractor to the right, hitched to an overturned trailer, and to the left a stationary Jaguar and a motorcycle combination, beside which were two men, one in uniform and one in plain clothes. Charlie wondered how they could have got roadblocks out so quickly, and why, on this so very, very minor road. Stan and Frank must have ratted on him.

He was about to give himself up to the policewoman when she looked up and down the road, and seeing no other moving traffic stepped aside and waved him through. He drove slowly forward, threading his way between the other vehicles. He noticed that the uniformed man was RAC, not Police, and admonished himself for his momentary panic.

His sigh of relief stuck in his throat as a steamroller rounded the bend ahead and came towards him. He pulled up sharply, and the roller stopped, almost touching his bumper.

* * *

Inspector Worth wondered how WPC Potts was getting on. It must be boring for the poor girl, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, directing non-existent traffic. He decided to live up to his rank, and inspect her performance. Besides, it would be a good excuse to take a run out in the force's latest acquisition, a Wolseley 6/80 police car. He sat on its leather seat and gloated over its burr walnut panel studded with instruments, raising his eyes to gaze along an extensive bonnet to the winged 'W' radiator cap ornament. In his mind's eye he could see the front of the vehicle, the illuminated sign 'POLICE' across the front of the radiator, and the bumper sporting a chromium plated spot lamp and bell. He felt like a real policeman.

He drove out along the B6804 and turned into Honeypot Lane. Around the first bend he found himself stuck behind a truck which had been brought to a halt behind a steamroller.

* * *

Charlie glared angrily at Fred, who was standing unperturbed on the footplate behind the vast boiler of the steamroller. Charlie raised both his hands, palms forward, and made little pushing motions, indicating that he wished Fred to back up. Fred extended one arm out of the side of his vehicle and made a gesture with two fingers, indicating that Charlie's wishes were of little consequence to him.

Charlie wondered if an audible signal might be more effective, and gave two toots of his horn. Fred smiled benignly and pulled on a cord above his head. The blast of a steam whistle rent the air, outdecibelling Charlie ten to one. Charlie decided that duration might compensate for volume, and leant upon the horn button. Fred was glad to respond in kind, confident that he had a sufficient reserve of steam.

WPC Potts looked up angrily. The proper use of horns and whistles was to give audible warning of approach. Their use in a stationary vehicle was an offence under the Road Traffic Acts. In order to quell the noise she took her police whistle from her tunic pocket and blew long shrill blasts as hard as she could.

Despite the intervening presence of the garbage truck, the steamroller, and Charlie's Ford Pilot, Inspector Worth recognised the sound of a police whistle, and knew that a colleague was in need of assistance. It must be Policewoman Potts, he realised. What had he let her in for? To reassure her that her signal had been recognised, and that help was on its way, he flipped a switch on the dash of the Wolseley, and the strident intermittent ringing of the police car's bell joined the musical ensemble.

During a brief pause in the performance, perhaps a mere semi-breve's rest, a fifth instrument was heard - the distinctive cry of a hunting horn, augmented by a chorus of baying hounds. A flash of russet brown fur flew across the road and disappeared into a field of cabbages the other side. It was swiftly followed, first by the pack in full cry, streaming across the road, and next by a huntsman, who reined in and viewed the scene with concern.

On his side of the road was the original hedge, low enough and with sufficient gaps to have been little problem in the past to most members of the hunt. But the landing on the other side was now tarmac, and on the far side of the road was a new four foot rail fence which would test an expert show jumper even with a decent approach. He raised the horn to his lips again and blew a signal call. This brought two whippers-in galloping up. After a quick consultation with the huntsman they dismounted and scrambled through the hedge into the roadway, brandishing their whips and calling to the hounds with smaller versions of the huntsman's horn. They had decided to call off the hunt and get the hounds to return the way they had come.

The huntsman was soon joined by another horseman. "What the devil's going on, Plumleigh?" he demanded. "Who put this damned road across here? Never used to be a road here."

"The County Council constructed it a year or two ago, Master," the huntsman replied.

"Huh! I might have guessed it would be those blasted Bolsheviks."

"Actually, Master, it was while the Conservatives were in power. Councillor Shelby was chairman of the Highways Committee, and he proposed it."

"Did he, by thunder. I shall have something to say about that." Viscount Hardcastle was not only Master of the Hunt, he was also Lord Lieutenant of the County, and President of the County Conservative and Unionist Association. Plumleigh was glad he was not in Shelby's shoes.

