The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  He knocked. Rather than being told to enter, the door was almost immediately opened. Mr Mackenzie stood there, a portly figure. Tom usually thought of him as monk-like on account of his shape and the benevolence of his countenance as well as his tonsure of white hair. On this occasion, Mackenzie looked drawn rather than benevolent and what little hair he had was sticking up in tufts instead of being arranged in a sleek ring. The only thing which was as normal was the cloud of pipe smoke that filled his room.

  ‘Come in. Come in and sit down.’

  Mackenzie retreated behind his desk, which was much more orderly than Lye’s cluttered surface. Tom sat down on the other side. There was a silence. Tom’s curiosity was piqued. What was so urgent that it called Mr Mackenzie to the office at eight o’clock? What was so troublesome that it had left him, by the look of things, deprived of a night’s sleep?

  ‘How well did you know Mr Lye, Tom?’

  Mackenzie’s use of his first name was a sign that whatever he wanted to discuss was likely to be more personal than business.

  ‘Hardly at all, sir. I spoke to Mr Lye when I first joined the firm. It was you who introduced us. And the other day we exchanged a few words, outside his room.’

  ‘What did he say? Anything of interest?’

  What had Alexander Lye said? Something about documents and dust. Interesting in a vaguely philosophical way perhaps, but that surely wasn’t what Mackenzie meant.

  ‘He advised me to make sure my affairs were in good order,’ said Tom. ‘That I had made a will and so on.’

  ‘Very sound advice,’ said David Mackenzie, drawing deeply on his pipe. He was obscured by a cloud of smoke. The fug inside matched the thin brown fog nuzzling the window panes outside. It was a contrast to the previous sunny day, the day of Lye’s death, and the room was dim despite the gas lighting. Mackenzie removed his pipe and seemed about to say something further but no words emerged. Tom filled the gap.

  ‘I don’t know anything of Mr Lye’s domestic circumstances. He was married, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A widower. His wife died at least ten years ago.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Or none that I am aware of. No legal issue, let us say.’

  ‘Any other immediate family?’

  ‘Immediate? Alexander lived with his sister near Regent’s Park. A large house, for just the two of them. They did not get on, so perhaps it’s as well they had plenty of space not to get on in.’

  Tom sensed that there was more to come but that the senior partner was reluctant to say it. Even the information given so far seemed to have been imparted only half willingly. After a moment, Mackenzie said, ‘Tom, I know I can rely on your discretion.’

  Tom nodded. David Mackenzie pushed himself up from his chair and went to the far side of the room. From the floor he retrieved, not without effort, an oblong metal container, a deed-box. Holding it by the small handles at each end he brought it back to the desk before turning it round so that Tom could read the words ALEXANDER JAMES LYE stencilled in small yellow capitals along the side. There was a keyhole above the name. The box was little more than a foot in length and about half as high and deep.

  ‘Fortunately the key for this was on Lye’s key-chain,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I would not have cared to break it open although it wouldn’t have taken much effort to do so. The box was inside the safe in his own office. The safe was easy to open too. Lye made no particular secret of the combination: seventeen-eighty-nine.’

  ‘The French Revolution?’

  ‘The year of Alexander Lye’s birth.’

  ‘It must contain something important,’ said Tom, as he calculated Lye’s age.

  ‘I’m not going to say anything. I do not want you to, ah, have any preconceptions. Look for yourself. Go and hold it under the light over there. Have a good look.’

  Tom carried the metal box across to the gaslight which was burning to one side of the fireplace, and opened the lid. He was surprised by what he saw. He examined the contents of the box for the best part of a minute before glancing up at David Mackenzie.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m baffled.’

  ‘Describe what you can see, Tom, if you would be so good.’

  Tom rested the box on the back of an armchair near the fireplace and rummaged around among the contents. Some items he lifted up to the light.

  ‘A small skull.’

  ‘A weasel or stoat’s probably,’ said Mackenzie.

