The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Morley.

  ‘It’s a popular tune, Mr Morley, or was, in my youth.’ She pursed her lips in an unfriendly fashion at the mention of her youth. Make-up would not have sat well upon her features, which resembled the kind of contour map of the more mountainous regions of England.

  A woman entered the room and came and spoke to Miss Harris. She was considerably younger than Miss Harris – in her thirties, perhaps – improbably tall, and dressed in a dark trouser suit. Morley referred to her henceforth, though in private, as Glumdalclitch, another of his allusions that passed me by entirely, until, with his usual upbraiding, he pointed out that it was the name of Gulliver’s nurse. ‘Dean Swift, Sefton? Never heard of him? Doesn’t feature on the Tripos these days?’

  The drawing room

  ‘Sorry, you must excuse us, Mr Morley,’ said Miss Harris. ‘This is Miss Spranzi. My secretary.’

  ‘An Italian name?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Spranzi, smiling.

  ‘Lieto di conoscerla,’ he said, staring up at her.

  ‘Molto lieto,’ replied Miss Spranzi.

  ‘Di dov’è?’

  ‘Di Firenze.’

  ‘Una bella città!’

  ‘We should perhaps speak in English, though, Mr Morley,’ said Miss Spranzi. ‘For the sake of the others?’

  ‘Of course. Sefton, you don’t have Italian?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The language of Dante?’

  ‘Nor I, Mr Morley,’ said Miss Harris. ‘I have never felt the need to acquire it.’ She spoke as though ‘it’ were an unnecessary purchase in the food hall at Selfridge’s.

  ‘And I, I’m afraid, take every opportunity to practise it,’ said Morley. ‘Forgive me.’ He nodded to Miss Spranzi. ‘Scusi.’

  ‘Prego.’

  Miss Harris, clearly unhappy to have lost the limelight, albeit momentarily, rearranged herself noisily and theatrically in her chair.

  ‘Shall we get on, Mr Morley? I’m sure you’re a very busy man. Francesca, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do sit down, gentlemen.’ Miss Harris waved us towards some chairs.

  ‘Now, Miss Spranzi did say, but what exactly was it you wanted to see me about, Mr Morley?’

  ‘I’m writing a book, madam, about the county of Norfolk.’

  ‘Well, what a jolly idea.’

  ‘It’s the first in a series of County Guides that I’m writing.’

  ‘I see. And you intend to write about all of them?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ she said, in a way that suggested that the task was not extraordinary at all. ‘How terribly … Wagnerian.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Morley. ‘It had not occurred to me before, madam, but I suppose it is what the great man himself might have called a Gesamtkunstwerk.’

  ‘Not a term I’m familiar with, Mr Morley.’ Miss Harris’s face soured: not a woman who liked to be outwitted or outdone.

  ‘It means—’

  ‘You’re not a young man, are you, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Alas, madam, no, I’m not.’

  ‘In which case, is it not rather foolhardy an undertaking, if you don’t mind me saying so?’

  ‘Possibly. Though I have my young assistant here, who I’m proud to say is full of vim and vigour.’

  I had in fact spent most of this conversation staring out of the window, vim- and vigourless, longing for escape from this tiresome woman and her faux-hospitality, but I offered a thin smile at Morley’s prompting.

  ‘A sort of swan song then, is it?’ said Miss Harris.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Morley. ‘I regard it more as another of my intellectual adventures.’

  ‘Well, good for you, Mr Morley.’ She rearranged her hands in her lap. ‘Good. For. You. And how is it that you think I can help you?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to people,’ said Morley, ‘who in some way represent the county.’

  ‘I see. And you thought of me?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘As a representative? I don’t think I would consider myself as representative of anything, Mr Morley. I rather regard myself as sui generis.’

  ‘Sui amans, sine rivali,’ said Morley.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

  ‘Just agreeing, Miss Harris, that’s all. But I’m sure you have many interesting things to tell us about Norfolk. You were born here, I believe?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘In Blakeney?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Harris is a local name?’

