IT WAS TOO LATE, however – and thank goodness – to proceed any further with our discreet enquiries that evening, since we were due to join Morley’s old friend, Edward Mountjoy, for supper. This was both a relief and a chore; meeting Morley’s old chums was one of the many dubious pleasures of my time working with him. Over the years we visited with, were visited by – and for my part was often absolutely bored stiff listening to – the great and the good of English society, and often of the Scots, the Welsh and the Irish also. Among the writers with whom we enjoyed sherry, seed cake, tea, coffee, bridge, brandy snaps and cigarettes, were John Galsworthy, Rebecca West, May Sinclair, Charles Scott Moncrieff, Somerset Maugham, Hugh Walpole, H.G. Wells, Compton Mackenzie, E.F. Benson, Rose Macaulay and Arnold Bennett. (And what was truly surprising was how closely these allegedly freethinking souls all seemed to conform quite happily and unselfconsciously to national stereotypes: the English were all terribly class-bound; the Irish predictably garrulous, and often drunk; the Scots dour and massively argumentative; and the Welsh of course anti-everything but wonderful singers. Maybe it was just because they were writers.)
Among Morley’s other friends and acquaintances were Winston Churchill, Anna Pavlova, Jacob Epstein, Mistinguett, the Barrymores and the Aga Khan. Mr Pablo Picasso, I can report, is a demon at croquet, and Jessie Matthews – whom Morley absolutely adored, and with whom he liked to duet on her theme song, ‘Over My Shoulder’ – was something of a handful. But by far the most numerous among Morley’s many friends were the unsung and the unknown of Olde Englande: the country doctors and solicitors, the headmasters and headmistresses, the farmers and stout yeomen who then made up the bulk and the backbone of English society, a backbone, for better or worse, that has long since bent and doubled. Edward Mountjoy was just one such doughty English soul.
Mountjoy was one of Morley’s old croquet partners; ‘the best one-legged croquet player in the country’, according to Morley, a title for which there were in fact a surprising number of contenders, apparently, many old soldiers having lost limbs in the war and taken up croquet as the next best thing to actual combat. Morley and Mountjoy had forged their friendship at a tournament in Bristol, so the story went, when Morley had come to Mountjoy’s rescue when the poor fellow had lost an essential screw in his metal leg and Morley had provided both a spare and a spanner. Mountjoy’s inevitable and unfortunate nickname for Morley was, therefore, I learned, the Indispensable Spanner: Morley in return referred to Mountjoy as Loose Screw Mountjoy. Loose Screw was also a ceremonial deputy lieutenant, whatever that was, and a retired officer in the Essex Regiment. When Mountjoy had discovered that we’d be spending the weekend in Colchester, sans Lagonda, he had immediately telegrammed Morley and invited us to visit. When Miriam had earlier declined the invitation to dine she had pointed out that she had spent quite enough time in the company of Loose Screw at croquet tournaments in her childhood, so it was Morley and I who were now sharing the old soldier’s Saturday night scratch supper of cold poached fish and potatoes.
Mountjoy was a widower who lived with a number of other retired army officers in a large and pleasant house on a leafy avenue in Colchester. Large, pleasant and rather damp, it has to be said: there was a compensating fire set in the wood-panelled dining room of such intensity that I thought it might be enough to burn the whole place down. Damaged old soldiers – damaged old souls – feel the cold. I cooled off from the heat with several gins before dinner – Morley, of course, sticking to water – and was now enjoying the free-flowing wine that was being generously poured at the dinner table by the officers’ well-practised housemaid, a woman of ruddy complexion, remarkable embonpoint and indeterminate age named Mrs Wildy.
‘Sure we can’t tempt you with a touch of the old plink-plonk?’ Mountjoy asked Morley.
‘No, thank you,’ said Morley.
‘Abstainer?’ asked one of the other officers, named Goodbody, seated at my left, whose rosy cheeks and red nose suggested that he most certainly was not.
‘I am,’ said Morley.
Damaged old soldiers – their dog
‘Ne’ mind,’ said Goodbody, gleefully spearing a potato with his one good arm. What had happened to his other arm I did not ask. ‘Ne’ mind.’
‘Good man,’ said another, Bolger, who wore a monocle on one eye and a black patch on the other and who insisted on smoking a pipe all through dinner, though he was continually wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. The room really was very warm.
‘Good man,’ we all agreed, raising our glasses in a toast.
‘To the Indispensable Spanner!’ proclaimed Mountjoy.
‘The Indispensable Spanner!’ came the chorus.
‘Right parry,’ said ruddy-faced Goodbody.
‘Left parry,’ said the Cyclops Bolger.
‘Forward lunge!’ declared them all, draining their glasses.
