The Ely Testament (16 page)

There was a sub-heading:
A Little Bird Tells Us
. . .

Below was this item:
We are reliably informed of a fresh advance in the field of security coffins. Warning devices such as bells and tubes are already familiar to our readers, although there is always room for the improvement and refinement that are an inseparable aspect of progress
.
But a certain gentleman has approached a well-known firm of London undertakers, which happens to trade under the name of a most appropriate tree, with a view to developing something quite novel
.

Without giving away too many secrets, this gentleman's device involves a familiar farmyard fowl, brightly painted so as to draw the attention of bystanders and capable of being rotated rapidly from underground. The installation of such avian devices in substantial numbers would not only add to the gaiety of the graveyard – if we may be permitted a paradoxical phrase – but also greatly enhance the likelihood of rescue for any poor unfortunate who is buried prematurely and awakes to find himself still alive beneath the sod
.

Cyrus Chase did not know where to begin. Here in cold print was a picture, accurate in every detail, of the coffin-cockerel which was his creation, and which he'd unwisely shown to Charles Tomlinson. The references in Mute's article to a ‘familiar farmyard fowl', to its bright colour, to the way it could be rapidly spun from underground, left Cyrus in no doubt that he had been betrayed by Tomlinson.

He was certain that Tomlinson must be the unnamed gentleman for the simple reason that the inventor had shown the cockerel to no one else. Had he been able to pick up all the detail he needed on that single visit? Or had he somehow got inside Cyrus' workshop for a second and closer look? It was precisely the kind of ungrateful and deceitful behaviour to be expected of a ‘gentleman' like Tomlinson. Cyrus was even able to identify the London firm approached by that treacherous individual. It could only be Willow & Son, described as the ‘well-known undertakers, which happens to trade under the name of a most appropriate tree'.

The fellow was a rogue and a blackguard.

He was a thief and a traitor, pretending an interest in Cyrus' work only in order to steal it.

The problem for Cyrus was that he had no legal recourse. The Chase coffin-cockerel was not yet patented. Indeed, there were a couple of refinements to it that he was considering before he applied to the Patent Office. He could write in protest to Willow & Son, he could even call at their London offices in person, and he vowed to do both those things. But he could not prove beyond dispute that the spinning bird was his own creation. If Tomlinson carried the affair off with enough impudence – and he would, he would – then
he
would get the fame and glory for all the ingenuity and labour of Cyrus Chase!

Cyrus became aware of a shooting pain in his hands. He looked down. He was clutching the copy of
Funereal Matters
so hard that he had almost reduced several pages to pulp. It required an effort to unclench his hands. He allowed the ruined periodical to drop to the floor and, breathing deeply and evenly, placed his hands on the arms of the chair.

The Chase cockerel wasn't the only thing, of course. There was Bella to be considered as well. Cyrus hoped to win back his wife's regard and affection through his invention of the coffin-bird. No longer would she be able to talk about his morbid occupation when she saw him respectfully referred to in the quality press or when manufacturers applied for the right to produce the Chase cockerel in quantity. The two might recapture the warmth that existed in the early days of their marriage when Bella would ruffle his hair as he was sitting down. Sometimes she would even sit on his lap and ruffle his hair.

Now the thought occurred to Cyrus that perhaps Bella had colluded with Charles Tomlinson in this whole business. The idea was a knife in his brain. He struggled to keep calm. Bella could not have shown Tomlinson the coffin device again since Cyrus kept the only key to the garden workshop on the chain in his pocket. Unless she had somehow managed to take a hasty impression of the key while he was off guard, while he was sleeping. It could be done. Even if she had not resorted to such duplicity, she might have encouraged Mr Tomlinson with words . . . and she might have done more than encourage him with words . . .

Cyrus recalled that moment after the dinner party the other night when he'd caught sight of the pair standing under the porch. Their heads close together in an intimate encounter. Exchanging compliments? Or plotting? Or talking about him, Cyrus? Laughing at him?

Did Bella know that Tomlinson had visited Willow & Son in London?

Was she in on his plans? He did not really believe his wife would be so unfaithful, so treacherous, and yet . . . Once doubt and suspicion appeared at the door, they didn't just tap gently, they beat it down. Where was Bella now, for example? She'd said she was going to Cambridge to do some shopping. Perhaps that was true. She liked Cambridge, she liked shopping. But was she by herself? If not, in whose company was she?

