The Salisbury Manuscript (8 page)

By now perhaps five minutes had passed, and Tom was conscious not only of the cold but of feeling a bit of a fool into the bargain. The man who had passed earlier with the hand-barrow was returning down West Walk, his rumbling barrow now laden with sacks. The carriage which had been waiting outside the iron-gated house further up the road had disappeared. He could still see the policeman closer at hand. Tom had had enough. He wasn’t going to respects the whims and fancies of a strange woman for a second longer. For all he knew, she’d forgotten about him. Or for a joke she intended to leave him loitering outside the house like some hawker or tradesman. If he did not move soon the policeman might ask him what he was doing here.

He took a couple of paces towards the almost shut door to Venn House. But before he reached it, the door opened. Swung open to reveal . . . nobody.

Venn House, Exterior

But there was someone there after all. A man emerged from the shadow on the other side of the door, holding a pair of garden shears. He was wearing a canvas apron, the pouch of which bulged with gardening implements. Sandy hair poked from under a leather cap. He gave a lopsided grin.

‘You must be the gen’leman that’s waitin’,’ he said, adding as an afterthought, ‘Are you the gen’leman, sir?’

‘I am a visitor to see Canon Slater,’ said Tom.

The man raised the shears as if to signal that Tom should come in. He walked past the gardener, who nodded his head in the direction of the house before setting off at a diagonal across the lawn. He didn’t look back. Footprints on the still frosted areas of the grass showed that he’d recently walked the same route. Tom supposed that the strange woman had alerted the first person she saw to the fact that there was a visitor by the gate. It wasn’t exactly a speedy reception or a ceremonial one.

The main door to Venn House was at the end of a path lined with yew trees that had been shaped and trimmed. The effect, perhaps intentionally, was like a walk in a churchyard and so rather gloomy. But the house itself, rising above the trees, was gracious and airy-looking with plenty of windows set into light-coloured stone.

Tom reached the covered porch which had a scallop-shaped interior to the roof. He was raising his hand to the knocker when the door opened. For no reason, he half expected to see the strange woman but it was only a housemaid. He explained himself again and was shown into a hall stretching into the depths of the house. He scarcely had time to glance round – watercolour pictures, a longcase clock, a glass cabinet full of ornamental ferns against a wall – before a figure emerged from a door at the far end.

‘You must be Mr Ansell. Mr Thomas Ansell of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie?’

‘Canon Slater?’

Tom was surprised. The man in clerical dress who was shaking him by the hand – a warm, firm clasp – was sober-looking, certainly, but there was a spring in his step and a glint in his eye which belied the dour picture that David Mackenzie had painted of him. The mystery was instantly solved, however.

‘No, sir. I am
Walter
Slater, nephew to Felix and son of Percy. I am Walter Henry Slater.’

‘Of course,’ said Tom. ‘You are a resident of your uncle’s house, I remember being told.’

‘He is good enough to accommodate me rather more comfortably than I could afford for myself,’ said Walter. ‘I am a curate at St Luke’s in the town. You have seen it perhaps?’

‘I arrived only yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to look round yet.’

‘I hope we shall welcome you through our doors one Sunday, Mr Ansell. We are not so grand as the cathedral of course but we have a fine, strong preacher in Mr Simpson, our vicar. He enjoys a devoted following among the townspeople.’

‘I would be interested to hear him,’ said Tom, the half-truth coming easily enough because he would never have to listen to the Rev. Simpson. ‘Unfortunately my business here will keep me only a day or so. My business with your uncle, I mean.’

Tom said this as a prompt, and Walter Slater took the hint. He led Tom to the same door from which he’d just appeared at the far end and knocked.

‘Uncle, here is your London visitor.’

If Felix Slater made any reply Tom, standing to one side, didn’t hear it. Walter drew back to let Tom enter and, without coming in himself, shut the door after him. The room was a study, lined with books and glass-fronted display cases. There were large, floor-length windows which doubled as doors giving a view of a garden with an orchard and, beyond that, a river and water-meadows. In front of the windows a man sat at a desk, his back to the view. Canon Slater was writing. He must have been aware of Tom’s presence but he kept his head bent down and his hand moving steadily across the sheet of paper in front of him. Tom wasn’t sure whether this was a deliberate ploy or whether he was too engrossed to break off. Eventually, Slater gave a little sigh, ground the nib of the pen into the paper in a gesture of finality and looked up.

‘A train of thought is a delicate thing,’ he said without preamble. ‘Once broken, it may never be recovered.’

