The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘El Tigre del bandoneón!’ exclaimed Juan. ‘My hero! Mr Morley. You are an exceptionally lucky man. But Arolas is no longer with us, alas.’

  ‘No? I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘He died many years ago.’

  ‘And where did you learn, Mr Chancellor?’

  ‘I learned the instrument as a child. I was brought up in Argentina, but educated in England.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My father was in the Royal Navy. But he met my mother there, and settled. I have made the return journey, as it were.’ He laughed again.

  The remaining dancers were making their way elsewhere. Constance went over to say goodbye, embracing them all warmly, men and women, and kissing them on both cheeks, in the continental fashion.

  ‘You have quite a … thriving group here,’ said Morley.

  ‘Ah, yes, we are very, very lucky.’

  ‘They all live here, on the farm?’

  ‘No, some of them do. Some of them are villagers. And some of them are just passing through.’ He waved goodbye to the men who were leaving. ‘Michael there, he’s an antiquarian. He visits from London occasionally. Stays in Blakeney. Donald is a retired commercial traveller. He stays here with us. David is a lutenist, a great interpreter of the work of Dowland. He comes with his wife. And Ed Dunne, who works in the shop in Blakeney, Podger’s – you may have met him? – he sometimes joins us. He has one of the studios, in the outbuildings. He’d be a good person to talk to, for your book. A very promising young artist.’

  ‘Dunne, did you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Make a note, Sefton.’

  I duly did.

  ‘We’ll perhaps get a chance to speak to Mr Dunne about his work another time. But how did you end up here yourselves, if you don’t mind me asking?’ continued Morley.

  ‘We were living in London, but we decided some years ago now to come to Norfolk and to live life more purely.’

  ‘More purely?’

  ‘Yes. All of us here at College Farm share a desire to create an atmosphere of honesty and of heightened consciousness. It is a new ethic of work and love we are trying to create.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Morley. ‘A sort of religious community, then? Moral rearmament?’

  ‘No, no!’ Juan laughed. ‘Here at College Farm we try not to impose upon one another our contradictory ideas, or desires, or … necessities.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We are trying to be free.’

  ‘Free? I see. And how do the local community find that?’

  ‘We have had our disagreements, Mr Morley. But that’s only to be expected, surely, when one is attempting to establish a centre of intellectual and artistic activity.’

  Constance came back over. ‘You’ll come up to the house, gentlemen, and join us for lunch, of course?’

  The house, splendid as it first appeared, was in fact on the verge of decrepitude, if not indeed collapse. Some of the windows were boarded up, door frames and doors were half rotten. Brambles and briars were making their way from outside to the inside. In the vast, primitive communal kitchen, paintings and books were stacked everywhere, and a dreadful fresco, which either consciously or unconsciously – and one hoped the latter, but feared the former – blurred the boundaries between Botticelli and Picasso, adorned the entire length of one wall, in which mottle-faced and multicoloured women sprawled across what was presumably a Norfolk landscape, flecked with frenzied windmills and startlingly erect churches.

  ‘These are yours, Mr Chancellor?’ asked Morley, indicating a stack of canvases, crudely daubed with lines and dots.

  ‘Yes, indeed. I am their originator.’

  ‘Do I detect the influence of Paul Klee, perhaps?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare to compare myself,’ said Juan. ‘But yes, maybe, a little. I’m most flattered, Mr Morley.’

  ‘He’s very modest,’ said Constance to me, having linked her arm through mine, and led me towards an enormous oak refectory table – a banqueting table, really, twenty feet long. ‘He was a Vorticist, you know, for a while. Now he’s more interested in Innerism.’

  ‘Innerism. Very good,’ I said.

  ‘Many of the paintings are in private collections,’ she said. ‘One of the sisters of Lord Scarsdale is a great fan of our work here. Do you know Lord Scarsdale?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam, no,’ I said.

  ‘Exquisite taste,’ she said. ‘And also the French ambassador to the Court of St James. He has many of Juan’s paintings.’

