The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘Which is precisely what’s troubling,’ said Morley. ‘It is the beginning of the slippery slope, sir.’

  ‘Towards?’

  ‘A deep world of darkness, doctor. A place I would rather we did not go, but where I fear we are plunging headlong.’ Morley took a sip of his water to fortify himself. ‘What of the mentally unstable in your scheme, doctor? Or, shall we say, the merely psychologically quirky? The mentally or physically kinked and twisted. Have them all neutered, should we?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Not necessarily, Sefton, eh? Did you hear that? Very generous of him, isn’t it?’ He was becoming uncontrollably roused. I had seen the signs before.

  ‘Mr Morley,’ I said again. ‘Sir, I think we—’

  ‘The epileptic, I take it, you think should automatically be kept from breeding?’

  ‘No. Not necessarily,’ said the doctor. ‘Certainly not. But possibly, under certain circumstances, yes.’

  ‘And so what of Milton?’ said Morley. ‘And of Keats?’

  ‘There would be exceptions, Mr Morley.’

  ‘And you would be able to identify these exceptions, in vitro? The good epileptic from the bad? The foetus capable of progressing and succeeding in life from the inevitable failure? The wheat and the chaff separated in the belly of a woman? The sheep from the goats, in the womb? It’s outrageous, frankly, doctor. Absolutely and utterly—’

  ‘Mr Morley,’ I said. ‘I think—’

  ‘Again, I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood my argument, Mr Morley, and twisted it, and taken it too far.’

  ‘The only place to take an argument, surely,’ said Morley. I had a hold of his elbow by this stage, and was attempting gently to tug him away. But he was standing firm. ‘To test its eventual outcome? It’s called the Socratic method, sir, and I would have thought a man of your background might have encountered it during the course of your long and privileged education.’

  ‘Mr Morley! Sir!’ I interjected as loudly as I could without disturbing the other guests, though noting that already those around us had begun to take notice of the kerfuffle.

  ‘And what about homosexuals?’ continued Morley, horribly. ‘Dock their tails too, should we? Hmm?’

  The doctor blushed red to the roots of his Brylcreemed hair.

  ‘Hmm?’ continued Morley, rather cruelly, I thought, but clearly to the point. ‘Medice, cura te ipsum!’

  The doctor had turned away, and I steered Morley fast into what I thought might be calmer waters over by the windows to the garden. Alas, I miscalculated. A schoolmaster, a perfectly agreeable man named Ellison, with a wide, pleasant smile, and the innocent face of a child, introduced himself to us. He was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘A friend of mine attended one of your lectures in London,’ he said warmly, after the introductions. ‘They said it was most entertaining.’

  ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ I said, hoping to calm Morley.

  ‘Schoolmaster are you, eh?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the poor unwitting, grinning Ellison.

  ‘And would you agree with me then, sir, that the entire problem with our system of education is the problem of our public schools?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No need to be sorry, young man. Where do you teach?’

  The teacher mentioned a prep school nearby of high reputation, and even higher prices.

  ‘I see. As you may or may not know, sir, I have spent most of my working life doing my best to offer some skimpy education to those less fortunate than your pupils, those who some among us indeed’ – he pointed at the distant figure of the doctor, who was refreshing himself with sherry and cake – ‘believe are incapable of progressing or succeeding in life.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Morley, I know your—’

  ‘And it is my belief, in fact, that our public schools are responsible not only – not only – for the dulling and stultifying of the young minds with which they are entrusted, doing nothing more than repressing the intellect and the imagination with their pathetic idolatory of athletics and rugby, but are responsible also for the perpetuation of inequalities of opportunity in this country of which we should all be rightly ashamed. Am I right, do you think, in my assessment of the state of our education system?’

  ‘Well, sir … I don’t know.’

  The schoolmaster looked at me, bewildered, evidently unsure whether he should mount a sturdy defence of his profession. The situation clearly called for decisive action. By chance I was able to grab hold of Mrs Thistle-Smith as she circulated past.

  ‘Mr Morley,’ I said, ‘was wondering if he might take a look at your garden, Mrs Thistle-Smith?’

