The Salisbury Manuscript (6 page)

‘I, er, I . . . am not quite sure what you mean.’

‘Can you tell your cope from your chasuble, and could you tell either of them from your alb?’

‘No, not even if my life depended on it.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ said Mackenzie. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’ll have much discusssion about copes and chasubles with Felix Slater. He’s a canon residentiary at Salisbury Cathedral, which is where you are to go. Slater is distinctly “low”. He’d probably flee at a whiff of incense. He’s a stiff, somewhat cold individual, to be honest. Still, he comes from a family which has a very long association with us and we can no more choose our older clients than . . . than . . .’

‘Than parents can choose their children,’ completed Tom.

‘Very good. Older clients can certainly be as trouble-some and demanding as children. Not that Felix Slater is particularly old. And I shouldn’t be too hard on him. He is a worthy and respectable man.’

‘So what am I to do in Salisbury, Mr Mackenzie? Is it connnected with a will?’

‘Why no, not directly, though there is something to be passed on, a ‘delicate’ something. Let me explain, but first why don’t you help yourself to another drink. And top up my glass while you’re about it, Tom.’

Once Tom had refilled their glasses, David Mackenzie proceeded to explain. It appeared that Canon Felix Slater’s father had died quite a few years ago at the age of ninety, died peacefully in his sleep. George Slater – also a client of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie – had not only reached a venerable age but was a venerable-looking figure too, twinkling, benign and white-haired (at this point Tom wondered whether Mackenzie was, consciously or otherwise, referring to himself). If you’d glimpsed old Mr Slater in the street, tapping his way along with a cheery greeting for his neighbours and a smile for the children, you’d have taken him for a retired clergyman. You’d have assumed that the son, Felix, was merely following in the family tradition by going into the Church. But George Slater was a far from devout individual. In fact, in his youth he’d had a reputation as a very dissolute man.

‘It was a time of dissolution, of course,’ said David Mackenzie, pulling complacently on his pipe. ‘Not long after the beginning of a new century, the period of the Regency. Why, they got up to things we could hardly imagine these days, let alone countenance. So you might say that George Slater was doing no more than was expected of him. He mixed with writers and poets and fellows like that, and you certainly can’t expect any better of
them
.’

‘But he settled down later?’ said Tom, wondering where all this was leading.

‘In a manner of speaking. George Slater settled down, if marriage is settling. And, if it is, then presumably the more marriages, the more settled. George got through three wives – nothing sinister there, I hasten to add. He outlived them all but they died of natural causes. Felix, who is now a Salisbury canon, was one of two surviving children of these matches and he never got on with George. He was the second son by the second wife. I have always suspected that he chose the Church as a kind of reproach to his father and his father’s way of life. George was a non-believer. He had a tendency to talk about his atheism as loudly as that Bradlaugh fellow does now. Father and son were opposites in other ways too. Certainly, Felix is a rather crabbed and priggish person. The name means ‘happy’ in Latin, you know, and I think he was called that in optimistic hope by his father. George was an expansive and good-humoured fellow – or so he seemed to me in his later days. By the time I knew him, he was married to his third wife. There was quite a difference in age. He seemed attentive enough to her while she seemed fond enough of him. But who can tell with a marriage, who can tell, eh?’

Tom pulled some vaguely sympathetic face while wondering, again, whether Mr Mackenzie was referring to himself (and Mrs Mackenzie).

‘I’m telling you this, Tom, not because it has any immediate bearing on your task but because I think that you need to know something of Canon Slater’s history and the history of the family. This is a strange business, one that requires tact and discretion. Normally, I’d travel down to Salisbury myself but as things are . . .’

David Mackenzie glanced down at the leg propped up on the stool. Outside it grew gloomier, or perhaps it was that the air in the room was becoming more opaque on account of smoke from the pipe.

‘George Slater had an estate in Wiltshire, outside Salisbury. It’s an old house, goes back earlier than the Civil War. The family money came from wool originally. Almost everybody’s money in Wiltshire came originally from wool, you know. The estate has now passed to his older son, Percy, who was the older son by his second wife, the only one who produced children. Percy was a son in the mould of the father though I fear he’s gone into decline. A lifetime of drinking and idling on the expectation of coming into money has done him no favours. He was a client of our firm at one time but he had a falling-out with Scott or possibly with Lye. I don’t know what it was about, before my time, but he was encouraged to take his business elsewhere.

