The Unburied

by Charles Palliser

  The other drinkers had been joined by a younger man. I was only half-aware of their conversation until I was distracted by the sound of raised voices. One of the elderly men – the one who had a battered hat pulled down over the side of his face – was saying loudly: ‘They shouldn’t have started meddling with ’em. You don’t never know what might not happen in a building as old as that. Leave well alone is what I say.’

  ‘You sound like old Gazzard,’ said the young man. ‘He’s agin anything that’s new. He’s as pleased as Punch tonight.’

  ‘I’ll wager it’s them drains,’ said the same old man. ‘They goes back hundreds and hundreds of years. Lord knows what’s down there. Things they’ve been hiding for years and years.’

  ‘Don’t be softer than the good Lord made you,’ said the other old man, removing his pipe from his mouth for the first time. ‘The Cathedral don’t have no drains.’

  ‘Well, mebbe it should,’ said the other with a hideous cackle. ‘There’s been a stink coming out of that place these twenty years.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the youngest man asked indignantly. I now believed I recognized him as one of the vergers whom I had seen in the Cathedral last night.

  ‘I’m talking about what everybody knows about them canons,’ said the old man with the hat, and he gave an enormous wink.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ said the man who had mentioned Gazzard. ‘They watches each other like a dog eyes a bitch. If one of ’em done something he didn’t oughter, the others would have him nigh on hung, drawed and quartered for it.’

  ‘They watches each other, all right,’ said the first old man. ‘But they don’t always ketch each other. And if they ketch each other, they don’t always turn each other in.’

  ‘You’re wrong there. They don’t give each other an inch on account of they’re split between the Papists with their incense and Romish ways and the other lot that’s more like Methodies than proper Churchmen.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this, whether Papish, Chapel, or good English Protestants, they all know what’s good for ’em and that’s to get their snouts stuck as deep in the trough as they can push ’em,’ said the one with the hat. And then he added with another cackle: ‘And it ain’t just their snouts they take such tender care on.’

  ‘You don’t know nothing about it,’ said the verger. ‘If one of ’em so much as took a sixpence that wasn’t due to him, the others would have him out of there before you could blink.’

  ‘Don’t show how simple you are. I ain’t talking about sixpences. What about this to-do at the school?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Oh yes you do.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ asked the old man with the pipe.

  ‘Same as you, I reckon. About that canon there’s always been talk about.’

  Both old men wheezed with hoarse chuckles. Then the pipe-smoker took a long thoughtful pull and breathed out the smoke saying: ‘The Headmaster don’t know what day of the week it is most of the time.’

  ‘’Cept Sundays when the Red Lion’s closed. That’s the only night you won’t find Appleton in the back-bar.’

  The other old man grinned: ‘That’s why Sheldrick’s done as he pleased for so long.’

  ‘Shame on both of you for passing on such tittle-tattle,’ said the youngest man.

  ‘The Dean’d give the gold out of his teeth to get rid of both on ’em and to do that he’d close the school down and sack the lot on ’em,’ said the old man with the hat.

  ‘Why that’s nonsense!’ the verger exclaimed. ‘The Cathedral can’t do without the school.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nonsense, is it? Ain’t there a special meeting of all on ’em tomorrow morning?’

  ‘A Chapter meeting, you mean. Yes. What of it?’

  ‘Well, that’s what it’s all about. Only he can’t do as he’d like.’

  ‘And why can’t he?’

  ‘Because of that sly devil Slattery. He has all the cards and does as he pleases. And the Dean can’t touch him.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? The Dean can do pretty much anything he pleases.’

  ‘Not to Master Slattery, he can’t. Why, he’d make such a stink the whole lot of ’em would choke to death.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the other, removing his pipe and laughing silently. ‘So they would. They’d all choke to death.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ the verger exclaimed.

  The old man with the hat ignored him. ‘Seemingly he took something last night from Sheldrick’s house, and now nobody can lay a finger on him.’

