The Sussex Murder

by Ian Sansom

  ‘I might need to take him outside, actually,’ I said, having become keenly attuned to the dog’s toileting habits during our drive down from London.

  ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ asked Giacomo, ignoring the dog, and indeed the rest of us.

  ‘Not tonight, thank you, no,’ said Molly, with which Giacomo disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared.

  ‘We’re staying at the Grand, Father, isn’t that right?’ said Miriam.

  ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps I should come with you. Lots to plan for the next couple of days. We can take the dog, Sefton, if you’d be so kind as to ensure Molly gets back to her digs?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll take the Lagonda,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Do you have a driver, my dear?’ asked Morley.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, I can fend for myself,’ said Molly, rising. ‘And I have Giacomo, of course.’ She bestowed triple cheek kisses all round. ‘Now, we all have a busy week ahead of us. I shall see you tomorrow, Swanton. And you too, Miriam.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Miriam.

  And so Morley and Miriam departed, and I was suddenly left alone with Molly in her dressing room.

  CHAPTER 10

  THIS TAKES SOME EXPLAINING.

  ‘Well,’ said Molly, taking a deep breath and gazing at herself in the dressing room mirror.

  ‘Well,’ I said.

  She unbuttoned and peeled off her gloves. ‘Would you mind, Stephen?’ she asked, keeping her back to me, rather coquettishly, I thought. I didn’t quite understand for a moment what I was being asked to mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘One can’t afford to bring one’s dresser with one everywhere,’ she said, holding up her hair. ‘Just gently,’ she said, ‘if you would, from the top.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

  I gently unzipped the dress, then turned around and faced the wall.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so English,’ Molly said, in a ruffling of disrobing. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it all before, young man like you.’

  I had indeed seen women in states of undress before, but – as all of us can perhaps testify – each and every time is rather different. I turned around as Molly was bending over to remove her shoes, leaning for support against the dressing table. She was clearly a woman who was more than happy in a state of half-undress, which on this occasion consisted of a pale silk slip, a black brassière, black girdle and stockings.

  ‘Would you mind hanging this for me?’ She handed me the dress.

  ‘Of course, miss,’ I said, mustering all my theatrical nonchalance, and hanging the dress on her dressing rail.

  ‘Oh, come on. Do call me Molly. And do be a dear and open the champagne, would you?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘I’m dying for a drink, Stephen.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, opening the champagne and pouring her a glass, while Molly rearranged her hair before the mirror.

  ‘Wonderful!’ she said, taking a sip of her champagne and turning and fixing me with a stare. ‘You are going to join me, Stephen, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, but I never drink alone,’ she said, pouring me a glass and handing it to me.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s terribly bad luck, drinking alone.’ She raised her glass to me. ‘Cheers.’

  Matters were rather running away with me, I felt.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said.

  She turned around now in her seat to face me and crossed her legs slowly in front of her.

  ‘Now, would you pass me my blouse and suit?’ She nodded towards the clothes on the rail. There were several blouses and suits to choose from.

  ‘Which one?’ I asked.

  She came over and stood close by me. I could feel the warmth of her body next to mine.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, skimming her hand across the clothes. ‘Which one? What do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said.

  ‘I think,’ she said, reaching forward, ‘I’ll have … this.’

  I watched, a little later, as she slowly buttoned her blouse, put on a dark, sober suit, smoothed it down all around her, and picked out a pair of matching shoes from a large selection underneath the hanging rail.

  ‘Well,’ she said, finishing her glass of champagne and gesturing for me to fill it up again. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Very … smart,’ I said.

  ‘Smart? Really?’

  ‘Yes, very stylish,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’ She poured me a second glass of champagne. ‘Tell me, do you find me attractive, Stephen?’

  ‘I’ve only just met you, miss,’ I said.

  ‘I feel we’ve got to know each other rather well though, don’t you?’

