The Salisbury Manuscript (15 page)

The Study

For a second time, Tom Ansell arrived at the gate in the fine brick wall which fronted Venn House. He peered at the plaque which announced the house. He reached out. The latch felt clammy, even through his gloved hand. In any case the gate was already unfastened. It was as well that he’d first visited the Slaters’ place by day, since he doubted he’d have been able to find it on so dark and fogshrouded a night. Not that he was the only person out and about. A couple of shapes had passed him in West Walk, moving rapidly in the opposite direction and veering to avoid him in the murk.

He walked up the garden path between the yew trees. A diffuse light came from two or three windows at the front of the house. If he’d thought about it, it might have struck him as odd that the curtains or shutters hadn’t been closed against such a dank, inhospitable evening. But the first suspicion that something was wrong didn’t occur to Tom until he reached the front door to Venn House. The door, like the gate, wasn’t shut fast but was slightly ajar. He pushed the door open. Gas lights were burning in the lobby and in the hall and passage which stretched ahead to the interior of the house.

Tom paused in the lobby. Tendrils of mist floated in behind him. He closed the door. He listened. There was no sound. The distant smell of supper reminded him that he was hungry.

‘Hello,’ he said, tentatively, and then repeated himself more loudly.

No reply.

Where were the housemaids? Or his hosts, Canon and Mrs Slater? Or their nephew, Walter?

He walked into the hall and paused again, uncertain. There was no noise except for the methodical ticking of the longcase clock. He glanced to his left. The table in the dining room was laid for a meal. It was a relief to see that he was expected. Tom examined the ornamental ferns in the cabinet against the wall. He waited for someone, for anyone, to appear and acknowledge his presence. Someone to welcome him, take his coat, and usher him into the warmth of the house.

But no one came.

The last time he’d been here the talk was of various breakins at the houses in the cathedral close. Was that what had happened tonight? Was there a thief still in the house? If there was, then Tom had alerted him by calling out.

He looked around for something with which to defend himself. He went back into the lobby. There were walking sticks and umbrellas in a castiron stand. He chose a walking stick with a thick, bulbous handle. Holding it at the tapered end, and feeling faintly foolish, he made his way back down the passage. The smell of roasting meat from the kitchen area grew stronger but there was no clatter of pans. Tom moved quietly, senses alert, the walking stick held up like a club. He half expected to see a dark figure dart out of one of the rooms. Unless the thief – or thieves – had already made their escape. Those two shapes he’d glimpsed in the West Walk? Except, thinking back now, he had the impression that the shapes had been female.

He reached the door of Slater’s study. Unlike the other doors, this one was closed. Tom tapped on it, without result. By this stage he did not expect an answer. Some instinct told him that, if the house was occupied, then the intruder should be found in here. He twisted the knob and felt the door give a fraction. Not locked. Without giving himself time to hesitate, Tom swept the door open and almost leapt into the room, holding the walking stick high above his head and with his nerves so on edge that he would have brought it down on the skull of anyone standing in his path.

But the Canon’s study was as empty as everywhere else in Venn House.

It lay in darkness apart from a gas lamp burning on the nearest wall, the one on which were displayed those dark and violent pictures. Underneath them was the old chest which contained the memoirs of old George Slater and other papers. Which
had
contained them. The chest was open and its lid flung back against the wall. There was nothing remaining inside it. Felix Slater might have emptied it of its contents, in preparation for handing to Tom the Salisbury manuscript.

But Tom Ansell did not think Felix had emptied the chest. Something smelled wrong.

He cast his eyes round the study. The glass in the display cases containing what Canon Slater had called his ‘old artefacts’ glinted in the light from the single gas lamp. The shadows deepened on the far side of the room where large windows gave on to the foggy darkness of the garden and river. For the first time Tom’s attention was caught by the fact that the curtains had not been drawn in here either. The surface of Slater’s desk looked untidy and now Tom observed books and paper on the floor around the desk. Not just that. There was a strange item which Tom couldn’t identify in the centre of the desk, a kind of large ball or orb with a handle sticking up from it.

He moved closer to the desk, his heart thudding away. When he saw what the ball was, his gorge rose and he turned away, feeling sick and breathless.

He took several deep breaths and steeled himself to examine the sight more closely. Felix Slater was sitting at his desk. His head was slumped forward and resting among the pens and ink-holders so that the only part of him visible from a distance was the bare crown of his scalp, like a giant billiard ball.

