‘GENTLEMEN,’ said a giant of a man in uniform, carefully squeezing out of the police car. He was what one might call an old-fashioned-sized policeman. Morley was one of those who had campaigned for the abolition of the minimum height requirement for the police, believing that it excluded the very type of men who should have been recruited, from all backgrounds and classes. (See his article, ‘Police or Militia?’ in the Daily Herald, 23 March 1937.) Nonetheless, even he was clearly impressed by the appearance of this behemoth in blue, who was possessed of the chiselled, sharp-jawed features of a matinee idol: he was Boris Karloff, played by John Barrymore. Miriam I thought I heard simper. In his uniform, and with his commanding height and presence, the policeman was in every regard the opposite of the grimy little fishermen gathered around us. His companion, however, was of rather more normal size and alarmingly fresh-faced, almost childlike in appearance: indeed he looked not so much like a policeman as like someone done up in a police uniform, as if the big man were taking his son on a work outing. Together they looked like a music hall comedy duo.
‘Mr Adkins,’ said Vince, in unfriendly greeting.
‘Vince,’ said the giant policeman.
‘Lost your way? Looking for a police box? There’s none round here!’ called out one of the men with the Cowley Brothers. ‘Get back to Colchester where you belong!’
‘Somebody call the police? Or the local circus?’ called another man, to much merriment – referring, I presume, to the mismatched height and appearance of the two policemen.
The big policeman – Mr Adkins – ignored the men. He seemed rather more interested in us.
‘Who are this lot?’ he asked, not politely, I have to say, nodding towards us.
‘This bloke here’s a writer,’ said Vince, ‘and these are his … what do you call ’em?’
‘Assistants,’ I said, whatdoyoucallem not being a term I cared to answer to, though during my time with Morley I was often called much worse.
‘Swanton Morley,’ said Morley, going to shake the constable’s hand. ‘At your service.’ The policeman showed a flash of recognition: Morley often excited a second glance among the aspiring lower and middle classes, his books being a mainstay among those who wished to pull themselves up by their bootstraps; and the average English bobby, I always found, was surprisingly aspirant and forever up-and-coming, the very epitome of ambition. In all my years with Morley I think I met more ambitious self-educated policemen than I met intelligent KCs, upstanding Masters of City Companies, or insightful Viennese-style professors: the whole country was rife with bright young thrusting bobbies. But few of them possessed PC Adkins’s sheer physical presence. ‘My my,’ said Morley, drawing back, hand duly shaken. ‘That’s a handspan and a half you have there, sir! A hand that shook the hand that shook the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan!’
‘Sidney’s the current British Police light heavyweight champion, actually,’ said Vince. ‘Isn’t that right, Sidney?’
‘Currently, yes,’ confirmed the big-fisted policeman, as though conscious that the title might any moment be snatched away.
‘Aha!’ said Morley. ‘Of course!’
‘Look, Vince,’ said the mighty Adkins. ‘I won’t beat around the bush.’ You certainly wouldn’t have wanted him to beat around the bush: the bush wouldn’t have stood a chance. He produced a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘I’m afraid we’ve notice here from the council that the fishery’s to be shut.’
‘What?’ said Vince. ‘The fishery? What’s wrong with the fishery?’
‘With immediate effect,’ said PC Adkins, holding up the notice.
‘What’s going on?’ said Vince, taking only a cursory glance at the piece of paper. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
It was not some sort of joke. Adkins explained exactly what was going on.
‘You’ll be aware of the death of Arthur Marden?’
‘Of course. And what’s it got to do with us?’ asked Vince.
‘Further to police investigations it seems that there’s the possibility the death may have been caused by the consumption of unpurified oysters.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Vince.
‘Yes. I doubt that very much, Officer,’ said Morley. ‘The last major outbreak of poisoning from oysters was back in 1902, I do think I’m right in saying, when the Dean of Westminster – Winchester? – Westminster? – and a number of others got sick from a batch of contaminated Brightlingsea oysters at a feast not unlike—’
PC Adkins held up his not inconsiderable hand, which even Morley was obliged to obey.
‘Thank you. We have information that the oysters for the Oyster Feast were supplied by the Colne Oyster Fishery, is that correct?’
‘Of course they were supplied by the Colne Oyster Fishery,’ said Vince. ‘You know that. We always supply them.’
‘Which is why the fishery’s to be shut down with immediate effect, Vince. You understand.’
‘Everything we produce here goes through the purifying plant.’
‘Well, maybe something slipped through?’ said PC Adkins’s small and hitherto silent companion.
During the course of this exchange the Cowley Brothers and their friends had sidled up close and were now standing alongside us.
‘Problem then, Vince?’ asked Joe Cowley. ‘Caught out, eh? What you been up to? You been a naughty boy?’
