The Salisbury Manuscript

Mackenzie’s Castle

If David Mackenzie hadn’t got a little too well-oiled after dinner at his club, he would most likely have made a safe descent from his cab after a night out and kept his leg in one piece. If he hadn’t broken his leg and been laid up for several weeks, then he would never have instructed Thomas Ansell to go to Salisbury in his place. And if Tom hadn’t gone to Salisbury, he would never have become involved in that fatal business over the manuscript.

But the only active partner in Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie did slip and break his leg as he was leaving the cab and Tom Ansell did have to go to the city of Salisbury, with everything else that followed. It was Mr Ashley the clerk who told Tom that Mr Mackenzie’s fall was probably the result of a half bottle of port too much. Tom must have looked surprised for Ashley said, ‘I suppose you think I’m talking out of turn, Mr Ansell, to refer to our employer in that way. To suggest that he might have over-indulged at his club.’

‘It’s not my place to comment on him — or on you,’ said Tom Ansell.

‘Spoken with the proper caution of a fledgling lawyer,’ said Ashley.

Tom grew slightly red in the face and shifted in his chair on the other side of the senior clerk’s desk. Ashley continued, ‘But, you see, when one has been with a firm as long as I have, one is allowed a certain latitude. I remember when Mr Lye was a young man and Mr Scott hardly grown into middle age.’

Scott, who was Helen’s father, had been dead a good while now and although Mr Lye occasionally shuffled into the office his only activity was to scrawl his signature on correspondence placed in front of him. So Ashley’s memory stretched back to the early years of the Queen’s reign when these two men must have been in their prime. He had a fine memory too. Ansell had heard him correct Mr Mackenzie over some detail of a long-ago case. ‘I think you’ll find that the uncle’s name was Davenant, not Davenport, sir,’ or, to Tom Ansell himself soon after he joined the firm and went to him with a small problem, ‘If you look up Carstairs v. Smith in the archives, you will discover some helpful pointers to what you are dealing with in this situation, Mr Ansell. Carstairs was an impossible man even if he was our client. If my memory serves me right, it was the September of 1848. The early part of that month. We lost the case and I cannot say that I was altogether sorry we lost.’

Ashley was a walking archive himself. He had a high, corrugated forehead to contain all that information. Tom Ansell visualized his brain as a honeycomb of pigeon-holes, not sweet but dry as dust. It was on account of this memory combined with his long service that he had the licence to comment on everybody, the firm’s clients and partners as well as junior members. Another mark of his status was that he had a separate office which no one would have dreamed of entering without tapping on the door first.

‘Well, Mr Ansell, however it happened, Mr Mackenzie has broken his leg and he will be out of commission for some time. This is unfortunate because he was due to visit a client — a clerical gentleman — later this week. The client lives outside London. He lives in Salisbury. Now he, that is Mr Mackenzie, has told me that he wishes you to go to Salisbury in his place. But he — that is Mr Mackenzie again — wants to see you in person first. He has written to me about this and other matters.’

Tom wondered why the senior clerk couldn’t have passed on Mackenzie’s instructions himself. As if guessing his thoughts, Ashley picked up the top page of a letter from a neatly arranged pile on the desk. He put on his glasses and peered at it.

‘He says, ‘There are circumstances which are best conveyed to Ansell in conversation and not by letter. Accordingly, would you kindly request him to call on me at home this afternoon.’’

‘Does he say anything else?’

‘Not to your purpose,’ said Ashley, putting the young man in his place. ‘You know where Mr Mackenzie lives?’

‘I have been to supper at his house.’

‘He does that with all the new employees, you know, Mr Ansell, invites them to supper. Well, if you’ve no more questions — and if you have I am not sure I should be able to answer them — then perhaps you’d better be on your way.’

So a couple of hours later Tom Ansell was standing outside the door of David Mackenzie’s ample house in Highgate village. It was a November afternoon. Lower down the basin of the city was submerged in a grey-brown fog which would not shift before evening, if then. Up here the view was clearer but everything looked the more forlorn for being exposed. A few leaves clung by threads to trees and hedges. Passers-by scurried along, muffled up against the dank air. Tom opened the gate and walked up the gravelled path past low bushes of laurel. It was the first time he’d seen the house by daylight.