Tom moved nearer still. In order to see the handle-like object which protruded from the back of Slater’s neck, he had to bend forward. Canon Slater had been killed with a flint spearhead, perhaps one of those in the display cases. It had been driven forcefully into the nape of his neck. Blood had flowed down on either side of his head and formed a dark pool on the surface of the desk. His hands were splayed out on either side, as if he were prostrating himself in prayer. Tom was thankful he couldn’t see the Canon’s expression since the man was face downwards. He must have been taken by surprise, sitting at his desk. Whoever killed him had taken the contents of the chest.

Removing his gloves and transferring the walking stick to his left hand, Tom reached out to touch the polished stone implement before thinking better of it. He should not tamper with the scene of a violent crime. Alarm suddenly replaced queasiness as he realized that whoever had done away with Felix Slater might still be inside the house. Inside the house or outside it and nearby. He was conscious of the darkness and fog pressing against the thin glass panes behind his back. Where was Mrs Slater? Or Walter? The household servants? The dreadful idea that there might have been more killing, that there were other bodies in Venn House apart from Felix’s, seized hold of Tom.

He darted back to the centre of the study, his eyes scanning the ranks of books, the pictures whose violence had been mirrored in reality, the glass cases containing what now appeared to him to be so many implements for murder. There was nothing for him here. Tom was almost out of the door, on his way to summon help, when he froze.

There were footsteps coming down the hall towards the rear of the house. Feet moving hesitantly, as if their owner didn’t know his way – or didn’t want to be heard.

Tom was still holding the walking stick which he’d taken from the lobby. He gripped the narrow end, holding it up like a golf club. By the single light on the wall, he glimpsed his white knuckles. By now he had blood on the back of his hands too, Felix Slater’s blood.

A shadow fell across the doorway. A man whom Tom had never seen in his life planted himself on the threshold of the study. He cast his eyes up and down Tom, hardly seeming to register the stick which the other had raised to head height. He looked in the direction of the desk across which Canon Slater lay slumped. The man, who was thickset and wearing a raincape, nodded his head as if in answer to an unspoken question and folded his arms across his chest. He stood blocking the way out. There was someone else standing to one side of the doorway, Tom could see another shadow.

For a time neither man moved, then the individual in the doorway said, ‘Put that stick down, there’s a good fellow.’

Tom was ushered out of Canon Slater’s study by Inspector Foster and Constable Chesney, although at that stage he knew neither of the policemen by name. Foster had relieved him of the walking stick, deftly slipping it from Tom’s hand and grasping it in his own.

They walked down the hall towards the lobby. In the lobby and around the covered porch, there was a cluster of people. Tom recognised all of them, even in his confused and distracted state. It was as if almost everyone he’d met since arriving in Salisbury two evenings ago had been gathered together to witness his capture and disgrace.

There was Amelia Slater and her nephew Walter, together with several of the household servants, including the girl whom Slater had rebuked for having a crooked collar and Eaves the gardener. All of these might have been expected to be on the scene. But there were others whose presence was more surprising and whom Tom noted, half unawares. There was Canon Eric Selby, wearing his shovel-hat. There was Percy Slater, his ruddy face looking pale in the swirling mist. Near Percy was the odd coachmancum-factotum, whose name Tom couldn’t recall in the stress of the moment. And, oddest of all, there was Henry Cathcart, the old friend to Tom’s father. What was
he
doing here?

No one spoke a word. They either looked at the ground or fastened their eyes on him in a manner that was both frightened and accusatory, so that Tom wanted to say, ‘I didn’t do this thing! It is a terrible mistake.’

But no one spoke and so he kept silent too.

Even though they were now outside, in the cold and misty night, Tom felt intolerably hot. His face was burning. He was suddenly conscious of the bloodstains on his hands and wanted to hide his hands in his pockets but he kept them stiff by his sides. He felt a nudge at his back.

‘That way, if you please, sir. Down the path.’

Tom walked between the dripping yew trees. He was in the lead, with Inspector Foster and Constable Chesney behind him. Tom heard an outbreak of comment and whispers from the onlookers. He might have made a break for it, might have run through the gate, but the thought was dismissed as soon as it occurred. Just as well since there was a second constable stationed outside the gate of Venn House.

They moved off together, a foursome, going up West Walk. Foster walked at a steady pace beside Tom with the two constables in close attendance. He was still holding the walking stick. Tom had no idea where they were going or, rather, he struggled to suppress the idea which he did have.

