The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (20 page)

‘I don't know, Mr Morley.'

‘Cool, dark and mysterious,' he said, referring to what it was not clear. ‘Come on, Sefton, concentrate, please. Eyes open. Mind alert. Mouth shut. We do have work to do.'

Miss Harris's house: the imperial impulse

We were greeted and ushered into the house by a maid, who showed us into a drawing room – a sick-making combination of pale green walls, swirling red paisley fabrics and assorted knick-knacks – where a middle-aged woman sat on a straight blue wooden chair by a bay window hung with damask, apparently having framed herself deliberately, as though for a photograph. She was in her late fifties, possibly older, and wore a long flowing dress in faded magenta, with a pair of low-heeled black boots that might suit for a fishing or hunting trip, and her hair, which was a dusty grey, she wore cropped close to the head, like a weak-featured man going deliberately for the look of a powerful Roman emperor. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and her lips, though thin, suggested the potential of passion – violent passion even, one might say. She wore a black silk shawl draped around her shoulders, which made her look as though she might at any moment rise up, throw it off, and declaim, which she might have done, had the shawl not been fixed firmly in place with a silver brooch of the most horrible design, in the form of a dog's head, with tiny, pinprick red jewels for eyes. In my troubled and downcast state, the room, and the woman, struck me as bogus, vile and somehow asharbingers of doom.

‘Miss Harris,' said Morley, going over.

Miss Harris, in regal fashion, raised her hand to be kissed, nodded, but said nothing.

‘It is an honour to meet you, Miss Harris.'

‘Indeed,' said Miss Harris, who was – Morley had briefed me – a faded star of the stage, with a sideline in light opera, and who clearly felt that honour should indeed be granted where honour was due.

‘This is my assistant, Mr Sefton,' said Morley.

I nodded. Miss Harris forced a smile.

‘It's a wonderful place you have here,' said Morley, rather convincingly, I thought, since he later described the house to me, with characteristic frankness, as being more like a stage set than a home. He thoroughly disapproved of interior decoration, believing in simplicity and spartan values in all things except cars, books, stationery, pets and of course his own eccentric home and its furnishings, which he believed to be exemptingly and self-evidently exquisite in every regard. I had described the place, in my notes, as containing fine examples of antique furniture. ‘It was not antique furniture,' Morley corrected me. ‘It was furniture with antique pretensions. There is a difference, Sefton.' Fortunately, Miss Harris was not privy to this later conversation.

‘I know, I know, we are frightfully lucky,' said Miss Harris. ‘The house came up a few years ago, just when we were looking to move out of London. I can't tell you, Mr Morley, how much we appreciate it. It was designed by John Norton. Do you know him?'

‘I'm afraid I don't, madam, no.'

‘He designed the Maharajah Duleep Singh's house at Elveden?'

‘Ah. Yes. Our first Sikh settler.'

‘Indeed. Norton specialised in houses in the Indian manner, after he had created Elveden.'

‘I see.'

‘This is on a very modest scale, of course, but it has been a labour of love, restoring it and updating it. But it has been worth it, don't you think?' Miss Harris was the sort of woman who spoke as though she were speaking a citation – to herself – or reciting verse to an audience of the hard of hearing in a large auditorium. She measured each sentence as though she were handing out precious gifts, or fifty-guinea notes, fully aware of the worth and weight of every syllable, and the price in pence and pounds of every slight change in tone and pitch. She also happened to have at her feet a willing audience and accompanist, in the form of a continually snorting Pekinese, whose rhythmic snufflings made it sound as though it was either about to die, or to leap enthusiastically into life, though during the course of our visit it did neither, and acted merely as a small furry metronome, drawing attention to the forced tempo of Miss Harris's pronouncements. ‘Times have changed so in London, have they not, Mr Morley?'

‘They have indeed, Miss Harris. You prefer Oxford, I think?'

‘Yes, I do. How did you know?'

‘I was just admiring your mezzo-tints in the hallway, on the way in. Balliol, was it?'

‘Yes, my brother attended college there. We shared many happy times together.'

‘All of you as a family?'

‘That's correct. It seems like another age. Barbarousness everywhere these days. I blame three things, Mr Morley: the war; the Spanish flu; and the Americans. And Emily Davison. But that makes four. Do you agree?'

‘It's certainly one argument, Miss Harris.'

‘Particularly the Americans. I have no time for Americans, Mr Morley, even though I spent much time there in my youth, touring with the D'Oyly Carte. We might as well be living in America these days, wouldn't you say?'

‘I'm not sure, Miss Harris. I think Norfolk is still quite—'

‘Clothes. Jazz. Conversation. All fashions follow a very simple and direct route, Mr Morley, in my opinion. They come first from the Negroes, and then on to the brothel, and then to “movie” stars, and then hence to high society, and finally to maids and servants and secretaries in the suburbs, where they meet again with their origins. Do you see?'

‘A vicious circle,' said Morley.

‘Precisely,' said Miss Harris. ‘A positive cyclorama of degradation. The amount of young women one sees these days in high heels, Mr Morley, even in Norwich. It's really quite extraordinary. High heels might be suitable for the salons and arcades of Paris, but they are hardly practical for country living.'

‘You haven't met my daughter,' said Morley.

‘No,' said Miss Harris. ‘Why? Has she fallen for the current fashions?'

‘I'm afraid she has,' said Morley.

