The Unburied

by Charles Palliser

  ‘How long are you intending to stay in the town?’

  ‘Only another two days. I leave on Saturday morning.’

  ‘I fear you will have to give evidence at the inquest. Both of you gentlemen,’ he said turning to include Austin.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Do you know when that will be?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I hope.’

  ‘Then that will pose no difficulty,’ I said.

  After a further exchange of courtesies and with the Major’s renewed apologies for the inconvenience we had suffered ringing in our ears, Austin and I left the house. When we found ourselves in the street outside I noticed that Austin was trembling and gripped him by the arm.

  ‘We should eat,’ I said. ‘It’s late and we’ve had nothing.’ We were facing the inn in which we had been drinking a few hours before, but I didn’t want to go back there. For one thing, I had a fear that Slattery might be lurking in the bar. ‘The Dolphin?’ I suggested. Austin nodded dumbly.

  A few minutes later we were sitting in the empty dining-room. With an ill grace the waiter – who had been about to finish work for the evening – had agreed to bring some cold roast meat and boiled potatoes from the kitchen.

  ‘What a business,’ I said rather tritely when the silence became awkward.

  He made no response and I was not surprised since he had been in a kind of trance ever since the discovery of the crime.

  ‘I found the Sergeant’s manner most offensive,’ I said. ‘He seemed to assume that one or both of us was lying. And he asked me some very impertinent questions.’

  Austin looked up. ‘Did he? What did he want to know?’

  ‘I refused to tell him anything that was not relevant to what happened this afternoon. He seemed to think it significant that poor old Mr Stonex changed the date of the invitation. He came and asked you about that, didn’t he?’

  Austin nodded. Another silence fell, interrupted by the waiter slapping down in front of us two plates containing dry slices of meat covered with congealed gravy, and a dish of blotchy, tepid potatoes.

  ‘Adams seems to have some sort of theory’, I went on, ‘that the old gentleman was expecting a visitor.’

  ‘It’s not worth speculating about,’ Austin said. ‘The Major is right. It’s really very simple.’

  ‘I think he’s wrong if he believes that Mrs Bubbosh is implicated.’

  ‘Perkins did it,’ Austin said. ‘With or without help from the old woman.’

  ‘Without. And yet she must be lying about the cakes, must she not?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘But why? What possible motive could she have for such an unnecessary and trivial lie?’

  ‘Who knows? With a person like that, it’s often hard to say. It doesn’t alter the fact that Perkins did it.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Austin put down his knife and fork. ‘It’s very simple. When Stonex asked him to bring beer at half-past five – a thing that he had never done before – Perkins realized that this was his chance to rob him. He would be let into the house without anybody being aware of it. But what he could not have known was that Stonex would have guests that afternoon and mention to them that he had ordered beer.’

  I nodded. ‘So it was done on an impulse?’

  ‘Yes, but he might have been thinking about it for months. Of course, he knew he would have to kill him.’

  I shuddered.

  ‘But, Austin, why did he ... Why did he do it like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ he asked almost irritably.

  ‘You saw it. He surely didn’t need to do that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Does it matter?’

  We finished our meal and walked home – almost entirely in silence. By the time we got back it was long after midnight and we went straight to bed. For a long time I found I couldn’t sleep. If only Perkins had looked more villainous I might have found the whole affair less disturbing, but to accept that that boyish youth – as fresh-faced as one of my undergraduates – could have done that to a defenceless old man whom he had known for years ...! To think how much blood must have spurted and yet he had struck again and again and again. To think of the splintering of bone, the vulnerability of the eyes. To think of what he must have done to have inflicted so much damage to the head, to the face. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe anything good about our species. Was this what we were – cruel apes who wore clothes and washed and perfumed our bodies?

