The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  Inside the morning room Lydia Lye was complaining to Tomlinson. Her laughter, which was not really happy but rueful, had been caused by a remark of his to the effect that she was stuck away in this place. It was as if she were buried in Phoenix House in the village of Upper Fen. He said this with genuine concern, as if he wanted to be the one to rescue her. The remark about burial might have been prompted by the conversation he’d just had with the sexton.

  This wasn’t a very cheerful topic, but Lydia didn’t object. She enjoyed almost everything that cousin Charles had to say. She relished his accounts of strange and barbaric foreign customs, many of which he had witnessed at first hand. She enjoyed his tales of savage courtship rituals and pagan funeral rites. As a citizen of the world, it was only natural that he should take an interest in local burial conditions, whether in Upper Fen or the islands of the South Seas. And she had to acknowledge the harsh truth that her life here was a bit like being buried.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, to forestall any further comment from cousin Charles. ‘It is a fate I have chosen for myself. To be married and to come and live here.’

  ‘Could you not persuade Ernest to purchase or rent a place in town, somewhere in Cambridge or even London?’

  Lydia knew that there were not even the funds for some very necessary repairs to Phoenix House, let alone anywhere else, but she said, ‘He likes it here too much. It was his mother’s family’s house.’

  ‘Even so . . . I should think that you could twist Ernest round your little finger if you wished to.’

  Lydia did not answer directly. Instead she went to gaze out of the window.

  ‘I prefer to think of being here as being like a perpetual Sunday, a Sunday afternoon of eternity.’

  ‘You have a gift for metaphor, Mrs Lye,’ said Tomlinson. ‘A Sunday afternoon of eternity. How poetic.’

  ‘The only saving grace is that there is only one church and one set of bells in this place and not the cacophony of ringing which you are forced to listen to in a town.’

  Tomlinson came to stand at the window near her. He said, ‘I sometimes forget how very used you must be to the sound of bells.’

  ‘They are music to my father’s ears.’

  ‘It seems to me that your mother and father – especially him, especially the Reverend Coffer – are somewhat less severe than I remember them, less inclined to judge one to one’s disadvantage.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Lydia. ‘That is probably because you are accustomed to real despots and tyrants among the tribes you have seen.’

  ‘It’s true I have seen some strange things.’

  ‘Let us talk no more of death and burial, Charles. Tell me again about that ceremonial dance which you witnessed in . . . somewhere in the South Seas.’

  ‘The dance in which the maidens of the village parade themselves in front of the young men, in order to be chosen as brides?’

  Lydia suddenly found something of great interest to look at from the window of the morning room. Even so, she nodded slightly and said ‘Yes’ under her breath. Tomlinson was watching her closely.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the day before the ceremony the young men are not supposed to eat any food at all and to drink nothing apart from a few sips of water. They must sequester themselves in the jungle that surrounds their village on every side. The girls, meanwhile, undergo rituals of purification while the older women prepare the garb they are to don on the morrow. Perhaps “garb” hardly describes what they wear – or rather what they do not wear . . .’

  Two of Charles Tomlinson’s Enemies

  While Charles Tomlinson was turning away from the subject of death and burial in favour of premarital rites, his sometime friend Cyrus Chase was settling down to his favourite reading matter in his house in Prickwillow Road, Ely. This was a quarterly periodical called Funereal Matters and it contained a wealth of news, information and even gossip on everything pertaining to the business of interment. Cyrus kept all the old copies, arranged by date.

  Cyrus was aware that Bella did not care for the magazine. If his wife caught sight of the title, she pulled a face or instinctively looked away. For her, it was a reminder of his morbid interests. Accordingly, Cyrus usually hid his copy away when it arrived and waited for some private hour when he might devote himself properly to Funereal Matters. He resented having to do this. Really, he thought, Bella was most unreasonable. To judge from his wife’s attitude it was as if he were proposing to look through the kind of salacious material – books, postcards, photographs – which a gentleman could obtain from certain emporia in Holywell Street off the Strand. Or so he had heard. Yet Funereal Matters could not be a greater contrast. What was more respectable and necessary than to meditate not on the world or the flesh or the devil, but on last things?

