He determined to deal with the undertaker’s man, and to deal with him very soon. He regretted not having got rid of him in the hallway of the little house, then realized that it would hardly have been prudent to quit a house which he was renting under his real name, and leave a corpse in his wake. Nor could he assail Fort while he was with the Ansells in the streets of Cambridge. At a discreet distance, he trailed the trio to the Cambridge station. The first problem lay in separating Eric Fort from the Ansells. Surely they were not all on their way to visit Mr Chase?
The problem was solved on their arrival at Ely when the young couple got into a cab without Fort. Mute, hanging back behind a column in the porticoed entrance to the station, could not be certain but thought that he heard Ansell tell the driver to go to the police-station. Eric Fort, meanwhile, set off on foot in the direction of the town centre. Mute knew where the undertaker’s man was going, to call on Mr Chase in Prickwillow Road. It was fortunate that he was saving his pennies by not taking a cab.
A plan formed in Mute’s head. Really, he was surprising himself with how quickly he was capable of forming plans under the pressure of events. He took a cab himself and was put down to the north of the cathedral. From there he walked rapidly to Prickwillow Road and found the house with Mon Repos engraved on the gatepost. The afternoon was dull and growing duller, and there was a glimmer of light from an upstairs room.
Mute unlatched the gate. Moving confidently, as if he had every right to be there, he walked towards the front door then veered off to one side. Soon he was dodging among the trees and shrubs of the back garden and then he was standing outside Cyrus Chase’s workshop. He had the key that Tomlinson had dropped in the room at the Lion. He undid the padlock, opened the door, and swiftly inspected the interior. He noted Chase’s security-coffin on the work table. Perfect, he thought.
The next twenty minutes passed with the smoothness of a dream, although they should have been a nightmare. Out into Prickwillow Road to intercept Eric Fort, who was by now tired and out of breath following his walk up from the station and who was, to say the least, surprised and perhaps alarmed to see Mute. Then round the side of the house and back again to Cyrus Chase’s workshop – all the while unobserved! – on the pretext that the inventor would be arriving in a moment. The offer of Mute’s hip flask, accepted. The manoeuvring of Fort’s body into the coffin as the contents of the flask began to take effect, although when Fort started to struggle Mute had to keep him down by jabbing at him with his flick stick, a process which drew some blood. A deal of blood in fact.
The whole time Mute might have been interrupted but he scarcely considered that, just carried on with his job of finishing off Fort. Then at the end when Fort was twitching and his life almost departed, Mute heaved the coffin lid, with all its cumbersome apparatus of bell and bird, back into place.
Finally, out into Prickwillow Road once more. Mute thought he discerned, in the distance, Mr and Mrs Ansell walking together. The Ansells, joint contributors to The New Moon. He turned in the opposite direction, and soon passed a graveyard. With a professional eye, he noted the newness of the headstones and monuments and concluded that it must be a municipal cemetery, built in the last few years when the old churches could no longer accommodate the city dead. With another part of his mind, he thought, I’ve got away with it! Like a cuckoo laying an egg in another bird’s nest, he had perpetrated a murder in another man’s property, and done so without being observed, let alone apprehended. He laughed out loud then looked about as if fearful of being heard. Against the grey sky, the darker shape of the spire and belfry of the cemetery chapel stood out.
Mute asked himself whether he was going mad. He concluded not. The things he had done, the murders of Tomlinson and Fort, had been rational deeds, acts of self-preservation. Murders carried out with the aid of his trusty flick stick and his hip flask, among the contents of which was arsenic. Mute considered the use of arsenic as just the thing – almost à la mode, one might say. Arsenic was also easy for him to obtain since it was widely employed as one of the ingredients in embalming fluid. Those visits to Willow & Son had been productive in many ways.
It was true that with all this murdering, Arthur Arnett had wandered rather far away from his original plan, which was to share with Tomlinson the ‘treasure’ he obtained from Upper Fen, to realize its cash value and to use the money to fund his magazine,The New Moon; the magazine which had been his ambition all the while he’d been working at the Funereal Matters office. But the straightforward need for cash had been warped by his growing detestation of Tomlinson, and his decision not to share in the fruits of his old friend’s labours but to steal them from him. Then would-be theft had turned to actual murder. Or murders. And they had been less difficult than Mute might have believed.
