The Ely Testament

by Philip Gooden

  Mute recruited Fort for this task. He decided to keep a closer watch on Charles Tomlinson himself and, to do so, took lodgings in Cambridge. This was close enough for Ely, where Tomlinson was spending much of his time, but not so close that Mute would run the risk of encountering his enemy unexpectedly in the street. To Eric Fort he delegated the tracking of Thomas Ansell and his wife. The undertaker’s man’s meeting with Tom and Helen at Alexander Lye’s funeral was quite coincidental, but his dangerous encounter with them outside Liverpool Street Station was not since, in accordance with Mute’s fresh instructions, he was on the track of the young couple. After the near-accident Fort continued to keep an eye on the Ansells once they were established in the Devereux Hotel, before reporting to Mute who was residing temporarily in a dingy house in a dingy Cambridge street.

  Mute’s fear was that the Ansells would somehow frustrate him in his quest for the Ely treasure just as the moment was drawing near. Fort told him that Tomlinson had instructed him, Fort, to come to Upper Fen on the Saturday evening, equipped with tools that would be useful for breaking into a house – or a crypt (jemmies, chisels). Mute’s instructions to Fort were clear and simple: he was to assist Tomlinson to retrieve the treasure from St Ethelwine’s, whatever it might be, but to make no attempt to take the item.

  The next day – a Sunday – Fort was to convey to Mute two vital pieces of information. They were the nature of the treasure and Tomlinson’s whereabouts. In fact, Mute expected Tomlinson to remain in Ely. There he planned to confront his old friend and enemy and, by subterfuge or force, to obtain the treasure for himself. How to guarantee that Tomlinson would not pursue him? Well, that would not be so difficult. He intended to deal with the Tomlinson problem once and for all. He’d been preparing for that eventuality all summer. Mute’s hatred of Charles had not exactly grown but rather it had hardened during the summer months until it was like a crust over his soul, only to be broken by Tomlinson’s death.

  Mute believed that he had all his pieces in position, like a chess player about to check his opponent. Charles Tomlinson was doing the dirty work for him, Fort would bring him the information, and then he would swoop. But Eric Fort never materialized on the Sunday morning. Mute waited with growing anxiety in his Cambridge lodgings, the sound of the church bells a mocking accompaniment to the growing darkness of his thoughts. Had Fort betrayed him and sided with Tomlinson? Unlikely, thought Mute, since Fort was beholden to him and frightened of Charles. Had Tomlinson laid hands on the treasure, disposed of Fort and already boarded a tidal-express to catch a boat to the continent? That was not so unlikely, although it contradicted his earlier belief that Charles would stay in Ely for a time.

  By the early afternoon Mute was too anxious to wait any longer. He took the train to Ely and went on the hunt for Charles Tomlinson. One way or the other, he meant to do for him.

  David Mackenzie’s Letter & Ernest Lye’s Book

  On the Tuesday morning before the Ansells set off once more for Ely, Tom received a letter from David Mackenzie. He thanked Tom for his letter of the day before, and for outlining the troubles besetting Ernest Lye. But his real purpose in writing was to say that the original reason for Tom’s fenland visit had fortunately been overtaken by events. He and Ashley had unearthed a copy of Alexander Lye’s will from the mound of documents, files and folios in his Regent’s Park study. Their search succeeded in a surprisingly short time. So the senior partner did not die intestate and the reputation of Scott, Lye and Mackenzie was preserved.

  After that, it was something of an anticlimax to read that were no irregularities in the way Lye disposed of his estate, which was to be divided equally between his sister Edith, and his half-brother Ernest. There were no belatedly acknowledged love-children, there were no mistresses tucked away in St John’s Wood to be made amends to. Mackenzie said that he wasn’t sure whether the difficulty over the will was a piece of mischief on Alexander Lye’s part – Tom thought that ‘mischief’ was a kind way of putting it – in the same way that the contents of Lye’s deed-box appeared to be nothing more than a heap of red herrings. In a final note, he added that Tom and Helen should stay in Cambridge or Ely for as long as necessary to assist Ernest Lye and his wife.

