The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (26 page)

‘Of course,' said Morley. ‘Perhaps we should go, and call another time.'

‘No,' said the reverend, ‘no, no. Best to get it out of the way, now you're here. I can spare you a few minutes.' He began his pipe routine again.

‘That's very kind of you.'

‘Not at all, not at all,' said the reverend, dismissing Morley's thanks with a papal wave of the hand.

‘We shouldn't have imposed upon you at this difficult time.'

‘Yes. Well. It is a difficult time.'

‘Of course,' said Morley. ‘My condolences again. The loss of a friend.'

‘Indeed. We were preparing a paper together, actually, on the doctrine of Original Sin.'

‘Really?' said Morley. ‘A fascinating subject. The inborn legacies of Adam's transgressions.'

‘Indeed, yes.'

‘Limited atonement versus general atonement. Total depravity versus human ability.'

‘Theological debate has moved on rather since John Calvin, I think you'll find, Mr Morley.' The reverend smirked rather at this, I thought.

‘I'm sure it has, Reverend, and I am of course only an amateur rather than a professional theologian, though I assume the fundamental question remains.'

‘Well, it rather depends which fundamental question you have in mind, Mr Morley.' He gave a thin little laugh. ‘There are several fundamental questions, I think you'll find.'

‘I was thinking of the gap between who we might be, and who we are, Reverend. Perennially troubling question that, isn't it?'

‘I suppose it is, yes.'

‘Anyway, the reverend was clearly a learned man, like yourself?'

‘He was. We were bound together, I suppose, by our time at Oxford.'

‘I see. Though presumably in later life you didn't see exactly eye to eye on all matters theological?'

‘Well … There were some differences, of course.'

‘Such as?'

‘He had rather clear-cut ideas about things.'

‘Such as?'

‘He was … very much a sheep and the goats sort of a Christian, Mr Morley.'

‘By which you mean?'

‘He was of the evangelical persuasion, with socialistic leanings.'

‘I see. And you are not?'

‘I am, shall we say, otherwise inclined, Mr Morley.'

‘Indeed. I guessed as much.' Morley glanced around the room, and I glanced with him, noticing for the first time the many portraits of the saints, and of the death of Thomas Becket, the good deeds done by St Christopher, St George on his horse, the Seven Acts of Mercy, the Death of Our Lord, and a large portrait of the Blessed Virgin.

‘He was interested in what he would have called “social issues”, Mr Morley. Very influenced by the work of Estlin Carpenter. I don't suppose you've heard of him?' said Swain, hoping to score a few points off Morley. He couldn't know, of course, that Morley had heard of everyone, had
always
read them, and more often than not had met them and was their dearest friend.

‘The sociology professor?' said Morley.

‘You've heard of him?'

‘We have corresponded.'

‘Ah, well,' said the Reverend Swain, rather disappointed. ‘You'll be familiar with his ideas about religion and social work.'

‘Indeed.'

‘A big influence on our dear friend the reverend.'

‘I'm sure he was a good parish priest?'

‘He was indeed, Mr Morley. A … paragon.'

‘Of course. Anyway, we probably shouldn't take up any more of your time, Reverend.'

‘Well … No. Perhaps not. Parish business. Very pressing.'

‘I'm sure.'

‘Perhaps another time?'

‘Indeed, at your convenience.'

Swain rose and walked us towards the door. I noticed that beneath his cassock he wore a pair of cherry-red trousers; they flashed as he moved, as if he were wading through communion wine.

Morley paused at the door. ‘I do wonder, just before we go, if you could clear up a theological debate I was having with my young friend on the way here.'

We were not, needless to say, as far as I was aware, having any theological debate of any kind on the way there.

‘I'm sure I could do my best, Mr Morley,' said Swain, nodding, clearly keen to return to the comforts of his pipe and his priestly duties.

‘Prompted, I suppose, by this troubling matter of the death of the reverend.'

