by Ian Sansom
I gazed up at what appeared to me to be simply … a church. A faded board outside announced that it was St Nicholas, Blakeney, with service times at 8 a.m., 10 a.m.,4 p.m. and 6 p.m. on Sundays and matins during the week.
‘A typical example,’ Morley continued. ‘I would say – wouldn’t you say, Sefton? – of fifteenth-century Perpendicular architecture. Though of course with one very peculiar and distinguishing feature.’ He paused. ‘Which is?’
I gazed along from the west tower to the—
‘Two towers,’ he exclaimed.
‘Ah.’
‘Indeed. Like an aft-mast and a main mast, aren’t they?’
I agreed that indeed they were.
‘Now, note, Sefton.’ I took out my notebook and began to write. ‘The chancel tower, the east tower, is believed by many to have been a lighthouse.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But does it look like a lighthouse to you, Sefton?’
I looked up again. ‘It could be a lighthouse, I suppose.’
‘Hmm. But what is it lacking, would you say, in its potential capacity as a lighthouse?’
‘Lights?’ I suggested.
‘Of course. But it is not night. And even now without, lights it once might have had. Lights there may have been.’ He pointed up to the top of the tower. ‘So, the lack of lights, we are agreed, is hardly a sufficient reason for what we suspect to have once been a lighthouse indeed to have been such. Is that correct?’
The mystery of the church at Blakeney
‘I suppose.’
‘Good. So, to return to the question: what is the other essential condition of a lighthouse functioning as a lighthouse, Sefton? Not only light, but …’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Think about it.’
‘Sorry, I don’t—’
‘Don’t give up! A lighthouse needs …’ He stood on his tiptoes, and stretched his hands high above his head.
‘Height?’ I said.
‘Height!’ said Morley. ‘Exactly! Yes! Indeed. There we are. So if you were building a lighthouse, might you not have made the east tower here a taller tower?’
‘Yes, I suppose I would,’ I agreed.
‘Or simply installed your light in the west, the taller tower, which clearly predates the other?’ The west, taller tower, I could confirm, looked older.
‘So why didn’t they make it taller?’
‘You see, you see. That, Sefton, is the mystery of the church at Blakeney. Make a note now. Come, come. Let’s venture in.’
But just as I was about to write down this latest insight, a woman came rushing out of the church and out of the fog towards us, like a wraith or a demon.
‘Oh! Oh!’ she cried when she saw us, grabbing hold of Morley’s arm. ‘Oh, oh!’ she continued to wail.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ said Morley. ‘Madam. Are you all right?’
The woman had the look about her of someone who was not at all all right, and who was indeed so not all right that she was about to collapse and become very un-all right indeed. Sensing that this might be the case, Morley promptly produced a bottle of smelling salts from his waistcoat pocket; he never travelled without it, regarding it as an essential pick-me-up. (If I ever saw him begin to fade – and it happened, perhaps, no more than half a dozen times during the course of our long association – he would instantly produce the smelling salts, take a sniff, and straight away be off again to a fresh start.)
‘The reverend … is …’ the woman began, momentarily revived by the first whiff of the smelling salts. But she was unable to finish the sentence, as if caught by the throat by an invisible hand.
‘Yes?’ said Morley, waving the bottle now more vigorously beneath her nose.
The woman took in deep breaths, and again the smelling salts seemed to have a momentary effect.
‘The reverend … He’s …’ But again she seemed about to go under.
‘Goodness,’ said Morley, taking the woman gently by the arm. ‘A three-sniff problem, Sefton,’ he said to me. ‘Come and sit down here,’ he instructed the woman, brushing some moss from a gravestone – Arthur Cooke, Surgeon of Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge, 1868–1933, R.I.P. He set her gently down. ‘There. I’m sure Mr Cooke won’t mind.’
The woman looked dazed.
‘Now. Are you sick?’ asked Morley. ‘Unwell?’
‘No. No. The reverend.’
‘He’s sick?’
‘He’s not sick, no!’ the woman said, before losing the power of words again. ‘He’s …’ She pointed towards the door of the church.