  ‘What was it?’ the other old man asked.

  His companion shrugged. ‘Something that would make a great scandal and bring the whole lot of them down if it were to come out. So the Dean can’t do nothing against him though he’d dearly love to give him his marching orders. Him and his wife.’ He stared round the table and then gave a wink which almost wrenched his face in two. The other old man laughed at this sally.

  ‘His wife? What are you talking about?’ asked the youngest man contemptuously.

  ‘Don’t be such a ninny,’ the old man with the hat said. ‘Haven’t you heard what everybody says about him?’

  I noticed the other old man touch his companion’s arm and glance in my direction and when he, too, looked at me I suddenly felt ashamed of myself. What was I doing, listening to the gossip of malicious and uneducated people? And yet, what they had said had pointed me towards the nature of the weight that lay upon Austin’s mind. There was clearly some kind of problem involving the school and that would have very serious consequences for my friend. I remembered that both Gazzard and Dr Locard had mentioned an important Chapter meeting tomorrow morning. But who was Slattery and in what sense did he hold all the cards?

  It was late. I got up and made my way to the Close. As I rounded the east end of the Cathedral a few minutes later I was surprised to see lights and shadows moving on the inside of the windows. Last night the head-verger had said the men would be working until eight or nine. I looked at my watch. It was half-past ten. Then I thought of the conversation I had just overheard and mounted the steps. As soon as I entered I gasped for breath and nearly fainted for there was a strong and very distasteful smell. It was the stench of something ancient and rotten – something older and worse, it seemed to me, than bad drains.

  Lanterns were moving under the crossing-tower and I advanced towards it. A number of workmen were engaged with their implements and I saw Dr Sisterson standing a little apart and deep in conversation with the foreman. The old verger was watching them as before and greeted me with courteous solemnity.

  ‘What in heaven’s name is causing that?’ I asked. ‘Is it a gas-leak?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘This is what comes of meddling. They should never have started on it. When they took up the paving just here, that opened up.’ He pointed towards a hairline crack about two feet long in the wall of the transept.

  ‘The floor nearby must have dropped slightly,’ I said. ‘Did a gas-pipe fracture? That would explain the smell.’

  He raised his shoulders in a gesture of despair and amazement. ‘There aren’t any in this part of the building, sir. We don’t know where it’s coming from.’

  ‘Then I’m as puzzled as you are.’

  ‘The master of works did as you advised, as Dr Sisterson ordered him to.’

  He sounded reproachful and I said quickly: ‘I’m afraid he has blundered in trying to follow my advice. It’s necessary to know a great deal about the construction of these old buildings before attempting work on them.’

  ‘And you do know a lot about them, sir?’

  I looked at him sharply. Could he possibly mean to imply that I was in some degree responsible? ‘Well, I’m something of an architectural historian – though only in an amateur way, of course. And that reminds me, I would very much like to go up into the tower.’

  At that moment Dr Sisterson looked towards m
e and smiled, indicating with a gesture that he would join me in a moment.

  ‘Why, I’m very sorry, sir,’ the old verger replied. ‘But that’s quite without my power. I don’t even have a key to that door. Nobody is allowed up there – by order of the Dean and Chapter. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ I said. After all, I reflected, the spire had been in a perilous condition two hundred years ago and might well be unsafe now.

  Dr Sisterson came over and greeted me. ‘This is a worrying business,’ he said but even in this moment of crisis a pleasant smile still hovered on his face.

  I wrinkled up my nose: ‘And the smell!’

  ‘Its source is a complete mystery. I dread to think what Bulmer will say when he returns tomorrow. He has a sharp tongue at the best of times.’

  I held the bundle of manuscript towards him. ‘I am glad at least of this chance meeting which gives me the opportunity to return this to you.’

  ‘You have read it already?’

  ‘Every word. And I would love to talk about it and hear your opinion.’