Wicked acts, perhaps, he thought, but rational. Leaving the municipal cemetery behind him and walking in a wide loop, he made his way back to the lower part of the town and the railway station, where he caught the next train back to Cambridge. Before he boarded, he checked to see whether he had marks of blood on his clothes. He couldn’t see any.
Upper Fen
Tom and Helen were driven out to Upper Fen in company with Inspector Stephen Francis. They arrived at the police-house in Ely only to find the senior policeman in the lobby and about to depart for the village.
‘Why are you going to Upper Fen, Inspector? Not to see Mr Ernest Lye, I hope,’ said Tom, considering Ernest to be almost a client of his firm.
‘No, sir. I have more or less cleared Mr Lye of any involvement in this tangled affair. I have other fish to fry. In the meantime I am going to look at a church, and to talk to the incumbent.’
‘That would be the Reverend Eames,’ said Helen.
‘How do you know?’ said Francis with real surprise.
‘We have information to give you.’
‘Then you’d better accompany me now and tell me later.’
They walked to the yard behind the building, which also housed the assize court. In the yard their transport awaited: a two-horse wagonette, uncovered and furnished with longways benches. From the hardness of the seating and the generally dilapidated state of the vehicle, it could be employed only for police purposes. Or perhaps agricultural ones, since the driver was wearing patched labourer’s clothes. Francis addressed him as William.
The discomfort of the seats was exacerbated by the poor condition of the road to Upper Fen. Tom and Helen jolted about on one side and opposite them were Inspector Francis and Constable Parr. This was the constable to whom Tom had talked at the scene of Tomlinson’s murder, the one who’d claimed they did not enjoy much murdering on the Isle of Ely. The constable gave a courteous good morning and a smart salute to the Ansells as they clambered on board the wagon. His presence was explained when Francis said that PC Parr’s brother was the sexton at St Ethelwine’s.
The noise of the little wagon would have made conversation difficult between the Ansells and the policemen on the other side even had there been much to say, so Tom and Helen gazed out across the flat, black-earthed countryside. Indicating the great cathedral, Helen said to Tom that it was like a great ship riding on the fens. Tom smiled at his wife’s poetic language. Thinking of her way with words made him also think of Arthur Arnett, the editor fellow they’d met on King’s Parade. A boyish, enthusiastic individual, punctuating his remarks with little jabbing motions of his walking stick. Yet Tom had not taken to him much, for all that he’d more or less solicited an article from him on – what was it? – the byways of the law, for that magazine of his.
By now they were approaching the outskirts of Upper Fen. The Inspector told the driver to pull up by the small cottage where Tom had noticed the mason at work a few days before. Constable Parr got down and rapped on the door. The lad who answered was the driver of the dog cart from Tom’s previous visit. Parr asked him something that Tom couldn’t hear and the boy nodded his head in the direction of the church, whose stubby tower was visible fro
m where they sat. The policeman gave some instructions to the boy and, after a moment’s hesitation and an apprehensive glance at the individuals in the wagon, the lad took to his heels towards the village. Parr boarded the wagon again.
‘That your nephew, Parr?’ said Francis.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where is your brother?’
‘Gabriel’s at the church. I told Davey to go and get him.’
‘Let’s meet him halfway.’
Francis gestured to William to move on, and the wagonette lumbered up the road towards Upper Fen. They passed a turn in the road which led towards Phoenix House. Tom pointed out the roof line of the large house to Helen. They passed a few scattered dwellings whose gardens were mostly given over to vegetable plots and, in one case, a pigsty, before drawing up at the lych-gate of the church. A man watched them arrive, while leaning against the gate with arms folded. The boy Davey was hanging back at a distance.
Tom recognized this person too as the man who’d been working on the headstone. There was a remote similarity to Constable Parr, not exactly in any particular feature but as in two objects cut from the same block of wood. Once again, Constable Parr got down. The brothers, policeman and sexton, nodded at each other but said not a word of greeting.
