The Sussex Murder

by Ian Sansom

  ‘A good morning’s work?’ I asked, before Morley was able to offer any more advice from the lives of the Stoics.

  He explained that he was halfway through writing an article about crown green bowls – W.G. Grace, apparently, was a very good bowler for the London County Bowling Club (‘He knew how to play up to the knob,’ said Morley) – and that he had completed an article on hazelnut preservation. (You shake them off the trees – in case you want to know – stack them in their shells in jars between layers of salt, and bury them in the ground till Christmas.)

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, consulting both his wristwatches – luminous and non-luminous – and his pocket watch. ‘We’re not too far behind schedule. So, plans for the day.’

  ‘Let’s just get to Lewes, shall we, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘We shall, Miriam, we shall. But there are some things I would like us to see first in this fine county. I can’t wait to see the dew pond at Chactonbury Ring, and—’

  ‘Yes, we’ve read the itinerary, Father. Haven’t we, Sefton?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. I had glanced at the itinerary with Miriam.

  ‘Good,’ began Morley. ‘We shall capture Sussex, I hope, in all its glory over the next few days. We need to get to its very heart. To the very essence, to the bones and marrow of the place. The liver, the guts, the—’

  ‘Let’s not have talk of bones and marrow at breakfast, Father.’

  ‘What do you think of when you think of Sussex, Sefton?’ asked Morley.

  This was one of his favourite questions whenever we arrived in a new county: ‘What do you think of when you think of Norfolk/Essex/Sussex/Rutland/Northumberland/Lincolnshire,’ etcetera, etcetera, ad libitum/nauseam/infinitum. The truth was, I mostly thought of nothing. If I thought of the counties of England at all, which I did not, I think mostly what I would have thought of would have been Harold Larwood playing for Nottinghamshire and T.P.B. Smith bowling googlies for Essex. When Morley thought of the counties of England, on the other hand, he thought of just about everything: places, personages, customs, practices, bus routes, tram routes, lore, legend and myth; it was as if he contained within himself the entire historical, political, geological and deep paradoxical strata of the whole nation.

  ‘You think of the Long Man of Wilmington, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ I agreed, since agreeing with Morley was always easiest. ‘The Long Man of Wilmington, of course.’

  ‘A Sussex landmark,’ said Morley. ‘Said by some to be a memorial to a giant who lived round about, or indeed an actual outline of the giant’s body as he lay there dead. Some say he tripped and broke his neck on the crest of the hill, others that he was killed by a shepherd, or by pilgrims, or—’

  ‘By those wishing he would go away and be quiet,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Quite,’ said Morley. ‘Or you think of striding across the Downs,’ he continued.

  ‘Striding, yes,’ I said. ‘Of course. Across the Downs.’

  ‘Or of William of Normandy, striding up the beach at Pevensey?’

  ‘William striding in particular, yes, absolutely, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Canute at Bosham, the site of his encounter with the encroaching tide.’

  ‘The encroaching tide, yes.’

  ‘The Prince Regent at Brighton.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Daniel Defoe.’

  ‘Daniel Defoe?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Defoe? Yes, of course, Miriam! His tour through the counties of England?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Miriam, ‘one’s mind is hardly ever off Daniel Defoe and his tour through the counties of England.’

  ‘Sir Philip Sidney,’ continued Morley. ‘His house is in Kingston.’

  ‘Is it, Father, really? Fascinating.’

  ‘Or one thinks of the bee orchid, perhaps?’

  ‘No one thinks of the bee orchid when they think of Sussex, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Really? The most extraordinary flower: it mimics the appearance of the female bee, in order to be pollinated. A lesson there for females everywhere.’

  ‘Really, Father? Is it?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well, I can’t think what it is,’ said Miriam.

  ‘The county flower of Sussex, Sefton?’

  ‘The county flower of Sussex?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Erm. The bee orchid?’ I suggested.

  ‘Wrong! The Pride of Sussex. Round-headed rampion, Phyteuma orbiculare. Marvellous.’

  Morley had by now warmed to his theme.

  ‘Principal rivers of Sussex, Sefton?’ he asked.

