The Unburied (26 page)

‘I call myself a humanist,’ I said indignantly. ‘But I reject absolutely that point of view. Human life is sacred.’

‘Sacred?’ the old gentleman sneered. ‘You can use that word and claim to be a humanist?’

Before I could find a way to answer that, Austin spoke: ‘Courtine is right. Murder is the ultimate evil and its perpetrator cannot hope to escape eternal damnation.’

Mr Stonex swung round and directed at him a strange look which I could not interpret. At that moment the clock by the door started striking the final quarter.

‘It must be half-past five,’ Austin said. ‘We must not miss the end of Evensong. Look at your watch, Courtine.’

Rather puzzled by his request, I did so. ‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘Why is that the only clock that keeps time badly?’ Austin said suddenly to the old gentleman. ‘Is something interfering with its action?’

‘Interfering?’

‘Hampering the weights?’

Our host smiled, crossed the room and quickly opened its case. With his back to us he reached into it and said: ‘No, there’s nothing here.’

As he turned back I thought he slipped something into his pocket and I assumed it was the key to the case though I had not noticed him unlock it.

‘Thank you, Fickling,’ he said. ‘That was a very good thought.’

At that moment all possibility of further argument about the time was ended by the booming of the Cathedral clock. Whatever the time might be by my metropolitan timepiece, it was half-past five in Thurchester.

‘We should go now,’ Austin said firmly. ‘Or we will miss the service entirely.’

Though it seemed a little discourteous to depart so abruptly, I recalled that our host had to return to his place of work at six and would probably not be sorry to see us leave. We rose and went through the kitchen to the back-door where we made our adieus. Just as I was shaking my host’s hand, there was a knocking at the street-door. The old gentleman said: ‘He is very punctual.’ Seeing my quizzical expression, he explained: ‘That is the waiter from the inn across the way. He is bringing me a pint of ale.’

I was surprised for Quitregard had not mentioned that as part of the old banker’s routine. We expressed our gratitude for his hospitality for the last time and left the house. We had been inside it for just a few minutes more than three-quarters of an hour.

Thursday Evening

We hurried round to the Cathedral and found that Evensong was just ending as we entered, so instead of taking seats we stood at the back and listened to the organ playing the end of a Bach Toccata and Fugue. The smell was much more noticeable even than it had been the day before and although the interior of the Cathedral was very cold, the odour seemed warm in my nostrils. I was very relieved that we were not staying long.

The celebrant, the servers and the choir filed from the chancel and the small congregation left. While we were talking together in low voices a minute or two later a man suddenly appeared beside us. He must have come, silently and unnoticed, from the direction of the east end.

‘This is Slattery,’ Austin said. ‘Martin Slattery.’

He was tall, about fifteen years our junior, with a very striking face – handsome, spoilt and demanding. His straight black hair was sleeked down like the sheen of an animal’s pelt and altogether he seemed to me like some sort of wild beast. A very vulgar expression which I had heard applied to a hunting-dog came to me: that he had a face that was always ‘on the twitch’ for something. His staring blue eyes seemed to be searching my face for anything that might be of use or pose a threat. I could sense how very charming he could be, but there was something about him which made me believe him capable of anything. Of course, I had had good reason to mistrust a friend of Austin’s.

Slattery was a big man and yet the hand that he now thrust carelessly towards me was oddly delicate. His grip was firm and I was relieved when he relinquished my hand quickly.

‘I’m sorry I only heard a minute or two of your playing,’ I said.

‘I played abominably,’ he replied with a charming smile. ‘You missed nothing.’

His face seemed familiar. I had seen it very recently but I could not recall where.

‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ I muttered without reflection.

‘I give you my word I played worse than I’ve ever played in this Cathedral. I could do nothing with my hands. They seemed to have a will of their own.’ He held them out in front of him as if lining them up for indictment, looking at them with a suggestion of ironic respect which I found strangely disturbing. ‘A damnable leave-taking to the organ.’

‘I’m sure you’ll play it many times when it is back in commission,’ I said.

