The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (24 page)

He peered at the blank page. ‘Punishment,' he said. ‘That's it. What about punishment?'

‘What about it?' said the detective.

‘Would it perhaps be possible that the reverend was being punished for some unknown crime?'

‘By who?'

‘By himself, possibly. Though more likely by others.'

‘By others?'

‘It's just a thought,' said Morley. ‘I'll leave it with you.'

In the end, Morley and the detective parted on good enough terms, the restaurant was calm, and I finally took the opportunity to speak to Morley about the rumours that Lizzie had reported to me: that the reverend and Hannah were lovers; that she was pregnant with his child; that theirs was a suicide pact. Morley listened without interrupting as I spoke.

‘Absolute rubbish, Sefton,' he said, when I had finished. ‘Really, one shouldn't entertain these fantastical notions. Anyway, time for bed.'

I spent the rest of the evening drinking in the residents' lounge of the hotel. Lizzie was again serving. I drank perhaps more than I should and asked her more about Hannah and the reverend. She told me a story about Hannah acting as a model for a local artist.

‘There're loads of artists here. They come here for the sky, apparently.'

‘For the sky?'

‘Can't get it anywhere else, is what they say.'

I finished another glass of whisky. ‘I'm sure they can't.'

‘You being cheeky, mister?'

‘Not at all.'

‘It's all right, I like it when you are.'

‘Perhaps I should do it some more then?'

‘Perhaps you should. Or perhaps you should go to bed.'

‘That's an interesting suggestion,' I said.

‘Is it?'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘You're not funny, are you?' she said.

‘Funny?'

‘Queer?'

‘No!' I laughed. ‘I'm not. What made you think so?'

‘Just … Your friend's so well turned-out—'

‘Exceptionally spruce,' I said. ‘It's a phrase of Morley's.'

‘And you're very good-looking—'

‘Well, I wouldn't say that …'

‘As you know fine rightly. So, people have been saying things about the pair of you.'

‘We'll prove people wrong then, shall we, Lizzie?'

I
N THE MORNING
, alone, I was woken by bright sunlight streaming in behind white curtains.

It was before six. During what little sleep I had enjoyed I had been troubled by dreams and nightmares. I knew that I had to speak to Morley immediately.

I knocked on his door. He called from inside and I entered.

He was dressed in a shirt, bow tie and waistcoat, a pair of khaki shorts, knee-length socks, his customary brogues, and was vigorously performing a set of exercises. Very vigorously, in fact. So vigorously that his each utterance was first prefaced by and then followed by a pant and a grunt.

‘Care to – hff! – join me – hff! – Sefton?'

‘No, I think I'll sit this one out, if I may.'

‘You don't know – hff! – what you're missing,' he hffed.

‘I think I can see, Mr Morley.'

‘The important thing – hff! – is regularity – hff! – Sefton. As in all – hff! – things.'

‘I'll call back later, Mr Morley.'

‘No. No.' He stood still, and began a series of stretching exercises, which seemed to calm his breathing.

‘
The Four Bs
, Sefton. I wrote a book, a few years ago. That was the title.' He was breathing deeply. ‘Morning routine, key to a healthy and happy day. One: breathing.' He demonstrated by taking several deep breaths. ‘Two: bath – cold water, of course. Stimulates the nerves. Three: bowels – open. Good evacuation. And four: breakfast. Fruit. Water. Bowl of oatmeal.'

‘I'll certainly consider adopting the routine,' I said.

‘Do. Do you the power of good, Sefton. Anyway, how can I help you?'

‘I was talking to someone last night.'

‘Jolly good. Mixing with the natives. You're learning, Sefton, my little
chota
sahib
.'

‘Sorry?'

‘When I was in India – Rawalpindi, with the Harcourts; do you know the Harcourts? Frontier Force? Terribly nice people.'

‘No, I'm afraid not—'

‘Got tucked right into the Urdu, the Harcourts. Mrs Harcourt took to wearing the sari. Wonderful woman. Indomitable. Like a mother to me, Sefton. Collected pi dogs. Anyway, I observed that the families who made an effort to get along with the locals – and I mean all the locals, Sefton, the old
bheestie
right the way through to the
rum-johnnie
, you know – were better served than those who didn't. The Scotch in particular were very good at it. Friendly, but firm. Created an atmosphere of remarkable good will. Not that the Harcourts were Scotch. They were from Maidenhead. You've no Scotch in you, Sefton?'

‘Not as far as I'm aware, Mr Morley, no.'

