The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘Would you like some tea, sir?’

  I was sitting in the residents’ lounge, a fussy, Arts and Crafts sort of a room, full of pointlessly ornate sideboards fitted into pointlessly ornate recesses, and with an absurdly polished piano of glistening walnut obstructing free passage and movement. ‘A commonplace piano,’ announced Morley one evening, after he’d sat and bashed through some Beethoven bagatelles, ‘despite – or perhaps because of – appearances. Never judge a book by its cover, Sefton. Or a piano by its polish.’ The room’s unrelenting relief ornament, featuring a lot of unnecessary leafage, and its fiddly frieze depicting vague scenes of a bucolic nature, and its plump and peculiarly uncomfortable armchairs upholstered in a swains-and-nymphs-rich fabric, and its far too large polygonal table, which conspired with the piano to prevent ease of access or exit, made it lounge-like in name only: it was the sort of room one was forced to stand back and admire rather than actually to inhabit; rather like Paris. Morley always described such rooms as having been ‘executed’ in a particular fashion and ‘executed in the Parisian fashion’ he would say of rooms he particularly disapproved of, ‘and too many fancy fitments’, he would add. ‘Executed in the Parisian fashion, and too many fancy fitments,’ I found myself muttering out loud, already having picked up some of Morley’s verbal habits. ‘Too French and too fancy for a small provincial hotel.’

  ‘Would you like some tea, sir,’ repeated the voice. It was the barmaid from the night before.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just …’ It was difficult to say what I was just doing. Dreaming my way out of there.

  ‘That’s all right, sir. None of us likes this room much anyway.’

  ‘No. Well.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes. That would be … lovely, yes, thank you.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Everything is fine. Absolutely fine. Could not be …’ I sank deep into the armchair, staring at the concave and convex surfaces of modelled plaster on the wall opposite, following one of the many trails of fronds on the intricately contoured surfaces as it meandered from dark to darker and back again to dark in the cruel play of the weak afternoon sunlight.

  She went to get the tea.

  ‘Why don’t you join me?’ I asked when she returned. I suddenly felt the need for the reassurance of female company, something solid and tangible, real – and she was certainly that. There was something coquettish about her: she had those eyes that dilated slightly when you spoke to her, like a cat, or a film star. It was just a bar habit, I suppose, but terribly effective.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir, no, thank you. I’m just covering for one of the girls.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’

  She smiled, and did her eyes again, and lingered by the chair.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. But can I get you anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Though you could tell me your name.’

  ‘Lizzie,’ she said.

  ‘Well, Lizzie, perhaps another time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. I thought I saw her bite her lip; I noticed that she wore a gold chain around her neck that hung down … ‘You’re not with your friend today then?’ she said. ‘The old chap with the moustache.’

  ‘Mr Morley? No. He’s … working.’

  ‘Is he famous?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. He’s a famous writer, yes.’

  ‘Ah, we thought so. That explains it.’

  I didn’t know exactly how or what it explained, but I suppose it did.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  I realised I was staring at her. This generous, innocent, finely formed young woman seemed suddenly like a hope of escape – from complications, from regret, from Morley, from the strange situation I seemed to have found myself in.

  ‘It’s just a headache,’ I said.

  ‘My father had the same problem.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He suffered very badly from his nerves, after the war, you see.’

  ‘You’re too young to remember the war, surely?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, sir. But Father’s told me all about it. You don’t look well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Just shaken up by this whole business with the reverend. And … his maid.’

  ‘Oh, everybody is, sir. Everybody in the village.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Yes. And her.’

  ‘Hannah.’

  ‘Yes. She was lovely. Did you meet her?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did.’ I felt myself about to give a little gasp; shock at the memory of what had taken place between me and Hannah. I lowered my eyes. It was as if it were apparent in my face, written on my body.

  ‘Some people in the village were anti-, but I didn’t mind.’

  ‘Sorry? Anti- what?’

  ‘The Jews. I don’t really mind them. You can’t always tell, anyway, can you? And there were rumours, of course.’

  ‘What sort of rumours?’

  ‘About the two of them.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Really?’ It struck me, through the afternoon haze of my self-absorption and regret, that this was one of Livia’s white hens that Morley had spoken of, dropped into my lap. ‘Why don’t you sit down, here,’ I said and patted an adjacent armchair, which she settled into, and as the motes of dust played around us in that sickening, stifling room, she told me about the rumours, about the reverend and Hannah, and about lovers and plots, and the desecration of the face of the Virgin Mary in the church and …

  ‘But it’s just village tittle-tattle, sir,’ she said, at the end of our long, strange conversation. ‘That’s all. It’s just what people say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Just what people say.’