‘I doubt that.’ As he said those words he smiled at Austin who had been staring at him since his arrival but who now lowered his gaze. At that moment, I saw the old verger, Gazzard, standing a few yards away and looking towards us. He glanced at me disapprovingly and when I nodded, he turned away.

‘Shall we go to a public-house?’ Austin asked.

We agreed and followed him out of the Cathedral. Austin and I walked ahead and it was only as we left the Close that I glanced back at our companion and saw that he walked with a kind of swaggering limp. At that moment I realized that he was the halting figure I had seen in the Close last night. That must be why I felt I had seen him before, though there was still some memory which remained unnudged. If it was he whom I had seen going into the alley it must have been he whom I saw in the organ-loft. But in that case, how had he got down from there and out into the Close without my noticing him? There must be another staircase. I slowed down to let Slattery catch up and then let him and Austin walk on ahead.

Although I felt relieved that there was a rational explanation for what I had almost accepted as a supernatural experience, I was discomfited by my memory of the feeling of evil that had emanated from the figure. And what had he been doing there at that hour? Though it occurred to me that the organ-loft was at least the obvious place for the organist to be. I wondered if he had recognized me from our encounter and thought not for he had given no sign of it.

Austin and his friend were talking softly as they walked a few paces ahead of me, their heads close together. At one moment Slattery gripped Austin’s arm and held it for a few moments. In a minute or two we were inside a tavern – the Angel Inn in Chancery Street.

Austin went up to the bar while Slattery and I seated ourselves in a snug giving a view onto the street.

‘Do you enjoy teaching, Mr Slattery?’ I asked, casting about for a topic of common interest. ‘Fickling tells me you teach music at the Choir School and have private pupils in the town.’

‘Enjoy it? I regard it as a prison sentence. I only do it because I pursued my passion for music when I was young and since my drunken brute of a father not only failed to provide me with the means of earning a living in any other way but crippled me during one of his drunken rages, I was sentenced to take it up professionally. And that has almost killed my interest in it.’

Without revealing my astonishment at this remark, I persevered: ‘But the singing-boys are gifted musicians, are they not? They must be rewarding pupils.’

‘If the choirmaster knew his business that might be the case. But since he has no understanding of music he chooses boys for anything but their voices and abilities.’ He smiled dazzlingly and added: ‘And bit by bit I find myself adapting to the mediocrity that is all one can expect in a devilish hole of a town like this.’

At that moment, Austin returned, carrying the drinks. He glanced at his friend – uneasily, I thought – as he caught his last words.

‘Have you lived here long?’ I asked.

‘About eight or nine years. I first came because I have kin ...’ He broke off and glanced at Austin before saying: ‘I should say, I had kin living here. Only my damnable sloth has kept me here. I’m like a whelk that crawls into the corner of a rock-pool and stays there not because of any affinity with its surroundings but because it’s too bone-idle to move.’

‘Are whelks bone-idle?’ I wondered, smiling at the image.

‘Do they have bones?’ he parried, and drank from his glass with a grin.

‘There are worse places to live than an English cathedral town,’ I ventured.

‘And better. Places with laughter, music and sunlight in the streets.’

‘You are speaking of Italy?’

He nodded.

‘Do you know it well?’ I asked.

‘Not as well as I hope to. I spent the happiest year of my life there. For one thing, the most interesting English people live there. All those, for example, who don’t fit into the neat pigeon-holes that Protestantism imposes upon us – couples which consist of a man who is legally married to a woman. That’s where I met Fickling.’

‘Really? I assumed you met here.’

‘No, in fact, we first knew each other in Italy. The connection is the other way round for it was Fickling who helped me to obtain my post at the Cathedral. We were introduced by mutual friends in Florence who knew that we both had a connection with this town. You see, I happened to mention that I had just come from a brief and rather unrewarding visit to my relative here. So, as you may imagine, Italy has many happy memories for me. They have such a love of music, the Italians. And such understanding of it. Whereas here I play worse with every day that passes since I play for nobody who is capable of judging well. And because, badly as I play, I never hear anyone play better. I’ve come to hate my own playing.’

‘Not as much as the congregation,’ Austin said.