‘Can I help you, Inspector?’ said Gabriel to Francis, who stayed seated in the wagon. Since he wasn’t addressing his employer, the St Ethelwine’s sexton spoke without the deference of his brother.
‘We need to see the church, Mr Parr. We need to see inside the crypt.’
‘Mr Eames has the keys.’
‘You don’t have a set?’
‘That’s as may be but you’d better see Mr Eames first. You’ll find him over there.’
Gabriel Parr tilted his head towards the parsonage, which lay on a patch of slightly higher ground and beyond a high beech hedge. Inspector Francis unlatched the gate at the back of the wagon and jumped down. He was surprisingly nimble. He approached the sexton, who continued to lean, unmoving, against the lych-gate.
‘True enough, we had better see Mr Eames first,’ Francis repeated in a reasonable tone. ‘Let us do all of this properly and without irregularities.’
‘You’ll find it quicker to go through the graveyard.’
Gabriel did not unfold his arms but with a flick of a finger indicated a beaten track of grass that ran among the headstones and towards a gate in the hedge. While this conversation was going on, Tom and Helen climbed down.
‘Very well,’ said Francis to Gabriel, before turning to his constable. ‘You are to stay here with William, Parr. No doubt you’ll welcome the chance to exchange family news with your brother.’
‘Sir,’ said Parr. The constable took up position, hands behind his back. Francis said, ‘Mr and Mrs Ansell, are you coming with me?’
Tom and Helen were curious to meet Mr Eames, if only to see the victim of the long-ago jape involving a stuffed monkey. But now that they were in Upper Fen they decided to call on the Lyes first. Tom felt some responsibility towards Ernest, so recently arrested on suspicion of murder. Helen had glanced through Mr Lye’s volume about the house and village and she wanted to make some complimentary remarks to him, for cheering-up purposes.
Gabriel Parr directed them to Phoenix House by a different grassy path, one running south of the church. On the far side of St Ethelwine’s the Ansells came to the road leading to Phoenix House.
‘It’s a handsome place although I’m not sure I’d care to live somewhere so remote,’ said Helen, gazing at the facade. In front of the house were a dilapidated stone wall and a pair of rusty iron gates, set open.
‘Isn’t that Mrs Lye’s opinion too?’
‘I believe so.’
For an instant they halted and looked back at the sweeping stretch of countryside that ran south and east, before walking towards the house again. The front door opened and two men and a woman emerged, and came towards the iron gates. They were dressed as if for an afternoon stroll.
‘Why,’ she said, ‘isn’t that . . .?’
Mr and Mrs Lye were easy to recognize, the shortish man in late middle-age and his taller, younger, elegant wife. One might expect to see the owners of the house coming out of their own front door. More surprising was the appearance of the individual who was walking with them. He was carrying a stick and, as they approached the entrance, he raised it to point at something – perhaps the tower of St Ethelwine’s – in a querying sort of way.
‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘it is Mr Arnett.’
‘What is he doing in Upper Fen?’
The Lyes and Mr Arnett noticed the Ansells. Arms were waved, hats tipped. The five of them met just outside the entrance of Phoenix House. Quite a bit of explanation was required once it had been established that everyone already knew everyone else and that no formal introductions were needed. What were Tom and Helen doing in the village? And how did Arthur Arnett know the Lyes? That mystery was easily solved by the editor himself. He was eager to explain.
‘I was at college with Charles Tomlinson, and we recently renewed our acquaintance after his years of global peregrination. I was most shocked to hear of the violent demise of my friend and so have come to offer Mrs Lye my sincere condolences.’
‘You are very kind, Mr Arnett.’
‘It is no more than my duty, Mrs Lye. Charles often talked of you – and of Mr Lye of course.’
‘We’re about to show Mr Arnett the village, or rather the church,’ said Lydia. ‘As an antiquarian, he is particularly interested to see St Ethelwine’s.’
‘An antiquarian, Mr Arnett?’ said Helen.
‘Why yes. It is another string to my—’
‘Lyre?’
