The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) (33 page)

Morley seemed to agree that he did not.

‘Which makes your gesture all the more generous.'

‘Smoking is … a habit I have never acquired,' said Morley, rather disingenuously, I felt, since he was one of the country's leading anti-tobacco campaigners.

‘It's a habit that I'm afraid has completely defeated me,' said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘But they do say it's good for the figure.' She ran her hands lightly over her dress, pausing slightly and turning towards Morley. It was, as Morley himself might have observed – purely from a psychological and anthropological point of view, of course – a signal. From a distance – and it is of course difficult to judge these things from a distance, and it may be that I am interpreting events long ago with the unreliable aid of imagination, but nonetheless – these seemed like the first tentative steps in a complex and dangerous dance.

I feared for a moment for Morley's rectitude and resolved to follow them if they turned and ventured any further away from the house and into the garden. But Mrs Thistle-Smith had clearly not entirely forgotten her duties as hostess, and they continued to retrace their steps towards the house. As they did so they paused for a moment at a clump of flowers – dictamnus, Morley later told me. And as they stood close together, studying the plant, Morley produced his matches, struck one, held it above the seedheads, which stood out in the evening light like little unhatched eggs, and there was a tiny flash of flames. Oils igniting, Morley later explained. Mrs Thistle-Smith was delighted by this display, and leaned in close to Morley in the flare, holding his arm for a moment. And this time Morley did not flinch in response. They stayed still for a moment.

As they approached the house I could hear Morley quoting Yeats.

‘“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, / And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; / Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, / And live alone in the bee-loud glade.”'

This apparently thrilled Mrs Thistle-Smith even further, who seemed as enchanted by Morley as he clearly was by her. They both spotted me as they drew close. I ground out my cigarette.

‘Mr Sefton! We were just talking gardening,' she said. ‘It's so lovely to have a man around who appreciates a garden.'

‘I'm sure,' I said.

‘I used to be able to talk to the reverend, of course,' said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘Though he was rather keen on heather.'

‘Best for grouse, I always think, heather,' said Morley.

‘Oh, my point entirely, Mr Morley!' She touched his arm gently again with the back of her hand. ‘And so dull! I have a taste for the exotics myself. I have a banana plant down in the walled garden which is doing terribly well. Perhaps you'd like to come and see it sometime?'

‘Banana plant! I'd like that very much, Mrs Thistle-Smith,' said Morley. ‘Do you specialise in the sub-tropicals?'

‘I wish!' she said. ‘I think my garden might only ever be remembered for its borders. We are so blessed with our borders here, fifty yards apiece.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. Not quite Gertrude Jekyll, but not far off. My mother planted them. We used to play among them when we were children, all of us. Running up and down. Racing, my sisters and my brother. Entirely without a care … I adore Gertrude Jekyll. Do you know her, Mr Morley?'

‘I know of her work, Mrs Thistle-Smith.'

‘Such wonderful ideas!'

‘Indeed.'

‘You know Gertrude Jeykll, young man?' Mrs Thistle-Smith addressed herself to me, pretending at least that she was interested in my opinion.

‘I can't say I do—'

She then turned her attentions straight back to Morley. ‘But tell me, Mr Morley, what is your philosophy of gardening?'

‘I would not presume to possess such a thing, madam.'

‘But you must! I'm sure you do! You are, after all, renowned for your ideas, Mr Morley.'

‘In all honesty, Mrs Thistle-Smith,' said Morley, taking a small sigh, and gazing round at the beautiful garden before him, ‘I think all a garden really needs are a few magnolias in spring, some red-hot pokers in the summer, and an apple tree to be picked in the autumn. What matters is not so much the garden, but the touch, the care and the vision of the gardener.'

‘Ah yes, Mr Morley! How true.' Then she turned and glanced – sadly, I thought – into the garden room, and remembered her responsibilities. ‘Now, you really must come and meet my husband.'

‘We have met, madam.'

‘Yes, of course … I should warn you, he can be very … forthright in his opinions. He's from Grantham, you see.'

‘And nothing good ever came from Grantham?'

‘Some things, Mr Morley, I'm sure. But my husband has a healthy collection of
bêtes noires
. And I'm afraid newspaper journalists are one of them.'

‘I would be honoured either to confirm or confound his prejudices, madam.'

‘I'm sure you will,' she said. ‘And then I'll introduce you to the Talbots. Tom is an expert on the flora of the Middle East …'

By the doors leading into the garden the professor, in a black velveteen coat, was holding court like a great invalid king, seated on what appeared at first to be a gleaming throne, but which was, in fact, and quite simply, the only chair in the room – ‘A
fauteuil
,' Morley later remarked, ‘French, possibly, eighteenth century, far too showy' – lit from behind by the evening sun. He had his creamy white panama hat in his lap, like a Persian cat fed too many Yarmouth bloaters for breakfast, and a decanter of sherry on a viciously pie-crust-edged occasional table at his elbow, from which he repeatedly refreshed his glass. Mrs Thistle-Smith led Morley towards him, with me silently in their wake. As the professor turned and saw them approaching I noted the threatening look in his eyes – a very threatening look indeed. The look of a tyrant at a messenger bringing bad news. This was where our evening decidedly took a turn for the worse.

‘Darling,' said Mrs Thistle-Smith, gently touching her husband's arm, ‘this is Mr Morley, he's staying at the Blakeney Hotel.'

‘An honour to meet you again, sir,' said Morley. ‘It's a lovely home you have here.'

‘An Englishman's home,' replied Mr Thistle-Smith, in his slow, damp voice, that seemed to leak with rancour as his wife's burned with light.

‘And an Englishwoman's,' said Morley, rather gallantly, I thought, nodding towards Mrs Thistle-Smith, who smiled in friendly acknowledgement.