  Eventually she had to leave to attend to other guests.

  I passed the rest of the afternoon alone with my thoughts.

  When I sat down that evening with Morley for dinner our conversation moved, as it always did, from topic to topic, and sub-topic to sub-topic, and over great time and distances, as we traversed our way slowly from soup to nuts, occasionally glancing at the views afforded over Blakeney harbour – the Blakeney Hotel, as Morley notes in the County Guides, being ‘blessed by its situation’ – and so it was only as we were approaching our trifle, which we were assured was a speciality of the house, that the moment finally presented itself for me to speak to Morley about what Lizzie had told me.

  But just as I was about to speak, a man strode purposefully into the dining room and spoke – equally purposefully – with the head waiter, and then began to make his way – even more purposefully – over to our table. Morley had his back to the man, but I sat facing towards him, and couldn’t help but notice that – at over six feet tall, and dressed in a buttery smooth grey suit – he had the disturbed and yet somehow also imperturbable features of someone who’d spent a considerable portion of his youth clambering in and out of boxing rings, and that, as he walked towards us with his profound and ever increasing purposefulness, his face seemed to become forever darker and his fists more clenched: he was, I thought, either a policeman or a thug.

  ‘Policeman?’ said Morley, glancing up at me, moments before the man reached our table, as though reading my thoughts.

  ‘Would you mind if I had a word? Mr Morley, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. And you are?’

  ‘I’m the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary.’

  ‘An honour to meet you, sir. And your name is?’

  ‘I’m the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. That will suffice, thank you, Mr Morley.’ The detective’s fists were clenched as tight as his jaw wasset.

  ‘Of course, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. We’ve been expecting you.’ Morley rose from his seat to his own not inconsiderable hei
ght, shook the detective firmly by the hand, called over a waiter, who brought an extra chair, and quickly settled the detective down, instantly taking charge of the situation. Several diners at nearby tables glanced in our direction.

  ‘This is my assistant, Stephen Sefton,’ he said. We shook hands. Or, rather, the detective shook my hand. He had hands like rolling pins.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting your meal,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. You’re coping with a serious enquiry. We, on the other hand, are merely coping with a trifle. Literally. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Very wise. Too much cream, not enough custard, wouldn’t you say, Sefton? But coffee, perhaps, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary? Though I don’t indulge myself. One tries to avoid too many false exhilarations. You won’t accept wine or spiritous drink, I’m sure, if you’re on duty.’

  ‘I’ll get to the point, Mr Morley, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary.’ Morley ostentatiously folded his napkin on the table.

  ‘Deputy Detective Chief Inspector is fine,’ said the detective.

  ‘Oh, really, we can drop the Norfolk Constabulary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. You have my full and undivided attention.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen today’s papers, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector,’ said Morley, who had read and carefully filleted them for information and facts by the time I’d come down for breakfast.

  ‘You write for the papers, isn’t that right, Mr Morley? Daily Herald, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. Though I also write for the Morning Post, The Times, the Daily Telegraph, the Daily News, the Daily Chronicle, the Daily Express and the Daily Mail. As well as the Daily Herald.’

  ‘A busy man.’

  ‘I’m a terribly disorganised man, actually, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector, truth be told, rather than busy, though I must admit I have always been lucky in finding places to publish.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’m sure that is the case, Mr Morley, for a man like yourself who’s clearly prepared to write for anyone about anything.’ The detective’s voice was becoming raised and his face slightly flushed. I noticed the head waiter hovering closely at a nearby table, whose diners were staring across at us with a look of some alarm.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly,’ said Morley, who was breathing through his nose, I noted, in a manner I recognised; it was a technique he said he’d learned on his travels, from a Buddhist monk, and was guaranteed to calm a chap when under verbal or physical assault. ‘I’m not terribly good on sport, for example. Or horoscopes – the press now publish the daily influences of the stars as calmly as if it were the weather forecast, don’t they? Not something I entirely approve of, I must admit. Are you a reader of the horoscopes at all? Astra non mentiuntur, sed astrologi bene mentiuntur, eh?’

  The detective glanced at me at this point, clearly looking for a referee, realising that Morley’s techniques and rules of conversation were not entirely the same as other men’s, and that the thing was getting away from him. I smiled at him benignly, and he threw down a conversational anchor.

