The Ely Testament (35 page)

His look was so fixed that the others turned to see what had caught his attention. It was nothing much, only a man coming through the lych-gate. But this individual was advancing with a peculiar reluctance as if summoned to his own funeral. It was Arthur Arnett, of course, the last of the little party out of Phoenix House. Somehow, and without apparently wishing it, Arnett was making himself the centre of attention and provoking everyone to look at him. Scattered among the gravestones and monuments were the brothers Parr and the boy Davey, the two women from the parsonage, Ernest and Lydia Lye and the Ansells, the Reverend George Eames and Inspector Stephen Francis. The latter said, ‘Good day to you, sir. And you might be . . .?'

‘Arthur!'

This was George Eames. Arnett's first name was not uttered cheerfully. The curate was speaking through clenched teeth. His formerly pale face was now suffused with a dull red. Arnett seemed surprised to see Eames but he spoke in an oddly placid way.

‘Why hello, George. What are you doing here?'

Arnett came to a halt a few yards from everyone. He waggled his stick slightly in greeting. Helen Ansell said to Tom in a whispered aside, ‘Of course, they must know each other. Mr Arnett said he was a university friend of Mr Tomlinson and that gentleman there was the victim of Tomlinson's prank at college. They are old friends.'

‘But not new friends,' whispered Tom. ‘Look at them.'

It was true. Eames was standing with his arms held out from his sides, his hands clenched. Arnett was trying to smile but failing. No one moved. Inspector Francis coughed to draw attention to his presence. He said, ‘I ask again, sir. Who are you?'

‘I am Arthur Arnett, editor of the forthcoming periodical
The New Moon
and the author of a column in a distinguished journal. You may have heard of it. You may even have heard of me, under the pseudonym which I employ to cloak my activities. It is appropriate that we are meeting in a graveyard since you are looking at Mute of
Funereal Matters
.'

Helen recalled the name of the journal being read by Cyrus Chase. But it seemed as though Arnett lacked for readers among the group.

‘Well, Mr Arnett, I can't say I'm familiar with your work though it sounds most interesting. I am Inspector Francis of the Isle of Ely Constabulary. It seems that you know Mr Eames?'

‘Yes,' said Eames, answering for the other man. ‘Arnett was a friend of mine once. He was a friend of Tomlinson too.'

‘Of Tomlinson? Were you, sir?'

‘I knew him, Inspector.'

‘And from your choice of the past tense, you are evidently aware that Mr Tomlinson is dead.'

Arnett looked mildly surprised, not so much at the fact of Tomlinson's death but perhaps that a police inspector should know there were such things as past tenses.

‘I have come to Upper Fen to offer my condolences to Mrs Lye there, as his cousin.'

‘That's true, Inspector,' said Lydia.

Tom glanced at Helen. Both could sense the tension in the air. Everyone was hanging on the exchanges between Arnett and Francis, as if it were the last minutes of a melodrama.

‘Well then,' said Arnett. ‘I have offered my condolences so that is that. I'll be on my way now.'

‘Didn't you say you wanted to look at the church, Mr Arnett?' said Helen.

‘Another time perhaps.'

He tucked his stick under his arm and made a half-turn. Inspector Francis gestured to Constable Parr to move towards the lych-gate. His intention was obvious: to prevent Arnett from leaving. The wagon-driver, William, drawn by the prospect of some excitement in the churchyard, had climbed down from his perch and was already standing inside the entrance.

‘A moment, Mr Arnett.'

‘Yes, Inspector?'

‘I have some questions for you.'

‘Perhaps we can meet later, at a time of mutual convenience.'

‘Now would be better.'

Francis walked a few paces down the slope towards Arnett, who glanced indecisively between the lych-gate, where Constable Parr was established, and the Inspector advancing towards him. He fiddled with the ivory handle of his walking stick. The others in the churchyard formed an impromptu semicircle, like an audience, waiting to see what happened next. Inspector Francis spoke quietly but because he was still standing at a distance from Arnett – perhaps wary of a swipe from Arnett's stick – he spoke clearly enough for his words to carry.

‘Can you tell me where you were late on this Sunday afternoon, sir?'

‘I was in Cambridge, I believe.'

‘Not with Mr Tomlinson in Ely?'

