The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  Yes, a wife was definitely needed, as a wife was needed for every man who was well embarked on his fourth decade. But what sort of woman would be attracted to such a place as this? What did it have to offer? What did he, George Eames, the perpetual curate of St Ethelwine’s in Upper Fen, have to give? Eames was not the son of a wealthy father. He did not come from a particularly prosperous family. He might, in time, obtain a better parish, true, but who knew when that time would come?

  He walked upstairs, to check on the damp rooms which so exercised Mrs Walters. He heard her out. He nodded, in weary agreement that something had to be done. On the way downstairs he watched the Parrs leaving the churchyard. Eames decided to speak to Gabriel Parr about the leaking roof.

  But this was not the only thought in the head of the Reverend George Eames. Nor was he solely occupied with ideas of a wife. There were other things on his mind. There was murder, for example.

  Summer, 1645

  You can come out now. They’ve gone.’

  There was no response and for a moment Anne thought she must be mistaken. Yet she was convinced that there was someone lurking inside the little willow shelter, someone whose presence was connected to the soldiers and their searching.

  ‘They have gone,’ she said in a firmer voice. ‘The soldiers have gone.’

  A man emerged from the hide. He stood blinking in the sunlight. He was short, with a broad forehead, curled auburn hair and a pointed beard. There was a long diagonal gash on his cheek and blood on the cloak he wore. His right hand was wrapped about with a makeshift bandage. There was blood on that too.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ he said.

  ‘It is where I would come.’

  ‘You are a daughter of the house?’

  Anne nodded.

  ‘Did they do much damage?’

  ‘They broke down part of a wall, they uncovered a place where a priest might have hidden once.’

  ‘It’s not priests they’re looking for.’

  ‘They . . . spoke roughly,’ said Anne. She did not mention her fear when Trafford was in her and Mary’s room.

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anne.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anne. What’s yours?’

  The man seemed taken aback by the question. Or at least he did not answer it straightaway.

  ‘Loyer,’ he said. Anne must have looked puzzled at this unusual name for he spelled it out. ‘L-O-Y-E-R. Mister – no, Monsieur Loyer if you require a title.’

  Anne repeated the name and the man said, ‘Yes. You are a quick-witted girl and I expect you can work it out for yourself.’

  ‘You are French?’ said Anne, not understanding what he meant.

  This time the man did not answer the question but gazed at the path which snaked away among the willows. Anne didn’t think that he sounded French but then she had no clear idea of what a French person might sound like.

  ‘I do not think you should stay here, Anne. You’re bringing danger on yourself. The soldiers have gone, you say, but they may return and do more than break down a wall or indulge in some rough speaking. If they found you here in my company . . .’

  ‘You are wounded.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Less than nothing, believe me.’

  ‘Wounded in the battle?’

  ‘How would you know about the battle . . .? I suppose you must have been told. No, young lady, these wounds, as you call them, were not sustained in battle. I was in the battle but I escaped unscathed from it. I got this little hurt from jumping out of a window in Market Harborough. The ground was further and harder than I expected.’

  ‘Now you are a fugitive,’ said Anne, recalling the steward James’ choice of word.

  ‘If you mean by that that I have run away in fear for my life, no, I have not. I am a fugitive on purpose. I am like the fox who shows himself every now and then to encourage the hounds.’

  Again, Anne did not quite understand his meaning. Surely a fugitive, or a fox for that matter, would want to go undetected? For some reason, she felt apprehensive for this man. Beneath his cloak she had a glimpse of rich, brightly coloured fabrics. But there was a woebegone look to him. She thought of the hard-faced individuals whose boots had thudded through the manor that morning.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I shall stay one more night, not in the house but here. Then I intend to make my way east, to the coast. To Lowestoft perhaps.’

  ‘That is a distance to travel, on foot, without company,’ said Anne, who had never visited the coast. Was this Monsieur Loyer intending to return to France?

