Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

‘There is not,’ said Fawkes, but he did not sound altogether confident.

‘Have you heard that tale, matey, of a sailor who was so glad when old King Charles came back to rule this happy isle and called in on Salisbury town, that he went and capered up the spire and did a handstand on the very top? Have you heard that tale of a sailor?’

‘You go capering up the spire then, Adam,’ said Fawkes, ‘and I’ll say goodbye to you when you’re on the way down.’

‘Or p’raps I’ll just caper in your direction instead.’

And at that, Adam Eaves did a queer kind of dance towards Seth Fawkes, who continued to hold out the implement — was it really a trowel? — in front of him. Tom involuntarily started up the steps until he was almost out in the open. And down below he heard, yes, the the thud of boots and the sounds of voices. Voices calling out — calling his name. ‘Tom!’ or ‘Mr Ansell!’

Eaves seemed to halt in midspring, at the sight of someone emerging from the staircase, perhaps at the sounds coming from below.

‘Up here!’ Tom yelled. ‘Here!’

The gardener changed direction and darted beyond the massive wheel that stood like some treadmill in a prison of nightmares. He fumbled at a door on that side of the spire, the southern aspect. But the door was locked or it stuck fast and he abandoned the attempt after a couple of seconds and scrabbled towards the western wall, on the opposite side to where Tom had appeared.

Meanwhile Seth Fawkes, who was slower than the other man and had started back in shock at Tom’s presence, now resumed his pursuit. There was a clanging sound and a sudden gust of air and a blaze of red light from the setting sun as Eaves managed to wrench open the west-facing door which, once released, slammed back on its hinges under the force of the wind. Tom scrambled and ducked his way through the jumble of beams and struts which occupied the central area of the base of the spire, ignoring bruised shins and a knock to his head. As he neared the door, the rectangle was darkened for an instant by a shape. It must be Fawkes, reaching the entrance before Tom, following his brother out into the open.

The sun was directly in Tom’s eyes. Standing on the threshold of the door, he was aware — without being able to see anything clearly — of a mighty stone spire and infinite acres of space above his head, of the cathedral roof and the grassy close and the fringes of the town below. Of the glint of the river beyond. Of a great orangered ball blurring a distant line of hills. No noises that he could hear, apart from the rushing of the wind. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped out on to the ledge which fronted this angle of the spire.

The ledge or viewing platform was scarcely a yard across and little more than half a dozen yards in length, broken up by buttresses which turned the spaces in between to small bays. There was a parapet of stone but it was less high than a ship’s rail. Tom, his eyes still dazzled by the light, instinctively grasped at the parapet. He glanced to left and right from his vantage point in the middle of the ledge. He could see nothing, and believed for an instant that the two men, Eaves and Fawkes, had somehow effected a miraculous escape.

But no. From behind one of the buttresses to his left there came thumps and groans, and two black-clad figures fell writhing to the ground in a curious, sideways, rag-doll fashion. One of them — Tom could not discern which of the two, since the man’s back was to him and he was still wearing the billycock hat — scrambled to his feet and started to kick at the other. The space was so limited that the kicker could not get much force or swing behind his attack. Then there was a swiping arm, a flash of metal in the sun, and the kicking stopped. Tom guessed that the weapon was the trowel which Fawkes had been wielding. Now the one on the ground dropped the trowel, grabbed hold of the other’s legs and clasped them to him, causing the upright figure to fall back against the parapet.

Tom’s attention was distracted for an instant by a clattering in the chamber behind him. The sounds of panting, of voices straining to call out his name after the rapid climb to the top. He twisted his head and shouted out into the darkness over his shoulder, ‘Here we are!’

When he turned back, he saw that the figure who’d been on the ground and grasped the other by the legs was now rearing up. He was still holding his opponent’s legs below the knee. With a great heave, by bracing himself against the wall, he pushed himself fully upright and seemed to pour — there was no other word for it — seemed to pour his opposite over the parapet, as if he was tipping liquid out of a jug.

In a single, fluid motion the other man pitched over the edge and tumbled outwards into space. With all sense of himself suspended, Tom was barely conscious of what he could see: amid the sun-spots that danced in front of his vision, there was a collection of black rags and sticks (the limbs, he realized, yes, the arms and legs) which grew smaller as it fell towards earth. Or not the earth, precisely, but the sheer flank of the cathedral roof.

Then he felt hands grasping his shoulders and pulling at him and he was afraid that he too was going to be thrown off into nothingness. Automatically he gripped the sides of the doorway. But the hands went on dragging and a voice said, ‘Come inside!’ and another said ‘Get out of the way!’ and they were different voices, neither of them belonging to the two men who’d been struggling on the parapet.

Tom fell back into the chamber at the bottom of the spire. He lay there, as several shapes crowded past him and out through the doorway. His confused state was worsened by several great blows struck on a giant gong, sounds which it took him a moment to identify as the cathedral clock. Then he felt his head being lifted gently, almost cradled.

‘Are you all right, Tom?’

It was Helen. She was kneeling on the floor. He felt the softness of her hands, the fabric of her coat brushing his cheek. He was going to tell her to stand up, otherwise she’d get her clothes dusty and dirty, but instead he said, ‘What happened?’

‘I was going to ask you that,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing his forehead.

Then the crowd who’d gone out on to the viewing platform returned. Only three of them, as it turned out. Inspector Foster, Constable Chesney and another police-man whose name Tom didn’t know.

‘Nobody there,’ said Foster.

Tom stood up. He gripped one of the scaffolding beams, not so much for help in staying upright but so as to hold on to something solid.

‘But I saw them,’ he said. ‘They were fighting.’

‘I mean there’s nobody up here,’ said Foster, pulling on his side-whiskers for emphasis. ‘Down there — ’ now he jabbed with his forefinger towards the imagined ground many hundreds of feet below where they were standing — ‘down there’s a different story, and not a very pretty one either.’

And, standing next to his superior officer, Constable Chesney rammed his fist into his open palm to simulate the sound of bodies striking the ground.

Or the sound of a body, rather than bodies, and one striking not the ground but a lower roof.

A single corpse was recovered that afternoon as the sun fell and darkness rose in the cathedral close. It was badly battered and disfigured, like a mariner thrown from a ship and tossed among the rocks before arriving on shore. The damage to the mortal remains of Adam Eaves — or Adam Fawkes as he should more properly be called — had been caused by the force of impact against the stone outcrops, the buttresses and finials, in the lower stretches of the cathedral. The black shape which Tom saw plunging to its doom had soared outwards as it went down and then must have bounced and tumbled like a climber falling from a precipice, before landing finally on the roof of the cloisters.