‘Troubling indeed.'

‘Yes. We usually think of suicide as a voluntary death, isn't that right, Reverend?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘But what if it is, in fact, an involuntary death?'

Swain glanced quickly at Morley, I thought, in a manner that suggested extreme anxiety. His angel-tufts of hair twitched.

‘I'm not entirely sure I understand, Mr Morley.'

‘Well, we were wondering, my companion and I, in our ill-informed way, whether the reverend's suicide would count properly as suicide, theologically speaking, if it were, shall we say, prompted?'

‘Prompted?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm not sure I understand, Mr Morley.'

‘If he were … invited, or pressured into taking his own life. A bullet in the post, as it were, suggesting an honourable way out. Would that be suicide? We couldn't agree.'

‘I'd say it's probably a … grey area,' said Swain.

‘Grey areas being a theologian's speciality, of course,' said Morley.

‘Perhaps,' agreed Swain.

‘So what do you think?'

‘There would probably be a number of possible interpretations,' said Swain.

‘We couldn't think of any biblical examples, could we, Sefton?'

‘No,' I agreed, even though I had no idea what Morley was talking about.

‘Can you think of any, Reverend?'

Swain coughed nervously. ‘Biblical suicides that fall into that category, you mean?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Well, there is most famously of course our friend Judas, perhaps the most interesting example.'

‘Ah yes, of course,' said Morley. ‘Traditionally depicted, I think I'm right in saying, with his bowels gushing out, is that correct?'

‘Yes,' agreed Swain. ‘That's correct, although I think you'll find that in the biblical account, having hanged himself, Judas is described merely as having fallen and “burst asunder”.'

‘Ugh,' I said involuntarily, remembering horrible scenes in Spain.

‘A little self-control, please, Sefton,' said Morley.

‘Indeed,' said Swain, who was warming to his subject. ‘And, furthermore, in Apocryphal and pseudo-Apocryphal writings Judas is said to have been thrown over the parapet of the Temple and dashed into pieces.'

‘Any other examples that come to mind?' asked Morley.

‘Yes, well. I suppose if we wend our way back into the Old Testament, we have Samson's destruction of the Philistines in the temple of Dagon.'

‘Yes. I did wonder about that, though presumably it would count as an act of vengeance, rather than suicide, would it not?' asked Morley.

‘Yes,' said Swain. ‘Probably. And Ahitophel, of course, hanged himself, after the defeat of Absalom. Zimri, following the capture of the city of Tirzah. And you will recall, Mr Morley, that we are told that when the Philistines and the Israelites clashed on Mount Gilboa, Saul, having fought bravely for as long as he could, fell upon his own sword. His armour-bearer doing likewise.'

‘Interesting,' said Morley. ‘So we might say that Saul took his life so as not to fall into the hands of his foes?'

‘We might indeed, Mr Morley. Yes.'

‘And his armour-bearer died out of loyalty.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Very interesting, Reverend, thank you.'

‘Is that all, Mr Morley?'

‘I think it is, Reverend, yes. You've cleared up a number of matters that were troubling me.'

‘I'm so glad.'

The reverend had his hand firmly on the door handle.

‘And just finally,' said Morley, in that last-minute manner of his, ‘in relation to this topic – I don't want to keep you any further – I wonder if you recall in Herodotus, his describing the practice among the Thracians of the widow or concubine offering her life when the husband or master dies.'

‘I'm not familiar with Herodotus, I'm afraid. Read it at school, of course.'

‘A privilege I did not share, alas,' said Morley. ‘I have had to come to Herodotus rather late in life.'

‘Better late than never, I suppose,' said Swain.

‘Yes. And in my rather belated reading of Herodotus I was struck by the similarity between the practice that he describes among the Thracians and the Hindu custom of suttee.'

‘I'm afraid I'm not an expert in Hindu custom, Mr Morley.'

‘Good to know what the competition are up to, I would have thought?'