  ‘But of course,’ she said, sweeping Morley away from me. ‘Let’s go together, Mr Morley.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief, apologised to the poor schoolmaster, and followed Morley and Mrs Thistle-Smith at a discreet distance.

  I needed fresh air. Morley needed calming.

  The plan worked. Straight away, Mrs Thistle-Smith engaged Morley in hushed conversation. There was the sound of bubbling water in the stream down past the croquet lawn. The evening sun flecked the lawn with emerald greens. The sky was cloudless. I stood by the house, smoking, as they wandered slowly along the borders of the garden. I couldn’t make out everything that was said, though snatches drifted towards me.

  ‘… and that is a Carmine Pillar I’m growing on the old apple tree … a thornless pink Zephirine Drouhin … the Japanese Rugosa Single Pink … ten feet high.’

  ‘You have a talent,’ I think I heard Morley say. Something something something … ‘Very special.’

  It was refreshing, I think she said, to find a man who appreciates … something. A garden?

  ‘Sometimes I think my husband would hardly notice …’ Unintelligible … Something.

  I watched from a distance as Mrs Thistle-Smith went to light a cigarette. Her match blew out. She went to light it again. I saw Morley move to light it; he kept matches about his person at all times, in case of emergency. As she held up her cigarette to her lips I thought I saw a slight ring of bruising around her wrist, but I may have been imagining it – the distance, the play of light and shade.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morley, that’s …’ I think she said gallant. Mrs Thistle-Smith drew deeply on her cigarette and they turned slowly and began making their way back towards the house. ‘You don’t smoke?’

  Morley seemed to agree that he did not.

  ‘Which makes your gesture all the more generous.’

  ‘Smoking is … a habit I have never acquired,’ said Morley, rather disingenuously, I felt, since he was one of the country’s leading anti-tobacco campaigners.

  ‘It’s a habit that I’m afraid has completely defeated me,’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘But they do say it’s good for the figure.’ She ran her hands lightly over her dress, pausing slightly and turning towards Morley. It was, as Morley himself might have observed – purely from a psychological and anthropological point of view, of course – a signal. From a distance – and it is of course difficult to judge these things from a distance, and it may be that I am interpreting events long ago with the unreliable aid of imagination, but nonetheless – these seemed like the first tentative steps in a complex and dangerous dance.

  I feared for a moment for Morley’s rectitude and resolved to follow them if they turned and ventured any further away from the house and into the garden. But Mrs Thistle-Smith had clearly not entirely forgotten her duties as hostess, and they continued to retrace their steps towards the house. As they did so they paused for a moment at a clump of flowers – dictamnus, Morley later told me. And as they stood close together, studying the plant, Morley produced his matches, struck one, held it above the seedheads, which stood out in the evening light like little unhatched eggs, and there was a tiny flash of flames. Oils igniting, Morley later explained. Mrs Thistle-Smith was delighted by this display, and leaned in close to
Morley in the flare, holding his arm for a moment. And this time Morley did not flinch in response. They stayed still for a moment.

  As they approached the house I could hear Morley quoting Yeats.

  ‘“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, / And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; / Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, / And live alone in the bee-loud glade.”’

  This apparently thrilled Mrs Thistle-Smith even further, who seemed as enchanted by Morley as he clearly was by her. They both spotted me as they drew close. I ground out my cigarette.

  ‘Mr Sefton! We were just talking gardening,’ she said. ‘It’s so lovely to have a man around who appreciates a garden.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said.

  ‘I used to be able to talk to the reverend, of course,’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘Though he was rather keen on heather.’

  ‘Best for grouse, I always think, heather,’ said Morley.

  ‘Oh, my point entirely, Mr Morley!’ She touched his arm gently again with the back of her hand. ‘And so dull! I have a taste for the exotics myself. I have a banana plant down in the walled garden which is doing terribly well. Perhaps you’d like to come and see it sometime?’

  ‘Banana plant! I’d like that very much, Mrs Thistle-Smith,’ said Morley. ‘Do you specialise in the sub-tropicals?’

