The Ely Testament (20 page)

‘All right, all right,' said the newcomer to no one in particular. ‘That'll do.'

It was a police constable. There were sighs of relief at the uniform, perhaps of actual recognition of the man wearing the uniform. Ely wasn't a big place.

‘Give me that light, will you, sir?' said the constable to the man who'd approached the body. ‘It's Mr Grace, isn't it?'

‘It is,' said the man, stooping to retrieve the lamp. He handed it to the constable who now ducked beneath the cannon and angled the beams so that they shone full on the upper part of the body. Instinctively, several of the men and women who were gathered nearest to the cannon crouched down in sympathy with the policeman. Also to see whatever they could see.

There was blood on the man's coat, bright in the light. He had evidently sustained wounds to the chest or throat. His head was tilted forward so that it was scarcely possible to make out anything of his features. Nevertheless a child's excited cry, a boy's voice, said, ‘There 'e is!'

Tom experienced a thrill of recognition. Again, he glanced at the hat on the ground. He had seen that hat before, he was certain of it, although he could not have pointed to any distinguishing features of what was nothing more than a rather battered piece of headgear. But he'd glimpsed it yesterday, dangling on the hatstand of Phoenix House, home to Mr Ernest Lye. Almost without thinking, he bent down to pick it up. The attention of everyone else on the scene was fixed on the body and the policeman under the cannon.

Tom turned the hat so that he could see the lining. He twisted the interior this way and that until it caught a gleam of light from the lamp. There was a name written in ink in the lining, the capital letters faded but still just about distinguishable. Or at least the first three letters of the name were. Perhaps Tom recognized them so quickly because they were familiar to him. They were the same as his own. T-O-M. He looked back at the policeman and the lamplit corpse and, despite the unhelpful tilt of the dead man's face, he now observed the prominent jaw. The thrill of recognition turned into a sickening certainty. Very carefully, much more carefully than he'd picked it up, he replaced the top hat on the ground.

‘I do know him,' Tom said to Helen. ‘It is Charles Tomlinson. The man I met yesterday at Phoenix House. I told you about him, remember. He is Mrs Lye's cousin.'

‘Oh this is terrible. Do they know?'

How can they know? thought Tom.

‘Of course they do not,' said Helen, completing his thought. ‘How could they know? They'd be here otherwise.'

‘We are due to meet the Lyes. Someone must tell them.'

‘Yes,' said Helen. ‘Whose hat is that down there?'

‘His hat.'

Their whole conversation was conducted in whispered asides. Neither of the Ansells moved. They watched while the constable came out from beneath the black shaft of the cannon and stood up. He returned the light to its owner. With both hands free, he made shooing gestures at the crowd, now several people thick and with those at the back craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to get a better view. Then he fumbled beneath his cape. Tom guessed he was reaching for his rattle in order to summon help. It wasn't necessary for another figure emerged from the onlookers, who promptly parted to let him through.

‘Parr,' he said softly. He was not wearing a uniform but his manner and the way in which the constable came to attention showed that he must be a superior officer, perhaps an Inspector.

‘Sir!'

‘There 'e is!' said the same little boy, who could have been referring either to the dead man or to the new policeman. This time a woman shushed the boy. The Inspector said nothing but looked in the lad's direction. He waited a moment before turning to the constable.

‘Tell these people to move back, Parr.'

But no further command was needed. The onlookers recognized this individual as well, or at least they responded to his tone of quiet authority, and shuffled back so as to form a looser semicircle. The procedure with the household lamp was repeated, with the newcomer borrowing it and ducking beneath the Russian gun. He scrutinized the dead man who, Tom was convinced by now, had to be Charles Tomlinson. The three letters in the lining of the top hat, the prominent jaw. He debated with himself whether it was his business to inform the senior policeman of the corpse's identity.

The man who owned the lamp waited until the second officer completed his own scrutiny. Then he came forward and, gesturing towards one of the houses that edged the north side of the Green, said, ‘I have information to give, Inspector. I saw what happened. I live over there.'

