The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  ‘In the manner of an investigator?’

  ‘Do you think Mr Pinkerton in the United States employs female agents?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, he should do,’ said Helen. ‘They call them sleuth hounds over there.’

  Both of them took more brandy. They felt light-headed, either because of the drink or what they had been through, or both.

  ‘Poor Fort,’ said Helen. ‘I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Why? He was following us around and making a nuisance of himself, sending silly cryptic messages.’

  ‘Nevertheless justice should be done. A solution ought to be found to both these murders.’

  ‘Then lead us to the solution then, Mrs Pinkerton.’

  ‘Taking Mr Tomlinson first,’ said Helen, putting down her glass and tapping her elegant forefingers together. ‘By late this morning we already knew that there were at least two individuals who might have been his enemies. There is Mr Lye, whose wife had a – what did we call it? – a closeness with Mr Tomlinson.’

  ‘Yes. And suspicious circumstances meant that he was arrested on the evening of the murder. Even though he’s been released, he is not necessarily out of the woods yet. And the second individual?’

  ‘Number two is someone we have not yet met,’ said Helen. ‘The cleric from Upper Fen, George Eames, who was humiliated by Tomlinson all those years ago – the affair of the stuffed monkey, remember? – and who may have encountered Charles Tomlinson again and who, if he did encounter him, might have been driven to take a delayed revenge . . .’

  ‘May and might and if,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t think those little words would stand up in court. Not without evidence.’

  ‘Evidence like blood on a cuff?’

  ‘That and a bit more. Go on.’

  ‘By this afternoon we’d learned of two more people in the – what shall we call it? – the anti-Tomlinson party.’

  ‘Eric Fort was fearful of him, didn’t like him.’

  ‘To put it mildly. When he heard of the murder, he said it was no more than Tomlinson deserved.’

  ‘He didn’t seem surprised to hear the news either.’

  ‘As if he already knew about it – or had done it.’

  ‘Fort was on his way to see Cyrus Chase in Ely,’ pursued Tom. ‘Mr Chase may have had an excuse to dislike Tomlinson if he’d stolen some idea of his connected to that security coffin.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t allowing little words like “may” and “if”, Tom.’

  ‘I make an exception for myself.’

  Helen ignored him and ticked off their suspects (Ernest Lye, George Eames, Eric Fort, Cyrus Chase) on her fingers before saying, ‘Of course, there are probably other individuals we don’t know about with a reason to hate or fear Mr Tomlinson.’

  ‘I should think so. He seemed a person easy to dislike or be afraid of. Now you’ve disposed of Tomlinson and come up with a quartet of individuals with a motive for murder, and allowed for plenty of others we are ignorant of, what about Eric Fort? Who killed him?’

  ‘The cast of characters is more limited here, very limited indeed, since we only know of Mr Chase, who did not have the appearance of a murderer but was sitting somnolently in his drawing room and reading a magazine called Funereal Matters.’

  ‘Nor did he look much like an inventor, even an inventor of security coffins.’

  ‘We can be certain of one thing, Tom.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It wasn’t Charles Tomlinson who murdered Mr Fort.’

  ‘And vice-versa. Or probably vice-versa. Doesn’t Fort’s death exonerate him from any role in Tomlinson’s death?’

  ‘Unless he was not the main actor but an accomplice in the business.’

  Tom had not thought of this possibility.

  ‘Mr Fort didn’t answer your question, did he?’ said Helen. ‘You asked why Tomlinson paid him to follow us. He was going to tell us later. Why not tell us there and then, in the coffee-house?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was frightened. He was about to say something and then he stopped himself.’

  ‘Why should he be frightened of revealing the truth? Tomlinson was already dead. There’s another thing, Tom. If Mr Fort was really being paid to follow us around and the rest of it, then why would it have been Mr Tomlinson who set him on to do it? I never met the gentleman at all while he was alive and you saw him for, what, a few minutes at Phoenix House.’