  ‘Harris is my stage name, Mr Morley.’

  ‘How wonderful! And sporting this nom de théâtre you went on to achieve great fame and riches, and now you have returned—’

  ‘In my dotage.’

  ‘In your pomp.’

  ‘I’m really not sure that anyone would be interested in the reminiscences of an old actress like myself, Mr Morley.’

  ‘I fancy you’re merely being modest, Miss Harris.’

  ‘It’s called good manners, Mr Morley. Or it used to be.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  Miss Spranzi arrived back with a silver tea set, and poured us all tea.

  ‘Mille grazie,’ said Morley.

  ‘Your reputation precedes you, of course, Mr Morley,’ said Miss Harris. ‘The People’s Professor.’

  ‘Not a title I claim for myself,’ said Morley.

  ‘But one bestowed upon you.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘An honorific, then.’

  ‘One could call it that.’

  ‘Well, Professor, I must confess that I haven’t read any of your books.’

  This was the phrase, I came to realise, that they all used – the country set, and the aristocracy, and the bohemians and the bourgeois who we met on our journeyings. They always claimed they’d never read Morley’s books, though often we could see them right there on their shelves. It was as though they were ashamed of admitting that they shared something with the merely aspirational, as though Morley, in his great quest to spread knowledge among all classes, was a kind of contaminant. It was, I have to admit – or it had been – my own opinion.

  ‘I have never read any of my books myself, madam,’ said Morley, which was his characteristic response to the typical put-down.

  ‘And yet you write them?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘They’re not written perhaps by your assistant?’

  Morley laughed. ‘I employ Mr Sefton here for purely practical purposes, Miss Harris.’

  ‘As I do Miss Spranzi. So perhaps you might explain to us both, what sort of books are yours exactly?’

  ‘They are books intended for the large mass of people, Miss Harris. They would hardly be of interest to someone like yourself.’

  ‘One shouldn’t assume, Mr Morley. I have rather a taste, actually, for the commonplace. If one spends one’s life on stage, one hardly wants to settle down in one’s retirement with George Bernard Shaw, does one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I rather enjoy a good Sax Rohmer, actually, or a Nat Gould – you perhaps know his racing novelettes?’

  ‘I do, yes, madam. Very fine.’

  ‘Indeed. And I used to enjoy E.M. Hull. And A.S.M. Hutchinson.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘But who now reads A.S.M. Hutchinson, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Who indeed, madam?’

  ‘The last book I read was Oliver Lodge, with his book … What was it called?’ she asked Miss Spranzi.

  ‘Raymond, or Life and Death?’ said Miss Spranzi.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was it good?’ asked Morley.

  ‘I’m afraid I gave up halfway through. These days I find my reading is preparation merely for the solving of crossword puzzles to which – to my shame – I must admit I have become rather addicted.’

  ‘An innocent vice.’

  ‘
I certainly hope so.’

  We spoke, or rather Morley and Miss Harris spoke, for some time – interminable time, it seemed – about her career as an actress and singer, and her early childhood in Norfolk. I took dutiful notes, as instructed by Morley. She also told some tales of Norfolk folk and customs.

  ‘You know the story of the Oxfoot Stone?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ said Morley.

  She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and began to tell the story, punctuated by the Pekinese and with Miss Spranzi by her side, smiling indulgently towards her throughout.

  ‘This was a story told to me by my own grandmother.’ She took a deep breath, as though inhaling the memory. ‘Many years ago, during a time of great poverty, it was said that there was a great cow that visited the village of Lopham. You know Lopham, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘And the great cow of Lopham suffered herself to be milked dry, again and again, day after day, and week after week, by the poor of the parish.’

  ‘Ah yes, the myth of the great mother.’

  ‘Indeed. And then, when they no longer needed the milk, the cow simply disappeared, leaving only her giant hoof-print on the Oxfoot Stone, which lies to this day, I believe, in the village.’

  ‘A wonderful story.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ agreed Miss Spranzi.

  ‘An allegory, perhaps?’ said Morley.