He spoke firmly and clearly, aware of his audience, as if staking a claim to the event.

‘Of course, Mr Grace,' said the policeman. ‘I recognize you. I know where you live. I am Inspector Francis.'

‘I am a witness to this crime,' the other said.

There was an outbreak of murmuring and then absolute silence among the people standing around as they hung on for the information. Inspector Francis clapped his hands together, softly but as if he'd come to a decision.

‘Then let's move over there, shall we? Parr, keep an eye on things. People will soon be arriving for Evensong in the cathedral. Do not allow anyone to approach the body or to touch anything in the area.'

‘Sir.'

Tom felt a twinge of guilt on hearing the Inspector's order that nothing was to be touched. The constable stayed near the cannon's mouth, his attention swivelling between the body and the crowd. A few people were already drifting away since they'd already seen all there was to see and were no longer to be permitted to hear anything of interest, but others, including some soberly dressed citizens arriving for the cathedral service, couldn't resist coming across to see what was going on. Meanwhile the Inspector and Mr Grace walked to the rear of the gun, and, half obscured by the growing gloom, started to converse in low tones.

Tom was relieved. Neither he nor Helen had been witnesses to anything except the other bystanders. So there was nothing more they could do or should do here. He decided it was not his job to reveal he'd met the dead man and knew his name. Not his job or his duty. The police were in command now. They'd soon find the top hat and decipher the name.

Helen and he walked away from the Crimean cannon and the body of Mr Charles Tomlinson and the remnant of the crowd. With Helen holding tight to her husband's arm, they crossed Palace Green at a diagonal towards the west front of the cathedral and the High Street. On a road just beyond lay the Lion Hotel, where they were due to meet Mr and Mrs Ernest Lye.

Neither Tom nor Helen said a word to each other. Helen thought of Lydia Lye and the terrible surprise she was about to receive on hearing of her cousin's death. As for Tom, he was struggling to compose his thoughts. He did have a duty to perform now, a most unpleasant one, and his mind was split between that and the image of the dead man. A body laid out beneath the gun barrel, head tilted forward and front all bloody. The top hat with T-O-M inked in the lining.

Assuming the Lyes were already at the Lion – and they should be since the arrangement was that they were meeting the Ansells there at about this time – then it fell to him to report that Mrs Lye's cousin had died. As a result of a violent attack. Therefore, had been murdered. At least that was what it looked like.

Maybe if they walked slowly enough, someone else would get to the hotel first and break the bad news. But who else knew of the Lyes' plans and whereabouts for the evening, except possibly the dead man? Tom foresaw the course of the next hour or two: breaking the news, then the shock and the condolences, followed by no supper, then a visit to the police house, his and Helen's return to Cambridge. He rehearsed imaginary conversations in his head. Decided to say as little as possible to the Lyes of the details of Charles Tomlinson's death. It would be easier that way. Then he rebuked himself for considering matters so calmly while a man was lying dead beneath a Russian gun. Rebuked himself even for having an appetite for supper. Yet, strange as it might be, he was hungry. Helen interrupted his thoughts.

‘Tom, I do hope this is not the beginning of another . . . drama.'

‘I'm not sure what . . .?'

‘You know, a
drama
, as in Durham.'

Now he understood. The Ansells had recently been caught up in a murder and its aftermath in Durham. Helen had even spent a few hours in a prison cell because she had been apprehended close to the corpse of a murdered man and her guilt assumed. Before their marriage, too, they had been involved in something similar in Salisbury. Tom was quick to reassure her that, this time, it was different. They weren't involved. Innocent bystanders only.

‘But you knew Mr Tomlinson,' said Helen.

‘Knew him? I met him yesterday for a few minutes. This nasty business is nothing to do with us.'

‘Whether it is or not, it is strange to think it all happened while we were inside the cathedral being shown around.'

