The Salisbury Manuscript (27 page)

Now, several hours later, Seth was striding up and down the weed-strewn terrace while Nan, indoors, was fussing over the corpse of Percy and assisting the local doctor. Meanwhile the sergeant and the constable were tramping over Hogg’s Corner as they examined the scene of the crime, stroking their chins and looking wise and coming to the conclusion that a crime had been committed.

The sergeant had asked Seth and Nan a few questions. When had they last seen Percy? Had they been disturbed in the night? Was there any sign that the house had been broken into? Did they hear the sound of a shot? That kind of thing. Nan had professed genuine ignorance while Seth pretended to his. The old woman had prepared some supper for her master early the previous evening and then left him to his own devices in the smoking room, as usual. Seth said that he’d seen his employer at some point in the previous afternoon, which was true enough.

In the hours since the murder of Percy Slater, Seth’s feelings had not abated but grown stronger. He was still half afraid of his brother, and did not doubt Adam’s threat to tell tales on him if caught, but the anger almost out-weighed the fear. Percy had been a decent enough cove in his way. He’d been a toper and a gambler and had allowed the estate to wither away, but he had made few demands on Seth. Now he was dead, murdered, and a basic sense of justice in Seth demanded that someone should pay for the crime.

Tom’s Room

The autumn afternoon was drawing to a close. Tom Ansell was about to go into his room to write a note to David Mackenzie, from whom he had received a letter that morning, lamenting the ‘misfortune’ which had landed him in gaol and asking to be kept informed. Meanwhile Helen was waiting for him downstairs in the snug of The Side of Beef . They had been invited to dine with the Selbys that evening.

Jenny the chambermaid was at the top of the stairs as Tom arrived on the first floor. She drew aside to let Tom pass and, as she did so, gave an almighty sneeze.

An unthinking ‘Bless you’ was on Tom’s lips when something made him pause. The maid had already mumbled an equally automatic ‘Sorry, sir.’ She drew out a dirty bit of cloth from her sleeve and wiped her nose. Tom couldn’t help noticing her hands. She had long, bony fingers with reddened tips.

‘Jenny, is it?’ said Tom. ‘Can I speak with you a moment? Speak in my room?’

The chambermaid looked taken aback but nodded. She followed Tom into his bedroom and remained by the door, which she left ajar.

Tom stood still for an instant. He wondered what to say next and was given his cue when the girl sneezed again.

‘That’s a nasty cold, Jenny. Who did you catch it from?’

‘Dunno, sir,’ said Jenny, bafflement replacing the slight apprehension on her face. ‘One of my nieces, I ’spect.’

‘And I wonder if anyone has caught it from you in turn.’

Jenny glanced over her shoulder at the partly open door. Obviously, she was dealing with a guest who’d gone a bit soft in the head. Should she humour him or make a dash for it?

She should have made a dash because the strange young gentleman crossed to where she was standing in a couple of strides and, before she could react, seized her left hand and held it up in front of her face.

‘Where did you get this? This ring? Who gave it to you? Or did you steal it?’

Jenny shook her hand free from Tom’s grasp. ‘Steal it! I never . . . he . . . said . . .’

‘Yes? He said.
Who
said? What did he say?’

‘It was given me by – by a friend.’

‘When was it given to you? A day or two ago?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Then you had better tell me who your friend is, Jenny. The last time I saw that ring it was inside a glass case in a house belonging to a dead man. You’ve heard of Canon Slater, you must’ve heard about his murder?’

Jenny turned pale. She staggered. Afraid that she was about to faint, Tom put an arm round her and guided her towards a chair. He wondered whether he should go and get Helen. He wondered whether he was making a terrible mistake. Yet even as he looked again at the ring on Jenny’s finger while he was helping her to sit down, he was certain that it was the very one which he’d glimpsed in Felix Slater’s study. The ring was tarnished, yes, but what really distinguished it was the irregular zigzag pattern, incised into the soft metal not using a modern implement but something which was primitive and ages-old.

Tom knelt down in front of the chambermaid. She shook her head when he asked if she wanted a glass of water. She wouldn’t look at him. He stood up once more.

‘Listen to me, Jenny,’ he said, striving to keep his voice low and even. ‘I believe that you accepted that ring in good faith, as a token from an admirer perhaps. You’ve more or less admitted that you were given it only a day or two ago. Now, I don’t know where your friend got the ring from. Perhaps he received it in good faith also. But I need you to tell me about it, because I think that this – what you are wearing on your finger – has come from the house of a dead man. I recognize it.’

At this, Jenny extended her left hand, palm outwards, and stared at it as if it belonged to someone else.

