The Unburied Page 20

  As he reached it he straightened his back and was the officer again. I was becoming more interested in the narrator than in the story he was telling for I could not reconcile this flamboyant, expansive individual with the lonely miser Quitregard had described.

  ‘Boy, where are my soldiers?’

  He cringed and stammered: ‘In the kitchen, please your Honour.’

  ‘Summon them.’

  As the boy he scuttled to the other door. Then he turned and seemed to grow larger and fatter, and shuffled into the room with a slightly hang-dog air, wiping his mouth with one hand and then tugging at his forelock. ‘At your pleasure, sir.’ In some extraordinary way he conjured up a companion, smaller than himself but just as drunk.

  The officer barked: ‘Where is the third man?’

  The soldier turned to his invisible companion, shrugged, and then said: ‘He is posted at the back-gate, your Worship, as your Worship ordered.’

  ‘Very well. Now listen carefully, men. A Royalist army is approaching and is about to attack our positions.’

  ‘That is an invention?’ I asked.

  ‘A complete fabrication,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘But such an army has been created by rumour and is therefore likely to be believed.’ Then he went on: ‘We have no hope of holding the town and will withdraw immediately to a village a few miles away which controls the only nearby bridge across the river. If we can hold it, then Parliament has a good chance of taking Thurchester back. The village is called Compton Monachorum.’ The old gentleman paused and turned to gaze at me significantly.

  ‘Where the Dean’s manor-house was!’ I cried.

  He did not acknowledge my remark but an expression of slow-witted concentration spread over his features. ‘What are we to do about his Worship the Dean, sir?’

  ‘We are taking him with us as a bargaining counter.’

  I turned to him: ‘Is what you are describing derived from the manuscript you have been looking for?’

  ‘Yes. Except that that gives only an account of what the kitchen-boy saw. A witness does not always understand what he is seeing and in this case he most certainly did not.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t take your point at all. The whole of our system of justice is based on the assumption that witnesses can fairly report what they have seen.’

  ‘I don’t dispute that,’ the old gentleman replied tartly. ‘What I do insist is that they frequently misinterpret it. I have used my intelligence and my knowledge of what came later to work out what really happened. Watch and judge. While the three soldiers stayed in this room, the boy slipped out to find his master.’

  With long silent strides he stalked to the door, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at us once or twice. Then he straightened and said to me: ‘Outside the study he finds you in a state of blue funk. You have overheard everything – as you were intended to – and you understand that your life and that of your wife and children hang by a thread. But how can you escape and take them to a safe place? To reach the back-door you must pass through this room which is full of soldiers. And even if you could get to the back-door, there is the guard at the gate into the Close.’

  He pulled open the door and we went into the hall.

  ‘At that moment there is a tapping at the window. You open it.’

  I hesitated and he repeated the cue: ‘You open it.’

  I mimed opening the casements of the window, noticing that they were actually nailed down. I remembered what Quitregard had said about the elaborate precautions the old gentleman had taken against being burgled.

  ‘There is Hollingrake on the other side of the window,’ our host said briskly, nodding at Austin to bring him into the action. ‘He is wearing a tall hat and a bright red surcoat with a high collar. You are filled with joy at the sight of him. Instantly, all your distrust of him is laid aside. How quickly we forget the wrongs we have inflicted on others when we need their aid! You beg him for help in escaping and Hollingrake tells you he has come for that very reason.’ He paused and waited for Austin to speak. My friend, however, stood glowering back at him. Unabashed, the old gentleman went on: ‘Hollingrake climbs in through the window and tells you something you are very pleased to hear.’ He paused but Austin failed to respond to his cue.

  ‘He tells you he has a project for your escape. He points out that the guard at the back-gate has just allowed him to pass and will not think to stop him as he leaves. You see immediately what the Treasurer means so Hollingrake gives you his very distinctive hat and coat, and he and the boy help you to clamber out through the window. The last thing that crosses your mind is to wonder what are the heavy objects in the pockets of the coat. The boy watches you hurrying out of the back-gate past the unsuspecting soldier. Less than half a minute later he sees me – the officer – and the soldiers hurry out of the house and run after you. We were waiting for you!’