‘Yes, you said. Now what’s your name, my dear?’ asked Morley.
‘Snatchfold,’ she said. ‘Snatchfold.’
‘Right, well. If you can tell us what’s wrong, Mrs Snatchfold, we might be able to help.’
‘He’s …’
Mrs Snatchfold was clearly going to be unable to tell us anything further.
‘Well, how about we go and see the reverend, shall we?’ said Morley, taking charge of the situation. ‘Is he here in the church?’
‘Yes, yes. In the church.’
‘Very well. Come on, Sefton. Something’s up. Let’s not dilly-dally. Would you rather stay here, my dear?’
‘No!’ she said. ‘Don’t leave me!’ At which she sprang up from her sitting position and held on tight to Morley’s arm.
‘Very well, then,’ said Morley, glancing at me, perturbed. ‘Clearly a serious business. Lead on.’
As she led us into the church I was surprised to see another woman, standing by the font, her hands folded, almost in the pose of Mary at the foot of the Cross. She had her back to us.
‘Hannah,’ said Mrs Snatchfold. ‘This is Mr …’
‘Morley,’ said Morley. ‘Swanton Morley.’
‘And I’m Sefton,’ I said. ‘Stephen Sefton.’
‘Hello,’ said Hannah, who did not turn fully towards us, but merely looked over her shoulder, as if in fear or contempt. She seemed about to speak further, but then thought better of it and bit her lip. She nodded towards the altar.
Mrs Snatchfold led us through the nave. The church was much larger than I had expected, almost a small cathedral, and Morley, even in the midst of this unexpected adventure, could not help himself from remarking as he went. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, speaking only to himself, ‘font, octagonal; nave – one, two, three, four, five, six bays; chancel with a rib vault; seven-lancet east window; grand Victorian pulpit; extraordinary rood screen; angels up in the hammerbeam, I think; and Nativity figures, altar … Oh.’
We had duly proceeded into the chancel at the east end of the church, and then through a curtain by the altar, up a steep, tight spiral staircase, and into a room where we discovered the cause of Mrs Snatchfold’s distress.
The reverend was hanging by the neck from a bell-rope, his features horribly distorted, his face staring up at nothingness, his lips pulled back in a grimace – an expression that Morley later remarked reminded him of a Barbary ape that he had once seen on his travels in the Atlas Mountains. A trail of phlegm-like liquid stained the front of his dog collar. Mrs Snatchfold stood by the door, shaking, but Morley strode towards the dangling body, peered at it, removed his spectacles, glanced around the room, andpeered again.
‘Is he … dead?’ asked Mrs Snatchfold fearfully.
‘I think we can safely assume so, madam, from the evidence,’ said Morley. ‘What do you think, Sefton?’
I had stayed unwittingly by the door myself, not so much from fear but from surprise. I had seen so much of death in Spain, but this was in some way much worse: it was the incongruity. Morley waved me forward.
‘Come, come, second opinion please. Sefton. Quickly.’
I stepped forward.
‘Dead?’ said Morley.
I nodded.
Nonetheless, Morley reached up and tried to find a pulse on the reverend’s wrist. There was nothing.
‘Skin
still warm,’ Morley said, stepping back and standing up straight. ‘What do you think? Suicide?’
Mrs Snatchfold gave out another wail, and then promptly fainted. I rushed over towards her.
‘Leave her,’ commanded Morley, not turning round.
‘But, what about the smelling salts?’
‘What about them?’
‘Shouldn’t we—’
‘You’ve never seen a woman faint before?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Yes but nothing, Sefton. We’ve got work to do. Come on, we need to move fast and take notes while the scene is fresh. Priorities, Sefton. We have a dead body here. We can deal with our fainting lady in due course.’
Morley had already produced one of his German notebooks from his jacket pocket and was surveying the scene. He leaned forward and sniffed at the chalice on the table, touched the back of his fingers to the side of it. He consulted the time on his pocket-watch. Consulted the time on his wristwatch. And his other wristwatch. Scribbled something in his notebook. Then he turned his eyes from the body, looking carefully around the rest of the room, his eyes roaming over every detail, taking careful note of what he saw.