  ‘Known for their good taste, of course, the French,’ I said, unable to think of anything else.

  ‘Precisely, Mr Sefton. How very true. Do you like them?’ she called over to Morley.

  ‘They are very … fetching,’ said Morley, though he later confessed to me that he thought the art more suitable for adorning bathroom curtains, if anything. ‘Semi-art,’ he called it. Then added, ‘Demi-semi-art.’

  ‘Well, they’re all for sale,’ said Constance. ‘At the right price.’

  ‘Constance!’ said Juan, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not here to buy art today, madam,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps another time.’

  ‘Such a pity,’ she said. ‘Now, lunch? And we’ll talk about your book.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ said Morley. ‘It really is terribly kind of you to entertain us.’ He winked at me.

  Between them, Juan and Constance produced, first, bread – ‘Our own, of course’ – and cheese – ‘Our own, of course’ – and boiled eggs.

  ‘Your own?’ said Morley.

  ‘Of course!’ said Juan.

  And then Constance produced some soup, in a vast enamel pot from a large, modern fridge.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ asked Morley.

  ‘It’s a cold soup, Mr Morley, from Spain.’

  ‘Cold soup?’ said Morley.

  ‘Yes! We rather like to defy conventions here, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Morley. ‘Gazpacho, or ajo blanco?’

  ‘Ajo blanco.’ Juan laughed.

  ‘You’ve tried it before?’ asked Constance, obviously disappointed.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Morley. ‘Something similar in Turkey. Nothing quite like the lively, and yet’ – and here he sniffed the soup as Constance ladled it into his bowl – ‘slightly torpid scent of garlic to rouse one at lunchtime.’

  ‘Torpid!’ Juan laughed. ‘Very good, Mr Morley! Torpid yet lively garlic! You’re quite right, of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Morley. ‘What else is in the soup, might I ask? I’m afraid I’ve never been to Andalusia. It is an Andalusian dish, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Constance, bitterly. ‘Almonds.’

  ‘Your own?’

  ‘Alas, no. And oil. And salt.’

  ‘All the good things,’ said Juan.

  ‘Mr Sefton here may also have tried the soup before,’ said Morley. ‘Have you tried it before, Sefton?’

  ‘You were in Spain?’ asked Juan.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fighting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You brave soul,’ said Constance, ladling more cold soup into my bowl.

  ‘Ever tried it?’ said Morley.

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  ‘First time for everything,’ said Morley.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Juan. ‘A first time for everything! Bon appétit!’

  While we ate, Morley asked questions, and I made occasional notes.

  I had of course eaten the soup before, though much colder and much, much saltier, in Spain.

  ‘And what brought you here, Mr Chancellor?’

  ‘I came here for the big skies,’ said Juan.

  ‘Yes. It’s often said,’ said Morley. ‘Sixty-eight miles, east to west, and forty-one north to south.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘By my calculation
. And ninety miles of coast.’

  ‘It reminded me of Argentina. The sea, and the space and the light.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Peculiarly pellucid, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very good!’ Juan laughed. ‘Peculiarly pellucid! I like you, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And you, madam?’

  ‘I’m from Norfolk originally,’ said Constance. ‘From here. Blakeney.’

  ‘Really? I had supposed you might also be from the Americas.’

  ‘Many people make that mistake,’ she said.

  ‘It’s her looks,’ said Juan. ‘When I arrived here I fell in love with her ravishing gypsy looks.’

  ‘And you’re an artist also, Mrs Chancellor?’

  ‘I trained as an artist in Oxford, Mr Morley. But I prefer to describe myself now as a maker.’

  ‘A maker? I see. You might want to make a note of that, Sefton.’

  ‘I believe woman is the source of all true making, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Really?’ said Morley, lifting his moustache away from his soup spoon.

  ‘Yes. We are the source, are we not? The womb. We unleash the universe from within, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Morley, slurping rather.