‘Anyway, good job.'

‘Yes. Well, thank you.'

‘Who were you talking to?'

‘Someone.'

‘Female of the species, by any chance?'

‘Well …'

‘I see. Word of advice, Sefton.'

‘Yes, Mr Morley.'

‘A passing pleasure on a long journey does not always make a permanent addition to the home.'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Morley?'

‘I think you know what I'm talking about, Sefton. I wouldn't want our every trip to turn into some kind of a … stag hunt.'

‘A stag hunt, sir?'

‘We'll leave it at that, Sefton, shall we? You wanted to see me? The early hour presages some doom or celebration; I'm assuming you're not up picking roses?'

I went on to describe to him what Lizzie had told me about the paintings of Hannah, and the desecration of the image of the Virgin Mary in the church.

‘Ah,' said Morley. ‘Interesting.'

‘That's what I thought. Worth investigating?'

‘Possibly. Once we're fully dressed and provisioned. Leave it with me, Sefton, would you?'

We agreed to meet over breakfast to talk about it. Wide awake, and buzzing with my lack of sleep, and lack of pills and caffeine, I took a walk around the town – the air was fresh, there were men landing their catches – and when I returned Morley was in his usual place in the dining room, poised with a banana on his plate, which he proceeded slowly to peel, as though performing an intricate surgical operation, or playing on a small, novelty musical instrument. Having beguiled and unsheathed the banana from its skin, he proceeded slowly to strip it of its long sinewy strings.

I watched in appalled fascination, drinking coffee, wondering if any other breakfasters – who had already witnessed our lively conversation with the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary the night before – had noticed the performance, which was of course accompanied by the usual and continual flow of loud conversation.

They had.

‘Bananas, Sefton. The thing to remember about bananas is that they do not grow on trees.'

‘I think they do, actually,' I said.

‘Bananas!' said Morley. There was a pause in the restaurant's tinkling of tea cups and crunching of toast. ‘Grow on trees?'

‘They don't grow on trees?'

‘Common misapprehension, Sefton. Looks like a tree, is in fact a perennial herb. Stayed on a plantation when I was travelling once. Sri Lanka. Binks Fairbanks. You don't know him?'

‘No.'

‘Dies back to its roots every year—'

‘Binks Fairbanks?'

‘The banana, Sefton, do keep up. And then grows again. Quite extraordinary. Did you know they eat them fried, and as a savoury as well as a fruit dessert?'

‘I didn't know, no.'

‘Oh yes. A very flexible fruit, our friend the banana.' This seemed to amuse him. ‘A fascinating flexible fruit.' It sounded suspiciously to me like a self-description, though I didn't point this out. ‘Fine fancy fare. Said the four famished fishermen frying flying fish. Not bad, eh?'

‘Hmm.' I took another sip of my coffee, finding it difficult either to agree or disagree with the merits of a tongue-twister, which Morley insisted on rehearsing, loudly, several times. I noticed the head waiter eyeing us suspiciously.

‘Good work-out for the lower lip and upper teeth. “The fascinating flexible fruit is fine fancy fare, said the four famished fishermen frying flying fish.” Do for our friend Miss Harris and the D'Oyly Carte, wouldn't it? Make a note, Sefton.'

I gingerly checked my jacket pocket, but didn't seem to have the notebook to hand.

‘Shame,' said Morley. ‘Are you familiar with the practice of girdling, Sefton?'

‘I'm not sure that I am, no, Mr Morley.'

‘Monks used to have a prayer book tied to them – girdled. You might want to investigate it further. Thus preventing being caught short in future.'

‘I certainly shall,' I said, with absolutely no intention of doing so. Morley was of course never in danger of being caught short on the note-taking front, since he kept secreted about his person at all times not only a variety of his German notebooks, but also rubber-banded sets of small index cards, small enough to fit in a waistcoat pocket, ‘for emergency purposes', he would say.

‘Anyway, botanical classification of the banana,' he continued, picking up his thread. ‘Very complex. Had a delicious banana once in Calcutta. Orangey-yellow flesh, incredibly sweet, with a thin skin, almost like tissue paper. Could almost have been a different fruit.' He held up one of the sinewy strings that he had extracted from the banana on his plate, as though an anatomist examining a part of some small animal's intestine. ‘You should always pull the strings on a banana, Sefton. It gives you digestive trouble otherwise. They upset your tummy, give you the collywobbles.'

‘Really?' I said, sipping my coffee, looking around nervously at the other guests.