The Salisbury Manuscript

Northwood House

The train journey from Salisbury to Downton was short, scarcely more than ten minutes. Tom Ansell spent the time turning over the question to which he would soon, presumably, get some sort of answer. Why did Percy Slater wish to see him? Tom would have been perfectly justified in turning down the request since the older brother was no longer a client of his firm. According to David Mackenzie, he’d had a falling-out with one of the other partners. Tom might have telegraphed to London for Mackenzie’s opinion but he’d not have been certain of getting a reply by the time fixed for his meeting. Besides, Tom believed this was a matter where he could act without consulting his employer.

He wondered how Percy Slater had got to know of his visit to Salisbury. The obvious answer was through Walter Slater, whether the son had accidentally let something slip or had deliberately informed his father — though why he’d do that, Tom couldn’t think. Tom was curious to meet this man who was apparently so different from his churchefied brother and son. The tone of the letter was civil enough if a bit peremptory. It didn’t show any of the feebleness or decline which — according to his brother — Percy Slater was subject to.

The train chugged through the flatter landscape which lies to the south of Salisbury. An early sun had been swallowed up by clouds rolling in from the west. The train reached the small town of Downton a couple of minutes before it was scheduled to arrive. Tom got off, together with a trio of women who’d been doing some shopping in Salisbury. Shopping for drapery or clothes, he assumed, since their bags were marked Cathcart’s. It was beginning to rain and the women made a show of opening their umbrellas.

On the stand outside the little station was a four-wheeled clarence with a bay horse in harness. The coachman nodded at Tom as a sign to approach. He was a slight man, hunching himself against the rain. He had a small, disagreeable face with a great dimple in his chin, as though someone had tried to bore a hole in it. He was wearing a billycock hat.

‘Mr Ansell?’

‘Yes. Mr Slater sent you?’

‘Get in,’ said the coachman, after a moment adding as an afterthought, ‘sir.’

Tom climbed in and the carriage pulled away. They turned into a wide street and almost immediately had to halt because of a herd of cattle jostling in front of them, the animals under the control of a diminutive boy with a switch. They crossed a bridge over a river. Through the ill-fitting windows of the clarence, his nose was hit by the acrid smell of a tannery. The road began to climb slightly and the houses and cottages accompanying them petered out. Tom had no idea how far they were going. He looked out at the leafless trees which crowded the sides of the road. The window-glass was smeary with dirt and rain. The upholstery of the seats was frayed and the springs protruded so that it was difficult to find a clear patch to sit on. Whatever Percy Slater spent his money on, it wasn’t to give himself a comfortable or striking means of conveyance.

After a time they began to pass a low wall on their left. Tom, by now in carping mood, noted that the wall was broken down in places. The carriage turned into an entrance and passed a single-storey lodge with blank windows and a corkscrew chimney. Though it was a cheerless morning there was no smoke coming from the chimney, no gatekeeper, no sign of life at all. Beyond the gate and on either side of the drive stretched acres of grass dotted with trees and bushes.

Tom wasn’t aware they’d reached the main house until the carriage veered past its facade. He glimpsed a large covered porch, with steps and pillars. They rounded the corner and pulled up in a walled yard. The driver clambered down and stood by the coach door but didn’t otherwise move. Tom opened the door himself and stood in the rain.

The driver was a head shorter than Tom. He jerked his dimpled chin in the direction of a side entrance.

‘It’s open. Just go inside and call. Nan’ll hear you. She knows you’re coming.’

Tom did as he was told while the coachman began to attend to the horse. As he’d said, the side-entrance was not locked. Tom stood in a flagstoned lobby. It struck colder and damper inside than out in the open. There was no one in the lobby. He felt slightly foolish and also irritated — after all, this visit to Northwood House was not being made at his suggestion. Perhaps he should demand to be taken back to Downton station, without troubling his host. He remembered that he hadn’t thought to check the railway timetable for his return.

