by Ian Sansom
‘And now, I think it might be best if you were on your way. Chief Inspector?’
‘I think so, yes,’ said the deputy detective chief inspector. ‘That’ll be all, Mr Morley.’
‘Good,’ said Morley. And he walked down the nave, to the font, and out of the church.
I followed, astonished.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SUNDAY AFTERNOON. Morley sat down by the harbour, cross-legged, on a rug. He had with him his Cona coffee machine, which he always referred to as a costermonger machine. I’d gone to the hotel to say goodbye to Lizzie, but it was her day off. We were packed and ready to go.
‘Ah, Sefton. Tempt you to a cup from the costermonger?’
‘Yes, I don’t mind if I do, Mr Morley.’
‘Bit of an impromptu picnic. Miriam said she’d meet us here at three.’ He checked his watches. ‘Few minutes to spare. The hotel prepared a few things. Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid. Apple? Patum Peperium sandwich?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Not much in the mood for it myself.’ He stared out ahead, across the mudflats. ‘The flatland of Norfolk, eh, Sefton. Puts us in our place, doesn’t it?’ The view – flat, uninspiring – did indeed.
‘This is where Hannah committed suicide,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Morley, stroking his moustache. ‘It’s really her I feel sorry for. You know the story of the boy martyr, Sefton, do you? St William? Reputedly murdered by Jews in Norwich. You know the story?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Unpleasant tale. Young boy, apprentice tanner, mysterious murder. Claims of the blood libel. The sort of thing Herr Hitler is carping on about now.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, twelfth century.’
‘Recently, then.’
‘Just because it was a long time ago, Sefton, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. That’s the lesson of history, surely. Much of what is happening in Germany today one might well impute to the works of Martin Luther.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. The past explains everything, in the end. This place.’ He threw his arms wide towards the village. ‘With its narrow streets and its grand houses. The vast church. What you have to remember about Norfolk, Sefton, is that it was once incredibly wealthy. Agriculture paid for the great churches around the Wash. Then in the fifteenth century the wool trade paid for the Perpendicular rebuildings, so there’s always been this connection, you see, between the Church and money, and great families.’
‘Like the Swains.’
‘Indeed. Like the Swains. Also, quietly Catholic, Norfolk. Like a lot of England. The Reformation swept much of it away. But still, behind and within a lot of these churches, if you dig a little deeper, you find this attachment to the Marian, to the medieval. The Mother. Gaia. Goes very deep, Sefton. Have to get it all in the book, somehow.’
‘Maybe not,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Morley wearily. ‘You’re right. Maybe not. Beyond our remit.’
Miriam arrived.
‘So, chaps, what do we have for our picnic?’
‘Rashers of wind, and fried snowballs—’ said Morley.
‘And a plate of fried door handles!’ said Miriam.
It was one of their well-rehearsed routines.
‘Sounds delicious,’ I said.
‘Apples and a couple of sandwiches,’ said Morley.
‘Oh dear. Didn’t think it’d be up to much,’ she said, and began unpacking food from a hamper. ‘So I brought a few things I’d been saving up from my last trip to London. Périgord pie, some black cherries in port wine. Chocolate cake from Madame Prunier in St James’s. And some smoked sturgeon from the Czarda in Dean Street. And – wait for it.’ She pulled a jar of something from the hamper. ‘Ta-dah! Some horseradish cream. I know you like it, Father.’
‘All rather extravagant, Miriam.’
‘Well, I was saving it for a special occasion really, but it’s not every day we get to celebrate you solving a crime, Father, is it? The village is murmurous with rumour, you know. You’re quite the star.’
‘Well …’ said Morley. ‘Hardly a cause for celebration.’
‘Perhaps a small celebration, though, don’t you think, Sefton?’
‘Dum vivimus viviamus,’ said Morley.
‘Indeed,’ said Miriam, passing round plates of chocolate cake and smoked sturgeon. ‘I’m absolutely famished, actually. I stayed last night with the Hammertons down in Swaffham, Father.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘And you know what they’re like. It’s all curtains and kippers down there, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Fur coat and no—’
‘Thank you, Miriam,’ said Morley. ‘She means a grand but a frugal house, I think, Sefton.’
‘Plus-fours but nothing for breakfast. It’s just like when you visit the Cliftons, in Aldeburgh.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes. Just the same. Invite you down for the weekend, and then there’s no food in the house, and you have to pay them for the privilege of having you. Which is hardly the spirit, is it, Sefton?’
‘Hardly.’
‘So, anyway, cheers, chaps!’ We clinked coffee cups. ‘I want to hear all about your adventure. No detail too small!’
We enjoyed our picnic, telling our tale to Miriam, and then we packed the remains of the picnic and prepared to leave.
‘What would you call this, Sefton?’ said Miriam, as we walked towards the Lagonda.
‘Your dress?’
‘The colour of the dress, silly.’
‘Red?’
‘Oh come on, you can do better than that, Sefton.’
‘Crimson?’
‘Crimson!’ She smoothed the creases of the dress against her body. ‘Crushed mulberry, I think you’ll find, Sefton. And what do you think?’
‘Well, you certainly look …’
‘What?’
‘Perfectly dashing,’ I said.
‘Oh, you are funny, Sefton. You’re almost as bad as Father.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Morley.
‘Eiusdem farinae,’ said Miriam.
‘Indeed we are,’ said Morley. ‘He did very well, didn’t he, Miriam, on his first outing? Don’t you think?’
‘He did, Father.’
‘We might grant him an accessit, what do you think?’
‘Oh, I’d give him first prize, Father, without a doubt.’
Miriam settled Morley into the back of the Lagonda, and placed his portable writing desk around him, heaving the typewriter into place.
