The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom

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      ‘No, I’m afraid I … Jeden?’ I hazarded a guess.

      ‘Excellent!’ said Morley. ‘I knew I’d made the right choice with you, Sefton.’

      I silently thanked my father for all the ambassadors who’d trooped through our drawing room all those years ago, jabbering in their languages and teaching us children cards, much to my mother’s dismay.

      ‘Anyway, all the arrangements have been made. You’ll have the cottage on your return, but for tonight you have a room upstairs. The upper room. I hope it’s sufficient.’

      ‘I’m sure it’ll be more than sufficient, sir.’

      ‘Good. And there’s no need to call me sir.’

      ‘Very well, sir.’

      ‘You may call me Mr Morley.’

      ‘Very good, Mr Morley.’

      ‘We’ll be leaving by 7 a.m. I like to get an early start. Now. You’ll be wanting some supper?’

      ‘Well …’

      ‘The maid has set something out in your room, I think. You’re not a vegetarian?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Marvellous. All very well for Hindus, for whom I have the very greatest respect, I should say. But, the boiled beef of England, isn’t it? Cold meats for you, mostly, I think. Seed cake. You know the sort of thing. And you’re travelling light, I see. Good good. Russian tea?’ he asked, indicating a tall glass of brackish-looking liquid by the typewriter, which one might have mistaken for typewriter fuel. ‘I developed a passion for it after my time in Russia.’

      ‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’

      ‘Well, good. That’s us then. You go on ahead. Make yourself at home. I’ve an article to finish here. Chronicle. On the history of the folk harp. Fascinating subject. One can see in its history the spread of certain common craft skills across civilisations. I’ll see you first thing.’

      ‘Certainly.’ I made back towards the door, avoiding animals, in the hope of finding my room without further adventure. ‘Just one question, Mr Morley, if I may.’

      ‘Yes. Of course, Sefton.’

      ‘Which county will we be beginning with tomorrow, sir?’

      ‘I thought we’d start close to home, Sefton. With God’s own county.’

      ‘Yorkshire?’

      ‘Norfolk. “I am a Norfolk man and glory in being so.” Who said that, Sefton?’

      ‘I don’t know, Mr Morley.’

      ‘Nelson, of course! Horatio Nelson! Adopted son of the county, whose native sons include …?’

      ‘Hmm. I—’

      ‘The aboriginally Norfolk, Sefton? The autochthones? The Sparti, as it were? The old Swadeshi, as our friend Mr Gandhi might have it? Come, come.’

      ‘I’m sorry, I—’

      ‘People from round here?’

      ‘I don’t know, Mr Morley, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Boadicea? Elizabeth Fry? Thomas Paine? Dame Margery Kempe? Sir Robert Walpole! You’ll need to be reading up on your Norfolk folk, Sefton. The character and the characters of Norfolk, Sefton, that’s what we’re after! Plenty of flavour. Plenty of seasoning. I’ve left some of the relevant maps and guides in your room, so you can get started tonight.’

      ‘Very good, Mr Morley.’

      ‘Seven, no later,’ he called, as I left the kitchen and he returned to his work, almost as in meditation, animals happily around him, tap-tap-tapping at the typewriter.

       CHAPTER SIX

      ‘WAS IT EDWARD IV who breakfasted on a buttock of beef and a tankard of old ale every morning?’ asked Morley.

      ‘It may have been, sir.’

      ‘Well, we don’t.’

      ‘No,’ I agreed.

      ‘Cup of hot water with a slice of lemon. Bowl of oatmeal,’ said Morley, tapping his spoon decisively on the side of his bowl. ‘Sets a man up for the day. Full of goodness, oatmeal. Steel-cut. Pure as driven snow.’

      ‘Pass the sugar, would you?’ said Miriam. ‘Indispensable, wouldn’t you say, Sefton? Utterly tasteless without, isn’t it? Like eating gruel.’

      ‘Gruel? Gruel?’ said Morley, before embarking on a short excursion on the history of the word, punctuated by Miriam’s protests and my own occasional weary agreements.

      It was the morning after the night before, and I was enjoying my first taste of breakfast in the dining room at St George’s, which was not a household, I came to realise, that liked to ease its way into the day. There was neither a halt nor indeed even a pause in the relentless clamour of argument and quarrelling that echoed around the place like trains at a continental railway station. The conversation – to quote Sir Francis Bacon, or possibly Dr Johnson, or Hazlitt, certainly one of the great English essayists, who Morley liked to quote at every opportunity, and who I now, in turn, like to misquote – was like a fire lit early to warm the day and once lit was inextinguishable. Even when engaged in apparently casual conversation, Morley and his daughter exchanged verbal thrusts and parries that could be shocking to the outsider. For his part, Morley was not a man who brooked much disagreement, and his daughter was not a woman who liked to be bested in argument: and so the sparks would fly. All houses, of course, have an atmosphere – some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and some merely strange, no matter how humble nor how grand. The atmosphere of St George’s was one of a noisy Academy, presided over by Socrates and his rebellious daughter.

      ‘Sleep well?’

      ‘He’s not a child, Father. “A dry bed deserves a boiled sweet.”’

      ‘Sorry, I—’

      ‘Ignore her, Sefton. She only does it to provoke.’

      ‘Are you feeling provoked, Sefton?’ asked Miriam.

      ‘Erm. No. I don’t think so.’

      ‘Good,’ said Morley. ‘Dies faustus, eh? Dies faustus! All set?’

      ‘I think so, Mr Morley.’

      ‘Good, good. First day. Gradus ad Parnassum. Miriam will be driving us, in the Lagonda.’

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