  ‘Really, Father?’ said Miriam. ‘Shall we just leave this?’

  ‘Well, if you can’t remember—’

  ‘The Adur, the Arun, the Cuckmere, the Ouse and the Rother,’ said Miriam.

  ‘You do remember! All those years of training have not gone to waste, then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Father. And that is the end of that.’

  During this exchange Miriam had mostly been absentmindedly petting the Bedlington, but she now gave the discussion the benefit of her full attention.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think of when I think of Sussex, Father.’

  ‘Go on, my dear.’

  ‘Resorts,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Resorts?’

  ‘Yes. Sybaritic Sussex, home to the English at play.’

  ‘Sybaritic Sussex,’ said Morley. ‘That’s not bad, Miriam.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Yes. That might be a separate article. A portrait of the retired gentlefolk of Eastbourne, the hard-working at rest in Brighton. Worthing, St Leonards—’

  ‘I have no desire to visit St Leonards,’ said Miriam. ‘Or Eastbourne.’

  ‘St Leonards? The first purpose-built resort in the country? And Worthing? We used to take you there on holiday as a child.’

  ‘I have no recollection of Worthing at all, Father, thank goodness.’

  ‘There used to be a wonderful little man there with a goat carriage made up to look exactly like a ceremonial carriage, and you used to love being drawn up and down the beach in it.’

  ‘No, no memory of the goat carriage at all,’ said Miriam.

  ‘The old bathing machines pulled in to the sea? The hotel with the old leather bath chairs?’

  ‘No, no, nothing,’ said Miriam. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘They have these marvellous assembly rooms in St Leonards. I think I gave a lecture there once.’

  ‘Fascinating, Father.’

  ‘“On Modern Architecture and the Lives of the Architects”. Do you not remember, Miriam?’

  ‘No memory, Father, what-so-ever.’

  ‘Do you know the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill, Sefton?’

  ‘I can’t say I do, Mr Morley, no.’

  ‘You know Herbrand?’

  ‘Herbrand?’ I said.

  ‘Harebrained,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Herbrand Sackville? Buck De La Warr?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘The Lord Privy Seal? Mayor of Bexhill. Extraordinary man. Last time I was in Sussex was for the opening of the pavilion. Marvellous day. Welded steel construction. Triumph of the Modernist style – if you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Which we do, of course, Father.’

  ‘Which you do, of course, Miriam.’

  At this point my coffee and Miriam’s toast arrived, brought by a new waiter, who had either been briefed by his colleague to say absolutely nothing, or who was simply wise enough to know not to get into any discussion of any kind over breakfast with the likes of Miriam and Morley.

  ‘Now, the itinerary,’ said Miriam, crunching on a piece of toast.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley, ‘the itinerary.’

  ‘We both agree we need to skip some of the places you’ve suggested we visit.’

  ‘Skip?’ said Morley.

  ‘That’s right, Father.’

  ‘S
kip? As in skip over? Pass over? Miss out? Forgo?’

  ‘Correct, Father. That, I believe, is the traditional meaning of “skip”, certainly in this usage.’

  ‘Skip!?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Father. Skip. Skirt around. Circumnavigate. Forget about. Avoid entirely.’

  ‘But where on earth can we skip?’

  Miriam reached down for her crocodile/alligator handbag and produced from it Morley’s typewritten list of places to visit in Sussex – holding it out before her rather as though it were a contaminant in a food preparation area – and began scrutinising it, as an unhappy executor reading an unsatisfactory will, or a hanging judge preparing to pass sentence.

  ‘Abbotsford Gardens,’ she said, after long consideration, and with considerable disdain, ‘I think could safely be skipped.’

  ‘Really? Abbotsford Gardens?’

  ‘Yes. Utterly pointless.’ She took another determined bite of her toast. ‘And the Balcombe Viaduct.’

  ‘The Balcombe Viaduct!’ said Morley. ‘But the Balcombe Viaduct—’

  ‘And Bexhill,’ continued Miriam, ‘Climping and Chailey.’

  ‘Miriam!’ said Morley.