There was a touch at Tom’s elbow. A woman was standing there. He hadn’t heard her approach. She was old and tiny, all wrinkles. She was wearing a black shift-like dress, also old and creased. This was Nan, he supposed.

‘I am here to call on Mr Slater.’

He had to repeat himself several times since she was hard of hearing. Eventually she said, ‘Mr Slater is in the smoking room. This way.’

Her voice didn’t rise much above a whisper. But she moved decisively enough down the passageway which led from the lobby. They passed a kitchen and various store-rooms before going through the baize-covered door separating the servants’ area of the house from the family rooms. On the other side of half-open doors Tom saw sheets draped over the furniture, swathed chandeliers, dust and decrepitude everywhere. What had David Mackenzie and Felix Slater said about Percy’s wife, Elizabeth? That she spent her time in London. He wasn’t surprised.

The door of the smoking room was ajar. Nan extended a twig-like arm as a gesture that Tom should go in. She didn’t announce him but by this stage Tom wasn’t expecting anything so elaborate. A man was sitting in a window-seat gazing out at the grounds, at the rain. He turned his head, reluctantly as it seemed, to look at Tom standing in the entrance to the room.

‘You must be Mr Ansell,’ he said, ‘Well, you are welcome to Northwood.’

This was the most effusive greeting Tom had received so far this morning and he felt almost encouraged by it. Percy Slater detached himself from his place by the window. He picked up a walking stick which was resting against the cushioned seat, although Tom observed that as he made his way across the room he scarcely used it. It seemed to be more of a theatrical prop than a literal one.

The man in front of him didn’t bear much resemblance to Felix, although there was the same set to the jaw. But this Slater was fuller, much fuller in his body, and more slack in the face. Where the Canon had a pale complexion, his brother was ruddy with a nose covered in broken veins. Not quite so tall as the churchman either, Tom thought, and without a trace of the bird-like characteristics of the other.

‘It is a long time since I have met a representative of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie,’ said Percy. ‘Indeed, when they handled my affairs there was no Mackenzie in the picture. Drink, Mr Ansell?’

Tom had already caught the whiff of alcohol and seen a bottle of sherry together with some drinking glasses and a pile of magazines on a table near the window. ‘Thank you,’ he said, following a dictum of Mackenzie’s that one should always respond positively to the hospitality of a client — or even a non-client, in this case. Leaning his stick against a convenient chair, Percy Slater poured Tom a glass and refilled his own.

Tom glanced around. The room was sparsely furnished apart from a glass-fronted cabinet containing a couple of shotguns and, opposite, a single wall which was covered in sporting prints. The prints looked fresh but everything else, the drapes, the chairs, the occasional tables, had a worn and battered appearance. Percy held out the glass of sherry and Tom went across to take it. He noticed that the magazines piled on the table by the window were a mixture of Bell’s Life and Sporting Life. Percy saw where he was looking.

‘You a betting man, Mr Ansell?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Wise probably. I was sitting in that window-seat just now and watching the progress of two drops of rain down one of the panes. A fitful, zigzag progress but always down, down, down. They will reach the bottom eventually like all of us. I thinks to myself, if there was someone here with me, I’d lay a bet on which drop would reach the bottom of the pane first. I suppose you wouldn’t care to take that bet, Mr Ansell?’

There was an almost wistful quality to the question as if he already knew what the answer would be. Tom shook his head. There were some invitations from a client, or a non-client, which you were not compelled to accept. Percy Slater settled himself into a battered armchair near a coal fire which was giving off more smoke than warmth. He indicated that Tom should sit in an equally battered armchair on the other side of the fireplace. Slater kept his walking stick cradled between his legs.

‘Yes, wise probably,’ he repeated, ‘wise not to be a betting man. Wise to husband your resources. Between ourselves, that was the reason that I. . dispensed with the services of your firm. It was Alexander Lye who was responsible for my decision — is Lye still alive, by the way?’

‘Though Mr Lye is getting on now, he still comes into the office,’ said Tom, not elaborating on how Mr Lye turned up only to sign the papers pushed in front of him.

