The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  ‘Yes, yes. A portrait of Cambridge and Ely. Mrs Ansell! Of course! Well, this is a most extraordinary thing, such a coincidence, such a coincidence. And now, Mrs Ansell, you are come here in search of your material together with this gentleman . . . with your husband perhaps?’

  ‘That’s right. I am in search of material. But no, this is not my husband. He is a . . . a friend of my husband’s. Mr Jubb lives in Cambridge. He is sacrificing his free time to show me the city.’

  ‘I am sure he regards it as a pleasure and no sacrifice.’

  By this time John Jubb had joined them. Arthur Arnett put out his hand once more and introduced himself before saying, ‘You are fortunate to be a denizen of this beautiful city, sir, and to be in the company of a lady whom even the most envious could only regard as its match in fairness.’

  ‘I think so,’ said the clerk after a slight hesitation.

  ‘We should always strive to surround ourselves with beautiful things. Only in the contemplation of the beautiful is the soul fed and the spirit nourished.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said John Jubb.

  ‘I shall not detain you any longer,’ said Arthur Arnett. ‘For all of us tempus fugit – time flies, you know – although for some it flutters on vanes of gold while for others it sinks down with wings that are shot through with lead. Enjoy your tour of the town. And, Mrs Ansell, I am looking forward, greatly looking forward, to receiving your piece for The New Moon.’

  They watched as he retrieved his hat and stick and made his way to the door of the coffee house. John Jubb turned to Helen. For once Mr Jubb did not say anything though his eyebrows rose a fraction in query. Helen did not know what to make of Mr Arthur Arnett either. The gentleman’s flowery style was appropriate for someone who styled himself a creator, critic and editor, she supposed. At the same time there was something a little ridiculous about his talk of the fluttering wings of time and the rest of it. Only later did it occur to her to wonder what he was doing in Cambridge.

  When Helen was setting off to look round the sights of Cambridge, Tom Ansell was taking the train to Ely to make his visit to Ernest Lye at Phoenix House, in quest of the missing will. He wondered whether Mackenzie and Ashley had yet started their search of Alexander’s den in the Regent’s Park house. Tom had no expectation he’d find the missing testament. In fact he doubted that the senior partner had ever drawn one up. He remembered the flash of mischief in old Lye’s blue eyes. Also, there was something satisfyingly perverse – as well as almost inevitable – about a legal man who advised others to keep their affairs in order while neglecting his own.

  The railway journey from Cambridge to Ely did not take long. Tom looked out of the smeared compartment window at the sun glittering on the black earth and on pools and channels of water. He still felt a little uneasy after the events of yesterday, the near-accident at Liverpool Street Station and then the strange note delivered to the hotel and bearing a torn-out quotation from Macbeth.

  Even though it was a Saturday morning the platforms at Ely were busy since the station was a junction for destinations to the north and south as well as for travellers on their way from Manchester and Birmingham to the east-coast packet-boats. Tom squeezed his way through the crowded ticket-hall and, as instructed, went to wait under the colonnaded entrance. Ernest Lye had said he would be met and now a two-wheeled dog cart drew up. A lad with wide-set eyes beneath a cap said, ‘Mr Ansell, is it?’

  Tom clambered aboard and sat with his back to the driver, who swung the carriage out of the area in front of the station. They trotted through some streets of well set-up houses, then more slowly up a gently slanting road to reach the older part of Ely. They went by a church with a short spire and after that the cathedral itself. The young driver said something and gestured with his whip. Tom assumed he was pointing out the facade and the great west tower. But, no, he was indicating an object on the green which fronted the cathedral. As they passed, Tom glimpsed a cannon mounted on the grass and pointing in their direction.

  ‘That’s from the Rooshian War,’ said the lad over his shoulder. ‘From the Crimea. It’s an enemy gun. We won it from the Rooshians, and the Queen, she gave it to us.’

