The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  To give himself time to think, the Inspector turned to the lawyer fellow, Thomas Ansell, and asked him a few questions without really wanting to know any of the answers. He didn’t mind whether the Ansells came from London or Timbuktu, whether they’d arrived yesterday or last year. What was going through Francis’ mind was as follows: the evidence against this man standing in front of me is mounting up by the minute. Ernest Lye has been observed near the scene of the crime. Ernest Lye may have very good reasons to resent or hate Charles Tomlinson on account of the latter’s connection with his wife (who is indeed a handsome woman, the Inspector noted again). And Lye has blood on his shirt cuff. That was the clincher.

  In addition, Inspector Francis was struck by Ernest Lye’s manner. It was not exactly shifty, but it was somehow vague and evasive. There was a distant look in Ernest Lye’s blue eyes. Francis’ experience told him that men of Lye’s class were generally happy to assist the police, even if they sometimes did so in a manner that suggested they were dealing with servants. So he made one final request that Lye should accompany him and, when that got no response, he had no choice but to announce the gentleman’s arrest.

  Inspector Francis and Ernest Lye exited the hotel lobby under the eyes of everyone. No one said a word. Once outside, Francis indicated that Constable Collis should walk on the far side of their man. He didn’t think Lye would be so foolish as to run for it but you never knew of course . . .

  ‘So Ernest Lye did go for a walk by himself,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘He and his wife arrived in Ely sometime in the middle of the afternoon. He claimed that he wanted to stretch his legs while she preferred to stay behind in the hotel and rest. According to what Mrs Lye told me, he was gone for about an hour or so. When he came back, she said she’d grown tired of resting and would also like some exercise. So Mr Lye went out for a second time, to accompany his wife. This time they were out for only a short time. They returned to find us in the snug.’

  ‘And the Inspector turned up a few minutes later.’

  ‘Could Mr Lye have done this thing?’ said Helen.

  ‘It is hard to believe,’ said Tom. ‘He’s a mild-mannered sort of chap. And what would be his motive?’

  ‘There seems to have been . . . a closeness . . . between Mrs Lye and this Mr Tomlinson.’

  The same idea had occurred to Tom, ever since seeing the two cousins together at Phoenix House, but he was reluctant to say it out loud. Maybe it was the cautious lawyer in him. Besides, it was quite a stretch to take ‘closeness’ as a plausible reason for murder, at least for a mild-mannered chap. Though you never knew of course . . .

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom. He was lost in his speculations while Helen was saying something.

  ‘I said, did you observe the cuff of Mr Lye’s shirt?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘There were stains on it. Blood perhaps. I noticed the Inspector noticing.’

  Tom hadn’t seen this. Helen was so sharp-eyed! The detail put a new complexion on the matter. Blood on the husband’s cuff. The ‘closeness’ of the cousins. Ernest Lye’s absence for an hour when he was apparently walking about in Ely. His strangely resigned manner when he was arrested. Was it so hard after all to believe that Lye had done the deed?

  Helen and Tom were finally back at the Devereux Hotel in Cambridge. It was late on the Sunday night of the murder. Returning by train from Ely, they arrived cold, exhausted and supperless. Tom might have been hungry before but his appetite was gone now. Helen said she couldn’t eat. The Ansells had remained in Ely for some time after the murder of Tomlinson. Mrs Lye wanted Helen to keep her company for a while. Fortunately, a room was already reserved at the Lion. Realizing that the evening weather would be unpleasant, the Lyes had booked a hotel chamber rather than intending a return to Upper Fen.

  Meanwhile Tom tried to find out what he could about the circumstances leading up to the death of Charles Tomlinson. He felt an obligation towards the Lyes and towards Ernest in particular, as the brother of the late senior partner of his firm.

  Tom’s enquiries did not take him very far or very long. Leaving Helen and Lydia Lye at the Lion, he returned to Palace Green. There was only the original constable – Parr? – left on duty, armed with a lantern and keeping a few dawdlers at bay. The body of Charles Tomlinson had been removed. Tom got into conversation with Parr on the pretext that he’d been on the scene earlier and noticed a top hat, discarded. Evidence perhaps? As a law-abiding citizen – as a lawyer, in fact – it was remiss of him not to have mentioned the hat to the policeman in charge. Constable Parr assured him that the top hat had been recovered and furthermore that the lining supplied the dead gent’s name: Tomlinson.

