Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

‘And I thought you should come as well, Tom,’ said Helen, ‘considering that you were the one who actually found the body of this unfortunate man.’

Tom wondered whether all this wasn’t a bit irregular but he was willing to do what he could, which shouldn’t amount to much since it was the Inspector who would have to deliver the message while Helen supplied the ‘feminine touch’. On their way to the artisans’ dwellings which lay beyond the great cathedral, Foster explained how the day would surely come when women would be recruited into the police alongside men, a notion to which Helen responded with enthusiasm, provided, she said, ‘we are not expected merely to dry tears and mop brows.’

‘Have you seen Walter Slater?’ said the Inspector.

Tom was taken aback by the direct question. He hesitated before replying. ‘No, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard he is back at home.’

‘Home?’

‘In Venn House, I mean.’

‘Is he now?’ said Foster while Tom wondered whether he’d betrayed a confidence and whether the curate had actually returned to Venn House after his meeting with Eric Selby the previous night.

They reached the terrace of workers’ cottages. Mrs Banks had noticed them passing the window of her parlour for the front door was opened before Foster could knock. She must have been cleaning out the grate for there were traces of ash on her hands, which she was wiping on her apron. One look at Foster’s face was enough to tell her the news. Water welled into her eyes. The Inspector did not have to say a word. Helen stepped forward and embraced the older woman. She had to bend down to do so. Foster and Tom stood by, feeling both uncomfortable and relieved.

‘I am forgetting my manners,’ said Mrs Banks after a few moments. Her voice was, surprisingly, under control. ‘We should not be standing out here like this for neighbours to see. Come inside and I will make you a pot of tea.’

They crowded into the small parlour. There was a neat mound of ash beneath the grate. Tom observed a pile of folded clothes together with needles and thread on the chaise, all of which Mrs Banks carefully removed to a corner. When the tea had been made and they were all sitting down, the three visitors crowded side by side, the Inspector showed Mrs Banks the tattered bit of paper containing the Ecclesiastes verse.

‘Yes, that is Andrew’s hand,’ she said. ‘He always wrote a neat hand. But what do the words mean?’

‘It is part of a verse from the Bible,’ said Foster. ‘I am not sure the words mean a great deal in themselves but they seem to have confirmed to your brother that he was on the right track when he went searching out at Todd’s Mound.’

‘The right track!’ said Mrs Banks. ‘He was never on the right track since he caught the illness and went about sniffing and digging in the earth to take things out.’

Rather than putting things in, thought Tom, which would have been his proper job as a sexton. At that moment a shadow fell across the window followed by a clattering outside the front door and then the same noise in the hallway. Constable Chesney almost fell into the small room. He looked about in confusion.

‘What is it?’ said Foster sharply.

‘Guv, I need to speak to you urgent,’ said the policeman before looking at the other three and, obviously considering that his abrupt appearance might be disrespectful, adding, ‘sir and ladies.’

Foster ushered Chesney out of the room and the two held a whispered conversation in the hall. Tom and Helen, and probably Mrs Banks as well, didn’t even attempt not to overhear. Not much more emerged than the words ‘dead’, ‘murder’, ‘suicide’ and ‘shot’, which was enough. Hearing the whispers, Tom turned cold. He at once thought of Walter Slater.

Inspector Foster entered the parlour once more.

‘You will have to excuse me, Mrs Banks. A — a circumstance has arisen which requires my immediate attention. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your brother Mr Andrew North and be assured that, if he has been the victim of a crime, then we will leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of the perpetrator.’

Tom and Helen turned to watch as Foster and Chesney passed the window outside. Besides curiosity, Tom felt a faint sense of frustration. What was the urgent circumstance? Who was dead? Were they murdered or had they committed suicide? Was it to do with the death of Felix Slater? Why weren’t he and Helen being invited along to assist the authorities? After all, they had some expertise by now in the matter of dead bodies found in suspicious surroundings.

‘What is happening?’ said Mrs Banks. ‘Did I hear that policeman use the word murder?’

‘I heard it too,’ said Tom.

‘Not to do with my brother?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘What is happening?’ repeated the woman, in confusion, almost anguish. ‘All these murders in a small place. Has there ever been such a thing before?’

‘Mrs Banks,’ said Helen, ‘I know that Inspector Foster was going to ask whether he might examine your brother’s room for any evidence about his. . his unexplained death. Now that he has been called away so suddenly, could we have a look instead? Like the police, we have an interest in finding out who is doing these deeds.’

‘You may do as you please, Miss Scott. If my Andrew was still here, I would not have allowed anyone to disturb his things. . but now that he isn’t here. . well, I. . ’

Her already creased face grew more wrinkled and she struggled to hold back her tears.

‘We found this,’ said Helen. ‘It is your brother’s, I think.’

From her bag she produced the pewter flask which they’d picked up on the flank of Todd’s Mound.

Mrs Banks took the flask and angled it so that the initials incised into the surface caught the light.

‘Yes, this is his. “A.H.N.”’ She recognized the shape of the initials rather than spelling them out. ‘Where did you. .?’

‘Close to where he was found,’ said Tom, concealing his surprise that Helen had kept the flask. ‘It must have fallen from your brother’s pocket.’

‘Thank you for this,’ said Mrs Banks. ‘You want to look at Andrew’s room, you say? There is nothing to see there but you may go upstairs. His is the door on the right.’

Tom followed Helen up the narrow stairs which led off the hall. There was a cramped landing at the top with two doors giving on to rooms that made up the entire first floor of the cottage. Helen opened the right-hand door, paused on the threshold for a moment and then in a couple of paces crossed to the window and drew back the curtain. The sexton’s room was plain, with furniture made out of deal and faded wallpaper depicting some unidentifiable yellow flowers against a brown background. In addition to the single bed there was a chest of drawers, a kind of cabinet and a wash-stand. The place was very clean but the subdued light of a November morning only served to strengthen the melancholy feel of somewhere which was unlived-in or abandoned.

‘What do you hope to find, Helen?’

Tom stood uneasily just inside the doorway. He quite admired her manner of treating the place as if it were her own — really, a confident young woman could get away with a great deal these days which would cause a man to be slapped down! — but he didn’t see what they could expect to discover in Andrew North’s room.

‘I don’t know, Tom. We’re investigating.’

‘Like the police.’

‘Inspector Ansell has a certain ring to it, don’t you think, Tom?’

‘Or Inspector Scott. After all, Foster was looking forward to the day when women might join the force. Perhaps he was joking.’

‘No, he wasn’t. Seriously, Tom, we’ve heard that the cathedral sexton was a man who spent his time poring over books and maps after he caught this infection for digging things up. He made notes, he wrote things down. His sister called him a methodical man, just as she is an orderly woman. As well, Andrew North seemed to be looking for guidance, for signs that he was on the right track. He copied down that Bible verse about the fallen tree and underlined the words that he imagined applied to himself. Perhaps he wrote down something which might help to identify his murderer. Perhaps he has concealed something valuable in this room.’