  Tom paid more attention. His father had died on the way to the Crimea. He craned his head forward but by now his view of the cannon was obscured by houses. The cathedral could not be obscured, however. The only way to ignore it would be to look in another direction altogether. Otherwise, whether seen out of the corner of the eye or full-face, the great west tower and the central many-sided tower were dominant, an effect emphasized by the level landscape that began to unroll as they left the outskirts of the town.

  They were riding along a slightly elevated way between fields, some of peaty, broken earth, some with a dark-leafed crop that Tom couldn’t identify. The town of Ely slowly shrunk to his backward-facing gaze until only the bulk of the cathedral remained. Lines of willows and poplars fringed the fields, interrupted by the occasional hut or meagre dwelling. There was the sense of water everywhere, either dazzlingly visible in the pools and channels beneath the slanting sun, or lying very close underground, or waiting just beyond a horizon that lay straight as a ruler.

  Tom had never seen anywhere so open and clear. Turning forward, he could see no sign of their destination, yet Phoenix House was supposed to be only a couple of miles from Ely. He wondered what it would be like to live in the remotest places in these fenlands, with the sky for company. It was exposed on top of the dog cart and he was glad to be swathed in coat, muffler and hat. By contrast, the lad who was driving wore no more than a shirt and tattered waistcoat and breeches. The driver muttered some words that Tom didn’t catch. He asked him to repeat what he said.

  ‘I seen him the other night.’

  ‘Seen who?’

  Tom had to raise his voice above the rumble of the cart and the thump of the horse’s hooves. The driver shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me. But I seen him in all his pomp and finery.’

  Tom might have dismissed the words as meaningless or, rather, as having meaning for the boy but of no significance to him. Then the boy took his gaze off the track and looked round so that his face was screwed in towards his passenger’s. He grasped Tom’s arm where it lay on the top of the seat. There was a strange, fixed look in his eyes, which were very dark brown, almost the colour of the peaty soil that lay all about. His mouth was set in a grimace.

  ‘I did see him,’ he repeated. ‘In all his pomp and finery. In the graveyard. And the others too.’

  Whether the cause was the fixity of the lad’s expression or the mention of a graveyard, or whether it was merely the cold draught that blew across the exposed fields, Tom felt a sudden chill. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Then he noticed that the horse was beginning to veer on the already narrow road and indicated with a nod of the head that the boy should see to his job. The driver faced forward again and steadied the horse, leaving Tom to wonder what he had been talking about.

  The dog cart changed direction and set off along a new route. Tom was aware of a slight uphill slant in their progress. He looked round and was surprised to see that they were approaching a village. Or at least a place large enough to boast a church with a small tower, a neighbouring house that was most likely the parsonage, several scatters of cottages, a few clumps of trees, and a house that was larger than a dozen of the other dwellings put together. This must be Upper Fen. The sudden appearance of the hamlet out of nowhere was like a conjuring trick on the part of the landscape.

  ‘That’s Phoenix,’ said the driver, pointing to the big house.

  Tom had guessed already that it was where the Lyes lived and, just possibly, the place where Alexander’s missing testament might be found.

  On the edge of the village, they passed a single-storey cottage with a shed clinging to one end. The door to the shed was open and a man was kneeling in a patch of sunlight and chipping away at a block that looked like a headstone. He was using a mallet and graver. He looked
up as the dog cart rolled by and exchanged a nod with the boy in the carriage.

  A couple of hundred yards further on the boy had to slow and swerve to avoid a man walking towards them. At first, Tom thought it might be Ernest Lye since the walker was dressed like a gentleman, wearing a hat and carrying a stick. But closer to, Tom realized that he was bigger than Alexander’s brother, and most likely younger too. He could not see the man’s face because it was obscured by his top hat and because, after an initial glance at the dog cart from a distance, the walker kept his head down, trusting in the driver to keep out of his path. Tom wondered where he was going. There didn’t appear to be anything between here and Ely, and it was quite a long walk to Ely.