‘Then all sides will be equally delighted that the organ won’t be in use for a couple of weeks.’ Then he added softly: ‘Not that I am likely to play it again, anyway.’

‘Will it take as long as that to repair it?’ Austin asked.

‘Do you know what,’ Slattery said, ignoring that question but favouring Austin with a smile that included me in his confidence; ‘I’ve found out from that idiot, Bulmer, the Surveyor, why the workmen caused all that trouble. On Tuesday evening some meddling visitor to the Cathedral suggested to that tiresome old man, Gazzard, that they would do more damage by following their original intentions than if they adopted the course which has turned out to be so disastrous. Gazzard – be damned to him for an interfering old blockhead – passed that piece of advice to Sisterson since it happened that Bulmer was away burying one of his innumerable siblings. So the Sacrist, like the cursed fool he is, ordered the men to change course and so brought all this trouble down upon his foolish head.’

‘I suspect the advice was not followed correctly,’ I said. ‘And to have persevered with the original plan might have had even more unfortunate consequences.’

‘It’s hard to imagine how even that dunce, Bulmer, could have created a worse situation. Now they’re having to prop up parts of the floor and the wall in the transept and the devil alone knows where it will all end. They might bring the whole damned edifice crashing about their silly ears. But what do I care now?’

He laughed and drained a long draught of his ale. I caught Austin’s eye and he looked away.

‘Do you have one of those charming houses in the Close, Mr Slattery?’ I enquired, hoping to pilot the conversation into less controversial waters. ‘They are very picturesque.’

‘Unfortunately not. Fickling’s miserable hovel is a bishop’s palace compared with mine. I have rooms in a shabby little street near here.’

Following a train of thought of my own, I said at a venture: ‘Your wife must regret that your post does not bring with it one of those pretty old houses beside the Cathedral.’

‘My wife?’ He smiled in amazement and then raised his head and laughed. ‘
La dame n’existe pas
.’

Austin looked down. Had I misunderstood the conversation I had overheard in the bar? Surely they had spoken of Slattery having a wife?

‘I know what it is,’ Slattery said, baring his vulpine teeth in a smile. ‘You’ve heard people talking about me. You’ve picked up some of the venomous gossip that this town lives on. What did they say?’

I rarely make hasty judgements, but I decided that I didn’t like Slattery at all. He had an air of having spent much of his time in public-bars that didn’t appeal to me. He veered between boastfulness and delusions of persecution and gave the impression that he felt entitled to a comfortable living without the necessity of working for it. I had known not a few undergraduates like him – embittered younger sons or scions of families that had lost their wealth. I was saddened that such a man should be an intimate friend of Austin’s.

‘Stow it, Martin,’ Austin said.

‘Who was it? Did that old woman, Locard, say something? Fickling tells me you’ve become very thick with him.’

The young man was intolerable. ‘No, I assure you, Mr Slattery, I haven’t discussed you with anyone. Why should I? I hardly knew of your existence until just now.’

‘This town is filled with the most poisonous gossips, and you’ve met at least three of them: Locard, his fawning catamite Quitregard, and that babbling brook, Sisterson.’

‘People gossip in every enclosed society, and not all such talk is malign,’ I said mildly. ‘But one can ignore that. In fact, one can learn to ignore many things. Don’t you find that one really needs very little to be content? Books, concerts, a few good friends.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t find that at all. Life should be an affair of drama, excitement. Most people spend their lives half asleep leading an existence devoid of passion, never taking risks. They might as well be dead.’

Without quite knowing why, I found myself getting angry. ‘I find all the excitement I need in literature, in history, in music.’

He merely looked at me with what I interpreted as a silent sneer.

‘Doesn’t anyone with imagination find enough interest in the most ordinary things in life?’ I went on. ‘The safest life – a life of what to others might seem contemptible ordinariness – can be filled with unperceived drama.’

‘Is any life safe?’ he demanded. ‘Surely we are all of us walking along a path in the mist and sometimes a gust of wind sweeps it aside and we see that we are on the knife-edge of a ridge with a fall of hundreds of feet on either side.’