  In the years I worked with Morley, out of a sense of duty, I often found myself in rather difficult and compromising situations. Also, during those years I did other things, shall we say, of an even more difficult and compromising nature, which meant that I was often on the lookout for the elderly, the infirm and young mothers with children to help across the road, in order to assuage my guilty conscience.

  ‘I like you,’ said Molly. ‘I like you very much.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You have that beaten look that people so admire and that is so hard to achieve.’

  ‘Again, I am quite flattered,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘I think we’re very similar, Stephen Sefton.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Here’s to us!’ she said.

  We sat in silence for a moment, then Molly turned to the mirror and began first to remove and then to reapply her make-up, using little brushes in tiny pots.

  ‘You’re clearly not used to being around theatre people,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘Actors, musicians. We tend to be very uninhibited, you see,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘I see.’

  ‘The opposite of the English, really.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I agreed.

  ‘Do you smoke, Sefton?’ She turned back towards me, her dark eyeshadow and mascaraed lashes giving her a sleepy, languorous look, as if she were a femme fatale now relaxing after a long day’s work.

  I lit us both cigarettes and Molly half closed her eyes, champagne flute in one hand, cigarette in the other. She breathed deeply.

  ‘Audiences these days only listen with their eyes,’ she said. ‘Can you believe I once sang Norina in Don Pasquale?’

  I knew nothing about Norina in Don Pasquale and was now myself growing rather tired, so wasn’t quite sure if the correct answer was yes or no.

  ‘And Adina in L’Elisir d’Amore. Nannetta in Falstaff.’

  ‘I can believe it, madam,’ I hazarded a guess.

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind, Stephen.’

  We spoke about her various roles for a while, or rather she spoke about her roles and I listened, and eventually, after another glass of champagne she asked, ‘People often ask me the secret of how I maintain my figure, Stephen. For a woman of my age.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Two words,’ she said. ‘Actually, three words. Four. Cigarettes. Champagne—’

  ‘Very good,’ I said.

  ‘And Gayelord Hauser. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. I was pretty sure I’d have remembered the name Gayelord Hauser.

  ‘Wonderful diet. You should try it.’

  There came another knock at the door. Giacomo again peered round the door.

  ‘Are you finished?’ asked Giacomo.

  Molly looked at me and then looked at the champagne bottle, held it up, shook it. ‘We seem to have finished it off. Unless you would like some more, Stephen?’

  ‘I think—’

  ‘Come on,’ said Giacomo. ‘That’s enough.’

  I left them together and
made my way to the hotel.

  CHAPTER 11

  ARRIVING DOWN FOR BREAKFAST in the Grand Hotel, I became immediately aware of a small fuss occurring in the far right-hand corner of the dining room. A large Philips radiogram, housed in an ugly walnut-veneer cabinet and half shrouded in dark green velvet, rather obscured my view, but – ugly radiogram in green velvet or no ugly radiogram in green velvet – I knew instantly the source of the fuss. For a moment I considered turning on my heel, leaving and making my breakfast elsewhere, but too late. A waiter approached and there was no going back.

  ‘I’m with them,’ I said reluctantly, and we began to make our way over.

  It was Morley, of course, tucked away behind and beyond the walnut veneer and velvet. He was set up as usual with his typewriter, pad, papers, pencils and pens, having doubtless been there for many hours, banging away to the great annoyance of his fellow diners, working on some article or other, something about saints, or knights, or the relationship between the decline in hedge-laying skills in Derbyshire and the strange death of liberalism, or something on newts, or Newton, or the future of the steam-powered bicycle: Morley, irrepressible, indefatigable, and at it as always. With Morley there was Miriam, and Pablo the Bedlington, who seemed to be the immediate cause of the morning’s commotion.

