The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘I’m not that interested in these larger philosophical questions, Mr Morley, to be honest. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘But a philosopher’s profession, surely?’

  ‘I hardly think so, Mr Morley, no.’

  ‘The pursuit of truth and justice? The application of method to mystery? The examination and interrogation of evidence?’

  ‘Anyway,’ said the detective. ‘The reverend killed himself, and that’s unfortunate.’

  ‘But the question of why remains,’ insisted Morley.

  ‘The question of why is none of our business, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Really? How curious, coming from an officer of the law. Omnia causa fiunt.’

  ‘You keep speaking Italian, Mr Morley, a language I do not understand.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Morley. ‘One can hardly expect a deputy detective chief inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary also to be a linguist. I mean simply that everything has a cause, which might tell us about the effect. I’m sure that we can agree on that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. So perhaps you’ll indulge me for a moment—’

  ‘I think you’ll find that I already have, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Indeed you have, sir. Indeed you have. Very generous. And for so little in return. Sure I can’t interest you in some trifle? Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What was your verdict on the trifle, Sefton?’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said.

  ‘Too much cream,’ said Morley. ‘And we shall have to overlook the sherry. But anyway. Let us imagine, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector, shall we, that we have a little collection of suicides: a dead man, say; a dead woman; another dead man; another dead woman.’

  ‘Yes …’ It was unclear to the detective, and indeed to me, where Morley was going with this latest analogy. It was getting late. The restaurant was emptying.

  ‘Can you picture them in your mind, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary?’

  ‘Not really, no, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Precisely. But let us imagine now that one of the men is an ex-soldier, say, who has suffered illusions of persecution. He has returned from a war, is unable to resume his previous life, and found himself unable to manage.’ Morley glanced meaningfully at me across the table. I looked away. Rearranged my napkin. ‘And that one of the women, say, is a religious woman, middle-aged, husband dead, has been suffering from dementing visions. And that the other woman was a servant girl found hanging in a … pantry, say, having been found out in adultery with her employer. And that the other man was a … farmer? Yes, a farmer, who hanged himself in his barn because of money troubles. Do you begin to get a picture of all these people now? Able to distinguish between them, these suicides? Understand who they are? Why they acted as they did?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, there we are, you see, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. Multum in parvo. Minima maxima sunt, and what have you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Details. Details, details, details. And as with these others, so with the reverend. Everything we can know about him matters in assisting us to find the cause of his death, and to find the cause of his death is to solve the mystery of his death.’

  ‘Not that there is a mystery,’ said the detective, whose fists remained as clenched, and whose jaw as set as when he had first sat with us what seemed a long time ago.

  ‘Ah, well, in that matter we shall perhaps have to agree to disagree.’

  The head waiter approached the table.

  ‘Can I offer you gentlemen any tea or coffee? Anything else to eat or drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Morley. ‘Deputy Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Sefton?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Good. No, thank you,’ said Morley to the waiter. ‘I think we’re almost done here.’

  We were indeed almost done, the detective most thoroughly done, though Morley insisted on tormenting him with some further observations as he got up to leave.

  ‘Would you mind if I consulted my notebooks for a moment?’ he said. ‘I took the liberty of jotting down a few thoughts on the subject of suicide.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Just a moment. I have so much enjoyed our conversation.’ Morley fished one of his German notebooks from his jacket pocket. ‘Good. Ah. Yes.’ He ran his finger down the page, as if adding up a grocery bill. ‘Suicide. Reasons for. Have you ever come across any cases of derangement accompanying religious ecstasy or excitement?’

  ‘Not personally, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And the reverend was not – as far as you know – given to visions and such like? I was just wondering, what with him being a religious man.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m just ticking off my list here, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. Other reasons for suicide … Bodily affliction, perhaps? Illness? Was the reverend suffering from any?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Vices.’

  ‘Vices? Such as?’

  ‘Such as drunkenness. Sorrow and grief over others – he was a clergyman after all. He was unmarried. We’re sure he was not a homosexual?’

  ‘I hardly think—’

  Morley held up a finger and continued reading. ‘I’m not suggesting these are the reasons. I am merely suggesting possible reasons, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector. Financial distress. Remorse. Shame … Oh, I can hardly read my own writing here … Sefton, what does that say?’

  He handed the notebook over to me. There was nothing written on the page.

  I glanced at Morley, bewildered. He stared back.

  ‘I can’t quite make it out, Mr Morley, I’m afraid.’

  He peered at the blank page. ‘Punishment,’ he said. ‘That’s it. What about punishment?’

  ‘What about it?’ said the detective.

  ‘Would it perhaps be possible that the reverend was being punished for some unknown crime?’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘By himself, possibly. Though more likely by others.’

  ‘By others?’

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ said Morley. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

  In the end, Morley and the detective parted on good enough terms, the restaurant was calm, and I finally took the opportunity to speak to Morley about the rumours that Lizzie had reported to me: that the reverend and Hannah were lovers; that she was pregnant with his child; that theirs was a suicide pact. Morley listened without interrupting as I spoke.