  ‘Alas, I have myself not yet had time to read it! But that only makes me the more eager to discuss it with you and find out what Dr Sheldrick believes is the truth about several mysterious episodes in that period of the Cathedral’s history. I know it’s late, but would you care to come to my house and talk about it over a glass of wine?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of intruding at this hour. Your wife would be most discommoded.’

  ‘On the contrary, I know she would be delighted to meet you. And she is entertaining her friend, Mrs Locard. They were as thick as thieves when I left them an hour ago. I am certain we will find them still conspiring together about baby-clothes and charitable missions to the sick.’

  I could no longer resist the invitation and followed him out of the building, relieved to escape the smell. Only a minute or two later we arrived at the house in the Upper Close. It was on the same side of the Close as Austin’s but considerably larger – double-fronted with bow-windows on the ground floor. And since it stood on the corner with the opening to the Lower Close, I reflected that in daylight it must have a delightful aspect overlooking the Green. Dr Sisterson ushered me into the drawing-room where I found his wife, a slim young woman, and the lady I knew to be Mrs Locard. Each of them was holding a small child on her lap, Mrs Sisterson a little boy and Mrs Locard a little girl. A somewhat older boy and girl were playing on the carpet.

  The introductions were made and Mrs Locard said: ‘My husband has spoken of you to me, Dr Courtine.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Sisterson said, jogging the child before her and gazing straight into its face. ‘I heard Dr Locard say to my husband that you hope to show him how to manage his Library. That must be very generous of you.’

  There was a silence. I saw that her husband’s face had turned quite scarlet with embarrassment. Mrs Locard saved us all by saying, as if nothing untoward had occurred: ‘My husband has mentioned your most interesting theory about a lost manuscript.’

  We talked about that for a few minutes and I was offered a cup of tea and, because his wife was encumbered, the young canon poured it for me himself. He explained that he had just met me in the Cathedral and when Mrs Locard asked if the problem there had been resolved, we had to admit that it had not.

  ‘I don’t ever recall so much excitement as in the last day or two,’ Mrs Sisterson exclaimed. She turned to her husband. ‘Is there any news about poor Dr Sheldrick?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ he answered. ‘Did you know, Dr Courtine, that the Chancellor was robbed yesterday evening?’

  ‘Good heavens! I had no idea. Did he not give a reception last night?’

  ‘That is so. In fact, when I met you in the Cathedral I had just come from there. It was shortly after I had returned to his house that the robbery was discovered.’

  ‘It was the Dean who discovered the crime, I believe,’ Mrs Locard said.

  ‘Indeed so. Dr Sheldrick took him into his library in order to show him a recent acquisition – he is an avid collector of fine old editions – and the Dean noticed that a secretaire on the other side of the room had been forced open.’

  ‘How unpleasant,’ Mrs Sisterson murmured vaguely, her attention taken up by the child on her knee.

  ‘Dr Sheldrick said that all that was missing was a package – about the size and thickness of a large book – containing a set of five miniatures and he did not want to make anything of it, but the Dean absolutely insisted that the police be summoned.’

  ‘Fancy not wishing to call the police!’ Mrs Sisterson remarked. ‘They must have been worth quite a lot of money.’

  Her husband smiled. ‘Remember that Dr Sheldrick has substantial private means, my dear. What is a great deal of money to us is a trifle to him.’ He turned to me. ‘He is related to one of the great ducal houses.’

  ‘As he never stops reminding us,’ his wife remarked, entirely without malice.

  I caught Mrs Locard’s eye and we both repressed a smile at this mixture of vulgarity and innocence.

  ‘Is it known when precisely the robbery was committed?’ I asked.

  ‘Dr Sheldrick told the police-officer that he had not noticed the secretaire for several days and that it might have been broken into at any time over that period,’ Dr Sisterson said. ‘But his housekeeper insisted that she had thoroughly inspected the room earlier that evening and that all was as normal.’

  ‘Is one of the servants suspected or is it thought that someone entered the house during the reception?’