‘No.'

‘That is strange, Mr Arnett. A witness who works in the Lion Hotel saw two gentlemen leaving the stable yard together in the late afternoon. One of them he knew as Mr Charles Tomlinson. The other he did not recognize but he was able to provide a description, a good description. Clothes, and the rest of it. And a characteristic motion of his stick; jabbing gestures as he walked.'

Arthur Arnett's assurance was visibly leaving him. He stood, head down, not meeting Francis' gaze. His stick hung limp at his side, with no give-away jabbing motions. He seemed to be pondering how to reply. This might have gone on for some time were it not for an extraordinary interruption. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom was aware of a blur of movement. A small figure ran towards Francis and Arnett. For an instant Tom thought this must be the witness mentioned by Francis, coming out on cue. But it was not an employee of the Lion Hotel. It was Davey Parr, the sexton's son. He stopped a few feet away from both men.

Davey looked fixedly at Arnett. He said, ‘You did it! I saw you. Like this, you did it.'

Davey mimed an up and down stabbing movement, in the manner of a man wielding a knife. He was seeing a murderer standing in front of him, though it was not the murderer of Charles Tomlinson and Eric Fort. It was the figure who'd stabbed, repeatedly, at the fugitive royalist, in the vision which Davey witnessed while he crouched close to his mother's grave. A murder occurring more than two centuries earlier.

In any normal circumstances, someone might have tried to stop the lad. His father or his uncle would have stepped forward, to deliver a clip round the ear accompanied by some words of apology. Don't you pay any heed to him, sir. The lad lives in his head. Doesn't know what he's saying.

But these weren't normal circumstances. No one stepped forward to ask Davey what he was talking about. No one rebuked him for his nonsense. It was left to Arnett to answer for himself.

‘You can't have seen me,' he said to the sexton's son. ‘You can't have seen me because you weren't there.'

His response was instinctive. At almost the same instant he realized the fatal significance of what he'd said. So did Inspector Francis. With a flick of his hand, Francis summoned the constable from the lych-gate. The policeman advanced towards Arnett on a diagonal. Francis pushed Davey back, firmly, as if to move the boy out of harm's way.

‘You really will have to come with me now, Mr Arnett.'

Francis' voice remained low and reasonable. Arthur Arnett looked around. Behind him was the bulk of St Ethelwine's. To his left were Constable Parr and William the wagon-man. In front of him were ten other individuals, their expressions showing accusation or apprehension or simple confusion at the turn of events. The editor might have made a run for it to his right, but there were too many obstacles for a race through the graveyard. Instead he stepped a few yards back towards the steps leading to the crypt.

‘I'd rather not go with you but elsewhere,' he said.

‘I don't advise it, Mr Arnett.'

‘I'd also like to apologize.'

‘Apologize for murder?'

‘No, no. Apologize to Mrs Ansell over there. I do not think I will be in a position to publish her piece in
The New Moon
now.'

While the onlookers were distracted by turning towards Helen, as if they expected her to reply (she did not, though her hand flew to her mouth at being singled out), Arthur Arnett brought his walking stick into play. By some quick manipulation of the handle, he caused a metal spike to spring out from the tip.

Arnett held the flick stick in front of him like an awkward fencer, as if daring anyone to come near. With his free hand he fumbled in his pocket and the gesture caused a collective tremor among the bystanders as though he might produce another weapon, a gun perhaps. But Arnett brought out into the open what looked like a hip flask. Inspector Francis held up a restraining hand, directed more at his constable and the others than at Arnett. But there was no rush to overcome the man. The murderer edged backwards with stick in one hand and flask in the other and then, using a strange sideways movement, he went down the steps of the crypt.

Francis gestured again, towards Gabriel Parr this time. He raised his eyebrows, made a turning motion, key in a lock. No answer was needed because they heard the creak of the crypt door. This time Francis spoke, low but still calm.

‘Is there another way out of there?'

Gabriel shook his head.

‘Then we shall wait him out. Mr Eames and Mr Lye, perhaps you would like to accompany the ladies and take them indoors.'

Quite willingly, George Eames retreated with the two women from the parsonage, and with more reluctance Lydia Lye went off. Ernest remained behind, however. Tom looked at Helen. She shook her head.