  ‘I have helpers.’

  ‘Like my mother and father?’

  ‘Do not ask. The less you know, the better for all of them. Forget everything except that I am on my way to – to Lowestoft – tomorrow. You may repeat that, if you please. But go now.’

  ‘I can bring food and drink from the house.’

  ‘No, no. Go now. In French if you prefer, va t’en!’

  Anne walked up the slope away from the willow cabin. She was hardly conscious of her surroundings, the rustling trees, the high clouds, the house that had been invaded that morning. Instead she was thinking of the stranger and his manner. She was thinking of the name which he had supplied at her request, Loyer, Monsieur Loyer. It wasn’t his real name, she was sure. Just as she was sure he was no Frenchman. She had an idea of who the mysterious, injured stranger might be, but the idea was so overwhelming, so disturbing that she tried to push it from her mind.

  Mrs Lye

  Once he’d got down from the dog cart and the lad had driven it round to the stable area, Tom stood in the drive and gazed at the front of Phoenix House. It was well proportioned but the stonework, even on a bright day, was dull and solid. The central section was set back slightly between two wings. There was a handsome, pillared portico over the front door but the whole place had a dilapidated feel. The double gates through which they had just driven were rusted open.

  The front door under the portico opened. Ernest Lye emerged. Something about his way of walking reminded Tom of his brother, Alexander, but, oddly, he did not seem as energetic as the older man. They shook hands.

  ‘I saw you arrive from my library,’ said Ernest, indicating a window in one of the wings. ‘Did you talk to the boy on the way over?’

  ‘He didn’t seem willing to say much, one or two things only.’

  ‘He is a good enough lad but he lives in his own head.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me to visit,’ said Tom.

  ‘You are very welcome at Phoenix House.’

  ‘It’s an odd name.’

  ‘Not odd at all if you know your ancient lore, Mr Ansell. That’s L-O-R-E, not your sort of law.’

  ‘The phoenix was the only one of its kind, wasn’t it? A legendary Arabian bird that burned itself up, only to rise from its own ashes.’

  ‘Just so. And with this house too. Parts of it were destroyed by fire. When it was rebuilt, it seemed natural to christen it Phoenix. The facade is early eighteenth century but the back quarters are much older.’

  Ernest Lye ushered Tom through the door. A maid appeared and took Tom’s coat and hat. They went across the large hall, which was crowded with paintings, and then to the right. Ernest showed Tom into a book-lined room, which smelled faintly of cigars. A fire was burning. There were sconces for candles as well as oil lamps about the room, but the light from outside was sufficiently strong for them to remain unlit. Tom, who was used to the gas-lit conveniences of town life, was suddenly reminded of the drawbacks of living in the country. He and Ernest Lye sat in armchairs on either side of the fire.

  ‘Mrs Lye was wondering whether your wife would be accompanying you,’ said Ernest. ‘They were talking after my brother’s funeral, and she was much taken with your lady. She invited Mrs Ansell to visit Phoenix.’

  ‘I’m afraid Helen has a previous engagement in Cambridge.’

  ‘W
ell, you must both of you come to Ely tomorrow,’ said Ernest. ‘To be our guests at the Lion Hotel. I hope you are free for that?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘In the meantime, I will leave you to get on with your search for my brother’s will. Your needle in the haystack, your wild goose chase.’

  ‘You seem certain that I’ll find nothing, Mr Lye.’

  ‘I told David Mackenzie that some years ago my brother sent a cache of family papers up here. They have remained undisturbed since, but I took a cursory look when I knew you were coming, and have not so far turned up anything resembling a will or testament. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Phoenix House be a natural place for your brother to store such a document, though? The family home?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Ansell. You see, this place was not a family home for Alexander. Phoenix House came to my father through his second wife, my mother. She was a Stilwell, an old family in these parts. And from my father and mother the house came into my hands.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tom, wondering why he hadn’t known this before. And then wondering who could have told him anyway.