By now they had reached the Lion. The hotel was an old coaching inn that had not only survived the coming of the railway but was prospering because of its proximity to the cathedral and the High Street. Two porters were standing to one side of the hotel entrance. They barely acknowledged Tom and Helen but continued talking, their heads close together and eyes casting sidelong glances in the direction from which the Ansells had just come. Evidently, the news of the murder – or at least of some violent incident occurring only a few hundred yards away – was already spreading like a stain.

Inside the lobby there was an air of suppressed excitement. Staff and a handful of guests stood in two distinct clusters. There was a low buzz of conversation. Every face turned towards Tom and Helen when the couple entered the lobby. When it became obvious that the newcomers had nothing to say, either because they couldn't or they wouldn't, the faces turned in again and the buzzing resumed.

A middle-aged man hovering between the two groups, staff and guests, came towards them. To judge by his clothes and manner he was the manager or perhaps the proprietor of the Lion Hotel. His expectant expression said, How may I be of assistance? or perhaps, Have you really got no information for us? Tom explained they were at the hotel to meet Mr and Mrs Lye.

‘Oh a pity, you have just missed them. They went out a little while ago. For a walk, I believe. An evening stroll.'

The man paused. He rubbed his palms down a rather greasy-looking waistcoat. He leaned forward as if to say something confidential.

‘Have you heard anything?'

‘I don't understand,' said Helen. ‘What is there to hear?'

‘Never mind,' said the manager or proprietor, put off by Helen's cool tone. ‘If you would please to wait for Mr and Mrs Lye in there. I'm sure they'll be back soon.'

After asking their names, he ushered them into a snug off the dining room. There was no one else in the little room. A fire was blazing and, though it was too hot as well as airless, Tom was glad to be away from the curious glances in the lobby. What he had to report was for the ears of Ernest and Lydia Lye alone. Although the rumour of some shocking event on Palace Green had reached the hotel, he guessed that the people inside were prevented from seeing for themselves either by fear or a sense of propriety or because, as staff, they could not wander off the premises.

‘Perhaps Mr and Mrs Lye already know what has occurred,' said Tom.

‘Not if they went for a walk, as we were told,' said Helen. ‘You do not go for a walk if you know it will lead you to a body.'

Helen and Tom might have sat in one of the several armchairs crowding an already small space but they were too tense, too distracted. They busied themselves keeping out of reach of the fire and examining the pictures – hunting scenes or views of the town in which the Lion Hotel generally figured somewhere – that hung on the walls.

There was patterned glass in the upper part of the door separating the snug from the hotel lobby. The glass darkened and a man walked into the room. It was Ernest Lye. Immediately behind him came Mrs Lye.

‘Mr and Mrs Ansell,' she said. ‘We were told you were in here. What a pleasure it is to see you once more.'

Tom and Helen realized in an instant that the Lyes knew nothing, had discovered nothing. Wherever they had wandered in their early evening stroll, their route couldn't have taken them anywhere close to the west front of the cathedral or Palace Green. Otherwise they would surely have . . .?

‘Has something happened?' said Lydia Lye. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘What are all those people waiting for out there?'

Helen looked at Tom. He said, ‘I have some bad news, I'm afraid.'

Now Lydia looked towards her husband. Ernest had said not a word since coming into the snug, had not even uttered a perfunctory greeting. He stood there, his gaze switching anxiously between the Ansells. He did not return his wife's glance. He was pale, strained. Does
he
already know? Tom thought.

Tom was about to tell them that Mr Charles Tomlinson was dead, when another shape darkened the glass panel to the snug. A man opened the door and peered round. It was Inspector Francis, the policeman from Palace Green. By the better light indoors, Tom saw a short man with a slightly upturned nose which might have been created for sniffing the air. The police officer looked briefly at the two couples, before coming right inside the snug. He closed the door behind him and stood against it. There was nothing exactly threatening about his actions but, as if by instinct, the four people already inside moved back. The Inspector nodded at Tom and Helen before turning to the Lyes.

‘Mr Lye, Mr Ernest Lye?'

‘Yes.'

‘I am Inspector Francis of the Ely police force. May I speak to you, sir?'

‘Yes.'

‘I mean in private.'