Martin Fone's Blog, page 108

Colour Scheme

A review of Colour Scheme by Ngaio Marsh

Colour Scheme, the twelfth in Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn series and originally published in 1943, is a wonderfully atmospheric tale set in her native New Zealand. It was a surprise to me that the horrors of the Second World War impinged upon that country, but two vessels are torpedoed by a German submarine, after flashing lights have been seen coming from the hills near the health spa of Wai-ata-Tapu. As well as murder we have a hunt for a fifth columnist.

Readers who are eagerly anticipating another of Marsh’s gruesomely ingenious murders have to bide their time as Maurice Questing, the victim, survives until around the midway point before he fatally plunges into a pool of boiling volcanic mud, not a pleasant way to go. Alleyn is conspicuous by his absence, only appearing by name on a couple of occasions as the big pot who has come from London to investigate fifth columnist activities on the islands. As befits his role, he appears at the spa incognito, although it is fairly easy to spot which character he is and, we learn later, some of the residents at the spa are in the secret. Ostensibly, the police investigation is carried out by the local bobby, Webley.

Marsh has collected a motley crew of characters at the spa, which is poorly managed by the Claires, the Colonel and his wife, and their two children, the annoying Barbara and Simon who is keen to get into the air force. Surprisingly, there are guests, who include Maurice Questing whom no one likes. There are suspicions that he is the fifth columnist, a view held fervently by Claire’s brother-in-law, Dr James Ackrington, and he is a pest amongst the womenfolk, but he clearly has a hold over the Claires, he has ambitions to take over and transform the fortunes of the spa and it is he that is instrumental in luring the Shakespearean actor, Geoffrey Gaunt, together with his secretary, Dickon Bell, and his dresser, Alfred Colly, there. Septimus Falls also has an invite from him, or at least he claims.

Added to the mix are the drunken Smith, whom Questing almost lures into the path of an approaching train but who then seems to kiss and make up with him, and, adding local colour, a Maori clan led by Rua, and two of whom help out at the spa. Marsh’s love of her home country and her sensitivity and respect for the Maori culture is beautifully portrayed in this book. While tolerating the settlers, the Maoris are concerned to protect their ancient lands, their traditions, and their artefacts which Questing seems determined to dig up and sell for gain.

The Maoris hold a concert in honour of the great thespian at which he reprises his favourite roles. On his way back to the spa he disappears. Investigations reveal shifting alibis and more than enough reasons for most of the party to have killed him. The culprit is really only one of two it could possibly have been, if Marsh has played fair with the clues, although their movements and motives take some working out. Part of the key to resolving the mystery is red-green colour vision deficiency, to give its medical name and which is hinted at in the book’s title.

This is a little different from a straightforward detective novel and none the poorer for it. Marsh enjoys the opportunity to set the scene in a languid fashion, painting the country she loved and exploring the characters, frustrations, motivations, and jealousies of her suspects. I enjoyed it.

Fear And Trembling

A review of Fear and Trembling by Brian Flynn

Originally published in 1936 and now reissued by Dean Street Press, Fear and Trembling is the nineteenth in Flynn’s Anthony Bathurst series and goes by the alternative and far less obscure title of The Somerset Murder Case in the States. Fear and trembling is a reference to Philippians 2:12 – “continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling” – which in turn is a reference to Psalm 55.5 – “fear and trembling came upon me”. There is only one reference to the phrase in Flynn’s text, when Gerald Somerset is so described, so it is an obscure title, although no more obscure than some of Flynn’s others.

Perhaps it is because of his habit of selecting obtuse titles for his books rather than prosaic ones such as the Somerset Murder Case or The Case of the White Gardenias, as Christopher Bush might have called it, that Flynn feels the need to mention some of his other books in the narrative. At least five other titles are mentioned as rather unsubtle obiter dicta. The reader who has followed the series can nod sagely at such references but the neophyte hardly loses anything by failing to appreciate the reference. It is an odd and slightly annoying trait.  

On the other hand, for those of use who have followed the adventures of the gentleman sleuth that is Anthony Bathurst from the very start is the sudden realisation that our hero is susceptible to feminine charms. He encounters four women during the course of the investigation, one of whom, it is fair to say, is not only almost his match but also manages to turn his head. Who would have thought? Sadly, the consequences of Cupid firing his arrow is not one of Flynn’s artistic strong points and that part of the story is both highly unconvincing and rather tedious.  

