The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (22 page)

I
RETURNED TO THE HOTEL
that afternoon – the wrong, wayward feeling of lonely afternoons in small hotels being one of the moods that became depressingly familiar to me during my time with Morley, that mood of something awry, or spoiled; I could never quite put my finger on it. It always reminded me, unhappily, of being a child, the sense of waiting for some unknown thing to happen, that you could not but help expect, excitedly, and with anticipation, and yet at the same time somehow dreaded and knew would be bad: school; dinner; punishment. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the Blakeney Hotel. It had, that afternoon, the fresh smell of a place newly washed and cleaned – all lavender and wax – though underneath it there was that inimitable hotel smell of something having been long cooked, and long ago. Cabbages, perhaps; boiled something, certainly. I longed for rest; for my pills; for something. I found myself caught up instead in endless, unhappy thoughts about Hannah and the hanging priest.

‘Would you like some tea, sir?'

I was sitting in the residents' lounge, a fussy, Arts and Crafts sort of a room, full of pointlessly ornate sideboards fitted into pointlessly ornate recesses, and with an absurdly polished piano of glistening walnut obstructing free passage and movement. ‘A commonplace piano,' announced Morley one evening, after he'd sat and bashed through some Beethoven bagatelles, ‘despite – or perhaps because of – appearances. Never judge a book by its cover, Sefton. Or a piano by its polish.' The room's unrelenting relief ornament, featuring a lot of unnecessary leafage, and its fiddly frieze depicting vague scenes of a bucolic nature, and its plump and peculiarly uncomfortable armchairs upholstered in a swains-and-nymphs-rich fabric, and its far too large polygonal table, which conspired with the piano to prevent ease of access or exit, made it lounge-like in name only: it was the sort of room one was forced to stand back and admire rather than actually to inhabit; rather like Paris. Morley always described such rooms as having been ‘executed' in a particular fashion and ‘executed in the Parisian fashion' he would say of rooms he particularly disapproved of, ‘and too many fancy fitments', he would add. ‘Executed in the Parisian fashion, and too many fancy fitments,' I found myself muttering out loud, already having picked up some of Morley's verbal habits. ‘Too French and too fancy for a small provincial hotel.'

‘Would you like some tea, sir,' repeated the voice. It was the barmaid from the night before.

‘Sorry,' I said, ‘I was just …' It was difficult to say what I was just doing. Dreaming my way out of there.

‘That's all right, sir. None of us likes this room much anyway.'

‘No. Well.'

‘Tea?'

‘Yes. That would be … lovely, yes, thank you.'

‘Not at all, sir. Is everything all right, sir?'

‘Yes, yes, thank you. Everything is fine. Absolutely fine. Could not be …' I sank deep into the armchair, staring at the concave and convex surfaces of modelled plaster on the wall opposite, following one of the many trails of fronds on the intricately contoured surfaces as it meandered from dark to darker and back again to dark in the cruel play of the weak afternoon sunlight.

She went to get the tea.

‘Why don't you join me?' I asked when she returned. I suddenly felt the need for the reassurance of female company, something solid and tangible, real – and she was certainly that. There was something coquettish about her: she had those eyes that dilated slightly when you spoke to her, like a cat, or a film star. It was just a bar habit, I suppose, but terribly effective.

‘I don't think so, sir, no, thank you. I'm just covering for one of the girls.'

‘Oh,' I said, disappointed. ‘I'd be glad of the company.'

She smiled, and did her eyes again, and lingered by the chair.

‘I don't think so, sir. But can I get you anything else?'

‘No, thank you,' I said. ‘Though you could tell me your name.'

‘Lizzie,' she said.

‘Well, Lizzie, perhaps another time.'

‘Perhaps,' she said. I thought I saw her bite her lip; I noticed that she wore a gold chain around her neck that hung down … ‘You're not with your friend today then?' she said. ‘The old chap with the moustache.'

‘Mr Morley? No. He's … working.'

‘Is he famous?'

‘Yes. Yes. He's a famous writer, yes.'

‘Ah, we thought so. That explains it.'

I didn't know exactly how or what it explained, but I suppose it did.

‘Are you all right, sir?'

I realised I was staring at her. This generous, innocent, finely formed young woman seemed suddenly like a hope of escape – from complications, from regret, from Morley, from the strange situation I seemed to have found myself in.

