Now the idea that she had been following him, perhaps since he’d left the inn this morning, seized his imagination. If so, to what purpose? But it was all nonsense. Why should she be following him? She could hardly be intending to proposition him in the cathedral precinct, not on a cold and frosty morning. Not with the presence of a policeman outside a neighbouring gate. He debated for a moment slowing down and allowing her to pass. . or letting her speak to him, if that was what she wanted. But instead he quickened his pace, on the lookout for the wall which fronted Venn House. When he reached it he would allow himself one quick look behind, to check on the woman’s identity.
And here, towards the end of the West Walk, was a fine red-brick wall as described by Canon Selby and, behind it, the house which belonged to Canon Slater. Venn House was inscribed on a plaque next to a large wooden gate set into an arch in the wall. Hearing footsteps coming closer, Tom looked over his shoulder. It was the same woman! She seemed to be making for him, still with the slightly mocking smile which he recalled from their last meeting. No question that she recognized him as well for she said, ‘See, no nosegay now. It has withered.’
She indicated the bare collar of her coat. There was the remembered trace of foreignness in her accent (‘withered’ drawn out almost to three syllables).
Tom felt renewed warmth come into his face. He inclined his head slightly and said, ‘Good morning, madam. A cold morning too.’
‘You are coming to this house.’
It was not a question so much as a statement. Tom wondered at the intrusive curiosity of the inhabitants of Salisbury. Did they all assume that what was his business was also theirs? He nodded with a slight impatience, expecting the woman to continue on her way. But she remained standing by the gate in the wall. All at once, Tom understood that she must be calling at Venn House like him, and was waiting for him to open the gate to let her go through first. There was no bell to announce visitors. He reached forward and twisted the iron latch, indicating with his eyes that she should enter before him if that was what she wanted. Through the arch of the gate he saw a path leading to a substantial house.
The woman took a pace forward then halted as if struck by a sudden thought. She put a gloved hand on Tom’s arm and looked him full in the face, not smiling now.
‘You will say nothing?’
‘I. . I’m sorry, madam, I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘I mean, say nothing about how we have seen each other before this cold morning,’ she said in the same low, slightly accented voice. When he didn’t respond she showed a touch of impatience as though Tom was a slow boy who needed matters spelled out. ‘I mean, last night in the town in the fog. You do remember?’
‘Yes, I do remember, madam. Say nothing to who? Who am I not supposed to tell?’
The woman shivered as if from the cold and said, ‘Tell nobody. Do you agree to this?’
All this time she was holding fast to Tom’s arm. Her grasp was hard. He could feel her fingers through the sleeve of his coat.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will not tell anyone although I can’t imagine who would be interested.’
He almost had to wrench his arm from her grip. The good humour returned to her face and she rewarded him with another smile before turning to go through the gate. Yet, once again, she paused as she was entering. ‘You must wait here,’ she said. ‘It is best that we do not arrive together. I will send someone out. I will say that I saw a gentleman outside. Yes, I saw a gentleman searching outside.’
After passing through the arch in the wall she gave a push to the gate. She pushed at it with a flick of her heel, and some quality about the movement, something careless and unladylike, established her right to go first into Venn House and to leave Tom where he was. The gate creaked half shut, blocking off the view of the house and garden.
Tom Ansell stood outside Venn House, confused and obscurely angry, with himself rather than the woman. Her actions were incomprehensible. What right did she have to tell him to wait outside? He no longer believed that she was a woman of the town, and the fact that he had ever thought so gave him a moment’s discomfort. He looked for other explanations for her arrival here. If she was a servant in the Slater household, then she was behaving in a fashion that was peculiar — and somehow improper. Tom wasn’t a vindictive or sneaking individual. But had he been, he told himself, he would have made some comment to Canon Slater or Mrs Slater about the strange attitude of their servants. The trouble was that the woman had bound him into a sort of conspiracy of silence, which he could not break now. And she had given to that chance meeting outside The Side of Beef, that accidental collision, a significance which it hadn’t possessed until this moment.
A different idea came to Tom as he stood, alternately watching his breath plume up in the air or looking at the sunlit spire through the bare branches of the trees without really seeing either of them. Perhaps the woman wasn’t a servant in Venn House after all but a. . a fortune-teller or gypsy clairvoyante. . or a medium. He didn’t know what had provoked these notions. The woman’s faintly flamboyant appearance, maybe, that touch of foreignness about her. Even the way she had grasped at his arm. However, if she actually did follow one of these exotic trades, he didn’t ask himself what she was doing calling on a cleric’s house in a cathedral precinct.
By now perhaps five minutes had passed, and Tom was conscious not only of the cold but of feeling a bit of a fool into the bargain. The man who had passed earlier with the hand-barrow was returning down West Walk, his rumbling barrow now laden with sacks. The carriage which had been waiting outside the iron-gated house further up the road had disappeared. He could still see the policeman closer at hand. Tom had had enough. He wasn’t going to respects the whims and fancies of a strange woman for a second longer. For all he knew, she’d forgotten about him. Or for a joke she intended to leave him loitering outside the house like some hawker or tradesman. If he did not move soon the policeman might ask him what he was doing here.
He took a couple of paces towards the almost shut door to Venn House. But before he reached it, the door opened. Swung open to reveal. . nobody.
Venn House, Exterior
But there was someone there after all. A man emerged from the shadow on the other side of the door, holding a pair of garden shears. He was wearing a canvas apron, the pouch of which bulged with gardening implements. Sandy hair poked from under a leather cap. He gave a lopsided grin.
‘You must be the gen’leman that’s waitin’,’ he said, adding as an afterthought, ‘Are you the gen’leman, sir?’
‘I am a visitor to see Canon Slater,’ said Tom.
The man raised the shears as if to signal that Tom should come in. He walked past the gardener, who nodded his head in the direction of the house before setting off at a diagonal across the lawn. He didn’t look back. Footprints on the still frosted areas of the grass showed that he’d recently walked the same route. Tom supposed that the strange woman had alerted the first person she saw to the fact that there was a visitor by the gate. It wasn’t exactly a speedy reception or a ceremonial one.
The main door to Venn House was at the end of a path lined with yew trees that had been shaped and trimmed. The effect, perhaps intentionally, was like a walk in a churchyard and so rather gloomy. But the house itself, rising above the trees, was gracious and airy-looking with plenty of windows set into light-coloured stone.