‘Anyway Percy too has got through a couple of wives and it is the present one, Elizabeth, who would be the lady of the manor if she chose to spend much time down there. But I believe she doesn’t like the country and spends all the year in town.

‘Felix, the younger son, the Salisbury cleric, did not receive very much after the death of father George, and almost everything which was left went to Percy. But one of the items that Felix took – or that was bequeathed to him, I am not certain which – was a trunkful of old documents and papers. I have the impression it has taken several years since their father’s death for this trunk to travel the few miles to Salisbury. There was nothing of much value or importance in the trunk. I imagine that Percy Slater one day got around to glancing inside it, and decided that the contents might as well go to his younger brother, who takes an interest in history and tradition. You are with me so far, Tom? You look . . . distant.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s just that it’s rather warm in here. And I was thinking that from what you are saying . . . there must have been an article of value inside the trunk after all.’

Tom had been thinking no such thing but felt he had to make some response. The atmosphere inside Mackenzie’s snug was soporific and he wondered when his employer was going to get to the point.

‘There
was
an article of value in the trunk,’ said Mackenzie. ‘If this was a story, it would have been a revised will bequeathing the estate to Felix. A dramatic codicil which changed everything. But instead it was a handwritten manuscript. A kind of life story.’

‘Whose life story?’

‘George Slater’s. At some point the old man had decided to pen an account of his early days, or at any rate those days before his latter period of respectability. Now, I said that George had been friendly with writers and the like. He’d known Lord Byron and Percy Shelley and the rest of that gang. In fact, I think that Percy Slater had been christened in honour of the poet. But George Slater had mixed with other people apart from titled poets. Others less reputable, men and women both. He seems to have, er, sown quite a few wild oats in his youth, a whole field of them, as it were. Then, recollecting all this in tranquillity, he decided to write it down. It was this account which Felix Slater found among his father’s effects in the trunk.’

‘You’ve seen it, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘Heavens no. So far Canon Slater is the only person to have seen it – and read it. And what he has read does not make him think any better of his late father.’

‘It is scandalous, is it?’ said Tom, quite awake now.

"Bad and dangerous’ was the expression used by Felix Slater in a letter to me. I’m not sure whether he was referring to his father or to the contents of the manuscript or both.’

‘Surely if old Mr Slater is dead and if he lived a respectable life these many years, then there can’t be much harm in an account that reaches back half a century? And if he went to the trouble of writing his early history then he must have intended it to be read or even published.’

‘Do you keep a diary, Tom?’

‘No.’

‘That’s wise. I speak as a lawyer who is cautious about what he commits to paper. Some would say it’s a woman’s habit, anyway. People write up their diaries every day but many would be horrified to think of them being seen by any other eyes.’

‘Well then, if Canon Slater is so disturbed by this document, why doesn’t he just destroy it? Burn it.’

‘Here we come to the nub of the matter. Felix Slater may not have much time for his father’s memory or much patience with the brother who presently lives on the family estate. But he does look on himself as the inheritor of tradition, a repository of all that’s best in the Slater family. His grandfather – that is George’s father – was apparently a devout and upright man, a churchman like Felix. And Felix has a nephew, the son of Percy, who is also a man of the cloth. So the Canon regards himself and his nephew as being in the family line while his father and brother are the aberrations. All this is to say that he has a respect for what is handed down to him. He would not consider destroying this legacy of his father. It may not represent the best in the Slater line, it may even be among the worst things, but Felix can’t bring himself to burn it. Nor does he wish to consult his brother Percy, who should rightfully have some say in the matter.’

‘So what does Canon Slater want to do with it?’ said Tom, clearer now about where the conversation was heading.

‘Why, he wants us to take charge of the manuscript and keep it safe in our vaults with instructions that it should remain sealed up.’

‘Never to be opened?’

‘This is what you have to discuss, Tom. Felix is clear that he does not wish the manuscript to stay in his house in the Salisbury close. He does not want his wife to stumble across it by chance nor his nephew, who lodges with him. However, he has hinted that the account might be made available to his descendants when he is dead and gone.’