  ‘Dr Sheldrick was adamant that none of the servants was responsible. They have all been with him for many years. And as the police-sergeant said, it was hard to see how anyone could have entered the house undetected while it was filled with guests and busy servants.’

  I laughed. ‘That leaves only the guests.’ Dr Sisterson glanced at Mrs Locard and I said quickly: ‘I was joking, of course. I imagine they were friends and colleagues of the Chancellor.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Locard. ‘All the guests were canons and functionaries of the Cathedral and their wives.’

  ‘Then,’ I said, ‘self-evidently, it’s not conceivable that any one of them would have done such a thing.’

  ‘No,’ Dr Sisterson said carefully. ‘It seems beyond credibility that one of them would have taken such a risk for a set of miniatures.’

  ‘It must have been a stranger,’ Mrs Locard said, ‘hard though it is to believe that an intruder could have escaped notice.’

  ‘It’s very mysterious,’ the Sacrist mused. ‘The Sergeant gathered all of us in the salon and asked if we had noticed anything or anyone suspicious. Of course, nobody had.’

  ‘Mr Appleton became quite angry, did he not, Frederick?’ Mrs Sisterson said, without looking up from the face of her child.

  ‘The Headmaster of the Choir School,’ her husband explained to me. ‘He became a little overheated and asked if the Sergeant were accusing one of us. He didn’t precisely deny it. And then Mr Slattery pointed out that it was self-evident that none of us was carrying anything as bulky as a package of miniatures.’

  ‘What a strange man he is, that Mr Slattery,’ Mrs Sisterson murmured comfortably, gazing into the child’s face and smiling. ‘He even offered to let the Sergeant search him.’

  Her husband nodded. ‘And he was perfectly correct. It was obvious that nobody had anything on their person that large.’

  ‘What an extraordinary story,’ I said.

  ‘Not as extraordinary as the history of Treasurer Burgoyne.’ Dr Sisterson laughed. ‘I’m very anxious to hear Dr Sheldrick’s account.’

  ‘I’m sure it holds little interest for the ladies,’ I demurred.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Mrs Locard said. ‘I am extremely curious. And, after all, Christmas is a time for telling tales round the fire.’

  Mrs Sisterson lent her mild support and so when the older children had been collected by a young servant and taken off t
o bed and with the two youngest sleeping in the arms of their mother and Mrs Locard, I embarked on a summary of the Chapter I had read earlier that evening.

  Holding Dr Sheldrick’s manuscript on my knee so that I could refresh my memory from it, I began: ‘This is the story of how the enmity between a canon of aristocratic birth and a man of humble origins led both men to their destruction. Canon-Treasurer Burgoyne was killed, according to Dr Sheldrick, because he was about to make public a hidden offence of great gravity. He met his end during the Great Storm which is still remembered since it was on that night that the Bell Tower above the main gate to the Close fell – though miraculously nobody was killed in that incident.’

  ‘That’s true, if I may interrupt for just a moment,’ said Dr Sisterson. ‘But the storm led to the collapse of part of another building in the Upper Close and that did unfortunately cause a fatality. Does Dr Sheldrick mention that?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Please continue.’

  ‘William Burgoyne is one of the great figures in the history of the Cathedral. He became Canon-Treasurer at the age of thirty-three and while it was probably his scholarship and family connections that had led to his being instituted to a prebend’s stall at such an early age, it was certainly his intelligence and strength of will which, during the next ten years, made him the most powerful figure in the Chapter. He was a brilliant man whose abilities showed themselves not merely in his scholarship – he had taught Greek, Hebrew and Syriac at Cambridge – but practically and politically as well. He was also a proud, ambitious and stubborn individual with a strong sense of the dignity owed to his family and to himself. As a result he was soon disliked – even hated – by the many people in the little world of the Cathedral whom he had injured either by his sharp tongue or by the rigour with which he carried out his duties. Yet even his enemies found it difficult to charge him with dishonourable conduct – he was too proud, they said, to stoop to that.