‘Note?’ he said.
‘Sorry?’ I assumed he wanted me to make a note.
‘Any sign of a suicide note?’
‘Not that I can see,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Morley. ‘There rarely is. Never mind.’
There was the sound of Mrs Snatchfold stirring.
I began to go over to assist her up.
‘Leave her,’ said Morley. ‘You’re fine, Mrs Snatchfold,’ he called across to her, continuing to make notes. ‘You’ve simply fainted, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said a tearful Mrs Snatchfold weakly from the floor, ‘it’s just …’
‘No need to apologise,’ said Morley. ‘Tell me, have you called the police?’
‘Yes. I sent a boy over to the rectory, sir. There’s a telephone there.’
‘Good. You did the right thing.’
Mrs Snatchfold lay, staring at the reverend’s body. ‘What’s that smell?’ she said.
‘He’s evacuated his bowels, I’m afraid, Mrs Snatchfold. Very common, I believe, in such cases. This stain here …’ He moved over towards the table and began pointing to the various stains.
Mrs Snatchfold gave another small cry, and fainted again.
‘Leave her, Sefton,’ he said once more as I went to assist. ‘Leica.’
‘What?’
‘The camera, man. You’ve got it?’
‘Yes.’ I brandished the camera.
‘Good. Well. Go on. Some photographs.’
‘Of the church?’ I was shocked. This hardly seemed the time to be working on the book.
‘No, not the church, man. Here. This.’ He gestured at the body, and the room.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that a bit macabre?’
‘This could be a scene of crime, Sefton. Corpus delicti.’
‘I hardly think—’
‘Come in useful, anyway,’ said Morley. ‘Before the police arrive and make a mess of things. Come on. Snap, snap. Just for our own records.’
I took a series of photographs while Morley strode around the room, stepping carefully over Mrs Snatchfold’s prone form, making copious notes and talking the whole time.
‘Many as you like, Sefton. Come on. Chop, chop. This, please. Photo.’ He pointed to a small coat of arms mounted on the wall. ‘Zelo Zelatus sum pro Domino Dio exercitum. Translation, Sefton?’ I couldn’t come up with a convincing reading. ‘Look,’ said Morley, pointing beneath the words. ‘Tells us the verse, for those of us without the Latin: 1 Kings 19:14. Any idea?’
‘No.’ But then, as Morley turned away to study some of the books on the shelves, and thinking I was doing the right thing, I put down the camera, picked up the Bible that lay on the table at the reverend’s feet, and was about to flick through to 1 Kings 19:14 when Morley turned.
‘No!’ he said.
I stopped, about to turn the page.
‘Don’t move!’ said Morley.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Why?’
He removed the Bible carefully from my hands, looked at the page where it was open, and made a note in his notebook. ‘Photograph,’ he said, waving at the page. ‘Please.’
‘Of the Bible?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘What’s the passage it’s at?’
I looked down at the Bible. ‘Judges chapter 16.’
‘And do we know if that is the lesson for today?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘It might, Sefton. Or of course it might not.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘Carry on,’ said Morley. ‘Chop, chop. Snap, snap, snap.’
When I had taken sufficient photographs to satisfy Morley’s needs – which were many – and Mrs Snatchfold had sufficiently revived, Morley ushered us both back towards the stairs.
‘No point upsetting ourselves further here. Clearly a matter for the police. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Why don’t you wait outside, Mrs Snatchfold. You wouldn’t want to distress yourself further.’ At the top of the stairs he whispered to me, ‘You first, Sefton. In case we need to break a fall.’
We made it safely without incident back through the church. The woman who Mrs Snatchfold had introduced to us as Hannah stood inside the porch, and as we approached I saw her reach into her pocket for a cigarette and light it. She pulled in a deep breath of smoke.
‘Would you mind?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she said, and offered me a cigarette, surveying me carefully as she did so. There was something shockingly direct and frank about her gaze. It was chilling. I could think of nothing to say.