  The constable seemed happy to chat. Tom expressed surprise that the body was gone so soon.

  ‘Normally a body might be left in sitoo, sir, but we had to remove this one, given where it was. Almost sacred ground.’

  The constable gestured towards the invisible cathedral.

  ‘This is a terrible business,’ said Tom.

  ‘We do not enjoy much murdering on the Isle of Ely.’

  ‘How did Mr Tomlinson die?’

  ‘It was what we call a frenzied attack, sir. A knifing, we believe. Perhaps a knifing.’

  Tom glanced around. The beams from the policeman’s lantern were soon blotted up by the dark and the mist. On the periphery of the light stood three forlorn dawdlers, with nowhere better to go to on this damp Sunday night. Nearby was the dripping cannon and its black mouth. For all the houses close to, and the great western facade of the cathedral, the little group might have been hundreds of miles from anywhere. Tom shivered. It wasn’t altogether feigned.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid, Constable . . . afraid that the person who did this might still be out there?’

  ‘Afraid, sir? No, I have my trusty rattle to summon help. And besides we have already apprehended the individual who did it. Who perhaps did it. There was a witness, see. He says—’

  The dawdlers, poised on the edge of the light and straining to hear, moved closer like dogs ready to pick up any scrap. Parr stopped what he was about to say and cleared his throat. Evidently thinking he’d given too much away, he said, ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I am not at liberty to say more.’

  ‘Of course not, Constable.’

  Tom contemplated going on to the police-house to try to see Ernest Lye, but he did not want go any further without getting instructions from David Mackenzie. There might be more information on the murder but, on balance, it seemed unlikely so early on. The only fresh piece of knowledge he’d picked up on the Green was that the cause of Charles Tomlinson’s death was a knife attack. Perhaps.

  He went back to the Lion Hotel. Mrs Lye was resting in her room. She seemed quite composed after her bout of fainting, considering that her husband had just been arrested on suspicion of murdering her cousin. Composed enough, in fact, to have given some account of Ernest’s movements to Helen. Yet, if her story was meant to exonerate him, it actually provided another suspicious circumstance since Ernest was out of her sight during the time of the murder.

  ‘Her calmness is the shock, I suppose,’ said Helen to Tom later in their rooms in the Devereux. ‘She will feel it later.’

  ‘A sort of calm before the storm.’

  ‘Yes. What are you going to do, Tom? I mean, do about Mr Lye.’

  ‘I cannot do much for him directly. If he didn’t commit the . . . this crime . . . then I am sure he will shortly be released. If he did, then I think that the Inspector will surely find it out for certain . . .’

  ‘The Inspector seemed to me the sort of person to get at the truth.’

  ‘. . . and if he did do it, then Mr Lye will require an altogether different type of lawyer from me.’

  ‘Anyway, this nasty business is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You did. Before we arrived at the Lion.’

  ‘Well, I’ll know be
tter next time. Helen, do you want to go to bed?’

  ‘After everything that’s happened this evening?’

  ‘I mean that I am going to have to stay up for a while. I must write an account for David Mackenzie. I’ll send a cable tomorrow but he will require all the facts in a letter.’

  ‘In that case I shall go to bed now,’ said Helen, sounding slightly disappointed. ‘Join me soon, it has not been an agreeable evening.’

  They kissed, chastely. Tom settled down at the desk in the sitting room and, using the headed notepaper of the Devereux Hotel, he set about writing to David Mackenzie. It was too late for the Sunday post but, burning with news, he intended to get it off first thing the next morning. Tom confined himself to an outline but it still took three pages. A sketch of the connections between the Lyes and Tomlinson, an account of how he and Helen had by chance been present soon after the discovery of Tomlinson’s body, a description of the subsequent arrest of Ernest Lye in the hotel. Tom didn’t give any opinion on Lye’s guilt or innocence or go into details about the reasons for the arrest. Instead he wrote only that the Inspector was ‘acting on what he perceived to be the facts.’

