Death in Devon. Ian Sansom

I fear. The Jains, man. Jains. There’s a beautiful white granite statue of Bahubali, on a hill near Sravanabelagola I think it is – visited it once. Long time ago. Astonishing piece of work. Sixty foot tall, and they have this quite extraordinary ceremony where they anoint it with milk and saffron and what have you. Marvellous. Quite extraordinary. Anyway, as I was saying, prana, Sefton – the life force. Powerful thing. Very popular notion in all Asiatic religions: qi among the Chinese, of course. Odic forces I think are probably the closest we come in the West. Personally, I am trying to develop my apana, the long down breath, which reaches down all the way to the root chakra.’

      Frankly, I found it a little early to be discussing Jainism, qi and chakras, but fortunately, in characteristic style, Morley soon switched subject matter again as we entered his study through the French windows, and several of his many dogs came bounding towards us. One of his particular favourites – an Irish terrier named Fionn mac Cumhaill (‘pronounced MacCool, Sefton, please, in the Celtic fashion’) – never seemed to warm to me and stood protectively now at Morley’s side, with the clear intention first of growling at me, and then very possibly barking, chasing, biting and savaging.

      ‘Irish dogs,’ said Morley. ‘Like Irish men. Or women, for that matter. Not to be trifled with. Cave canem, Sefton – as they said in old Pompeii.’ He stroked the dog absentmindedly. ‘You really do need to learn how to handle animals, Sefton. They can sense fear, you see. Like children. One should simply fondle them – thus – when they’re near.’ He fondled the dog, thus. ‘But without appearing to pay them much attention.’ He then duly paid the dog no attention. ‘Very much like the Irish … So. Anyway,’ he said, striding around in his underwear, as if it were the most natural way to conduct a meeting. ‘There’s Norfolk.’ He pointed to a pile of typed papers, stacked on the floor next to boxes of index cards: the work of the past week. What was impressive was not only his uncanny ability to produce copy but also his capacity for processing information of all kinds; he had a method of both overseeing and arranging material that was entirely his own, or certainly that I had never encountered before and that required the constant categorising, filing and sub-categorising and refiling of his papers and notecards. He often worked through the night, shuffling papers.

       Fionn mac Cumhaill (pronounced in the Celtic fashion)

      He pointed to another teetering pile of papers on a desk.

      ‘And there’s some correspondence we should probably sort before setting off, Sefton. There’s been quite a lot of talk about what happened in Norfolk, as you know. I’d like to avoid any such troubles on our next trip.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Anyway, I cleared a couple of dozen letters before going to bed last night, but I’d like to get them all done before we leave.’

      ‘I see. It seems like rather a lot,’ I ventured. I imagined that such a pile of correspondence might take several days to work through.

      ‘And what is our motto here, Sefton?’

      ‘No slacking.’

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘No shilly-shallying.’

      ‘Precisely.’

      ‘And no funking.’

      At that moment Miriam appeared at the study door. She was dressed and made up, as usual, in a fashion that suggested that she was about to arrive fashionably late at a cocktail party, probably somewhere in Kensington, thronged with wealthy and elegant suitors.

       The County Guides: Norfolk, in preparation

      ‘Hard at it already then, boys?’

      ‘Ah, Miriam,’ said Morley. ‘You’re uncharacteristically bright and early.’

      ‘Good morning, Father. Yes. The storm kept me awake in the night. I was terribly disturbed. And what about you, Sefton? Another long and lonely night?’

      ‘I slept as well as could be expected, Miss Morley.’

      ‘Glad to hear it.’

      ‘We’ll be leaving at seven, children,’ said Morley. ‘Quick breakfast, and on the road. I want to be in Devon by nightfall.’

      ‘Devon?’ I said.

      ‘And when is your speech, Father?’

      ‘Tomorrow. Founder’s Day.’

      ‘You’re giving a speech?’ I said. ‘In Devon.’

      ‘Yes, I thought we’d kill two birds with one stone. I’ve been asked to give the Founder’s Day address down at All Souls, Sefton. They’ve just moved into new school buildings down there somewhere. Where is it, Miriam?’

      ‘Rousdon, Father.’

      ‘Rousdon, yes, that’s it, and—’

      ‘Or Rouse them, Sefton,’ said Miriam coquettishly.

      ‘So the plan is to base ourselves there and tackle Devon. Book number two. How does that sound, Sefton?’

      ‘Mad,’ said Miriam. ‘Utterly, utterly mad. As usual.’

      ‘Super,’ I said.

      ‘Oh, please,’ said Miriam. ‘Soo-per. If you’d wanted someone to soft-soap you, Father, you could have employed a masseur.’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow towards me.

      ‘Thank you, Miriam,’ said Morley. ‘Let’s fight nicely, shall we?’

      ‘Sorry, gents. Must pack,’ said Miriam, leaving as abruptly as she’d arrived, glimmering as she went.

      ‘Untameable,’ said Morley, shaking his head. ‘Wild, Sefton. Utterly wild. Like Devon.’

       The Lagonda

       CHAPTER 3

       GATEWAY TO THE RIVIERA

      AFTER A BRIEF but exhausting breakfast – Morley expatiating on the history of sausages, the music of Wagner, the music of birdsong, the symbolic meaning of the human hand, and the decline of smithying (‘It’s the bicycles I blame, Sefton, not the cars, and of course people getting rid of the pony and trap’) – Miriam and I loaded the Lagonda and prepared to set off. The weather was sullen, and so was Miriam. After everything had been loaded – massive stationery supplies, mostly – I assisted her in lashing a couple of long planks to the side of the car.

      ‘Careful with the paintwork, Sefton, or you’ll have to touch it up. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

      ‘No, Miss Morley,’ I agreed.

      ‘Ah,’ said Morley, appearing fortuitously with his trusty Irish terrier. He tapped the long wooden boards with a great deal of proprietorial pleasure. ‘They arrived then?’

      ‘Apparently,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Beautiful, aren’t they, Sefton?’

      ‘Yes,’ I agreed. My attention was elsewhere: I was attempting to fondle the dog, and simultaneously