The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (30 page)

‘It's nothing to do with the bicycle lights, Mrs Podger.'

‘Good. You're not the police?'

‘No, we're not.'

‘There's police everywhere at the moment.'

‘I know.'

‘We've never had any trouble here before. Nothing. And now there's the reverend, and that woman. And the fire. It's like the end of the world, I said to Mr Podger. The Book of Revelation. It's getting like Cromer. There was a murder in Cromer a few years ago, the body was all cut up, but they never found the man who—'

A man emerged from a back room at this point, hearing Mrs Podger's ramblings. You could see the back room through a yellowing lace-curtained interior window, an office, really, lit by an electric light bulb; the iron safe; the telephone; the ledgers and brochures; the profusion of papers; the Horlicks calendar, ‘Against Night Starvation'; the large, loud clock, its pendulum lazily swaying and beating time.

The man wore a tie, glasses, a long white coat of the kind most often worn by butchers, and he was as bald as it is possible to be bald, his head as smooth and as white as a freshly boiled potato. He must have been six foot six: he was not a small man. And he was not a friendly man. He folded his arms and stood, proprietorially, behind a set of brass scales.

‘Yes, gentlemen?' He spoke with the same regular plod of the pendulum.

‘Mr Podger?'

‘Yes.'

‘We're looking for Ed Dunne. We were hoping to talk to him about a book we're writing.'

‘Are you the writer staying in the hotel?' asked the woman, her hands flapping, either with nerves or excitement, it was difficult to tell.

‘Yes, that's correct.'

‘We've heard all about you!' she said.

‘All good, I trust?' said Morley.

‘Well, I heard—' she began.

‘Mabel!' said the man. ‘That's enough. You need to go and count the seed packets in the office.'

‘Now?'

‘They won't count themselves, will they?'

Mabel – her hands still flapping – dutifully disappeared.

‘Self-counting seed packets, now that would be something, wouldn't it?' said Morley.

‘What do you want with Ed?' said Mr Podger.

‘We're writing a book about Norfolk, Mr Podger, its character and its characters, and we understand that Ed is a keen craftsman and artist, up at College Farm. And we thought he might be a good person to feature in the book. It would be wonderful for us, and it might be good for him. For his career, I mean.'

‘His career?'

‘As a craftsman, I mean.'

‘I see. And that's all, is it?'

‘Yes, that's it.'

‘It's nothing to do with the investigation into the reverend's death?'

‘No, not at all. Why should it be?'

‘I'd heard you were writing for the papers about it.'

‘Well, I'm afraid you heard wrong, Mr Podger, sir, with all due respect. I mentioned the sad death of the reverend in one or two of my regular columns, as a matter of public interest, and that was all.'

Mr Podger sniffed. ‘I don't like people speaking ill of the reverend.'

‘You were perhaps a friend of the reverend, Mr Podger?'

‘No.'

‘A congregant?'

‘No.'

‘An acquaintance, then?'

‘No.'

‘But you had a high opinion of the reverend?'

‘He caught my brother once with some partridges. Which he shouldn't have had, by rights. But the reverend didn't let on. He was a good man.'

‘That's what I've heard,' said Morley.

Mr Podger looked at us both and seemed to be making some difficult mental calculations. ‘You're Swanton Morley, aren't you?'

‘Yes, I am. Since birth. That's correct.'

‘And who's this?'

‘This, sir, is Mr Stephen Sefton, my
homme de confiance
.'

I asked Morley on several occasions during the course of our acquaintance not to use this term, but he persisted. It almost always got us into trouble. Fortunately, Mr Podger was more interested in Morley than in me.

‘I read you in the
Herald
.'

‘I am delighted to hear that, Mr Podger. Like you, sir, I need all the customers I can get!'

Mr Podger eyed him closely. ‘And you're a man of your word, Swanton Morley? As you make yourself out to be?'

‘I am that, sir.'

‘So you'll not be asking him about the reverend and his housekeeper?'

‘I give you my word, Mr Podger, that I shall not.'

‘He's been very upset by it all, you see. He's a very sensitive type, Ed.'

‘I quite understand. Would we be able to speak to Mr Dunne, do you think?'

Mr Podger thought about it for a time.

‘It'll be good for his career?'

‘Exposure, Mr Podger. Advertising. As you know yourself, it all helps.'

‘He's down in the storeroom. You can come through here.'