  ‘And I have fallen into the trap!’ I said grimly.

  ‘About two minutes after that the boy hears gun-shots. He runs into the Close and finds you lying on the ground surrounded by soldiers at the door into the Cloisters. A number of townspeople are standing nearby looking on in horror. I am searching the pockets of your greatcoat and – shame and dismay! – I pull out a number of large jewels and small pieces of the Cathedral’s gold plate. I can’t believe my eyes. I show them to the townspeople and they recognize them and are horrified. You’re lying there unable to speak but witnessing your disgrace as you bleed to death.’

  ‘Poor Freeth,’ I found myself saying. Whatever he had or had not done in his life, this ignominious and unjust death deserved sympathy. To lie there with his life’s blood pouring from him and know that he would be remembered as nothing but a cowardly thief.

  The old gentleman smiled. ‘Even the kitchen-boy who was the chief witness did not understand what really happened.’

  ‘But there are other accounts which differ from that one,’ I protested and told him of the antiquarian’s letter. ‘Pepperdine’s eyewitness claimed that Freeth saw soldiers pillaging the Library and rushed across to stop them. So he died like a valiant scholar defending his books.’

  My host uttered a high-pitched laugh of derision. ‘Stuff and nonsense! Why, you cannot even see the Library from this house.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Come, I will show you. The dining-room has the best view of the Close, so if you cannot see it from there you can be certain you cannot see it from any other room.’

  As he set off down the passage, Austin almost shouted: ‘What are you doing? You can’t go in there! You can’t mean the dining-room!’

  Mr Stonex looked at him with unruffled calm. ‘Indeed I most certainly do mean that room.’

  ‘You must mean the study,’ Austin protested.

  ‘I most assuredly do not.’ He smiled at me. ‘That looks out onto the street.’

  ‘That was the Dean’s study?’ I asked, indicating a door behind us.

  He nodded.

  ‘Could I see it? I wish to put to the test your hypothesis that the Dean heard the officer saying he had orders to capture and very probably to kill him.’

  ‘Very willingly,’ he said and reached into one of his pockets. ‘That room is always kept locked.’ An expression of dismay appeared on his features. ‘Unfortunately I find I don’t have my keys to hand. I could, however, go upstairs and fetch them if it would give you pleasure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of permitting you to go to so much trouble,’ I said, somewhat surprised, for I recalled young Quitregard saying he carried his keys on a chain at all times.

  With a careless shrug as if it were a matter of complete indifference to him, he turned and led us along the passage and down a couple of stairs. Then he opened a door and ushered us into the dining-room. It was large but low and dark with only a dim source of light at the opposite extremity. The walls were lined with oak panelling and a long table occupied the centre for almost its full length. Standing at th
e end of the table closest to the window was a single candle in a stick, still burning but almost extinguished. I looked out of the window and found that the Cathedral was directly in front of us, vast and blocking out almost everything.

  Far along the length of the Cathedral in the thick twilight, I could just make out part of the Library which was visible beyond the point where the Chapter House projected.

  ‘The door into the Library is too far to the left to be seen. The Chapter House hides it,’ said the old gentleman at my shoulder.

  I had to admit that he was right. I looked round the Close and noticed that I could just see one of Austin’s upper windows. It must be the sitting-room, I realized.

  At that moment the candle on the table guttered and went out.

  Our host lit the gas in a wall-bracket and as the light flared up, a portrait nearby caught my gaze. Seeing me looking at it, he said: ‘That is my father as a young man.’

  The figure was a youth wearing costume dating from the turn of the century. The face was delicate, even feminine, conveying a sense of the sitter’s love of pleasure and at the same time, with the lips drawn back slightly from the teeth like a snarling animal, his defiance of anyone who stood in his way. I believed at that moment that I saw, despite the difference in age, a resemblance to the face of my host.