  ‘He might have learned about us from Mrs Lye,’ said Tom. ‘But I agree, there does not seem to be any good reason why Tomlinson should have bothered us or been bothered by us.’

  ‘Which means . . .’

  Helen paused. Tom glanced at her where she sat opposite him, the dying fire casting a faint glow on her cheek. She was looking away. He thought he knew what she was about to say, but did not want to interrupt. Then she gazed straight at him.

  ‘What it means is that there’s someone else. Someone else who has been after us all this time.’

  George Eames’ Confession

  ‘Ihave a confession to make, Inspector.’

  With these words, George Eames announced the reason for his visit to the Ely police-house.

  ‘You have, sir?’

  Stephen Francis stared hard at the cleric sitting on the far side of his desk. Eames was a slight man, with features that were firm, almost rigid. Francis received the impression of one who was closed off against the world, shut up inside a shell.

  ‘I am aware that an individual by the name of Charles Tomlinson was murdered here in Ely on Sunday afternoon. Furthermore, I know that a second person by the name of Fort suffered a similar fate yesterday.’

  ‘You were acquainted with Tomlinson and Fort, Mr Eames?’

  ‘I was. Tomlinson I knew many years ago. The other one – Fort – I met only recently.’

  Francis waited. Whatever Eames wanted to say was costing him an effort. The Inspector just stopped himself from drumming his fingers on the ordered surface of his desk. He looked out of the small barred window at the sunlit rooftops on the other side of Lynn Road. Was the gentleman opposite him about to confess to a murder? Or even to a couple of murders? Francis doubted it.

  ‘I – I . . . this is difficult for me to say, Inspector, but I had cause to dislike and distrust Charles Tomlinson.’

  ‘So did others, it seems.’

  ‘My reasons for hating him were particularly strong.’

  An odd rippling movement travelled across George Eames’ features, as though in register of some deep internal struggle. Francis drew his notebook towards him, as much to give Eames a chance to collect himself as anything else. He’d noticed how the clergyman’s professed dislike of the murdered man had rapidly changed to hatred. And he wondered why the cleric should want to claim some sort of first place among Tomlinson’s enemies.

  ‘Tell me about those reasons if you would, sir,’ he said, at the same time spreading his hands as if to say, we have the time, we have all day. He didn’t really. The Inspector was due to see Dr Wallace, who was at this moment casting a professional eye over the corpse of Eric Fort. But Francis felt that Eames was the sort of person who could only be teased out of his shell, rather than bullied.

  ‘I said that I knew Charles Tomlinson many years ago. We were fellow students at Cambridge University. Fellow students and also friends. Our backgrounds were different. Charles came from a distinguished local family of scholars, churchmen, and the like. I come from – let us say, I come from a more humble background. Yet we were friends even though we disagreed about many things and held conflicting opinions about almost everything of importance. I enjoyed our debates. They were vigorous discussions, serious and manly ones. For my part, I am not ashamed to say that I was glad of Charles’ companionship, his friendship. He was like a—’

  George Eames paused. Inspector Francis glanced up from the notebook which he was pretending to study in order to give the other man some breathing space.

  ‘Like a kingfisher,’ said Eames f
inally. ‘Yes, a kingfisher. He was bright but rarely seen and fleeting. Then it grieves me to say that we fell out, and our debates became quarrels, our friendship turned to antipathy.’

  ‘Something happened?’

  ‘It did. I do not wish to go into details. The memory is painful even now. But Charles played a joke on me – that is, he did something which he might have regarded as a joke. But it was more of an outrage, an affront to all decency and, I may say, to civilized values.’

  Naturally, Inspector Francis was curious to know about the outrage. But Eames was not prepared to say a word more on the subject. His hands were clenched in his lap. A dull flush was visible on his pale cheeks. Francis revised his opinion of a moment before. This was a man who might be capable of murder after all. Outwardly, he was in control of himself but, beneath the surface, he was burning.

  ‘After what he did, Charles Tomlinson left the university of his own accord and before he could be sent down. He left the country too, for many years.’