‘It's just a headache,' I said.

‘My father had the same problem.'

‘Really?'

‘He suffered very badly from his nerves, after the war, you see.'

‘You're too young to remember the war, surely?'

She smiled. ‘Yes, sir. But Father's told me all about it. You don't look well, sir, if you don't mind me saying so.'

‘I'm fine, really. Just shaken up by this whole business with the reverend. And … his maid.'

‘Oh, everybody is, sir. Everybody in the village.'

‘Did you know him well?'

‘Yes. And her.'

‘Hannah.'

‘Yes. She was lovely. Did you meet her?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I did.' I felt myself about to give a little gasp; shock at the memory of what had taken place between me and Hannah. I lowered my eyes. It was as if it were apparent in my face, written on my body.

‘Some people in the village were anti-, but I didn't mind.'

‘Sorry? Anti- what?'

‘The Jews. I don't really mind them. You can't always tell, anyway, can you? And there were rumours, of course.'

‘What sort of rumours?'

‘About the two of them.'

‘I see,' I said. ‘Really?' It struck me, through the afternoon haze of my self-absorption and regret, that this was one of Livia's white hens that Morley had spoken of, dropped into my lap. ‘Why don't you sit down, here,' I said and patted an adjacent armchair, which she settled into, and as the motes of dust played around us in that sickening, stifling room, she told me about the rumours, about the reverend and Hannah, and about lovers and plots, and the desecration of the face of the Virgin Mary in the church and …

‘But it's just village tittle-tattle, sir,' she said, at the end of our long, strange conversation. ‘That's all. It's just what people say, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' I agreed. ‘Just what people say.'

Eventually she had to leave to attend to other guests.

I passed the rest of the afternoon alone with my thoughts.

When I sat down that evening with Morley for dinner our conversation moved, as it always did, from topic to topic, and sub-topic to sub-topic, and over great time and distances, as we traversed our way slowly from soup to nuts, occasionally glancing at the views afforded over Blakeney harbour – the Blakeney Hotel, as Morley notes in the
County Guides
, being ‘blessed by its situation' – and so it was only as we were approaching our trifle, which we were assured was a speciality of the house, that the moment finally presented itself for me to speak to Morley about what Lizzie had told me.

But just as I was about to speak, a man strode purposefully into the dining room and spoke – equally purposefully – with the head waiter, and then began to make his way – even more purposefully – over to our table. Morley had his back to the man, but I sat facing towards him, and couldn't help but notice that – at over six feet tall, and dressed in a buttery smooth grey suit – he had the disturbed and yet somehow also imperturbable features of someone who'd spent a considerable portion of his youth clambering in and out of boxing rings, and that, as he walked towards us with his profound and ever increasing purposefulness, his face seemed to become forever darker and his fists more clenched: he was, I thought, either a policeman or a thug.

‘Policeman?' said Morley, glancing up at me, moments before the man reached our table, as though reading my thoughts.

‘Would you mind if I had a word? Mr Morley, isn't it?'

‘It is. And you are?'

‘I'm the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary.'

‘An honour to meet you, sir. And your name is?'

‘I'm the Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. That will suffice, thank you, Mr Morley.' The detective's fists were clenched as tight as his jaw wasset.

‘Of course, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. We've been expecting you.' Morley rose from his seat to his own not inconsiderable height, shook the detective firmly by the hand, called over a waiter, who brought an extra chair, and quickly settled the detective down, instantly taking charge of the situation. Several diners at nearby tables glanced in our direction.

‘This is my assistant, Stephen Sefton,' he said. We shook hands. Or, rather, the detective shook my hand. He had hands like rolling pins.

‘I hope I'm not interrupting your meal,' he said.

‘Not at all, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary. You're coping with a serious enquiry. We, on the other hand, are merely coping with a trifle. Literally. Perhaps you'd care to join us?'

‘No thank you.'

‘Very wise. Too much cream, not enough custard, wouldn't you say, Sefton? But coffee, perhaps, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary? Though I don't indulge myself. One tries to avoid too many false exhilarations. You won't accept wine or spiritous drink, I'm sure, if you're on duty.'

‘I'll get to the point, Mr Morley, if you don't mind.'

‘Of course, Deputy Detective Chief Inspector for the Norfolk Constabulary.' Morley ostentatiously folded his napkin on the table.