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CHAPTER 27

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‘WELL, I don’t quite see where all that’s got us,’ said Miriam. ‘Apart from annoying the hell out of that awful little man.’

We were back at the White Hart.

‘Oh, I think it’s got us quite far, actually,’ said Morley.

But before he was able to explain exactly how far our unpleasant confrontation in the Lewes Museum had got us, the cook Bevis appeared at the door of the residents’ lounge, where we were about to enjoy afternoon tea. He was vast and resplendent in his chef’s whites.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, without sounding at all sorry.

‘That’s perfectly all right, sir,’ said Morley.

‘There’s a bit of a problem,’ he said to me.

‘With the tea?’

‘Have you met Bevis, Father?’ asked Miriam.

‘Bevis, as in the giant of Sussex legend?’ asked Morley.

‘We’ve already established that, Father. He was named after an uncle, isn’t that right?’

‘That’s right, miss.’

‘And the problem?’ asked Miriam.

‘You might need to come and see for yourself,’ he said, again looking at me, lowering his voice, though there was no one else in the residents’ lounge and so there was really no need. ‘It’s not the sort of thing we can talk about in here.’

‘Very well,’ I said, getting up.

‘Right-o,’ said Miriam, also getting up.

‘You don’t need to come, miss.’

‘If you get one of us, you get all of us, I’m afraid,’ said Morley, also getting up. Our encounter with Anderson in the museum had clearly put us on our guard, and forged a bond between us – a bond that was about to be tested. ‘And if there’s a problem to be solved, sir, the more the merrier.’

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‘So?’ said Morley, as the four of us stood out the back of the hotel in the afternoon sunlight.

‘Someone’s complained about a smell,’ said Bevis.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how I can—’

‘Plumbing?’ said Morley. ‘Super! If I’d known there were so many sewage problems in Sussex I’d have brought my equipment. Have you got a set of rods? I’m assuming you’re not on a septic tank here, are you?’

‘I think it’s the dog, sir,’ he said to me, nodding towards the Lagonda.

In the turmoil of what had been happening we’d all forgotten about Pablo.

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Where is he?’ asked Miriam.

‘I’m afraid the only place we could find to put him was …’

‘Oh, Sefton! No! Tell me you didn’t.’

‘You put him in the back of the Lagonda?’ said Morley.

‘I’m afraid so, Mr Morley.’

‘What were you thinking, Sefton?’

Morley was something of a car fanatic, a collector indeed, and a member of the esteemed RAC Club on Pall Mall, where he had only recently given a talk entitled ‘Everyman’s Castle: The Motor Car’. (The talk was published in the Practical Motorist, September 1937. His idea of Utopia, Morley writes, is ‘Motopia’, with everyone having the freedom to travel by car. ‘God Bless Karl Benz!’ he concludes. ‘The People’s Liberator!’) Storing a dead dog in the boot of the Lagonda was clearly not his idea of how to treat a vehicle. I could see he was having to contain himself.

‘In the back of a Morris maybe,’ said Miriam, ‘but in the Lagonda, Sefton!’

‘We didn’t know what else to do with him,’ I said.

‘We couldn’t have him in the kitchen,’ said Bevis.

‘I thought it would be cool enough to keep him outside and …’

Morley and Miriam had gone over to the Lagonda. Morley indicated for me to open the boot, which I did. Miriam gasped.

Pablo in his winding sheet made for a pathetic sight, though the smell wasn’t actually too bad. I think the smell was really from the hotel’s bins, or its plumbing.

‘Oh dear,’ said Morley. ‘What are we going to do with the poor fellow?’

‘Can we not take him home?’ said Miriam.

‘Not in this state, Miriam. We’d have to get him into ice.’

‘Which would melt,’ I said.

‘Yes, well done, Sefton,’ said Miriam. ‘Thank you for that. You’re an expert in preservation, all of a sudden? It’s you who caused this problem.’

‘I’m sure he was acting out of the best of intentions, Miriam,’ said Morley, who had already put his emotions aside and was busy working on the problem at hand. ‘We could take him to George Bristow, in St Leonards, on the way home. If we could get him into ice. Specialises in birds, Bristow.’

‘Birds?’ said Miriam.

‘Yes, rarities mostly. Not sure if he’s much of a dog man. The black lark, the masked shrike, the olivaceous warbler. That’s more his sort of line.’

‘What? He breeds them, Father?’

‘Breeds them?’

‘The birds?’

‘My goodness, no, Miriam! He stuffs them.’

‘We’re not having Pablo stuffed, Father.’

‘Why not?’

