The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  Mary opened her mouth to speak. But she got no further. There was a sudden flurry of movement from the area of ground above the willow hut and nearer to the house. The sisters saw a group of men striding down the slope. The man had his back to them but he saw the expression on the girls’ faces. He just had time to shut up the precious stone in the locket and to slip it back inside his shirt.

  Then Mr Martin appeared, with Trafford and three of the leather-jerkined soldiers who were at the house that morning.

  The man in the cloak said to the sisters, ‘You have betrayed me!’

  He started to run towards the open, fenny stretch in front but he was too slow for the others, who were primed for pursuit. They’d dragged him down in seconds and, holding Loyer by the upper arms, two of them brought him back. Anne and Mary stood, terrified. And at the back of Anne’s mind was the thought: he believes we are traitors.

  The Crimean Cannon

  On the Sunday afternoon, Tom and Helen caught the train to Ely. They would arrive a little too early for the supper with the Lyes at the Lion Hotel, but Helen said she wanted to have a look at the cathedral. She’d spent part of the day dipping into Ernest Lye’s history of Phoenix House and the surrounding village. ‘Very interesting,’ was her verdict. Once arrived in Ely, they took a cab from the railway station and got down near Palace Green. The day, which had started fine, was turning damp and autumnal. The top of the west tower of the cathedral was already obscured by mist.

  Once inside the doors of the west porch, the Ansells stood admiring the vista down the nave, whose flanking columns and arches framed the distant east window. It was not yet time for Evensong and there were only a handful of people and occasional points of light to be glimpsed in the cavernous interior. Near Tom and Helen were two men, both quite elderly and one in clerical garb. The latter was pointing at the tiled floor and talking about some detail to do with the pattern. Tom looked down and saw no more than an arrangement of grey and white tiles. He was about to walk further into the nave when Helen shook her head and moved closer so as to eavesdrop on what the cleric was saying.

  The clergyman noticed her and, rather than moving away or lowering his voice, he beamed at Helen. He said, ‘I was pointing out a new feature of our ancient foundation to this gentleman here.’

  ‘Who is himself something of an ancient foundation,’ said the other man, wheezing at his own joke.

  ‘However ancient, we may all be renewed, and if not here then in a better place,’ said the cleric. By this time Tom had come across to join them and their guide looked delighted at the addition to his audience. He explained that the tiling on the floor was only a few years old and represented a labyrinth.

  ‘A labyrinth and not a maze, please note.’

  Helen nodded and said, ‘A labyrinth has only a single winding path, hasn’t it? But a maze sets out to confuse you. It has false turns and dead ends.’

  The cleric looked even more pleased at this. He clapped his hands.

  ‘You are quite correct, madam. If you trace out the path among the tiles on the floor here you will, sooner or later but infallibly, arrive at the centre. You cannot go wrong provided you do not stray from the path. And another thing: the distance from the entrance of the labyrinth to the centre is exactly the same as the distance from the floor to the roof above our heads.’

  Instinctively, they all looked up to where the higher reaches of the tower disappeared into the shadows. Meanwhile the cleric was saying something else. Had the lady and the two gentlemen by chance observed the new stone and fresh ironwork in the Galilee Porch on their way in? Like much of the cathedral restoration, it was the work of that distinguished architect Mr George Gilbert Scott – Sir George, he should say, very recently knighted. The Galilee Porch was paid for by Mrs Waddington – a most generous benefactor – widow of Canon Waddington. Had they noticed the work on their way in? No? Well, they ought to take a careful look on their way out.

  Somehow, Helen and Tom found themselves taken on a tour of the cathedral by the enthusiastic cleric. Somewhere on the way, names were exchanged. His was Herbert though whether it was his first or last, they couldn’t be sure. Perhaps wisely, the other old gent slipped away early so it was left to the Ansells to learn about the newly painted roof panels over the nave, the new stained-glass windows, the long-delayed restoration of the Lady Chapel after the depredations of the anti-papists and the Puritans, and so forth. After about half an hour they came to a halt under the Octagon. Herbert was explaining how a great medieval tragedy (the collapse of the old Norman tower) was followed by a great medieval triumph (the construction of the Octagon), when he suddenly interrupted himself.