‘No carriage, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Inspector Foster, ‘but it’s not too far and if we walk briskly we will soon forget about the cold. Follow my lead now, Mr Ansell, we don’t want you going astray on a nasty night like this.’

The person who had murdered Canon Felix Slater watched as Tom Ansell walked down the garden path with the three policemen following at his heels, the Inspector grasping a walking stick. The young man looked stunned, as well he might. By the light of the lobby, the murderer had observed Tom’s bloody hands held rigidly at his sides. Caught red-handed, the murderer thought. The poor fellow must have come too close to Felix’s body and accidentally got his hands dirty. Almost involuntarily, the murderer whispered Tom’s name after he’d passed by and added for good measure, ‘He did it!’

Despite these signs of guilt, Felix Slater’s killer did not believe that Ansell would be detained long by the Salisbury constabulary. It would soon emerge that the lawyer had arrived at Venn House after the killing. The Inspector would question him and let him go.

But that would all take time. Time which the murderer could put to good use.

Fisherton Gaol

‘Well, sir, I hope you slept well.’

‘I did not sleep well, Inspector. In fact, I am not sure I slept at all.’

‘I told Griffiths to take good care of you, Mr Ansell. This is the best room in his establishment.’

For the hundredth time since he’d arrived at the county gaol in Fisherton Street, Tom glanced around his ‘room’. It was starkly furnished, with a narrow bed, a wash-stand, a simple table and chair. In an unsuccessful attempt to soften the hard edges of the accommodation, there was a strip of thin carpet running down the centre of the room and a framed sampler on the wall. The sampler read
Bless
this House
. As Inspector Foster and Griffiths the gaoler had made clear the previous evening, this was a room reserved for the most privileged of guests. It was right next to the gaoler’s own lodgings and quite separate from the other prisoners. But, whatever you did to it, the place was still a cell. There was a single vertical bar in the centre of the glazed but uncurtained window, and a lock on the door which could only be opened from the outside.

‘I’ve no complaints about Mr Griffiths,’ said Tom. ‘He and his wife have been all consideration. His wife brought me a cooked breakfast this morning. But it is a question of what you are used to, Inspector Foster.’

‘As I said last night, sir, this is only temporary, very temporary. But you have to look at matters from my point of view. Is there any more coffee in that pot, by the way?’

Tom gestured that he should help himself to the coffee, which had been provided by Griffiths’ bustling wife at the same time as she ushered the Inspector into Tom’s cell. The Inspector himself had fetched another chair from outside and the two men were sitting on opposite sides of the little table. They might have been in a coffee house, apart from the hardness of the chairs and the absence of newspapers and the general grimness of Tom’s situation.

Inspector Foster was a stolid man with the look of a gentleman farmer. He had the long side-whiskers known as dundrearies. He seemed fresh and alert while Tom felt crumpled and stale. He’d slept in his shirt and had only a perfunctory wash that morning. He’d been too angry and distressed to eat the previous evening and left untouched the portion of supper which Mrs Griffiths had provided, to her disappointment. Rather than eating, Tom found himself mentally circling round and round those few minutes which covered his arrival at Venn House, his discovery of Felix Slater’s body in the study, the appearance of Inspector Foster on the threshold of the room, and that terrible walk out of the house and through the mistladen streets of Salisbury. He was thankful that there weren’t many people about and that, as the policeman had said, it was no great distance to the gaol. Tom remembered, fondly, his room at The Side of Beef and even the unctuous presence of Jenkins the landlord.

Tom might have been reassured by Foster’s saying that his incarceration (although the policeman had used the word ‘stay’) in Fisherton was only temporary and that everything would soon be cleared up. But when Foster left, and Mrs Griffiths had been in to collect the untouched plate of supper, and Tom had done his best to wash the last traces of Felix Slater’s blood from his hands, he lapsed into despondency. The room was still a cell, with its white-washed walls, its barred window and locked door, and he was still a prisoner. He thought of Mr Mackenzie – how would his employer react to a representative of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie spending a period of time, however short, in a county gaol? He thought of his mother.

And he thought of Helen Scott. This was the one bright spot. Not simply the thought of Helen, but the idea that she alone out of everyone he knew might be amused, even excited, by the fact that he’d spent time in chokey.

‘You have to look at matters from my point of view,’ repeated Inspector Foster, on this bright November morning. Tom could see the blue sky out of the window.