  ‘A woman’s power is the power of the universe, Mr Morley. We have the power to give life.’

  ‘And to take it?’ said Morley provokingly.

  ‘Constance works mostly in fabric,’ said Juan, saving his wife from embarrassment, and gesturing towards the end of the room where, beneath a large window, stood a large frame loom. ‘Headsquares, scarves, stoles. She has her own signature colour.’

  ‘Her own signature colour?’ said Morley. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Saponaria,’ said Constance.

  ‘Is that a colour?’ said Morley.

  ‘Not strictly speaking, no,’ admitted Constance. ‘But it’s from the herb garden. It’s an exceptional dye.’

  ‘Ah, purple!’ said Morley. There were indeed swatches and tatters of fabric all in a strange, deep purple.

  ‘Saponaria,’ repeated Constance. ‘It is reminiscent of mulberry.’

  ‘Reminiscent of mulberry,’ repeated Morley.

  ‘And toys and ornaments,’ added Juan. ‘Don’t forget your toys and ornaments, darling. She makes the most wonderful ornaments. Do show them, Constance.’

  Constance smiled, showing her yellowy teeth, and went over to a tool bench which sported a large vice and a rack of metal- and woodworking tools above it.

  She returned to the table and placed something in Morley’s hands – a small, smooth, highly polished metal object, which resembled a knuckle-duster, ridged with protuberances.

  ‘It’s … remarkable,’ said Morley. ‘I’ve certainly never seen anything quite like it before.’

  ‘I call them my adult toys,’ she said, smiling. ‘I make them for all my friends.’

  ‘It’s certainly heavy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And cold.’

  ‘But it warms quickly in the hand, Mr Morley.’ She reached out and held her hand tightly around his.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, wait.’

  Morley struggled rather to remove his hands from her grasp, but she held firm.

  ‘You must wait for it to warm in your hands.’

  Morley sat silently for a few moments, Juan and Constance smiling broadly and lovingly at each other.

  ‘There,’ she said eventually. ‘Isn’t that nice and warm now?’

  ‘Yes, lovely.’ He went to give it back.

  ‘No, do keep it. Please.’

  ‘No, thank you, I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Really, no, it’s terribly kind of you, but—’

  ‘Perhaps your young friend then?’ She reached across and seized my hand. ‘May I?’ she said. ‘I am fascinated by hands.’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘I can foretell by the lines in your palm whether you’ll find happiness. Would you like to know whether you shall find happiness?’

  I agreed that I would rather like to know, though it occurred to me even at the time that it was not something one might find, as one finds a coin, or a missing chess piece.

  She grasped my hands firmly and then began stroking them.

  ‘I see here that you will live long and have many children. Is that what you desire?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t—’

  ‘Well, perhaps you might find a use for this?’ She pressed the small metal object into my hands.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘But I insist. See how smooth it is, Mr Sefton. Can’t you imagine finding a use for it?’

  ‘No, really, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Ha!’ She threw her head back and laughed. Not in a good way. ‘It’s a gift, Mr Sefton,’ she said, holding my hands tightly. ‘From me to you. You can hardly refuse a gift, can you? A gift for a hero.’ She looked at me in a most challenging fashion.

  ‘Well … if you insist.’

  ‘I do.’ She released her hands from mine suddenly, leaned forward, kissed me, and then stepped away. ‘Though one might expect a gift in return, of course.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Morley, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ she said, with a vast wave of her hand, ‘coffee?’

  Over thick, black Turkish-style coffee, Juan and Constance explained in ponderous detail to Morley their vision of creating a William Morris-style community in Norfolk, and how they rented outbuildings to local craftsmen and -women. I took notes and – with their permission – a number of photographs of some of the paintings and objects. Talking about the local community, Morley naturally asked about the death of the reverend.

  ‘A tragedy,’ said Juan. ‘And the poor beautiful housekeeper.’

  ‘Do you think they died for love?’ asked Morley.

