The Ely Testament (2 page)

‘I've travelled with no purpose at all apart from wanting to get away from this narrow, tight little island of ours called Britain. You can't get much further away in either miles or spirit than the Far East. I have seen the world or a good part of it – as well as some pretty bad parts of it. Now I'm ready to return.'

‘What will you do?'

Mute did not ask the question out of mere curiosity. For all Tomlinson's ‘burnished' complexion and his air of self-sufficiency, the man looked down at heel. He still had a strong gaze and a determined, clean-shaven jaw, which he frequently stroked. Yet the years had been rougher to him than they'd been to Mute, who retained something of his youthful appearance and who spent more than he could really afford on smartish clothes. By contrast, Tomlinson's clothes were worn and frayed. That wasn't the only sign of decline. Earlier in their conversation, Tomlinson had taken out a hip flask in a very open manner and swallowed a hefty gulp. He referred to this as ‘just a nip on a sharp morning'. Mute raised his eyebrows but Tomlinson, used to a much hotter climate, said he found England cold and shivery even when the sun was out.

In addition to the frayed clothes and the hip flask, Mute noticed that Tomlinson had not given a direct answer to his remark about ‘finding a fortune'. If Tomlinson had not prospered abroad – and his appearance suggested he hadn't, not at all – then perhaps he was returning to see what he might lay his hands on here. From the moment his old friend strolled into his office, the columnist for
Funereal Matters
was gripped by the anxiety that he might have come to ask him, Mute, for help in obtaining a post. There were no openings on this periodical, he was prepared to say, with regret.

‘I'll make my way,' said Tomlinson. ‘Don't you worry about
me
. I'll most likely be returning to Cambridge. I have family there, as you may remember.'

Mute nodded, quite relieved that Tomlinson was not planning to stay in London. And he did remember the man's links to Cambridge. It was one of the things which made Tomlinson's behaviour at college the more disgraceful, that he wasn't an outsider but came from a notable Cambridge family.

‘Will you be . . .?' he began.

‘Welcome? I believe so, Mute. In fact I know so. Quite a few years have passed since the incident. Letters have been exchanged, familial letters. On my side I have hinted that a black sheep may convert its fleece into a snowy white. On theirs, they have suggested that the prodigal could be greeted with open arms. Or at least not with closed ones. In particular, there is a cousin whom I remembered as a rather pretty young thing and who always had something of a partiality for me. She is married to some old fellow now and lives near Ely. I am glad to say that, on the basis of a single visit, she still has a partiality for me.'

‘So you will be going there frequently?'

‘There are other reasons for visiting beside the presence of my pretty cousin. I have come into possession of an intriguing document.'

‘Yes?'

‘A document containing information which may lead to the fortune you mentioned.'

‘A metaphorical fortune?'

‘Oh no,' said Tomlinson, glancing towards the door which separated the cubbyhole from the editor's room and speaking lower as if afraid of being overheard. ‘I believe it is as tangible as . . . as that doorknob there.'

‘We are talking money?'

‘We are talking of an item which may easily be converted into money, and a great deal of it.'

Was Tomlinson teasing his old college friend, as he so often used to do? Mute did his best to appear uninterested. Then it occurred to him that this was not a very intelligent response. Anybody would be interested in laying hands on a fortune, and to pretend otherwise was in itself suspicious. Certainly, he wouldn't object to a fortune himself. Mute's position as a columnist for
Funereal Matters
was secure but it did not pay a great deal, and although he had some resources he would, in the near future, require funds for an enterprise he was presently engaged on.

So, after a moment's thought, Mute made no attempt to hide the eagerness which he genuinely felt.

‘Feel free to say more about that fortune of yours,' he said.

‘I am free to say what I like, but what if I don't want to say anything?'

Suit yourself, thought Mute. I don't believe in your fortune now. But there was something in Tomlinson's look, an assurance, even a smugness, that caused the journalist to reconsider almost immediately.

It may be that Tomlinson sensed this for he continued, ‘There is one thing though . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘I am looking for investors in this fortune-to-be. Would
you
like to be one of them, Mute? It would be to your undoubted advantage, but I also speak as a friend.'

