The Ely Testament (14 page)

When Mrs Walters had shut the door, he sank into the armchair by the fire which, by now, was burning cheerfully. He flicked through the sheets of paper that he had saved from the flames. He sighed and replaced the notes on the floor. He struggled to hold back a wave of gloom that threatened to overwhelm him.

George Eames laboured over his sermons, organizing his material so that he proceeded from points of lesser significance to those of greater importance, but constantly keeping before the minds of the congregation the text about which he was preaching. He strove always to find the right phrase, the exact word, which would strengthen his – or rather, God's – argument. He wished to be both forceful and fluent, and believed that he sometimes came close to achieving that end. But Eames could not deceive himself that his congregation of tenant-farmers and field-labourers attended to his sermons with a tenth, or even a twentieth, of the care and devotion which he gave to composing them. When he looked down from the pulpit, it was often to see dull, uncomprehending expressions or sidelong glances. The only people who showed a real understanding and appreciation were, as one would expect, Mr and Mrs Lye from Phoenix House.

Now, as he stood up from the armchair, gathered the sermon notes and deposited them on his desk, he reflected that Hannah's indifference and ignorance were only too typical of the people of this place. The image of Hannah standing in front of him, dejected, the stray curl escaping from her cap, led him to the thought that was never far from his mind. What he needed to help him in his daily work was not a more capable maid or a less peremptory housekeeper. What he needed was a wife, a helpmeet.

He needed someone who would attend to the dozen little tasks that had to be attended to around the parsonage. Someone in whose presence he could rehearse his sermons, someone whose love and care for him would ease his pilgrimage through this troubled world. Someone – although he did not dwell for too long on this thought – to lie beside him at night and bring him comfort, spiritual, mental, and physical. Even someone who might bear his children.

Yes, a wife was definitely needed, as a wife was needed for every man who was well embarked on his fourth decade. But what sort of woman would be attracted to such a place as this? What did it have to offer? What did he, George Eames, the perpetual curate of St Ethelwine's in Upper Fen, have to give? Eames was not the son of a wealthy father. He did not come from a particularly prosperous family. He might, in time, obtain a better parish, true, but who knew when that time would come?

He walked upstairs, to check on the damp rooms which so exercised Mrs Walters. He heard her out. He nodded, in weary agreement that something had to be done. On the way downstairs he watched the Parrs leaving the churchyard. Eames decided to speak to Gabriel Parr about the leaking roof.

But this was not the only thought in the head of the Reverend George Eames. Nor was he solely occupied with ideas of a wife. There were other things on his mind. There was murder, for example.

Summer, 1645

Y
ou can come out now. They've gone.'

There was no response and for a moment Anne thought she must be mistaken. Yet she was convinced that there was someone lurking inside the little willow shelter, someone whose presence was connected to the soldiers and their searching.

‘They have gone,' she said in a firmer voice. ‘The soldiers have gone.'

A man emerged from the hide. He stood blinking in the sunlight. He was short, with a broad forehead, curled auburn hair and a pointed beard. There was a long diagonal gash on his cheek and blood on the cloak he wore. His right hand was wrapped about with a makeshift bandage. There was blood on that too.

‘How did you know I was here?' he said.

‘It is where I would come.'

‘You are a daughter of the house?'

Anne nodded.

‘Did they do much damage?'

‘They broke down part of a wall, they uncovered a place where a priest might have hidden once.'

‘It's not priests they're looking for.'

‘They . . . spoke roughly,' said Anne. She did not mention her fear when Trafford was in her and Mary's room.

‘You were lucky.'

‘I know,' said Anne.

‘What's your name?'

‘Anne. What's yours?'

The man seemed taken aback by the question. Or at least he did not answer it straightaway.

‘Loyer,' he said. Anne must have looked puzzled at this unusual name for he spelled it out. ‘L-O-Y-E-R. Mister – no, Monsieur Loyer if you require a title.'

