Publican's Progress: Huntley-in-the-Bog Mysteries, #1

By James Court

All Arthur ever wanted to do was run a pub. When the brewery offered him a tenacy of a run down rural inn he couldn't believe his luck. But, like the wishes granted to greedy children by fairies, Arthur soon found that there were unexpected obstacles to fulfilling his dream....

And then the body count started to rise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Court
• Release date: Feb 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386241850

James Court

James was brought up in Hove, Sussex, on the slopes of the South Downs, but with some of his childhood time spent in rural Huntingdonshire. From an early age he wrote fiction, including co-writing a well received comic pantomime for the local YMCA in his teens. James is best known for his humorous novels. Especially his series of four volumes describing life in Peckham, South London, in the 1960s. The Peckham Novels are set in a factory, staffed by idiots and run by an incompetent boss, until the beautiful Tracey Mulligan takes a hand in its management. They are quirky, comedic and highly improbable. One reviewer described them as ‘The Carry On’ team meet Tom Sharpe’. Book 1 - Strudwick's Successor Book 2 - Mulligan's Revenge Book 3 - Paint the Town Red Book 4 - Farewell to Peckham Also set in the late sixties is The Parsonage Plots, another comedic novel set around a number of idiosyncratic allotment plot holders. Set in Bournemouth in the 1960s, Percy’s Predicament tells the tale of lost love, and crime in the world of accountancy. But not everybody is what they claim to be, and bets on the colour of hippy’s nail varnish are an established office pastime. Moving back in time to 1955, Publican’s Progress is a Wodehouse style humorous murder mystery set in rural Dorset. The main character is a young man who has always wanted to run a pub. But, like the wishes granted by fairies to greedy children, when he does get offered a tenancy he quickly finds that having your wish come true does not always end happily, and life can get very complicated. Then the body count starts to rise... James’s humorous rural romantic two part novel, The Whitedown Chronicles, which is set in post-war Kent, describes an isolated community as it struggles to put tragedy behind it. James is a member of a group of writers who collectively form the INCA Project. The project is a set of like-minded authors who aspire to meet a simple criterion as set down by the late Oscar Wilde, who said, and I paraphrase here, "There are no such things as bad books. They are well written or badly written, that is all."

Book preview

Edition Number: 1

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are the subject of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations or objects, existing or existed is purely coincidental.

It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Copyright © 2018

All rights reserved.

ISBN 13:

DEDICATION

For Sophie, who brings joy to all who know her.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Grateful thanks go to Margaret, my proof-reader, and the team at the Inca Project for their support in the development of this novel.

CONTENTS

Licensed to Spill

1.  THE POTENTIAL PUBLICAN

2.  Interview Preparation

3.  Who’s Interviewing Who?

4.  The Dart of Happiness

5.  Landlord of All I Survey

6.  Surplus to Requirements?

7.  Moving Day

8.  First night nerves?

9.  Elizabeth’s Preference

10.  Art for Art’s Sake

11.  A Full Bodied Vintage

12.  Porridge and Spam

13.  The Romantic Art of Interrogation

14.  Unexpected Guests

15.  The Body of Evidence

16.  Man’s Sacrifice for His Art

17.  The Long Arm, and Memory, of the Law

18.  Hiding in Plain Sight

19.  Dinner for Two

20.  Watch the Birdies

21.  A Mad Scramble

22.  Gathering Evidence

23.  A Formal Hearing

The Potential Publican

Arthur Shuffleworth heard the letter box flap snap back, and put down his cup of tea. He scraped his chair along the kitchen lino, heaved his braces up over his shoulders as he rose, and hurried down the scullery passageway. On the doormat were four envelopes. He scooped them up, and went back to finish his breakfast.

Anything interesting? mumbled his mother, through a mouthful of hairpins, as she pulled the Carmen rollers from her head, and back-combed each lock of hair as she went.

Arthur scanned the envelopes.

Rates demand... Gas bill... Another letter from Aunt Florence, said Arthur slowly, as he recognised the return address printed on the fourth envelope, and one for me. I'll read it later, or I’ll be late for work.

He tossed three envelopes across the table, and laid the fourth beside his plate. Then he grabbed the last slice of toast in the rack, gulped down his lukewarm tea, and cursed under his breath for having forgotten to use the tea strainer. Clenching the toast in his teeth to free up his hands,he picked up his letter, turned, and reached for his jacket.