‘Lye — always thought that was an excellent name for a man of law. Anyway, Alexander Lye made some comment to me about my betting habits. I couldn’t be doing with it. I already had enough of that sort of thing from my father. Lye’s words were to do with a loss which I incurred at Dwyer’s. You wouldn’t remember Dwyer’s, Mr Ansell. Sold cigars and cheroots in St Martin’s Lane but their real business was taking bets. Well, they took too much on the favourite for the Chester Cup, back in ’51. A favourite isn’t the favourite for nothing. The results used to come in from Chester quite late in the day so they had the leisure of a whole night to strip the place of all the movables and by the morning there was nothing left but the shell of a shop. The shell of a shop, I say.’

Percy Slater seemed half amused, half angry at the memory as he shifted in his chair. His walking stick waggled in sympathy.

‘Took twenty-five thousand with them. Not all mine, of course. Fact, I got off quite lightly. But it was enough to cause Mr Alexander Lye to make a few unwelcome remarks about my betting habits — as if it was my fault that Dwyer’s was a bunch of rogues! I did not choose to be lectured at and took my business elsewhere.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it, Mr Slater,’ said Tom.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Percy sharply. ‘I wasn’t what you would call one of their respectable clients. No doubt they were glad to see the back of me, as you would be if this were happening today.’

His eyes narrowed as he said this and he fixed Tom with an expression that challenged the younger man to deny what he’d just said. The time for niceties seemed to be over.

‘Why did you ask to see me, Mr Slater?’

‘I understand that my brother Felix, the good and respectable Canon, is employing your services at the moment. What for?’

‘Mr Slater, even if you were still a client of ours, I could hardly pass on that information without your brother’s consent. And as you say, you ceased to be represented by my firm many years ago.’

‘This is a family matter, Mr Ansell. It is not up to Felix to do exactly as he pleases.’

Percy Slater was getting agitated. He spilled some of the drink from his glass. Tom wondered about the time of the return train from Downton.

‘Not so long ago I sent some stuff to my brother,’ said Percy, ‘old papers and the like, relating to our father George and to the history of this place. I thought he would interested in them, being a historical sort of person. He has had them long enough. I would like those items back.’

‘I am sorry, Mr Slater, I should not even be discussing this. But — supposing such articles to exist — then I am informed that they were freely given to the Canon. And, furthermore, that there is a letter written by you to that effect.’

‘Dammit, sir!’ Percy became more agitated. There was no more drink to spill from his glass but his stick clattered to the floor. ‘All this legal supposing and ‘furthermores’. I can’t stand it. Furthermore, Mr Ansell, I have no recollection of writing the letter you’re talking about. Have you, by chance, seen any of these items?’

‘I may have done.’

‘But none of them are currently in your possession?’

‘No. They are in the hands of Canon Slater.’

Tom felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t merely the other man’s display of anger, and the odd question as to whether he actually had any of them in his possession. There was also the fact that he himself had not seen the letter which Felix Slater had referred to, the one from Percy surrendering the papers to him. He had taken the Canon’s explanation on trust. But he should have asked to see the letter, all the same. Tom made an attempt to be conciliatory.

‘I am sure the material is in good hands, sir.’

‘Oh, you are, are you, sir? Good hands?’

Tom tried again. He said, ‘It is not as if these things have passed out of the family. There is Walter to consider as well.’

‘Walter?’

‘Your son, Mr Slater. The son who lodges with your brother.’

‘Yes, there is always my son, isn’t there?’ said Percy. He spoke wearily. Plainly there wasn’t much of a bond between them. Perhaps Percy considered his son to have abandoned or betrayed him by going into the Church. This seemed to be borne out by what Percy said next, ‘He has turned Walter’s head, has Felix.’

Tom made to get to his feet. He didn’t see much point in prolonging the encounter. Mr Percy Slater didn’t have to be humoured. He wasn’t a client. Tom went to stand by the window, down which the raindrops were still trickling. The view beyond was one of neglect: a weed-strewn terrace, flower beds where either nothing grew or there was a profusion of unkempt plants. The parkland beyond was dotted with clumps of trees. He heard a sound behind him and turned. Percy was waving him back to his chair.

