The Ely Testament (11 page)

‘Go on.'

‘The main thing is this,' said the spy. ‘I overheard their plans for tomorrow.'

‘You have done well.'

‘Mrs Ansell is to be escorted round the town by this Mr Jubb. She's to see the sights. While Mr Ansell, he said that he had to go to Ely on his firm's business.'

‘Ah yes. So husband and wife will be separated for a time?'

‘It appears so.'

‘You have done remarkably well. And you left them . . . ?'

‘Tucked up snug in the Devereux. I don't suppose they'll stir again on a chill evening like this. I would not stir. Not if I was married to a woman like Mrs Ansell.'

‘You think she is attractive?'

‘Most attractive. And refined too. Can I ask you one thing?'

‘You can ask.'

‘You don't mean them any harm, do you? Mr and Mrs Ansell?'

‘No harm at all. Yes, it is chilly,' said the other man, changing the subject. ‘I am forgetting my duties as a host. Would you like a nip of something to ward off the cold and damp of the fens?'

‘Very well.'

‘Let us have something together then. To toast your success as a spy.'

The Man in the Moon

A
s they'd arranged, Mr John Jubb called on Helen Ansell at the Devereux on the Saturday morning shortly after Tom departed for Ely. The lawyers' clerk was full of good humour and information. He enjoyed being in Helen's company, and she had quite taken to him and was prepared to be shown around the town, although she had to slow her usual walking style to fit with his pace. The sun sparkled on stone facades and brick walls which had been dull and blockish in yesterday's gloom. With pride, Mr Jubb pointed out Peterhouse as the oldest of the colleges, and the Great Gate of Trinity with its alcoved statue of Henry the Eighth, and the covered bridge over the river Cam which had been much admired by the present Queen – who called it pretty and picturesque – and which was modelled on that one in Venice whose name for a moment escaped him . . .

‘I believe it's called the Bridge of Sighs,' said Helen.

‘That's it, Mrs Ansell. It was on the tip of my tongue.'

And by the time these and a few other sights had been admired, Mr Jubb was running out of energy and puff and suggested they stop at a coffee house. He took Helen to a place which was most suitable for ladies, he said, neither flyblown nor frequented by the lower type of person. Above all, it sold a refreshing mocha, untainted by chicory or horsebeans. The inside of Morris's was almost as neat and bright as its gold-lettered and freshly painted exterior. The attendants greeted Mr Jubb like an old friend as well as a good customer and showed him and Helen to a stall near the back from where they had a clear view of the room. Judging by the number of people there, this was a popular place to chat or to read newspapers and periodicals.

Once they had been served their coffee, Mr Jubb relaxed and tucked his small legs beneath the seat while Helen took out her notebook and pencil to scribble down a couple of points.

‘For your article, Miss Ansell?'

‘I find that I forget things if I don't note them down. But two or three words are usually enough to bring it back.'

‘Like a painter's sketches, I believe. I am full of admiration that you are so professional. Quite the modern lady.'

It had occurred to Helen that anyone seeing them together might wonder at their connection. Father and daughter? The difference in years was about right. Oddly, Helen didn't object to the idea, perhaps because her actual father had been a very distinct figure from John Jubb. Where the clerk was rotund, chatty and cheerful, Alfred Scott had been tall, silent and dour. And it turned out, as Mr Jubb chattered on, that the clerk was a widower but did indeed have a married daughter of about Helen's age. She lived all the way up in Yorkshire so Mr Jubb did not see her or his son-in-law or his grandchildren very often.

While Helen was half listening to all of this and enjoying her coffee and attempting to marshal her early impressions of Cambridge, her eye was caught by a well-dressed individual slouching in a chair close by. He was a pale-faced young man wearing spectacles whose lenses were tinged a light violet. He had long, lank hair which he tugged abstractedly with the fingers of one hand. With the other he was turning the pages of a magazine, reading it with furrowed attention. Parts of it he evidently didn't like, because from time to time he tutted or shook his head slightly.