  ‘Heavens! I have allowed myself to be carried away, so great has been the pleasure of our conversation. The night cometh, when no man can work. Or to adapt the scriptures, Evensong cometh, and I have work to do. Please excuse me, Mr and Mrs Ansell. It has been a delight showing you around our ancient foundation. Do please excuse me . . .’

  Herbert scurried off towards the north transept, leaving Tom and Helen half sorry, half relieved to see him go. They’d hardly said a word during the whole half-hour. They made their way back down the great concourse of the nave and towards the west entrance. As they walked across the patterned tiles Tom was about to say something to Helen about the distinction between mazes and labyrinths (how had she known that?) when he was distracted by the abrupt appearance of two men through the wicket-gate which was cut into one of the larger doors. The gate was narrow and, for an instant, both men struggled to pass through it at the same time. They were wearing vestments of some kind. Priests? Vergers? Whoever they were, their mission must have been urgent for, with robes flapping and without a sideways glance, they ran past the Ansells and into the body of the church.

  Wondering what was going on, Helen and Tom walked out into the dank, foggy air. It was not so very late in the afternoon but the gloom was thick enough and already some of the street lights were lit. Directly in front of them on the Palace Green were a couple of bobbing lantern-lights and a ragged circle of people, visible only as shadows. There was some landmark situated on the Green, Tom thought, and then he recalled his drive in the dog cart on the previous day and the boy whose name was Davey mentioning the cannon from the Crimea. ‘We won it from the Rooshians and the Queen, she gave it to us.’

  Someone cried out, a woman’s voice, almost a scream. Out of the murk emerged other figures, in ones and twos and from every direction but all converging on the same place.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ said Helen. The magnetic draw of seeing the aftermath of an accident or disaster meant that she and Tom were already pacing across the soggy grass towards the spot.

  The growing crowd was assembling on the far side of the cannon, which pointed away from the west front of the cathedral. Apart from that single scream, there was an ominous silence from the onlookers. Tom started to move faster, though he couldn’t have said why. He reached the fringe of the group of men, women and even a few children. The light from the lanterns cast a fuzzy glow into the moist air. Had everyone decided to come together to gaze into the cannon’s mouth? Then he looked down and saw a body arranged between the wheels, its head and shoulders resting on the crosspiece. Or rather he saw the legs sticking straight out in alignment with the gun, and he half saw, half guessed at the rest. But even in the uncertain light, it was impossible to ignore the dark pools of blood glinting on the ground.

  Tom sensed Helen’s arrival beside him. Seeing what he’d seen, she gave a sharp intake of breath and grasped him by the upper arm. For an absurd moment, Tom wondered whether the cannon had somehow discharged itself and here was its latest victim lying underneath.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Helen.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tom.

  ‘That was a foolish question,’ said Helen. She gave a nervous laugh. Tom was aware of how tightly she was gripping his upper arm.

  One of the bystanders who was carrying a light now placed it on t
he ground. Tom noticed that it wasn’t a lantern but a domestic oil lamp. It must have been brought from one of the nearby houses. More curious or more ghoulish than the rest, the man squatted down on his haunches and inched closer to the body until his knees were almost touching the dead man’s upturned feet. Tom’s attention was caught by the sight of a top hat, which was resting on its brim and close to where he was standing. He knew the abandoned hat was the dead man’s.

  There was a shift in the circle of watchers as a burly figure thrust its way through them. From his position under the cannon’s mouth, the man on his haunches looked over his shoulder at the new arrival. Now he inched back, stood up and gestured towards the corpse. Is this what you’ve come for? the gesture seemed to say.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said the newcomer to no one in particular. ‘That’ll do.’