  ‘Why did he come back?’

  ‘Who knows? I was not in confidence. I was not in communication with him. Perhaps he was tired of wandering about the globe. As I said, he has family in Cambridge. Perhaps he hoped to be reconciled with them. Even when Charles was at the university, and despite his sometimes wayward behaviour, he generally managed to retain the affections of his family and of others besides.’

  ‘When did you become aware that Charles Tomlinson had returned to this country, Mr Eames?’

  ‘Quite recently. He has a cousin who lives out at Upper Fen—’

  ‘Mrs Lye?’

  ‘Yes. I believe he was in the habit of visiting her at Phoenix House.’

  ‘She welcomed his visits?’

  ‘I expect so. Most people seemed to welcome Charles Tomlinson, at first anyway.’

  ‘You saw Mr Tomlinson in Upper Fen?’

  Eames hesitated before answering. ‘I saw him but I did not speak to him. In fact, I went out of my way not to speak to him.’

  ‘Mr Eames, you came in here saying you had a confession to make . . .?’

  ‘I rode over to Ely on Sunday afternoon with murder in my heart.’

  ‘Many people have murder in their hearts.’

  ‘It was Charles Tomlinson I was looking for.’

  ‘Because of an incident – an outrage – which occurred many years ago? Because of the hurt which he caused you at the university?’

  ‘No, no, Inspector. You have disturbed the train of my narrative.’

  ‘I apologize. Please go on.’

  ‘On the Sunday morning a person remained behind after Matins who wished to speak to me. It was Eric Fort. He too had become involved with Charles Tomlinson, as some sort of paid agent for the man. But Fort had undergone a change of heart after spending a night in the crypt of St Ethelwine’s—’

  ‘In the crypt of your church, Mr Eames?’

  The story was taking such a peculiar turn that the usually impassive Stephen Francis could not resist breaking in. He wanted to confirm what his ears were telling him.

  ‘Yes, the crypt. Tomlinson had got the idea into his head that there was some item of value down there, and together with Eric Fort he determined to break into the place and ransack it.’

  ‘Did they break in? That’s a criminal offence, you know.’

  ‘Tomlinson obtained the keys without my knowledge. He got them from my housekeeper so I suppose that, from a legal point of view, he did not break into the crypt.’

  ‘And what did he take?’

  ‘Nothing at all according to Fort. He departed angrily, setting off into the night and leaving Fort to consider the error of his ways. That gentleman attended the morning service and then came to me to confess all.’

  ‘And now he is dead as well.’

  ‘Yes. Poor fellow.’

  ‘Mr Eames, this business is becoming more complicated by the minute. Are you saying that it is a complete coincidence that your one-time friend Charles Tomlinson should gain access to the crypt of your church in search of, well, in search of something? Was he playing another joke on you? Was he looking to commit a further outrage?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Eames. ‘No doubt Charles enjoyed the knowledge that I am the incumbent of St Ethelwine’s. Perhaps it satisfied him to know that I had not made as much of my life as I once believed that I would, but was isolated in a remote fenland parish . . .’

  Eames’ voice tailed off before he rallied and said more firmly, ‘No, I believe he came to Upper Fen on account of his connection to Mrs Lye and nothing else. Then he stumbled over some information which decided him to go poking around in the church crypt. Poking around without result. When I found out from Mr Fort that Charles was behind this, I grew very angry indeed. By another coincidence, the theme of my sermon that morning was righteous anger.’

  ‘So you rode to Ely with murder in your heart?’

  ‘I freely confess it, Inspector.’

  ‘What happened? You encountered Mr Tomlinson here?’

  ‘I left my horse at the stables in the Lion Hotel and walked about the town. It was a miserable afternoon and the weather was closing in. I expected to see Charles at any moment. I thought the very force of my feelings might conjure him up before me, like a genie. It was as if my steps were being guided not by a higher power but by a lower one.’

  George Eames paused again.