Whenever Helen saw anyone reading a book or a periodical in public, she was curious to know what it was. In this case, it was easy to find out since the man was balancing the magazine on his cocked knee so that the cover was clearly visible. It featured a simple line drawing – slightly oriental in style – of a bare-branched tree with a sliver of moon rising beyond it. And the title
The New Moon
, also rendered with a faint Eastern flourish, appeared in large capitals to one side of the tree.

For a moment Helen was undecided what to do, then she startled Mr Jubb by suddenly getting up from the table and approaching the young man. Jubb overheard and saw the following.

‘If you'll excuse me for interrupting you . . .'

The young man stopped tugging at his hair and looked up, peering through his violet spectacles.

‘Of course.'

Helen hesitated before saying, ‘I couldn't help noticing the title of the magazine that you are reading.
The New Moon
, isn't it? I wondered where I might obtain a copy.'

‘I fear any such quest will be fruitless, madam. This is a printer's proof. You are welcome to have a look at it, but I suspect that you will find the contents are somewhat repetitive in style.'

He rose to his feet and held out the magazine. Helen took it and examined the moon-and-tree cover before leafing through a few pages, enough to glimpse a mixture of prose and poetry. She gave it back to the bespectacled man. By now, he had taken Helen in, taken in her attractiveness, her inexplicable interest in
The New Moon
. She didn't have to ask anything further, he was only too happy to explain.

‘As I say, this is a proof of the magazine. Probably not as it will actually appear when it is offered in the booksellers and the station stalls but a simulacrum of how it might look. The thing is done only to give a general impression to the sponsors and subscribers.'

‘And called
The New Moon
because it is to be a monthly?'

‘Yes. Not too obvious a title, I hope. I do abhor the obvious.'

‘Obvious or not, I like the name,' said Helen.

‘I ought to add that the items within these covers are similar because most of them were written by the same person.'

‘But you did not altogether approve of what you were reading? I saw you shaking your head occasionally.'

‘It is one of my maxims that the truly creative man is his own best critic.'

‘And I am looking at such a creator-critic?' said Helen.

‘Arthur Arnett at your service,' said the man, extending his hand. ‘A creator, a critic of the self as one should be – and editor of
The New Moon
. I'm the man in the moon, you might say.'

Helen had already realized who he was. Even so, she was a little flustered by Arnett's announcement although she managed to conceal it, more or less, by laughing at his witticism. She glanced back at John Jubb who was gazing at them both with a puzzled expression.

‘We are already in correspondence, Mr Arnett. We've exchanged letters. I am Mrs Ansell, Helen Ansell. I had the advantage of you once I saw the name of your magazine. You have been kind enough to commission a piece of writing from me.'

‘Yes, yes. A portrait of Cambridge and Ely. Mrs Ansell! Of course! Well, this is a most extraordinary thing, such a coincidence, such a coincidence. And now, Mrs Ansell, you are come here in search of your material together with this gentleman . . . with your husband perhaps?'

‘That's right. I am in search of material. But no, this is not my husband. He is a . . . a friend of my husband's. Mr Jubb lives in Cambridge. He is sacrificing his free time to show me the city.'

‘I am sure he regards it as a pleasure and no sacrifice.'

By this time John Jubb had joined them. Arthur Arnett put out his hand once more and introduced himself before saying, ‘You are fortunate to be a denizen of this beautiful city, sir, and to be in the company of a lady whom even the most envious could only regard as its match in fairness.'

‘I think so,' said the clerk after a slight hesitation.

‘We should always strive to surround ourselves with beautiful things. Only in the contemplation of the beautiful is the soul fed and the spirit nourished.'

‘No doubt,' said John Jubb.

‘I shall not detain you any longer,' said Arthur Arnett. ‘For all of us
tempus fugit
– time flies, you know – although for some it flutters on vanes of gold while for others it sinks down with wings that are shot through with lead. Enjoy your tour of the town. And, Mrs Ansell, I am looking forward, greatly looking forward, to receiving your piece for
The New Moon
.'

They watched as he retrieved his hat and stick and made his way to the door of the coffee house. John Jubb turned to Helen. For once Mr Jubb did not say anything though his eyebrows rose a fraction in query. Helen did not know what to make of Mr Arthur Arnett either. The gentleman's flowery style was appropriate for someone who styled himself a creator, critic and editor, she supposed. At the same time there was something a little ridiculous about his talk of the fluttering wings of time and the rest of it. Only later did it occur to her to wonder what he was doing in Cambridge.