It was turning into a long evening. I busied myself gazing at the peculiar contents of the room’s vast leaded-glass display cabinet: odd bits and pieces of porcelain, regimental photographs, a collection of gulls’ eggs, piles of books by the likes of E. Phillips Oppenheim and William Le Queux, a few Loeb Classical editions, and some thing or other floating in a jar. I wondered what it might be – and what it might be worth. My debt to Delaney was once again playing on my mind.
‘Labrador testicles,’ said Goodbody, munching enthusiastically on a large soft-boiled potato. ‘Harris. House dog. Greatly missed.’
During the course of the meal Morley had been offering the assembled company his various considered thoughts about Colchester, and they in turn had been offering their own. I had been instructed by Morley to take notes on this great meeting of minds, which I did, occasionally, on a napkin, my notebook once again having eluded my grasp. Colchester, all the retired soldiers seemed to agree, perhaps not surprisingly, was the perfect place for soldiers to retire, though they admitted the place did have its problems.
‘The thing you have to realise about Colchester, Morley,’ said Mountjoy, ‘is that it’s a town with a bishop but no cathedral.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Morley. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘But in fact the very opposite is the case, if you catch my drift?’
Morley may have caught Mountjoy’s drift, but I was struggling. The gin was taking effect.
‘The opposite of a bishop with no cathedral is a … cathedral with no bishop?’ I said.
‘Exactly. No one’s in charge is the problem. Hence the reputation for … what might one call it? The atmosphere of—’
‘Lawlessness?’ I said, thinking back to Joe Cowley threatening me outside the Town Hall, the scuffle down at the oyster plant in West Mersea, and the ever looming threat of violence and disorder.
‘No, no, lawlessness isn’t right, I don’t think. I don’t think we’re lawless, are we, gentlemen?’
The officers chuckled in a good-natured fashion, though I have to say that all of them looked as though they might become utterly lawless without a moment’s hesitation.
‘No, no, not lawless at all,’ said Mountjoy. ‘On the contrary. It’s a very lawful sort of a town. The problem is the lack of leadership. A strong leader is what’s required.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed all the officers.
‘Bring back Wellington!’ said one of them, whose name was either Gerald Edwards or Edward Gerald – my napkin notes are rather jumbled.
‘John Wayne,’ said Bolger.
‘John Wayne!’ said Goodbody, and then more quietly, ‘He loves John Wayne.’
‘Churchill’ll do,’ said Gerald Edwards, or Edward Gerald. ‘Churchill’ll do.’ Churchill’ll do what he did not make clear. (Do far too much, according to Morley, who was a friend but not a fan: he thought Churchill had made an utter fool of himself over the abdication and over India.)
‘I think what you have to understand,’ said another, a genial, plump fellow who’d introduced himself only as Charlie, who sported a beret on his rosy round bald head, who made little baby pig-grunts as he ate, and who had the terrible habit of breaking wind fore and aft quite unexpectedly without apology during the course of conversation, ‘is that we’re – [parp] – basically a garrison town with no one to fight.’
‘Which is a good thing, surely?’ said Morley.
‘Of course,’ said Charlie. ‘Absolutely. Except that it means that things can sometimes get, what is it they say now – [parp] – bottled up?’ No chance of anything of his being bottled up.
‘Exactly,’ said Mountjoy. ‘And then before you know it they’re at boiling point, and … Well. Men will be men, won’t they, eh?’
There then followed a discussion of examples of men being men which was not for the faint-hearted – soldier talk, which took me back to Spain – and I think I can safely say that both Morley and I were relieved when the conversation turned to the death of Arthur Marden.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ asked Mountjoy.
‘The Times?’ said Morley.
‘Colchester Gazette,’ said Mountjoy.
‘Journal of record,’ said Charlie.
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Morley. ‘No, I haven’t seen it.’
‘The chap Starling’s been released.’
There were murmurations around the table at this news.
‘But some other chaps have been arrested – supplying bad oysters, apparently. Colne Oyster Fishery men?’
‘Absolute nonsense,’ said Morley. ‘The whole thing. They’ll be released tomorrow. I ate those oysters myself, there was absolutely nothing wrong with them.’
‘I thought a lot of people got sick at the feast?’
‘Mass hysteria, gentlemen,’ said Morley. ‘Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Ah,’ said Mountjoy. ‘Yes. Seen it in war.’
‘Mass hysteria?’ said Morley.
‘Killing frenzy,’ said Mountjoy. ‘Very similar. Dangerous. Blood on your hands is one thing. Blood welling in your boots is quite another.’
‘And you know there are rumours that Marden’s daughter has left the town?’ added Charlie.
‘Really?’ said Mountjoy.
