The Norfolk Mystery. Ian Sansom
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sporting out-of-proportion Greek columns; and then a gypsy caravan by the side of the road, filthy gypsy children riding an Irish wolfhound before it, a pipe-smoking woman tending a fire alongside it, stirringa black pot of what may well have been goulash, but which was probably rabbit stew and, propped up against a nearby tree, a hand-painted sign advertising ‘Gypsy Pegs, Knife-Sharpening, Card Readings, Puppies’. I was suddenly struck by the rich and exotic beauty of the English countryside, as strange in its way as, say, India, or Port Said. Norfolk: North Africa. ‘It really is rather splendid here, miss, isn’t it?’
‘Oh come on, Sefton! It’s dull! Dull! Dull! Dull! I can’t stand being stuck up here with Father. But then where’s one supposed to go these days? Even London’s getting to be so boring. It’s becoming like a suburb of New York, don’t you think?’ She spoke as if having rehearsed her lines.
‘I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of visiting New York, Miss Morley.’
‘Well, why don’t you take me one day, Sefton, and I’ll show you round.’
‘Well. I’ll certainly … think about that, Miss Morley.’
‘Call me Miriam.’
‘I’ll stick with Miss Morley, thank you.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Sefton. What’s the point of such formalities? I believe in being brutally frank.’
‘Very good, miss,’ I said.
‘Really. Brutally, Sefton. I’ll be brutally open and frank with you, and you can be brutally open and frank with me. How does that sound? The best way between grown men and women, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure, miss,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t be so solemn! It’s terribly boring. I’d hoped you might be more fun.’
‘I do my best, miss.’
‘To be fun?’ she said, taking both hands from the wheel and tossing away her half-smoked cigarette. ‘Do you now? I’ll be the judge of that, shall I? Anyway, I should warn you, seeing as you’re going to be staying with us, that despite what everyone thinks, Father is an absolute tyrant, and a complete dinosaur.’
‘I think, miss, it might be more appropriate if—’
‘Appropriate! Are you always so proper and correct, Sefton?’
‘Not always, miss. No.’
‘Good. I’m only telling you the truth. I’m having terrible trouble persuading him to introduce American plumbing at the moment. He believes in early morning starts and cold baths. He’s up studying at five, for goodness sake. I mean, reading before breakfast! Ugh! Rather grisly, don’t you think? Imagine what it must do to the digestion.’
‘Your father, I believe, is a very … diligent and profound student of—’
‘Oh, do give over, Sefton! He’s a madman. Forever writing. Forever reading. Continually being overcome with wonder at the world. It all makes for terribly boring company. Do you believe in early morning starts?’
‘It rather depends what one has been engaged in the night before,’ I said.
‘Quite so, Sefton! Quite so! You know, you might prove to be an ally about the place after all. What about hot baths?’
‘I have no strong opinion about hot baths,’ I said.
We had long passed Letheringsett, and were heading for Saxlingham.
‘“Hot baths are the root of our present languor,”’ she said, in a more than passable imitation of her father. ‘“The hot bath is a medical emergency rather than a diurnal tonic. It destroys the oil of the skin.” Ridiculous! Anyway, Sefton, you’re prepared?’
‘For what?’ I said.
‘What do you imagine I’d be asking you to be prepared for, Sefton?’ She raised a bold eyebrow beneath her bold asymmetric bob. ‘For this ludicrous new enterprise of his, silly.’
‘The County Guides?’
‘Yes. Absurd, isn’t it? As if anyone’s interested in history these days. Ye Olde Merrie Englande? Ye Cheshire Cheese? Ye Local Customs?’
‘I’m not sure that’s what he has in mind. I think it’s more a geographical—’
‘What? Plunges into Unknown Herts? Surrey: off the Beaten? Behold, Ye Ancient Monuments? For pity’s sake, Sefton. Who cares? All those dreadful places. Wessex and Devon! Never mind the north! Hardly bears thinking about. I’m afraid I just couldn’t be bothered.’
She glanced at me, her Picasso-like profile all the more striking in motion.
‘Do you drive, Sefton?’
‘I do.’
She then seemed to be waiting for me to ask something back; she was that kind of woman. The kind who asked questions in order to have them asked back, using men essentially as pocket-mirrors.
‘This is a lovely car,’ I said.
‘Oh, this? Yes. Father’s mad on cars. He’s got half a dozen, you know. Loads and loads. The bull-nosed Morris Cowley, with a dickey seat – dodgy fuel pump. And the ancient Austin, Of Accursed Memory. The Morris Oxford, with beige curtains at the windows; sometimes he’ll take a nap in it in the afternoons. It’s terribly sweet really.’
‘Yes.’
‘He can’t drive, though, of course. And he has all these sorts of crazy ideas. He thinks cars run better at night-time – something to do with the evening air. Claims it’s scientific. Absolute clap-trap, of course. But this is my favourite,’ she continued, stroking the steering wheel. ‘It’s a Lagonda,’ she said, stressing the second syllable, in the Italian fashion. ‘Isn’t it a lovely word?’
‘Quite lovely,’ I said.
‘Lagonda,’ she repeated. She clearly liked the idea of Italian. Or Italians. ‘Only twenty-five of them made. Designed by Mr Bentley himself, I believe. Herr Himmler has one in Germany. Harmsworth. King Leopold of the Belgians. I think you’ll find that ours is one of the only white Lagonda LG45 Rapides in England.’
‘Really?’ I said. She seemed to be awaiting congratulations on this fact. I declined to compliment, and instead silently admired the car’s upholstery and its fine walnut dashboard.
Saxlingham outdistanced, we were now beyond signposts, in deep English country.
‘She handles very well,’ she continued. ‘The car, I mean, Sefton.’ That ridiculous eyebrow again. ‘One of Father’s concessions to modernity. He won’t buy us proper plumbing, but anything that gets him from here to there more quickly he’s happy to fork out for! Honestly! It’s the production version of the Lagonda race car, you know. She’s really the last word.’
‘In what?’
‘Cars, silly! Top speed of a hundred and five miles per hour. Would you like me to show you?’
‘No, thank you, miss,’ I said, suspecting that we were already not far from such a speed. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Oh come on, Sefton,’ she said, fiercely revving the car’s engine. ‘Don’t you enjoy a little adventure?’
‘I used to,’ I said.
‘What? Lost your taste for it?’
‘Possibly, miss, yes.’
‘Oh dear. Well, perhaps I’ll be able to revive your flagging interest then, eh?’ And with this she leaned forward eagerly in her seat, stamped on the accelerator, and we began tearing up the roads.
‘You’re not scared are