  ‘Absolute rubbish, Sefton,’ he said, when I had finished. ‘Really, one shouldn’t entertain these fantastical notions. Anyway, time for bed.’

  I spent the rest of the evening drinking in the residents’ lounge of the hotel. Lizzie was again serving. I drank perhaps more than I should and asked her more about Hannah and the reverend. She told me a story about Hannah acting as a model for a local artist.

  ‘There’re loads of artists here. They come here for the sky, apparently.’

  ‘For the sky?’

  ‘Can’t get it anywhere else, is what they say.’

  I finished another glass of whisky. ‘I’m sure they can’t.’

  ‘You being cheeky, mister?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s all right, I like it when you are.’

  ‘Perhaps I should do it some more then?’

  ‘Perhaps you should. Or perhaps you should go to bed.’

  ‘That’s an interesting suggestion,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You’re not funny, are you?’ she said.

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Queer?’

  ‘No!’ I laughed. ‘I’m not. What made you think so?’

  ‘Just … Your friend’s so well turned-out—’

  ‘Exceptionally spruce,’ I said. ‘It’s a phrase of Morley’s.’

  ‘And y
ou’re very good-looking—’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that …’

  ‘As you know fine rightly. So, people have been saying things about the pair of you.’

  ‘We’ll prove people wrong then, shall we, Lizzie?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN THE MORNING, alone, I was woken by bright sunlight streaming in behind white curtains.

  It was before six. During what little sleep I had enjoyed I had been troubled by dreams and nightmares. I knew that I had to speak to Morley immediately.

  I knocked on his door. He called from inside and I entered.

  He was dressed in a shirt, bow tie and waistcoat, a pair of khaki shorts, knee-length socks, his customary brogues, and was vigorously performing a set of exercises. Very vigorously, in fact. So vigorously that his each utterance was first prefaced by and then followed by a pant and a grunt.

  ‘Care to – hff! – join me – hff! – Sefton?’

  ‘No, I think I’ll sit this one out, if I may.’

  ‘You don’t know – hff! – what you’re missing,’ he hffed.

  ‘I think I can see, Mr Morley.’

  ‘The important thing – hff! – is regularity – hff! – Sefton. As in all – hff! – things.’

  ‘I’ll call back later, Mr Morley.’

  ‘No. No.’ He stood still, and began a series of stretching exercises, which seemed to calm his breathing.

  ‘The Four Bs, Sefton. I wrote a book, a few years ago. That was the title.’ He was breathing deeply. ‘Morning routine, key to a healthy and happy day. One: breathing.’ He demonstrated by taking several deep breaths. ‘Two: bath – cold water, of course. Stimulates the nerves. Three: bowels – open. Good evacuation. And four: breakfast. Fruit. Water. Bowl of oatmeal.’

  ‘I’ll certainly consider adopting the routine,’ I said.

  ‘Do. Do you the power of good, Sefton. Anyway, how can I help you?’

  ‘I was talking to someone last night.’

  ‘Jolly good. Mixing with the natives. You’re learning, Sefton, my little chota sahib.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When I was in India – Rawalpindi, with the Harcourts; do you know the Harcourts? Frontier Force? Terribly nice people.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not—’

  ‘Got tucked right into the Urdu, the Harcourts. Mrs Harcourt took to wearing the sari. Wonderful woman. Indomitable. Like a mother to me, Sefton. Collected pi dogs. Anyway, I observed that the families who made an effort to get along with the locals – and I mean all the locals, Sefton, the old bheestie right the way through to the rum-johnnie, you know – were better served than those who didn’t. The Scotch in particular were very good at it. Friendly, but firm. Created an atmosphere of remarkable good will. Not that the Harcourts were Scotch. They were from Maidenhead. You’ve no Scotch in you, Sefton?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware, Mr Morley, no.’

  ‘Anyway, good job.’

  ‘Yes. Well, thank you.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Someone.’

  ‘Female of the species, by any chance?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I see. Word of advice, Sefton.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley.’

  ‘A passing pleasure on a long journey does not always make a permanent addition to the home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Morley?’

  ‘I think you know what I’m talking about, Sefton. I wouldn’t want our every trip to turn into some kind of a … stag hunt.’

  ‘A stag hunt, sir?’

  ‘We’ll leave it at that, Sefton, shall we? You wanted to see me? The early hour presages some doom or celebration; I’m assuming you’re not up picking roses?’

  I went on to describe to him what Lizzie had told me about the paintings of Hannah, and the desecration of the image of the Virgin Mary in the church.

  ‘Ah,’ said Morley. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Worth investigating?’

  ‘Possibly. Once we’re fully dressed and provisioned. Leave it with me, Sefton, would you?’

  We agreed to meet over breakfast to talk about it. Wide awake, and buzzing with my lack of sleep, and lack of pills and caffeine, I took a walk around the town – the air was fresh, there were men landing their catches – and when I returned Morley was in his usual place in the dining room, poised with a banana on his plate, which he proceeded slowly to peel, as though performing an intricate surgical operation, or playing on a small, novelty musical instrument. Having beguiled and unsheathed the banana from its skin, he proceeded slowly to strip it of its long sinewy strings.