  Now, since Bella was out of the house, having taken the train to Cambridge to do some shopping, Cyrus had more than a spare hour. Time enough to read the magazine from cover to cover. Cyrus took up his paper knife and slit the uncut pages. He replaced the knife on the small table next to his chair. It was his habit to flick through the pages of the magazine to give himself a taste of the treats to come. With approval he read an editorial that deplored the growing taste for simplicity in funerals and the move away from what ignorant critics called ‘ostentation’. He glanced at a feature about making the cast of a hand after death and another about the propriety of taking photographs of the deceased in his coffin. Yes, this promised to be a good issue.

  Then Cyrus arrived at a particular favourite of his: the column of notes, observations and chat which was signed simply ‘Mute’. Each item occupied one or two paragraphs and was introduced with a sub-heading that was frequently punning or humorous. Cyrus could permit himself a smile at Mute’s dry wit. Whoever penned the column was a knowledgeable fellow – probably a Londoner since he made frequent references to the capital’s undertakers – and conversant with the latest trends and fashions whether above or below the ground. Cyrus enjoyed the aptness of an anonymous writer styling himself ‘Mute’ as well as the fact that the term described a paid funeral attendant. He began to read Mute’s latest offerings.

  Moments later, the housemaid Mattie, passing the door of the room, was startled to hear the thud of an object striking the floor. Then some incoherent words and a loaded silence, followed by another meaningless babble. Mattie hesitated before tapping on the door. After a muffled ‘Yes?’ she turned the handle.

  ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cyrus Chase’s face was suffused with red. He was staring down in bewilderment at the floor where an occasional table lay on its side next to his chair. He must have knocked it over as he stood up. As far as she could see, no damage had been done.

  ‘Do you want me to pick that up, Mr Chase?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll do it,’ he said, waving her away with a distracted hand. Mattie withdrew, quietly closing the door. The appearance of the maid had partly restored Cyrus Chase to himself. He had no idea what words he’d uttered or what gestures he’d made during the last few minutes. He righted the overturned table and groped his way back to the armchair. He picked up Funereal Matters from where it had dropped to the floor out of his nerveless grasp. He fumbled through the pages until he came once more to the column by Mute. He blinked several times, as if to remove a bit of grit from his eye, and read again two particular paragraphs. Then he read them several times more.

  There was a sub-heading: A Little Bird Tells Us . . .

  Below was this item:We are reliably informed of a fresh advance in the field of security coffins. Warning devices such as bells and tubes are already familiar to our readers, although there is always room for the improvement and refinement that are an inseparable aspect of progress. But a certain gentleman has approached a well-known firm of London undertakers, which happens to trade under the name of a most appropriate tree, with a view to developing something quite novel.

  Without giving away too many secrets
, this gentleman’s device involves a familiar farmyard fowl, brightly painted so as to draw the attention of bystanders and capable of being rotated rapidly from underground. The installation of such avian devices in substantial numbers would not only add to the gaiety of the graveyard – if we may be permitted a paradoxical phrase – but also greatly enhance the likelihood of rescue for any poor unfortunate who is buried prematurely and awakes to find himself still alive beneath the sod.

  Cyrus Chase did not know where to begin. Here in cold print was a picture, accurate in every detail, of the coffin-cockerel which was his creation, and which he’d unwisely shown to Charles Tomlinson. The references in Mute’s article to a ‘familiar farmyard fowl’, to its bright colour, to the way it could be rapidly spun from underground, left Cyrus in no doubt that he had been betrayed by Tomlinson.

  He was certain that Tomlinson must be the unnamed gentleman for the simple reason that the inventor had shown the cockerel to no one else. Had he been able to pick up all the detail he needed on that single visit? Or had he somehow got inside Cyrus’ workshop for a second and closer look? It was precisely the kind of ungrateful and deceitful behaviour to be expected of a ‘gentleman’ like Tomlinson. Cyrus was even able to identify the London firm approached by that treacherous individual. It could only be Willow & Son, described as the ‘well-known undertakers, which happens to trade under the name of a most appropriate tree’.