‘So?’ she said.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and gave a little laugh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MORLEY WAS CHECKING his wristwatch every few minutes, and then his other wristwatch, and then his pocket-watch, and then his wristwatch again, in the hope, presumably, of time speeding up for us so we could move on and get back to our schedule. But time passed in its usual way, Morley notwithstanding, and it was clearly impossible for us to leave until the police arrived, and so we retired to the rectory with a rather shaky Mrs Snatchfold, who kindly offered to provide us with tea and cake while we waited. The sun had pierced the morning’s fog, and it began to look as though it might turn into a fine day – though of course this made no difference to Morley. If anything, it made things worse.
‘Tempori parendum,’ he was intoning to himself, mantra-like. ‘Tempori parendum.’
‘Everything OK, Mr Morley, sir?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine.’
He was getting fidgety.
We were served in a melancholy silence by Mrs Snatchfold in the drawing room, but Morley immediately suggested that we take the tea outside and look over the garden: he needed the stimulus, needed to take his mind off things; and he was, of course, a keen horticulturalist, ranking the role of gardener as only slightly lower than his own profession of letters. (He often spoke of his friend E.A. Bowles, in fact, the popular author of gardening books, as though he were Homer himself – ‘The greatest bulbsman of our time!’ he would declare – and certainly of the same rank as his other literary hero, E.V. Lucas, whose green-buckram-bound The Open Road: A Little Book for Wayfarers accompanied us on all our trips, Morley often reading choice passages aloud.)
Mrs Snatchfold, thoroughly recomposed
‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’ said Morley, in a crescendo of delight, forgetting himself in the moment, as he so often did, when we made our way out onto the terrace. ‘A Snake’s Head Iris. Snapdragons. Forsythia. Roses. And a magnolia! Look at this, Sefton! Wonderful. Beautifully conceived!’ He took a long sniff and breathed out. ‘And the fragrance, Mrs Snatchfold! An assault on the senses, i
s it not, as we step outside. Like a door opening into paradise.’ He sniffed again. ‘What do you think? Hot spiced lemon, mixed with …’ – he took another deep breath, and held out his hand and wafted the scent towards him, as though grasping not only the smell but also the colour and the very taste of the garden – ‘mixed with dry earth and plum, and something perhaps vaguely liliaceous …’
‘If you say so,’ said Mrs Snatchfold, clearly alarmed at Morley’s sudden enthusiasm, setting the tea tray down on a sturdy wooden table, and proceeding to pour a saucer of milk and place it on the ground. ‘I can’t say as I’m an expert myself.’
‘Pussy!’ cried Morley suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mrs Snatchfold.
‘Pussy, pussy, pussy!’ he continued.
‘Stop!’ said Mrs Snatchfold, a look of grief on her face. ‘Oh no, Mr Morley, please! Stop!’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Morley. ‘I was just calling your cat. I saw the—’
‘He’s dead,’ said Mrs Snatchfold. ‘I forgot for a moment. But he’s dead!’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Morley. ‘And it is a terrible shock. But I’m sure the police will do everything they can to investigate the reverend’s—’
‘Not the reverend,’ said Mrs Snatchfold, plainly on the verge of tears. ‘The cat.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Morley. ‘That is awful. When was this?’
‘Last month,’ sniffed Mrs Snatchfold. ‘He came in from the garden one day and started vomiting, and then he had this little … seizure, and then he went to sleep and … Oh!’ She began howling again, and rushed back into the house.
I looked at Morley.
He looked at me.
And then he looked at his watch, again.
‘Tempus edax rerum,’ he said woefully. ‘Eh, Sefton? Tempus edax rerum.’
‘Sorry, gentlemen. More tea?’ said Mrs Snatchfold, re-emerging from the house some time later, thoroughly recomposed.
‘Alas and alack, I think not, my dear Mrs Snatchfold. We do appreciate your hospitality, under these most unfortunate circumstances, but I’m not sure we can stay much longer.’ He ostentatiously consulted his watches again. ‘We have our book to write, you see, and an appointment with a flint-knapper over in Dereham this afternoon, so—’