The Salisbury Manuscript

West Walk

Tom woke with a thick head the morning after his arrival in Salisbury. He’d had a restless night in the four-poster in The Side of Beef, with a dream of struggling to gather up scattered sheets of paper from a railway line that stretched across a bare plain. He was acutely aware that the longer his task took the more likely was a train to thunder down on him. He could hear a kind of rattling along the rails.

Then, in time with the rattling, came a series of knocks at the door of his room and a woman entered with a jug of warm water for him to shave and asked if she should draw the curtains. Tom recognized her nasal voice and visualized her mournful eyes. He muttered to her to leave the curtains and tried to get back to sleep. But he abandoned the attempt after a few moments, got up and went across to the window.

The fog had lifted and it was a bright, hard morning, with frost on the panes and sun glinting on the roofs opposite. The street below was bustling with people and carts and carriages. Tom washed and dressed rapidly and went down to breakfast. It was later than he thought and he was the only diner. The motherly woman who’d served him at supper the previous evening clucked around him, offering him more coffee and asking whether he was sure he’d had enough porridge and sausage and kidney and toast and marmalade. She seemed to have taken a shine to him. Making conversation, he asked the way to the cathedral close and she told him to ‘follow the spire and it would be difficult get lost, sir,’ and he thought, of course, stupid question.

Conscious that he had an early appointment with Canon Slater, Tom refused second helpings of breakfast. He returned to his room to get his coat and a small despatch case, suitable for holding documents. When he was going through the lobby he saw the landlord standing on the porch. Jenkins was turning his head from side to side in a proprietorial fashion, as if he owned not merely The Side of Beef but the entire street it was situated in.

‘Ah, Mr Ansell of Messrs Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie. You are well rested, I hope, sir?’

‘Comfortably enough, thank you.’

‘And well fed?’

‘That too.’

‘Have you a moment, sir?’

‘No more than a moment, I am on my way to meet someone.’

‘It is only that I took a liberty last night and I thought I ought to tell you of it.’

Tom hesitated between annoyance and curiosity. He said nothing but stood opposite Jenkins on the porch. The landlord stroked his blackened moustache while his breath frosted in the cold air.

‘You may have observed last night, sir, at supper that I was talking to some ladies and gentlemen. One of them was asking about you. He wanted to know your name.’

Tom recalled the stouut individual leaning back in his chair and tapping the side of his nose, together with the frequent glances he’d cast in his direction. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not a spy with his secrets. You are welcome to give him my name if you like. But if he can ask about me, I can ask about him. Who was it?’

‘Mr Cathcart, Mr Henry Cathcart. He is one of the leading citizens of our town.’

‘And why did Mr Henry Cathcart want to know the name of one of your guests?’

‘He didn’t say, sir.’

‘Well then, there’s an end of it,’ said Tom, making to move off the porch. But the landlord hadn’t finished.

‘All he did say, was that he thought he knew you from somewhere.’

‘Not from here, Mr Jenkins. I’ve never visited Salisbury before in my life.’

With that, Tom strode down the street, without giving Jenkins another word or look. His irritation with the proprietor of The Side of Beef was sharp enough that he didn’t give much thought as to why one of last night’s diners should have been enquiring after his name. Damn Jenkins! He was obviously one of those hotel-keepers who liked to insinuate himself into his guests’ lives and pry out their business. Well, the man would get no more out of him, not even the time of day.

As the woman serving breakfast had said, it would be difficult to get lost on the way to Salisbury Cathedral. Wherever he turned a corner and had an uninterrupted vista down a street, the spire rose up like a needle into the clear light of the November morning. Tom pushed his way through a market and passed an elaborately crowned and buttressed landmark that he assumed was the Poultry Cross, before turning into a High Street which was lined with ancient-looking inns. It struck him that for hundreds of years people had been coming to this place, to carry on their business, to do penance, to visit one of the finest churches in the land.

There was an arched entrance at the end of the High Street, beyond which lay the close and the wide grounds of the cathedral. Once inside, the houses became both grander and somehow more sedate. There were stretches of lawn and walks overshadowed by elms and beeches. Beyond and to his left, effortlessly dominant, rose the vast bulk of the church. The little knots of visitors were easy to distinguish not just by their clothes but by their ambling gait even on this cold sunny morning. Tom was searching for Venn House, Canon Slater’s dwelling, and he might have asked directions from one of the dark-garbed clerics moving as purposefully as crows among the sightseers. But he was oddly reluctant to reveal where he was going, especially after the encounter with Jenkins.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the clerical figures making for him.