  ‘For love?’ said Juan. ‘How do you mean, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Well, it’s rather strange that both of them should die in such unusual circumstances. I wondered if there might have been a suicide pact?’

  ‘Love is pure, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Love is patient. Love is kind,’ added Morley. ‘But alas, under certain circumstances, it can clearly drive people towards committing the most dreadful acts.’

  ‘We know nothing about these people, Mr Morley,’ said Constance, hurrying to tidy our plates and dishes away and to place them on a teetering pile of other dirty dishes. ‘Our lives are here, at College Farm, pursuing our art.’

  ‘Of course. I wonder if we might visit one of your artists in one of the studios?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Constance.

  ‘For the book?’ said Morley. ‘It might be interesting.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Morley, no,’ said Constance. ‘Most of the craftsmen and -women have their jobs in the villages, and they only use the studios at weekends or in the evenings.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we could just visit one of the studios?’

  ‘Impossible, I’m afraid, without their permission.’

  ‘That’s a pity. Your own studio, perhaps we could visit, Mr Chancellor?’

  ‘I hope we’ve given you enough to write about here,’ said Juan.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course you have,’ said Morley. ‘And we are really most grateful.’

  After some strained farewells, we set off in the Lagonda.

  ‘Well, they seemed like a … happy sort of bunch, I suppose,’ I said, as we drove away.

  Morley sat up front in the car with me.

  ‘Excessive happiness is not good for people, Sefton.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. I have always thought the ideal ratio of happiness to sadness is about 3:1.’

  ‘Happy to sad, or sad to happy?’

  ‘Happy to sad,’ said Morley. ‘Obviously. Any more than that, frankly, and you’re a crank. I like these Arts and Crafts people, Sefton, don’t get me wrong. The William Morris-style ideali
sts, who believe we’ve been on the wrong track since the Middle Ages. Their ideals would all be very well, if everyone were of Morris’s calibre, but alas we are not, are we? The work of a man’s hands are not always superior to the work of a machine. All very well that they should make their paintings and trinkets and fabrics and such like, but … Adult toys? What is an adult toy, Sefton?’

  ‘I’m … I don’t—’

  ‘Who is going to make us what we need as a modern nation, Sefton? Eh? The good folk of College Farm?’

  We drove on. Something was troubling Morley.

  ‘There was something odd about them, Sefton. Do you know the phrase bene qui latuit bene vixit?’

  ‘I’m not sure I do, Mr Morley, no.’

  ‘Pity. “He who has lived in obscurity has lived well.” The line is from Tristia, Ovid’s lament about his enforced exile from Rome. You didn’t study it at school at all?’

  ‘We may have done, sir, but I think I’ve forgotten it if so.’

  ‘Never mind. Its meaning is often taken to be a panegyric, if you like, for the simple life.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that that might be so.’

  ‘Trouble is, it’s wrong, Sefton. Rather, Ovid is expressing bitterness over the way things have turned out for him. Bene qui latuit bene vixit. Keep your head down, might be another way of describing it. Make your hideaway in the country.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Pull over, Sefton. We’re going to take a look at one of the studios.’

  We clambered across woodlands, Morley striding ahead of me, regardless, and found ourselves eventually back down by the mudflats. Crouching down, we made our way towards the outbuildings. One of them – the furthest towards the mudflats – seemed recently to have been set alight. The roof had collapsed. I was reminded horribly of buildings I had seen in Spain; vast canyons of despair seemed to open up instantly to me. I suddenly felt quite liverish. Sick, almost.

  ‘“Everlasting flint,”’ said Morley, patting the walls, as we came close.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet. The roof has collapsed, but the stone remains.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Mizpah.’

  I was shivering in the cold.

  ‘OK, Sefton?’

  ‘Yes, fine, Mr Morley. Absolutely fine.’

  Inside the building, among the blackened beams and the broken pantiles, there were dozens of paintings, some of them scorched, some of them entirely destroyed, some of them with the canvas burned, only the thin lines of frames and supports remaining.