The Ely Testament (8 page)

He was thinking of the firm's reputation. Tom nodded in agreement.

‘We haven't a great deal of time, either.'

‘I'll do my best, Mr Mackenzie.'

But, privately, he didn't believe there was much chance of success.

Dinner in Ely

O
n the evening of the day of Alexander Lye's funeral to the north of London, there was a smallish dinner party at the house of Mr and Mrs Cyrus Chase some seventy miles away in Ely. Apart from the host and hostess, in attendance were the Reverend and Mrs Gordon Coffer, Mr and Mrs Frank Hardwick, Mr Charles Tomlinson and Miss Dora Selwyn. The reverend's parish was in the city of Cambridge, so he and his wife were required to make the short journey by train to Ely, while the Hardwicks had to do no more than walk from the neighbouring street where they lived in order to spend the evening with the Chases. Frank Hardwick was a local brewer. Miss Selwyn was an ageing cousin of Mr Chase's, useful to call on to make up numbers round the table. She, too, lived close by. And Mr Tomlinson? Well, Chase still wasn't sure exactly where he lived or precisely what he did or where he came from, or sure of anything about him, really.

The dinner party was being held mostly at the urging of Chase's wife, Bella. She'd been in earnest about her wish to see Tomlinson again and soon, after his last visit to inspect Cyrus' ‘apparatus'. She badgered her husband to invite him, so Cyrus, who was afraid of displeasing his wife for too long, thought up the plan of inviting Tomlinson along with several other guests who might somehow muffle the Tomlinson effect. The Tomlinson effect on his wife, that was. Also, he now found the prospect of seeing Charles to be alarming rather than enjoyable, so he considered it would be better to have company. As usual, when he wanted to communicate with Mr Tomlinson, he left a note at the Lion Hotel and received a reply within twenty-four hours.

As for the other guests, Chase invited the Reverend Coffer and his wife because they were church people, and so might have a restraining influence on Tomlinson, and because Gordon Coffer was well disposed towards his researches into security coffins. The Hardwicks were old acquaintances and neighbours, while his cousin Miss Dora could always be summoned at the last moment.

Cyrus Chase hoped that he had set things up to go as smoothly as possible at the dinner table. But the first surprise, a very disconcerting one, was that the Reverend Coffer and his wife already knew Charles Tomlinson. Not only did they know him, but they were distantly related, second cousins or something like that. In addition, Tomlinson had recently renewed his acquaintance with the daughter of the Coffers, who lived near Ely. Well, this was a bit of a facer for old Cyrus, but he put a good front on things.

The Coffers and Tomlinson greeted each other warmly. Although Mrs Coffer was getting on in years, Tomlinson showed towards her – second cousin or whatever she was – almost the same degree of insinuating gallantry he showed towards Bella. Even Coffer, who tended to be rather grim-faced, was pleased to see Tomlinson. The gentleman was nearly as attentive to the mousy Mrs Hardwick. Only against cousin Dora did his charms seem useless. She peered at him quizzically and simply said ‘I expect so' to the two or three remarks he addressed to her, whether her response made sense or not.

Then things went wrong with the placement or seating. Cyrus thought he had arranged it so that Tomlinson was near him and instead the fellow ended up next to Bella in the seat where Coffer ought to have been. Cyrus spent much of the meal with his eyes darting towards the other end of the table for signs of over-familiarity. For example, Tomlinson's mouth being a little too close to Bella's curled hair as he whispered some aside in her ear or the sight of her hand momentarily resting on his arm as she responded.

The food was the only part that, to Cyrus, was a definite success. Artichoke soup and salmon fillets, then boiled turkey and leg of lamb, followed by cabinet pudding and a cheese fondue, served with all the trimmings and washed down with plenty of sweet white wine. Cyrus reminded himself to compliment the cook.