  Was this it? wondered Francis. The climax of the confession?

  ‘I was wrong. I was being guided, thank God. But guided by my better angel and to a place of safety. The operations of grace led me to a church.’

  ‘To the cathedral?’

  ‘No, I was not in spirits for a cathedral, if you catch my meaning, Inspector. I entered St Mary’s and knelt down in an obscure corner and I prayed that all sinful thoughts and impulses should be expelled from my heart and mind. By the time I departed it was dark.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you left St Mary’s?’ said Francis. St Mary’s was close to Palace Green.

  ‘No. I was scarcely aware of my surroundings. I did not reclaim my horse from the Lion stables since it was too late by then to ride back to Upper Fen. Instead I sought out a lodging house in one of the lower areas of the town, near the railway station.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why there and not at the Lion?’

  ‘I wanted to avoid the light and clamour of the town.’

  This was an odd way of describing Ely on a Sunday evening although, Francis supposed, it was an accurate enough statement after the murder of Tomlinson. He suspected that Eames was somehow atoning for his sinful heart and mind by seeking out the kind of lodging-place he’d never consider in normal circumstances. That is, if the cleric was speaking the truth.

  ‘You remember the landlady at the lodging house?’

  ‘Not her name. I did not find out her name. She had – she may have reddish hair.’

  ‘You remember the street?’

  ‘Potter’s Lane, perhaps, or it might be Station Road or . . . I am not really sure, Inspector.’

  ‘What happened the next morning? Yesterday morning?’

  ‘I returned to the Lion Hotel and paid for the stabling of my horse and rode back to Upper Fen.’

  ‘Without hearing the news of Charles Tomlinson’s death?’

  ‘I heard the news. It was the talk of all the ostlers at the Lion, especially as Charles regularly stayed at the place. I was very surprised when I realized the identity of the murdered man. It was as if my wishes were being translated into reality. I have spent much of the last day reflecting and praying for guidance. Then I heard of the death of Mr Fort.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From St Ethelwine’s sexton, Gabriel Parr. He and his son were in Ely this morning on some errand. He has a brother in the Constabulary.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ said Francis, thinking of Parr, who had been first on the scene at the murder of Tomlinson and who, though a good man, was inclined to loose talk. ‘So you go
t the story from your sexton who in turn got it from his brother in the force. And then you rode over here again . . .?’

  ‘I have come to you, Inspector, because two men have died in a short space of time, both of whom I knew and one of whom I had every reason to wish ill to.’

  ‘This is your confession, Mr Eames?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So – let me get this clear – you are not confessing to an actual crime?’

  ‘Only in my heart.’

  ‘Not yet an organ that can be indicted under English law.’

  ‘There are higher authorities than English law.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Eames. The information you have provided about Tomlinson and Fort is most interesting.’

  And with that, Francis signalled that his talk with Eames was at an end.

  Once the St Ethelwine’s cleric had departed, the policeman spent some time reflecting (though not praying). He’d had some rum conversations with people in the more than twenty years that he’d served with the Isle of Ely force but this one with Eames took the biscuit.

  What was Francis supposed to do? Arrest the clergyman for crimes of the heart? Of course not. Not even a head-in-the-clouds man of the cloth could be so foolish as to suppose that he might be found guilty for his thoughts. What Eames was looking for, in the opinion of Stephen Francis, was forgiveness, some sort of absolution. That was what he intended by coming in with his ‘confession’. Well, the only absolution which Francis was capable of offering was that provided by the due process of the law, followed by the prison cell and even the scaffold.

  There was the remote possibility that George Eames was playing an extremely clever game. According to his own ‘confession’, he’d spent the afternoon of Charles Tomlinson’s death here in Ely, and been close to the site of the murder. He had strong reason to hate Tomlinson. Whatever the story behind the outrage in Cambridge all those years ago, it still weighed very heavily on Eames. Francis thought of his clenched hands, the dull glow in his cheeks. Yes, he hated Tomlinson all right.