Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

Tom ran out of the room and clattered down the stairs to the lobby of The Side of Beef. Helen raised her eyebrows at Jenny in female commiseration or incomprehension before following him, calling him to wait. She caught up with him on the pavement. The sun was beginning to set, a glaring red descent through the chimney smoke and the mist starting up from the river.

‘Where are you going, Tom?’

‘The cathedral close.’

‘I’m coming too.’

‘No, do not. I think that Eaves is a murderer.’

They stood there an instant, undecided. Helen glanced up at the sign which hung above the hotel porch. The car-cass of beef which advertised the place was glowing red in the late afternoon light.

‘Then we should go and find Inspector Foster. If you’re right then this Eaves is a dangerous man.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Tom. ‘But in the meantime the fellow may be making his escape if he hasn’t already done so.’

Helen saw the hectic look on Tom’s face. He nodded at her and then set off at a smart pace down the crowded street. She had no choice but to pursue him.

Henry Cathcart was going to make a confession to his wife. He walked wearily down the stuffy passage leading to her room and knocked on the door. It was late afternoon, a time when Constance was usually lively (by her standards) after her nap. In fact, Constance had been more alert recently. The murder in the close had given her zest. Even the ‘Come in’ that answered Henry’s knock was firmer than normal.

He was not pleased to see that Grace was in the room, fussing around the table on which were displayed his wife’s various remedies. Not pleased, but not surprised either since Grace spent most of her waking hours with her mistress and some of her sleeping ones too.

‘I should like to be alone with Mrs Cathcart,’ said Henry.

Grace’s gaze flicked towards Constance, who was sitting up in bed with a copy of the Gazette in her lap. The maid’s look seemed to say, I will leave the room but under duress and only if it is all right with you, Mrs Cathcart . Or perhaps she meant no such thing and it was only that Henry was sensitive to Grace’s looks. She left the room with little fuss, however.

‘Shall I draw the curtains, my dear?’ said Henry when they were alone. A spectacular autumnal sun was brushing the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street.

‘Leave them, please, ‘ said Constance. ‘It is nice to see the outside world from time to time.’

Henry stood indecisively near the window. Eventually he came to sit on the edge of Constance’s bed. His wife shifted her attention away from the newspaper. Perhaps she sensed her husband was about to say something significant. He was wondering where to begin even though he had already told the story, or parts of it, to the Inspector earlier in the afternoon.

‘Constance, I. .’

‘Yes?’

‘I have been behaving rather foolishly, weakly, if you like. .’

And Henry Cathcart went on to describe how he had allowed himself to entertain occasional visits from Mrs Amelia Slater. Of how he had perhaps been more encouraging of them than he should have been. Of how, from the outside, such things might look compromising. Of how, in fact, he had compromised himself in a more dangerous sense by visiting Venn House on the very evening of the Canon’s murder. Had discovered the unlocked front door and paced up the silent passage and paused outside the closed door of Felix Slater’s study.

(He did not mention to Constance that he had dropped his monogrammed handkerchief somewhere near the study door — the handkerchief which was speckled with blood actually from a shavingcut and no more sinister source, and which had been seen by Bessie the maid and retrieved by her mistress.)

Henry said that he had slipped out of the Canon’s house with the sense that something indefinable was wrong, only to be drawn back a few minutes later by the brouhaha surrounding the murder. He was as amazed as anyone else to see that the haplesss individual being ecorted away by the local police was Tom Ansell, the son of his late comrade-in-arms. Henry hadn’t informed the police that he himself had walked into Venn House since he had seen nothing inside and didn’t want to muddy the waters of the investigation. Of course he did not believe that Ansell had committed the crime — what would be his motive, for one thing? — and assumed that it wouldn’t be long before the unfortunate young lawyer was released.

(Which assumption was correct. Cathcart neglected to say, though, that his first thought on hearing that the Canon had been murdered was to imagine the wife doing the deed. Hadn’t she talked, almost fondly, of widowhood?)

Now, however, things had taken a peculiar and even darker turn with the death of Percy Slater at his estate in Downton and the disappearance of Walter Slater and the hysterics of Mrs Slater. It was as if the whole family was labouring under some curse, like characters in an ancient tragedy. Accordingly, he had decided to tell the Inspector what he knew — which wasn’t much — and had referred to his visit to Venn House on the night of the first death. He wanted to have everything clear and out in the open.

(Or almost clear and out in the open. Cathcart had been frank with Foster, up to a point. He’d hinted, man to man, that he had a partiality for Mrs Slater, a partiality which had always stayed strictly within the bounds of respect-ability. He described how he had paid her the occasional visit, or she him, to discuss the stock in his store and the clothing catalogues, for he valued a lady’s perspective. He mentioned that he’d dropped a personal item in Venn House on the evening of the murder, a handkerchief which had subsequently been returned to him. He admitted this only so as to guard himself against further. . insinuations from Amelia. If the police were aware of the full story, then the widow could not exert any pressure on him. In truth, Foster had not been very interested and listened to Cathcart with scarcely concealed impatience. He had bigger business to attend to.)

Finally, Henry Cathcart described to Constance how he had ‘seen through’, as he put it, Mrs Amelia Slater. She was a — he hesitated before saying this — an unstable woman, perhaps a dangerous one. He had witnessed for himself her hysterics earlier that day. She seemed to be obsessed not so much with her dead husband but with her absent nephew. He didn’t know what to make of her or of the situation in general.

(Which was more or less true.)

Constance heard him out. It did not take very long, for Henry had not a great deal of substance to say. Her great eyes grew wider and she nodded once or twice as if what she was hearing wasn’t much of a surprise. Then, looking more animated than Henry had seen her in many months, she leaned forward and patted her husband’s hand where it lay on the bed-cover.

‘There, there, my dear,’ she said in a tone which suggested that he rather than she was the invalid. ‘I perhaps know more about what’s been going on than you think. Long ago I concluded that Mrs Slater was the kind of woman that you have just discovered her to be for your-self. I’m glad your eyes have been opened. Now perhaps we can talk about making that trip to London to see Mr Moody and Mr Sankey. . ’

Cathcart sighed, whether with relief or vexation he couldn’t have said. He half expected her to make some comment about there being more joy in heaven over a single sinner that repenteth, etc. Instead Constance glanced at the Gazette .

‘The authorities do not seem any nearer to discovering the murderer of Canon Slater.’

‘No. It is a mystery still.’

Although for Tom Ansell and Helen Scott, the mystery was almost solved.