The Ely Testament (33 page)

‘Run!' she mouthed.

But Loyer fumbled at the locket about his neck and pressed something into her hand.

‘Take it,' he said. ‘The King gave it to me but I have no use for it now.'

He slipped through the door, cloak flapping behind him, hat on head. Mary stumbled down the stairs. By this time the other soldiers were alerted and they set off in pursuit of Loyer. The fugitive was making for the church, or the outline of its tower on this fading summer evening. He scrambled over the drystone wall into the churchyard. But another group of armed men, by now familiar with the lay of the land, had circled round and were ready to intercept him by the church gate.

Loyer hesitated and turned back. Too late. He was encircled by the men. It was the lank-haired Trafford who finally cut him down, stabbing at him repeatedly with a pike. Loyer staggered away, hoping for sanctuary in the church, but the whole band entered St Ethelwine's and finished him off on that sacred ground. Anne and Mary stood, petrified with horror, watching the spectacle. Behind them smoke issued from their home.

The Murderer's Story, Part Three (Monday, 20th October)

E
arly on the afternoon of his death, Eric Fort called on Mute in his little rented house in the little side street in Cambridge. At this point Fort had no idea of Tomlinson's fate. The last time he'd seen that gentleman was in the St Ethelwine's crypt, from which Tomlinson emerged dusty, frustrated and empty-handed. Then the undertaker's man underwent his change of heart during the long night in the crypt before making his ‘confession' to George Eames. Now he was fulfilling his obligations towards Mute. He was doing so with reluctance because the only report he was bringing was of a failed search.

As we know, the columnist for
Funereal Matters
, growing tired of waiting for Fort to bring him news on the previous day, had gone off to see (and murder) Tomlinson for himself. So he was already aware that the search of the crypt had been fruitless. But, after committing his first murder, Mute got hold of the so-called Ely testament from Tomlinson's room in the Lion Hotel. The little leather-bound volume was in the drawer of the table. He had also picked up from the floor where the drunken Tomlinson had dropped it the padlock key to Chase's workshop. He wasn't sure why he'd taken the key. Perhaps he was curious to see for himself the coffin-bird to which he had made reference in one of his columns.

Eric Fort was relieved that Mute was not angry or particularly despondent over the news that Tomlinson retrieved nothing from the crypt. It was almost, he thought, as if the other man already had the information. Encouraged, he raised the subject of payment.

‘What for?' said Mute. ‘You haven't brought me any good news.'

‘Don't you want me to go on keeping an eye on Mr and Mrs Ansell?'

‘That won't be necessary.'

‘The fact is,' said Fort, ‘I am in need of a little cash and cannot wait.'

‘Then go and see my uncle, as they say. You must have something to put in pawn.'

Sensing he would get no further on the money front, Fort explained to Mute that he was resolved to live a better life in future and that he really wanted nothing more to do with Tomlinson. He also meant that he wanted nothing more to do with Mute, though he didn't quite have the nerve to say this to the man's face.

‘I don't think you will be having anything more to do with Charles Tomlinson.'

‘Has something occurred?'

‘No, no,' said Mute quickly. ‘Not that I am aware of.'

‘I have received a request from our London friends at Willow & Son,' said Fort. ‘They have asked me to visit a Mr Chase in Prickwillow Road in Ely. He has made a complaint that involves our mutual friend, Tomlinson. It seems that I cannot get away from the man.'

‘Is the complaint to do with a mechanical bird and a security coffin?'

‘Why, yes, it is. You are a veritable mind-reader.'

‘I am familiar with the situation, Mr Fort.'

‘Are you sure that nothing's happened to Mr Tomlinson?'

‘Would you be sorry if it had?'

‘Not altogether.'

‘Well then, we can rest easy.'

The two men were silent for a moment. They were sitting in the shadows in the front room of the little terraced house. The curtains were drawn so that only a narrow gap was left in the middle. This was not to ward off the sun or to protect the meagre furniture – it was overcast – but because in his present mood Mute apparently preferred the gloom. It was cold inside the room as well. It seemed to Fort that there was something different about Mute. He wondered whether, like himself, the other had experienced some sort of change of heart. If so, it might not be a change of heart for the better.