‘He has children?’

‘No children but there is the nephew. I think that Felix is content that his father’s history should remain under lock and key until an appropriate period of time has passed. The decision to open and read it can be left to Walter – that is his nephew and Percy’s son – when he is older. What you must discuss is what is meant by an appropriate period, and of course take charge of the manuscript and bring it back to our office safe and intact. It is a mundane errand, if you like, but one that requires tact and discretion.’

‘It sounds . . . interesting,’ said Tom.

‘You have visited Salisbury?’

‘Never.’

‘An attractive place. I can recommend a hostelry called The Side of Beef near Poultry Cross in the middle of town. I’ve stayed there on my visits. Get Mr Ashley to give you the particulars. He will also give you details of your appointment with Canon Slater. In the meantime I’ve written a letter which you should give Slater to smooth your way.’

He picked up anenvelope from the table by his side and held it out. Tom tucked it carefully into his jacket. He wondered whether this was the sign for him to leave but Mackenzie wanted to talk. Perhaps he was missing the conviviality of work for he said, ‘Now, how are things at the office?’

‘I believe Mr Ashley has everything well in hand,’ said Tom. ‘Mr Lye was in yesterday.’

‘And the Scotts? How are they?’

Tom was momentarily thrown by the question and saw David Mackenzie’s grin of pleasure.

‘Come on, Mr Ansell, I know that you are a regular visitor to a particular house in Highbury. Mrs Mackenzie is good friends with Mrs Scott and she hears all the news. The ladies do, you know. Helen Scott is an attractive young woman, isn’t she?’

Tom considered the lie that he hadn’t really noticed whether Helen was attractive then said, ‘Very. I do call there from time to time, yes, and they are well. Mother and daughter are well.’

‘I won’t ask you your intentions. But I remember Helen when she was just so high. An imaginative and inventive young woman, too.’

Inventive? Tom remembered Helen’s speculations about her neighbour Mrs Montgomery and the man who was
not
Mr Montgomery. He wondered whether Mackenzie had an inkling of Helen’s attempt to write a sensation novel. But it wasn’t for him to give the game away so he merely nodded.

The two continued chatting for a while until David Mackenzie signalled that the session was over by picking up the back-scratcher once more. While probing beneath the plaster cast, he wished Tom good fortune on his Salisbury errand and Tom wished him a speedy recovery.

Tom Ansell retraced his steps down the stairs to the baronial-looking hall. Mrs Mackenzie emerged from its depths.

‘Ah, Mr Ansell. How is the old boy upstairs?’

‘Mr Mackenzie seems well, all things considered.’

Mary Mackenzie looked at Tom quizzically and he remembered that she was friendly with Mrs Scott, Helen’s mother. That must be how she had known that his father was in the army.

‘Did he bend your ear about the Claimant case? I’ve heard of nothing but the Claimant case morning, noon and night.’

‘
Would you be surprised to hear
, Mrs Mackenzie, that all of London hears of nothing but the Claimant case?’

She smiled in recognition of the phrase. ‘Would you be surprised to hear’ had been an expression frequently used by the Tichbourne family’s counsel in the first trial. It had caught on with the public for no discernible reason, and was even turning up in music-hall songs.

‘Good, Mr Ansell. I am pleased to see that you can make a joke. I shouldn’t want to take you altogether for a dry lawyer.’

Tom should have felt condescended to but he found himself warming to Mrs Mackenzie. It crossed his mind that she was preferable to the dragonish Mrs Scott and that she might put in a good word for him in the Scott household. Then the sour-faced Bea appeared holding Tom’s hat and coat and, saying goodbye to his employer’s wife, he left the house.

It was almost dark outside, what with the hour and the fog that, rather than shifting away altogether, had risen up from the London basin. Tom walked past the dripping laurels and into the street where an elderly lamp-lighter was at work causing sudden blooms of yellow to erupt through the haze. It was only when Tom had walked a couple of hundred yards that he recalled the ‘errand’ with which he’d been entrusted by Mr Mackenzie. Until that point his mind had been full of Helen. Collecting a ‘manuscript’ did not sound a very demanding task. He put it out of his mind again and thought instead of Miss Scott.