The Salisbury Manuscript (10 page)

Tom nodded and handed the volume back to Felix Slater, who wrapped it up in the cloth once more. Tom thought Canon Slater was being over-protective of the book, treating it as though it were a truly valuable treasure rather than the private musings of a man who’d behaved disreputably from time to time when he was young. However, it is not the job of a lawyer to point out this sort of thing to a client. If Slater wanted the book guarded, then Tom would guard it and not merely because it was his job. Almost despite himself, he’d taken a kind of liking to the clergyman.

Maybe the feeling was reciprocated for Slater seemed to relax. He unfolded himself from his seat and said, ‘It will be time for luncheon soon. Before that, let me show you the garden, Mr Ansell. I find that a little fresh air sharpens the appetite.’

Slater returned his father’s book to the chest in the corner. Before he closed and locked it, Tom noticed that there were other items inside, sheets of paper folded or loose. He wondered if these too were prohibited material but, presumably, Slater was content to keep them in his possession.

The Canon opened the doors that led into the garden. There was a terrace that ran the length of the house, with a lawn lapping at its edge and ornamental beds, now with skeletal plants. The sun had reached this side and taken some of the chill out of the air. Slater led the way to a path that ran through an orchard and down towards the river. From their left came snipping sounds. The gardener was trimming a shrub which Tom couldn’t identify.

‘Eaves,’ said Slater in greeting, and in response the gardener touched his shears to his cap in a kind of salute. Tom expected the man to get back to his clipping but he evidently wanted to say something for he cleared his throat. Felix Slater paused.

‘Have you heard the news, sir?’ said the gardener in an odd sing-song voice as if he was uncertain whether his ‘news’ would be welcome.

‘Until you tell me what it is, I cannot know whether I have heard it or not.’

The gardener called Eaves looked puzzled as if he was trying to work out what his employer meant. Eventually he gave up and said, ‘There’s been another robbery. Over at Mr Anstruther’s.’

‘Robbery?’

‘Bobbies are there now, sir,’ said the gardener, gesturing with his shears.

‘It’s true,’ said Tom. ‘I saw a constable standing outside a house further up West Walk.’

‘It must be the Anstruthers then,’ said Felix Slater. ‘A robbery? When?’

‘Last night they say, sir.’

‘And do they also say what was taken, Eaves?’

‘Funny things again.’

‘Funny things?’

‘Funny things, sir. Jelly moulds this time, I heard.’

‘Very well. You may get back to your work now.’

Content with his two minutes of attention, the gardener resumed the clipping. Tom and Slater strolled on towards the river. The path wound among apple trees.

‘A robbery in the close,’ said Tom.

‘We are not immune to crime.’

‘I wonder you have not heard of it already, Canon Slater.’

‘I
have
heard of it. It was what my wife wanted to tell me about earlier this morning. I was asking Eaves what he knew because the servants are sometimes aware of things that pass us by. But he merely confirmed what Mrs Slater had already told me. Someone broke into the Anstruthers’ last night and stole some jelly moulds from the kitchen.’

‘Why would anyone want to steal jelly moulds?’ said Tom, and then with pleasure at his deduction, ‘Perhaps they intended to take something more valuable and were interrupted.’

‘I don’t know the details but this is the second or third robbery in the close. Last time too, only small items were taken. Toasting forks, I believe.’

‘Perhaps the thief is a cook.’

‘Or a crook,’ said Slater, and Tom thought he detected a touch of humour. He said, ‘Are you worried for your collection?’

‘I might be,’ said Slater. ‘But to a thief, what I have collected would look like nothing more than a heap of stones and metal trinkets.’

This was not so far from Tom’s initial response to the objects. He was surprised, though, by the cleric’s seemingly easy attitude. By now they had reached the river bank. The water flowed fast and swollen after the autumn rains, carrying the odd tree branch or mass of green weed. Beyond the far bank there stretched meadows dotted with willows and grazing cows. A kind of timber garden-house or gazebo stood near the water’s edge. It had a covered verandah on the river side and a curtain with a check pattern in the window. Nearby was a small grassy mound, with a headstone set at one end. The little grave, set out in the open, was curiously disturbing. Slater noticed Tom looking at it.

‘A dog of my wife’s is buried there. A little pug. She wanted him close at hand. My wife likes to sit here in the summer,’ said Felix Slater.

‘I would sit here too, dog or no dog’ said Tom, thinking of his own lodgings in Islington and the close, stuffy air of a London summer.

‘She says that it reminds her of home.’

Tom was puzzling over this remark, or rather wondering where exactly home was for Mrs Slater, when from the distance there came the sound of a gong being struck. It was the signal for lunch The two men turned back towards Venn House. Soaring above the line of the roof they could see the spire of the cathedral.

‘The highest in all of England, isn’t it?’ said Tom, dredging the fact up from somewhere. ‘It must be the pride of Salisbury.’