Fort was no fool. He was aware that something undesirable had probably happened and that it involved Charles Tomlinson. At once, he wanted to get away from Mute. He stood up.

‘Where do you think you are going?'

‘I told you. I am going to Ely to see this man Chase and to hear from him the exact nature of his complaint.'

‘I'll say goodbye to you then.'

Mute accompanied him into the narrow hallway. He picked up his stick from the hallstand as if he was intending to go outside with Fort. He toyed with the ivory handle and seemed about

to say something further but, in the end, he simply stood aside to allow Fort to open the front door and go.

Once Eric Fort had gone, Mute remained in the hall. Several times he twisted the handle of the flick stick and, by the light that came through the smeared fanlight, observed the satisfyingly prompt emergence of the spike. It was soundless and deadly, a beautiful mechanism, as the Hanover Street swordsmith had promised him. It amazed Mute that less than twenty-four hours previously the spike had helped in the killing of a man. The spike and the hip flask together. These facts amazed him but they did not frighten or oppress him.

Mute was not suffering from any pangs of conscience. When he finally returned to the little house on the previous evening, with the Ely testament in his pocket, he even had the appetite to prepare a small supper for himself. After eating, he slept soundly. He woke up at his usual time and it took a moment before it occurred to him that on the day before he had killed a man.

Now he was asking himself whether a second murder might be necessary. Putting on his hat and coat and tucking his stick under his arm, he left the house. There was only one direction Eric Fort could have gone in if he was heading for the railway station and, sure enough, when Mute reached the main road he saw the figure of the undertaker's man in the distance. Yet Fort did not turn right at the junction which led to the station but continued walking towards the centre of town.

Mute took care to stay at a distance. As they drew nearer the heart of Cambridge, the streets grew more crowded. At one point, Fort came to a stop outside a pawnbroker's and gazed fixedly at the window. Mute noted that he'd taken the advice to visit his uncle. He observed him from afar. Despite the gap separating them, and the passing people and traffic, he could sense the other man's reluctance and hesitation. Indeed, after a few moments, Eric Fort walked on without entering the pawnshop. Mute trailed him for another few hundred yards. They were in the older and grander area of the city now, among the great colleges with their noble chapels and spacious lawns. All at once Mute saw a woman he recognized on the other side of the street. She was walking with a man. He ducked into the lodge of the nearest college. He thought for an instant. Then he emerged, almost with a spring in his step. He practically ran across the road.

‘Mrs Ansell! Mrs Ansell!' he cried.

Introductions followed. He said, ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Ansell. You are a toiler in the snares of the law, I believe?'

Less than two hours later, Mute (or Arthur Arnett, to give him his full and proper name) was waiting on the platform of the Cambridge railway station. Like the Ansells, he was expecting the Ely train. He was at one end of the platform, his coat collar turned up and his top hat tilted down so as to conceal as much of his face as possible. He had removed the tinted spectacles which he wore as Arthur Arnett, editor – he liked the academic, slightly mysterious look that they provided – but which his eyes did not require. In addition, Mute must have found the imminent arrival of the Ely train a fascinating prospect for he kept his gaze turned away from the station buildings and down the track on which it was due to appear.

Meanwhile Tom and Helen Ansell and Eric Fort were talking together. Or rather Mrs Ansell and Fort were talking, and Mr Ansell was listening like a dutiful husband. The principal thing was that they were unaware of his presence, and therefore they were not asking themselves why he, Mute or Arthur Arnett, was about to board the same train. When the train came in, Mute climbed into the last carriage, a third-class one, while the other three got into a second-class nearer the front. He had deliberately chosen to ride third-class.

After meeting the Ansells on King's Parade, Mute had almost come to the decision not to murder Eric Fort. He changed his mind again when he happened to pass the coffee-house where he had talked with Mrs Ansell. Now he spotted the three of them inside – the Ansells and Eric Fort – in earnest conversation. At once he became afraid that Fort was somehow going to betray him, to reveal their mutual links with Tomlinson.