When Helen was setting off to look round the sights of Cambridge, Tom Ansell was taking the train to Ely to make his visit to Ernest Lye at Phoenix House, in quest of the missing will. He wondered whether Mackenzie and Ashley had yet started their search of Alexander's den in the Regent's Park house. Tom had no expectation he'd find the missing testament. In fact he doubted that the senior partner had ever drawn one up. He remembered the flash of mischief in old Lye's blue eyes. Also, there was something satisfyingly perverse – as well as almost inevitable – about a legal man who advised others to keep their affairs in order while neglecting his own.

The railway journey from Cambridge to Ely did not take long. Tom looked out of the smeared compartment window at the sun glittering on the black earth and on pools and channels of water. He still felt a little uneasy after the events of yesterday, the near-accident at Liverpool Street Station and then the strange note delivered to the hotel and bearing a torn-out quotation from
Macbeth
.

Even though it was a Saturday morning the platforms at Ely were busy since the station was a junction for destinations to the north and south as well as for travellers on their way from Manchester and Birmingham to the east-coast packet-boats. Tom squeezed his way through the crowded ticket-hall and, as instructed, went to wait under the colonnaded entrance. Ernest Lye had said he would be met and now a two-wheeled dog cart drew up. A lad with wide-set eyes beneath a cap said, ‘Mr Ansell, is it?'

Tom clambered aboard and sat with his back to the driver, who swung the carriage out of the area in front of the station. They trotted through some streets of well set-up houses, then more slowly up a gently slanting road to reach the older part of Ely. They went by a church with a short spire and after that the cathedral itself. The young driver said something and gestured with his whip. Tom assumed he was pointing out the facade and the great west tower. But, no, he was indicating an object on the green which fronted the cathedral. As they passed, Tom glimpsed a cannon mounted on the grass and pointing in their direction.

‘That's from the Rooshian War,' said the lad over his shoulder. ‘From the Crimea. It's an enemy gun. We won it from the Rooshians, and the Queen, she gave it to us.'

Tom paid more attention. His father had died on the way to the Crimea. He craned his head forward but by now his view of the cannon was obscured by houses. The cathedral could not be obscured, however. The only way to ignore it would be to look in another direction altogether. Otherwise, whether seen out of the corner of the eye or full-face, the great west tower and the central many-sided tower were dominant, an effect emphasized by the level landscape that began to unroll as they left the outskirts of the town.

They were riding along a slightly elevated way between fields, some of peaty, broken earth, some with a dark-leafed crop that Tom couldn't identify. The town of Ely slowly shrunk to his backward-facing gaze until only the bulk of the cathedral remained. Lines of willows and poplars fringed the fields, interrupted by the occasional hut or meagre dwelling. There was the sense of water everywhere, either dazzlingly visible in the pools and channels beneath the slanting sun, or lying very close underground, or waiting just beyond a horizon that lay straight as a ruler.

Tom had never seen anywhere so open and clear. Turning forward, he could see no sign of their destination, yet Phoenix House was supposed to be only a couple of miles from Ely. He wondered what it would be like to live in the remotest places in these fenlands, with the sky for company. It was exposed on top of the dog cart and he was glad to be swathed in coat, muffler and hat. By contrast, the lad who was driving wore no more than a shirt and tattered waistcoat and breeches. The driver muttered some words that Tom didn't catch. He asked him to repeat what he said.

‘I seen him the other night.'

‘Seen who?'

Tom had to raise his voice above the rumble of the cart and the thump of the horse's hooves. The driver shook his head. ‘Don't ask me. But I seen him in all his pomp and finery.'

Tom might have dismissed the words as meaningless or, rather, as having meaning for the boy but of no significance to him. Then the boy took his gaze off the track and looked round so that his face was screwed in towards his passenger's. He grasped Tom's arm where it lay on the top of the seat. There was a strange, fixed look in his eyes, which were very dark brown, almost the colour of the peaty soil that lay all about. His mouth was set in a grimace.