  Miriam was busy remonstrating with a waiter as I approached, while Morley was busy writing, oblivious, half buried by papers. Morley travelled everywhere with what he called his tel – ‘Arabic for hill, Sefton’ – a mound of clippings and cuttings, which he used to stimulate his already highly stimulated mind. Part of my job was to keep the tel stocked and stoked with stories and articles from newspapers and magazines, like a fireman on a steam engine. Paper was Morley’s great motor, his compost – and also a kind of impenetrable fortress. The table resembled the ruins of a small circulating library, or the aftermath of an incident at a newsagent’s. Teacups and teapots had been set on the floor, for Morley or for the dog I wasn’t entirely sure.

  ‘Ah, Sefton!’ Miriam said. ‘Thank goodness. I’ve been explaining to this gentleman that Pablo has only just come into our care and needs constant supervision. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘That is … correct,’ I hesitantly agreed.

  ‘Dogs are not allowed in the restaurant, sir,’ said the waiter.

  ‘In which case I’ll take him for a walk while you finish your breakfast, Miriam,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Miriam. ‘We’ll speak to the manager, thank you.’

  ‘The manager’s not available, I’m afraid, miss.’

  ‘The manager’s not available?’ said Miriam. ‘What sort of a place is this?’

  ‘It’s the Grand Hotel, Brighton, miss,’ said the waiter, rather wearily.

  ‘The Grand Hotel, Brighton,’ repeated Miriam scornfully.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And what do you think His Majesty would make of the Grand Hotel, Brighton?’

  ‘I have no idea, miss.’

  ‘Well, I think he might expect to bring his dogs to breakfast, don’t you?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course he would. And he would expect a supply of constant hot water, would he not?’ Miriam always insisted that wherever we stayed should have a supply of constant hot water. Indeed, the very idea of a supply of constant hot water was for her a defining sign and symbol of modernity: anywhere that failed to supply constant hot water was de facto a place unsuitable for paying guests, stuck in the past, and should really be ashamed of itself. By Miriam’s calculation, therefore, the Grand Hotel, Brighton was seriously struggling on a number of counts, though I thought the place tremendous. It had clearly recently been modernised: wainscoted walls, Lincrusta friezes and lots of what Morley would have called ‘Tottenham Court Road’ leather, with shiny bronze ashtrays absolutely everywhere, fixed to walls and indeed to the arms of chairs and sofas in a fashion I thought eminently practical but which Miriam had already declared utterly vile. Other signs of modernity throughout the hotel included a lot of tiling in the bathrooms, and lashings of chrome and Vitrolite – but all this was not enough for Miriam.

  ‘By which I mean constant hot water,’ she continued.

  ‘Constant hot water, miss?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Yes, constant hot water. What do you think constant hot water means, in everyday parlance?’

  ‘Does it mean constant hot water, miss?’

  ‘It does indeed. With the emphasis being on the word constant. Which your hot water most definitely is not—’

  ‘I—’ began the waiter.

  ‘Being indeed entirely inconstant, like Shakespeare’s moon. So, the manager, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid the manager is not available until nine, miss.’

  ‘Nine? What sort of a time is nine?’

  I glanced up at a large, bright green Ferranti clock, mounted on the wall opposite the walnut veneer radiogram under its dark green velvet cloth. The clock suggested that this was going to be a very long breakfast. The waiter wisely chose to remain silent.

  ‘Very well, if those are the hours you see fit to keep in the Grand Hotel, Brighton, I suppose we shall have to see him at nine.’

  ‘Very good, miss. But in the meantime I must ask you to remove the dog.’

  ‘The “dog”, as you refer to him – he has a name, sir, which you might care to use, Pablo – will most certainly not be “removed”, as you put it, and will be dining with us, thank you.’

  ‘It’s our rules I’m afraid, miss.’

  I had found a breakfast menu amid the pile of papers on the table and was sheepishly glancing through.

  ‘Father,’ said Miriam, tapping Morley on the shoulder. ‘Father,’ she repeated, Morley being quite engrossed in his work. ‘Father!’

