Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

Afterwards Seth could not decide whether Adam had deliberately fired or whether the gun had discharged by accident. Either way the result was the same and Percy Slater lay stretched out in the middle of Hogg’s Corner with a dark hole in his chest.

Nor did Adam seem overly troubled. ‘Should have rapped him a little harder in the first place,’ was all he said.

‘You bugger,’ said Seth.

‘Give me the spade,’ said Adam. ‘ I’ll dig if I have to.’

‘Come a step nearer and you’ll get your head stove in. That gun is empty. It’s only got the one barrel. I’ve got the spade and a longer reach than you.’

Seth swung the spade towards his brother’s head. It made a whooshing sound in the air.

‘Not very fraternal, Seth.’

Nevertheless, Seth’s tone and behaviour together with the disastrous turn the night had taken must have persuaded Adam that he was going to get no further. He dropped the shotgun on the ground.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right. Hold your horses. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to give me a few hours to get clear of this place and after that it’s up to you. Whether you bury this big bag of bones or whether you go running off to the peelers with some story, it’s up to you, brother. But if I get taken, I’ll make sure you get taken as well. And if I swing for it, I’ll make double sure you swing alongside me. I saw a public hanging once, in Aylesbury many years back, a Quaker who’d gone bad and poisoned his fancy bit of stuff. It went bad for him at the end too. He died hard, as they say. Course, we don’t hang people in public now, we’re too civilized for that palaver. But there’s still the scaffold and the rope and the drop, and you will be there with me to share it, indoors or out. Got that?’

He did not wait for a reply — anyway, what was there left for Seth Fawkes to say? — but seemed to drop into the darkness beyond the edge of the mound. Holding the oil lamp and the spade, Seth went over to Percy’s body to confirm that his master was dead. Then he retraced his steps across the field and scrambled up the ha-ha and so round the side of the house and back into his eyrie in the stables.

Seth didn’t doubt that his brother meant what he’d threatened. That if he was apprehended, he would do his worst to ensure that the blame and the punishment for Percy’s death were shared. Seth felt a touch of grief for Percy but, much more, he felt angry with Adam. His immediate concern, though, was to preserve himself and to stay where he was. He did not want to live the life of a fugitive, let alone face the scaffold. His position at Northwood House should be secure. The master might be dead but there were others with a legal stake in the place, Percy’s wife and that clergyman son of his.

Seth Fawkes did not sleep that night but, as soon as first streaks of grey were showing in the east, he went back to Hogg’s Corner. The crows were circling above the mound. Percy Slater’s body lay where it had fallen, arms and legs outflung and a great red tear in the centre of his chest. The corpse was stiff and cold. The shotgun was a couple of yards away. The spot in the middle of the mound, where Seth had been directed to begin his excavations with the spade, looked untouched. There was no visible evidence as to why Percy Slater — or anyone else for that matter — should have been out at Hogg’s Corner in the middle of the night.

Seth had thought hard in the last few hours. Although he was not as quick-witted as his brother Adam, he was no fool. He realized that the death of the owner of North-wood House would have to be reported to the law, and sooner rather than later to avoid arousing suspicion. He also realized that his first idea, that Percy’s death might be made to look like a suicide, would not hold water. The fatal wound was in the wrong place. Seth contemplated spinning some yarn about spotting a band of gypsies in the neighbourhood of the estate, or seeing thieves being pursued from the house by Percy and then hearing a single shot. But he decided to keep things simple, he decided to stay close to the truth. Spinning a story meant getting tangled up in lies, and remembering what was true and what was false. Ignorance was the best defence.

Accordingly Seth Fawkes alerted Nan to what he’d found. The woman, who was as tough as old boots, tottered out to Hogg’s Corner and saw for herself. She seemed perturbed by the sight and wrung her hands but she asked no questions, as if the discovery of a body was an everyday event. When she returned to the kitchen, she settled down to a bowl of porridge while Fawkes took the carriage to Downton and then on to Salisbury.

Now, several hours later, Seth was striding up and down the weed-strewn terrace while Nan, indoors, was fussing over the corpse of Percy and assisting the local doctor. Meanwhile the sergeant and the constable were tramping over Hogg’s Corner as they examined the scene of the crime, stroking their chins and looking wise and coming to the conclusion that a crime had been committed.

The sergeant had asked Seth and Nan a few questions. When had they last seen Percy? Had they been disturbed in the night? Was there any sign that the house had been broken into? Did they hear the sound of a shot? That kind of thing. Nan had professed genuine ignorance while Seth pretended to his. The old woman had prepared some supper for her master early the previous evening and then left him to his own devices in the smoking room, as usual. Seth said that he’d seen his employer at some point in the previous afternoon, which was true enough.

In the hours since the murder of Percy Slater, Seth’s feelings had not abated but grown stronger. He was still half afraid of his brother, and did not doubt Adam’s threat to tell tales on him if caught, but the anger almost out-weighed the fear. Percy had been a decent enough cove in his way. He’d been a toper and a gambler and had allowed the estate to wither away, but he had made few demands on Seth. Now he was dead, murdered, and a basic sense of justice in Seth demanded that someone should pay for the crime.

The autumn afternoon was drawing to a close. Tom Ansell was about to go into his room to write a note to David Mackenzie, from whom he had received a letter that morning, lamenting the ‘misfortune’ which had landed him in gaol and asking to be kept informed. Meanwhile Helen was waiting for him downstairs in the snug of The Side of Beef. They had been invited to dine with the Selbys that evening.

Jenny the chambermaid was at the top of the stairs as Tom arrived on the first floor. She drew aside to let Tom pass and, as she did so, gave an almighty sneeze.

An unthinking ‘Bless you’ was on Tom’s lips when something made him pause. The maid had already mumbled an equally automatic ‘Sorry, sir.’ She drew out a dirty bit of cloth from her sleeve and wiped her nose. Tom couldn’t help noticing her hands. She had long, bony fingers with reddened tips.

‘Jenny, is it?’ said Tom. ‘Can I speak with you a moment? Speak in my room?’

The chambermaid looked taken aback but nodded. She followed Tom into his bedroom and remained by the door, which she left ajar.

Tom stood still for an instant. He wondered what to say next and was given his cue when the girl sneezed again.

‘That’s a nasty cold, Jenny. Who did you catch it from?’

‘Dunno, sir,’ said Jenny, bafflement replacing the slight apprehension on her face. ‘One of my nieces, I ’spect.’

‘And I wonder if anyone has caught it from you in turn.’

Jenny glanced over her shoulder at the partly open door. Obviously, she was dealing with a guest who’d gone a bit soft in the head. Should she humour him or make a dash for it?