Basil Copper
The Exploits of Solar Pons
This One is for Dixon Smith and Madeleine Henry;
husband and wife, gifted authors, loyal friends;
with gratitude for their help and encouragement.
The Adventure of the Verger’s Thumb
1
“Many a slip, Parker, many a slip!”
I looked up from my corner of the first-class railway carriage and smiled at my friend Solar Pons as he sat opposite me, spare and trim in a tweed country suit.
“I do not understand you, Pons.”
My companion blew a plume of fragrant blue smoke up to the roof of the compartment.
“It would not be the first time, Parker. I was referring merely to that contraption you were fiddling with.”
“I see!”
I held it up so that he could have a closer look.
“What on earth is it?”
I smiled again.
“I thought you were supposed to be the detective, Pons.” My friend looked at me with eyes in which little flecks of irony were dancing.
“Muck Parker. You are developing a very pretty wit of late. I must confess I am in turn developing a taste for it.”
“You flatter me, Pons, but you have still not answered my question.”
“It was I who questioned you,” Pons corrected me. “I am on holiday, remember, and giving my ratiocinative faculties a rest.
It was your idea, Parker. You said, if I recall the extravagant phraseology rightly, that the Norfolk Broads would be a tonic.” He smiled wickedly.
“Which means that we find ourselves on the way to the unquiet metropolis of Norwich.”
“Come, Pons,” I protested. “Norwich is one of the most beautiful cities in England. It is in the centre of the Broads and if I had taken you to a small village…”
Solar Pons held up his hand.
“It was merely my feeble attempt at a joke, Parker. You are perfectly correct. I was there once only, for half a day, but to the best of my recollection all your eulogies are well-deserved. Though we are still faced with the basic problem.”
“You are referring to this?”
I still held the object between thumb and forefinger and I passed it over to my companion. It was a beautiful day in early June and we were passing through the flat, lush countryside of Suffolk, typical Constable terrain in which fields of fat sheep, fine old trees and glossy streams competed for attention in the eye.
“Ah,” said Pons. “Some sort of apparatus for tying artificial flies for trout fishing, is it not?”
“You are right, Pons,” I said. “It is new on the market. I purchased it only yesterday.”
Solar Pons passed the miniature vice back with a thin smile. “I did not know you were a fisherman, Parker.”
“Neither am I, Pons,” I said ruefully. “I used to be fond of fly-fishing when I was a youngster but I have had little time in latter years. I thought I might take it up again.”
“You will find small opportunity on the Broads, Parker.”
I laughed.
“Of course not, Pons. It was merely that I felt I might spend some spare time so. It is a soothing enough occupation.”
My friend nodded and turned back to the pages of the learned journal he had been immersed in when my experimental overtures with my new toy had attracted his attention.
The bright June day continued, the engine joyfully shovelled black smoke over its shoulder as it vibrated its way over the flat countryside and in an astonishingly short time, it seemed, we were descending amid the noise and bustle of Norwich Thorpe Station, bedecked with coloured posters featuring Broadland yachts apparently sailing across the rich fields and shouting the attractions of Yarmouth as a seaside resort.
“Did I not say it was agreeable, Pons?”
“Indeed, Parker,” said Solar Pons drily, skilfully dodging aside to avoid a covey of small boys carrying fishing rods.
We had nothing except light hand luggage so after surrendering our tickets, we walked out into the brightness of the station concourse, avoiding the taxi-rank and instead crossing the road to walk by the broad, brown waters of the Yare, where tall-masted sailing boats bobbed alongside the quay at Norwich Yacht Station.
Across the bridge, we let the flow of pedestrians take us into the heart of the city where the great spire of Norwich Cathedral floated like some huge ship at anchor, and reported ourselves at the Royal George Hotel, where we were expected. A shocked attendant took our luggage and whisked it immediately to our comfortable rooms. When we had again descended, Pons consulted the huge grandfather clock in the hall.
“It is still only a quarter-past twelve, Parker. What say you to another short promenade before lunch?”
We slipped out of a side-entrance; it was market-day apparently and a rich display of stalls, selling a fantastic variety of goods stretched as far as the eye could reach across a vast square near the Cathedral, the reds, golds and greens of their canvas roofs making a colourful, mediaeval pattern that was eye-aching in the bright summer sun.
Solar Pons looked at the rich life about him, his keen eyes taking in the details of the individual faces, a thin plume of smoke from his pipe rising into the warm air. After a short while wandering about in this manner we turned our steps back in the direction of the Cathedral, pausing in the Close to examine the moving memorial to Nurse Edith Cavell and then crossing the road to traverse the quaint old alley of Tombland with its houses leaning at crazy angles. Neither of us talked much, we were so taken with the charm of the place, and I was delighted by many subtle indications in my friend’s attitude and demeanour that he thoroughly approved of his surroundings and my suggestion to take this much-needed holiday.
As possibly the world’s greatest private consulting detective Pons had been extremely overworked in the spring of the year; he had been drenched in a mountain stream in Switzerland in one case; set upon by thugs in another; and had found even his iron strength severely taxed in a long and complicated affair which had involved him in covering miles of rough and almost impassable Scottish countryside on foot.
As his medical adviser as well as his friend I had long urged caution and proper rest and the amiable landlady of our quarters at 7B Praed Street, Mrs Johnson, had joined her injunctions to mine so that we were both delighted when at last we had prevailed upon my companion to take a brief fortnight’s respite from the clatter and bustle of London.
Indeed, I congratulated myself highly on my strategy as we sat down to an excellent lunch at The Royal George because I could see that already my friend was benefiting from the change of air and the agreeable atmosphere of Norwich in this perfect June weather.
After lunch we strolled along the banks of the river for a while, the moored yachts and motor-boats bobbing gently at anchor, while the hum of the city rose around us like that of a hive of bees. Solar Pons glanced at me ironically, as though he could read my thoughts.
“You were right, Parker,” he said genially. “I must congratulate you on your choice. It might take much longer than a fortnight to exhaust the possibilities of such a city.”
My cheeks glowed at such unwonted praise from my companion.
“I am glad to hear you say so, Pons.”
He said nothing more and we walked on in silence, climbing some steps to gain an iron bridge and eventually finding ourselves, as though by tacit consent, in front of the mellow bulk of the Cathedral. A section of the vast double doors was open, showing a black oblong and the deep basso of an organ’s treacly notes percolated to the street.