Cyrus got up from his chair and retrieved the paper knife which he had used to slit the pages of the funeral magazine and which was lying on the carpet where it had tumbled from the table. He put a tentative forefinger to the tip. He rested the cushion of his thumb on the side of the blade. The knife was a short little thing but it was stout and it was sharp. Not much use having a blunt paper knife if one wanted to cut the pages of a book or a periodical, cut them cleanly and neatly.

Would the knife pierce someone's body, Cyrus wondered? Would it pierce Mr Charles Tomlinson's body, for example? If that blackguard wandered into the room at this instant and if he, Cyrus, rushed at him brandishing the paper knife and struck him at the right spot – say, here (Cyrus felt for the gap in the ribs that overlay his heart); or somewhere here (Cyrus prodded his belly) – would he manage to inflict a fatal wound or would he merely do some damage? On balance, Cyrus thought that aiming for the guts would be better than trying further up. There seemed to be too much bony armour around the heart. A knifepoint might easily be deflected in that area. The belly was a bigger, softer target. In either case, there would be blood. Blood over the carpet. Bella would not like that. No, it would be best not to carry out such an attack in the drawing room of one's house. Or anywhere in one's own house, come to that. Best to do it elsewhere.

Best not to do it all, a little voice whispered in his ear. You, Cyrus Chase, are not a killer; you are an inventor and a creator. But another voice was speaking more loudly in the other ear. It was saying, this Tomlinson man has cheated you, he has stolen from you the fruits of your labour and – perhaps – deprived you of your wife and helpmeet. The same voice said, murder is no more than he deserves.

Murder was also on the mind of the Reverend George Eames as he worked on his sermon for the next day. He was using the notes which he had prevented the foolish Hannah from consigning to the flames. After his earlier outburst of anger, he was surprised to find himself quite calm and level-headed. He sat at his desk, alternately writing a handful of sentences and then glancing up at the beech hedge at the end of the garden, across the graveyard and beyond that to the squat tower of the church.

George Eames was reflecting on a text from Ephesians:
Be ye angry and sin not
(Chapter 4, verse 26). This was not the text for the coming Sunday but he intended to allude to Ephesians anyway. It suited one of his purposes, which was to distinguish between two types of anger, the righteous and the ungodly. Thoughts of anger led George Eames to thoughts of violence, of death and murder. Not by coincidence, ever since he had caught a glimpse of a certain visitor to the parish of Upper Fen, images of violence and death were never far from his mind.

Now laying down his pen and gazing unseeingly out at the church, Eames mused on some of the more dramatic deaths in holy scripture. A killing such as that of Abel by Cain was beyond question a wicked crime. But there were other killings which could be called righteous. Jael, the wife of Heber, drove a tent-peg through the sleeping head of Sisera, enemy to the Israelites, and was applauded for the deed. Another fearless woman, Judith, beheaded the drunken Babylonian general, Holofernes, using his own sword and she was praised for her daring.

These images of decapitation floated through the mind of George Eames. He had no idea what Sisera or Holofernes looked like, although he visualized swarthy and bearded visages scarred by battle. But there was another head which, were Eames to permit himself such a bloodthirsty wish, he would have been glad to see similarly separated from its body. This was a clean-shaven head, possessing gaunt features and a prominent jaw. The individual to whom it belonged had once been a friend of George Eames. They had met when both were studying at the same Cambridge college.

They possessed different views of the world, Eames and his friend. One held that God created the world as the tale was told in Genesis, the other maintained that new theories were sweeping away that old story. The two argued fiercely, but Eames believed that such intellectual debate was proof of the elevated, disinterested quality of their friendship. There was nothing personal to it. He even derived a thrill from knowing someone with such unorthodox, dangerous opinions.

But then things got out of hand. Reasoned debate turned to impassioned argument before descending into slurs and insults. Not on Eames' side, or not so much. But the other man began to pursue him in a spirit that combined malevolence with mischief. He spread stories about Eames, formed a cabal against him. George Eames felt persecuted and, although he told himself that persecution was the fate of all true Christians, this was not much comfort for him.