  I watched in appalled fascination, drinking coffee, wondering if any other breakfasters – who had already witnessed our lively conversation with the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary the night before – had noticed the performance, which was of course accompanied by the usual and continual flow of loud conversation.

  They had.

  ‘Bananas, Sefton. The thing to remember about bananas is that they do not grow on trees.’

  ‘I think they do, actually,’ I said.

  ‘Bananas!’ said Morley. There was a pause in the restaurant’s tinkling of tea cups and crunching of toast. ‘Grow on trees?’

  ‘They don’t grow on trees?’

  ‘Common misapprehension, Sefton. Looks like a tree, is in fact a perennial herb. Stayed on a plantation when I was travelling once. Sri Lanka. Binks Fairbanks. You don’t know him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dies back to its roots every year—’

  ‘Binks Fairbanks?’

  ‘The banana, Sefton, do keep up. And then grows again. Quite extraordinary. Did you know they eat them fried, and as a savoury as well as a fruit dessert?’

  ‘I didn’t know, no.’

  ‘Oh yes. A very flexible fruit, our friend the banana.’ This seemed to amuse him. ‘A fascinating flexible fruit.’ It sounded suspiciously to me like a self-description, though I didn’t point this out. ‘Fine fancy fare. Said the four famished fishermen frying flying fish. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I took another sip of my coffee, finding it difficult either to agree or disagree with the merits of a tongue-twister, which Morley insisted on rehearsing, loudly, several times. I noticed the head waiter eyeing us suspiciously.

  ‘Good work-out for the lower lip and upper teeth. “The fascinating flexible fruit is fine fancy fare, said the four famished fishermen frying flying fish.” Do for our friend Miss Harris and the D’Oyly Carte, wouldn’t it? Make a note, Sefton.’

  I gingerly checked my jacket pocket, but didn’t seem to have the notebook to hand.

  ‘Shame,’ said Morley. ‘Are you familiar with the practice of girdling, Sefton?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I am, no, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Monks used to have a prayer book tied to them – girdled. You might want to investigate it further. Thus preventing being caught short in future.’

  ‘I certainly shall,’ I said, with absolutely no intention of doing so. Morley was of course never in danger of being caught short on the note-taking front, since he kept secreted about his person at all times not only a variety of his German notebooks, but also rubber-banded sets of small index cards, small enough to fit in a waistcoat pocket, ‘for emergency purposes’, he would say.

  ‘Anyway, botanical classification of the banana,’ he continued, picking up his thread. ‘Very complex. Had a delicious banana once in Calcutta. Orangey-yellow flesh, incredibly sweet, with a thin skin, almost like tissue paper. Could almost have been a different fruit.’ He held up one of the sinewy strings that he had extracted from the banana on his plate, as though an anatomist examining a part of some small animal’s intestine. ‘You should always pull the strings on a banana, Sefton. It gives you digestive trouble otherwise. They upset your tummy, give you the collywobbles.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, sipping my coffee, looking around nervously at the other guests.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, really. I thought everybody knew that. What are you having?’

  ‘I think I’ll just stick to the coffee, actually.’

  ‘Shouldn’t skip breakfast, Sefton. The fourth “B”, remember. One: breathing. Two: bath. Three, a good healthy evacuation of the bowels …’

  The people at other tables were indeed all watching us intently again, and the poor head waiter had to set off on a round of conversation and napkin-straightening in an attempt to divert attention.

  ‘Yes, I remember, thank you, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And four. Breakfast! Most important meal of the day, and what have you. Breathing. Bath. Bowels. Breakfast. The four Bs. In that order, Sefton. Bowels after the bath, note. Not before. Loosened, you see.’

  The head waiter was exercising considerable restraint, I thought, in not approaching our table and asking us to leave.

  ‘Some fresh hot buttered toast, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘With a bit of bloater paste? Not a bad breakfast. Not good. But not bad.’

  ‘No, really.’ My stomach turned at the thought of it.

  ‘Plain boiled egg, just? Porridge. You can’t beat breakfast, Sefton. Prosopon of the day and what have you.’

  From outside there was the sound of church bells ringing eight – which thankfully saved Morley from explaining the meaning of ‘prosopon’ to me.

  ‘Ah, good,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘Come on then. Let’s go.’

  ‘To the church?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To look at the desecrated image of the Virgin Mary?’ I said quietly, not wishing to attract attention.

  ‘We’ll not let the Virgin detain us this morning, Sefton.’

  This was too much: the head waiter was striding over towards us. Morley himself rose and prepared to leave.

  ‘Good morning!’ he said, as the head waiter arrived at our table.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘Just on our way!’ said Morley, popping a final slice of banana, like a large, thin lozenge, in his mouth. ‘Let’s up, up and be gone, Sefton. No use sitting here like a couple of pigs with our hands in our pockets, eh?’

  ‘But what about breakfast?’ I said. Two cups of coffee had finally started to excite my hunger.