‘We have quite enough at home,’ said Miriam.

(St George’s did indeed boast the most extraordinary range of animals both stuffed and unstuffed: the diorama in the entrance hall would have happily graced the Natural History Museum.)

Morley was staring at the mummified Pablo.

‘The problem is always decay,’ he said.

‘Indeed, Mr Morley,’ I said, in my gravest undertaker tones.

‘Dogs, birds. Cultures. I mean, even a decomposing dodo’s not a lot of good to anyone, is it?’

‘I suppose it’s not, Mr Morley, no.’

‘Certainly not to the Ashmolean, eh?’

‘They had a dodo?’

‘Everyone knows they had a dodo, Sefton,’ said Miriam.

‘Up until 1755,’ said Morley, ‘when they were clearing their collection of poorly preserved specimens, and out went the old thing.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You know, we could probably do him ourselves,’ said Morley. ‘If we got him home.’

‘What, stuff him?’ said Miriam.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Father. You’re not a taxidermist.’

‘I’ve done a mouse,’ said Morley. ‘I wrote an article about it, for the Boy’s Own Weekly I think it was.’

‘I hardly think that qualifies you as a taxidermist,’ said Miriam. ‘And it certainly doesn’t qualify you to do a dog.’

‘But it’s the same principle, my dear. Just a matter of scale. Do you know Montagu Browne’s Practical Taxidermy, Sefton?’

‘I can’t say I do, Mr Morley, no.’

‘Published in numerous editions during the late nineteenth century. Excellent guide. I’m pretty sure he covers dogs. Charles Darwin hired a Guianese slave to give him taxidermy lessons, did you know?’

‘I did not, Mr Morley, no.’

‘And when his beloved raven, Grip, died, Dickens had it stuffed and mounted.’

‘Well, you’re not Dickens and you’re definitely not Darwin,’ said Miriam.

‘You must admit Pablo would make an interesting addition to the collection, though,’ said Morley.

‘We are not having him stuffed, Father. And that’s final.’

‘We used to have everything done at Rowland Ward’s. Do you remember my taking you there when you were a child, Miriam? Do you know them, Sefton, Rowland Ward’s?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘One of the greats of Victorian taxidermy, Rowland Ward. Premises on Piccadilly. Specialises in big game—’

‘Vile,’ said Miriam.

‘Not to my taste, certainly,’ said Morley. ‘They don’t so much stuff animals as upholster them. Also, they have a terrible habit of turning things into ornaments—’

‘Vile, vile. Utterly vile,’ said Miriam.

‘And items of household furniture: rhino-foot doorstops, zebra-legged tables, paperweight hooves and what have you.’

‘Sounds … charming,’ I said.

‘Revolting and repulsive,’ said Miriam.

‘Any more revolting and repulsive than the plight of the poor chicken in the pot?’ said Morley.

‘I am not going to dignify your question with an answer, Father,’ said Miriam. ‘If you cannot see the difference between an animal killed for sustenance and an animal killed to become a table lamp, then really …’

‘What about an animal killed for sustenance and to become a table lamp?’

‘I refer you to my previous non-answer, Father. So. Anyway?’

‘Yes, Mr Bristow produced a catalogue recently that included the white-winged snowfinch – difficult to believe it was found in Sussex. And the grey-tailed tattler.’

‘The grey-haired warbler,’ said Miriam.

‘Anyway,’ said Morley, ‘we could visit Mr Bristow on our way home and try to persuade him to do a dog. But we’d need to get this poor fellow into ice.’

Bevis was still awkwardly hanging around, clearly regretting ever having got involved with me, Morley, Miriam and the dog, but keen to help us resolve the problem.

‘There’s an iceman in town, but he won’t be delivering till morning.’

‘No,’ said Morley.

‘But there’s always Potter’s Museum, in Bramber, sir,’ he said.

‘Of course!’ said Morley, with a sudden burst of glee. ‘Good thinking, man! Potter’s Museum!’

‘The what?’ said Miriam.

‘How far’s Bramber from here?’ Morley asked Bevis.

‘It’d be twenty miles, sir.’

‘The Whatter Museum?’ said Miriam.

‘Closer than St Leonards?’

‘Definitely closer, sir,’ said Bevis.

‘That’s it then,’ said Morley. ‘Bit of a run out there, but I’m sure they’ll be able to help us. And we get to include Potter’s Museum in The County Guides. Two birds with one stone, as it were, uno in saltu lepide apros capiam duos.’

‘What is Potter’s Museum? Father?’ asked Miriam.

‘Wait and see,’ said Morley.