The Salisbury Manuscript (14 page)

‘I do not know, Mr Slater, but I don’t think so.’

‘Do not be taken in by that holy act, Mr Ansell. Word to the wise. I know my brother and you do not. Have you met his wife, my sister-in-law?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘What impression did you form of her?’

‘I – I really don’t know.’

‘Come on, Mr Ansell. Amelia, my sister-in-law, is an attractive woman, is she not? You can at least say that without breaking any confidences or compromising your client’s privileges.’

‘Yes, she is attractive,’ said Tom uneasily.

‘Good. We can agree on that. Can we also agree that there is, shall we say, an apparent mismatch between my brother and his attractive wife? He’s a dry old stick, after all, while she is neither so dry nor so old.’

This was pretty well exactly how things had struck Tom. He shrugged and said, ‘Who can tell with a marriage?’

Someone had made that remark to him recently. He remembered that it was David Mackenzie. Tom’s comment might have been rhetorical but it seemed to please Percy Slater.

‘True, who can tell with a marriage?’ he repeated. ‘The story of my brother’s marriage is an odd one. You know it?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Or rather all I know is that Mrs Slater grew up in Florence and that her father was English.’

‘While her mother was Italian. My brother Felix met the family when he was on a tour of Italian cities – Pisa, Florence, Lucca, Siena and the rest. He was looking at the antiquities no doubt. He was lodging with Amelia’s parents in Florence. They had a single daughter, Amelia. She must have been smitten for she came over to England not so long after his return. Her own parents were dead by this time and perhaps she had no one else to turn to apart from the nice clergyman who had spoken fondly to her.’

Percy paused to take a swig from his glass. Tom noticed the edge of bitterness in his words. Perhaps he was envious of his brother, of the fact that an attractive young woman had come in search of Felix from overseas. This seemed to be confirmed by what he said next.

‘Amelia threw herself on his mercy. She was a single lady in a country that was foreign to her. In due course, and after the necessary arrangements, they were married and they lived happily ever after.’

‘This was a long time ago?’

‘Oh, many years. Twenty or more. But Amelia has worn very well, hasn’t she, while my brother has simply grown more dry and stick-like. So we’ve had a happy ending, no?’

‘It sounds like it.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Slater.

There was a finality to his words. Tom stood up again, explaining that he had a train to catch and an appointment in Salisbury. This was a stretch, but at the moment he simply wanted to get out of Northwood House. Percy Slater pulled out a pocket watch.

‘There is no great hurry, sir. No train is due for, oh – an hour and a half at least. At two thirty to be precise. I know the train times backward. I enjoy reading my Bradshaw just as I enjoy reading the racing form. An hour and a half, I say. Plenty of time for Fawkes to take you back to Downton.’

‘Fawkes?’

‘My coachman. And valet. And factotum. I inherited him from my father just as I inherited Nan, who is my cook and housekeeper. Her name is Ann but I called her Nan with my childish tongue and it has stuck ever since. Fawkes is simply Fawkes, and there is no more to be said. My wife Elizabeth would like me to take on more servants but I tell her that since she is never here and I live essentially in two rooms out of the many in Northwood, Fawkes and Nan can cater to my needs quite adequately. She cooks well, if she has to. You will not stay for luncheon?’

Tom’s attention was caught by this reference to the man’s wife but he turned down the invitation. Turned it down with a touch of regret as well as relief. He sensed Percy Slater’s loneliness. His host waved at him in dismissal.

‘Very well, Mr Ansell. Go outside and find Nan or Fawkes. He will convey you back to the station. I would not have you
stuck
here.’

Slater half rose from his seat and gave Tom a perfunctory handshake.

Since Tom had rejected his invitation to stay, he seemed to have lost interest in his guest.

Tom retraced his steps from the smoking room and into the servants’ quarter of the house. He passed Nan. She was carrying a tray containing a plate of cheese and cold meats together with a wine bottle, presumably the lunch that he would have shared with Percy. The old, black-garbed servant could scarcely bring herself to acknowledge him with a nod. Fawkes, coachman, valet and factotum to Percy Slater, was sitting at the end of the kitchen table. He was tearing at a chunk of bread, the final item on his plate. Tom stood in the doorway.

‘I need to return to the station now, Fawkes. Mr Slater said you would take me.’

Fawkes looked up at Tom. He finished chewing the bread, taking his time. Then he took a swig from a tankard beside the plate. Only after that did he get to his feet, wiping at his mouth and dimpled chin. He was still wearing the little felt hat.

‘Wait in here,’ he said, ‘sir.’