There was something a touch baronial about the Mackenzies’ house and he mentally contrasted it with the less ornate house where Helen Scott lived with her mother, the dragon-lady. Tom knew that David Mackenzie had had it built soon after becoming a partner in what was then Scott amp; Lye. The red brickwork still looked raw. Perhaps he had instructed his architect to design a building that would remind him of a Scottish stronghold, for there was a miniature turret to one side which was surmounted with battlements and covered with tendrils of ivy. The front door had a Gothic solidity while the windows on either side in the vestibule were almost as narrow as arrowslits. Tom tugged at the bell and heard it echo inside. He waited. There was no sound except the dripping of the laurel bushes.

The door opened and a maid, sourfaced, ageless, looked at him as warily as though he was a hawker or beggar. Tom explained that he was there to see the master of the house, by invitation. The maid continued to regard him with suspicion but said nothing.

A tall woman appeared in the lobby behind the maid.

‘Ah, Mr Ansell, isn’t it? Mary Mackenzie. You’ve come to see my husband.’

Tom was gratified that Mrs Mackenzie remembered him after what had been only a single supper visit.

‘That’ll do, Bea. Take Mr Ansell’s coat and hat and I will show our guest in.’

‘Very well, ma’am,’ said the servant without much grace. She took the overcoat and hat, then moved off down the hall.

Mary Mackenzie extended her hand. She had a strong, bony grasp, which suited her height and slightly masculine features.

‘Mr Mackenzie’ll be glad to see you. He doesn’t take well to being shut up all the time.’

‘I am sorry that he’s laid up,’ said Tom.

‘Not as sorry as I am. I’m used to having the house to myself during the day.’

She gave a barking laugh so that Tom was unsure whether she was genuinely irritated. She gestured him to follow her. In keeping with the castle-like exterior of the house, the hall beyond the lobby was panelled in dark oak on which were arranged small circular shields and pairs of crossed swords which Tom recalled from his first visit and which, to his eye, had a distinctly Scottish look. They had their own special name. Claymores, was it?

‘I suppose you imagine that these are all heirlooms, Mr Ansell?’ she said, noticing his glance. ‘These swords and shields which are all dinted and tarnished. All this military paraphernalia.’

‘They certainly look, ah, well established,’ he said.

‘Well, I can tell you that Mr Mackenzie bought them all in one fell swoop from a Scottish gentleman who had gone bankrupt. My husband has made only one trip north of the border in his entire life and that was to purchase these items. Mr Mackenzie would like to think that he has military forebears, martial ancestors. But you can take it from me that he does not.’

Tom was faintly surprised at the disrespectful tone in Mrs Mackenzie’s voice but he was accustomed enough to the way that wives talked about their husbands, and vice versa. He wondered if Helen would ever talk like that about him after they’d been married for as many years as the Mackenzies had been. He hoped not. He vowed he would never refer to her disparagingly. First of all, naturally, they had to get married. Or rather, Helen had to agree to marry him. And before that, he had to propose. The dragon-lady’s acquiescence would be desirable though not essential. As for Helen, Tom thought she was on the verge of agreeing. .

‘What? I beg your pardon.’

He realized that Mrs Mackenzie had said something to him. He was so wrapped up in visions of Helen consenting to marry him that he hadn’t been listening.

‘I asked whether your father was a military man. He was, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Tom. He wondered how Mrs Mackenzie was aware of this. ‘But I scarcely recall my father. He died when I was small. I can remember a tall man in a blue uniform but not much more.’

‘How romantic,’ said Mrs Mackenzie. ‘Did he die on campaign?’

‘In a manner of speaking. He was on his way to the Dardanelles when he caught a fever on board ship. He was buried at sea.’

‘Perhaps I should not say this but that also sounds romantic. You were not tempted to follow your father and serve your country?’

‘My father’s profession sometimes seems to belong to another age,’ said Tom. ‘The war in the Crimea was a long time ago.’

‘To you perhaps. But you are young, Mr Ansell. So, the age of heroes being past, you decided to take up the dry business of law?’

‘There can be blood and fury and death in the law too, Mrs Mackenzie. All the emotions of a battlefield but drawn out and buttoned up.’

‘No blue uniforms though?’

‘Not those, no.’