He lifted up the counter, led us through the office, and down some winding steps into an airless, humid underground store, which was lit by a dirty, splotchy bulb, under which Ed Dunne was sitting in complete silence, on one of the big fifty-six-pound butter crates, staring, entirely absorbed, at the pages of a magazine –
Titbits
. He looked as though he might have been sitting there, reading it, for all eternity. Tall, loaded shelves loomed all around in the darkness.

He leapt up as we approached. I thought for one moment that he might even salute. He was no more than eighteen years old. Underneath his apron he wore a strenuously neat little tie, and a high white collar and a waistcoat, which along with his smooth, centre-parted hair and his full, keen, innocent lips and staring eyes, lent him rather the appearance of the silent comedian Harold Lloyd.

‘Mr Podger, sir. Sorry, I was just waiting for the delivery, sir.'

‘People to see you, Ed.'

‘To see me? If it's about the bicycle, I'm definitely going to get lights as—'

‘It's not about the bicycle lights,' said Mr Podger. ‘It's Swanton Morley. The People's Professor. He's writing a book. He wants to talk to you.'

‘Swanton Morley?
Morley's Thousand Wonderful Things
?'

‘That is one of mine, yes,' said Morley, reaching out his hand.

‘And
The Children's Little Paper
, and
The Wonder Encyclopaedia
, and
The Treasure House of Wisdom
?'

‘Yes. I can lay claim to those also. Pleased to meet you, Mr Dunne. This is my assistant, Stephen Sefton.'

‘Why do you want to talk to me, Mr Morley?'

Mabel called from upstairs.

‘I'll leave you to it,' said Mr Podger. ‘We've a delivery due, Mr Morley. It's already late, and we'll need Ed as soon as it arrives.'

‘Of course. We won't be long.'

Mr Podger disappeared up the stairs and back into the shop.

‘Who's the cricketer?' said Morley. ‘What's his name?'

‘Sorry, Mr Morley?' said Ed.

‘Australian? Partnered with Woodfull and Bradman.'

‘Erm …'

‘You know, Sefton. Big beefy chap. With the bat … Big Bertha. Knocking the balls about. Didn't Mr Podger strike you as an absolute dead ringer?'

Ed was too busy fussing around, dragging over some empty barrels for us to sit on, to take any notice.

‘Mr Morley, and Mr …'

‘Sefton,' I reminded him.

‘I'm … Sorry. Would you like some tea, gentlemen?'

‘Thank you, yes, please.'

He produced three mugs – enamel mugs, stained with age – and poured dark black tea into them from a filthy kettle set on a stove in the corner. He then added spoonfuls of condensed milk from a large tin.

‘Cheese?' he said.

‘Cheese?' said Morley.

‘To go with the tea. I haven't got anything else, I'm afraid. Mr Podger doesn't let me … With the mice, you see. Crumbs. You have to be careful.'

‘Not for me, thank you,' I said.

‘What cheese do you have?' asked Morley.

‘Mr Podger lets me have the old toasting cheese for the mousetraps.'

‘That's very generous of him, I'm sure. But I think perhaps I'll pass, thank you all the same.'

Ed took a small lump of what looked like solid marble from an old jar of Julysia hair tonic, and popped it in his mouth.

‘Now, Ed,' said Morley, ‘I wonder if we could ask you a few questions about—'

But at that moment a yell came from up above, a doorway banged open in the ceiling of the basement, and suddenly parcels and barrels and crates came hurtling down a long greasy plank set against the far wall. It was like some infernal mouth had opened and started retching down into the dark.

‘Damn!' said Ed. ‘Excuse me. I'm afraid I'll have to … Sorry, Mr Morley, and Mr Sefton …' And he ran over and started pulling the parcels hither and thither.

‘Need a hand?' offered Morley, taking off his jacket, folding it neatly, and instructing me to do the same. Ed, quite rightly, refused our assistance, but Morley insisted, and then Ed refused again, and Morley insisted again, and before I knew it we were hauling goods into piles, with Ed acting as foreman. ‘Tobacco here, Mr Morley! Milk powder here! No, here! Tinned pears! Mixed tinned fruits – all tinned fruits here, gentlemen! Huntley and Palmers! Liver salt! Liver salt, here!'