  ‘A couple of feathers.’

  ‘Goose feathers, I think.’

  ‘A clutch of marbles and something that looks like a child’s catapult or slingshot but with only the Y-shaped frame remaining. A lock of hair, fair hair. Several small lead soldiers – I had some very like these as a boy. And several keys, one of them much bigger and longer than the others, older, too, maybe. A ring, a wedding ring? A glass phial which probably held some potion or other—’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Mackenzie, growing tired of the itemizing which he’d asked for.

  ‘Well, a few other things . . .’

  ‘Never mind those. There is something missing, isn’t there? Wouldn’t you expect the private deed-box of a lawyer – a lawyer, mind you – to contain some pieces of paper, some printed or written material? Not just silly childhood mementoes or things with sentimental value like the lock of hair and the ring.’

  Tom closed the box and took it back to the desk. He sat down once more. David Mackenzie had already resumed his seat and his pipe-fiddling.

  ‘What I expected to find in that box, of course, was Alexander Lye’s last will and testament.’

  ‘Maybe the will was there but he removed it from the box and decided to put it somewhere else in his office.’

  ‘Mr Ashley and I have searched his room thoroughly, so far without result.’

  ‘You mentioned the house in Regent’s Park, the one he shared with his sister. Is it there?’

  ‘It might be,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I went round yesterday afternoon to see Miss Lye personally. To convey the sad news of her brother’s death and also, I’ll admit, to sound her out about Alexander’s will. I planned to do it discreetly, of course.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It may be that I have been misjudging Miss Edith Lye. I’ve said that she and her brother did not get on. The house was big enough for them to lead almost separate lives, and they do not have many servants. But she was certainly distraught enough at her brother’s death, overcome by weeping. She would not have been capable of answering any questions and nor would I have wished to put any to her. I left Miss Lye in the care of her maid. But before I went I had a quick glance around Lye’s quarters, his domestic office, as it were. I’m not sure I had been in that room before, or at any rate not for many years.’

  Mackenzie paused, as if to gather his impressions.

  ‘I do not think I’ve ever seen such a disordered space within four walls. Loose papers and documents, thousands of them higgledy-piggledy, together with law-lists and pocketbooks, all heaped in tottering piles, some so lofty that the uppermost articles had started to slide down like melting snow. In a hollow space somewhere in the centre of these mountains was an easy chair. I can imagine Alexander sitting there and contemplating this . . . this detritus . . . contemplating it with contentment.’

  The single surviving partner in the firm sounded genuinely offended at Lye’s piles of paper. The sight had driven him to poetic language, snow melting off mountains. David Mackenzie’s own chamber was shipshape.

  ‘It might be that the will is buried somewhere among those mounds at the Regent’s Park house,’ continued Mackenzie, ‘but it will take weeks, months even, to go through them.’

  ‘In the meantime . . .’

  ‘Yes, in the meantime, Tom, we are faced with a problem.

  The possibility that my old friend and partner, Alexander James Lye, seasoned man of law that he was and wily old bird that I believe him to have been, has gone and died
without leaving instructions as to the final disposition of his property.’

  ‘That is the very subject which Mr Lye was talking to me about. The irresponsibility of those who die intestate. The burden they leave to their heirs. It’s odd.’

  At last David Mackenzie permitted himself a small smile. He leaned back in his chair. He drew on his pipe. ‘Not odd at all. If there’s one lesson that my law years have taught me, it is that there is no consistency in human beings, none at all.’

  ‘Is it really such a problem, though? Mr Lye shared a house with his sister. You say his wife is long-dead and that there are no children. Surely his title in the house and the rest of his estate will simply pass to Miss Lye?’