The mystery, though, is well constructed and intriguing. David Somerset is an industrial chemist and we meet him making a clandestine journey to East Brutton in Gloucestershire at the behest of Adam Antine, a wonderful name which gives the reader an important clue as to what is going on. Somerset meets five men, all dressed identically with white gardenias in their buttonholes. What conversation Flynn chooses to share with us shows that there are veiled threats, concerns, and large sums of money being offered and rejected. We are not told what Somerset is selling.

The narrative then jumps to Sir Austin Kemble, Commissioner of Police, discussing with Anthony Bathurst who acts as a consultant to the Yard the discovery of the bodies of David Somerset and Geoffrey, one of, importantly, his twin sons in a copse outside East Brutton. Why were the two Somersets killed and by whom? Who were the mysterious group wearing white gardenias? It is reasonable to assume that Gerald, the other twin, is in mortal danger and despite a police guard he manages to elude them and meets his maker.

This is another story where the use of newspaper advertisements in a nod to the great Sherlock Holmes allow Bathurst to make strides towards resolving the problem. There are many red herrings and even Bathurst seems to be making little progress in getting to the bottom of matters. However, a more detailed search of the Somerset offices reveals some vital clues, the theft of some books and a disinterment finally allow Bathurst to make some headway. In contrast to the rather languid pace of the initial investigations, the finale moves with some pace as Bathurst and co fly to France. It turns out the story is less about the machinations of an international gang and more about greed, family jealousies, romantic aspirations and the opportunities for confusion that twins present.

Once again Flynn hits the mark in a gem of a book.

Two Chimps Coffee

I love coffee. I drank so much of it that a few years ago I had a health issue which resulted in the medics advising that I cut down my consumption of caffeine. Since then, I have adhered to three (slightly tarnished) golden rules. First, I normally now drink decaffeinated. Second, I usually do not drink coffee after 1pm – there is tea, after all – and third, when I do drink caffeine, I make sure it is a good quality, flavoursome coffee.

As a result of rule three, I have been exploring the world of what is known as specialty coffees, particularly as purveyed by independent roasteries that have sprung up over the last few years. One such is Two Chimps Coffee[1], who are based in Oakham in Rutland. They tick all the boxes you would expect, climate positive, offering ethically sourced coffees, hand roasted to order in small batches to ensure that their coffee is at its freshest when it leaves their premises.

Two Chimps offer coffees in a variety of formats including beans and ground for use in cafetieres – my weapon of choice – and in sizes ranging from a sampler at 50g to 1kg. I have found that 250 grams is sufficient for several brews, enough to explore the subtleties and flavour profiles. Coffees are available on subscription or as one-off purchases, their on-line ordering system is impressive – order before 12pm and they deliver, subject to the vagaries of the Royal Mail, the next day, and the cost of postage is absorbed within the overall price. No doubt to the horror of their accountants and lawyers, Two Chimps make a point of eschewing small print, a brave move in these litigious times.

One point to note is that because they source their beans from small farms, co-operatives, and estates, the raw original product is in relatively short supply. This means that Two Chimps’ main lines will change at least once in a year, until a new supply of beans is available, and their limited editions more frequently. Whilst it means that a particular favourite may be unavailable for a while, the upside is that it gives an opportunity to explore other coffees in their range.

There is no doubting Two Chimps’ passion for coffee, which comes across loud and clear, but it is also imbued with a sense of fun, no more so than in the names that they give to each roast. Some are a bit of a mouthful while others are just plain quirky, but it does mean that it is not immediately apparent what the country of origin is or type of roast or flavour profile, requiring a bit of research deeper within the bowels of their website. It is an endearing quality but must put off some just quickly searching for a Nicaraguan dark roast.

I have sampled five of their coffees. Chuffed as Chips, a medium roast Arabica coffee from Brazil, had a deliciously smooth, chocolaty body with more than a little hint of fruit, while Dad’s the Word, a limited edition, was a light and fruity, cherry-heavy brew using Geisha beans, said to be the world’s finest, sourced from an estate in Laos. My favourite was Pull up a chair, which filled the kitchen with a wonderful aroma and in the cup produced a full-bodied, marvellous rush of chocolate and toffee with a hint of orange to give it edge.

Just to prove that decaffeinated does not equate to bland, How Many Llamas did you say were in the phone box? (me neither) was a delicate blend of light, sweetness and a touch of gingerbread, using Ethiopian beans roasted in a light and fruity style and decaffeinated using the sparkling water method to good effect. Sadly, Good Morning World, a limited edition,was not my cup of coffee, the roast of Peruvian beans a little too sweet for my taste.