  ‘Father!’ said Miriam. ‘Listen, please.’

  ‘Miriam!’

  ‘Father, listen, please.’ She held up a finger. Morley was silent. ‘We are going to have to be much more disciplined if we’re going to stick to our production schedule.’ Miriam and Morley were the only people I ever met who referred to writing as a form of production. Then again, they were the only people I ever met who made a decent living from writing. ‘If you wish to complete The County Guides by the time you retire we need to rationalise and streamline our processes.’

  ‘Retire?’ said Morley. ‘I have no intention of retiring, Miriam.’

  ‘You may not, Father, but I certainly do,’ said Miriam, ‘and I feel I’ve already spent far too much time on these blasted books.’

  ‘But, Miriam—’

  ‘Please!’ The finger was raised again. ‘We need a better system, Father.’ Miriam knew that Morley was a sucker for systems. If she could get him to see the wisdom of some new system, the argument would be won. ‘I am simply suggesting that we reduce our time spent travelling and increase our time researching.’

  ‘But travelling is researching,’ said Morley.

  ‘Travelling is not researching, Father.’

  ‘It’s what we do.’

  ‘It’s a part of what we do, Father. Just to remind you, we have encountered nothing but trouble and difficulty in every county we have visited, and I see no immediate prospect of our troubles ceasing here in Sussex, or indeed wherever else we may find ourselves. In my opinion, you’d be much better staying at home and spending more time in the library.’

  ‘But England is my library,’ said Morley.

  ‘Father, England is not your library.’

  ‘Not only is it my library,’ said Morley, stiffening rather and warming to his theme, ‘it is my atlas, my dictionary, my thesaurus, my ready reckoner. It is my container, my crucible, it is the rock on which I stand, the source of my inspiration, the object of my attention—’

  ‘You can pick one place we should visit before we drive to Lewes,’ said Miriam.

  ‘One?’ said Morley.

  ‘One,’ said Miriam. ‘And then we’re going to Lewes.’

  ‘One?’ repeated Morley.

  ‘One,’ insisted Miriam. ‘And we can bone up on the rest of it at home.’

  It was a stand-off.

  ‘What’ll it be then?’ said Miriam, taking a final decisive bite from her toast.

  ‘This is mutinous, Miriam,’ said Morley.

  ‘It is practical, Father.’

  ‘You’re worse than Fletcher Christian,’ said Morley.

  ‘And you’re worse than Captain Bligh, Father.’

  ‘And I—’ I began.

  ‘Think not just of The County Guides,’ said Miriam. ‘Think of all the other books you’re writing and wish to write. The book on Ireland, for example.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the book on Ireland,’ said Morley. ‘Beginning with the Táin Bó Cúailnge.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Miriam. ‘And the book on Scotland.’

  ‘Yes. The book on Scotland,’ said Morley fondly. He had Scottish ancestors, the mere thought of which, when it occurred to him occasionally, as now, prompted him to misty-eyed reverie. At such moments, the quoting of the poetry of Robbie Burns was never far behind.

  ‘Wales,’ added Miriam quickly, saving us from Robbie Burns. As far as I knew Morley was entirely without Welsh forebears, which at least delivered us from the prospect of lectures on the Mabinogion. ‘A brief history of China.’

  ‘A long history of Europe,’ said Morley.

  ‘Of the United States. The anthologies. The compendiums. The guidebooks. The books on agriculture.’

  ‘Horticulture,’ said Morley.

  ‘Viticulture,’ said Miriam, sipping her coffee. ‘You see. It goes on and on, Father. If you’re ever going to get to where you want to get with all these books, we need to help you find a quicker route through.’

  As it was, Morley moved through subject matter quicker and more efficiently than anyone I’d ever known, but even he was always looking to go faster.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A quicker route would be good. Like an autobahn.’ He was a great fan of the German road network, having visited in 1936 and written one of his more misjudged pamphlets, Reichsautobahn: What the British Can Learn from the Germans, now thankfully long since out of print.

  ‘Exactly like an autobahn, Father.’