I might be extra late tonight, Mum, he uttered through teeth clamped on the remnants of his breakfast, as he headed for the front door. I've got to see someone at the Black Bear.

Arthur closed the door quietly, stepped round the two pints of gold top, and headed along the pavement to the bus stop. He was just in time to see a No 7 trolley bus glide off round the corner. Normally he would have sworn at this, but today it gave him time to read the letter, before inevitably meeting acquaintances on the next bus. Rapidly tearing chunks out of the toast with his teeth as he walked, he took possession of first place in a future queue at the bus stop, and stuffed the remaining corner of burnt Wonderloaf in his mouth to chew with the tea leaves.

Arthur rubbed any crumbs from his hands, then reached into his jacket pocket and took out the letter. He held it for a moment to feel the weight, before carefully peeling it open, and unfolding the three sheets of thick cream paper inside.

Arthur was so engrossed in his letter, that he nearly missed the bus as it rolled almost silently to a halt beside him. He quickly folded the paper, and stepped up onto the platform.

Morning, Arthur. Late again? came a voice from half way down the vehicle.

Hello, Pete, he replied, as he grabbed the pillar to keep himself upright. You’re not so early yourself.

Pete smiled, and waited until Arthur had seated himself.

Took Irene to the pictures again last night, and detoured via the chippy on the way home.

You’re seeing a lot of Irene, ain’t you? I suppose you’ll be taking her out again tonight.

Not sure, replied a thoughtful Pete. That depends on if her mother works out why she had chip fat on her blouse buttons.

Well, it’s easy done, walking and eating chips at the same time. Why should her mother object?

It was buttoned down the back, under her cardigan. And we weren’t walking. We’d stopped off in the Rec for a bit.

Oh! said Arthur, as he wondered just how big a bit Pete got. Irene was a well developed girl.

Perhaps you can come to the Black Bear tonight then. We’re one short on the darts team.

I’ll phone Irene at lunchtime, and let you know later.

Pete reached up, and yanked the bell cord, as the junction of North and South Streets came into view.

Fine. I’ll pop round about one.

Pete frowned. It was a good walk from the bicycle factory where Arthur worked to Pete’s father’s hardware store. A bit far if Arthur was going to get any lunch as well. Clearly he had more on his mind than darts.

When Pete alighted, Arthur fished the letter out of his pocket, and reread the last page. It was an offer from the brewery of a tenancy of one of their tied public houses. He smiled at the several patches of correcting fluid, which did not quite match the colour of the paper.

There was also an obviously missed typing error, for the premises offered were typed as the ‘Couch & Pair’. Arthur conjured up a vision of a pub sign of two galloping steeds pulling a battered settee with a coachman perched on one arm as he blew his horn. But his smile faded as he reviewed the conditions attached to the offer. Arthur had to find a way of convincing the brewers that he met them... even though he didn’t.

Arthur had always wanted to run a pub, ever since he was first left in his pushchair outside the Red Lion with a bag of crisps and a bottle of pop while his mother met friends inside. The smells and noises that drifted out as the door opened to admit drinkers beckoned to him – a world of excitement and intrigue that was forbidden to children. He had started visiting these exciting places as soon as he got his first pay packet from the cycle factory, and had not been disappointed by what he found there.

For Arthur it was not the lure of alcohol, but the characters that he could observe. Courting couples, red nosed old businessmen, blowsy young trollops with a different man each week, sullen solitary figures in dark corners drowning their perpetual sorrows in a beer glass, and a host of other bit players placed there for his entertainment, as he sat with a half of mild watching the world go by.

At the age of seventeen Arthur was on first name terms with half the landlords in the town, and by the time he had his eighteenth birthday, and became legally allowed to purchase alcoholic beverages, he knew every single one, and their wives’ names as well. But Arthur did not spend all his spare time in public houses. He found a correspondence school, that offered courses in hotel management, bar-tending and brewing. The school charged its fees in guineas, which Arthur took to be a sign of good reputation, and signed up for all three courses simultaneously. He passed the exams by post with very high marks, and received three elaborate certificates that he framed, and hung on his bedroom wall alongside photographs of the Tamplin Brewery in Kemp Town, Brighton and the old Booth’s Gin factory in Clerkenwell, London.