Anne repeated the name and the man said, ‘Yes. You are a quick-witted girl and I expect you can work it out for yourself.'

‘You are French?' said Anne, not understanding what he meant.

This time the man did not answer the question but gazed at the path which snaked away among the willows. Anne didn't think that he sounded French but then she had no clear idea of what a French person might sound like.

‘I do not think you should stay here, Anne. You're bringing danger on yourself. The soldiers have gone, you say, but they may return and do more than break down a wall or indulge in some rough speaking. If they found you here in my company . . .'

‘You are wounded.'

‘It's nothing. Less than nothing, believe me.'

‘Wounded in the battle?'

‘How would you know about the battle . . .? I suppose you must have been told. No, young lady, these wounds, as you call them, were not sustained in battle. I was in the battle but I escaped unscathed from it. I got this little hurt from jumping out of a window in Market Harborough. The ground was further and harder than I expected.'

‘Now you are a fugitive,' said Anne, recalling the steward James' choice of word.

‘If you mean by that that I have run away in fear for my life, no, I have not. I am a fugitive on purpose. I am like the fox who shows himself every now and then to encourage the hounds.'

Again, Anne did not quite understand his meaning. Surely a fugitive, or a fox for that matter, would want to go undetected? For some reason, she felt apprehensive for this man. Beneath his cloak she had a glimpse of rich, brightly coloured fabrics. But there was a woebegone look to him. She thought of the hard-faced individuals whose boots had thudded through the manor that morning.

‘What are you going to do?'

‘I shall stay one more night, not in the house but here. Then I intend to make my way east, to the coast. To Lowestoft perhaps.'

‘That is a distance to travel, on foot, without company,' said Anne, who had never visited the coast. Was this Monsieur Loyer intending to return to France?

‘I have helpers.'

‘Like my mother and father?'

‘Do not ask. The less you know, the better for all of them. Forget everything except that I am on my way to – to Lowestoft – tomorrow. You may repeat that, if you please. But go now.'

‘I can bring food and drink from the house.'

‘No, no. Go now. In French if you prefer, va t'en!'

Anne walked up the slope away from the willow cabin. She was hardly conscious of her surroundings, the rustling trees, the high clouds, the house that had been invaded that morning. Instead she was thinking of the stranger and his manner. She was thinking of the name which he had supplied at her request, Loyer, Monsieur Loyer. It wasn't his real name, she was sure. Just as she was sure he was no Frenchman. She had an idea of who the mysterious, injured stranger might be, but the idea was so overwhelming, so disturbing that she tried to push it from her mind.

Mrs Lye

O
nce he'd got down from the dog cart and the lad had driven it round to the stable area, Tom stood in the drive and gazed at the front of Phoenix House. It was well proportioned but the stonework, even on a bright day, was dull and solid. The central section was set back slightly between two wings. There was a handsome, pillared portico over the front door but the whole place had a dilapidated feel. The double gates through which they had just driven were rusted open.

The front door under the portico opened. Ernest Lye emerged. Something about his way of walking reminded Tom of his brother, Alexander, but, oddly, he did not seem as energetic as the older man. They shook hands.

‘I saw you arrive from my library,' said Ernest, indicating a window in one of the wings. ‘Did you talk to the boy on the way over?'

‘He didn't seem willing to say much, one or two things only.'

‘He is a good enough lad but he lives in his own head.'

‘Thank you for inviting me to visit,' said Tom.

‘You are very welcome at Phoenix House.'

‘It's an odd name.'

‘Not odd at all if you know your ancient lore, Mr Ansell. That's L-O-R-E, not your sort of law.'

‘The phoenix was the only one of its kind, wasn't it? A legendary Arabian bird that burned itself up, only to rise from its own ashes.'

‘Just so. And with this house too. Parts of it were destroyed by fire. When it was rebuilt, it seemed natural to christen it Phoenix. The facade is early eighteenth century but the back quarters are much older.'

