The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom

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      Forty-two minutes later – or near enough – I made my way outside, where Morley was supervising Miriam packing the car.

      ‘Forty-five minutes, Sefton,’ he said, without glancing at a watch. ‘Forty-five. Tempus anima rei, eh? Tempus anima rei. You’re putting us behind schedule. Don’t do it again. Now, you’ll be wondering, of course, about method,’ he continued, picking up on the threads of the conversation we’d had forty-five minutes earlier, as though nothing else had intervened between. ‘No, not there, Miriam!’

      ‘Why, what’s wrong with there?’

      ‘There,’ he said. ‘Clearly, it fits there.’

      Miriam slightly readjusted some bags packed around the large brass-bound travelling trunk that was strapped on the back, numbered ‘No.1’.

      ‘Do you need a hand at all?’ I said.

      ‘Forty-five minutes!’ said Miriam mockingly, tightening straps. ‘You have us all behind, Sefton.’

      ‘You know the word verzetteln, Sefton?’ continued Morley.

      ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, sir.’

      ‘From library science. “To excerpt”. To arrange things into individual slips or the form of a card index.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Place for everything.’

      ‘And everything in its place,’ said Miriam, handing me an old Gladstone bag. ‘You’ll be needing these, Sefton.’ The bag was stuffed to overflowing with clothes and dozens of notebooks.

      ‘Ah. The notebooks,’ said Morley. ‘Jolly good. Notebooks are the fundamental equipment for those who devise things,’ said Morley. ‘Are they not, Miriam?’

      ‘Yes, Father.’

      ‘One should always avoid haphazard writing materials, Sefton. Remember that.’

      He then gestured towards the car, and daintily climbed into the back seat, whereupon, to my astonishment, Miriam began fitting a wooden desk around him, transforming the rear of the vehicle instantly into a kind of portable office. Safely wedged into his seat, Miriam then hoisted, seemingly from out of nowhere, a small, lightweight typewriter onto a couple of stays on the desk, and stood back to admire her handiwork.

      ‘Home from home,’ said Morley.

      ‘Do you like my dress, Sefton?’ said Miriam.

      ‘Very nice,’ I said, bewildered, as so often in their company. ‘Brown.’

      ‘It’s “donkey”, actually,’ she said.

      ‘Donkey? Is that a colour?’

      ‘Of course it’s a colour. Have you ever seen a donkey?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And what colour is it?’

      ‘It’s—’

      ‘Donkey is the colour of donkeys, Sefton.’

      ‘Well—’

      ‘Enough tittle-tattle, children,’ said Morley. ‘Do we have everything, Miriam?’

      ‘Yes. Of course. Now, you’ve remembered I’m going to London later, Father?’

      ‘But—’

      ‘I told you yesterday. Margaret Whitwell is having a party and she absolutely insists that I’m there. So Sefton will be in charge of things once I’ve dropped you off. Get in, then, Sefton.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘There.’

      I clambered into the back with Morley.