‘Swanton Morley,' said Professor Thistle-Smith. ‘The man who's putting our humble little village on the map.'

‘I can hardly lay claim to that distinction, sir.'

‘Oh, I think you can, sir. I think you can.
Daily Herald
. Tell me, Morley, do you regard journalism as a trade, or as a profession?'

‘I would hardly think it deserved the honour of being regarded as a profession, Mr Thistle-Smith.'

‘So, a trade, then.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘I see. And do you not think we have a tradesman's entrance at this house, sir? Or do you suppose that we welcome our butchers and delivery boys here at all our parties?'

‘Darling!' said Mrs Thistle-Smith. ‘Mr Morley is our guest. We invited him, remember?'

‘You invited him,' said Mr Thistle-Smith.

‘I invited everyone!' Mrs Thistle-Smith laughed, trying to make the best of what was already far beyond an awkward situation and was fast becoming a crisis. The little sherry-quaffing crowd around Morley and the professor was growing.

‘Anyway,' said Mr Thistle-Smith, his voice dropping even lower, from bass to basso profundo, ‘seeing as you're here, Morley, under whatever auspices, can I perhaps ask about your politics?'

‘You may, of course, sir, although I might reserve the right to remain silent.'

‘Darling, let's not talk about politics,' Mrs Thistle-Smith pleaded with her husband. She was playing nervously with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘We agreed.'

Mr Thistle-Smith ignored her.

‘You're a Labour man, I take it?' he continued.

‘What made you think that, Mr Thistle-Smith?'

‘Cut of your jib, Morley.'

‘A phrase that derives,' said Morley, pleasantly, blithely, in characteristic explanatory mode, ‘if I'm not mistaken, from the triangular sail on a—'

‘I know what a bloody jib is, man! I'm not one of your readers in the
Daily Muck
.'

‘Darling!' said Mrs Thistle-Smith, as now even more guests began to gather round the two men in anticipation of what was already becoming a bloody battle. Morley seemed oblivious.

‘Well, I'll grant you then, I am a Labour man,' said Morley.

‘Thought so.' Mr Thistle-Smith sniffed and wrinkled his nose, as if suddenly detecting the unmistakable stench of a working man. ‘We don't get many Labour men round here, Morley.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘I'm not.' Mr Thistle-Smith drew great stentorian breaths, as though emerging from deep water. ‘And if you don't mind my saying, your first Labour government was a disaster. Except that taxis were allowed in Hyde Park.' A couple of men in the crowd laughed, though why I wasn't sure. ‘Which was of some benefit to those of us with … business in London.' He looked cruelly towards Mrs Thistle-Smith, whose brightness and stature seemed to be diminishing by the second.

‘I see,' said Morley. ‘And perhaps I can ask you about your politics, Mr Thistle-Smith? Would you mind?'

‘Why would I mind, sir? It's a free country. At least at the moment it is. I am a Tory, born and bred, since you ask, and one of the silent majority proud still to believe in God, King and country.'

‘Though I think recent events perhaps suggest that we shouldn't put our faith entirely in the British monarchy,' said Morley teasingly. It was his way. I put my hands over my eyes.

Professor Thistle-Smith was, predictably, appalled.

‘Steady on, Morley,' called a man in the crowd.

‘You'll want to mind your tongue, I think,' cautioned Professor Thistle-Smith. I was beginning to fear for Morley's safety.

‘But how can I know what I say before I see what I say?' said Morley.

I closed my eyes. I was getting a headache. Mr Thistle-Smith looked perplexed.

‘The White Rabbit,
Alice in Wonderland
,' said Mrs Thistle-Smith.

‘Correct,' said Morley.

‘I'm glad my wife can understand your nonsense,' said Mr Thistle-Smith. ‘Because it makes no sense to me, man.' He then launched into a passionate declaration of loyalty to the crown, ending with the words, ‘This country has relied for a thousand years on a strong connection between the people, their God, and their King.'

‘And queens,' said Morley.

‘Obviously,' said Professor Thistle-Smith.

‘The British monarch being crowned on Jacob's Pillow. The Lion of Judah figuring on the Royal Arms. Potent symbols,' agreed Morley.

‘Indeed. Indicating that ours is a Christian nation.'

‘I quite agree, sir.'

‘Good, and you would agree with me also then that the recent influx of non-believers can't be good for the future of a nation like our own, and is in fact dragging us towards perdition itself.'

‘You're referring to the Jews, Mr Thistle-Smith?'

‘I am referring, Mr Morley, to any person of any faith who enters this country without sharing or intending to share our common beliefs and habits.'

‘And how do you know what common beliefs and habits they share or don't share with us?'

‘I know little and care less about the beliefs of other nations, Morley, and have little interest in finding out. But what I do know is that our whole country is being overrun by Freemasons and Jews and perverts and—'

‘I hardly think—'

‘I've not finished speaking, man. D'you not learn manners where you're from?'

‘Clearly not the same manners as you were schooled in, Professor. I do apologise.'

Mrs Thistle-Smith leaned forward and whispered in her husband's ear. As she did so, he shook his head, as if a dog attempting to dislodge a tick.

‘We have at least twice as many Jews here as we can possibly absorb, both of the oriental and the aristocratic type and as far as I'm concerned they are both equally unwelcome. England gave the world its three great religions—'

‘Really?' said Morley. ‘Three? Christianity, Islam and Judaism?'

‘The Church of England. Quakerism. And the Salvation Army. Which should be enough for everyone, in my opinion. And if they're not, and we don't do more to prevent this influx of outsiders and unbelievers and to protect our institutions, then I believe we are heading for a social revolution, Mr Morley, with your sort at the vanguard.'

This stung Morley, as it was intended to do.