‘Hold on,’ said Vince. ‘Where’s this stuff about unpurified oysters come from? Who gave you the information? Who was it? Was it Len Starling, or was it them?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Vince,’ explained PC Adkins. ‘At this point all you’re required to do is simply shut the plant.’
‘Are you trying to stitch us up?’ Vince demanded of the Cowleys and the other independent oystermen. The Cowleys and their cronies shrugged their shoulders and huddled close together.
‘All we need you to do at the moment is shut the plant,’ repeated PC Adkins.
‘I’m not shutting the fishery,’ said Vince. ‘It’s our livelihood.’
‘Now you know how it feels!’ shouted one of the independent oystermen.
‘Yeah,’ came the chorus of agreement.
‘You—’ began Vince.
PC Adkins held him back with a commanding arm. ‘You are going to close the fishery,’ he told Vince. ‘And you’ – he pointed towards the Cowleys – ‘are going to mind your own business. Go on, get away.’
‘I said I’m not closing the fishery,’ said Vince.
‘In which case we’ll have to do it for you, won’t we?’ said PC Adkins. He nodded towards his featherweight companion, and the two of them began walking towards the purification building.
‘You’re not going anywhere near it!’ said Vince, blocking PC Adkins’s way.
Unfortunately, the underlying threat of violence that seemed to me to have been hovering ever since we’d arrived in Essex now fully erupted. The Cowleys pulled Vince back from holding back PC Adkins, PC Adkins pushed back against the Cowleys, and then Mr Storey weighed in, and then Vince, and the Cowleys’ cronies, and before you knew it there was a full-scale brawl taking place before us.
I quickly ushered Miriam and Morley inside the Cadillac, locked them in, and offered what assistance I could to the Essex constabulary, though my bandaged hand prevented me from doing much apart from prising men apart. Order was quickly restored, I’m delighted to say, though I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of a blow from PC Adkins’s truncheon. The fishery was closed. The crowd was dispersed. It was an average Essex affray.
We drove back to Colchester in uncharacteristic silence. Miriam dealt with matters in her usual fashion: toss of the head, leather gauntlets on, a quick reapplication of lipstick and the foot firmly on the accelerator, but Morley seemed rather shaken up. He abhorred violence of course but he also seemed to be occupied with something. He was sketching and writing in one of his fiddly German pocket notebooks. As we approached the outskirts of Colchester he slapped the notebook shut.
‘Everything all right, Mr Morley?’ I asked.
‘Not really, Sefton, no.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘There’s a problem here.’
‘Problem?’
You never quite knew what kind of problem Morley might mean when he mentioned a ‘problem’: it could be a crossword puzzle sort of a problem, a conundrum, an intellectual sort of a problem requiring an ingenious solution; or it could be a practical problem, relating perhaps to the day-to-day running of his affairs, or the affairs of others, in which he often liked to interfere, and which required fixing; or it could indeed be a moral and spiritual problem affecting the whole of mankind, which might require his moral insight and guidance. This problem turned out to be all three sorts of problem in one.
‘You know, man is so often his own worst enemy, Sefton.’
‘Indeed, Mr Morley,’ I said.
‘We bring misfortune upon ourselves.’
‘Yes. That’s true.’
‘I’m beginning to think there’s more to the death of Arthur Marden than meets the eye.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Well, of course there is, Father!’ said Miriam, banging the steering wheel. ‘I’ve been saying that all along!’
‘Yes. Which means it may be time for us to investigate further.’
‘Oh no!’ said Miriam, immediately slamming on the brakes. The Cadillac came to a screeching halt – excellent brakes, unfaultable – and all three of us were nearly thrown through the windscreen. Fortunately there were no cars behind us or Willett’s would have had their Cadillac most comprehensively crunched. ‘Oh no. No no no. Non-QED,’ said Miriam. ‘Non sequitur, Father. Not. Happening.’ The car had now come to a complete halt in the middle of the road.
‘What on earth are you doing, Miriam?’ asked Morley.
‘I’ll tell you what I am not doing, Father. I am not staying in bloody Essex a day longer.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Why?’ said Miriam. ‘Because we have a book to write.’
‘Of course. We always have a book to write.’
‘And we’re falling behind again.’
‘When you get to my age, my dear,’ said Morley, ‘you will come to realise there’s nothing but falling behind, and so fall behind we inevitably must, until we can fall behind no longer. And if there’s a mystery to solve I’m afraid we have no choice but to fall behind.’
‘Oh no, but we do,’ said Miriam. ‘That’s the point. Just because there’s a mystery to be solved it doesn’t mean we have to solve it, Father. The police have clearly got everything in hand.’
‘And there’s the problem I was talking about, Sefton.’
‘Where?’ I said.
‘What?’ said Miriam.
‘I’m afraid the police are barking up the wrong tree,’ said Morley.
‘No,’ said Miriam. ‘Not again.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Morley. ‘Again.’ He had that familiar twinkle in his moustache. ‘Barking up the wrong tree entirely.’