The appeal touched Mute, not so much the mention of friendship but the idea that Tomlinson might be dependent on him. Was it possible his old friend really was on the track of a fortune? The man on the other side of the desk grasped his moment.

‘Suppose you could see your way to investing, say, twenty pounds in my enterprise now, it would be returned a hundredfold – a thousandfold – when the time comes.'

‘I can give you ten pounds,' said Mute promptly.

‘You are
investing
, not giving. Twenty pounds would be better but ten is an improvement on nothing. I speak as a friend.'

So Mute passed over the ten pounds, a single five-pound note and five sovereigns. He could afford it, just about. But he handed it over in a lordly style as if to say, there's plenty more where that comes from. Tomlinson made the money disappear with the dexterity of a magician performing a sleight of hand. He didn't even glance at the cash, or thank Mute, but merely said, ‘A wise decision, if I may say.'

Then he unbent his lanky frame from the small chair on the other side of the desk. When he was standing he took out his hip flask once more and took another swallow.

‘To fortify myself against the rigours of the English spring,' he said. ‘Well, I have other business to attend to, my dear . . . Mute. It really has been a pleasure to see you again after these many years. I hope it will not be long before we meet again.'

‘I hope not too,' said Mute, rising from his seat. ‘Let me accompany you part of the way.'

Tomlinson picked up his top hat and brushed at some imaginary speck on his frockcoat. He had the bearing and manner of a gentleman, thought Mute, but his clothes did let him down. Using a door which issued directly on a passageway, the two left Mute's office and went down a narrow flight of stairs and so out into the close air of Dunstan's Alley. Together they strolled towards Eastcheap. Perhaps Mute wanted to see in which direction Tomlinson was heading. Or perhaps he hoped the other man would let slip something more about the mysterious document and the fortune it was supposed to signify. But he did not.

When they were near the Monument to the Great Fire, Tomlinson asked whether he'd ever been to the top of the column. Mute said he had, once, but had no intention of climbing those hundreds of steps again. So when Tomlinson suddenly announced that he was going to nip up the tower – in order to get the measure of London once more, he claimed – Mute was fairly sure it was a means of getting rid of him. His mild irritation was compounded when Tomlinson remarked that he ought to be getting back to his desk at
Funereal Matters
, back to his paper column while Tomlinson climbed a real column. Tomlinson laughed at his own joke, an irritating high-pitched laugh. So far, so witty, but then Tomlinson compared his old friend to a galley-slave who'd slipped his fetters for a moment. No doubt, the comment was (quite) humorously intended but Mute prided himself on his independent, freelancing spirit, and the words were unexpectedly hurtful. Particularly so when Mute thought of the ten pounds which he'd recently handed over. He'd lose face by asking for it back. Besides, he wasn't sure that Tomlinson would give it to him.

They shook hands but Mute looked daggers at Tomlinson's retreating back as he walked towards the base of the Monument. The only thing that pleased him was the threadbare quality of Tomlinson's coat. As for the talk of intriguing documents and fortunes that could be converted into cash, he was more inclined now to think of it as flimflam. That's all. Wasn't it?

A Death at Scott, Lye & Mackenzie

M
r Alexander Lye did not often visit the law firm which bore his name as one of the partners. When he did turn up at the office in Furnival Street near Holborn, it was usually to scrawl his signature at the bottom of some document, nothing else. The more junior and less charitable members of the firm wondered whether he knew what he was signing, since he seemed so old and doddery.

Tom Ansell, who'd been with the firm for not much more than a year, might have gone along with the prevailing opinion of Mr Lye had he not endured a brief bout of questioning from the old man. They met outside the aged partner's door one morning as Tom was returning from consulting Mr Ashley, the senior clerk, something he did quite frequently in his early days with the firm of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie. No sooner had Mr Lye emerged and closed his door behind him with a withered, claw-like hand than he was shaken by a violent fit of sneezing.

Tom stood there, clutching a wad of documents to his chest, and giving the old man time to recover. He had spoken to Alexander Lye on a single previous occasion, and despite having been introduced by the other senior partner in the firm, he was unsure whether Lye realized who he was at the time. Certainly he did not expect to be recognized again.

