Westmorland Alone
‘Beautifully crafted by Sansom, Professor Morley promises to become a little gem of English crime writing; sample him now’ Daily MailWelcome to Westmorland. Perhaps the most scenic county in England! Home of the poets! Land of the great artists! District of the Great lakes! And the scene of a mysterious crime…Swanton Morley, the People’s Professor, once again sets off in his Lagonda to continue his history of England, The County Guides.Stranded in the market town of Appleby after a tragic rail crash, Morley, his daughter Miriam and his assistant Stephen Sefton find themselves drawn into a world of country fairs, gypsy lore and Cumberland and Westmorland wrestling. When a woman’s body is discovered at an archaeological dig, for Morley there’s only one possible question: could it be murder?Join Morley, Miriam and Sefton as they journey along the Great North road and the Settle-Carlisle Line into the dark heart of 1930s England.
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This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2016
Copyright © Ian Sansom 2016
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Ian Sansom asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008121747
Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 9780008121754
Version: 2016-12-08
For the other Morley
Here we entered Westmoreland, a country eminent only for being the wildest, most barren and frightful of any that I have passed over in England.
DANIEL DEFOE,
A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain
Contents
Chapter 1: The Infernal Streets of Soho
Chapter 2: Rise and Shine and Give God The Glory
Chapter 3: 72 Miles, 1,728 Yards
Chapter 6: The Locomotive Accident Examination Guide
Chapter 7: Pencilariums and Pharmacopoeias
Chapter 8: English Archaeological Records
Chapter 9: Death and Deceit and Despair
Chapter 11: Stephen âJawboneâ Sefton
Chapter 12: The Stench of Cabbage and Onions
Chapter 13: The Joy of Pickling
Chapter 15: A 22-Lever Midland Tumbler
Chapter 17: Ejecta, Rejecta, Dejecta
Chapter 18: Some Photographic Techniques
Chapter 19: A Totally Different Complexion
Chapter 20: Doraâs Station Café
LONDON WASNâT KILLING ME. The opposite.
We had returned from Devon in a low mood. Things had not gone at all according to plan. Miriam was no doubt distracting herself with some dubious engagement or other and Morley was probably working on some mad side project â a history of war, perhaps, or of the Machine Age, or of Russian literature, or indeed of Russia, or of fish, of friendship, of God, of the gold standard, goodness only knows what. (See, for example, Morleyâs War â And its Enemies (1938), Morleyâs Forces of Nature in the Service of Man (1932), Morleyâs Fish, Flesh and Fowl: A History of Edible Animals (1935), Morleyâs Mighty Bear: A Childrenâs History of Russia (1930), Morleyâs Studies in Christian Love (1934), Morleyâs God: His Story (1936), and one of my favourites, published rather unfortunately in 1929, Morley on Money: How to Make It, How to Spend It, How to Save It.) I was just glad that Iâd been granted a few daysâ leave. I had been making the most of them.
I had been drinking late in the Fitzroy Tavern, and had then found myself at an after-hours club just off Marshall Street which was frequented by some of my old International Brigade chums. The club was run by a big Kerryman named Delaney who ran a number of places around Soho. Delaney self-consciously styled himself as a âcharacterâ â all thick Irish charm, topped off with faux-aristo English manners. He wore a white tie and tails, carried a silver-topped cane with a snuff-pot handle and came across as everyoneâs friend, the debonair host, generous, witty and easy-going. He was not at all to be trusted. I had been introduced to him by a couple of lads from Spain, Mickey Gleason, a tough little Cockney with a beaten-up face, and a classically dour stick-thin Scotsman named MacDonald. Gleason liked to boast that he had saved my life in Spain, when in fact all heâd done was to cry a well-timed âGet down!â when we had come under unexpected fire one evening near Figueras. And MacDonald had loaned me money â dourly â on my return. So I was in debt to them both, in different ways. Delaney had also been in Spain, apparently, though I hadnât met him there. It was said that heâd been working as some kind of fixer. I rather suspected that he had enjoyed as much business with Francoâs forces as with the Republicans.
Delaneyâs places were famous for their wide range of entertainments and refreshments, and for the clientele. It used to be said that to meet everyone in England who really mattered one had only to stand for long enough at the foot of the stairs of the Athenaeum on Pall Mall: the same might just as truly be said of Delaneyâs basement bars and bottle parties. Poets, artists, lawyers, politicians, doctors, bishops and blackmailers, safebreakers and swindlers: in the end, everyone ended up at Delaneyâs.