  While Tom read the letter, Helen was browsing through Ernest Lye’s history of Phoenix House and Upper Fen.

  ‘It is unexpectedly interesting, Tom,’ she said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The older house on the site of the present one was called Stilwell Manor. It was well known as a royalist outpost and before that as a place where Catholic priests might hide from their persecutors. There’s even a legend that King Charles himself took shelter there when he was defeated at the Battle of Naseby.’

  ‘I thought this region was all Cromwell’s territory,’ said Tom. ‘He lived in Ely, didn’t he?’

  Helen referred to a page in the book on her lap. ‘Mr Lye explains it here. He says, “As well as being the dwelling-place of the future Lord Protector, Ely was also the episcopal seat of Bishop Wren, who had been chaplain to Charles the First. The city was therefore a centre of royalist sympathies. When the Civil War broke out Matthew Wren set about the raising of forces for the king.”’

  Interesting details, Tom thought, but they could not have anything to do with their current business. Helen observed his look and held up her hand.

  ‘Wait, Tom, there’s more. It is to do with this legend of King Charles.’

  She found a couple of paragraphs on the next page and read aloud, ‘“From generation to generation the denizens of Upper Fen have handed down a story of how King Charles the First, fleeing from the rout at Naseby, sought refuge in Stilwell Manor, on the site of which Phoenix House presently stands. History, in the person of the great Clarendon . . .” Who’s Clarendon?’

  ‘He wrote a history of the Civil War, I think,’ said Tom.

  ‘“History, in the person of the great Clarendon, tells us that Charles actually escaped from Naseby towards the north-west, first to Ashby-de-la-Zouch and then to Lichfield. Members of the King’s household as well as his private papers having already been captured on the battlefield, the pursuit of the fleeing royalists by Cromwell’s horse was unrelenting. With the scent of triumph in their nostrils, they must surely have been hoping for the supreme prize of the unhappy monarch himself.

  ‘“It may be that Charles’ counsellors devised a stratagem whereby the Parliamentarians might be tricked into the belief that the King was escaping perhaps in disguise and in a quite contrary direction to the one he actually took. This is the probable reason for the persistent story (a story which prudent opinion might more rightly term a fable) that King Charles sought shelter east of Naseby in the fen country and at Stilwell itself, where he might depend on the loyal welcome as well as the silence of sympathizers. As regards the further tale that the escaping King was carrying a prize of great value, a true treasure, the present writer is unable to resist the thought that once a hare has been started there is no saying how far or in what direction it will run.”’

  ‘Starting hares? What does he mean by that?’ said Tom.

  ‘Mr Lye is saying that he does not believe in the stories about King Charles or the treasure of Upper Fen,’ said Helen.

  ‘The Treasure of Upper Fen, eh? Sounds like the title to a story. Old Lye’s history is interesting enough but I can’t see it has any connection to the murder of Tomlinson, or of Eric Fort.’

  ‘Mr Fort told us he’d been involved with Tomlinson in doing things he regretted.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He never said exactly what those things were. But he did mention being up to no good with Tomlinson somewhere outside Ely. Which could describe Upper Fen.’

  ‘So you think their activities have something to do with this story about King Charles, who was never there in the first place, and a – what was it? – a “true treasure” which is also a legend?’

  ‘It’s not impossible.’

  Tom smiled, then he sh
rugged. He thought it was almost Helen’s duty as a writer to think up implausible ideas, to start hares and see where they’d run to.

  ‘We can mention it to Inspector Francis, I suppose,’ he said, wondering what that very practical policeman would make of it all.

  The Murderer’s Story, Part Two (Sunday, 19th October)

  It was an easy matter to track down Charles Tomlinson, much easier than Mute expected. Not only was his enemy in Ely but he was still staying in the Lion Hotel. Or rather he was on his way back there from somewhere, not very steady on his feet and about to enter the hotel via the stable entrance from Market Street. It was drawing near the end of the Sunday afternoon and the weather was as overcast as Mute’s mood.

