Essex Poison Page 12

  ‘Chilly out here, isn’t it?’ said Miriam, her outfit offering little protection against the cool offshore winds of the Essex marshes.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mr Storey, who was clearly apprenticing in Vince’s salty seadog style of speech. ‘Colder the better. Colder it gets, the sweeter the oyster. Increases the flavour, doesn’t it? We like it cold. Last thing an oysterman wants is a mild autumn and winter.’

  ‘Well, I can clearly cross “oysterman” off my list of possible career choices then,’ said Miriam.

  Mr Storey – rather to my dismay, but to Miriam’s obvious pleasure – then removed his cable-knit jumper and draped it over Miriam’s shoulders, exposing rather a lot of brightly tattooed torso under his vest.

  Once we had journeyed far enough out into the breezy shallow bay beyond West Mersea, Vince cut the engine, dropped anchor, and explained to us the process by which oysters might be caught. There was a lot of talk about nets and winches and tines and such like but rather than actually laying the nets, which really would have been tiresome and taken far too long, Vince demonstrated the principle of the thing using a long iron rake to bring up a small haul of what looked mostly like mud and debris. This sopping mess he deposited onto the wide wooden table at the centre of the boat, where Mr Storey quickly picked an oyster shell from in among the jumble. Vince then cracked it open in an instant with what looked like a sharpened penny, making my own attempts with an oyster knife at the Oyster Feast seem even more utterly cack-handed.

  He offered the oyster to Morley who took it and began to raise it to his lips – until Vince roared, ‘No!’ and knocked it from his hand. ‘Ye shall not!’ said Vince.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Storey, who was shaking his head and wagging a finger. ‘Oh no, no, no, no.’

  ‘All oysters have to go through the process back in the sheds,’ explained Vince.

  ‘The process?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Filtration and purification.’

  ‘Filtration?’ said Miriam. ‘Sorry, I thought you said something else.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Morley, striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Of course. I forgot. Flitration and purtefication!’ Clearly I hadn’t been the only one to notice the strange West Mersea orthography. ‘Perhaps we might take a look, once we’re back on land?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Vince.

  ‘You don’t know what might happen, sir,’ said Mr Storey, taking Morley’s oyster and tossing it overboard, ‘if you eat an unprocessed oyster. Anything might happen. You might end up like Arthur Marden.’

  ‘Dead, you mean?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ said Vince. ‘Even with an unprocessed oyster the worst you’d get is an upset, just.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Morley. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’

  ‘Best to be careful though,’ said Vince. ‘I’ve been eating unprocessed oysters for years and they’ve never done me a drop of harm. But I’m an oysterman. I’d advise—’

  ‘Never to put anything in your mouth if you don’t know where it’s been?’ said Miriam. She was always at the ready with a chorus-girl remark.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Vince.

  ‘Ah yes, the paradoxes of the oyster,’ said Morley, oblivious as always to innuendo. I could tell that this little episode was slowly gathering itself into meaning in his mind. ‘Take a note, Sefton.’ I fumbled for the notebook in my jacket pocket. ‘It dies to give us life, though threatening us with death. Was it Dumas who remarked that there is something so threateningly strange about the oyster that the only way to deal with them properly is to eat them?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Vince. ‘That enough for your book though?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Morley. ‘Certainly. Thank you, Mr Ramsey. Most instructive.’

  ‘Right. We’ll head for the layings and that’s your lot.’

  I hadn’t even got my pencil out. Memory is a wonderful thing.

  There’s really not much to say about oyster layings; they’re basically ugly little swimming-bath-sized pits dug into the mudflats, where the youngest oysters get deposited to fatten until they reach standard size. Morley of course found them fascinating.

  ‘How does one measure the standard size?’ he asked.

  ‘Traditionally it’s set by the mayor’s silver oyster,’ explained Vince. ‘We bring him out before the feast and he measures one; if it’s the right size, then the season’s open.’

