Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

Yet, even as he turned these matters over in his head, he thought again of how fine she looked in mourning, how very fine.

Then he wondered whether he should get rid of the handkerchief or whether it was safe to have it laundered at home. If he got rid of it, he would have to burn or bury it. Otherwise the monogrammed initials were too revealing. If he did get rid of it, who was to say that it had ever existed, or rather who could say that it had been found, blood-speckled, near the site of a murder? But there were two people who might testify to that, he reflected. There was Amelia Slater and Bessie the housemaid. Mustn’t forget the housemaid.

While this was going on, while Inspector Foster was giving the news to Tom Ansell and Helen Scott, while Cathcart was seeing Amelia Slater, Canon Eric Selby had been talking to Walter Slater.

The two men were in the ringing room of the bell-tower of St Luke’s. It was cold and damp and poorly illuminated by a few candles. Selby was concerned for the young man’s physical welfare. He was gaunt and unshaven. It could not be healthy to spend so long up here in this stone-walled, cheerless chamber, whatever one’s reasons. But Selby was still more concerned for Walter’s mental state. He was not speaking much, but what he did say was distracted and hardly coherent.

When Selby had first been alerted to Walter’s whereabouts by Miss Annabel Nugent, he had not believed it. But the young woman had been insistent. She was gathering up some dead flowers from the church — one of her little, self-imposed duties — in the hush and dark of late afternoon when she saw her friend, the curate, going up the stairs to the bell-tower. He was clutching a bottle and something else to his chest in the manner of a fugitive or thief. He had not noticed her standing in a side aisle. There was such a fixed, almost desperate look on Walter’s face that he had not noticed anything at all but seemed to be moving like an automaton.

Annabel made to move towards him but he had already disappeared up the spiral staircase, pushing the door to behind him. She half opened it again but the door gave a great creak and she heard the shuffle of climbing feet halt above her. She looked down and observed some crumbs on the floor. He had been carrying a loaf of bread as well as the bottle, clutching the items to him as though he feared someone might seize them. She didn’t know whether to be more surprised at this or at the queer, fixed expression on his face. Was he feeding someone up in the tower? Was he feeding himself? Suddenly frightened, Annabel turned and walked quickly out of the church. She spent some time waiting outside for Walter to appear again. It was late in the day, there was no church service. What could he be doing up there in the bell-tower? She asked herself whether his mind had been turned by the murder of his uncle.

Wondering what to do next she then remembered not the vicar of St Luke’s, Mr Simpson (who, in truth, she did not like very much), but an old friend of her grandfather, the late Rev. Parsons. So she called on Canon Eric Selby and, haltingly, explained what she’d seen. And Selby had surprised her by the speed with which, after his initial doubts, he had put on his coat and shovel-hat and accompanied her back to St Luke’s. He might have been an old man, very old in Annabel’s eyes, but he walked with vigour and purpose. On the way, Annabel tried out her idea that Walter had become disturbed on account of the dreadful murder of his uncle, Felix Slater, which was the talk of the whole town. It’s possible, said Selby, without revealing that he had been present at the aftermath of the murder himself.

Once they were inside St Luke’s, Annabel grew reluctant. She wished she hadn’t summoned the nice old gent now. For sure, Walter would be nowhere to be found (certainly not up in the bell-tower), and she’d look a fool. On the other hand, part of her hoped that Walter was all right and not skulking in the tower anyway. She was a little frightened too, and allowed Canon Selby, old as he was, to go first through the creaky door and up the spiral stairs. It was almost completely dark and they had to feel their way up.

They reached the little, stone-flagged landing outside the ringing room and Annabel got a terrible shock because there was a figure standing in the doorway, waiting for them. It was Walter Slater. She would have known him in any case but a little light leaked out from the room, a couple of flickering candles which outlined his shape.

‘I heard the door,’ he said, his voice sounding strange to Annabel’s ears.

‘Miss Nugent, I recognize you but what are you doing here?’

‘I was worried about you.’

‘Who is that with you?’

‘This is Eric Selby, Walter. You know me, do you not?’

‘Yes, sir. I know you. What do you want?’

‘I think, Miss Nugent, that it would be best if you left me to speak to Walter by myself.’

Annabel was half sorry, half glad to get her dismissal. She walked back down the stairs. She thought of poor Walter up in the ringing room, and felt curious. A little frightened still. Walter wouldn’t do anything to the old man, would he? He was a churchman. They were both churchmen. Then she recalled the murder of another churchman only a few days before.

In the ringing room, Canon Selby was saying, ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You aren’t sleeping up here surely, Walter?’

But Selby saw against the wall a pile of material, old vestments and the like, which seemed to bear the marks of a body. There was, too, a kind of fustiness to the chamber for all its chill.

‘What if I am? This is my church — I mean, I am curate here. I can sleep here if I want.’

‘Most curates of my acquaintance would expect to be better accommodated than this. Does Reverend Simpson know you are here?’

‘Of course he doesn’t. No one knows I am here. Except you and Miss Annabel now.’

‘Well, well,’ said Selby, ‘never mind the fact that you are here for the time being. The question is why you are here when you have a home to go to. I am sure that your aunt needs your comfort and protection.’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Slater. Amelia.’

‘Oh, my aunt. Yes, perhaps she does.’

Both men were standing face to face. Selby was almost a head shorter than Walter but the authority seemed to lie with him. He spoke the last words softly and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. Walter irritably shook off his grasp.

‘Is this to do with your uncle’s murder?’

‘My uncle’s murder,’ said Walter as if the thought had just occurred to him. He took a step or two backwards. ‘You were there when — when Canon Slater was killed, weren’t you?’

‘Not when he was killed,’ said Selby carefully. ‘But I did arrive on the scene shortly afterwards.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I do not know that I have to answer your questions, Walter, but I was out for a walk.’

‘On such a cold and miserable night?’

‘I have always enjoyed walking in the cathedral close whatever the weather. I was out walking that evening as on so many others and I noticed a noise and disturbance coming from your uncle’s place, from Venn House. I wondered if anything was wrong.’

‘You did not like Canon Slater,’ said Walter. It was a statement rather than a question. ‘I heard you two arguing on the day that he died.’

Eric Selby looked surprised at this but he did not ask how Walter had discovered the argument. Instead he said, ‘It is no secret that there was not a great deal of love lost between your uncle and myself but I regret his passing as much as any honest citizen of Salisbury must regret it, especially as it occurred in such terrible circumstances. Does that satisfy you, Walter? I had nothing to do with his murder.’