  ‘He was a handsome man,’ I said.

  ‘He certainly broke many a young lady’s heart,’ the old gentleman said with a laugh. ‘He had a very wild youth and got himself into many scrapes. He fought several duels with outraged brothers and sweethearts and he very nearly reduced his inheritance to nothing. But he reformed just in time and made a good marriage and settled down to life in his father’s bank. Unfortunately he died young – the penalty he paid for his earlier dissipation.’

  ‘Do you remember him?’

  He nodded. ‘I was very young when he died but I have many memories of him. He was always full of merriment. While he was alive this house was filled with bustling servants and music, and there were guests in beautiful dresses, lights, parties, cards and dinners. Handsome carriages came and went all day and until late at night.’

  He shook his head and I wondered how his life, which had started with so much conviviality and warmth, had shrunk to this – one solitary old man in a big empty house with nothing but memories and stories of the distant past. I suddenly felt very cold.

  Our host led us back to the houseplace where he urged us to be seated again. I said good-humouredly: ‘My sole objection has been removed and I have to concede that your version of the Dean’s murder is very plausible.’

  ‘I don’t know why you use that word,’ the old gentleman said. ‘Freeth was not murdered – he was executed. His death was necessary in order to prevent a greater loss of life.’

  ‘It can never be right to assess a man’s life so pragmatically,’ I protested, looking at Austin for support. He merely shook his head as if declining to express a view.

  ‘That is a religious position which deals in moral absolutes,’ the old man replied with complete dispassion. ‘I take the humanistic view that there is always a calculus of human interests in which the benefit of many may be purchased at the expense of the few.’

  ‘I call myself a humanist,’ I said indignantly. ‘But I reject absolutely that point of view. Human life is sacred.’

  ‘Sacred?’ the old gentleman sneered. ‘You can use that word and claim to be a humanist?’

  Before I could find a way to answer that, Austin spoke: ‘Courtine is right. Murder is the ultimate evil and its perpetrator cannot hope to escape eternal damnation.’

  Mr Stonex swung round and directed at him a strange look which I could not interpret. At that moment the clock by the door started striking the final quarter.

  ‘It must be half-past five,’ Austin said. ‘We must not miss the end of Evensong. Look at your watch, Courtine.’

  Rather puzzled by his request, I did so. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘Why is that the only clock that keeps time badly?’ Austin said suddenly to the old gentleman. ‘Is something interfering with its action?’

  ‘Interfering?’

  ‘Hampering the weights?’

  Our host smiled, crossed the room and quickly opened its case. With his back to us he reached into it and said: ‘No, there’s nothing here.’

  As he turned back I thought he slipped something into his pocket and I assumed it was the key to the case though I had not noticed him unlock it.

  ‘Thank you, Fickling,’ he said. ‘That was a very good thought.’

  At that moment all possibility of further argument about the time was ended by the booming of the Cathedral clock. Whatever the time might be by my metropolitan timepiece, it was half-past five in Thurchester.

  ‘We should go now,’ Austin said firmly. ‘Or we will miss the service entirely.’

  Though it seemed a little discourteous to depart so abruptly, I recalled that our host had to return to his place of work at six and would probably not be sorry to see us leave. We rose and went through the kitchen to the back-door where we made our adieus. Just as I was shaking my host’s hand, there was a knocking at the street-door. The old gentleman said: ‘He is very punctual.’ Seeing my quizzical expression, he explained: ‘That is the waiter from the inn across the way. He is bringing me a pint of ale.’

  I was surprised for Quitregard had not mentioned that as part of the old banker’s routine. We expressed our gratitude for his hospitality for the last time and left the house. We had been inside it for just a few minutes more than three-quarters of an hour.

