Philip Gooden - The Salisbury Manuscript

‘We thought you were dead,’ she said. Her voice was quite steady in the circumstances.

‘Being dead is convenient, I’ve found,’ said Eaves. ‘I’ve been dead before. It enables you to pass unseen. Like being an old lady, when nobody notices you either. That’s true, isn’t it, Miss. . Miss. .? Not that you’d know, because everyone’s certainly going to notice you . Is it Miss or is it Mrs. . I can’t see a ring on account of your gloves, and I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction.’

‘Miss Scott will do.’

Helen said this coldly, and Tom didn’t think he’d ever admired or loved her more than he did at that moment. He spoke, more to distract attention away from Helen than anything else.

‘The body which fell from the cathedral was your brother’s, then. It was Seth’s?’

‘Course it was. He didn’t have a head for heights like me, poor fellow.’

‘But there was your confession,’ said Tom.

‘My confession?’ said Adam Eaves. ‘Oh yes, I read about that in the paper and had a good laugh. But it was none of mine, Mr Ansell. It was Seth as wrote it out and brought it to me just as I was leaving Venn House for good ’n’ all. He got upset when I wouldn’t sign it. Why should I put my monicker to a document like that, eh? You’re a lawyer. Tell me, would you?

‘Probably not,’ said Tom, wondering whether he dreaming this whole scene.

‘But Seth, he thought he could make me sign and turn me in or some such nonsense. He got into a right state when I disagreed with him, he tried to attack me, chased me all about the place. I believe you saw us, Mr Ansell.’

At this, Eaves stood up. A ridiculous figure in full skirts of some cheap material and a great-brimmed hat tilted to the back of his head like a cowboy in an illustrated magazine. He swayed slightly with the motion of the train but the gun was steady in his hand. It was a little gun, such as a woman might carry concealed in countries where women did carry such things. Tom thought of the United States.

‘Why don’t you leave us alone?’ he said. ‘Why don’t you make your escape instead of causing more trouble?’

‘I could do, couldn’t I?’ said Adam Eaves, as if the idea was occurring to him for the first time. ‘Why don’t I? Because I’m not minded to is why.’

‘There is a station soon,’ said Helen.

‘Is there, Miss Scott? No station for a fair few minutes yet. I know this line better than you, see. What I am going to do is fire this weapon a couple of times because this model is special, it has two barrels. I will do harm to you — the both of you — kill you, perhaps. And then I am going to pull what they call the communication cord. Have you noticed that, Mr Ansell and Miss Scott, the communication cord? It’s quite the new device and hangs on the outside of this carriage, just above the window. It rings a bell in the driver’s platform and when it rings he says to himself, oh there’s trouble, I wonder what, maybe a passenger taken sick of a sudden, and he puts on the brakes, and so this train draws to a standstill and so I make my escape over these fields, leaving you two here groaning and moaning. Or making no noise at all maybe, because you can’t. By the time anyone finds out what’s happened, I’ll be over the hills and far away.’

‘In God’s name, why?’ said Tom.

‘Why? I’ve always wanted to pull the communication cord on a train.’

‘Why do you want to harm us, I mean?’

"Cause I can,’ said Eaves. "Cause you got in my way.’

Eaves raised the gun and wavered in his aim, angling it first towards Tom then Helen. And back again towards Tom. Helen, who was still holding her sensation novel, threw The Shame of Mrs Prendergast at Eaves. He was taken by surprise. The book — it was a thick volume, full of incident — struck him in the chest and the gun flew out of his grasp and landed at Tom’s feet. Without thinking, he scooped it up and pointed it at Eaves.

‘It’s not loaded,’ said the gardener. ‘I was only joking.’ ‘Try me,’ said Tom. The gun, a woman’s weapon undoubtedly but small and potent, was in his hand. It had two barrels, one on top of the other. It was not cocked. Tom put one hand on the trigger, set far back in the handle, and the other on the hammer. He heard a thudding in his ears, over and above the clacking of the train. There was a kind of red mist before his eyes. He scarcely recognized the sound of his own voice.

‘Try me,’ he said again. ‘I would as soon kill you as look at you.’

‘I believe you would, Mr Ansell,’ said Adam Eaves.

With a swift movement, encumbered as he was by his female clothing, Eaves swung round and put his hand on the door handle. The train was travelling at speed on an embankment, and there was a drop on either side. ‘No time for the cord but c’est la vie ,’ said Eaves, and he opened the door.

Once he’d opened it a fraction, it slammed back against the side of the carriage, propelled by their forward motion. The smoke from the engine entered the compartment. Adam Eaves half jumped, half threw himself outward into space. Later Tom was reminded of the way in which Seth Fawkes had been cast from the cathedral spire.

By the time Helen and Tom had recovered themselves sufficiently to pull the communication cord — moving warily towards the gaping door, watching the countryside whirr past their feet, Helen holding on to Tom while he fumbled on the exterior of the carriage for the cord — the train had moved on at least a couple of miles.

‘Tell me again,’ said David Mackenzie. ‘You two seem to have had a very exciting time of it while I have been laid up here.’

Tom and Helen were taking tea in the Highgate house with Tom’s senior. They had been greeted enthusiastically by Mrs Mackenzie. That mannish lady had embraced Helen and winked, actually winked, at Tom. Outside the window of David Mackenzie’s room the weather was the same as on Tom’s last visit, with the fog licking at the window and a general gloom descending. Inside, the fire was slumbering and Mr Mackenzie was sitting in the same armchair, puffing at the same pipe, and wielding the same back-scratcher to reach the tricky points on the leg which was encased in plaster. Perhaps in deference to Helen, he was drinking tea rather than brandy. Otherwise it was as if he hadn’t moved in the several days that Tom Ansell had spent in Salisbury, witnessing murder, being nearly accused of it, and then seeing the demise of the real villain.

Tom had given his account of everything which had happened. He described his one meeting with Canon Slater, his glimpses of the Salisbury manuscript, the journey to Northwood House, his brief sojourn in Fisherton Gaol, the tangled affairs of the family, the true relationship of Walter Slater to Felix and to Percy, and so on. Tom no longer felt under any obligation to keep things secret, now that both the Slater brothers were dead. Most of this was new to Mackenzie, and he listened with profound interest.

At one point he said, ‘Well, there is no telling with people, is there? They are not what they appear to be. It’s like the Tichborne Claimant. No doubt if any of our affairs were examined in the harsh light of open court, all sorts of inconsistencies and impostures would be revealed. Felix Slater seemed to be the respectable one while Percy was the wastrel of the family. Yet it was Felix the churchman who caused his wife to disown his son, and Percy the gambler who agreed to take him as his own. There was perhaps more kindness in Percy than there was in his brother, even if there was no love lost between them.’

They weren’t the only unloving brothers in the business, thought Tom. There was also Seth Fawkes and Adam Eaves.