Mrs Mackenzie nodded her long face, though Tom could not tell whether it was in agreement or mild mockery. ‘Well, each to his own. You will find my husband in his snuggery if you go up those stairs there at the end. The first door you come to. Knock loudly for he may be napping.’

Thanking Mrs Mackenzie, Tom went down a short passageway which led off the hall and up a flight of spiral stone steps. He was in the turreted area of the house. Gas lights set in elaborate sconces reinforced the impression of being in a corner of a cramped castle. On a landing Tom rapped at an oak door whose stout ribs and redundant ironwork might have been designed to repel a siege by a bunch of medieval marauders. If David Mackenzie had been asleep it must have been a light one for almost straightaway there was an answering ‘Come in.’

At first Tom thought that a portion of the London fog had been piped up from town and into the room since he could hardly see to the far side. As his eyes adjusted and as the pipe smoke began to eddy through the open door, he made out the figure of the only active partner in Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie sitting in a wing-chair close to an open fire.

‘Be quick, Ansell!’ said Mackenzie. ‘Shut the door. Keep the warmth in. Sit down. Have a drink.’

Tom wondered that his employer could recognise him through the fug. David Mackenzie levered himself slightly upwards on the arms of his chair. His right leg, encased in a plaster cast, was resting on a stool. He was well equipped for a prolonged siege with a pipe in one hand, a glass in the other and a newspaper on his lap, and further supplies of tobacco, brandy and water on a table next to the wing-chair. Tom made some comment about how sorry he was to see him in this state.

‘It’s nothing, dear boy,’ said David Mackenzie, seeming pleased at Tom’s concern. ‘The result of a foolish accident. The ground was slippery, you know.’

The only active partner in Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie looked like a favourite uncle with his broad face and monk’s tonsure of white hair. But Tom knew that appearances could be deceptive. Mackenzie was sharp enough when it came to law business. He nodded benevolently but his ears missed nothing. He outlined a client’s chances succinctly.

‘Have a drink, I say. Help yourself to a glass from over there and then help yourself from this.’

Mr Mackenzie picked up the decanter and poured himself a generous measure. Tom would have preferred to drink tea or water or nothing at all — the debris of a pie which he’d bought at a coster’s stall on the way up to Highgate sat greasily in his stomach — but it wouldn’t do to refuse his employer. He fetched a glass from the sideboard and lined the bottom with brandy, adding plenty of water. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire to Mackenzie. Feeble daylight penetrated through the leaded window but a stronger illumination came from the gas jets on either side of the fireplace.

‘What d’you make of this?’ said Mackenzie, tapping the newspaper on his lap with the stem of his pipe. ‘Of the Claimant case?’

The criminal trial of the Tichborne Claimant was drawing to a close during these autumn days. At least, it was generally believed that it must be drawing to a close soon since it had begun in the spring and had already broken records for occupying court-time with a single case. But Tom sometimes wondered why it shouldn’t go on for ever. Just as things seemed to be winding down, the Claimant’s counsel introduced some sensational claim or wild accusation against the presiding judge. The case was amusing to those engaged in the law, not least because the judge who was on the receiving end of counsel’s accusations was the Lord Chief Justice, but it had extensive appeal beyond the law and could be relied on to sell the papers.

‘Is he genuine or isn’t he?’ said Mackenzie.

‘Surely there can be no question that he isn’t,’ said Tom.

‘Not a niggling doubt?’ said Tom’s employer, tapping the paper for emphasis. ‘Doubt is our business, you know. Doubt is the lever which can move legal mountains.’

Tom nodded. He sometimes felt that he should produce a notebook and write down David Mackenzie’s little asides, or perhaps it was rather the feeling that Mackenzie would have liked him to do so.

‘However, I haven’t summoned you here today to chew over the Tichborne Claimant case, Tom,’ said Mackenzie, folding the paper and dropping it on the carpet. While Tom was waiting to hear why he had been summoned, his employer picked up a back-scratcher from the table by his elbow. He inserted the end into the gap at the top of the plaster that encased his leg, and wiggled it around. Judging by the look of satisfaction, almost of ecstasy, that wreathed his round face, he must have succeeded in reaching the itch. He replaced the back-scratcher on the side table and said, ‘How are you on the Church?’

‘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 amp; 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.