  After he finished, Tom read the letter through several times. Even though he was writing to his employer as well as to someone he considered an almost-friend, the language was stiff and constrained. Burning news it may have been, but it read more like a police report than a newspaper one. Perhaps Tom was trying to avoid saying that he believed Ernest Lye to be responsible for the murder of Charles Tomlinson. Setting the business down on paper somehow made Lye’s guilt more likely. Perhaps Tom was, between the lines of the letter, asking for help. Obviously the search for Alexander Lye’s missing will should be called off. But what was his, Tom’s, responsibility now? If Lye went before the magistrate, as he surely would, and was then committed to trial, the heavy guns would have to brought in to defend him.

  Tom sealed the letter, turned off the gas lights and sat in darkness for a while. Eventually, he joined Helen in the next-door bedroom. She was asleep but he did not find it easy to drop off himself. Details from the past few hours kept flashing through his mind: the letters T-O-M in the lining of the dead man’s hat, the arrest of Ernest Lye in the overheated snug, the police constable saying, ‘We do not enjoy much murdering on the Isle of Ely.’

  Inspector Francis Investigates

  Inspector Stephen Francis was not satisfied with his arrest. The circumstantial evidence pointed at Ernest Lye but he wondered whether it was strong enough to gain a conviction. All that would change, of course, following some sort of confession from Lye. But that confession the gentleman was refusing to provide.

  Francis spent a couple of hours talking with him at the police-house in Lynn Road, first on the Sunday evening and again on the Monday morning. The policeman was aware that Lye would have to be charged or released, and sooner rather than later. This was not some labourer or laundrywoman ignorant of the law. This was a gentleman, someone to be handled circumspectly. When Lye expressed a wish for a cigar, Francis sent out for some at his own expense and the two men sat in a pleasant fug, which made the talk go easier. As it happened, talks were more Francis’ style than interrogations. He made better progress with malefactors that way.

  But he made no progress with Ernest Lye, despite the cigars. The gentleman conceded that he did not greatly care for his wife’s cousin, Charles Tomlinson. Had not cared for him ever since the fellow hove into a view after an absence of many years in foreign climes. Why not? asked Francis. I simply didn’t care for the fellow, said Lye, I thought he was, well, a bit of a fraud. Further prompted by Francis, Lye owned up to a touch of ‘resentment’ towards Tomlinson. At least he did not demur at the Inspector’s choice of word. But resentment was a long way from murderous rage.

  Mr Lye willingly agreed that he had been by himself, walking about Ely for an hour or so during the late afternoon while his wife was resting at the Lion Hotel. He could not now remember the route he had taken, although it would almost certainly have included the cathedral precincts. He thought he might have walked around the Dean’s Meadow on the south side of the cathedral. Had he met anyone else while he was out walking? said the Inspector. No, he did not believe so. What was he doing then? Walking and thinking. An Englishman has the right to walk and think, Inspector.

  Then Lye returned to the hotel, only to find his wife impatient for a breath of foggy autumnal air. The two of them went out, briefly, and came back to find their supper guests, Mr and Mrs Ansell, and, shortly afterwards, the Inspector himself appeared. Next Francis brought up the account of George Grace – though he did not name the witness – who had seen Ernest Lye with Tomlinson late on the afternoon in question, the two men walking together on Palace Green. At this Lye looked genuinely puzzled and surprised. He maintained he had met no one, and definitely not Tomlinson. The Inspector made a mental note to visit Mr Grace and check his story. He remembered that Grace did not actually claim to have seen Lye, only to have heard his name uttered aloud.

  Finally, Francis brought out his trump card. What was that stain on Mr Lye’s shirt cuff? It looked remarkably like blood. Ernest Lye examined his cuff, as if he had not noticed it before. Yes, it was blood. Whose? Mine, he said, and went on to explain how while he’d been out walking in the Dean’s Meadow – or perhaps it was elsewhere, he couldn’t recall now – he scraped his wrist against a raggedy piece of iron as he passed through a kissing-gate. The wound was slight, not much more than a scratch, and he staunched it with a handkerchief. By the time he returned to the Lion Hotel he had forgotten the scratch, didn’t even mention it to his wife.