  It was a police constable. There were sighs of relief at the uniform, perhaps of actual recognition of the man wearing the uniform. Ely wasn’t a big place.

  ‘Give me that light, will you, sir?’ said the constable to the man who’d approached the body. ‘It’s Mr Grace, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ said the man, stooping to retrieve the lamp. He handed it to the constable who now ducked beneath the cannon and angled the beams so that they shone full on the upper part of the body. Instinctively, several of the men and women who were gathered nearest to the cannon crouched down in sympathy with the policeman. Also to see whatever they could see.

  There was blood on the man’s coat, bright in the light. He had evidently sustained wounds to the chest or throat. His head was tilted forward so that it was scarcely possible to make out anything of his features. Nevertheless a child’s excited cry, a boy’s voice, said, ‘There ’e is!’

  Tom experienced a thrill of recognition. Again, he glanced at the hat on the ground. He had seen that hat before, he was certain of it, although he could not have pointed to any distinguishing features of what was nothing more than a rather battered piece of headgear. But he’d glimpsed it yesterday, dangling on the hatstand of Phoenix House, home to Mr Ernest Lye. Almost without thinking, he bent down to pick it up. The attention of everyone else on the scene was fixed on the body and the policeman under the cannon.

  Tom turned the hat so that he could see the lining. He twisted the interior this way and that until it caught a gleam of light from the lamp. There was a name written in ink in the lining, the capital letters faded but still just about distinguishable. Or at least the first three letters of the name were. Perhaps Tom recognized them so quickly because they were familiar to him. They were the same as his own. T-O-M. He looked back at the policeman and the lamplit corpse and, despite the unhelpful tilt of the dead man’s face, he now observed the prominent jaw. The thrill of recognition turned into a sickening certainty. Very carefully, much more carefully than he’d picked it up, he replaced the top hat on the ground.

  ‘I do know him,’ Tom said to Helen. ‘It is Charles Tomlinson. The man I met yesterday at Phoenix House. I told you about him, remember. He is Mrs Lye’s cousin.’

  ‘Oh this is terrible. Do they know?’

  How can they know? thought Tom.

  ‘Of course they do not,’ said Helen, completing his thought. ‘How could they know? They’d be here otherwise.’

  ‘We are due to meet the Lyes. Someone must tell them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘Whose hat is that down there?’

  ‘His hat.’

  Their whole conversation was conducted in whispered asides. Neither of the Ansells moved. They watched while the constable came out from beneath the black shaft of the cannon and stood up. He returned the light to its owner. With both hands free, he made shooing gestures at the crowd, now several people thick and with those at the back craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to get a better view. Then he fumbled beneath his cape. Tom guessed he was reaching for his rattle in order to summon help. It wasn’t necessary for another figure emerged from the onlookers, who promptly parted to let him through.

  ‘Parr,’ he said softly. He was not wearing a uniform but his manner and the way in which the constable came to attention showed that he must be a superior officer, perhaps an Inspector.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘There ’e is!’ said the same little boy, who could have been referring either to the dead man or to the new policeman. This time a woman shushed the boy. The Inspector said nothing but looked in the lad’s direction. He waited a moment before turning to the constable.

  ‘Tell these people to move back, Parr.’

  But no further command was needed. The onlookers recognized this individual as well, or at least they responded to his tone of quiet authority, and shuffled back so as to form a looser semicircle. The procedure with the household lamp was repeated, with the newcomer borrowing it and ducking beneath the Russian gun. He scrutinized the dead man who, Tom was convinced by now, had to be Charles Tomlinson. The three letters in the lining of the top hat, the prominent jaw. He debated with himself whether it was his business to inform the senior policeman of the corpse’s identity.

  The man who owned the lamp waited until the second officer completed his own scrutiny. Then he came forward and, gesturing towards one of the houses that edged the north side of the Green, said, ‘I have information to give, Inspector. I saw what happened. I live over there.’