Familiarity with the proprietors of the town’s licensed establishments led on to Arthur occasionally being asked to help out in exchange for a pint or two. Gaining access to the other side of the bar, and the rows of barrels in cellars approached by trapdoors and rickety flights of steps was a delight to him. Menial tasks such as collecting and washing glasses, or emptying ash-trays gave him an opportunity to study his companions at very close quarters.

There was one favourite customer, who always wore very low cut dresses to remind her gentlemen companions of the treats in store for them once they furnished her with sufficient liquid refreshment and trinkets, whose ash-tray Arthur would keep spotless by regular attention; leaning forward over her table as he wiped and polished the cut glass container to dazzling clarity. There were days when he wished she would take up smoking, so he could increase his frequency of attendance there.

Arthur’s regular habitation of the town’s licensed premises had eventually earned him a regular job as evening barman in the Black Bear, and organiser of both the darts team and the Christmas club. The wage paid for his regular Wednesday to Sunday shifts was a cash in hand eight bob a night, occasional tips from saloon bar customers, plus first pick at the curled edged liver sausage and cheese sandwiches in the glass case on the bar, once last orders were called. Once he’d taken his choice of the flatter specimens, he would then cut up the remainder of the case’s contents for the landlord’s giant hound.

Coupled with Arthur’s wages from the cycle factory, and his absence of free time to spend money, he had amassed the sum of almost three hundred pounds in the building society. More than enough to cover the deposit that the brewery required of an incoming tenant. In fact, the deposit demanded for the establishment they offered him was remarkably small. Much smaller than he expected

Arthur stood up, and joined the queue to alight at the little factory estate. Breaking into a trot he reached the gatehouse, to push his time-card into the punch machine at one minute to eight o’clock. He then went through to the locker room, and exchanged his jacket for his brown storeman’s coat.

Arthur often wondered about the coat. Mechanics working on the heavy machinery wore blue overalls, and the canteen staff had white coats that matched the clinical way in which they dissected the meat and suet puddings. But the light assemblers, of which Arthur was one, had no uniform and most opted to wear the cheap brown, long cotton jackets that were compulsory in the stores.

Arthur nodded to a few fellow workers as he made his way upstairs to his workshop. For the past month they had been building an export order of crows-foot pattern forty spoke rear tandem wheels, and he was earning a nice bonus of overtime with Saturday and Sunday working to fulfil the order on time.

He spun the wheel in his jig, running a spoon filched from the canteen lightly against the spokes as they passed, and listened for any high or flat notes. But there was no variation in tone, so he unclamped the wheel from the jig to put it on the rack of completed units.

ARTHUR WORKED WITH almost machine-like monotony as he thrust a set of spokes in the next hub and rim, and started to thread the nipples on to shape the wheel. For the rest of the morning he lost himself in his work, lacing and truing wheels. When the noon hooter blew, he hurried down to the gatehouse, clocked out and walked to the telephone box on the corner.

Mr Lamb? It’s Arthur Shuffleworth... I’ve got your letter, and yes I’m happy to accept the tenancy... When can I take over...? Any time. I just need to give my employer a week’s notice.

Arthur frowned as he listened to the brewery director in charge of letting start to discuss the required formalities.

No, I’ve not viewed the Coach and Pair yet. I only got your letter this morning. I’m not even sure where Huntley-in-the-Bog is. But, as I explained, it’s my first tenancy, so I suppose I must take what’s offered.

Lamb tittered as Arthur mentioned the name of the premises. Arthur decided that discretion was required, and refrained from mentioning the typographical error and numerous corrections in the three pages. Lamb launched into a series of medical questions.

No. I’ve not been inoculated against smallpox. Do you think that is necessary...? I see, rural pubs are not always as hygienic as town establishments. I suppose I’d better see my doctor then, and get it done... And tetanus, and polio at the same time if you think that is wise...? Thank you, I’ll see to it as soon as I can.

Mr Lamb started to talk about dates, then stopped.

I see from our records that we’ve not interviewed you and your wife yet. It’s usually just a formality, but we do need to be sure that you will fit in with the locals, otherwise it’s a waste of time you taking the tenancy. How are you fixed for sometime next week... Tuesday perhaps?

Arthur gulped. He’d seen the question on the application form, and invented a name and age for his non-existent spouse, but had hoped that was the end of the matter.

Tuesday? I’m not sure that my wife is free then. I could come, of course... I see, you do need to see us together. I’d better contact her first, and call you back later.