  ‘I wish!’ she said. ‘I think my garden might only ever be remembered for its borders. We are so blessed with our borders here, fifty yards apiece.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Not quite Gertrude Jekyll, but not far off. My mother planted them. We used to play among them when we were children, all of us. Running up and down. Racing, my sisters and my brother. Entirely without a care … I adore Gertrude Jekyll. Do you know her, Mr Morley?’

  ‘I know of her work, Mrs Thistle-Smith.’

  ‘Such wonderful ideas!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You know Gertrude Jeykll, young man?’ Mrs Thistle-Smith addressed herself to me, pretending at least that she was interested in my opinion.

  ‘I can’t say I do—’

  She then turned her attentions straight back to Morley. ‘But tell me, Mr Morley, what is your philosophy of gardening?’

  ‘I would not presume to possess such a thing, madam.’

  ‘But you must! I’m sure you do! You are, after all, renowned for your ideas, Mr Morley.’

  ‘In all honesty, Mrs Thistle-Smith,’ said Morley, taking a small sigh, and gazing round at the beautiful garden before him, ‘I think all a garden really needs are a few magnolias in spring, some red-hot pokers in the summer, and an apple tree to be picked in the autumn. What matters is not so much the garden, but the touch, the care and the vision of the gardener.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Morley! How true.’ Then she turned and glanced – sadly, I thought – into the garden room, and remembered her responsibilities. ‘Now, you really must come and meet my husband.’

  ‘We have met, madam.’

  ‘Yes, of course … I should warn you, he can be very … forthright in his opinions. He’s from Grantham, you see.’

  ‘And nothing good ever came from Grantham?’

  ‘Some things, Mr Morley, I’m sure. But my husband has a healthy collection of bêtes noires. And I’m afraid newspaper journalists are one of them.’

  ‘I would be honoured either to confirm or confound his prejudices, madam.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll introduce you to the Talbots. Tom is an expert on the flora of the Middle East …’

  By the doors leading into the garden the professor, in a black velveteen coat, was holding court like a great invalid king, seated on what appeared at first to be a gleaming throne, but which was, in fact, and quite simply, the only chair in the room – ‘A fauteuil,’ Morley later remarked, ‘French, possibly, eighteenth century, far too showy’ – lit from behind by the evening sun. He had his creamy white panama hat in his lap, like a Persian cat fed too many Yarmouth bloaters for breakfast, and a decanter of sherry on a viciously pie-crust-edged occasional table at his elbow, from which he repeatedly refreshed his glass. Mrs Thistle-Smith led Morley towards him, with me silently in their wake. As the professor turned and saw them approaching I noted the threatening look in his eyes – a very threatening look indeed. The look of a tyrant at a messenger bringing bad news. This was where our evening decidedly took a turn for the worse.

  ‘Darling,’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith, gently touching her husband’s arm, ‘this is Mr Morley, he’s staying at the Blakeney Hotel.’

  ‘An honour to meet you again, sir,’ said Morley. ‘It’s a lovely home you have here.’

  ‘An Englishman’s home,’ replied Mr Thistle-Smith, in his slow, damp voice, that seemed to leak with rancour as his wife’s burned with light.

  ‘And an Englishwoman’s,’ said Morley, rather gallantly, I thought, nodding towards Mrs Thistle-Smith, who smiled in friendly acknowledgement.

  ‘Swanton Morley,’ said Professor Thistle-Smith. ‘The man who’s putting our humble little village on the map.’

  ‘I can hardly lay claim to that distinction, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can, sir. I think you can. Daily Herald. Tell me, Morley, do you regard journalism as a trade, or as a profession?’

  ‘I would hardly think it deserved the honour of being regarded as a profession, Mr Thistle-Smith.’

  ‘So, a trade, then.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I see. And do you not think we have a tradesman’s entrance at this house, sir? Or do you suppose that we welcome our butchers and delivery boys here at all our parties?’

  ‘Darling!’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘Mr Morley is our guest. We invited him, remember?’

  ‘You invited him,’ said Mr Thistle-Smith.

