Essex Poison

‘Yes!’ insisted Morley, rather tetchily. ‘Now, some photographs of the Dagenham Borough Council building, Sefton, if you wouldn’t mind? Quite a thing, I’m given to understand. Early Saxon settlement, Dagenham.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Daecca’s home, I think.’

‘Right.’

‘I remember it as a village, of course.’

‘Very good.’

‘So, some sort of atmospheric shots of the great boulevards and avenues, if you would.’

‘The great boulevards of Becontree?’ said Miriam.

‘If you would, Sefton,’ said Morley, ignoring Miriam.

‘Certainly, Mr Morley.’

‘And on from the delights of 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?’