Arthur put the phone down, and stood staring miserably down at his feet. ‘Bugger,’ he thought.

A bus came round the corner, and he remembered that he was to see Pete. He held out his hand, and, as it slowed to a halt, jumped aboard. He resented paying the minimum fare for two stops, but time would be pressing with what he intended to do before the afternoon hooter.

The shop bell of Moss & Son, hardware and decorator’s supplies, jangled as Arthur pushed the door open. Pete was stacking gallons of distemper in a pyramid by the counter, and his father was talking to a customer.

Hi, Arthur, how’s tricks?

I need a favour, Pete.

Anything, just name it.

I need to borrow Irene.

Pete’s amiable face became stern as he opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him.

Look. I’ve been offered a pub, but the brewery want to interview me together with my wife.

Your wife? Jeez Arthur, you’re a dark horse. I didn’t know you were married. Who is she?

I’m not, as you very well know. But the brewery only let to couples, and I wondered if Irene would pretend to be my wife... Just for the interview, no funny stuff you understand.

Pete understood very well. If there was to be any funny stuff then it would be strictly him and Irene, not sub-let to his best mate.

Could be a problem there. As I said earlier, we got a lot of chip fat on her buttons last night. And elsewhere. If her mother notices then she might be confined to barracks. And I’d not be welcome there any more.

Arthur sighed. He could see his dream being shattered for want of his friend’s carelessness.

I tell you what, mate. I don’t think this is something we can sort out on the phone. I’ll pop over and see her with you, if we can get past her mother. Let’s say you’re organising a dance at the Bear, and need some advice about the sort of food girls like.

Pete was warming to the idea of Arthur as a pub landlord, and warming was exactly the right word. Courting on a park bench with winter approaching was a daunting prospect. But, if Arthur was about to become landlord of a pub with warm rooms available, then a little subterfuge to make it happen was all right by him.

Irene Goodknight’s father, Horatio, was the local doctor, and her mother was a dragon of a woman who acted as his receptionist, and interrogated potential patients vigorously. In particular she was on her guard against malingerers looking for a week’s sick pay for trivial reasons like broken arms and burst appendixes.  She was especially on her guard against young men. Pete had only managed to keep his relationship with Irene because he would one day own his father’s chain of shops. In his more frivolous moments Pete thought that Good Knights were supposed to slay dragons, not keep them in a manner which they did not deserve.

Meeting Irene during the day was  a matter of getting past the dragon to the flat above the surgery, where she spent much of her time. She would have liked to get a job, but her mother insisted that girls from professional families did not soil their hands with paid employment. They socialised, with the right sort of people, of course, until they found their Mr Right. Then they married, and bore two or three children to perpetuate their class’s role in supervising the working masses.

Whilst expounding this creed to her daughter, she did not completely practise it herself. Mrs Goodknight had only provided the doctor with a single child, Irene. She was not fond of physical exertion, and considered the sweat inducing activity required at either end of the process to provide Irene with a brother or sister unladylike, and beneath her dignity. She did, however, apply herself vigorously to her task of keeping the lower orders in their place at every opportunity that presented itself.

Irene’s father was much more amiable, frequently seeking refuge in the saloon bar of the Black Bear, to sit and quietly reflect on where he went wrong in his choice of life partner. He was on good terms with Arthur, who anticipated exactly when to refill the doctor’s glass without being asked. He had even written a reference for Arthur, when the brewery had demanded two such attestations of good character from notable local worthies.

Pete thought it prudent for himself to wait outside whilst Arthur approached the surgery, and enquired about the presence of Irene. As they hurried along, Arthur steeled himself for the ordeal of placing his request for an interview with Irene at the whim of her mother.

But the two young men were in luck. As they walked towards the surgery they saw Irene approach from the opposite direction, and beckoned her to join them.

Hello, my love. You know Arthur, don’t you?

She nodded, and her blonde ponytail swayed for some moments.

He’s got a favour to ask you, but first can I have a word on our own? said Pete, as he took her arm, and led her away from his friend.

Arthur watched as the young couple whispered together. Irene’s face told him as much as words ever could. It passed through stages from eyebrows raised in surprise, to those same brows creased in concern, to a broad grin as she came to appreciate the long term benefits of such an arrangement. They linked arms, and returned to the prospective landlord.

