The Ely Testament (19 page)

Mrs Ansell expressed a wish to visit the great pyramids at Giza. Fort, too, would give his eye-teeth to see those supreme examples of exotic funerary monuments. For a few seconds, he dreamed of visiting Egypt with Mrs Ansell, of touring Giza in her company. Absurd, of course. The dream evaporated. But he would not, for anything, wish Mrs Ansell to come to harm.

At the outskirts of Upper Fen he got out of the carriage and paid off the driver. Carrying his bag, he made his way through a straggle of dwelling-places towards the church and the big house. Charles Tomlinson was waiting for Eric Fort in the shadows of the south side of the church. They waited until it was completely dark before making their way to the north side and the entrance to the crypt.

Now, here they were, underground, about to go fossicking.

Holding up the lantern, Tomlinson led the way along the short passage. They emerged into a large room-like space with a slightly higher ceiling. There were wide stone shelves along the walls and coffins on the shelves, some made of wood but most of lead. It was damp and draughty and cold, so cold that Fort clamped his teeth to stop them chattering. Through some trick of ventilation, the sound of the wind from outside was transformed into a sequence of cries and moans. Yet the whole scene – the crypt, the stacked coffins, the ghostly noises – did not disturb Eric Fort. Despite his chattering teeth, it was rather to his taste.

Tomlinson passed the lantern light over the coffins. The lead ones had no markings and the brass plates on some of the wooden coffins were too tarnished to be legible. They must have been centuries old.

‘We're not breaking into one of these?' said Fort, as the tall man drummed his fingers on the top of a wooden coffin.

‘No, no,' said Tomlinson. ‘I'm just getting the lay of the land.'

Fort was almost disappointed. Inside the bag that lay at his feet were, among other implements, a chisel, a jemmy and crowbar, and several hammers. Tomlinson moved to the end of the underground chamber. Here there were no shelves or coffins. Just an expanse of wall, crudely plastered. Tomlinson took off his gloves and felt the surface. He pressed it with his fingertips.

‘Here, I think,' he said. ‘We need to get behind here.'

Summer, 1645

A
nne had to tell someone. It was a secret, of course, but she could not keep it absolutely to herself. It was like a burden too heavy to be carried by one person. She contemplated talking about it with James, the old steward, but in the end it was her sister Mary that she turned to. She described the man who had escaped from a battle and was sheltering in the willow cabin; she mentioned his fine clothes beneath the cloak, his injured hand, his plan to make his way towards the coast.

Mary thought for a time, then asked Anne to spell out the name that the man had given himself. Loyer.

She found a piece of paper and wrote down the stranger's name in large capital letters. The supposedly French name that he had, rather too deliberately, spelled out for Anne's benefit. L-O-Y-E-R. Mary gazed at the letters, and Anne watched her sister as she puzzled over them. Mary enjoyed words, liked to find different ways of saying the same thing. After a short time, Mary nodded to herself, satisfied. Satisfied but also, to judge by her expression, alarmed.

‘The letters, rearranged, spell out Le Roy,' she said.

Anne shook her head. She was fearful of what might come next.

‘It is French. You remember those French terms which Mr Martin has taught us?'

‘Some of them.'

‘It means “the king”.'

‘The king,' repeated Anne.

‘Yes. The . . . the person you say is hiding out on the edge of our land – the person the soldiers were hunting for – it is our king.'

‘King Charles?'

‘Yes. Does he look like the king?'

‘I do not know what the king looks like. Why would he be by himself?'

Anne, who had half identified the fugitive, now wanted to find reasons why she was wrong. Mary, who hadn't yet seen the man, was sure her sister was right.

‘He might be alone – if he's escaping,' said Mary.

‘Come and see,' said Anne.

The sisters made their way back to the willow shelter. After a moment the man emerged again. This time he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that kept his features half hidden.

‘I told you not to return,' he said.

‘This is my sister,' said Anne.

Mary made a clumsy curtsey. Then she said, ‘How do I know you are who we believe you are?'

The man looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he fumbled beneath the lacy collar at his neck and drew out a locket on a silver chain. The locket was the size of a crown-piece but three times as thick, too large for a picture or a strand of hair. Using his bandaged hand, the man picked awkwardly at the clasp on the locket. He undid it, to reveal a fragment of glass nestling inside. But it was no glass. He held it up to the sun, so that it caught the light and at once flashed with a rainbow of colours.

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

O
n 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 the 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.