  Thursday Evening

  We hurried round to the Cathedral and found that Evensong was just ending as we entered, so instead of taking seats we stood at the back and listened to the organ playing the end of a Bach Toccata and Fugue. The smell was much more noticeable even than it had been the day before and although the interior of the Cathedral was very cold, the odour seemed warm in my nostrils. I was very relieved that we were not staying long.

  The celebrant, the servers and the choir filed from the chancel and the small congregation left. While we were talking together in low voices a minute or two later a man suddenly appeared beside us. He must have come, silently and unnoticed, from the direction of the east end.

  ‘This is Slattery,’ Austin said. ‘Martin Slattery.’

  He was tall, about fifteen years our junior, with a very striking face – handsome, spoilt and demanding. His straight black hair was sleeked down like the sheen of an animal’s pelt and altogether he seemed to me like some sort of wild beast. A very vulgar expression which I had heard applied to a hunting-dog came to me: that he had a face that was always ‘on the twitch’ for something. His staring blue eyes seemed to be searching my face for anything that might be of use or pose a threat. I could sense how very charming he could be, but there was something about him which made me believe him capable of anything. Of course, I had had good reason to mistrust a friend of Austin’s.

  Slattery was a big man and yet the hand that he now thrust carelessly towards me was oddly delicate. His grip was firm and I was relieved when he relinquished my hand quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry I only heard a minute or two of your playing,’ I said.

  ‘I played abominably,’ he replied with a charming smile. ‘You missed nothing.’

  His face seemed familiar. I had seen it very recently but I could not recall where.

  ‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ I muttered without reflection.

  ‘I give you my word I played worse than I’ve ever played in this Cathedral. I could do nothing with my hands. They seemed to have a will of their own.’ He held them out in front of him as if lining them up for indictment, looking at them with a suggestion of ironic respect which I found strangely disturbing. ‘A damnable leave-taking to the organ.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll play it many times when it is back in commission,’ I said.

  ‘I doubt that.’ As he said those words he sm
iled at Austin who had been staring at him since his arrival but who now lowered his gaze. At that moment, I saw the old verger, Gazzard, standing a few yards away and looking towards us. He glanced at me disapprovingly and when I nodded, he turned away.

  ‘Shall we go to a public-house?’ Austin asked.

  We agreed and followed him out of the Cathedral. Austin and I walked ahead and it was only as we left the Close that I glanced back at our companion and saw that he walked with a kind of swaggering limp. At that moment I realized that he was the halting figure I had seen in the Close last night. That must be why I felt I had seen him before, though there was still some memory which remained unnudged. If it was he whom I had seen going into the alley it must have been he whom I saw in the organ-loft. But in that case, how had he got down from there and out into the Close without my noticing him? There must be another staircase. I slowed down to let Slattery catch up and then let him and Austin walk on ahead.

  Although I felt relieved that there was a rational explanation for what I had almost accepted as a supernatural experience, I was discomfited by my memory of the feeling of evil that had emanated from the figure. And what had he been doing there at that hour? Though it occurred to me that the organ-loft was at least the obvious place for the organist to be. I wondered if he had recognized me from our encounter and thought not for he had given no sign of it.

  Austin and his friend were talking softly as they walked a few paces ahead of me, their heads close together. At one moment Slattery gripped Austin’s arm and held it for a few moments. In a minute or two we were inside a tavern – the Angel Inn in Chancery Street.

  Austin went up to the bar while Slattery and I seated ourselves in a snug giving a view onto the street.

  ‘Do you enjoy teaching, Mr Slattery?’ I asked, casting about for a topic of common interest. ‘Fickling tells me you teach music at the Choir School and have private pupils in the town.’

  ‘Enjoy it? I regard it as a prison sentence. I only do it because I pursued my passion for music when I was young and since my drunken brute of a father not only failed to provide me with the means of earning a living in any other way but crippled me during one of his drunken rages, I was sentenced to take it up professionally. And that has almost killed my interest in it.’