  ‘To Edith. Well, if only it were so straightforward. But before we come to that, imagine the damage to the reputation of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie when it emerges that one of the partners has been careless enough to die intestate. No one would say anything openly, not to me at least, but I can imagine the gossip and sniggers among the clerks in other law firms. It’s a genuine instance of “Physician, heal thyself”, isn’t it? Such information is not going to endear us to our clients, either. Would you have confidence in a lawyer whose private affairs were such a . . . such a shambles?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Tom. ‘But Mr Lye has not done much in recent years as I understand it.’

  ‘The good name of a law firm depends on the good name of all its partners. This has been troubling me ever since we found poor Lye, or rather ever since we failed to find his will. Of course it may turn up, probably when we have stopped searching for it. There was a mischievous streak to Alexander. He was a nonconformist, you know. But there is more than the riddle of this metal box and its miscellany. Alexander Lye had a wider family than himself and his Regent’s Park sister. That is where the real problem may come . . .’

  ‘The problem,’ said Tom to Helen that evening at dinner, ‘is that Alexander Lye did not have only the single sibling, the sister he shared his Regent’s Park house with. There are others, a brother and a second sister, I think, who live in Ely. Or rather just outside Ely in a large old house.’

  ‘All of whom might be entitled to a share of his estate?’ said Helen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, spearing the last piece of veal cutlet on his plate. ‘I cannot believe that he did not make a will. I think it much more likely that he did make one and neglected to tell anyone where it is.’

  ‘At least he had the power to make one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not all of us have that power.’

  ‘But you have made a will, Helen.’

  ‘With your consent,’ she said. ‘It is absurd that a married woman has to obtain her husband’s agreement before making a will.’

  Such talk made Tom uncomfortable, as Helen did sometimes when she aired her advanced views. He changed the subject.

  ‘So there is a possibility that Alexander Lye might have left a copy of his will in the Ely house. Mr Mackenzie has asked me to go and make some discreet enquiries there.’

  ‘Why you, Tom? Why doesn’t he go himself?’

  ‘He made a remark about sharper eyes, quicker minds. Youth, you know.’

  ‘What about the sister who lives in the house near Regent’s Park – what’s her name?’

  ‘Edith.’

  ‘Why not make enquiries, as you put it, of Edith instead of traipsing to Ely? Perhaps she knows the whereabouts of this missing document.’

  ‘Mackenzie is going to attend to that himself in a day or so, when the lady has recovered from the first shock of her brother’s death. But he still wants me to go to Ely. I shall have the chance to introduce myself to the brother and the other sister when they come to Lye’s funeral. A visit will be arranged.’

  ‘For discreet enquiries.’

  ‘Helen, I was thinking of what you said the other day, how you had a commission from that magazine editor to write about any place you cared to write about.’

  ‘Mr Arnett at The New Moon. That’s right.’

  ‘It occurred to me that we might travel together to the fen country. You could turn your eye on Ely or on Cambridge, perhaps.’

  ‘While you are about your own business.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Tom was encouraged. Helen had been adopting a slightly mocking attitude about his ‘enquiries’ but now her expression changed.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘It would be a little expedition.’

  ‘But before that,’ said Tom, ‘we have a funeral to attend.’

  Summer, 1645

  Anne witnessed the arrival of the men from her secluded position in the gallery overlooking the hall. The previous evening she had spied on her parents and Mr Martin while they dined. Now she watched as her father, still in his night attire, was summoned to speak to the leader of the armed band. He was accompanied by three of the men she had glimpsed at the edge of the grounds. The rest waited outside. The old steward of the house, James, stood by the front door, looking down at his feet. The men were soldiers, perhaps of an irregular sort. They wore dull-brown leather jerkins. Some were bareheaded with close-cropped hair. They carried pikes or staves but a couple had muskets. Unlike the others, the leader had lank pale hair and was wearing a cloak. He said that his name was Trafford. Then he was saying something about a fugitive. Even though his voice was subdued, it was possible to tell that he was angry.