  ‘I am aware that Alexander’s own papers were kept – or not kept – in a somewhat disordered state,’ said Ernest, revealing that he must have had at least a glimpse of the Regent’s Park study. ‘But every so often my brother was overcome by a fit of organization, as you might call it, and it was during one of those that he sent on this material to Phoenix House, since it related mostly to our father. There is not likely to be anything confidential there, however, and you are welcome to go through it.’

  ‘I am grateful for that,’ said Tom. ‘We can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.’

  ‘Exactly what David Mackenzie said. I understand how embarrassing it is that poor Alexander seems to have died intestate. And all of us have a duty to the dead to do our best for them.’

  Ernest explained that the papers were stored in one of the upper rooms of the house. He and Tom left the library. In the hall they met Mrs Lye. She was accompanied by a tall gentleman with a prominent jaw. Introductions were made, although of course she had already encountered Tom at her brother-in-law’s funeral. The gentleman with her in the hall was Mr Charles Tomlinson, her cousin. Tom rather thought Tomlinson might have been the man he’d seen walking down the road earlier.

  It was Tom’s first opportunity to take a close look at Lydia. She was quite tall – she had an inch or more on her husband – and striking, with a full mouth and a decided gaze. Her voice was low but still feminine. There was a slight physical similarity between the cousins, Mrs Lye and Mr Tomlinson.

  ‘How is your wife, Mr Ansell?’ said Mrs Lye.

  ‘She is well, thank you.’

  ‘But she is not with you?’

  ‘No, she’s in Cambridge, she has business there,’ said Tom for the second time that morning.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Ansell have accepted an invitation to come to dinner tomorrow at the Lion,’ said Ernest.

  ‘I am glad of it,’ said Lydia. ‘I am most eager to renew my acquaintance with her.’

  Tomlinson looked sharply at Lydia. As if to cover the moment, he said, ‘I have just been on a stroll through your fascinating village, Ernest. I met a fellow down the other end, a craftsman, who was busy carving a headstone. Also the sexton in this place.’

  ‘Gabriel Parr,’ said Lydia.

  ‘I was curious to learn something of the burial conditions around here, the soil and so on. You know it is an interest of mine.’

  This remark was directed at Ernest, who nodded. He did not seem inclined to have much talk with Tomlinson.

  ‘If you’ll forgive us, my dear,’ said Lydia to her husband after a pause. ‘We have things to catch up on, you know.’

  The cousins went off towards the morning room. Tom was wondering what sort of ‘catching up’ was required but Ernest told him, as they made their way up the stairs, that Tomlinson had very recently reappeared in his wife’s life after many years of absence. He’d been voyaging in the Far East and other exotic places. No doubt they had family memories to share while Charles had traveller’s tales to impart.

  ‘Tomlinson is a capital fellow, full of . . . instructive and amusing anecdotes,’ said Ernest Lye, pausing for breath as they reached the upper floor after climbing a narrower and steeper set of stairs. ‘Yes, a capital fellow,’ Ernest repeated. Something in the man’s tone seemed to cast doubt on his own words.

  They went down one passageway, then another at right angles. Tom peered down what was almost a tunnel, interrupted by a few doors, for which the only illumination was a gleam from a small window at the far end.

  ‘These are the older parts of the house,’ said Ernest. ‘In those days it was on an east-west axis, now the front faces south.’

  They stopped outside a door. Working more by touch than sight, Ernest produced a key, unlocked and opened the door.

  ‘There.’

  ‘There’ was a lumber room. The light was brighter inside since, though the window was small, it gave directly on to the wide Cambridgeshire skies. Tom glimpsed a rocking horse and a doll’s house, as well as some broken kitchen chairs, an armchair which was oozing stuffing, and other items of furniture. There were trunks and cases, and in the corners lay bundles of paper secured with string or ribbon. The fireplace was occupied with another pile of paper. The objects in the room were dusty and neglected but the space did not have the almost wilful disorder of Alexander’s study.