In the world of specialty coffees, Two Chimps are ones to watch.         

[1] https://twochimpscoffee.com/

Swan Of The Week (2)

Returning to work on a Monday morning can be dispiriting enough without unanticipated transportation difficulties. In forty years of commuting by train I have been subjected to almost the whole lexicon of lame excuses for the train I am on coming to a halt or taking an unexpected (and always longer) detour to my ultimate destination. However, this is a new one on me.

Around 8am last Monday morning commuters using the South Western Railways (SWR) train services in the Staines area found that the trains had come to a juddering halt. The reason – a swan had decided to sit on the line and refused to move. Needless to say, they were unimpressed by the bird swanning around, especially as it caused delays in excess of an hour.

Eventually, a Network Rail Wessex employee aped Nicholas Angel in the 2007 comedy Hot Fuzz and captured the swan and put it into a bag to be taken to a sanctuary for a well-earned rest. Trains were then able to get back to normal, subject only to the usual points failures, occupied platforms, and wrong types of leaves on the line, but another excuse has now added to the train conductor’s manual.

Swans belong to the Monarch and there is no truth in the rumour that the bird’s sit-down strike was in protest over the change to its ownership.

Disco Of The Week

I am partial to a plate of scallops as a starter but have rather gone off them because of the way that they are caught. They are normally caught by trawling or dredging, an indiscriminate form of fishing which can cause collateral and long-term damage to the delicate seafloor ecosystems. However, thanks to some pioneering work by some scientists, mainly from the University of York and a fisheries consultancy, Fishtek Marine, scallops might soon be back on my plate.

The team, according to lead scientist, Robert Enever, were experimenting to see whether the use of lights in crab pots rather than fish bait would improve the rate of catching crabs and lobsters but were surprised to find that scallops were drawn to the lights in their droves. With over 200 tiny eyes, the scallops were lured by the bright lights as much as the intended crustacean targets.

The team is now developing two new pot designs specifically for retaining scallops attracted by the lights and is experimenting with different coloured LEDs. Each small light is powered by two rechargeable AA batteries. They are clipped inside each pot and can be used several times.

Let’s hope it succeeds and introduces a more environmentally friendly way of catching scallops. I am smacking my lips already.

Comes A Stranger

A review of Comes a Stranger by E R Punshon

I am enormously grateful to Rupert Heath of Dean Street Press for the opportunity to review Comes A Stranger, the eleventh in Punshon’s Bobby Owen series, originally published in 1938. I am going through the series in chronological order and was horrified to find that the e-book, reissued by Dean Street Press, was out of stock at Amazon. He answered my cri de coeur, sending a a copy winging its way to my Kindle through the magic of the internet. Thank you so much.

Bobby Owen, still a Detective Sergeant of the Yard, is now engaged to Olive Farrar, whom we met as a potential suspect in the previous book, Dictator’s Way. Olive is no wilting violet and in her the rising star of the Yard may have met his match. She is a proto feminist although lets the sisterhood down when refusing to take Bobby’s advice to return to London by saying that, of course, she would obey him when they were married. Just as Bobby has an unerring knack of being in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time, so Olive seems to attract trouble like a magnet.

A stay in the countryside with an old friend, Miss Kayne, owner but not trustee of the Kayne Library, famed for its collection of rare books, should be a pleasant, if uneventful, event. However, when Bobby arrives to the spend the weekend with her, although, naturally, staying in a nearby pub rather than in Wynton Lodge, the arrival of a famous detective sends the local all atwitter, especially the nervous, annoying secretary who has brought herself up by the bootstraps, teaching herself to type and shorthand in her spare time.

The timing of Bobby’s arrival seems to unleash a tidal wave of murder. First Nat Kayne, one of the trustees who wants to sell the library, is shot dead and then another trustee, the bibliophile, Sir William Winders, is discovered murdered by seven shots. And then there is a body disinterred from the forget-me-not bed near the house which moves the case nearer to its conclusion. As the book moves towards its climax, the overbearing, very precious, volatile librarian, who bars entry to the library to all but the chosen few and is paranoid about the risk of fire, Mr Broast, an odd surname, the relevance of which becomes apparent, is poisoned.