The conversation never really took flight or, if it did, went winging off in alarming directions. Mr Hardwick spent some time outlining his ambition to become the biggest brewer in Ely, to knock Legge's and Eagle's and the others off their perch and into the River Ouse. From time to time he looked at his wife who nodded in frantic agreement. Cyrus, as a good host, tried to shift the discussion to a topic which he considered both in-offensive and interesting: the recent decision of the General Post Office to paint their boxes and pillars red rather than bronze-green. But no one seemed very concerned and some reference to taste and orthodoxy caused the Reverend Coffer to go down a totally different path and launch an attack on an individual called Sir Henry Thompson and his dangerous views.

Extending a bony forefinger and with his brow furrowed, Mr Coffer said, ‘To think that they saw fit to give him a knighthood, whatever he may have done for the King of Belgium and his kidney stones.'

‘I am not sure everyone round this table is familiar with Sir Henry,' said Charles Tomlinson.

‘He is a surgeon,' said Coffer, ‘and I wish he had restricted himself to meddling with people while they are still alive, whether they are kings or commoners. But Thompson is the moving spirit behind this new Cremation Society. I cannot believe that such a heretical idea will catch on with us but it never does to underestimate people's gullibility and their willingness to try the latest fad.'

Cyrus had heard of Sir Henry Thompson, of course, since he was attentive to any news concerning death and disposal.
But
he did not care for the way Tomlinson now looked in his direction with a cocked eyebrow as if to say, It would not do much for your security-coffin business if cremation came into fashion, would it?

Tomlinson did not say any of this out loud. Instead, after a glance at Bella, who was seated on his right, he inclined his head towards Coffer and said, ‘With all due respect to you, sir, both as a man of the cloth and as someone who is kin to me, I wonder whether this conversation is really a suitable one when the ladies are present. Cremation isn't quite the thing over the dinner table. After all, we are not on the banks of the Ganges gazing at the burning ghats . . . which are quite a sight, I can assure you . . .'

The remark, as it was probably intended to, made all the ladies sit up. Bella put her hand on Tomlinson's sleeve – again! – and said, ‘You have been to India, Mr Tomlinson? You have seen the way they burn bodies in public?'

‘That, and many other strange things, dear lady.'

‘Is there not a terrible rite in India which they call
suttee
?' said Mrs Coffer.

‘There is, indeed,' said Tomlinson with enthusiasm, and appearing to forget the remark he'd just made about unsuitable topics. ‘The wife throws herself on the funeral pyre of her husband out of sheer grief and the desire to join him.'

‘Barbaric,' said Reverend Coffer.

‘Dreadful,' said Mr Hardwick.

‘Other lands, other customs. If we put our very natural prejudices to one side for a moment, one can only imagine the fidelity and the – the passion – which would cause a widow to do that.'

The idea, and perhaps the word ‘passion', caused a temporary silence round the table. Cousin Dora now made her first intervention of the meal. And Cyrus was proud of her. She said, ‘I do not believe that all those wives act out of choice. Some are forced to it.'

‘Well, that may be so,' said Tomlinson smoothly. ‘Anyway,
suttee
is a practice which has been outlawed in India these many years.'

‘I expect so,' said Dora Selwyn, but something in her voice suggested she didn't quite believe Tomlinson.

After that the conversation, even over the puddings, seemed incapable of rising above somewhat morbid subjects, such as the practice in the German states of building elaborate mortuaries at public expense. Naturally, it turned out that Charles Tomlinson was familiar with Germany; was there anywhere that the man had not visited, anywhere that he could not comment on? Once the ladies had withdrawn, there was some enjoyable if desultory chat over the port, and Cyrus relaxed. He even began to think that, after all, there was some value to knowing a man of the world like Tomlinson.

But the worst moment of the evening for Cyrus Chase was still to come. Their guests were departing. The housemaid Mattie was in attendance to hand out hats and coats and umbrellas. The Hardwicks had already left, and were accompanying Cousin Dora back to her house before returning to their own. The Coffers were about to go. Coffer insisted on jabbering all the way to the garden gate, telling Chase that he would send him a copy of a recent pamphlet that laid out the arguments against cremation, laid them out irrefutably. And what did Mr Cyrus Chase think of the idea of starting an Anti-Cremation Society, eh? With Mrs Coffer tugging at her husband's sleeve and telling him that they must hurry to catch the last train to Cambridge, Cyrus turned back towards his own front door.