‘I’m trying to, Inspector, but somehow my own point of view keeps getting in the way.’

‘I was summoned to Venn House yesterday evening by Constable Chesney. He had been patrolling the close. We’ve had some robberies there recently, you know. He was alerted by the women of the house, by Mrs Slater and one of the maids.’

Tom recalled the two figures rushing past him up West Walk. Was that Amelia and one of the housemaids?

‘The women are beside themselves and hardly coherent,’ continued Foster, falling into the present tense to recreate the experience more vividly. ‘It takes some time for Chesney to get an inkling of what has occurred. Well, sir, Constable Chesney then gives me the alert and by the time I arrive in the close there are other people – there are friends and neighbours – on the scene. They tell me that, to the best of their knowledge, there is no one left inside the house and that everyone has rushed out in terror. Notwithstanding, I approach the house cautiously. I can tell they fear that the murderer of the Canon might still be in the vicinity.’

‘I thought the same thing,’ said Tom. ‘Not that the Canon had been murdered but that there was an intruder in the place. That’s why I armed myself with one of the Canon’s walking sticks.’

‘Be that as it may, Mr Ansell, be that as it may. I walk into the hallway of Venn House and I know – I know – by instinct that there
is
someone inside. And my instinct is correct for now I am able to hear movements from Canon Slater’s study.’

Tom said nothing. Confirming his presence again merely seemed to point the finger of blame more firmly. Besides, he did not want to interrupt Foster’s narrative. The Inspector was obviously enjoying himself.

‘I walk up to the door and I see – what do I see?’

‘You see me.’

‘I see you, Mr Ansell. And I see moreover that you are wielding a club or a stick. I see by the light from the room and the passageway that there is blood on the back of your raised hands. I stand in the doorway and wait for you to explain yourself but you say nothing. What am I to think?’

‘I don’t know. No, I do know, Inspector. But it’s not what you think. I’m no murderer. You’ve just said there have been a spate of robberies in the close. Isn’t it possible that the murderer of Canon Slater was the robber?’

‘I’ve been a policeman for many years, Mr Ansell, and in my experience your thief and your murderer are like fish and fowl, quite different beasts.’

‘For heaven’s sake, what reason would I have to kill Canon Slater! He was a client of my firm’s. I came to Venn House because I had been invited to supper by the Slaters. I had business there. I had a legal document to deliver to him.’

Tom patted his inside pocket. The letter which was there, the letter formalizing the arrangements over the Salisbury manuscript, gave a reassuring rustle. It was a reminder of Tom’s real work, of his real life. But useless now, since the manuscript had disappeared and Slater was dead.

‘Just so, sir,’ said Inspector Foster. ‘I have established these facts since.
Since
, I say. Now I understand that the maid discovered the dead body of Canon Slater and went crying to her mistress and that, together with others in the house, they ran off in all directions looking for help. I know that there were friends and family of the Canon quite close by. But at the time, I was aware of none of this. There are still a few unexplained details. I haven’t yet spoken to Mrs Slater.’

Yes, Tom thought, there were a few unexplained details. Like the fact that friends and family of the Canon were close by the scene of his murder. There were Walter Slater and Amelia, their presence easily explicable. But what were Selby and Cathcart and Percy, Slater’s brother, doing on the spot? If he were the Inspector, he’d be aiming his enquiries in that direction. He opened his mouth to suggest something of the sort, then thought better of it. Let the police do their own work.

But there was still a small puzzle which he wanted to put to Foster.

‘You knew my name, though. You called me by it as we were leaving Venn House. Yet we’d never met before, Inspector.’

‘Someone said it, I think, as we were walking by. “Mr Ansell, he did it!” They said it in a whisper, in surprise.’

‘Who said those words?’ said Tom, more than curious. He remembered hearing the whispering behind him as he walked down the path but had been too distracted to distinguish any words. For some reason the remark – not the giving of his name but the ‘he did it!’ part – caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle.

‘I don’t know.’

‘A man or a woman, was it?’

‘A man,’ said Inspector Foster. ‘But it might have been a woman, now I come to think of it. A voice coming out of the dark and the mist.’

‘It’s an odd thing to say.’

Inspector Foster shrugged. ‘I do not see why. The person, whoever it was, was merely saying what others might have been thinking. From first impressions, you understand. You were in the study where Canon Slater was found dead, you were standing there wielding a stick, you had bloodied hands.’