  ‘Tomlinson,’ he called from across the street. ‘Wait!’

  Tomlinson peered round uncertainly. He squinted as Mute approached but did not recognize the other man until he drew nearer. Tomlinson’s expression registered surprise but no great pleasure.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t my good friend Mute.’

  Mute was pleased to see how battered and disreputable Tomlinson looked. He was unshaven and his eyes were bloodshot. He carried no stick, he wore no gloves or hat and his hair was dishevelled. Close to, Mute could smell the liquor coming off him. Tomlinson’s coat not only seemed even more threadbare than usual but it was dusty and smeared with some kind of chalky substance. Seeing this, Mute thought of the crypt in St Ethelwine’s church.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here in Ely?’ said Tomlinson.

  ‘I am here to claim my investments.’

  ‘What investments? Oh those ones.’

  Tomlinson wafted his hand through the air to dismiss the whole business and made as if to walk off into the stable yard but then he paused. A more cautious look came into his face. He stroked his chin.

  ‘Can we talk about them inside?’

  ‘You’re staying here?’ said Mute, though he already knew the answer to the question.

  ‘I find it more convenient to approach by this route instead of through the lobby,’ explained Tomlinson, as they crossed the stable yard and, after weaving their way through mounds of crates and barrels, into the hotel through one of several small doors. ‘I can come and go unannounced, which is what I prefer.’

  Had the two men looked round as they entered the building, they might have seen a clerical gentleman riding into the yard. It was the Reverend George Eames, the old college friend of both Tomlinson and Mute. And if Eames had been looking hard at the rear quarters of the hotel he might have spotted the backs of his one-time fellow students. He might even have recognized them from their backs alone, since none of them had changed very much – backs or fronts – over the years. But they did not turn round and Eames was distracted by looking out for an ostler to take his horse. Once he’d found his ostler the cleric from Upper Fen set off on foot in search of Tomlinson, but it was Mute who’d found him first.

  Tomlinson led Mute up narrow stairs to an upper floor. He seemed in conciliatory mood.

  ‘I must apologize for my somewhat mean accommodation,’ he said as he unlocked a door that gave on to a rectangular little room, with a rug covering warped floorboards and, at the end, a threadbare curtain drawn back to give a view over the backs of other buildings. It had the appearance of a servant’s room rather than somewhere a guest would be put up.

  ‘I have an understanding with the housekeeper of this place and she, in turn, has an understanding with the manager, a chap called Salter, and so what with one understanding and another, the arrangement is that I am to be given a room here in the Lion whenever I want it.’

  Mute wasn’t surprised to hear any of this. Tomlinson was just the man for ‘understandings’ and ‘arrangements’, especially where a woman was concerned. Tomlinson gestured for Mute to sit on the room’s single (hard) chair, even as he sank with a sigh on to the single bed, probably just as hard. He drew his flask out of his pocket.

  ‘Let us have a little libation to . . . to celebrate your arrival in Ely,’ he said, making a half-hearted offer of the flask.

  ‘Thank you but I’ve brought my own,’ said Mute tapping his pocket, which gave off a dull, metallic sound.

  ‘You have? Oh good. Because I do not think there is enough left in here.’

  Tomlinson raised the flask and tilted his head back. Mute observed his Adam’s apple bobbing, helplessly. He had his stick with him, and he was tempted for an instant to deal a slashing, sideways blow across the other’s throat. He visualized the hip flask flying from Tomlinson’s grasp, the momentary look of shock in his eyes, the mouth gasping for air. Mute reached for his stick then stopped himself. Not now, not here.

  Unaware of any of this, Tomlinson lowered the flask and tucked it back in his pocket. He wiped his hand across his mouth. The bed was low and he sat slumped while Mute perched in the chair a few feet away and with his back to the wall. Because he was slightly higher up, and because of the broken-down state of the other man, Mute experienced something that was very unusual in his dealings with Charles Tomlinson: a sense of superiority.