‘Competition?'

‘Hindus? Mohammedans, etcetera?'

‘I would hardly describe them as competition to the Christian Church, Mr Morley.'

‘No? Well, in Hinduism, the custom of suttee requires that a widow immolate herself with the corpse of her husband, isn't that right? Never heard of it?'

‘I'm not familiar with the practice, no. And if you're trying to suggest a connection between the death of the reverend and his … maid I think you'll find the woman was of the Mosaic persuasion, Mr Morley, rather than a Hindu.'

‘Indeed.'

‘And little as I know about the customs and practices among the Jews, I am not aware of their womenfolk committing suicide on the death of their husbands. And she and the reverend, of course, were not married.'

‘No, of course not. So it remains a mystery then.'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘You are in the business of mystery, of course.'

‘I am,' said the reverend.

‘And I am in the business of demystification,' said Morley. ‘Goodbye!'

F
OR THE NEXT
couple of hours Morley busied himself with his columns and his writing: an article on the theory of colour for
Life
magazine; advice on the removal of oil and grease from silks and woollens for some women's journal; and something on the history of coal-mining for the
Yorkshire Post
. Like a – moustached, teetotal and tweed-clad – Plantagenet ruler he had by now established almost entire control of the Blakeney Hotel and its staff, who were happy ferrying books, and paper and pens, and typewriter ribbons, and envelopes, and sealing wax, and blotters and all his other necessary writing requisites back and forth, as well as providing him with a constant supply of tea, arrowroot biscuits and barley water. He was the sort of man, Morley, like Edward Longshanks, or Charlie Chaplin, who inspired loyalty and devotion.

I spent the rest of the morning smoking, mostly, in the modest hotel gardens, and eventually made an appearance around eleven, just as the sands on Morley's quarter-hour egg-timer were running out. I hovered by his table in the restaurant, waiting to speak until the moment he went to upturn the thing again.

‘Mr Morley?'

‘Ah, Sefton. Look at that. Perfect timing.' He consulted all his watches, and the table clock. ‘Time for us to be off again shortly.'

‘Yes.'

‘Productive morning?'

‘Very,' I said.

‘Good, good. Writing up the notes of our meeting with the reverend?'

‘Slowly but surely, Mr Morley. Slowly but surely.'

‘Super. Getting back on track, eh.'

‘I just thought I should check where we're off to next, Mr Morley? I really think we should investigate this matter of the desecration of the Virgin in the—'

‘You are obsessed with the desecration of the Virgin, Sefton!' Several of the young hotel staff, who were laying tables for luncheon, glanced in our direction. ‘Eyes on the prize, Sefton.
The County Guides
will never be started, never mind completed, if we spend our time on desecrated Virgins.'

‘But—'

‘No ifs, no buts, no nothing, Sefton. The investigation into the death of the reverend and his poor housemaid is, I'm sure, quite safe in the hands of the deputy detective chief inspector and the good officers of the Norfolk Constabulary. As for you and I, we have serious work to do and we shall in fact this morning be setting off to explore the dark netherworld of smocking, quilting and sexual libertarianism. How about that, Sefton, eh? Tickle your fancy?'

‘Erm …'

One of the staff hurried off, to fetch the head waiter, I suspected.

‘Good. We shall be visiting an artistic “community”, Sefton – something for the book. So be prepared, as the Chief Scout himself might say. Gird up your loins and what have you. Never know what we might find.'

‘Is it far, Mr Morley?'

‘Just up the road, I think. Not far. Miriam set it all up before she went to London. Some sort of a cross between an Arts and Crafts community – chickens and goats and what have you – and artistic bohemians. You know the sort of thing. I came across a similar bunch in Dorset some years ago. Harmless really. Like the Bloomsberries. Best viewed with one's anthropological glasses on, Sefton; imagine they're Solomon Islanders, or Tartars, or some such. Ever been to the Solomon Islands?'