  The Vision

  The man kneeling in the doorway of the shed by the cottage was Gabriel Parr. He was the sexton for the church. But he was also a mason and, among other skilled tasks in the village, he carved any headstones that were required in the churchyard. That was what he was doing as Tom Ansell passed him in the dog cart, putting the finishing touches to the headstone commemorating a woman called Ada Baxter who’d died and been buried earlier in the autumn. At present, her grave was marked with a wooden cross but that would be replaced on the following day, a Sunday, with Parr’s handiwork.

  Gabriel Parr was a careful worker, as one has to be when using the graver and mallet to inscribe words on a piece of sandstone. He took pride in getting the details of the deceased absolutely right, consulting the parson and sometimes Mr Lye at the big house if the surviving members of a family had a difference of opinion about, say, the age of the departed or the exact spelling of the surname – assuming they had a notion of how to spell it in the first place.

  When Gabriel had the agreed version, he wrote it all down and kept the paper beside him as he carried out the work. Any verse or other inscription on the stone had to be approved by the parson, Mr Eames, and was usually written down by him as well. In addition to words, Gabriel Parr also carved images, such as laurels or the heads of cherubs, at the top of the headstone. Now he was completing work on the fluke of an anchor, chipping out a tiny triangle of stone, when a shadow fell across him. He looked up in annoyance.

  A man was standing just beyond the doorway. Because he was between Gabriel and the sun, the stonemason could not see the other clearly. Besides, he was wearing a tall top hat which cast his face into shadow. From his clothes and the stick he carried, the mason knew the man was not a vagrant or labourer but, even so, he said, ‘You’re in my light. I’d be obliged if you shifted yourself.’

  The man moved a foot or so, enough to show a willingness to comply but not enough to allow Parr to finish his work. Anyway, the mason’s concentration was broken. He sighed, put down his tools, clasped his hands on his dusty knees and waited for the other to explain himself.

  The standing man sensed his irritation for he moved slightly further to the side and said, ‘I hope a man is allowed to admire the work of an artist.’

  Gabriel was not won over. He was a solid individual, with a broad, seamed forehead above bushy eyebrows, and if he knew anything it was that he was not an artist. He said nothing in reply.

  ‘What does the anchor stand for?’ said the man, bending forward to peer at the image in relief at the top of the headstone and tilting the end of his stick towards it. Gabriel had a glimpse of a narrow jaw.

  ‘It stands for hope and steadfastness,’ said the mason.

  ‘These are the qualities we need to see us through the storms and rough seas of this life,’ said the man.

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘And who was Ada Baxter?’

  ‘One of the souls who live hereabouts and now lives here no more.’

  ‘You have lived and worked here a long time yourself?’

  ‘Before I answer that – if I answer that – perhaps you would like to tell me your business,’ said the mason. ‘Do you wish me to carve you a headstone?’

  ‘Heavens, no. Not for a long time, I hope! My business is purely amateur. You see, I am an occasional representative for the Society for the Protection of Rural Treasures, and my particular interest is in churches. I am sorry for wasting your time.’

  The stranger turned as if to walk away and Gabriel suddenly felt that he had been too abrupt, not so much because the gentleman was a representative of some learned society but because he was being civil enough and so deserved a reply. Where was the harm in answering?

  ‘I was born here,’ he said, ‘I’ve lived here all my life and I shall die here. And when I go, I’ll not be going far for I shall be laid to rest over there. I am sexton to the church.’

  He gestured with his mallet in the direction of the tower of St Ethelwine’s.

  ‘That must be a comfort, to know your end,’ said the man. ‘It’s poor ground though, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only that it is so confoundedly waterlogged in these parts that an interment must be like a burial at sea.’

  ‘Depends where you are,’ said Gabriel, warming to the subject. ‘In this place we are on a kind of island, and it is higher still where the church and parsonage and Phoenix House are. It’s true the ground is inclined to damp but there are dry spots if you know where to look.’

  ‘Inclined to damp, I like that,’ said the man and then he said, more as if giving information than asking questions, ‘It is an old church, St Ethelwine’s, with some traces of the Saxon in its construction, I believe. And possessing a crypt.’