‘Yes. Mrs Wildy was saying. Isn’t that right, Mrs Wildy?’
‘She’s perfectly entitled to leave the town, is she not?’ asked Morley.
‘Have we got a copy of the paper?’ Mountjoy asked Mrs Wildy, who was once more doing the rounds with the wine.
‘It’s through in the drawing room,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go and fetch it for you, shall I, sir?’
‘Please, Mrs Wildy.’
I squinted at the large tapestry hanging over the credenza at the end of the room. It depicted some Roman ruins, set in an unlikely undulating wooded landscape, surrounded by a border of leaves and flowers. Exceedingly ugly, but excellent condition, well preserved, fine stitching.
‘After Aubusson,’ said Goodbody.
‘Worth a bit?’ I said.
‘No idea,’ he said.
‘Hundreds?’
‘No idea.’
‘One hundred?’
‘Possibly.’
Mrs Wildy returned with the Colchester Gazette.
‘Here we are.’
Mountjoy read the front page. The newspaper reported that Len Starling had indeed been released by the police after questioning.
‘Why on earth did they take him in for questioning in the first place, I wonder?’ said Charlie.
‘I assume because he was the person who served the oysters to the mayor shortly before he died,’ said Morley.
‘Yes. Though we all know that the Town Sergeant and the mayor had had their “differences”, shall we say,’ said Mountjoy.
‘Differences?’ said Morley. ‘Starling and Marden? What sort of differences?’
‘I’d rather not say,’ said Mountjoy.
‘But between friends?’ said Morley.
‘I’d really rather not say,’ repeated Mountjoy.
‘Come come,’ said Morley. ‘I’m only wondering because—’
‘Do you know Starling?’ I quietly asked Goodbody.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I believe he’s a cottager.’
‘A whattager?’
‘A cottager. You know, lives out in a cottage, on the edge of town. And Marden was a staunch Methodist, so I think maybe—’
‘Change of subject,’ said Mountjoy.
‘But—’ began Morley.
‘I said change of subject,’ repeated Mountjoy, fixing everyone at the table with an expression of piercing force.
The room went silent. The cordial atmosphere was suddenly gone: all you could hear was the ticking clock, the heavy laying down of silver cutlery, and the rushing of the fire. Even Morley could tell that this was not an avenue of conversation that was going to be worth pursuing.
‘And what about Marden’s daughter?’ he asked Mrs Wildy, wisely changing the subject. ‘She’s gone away, you say?’
‘Florence? That’s what I heard, sir, yes.’
‘Grief-stricken,’ said Charlie. ‘No doubt. To lose one’s father, in such appalling public circumstances.’
‘Or,’ said Morley.
‘Or what?’
‘Or perhaps she is in some way implicated in the death of her father and so she’s fled?’ The room fell silent once again. Having retreated down one path it seemed that Morley had unwittingly blundered down another equally dangerous avenue.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Morley!’ said Mountjoy, with a tone as sharp and fixed as a bayonet. ‘I know you’ve started getting involved in these sorts of things recently – I read about that business in Devon—’
‘Yes, pretty rum stuff, wasn’t it?’ said Charlie. ‘And Norfolk! That was rather grisly also.’
‘But I hardly think it’s on to start throwing around accusations about the mayor’s daughter.’
‘Absolutely not,’ everyone agreed, in unison.
‘I’m not throwing around accusations, my dear Mountjoy,’ said Morley. ‘I’m merely asking. Do you know her, Marden’s daughter?’
‘Florence?’ said Mountjoy, his face flushed. ‘Well, we’ve met of course, but I couldn’t say I know her. I think all of us here have met her at some time. It’s a small town, Morley.’
‘I’ve met her a few times,’ said Charlie. ‘Perfectly pleasant young lady. Nothing at all to suggest that she’d be involved in the death of her father.’
‘Anyway, I thought it was a bad oyster that carried him off?’ said my ruddy-faced companion.
‘I rather doubt that,’ said Morley.
‘What other possible explanation is there?’
‘There are always other possible explanations,’ said Morley. ‘I’m sure the autopsy will give us some clues.’
‘I’m sure it will. So we should probably wait and see then, shouldn’t we?’ said Mountjoy. ‘Black is black and white is white. And anything else is speculation.’
‘Speaking of speculation,’ said Morley, rather recklessly, it seemed to me. ‘There was a meeting at the Town Hall today, and a chap named Dunbar made all sorts of accusations.’
‘Old Miseryguts?’ said Charlie.
‘Don’t take any notice of Dunbar,’ said Mountjoy. ‘The man’s a bloody spoon – pardon my French, Mrs Wildy. Sworn enemy of all that’s good in this town. He’d say anything to traduce Marden’s memory.’