Punshon has not finished piling up the bodies. One of his stylistic hallmarks is a set piece and the finale is a tour de force. Shots are fired at the police, the culprit retreats into the library where Miss Kayne is, stoking up a bonfire by throwing the precious books on to the flames. Bobby ends up in hospital but has the satisfaction of knowing that he has cracked a complex case which, at the heart of it, is an attempt to right the wrongs perpetrated on a family. The pace does lag around the midpoint of the tale but soon gathers pace again.  

The title of the book is well chosen and nuanced. It comes from an epigraph by the 17th century poet, Francis Quarles: “Death has no advantage, but when it comes a stranger”. The area has not seen a murder case, hence the local police’s willingness to second a rising star of the Yard to assist in investigations. In that sense, death is a stranger, but there are also an awful lot of strangers, particularly Messrs Adams and Virtue, who are anxious to gain entry to the library and inspect its contents. And, of course, Bobby, a stranger to the area, seems to have been the catalyst which sets off a catastrophic chain of events.

Broast was not all that he seemed and whilst his fifteenth century printing press was in working order, it was not always used as it should have been. The fascinating Afterword explains that the goings-on at the Kayne Library were based on a true scandal that rocked the normally sleepy world of bibliophiles in the thirties. Punshon has applied an artistic interpretation to these events and produced an intriguing, complex plot in what is one of his best books. I am glad I did not miss out on reading it.

Brecon Special Reserve Gin

In these cost-conscious times, it is always a pleasure to stumble across a gin that tastes good, makes no bones about which botanicals are used, and does not burn a hole in your pocket. One such is Brecon Special Reserve Gin which has been around since 2001 but which has taken me twenty-one years to discover. Better late than never, I suppose.

What brought it to my attention when I was browsing through the shelves of the Constantine Stores, the headquarters of Drinkfinder, on a recent trip to Cornwall was the size and shape of the bottle. It is like a giraffe, tall and slender, standing head and shoulders above its competitors in the crowded field spawned by the renaissance. The effect produced by this cylindrical bottle made of clear glass is accentuated by its long, thin neck, leading up to a black top with cork stopper. It also uses a very simple but effective colour scheme, black on the foil protecting the stopper and on the one circular label just below the dome-shaped shoulder with white lettering.

As the name suggests, it is Welsh in origin, using water from the Brecon Beacons National Park and is produced by the Penderyn distillery, better known for its whiskies, but another one playing the long-term game of whisky production to recognise that other spirits, such as gin, offer a more immediate opportunity to generate some cash. Part of the distillation process is, I believe, carried out for them by a third-party distiller, but the final touches are added at the Penderyn HQ.

One of my hobby horses is the reluctance of distillers to detail the botanicals they use in their mix. I accept that this is contentious as there are intellectual property right issues and some copycat producers ready to capitalise upon the hard work and diligent research of others, but the consumer does have the right to expect to know what the product which they might be buying on spec is likely to taste like.

Penderyn make a feature of their botanicals, detailing and illustrating each of the ten, plus the base Welsh spirit made from barley, at the centre of their bottle – perhaps that is why it is so tall! They also say that these “traditional botanicals [are] selected from the four corners of the world and the finest grain spirit with pure Welsh water”. The botanicals take you on a whistle-stop world tour, featuring juniper from Macedonia, orange and lemon peel from Spain, cassia bark from China, liquorice from Sri Lanka, cinnamon from Madagascar, angelica root from France, coriander from Russia, nutmeg from India, and orris root from Italy. It is a very safe, traditional selection of botanicals, which have stood the test of time, and there is nothing wrong with that.

On the nose, it has a very inviting blend of sweet juniper and spice, warming and comforting with a hint of citrus. In the glass it is delightfully clear, with a bold hit of juniper, mellowed by the spices and countered by the slightly sharp and sour citric notes. There is a risk that the citrus might take over the show, certainly if sampled neat, but the judicious use of a good quality tonic seems to put it back in its place. The aftertaste is long, slightly peppery but with juniper and liquorice to the fore.

At 40% ABV and retailing at around the £20 mark, it is a good example of a gin made in the classic London Dry style which is enjoyable to drink and saves you money. What is there not to like!

Until the next time, cheers!

Latter End

A review of Latter End by Patricia Wentworth

The eleventh in Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver series, Latter End was originally published in 1947 and covers familiar Wentworth country. Latter End is a country house owned by Jimmy who two years prior to the commencement of the action married Lois. Lois is a strong-willed woman determined to make her mark on the place and does not care who she upsets. She wants to drive Jimmy’s step sister Ellie Street and family institution Minnie Mercer out by working them to the bone. She has earned the enmity of the long serving cook by driving out the residents of a cottage so that her friends can use it for the weekends. Lois modus operandi is to divide and conquer and Jimmy is either blind to or will not accept her faults. Latter End is not a happy place.