  He spoke firmly and clearly, aware of his audience, as if staking a claim to the event.

  ‘Of course, Mr Grace,’ said the policeman. ‘I recognize you. I know where you live. I am Inspector Francis.’

  ‘I am a witness to this crime,’ the other said.

  There was an outbreak of murmuring and then absolute silence among the people standing around as they hung on for the information. Inspector Francis clapped his hands together, softly but as if he’d come to a decision.

  ‘Then let’s move over there, shall we? Parr, keep an eye on things. People will soon be arriving for Evensong in the cathedral. Do not allow anyone to approach the body or to touch anything in the area.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Tom felt a twinge of guilt on hearing the Inspector’s order that nothing was to be touched. The constable stayed near the cannon’s mouth, his attention swivelling between the body and the crowd. A few people were already drifting away since they’d already seen all there was to see and were no longer to be permitted to hear anything of interest, but others, including some soberly dressed citizens arriving for the cathedral service, couldn’t resist coming across to see what was going on. Meanwhile the Inspector and Mr Grace walked to the rear of the gun, and, half obscured by the growing gloom, started to converse in low tones.

  Tom was relieved. Neither he nor Helen had been witnesses to anything except the other bystanders. So there was nothing more they could do or should do here. He decided it was not his job to reveal he’d met the dead man and knew his name. Not his job or his duty. The police were in command now. They’d soon find the top hat and decipher the name.

  Helen and he walked away from the Crimean cannon and the body of Mr Charles Tomlinson and the remnant of the crowd. With Helen holding tight to her husband’s arm, they crossed Palace Green at a diagonal towards the west front of the cathedral and the High Street. On a road just beyond lay the Lion Hotel, where they were due to meet Mr and Mrs Ernest Lye.

  Neither Tom nor Helen said a word to each other. Helen thought of Lydia Lye and the terrible surprise she was about to receive on hearing of her cousin’s death. As for Tom, he was struggling to compose his thoughts. He did have a duty to perform now, a most unpleasant one, and his mind was split between that and the image of the dead man. A body laid out beneath the gun barrel, head tilted forward and front all bloody. The top hat with T-O-M inked in the lining.

  Assuming the Lyes were already at the Lion – and they should be since the arrangement was that they were meeting the Ansells there at about this time – then it fell to him to report that Mrs Lye’s cousin had died. As a result of a violent at
tack. Therefore, had been murdered. At least that was what it looked like.

  Maybe if they walked slowly enough, someone else would get to the hotel first and break the bad news. But who else knew of the Lyes’ plans and whereabouts for the evening, except possibly the dead man? Tom foresaw the course of the next hour or two: breaking the news, then the shock and the condolences, followed by no supper, then a visit to the police house, his and Helen’s return to Cambridge. He rehearsed imaginary conversations in his head. Decided to say as little as possible to the Lyes of the details of Charles Tomlinson’s death. It would be easier that way. Then he rebuked himself for considering matters so calmly while a man was lying dead beneath a Russian gun. Rebuked himself even for having an appetite for supper. Yet, strange as it might be, he was hungry. Helen interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Tom, I do hope this is not the beginning of another . . . drama.’

  ‘I’m not sure what . . .?’

  ‘You know, a drama, as in Durham.’

  Now he understood. The Ansells had recently been caught up in a murder and its aftermath in Durham. Helen had even spent a few hours in a prison cell because she had been apprehended close to the corpse of a murdered man and her guilt assumed. Before their marriage, too, they had been involved in something similar in Salisbury. Tom was quick to reassure her that, this time, it was different. They weren’t involved. Innocent bystanders only.

  ‘But you knew Mr Tomlinson,’ said Helen.

  ‘Knew him? I met him yesterday for a few minutes. This nasty business is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Whether it is or not, it is strange to think it all happened while we were inside the cathedral being shown around.’