It was Canon Eric Selby. As last night at the railway station, he was wearing a coat and muffler and his shovel-hat. The coldness of the morning had brought a hectic colour to the cleric’s smooth-shaven cheeks. Tom was pleased to see him and said as much. By the light of day Tom saw how blue the old man’s eyes were, a blinking blue. He looked like an owl caught by daylight.

‘Didn’t I predict we’d meet again?’ said the Canon. ‘Salisbury is a small place. How did you find The Side of Beef and that chatterer Jenkins?’

‘The landlord is certainly too curious for comfort,’ said Tom. ‘But the food is good and the bed isn’t hard and it will more than do.’

‘Good, good. Now, Mr Ansell, can I direct you somewhere?’

‘How did you know I was looking?’

‘For sure, you are not one of our visitors come to gawk at the spire. And you are carrying a little case which suggests that you are in the close on business, yet I noticed just now that you were pausing in your progress as if not quite certain where to go next. So ask away.’

‘I am searching for Venn House. It’s about here some-where, I believe.’

Tom gestured towards the ranks of fine houses which lay to the north and west of the cathedral. When he turned back to look at Eric Selby he observed the Canon grimacing as though he had bitten into a sour apple. There was a change in his voice when he answered too. The friendly tone was replaced by something more guarded.

‘You are going to see the Slaters, Mr Ansell? Yes, well, obviously you must be if you are searching for Venn House. It’s on the south-west corner of the close, near the end of West Walk. Look out for a fine wall of red brick.’

Tom thanked him and hesitated as if to give Eric Selby the chance to say more. But the Canon seemed disinclined for further conversation and merely nodded before resuming his own progress towards the north transept of the cathedral. Wondering what it was about the Slaters — about Felix Slater presumably — which caused Selby to look displeased, Tom followed the path that led to to his right. Then he turned into a tree-lined road which he took for the West Walk. There were fewer people about here, it was quieter and seemed more like a country village than a town. A carriage was waiting outside the iron gates of one of the larger mansions. The coachman was huddled up against the sharpness of the morning. A workman passed Tom, pushing an empty hand-barrow. The roadway and the grass verges were speckled with frost in places where the sun hadn’t reached.

Then Tom saw someone standing outside the entrance to another of the houses, someone whose presence gave him a slight start. It wasn’t that he knew the person. But his uniform showed that he was a police constable. The man was gazing right and left, but with no sense of urgency. He acknowledged Tom with a nod. Had this been his own street or town, Tom might have stopped and asked the constable what was going on. (Not that anything appeared to be going on.) But he was a stranger here. Any crime or wrongdoing was no concern of his.

Tom went a few paces further then glanced back, conscious of someone walking quickly behind him on the road in the same direction. It was a woman. The policeman was looking at her. Tom turned his head back and felt his face grow warmer. He was fairly sure it was the woman he’d met the previous evening outside The Side of Beef. The same large hat and, he thought, a flash of the same yellow skirt beneath her coat. He recalled that he’d seen her for a second time yesterday, staring up at his room through the fog.

Now the idea that she had been following him, perhaps since he’d left the inn this morning, seized his imagination. If so, to what purpose? But it was all nonsense. Why should she be following him? She could hardly be intending to proposition him in the cathedral precinct, not on a cold and frosty morning. Not with the presence of a policeman outside a neighbouring gate. He debated for a moment slowing down and allowing her to pass. . or letting her speak to him, if that was what she wanted. But instead he quickened his pace, on the lookout for the wall which fronted Venn House. When he reached it he would allow himself one quick look behind, to check on the woman’s identity.

And here, towards the end of the West Walk, was a fine red-brick wall as described by Canon Selby and, behind it, the house which belonged to Canon Slater. Venn House was inscribed on a plaque next to a large wooden gate set into an arch in the wall. Hearing footsteps coming closer, Tom looked over his shoulder. It was the same woman! She seemed to be making for him, still with the slightly mocking smile which he recalled from their last meeting. No question that she recognized him as well for she said, ‘See, no nosegay now. It has withered.’

She indicated the bare collar of her coat. There was the remembered trace of foreignness in her accent (‘withered’ drawn out almost to three syllables).