  The fellow was a rogue and a blackguard.

  He was a thief and a traitor, pretending an interest in Cyrus’ work only in order to steal it.

  The problem for Cyrus was that he had no legal recourse. The Chase coffin-cockerel was not yet patented. Indeed, there were a couple of refinements to it that he was considering before he applied to the Patent Office. He could write in protest to Willow & Son, he could even call at their London offices in person, and he vowed to do both those things. But he could not prove beyond dispute that the spinning bird was his own creation. If Tomlinson carried the affair off with enough impudence – and he would, he would – then he would get the fame and glory for all the ingenuity and labour of Cyrus Chase!

  Cyrus became aware of a shooting pain in his hands. He looked down. He was clutching the copy of Funereal Matters so hard that he had almost reduced several pages to pulp. It required an effort to unclench his hands. He allowed the ruined periodical to drop to the floor and, breathing deeply and evenly, placed his hands on the arms of the chair.

  The Chase cockerel wasn’t the only thing, of course. There was Bella to be considered as well. Cyrus hoped to win back his wife’s regard and affection through his invention of the coffin-bird. No longer would she be able to talk about his morbid occupation when she saw him respectfully referred to in the quality press or when manufacturers applied for the right to produce the Chase cockerel in quantity. The two might recapture the warmth that existed in the early days of their marriage when Bella would ruffle his hair as he was sitting down. Sometimes she would even sit on his lap and ruffle his hair.

  Now the thought occurred to Cyrus that perhaps Bella had colluded with Charles Tomlinson in this whole business. The idea was a knife in his brain. He struggled to keep calm. Bella could not have shown Tomlinson the coffin device again since Cyrus kept the only key to the garden workshop on the chain in his pocket. Unless she had somehow managed to take a hasty impression of the key while he was off guard, while he was sleeping. It could be done. Even if she had not resorted to such duplicity, she might have encouraged Mr Tomlinson with words . . . and she might have done more than encourage him with words . . .

  Cyrus recalled that moment after the dinner party the other night when he’d caught sight of the pair standing under the porch. Their heads close together in an intimate encounter. Exchanging compliments? Or plotting? Or talking about him, Cyrus? Laughing at him?

  Did Bella know that Tomlinson had visited Willow & Son in London?

  Was she in on his plans? He did not really believe his wife would be so unfaithful, so treacherous, and yet . . . Once doubt and suspicion appeared at the door, they didn’t just tap gently, they beat it down. Where was Bella now, for example? She’d said she was going to Cambridge to do some shopping. Perhaps that was true. She liked Cambridge, she liked shopping. But was she by herself? If not, in whose company was she?

  Cyrus got up from his chair and retrieved the paper knife which he had used to slit the pages of the funeral magazine and which was lying on the carpet where it had tumbled from the table. He put a tentative forefinger to the tip. He rested the cushion of his thumb on the side of the blade. The knife was a short little thing but it was stout and it was sharp. Not much use having a blunt paper knife if one wanted to cut the pages of a book or a periodical, cut them cleanly and neatly.

  Would the knife pierce someone’s body, Cyrus wondered? Would it pierce Mr Charles Tomlinson’s body, for example? If that blackguard wandered into the room at this instant and if he, Cyrus, rushed at him brandishing the paper knife and struck him at the right spot – say, here (Cyrus felt for the gap in the ribs that overlay his heart); or somewhere here (Cyrus prodded his belly) – would he manage to inflict a fatal wound or would he merely do some damage? On balance, Cyrus thought that aiming for the guts would be better than trying further up. There seemed to be too much bony armour around the heart. A knifepoint might easily be deflected in that area. The belly was a bigger, softer target. In either case, there would be blood. Blood over the carpet. Bella would not like that. No, it would be best not to carry out such an attack in the drawing room of one’s house. Or anywhere in one’s own house, come to that. Best to do it elsewhere.