‘Felix would like to have me declared incapable, no doubt,’ Percy continued. ‘He would like to have me admitted to some sanatorium or asylum so that his Walter can come early into possession of Northwood.’

‘I do not know, Mr Slater, but I don’t think so.’

‘Do not be taken in by that holy act, Mr Ansell. Word to the wise. I know my brother and you do not. Have you met his wife, my sister-in-law?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘What impression did you form of her?’

‘I–I really don’t know.’

‘Come on, Mr Ansell. Amelia, my sister-in-law, is an attractive woman, is she not? You can at least say that without breaking any confidences or compromising your client’s privileges.’

‘Yes, she is attractive,’ said Tom uneasily.

‘Good. We can agree on that. Can we also agree that there is, shall we say, an apparent mismatch between my brother and his attractive wife? He’s a dry old stick, after all, while she is neither so dry nor so old.’

This was pretty well exactly how things had struck Tom. He shrugged and said, ‘Who can tell with a marriage?’

Someone had made that remark to him recently. He remembered that it was David Mackenzie. Tom’s comment might have been rhetorical but it seemed to please Percy Slater.

‘True, who can tell with a marriage?’ he repeated. ‘The story of my brother’s marriage is an odd one. You know it?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Or rather all I know is that Mrs Slater grew up in Florence and that her father was English.’

‘While her mother was Italian. My brother Felix met the family when he was on a tour of Italian cities — Pisa, Florence, Lucca, Siena and the rest. He was looking at the antiquities no doubt. He was lodging with Amelia’s parents in Florence. They had a single daughter, Amelia. She must have been smitten for she came over to England not so long after his return. Her own parents were dead by this time and perhaps she had no one else to turn to apart from the nice clergyman who had spoken fondly to her.’

Percy paused to take a swig from his glass. Tom noticed the edge of bitterness in his words. Perhaps he was envious of his brother, of the fact that an attractive young woman had come in search of Felix from overseas. This seemed to be confirmed by what he said next.

‘Amelia threw herself on his mercy. She was a single lady in a country that was foreign to her. In due course, and after the necessary arrangements, they were married and they lived happily ever after.’

‘This was a long time ago?’

‘Oh, many years. Twenty or more. But Amelia has worn very well, hasn’t she, while my brother has simply grown more dry and stick-like. So we’ve had a happy ending, no?’

‘It sounds like it.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Slater.

There was a finality to his words. Tom stood up again, explaining that he had a train to catch and an appointment in Salisbury. This was a stretch, but at the moment he simply wanted to get out of Northwood House. Percy Slater pulled out a pocket watch.

‘There is no great hurry, sir. No train is due for, oh — an hour and a half at least. At two thirty to be precise. I know the train times backward. I enjoy reading my Bradshaw just as I enjoy reading the racing form. An hour and a half, I say. Plenty of time for Fawkes to take you back to Downton.’

‘Fawkes?’

‘My coachman. And valet. And factotum. I inherited him from my father just as I inherited Nan, who is my cook and housekeeper. Her name is Ann but I called her Nan with my childish tongue and it has stuck ever since. Fawkes is simply Fawkes, and there is no more to be said. My wife Elizabeth would like me to take on more servants but I tell her that since she is never here and I live essentially in two rooms out of the many in Northwood, Fawkes and Nan can cater to my needs quite adequately. She cooks well, if she has to. You will not stay for luncheon?’

Tom’s attention was caught by this reference to the man’s wife but he turned down the invitation. Turned it down with a touch of regret as well as relief. He sensed Percy Slater’s loneliness. His host waved at him in dismissal.

‘Very well, Mr Ansell. Go outside and find Nan or Fawkes. He will convey you back to the station. I would not have you stuck here.’

Slater half rose from his seat and gave Tom a perfunctory handshake.