  I thought of Gambrill murdering his rival by throwing him from the roof of the Cathedral, and then of young Limbrick brooding in secret for years about the need to avenge his father, urged on by his embittered mother, yet having to conceal his hatred and accept favours from the man he hoped one day to kill. And had Gambrill guessed at his hidden hatred and tried to appease him by promoting him?

  And most of all I thought about the manuscript and regretted that all of this was a distraction from it and from the problem of how to ensure that it was not misused in order to promote someone’s interests, for it belonged to history rather than to an individual or even an institution. And then at last I fell into an uneasy slumber, the kind which is more exhausting even than sleeplessness. Towards dawn I had the most terrifying dream of my life from which I awoke with my heart thumping and my forehead wet with perspiration. It was one of those dreams – nightmares – which cast a long shadow over the rest of the day as if some part of the mind were trying to pull one back into it.

  Friday Morning

  The state of brooding depression in which I awoke meant that Austin and I spoke very little at breakfast. Moreover, I wanted to avoid speech since, in order to postpone the problems that I foresaw, I did not want to reveal that I had found the manuscript. I was therefore hoping that he would be as incurious about my researches as he had hitherto been and would not ask what my intentions were for the morning. As we were about to leave the house, however, he enquired: ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the Library again.’

  ‘You won’t forget about the inquest, will you?’

  ‘Will it be today?’

  ‘I assume so. But whenever it is, you have to be there. You have important evidence to give.’

  ‘Is it so important?’

  ‘All you have to do is describe what you saw and heard. A witness of your standing will put paid to any of the absurd theories that Adams might parade in order to make himself seem clever.’

  I nodded, pulling on my coat.

  After a moment, he said: ‘I suppose you’ll see Locard?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ I was thinking of how he had broken his appointment and withdrawn his promised assistance.

  ‘Well, if you do, be sure not to say anything to him about this business.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He is a trouble-maker. He will twist anything you tell him to his own interests.’

  ‘What interests could he have in this business?’

  ‘Very powerful ones. There has always been a rumour that Stonex was leaving his fortune to the Foundation. Locard would love to get his hands on it.’

  ‘If a testament is found to that effect, then he will. Otherwise not.’ I spoke off-handedly, convinced that Austin was voicing an obsession with Dr Locard that arose from the politics of the Chapter. I assumed he was upset because Canon Sheldrick had been defeated by Dr Locard at the Chapter meeting the previous morning. That was not merely a defeat for the Low Church faction, but, I suspected, it probably made certain the dismissal of his friend Slattery.

  I was so impatient to be at the Library early that I hurried out of the house before Austin had left, taking a hastier leave of my friend than with hindsight I would have chosen.

  I arrived just as young Quitregard was unlocking the door. He greeted me with a smile and as he ushered me in, he said: ‘I’m putting on coffee and I should be honoured ...’

  ‘Thank you, but not this morning,’ I said, hurrying past him.

  ‘But have you heard the
news about Mr Stonex?’ he called out.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ I cried. ‘I was assisting the police for most of yesterday evening.’

  ‘I know that, sir, and I’m sorry you and Mr Fickling were involved.’

  I stopped and turned. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, there are no secrets in this town. But I meant, have you heard the news that is fresh this morning?’ I shook my head and he savoured the moment before saying: ‘The waiter, Eddy Perkins, has been charged.’

  ‘That surprises me not in the least. Has he confessed?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but something very incriminating was found in his house late last night when the officers searched it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  He pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. But he admitted that he had taken it from Mr Stonex’s house. Apparently it was impossible for him to deny it.’

  ‘So he has confessed?’

  ‘No, for he maintains that he knew nothing of the murder.’

  ‘Is he still saying that he did not go back to the house at half-past five?’

  ‘He has now admitted that he did. But only because a witness has come forward who saw him there at the time.’

  ‘A witness? Do you know who it is?’

  ‘No, sir. But isn’t it all frightfully exciting?’

  I smiled. ‘And yet in spite of all this evidence against him, he is insisting that he did not kill the old gentleman?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘That hardly seems a logical position. I suppose the man is stupid.’