He determined to deal with the undertaker's man, and to deal with him very soon. He regretted not having got rid of him in the hallway of the little house, then realized that it would hardly have been prudent to quit a house which he was renting under his real name, and leave a corpse in his wake. Nor could he assail Fort while he was with the Ansells in the streets of Cambridge. At a discreet distance, he trailed the trio to the Cambridge station. The first problem lay in separating Eric Fort from the Ansells. Surely they were not all on their way to visit Mr Chase?

The problem was solved on their arrival at Ely when the young couple got into a cab without Fort. Mute, hanging back behind a column in the porticoed entrance to the station, could not be certain but thought that he heard Ansell tell the driver to go to the police-station. Eric Fort, meanwhile, set off on foot in the direction of the town centre. Mute knew where the undertaker's man was going, to call on Mr Chase in Prickwillow Road. It was fortunate that he was saving his pennies by not taking a cab.

A plan formed in Mute's head. Really, he was surprising himself with how quickly he was capable of forming plans under the pressure of events. He took a cab himself and was put down to the north of the cathedral. From there he walked rapidly to Prickwillow Road and found the house with
Mon Repos
engraved on the gatepost. The afternoon was dull and growing duller, and there was a glimmer of light from an upstairs room.

Mute unlatched the gate. Moving confidently, as if he had every right to be there, he walked towards the front door then veered off to one side. Soon he was dodging among the trees and shrubs of the back garden and then he was standing outside Cyrus Chase's workshop. He had the key that Tomlinson had dropped in the room at the Lion. He undid the padlock, opened the door, and swiftly inspected the interior. He noted Chase's security-coffin on the work table. Perfect, he thought.

The next twenty minutes passed with the smoothness of a dream, although they should have been a nightmare. Out into Prickwillow Road to intercept Eric Fort, who was by now tired and out of breath following his walk up from the station and who was, to say the least, surprised and perhaps alarmed to see Mute. Then round the side of the house and back again to Cyrus Chase's workshop – all the while unobserved! – on the pretext that the inventor would be arriving in a moment. The offer of Mute's hip flask, accepted. The manoeuvring of Fort's body into the coffin as the contents of the flask began to take effect, although when Fort started to struggle Mute had to keep him down by jabbing at him with his flick stick, a process which drew some blood. A deal of blood in fact.

The whole time Mute might have been interrupted but he scarcely considered that, just carried on with his job of finishing off Fort. Then at the end when Fort was twitching and his life almost departed, Mute heaved the coffin lid, with all its cumbersome apparatus of bell and bird, back into place.

Finally, out into Prickwillow Road once more. Mute thought he discerned, in the distance, Mr and Mrs Ansell walking together. The Ansells, joint contributors to
The New Moon
. He turned in the opposite direction, and soon passed a graveyard. With a professional eye, he noted the newness of the headstones and monuments and concluded that it must be a municipal cemetery, built in the last few years when the old churches could no longer accommodate the city dead. With another part of his mind, he thought, I've got away with it! Like a cuckoo laying an egg in another bird's nest, he had perpetrated a murder in another man's property, and done so without being observed, let alone apprehended. He laughed out loud then looked about as if fearful of being heard. Against the grey sky, the darker shape of the spire and belfry of the cemetery chapel stood out.

Mute asked himself whether he was going mad. He concluded not. The things he had done, the murders of Tomlinson and Fort, had been rational deeds, acts of self-preservation. Murders carried out with the aid of his trusty flick stick and his hip flask, among the contents of which was arsenic. Mute considered the use of arsenic as just the thing – almost à la mode, one might say. Arsenic was also easy for him to obtain since it was widely employed as one of the ingredients in embalming fluid. Those visits to Willow & Son had been productive in many ways.

It was true that with all this murdering, Arthur Arnett had wandered rather far away from his original plan, which was to share with Tomlinson the ‘treasure' he obtained from Upper Fen, to realize its cash value and to use the money to fund his magazine,
The New Moon
; the magazine which had been his ambition all the while he'd been working at the
Funereal Matters
office. But the straightforward need for cash had been warped by his growing detestation of Tomlinson, and his decision not to share in the fruits of his old friend's labours but to steal them from him. Then would-be theft had turned to actual murder. Or murders. And they had been less difficult than Mute might have believed.