  ‘So you’ve come for your investments, Mute. I must say it is good to see you again. Where’d we last meet? Up the Monument, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mute, remembering that that was the occasion when Tomlinson said he was paying for his company and his conversation. The memory reinforced his cold anger against the man on the narrow bed. Aloud, he said, ‘Where is Mr Fort?’

  ‘Who? Oh, little Mr Fort. ’Course, I forgot you know him too. Where is he? I don’t know.’

  ‘He was with you last night.’

  ‘How’d you know about that? Well, yes, he was with me. But where he’s got to since, I do not know.’

  ‘Where is the treasure you were after last night, in company with Eric Fort?’

  Tomlinson put both his hands on his knees and looked at Mute. The light in the little room was poor but, even so, Mute was conscious of the other’s dark stare.

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘I have been keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘Do you know what, Mute? I am almost tempted to think of you with an ounce of respect.’

  ‘Remember, Tomlinson, you promised me a share in whatever you found.’

  ‘You’re welcome to a share of nothing. How much of it would you like?’

  Mute hadn’t expected anything different. He did not disbelieve Tomlinson. There was dejection, there was failure, written in the other man’s posture. If Charles genuinely had unearthed anything in the St Ethelwine’s crypt he would most likely still be drunk, but there’d be more than the usual swagger and confidence to him.

  ‘You found nothing then?’

  ‘How slowly do I have to speak in order for you to understand, my dear Mute? Yes, I found nothing, yes, I came away empty-handed.’

  ‘What about the Ely testament?’

  ‘Oh that,’ said Tomlinson. ‘I should have left it where I found it.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Fossicking around the old quarters of an old house, in a place where no one had ever looked. It doesn’t matter anyway. It is nothing. A female fantasy.’

  ‘That’s not how you talked about it before.’

  ‘Well, that’s how I talk about it now.’

  The only item of furniture in the room apart from the bed and chair was a little table on which stood a water jug and a bowl for washing and shaving. The table, which stood near the window, was fitted with a drawer. Mute noticed Tomlinson’s eyes several times darting towards the table, and the area of the drawer, while he referred to the Ely testament. He guessed that the drawer was where the item, the Ely testament, was tucked away.

  ‘Still, all is not lost,’ said Tomlinson. ‘I have some other irons in the fire here in Ely. I say, did you mention you had a flask with you? In your pocket.’

  Mute said nothing but shook his head. He wasn’t ready yet.

  ‘There is a man who shares our interest in all things
funereal,’ continued Charles Tomlinson after a moment. ‘A fellow called Chase. He lives near here, in Prickwillow Road. A house called Mon Repos. He has a wife who . . . well, never mind. Anyway, he has invented a device for a security coffin, a sort of spinning bird – what’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve mentioned it in my column,’ said Mute. ‘I didn’t realize you were involved, Tomlinson.’

  ‘I’m not involved, not directly, although I may have referred to the coffin-bird on one of my visits to Willow & Son. Perhaps I gave the impression it was my own idea. But I do have access to the device. At the bottom of his garden this fellow has a workshop, and the workshop has a door, and the door has a padlock, and I have the key to it.’

  Tomlinson fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a key and held it up for Mute to see. Then he looked at it as though wondering what it was he was holding before attempting to return the key to his waistcoat. It fell from his fingers and on to the floor. Tomlinson paid no attention but extracted the hip flask once more, shook it helplessly and looked at Mute.

  This time Mute took out his own flask and passed it to Tomlinson. The other weighed it in his hand for a moment, pleased to realize that it was full or nearly so. He unscrewed the cap and took a good swallow, then a second and a third. He tried to replace the cap, gave up and passed the flask back to Mute, less readily than he’d taken it.

  ‘Aren’t you thirsty?’

  ‘I want to keep a clear head,’ said Mute.

  ‘Why the devil do you want a clear head?’

  ‘Because it is such a complicated story you’re spinning.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said Tomlinson.

  ‘No,’ said Mute. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘You do what you like, but I’m going. It is very close in here.’