  ‘Stupid and brutal, on the evidence. What a terrible thing. And what a shock it must have been for you. To learn of the dreadful murder of someone you were with only an hour or two earlier.’

  His kind face was so sympathetic that I was tempted to accept his offer and indulge as well the curiosity that he was finding it so difficult to conceal, but the lure of my discovery was too powerful. With an expression of gratitude for his commiseration, I ascended the stairs to the upper floor.

  I listened for a moment to make sure that he was not following me and then I removed the manuscript from where I had placed it the previous afternoon, and laid it on the desk before me. Just looking at it was a balm to my spirit. This was real, this was what was important. Here – in the practice of scholarly skills – were order and rationality and truth. As I began to translate the faded script it became clear to me that I had been correct in my first assumption yesterday: I was indeed looking at a manuscript written in about AD 1000, considerably earlier than the 1120 recension of Grimbald’s Life. And yet as I read on, my conviction that it proved that the work had existed before Leofranc started to revise it, began to waver in the face of anomalies. What I had before me was certainly a version of the story of the Siege of Thurchester and the martyrdom of St Wulflac – although the king and the bishop concerned were not named – but it was very different from the one which appears in the 1120 recension. The events were broadly the same but the interpretation of the motives of those involved was completely different.

  I had been working for a little less than an hour when I heard running feet on the stairs and, barely giving me time to slip the manuscript under one of the volumes lying on the table, Pomerance came bursting in. ‘They’ve found a body!’ he cried. ‘They’ve found a body.’

  ‘Dear God!’ I exclaimed, rising to my feet. ‘Who is it now?’

  In an instant, a host of possibilities presented themselves: I had a bizarre vision of Mrs Bubbosh lying suffocated with one of her tea-towels over her face, quickly succeeded by an image of Austin sprawling on his back with his throat cut and a razor beside him.

  ‘It’s in the Cathedral,’ he gasped. ‘I’m going to look.’

  In the Cathedral! What could this mean?

  Pomerance turned on his heel and headed back towards the stairs. ‘Wait a moment!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I can’t!’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘I only came up because Quitregard told me to.’

  He ran down the stairs again. In bewilderment I followed him, pausing only to put on my greatcoat and hat. I saw the young man hurry out of the door and when I got outside I found Quitregard standing on the steps, coatless, and peering towards the Cathedral.

  ‘I’d give anything to be able to go,’ he said. ‘But I can’t leave the Library unattended.’

  ‘What is this new horror?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he almost wailed. ‘Do please come back and tell me.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, and hurried across the Close towards the south transept where I saw a number of people outside the door – the only one open at that time of day. A police-officer and one of the vergers were barring their entry to the building. I saw Pomerance among the onlookers and he looked eagerly towards me as I approached, as if I could help him to get in. I recognized the constable as one of the two who had brought Perkins to the house last night and when he saw me he saluted and stood aside to let me enter as if I had some special right of access to dead bodies.

  I could see that there was a group of men standing under the crossing-tower and as I drew nearer I realized that they were beside the Burgoyne memorial which was now a gaping hole of outraged brickwork partly obscured by scaffolding. Before it lay a block and tackle, and the huge slab which had formed the visible part of the monument was propped up on the ground nearby. I noticed my old friend the head-verger, Gazzard, standing at a little distance apart and went up to him. He greeted me with lugubrious courtesy, and I asked him what was happening.

  ‘Why, they realized the smell was coming from there and so they started to open it up early this morning.’

  ‘I suppose that when the paving subsided, the movement must have disturbed the masonry and punctured the seal.’

  He shrugged. ‘As soon as they removed some of the bricks, the stench became dreadful.’

  ‘I don’t understand. It’s only a memorial, not a tomb.’

  ‘Well, they found what was making the smell. They’ve got it over there. This is as near as I’ll go for all the tea in China, sir.’