He placed the pen carefully in its holder and got up. He came round the desk and advanced towards Tom, holding out a hand in belated greeting. Where the nephew’s handshake had been warm, the uncle’s was bonedry. Felix Slater was a tall man with a fringe of greying hair plastered close to his scalp. He was clean-shaven, with a thin mouth, a determined jaw and cheeks that were sunken.

The brief formalities done, Felix Slater said, ‘You’d better sit down, Mr Ansell. Now is not the time for refreshment but I hope that you will join us for luncheon when our business is concluded.’

‘Thank you, sir, I should be pleased to do that,’ said Tom, taking a chair on the other side of the desk and thinking that he’d much prefer to return to The Side of Beef. If the food and drink and company at Venn House were of a piece with his reception so far, he didn’t hold out much hope for any of it.

Canon Slater resumed his place at the other side of the desk. He sat up very straight and his chair was higher than Tom’s so that the younger man felt at a disadvantage. The Canon picked up the pen again then returned it to the holder. He seemed to be wondering how to begin. He said, ‘How is Mr Mackenzie? He has broken his leg, I believe.’

‘He is on the mend. He slipped as he was getting out of a cab. A foolish accident, he called it.’

‘Then he must be looking forward to the day when ‘the lame man shall leap as an hart’, Mr Ansell,’ said Slater, his mouth twitching like a piece of string which has been given a single tug.

‘Certainly he must,’ said Tom, realizing that the Canon was making not only a biblical reference but also some sort of joke. He brought out the letter which David Mackenzie had given him and handed it across the desk. Felix Slater took up a paper knife and slit open the envelope. All his actions were careful and economical. The items on the desktop – a selection of pens, blotter, ink-holder, letter-holder, paperweights – were set out in precise formation. Slater smoothed out the letter on the desk and inclined his head towards it. There was no artificial light in the study but enough came from the outside. While Felix Slater was reading, Tom saw through the window the gardener who’d appeared at the door in the wall. Like a character in a stage play, this individual strolled slowly across the view brandishing his shears. He did not look into the room as he passed.

‘Mr Mackenzie says that I may have complete confidence in you . . . in your powers of judgement and in your discretion,’ said Slater.

‘That is good of him,’ said Tom, pleased at his employer’s words even while he was thinking that Mackenzie couldn’t really have written anything very different.

‘He also says that you know something of the back-ground to this situation –’

There was a rap at the door and Slater barely had time to say ‘come in’ before the housemaid entered.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Mrs Slater is requiring to see you now, sir.’

Felix Slater looked at the woman – she was young and red-faced – as if she were a complete stranger. Tom expected him to dismiss her straightaway by saying he was busy but his only words to her were, ‘Your collar is not straight, Bessie.’

The housemaid’s hand flew up to her collar and she fiddled with it, disarranging it further before retreating backwards through the door. Slater rose from his seat with a kind of practised weariness, saying, ‘Excuse me, Mr Ansell, I shall not be any longer than I can help.’

He shut the door after him. Tom sat for a few moments gazing out at the sunlit garden and the bare branches of the fruit trees. He wondered what Mrs Slater was like. A formidable woman she must be, to be able to summon her husband like that. He visualized a person even more dour than her husband. He thought of Mrs Scott. And of Helen her daughter.

He continued to stare out at the garden. Other things being equal, it wouldn’t be such a bad life as a canon residentiary in a cathedral close. Tom had no idea what clerical duties Felix Slater had to perform, but he supposed they weren’t very onerous. To have a fine residence like Venn House and a garden that stretched down to a river. If he lived next to a river Tom would obtain a little rowing boat. He thought of Canon Slater in rolled-up sleeves and pulling on a pair of oars but the picture didn’t quite work.

He listened for the sounds of Canon Slater’s return but the house was as silent as if everyone had deserted it. Or deserted him. He grew bored with sitting and got up to take a tour of Slater’s study. He squinted at the spines of the books in the glassed case which almost filled a whole wall and which reminded him of the books in Mr Mackenzie’s office. Taking one down would be like picking a stone off a shelf. What did these books say about the Canon? A brief inspection confirmed his suspicions. There were county histories. Indecipherable titles in Latin and Greek and German. Enough editions of the Bible to build a miniature tower of Babel. Commentaries on the Bible and commentaries on the commentaries. No sign of a novel or of a book of poems. Then Tom told himself not to be so carping. After all, for his light reading on the train journey to Salisbury hadn’t he chosen Baxter’s
On Tort
? What did that say about him?