‘I’m assuming you have an article to write, Father?’
‘I do, I’m afraid.’
‘And what’s today’s article? “My Favourite Insect and Why”?’
‘No,’ said Morley. ‘It is a short piece in praise of Debussy, actually.’
‘Oh, how au courant! Before long you’ll have caught up with the twentieth century, Father.’
I clambered into the car, up front next to Miriam, and we set off.
Holidaymakers in mackintoshes and gumboots stood waiting for a bus. There were low, shifting clouds, threatening rain. Fat little rabbits sat lazily at the side of the road.
‘Ah, England!’ sighed Morley. ‘England, my England,’ and he started typing, while singing a spirited rendition of Chesterton’s ‘The Rolling English Road’:
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
Miriam beeped the horn.
‘What do you think, then, Sefton, where to next?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For previous acknowle
dgements see The Truth About Babies (Granta Books, 2002), Ring Road (Fourth Estate, 2004), The Mobile Library: The Case of the Missing Books (Harper Perennial, 2006), The Mobile Library: Mr Dixon Disappears (Harper Perennial, 2006), The Mobile Library: The Delegates’ Choice (Harper Perennial, 2008), The Mobile Library: The Bad Book Affair (Harper Perennial, 2010) and Paper: An Elegy (Fourth Estate, 2012). These stand, with exceptions. In addition I would like to thank the following. (The previous terms and conditions apply: some of them are dead; most of them are strangers; the famous are not friends; none of them bears any responsibility.)
Chris Adrian, Jacob Andrews, Neil Armstrong, Johan Philip ‘Pilou’ Asbæk, Michael Askew, Kim Ayres, Gerald Barry, Amy Baumhoefner, Maurice Blanchot, Hannah Britton, John Buchan, Lewis Buzbee, Frank Carson, Alessandra Chessa, the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service, E.M. Cioran, Enna Coates, Bill Coles, Richard Coles, Friedl Dicker, John Doherty, Katie Dudwell, Michael Fassbender, Festival Intercelticu d’Avilés, John Paul Flintoff, Alex Fusco, David Gallacher, Ben Galley, Juliet Gardiner, Nicholas Gardiner, The Great British Bake Off, Sarah Goodman, Walter Gropius, Woody Guthrie, Michael Haneke, Rachel Hard, Robyn Hardman, Daniel Harlow, Devon Hazel, Sheema Hossain, Michel Houellebecq, the Irish Writers’ Centre, Johannes Itten, Lars Iyer, Kirsty Judge, Helen Kalpus, Buster Keaton, Tim Key, Paul Klee, Sidse Babett Knudsen, Wyndham Lewis, Craig Leyenaar, Naomi Linehan, Morag Lyall, Rachel P. Maines, Wing Mak, Neil Martin, Georgia Mason, Hugh Massingberd, Helen May, Eleanor McDowall, Frank McNally, Dahler Mehndi, László Moholy-Nagy, Montague Bikes, Ruth Morgan, Johnny Muir, Brain Mullen, Nesco, Kathleen Normington, Ana Oliveira, Richard Owens Opticians, Tommy Peoples, Daniel Piper, Adrian Power, Adam Price, Ross Raisin, Sharon Rankin, Rachel Raymond, Olly Rowse, Steve Rudd, Nathalie Sarraute, Elaine Scarry, Oskar Schlemmer, Maurice Sendak, Elif Shafak, Robert B. Silvers, Emily Simpson, Kimberley Simpson, Josef Škvorecký, Aaron Smith, Anatoly Solonitsyn, Saviana Stenescu, Rudolf Steiner, the staff of Strathearn School, Florence Sunnen, Josh Suntharasivam, Fritz Tschaschnig, Lev Semyonovich Vygotsky, Jo Walker, the Warwick Writing Programme, Waitrose (Kenilworth), Jason Weiss, Emily Wells, John Wesley, the Wigtown Book Festival, Robyn Williamson, Timothy Woodham, Irvin B. Yalom, Behn Zeitlin
In the second of The County Guides, Devon is the destination …
SWANTON MORLEY, the People’s Professor, has been invited to speak at the Feast Day at All Soul’s School, Rousdon. But a boy goes missing and the teachers at the school come under suspicion – the English teacher, Mr Malloch, a practitioner of Magick; the headmaster, Dr Grew, an enthusiastic amateur scientist and taxidermist; and Miss Glass, the neurotic school nurse, whom Miriam befriends and introduces to the secrets of sexual satisfaction.
Lodging in a remote farmhouse – and with occasional outings to surf and to sample cream teas – Morley, Sefton and Miriam once again pit their wits against the dark, repressive, anti-intellectual forces of 1930s England …
Also by Ian Sansom
The Truth About Babies
Ring Road
The Mobile Library: Mr Dixon Disappears
The Mobile Library: The Delegates’ Choice
The Enthusiast Almanack (with David Herd)
The Enthusiast Field Guide to Poetry (with David Herd)
The Mobile Library: The Case of the Missing Books
The Mobile Library: The Bad Book Affair
Paper: An Elegy
PICTURE CREDITS
Images on pages here, here, here, here, here and here are from Arthur Mee’s King’s England guide to Norfolk. Reproduced by kind permission.
www.kingsengland.com
All other images supplied by the author.
The author and the publishers are committed to respecting the intellectual property rights of others and have made all reasonable efforts to trace the copyright owners of the images reproduced, and to provide an appropriate acknowledgement in the book.
In the event that any copyright material is not properly credited the author and the publishers will endeavour to rectify this.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.
First published in Great Britain by
Fourth Estate
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 8JB
www.4thestate.co.uk
Copyright © Ian Sansom 2013
The right of Ian Sansom to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9780007360475
Ebook Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9780007360499
Version 1
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