  For all her efforts and arguments, I couldn’t honestly see any way that Morley was going to agree to alter his itinerary. He never had. He never would. But then again, as my time with Morley and Miriam so often proved, I am not a good judge of character.

  ‘Ashdown Forest, then,’ Morley suddenly said. ‘That’s the one place I would choose to visit in Sussex.’

  ‘Right,’ said Miriam.

  ‘One of the great secrets of Sussex.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Miriam.

  ‘An ancient royal hunting ground, where even now one can still imagine the horses and hounds streaming across the slopes, the silver notes of the horn making English music, the echo of centuries long ago. Can you imagine it, Sefton?’

  I did my best to imagine it, but Morley’s imagination was perhaps more agile and accomplished than mine.

  ‘Indeed I can, Mr Morley,’ I said. ‘Indeed I can.’

  ‘A vast territory of heather and gorse and fir. A place of immemorial tranquillity.’

  ‘Mmm, quite, quite. Fascinating, Father,’ said Miriam, who now, triumphant, had returned her attention to petting Pablo. ‘That’ll be the place, then.’

  Morley was showing me Ashdown Forest on the map.

  ‘If you look here, Sefton, you’ll see that Nutley is the major village in the forest – susceptible to fires in the dry season, alas. And you’ll see that the highest ridge here’ – he indicated what looked indeed, cartographically, like a high ridge – ‘of the High Weald can be reached by car, along the B2026.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Miriam.

  ‘And that geographically the heart of Ashdown is Gills Lap, which we shall visit and then of course make pilgrimage to Cotchford Farm which is the home of?’

  ‘The Queen of Sheba?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Albert Schweitzer?’

  ‘Wrong again, Miriam. A.A. Milne,’ said Morley.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Miriam, stroking Pablo. ‘Not mopey Milne.’

  ‘Do you know Milne?’ Morley asked me.

  ‘I don’t, no,’ I said.

  ‘Anyway, you know the story of how Milne liked to walk with his son Christopher up to Gills Lap with his teddy bear. Hence—’

  ‘Pooh,’ said Miriam. Pablo gave a little bark here, which attracted the attention of the other diners.

  ‘Pooh indeed,’ said
Morley. ‘It’ll be nice to see Alan.’

  ‘Will it, though?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Bit of a cold fish, admittedly,’ said Morley.

  ‘Bit?’ said Miriam. ‘All I’ll say, Sefton, is that he’s rather more Eeyore than Roo, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll enjoy Ashdown Forest, Sefton,’ said Morley. ‘This time of year, it’s like an Impressionist painting.’

  ‘Dull and hazy,’ said Miriam, who had by now both finished her toast and petting Pablo and was preparing to leave, having seemingly forgotten all about her summoning the manager of the hotel for an urgent nine o’clock meeting about dogs in restaurants and the supply of constant hot water. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad that’s all sorted. I’m going to pack and then we can set off in – what? – an hour?’

  ‘We have to wait for Molly,’ said Morley.

  ‘What?’ Miriam froze as she was about to walk away.

  ‘For Molly,’ said Morley. ‘We have to wait for Molly. She’s going to be joining us on the journey down.’

  ‘Oh no, Father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘She’s coming to Lewes?’

  ‘That’s right, she’s singing at the Hudsons’, as you know.’

  ‘But can’t she make her own way there?’ said Miriam.

  ‘She could, of course,’ said Morley. ‘But I’ve invited her to travel down with us.’

  ‘You invited her, or she invited herself?’

  ‘I invited her,’ said Morley.

  ‘But she’s got her manager fellow, Giacomo or whatever he’s called, hasn’t she? Isn’t she better off travelling down with him?’

  ‘He’s going to be driving her luggage and costumes down and is going to meet us there.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, Father.’

  ‘Come on what?’

  ‘Let’s be honest. She is dreadful, Father.’

  ‘She is not dreadful, Miriam. On the contrary, she is quite delightful. And I would hope that you would know better than speaking ill of persons who are not here to defend themselves.’

  Miriam huffed.

  ‘What would Mother think?’

  It was at this point that I decided I would take Pablo for a walk.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ll perhaps meet you with the Bedlington in—’