The first signs of trouble are when Lois, who is particular about her diet, suffers occasional bouts of food poisoning. She suspects that someone is trying to poison her and Jimmy is sufficiently concerned to consult Miss Silver on the matter. Maud’s advise is that someone is probably playing a trick on her and that Lois should ensure that she eats and drinks what the others do. Lois particularly likes Turkish coffee after dinner and in a supreme act of self-sacrifice Jimmy agrees to take a cuo with her after each meal. The poisoning incidents stop.

However, not long afterwards, Lois dies, poisoned, in circumstances that could either have been suicide or murder most foul. The previous night Lois was found in a potentially compromising position with Jimmy’s handsome cousin, Antony, whom she would have preferred to have married had he any money. She and Jimmy have a row and barely speak to each other afterwards. Miss Silver is invited by Jimmy to carry out some investigations, fearing that he might have inadvertently driven his wife to her demise. When she arrives at Latter End she finds that her old police sparring partners, Lamb and Abbott, are in situ conducting investigations.

It soon becomes apparent that Lois’s state of mind rules out suicide and that what caused her death was a cup of Turkish coffee laced with morphia. Jimmy had a cup at the same time with no ill effect. Under the terms of Lois’ will she leaves Jimmy with a considerable amount of money which she had inherited when her first husband died suddenly. That together with the row the previous night clearly points the finger of suspicion firmly in Jimmy’s direction.

Lamb conducts his investigations in his own inimitable fashion, quick to grasp the wrong end of any stick that he sees nearby. Miss Silver, though, has the advantage of being assimilated by the household and is able to observe and eavesdrop with good effect. The solution to the mystery is ingenious, although on reflection the only plausible one. In getting there, Miss Silver is assisted by a somnambulist and a couple of servants who happen to have been at the right place at the right time and not to be too shy to spy on their betters. The resolution also casts doubt on an earlier death.

Wentworth writes in an easy and engaging style and keeps the story going. However, with realistically just three suspects it is a little overlong, even if there is the obligatory love interest to divert the reader. The interchanges between an increasingly exasperated Lamb and a gnomic Miss Silver are the highlights of the book which makes for an enjoyable if unchallenging read.

The Moving Toyshop

A review of The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin

If, like me, you enjoy your crime fiction with a touch of the absurd, then this novel, originally published in 1946 and the third in Crispin’s Gervase Fen series, is a must-read. It is not one of those books which, when you have finished, you stand back in awe at the complexity and sheer cunning of the problem nor the sheer brilliance of the detection. In truth, it is a fairly third-rate murder mystery but more than makes up for it with the originality of the plotline and the verve with which Crispin tells his tale. It is also a love letter to the city of dreaming spires.

Crispin leaves no doubt as to the type of book that it is going to be in the opening chapters. Poet Richard Cadogan, who has just secured a small advance royalty from his reluctant publisher, sets off to Oxford in search of adventure. Train troubles meant that he had to complete his journey by foot and as he walks towards the city centre, he comes across a toy shop with the front fdoor unlocked. He goes in and discovers the body of an old lady who has, seemingly, been strangled. Before he can do anything, Cadogan is knocked out, the first of a number of assaults the unfortunate poet suffers during the course of the tale and bundled into a room. When he comes to and reports the crime, he finds to his astonishment that not only has the toy shop become a grocery store but that there is no body.

This is a mystery that is too irresistible for academic sleuth, Gervase Fen, to ignore and he sets about investigating it with characteristic gusto and brio.  He discovers that the victim was Emilia Tardy who was about to come into a large inheritance, if only she staked her claim to Miss Snaith’s estate within six months after the latter’s death. If she did not, then the spoils went to five individuals whom Snaith had selected at random and given names of characters from the Nonsense Poems of Edward Lear, the identities only known by a shady solicitor by the name of Rossiter. He too is soon murder.

Attracting a motley crew of accomplices, Fen and Cadogan charge around Oxford, ignoring the constraints of minor laws that are only for little people, a distinctive Oxford trait, they set about uncovering the identities of the five beneficiaries, each of or all of whom have motive enough to stop Miss Tardy from collecting her inheritance. Along the way, the real toyshop is discovered and, bizarrely, part of the plot to discombobulate Miss Tardy, involved removing the stock of the toyshop to the grocery shop and back.