‘It may surprise you, Mr Ansell, to know that there is not much love lost between the town and the cathedral. Hundreds of years ago the bishop owned this town, more or less, but things are different now. Oh, there is a kind of respect for this great church and the tradespeople are grateful that it brings visitors here, no doubt. Once our visitors would have been pilgrims. Now they want to look at the sights and go shopping. But the townsfolk have their business to get on with, just as we have ours. I don’t suppose that more than one in a hundred of our good citizens ever considers that he is walking across the ground that his ancestors toiled on. Everywhere we go we traverse layers of the past but so few of us see beneath the soil.’

Tom glanced sideways at the tall, bird-like cleric. There was that same suppressed fire in his manner as when he had been examining the artefacts in the glass cases.

They went back inside, down the hall and past the watercolours and the case of ornamental ferns. Slater led the way through a door near the front part of the house and into the dining room. Three people, two women and a man, were already there. Tom recognized each of them. The man was Slater’s nephew, Walter Henry, who smiled to see his uncle come in with Tom. One of the women was Bessie, the flustered maid – now with her collar properly straightened and waiting to serve lunch – who had appeared in Slater’s study. The second woman was the mysterious personage who had told Tom to stay outside Venn House and whose existence he had almost forgotten about for the last hour or so. He had made various compromising assumptions about her: that she might be a prostitute or woman of the town, then that she was an odd visitor to Venn House (a clairvoyante or something of the kind) or possibly a servant.

But now he realized, with horror mixed with embarrassment, that she was actually Felix Slater’s wife.

Venn House, Interior

The Canon introduced Amelia to Tom. They shook hands. It was a firm grasp, just as it had been when she gripped his arm outside the gate. Over her shoulder Tom could see himself in the great mirror which was set above the mantel. He was quite red in the face. His complexion made a contrast with her yellow dress. Fortunately, his confusion was not observed by Slater, who had drawn his nephew to one side and was talking in an undertone by the window. Now that everyone had arrived, the maid was busying herself by the sideboard. If Tom Ansell was flustered, Amelia Slater was calm. Her hand was warm (Tom’s was sweaty) and she looked amused.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Ansell. You are coming from London this morning?’

‘No, I got here last night,’ said Tom, remembering the woman’s injunction outside the gate of the house that he wasn’t to mention how they’d met before. Her disingenuous question about his arrival seemed to confirm the little conspiracy between them.

‘You are staying somewhere nice, I hope?’

‘I have a room in The Side of Beef,’ he said, almost adding, ‘As you well know, Mrs Slater.’ He was convinced that he had seen her hanging about outside the inn when he’d glanced out of his window on the previous evening.

She seemed about to say something else but fortunately she was cut short by Felix and Walter finishing their talk and taking their places at table. The Canon sat at one end with his nephew at the other while Tom and Amelia Slater were opposite each other. The table was large and each person seemed to be marooned in his or her seat.

After Slater had said grace, and in the pause before conversation picked up, Tom glanced round the room. It was done out in quite an old-fashioned style with mahogany furniture and dark colours. A great sideboard occupied most of the wall facing the window. No one said anything as the maid served them with oxtail soup.

The silence was prolonged while they took the first couple of sips. The maid went to stand demurely by the sideboard. Walter Slater spoke first.

‘I saw Foster just now. The Inspector, you know. He has been to talk to the Anstruthers and to see what he can discover about the robbery last night. He told me that the thief gained entry from the river side. A door had been forced at the back of the house. He said that we should look to our own doors and locks.’

The name, in connection with the local police, prompted some memory in Tom’s head. Foster? Where had he heard that name, and recently too? It had been while he was sitting in the cab on the way from the station. Canon Selby had said something about Inspector Foster. That he was a good man, a sound man.

‘It is frightening that someone can come into a house while the people inside are asleep,’ said Amelia. But she did not look frightened. Tom caught her glance; there was a gleam in her eye. ‘If only Achilles was still here.’

Tom was puzzling over Achilles when he remembered the small grass mound down by the river.

‘Achilles couldn’t do much,’ said Walter.

‘He could bark and was brave,’ said Amelia. ‘Achilles would have protected me.’

‘You do not need to fear, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘I am here at night and so is Walter. We shall protect you. Did you find out what was taken, Walter? Surely it was more than a few jelly moulds?’

‘Not much more, according to Foster. The cook was still going through the kitchen since it appears that the thief concentrated his attentions entirely in there. A few spoons and forks are missing. Mr Anstruther was woken by a great clattering noise while he was asleep and came downstairs. He found the back door ajar.’

‘Then it is as Mr Ansell here suggested to me earlier,’ said Felix Slater. ‘The thief was disturbed before he could do any worse.’

‘It seems an odd place to begin a robbery, in the kitchen,’ said Tom ‘Why not start in the more valuable rooms of a house?’

