Free The Norfolk Mystery (The County Guides) by Ian Sansom Page A

Pens?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Pencils?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Koh-i-noor pencils?’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    â€˜You use Koh-i-noor, Sefton?’
    â€˜I can’t say that I—’
    â€˜They’re terribly good. Hardtmuth’s. Sounds German. But they’re American. Seventeen degrees. Smooth. Durable. Unsnappable. Four shillings per dozen from my wholesaler. Which isn’t bad for pencil perfection, eh? Notebooks, Miriam?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Typewriters?’
    â€˜Yes, of course, Father.’
    â€˜Camera for Sefton?’
    â€˜Yes. Yes. The new Leica.’
    â€˜Good. Portable desk?’
    â€˜Yes. Of course.’
    â€˜Blotting paper?’
    â€˜Yes!’
    â€˜Writing paper.’
    â€˜Yes! Father!’
    â€˜Airmail paper?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, yes. And the elephant rifle, the muskets, the swords, the daggers and the boar spears!’
    â€˜Good.’
    â€˜We don’t really have—’ I began.
    â€˜Of course not!’ said Miriam. ‘But we have everything we need, and now we are going.’
    At which, without further ado, Miriam started up the car and set off down the driveway in much the manner she had been driving the day before, which is to say, suicidally. Thrilling at the speed, Morley sat bolt upright, gazing all around like a child, his fingers playing across the keys of his typewriter so much like a pianist about to perform that I almost expected him to play a scale.
    â€˜It’s a Hermes Featherweight,’ he said loudly, leaning across.
    â€˜Very nice,’ I agreed.
    â€˜Nobody else cares about your typewriters, Father!’ called Miriam from the front.
    â€˜Tools of the trade,’ said Morley. ‘Sefton needs to get to know them.’
    â€˜They’re just typewriters!’ said Miriam. ‘Lesson over.’
    â€˜They’re not just typewriters!’ said Morley. ‘Sefton. Look. They’ve only just started manufacturing them. Had it imported from Switzerland. Tremendous craftsmanship.’ He stroked the casing of the machine. ‘I use Good Companions as back-ups,’ he said, ‘but the Swiss do seem to have the upper hand when it comes to precision engineering, don’t you think? Watches and what have you.’ He held up both wrists to me – a watch on each wrist. ‘Luminous dial,’ he said, pointing with his right hand to his left wrist, and then pointing to the right wrist, ‘And non-luminous dial.’
    â€˜Super,’ I said.
    â€˜Beautiful, isn’t she?’ continued Morley, addressing the typewriter.
    â€˜She’s certainly a very nice typewriter,’ I said.
    â€˜And incredibly light. Here.’ He pulled the typewriter towards him, removed it from its wooden stays and handed it across to me.
    â€˜Extraordinary, isn’t she?’
    â€˜It’s certainly very light.’
    â€˜Eight pounds.’
    â€˜Very light.’
    â€˜You could sit her on your lap almost, couldn’t you? Never mind portables, Sefton. Lapwriters, that’ll be the next thing, mark my word. Five, ten years, we’ll have typewriters you can fit into your pocket!’ He was always coming up with absurd predictions about machines of the future – he corresponded, of course, for many years with H.G. Wells about the nature and practicalities of time travel – and there was also his famous shed, more like a barn, at St George’s, mentioned by all the biographers, and which contained the carcasses of many engines, clocks and bicycles, the mechanisms of which he was continually seeking to improve, or, more likely, confuse: there were clocks made from bicycle parts, and bicycles made from clock parts. The story of Morley’s ill-fated steam-paraffin-driven bicycle I shan’t repeat here, for we were sweeping out onto the open road, and I was having trouble keeping up with the briefing …
    â€˜So,