  As proof, Ernest Lye now produced a bloodstained handkerchief which he proffered to the Inspector, who waved it away. Lye showed him the jagged red line on his wrist which, to the Inspector’s eyes, looked to be a bit more than a ‘scratch’. However, there was no way of absolutely disproving Lye’s story.

  So much had Stephen Francis learned from Ernest Lye on the Sunday evening after his arrest. The man appeared quite calm, and gratefully accepted soup and cheese (all that the police-house could provide) in lieu of the proper supper. Francis saw him accommodated as comfortably as possible in his cell, and promised he would be back early on the Monday morning. He did return early, and had what was essentially the same conversation with Mr Lye, whose story hadn’t changed.

  Finally Lye said, ‘When am I to be released, Inspector?’

  ‘I cannot say, sir. My investigations are not yet concluded.’

  ‘Well, you know best, I suppose.’

  Inspector Francis left the police-house, hoping to find George Grace still at his home on Palace Green. He wanted to hear from Mr Grace once more his account of seeing Tomlinson and Lye together. As he walked towards the cathedral area he noticed Mrs Lye. No doubt she was on her way to visit her husband. She was on the other side of the street from Francis, and she looked preoccupied. He would have liked to talk to her too, to discover whether she had observed anything out of the ordinary in her husband’s manner when he returned from his ‘walk’ on the previous afternoon. But, of course, there would be little point in such a conversation since any evidence in her husband’s favour was not admissible in court.

  Really, Inspector Francis was baffled. Baffled not only by the murder of Charles Tomlinson but baffled by the manner of the man who, he was increasingly sure, was not the guilty party after all. Stephen Francis was used to nailing a felon almost straightaway, since in a small place like Ely it was hard to run or hide. Once caught, the felons tended to cough. On the rare occasions when someone held out against him during one of their ‘talks’, the person did it with a mixture of bluster and sullenness which was as good as an admission. Less often, the guilty party was subdued or even cowed, not so much by the presence of the police as by the realization of what he’d done. This was the case with one of the only two murders to have hitherto come Francis’ way, a farm labourer who beat his wife to death.

  But the case
of Ernest Lye was quite different. Lye was not cowed. Nor was he sullen or blustering. Francis had never before encountered a suspect who told him, ‘Well, you know best, I suppose.’ The man was not protesting his innocence in loud terms but he definitely expected to be released. Certainly Lye could not remain in the police-house or even be kept in Ely, which had no gaol. Prisoners were transferred to the County Gaol in Cambridge. Was that where Ernest Lye was headed? Unless another witness came forward, the sole testimony against Mr Lye would be Mr Grace’s. Which was the reason the Inspector was on his way to see him now.

  After the Inspector left the police-house, Ernest Lye gazed at the wall of his cell. He was sitting on the hard bed and not seeing the plain stone or any of the few features of the sparsely furnished room. Instead he was contemplating the events of the previous day and his part in them. He had given a truthful account to the Inspector of his actions, as far as he knew them. He thought he remembered going for a stroll in the Dean’s Meadow. He believed he had scraped his hand on the rough metal of a kissing-gate. And he did not recall any meeting with Charles Tomlinson. But he could not be absolutely sure of a single one of these items. Ernest Lye had been suffering more and more often from those lapses of memory, those blank spots of time, which resulted in his being uncertain of his activities or at least of his movements.

  Of course, he did not really imagine he had carried out a murder unawares, even if he’d read of such extreme crimes being committed by a sleepwalker or a person under hypnosis. But a small voice inside him, the merest whisper, told him that he could not really regret the death of Tomlinson, that he was almost glad someone else had done it. He’d admitted to Inspector Francis that he did not care for the dead man, even resented him. The source of the resentment was, yes, his sense that there was something fraudulent about Tomlinson. But, if Ernest was honest, he could have put up with the fraudulence. What he did not at all approve of was Lydia’s partiality for Tomlinson. Why, if the two had not been cousins, he might have gone so far as to suspect . . .