‘“Dainty skirts and delicate blouses aren't much use for pigs and cows-es. The answer is overalls and trousiz,”' sang Miss Harris, rather tunefully, I have to admit. The Pekinese, for a moment, stopping grunting and staring up at her.

‘I beg your pardon?' said Morley.

‘It's a popular tune, Mr Morley, or was, in my youth.' She pursed her lips in an unfriendly fashion at the mention of her youth. Make-up would not have sat well upon her features, which resembled the kind of contour map of the more mountainous regions of England.

A woman entered the room and came and spoke to Miss Harris. She was considerably younger than Miss Harris – in her thirties, perhaps – improbably tall, and dressed in a dark trouser suit. Morley referred to her henceforth, though in private, as Glumdalclitch, another of his allusions that passed me by entirely, until, with his usual upbraiding, he pointed out that it was the name of Gulliver's nurse. ‘Dean Swift, Sefton? Never heard of him? Doesn't feature on the Tripos these days?'

The drawing room

‘Sorry, you must excuse us, Mr Morley,' said Miss Harris. ‘This is Miss Spranzi. My secretary.'

‘An Italian name?' asked Morley.

‘Yes,' said Miss Spranzi, smiling.

‘
Lieto di conoscerla
,' he said, staring up at her.

‘
Molto lieto
,' replied Miss Spranzi.

‘
Di dov'è
?'

‘
Di Firenze
.'

‘
Una bella città!
'

‘We should perhaps speak in English, though, Mr Morley,' said Miss Spranzi. ‘For the sake of the others?'

‘Of course. Sefton, you don't have Italian?'

I shook my head.

‘The language of Dante?'

‘Nor I, Mr Morley,' said Miss Harris. ‘I have never felt the need to acquire it.' She spoke as though ‘it' were an unnecessary purchase in the food hall at Selfridge's.

‘And I, I'm afraid, take every opportunity to practise it,' said Morley. ‘Forgive me.' He nodded to Miss Spranzi. ‘
Scusi
.'

‘
Prego
.'

Miss Harris, clearly unhappy to have lost the limelight, albeit momentarily, rearranged herself noisily and theatrically in her chair.

‘Shall we get on, Mr Morley? I'm sure you're a very busy man. Francesca, would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?'

‘Of course.'

‘Do sit down, gentlemen.' Miss Harris waved us towards some chairs.

‘Now, Miss Spranzi did say, but what exactly was it you wanted to see me about, Mr Morley?'

‘I'm writing a book, madam, about the county of Norfolk.'

‘Well, what a jolly idea.'

‘It's the first in a series of
County Guides
that I'm writing.'

‘I see. And you intend to write about all of them?'

‘That's correct.'

‘How extraordinary!' she said, in a way that suggested that the task was not extraordinary at all. ‘How terribly … Wagnerian.'

‘Indeed,' said Morley. ‘It had not occurred to me before, madam, but I suppose it is what the great man himself might have called a
Gesamtkunstwerk
.'

‘Not a term I'm familiar with, Mr Morley.' Miss Harris's face soured: not a woman who liked to be outwitted or outdone.

‘It means—'

‘You're not a young man, are you, Mr Morley?'

‘Alas, madam, no, I'm not.'

‘In which case, is it not rather foolhardy an undertaking, if you don't mind me saying so?'

‘Possibly. Though I have my young assistant here, who I'm proud to say is full of vim and vigour.'

I had in fact spent most of this conversation staring out of the window, vim- and vigourless, longing for escape from this tiresome woman and her faux-hospitality, but I offered a thin smile at Morley's prompting.

‘A sort of swan song then, is it?' said Miss Harris.

‘I hope not,' said Morley. ‘I regard it more as another of my intellectual adventures.'

‘Well, good for you, Mr Morley.' She rearranged her hands in her lap. ‘Good. For. You. And how is it that you think I can help you?'

‘I wanted to talk to people,' said Morley, ‘who in some way represent the county.'

‘I see. And you thought of me?'

‘Indeed.'

‘As a representative? I don't think I would consider myself as representative of anything, Mr Morley. I rather regard myself as
sui generis
.'

‘
Sui amans, sine rivali
,' said Morley.

‘I'm sorry, what was that?'

‘Just agreeing, Miss Harris, that's all. But I'm sure you have many interesting things to tell us about Norfolk. You were born here, I believe?'

‘I was.'

‘In Blakeney?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Harris is a local name?'

‘Harris is my stage name, Mr Morley.'

‘How wonderful! And sporting this
nom de théâtre
you went on to achieve great fame and riches, and now you have returned—'

‘In my dotage.'

‘In your pomp.'

‘I'm really not sure that anyone would be interested in the reminiscences of an old actress like myself, Mr Morley.'

‘I fancy you're merely being modest, Miss Harris.'

‘It's called good manners, Mr Morley. Or it used to be.'

‘Quite so.'

Miss Spranzi arrived back with a silver tea set, and poured us all tea.

‘
Mille grazie
,' said Morley.

‘Your reputation precedes you, of course, Mr Morley,' said Miss Harris. ‘The People's Professor.'

‘Not a title I claim for myself,' said Morley.

‘But one bestowed upon you.'

‘Indeed.'

‘An honorific, then.'

‘One could call it that.'

‘Well,
Professor
, I must confess that I haven't read any of your books.'