Tom felt renewed warmth come into his face. He inclined his head slightly and said, ‘Good morning, madam. A cold morning too.’

‘You are coming to this house.’

It was not a question so much as a statement. Tom wondered at the intrusive curiosity of the inhabitants of Salisbury. Did they all assume that what was his business was also theirs? He nodded with a slight impatience, expecting the woman to continue on her way. But she remained standing by the gate in the wall. All at once, Tom understood that she must be calling at Venn House like him, and was waiting for him to open the gate to let her go through first. There was no bell to announce visitors. He reached forward and twisted the iron latch, indicating with his eyes that she should enter before him if that was what she wanted. Through the arch of the gate he saw a path leading to a substantial house.

The woman took a pace forward then halted as if struck by a sudden thought. She put a gloved hand on Tom’s arm and looked him full in the face, not smiling now.

‘You will say nothing?’

‘I. . I’m sorry, madam, I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘I mean, say nothing about how we have seen each other before this cold morning,’ she said in the same low, slightly accented voice. When he didn’t respond she showed a touch of impatience as though Tom was a slow boy who needed matters spelled out. ‘I mean, last night in the town in the fog. You do remember?’

‘Yes, I do remember, madam. Say nothing to who? Who am I not supposed to tell?’

The woman shivered as if from the cold and said, ‘Tell nobody. Do you agree to this?’

All this time she was holding fast to Tom’s arm. Her grasp was hard. He could feel her fingers through the sleeve of his coat.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will not tell anyone although I can’t imagine who would be interested.’

He almost had to wrench his arm from her grip. The good humour returned to her face and she rewarded him with another smile before turning to go through the gate. Yet, once again, she paused as she was entering. ‘You must wait here,’ she said. ‘It is best that we do not arrive together. I will send someone out. I will say that I saw a gentleman outside. Yes, I saw a gentleman searching outside.’

After passing through the arch in the wall she gave a push to the gate. She pushed at it with a flick of her heel, and some quality about the movement, something careless and unladylike, established her right to go first into Venn House and to leave Tom where he was. The gate creaked half shut, blocking off the view of the house and garden.

Tom Ansell stood outside Venn House, confused and obscurely angry, with himself rather than the woman. Her actions were incomprehensible. What right did she have to tell him to wait outside? He no longer believed that she was a woman of the town, and the fact that he had ever thought so gave him a moment’s discomfort. He looked for other explanations for her arrival here. If she was a servant in the Slater household, then she was behaving in a fashion that was peculiar — and somehow improper. Tom wasn’t a vindictive or sneaking individual. But had he been, he told himself, he would have made some comment to Canon Slater or Mrs Slater about the strange attitude of their servants. The trouble was that the woman had bound him into a sort of conspiracy of silence, which he could not break now. And she had given to that chance meeting outside The Side of Beef, that accidental collision, a significance which it hadn’t possessed until this moment.

A different idea came to Tom as he stood, alternately watching his breath plume up in the air or looking at the sunlit spire through the bare branches of the trees without really seeing either of them. Perhaps the woman wasn’t a servant in Venn House after all but a. . a fortune-teller or gypsy clairvoyante. . or a medium. He didn’t know what had provoked these notions. The woman’s faintly flamboyant appearance, maybe, that touch of foreignness about her. Even the way she had grasped at his arm. However, if she actually did follow one of these exotic trades, he didn’t ask himself what she was doing calling on a cleric’s house in a cathedral precinct.

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 amp; 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.’

‘He indicated something of the sort,’ said Tom.

‘Fortunately, I have a nephew, Walter. He is the person who showed you in here just now. He is the. . the son I should like to have had, Mr Ansell, I do not see any reason to conceal that from you. It was one of the happiest days of my life when Walter came to live here with me, as it was earlier when he told me that he wished to enter the Church. In due course, and with God’s grace, Walter will inherit the Downton estate. Unlike his father, Walter has not disgraced himself in the expectation of plenty. Rather, he has chosen a spiritual vocation and a life of service. When he comes into his inheritance, I know that he will restore propriety to the Slater line.’

‘You do not expect that to be long?’

‘I do not expect what to be long?’

‘The time when your nephew comes into his estate.’

‘Why do you say so, Mr Ansell?’

‘Because, well, from what you have been saying, Canon Slater, it does not sound as though your brother has the prospect of a long life in front of him.’