Like a conventional murder mystery story, the identity of the culprit is revealed, and the resolution makes sense, especially if you recognise the difference between strangulation and suffocation. However, as I was reading the book I grew less and less interested in the mechanics of the crime and the identity of the culprit and just immersed myself in the glories of a surreal, absurdist farce which is full of literary references.

As well as the references to Lear, Fen and Cadogan amuse themselves with discussions about the most loathsome characters and the most unreadable books in English literature and Crispin’s parody of Fen’s aborted lecture is superb. We even have a police officer who is anxious to question Fen on the intricacies of the plot of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure. It is all great fun.

Perhaps, though, the book’s most lasting legacy is the roundabout scene as the story draws to its climax, the inspiration for the famous carousel scene in Hitchcock’s 1951 film, Strangers on a Train. Sadly, but not untypically, Crispin did not get the credit.

This is a wonderful, if unconventional, book and is highly recommended.

Paul Boyton, The Fearless Frogman

Paul Boyton was born in County Kildare in 1848 and shortly afterwards was taken by his family to the States. He grew into a strong swimmer with a sense of adventure, spending his youth in the navy and then establishing the United States Life-Saving Service, the forerunner of their Coastguards. A meeting with Clark S Merriman, who had recently invented an inflatable, rubber life-preserving suit, presented him with a challenge that combined his interest in lifesaving, his natural showmanship and love of derring-do; to put the suit through its paces.

Unable to resist the lure of the English Channel, he decided that crossing it would prove his mettle as a long-distance swimmer as well as demonstrating the seaworthiness of the suit. Dubbed the Fearless Frogman, his penchant for publicity ensured that he attracted press attention, The Times noting that his India rubber suit could be inflated by some tubes, allowing the wearer to float and propel themselves with the aid of a paddle. It was also airtight and waterproof.   

On April 10, 1875, onlookers at Dover harbour were treated to the strange sight of Boyton wearing his suit over blue serge undergarments and woollen stockings. On each foot was a socket into which a small mast was placed which allowed for a sail, the size of a large handkerchief, to be hoisted and controlled, using lanyards attached to the suit. A foghorn around his neck, a brandy flask in a waistcoat pocket, a large knife, a double-bladed oar for propulsion, and a packet of letters safely secreted inside, “the Boyton mail for the Continent”, completed his ensemble.

Followed by a steam tug, Rambler, full of reporters, Boyton set out, lying on his back and using his oar “skilfully” for propulsion, consuming a bizarre diet of beaten eggs, cherry brandy and smoking a cigar along the way. The Channel, though, was not easily beaten. After fifteen hours in the sea and covering 50 miles, the weather worsened to such an extent that the French pilot feared for the swimmer’s safety, threatening to leave them when night fell, if Boyton did not abandon the attempt.

Boyton reluctantly concurred but went to extraordinary lengths to prove it was not his decision, requiring the reporters present to sign a declaration to that effect and, when onshore, obtaining a certificate from a doctor stating that he was medically fit to have continued. The Fearless Frogman may have demonstrated the seaworthiness of Merriman’s suit, but he was not finished with the Channel.

At 3am on June 28, 1875, Boyton set out from Cap Gris Nez, again dressed in his inflatable bathing suit. There was important addition, a small screw propeller was fixed with hoops to his torso and thighs which enabled him, while lying prone, to propel himself. It might just have been one of those ideas that sounded good on paper but just proved impractical, as there is no reference to it in reports of his progress. He also changed his diet, fortified along the way with three meals consisting of green tea and beef sandwiches.

The weather was kind to him, the only alarum being an encounter with a porpoise four miles off Dover. At 2am the following morning he walked ashore at Faro Bay in Kent and was taken by steamer to Folkestone, where he was “enthusiastically received”, having completed his crossing almost two months before Webb. Jules Verne featured his suit in Tribulations of a Chinaman in China (1879).

After a career of endurance swimming Boyton settled down and opened Chicago’s first fixed amusement park in 1894 and the Sea Lion Park on Coney Island the following year, and, unlike Webb, enjoyed a long life before dying in 1924.

For a swim to be sanctioned by the Channel Swimming Association, the swimmer must be unaided and wear only one swimming garment. Clearly, Captain Webb met the modern criteria and was the first to swim the channel unaided, but, undeniably, Paul Boyton got there first, with a little help from Merriman’s suit, an oar and, possibly, a propeller.