  ‘Not used these many years,’ said Gabriel. ‘We prefer to be buried under the sky in the churchyard.’

  ‘I notice the churchyard is on the north side,’ said the man. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? Felons and bad characters are buried on the north side.’

  ‘It’s on account of the nature of the ground. Not on account of bad characters. We don’t have many of those around here.’

  ‘So there is plenty of room in your northerly churchyard, I hope?’

  Gabriel couldn’t tell if the man was being humorous. In fact, there was a space set aside for him in the churchyard, where he would be laid in a brick-lined grave next to his wife when the time came. But he did not say any of this, since it was nothing at all to do with the man. The mason picked up his graving tool as a signal that he wished to carry on, and the stranger took the hint. With a ‘Good day to you then’, he turned about and walked back up the road towards the village. Gabriel watched him for a moment, wondering what his business really was. He did not believe the remark about idle curiosity.

  He resumed his work, putting the finishing stroke to the fluke of the anchor. When it was done, he stood up and stretched and examined the headstone in memory of Ada Baxter. Everything was as it should be, the rows of words properly aligned, the lettering clear and crisp, the impression of the anchor simple and straightforward.

  For the second time in half an hour, a shadow fell across the headstone. Gabriel looked up and smiled slightly to see who was standing in the doorway. It was the boy who had been driving Tom in the dog cart. He was called Davey and he was Gabriel’s son. The stonemason told him that he had returned at the right moment since he wanted help with transporting the newly carved headstone to the church. First, Gabriel wrapped it in some sacking and then he rolled a small, two-wheeled handcart from the rear of the shed. Together, father and son hoisted the stone on to the bed of the cart and, with Gabriel steadying it and Davey pushing, they steered their way towards the stubby tower of the church that stood near Phoenix House.

  ‘Who was that with you in the dog cart?’ said Gabriel.

  ‘Gent called Ansell.’

  ‘Going to the big house?’

  Davey grunted. A reply was hardly necessary since, apart from the parsonage, there was nowhere else that a visitor to the village was likely to go, or at least not the kind of visitor who was picked up in a dog cart at Ely Station. Gabriel did not ask whether Davey had glimpsed the top-hatted individual who had recently interrupted his work. Even if D
avey had, it was unlikely the lad would have been able to tell him anything beyond the little which he had realized for himself. Father and son did not talk much. There was not much to say. Davey was anyway a rather quiet, dreamy individual, who seemed to prefer silence and his own company to anyone else’s. He helped his father and did occasional jobs or errands for the big house, like collecting Tom today in the dog cart.

  They reached the churchyard of St Ethelwine’s, which was surrounded by a low drystone wall. The parsonage lay on slightly higher ground to the north of the church and behind a high beech hedge. Beyond the churchyard to the east was visible the top of Phoenix House, surrounded by trees.

  Father and son wheeled the cart through the lychgate. They stopped to get their breath back. Gabriel indicated that Davey should remain with the cart. He walked across the tussocky, uneven ground, skirting mounds and gravestones. He noted the spot where Ada Baxter’s headstone would be set on the following day. What Gabriel was going to look at was not Mrs Baxter’s final resting place but his own. The conversation with the stranger had reminded him that it was several weeks since he had looked at the grave belonging to his wife, Martha. Now he halted before her headstone. It gave him a jolt to see that there had been a recent visitor. A jam jar nestled at the foot of the stone, crammed with a few wilted ox-eye daisies. Only one person would have left this simple tribute. Gabriel glanced back towards the lychgate where his son waited with the handcart. But the boy had his back to him, perhaps deliberately.

  The mason noticed too that some weeds growing at the base of the headstone had been uprooted and placed in a neat pile a few feet away. Again, it could only have been Davey. Gabriel read the inscription, which he himself had carved. His own name was there too, with his date of birth and a space for the date of his death. That would have to be carved on the spot. Carved by Davey, he supposed. So far the lad had not shown any great aptitude with the mallet and graver but he should be capable of incising a few figures. Gabriel’s realization that his son had been visiting the grave was somehow encouraging in this respect.