Since Tom had rejected his invitation to stay, he seemed to have lost interest in his guest.

Tom retraced his steps from the smoking room and into the servants’ quarter of the house. He passed Nan. She was carrying a tray containing a plate of cheese and cold meats together with a wine bottle, presumably the lunch that he would have shared with Percy. The old, black-garbed servant could scarcely bring herself to acknowledge him with a nod. Fawkes, coachman, valet and factotum to Percy Slater, was sitting at the end of the kitchen table. He was tearing at a chunk of bread, the final item on his plate. Tom stood in the doorway.

‘I need to return to the station now, Fawkes. Mr Slater said you would take me.’

Fawkes looked up at Tom. He finished chewing the bread, taking his time. Then he took a swig from a tankard beside the plate. Only after that did he get to his feet, wiping at his mouth and dimpled chin. He was still wearing the little felt hat.

‘Wait in here,’ he said, ‘sir.’

Tom stood in the lobby while Fawkes went off to fetch the carriage. The rain dribbled down the window-panes in the door. Tom thought he’d seen Fawkes before somewhere, then reflected that he had — scarcely more than a couple of hours ago at Downton station. He thought of Percy Slater’s ridiculous invitation to a wager. There was something old-fashioned about it, the kind of absurd bet that two aristocrats would have indulged in during an earlier, looser age. In fact, Percy Slater himself — drinking, idling, gaming, casting his eye over the sporting press — had an eighteenth-century flavour to him. Tom recalled that David Mackenzie had described Percy’s father, George, in similar terms, an impression which was confirmed by the little he’d glimpsed of old Slater’s memoirs.

Tom continued to think about the Slater family as he was being conveyed to the station by Fawkes. There was a contrast between the two brothers in almost every way: the one lean and austere, the other slack and self-indulgent; Felix’s religious vocation, Percy’s boredom; the Canon’s passion for old artefacts and reverence for history, his older brother’s devotion to gambling and the turf. It would have been interesting to have met Elizabeth and compared her to the enigmatic Amelia, to have seen whether the difference in the brothers was reflected in their wives.

Slater’s carriage trundled into Downton, over the bridge and past the tannery. Fawkes drew up on the stand out-side the railway station. Tom got out and looked up to thank Fawkes in the driving seat. The coachman raised a forefinger and seemed to sight down it at Tom as if his finger was the barrel of a gun. ‘You have a care,’ he said, ‘sir.’

This might have been intended as a kindly parting remark but, coupled with the gun-sighting gesture and spoken without warmth, it sounded more like a warning. As he sat in the little waiting room (there was more than half an hour before his train was due), Tom did his best to shrug off the visit to Northwood House.

He hadn’t disliked Percy Slater, in an odd way he’d felt almost sorry for the fellow, but he had not cared for the cold, neglected mansion or the two retainers. Tom still couldn’t understand exactly why Percy had wanted to see him, unless he was meant to act as an intermediary between the brothers. The other puzzle was how to square the description which Felix had given of his brother with the reality. Percy might be idle and all the rest of it, but he was no fool, nor did he appear to be suffering any kind of physical decline. Tom wondered whether Felix Slater assumed that his brother must be in that condition, either because they never saw each other or because he required him to be paying some sort of price for his way of life. Perhaps that was what lay behind Percy’s claim that his brother would like to have him committed to a sanatorium or an asylum. Where had he heard, and recently, someone say that people aren’t always what they seem? Ah yes, it was Amelia Slater, the Canon’s wife. They’d been talking about the Tichborne Claimant. Well, neither of the brothers was a fraudster but nor were they quite how they’d been painted by others.

These considerations occupied Tom during his wait at Downton station and on the short journey back to Salisbury. It was a miserable autumn afternoon, with the rain turning into a drizzly mist and then into fog, so that Tom walked back to The Side of Beef through streets where the passers-by were swathed from each other. Not yet familiar with the town, he took a couple of wrong turnings. Getting back to the inn, and even seeing Jenkins’s face once more, was a relief.