‘Perhaps not. Yet we should not hasten any man’s death by expecting it too fervently. We are in God’s hands after all. My brother Percy may have a few years in him still, despite his feebleness. Now, Mr Ansell, let us turn to the reason why you are here.’

Felix Slater got up and crossed to the corner of the room occupied by the Old Testament pictures. With surprising dexterity he squatted on his haunches in front of the wooden chest which Tom had noticed earlier. Retrieving a key from his pocket, he fiddled with the lock. Something about his posture, the hunched shoulders and the thin legs, reminded Tom of a heron. Slater opened the lid of the chest and reached inside. He brought out an item wrapped in cloth and, clutching it, went back to his seat behind the desk. Then, with a gesture that recalled a conjurer, he whipped off the cloth cover to reveal nothing more exciting than a large, leather-bound volume with a kind of hasp attached to it. It had the appearance of a memorandum book or a ledger.

He raised the book and seemed about to pass it to Tom. Then he hesitated and said, ‘Here, Mr Ansell. You may have a brief look. This was written by my father and it is an account of a period in his life, an early period, during which he pursued an existence which it would be kind to call unrespectable and rackety. A less charitable description would be disgraceful and immoral. These are his memoirs cast in the form of a diary. I propose that they should accompany you back to London, back to the offices of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie, where they shall remain in your vault — or in your safe — or in whatever place you store important items entrusted to you by your clients. There they are to stay secure until after my death at which time Walter, my nephew, shall decide whether to read his grandfather’s words or whether to dispose of them unread. The decision shall be his. That is only proper. After all, whatever my father’s faults, he was a Slater, and my nephew is a Slater also.’

Tom sensed that he was listening to a well-worn explanation. Felix Slater had produced it before, not for the benefit of another human being perhaps but inside the privacy of his own head. He was justifying his decision not to destroy something which he plainly found disturbing, even dangerous. He was also putting a great deal of faith and trust in his nephew, Walter.

Tom said, ‘Can I ask you, Canon Slater, whether your nephew is aware of this. . this book? Has he actually seen it?’

‘He knows of it. He may have glimpsed it, yes. He has heard that it is written by his grandfather. But more than that, no.’

‘Then are you sure that I should be looking at it?’

‘It is only for this moment, Mr Ansell. After all, since you are going to take it back to London, you should have some idea of what you are carrying with you. However, you will be able to look inside it only this once. You can see that there is a hasp here and a small lock on one side. My father wished to keep his words literally under lock and key. A wise man, in that respect at least. Now, I intend to retain the key once I have surrendered the book to Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie. It wouldn’t be difficult to force the hasp, but of course such a thing would never occur in a respectable law firm.’

There was a twitch of the thin mouth. Canon Slater was making another joke. Tom took the book from him and rested it on his lap. He felt the weight of it on his knees. There was brass hasp, heavy and intricate. On one side was a raised plate into which was set a small keyhole and its apparatus. Felix Slater took up his pen and the sheet of paper which he’d been working on when Tom arrived. The signal was clear: Tom Ansell had been given a few moments to glance through the memoirs of the early life of the late George Slater, for probably as long a time as it would take his son to reach the end of the page he was writing.

Tom was baffled. He could not see why Felix Slater was permitting him to look at these memoirs, however briefly. Slater would be more than entitled to ask him to take the book to London unexamined. Nevertheless he opened it. The pages had the look and feel of a sketch pad although the paper was too thin. There were no lines or margins but only blank spaces waiting to be filled. Tom wondered whether George Slater had had the book specially made up, with the brass hasp and lock. There was a frontispiece of sorts even if it said nothing more than: I certify the account which this volume contains to be a true and faifthful record of the years noted and dated within. It was signed George Henry Slater and below the signature the date was given as the twelfth of June, 1843. The writing was neat and precise, close but easy to read, almost feminine. No sign of debauchery here. Below this, in a different hand, was a note saying: Received from my brother Percy among other effects of my father. This was signed by Felix Slater, followed by the address of Venn House, Salisbury and dated the fifteenth of July, 1873. Evidently, it had taken Felix a few months to decide he didn’t want the book in his house.

Tom turned to a page at random. He scanned it. He was used to reading quickly, skimming through documents with their thickets of legal phraseology. But what he read now was a story, an anecdote. George Henry Slater had certainly moved in elevated circles because the story concerned that well-known and atheistical poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley. If Tom was looking for scandal, however, he was to be disappointed.