‘Purifies and Invigorates!' called Morley, who was a great one for mucking in and who was therefore enjoying himself enormously, and who also, alas, knew the advertising slogan and ditty associated with every brand of goods that came forever tumbling down the plank. Brooke Bond Tea: ‘Spend Wisely, Save Wisely!' called Morley, in antiphonal response. Cadbury's Cocoa Essence, up went the cry, ‘Absolutely Pure!' Camp Coffee: ‘Drink Camp, It's the Best!' After half an hour of this frantic exercise, and Morley's accompanying din, the torrent of parcels and packages suddenly ceased. Morley and I sat down for a moment, while Ed continued to move boxes and packages into their correct positions.

‘Underground stevedores, eh?' said Morley. ‘That was rather fun, Mr Dunne.'

Ed chuckled, out of genuine amusement, it seemed, rather than politeness while I, on the other hand, remained silent and began to light a restorative cigarette.

‘We can't smoke in here,' said Ed. ‘Mr Podger doesn't let me.'

‘Put it away, Sefton,' said Morley. ‘Now, Mr Dunne. I wonder if you could tell us about College Farm?'

‘Why? What do you want to know?'

‘We're writing a book, you see, as Mr Podger explained, and we're interested in what goes on there.'

‘What do you mean, what goes on?'

‘I mean, life in an artistic community.'

‘I only use a studio at the weekends,' said Dunne, reaching boxes up onto high shelves. ‘On Sundays, usually. Sometimes in the evenings, if I'm not working.'

‘I see. And is that where you met Hannah?'

‘Yes,' said Ed unguardedly.

I glanced quickly at Morley. He was indeed a man quite thoroughly of his word, and he had promised Mr Podger that he would only be asking Ed about his work. So I wondered how he might proceed. He proceeded in the only way available to him.

‘My colleague, Mr Sefton, would like to ask you about her,' he said.

I cleared my throat. ‘You knew Hannah,' I began.

I, of course, had barely known her, and yet … The mention of her made me think of her supple wrists. And her ash-blonde hair. And her mouth on mine. Her breasts pressing tight against me, up against the cold bare flint walls of the church. It was all there lodged in my mind, with everything else: the torsos that were parted from their limbs in my bloodiest of dreams; the visions of Spanish battlefields; cripples on donkeys riding across the landscape; everything in red. As I glanced at Ed I thought perhaps he could see it there too.

‘Sefton? Everything all right, Sefton?'

‘Yes, everything's fine, Mr Morley. I'm not sure what—'

‘Was Mr Chancellor painting her?' asked Morley.

‘Yes, he was, sir.'

‘And were you jealous?'

‘Yes. I was.'

‘That's OK, Ed.'

‘He shouldn't have been doing it.'

‘He shouldn't have been painting her?'

‘Yes. And what else they were doing.' Ed did not say anything more. He stared down at the floor.

‘What else were they doing, Ed?' persisted Morley.

‘She shouldn't have been doing it!'

‘What was it?'

‘He drove her to it!'

‘Who?'

‘I'm not going to say!' said Ed. ‘I told her I wouldn't!'

Instantly, as Ed's voice was raised, there was a corresponding noise at the top of the stairs. The door to the office banged open, and then shut, and in the half-light I could see the vast outline of Mr Podger, his bald head shining, and in his hands what appeared – and which did indeed transpire – to be a large, home-made cricket bat.

‘Ah, Mr Podger,' said Morley, unperturbed. ‘We were just asking Ed here—'

‘Get out!' yelled Podger. ‘You promised me, Morley! Get out of my shop! Do you hear?'

Morley picked up his jacket, as I did mine.

‘You seem to be blocking the doorway, actually,' said Morley, not unreasonably, but this proved to be the proverbial red rag to the proverbial raging bull and the final boiling point of Mr Podger's ever-simmering temper.

We both darted across the storeroom as Mr Podger lunged down the stairs, Morley reaching the long, slippery delivery plank before me and beginning to scramble up it towards the light. I made it up onto the bottom of the plank as Mr Podger came bellowing across the room, heaving the cricket bat above his head, with what appeared to be every intention of shattering both my legs. Grabbing both sides of the plank, I braced myself for the moment of contact. Which never came, Ed having reached Podger before me and with the end of a broom handle having restrained his swing, much as a ringmaster might hold off a lion from devouring his keeper. Podger roared. Ed turned quickly to me and nodded for me to make my escape. Which I gratefully did.