Tom wandered round Slater’s study. There were a few pictures clustered together in a corner above an old-fashioned wooden chest. As far as he could tell, they were engravings of scenes from the Bible. Not scenes of miracles or of a friendly smiling Jesus surrounded by disciples but dark and violent matter. There was a picture of a diminutive warrior whom Tom presumed to be David carrying a great severed head (Goliath’s?) past a line of smiling women. Pictures of obscure struggles. There was a sinister image of three crones, one spinning thread from a distaff and the other two deciding where to cut it. Tom recognized the Fates and the thread of human life.

He went over to look at the display cases which were against the wall by the door. Ah, here was something different again – although at first he thought the contents were as dull as what was in the bookcase. Under sloping sheets of glass was a miscellany of objects. Wedges of stone with one end honed to a blade, pieces of flint sharpened to a point were obvious weapons or cutting implements. But other items were more baffling. Small stones cut to a circular shape and pierced so that a cord might be run through them looked to be ornaments, as did pendant-like slivers of polished rock and bone. But there were miniature tablets of plain stone that served no discernible purpose although they had undoubtedly been cut and shaped by human hand. As well, there were fragments of pottery and items made of a metal which Tom supposed to be bronze: pins and things fashioned like needles and little sickles.

It was all dry stuff but it showed another side to Canon Slater (supposing that he had collected these objects himself), as did the sinister pictures in the corner.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom was suddenly conscious of a movement on the other side of the windows. He spun round to see the gardener looking at him. The man had his face almost pressed to one of the panes. His sandy hair poked out from under his cap. When he saw that Tom had seen him he quickly moved away. He’d never have dared to be so curious if he thought his employer was in the room. He must have assumed it was empty. Or perhaps it was merely that he was a little simple.

Just then the door to the study opened and Felix Slater came in. Tom was still standing by one of the display cases. Some words of explanation or excuse were beginning to shape themselves in his mind but they weren’t needed. Far from being displeased or put out, the canon allowed a smile to fasten itself on his pinched face. A genuine smile, not a tug on a piece of string.

‘Why, Mr Ansell, I am glad to see you are interested in my old artefacts.’

‘You collected all these things yourself, sir?’

‘I found them myself or have acquired them over the years. This is a very ancient place. I do not mean the city of Salisbury, although that is old enough. I refer to the countryside around here. Men have lived on the plain in settlements and stockades for many centuries. They have lived and died and been buried all around. There are signs of the past everywhere if you know where to look.’

Slater, standing next to Tom, stabbed a long forefinger at one of the items. It was made of bronze, with inter-locking circles set in a rectangular frame. He opened the hinged lid of the case and, picking up the piece of bronze, passed it to his guest. Tom cradled it in his palm. It was unexpectedly heavy.

‘You know what that is?’

‘A brooch?’

‘Most probably it is a belt-buckle. Admire the workmanship, Mr Ansell. Wonder at the skill of our ancestors in what we are pleased to call the Dark Ages.’

Tom examined the buckle more closely. In truth, the relics in the case did not signify much to him. The real discovery was the enthusiasm of Felix Slater, almost the passion of the man. He nodded and handed the buckle back. Slater replaced it carefully on the baize lining of the display case.

‘Are they valuable?’ said Tom.

‘Not especially, but to me they are beyond price.’

Tom felt rebuked by the answer, which was perhaps the intention. Slater indicated a couple of other pieces: a small bone with holes bored in it so that it might be blown like a flute, and a ring with an irregular zigzag pattern which, despite its tarnish, was gold. Then, as if realizing that their real business had been delayed long enough, the churchman abruptly went back to sit behind his desk. Tom returned to his chair. Slater went through the ritual of picking up and putting down his pen once more. He glanced at the letter from Mr Mackenzie.

‘Some of those things come from my father’s estate at Downton,’ he said, as if unwilling to leave the subject. ‘It was a great pleasure in my younger days to explore the grounds and go fossicking around. There used to be stories of a torque . . . you know what a torque is, Mr Ansell?’

‘An artefact?’

‘It is a metal band for the neck or arm, sometimes made of gold or silver. If it is value you are looking for then such an item would be truly valuable. However, this is not much to the purpose. Now my older brother Percy lives on the estate at Downton. He is not concerned with his inheritance and is paying for a lifetime of indulgence with a premature feebleness of body and mind while the place falls round his ears. In the meantime his wife Elizabeth escapes to London when she can, which is all the time as far as I can see. I do not altogether blame her. Who would wish to spend their time immured with a sot? I am not shocking you by speaking frankly, Mr Ansell? Mr Mackenzie no doubt told you that – that I do not see eye to eye with my brother.’