George Slater recounted how he had been walking with Shelley and another friend called Hogg by the Serpentine in Kensington Gardens. Shelley was suddenly seized with the desire to make and float a paper boat, an activity to which he was apparently addicted. He had no scrap of paper on him (and neither did his two friends) except for a bank-post bill to the tune of fifty pounds.

Tom read: Shelley dithered for a long time but at last gave way to his obsession; with a few swift and practised movements he twisted the bank-bill into the likeness of a boat and committed it to the water, watching its progress with even more anxiety than usual. Those who throw themselves on fortune lock, stock and barrel are sometimes rewarded and so it was in this case. A breeze blowing from the north-east gently conveyed the costly craft to the south bank where, during the last part of its journey, Shelley waited for its arrival in a spirit of patience. By this exercise he gained nothing and might have lost a great deal but I saw how, mixed with his anxiety, he took pleasure not so much in the risk to his property as in the dexterity needed to build the little boat.

This was dated June, 1811. Underneath was written another paragraph: Everyone knows that Percy Shelley’s attraction to water at last proved fatal. He, who could scarcely be dragged away from a pond or a puddle when out walking, was lost in a storm at sea off La Spezia in Leghorn in July, 1822. The boat which he and Williams embarked in would have been adequate on the Serpentine but it was ill fitted for the rigours of the open sea. I cannot help thinking that Shelley courted his end and took poor Williams with him. My acquaintance the poet never learned to swim.

This section was dated May, 1843. Tom thought that George Slater had most likely transcribed his youthful diaries into this book, perhaps tidying them up and editing them. At the same time he added an extra note or commentary, reflecting his later thoughts. The first part of this entry, about the fifty-pound note, made for a charming story, if it was true. Charming if it wasn’t true, come to that. And if it was typical of what was in Slater’s memoirs then Tom couldn’t see where the problem lay.

On the other side of the desk Felix Slater’s hand moved unceasingly across the sheet of paper. The top of his head was as smooth as a billiard ball. The Canon did not once look up at Tom, who opened the father’s volume at another random page. This one seemed to describe the activities of a supper club, drinking, bawdy conversation and more drinking. Towards the end he read: Hewitt, J and I paid Jane Wilson 2 shillings. She danced nude and then lay down and posed for us. We might have had her but, in truth, she was a bad model and altogether not agreeable.

This, like the Shelley entry, was dated (to the summer of 1812) and Slater had added an 1843 note to the effect that it was unlikely a single one of them could have had Jane Wilson, not because she was disagreeable but because they had drunk so much. They were all in a useless ‘droop-like state’. Curiously, as the writer said himself, although he could remember all this he could not remember who ‘J’ was. As to the provenance of Jane Wilson he gave no clue. Presumably she was a servant of some kind, perhaps one waiting at table, and so beneath notice. Or perhaps a prostitute, and so even more beneath notice.

Quickly, Tom shuffled a few pages further on. Again he hit gold and he felt the blood come into his face. It was a brief description by George Slater of how he’d had a woman up against a wall in Shepherd Market. It hadn’t been a very enjoyable encounter: too quick and he’d spent much time afterwards wondering whether he’d caught a ‘dose’. He hadn’t contracted anything, a later footnote revealed. Tom was amazed, not so much at the encounter as at the run-of-the-mill manner in which it was recounted and the fact that he’d written about it at all.

Once more he turned a few pages. Ah, respectability again. Or a sort of respectability. This time Tom encountered Lord George Gordon Byron. Mr George Henry Slater claimed to have been in the famous poet’s company when the latter declared: ‘Incest is no sin. It is the way the world was first peopled. The Scriptures teach us that we are all descended from one pair, and how could that be unless brothers married their sisters? If it was no sin then, it cannot be a sin now.’ Underneath, Slater had added the later comment: There was long a rumour that Lord Byron committed incest with his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. I do not know whether the rumour was true but it is certain that the notion of incest was attractive to him because of its very forbiddenness; this was not the only time he spoke of it. I remember that he uttered these particular words in his customary style, somewhere between mischief and earnest.