Tom stood in the lobby while Fawkes went off to fetch the carriage. The rain dribbled down the window-panes in the door. Tom thought he’d seen Fawkes before somewhere, then reflected that he had – scarcely more than a couple of hours ago at Downton station. He thought of Percy Slater’s ridiculous invitation to a wager. There was something old-fashioned about it, the kind of absurd bet that two aristocrats would have indulged in during an earlier, looser age. In fact, Percy Slater himself – drinking, idling, gaming, casting his eye over the sporting press – had an eighteenth-century flavour to him. Tom recalled that David Mackenzie had described Percy’s father, George, in similar terms, an impression which was confirmed by the little he’d glimpsed of old Slater’s memoirs.

Tom continued to think about the Slater family as he was being conveyed to the station by Fawkes. There was a contrast between the two brothers in almost every way: the one lean and austere, the other slack and self-indulgent; Felix’s religious vocation, Percy’s boredom; the Canon’s passion for old artefacts and reverence for history, his older brother’s devotion to gambling and the turf. It would have been interesting to have met Elizabeth and compared her to the enigmatic Amelia, to have seen whether the difference in the brothers was reflected in their wives.

Slater’s carriage trundled into Downton, over the bridge and past the tannery. Fawkes drew up on the stand out-side the railway station. Tom got out and looked up to thank Fawkes in the driving seat. The coachman raised a forefinger and seemed to sight down it at Tom as if his finger was the barrel of a gun. ‘You have a care,’ he said, ‘sir.’

This might have been intended as a kindly parting remark but, coupled with the gun-sighting gesture and spoken without warmth, it sounded more like a warning. As he sat in the little waiting room (there was more than half an hour before his train was due), Tom did his best to shrug off the visit to Northwood House.

He hadn’t disliked Percy Slater, in an odd way he’d felt almost sorry for the fellow, but he had not cared for the cold, neglected mansion or the two retainers. Tom still couldn’t understand exactly why Percy had wanted to see him, unless he was meant to act as an intermediary between the brothers. The other puzzle was how to square the description which Felix had given of his brother with the reality. Percy might be idle and all the rest of it, but he was no fool, nor did he appear to be suffering any kind of physical decline. Tom wondered whether Felix Slater assumed that his brother must be in that condition, either because they never saw each other or because he required him to be paying some sort of price for his way of life. Perhaps that was what lay behind Percy’s claim that his brother would like to have him committed to a sanatorium or an asylum. Where had he heard, and recently, someone say that people aren’t always what they seem? Ah yes, it was Amelia Slater, the Canon’s wife. They’d been talking about the Tichborne Claimant. Well, neither of the brothers was a fraudster but nor were they quite how they’d been painted by others.

These considerations occupied Tom during his wait at Downton station and on the short journey back to Salisbury. It was a miserable autumn afternoon, with the rain turning into a drizzly mist and then into fog, so that Tom walked back to The Side of Beef through streets where the passers-by were swathed from each other. Not yet familiar with the town, he took a couple of wrong turnings. Getting back to the inn, and even seeing Jenkins’s face once more, was a relief.

The Church Porch

Walter Slater, assistant curate at St Luke’s, entered the cathedral close with a spring in his step. It was out of place, perhaps, to be feeling buoyant after a funeral but he had observed this response in himself and others on several occasions, once the dear departed was tucked into the earth. It was as if the weight of the earth being piled on the coffin was simultaneously being taken off the shoulders of the mourners. Even on such a foggy, dreary late afternoon, there had been a perceptible lightening of everyone’s spirits.

Walter had been helping to officiate at the service for the widow of one of the previous incumbents of the church. Mrs Parsons – that really was her name or rather the name of her late husband – had been one of the oldest and most devoted members of the St Luke’s congregation. She fell asleep during the sermons and lessons, and could scarcely stand up for the hymn-singing let alone kneel down to pray, but still she came to the church as regular as clock-work on Sundays.

Mrs Parsons had always been escorted to the St Luke’s services by her granddaughter, Alice Nugent. Miss Nugent did not fall asleep during the sermons or lessons but listened to them most attentively so that she could discuss their salient points afterwards with Walter.

Pleasant thoughts of Miss Nugent were filling Walter’s head and he did not notice the figure emerging through the gloom on his left hand. The figure was carrying a walking stick and heading to cut him off before he could turn down West Walk. Walter was surprised, more than surprised, to see that it was his father. Percy rarely left Northwood House or Downton to come to Salisbury.

‘What are you doing here, Father?’

‘That’s a fine welcome, Walter. I have as much right to walk round the close as anyone.’

‘Are you come to see Uncle Felix?’’

‘I am come to see you.’

Even in the half-light Walter noticed a strange, hectic cast to Percy’s face. He made to resume his walk, assuming his father would accompany him. But Percy held up his stick.