‘Perhaps Mr Ansell fancies himself as a detective,’ said Walter. ‘If so, sir, maybe you can explain something which is odder still. When Mr Anstruther came down to inspect the kitchen together with the servants who’d also been alerted by the clatter, they found that pots and pans had been deliberately flung on to the floor. One or two items had been dented and damaged but none of them taken.’

‘Wanton vandalism,’ said Felix Slater.

‘Inspector Foster does not think so. He said it was almost as if the thief wanted to make his presence known to the household, and that the quickest way to get everyone downstairs was to chuck some ironmongery around.’ Tom, who might have been quite pleased to be thought of as a detective, was at a loss to explain this, and said so.

‘This is not the kind of crime you enjoy in London?’ said Mrs Slater to him.

‘I think our London thieves would be a bit more ambitious. They wouldn’t be content with jelly moulds or cutlery. Of course, we have robberies by daylight in London, even murders.’

‘Murders. How terrible!’

This was Amelia Slater again. She carefully placed her soup spoon in her empty dish. ‘Don’t let’s talk of murder,’ said her husband and Tom felt faintly rebuked.

‘The case which is occupying everybody at the moment is the Tichborne Claimant,’ he said quickly.

‘Ah, the Claimant,’ said Walter.

‘I do not understand the Claimant,’ said Mrs Slater. ‘I do not read the papers. Maybe Mr Ansell could explain the Claimant to me. You are in the law, Mr Ansell, so you know everything.’

The Claimant was safe ground. Everybody had a view – except apparently Amelia Slater – and no one would really be affected by the outcome of the case. So during the main course (cold meat from the previous day, potatoes), Tom gave an outline of the court action that was gripping London and the rest of the kingdom: how Sir Roger Tichborne, heir to a great estate in Hampshire, had been reported drowned nearly twenty years ago off the coast of Brazil; how a man from Australia had come to England in 1866 to lay claim to the inheritance, saying that he was Sir Roger; how the case had wound its way through the courts for several years before it fell apart because the Claimant couldn’t show the tattoos which Sir Roger was alleged to have worn. Then a second action had been launched, this time with the Claimant as defendant. A criminal one too, alleging that the Claimant had perjured himself and issued forged bonds to pay his expenses. This was still playing itself out at the High Court. Tom Ansell had talked about it with David Mackenzie. His employer had asked him whether there wasn’t still a niggling doubt over the case. Despite almost all the evidence to the contrary, perhaps the Claimant really was Sir Roger. Mrs Slater, who’d listened attentively to Tom, certainly seemed to think so.

‘It would be romantic,’ she said, ‘romantic if this man turned out to be Sir Roger after all.’

‘My dear, that has been thoroughly disproved,’ said her husband. ‘Everyone knows that, far from being Sir Roger, the fellow is a butcher from Australia by the name of Orton. He is enormously fat, to judge by his pictures, while Sir Roger was thin. He cannot speak French, a language which Sir Roger was fluent in. No, Sir Roger is long dead and buried under the waves off Brazil.’

‘But men grow fat with the years,’ said Amelia, ‘and they can change so that they are hard to recognize from how they were. People are not what they seem. Under great stress they forget what they know. Perhaps the person did speak French but now it has all slipped from his head. Whoosh!’

She gave a sweeping motion with her hand. Tom was reminded of the moment when she’d flicked at the garden door with her heel. There might have been something a touch unladylike about both gestures but there was also something attractive to them.

He’d been talking about the Claimant case so much that he was behindhand with his eating and, while he got on with his meat and potatoes, he looked from time to time at the woman across the table. She was younger than her husband but, since he looked older than he was, the gap in years was perhaps not so great. She had dark hair and mobile features, especially her mouth and her large brown eyes. He recalled that the Canon had said that his wife liked to sit in the summer-house by the river because it reminded her of home. Home? He didn’t think it was England. The woman, with her faintly accented speech and spontaneous gestures, was not quite English. Yet Amelia, as far as Tom was aware, was not a foreign name.

Over the final courses (marmalade pudding followed by cheese), the talk turned to the Church, with Felix Slater asking his nephew about St Luke’s and Mr Simpson, the vicar. Though neither Tom nor Mrs Slater had much to say on this topic, both uncle and nephew took the trouble to include them by glances and occasional comments. Felix Slater might be an upright, rigorous individual, but he had unexpected turns and corners. There was the passion for ancient artefacts, and then there was the presence of Amelia Slater. Tom found himself wondering how they’d met, the circumstances under which they had married, and so on.

Though they’d been drinking nothing stronger than water fortified with a little wine, Tom felt set up by the meal and the company. Canon Slater must have enjoyed his presence too for, as he was leaving, he told Tom to come back the next evening with the memorandum which he was to draw up. ‘And, Mr Ansell, you are most welcome to join us for supper, if you wish.’