‘I was about to say bow, but lyre is better. Very good, Mrs Ansell.’
‘Everyone seems to be interested in the church,’ said Tom, deciding he couldn’t match his wife’s quickness.
‘Everyone?’ said Mr Arnett.
‘Inspector Francis of the Ely force certainly is. We have come to Upper Fen with him.’
‘The police are here?’
This time the editor of The New Moon spoke so sharply that the other four looked at him. Tom was pleased to see him put out. However, Arnett recovered himself quickly, smiled and said, ‘One would not suppose that the local constabulary had anything much to attend to in such a tranquil and sequestered spot as this.’
‘What does Inspector Francis want, Mr Ansell? Do you know?’ said Ernest Lye. These were almost the first words he’d spoken and he was anxious.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Tom, ‘but I don’t think it’s anything to do with the . . . with that recent business.’
He meant, I don’t think it’s to do with you and Tomlinson’s murder. Tom wanted to reassure Ernest Lye that the finger of suspicion was moving away from him but this wasn’t the right moment. Besides, there was something odd about this meeting that he couldn’t quite pin down. Something odd about Arnett too. Why should the fellow be going out of his way to offer his condolences to a cousin of Tomlinson’s whom he’d never met? For that matter, the very fact of Arnett’s friendship with Tomlinson was, well, not so much odd as unexpected. And why was he so startled to hear that the police were in the village?
These thoughts, half formed, flashed through Tom’s mind. He glanced at Helen. She was regarding Arnett with a look that he recognized; quizzical, doubting.
‘Would you like to accompany us to the church, Mr and Mrs Ansell?’ said Lydia Lye.
‘Yes, why not?’
They set off the way they had come, skirting St Ethelwine’s on the south side. Arthur Arnett hung back, as if slightly reluctant to make up one of the party. Helen said some nice things to Ernest Lye about his Annals of a Fenland Village and he visibly brightened. Tom, who was walking behind with Lydia Lye, gave her his own condolences on her cousin’s death, which he had not had the opportunity to do before.
‘Thank you, Mr Ansell. I was much affected at the time but I believe that it was more the
shock of the event than anything else. I did not know Charles well. He was almost a stranger to me. How ridiculous to suppose that Ernest might have had a hand in his death! Look at him. How could a man like my husband be capable of murder?’
Lydia sounded quite benign when talking about her husband, as if his inability to murder was a positive attribute. Ernest was walking next to Helen, glancing at her with pleasure and approval for the things she was saying about his book. You had to admit that Ernest Lye did not have the appearance of a murderer, whatever a murderer’s appearance ought to be. Yes, if you were searching for a murderer, you might more plausibly find him elsewhere.
For no good reason Tom looked behind him. Arthur Arnett quickly averted his eyes. He had been staring hard at Tom and Lydia. Now he started to swing his stick through the grass as he walked, as though searching for an item concealed there.
Near the lych-gate was the police wagon, with William the driver still in his seat and the horses restless in their traces. The Parr brothers, constable and sexton, were in the postures they’d been occupying when Tom and Helen left. Gabriel leaning against the gate, Constable Parr standing at a little distance and with hands clasped behind his back. Tom wondered what family news had been exchanged or whether the two had uttered even a single word to each other. The sexton’s boy, Davey, was also on the scene, loitering among the headstones.
Tom was curious to observe Arthur Arnett’s reaction to a police uniform but, rather than paying attention to the group of men, the editor was peering up at the overcast sky. Then, as though this arrival of one and all was by prearrangement, through the parsonage gate in the beech hedge there came two men followed by two women. Two by two, they began threading the path between the headstones. The younger woman was wearing housemaid’s clothes; the other, older woman might have been a housekeeper. They kept a suitable distance behind the men, one of whom was Inspector Francis. Constable Parr, seeing his superior on the way, became alert. He brushed past his brother and went through the lych-gate. Gabriel too roused himself and turned into the churchyard. Helen and Ernest Lye, together with Tom and Lydia, followed behind so that there was quite a little crowd assembling among the graves.
The Ely Testament Page 26