Tom glanced up at Felix Slater but the cleric appeared to be wholly absorbed in his work. Tom wondered what he was writing. For sure, the Canon’s words must be more respectable than what was recounted in his father’s neat hand. Tom still felt hot and — though it was ridiculous — guilty for what he was reading. He took one more dip into the book but on this occasion found nothing more dramatic than a description of a morning’s hunting on the Downton estate.

By this time Slater had come to the end. He concluded in the same way, grinding the nib of the pen into the paper. He blotted what he’d written and put the sheet to one side.

‘Well, Mr Ansell, you have seen enough, I dare say.’

‘It is an interesting volume.’

‘That is one word for it, though not the word I should have chosen. My dilemma is that I cannot now do away with this record of my father’s even if I wish it had never been found or that he had never written it. Or, rather, I might wish that parts of his life had not been so very rackety. The volume you are holding might, I suppose, have a historical value one day.’

As Slater said this, his eyes flicked towards the cases containing the primitive artefacts. Tom realized that whatever the man’s feelings about his father — unease, embarrassment, even anger or disgust — he could not bring himself to destroy what George Slater had committed to paper. The Canon had a respect amounting to reverence for old things, whether they came from a few decades before or whether they stretched back through many centuries.

‘You would like me to take this now?’

‘No, no. I wish you, Mr Ansell, to draw up a memo to be kept with this book of my father’s. You should outline briefly the circumstances under which I came by it — that is, it was among items freely passed to me by my older brother Percy — and state that it is given for safekeeping into the hands of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie. The book is not to be opened again until after my death. Then, and only then, my nephew Walter Slater is to be entrusted with it.’

‘You say, Canon Slater, that it was freely passed to you by your brother?’

‘I have a letter to that effect.’

‘Then that should be included with the other material. Or if not the original letter, then a notarized copy. For the record, you understand.’

‘Very well.’

‘And we need a name for it in the memorandum.’

‘Call it. . the Salisbury manuscript. You will see that I have formally acknowledged receipt of it at the front,’ said Canon Slater.

‘Very well. The Salisbury manuscript. And what if your nephew predeceases you? Who is to decide the fate of the book then?’

Felix Slater looked discomfited, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Then I suppose it should be left to his heirs and descendants. You can add a note to that effect. You are to bring the memo to me tomorrow, if you please, and I will sign it. After that, you are to take everything back to London. I need hardly add that I require you, as a representative of your firm, to keep the strictest watch over the book. Please do not let it out of your sight until you have seen it safe and secure in your vaults.’

Tom nodded and handed the volume back to Felix Slater, who wrapped it up in the cloth once more. Tom thought Canon Slater was being over-protective of the book, treating it as though it were a truly valuable treasure rather than the private musings of a man who’d behaved disreputably from time to time when he was young. However, it is not the job of a lawyer to point out this sort of thing to a client. If Slater wanted the book guarded, then Tom would guard it and not merely because it was his job. Almost despite himself, he’d taken a kind of liking to the clergyman.

Maybe the feeling was reciprocated for Slater seemed to relax. He unfolded himself from his seat and said, ‘It will be time for luncheon soon. Before that, let me show you the garden, Mr Ansell. I find that a little fresh air sharpens the appetite.’

Slater returned his father’s book to the chest in the corner. Before he closed and locked it, Tom noticed that there were other items inside, sheets of paper folded or loose. He wondered if these too were prohibited material but, presumably, Slater was content to keep them in his possession.

The Canon opened the doors that led into the garden. There was a terrace that ran the length of the house, with a lawn lapping at its edge and ornamental beds, now with skeletal plants. The sun had reached this side and taken some of the chill out of the air. Slater led the way to a path that ran through an orchard and down towards the river. From their left came snipping sounds. The gardener was trimming a shrub which Tom couldn’t identify.

‘Eaves,’ said Slater in greeting, and in response the gardener touched his shears to his cap in a kind of salute. Tom expected the man to get back to his clipping but he evidently wanted to say something for he cleared his throat. Felix Slater paused.

‘Have you heard the news, sir?’ said the gardener in an odd sing-song voice as if he was uncertain whether his ‘news’ would be welcome.

‘Until you tell me what it is, I cannot know whether I have heard it or not.’

The gardener called Eaves looked puzzled as if he was trying to work out what his employer meant. Eventually he gave up and said, ‘There’s been another robbery. Over at Mr Anstruther’s.’

‘Robbery?’

‘Bobbies are there now, sir,’ said the gardener, gesturing with his shears.