  ‘I invited everyone!’ Mrs Thistle-Smith laughed, trying to make the best of what was already far beyond an awkward situation and was fast becoming a crisis. The little sherry-quaffing crowd around Morley and the professor was growing.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mr Thistle-Smith, his voice dropping even lower, from bass to basso profundo, ‘seeing as you’re here, Morley, under whatever auspices, can I perhaps ask about your politics?’

  ‘You may, of course, sir, although I might reserve the right to remain silent.’

  ‘Darling, let’s not talk about politics,’ Mrs Thistle-Smith pleaded with her husband. She was playing nervously with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘We agreed.’

  Mr Thistle-Smith ignored her.

  ‘You’re a Labour man, I take it?’ he continued.

  ‘What made you think that, Mr Thistle-Smith?’

  ‘Cut of your jib, Morley.’

  ‘A phrase that derives,’ said Morley, pleasantly, blithely, in characteristic explanatory mode, ‘if I’m not mistaken, from the triangular sail on a—’

  ‘I know what a bloody jib is, man! I’m not one of your readers in the Daily Muck.’

  ‘Darling!’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith, as now even more guests began to gather round the two men in anticipation of what was already becoming a bloody battle. Morley seemed oblivious.

  ‘Well, I’ll grant you then, I am a Labour man,’ said Morley.

  ‘Thought so.’ Mr Thistle-Smith sniffed and wrinkled his nose, as if suddenly detecting the unmistakable stench of a working man. ‘We don’t get many Labour men round here, Morley.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Mr Thistle-Smith drew great stentorian breaths, as though emerging from deep water. ‘And if you don’t mind my saying, your first Labour government was a disaster. Except that taxis were allowed in Hyde Park.’ A couple of men in the crowd laughed, though why I wasn’t sure. ‘Which was of some benefit to those of us with … business in London.’ He looked cruelly towards Mrs Thistle-Smith, whose brightness and stature seemed to be diminishing by the second.

  ‘I see,’ said Morley. ‘And perhaps I can ask you about your
politics, Mr Thistle-Smith? Would you mind?’

  ‘Why would I mind, sir? It’s a free country. At least at the moment it is. I am a Tory, born and bred, since you ask, and one of the silent majority proud still to believe in God, King and country.’

  ‘Though I think recent events perhaps suggest that we shouldn’t put our faith entirely in the British monarchy,’ said Morley teasingly. It was his way. I put my hands over my eyes.

  Professor Thistle-Smith was, predictably, appalled.

  ‘Steady on, Morley,’ called a man in the crowd.

  ‘You’ll want to mind your tongue, I think,’ cautioned Professor Thistle-Smith. I was beginning to fear for Morley’s safety.

  ‘But how can I know what I say before I see what I say?’ said Morley.

  I closed my eyes. I was getting a headache. Mr Thistle-Smith looked perplexed.

  ‘The White Rabbit, Alice in Wonderland,’ said Mrs Thistle-Smith.

  ‘Correct,’ said Morley.

  ‘I’m glad my wife can understand your nonsense,’ said Mr Thistle-Smith. ‘Because it makes no sense to me, man.’ He then launched into a passionate declaration of loyalty to the crown, ending with the words, ‘This country has relied for a thousand years on a strong connection between the people, their God, and their King.’

  ‘And queens,’ said Morley.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Professor Thistle-Smith.

  ‘The British monarch being crowned on Jacob’s Pillow. The Lion of Judah figuring on the Royal Arms. Potent symbols,’ agreed Morley.

  ‘Indeed. Indicating that ours is a Christian nation.’

  ‘I quite agree, sir.’

  ‘Good, and you would agree with me also then that the recent influx of non-believers can’t be good for the future of a nation like our own, and is in fact dragging us towards perdition itself.’

  ‘You’re referring to the Jews, Mr Thistle-Smith?’

  ‘I am referring, Mr Morley, to any person of any faith who enters this country without sharing or intending to share our common beliefs and habits.’

  ‘And how do you know what common beliefs and habits they share or don’t share with us?’