The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (14 page)

‘
Ex pede Herculem
.
Ex ungue leonem
. Constable?'

‘Yes, sir?' said Ridley, who by now was flushed bright red with frustration and embarrassment as Morley – insensitive to the finer feelings, and seizing the moment, as ever, as an opportunity for teaching and learning – ploughed on with his questioning.

‘
Ex ungue leonem
. A little effort here, please.
Leonem
?'

‘Lion?' said Ridley pathetically.

‘Correct. So?
Ex ungue leonem
?'

‘From something we get the lion?'

‘Correct!
Ungue
? Think.'

Ridley had the look of a man whose reserves of thinking had long since been exhausted.

‘Come on.'

‘The mane?' said Ridley. ‘Seeing as it's a—'

‘No.'

‘The roar?'

‘No.' Morley held up his arms as if he were a roaring lion.

‘The legs?'

‘Closer.' Morley shook his hands.

‘The foot?'

‘Lions do not have feet, Constable. I think you'll find the word “foot” can be applied, strictly speaking, only to bipeds.'

‘Paw?'

‘Closer!'

‘Claw?' said Ridley.

‘Excellent!' exclaimed Morley. ‘Lion. Claw. From the claw, a lion.
Ex uno disce omnes
.'

‘From the one the many,' I said quickly, saving either Ridley or myself from another round of guess-the-Latin word games.

‘So, any ideas?' said Morley. ‘Based on the evidence? On the principles? On the details? Lion's claw? Hercules' foot?'

Ridley looked forlornly round the room, as did I, rather hoping for an actual lion's claw – or a Herculean foot – to make itself apparent.

It did not. The body of the reverend seemed to be all we had to go on.

‘I'm afraid it's not for me to say what's caused … this,' said Ridley, nodding towards the body. ‘We'll need to get someone from Norwich to look at it.'

‘From Norwich indeed!' said Morley.

‘That's right, sir.'

‘Very well. And when might we expect these wise men from Norwich to arrive, following yonder star?'

‘This evening, at the latest. I called ahead for them when I received the phone call earlier.'

‘Jolly good,' said Morley, patting Ridley on the back. ‘Quick thinking, man.' It was his way. One moment he would be tearing you apart, as though in some impromptu university viva; the next, he'd be slapping you on the back and congratulating you on your perspicacity. With Morley, it was only ever about the truth. The little niceties often seemed not to matter. It made him seem somehow both highly civilised, and an unfeeling brute.

‘So there's really nothing for us to do here except wait,' said Ridley.

‘You're not going to amaze us with some deductive
tour de force
?' asked Morley, rather teasingly, I thought.

‘No, sir.'

‘Well, in that case, while we wait, would you mind, if I …?' Morley took a pen from his top pocket.

‘You want to make some notes?' said Ridley.

‘No,' said Morley. He pointed with the pen towards the body.

‘You want to what?'

Morley then stepped closer to the body, brandishing the pen as though he were going to use it to cut the body down, or scratch some weird graffito upon it.

‘You mustn't touch the body, sir!'

‘I have no intention of doing so, Constable. But, if I might just explore a little? Prompt poor Mercer here to answer some questions? With the aid of the pen?'

Ridley looked at me, uncomprehending, as I looked at him.

‘
Timon of Athens
, gentlemen? Mercer: one of Shakespeare's ghost or mute characters?'

‘I see,' I said, not really seeing at all.

‘What do you have in mind?' asked Ridley.

‘Only this, gentlemen,' said Morley, standing by the body and then, with some considerable degree of dexterity, lifting up the reverend's cassock, using the pen, and then proceeding to expose the poor man's trousers, pulling open a trouser pocket, from wherein he extruded a handkerchief, which, holding it carefully by a corner, he then tugged and tugged, like a music-hall magician, until out it came, tumbling out of the pocket, bringing with it a clatter of coins, a penknife and a flutter of some small pieces of paper. The reverend's body swung ever so slightly.

‘Worked almost like a slot machine, didn't it?' said Morley, delighted.

‘What do you think you're doing?' said Ridley.

‘Now, now! I haven't touched the body.'

‘No, but you've … tampered with the evidence.'

‘I thought you said there was no evidence?'

‘Well, not evidence. But … things.'

‘You don't mind if I examine some things, then?' He indicated the pile on the floor.

‘I suppose it would be all right,' said Ridley, whose resistance to Morley, once weak, was now non-existent.

Morley scooped up the items and set them on the table, the reverend's body still swinging slightly above him. He placed a single finger on one of the reverend's brogues.

‘Still now, Captain Swing.' The body stilled. ‘So, gentlemen, what do we have here?' He picked up a small salmon-pink ticket. ‘A ticket stub for the cinema. I see. In Norwich.'

‘Rather a long way to travel to a cinema, isn't it?' I said.

‘Yes, indeed,' agreed Morley. ‘And why would a man travel all that way to see the latest film, do you think?'

‘It was a film he wanted to see?'

‘Possibly so. Or perhaps a film he didn't want to be seen seeing.'

‘Something …' I began.

‘What?' said Ridley, looking at the cinema ticket.

‘Something … unsavoury?' I said.

‘I don't know exactly what you mean by unsavoury, Sefton, but, yes, I suppose that is what I mean.'

‘I hardly think so,' said Ridley. ‘He was a vicar.'

‘So was the vicar of Stiffkey,' said Morley.

Morley stood examining the rest of the contents of the reverend's pockets: some coins, a pocket penknife. He arranged them on the table.

‘What do you think, Constable? Anything significant?'

Ridley stared at the contents of the reverend's pockets, as though he were a haruspex examining chicken entrails. He was unwilling to hazard a guess.