‘I don’t want to go to Venn House. I don’t want to see Felix. But I need to speak to you, Walter. Is there somewhere private we can go?’

Somewhere private? It was an odd request, thought Walter. ‘We could find a corner of the cathedral,’ he said. ‘Evensong will be over and there will be few people inside.’

‘Yes, a dark corner of the cathedral,’ said his father, seeming pleased with the suggestion.

The two men began to move towards the shrouded shape of the great church. The nearest entrance was via the porch in the north-west corner. As Walter and Percy drew closer, they observed two more individuals standing in the porch, two clerics to judge by their clothes.

Percy again held up his walking stick as a sign that they should halt.

He’d recognized his brother as one of the clergymen in the porch. Walter too had seen his uncle. The other man, he knew, was Canon Eric Selby.

The Canons hadn’t noticed the approach of father and son, partly because of the gloom of the afternoon but more because they were embroiled in a fierce argument. Even from the distance of many yards, the sound of raised voices could be heard.

Walter and his father might have done one of two things. They might have continued in the direction they were going and alerted the others to their presence. Or they might have tactfully turned on their heels and left the clerics to carry on their quarrel.

Instead, Percy gestured to Walter that they should get closer to one side of the porch, so that they’d be hidden from the view of the others but within earshot. Walter was at first baffled, then uncomfortable with the idea of eaves-dropping on his uncle, but he’d found by experience that it was easier to humour his father than make a fuss. The two stood, wrapped in fog, and listened to the argument.

Canon Selby was saying, ‘It is your fault, Slater, that Andrew North has disappeared. If you hadn’t encouraged him to go poking about where he shouldn’t, he’d still be doing an honest day’s work here.’

‘The sexton’s disappearance is nothing to do with me,’ said Slater in his dry, precise tones.

‘He visited Venn House often enough.’

‘I employed him to dig a grave in the garden. A grave for my wife’s pug, I hasten to add, Selby, before your imagination runs away with you.’

‘But you have a gardener – Eaves, isn’t he called? Couldn’t he have done the job?’

‘Good grief, are all my domestic arrangements to be subject to your scrutiny?’

‘I am only concerned with the missing sexton, Slater.’

‘I tell you again, I have no idea where he is. I pray that no harm has come to the man.’

‘You put ideas into North’s head,’ said Selby. ‘He became obsessed with uncovering the past, with digging things up. A sexton’s job is to bury, not to dig up. It is dangerous to uncover the past.’

‘You refer to the poor man as if he was no more. If you know anything, Canon Selby, then you should inform the authorities, go to the police house.’

‘He has been gone these several weeks. His sister is convinced that – that a great harm has befallen him. It is a reasonable assumption.’

‘Well, we must pray that he returns safe and sound. If you will excuse me, Selby, I must leave you. It is getting colder by the minute. And we have a guest for supper.’

From their position by the side of the porch Walter and Percy Slater saw Felix stride off into the mist. He was followed a short time later by Canon Selby.

‘No love lost between those two, eh?’ said Percy.

‘Canon Selby has never liked Uncle Felix,’ said Walter. ‘I believe that a long time ago he wanted to live in Venn House but Uncle got his hands on it first.’

‘This time they were talking about something different, the sexton who has gone missing.’

‘You know about that?’ said Walter, looking towards his father in surprise.

‘I read the
Gazette
. I like to keep up with the news from the big city.’

Father and son entered the cathedral through the porch door. Inside there was a sepulchral gloom. The scattered lamps and candles still burning after Evensong only emphasized the great pools of shadow which filled the place and seemed to flow down from the remote ceiling. A few shapes moved through the darkness, intent on their own business.

Walter steered his father towards the left. They sat down on a stone ledge that ran along the wall.

‘Is this private enough for you, Father? We are not likely to be disturbed here.’

Percy Slater sat with his walking stick between his knees.

‘I had a visitor today,’ he said. ‘A young man from a law firm in London.’

Sitting beside him, Walter started. He said, ‘I know the man, if it is Mr Ansell you mean. He has been visiting Uncle Felix.’

‘And I know that too,’ said Percy. ‘But Walter, there is a great deal that
you
do not know. And I feel that it is time you were told.’

‘I’m all ears, Father,’ said Walter with mock eagerness.

‘You may not be after you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’

Percy Slater’s warning was accurate enough. If anybody had been observing the door which led out of the north-west porch some half an hour later, he or she would have seen a white-faced figure wrenching it open and almost running through it. It was Walter Slater, no longer moving with a confident bounce but heading into the evening fog with no clear destination, with no idea at all of where he was going in fact. Still sitting on the stone ledge in the side aisle was Percy Slater, tapping on the floor with the tip of his walking stick. It was too dark inside to read the expression on his face.