When do you need me to do it? she asked excitedly.

Even without the potential benefit to herself and Pete, Irene would have agreed to the ruse, if only to add a little amusement into her otherwise dull life of enforced idleness.

I’ll need a good excuse. I know, I’ll arrange to see Elizabeth Black for lunch. Mother keeps hinting that her brother Herbert is home from medical school for a few weeks.

Pete grunted. He and Irene had a good relationship, but any mention of a potential rival rankles with a young man conducting the early stages of courtship. Arthur looked around for a telephone box.

A few minutes later, Arthur, Irene and Pete squashed into the box and Arthur fished out his letter. Shortly afterwards the three of them went their separate ways, with one formal appointment fixed for 2 p.m. the following Tuesday, and a more casual assignation in the Black Bear that evening.

WEDNESDAY EVENINGS at the Black Bear was darts night. The team had a patchy record of wins and losses, depending on who turned up on the night. Their star player, PC John Harris, was at the mercy of his work shift patterns, and only managed two nights out of three. Their second player, bricklayer and roofer Freddy Malloy, was excellent when sober, and dangerous when drunk.

It is believed that the growing local fashion for body piercing was started by Freddy, who was in the habit of purchasing expensive jewelled hat pins and brooches as presents for ladies who made the mistake of thinking that the Black Bear would be a good venue for a quiet Wednesday night’s drink. Only hardened war correspondents would feel at ease within ten yards of the Bear’s dartboard on a Wednesday night when Freddy was on the team.

Earlier that day Freddy had been paid for a double garage and garden wall he had recently completed, and had been celebrating since opening time at five-thirty. There was a party of out-of-town ladies booked in to stay for the week, and, for the sake of safety, the landlord had hidden Freddy’s darts at the point when he was no longer capable of rolling his own cigarettes without covering the floor in A1 Light. A miserable defeat faced the team.

Arthur went home for a quick tea, then hurried to the pub for his seven o’clock shift behind the bar. The public bar was already quite lively, with the away team and their supporters drifting in, and the resident ladies congregating at a long table to go over their day at the flower arranging course that had brought them to the town.

Irene was not familiar with public houses. They were an institution that her mother frowned upon; unaware that so many of the presumed medical demands on her husband’s time were spent there reflecting on life. She arrived at the same time as Arthur, but before Pete. She scanned around the bar until she spotted his familiar face.

What will you have? he asked, as she approached the bar.

I don’t know. Dad made me a snowball at Christmas. Do you have those here?

Arthur smiled. He had longed for someone to ask him for such a drink.

Sit over there by those ladies. I’ll bring it over.

As she turned he reached for the bottle of Advocaat, and poured a measure in a brandy balloon. Then, seeking a bottle of lemonade, he unscrewed the cap, placed his thumb over it and shook violently. Judicious movement of the thumb forced a stream of gassy liquid into the glass, frothing the contents into a mass of yellow bubbles. The froth rose towards the rim, and he smartly turned the bottle upright and smiled. Yes, exactly as described in his book of cocktails. He eased the pressure of his thumb, and allowed the gas to escape. He’d use the rest of the bottle for shandies later.

Pete arrived, and was torn between going to Irene or Arthur. Irene won. He greeted her, found she had a drink on the way, and pushed his way through the crowd to Arthur.

What’s your pleasure, Pete?

Mild and bitter... What on earth’s that?  he asked, as he eyed the bright yellow froth filled glass.

Irene’s snowball.

Pete gulped. That sounded like an expensive drink, and if it was to become a habit then Irene looked likely to become a major drain on his finances. He groped in his pocket for the ten bob note he had with him.

On the house, Pete, said Arthur.

Pete grabbed the two drinks and headed back to Irene, just in time to rescue her from the attentions of Freddy Malloy.

With two men down, the team looked like it was heading for another glorious defeat, even with Pete’s help. At the end of the second round, Irene stood up, and took her empty glass to the bar.

Why don’t they aim for the middle of the board? she asked Arthur, as she put her glass down.

The treble twenty is a higher score, and if you drop a bit then you still get twenty.

Oh. I thought the idea was to hit the middle.

Have you ever played on a dartboard, Irene?

No. But Dad used to pin playing cards on the shed wall, and we used to aim for the pips on the spades. I was quite good at it.

Go and tell Pete that, said Arthur.

Irene slid her way through the crowd,