* * *

When they heard the sound of the police bell behind them, Stan and Frank literally jumped in their seats. They looked back and saw for the first time the unmistakable police car and the uniformed Inspector himself.

"It's a trap!" Frank said, "And we've driven right into it. They must have been tipped off. They couldn't have got onto us so quick otherwise."

"It's got to have been your friend Charlie," Stan said accusingly. "He told us to come this way. Nothing we can do about it now. We'll just have to give ourselves up and deal with Charlie when we get out."

The two got out of the truck and walked towards Inspector Worth with their hands held high.

Worth was about to go to the assistance of WPC Potts and was beginning to edge around the truck on foot. His surprise at the odd behaviour of its occupants turned to enlightenment when he saw the legend 'HM Prison Service' on the door of the vehicle. He immediately remembered receiving a report of a prison escape that morning. He quickly retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his car and manacled Stan and Frank together. He thrust them ahead of him as he made his way forward.

Once the Inspector and his two prisoners got past the steamroller, they saw Policewoman Potts standing next to the Ford Pilot talking to Charlie through the open window of the driver's door. She was lecturing him on the law regarding the use of motor horns, but Stan and Frank assumed that she was conferring with the informant. Stan called out loudly, "You won't get away with this, Charlie, dobbing us in! Just wait until we get out!"

Startled by the unexpected appearance of a second police officer, Charlie instinctively responded, "Shut up, you fool!"

The significance of this exchange was not lost upon the Inspector. "Potts! Arrest that man!" he called, indicating Charlie.

Sheila Potts was sure that the police training manual did not recommend so drastic a response to stationary horn sounding, but she was glad that a superior officer's order gave her the chance to make her first arrest. She took the handcuffs from her belt and swiftly clapped them around Charlie's wrists, saying, "Right, sunshine, you're nicked!" She knew that that was not the official formula, but the time-hallowed expression was more in keeping with the exhilaration of the occasion than the dreary old statutory caution.

* * *

Dalgleish had looked forward to travelling north from London sitting alongside an attentive Wedge, chatting familiarly in the back of a comfortable chauffeur driven saloon - a Humber Hawk perhaps, or maybe even a Super Snipe - followed by another vehicle or two containing reporters, photographers, and newsreel cameramen. Unfortunately Wedge had not shared this vision, or, perhaps more likely, he had anticipated just such a situation, and had resolutely declined to share it. Either way, he had delegated Smithers to see at first hand the scandal of Honeypot Lane.

At the appointed rendezvous that morning Dalgleish was taken aback when Smithers turned up in a two-door Austin A30. The driver alighted, tipped the driver's seat forward, and pointed to the back seat. As Dalgleish awkwardly inserted himself into the narrow space, Smithers performed introductions. "Robin here will drive us; he's my son-in-law. Robin, this here is Mr Doorglass, who's going to show us the unused road." Robin acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod as he resumed his seat behind the wheel. Dalgleish hoped that Robin might slide his seat forward a bit, but was disappointed. Smithers had the front passenger seat fully back too, leaving so little legroom in the back that Dalgleish was obliged to sit sideways to accommodate his knees, his feet either side of the transmission tunnel. If he had known it would turn out like this, he would have arranged that they use his own car, but it was too late for that now.

"Where are we meeting the Press?" he asked, hoping that he might get a chance to switch to another vehicle. "It's Dalgleish by the way."

"Press? What do you mean, Press?" Smithers asked.

"Well, you know, reporters and so on."

"Reporters? I don't need a reporter to tell me what I can see with my own eyes, Digbush."

"But photographers, we need photographs as evidence. It's Dalgleish."

"Oh, our Robin can take any snaps we need. Got your trusty Brownie with you, I hope, Robin?"

The taciturn Robin patted the pocket of his car coat, and gave a quaint twist of his head in confirmation, before starting the car and driving off. Thereafter Smithers and Robin discussed family matters, and for the next three hours Dalgleish was given no opening for conversation until they reached the turn-off from the A6, when Smithers suddenly said, "Looks like we've got a choice of routes here, Dollblush. Which do we take, the B6803 or the B6804?"

Dalgleish had been rapt in contemplation of his own misery, and was taken unawares by the question. Unwilling to confess ignorance of the highways of his own constituency, he guessed that the road with the lower number must be the better route, and directed Robin to take the B6803. Within fifteen minutes they were stuck in a traffic jam in the centre of Tidmarton.