‘It’s true,’ said Tom. ‘I saw a constable standing outside a house further up West Walk.’

‘It must be the Anstruthers then,’ said Felix Slater. ‘A robbery? When?’

‘Last night they say, sir.’

‘And do they also say what was taken, Eaves?’

‘Funny things again.’

‘Funny things?’

‘Funny things, sir. Jelly moulds this time, I heard.’

‘Very well. You may get back to your work now.’

Content with his two minutes of attention, the gardener resumed the clipping. Tom and Slater strolled on towards the river. The path wound among apple trees.

‘A robbery in the close,’ said Tom.

‘We are not immune to crime.’

‘I wonder you have not heard of it already, Canon Slater.’

‘I have heard of it. It was what my wife wanted to tell me about earlier this morning. I was asking Eaves what he knew because the servants are sometimes aware of things that pass us by. But he merely confirmed what Mrs Slater had already told me. Someone broke into the Anstruthers’ last night and stole some jelly moulds from the kitchen.’

‘Why would anyone want to steal jelly moulds?’ said Tom, and then with pleasure at his deduction, ‘Perhaps they intended to take something more valuable and were interrupted.’

‘I don’t know the details but this is the second or third robbery in the close. Last time too, only small items were taken. Toasting forks, I believe.’

‘Perhaps the thief is a cook.’

‘Or a crook,’ said Slater, and Tom thought he detected a touch of humour. He said, ‘Are you worried for your collection?’

‘I might be,’ said Slater. ‘But to a thief, what I have collected would look like nothing more than a heap of stones and metal trinkets.’

This was not so far from Tom’s initial response to the objects. He was surprised, though, by the cleric’s seemingly easy attitude. By now they had reached the river bank. The water flowed fast and swollen after the autumn rains, carrying the odd tree branch or mass of green weed. Beyond the far bank there stretched meadows dotted with willows and grazing cows. A kind of timber garden-house or gazebo stood near the water’s edge. It had a covered verandah on the river side and a curtain with a check pattern in the window. Nearby was a small grassy mound, with a headstone set at one end. The little grave, set out in the open, was curiously disturbing. Slater noticed Tom looking at it.

‘A dog of my wife’s is buried there. A little pug. She wanted him close at hand. My wife likes to sit here in the summer,’ said Felix Slater.

‘I would sit here too, dog or no dog’ said Tom, thinking of his own lodgings in Islington and the close, stuffy air of a London summer.

‘She says that it reminds her of home.’

Tom was puzzling over this remark, or rather wondering where exactly home was for Mrs Slater, when from the distance there came the sound of a gong being struck. It was the signal for lunch The two men turned back towards Venn House. Soaring above the line of the roof they could see the spire of the cathedral.

‘The highest in all of England, isn’t it?’ said Tom, dredging the fact up from somewhere. ‘It must be the pride of Salisbury.’

‘It may surprise you, Mr Ansell, to know that there is not much love lost between the town and the cathedral. Hundreds of years ago the bishop owned this town, more or less, but things are different now. Oh, there is a kind of respect for this great church and the tradespeople are grateful that it brings visitors here, no doubt. Once our visitors would have been pilgrims. Now they want to look at the sights and go shopping. But the townsfolk have their business to get on with, just as we have ours. I don’t suppose that more than one in a hundred of our good citizens ever considers that he is walking across the ground that his ancestors toiled on. Everywhere we go we traverse layers of the past but so few of us see beneath the soil.’

Tom glanced sideways at the tall, bird-like cleric. There was that same suppressed fire in his manner as when he had been examining the artefacts in the glass cases.

They went back inside, down the hall and past the watercolours and the case of ornamental ferns. Slater led the way through a door near the front part of the house and into the dining room. Three people, two women and a man, were already there. Tom recognized each of them. The man was Slater’s nephew, Walter Henry, who smiled to see his uncle come in with Tom. One of the women was Bessie, the flustered maid — now with her collar properly straightened and waiting to serve lunch — who had appeared in Slater’s study. The second woman was the mysterious personage who had told Tom to stay outside Venn House and whose existence he had almost forgotten about for the last hour or so. He had made various compromising assumptions about her: that she might be a prostitute or woman of the town, then that she was an odd visitor to Venn House (a clairvoyante or something of the kind) or possibly a servant.

But now he realized, with horror mixed with embarrassment, that she was actually Felix Slater’s wife.