Ernest Lye ushered Tom through the door. A maid appeared and took Tom's coat and hat. They went across the large hall, which was crowded with paintings, and then to the right. Ernest showed Tom into a book-lined room, which smelled faintly of cigars. A fire was burning. There were sconces for candles as well as oil lamps about the room, but the light from outside was sufficiently strong for them to remain unlit. Tom, who was used to the gas-lit conveniences of town life, was suddenly reminded of the drawbacks of living in the country. He and Ernest Lye sat in armchairs on either side of the fire.

‘Mrs Lye was wondering whether your wife would be accompanying you,' said Ernest. ‘They were talking after my brother's funeral, and she was much taken with your lady. She invited Mrs Ansell to visit Phoenix.'

‘I'm afraid Helen has a previous engagement in Cambridge.'

‘Well, you must both of you come to Ely tomorrow,' said Ernest. ‘To be our guests at the Lion Hotel. I hope you are free for that?'

‘Thank you.'

‘In the meantime, I will leave you to get on with your search for my brother's will. Your needle in the haystack, your wild goose chase.'

‘You seem certain that I'll find nothing, Mr Lye.'

‘I told David Mackenzie that some years ago my brother sent a cache of family papers up here. They have remained undisturbed since, but I took a cursory look when I knew you were coming, and have not so far turned up anything resembling a will or testament. Perhaps you'll have better luck.'

‘Wouldn't Phoenix House be a natural place for your brother to store such a document, though? The family home?'

‘Not at all, Mr Ansell. You see, this place was not a family home for Alexander. Phoenix House came to my father through his second wife, my mother. She was a Stilwell, an old family in these parts. And from my father and mother the house came into my hands.'

‘I see,' said Tom, wondering why he hadn't known this before. And then wondering who could have told him anyway.

‘I am aware that Alexander's own papers were kept – or not kept – in a somewhat disordered state,' said Ernest, revealing that he must have had at least a glimpse of the Regent's Park study. ‘But every so often my brother was overcome by a fit of
organization
, as you might call it, and it was during one of those that he sent on this material to Phoenix House, since it related mostly to our father. There is not likely to be anything confidential there, however, and you are welcome to go through it.'

‘I am grateful for that,' said Tom. ‘We can't afford to leave any stone unturned.'

‘Exactly what David Mackenzie said. I understand how embarrassing it is that poor Alexander seems to have died intestate. And all of us have a duty to the dead to do our best for them.'

Ernest explained that the papers were stored in one of the upper rooms of the house. He and Tom left the library. In the hall they met Mrs Lye. She was accompanied by a tall gentleman with a prominent jaw. Introductions were made, although of course she had already encountered Tom at her brother-in-law's funeral. The gentleman with her in the hall was Mr Charles Tomlinson, her cousin. Tom rather thought Tomlinson might have been the man he'd seen walking down the road earlier.

It was Tom's first opportunity to take a close look at Lydia. She was quite tall – she had an inch or more on her husband – and striking, with a full mouth and a decided gaze. Her voice was low but still feminine. There was a slight physical similarity between the cousins, Mrs Lye and Mr Tomlinson.

‘How is your wife, Mr Ansell?' said Mrs Lye.

‘She is well, thank you.'

‘But she is not with you?'

‘No, she's in Cambridge, she has business there,' said Tom for the second time that morning.

‘Mr and Mrs Ansell have accepted an invitation to come to dinner tomorrow at the Lion,' said Ernest.

‘I am glad of it,' said Lydia. ‘I am most eager to renew my acquaintance with her.'

Tomlinson looked sharply at Lydia. As if to cover the moment, he said, ‘I have just been on a stroll through your fascinating village, Ernest. I met a fellow down the other end, a craftsman, who was busy carving a headstone. Also the sexton in this place.'

‘Gabriel Parr,' said Lydia.

‘I was curious to learn something of the burial conditions around here, the soil and so on. You know it is an interest of mine.'

This remark was directed at Ernest, who nodded. He did not seem inclined to have much talk with Tomlinson.