  ‘My mother’s playthings,’ said Ernest, gesturing towards the doll’s house and the rocking horse. ‘She grew up in this house.’

  Ernest threaded his way between the items on the bare boards until he came to a studded leather trunk that sat on the floor near the window. He reached down and threw back the lid so that it clattered against the wall. Tom saw more piles of paper in the trunk.

  ‘I suppose you might find what you’re looking for in here, Mr Ansell. It contains the documents that brother Alexander sent on to me – oh, some eight or nine years ago now – material which is mostly to do with our father. His name was Roderick Lye. As I said, Alexander occasionally suffered from fits of organization and he obviously thought the contents of this trunk were more appropriately stored here than in his own house. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, I imagine, that he included among these items a copy of his own will.’

  Standing in the light from the window, Ernest Lye opened his palms in a gesture that expressed the futility of the idea.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lye. I know it seems unlikely but . . .’

  ‘No stone unturned, eh? The light is good enough in here? I can have a lamp or two brought up.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ said Tom.

  ‘Very well then.’

  Ernest closed the door behind him. Tom ran a hand through his hair. He walked across the creaking floor to the window. The view was to the east and so looking across the open fenlands, the land stretching flat and level until it met the sky. Down below, the lawn of Phoenix House was interrupted by clumps of shrubs and ornamental beds, all somewhat bedraggled.

  It was chill in the room. Tom decided it would be best to get on with his task. Soonest started, soonest finished. He dragged the leaking armchair closer to the window, raising little clouds of dust. He settled himself into the lopsided seat and took the topmost sheaf from the pile of papers belonging to Mr Alexander Lye. The rocking horse was close by and the single glass eye that was visible seemed to Tom to be looking at him with amusement. The first half-dozen sheets he glanced at were brittle and yellowed with age. They were invoices for items of furniture. One, for a mahogany bookcase, was dated 13th November, 1763. The bookcase cost three guineas. Tom sighed. He looked the rocking-horse in the glass eye. He replaced the invoices and reached for the next handful of papers.

  Ernest Lye came to himself with a start. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor of Phoenix House, but he could not remember arriving there
. He could remember what he had been thinking beforehand, the gist of which was: I don’t believe that Mr Thomas Ansell is going to find anything at all. I don’t believe my brother ever made a will in the first place. But Ernest Lye did not recall descending from the top of the house to the bottom. A small matter perhaps, but these little bouts of forgetfulness were happening with increasing frequency. He would suddenly become aware that he was not quite where he had been when last conscious of his surroundings. In a different part of the house or its grounds. Even sometimes on a different street in Ely or Cambridge. Habit had carried him along, while his mind was otherwise engaged. It occurred to him that perhaps he was suffering from some disorder in the brain, but it was more comfortable to think of it as a relatively harmless symptom of encroaching age.

  However, now Ernest Lye was at the bottom of the stairs he paused in the hallway, and paused with a purpose. In front of him was the door to the morning room. It was shut. On the other side of the door were his wife and her cousin. Ernest hesitated. He looked about to confirm that he was unobserved and then moved rapidly towards the closed door. He pretended to have dropped something and, in stooping to examine the floor, brought his ear nearer to the door.

  He was able to hear voices inside but not what they were saying. The two were talking in low tones. He heard Lydia’s throaty laugh. She had not laughed at anything he had said for . . . a long time. Well, he told himself, Charles Tomlinson did have the advantage of novelty, and he was full of those amusing stories, and they were cousins after all. Not only was Charles spending quite a bit of time at Phoenix House, but he and Lydia sometimes went on expeditions to Ely or Cambridge. They went to the shops, they called on family members like Lydia’s mother and father, who was also a cousin to Tomlinson. Lydia and Charles were all very cousinly, Ernest told himself. Nothing to object to. He straightened up and walked in the other direction towards his library.