‘He said it was like an engagement ring, only not official,’ said Jenny. She spoke even more quietly than Tom had, as if she was talking to herself. ‘He said it was old, and said how it had been a whatd’youcallit? – a hairloom – passed down through the generations. He said I must wear it in private where only I should be able to see it . . . and I didn’t wear it private and look what has happened.’

‘Are you engaged then?’ said Tom. He was waiting to work round to the identity of the man who’d given her the ring.

‘Not official engaged,’ repeated Jenny, still staring at her hand, now curled up in her lap. ‘I think he must’ve been joking with this ring. He’s give me joking presents before, toasting forks and such.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Tom, but remembering the inexplicable burglaries in the cathedral close.

Jenny looked up at Tom for the first time. There was a shrewdness in her look now, a shrewdness and something else besides. ‘He give me the ring ’cause he was paying me back. He got something beforehand.’

Tom felt uncomfortable. Perhaps sensing this, Jenny continued, ‘It’s not what you think. I already give him what you think, and give it him for nothing. And do you know, mister, here’s a funny thing . . . '

‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t mind giving it him for nothing.’

Tom saw that they were getting bogged down in detail. ‘I don’t care very much how you came by the ring but I believe it to be the property of a dead man,’ he said.

Jenny turned her gaze from him. ‘I’m sure it’s an honest gift,’ she said after a time.

‘So where did the ring come from?’

‘I don’t know
where
it come from, mister, but it was Adam gave it me.’

And she went on to explain that Adam – a quite well-spoken chap rather older than Jenny and one who’d knocked about the world a bit, by his own account – had tipped up in the city a few months ago out of nowhere. Now he did some unspecified job in another part of Salisbury. A labouring job, maybe, because he had scratched and dirty hands often. Though he seemed to be too clever to earn his living with his hands. He was a bit mysterious, didn’t give much away. He befriended Jenny after drinking one night at The Side of Beef, he soft-soaped her.

When they’d got more confidential (which was Jenny’s word), they’d sought out places where they might . . . you know. Adam claimed that he couldn’t risk his reputation with his employer by taking her back to where he worked and lodged while she, Jenny, was accommodated on the top floor of the hotel when she wasn’t staying with with her aunt and innumerable nieces. So they had to look out for open-air spaces, for cosy nooks or flowery meadows. Luckily it was summer and there were plenty of both to choose from. Then, with the cooling of the weather, came a cooling in the friendship. Until a few evenings ago when Adam appeared in the back yard of The Side of Beef, with a particular request.

Here, the bravado which had been in Jenny’s tone up till now dribbled away. Eventually Tom got her to admit that Adam’s request had been to tell him the floor and number of the room occupied by a visitor from London, a young lawyer. Also, she was to turn a blind eye during the next few minutes while he went and had a poke around. In fact, instead of turning a blind eye she might keep watch for him. In double fact, if he could borrow her pass-key for an instant he could slip in and out, and no one the wiser. He meant no harm, he said. Just wanted to have a peek at the gent’s room. In return, he promised Jenny that she would receive something . . . a present . . . a surprise. And it was true, wasn’t it, no harm had been done to the gentleman’s belongings, only they were left somewhat disarranged.

‘S’pose you’re going to tell Mr Jenkins, sir?’ said Jenny after she’d finished her recital.

Tom shrugged. He didn’t know. He ought to inform the landlord about the chambermaid but at the moment there seemed bigger fish to fry.

‘Well, go and tell him then,’ said Jenny with a return of the old defiance. ‘Mr Jenkins asked me for what I give Adam and I couldn’t abide the thought of him even laying a hand on me – which he’s tried to do often enough. He’s had a down on me ever since. Go and tell him and see if I care.’

‘Go and tell who what?’ said Helen.

She was standing at the door to Tom’s room.

‘I grew bored with waiting, Tom. I was starting to think you’d found another dead body or drowned yourself in the bath or something. And I have had an idea about Atropos. But first, who’s telling who what?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Tom. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone anything, Jenny, as long as you tell me a single thing in exchange. This fancy-man of yours. Is he just Adam to you or does he have another name?’

‘Why, yes, he is called Eaves,’ said Jenny. ‘Adam Eaves. Which I thought was funny, if you think about it. Adam Eaves.’

‘The gardener at Venn House,’ said Tom. ‘The man with the shears.’

‘Atropos,’ said Helen.

‘Atropos who cuts short the thread of human life.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Jenny.