  ‘A true story, Mr Morley. The stone is still there in Lopham, for all to see.’

  More little stories and anecdotes followed, and eventually we rose to leave.

  ‘Thank you so much for your time, Miss Harris. It’s absolutely invaluable. And particularly at this time. I’m sure it’s come as a terrible shock to you, the death of the reverend.’

  ‘Not a shock exactly,’ said Miss Harris, who gazed up towards the ceiling. ‘More a surprise.’

  ‘A surprise, then,’ said Morley. ‘Yes. A fine distinction. A shock perhaps implies great … unexpectedness.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Harris.

  ‘A disturbance,’ said Morley.

  ‘Precisely. In one’s equilibrium, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And a surprise implies no such overthrow of oneself—’

  ‘Quite,’ said Miss Harris.

  ‘And of course a surprise might excite not merely alarm or terror, but pleasure, wonder or excitement. Etymologically speaking, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Miss Harris, unimpressed.

  ‘But whether a shock or a surprise, it is certainly a tragedy,’ said Morley.

  ‘One might say so, Mr Morley, if one were inclined to melodrama.’

  ‘And you’re not, madam?’

  ‘I have seen and acted in enough melodrama, Mr Morley, not to have any appetite for it in my private life. And I’m afraid I have very little pity for those who choose to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost.’

  ‘The sin against the Holy Ghost?’

  ‘Suicide, Mr Morley.’

  ‘I had always interpreted the passage to be a reference to those rejecting Christ.’

  ‘Then we shall have to agree to disagree in our interpretation of Scripture, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Morley.

  ‘The Bible speaks clearly against the sin of self-destruction, and those who practise it, I think you’ll find, Mr Morley.’

  ‘I’m sure the reverend had his reasons, madam.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’

  ‘Well. Audi alteram partem,’ said Morley.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘There are two sides to every story.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She grinned, showing sharp teeth, like a shark’s. ‘But sometimes I think you’ll find there is only one side to a story.’

  ‘Are you regular churchgoers?’ asked Morley. ‘Do you mind my asking?’

  ‘I attend regularly, yes,’ said Miss Harris.

  ‘And signorina?’

  ‘I am a Roman Catholic,’ said Miss Spranzi. ‘I find the customs and practices of the Church of England rather … quaint.’

  ‘I’m sure. And I believe the reverend was very … modern in his outlook?’

  ‘Actually, I found him very conservatore,’ said Miss Spranzi.

  ‘Conservative,’ said Morley.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you would stay at home while Miss Harris attends morning service, is that right?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘So you were not at the service on Sunday?’

  ‘Actually, yes. I was. I happened to attend the communion service. I like to celebrate Mass.’

  ‘Does the Church of England celebrate Mass?’

  ‘Sometimes we Catholics must take solace where we can find it.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see the reverend after the service?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. And what about the girl?’

  ‘The maid?’ said Miss Harris.

  ‘Yes. Did you know her?’

  ‘We knew of her, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Knew of her?’

  ‘She was his maid, I mean.’

  ‘I see. Such a pity about her, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Miss Harris.

  ‘And very strange, wasn’t it? Her setting fire to herself, down at the front at Blakeney?’

  ‘Very strange.’

  ‘Unless of course she were performing her death as some sort of spectacle. As a piece of theatre. I don’t know if that has occurred to you, Miss Harris? With your own theatrical background?’

  ‘It has not occurred to me, no, Mr Morley. And frankly I find the suggestion both distasteful and disrespectful.’

  ‘I do apologise. I suppose I’m just trying to understand what might have driven her to such a terrible act. Her feelings for the reverend, perhaps?’

  Miss Harris and Miss Spranzi remained silent at Morley’s suggestion, which hung in the air for some time. And then Miss Harris suggested that Miss Spranzi escort us on our way.

  ‘Might I just ask, out of interest, pure curiosity,’ said Morley, as we were about to be ushered out of the drawing room, ‘what did you make of him, madam?’

  ‘Make of who?’