We agreed to disagree about what had led to the death of Arthur Marden and the plight of Marden’s daughter, and retired back to the drawing room. Charlie sat at the out-of-tune piano and parped and jangled his way through a couple of Noël Cowards, a few regimental songs, something from Ruddigore and a memorable rendition of ‘Up Girls and At ’Em’, Goodbody sat smoothing a walking stick with some sandpaper, and Bolger read The Times, with a magnifying glass. Morley and I eventually made our excuses around 11 p.m. and left. Mountjoy drew me aside as we were leaving.
‘Does he ever talk about … you know?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ I said.
‘His son?’ asked Mountjoy.
‘His son?’ I said.
‘You do know he had a son?’
‘I …’ I had heard mention of a son, but it was one of those few subjects – his dead wife was another – that Morley was not willing to discuss.
‘Hmm,’ said Mountjoy, patting me on the back. ‘Probably best.’
Morley was keen to discuss the evening as we walked back to the George Hotel but I had no interest in spending any more of my evening in discussion with Morley about the evening, which would only make what was already a long evening all the longer. I reminded him that he doubtless had articles to write – which he did, obviously, something on autumn foliage for Country Life and something else on the relationship between modern literature and the art of the crossword puzzle for Time and Tide, and also his usual book-of-the-day to read before sleep, something called The Road to Oxiana, which he was greatly looking forward to, apparently – and I suggested he went on ahead and got started while I enjoyed an evening stroll to contemplate the eternal verities before bed.
Of course at that time I was incapable of contemplating any sort of verities except through the bottom of a glass and had no more intention of taking an evening stroll than I had of taking responsibility for myself and for my actions. The pub, whatever it was called, was filled with rowdy soldiers and thick with smoke. It stank of alcohol and sweat. There was no Amy Johnson to talk to. But there was the promise of entertainment: just as I arrived and ordered a drink, in the corner of the bar, set apart with a few chairs and a couple of standard lamps, a woman in a black evening gown in rather full-blown make-up with a huge feather boa began slowly removing first the boa, and then her gloves, and her gown, until I realised too late, to my surprise, that she was a he. I’d seen quite enough of that sort of thing in Soho over the years. I drank up quickly and left.
By chance, as I arrived back at the hotel, Miriam was also arriving back.
‘Enjoy your night in?’ I asked.
‘Yes, thank you, Sefton.’
‘Just popped out for a breath of fresh air?’
‘That’s correct. You too?’
She took one of my cigarettes, which I had not offered.
‘How are the discreet enquiries going then?’ she asked.
‘Your father’s still convinced that Marden’s death was foul play.’
‘I blame the influence of bad novels and films,’ said Miriam.
‘And where did you go tonight?’ I asked, lighting her cigarette and my own.
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ she said. ‘The Regal, since you ask.’
‘Cinema?’
‘Of course the cinema, Sefton. The Regal? What else would it be?’
‘By yourself?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Mountain Justice.’
‘Never heard of it. Any good?’
‘Usual sort of thing. Tyrannical father, daughter attempts to break free, ends up murdering him, Gothic depiction of a remote and backward community, contrasted with the fabulous glamour of the city. Sound familiar?’
‘Sounds terribly formulaic. I’m not sure I’ll be rushing to see it.’
‘Josephine Hutchinson has excellent eyebrows.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘But she’s no Bette Davis.’
‘Well, who is?’
‘And George Brent’s no Bogart.’
Miriam gazed out dreamily at the silent street before us. She was half lit by one of Colchester’s new electric street lights. ‘Who would you have play you in a film of your life, Sefton?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
‘Sheila Terry might be good – for me, I mean. Or Dorothy Lamour? Don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’ She struck what I took to be a Dorothy Lamour pose.
‘Definitely.’
‘And you could be Claude Rains.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’
‘Or Peter Lorre?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I might write about it in my column. My imagined life on stage and screen. I imagine a lot of women share such fantasies.’
‘I’m sure they do,’ I said. ‘And how is the column?’
‘It’s coming along.’ She finished her cigarette, ground it out, and looked at me. I’d seen the look before. It meant ‘Don’t ask me any more questions.’ I ignored it.
‘Can I ask, do you ever feel like an oyster, Miriam?’ I said, recalling my evening of discussing the Meaning of Life, Death and Love with Amy Johnson.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s just something that Amy said.’
‘Amy?’
‘Miss Johnson, the aviatrix. She said that women were like oysters and that sometimes it took something to prise them open, and then—’
‘Do you know, Sefton, I have never heard anything quite so revolting and preposterous in my life,’ said Miriam. ‘I’m surprised a woman like Miss Johnson was interested in sharing such … insights with you. Goodnight.’ And she swished before me into the hotel, head held high.