Later it struck Tom as odd that in all the time he had been asking Jenny about her fancy-man, she had not sneezed once. If she had caught the cold from one of her nieces, he knew now the person she’d passed it on to: the gardener who’d sneezed violently before giving them his lopsided grin. The gardener who’d certainly been responsible for thieving innocuous kitchen items from the other houses in the close and who had, with an almost equal certainty, thieved away the life of his master, Canon Felix Slater.

Tom ran out of the room and clattered down the stairs to the lobby of The Side of Beef. Helen raised her eyebrows at Jenny in female commiseration or incomprehension before following him, calling him to wait. She caught up with him on the pavement. The sun was beginning to set, a glaring red descent through the chimney smoke and the mist starting up from the river.

‘Where are you going, Tom?’

‘The cathedral close.’

‘I’m coming too.’

‘No, do not. I think that Eaves is a murderer.’

They stood there an instant, undecided. Helen glanced up at the sign which hung above the hotel porch. The car-cass of beef which advertised the place was glowing red in the late afternoon light.

‘Then we should go and find Inspector Foster. If you’re right then this Eaves is a dangerous man.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom. ‘But in the meantime the fellow may be making his escape if he hasn’t already done so.’

Helen saw the hectic look on Tom’s face. He nodded at her and then set off at a smart pace down the crowded street. She had no choice but to pursue him.

* * *

Henry Cathcart was going to make a confession to his wife. He walked wearily down the stuffy passage leading to her room and knocked on the door. It was late afternoon, a time when Constance was usually lively (by her standards) after her nap. In fact, Constance had been more alert recently. The murder in the close had given her zest. Even the ‘Come in’ that answered Henry’s knock was firmer than normal.

He was not pleased to see that Grace was in the room, fussing around the table on which were displayed his wife’s various remedies. Not pleased, but not surprised either since Grace spent most of her waking hours with her mistress and some of her sleeping ones too.

‘I should like to be alone with Mrs Cathcart,’ said Henry.

Grace’s gaze flicked towards Constance, who was sitting up in bed with a copy of the
Gazette
in her lap. The maid’s look seemed to say,
I will leave the room but under
duress and only if it is all right with you, Mrs Cathcart
. Or perhaps she meant no such thing and it was only that Henry was sensitive to Grace’s looks. She left the room with little fuss, however.

‘Shall I draw the curtains, my dear?’ said Henry when they were alone. A spectacular autumnal sun was brushing the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street.

‘Leave them, please, ‘ said Constance. ‘It is nice to see the outside world from time to time.’

Henry stood indecisively near the window. Eventually he came to sit on the edge of Constance’s bed. His wife shifted her attention away from the newspaper. Perhaps she sensed her husband was about to say something significant. He was wondering where to begin even though he had already told the story, or parts of it, to the Inspector earlier in the afternoon.

‘Constance, I . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I have been behaving rather foolishly, weakly, if you like . . .’

And Henry Cathcart went on to describe how he had allowed himself to entertain occasional visits from Mrs Amelia Slater. Of how he had perhaps been more encouraging of them than he should have been. Of how, from the outside, such things might look compromising. Of how, in fact, he had compromised himself in a more dangerous sense by visiting Venn House on the very evening of the Canon’s murder. Had discovered the unlocked front door and paced up the silent passage and paused outside the closed door of Felix Slater’s study.

(He did not mention to Constance that he had dropped his monogrammed handkerchief somewhere near the study door – the handkerchief which was speckled with blood actually from a shavingcut and no more sinister source, and which had been seen by Bessie the maid and retrieved by her mistress.)

Henry said that he had slipped out of the Canon’s house with the sense that something indefinable was wrong, only to be drawn back a few minutes later by the brouhaha surrounding the murder. He was as amazed as anyone else to see that the haplesss individual being ecorted away by the local police was Tom Ansell, the son of his late comrade-in-arms. Henry hadn’t informed the police that he himself had walked into Venn House since he had seen nothing inside and didn’t want to muddy the waters of the investigation. Of course he did not believe that Ansell had committed the crime – what would be his motive, for one thing? – and assumed that it wouldn’t be long before the unfortunate young lawyer was released.

(Which assumption was correct. Cathcart neglected to say, though, that his first thought on hearing that the Canon had been murdered was to imagine the wife doing the deed. Hadn’t she talked, almost fondly, of widowhood?)

Now, however, things had taken a peculiar and even darker turn with the death of Percy Slater at his estate in Downton and the disappearance of Walter Slater and the hysterics of Mrs Slater. It was as if the whole family was labouring under some curse, like characters in an ancient tragedy. Accordingly, he had decided to tell the Inspector what he knew – which wasn’t much – and had referred to his visit to Venn House on the night of the first death. He wanted to have everything clear and out in the open.