  By contrast, her father spoke calmly and briefly. Anne was unable to hear what he said but it seemed to be some kind of denial, accompanied by swift shakes of the head. Now her mother appeared on the scene but said nothing. The leader of the soldiers turned on his heel and, followed by the others, went outside once more. Trafford issued commands to his men, crisp sentences that penetrated the door which was still ajar. She could not catch every word but it was obvious that the men were being told to search the house.

  Anne’s mother and father turned and stared at each other. They looked so helpless that Anne became truly afraid. At that moment the steward gazed up and noticed her peering over the gallery railing. He gestured in her direction. Anne’s mother looked up. She made frantic shooing motions with the back of her hand. Get away from there, go to your room.

  Anne did as she was told. She returned to her chamber and perched on the edge of the bed, her hands grasping at the bedcovers and her feet curled tight on the floorboards. Her sister Mary was sleeping on and it irritated Anne that she was not awake to share in the fear and the excitement of what was happening. Very soon, there was the sound of heavy steps from all about the house, of doors being brusquely opened and shut, the tramp of feet on stairs, the thud of fists banging on panelled walls without concern for any damage the blows might do. Once or twice Anne heard a female voice although it was so high and distorted that she could not tell whether it was her mother or one of the servants. By this time Mary had woken and, in her careful way, grown aware that something frightening was going on.

  Then the door to their room was flung open, without knock or notice. Anne was already sitting up facing the door, Mary was kneeling on the bed behind her. Two men stood on either side of the entrance. One of them was the leader called Trafford. His eyes were dark between pale curtains of hair. Anne was glad to see her mother behind the men but her mother’s hand was clasped over her mouth as if to prevent herself from crying out.

  Trafford took a couple of paces into the chamber. He had to stoop slightly to enter and the room was suddenly filled with a masculine odour and the overwhelming presence of a stranger. The other man remained on the threshold, with Anne’s mother standing a little to the rear. She had taken her hand away from her mouth. She tried to smile at her daughters in reassurance but all she could manage was a grimace.

  The man scarcely glanced at the sisters huddled on the bed. They might have been so much discarded linen. He edged his way to the window, stooping because of the pitch of the roof around the gable window, and squinted into the early sun which was streaming across the
garden. Then he abruptly turned about, as if he hoped to catch Anne and Mary doing something they shouldn’t have been doing. He ran his gauntleted hand over a little table that stood against the wall. He picked up the bible that lay there, sniffed at the binding, then replaced it on the table, delicately. Near the table was a small chest containing the sisters’ few garments. Trafford kicked it, as if to compensate for his careful handling of the bible. Then he drew a knife from under his cloak.

  Anne’s mother gave a tiny shriek and her hand flew to her mouth once more. The other soldier, the one in the doorway, put his arm out as if to block any attempt to enter the room. Mary, still kneeling on the bed behind her sister, was clinging on to Anne’s shoulders. Now her fingers dug in like claws. For Anne, everything seemed to be occurring at a distance. She was no part of it.

  Trafford moved towards the girls where they cowered on the bed. In one smooth motion, he crouched, extended the hand holding the knife and jabbed the tip of it into the wall beside the bed. On this upper floor of the house, most of the walls were no more than lath and plain plaster between the timber uprights. There was no elaborate panelling or decorative plasterwork as on the lower floors. The knife went in easily and a dribble of dust and plaster followed as the man withdrew the blade. He chose another spot a couple of feet away and did the same thing, with the same result. He stood up and grunted in satisfaction. He went back to the door, nodded at Anne’s mother and moved down the passage to the next chamber, accompanied by the second soldier. Again, there was the sound of a door being flung open and the tread of heavy feet inside the neighbouring room. There was nothing there, Anne knew, or rather there was no person there. It was a place only for storage.

  Anne’s mother remained on the threshold of the sisters’ room for a moment longer. Anne saw her throat working above the collar of her nightgown as if she wanted to say something but no words came out. Instead she reached inside and pulled the door shut. Mary was holding on so tightly to Anne’s shoulders that the older sister thought she would have to prise her fingers away.