Now Mr Lye straightened himself and dabbed at his streaming eyes with a dirty-looking handkerchief. Judging the moment – enough to show concern but not enough to be detained – Tom said briskly, ‘You're all right, I hope, sir.'

Lye raised his gaze. He had direct blue eyes, set in a nest of wrinkles. Despite the sneezing discomfort, there seemed to Tom to be some mischief in them. Lye's gaze narrowed slightly. He said, ‘You know, Mr Ansell, I sometimes believe that our real business is dust.'

Tom was so taken aback to be recognized that he did no more than repeat, ‘Dust, Mr Lye?'

‘All these documents, wills and bills, what are they but magnets for dust?' said Lye, nodding towards the bundle which Tom was clutching. ‘Then they turn to dust themselves. Which irritates the nostrils. But at least our documents outlast our clients, Mr Ansell.
They
turn to dust even sooner than their wills and stuff. The ultimate destination of paper and people and everything else –
dust
.'

Mr Lye spoke with relish. Tom nodded and made to go past him, thinking it was perhaps as well that the senior partner paid only occasional visits to the law office. But the old man continued to fix the younger one with his pale-blue stare and said, ‘Helen is well, I trust? You are looking after her, Mr Ansell? She deserves to be looked after.'

Helen was Tom's wife. They were not long married. He smiled at the mention of her. Really, he could not object to the personal nature of old Lye's question. Helen was the daughter of the (now deceased) other partner in the firm, Alfred Scott.

‘She's very well,' said Tom.

‘No announcements to make?'

This was probably code for: Is she expecting a child? Tom was used to hearing – or rather overhearing – such roundabout comments, particularly from Helen's mother as well as his own. It was one thing to be quizzed by mothers about happy events or loss of appetite or a gain in weight, but it was quite another to be peremptorily questioned by an old lawyer. So Tom said, ‘Announcements? Let me see. Helen has ambitions to be an author. She had a short story published in
Tinsley's Magazine
recently.'

‘Did she? Well, she was always a bookish sort of girl.'

Alexander Lye's tone suggested slight disapproval of girls who were bookish, let alone women who were writers. But babies must have been hanging in the air, for he then seemed to make another oblique reference to the subject by saying, ‘I hope your own affairs are in order, Mr Ansell, now that you are a family man. Your final dispositions and wills
et cetera
.'

‘Oh yes, quite in order,' said Tom.

‘You would be shocked at how many fellows, educated fellows at that, even educated fellows whose trade is the law . . .' Mr Lye paused and appeared to lose the thread of what he saying before picking it up again, but more feebly, ‘. . . you'd be shocked, I tell you.'

‘Shocked by what?'

‘At the fact that they do not take the time to put their affairs in order, of course. What do they go and do instead? They go off and die intestate. Highly irresponsible, you know. Consider the burden one is leaving for one's would-be heirs if one does not leave a will behind.'

‘Yes, Mr Lye.'

‘It doesn't matter how young you are. As soon as you have a bit of property, as soon as you have
extended
yourself into a family, look to your affairs. What do these young men think? That they are going to live for ever? Ha!'

The idea of living for ever caused Mr Lye genuine amusement. His face creased. He looked as though he was about to have another sneezing fit. Then he pulled himself together. ‘Well, my dear sir, I bid you good morning. I have business to attend to even if the rest of the world has not.'

He moved away down the passage with an odd motion, alternating between a shuffle and a lope. Tom didn't know what to make of him. Some of the legal dust which Lye had been talking about seemed to have settled down in the old man's brain. But his blue stare had been shrewd enough, and the comments about attending to one's affairs were well meant in a dull, lawyerly sort of way.

Two or three weeks went by before Tom Ansell saw Alexander Lye again. It was a beautiful morning in early October, with the sun bathing the windows of Furnival Street in a golden light and showing up an infinite quantity of dust motes inside the chambers of Scott, Lye & Mackenzie. The specks hovering in the sunlight caused Tom to think of Mr Lye and his remark about dust, the ultimate destination of everything.