  I thanked him and went a little closer, though the smell was appalling. Two of the men, I now saw, were Dr Carpenter and Dr Sisterson, though the third was unknown to me. For the second time in as many days I saw the young doctor bent over a corpse. It looked like a very old man – its face withered, with the lips shrunk away from the teeth in a grimace, and the body shrivelled up so that it seemed not to be big enough for a grown man. I saw that it was wearing linen undergarments of antique style. The words from the inscription suddenly came to me: For when the earthe shudders and the Towers tremble, the Grave will yield up her secrettes and all he known.

  ‘Move back, will you,’ the stranger said to me.

  Dr Sisterson, however, looked up and said cheerfully: ‘But I know this gentleman.’ He stepped over to me and shook hands and said: ‘How very good it is to see you.’ He turned to the other man: ‘This is Mr Bulmer, the Surveyor of the Fabric. And this gentleman, Bulmer, is the distinguished historian, Dr Courtine.’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ Bulmer said without smiling as he shook my hand. He was a short, burly man of about fifty with heavy jowls and a head that was almost completely bald.

  ‘I know Dr Carpenter,’ I said as Dr Sisterson was about to introduce us.

  The doctor nodded in a casual way.

  Dr Sisterson smiled: ‘We now have all the professions we need: a medical gentleman to tell us how this poor man died, an architect to tell us how he got into the wall and a historian to explain what really happened.’

  ‘And a theologian’, said the young doctor rather sarcastically, ‘to tell us the ultimate significance of it all.’

  The Sacrist said with a smile: ‘This will fascinate you as a historian, Dr Courtine. It seems that the body must have been sealed up immediately after death. So it was perfectly preserved in the airless space until the seal was ruptured a few days ago.’

  ‘Ruptured, I wi
ll point out once again,’ Bulmer broke in angrily, ‘because my instructions were irresponsibly countermanded.’ As he spoke he thrust his chin upwards in my direction and glared at me for the space of several seconds in a manner that I found quite alarming.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bulmer,’ said Dr Sisterson. ‘I have apologized for that and I take full responsibility for it upon myself. The foreman was acting on my orders alone.’

  ‘Except that it was not sealed up after death, Dr Sisterson,’ said Dr Carpenter, who had been looking silently down at the cadaver. ‘The wretched man was placed in the memorial while still alive.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ I asked.

  Protecting his own hands with a piece of cloth, he knelt and held up one of the corpse’s. ‘Look. The nails are worn down and the bones of the hand swollen which means that he tried to claw and beat his way out of the tomb. He must have suffocated over a period of a few hours or even days.’

  The thought made me gasp for breath, especially as the stench was already stiffling. I was possessed by a sense of horror as I imagined the man trying to scratch his way out of his stone coffin, screaming for as long as his lungs could find air, beating his fists against the cold marble.

  ‘So the mystery is resolved at last – two hundred and fifty years late,’ Dr Sisterson commented.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We now know why Gambrill disappeared. The poor man did not run away. He was himself murdered. And the reason why the slab was inserted to stand proud of the wall is now clear.’

  ‘But now we have another puzzle instead,’ the Sacrist said. ‘Who killed him?’

  Bulmer exchanged a look with the young doctor. ‘Do you mind letting us in on this?’ he said. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Between us, the Sacrist and I told the story of Burgoyne. When we had concluded, the Surveyor smiled and said rather grimly: ‘As Gambrill’s successor, I can sympathize with his desire to murder one of the canons.’

  Dr Sisterson smiled without quite hiding his embarrassment, but the doctor laughed and asked: ‘But did he have any specific reason?’

  ‘That’s rather enigmatic,’ I said. ‘They were quarrelling about the Canon’s lack of interest in preserving the spire. As you probably know,’ I said, turning to Bulmer to try to make my peace, ‘the nave was abandoned for more than a hundred years after the Dissolution because of the danger of the spire collapsing and as a result ...’