The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom
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Название: The Norfolk Mystery
Автор: Ian Sansom
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780007360499
isbn:
‘Four. Unless you have a specific book in mind, sir, you might be better simply browsing among our stock. Mr Morley seems to have published many …’ She slid the big red book around so I could see the entries. ‘Gosh. Possibly hundreds of books, sir.’
‘I see.’ The list of Morley’s books ran to two pages of two-columned tiny type: my eyes glazed over at the mere thought of them.
Nonetheless, I wandered contentedly alone for the rest of the afternoon through Foyle’s great avenues of books. As readers will doubtless be aware, books in Foyle’s are not much arranged; within their categories books seem to be classified variously, and possibly randomly, by name, or by title, or by publisher. Some books seemed to have been undisturbed for many years, and many of the rooms were entirely deserted. But Swanton Morley was everywhere: he seemed successfully to have colonised the entire shop. During the course of a long afternoon I discovered not only books about poetry, and philosophy, and economics, which I had expected, but also campaigning works – The Cigarette Peril, Testaments Against the Bottle, War: The Living Reality – and volumes on gardening, marriage, medicine and mineralogy. In Religion I found Morley’s Children’s Bible. In Music, Learn to Listen with Morley. Elsewhere, in and out of their appropriate places I came across Morley’s Happy Traveller, Morley’s Nature Story Book, Morley’s Animal Adventures, Morley’s Adventure Story Book, Morley’s Book for Girls, Morley’s Book for Boys, Morley’s Everyday Science, Morley’s Book of the Sea, Morley’s Tales of the Travellers, Morley’s Lives of the Famous, Morley’s British Mammals, Morley’s Old Wild West … The sheer plenitude was astonishing, dumbing. It was as if the man were writing in constant fear of running out of ink. Morley’s Want to Know About …? series were everywhere. Want to Know About Iceland? Want to Know About Shakespeare? Want to Know About Trees? Just the thought of them made me want to give up knowing about anything. Morley’s Book of the World, a four-volume set I came across misplaced among books on Veterinary Science, made the boast on its dust jacket that a book by Swanton Morley could be found in every household in Britain. They were certainly to be found on almost every shelf in Foyle’s.
The books, qua books, varied in their quality from edition to edition: some were lavishly illustrated with pictures, plain and coloured, and mezzotint portraits; others were dense with type; some with fine bindings; others in cheap, flexible cardboard covers. And yet for all their apparent variety, the books were all written in the same tone – a kind of joyous, enthusiastic, maddening tone. The pose was of the jaunty professor – or, dare one say, the eccentric sixth-form master – and yet I thought, leafing through various volumes, that I occasionally caught sight of a desperate man fleeing from the abyss. This, for example, from Morley’s History of Civilisation: ‘Some may say that man is but a speck of mud suspended in space. I say to them, some mud, that can know what suffering is, that can love and weep, and know longing!’ Or this, from Morley’s English Usage: ‘The world may be troubled and difficult: our words need not be so.’
But perhaps I was reading my own experiences into the work.
I returned to my room in the early evening, depressed, dizzied and depleted.
As I made my way wearily down the stone steps towards my dank basement, a Chinaman hurried out of the laundry at street level above. He wore his little black skull cap and his long thin black coat turned green with age. We had occasionally exchanged greetings, though he could speak no English and I no Chinese – I was anyway far beyond the desire to be neighbourly. He smiled at me toothlessly, thrust a telegram into my hand, and hurried back to his work.
I tore open the telegram, which read simply:
‘CONGRATULATIONS. STOP. HOLT. STOP.
5.30 TOMORROW.’
AS IT HAPPENED, I had no other pressing engagements.
And so, the next day, I packed my few belongings – a spare suit, some thin volumes of poetry, my old Aquascutum raincoat, my supply of Seconal and aspirin – into a cardboard suitcase which I had managed to salvage from the wrack and wreckage of my life, and left my lodgings for Liverpool Street Station. There I found the connections for Holt, spent all my remaining money on the ticket and a supply of tobacco, and set off to meet my new employer, Mr Swanton Morley. The People’s Professor.
As the train pulled away I felt a great relief, a burden lifting from my shoulders, and I found myself grinning at myself in the window of the carriage. Little more than eighteen months previously I had left London – Victoria Station, the boat train for France, then Paris – for Spain, a young man full of dreams, about to embark on my great moral crusade, with justice on my side and my fellow man alongside me. Now, gaunt, limping, and my hair streaked with white, I saw myself for what I was: a man entirely alone, scared even of the roar of the steam train and motor traffic, impoverished and rootless. I had of course no idea at that moment, but in giving up on my absurd fantasies of performing on the stage of world history I had in fact unwittingly become a small and insignificant part of the terrible drama of our time. I had imagined that I was to determine the course of history, but history had taken possession of me. And if, as they say, nature is a rough school of men and women, then history is rougher … But already I am beginning to sound like Morley.
I should continue with the tale.
It had always been my ambition to travel. My father’s job as a royal messenger had meant that he had been all over Europe and further afield, scurrying from Balmoral to Windsor and to Whitehall, carrying with him letters of royalty and of state, emblazoned with the proud stamp OHMS. When I was a boy he would recount to me his stirring adventures among the Czechs, and the Serbians, and the Slovaks and Slovenes, dodging spies and brigands who tried to steal his dispatch case – tales in which he would triumph by courteous manners – and although we lived in relatively modest circumstances in a small house in Kensington, I had been introduced at an early age to ambassadors and diplomats from France, and China and Japan, and had imagined for myself a future abroad in khaki, and in starched collars, striped trousers and sun-helmet, upholding the Empire by good manners and breeding alone. In my own country I took little interest: I cared nothing for the Boat Race, or Epsom, or cricket at Lord’s. My dreams were of Balkan beauties, of Paris, Hungary and Berlin, of steamers on the Black Sea, and of adventures in Asia Minor. I imagined camels, and consuls and tussles with petty local officials. I harboured absolutely no desires to travel up and down on the branch lines of England.
Nonetheless, as we passed the houses and churches and slums of east London I felt the familiar ecstasy of departure. I took two Seconal, a handful of aspirin, and felt myself released again from the vast jaws of my ambitions, and fell into a troubled sleep – dreams of Spain confused with visions of a ruined London, flying demons dropping explosives overhead, fires raging in the streets, men slithering like beasts, every town and every city throbbing with fear and violence.
I woke thick-headed some time before we arrived in Melton Constable, where I changed quickly onto the branch railway, a little three-carriage local train done out proudly in its golden ochre livery, and which heaved its way slowly through the meadows of East Anglia. I took a window seat in the second-class non-smoker, the only seat remaining, and, gasping for air and desperate to smoke, ignoring the protests of my fellow passengers, pulled down a leather strap on the window – СКАЧАТЬ