The climax came when Eames' opponent did a terrible thing, performing an action that was both wounding and absurd. The college authorities had found out and been swift to send the culprit down. But by then the fellow had decided to quit Cambridge anyway – or so he claimed – and he avoided being formally rusticated. He was tired of the narrowness of the place, he said, he was weary of its provincialism. He wanted broader horizons. Eames had no clear idea what happened to him after that, although he heard that his one-time friend had not merely left the city but the country. He pretended that he did not care. He attempted to put the whole affair out of his mind, particularly that afternoon when he returned to his college rooms to discover . . .

Even now he did not want to recall it. And he had thought little of it in the intervening years. So it had come as an almighty surprise when he recently caught a glimpse of a man looking remarkably like Charles Tomlinson emerging from the front door of Phoenix House. Tomlinson looked older, inevitably, and more drawn in the face, but the years had not done much damage to him. Luckily, Eames himself had not been seen by Tomlinson, who was busy taking leave of Mrs Lye. The parson was on his way to call at the house but had time to take shelter behind some convenient shrubbery. He felt a fool for hiding like a child but his heart was beating fast and his face was hot with anger and embarrassment, suddenly rekindled after all these years.

A discreet question or two established that, yes, the stranger was indeed Mr Charles Tomlinson, lately returned from a period of extensive travelling in the Far East. A distant cousin to Mrs Lye, he was renewing his connection with her as well as meeting her husband for the first time. He'd made a number of visits to Phoenix House. It was Ernest himself who told all this to Eames. Something in Lye's tone of voice suggested that Tomlinson's reappearance wasn't altogether welcome, although Ernest referred to him as an ‘excellent fellow', one with a fund of exotic stories at his disposal. Of course, George Eames said nothing of his old friendship with Tomlinson nor of the shameful way in which it had terminated. He wasn't surprised that Charles was related to the Lyes, or at least to Lydia. The man had a knack for useful connections.

As far as he knew, Tomlinson was unaware that he, George Eames, ministered to the parish of Upper Fen. And that was how Eames preferred it. He might have deceived himself that he had risen above his anger at his old friend but the brief glimpse of Tomlinson outside Phoenix House showed he had not. He feared coming face to face with Tomlinson again. He feared too that Tomlinson would find out that his progress so far in life had taken him no further than a perpetual curacy in the obscure parish of Upper Fen. At least there was no risk of his attending a service in the church!

George Eames turned again to his sermon for the next day. He contemplated the different species of anger. He thought of God's wrath and how it should be visited on the unrighteous. He thought of Charles Tomlinson.

A Former Admirer of Charles Tomlinson

T
he Reverend George Eames and Ernest Lye and Cyrus Chase were not the only ones with reasons to hate or fear Charles Tomlinson or, more simply, to be wary of him. There were others. Among them was Chase's wife. At this moment, while Cyrus was flinging down his copy of
Funereal Matters
and doubting Bella and even suspecting that his wife might have invented a story about going shopping in Cambridge, Bella Chase was actually doing what she said she would be doing. That is, she was walking the streets of Cambridge and looking in shop windows, even though she was not in the mood for buying.

Nevertheless, her husband's suspicions about her and Tomlinson were partly true. She had not revealed any of his trade secrets to Tomlinson. Nor had she taken a hasty impression of the padlock key which Cyrus kept on his chain. Tomlinson had actually managed to take an impression of the key on that earlier visit to Cyrus' workshop, returning the inventor's key after pretending he'd found it on the ground.

No, Bella would not have betrayed Cyrus by passing on his pitiful and morbid attempts at invention. The question was whether she would have betrayed him in other ways. From the moment of first meeting Mr Charles Tomlinson in the summer of this year – how long ago that seemed! – she had been very taken by this mysterious gentleman. It was as if a glowing new planet had appeared in the wide skies over Ely. She understood that Cyrus had encountered Mr Tomlinson in the Lion Hotel in the town where the two swiftly struck up an acquaintance which was partly based on Tomlinson's curiosity about burial customs. Bella didn't object to that aspect of Tomlinson. Instead, it was evidence of the breadth of his interests, his
worldliness
. The stranger's interest in death was exotic; her husband's was little more than gloomy.