The Salisbury Manuscript

The Church Porch

Walter Slater, assistant curate at St Luke’s, entered the cathedral close with a spring in his step. It was out of place, perhaps, to be feeling buoyant after a funeral but he had observed this response in himself and others on several occasions, once the dear departed was tucked into the earth. It was as if the weight of the earth being piled on the coffin was simultaneously being taken off the shoulders of the mourners. Even on such a foggy, dreary late afternoon, there had been a perceptible lightening of everyone’s spirits.

Walter had been helping to officiate at the service for the widow of one of the previous incumbents of the church. Mrs Parsons — that really was her name or rather the name of her late husband — had been one of the oldest and most devoted members of the St Luke’s congregation. She fell asleep during the sermons and lessons, and could scarcely stand up for the hymn-singing let alone kneel down to pray, but still she came to the church as regular as clock-work on Sundays.

Mrs Parsons had always been escorted to the St Luke’s services by her granddaughter, Alice Nugent. Miss Nugent did not fall asleep during the sermons or lessons but listened to them most attentively so that she could discuss their salient points afterwards with Walter.

Pleasant thoughts of Miss Nugent were filling Walter’s head and he did not notice the figure emerging through the gloom on his left hand. The figure was carrying a walking stick and heading to cut him off before he could turn down West Walk. Walter was surprised, more than surprised, to see that it was his father. Percy rarely left Northwood House or Downton to come to Salisbury.

‘What are you doing here, Father?’

‘That’s a fine welcome, Walter. I have as much right to walk round the close as anyone.’

‘Are you come to see Uncle Felix?’’

‘I am come to see you.’

Even in the half-light Walter noticed a strange, hectic cast to Percy’s face. He made to resume his walk, assuming his father would accompany him. But Percy held up his stick.

‘I don’t want to go to Venn House. I don’t want to see Felix. But I need to speak to you, Walter. Is there somewhere private we can go?’

Somewhere private? It was an odd request, thought Walter. ‘We could find a corner of the cathedral,’ he said. ‘Evensong will be over and there will be few people inside.’

‘Yes, a dark corner of the cathedral,’ said his father, seeming pleased with the suggestion.

The two men began to move towards the shrouded shape of the great church. The nearest entrance was via the porch in the north-west corner. As Walter and Percy drew closer, they observed two more individuals standing in the porch, two clerics to judge by their clothes.

Percy again held up his walking stick as a sign that they should halt.

He’d recognized his brother as one of the clergymen in the porch. Walter too had seen his uncle. The other man, he knew, was Canon Eric Selby.

The Canons hadn’t noticed the approach of father and son, partly because of the gloom of the afternoon but more because they were embroiled in a fierce argument. Even from the distance of many yards, the sound of raised voices could be heard.

Walter and his father might have done one of two things. They might have continued in the direction they were going and alerted the others to their presence. Or they might have tactfully turned on their heels and left the clerics to carry on their quarrel.

Instead, Percy gestured to Walter that they should get closer to one side of the porch, so that they’d be hidden from the view of the others but within earshot. Walter was at first baffled, then uncomfortable with the idea of eaves-dropping on his uncle, but he’d found by experience that it was easier to humour his father than make a fuss. The two stood, wrapped in fog, and listened to the argument.

Canon Selby was saying, ‘It is your fault, Slater, that Andrew North has disappeared. If you hadn’t encouraged him to go poking about where he shouldn’t, he’d still be doing an honest day’s work here.’

‘The sexton’s disappearance is nothing to do with me,’ said Slater in his dry, precise tones.

‘He visited Venn House often enough.’

‘I employed him to dig a grave in the garden. A grave for my wife’s pug, I hasten to add, Selby, before your imagination runs away with you.’

‘But you have a gardener — Eaves, isn’t he called? Couldn’t he have done the job?’

‘Good grief, are all my domestic arrangements to be subject to your scrutiny?’

‘I am only concerned with the missing sexton, Slater.’

‘I tell you again, I have no idea where he is. I pray that no harm has come to the man.’

‘You put ideas into North’s head,’ said Selby. ‘He became obsessed with uncovering the past, with digging things up. A sexton’s job is to bury, not to dig up. It is dangerous to uncover the past.’

‘You refer to the poor man as if he was no more. If you know anything, Canon Selby, then you should inform the authorities, go to the police house.’

‘He has been gone these several weeks. His sister is convinced that — that a great harm has befallen him. It is a reasonable assumption.’

‘Well, we must pray that he returns safe and sound. If you will excuse me, Selby, I must leave you. It is getting colder by the minute. And we have a guest for supper.’

From their position by the side of the porch Walter and Percy Slater saw Felix stride off into the mist. He was followed a short time later by Canon Selby.

‘No love lost between those two, eh?’ said Percy.

‘Canon Selby has never liked Uncle Felix,’ said Walter. ‘I believe that a long time ago he wanted to live in Venn House but Uncle got his hands on it first.’

‘This time they were talking about something different, the sexton who has gone missing.’

‘You know about that?’ said Walter, looking towards his father in surprise.

‘I read the Gazette. I like to keep up with the news from the big city.’

Father and son entered the cathedral through the porch door. Inside there was a sepulchral gloom. The scattered lamps and candles still burning after Evensong only emphasized the great pools of shadow which filled the place and seemed to flow down from the remote ceiling. A few shapes moved through the darkness, intent on their own business.

Walter steered his father towards the left. They sat down on a stone ledge that ran along the wall.

‘Is this private enough for you, Father? We are not likely to be disturbed here.’

Percy Slater sat with his walking stick between his knees.

‘I had a visitor today,’ he said. ‘A young man from a law firm in London.’

Sitting beside him, Walter started. He said, ‘I know the man, if it is Mr Ansell you mean. He has been visiting Uncle Felix.’

‘And I know that too,’ said Percy. ‘But Walter, there is a great deal that you do not know. And I feel that it is time you were told.’

‘I’m all ears, Father,’ said Walter with mock eagerness.

‘You may not be after you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’

Percy Slater’s warning was accurate enough. If anybody had been observing the door which led out of the north-west porch some half an hour later, he or she would have seen a white-faced figure wrenching it open and almost running through it. It was Walter Slater, no longer moving with a confident bounce but heading into the evening fog with no clear destination, with no idea at all of where he was going in fact. Still sitting on the stone ledge in the side aisle was Percy Slater, tapping on the floor with the tip of his walking stick. It was too dark inside to read the expression on his face.