‘No, I shall stay,' she said to Tom. ‘There are plenty of men here for protection. Besides, I consider that I have a personal interest in Mr Arnett and what becomes of him.'

‘The gallows is what will become of him,' said Tom.

‘I shivered when he mentioned me by name. Why has he done these terrible things?'

Meanwhile Inspector Francis had obviously changed his mind about waiting for Arnett to emerge from the crypt and was in discussion with Ernest Lye, the Parr brothers and William. Or rather he was telling them what he intended to do next. Davey hovered on the edge of the group but was shoo'ed off by the policeman, who now looked in Tom's direction. The look said, are you game for this? Tom nodded. Gabriel Parr went off. Ernest Lye walked to where the Ansells were standing.

‘Inspector Francis was asking me whether there was anything hidden in the crypt. Only a collection of bodies, I said.'

‘Isn't there a story of some treasure?' said Helen. ‘You refer to it in your book.'

‘A legend merely,' said Lye. ‘But, now you come to mention the subject, I remember Charles Tomlinson referring to it once or twice.'

‘Perhaps that's what they're all after,' said Tom.

By now Gabriel Parr had returned with a lantern and a couple of spades, not for digging but for use as weapons. His brother had already drawn his police baton. The sexton handed Inspector Francis and Tom a spade each. Parr himself produced what looked to be a tool for engraving stone.

‘Be careful, Tom,' said Helen.

With Francis in the lead, the group advanced on the steps to the crypt. Looking down, he could see that the door was open. Holding the spade by the haft, Francis trod down the worn steps, followed by Constable Parr and his brother. Tom was next while Ernest Lye took up the rear. They crowded together at the bottom of the steps, trying to see into the dim interior.

‘Mr Arnett,' said Francis. ‘You might as well come out now.'

There was no sound from within. Francis gestured to Gabriel for the lantern. Holding it aloft in one hand and grasping the spade in the other, he stepped inside the entrance to the crypt. The others pushed through after him. The smell of mould hit Tom's nostrils.

They filed into a larger area, with coffins arrayed on stone shelving. To one side was a broken-down stretch of wall. Francis once more held up the lantern so that they might all see the contents of this smaller chamber, so small that it was little more than a cupboard. Inside was another coffin, the wood of which was black and disintegrating. It contained a skeletal form wrapped in a yellowing shroud, although the bandages had been torn away in the region of the neck. Next to the coffin lay the corpse of Arthur Arnett. Unlike the skeleton, he was newly dead, still warm, frothing slightly at the mouth. To one side was his lethal flick stick. In his hand was the flask from which he'd taken his final draught.

And also in Arnett's possession was found the Ely Testament, a black-bound journal that explained everything – or almost everything. The story told in it, handwritten by Mary Stilwell, was of a terrible day in the midsummer of 1645 shortly after the Battle of Naseby. Mary was the younger daughter of the house and her parents were confirmed royalists who had agreed to give shelter to a man fleeing in the guise of King Charles while the genuine monarch sped in the opposite direction.

The plan worked, to a point. Soldiers arrived and searched Stilwell without success, and then apparently departed. Later on the same day Mary's sister Anne – ‘always more venturesome than I' she wrote – discovered the individual, whom for some reason they called Loyer, on the edge of the grounds of the manor. But almost straightaway he had been taken prisoner by the soldiers, whose departure had been a feint. When they found out that they had been deceived, their fury knew no bounds, particularly after the fugitive made an attempt to escape. Under the gaze of the horrified sisters (there was no mention of the whereabouts of their parents at this time) Mr Loyer was cut down in the churchyard and, although he took sanctuary in St Ethelwine's, he was murdered inside the church itself.

Shortly afterwards, the soldiers slunk away as if ashamed of their sacrilegious violence. Mr Loyer's body was interred in the crypt but the villagers, fearing further discoveries and reprisals either from the Royalists or the Parliamentarians, walled up the body in an alcove in the crypt, hastily erecting a crude plaster wall. Almost as an afterthought, Mary Stilwell added that Mr Loyer had been in possession of a diamond, which he wore in a silver locket and which, she believed, had been buried with him since no one apart from her sister and herself knew of its existence.