He could not be absolutely certain of what he saw there. The front door of
Mon Repos
was almost closed and the light from the hall was dim. His wife Bella and Charles Tomlinson were standing together on the porch. It appeared that the pair had just moved apart, as though from an embrace. Their arms were extended slightly and their heads were very close together. Were they merely exchanging compliments or something more intimate? Cyrus coughed as he walked back up the path and Tomlinson emerged from the shadow of the porch, giving a casual waft of his hand in Bella's direction.

‘Goodnight, Chase,' he said as he passed. ‘A pleasant evening, most pleasant.'

By the time he reached the porch, Bella was inside again. Cyrus secured the front door and turned round to face his wife, who was standing by the entrance to the morning room as though she was about to speak to him. Or expected him to say something to her. But Cyrus could think of nothing to say. He might have commented on her flushed cheeks – but then it was a cold night.

Summer, 1645

E
verything in Stilwell Manor was suspended that morning. No smell of baking bread or roasting meat emanated from the kitchen quarters, no servants bustled or slouched from one task to the next, no laundry was hung out on the frames to dry in the midsummer sun, no one came to consult the steward or Anne's father and mother about household business or the estate. Instead, it was as if the soldiers owned the place, they moved about so arrogantly and surely, while the proper occupants of the house seemed to shrink into the wainscoting and avert their eyes while the men went by. The men took no personal interest in anybody in the household – which was a relief – apart from Mr Martin. He was shut up in one of the offices with Trafford for a long time. When he emerged he looked more white-faced than usual.

The searchers discovered one of the priest-holes. Later, Anne saw the wooden panelling which had been splintered and smashed by boots and fists and sword hilts. She smelled the damp earthy odour of the tiny chamber that lay revealed behind a passage off the main hall. Even to the soldiers it must have been apparent that no one could have been using the hole in the recent past. There was a tapestry of cobwebs across the ‘entrance' and a timber in the low ceiling had fallen, cramping the space even further to the extent that a child would have had difficulty accommodating himself there.

The soldiers departed soon after midday. They had spent more than six hours in Stilwell Manor. They searched the outbuildings and scoured the grounds but with less zeal and energy than formerly. Before they went, Anne's father offered them a small beer and cheese and stale bread. They accepted the food and drink, and there was even some laughter among them while they stood around chewing and slurping under the sun in the courtyard. Then they left at a pace that was more of a walk than a march. The leader acknowledged Anne's father with a nod of his head as he turned to go.

Anne wondered that they were on foot but James told her that they must have left their horses tethered at a distance so as to creep up on the house in the early morning light without raising the alarm. It was to the steward that Anne turned for explanation rather than to her parents. In fact, her parents left the house after the soldiers' departure, travelling by carriage to Peterborough for reasons that she did not know.

James was reluctant to say much, whether because he was shaken by the events of the morning or because he felt bound by some instinct of secrecy. But he did tell Anne that there had been a great battle a couple of days before, in which the Parliamentary side had been victorious. The battle had been fought not so very many miles from Stilwell. A number of individuals, important individuals, had escaped capture on the battlefield. James did not say that these people were the King's men, he did not have to. He simply added that the soldiers must have been looking for these important fugitives. They had found no one.

Anne thought of the hurried arrival of the two well-dressed gentlemen at the house the previous afternoon. She thought of the unusual noises later in the night. She said nothing of this. Instead she asked why Mr Martin had been shut up for so long with the leader of the soldiers.

‘Mr Martin has the air of a – a scholar – of a priest,' said James. ‘Perhaps that is why Captain Trafford wanted to talk to him.'

Mr Martin was not a priest, as far as Anne knew, but he did occasionally act as tutor to Anne and her sister, giving lessons which neither girl enjoyed. They did not like Mr Martin's pale-faced sourness any more than he appeared to enjoy their company. Anne had never quite worked out his position at Stilwell although he seemed to be some kind of advisor to her father and mother, a man to whom they regularly turned for counsel and wisdom. Like Anne, James did not care for Mr Martin but the steward was too loyal to let any explicit critical word escape from him.