  ‘The reverend?’

  ‘Make of him?’

  ‘Yes. What struck you about him?’

  Miss Harris paused for a long time and squinted at us, as if the question itself were an impertinence, which perhaps it was. But eventually she answered.

  ‘He wore pullovers.’

  ‘Pullovers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The most ridiculous thing. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a priest in a pullover?’

  ‘I don’t know if I have, madam, now that you come to mention it.’

  ‘Well, there’s a very good reason for that. It’s most unseemly.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I do. Why? Do you not?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I would necessarily describe the wearing of a pullover by a priest as “unseemly”.’

  ‘Then you have clearly been infected by the spirit of the times, Mr Morley, if I might say so. A pullover shows a lack of dignity.’

  ‘But apart from the pullover?’

  ‘I shan’t be discussing the reverend any further, Mr Morley, thank you.’ She gathered her shawl tight around her, and bent forward to stroke the Pekinese. The interview was over.

  ‘No, thank you, Miss Harris.’

  ‘I look forward to reading your book, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And what was the newspaper you said you wrote for?’

  ‘The Daily Herald.’

  ‘It’s not a paper we usually take, but I shall make a point of buying a copy and searching for one of your articles. I’d be intrigued.’

  ‘And I would be most honoured.’

  ‘Goodbye then, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She did not offer her hand to be kissed. And Morley d
id not offer to kiss it. He spoke a few more words in Italian to Miss Spranzi, and then we left.

  ‘Well?’ said Morley as we walked towards the car. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Interesting,’ I said.

  ‘Sharp as a packet of needles, I’d say.’

  ‘She’s certainly—’

  ‘Do you think they live as man and wife, Sefton?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say, sir.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a judgement, Sefton. An observation, merely.’

  ‘It’s … possible, sir, yes.’

  ‘Have you read Sappho, Sefton?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I have, Mr Morley.’

  ‘No? What about Edward Carpenter? The Intermediate Sex?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have, sir.’

  ‘Really? Curious work. You might enjoy it. Havelock Ellis? Sexologist of a rather different kidney.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian, sir,’ I said, trying to change the subject. Morley on sex was not a subject I wished to entertain.

  ‘Barely,’ said Morley, ‘but a little is better than nothing, I suppose. We English do not often trouble ourselves with foreign languages. It’s like homosexuality. Something we know about, but don’t care to participate in ourselves. Though some slight sprinkling of knowledge does perhaps come in handy.’

  ‘What was it you said to her as we were leaving?’

  ‘I remarked simply that I thought Italy had been nicely tidied up under Mussolini.’

  ‘But you don’t really think—’

  ‘Not at all, Sefton. But Miss Spranzi readily agreed: a woman who likes to see things tidied up neatly, I would say, Miss Spranzi. A place for everything – and everyone. And everything – and everyone – in their place. Do you know the expression albae gallinae filius, Sefton?’

  ‘No, I don’t—’

  ‘Meaning, literally, “son of a white hen”. Ring any bells?’

  ‘No. I—’

  ‘An eagle was said to have dropped a white hen in the lap of Livia, wife of Emperor Augustus. Good omen. Supposed to bring luck. Shall we venture on?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I RETURNED TO THE HOTEL that afternoon – the wrong, wayward feeling of lonely afternoons in small hotels being one of the moods that became depressingly familiar to me during my time with Morley, that mood of something awry, or spoiled; I could never quite put my finger on it. It always reminded me, unhappily, of being a child, the sense of waiting for some unknown thing to happen, that you could not but help expect, excitedly, and with anticipation, and yet at the same time somehow dreaded and knew would be bad: school; dinner; punishment. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the Blakeney Hotel. It had, that afternoon, the fresh smell of a place newly washed and cleaned – all lavender and wax – though underneath it there was that inimitable hotel smell of something having been long cooked, and long ago. Cabbages, perhaps; boiled something, certainly. I longed for rest; for my pills; for something. I found myself caught up instead in endless, unhappy thoughts about Hannah and the hanging priest.