Tom said he’d be glad to, though part of his gladness was the idea of seeing Amelia Slater again. He was curious about her and might discover more on a second visit.

Walter accompanied him out of Venn House, explaining that he was returning to town for an evening service at his church. Mrs Slater also came to the door. She said goodbye to Tom and to Walter. She said goodbye to Walter warmly, putting her arm about him and kissing him as though he was a valued visitor and not someone who lived in the house all the time. Tom couldn’t help noticing, since there was nothing secretive or sly about Mrs Slater’s actions.

It was by now early afternoon and though the sun still shone the air was chilly as the two men went up the West Walk. Tom pulled up his coat collar. He made some casual but complimentary comment about his hosts, Walter’s uncle and aunt.

‘My aunt?’ said Walter. ‘I never think of Amelia that way. She is not very aunt-like.’

This was the opening that Tom had perhaps been looking for. He was surprised that Walter so openly stated that Mrs Slater was not aunt-like. He said, ‘No, she is certainly not like my aunts, my mother’s sisters.’

He glanced sideways to see whether Walter was inclined to say more. The assistant curate walked with a kind of bounce in his step but stayed silent.

Tom tried again: ‘They have been married a long time, Canon and Mrs Slater?’

‘Long enough,’ said Walter, then as if he felt that this answer struck the wrong note, ‘They met in Italy, in Florence.’

‘Ah, so Mrs Slater, Amelia, is Italian.’

‘On her mother’s side. Her father was English. But she lived in Florence for many years as a child.’

And she thinks of it as home, thought Tom. She sits by the river at the bottom of the garden and remembers the much greater river which flows through the middle of Florence, whatever it is called. But Walter’s reference to an English father explained the reason for Amelia’s name, just as her many years abroad accounted for her non-Englishness.

‘I think, Mr Ansell, that if you want to know any more then you should ask my uncle or
aunt
.’

Walter did not seem put out by the questions but plainly the topic was closed. Looking to turn the conversation in a different direction, Tom mentioned Canon Eric Selby since they were passing the spot near the entrance to the close where Selby had given him directions.

‘I know the man,’ said Walter. ‘So does my uncle of course. But I am afraid there is a coolness on his side.’

He did not enlarge on this either. The coolness between the Canons must have been mutual, thought Tom, recalling the look of distaste which had crossed Selby’s face when he said that he was searching for Venn House. He kept quiet now while they made their way back into the heart of the town, not certain whether any subject he raised might be unwelcome. Altogether, Walter Slater seemed less cheerful and forthcoming than earlier in the day.

Only after they’d parted company and Tom was returning to The Side of Beef did it occur to him that Walter had shown no curiosity about why he was in Salisbury. Did he know that his uncle was passing over his grandfather’s memoir-book? Was he aware that he would have the responsibility of deciding what to do with it once Felix Slater was dead? In fact there was a strange aspect to Walter Slater’s situation altogether. There he was, a lowly curate in a town parish, and yet he was destined to inherit a country estate. He must be a very devout man, since the Church could still be the preserve of younger sons without prospects. And what about Amelia Slater? How much did she know, beyond the fact that Tom was a representative of her husband’s lawyers?

Back at the inn, Tom climbed the stairs to his room. Fortunately he did not bump into Jenkins, although he did recall the landlord mentioning that one of the guests had been asking about him the previous evening. A man who was called – he grasped for the name – Cathcart, Henry Cathcart. ‘One of the leading citizens of our town,’ Jenkins had called him. Well, if the fellow was curious about Tom Ansell, he knew where to find him.

Tom put all this out of his head and settled down at the small writing table in his room to draw up the memorandum which Canon Slater had requested. It was a straightforward job but he took longer over it than was necessary, partly because he wanted to satisfy Slater and partly as a way of filling up what remained of the afternoon. In appropriate legal terminology, he indicated that the volume henceforth to be known as the Salisbury manuscript was to remain sealed in the offices of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie until after the death of Canon Felix Slater. It was then left to Walter Slater (or in the event of his death to his heirs and successors) to read or otherwise dispose of as he saw fit.

By this time, it had grown dark outside and the traffic in the street had quietened. Tom made a copy of the document he had composed and put them both away in his bag. He wrote a letter to Helen Scott, outlining what he’d done that morning and describing Canon Slater and his collection of artefacts. He talked about the attractions of Salisbury and the grandeur of the cathedral. Then he remembered that Helen knew the town, for she had told him of visits here in her childhood. He made only a passing reference to Mrs Slater. When it came to signing off, he wavered between ‘most affectionately yours’, ‘ardently’, and ‘with my love and affection’, before settling on the last. He had brought stamps with him. Having some time in hand before supper, he went out to find a pillar-box and then wandered idly about some of the streets in the centre of town.