  ‘The silver oyster?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Some ceremonial thing,’ said Vince. ‘He wears it round his neck.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think I recall it. Like a chain of office?’

  ‘Or an oyster necklace?’ said Miriam. ‘I rather liked the look of it.’

  ‘Terrible business with the mayor though, wasn’t it?’ said Morley.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Vince.

  ‘It must have caused a great deal of distress locally.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Vince.

  ‘No?’

  I rather thought that Vince weighed his words here more carefully than usual – or even more carefully than usual. ‘Never had a lot of time for Arthur Marden myself.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Morley.

  Again a pause from Vince. ‘He was from Kent originally, wasn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘Does that matter?’ asked Morley.

  ‘I don’t like men from Kent,’ said Vince.

  ‘Men from Kent? What on earth’s wrong with men from Kent?’

  ‘They tried to invade us, didn’t they?’

  ‘The Kentish?’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Vince. ‘I would have thought you’d have known, with all your interest in books.’

  ‘They tried to invade you?’

  ‘As I say. One hundred fishing smacks came up to the oyster beds near Leigh-on-Sea. They made off with over a thousand bushels of oysters.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Morley. ‘And when was this? I’m surprised we heard nothing about it in the papers.’

  ‘In 1724,’ said Vince, and we set off back to the shore, tour concluded.

  In our absence the Cadillac had drawn quite a crowd, half a dozen men, all of them dressed like Mr Storey, weather-beaten, tattooed, tightly belted and poorly clothed – fishermen in other words – and one of them I thought rather familiar. I fancied he was the man who offered to fight me outside the Town Hall the previous night. It was difficult to tell in broad daylight.

  ‘Go on, get out of it,’ Vince told them, as we trudged back up to the car.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr Ramsey. They’re just curious about the car,’ said Morley. ‘Perfectly understandable. They’re—’

  ‘They’re a bunch of troublemakers is what they are,’ said Vince.

  ‘Go on, you heard him!’ said Mr Storey, gesturing in no uncertain terms for the men to leave. ‘Go on, Joe, you don’t want any trouble now.’

  Joe Cowley, that was it.

  ‘Joe Cowley, of the Cowley Brothers?’ I asked, as the men slowly turned their backs to us and wandered off, muttering among themselves.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Storey. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Miriam. ‘Friends of yours, Sefton? They do seem a little … unwelcoming, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘They’re independents,’ explained Vince.

  ‘Independent whats?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Independent bastards. Excuse me, miss,’ said Mr Storey.

  ‘Oystermen,’ said Vince.

  He explained that as well as the dredgermen like him who were part of the Colne Oyster Fishery there were other private cultivators and adventurers all along the Essex coast who liked to try their hand at raising oysters in the creeks.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Morley. ‘Like small businessmen, attempting to fulfil their dreams, eh? Smallholders of the Essex waters? Prospectors for oysters, as the men of the Yukon were once prospectors for
gold?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, mister, but I’ll tell you what I do know: they’re troublemakers. Sooner they’re all wiped out the better.’

  ‘Wiped out?’ said Morley. ‘That’s a bit strong, if I may say so, Mr Ramsey, isn’t it? A bit extreme?’

  Vince expressed his feelings about how much he cared about Morley’s opinion of his being extreme or not by hawking up an oyster-size spit ball and expectorating in the Cowley Brothers’ general direction. ‘Council are dredging the Colne anyway, which’ll put paid to their layings. Bloody parasites.’

  The Cowley Brothers and their friends jeered back, in language highly unsuitable, I have to say, in the presence of a lady; and I have heard – and have indeed myself used – much unsuitable language in the presence of ladies.

  ‘I think you’d best be on your way, Mr Morley,’ said Vince. ‘We wouldn’t want you involved in any trouble.’

  And we most certainly would have been on our way, had it not been for the fact that at that moment a police car arrived and two policemen got out. As so often, there was no need for us to go looking for trouble: trouble had come to find us.

  CHAPTER 17

  AN AVERAGE ESSEX AFFRAY

  ‘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.