  Best not to do it all, a little voice whispered in his ear. You, Cyrus Chase, are not a killer; you are an inventor and a creator. But another voice was speaking more loudly in the other ear. It was saying, this Tomlinson man has cheated you, he has stolen from you the fruits of your labour and – perhaps – deprived you of your wife and helpmeet. The same voice said, murder is no more than he deserves.

  Murder was also on the mind of the Reverend George Eames as he worked on his sermon for the next day. He was using the notes which he had prevented the foolish Hannah from consigning to the flames. After his earlier outburst of anger, he was surprised to find himself quite calm and level-headed. He sat at his desk, alternately writing a handful of sentences and then glancing up at the beech hedge at the end of the garden, across the graveyard and beyond that to the squat tower of the church.

  George Eames was reflecting on a text from Ephesians:Be ye angry and sin not (Chapter 4, verse 26). This was not the text for the coming Sunday but he intended to allude to Ephesians anyway. It suited one of his purposes, which was to distinguish between two types of anger, the righteous and the ungodly. Thoughts of anger led George Eames to thoughts of violence, of death and murder. Not by coincidence, ever since he had caught a glimpse of a certain visitor to the parish of Upper Fen, images of violence and death were never far from his mind.

  Now laying down his pen and gazing unseeingly out at the church, Eames mused on some of the more dramatic deaths in holy scripture. A killing such as that of Abel by Cain was beyond question a wicked crime. But there were other killings which could be called righteous. Jael, the wife of Heber, drove a tent-peg through the sleeping head of Sisera, enemy to the Israelites, and was applauded for the deed. Another fearless woman, Judith, beheaded the drunken Babylonian general, Holofernes, using his own sword and she was praised for her daring.

  These images of decapitation floated through the mind of George Eames. He had no idea what Sisera or Holofernes looked like, although he visualized swarthy and bearded visages scarred by battle. But there was another head which, were Eames to permit himself such a bloodthirsty wish, he would have been glad to see similarly separated from its body. This was a clean-shaven head, possessing gaunt features and a prominent jaw. The individual to whom it belonged had once been a friend of George Eames. They had met when both were studying at the same Cambridge colle
ge.

  They possessed different views of the world, Eames and his friend. One held that God created the world as the tale was told in Genesis, the other maintained that new theories were sweeping away that old story. The two argued fiercely, but Eames believed that such intellectual debate was proof of the elevated, disinterested quality of their friendship. There was nothing personal to it. He even derived a thrill from knowing someone with such unorthodox, dangerous opinions.

  But then things got out of hand. Reasoned debate turned to impassioned argument before descending into slurs and insults. Not on Eames’ side, or not so much. But the other man began to pursue him in a spirit that combined malevolence with mischief. He spread stories about Eames, formed a cabal against him. George Eames felt persecuted and, although he told himself that persecution was the fate of all true Christians, this was not much comfort for him.

  The climax came when Eames’ opponent did a terrible thing, performing an action that was both wounding and absurd. The college authorities had found out and been swift to send the culprit down. But by then the fellow had decided to quit Cambridge anyway – or so he claimed – and he avoided being formally rusticated. He was tired of the narrowness of the place, he said, he was weary of its provincialism. He wanted broader horizons. Eames had no clear idea what happened to him after that, although he heard that his one-time friend had not merely left the city but the country. He pretended that he did not care. He attempted to put the whole affair out of his mind, particularly that afternoon when he returned to his college rooms to discover . . .

  Even now he did not want to recall it. And he had thought little of it in the intervening years. So it had come as an almighty surprise when he recently caught a glimpse of a man looking remarkably like Charles Tomlinson emerging from the front door of Phoenix House. Tomlinson looked older, inevitably, and more drawn in the face, but the years had not done much damage to him. Luckily, Eames himself had not been seen by Tomlinson, who was busy taking leave of Mrs Lye. The parson was on his way to call at the house but had time to take shelter behind some convenient shrubbery. He felt a fool for hiding like a child but his heart was beating fast and his face was hot with anger and embarrassment, suddenly rekindled after all these years.