  ‘There seems to be some suggestion in the papers, Mr Morley, that the police may require assistance in investigating the suicide of the reverend.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Suggestions in an article by you, in fact, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘In today’s Daily Herald.’ The volume was raised once again. More diners glanced across. The head waiter remained hovering.

  I hadn’t seen the article.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give that impression at all, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Well, that’s what it read like to me, sir.’

  ‘That is really most regrettable, then.’

  ‘We see very little crime around here, Mr Morley.’ You could now have heard a proverbial pin drop in the restaurant. Knives and forks had been retired and laid to rest.

  ‘Due in large part no doubt to your careful stewardship, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. Like Adam in the Garden.’

  ‘I like to think so,’ said the detective, unable for a moment to work out whether this was a compliment or not. I wasn’t sure myself. It was not, as it turned out; as Morley now made abundantly clear.

  ‘It is a pity then, that like the serpent, sin seems to have entered paradise on its belly, as it were, and one of your most prominent figures in the community has died such a horrible death.’

  ‘Yes. But a suicide is not something that we can—’

  ‘If it is suicide,’ said Morley, not unaware, it seemed to me, that he now had as his audience the entire restaurant, its diners and its staff.

  ‘Which it is,’ said the detective.

  ‘You say so, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Yes. But I wonder …’ Morley paused, and milked the moment, twirling a moustache-end. ‘If there might perhaps be more to it.’

  ‘Do you now, Mr Morley? And I wonder, sir, if you have been reading too many books.’

  Morley laughed, something that – despite his continual good humour – he rarely did. The laugh echoed around the restaurant, rattling off the windows, and startled the head waiter into action. He began loudly instructing the other waiting staff in their duties, moving from table to table with words of calm for the diners. A hubbub arose. Our exchange returned to a private conversation. ‘It has certainly been said before, Inspector, and I must admit that I’m no stranger to the delights of the written word. Was it Johnson who described himself as a ruminant of reading? Sefton?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Morley. Sounds like Johnson, certainly,’ I said.

  ‘Well, whoever said what, Mr Morley’ – the detective spoke with lowered voice now – ‘I would prefer it if you would leave the police work to us professionals, and you keep your theories to yourself, stay out of the papers and stick with your books.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We have a job to do.’

  ‘Indeed. And I have the highest respect for the police profession, may I say,’ said Morley. ‘Awe, even. Some of my favourite people in the world are policemen.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Chevalier Dupin. Eugène Valmont. Inspector Hanaud. Do you know Inspector Hanaud?’

  ‘I can’t say I do, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Pity. You’d like him. Very smart. Very intuitive. Much like yourself, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Well, perhaps, Mr Morley, given the high regard you claim to hold for our profession, you might show us the respect of leaving our work to us, sir?’

  ‘I certainly shall, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. I certainly shall.’

  ‘Part of which will be to investigate your own involvement in the discovery of the reverend’s body.’

  ‘Of course. In which matter you are assured of our utmost assistance.’

  ‘Good.’ The detective seemed satisfied. But Morley was not.

  ‘And can I ask when we might be able to expect to be able to leave Blakeney and go about our business?’

  ‘I can’t say at the moment, Mr Morley, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Would it perhaps speed matters along at this stage if I were to offer a little information?’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘Well, what with us having been first on the scene and what have you, I wondered if—’

  ‘If you have information, Mr Morley, relating to this crime, you are obliged to inform us.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really information so much as a suggestion, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘A suggestion?’

  ‘Yes.
Or a set of suggestions.’

  ‘Really?’ The detective looked as though all and any suggestions of Morley’s about anything and of any kind would be thoroughly unwelcome. Of course, this didn’t stop Morley.

  ‘I’m sure you have dealt with suicides, during your time as a policeman?’

  ‘Sadly I have, yes, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And in your experience, what would be the main reasons for someone taking their own life?’

  ‘General weariness of life,’ said the detective. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Something with which I’m sure we can all identify,’ said Morley.

  ‘Some more than others,’ said the detective, rather wittily, I thought.

  ‘Indeed. Any other reasons that you’ve come across?’

  ‘Mental illness.’

  ‘Insanity, you mean?’ said Morley.

  ‘Imbecility,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Or idiocy.’

  ‘Mental illness and idiocy being not quite the same thing, though, obviously,’ said Morley.

  ‘I speak as I find, Mr Morley.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Inspector, though neither idiocy nor mental illness applies, presumably, in the case of the Reverend Bowden.’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said the inspector.

  ‘So I wonder if there might be other reasons that you can think of, why someone commits suicide?’