Tom shivered and looked down at the backs of his hands. He thought he detected a speck of blood on one, still. There was a sort of sense to what the Inspector said, though no one had seen him, Tom, in the Canon’s study apart from Foster. Or had they? Had someone glimpsed him through the uncurtained windows? If so that person might justifiably have assumed Tom was the killer. Unless that very person was the killer.

‘Anyway,’ continued the Inspector, ‘I was not paying close attention to people’s words, sir. My concern was to get you away from the vicinity of Venn House before anyone could come to harm.’

‘I suppose you thought I was going to take a swing at somebody with that walking stick.’

‘I was just as concerned that harm might come to
you
, Mr Ansell. It seemed best to get you to a place of safety.’

‘To the county gaol,’ said Tom, gazing round the room once more.

‘This is a secure place out of the public eye. Best to keep you in here while tempers got cooler and minds got clearer and I could ask a few questions.’

‘So I can go now?’

‘In a few hours you can go. There are a handful of queries I have to make and then you can return to your room at The Side of Beef.’

‘I do not think I’ll be staying in Salisbury, Inspector. My business here is terminated with the death of my client.’

‘But I must request you prolong your visit by two or three days.’

‘Why?’

‘Because although my immediate enquiries concerning you, Mr Ansell, may be nearly finished, there is no saying whether you won’t be called to contribute to the investigation in future. If so, it would be handier to have you on the spot rather than sending to London.’

Foster looked genial enough as he said these words but he tugged at his side-whiskers as if in emphasis. Tom sensed that he might be prevented if he tried to leave the city. And, in fairness, he might have some work to do in attending to Felix Slater’s estate.

‘Did you find any documents in the study, Inspector?’ he said. ‘Or, to be more exact, did you see a volume rather like a diary with a hasp and a lock?’

‘I don’t think so. Why, is it important?’

‘Not especially,’ said Tom.

Foster looked as though he didn’t quite believe Tom but he said nothing. Instead he drained his coffee cup and stood up. He stretched out his hand and shook Tom’s, saying, ‘An hour or two, sir, and we shall have you out of here.’ The gesture and words were reassuring.

But once Foster had left the prison apartment, Tom couldn’t be certain whether or not he had turned the key after him. If he had, it had been done in a discreet fashion. Tom was reluctant to try the door in case it was locked, which would indicate that the policeman still regarded him as a prisoner. Nevertheless, he did get up and test the door. It was locked. He sat down again and picked up his cup. The coffee was cold. He tried to steer his mind on a different course, away from himself, now that the first shock of Slater’s murder and his own incarceration had worn off.

Tom started to wonder why Slater had been killed. Was it connected to the disappearance of the Salisbury manuscript? Or something different altogether? More important, who had done it? Who had felt sufficient coldness or fury towards Felix Slater to take a flint spearhead from the display case and plunge it into the nape of the man’s neck? The Canon had surely been taken off his guard. That suggested that whoever was in the study with him was someone he knew, someone he was not expecting to harm him. Therefore, not a stranger or an outsider, which tended to confirm what the Inspector believed: that this was not the individual who’d been breaking into other houses in the close. So, a friend or a fellow cleric, a member of the family, a servant?

Tom ran his mind back over the group gathered in and around the entrance to Venn House. Leaving aside Bessie, the maid with the crooked collar, and Eaves the gardener, together with some other servants he didn’t know, there were Felix’s wife and his nephew and his brother, as well as Canon Eric Selby and the store-owner Henry Cathcart.

He remembered what Inspector Foster had said, the words whispered into the air, the words which had enabled Foster to call Tom by name. ‘Mr Ansell, he did it!’

Tom had shivered when Foster said that. Why? Some sixth sense? He was seized by the feeling that it was the murderer himself who’d spoken, in an attempt perhaps to imprint his guilt on the minds of those standing around. The murderer himself. Or the murderer
herself
since the Inspector hadn’t even been sure whether the voice was male or female.

The only woman in question, Amelia Slater, she had quite a deep voice. And her behaviour on their only two previous encounters was definitely odd. That teasing meeting near The Side of Beef and then her plea to him outside the gate of Venn House next morning that he should say nothing of that first, chance event, her pretence the next day that they’d never met at all. She’d pretended well, better than he managed to pretend. Had Amelia Slater got something to hide? Was she afraid of her husband or was she merely tired of him? Was she conducting some kind of liaison with another man? But it was a leap from that to murder.