Becontree, Father?’
‘Well, I thought we’d make a sort of clockwise journey, up from Becontree, to Romford, Brentwood, Chipping Ongar, Dunmow – Maid Marian laid to rest at Dunmow Priory, I believe. Some nice shots of Dunmow, Sefton. You know the story of the Dunmow Flitch of course?’
I must admit I had momentarily forgotten the story of the Dunmow Flitch.
‘A flitch of ham awarded to a married couple who can live without quarrelling for a year and a day.’
‘Ha!’ cried Miriam.
‘And then across to Colchester and back round via Manningtree – the Witchfinder General was from Manningtree, I believe. Full of witches, Essex.’
Miriam raised a finger and pointed at me. ‘Don’t you dare say a word, Sefton.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protested.
‘Thank you, children. And then on to Clacton, Southend, etcetera, etcetera, further details to be confirmed. If we have time I’d very much like to call in on Margery and Dorothy, if Dorothy’s at home in Witham. She’s a bit of a gadabout. Margery’s bound to be there at Tolleshunt D’Arcy. We could hardly visit Essex without calling on the county’s two greatest living writers.’
‘Margery Allingham, Father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh no.’
‘What? Why? What’s wrong with Margery?’
‘She’s just a little … strange, Father, isn’t she?’
‘Margery?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she’s a writer, Miriam. And a very fine one at that.’
‘That’s no excuse, Father.’
‘Have you read Margery, Sefton?’ asked Morley.
‘No, I can’t say I have, Mr Morley.’
‘No? Goodness me, man. Sweet Danger is in my opinion one of the great detective books of this century!’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. You should read it immediately! I rate her rather more highly than Agatha, actually.’ Morley glanced around him, lowered his voice, and put a finger to his lips. ‘But don’t tell Agatha I told you.’
‘You have my word, Mr Morley.’
‘Dorothy’s fine though,’ said Miriam. ‘I don’t mind visiting Dorothy. She’s a hoot.’
‘The divine Miss Sayers,’ said Morley. ‘Now, she is a little strange, Miriam.’
‘I rather like her,’ said Miriam.
‘Well, of course you would, my dear: the most likeable thing about Dorothy is that she doesn’t care whether you like her or not.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miriam.
‘Anyway, social calls permitting, I think a couple of days should do it, shouldn’t it, for Essex?’
A couple of days chasing around Essex: another utterly lunatic enterprise, of course, just like all the others. But I had no reason to stay in London and every reason to get away. It would give me time to work out how to find a hundred pounds.
‘Great,’ I said.
‘What time is your train out of Liverpool Street later, Father?’ asked Miriam. ‘There’s a special train hired, for those invited to the Oyster Feast, Sefton.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Same every year, apparently. Tradition. Very good of them. And quite appropriate – in a sense Essex begins and ends at Liverpool Street Station, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed it does, Father,’ said Miriam. ‘Indeed it does. The rot sets in almost as soon as one leaves the station. Before, in fact. It’s a perfectly horrid place.’
‘I quite agree with you about Liverpool Street Station, my dear, but I think you’ll find you’re entirely wrong about Essex. Entirely lacking in the great beauty of Devon, of course, or indeed the wildness of Westmorland, or the sheer splendour of Norfolk, but it does make the most of what little it’s got.’
‘Hardly a recommendation, Father.’
‘Anyway,’ said Morley. ‘Must run!’
‘The time, Father, of the arrival of your train?’
‘I’ll send you a telegram,’ said Morley.
‘To where?’ said Miriam. ‘We’ll be in the Lagonda. And you’ll be on the train.’
‘Ah,’ said Morley. ‘Good point. You know, one day someone needs to invent some kind of mobile communication device. A sort of pocket telegram machine.’
‘I’m not sure it’d catch on, Father.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Morley.
‘It would just involve people telling each other they were on board trains.’
‘Ha!’ said Morley. With which he got up from the piano stool and dashed for the door. ‘Good luck then, you two. Until we meet again in Essex!’
‘Very good,’ said Miriam. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
‘No slacking,’ he called from the corridor.
‘No shilly-shallying,’ replied Miriam loudly.
‘No funking,’ I mumbled.
‘Although …’ said Miriam, turning towards me, and adopting her lounge position on the chair. ‘While the cat’s away the mice shall play, eh, Sefton?’
I needed a cup of coffee and a pick-me-up.
And a hundred pounds.
DENMARK STREET is ideally situated in Soho, if for no other reason that it marks a kind of boundary and thus provides a perfect and speedy exit onto High Holborn and all roads east. I managed to persuade Miriam that I was in urgent need of a hearty breakfast, and this hearty breakfast once duly procured – in a neat little café