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Morley, looking up from his notebook. He had recently embarked upon a planned two-year project of copying out the entire works of Shakespeare in his own hand, inspired by the example of Edward Capel, the eighteenth-century Shakespeare editor, starting with All’s Well That Ends Well and ending with Winter’s Tale, an enterprise that often occupied him after he’d completed his first article of the day at breakfast. It looked like he was working on a dog-eared copy of Coriolanus.

  ‘Is there to your knowledge any law that prevents dogs from entering restaurants in this green and pleasant land?’

  ‘Dogs in Shakespeare?’ said Morley.

  ‘Dogs in restaurants, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Dogs in Shakespeare,’ repeated Morley. ‘Not sure if he was much of a dog person,’ said Morley.

  ‘Dogs in restaurants, Father.’

  ‘Erm …’ He consulted his mental filing system. ‘Dogs in restaurants, you say?’ He paused. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Laws regarding,’ said Miriam.

  ‘Hmm. Good question. Laws, you say?’

  ‘Yes, laws, Father. Is there a law that prevents dogs from entering restaurants?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said Morley. ‘Custom and practice, I think, rather than law, though one might reasonably expect the owners of any establishment to ensure there is no risk of contamination in food preparation areas.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said the waiter.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Miriam.

  ‘I wonder if I might have a cup of coffee?’ I suggested to the waiter, attempting to move things along in a slightly different direction.

  ‘Are we in a food preparation area?’ asked Miriam, who was not one to be moved in any direction other than the direction she had already embarked upon.

  The waiter was silent.

  ‘I said, Are – We – In – A – Food – Preparation – Area?’ repeated Miriam.

  ‘No, miss, we are not.’

  ‘There we are then. Some crisp white toast then please, and a cup of coffee.’ The waiter was about to remonstrate but Miriam held up her hand. ‘The matter is closed, thank you,’ she said. The waiter looked at me, at Miriam, at Morley, and at the B
edlington, and admitted defeat.

  ‘And for sir?’ he asked.

  ‘A cup of coffee, please,’ I said.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Miriam, as the waiter retreated. ‘What is this country coming to?’

  I took a moment to take a breath. Mood elevated, heart and pulse rate increased, pupils dilated: it was pretty much a typical start to a day with Morley and Miriam. They were like a drug – and I was an addict.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘ANYWAY,’ said Morley, unperturbed, unfolding a large map of the county. ‘Ah, Sefton.’ He didn’t seem to have registered my presence till now. ‘Trouble sleeping – or should I say rising – again?’

  I often had trouble sleeping during those years and Morley was always keen to offer advice on how best to obtain a peaceful night’s sleep, and how to wake before the crack of dawn fresh as a daisy, just as he was keen to offer advice on just about anything to anyone.

  ‘I adopted a method from Seneca some years ago,’ he said.

  ‘Seneca the philosopher?’ I asked.

  ‘Are there other Senecas of your acquaintance, Sefton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then. Seneca, as in Seneca the philosopher, yes. Tutor to?’

  ‘Nero?’ I hazarded a guess.

  ‘That’ll be the one. We are at least on the same page with the same Seneca then, yes.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Morley.’

  ‘Anyway, Seneca performed a nightly confessional—’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Miriam. ‘Sounds awful. Was he a Catholic?’

  ‘You know full well that Seneca was not a Catholic, Miriam. During his nightly confessional—’

  ‘Not a Catholic confessional, Sefton,’ said Miriam.

  ‘He pleaded his case before the tribunal of his soul, retracing his words and deeds and subjecting himself to rigorous cross-examination – bad habits, any particular faults he had succumbed to, any troubles or problems that he had overcome. And then he would fall into a deep, tranquil, untroubled sleep, satisfied that his soul had answered to itself.’

  ‘Not all of us are Seneca, Father,’ said Miriam.

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said Morley. ‘More’s the pity, eh?’