‘I can't see anything significant there, but—'

‘Quite right,' said Morley. Ridley looked relieved. ‘But if you come close to the body, Constable, there's a smell.'

‘A smell of what?' Ridley backed away again.

‘I don't know,' said Morley. ‘Something apart from the obvious … Come here, Sefton. Can you smell anything?'

I came closer to the reverend's body and sniffed. Nothing.

‘No? Ridley. Come here, man. Don't be squeamish, come on.'

Ridley came closer and sniffed also. Nothing.

‘Well, perhaps I'm imagining it.' He sniffed. ‘Lily of the valley? Daphne? Chrysanthemums? Can't quite put my finger on it. Something … We really need a botanist. Or someone in medicine.'

‘There's the professor,' said Ridley.

‘Professor?'

‘Professor Thistle-Smith. Lives in Blakeney House. Retired.'

‘Well!' cried Morley. ‘I wonder you didn't mention him before, a real live professor on hand to assist us.'

‘I didn't know we'd be needing a professor,' said Ridley.

‘One always needs a professor, Ridley, doesn't one? Always. Can't have enough of them professing, eh? Proffing. Proffering. Profiteering. What did you say his name was?'

‘Thistle-Smith.'

‘A double-barrelled professor, Sefton!'

‘I could go and fetch him,' said Ridley. ‘He's only five minutes away.'

‘Perfect,' said Morley. ‘Professor Double-Barrelled will have this all cleared up in no time and we'll be on our way! Marvellous! Should we perhaps stay here by the body?'

‘Yes,' agreed Ridley, who then realised that this might be a problem. ‘I suppose … Someone better had. But you won't touch anything?'

Morley held up his hands, and his pen.

‘
Dictum meum pactum
, sir.'

‘Is that a yes or a no?' said Ridley.

‘He won't touch anything,' I said.

Ridley left, Morley continued to examine seemingly every mote and speck of dust in the room, and I, exhausted again from Morley's strenuous mental exertions, and with a pounding headache induced by a lack of pills and tobacco, excused myself to go outside to smoke.

T
HE WOMAN
, H
ANNAH
, was outside in the graveyard. She looked up as I approached. She'd clearly been crying – you could see tears clinging to her eyelashes – but her gaze was somehow dry and flat, entirely unemotional. Her eyes were dark, like proverbial pools: Morley would later describe them as ‘private' and ‘turbulent'. Her hair was tied back tight off her face, which made her face shine, without shadow. She wore no make-up. Her hands seemed dirty, stained bluish, yellow, as if she had scraped her face clean. She was perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six years old. You could see her breathe as she spoke.

‘Are you all right?' I said. ‘You've been here the whole time?'

‘Yes, sir. Thank you. I'm fine, thank you.'

I handed her my handkerchief. She wiped her hands first, and then her face.

‘Would you like me to escort you somewhere, perhaps?'

‘No. I can't leave if … his body is still in there. Someone should be with him.' There was in her voice some slight hint of something foreign; I couldn't help but stare at her mouth as she spoke.

‘Mr Morley's in there with him, madam. He'll look after him.'

‘Cigarette?'

I patted my pockets. I didn't like to scrounge, but, ‘Thank you,' I said.

I lit her cigarette, and then my own, and since there seemed nothing else to do, we fell into step together, and slowly paced our way around the churchyard.

‘How long had you known him?'

‘About five years.'

‘That's a long time.'

‘I came when … It was my job to help around the house.'

‘Ah, yes, we were just there, with Mrs Snatchfold.'

She didn't respond.

‘You don't get on?' I asked.

She turned as we walked and stared at me – that frank look again. ‘We get on very well. Who did you say you are?'

‘Sefton. Stephen Sefton. I work with Mr Morley. I'm his assistant.'

‘I see. Like me.'

‘Perhaps … A little. And Mrs Snatchfold said your name was Hannah?'

‘Hannah Tuchosky, yes.'

‘It's a lovely name.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Not a Norfolk name?'

She threw her head back. ‘No.'

‘A foreign name?'

‘Yes, Mr Sefton. If you must know about me, my family came here in 1932. From Germany.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

She laughed her dry, pitiless laugh.

‘“
Pry
.” Pry. Nobody around here means to “pry”.' And then she suddenly stopped walking, turned her body fully towards me, and stood in my way. ‘Do you know Rilke?' she asked. ‘
The Duino Elegies
?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘A little … I think.'

‘“
Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus den Engel Ordnungen
?”' Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘“Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angelic orders?” Do you understand?'

‘I think so.' I wasn't sure.

‘He's committed suicide, I suppose?'

‘I'm afraid it looks like it.'

‘Do you know how?'

‘It looks like hanging. But we're waiting to find out now.'

She took both my hands in her own – her hands were warm, and so soft – and stared at me for what seemed like a long time, waiting to tell me something else. But she did not speak, and indeed refused to say anything more before Ridley arrived back at the church with Professor Thistle-Smith, a vast, lumbering man in his sixties, dark-suited, cheeks florid, panama hat in hand, with rich, exaggerated, almost fruity features that might have been painted by the great Arcimboldo himself. The professor ignored Hannah, looking past her, and round her and over her, I noticed, but introduced himself courteously enough to me, and I accompanied him with Ridley back inside the church, the professor wheezing his way up the stairs, growing ever more crimson as we approached the vestry, where he did not for a moment balk or hesitate or flinch at the sight of the hanging body, but instead strode over, wheezing all the while, staring at and sniffing around the corpse.

‘Oh dear,' he said, breathing in deeply, like a seething wind, ‘oh dear … oh dear … oh dear.'

Morley stood close by, watching him; Typhon, he referred to him as later, in private, another of his references.