Tom reached the covered porch which had a scallop-shaped interior to the roof. He was raising his hand to the knocker when the door opened. For no reason, he half expected to see the strange woman but it was only a housemaid. He explained himself again and was shown into a hall stretching into the depths of the house. He scarcely had time to glance round — watercolour pictures, a longcase clock, a glass cabinet full of ornamental ferns against a wall — before a figure emerged from a door at the far end.
‘You must be Mr Ansell. Mr Thomas Ansell of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie?’
‘Canon Slater?’
Tom was surprised. The man in clerical dress who was shaking him by the hand — a warm, firm clasp — was sober-looking, certainly, but there was a spring in his step and a glint in his eye which belied the dour picture that David Mackenzie had painted of him. The mystery was instantly solved, however.
‘No, sir. I am Walter Slater, nephew to Felix and son of Percy. I am Walter Henry Slater.’
‘Of course,’ said Tom. ‘You are a resident of your uncle’s house, I remember being told.’
‘He is good enough to accommodate me rather more comfortably than I could afford for myself,’ said Walter. ‘I am a curate at St Luke’s in the town. You have seen it perhaps?’
‘I arrived only yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to look round yet.’
‘I hope we shall welcome you through our doors one Sunday, Mr Ansell. We are not so grand as the cathedral of course but we have a fine, strong preacher in Mr Simpson, our vicar. He enjoys a devoted following among the townspeople.’
‘I would be interested to hear him,’ said Tom, the half-truth coming easily enough because he would never have to listen to the Rev. Simpson. ‘Unfortunately my business here will keep me only a day or so. My business with your uncle, I mean.’
Tom said this as a prompt, and Walter Slater took the hint. He led Tom to the same door from which he’d just appeared at the far end and knocked.
‘Uncle, here is your London visitor.’
If Felix Slater made any reply Tom, standing to one side, didn’t hear it. Walter drew back to let Tom enter and, without coming in himself, shut the door after him. The room was a study, lined with books and glass-fronted display cases. There were large, floor-length windows which doubled as doors giving a view of a garden with an orchard and, beyond that, a river and water-meadows. In front of the windows a man sat at a desk, his back to the view. Canon Slater was writing. He must have been aware of Tom’s presence but he kept his head bent down and his hand moving steadily across the sheet of paper in front of him. Tom wasn’t sure whether this was a deliberate ploy or whether he was too engrossed to break off. Eventually, Slater gave a little sigh, ground the nib of the pen into the paper in a gesture of finality and looked up.
‘A train of thought is a delicate thing,’ he said without preamble. ‘Once broken, it may never be recovered.’
He placed the pen carefully in its holder and got up. He came round the desk and advanced towards Tom, holding out a hand in belated greeting. Where the nephew’s handshake had been warm, the uncle’s was bonedry. Felix Slater was a tall man with a fringe of greying hair plastered close to his scalp. He was clean-shaven, with a thin mouth, a determined jaw and cheeks that were sunken.
The brief formalities done, Felix Slater said, ‘You’d better sit down, Mr Ansell. Now is not the time for refreshment but I hope that you will join us for luncheon when our business is concluded.’
‘Thank you, sir, I should be pleased to do that,’ said Tom, taking a chair on the other side of the desk and thinking that he’d much prefer to return to The Side of Beef. If the food and drink and company at Venn House were of a piece with his reception so far, he didn’t hold out much hope for any of it.
Canon Slater resumed his place at the other side of the desk. He sat up very straight and his chair was higher than Tom’s so that the younger man felt at a disadvantage. The Canon picked up the pen again then returned it to the holder. He seemed to be wondering how to begin. He said, ‘How is Mr Mackenzie? He has broken his leg, I believe.’
‘He is on the mend. He slipped as he was getting out of a cab. A foolish accident, he called it.’
‘Then he must be looking forward to the day when ‘the lame man shall leap as an hart’, Mr Ansell,’ said Slater, his mouth twitching like a piece of string which has been given a single tug.
‘Certainly he must,’ said Tom, realizing that the Canon was making not only a biblical reference but also some sort of joke. He brought out the letter which David Mackenzie had given him and handed it across the desk. Felix Slater took up a paper knife and slit open the envelope. All his actions were careful and economical. The items on the desktop — a selection of pens, blotter, ink-holder, letter-holder, paperweights — were set out in precise formation. Slater smoothed out the letter on the desk and inclined his head towards it. There was no artificial light in the study but enough came from the outside. While Felix Slater was reading, Tom saw through the window the gardener who’d appeared at the door in the wall. Like a character in a stage play, this individual strolled slowly across the view brandishing his shears. He did not look into the room as he passed.
‘Mr Mackenzie says that I may have complete confidence in you. . in your powers of judgement and in your discretion,’ said Slater.
‘That is good of him,’ said Tom, pleased at his employer’s words even while he was thinking that Mackenzie couldn’t really have written anything very different.
‘He also says that you know something of the back-ground to this situation — ’
There was a rap at the door and Slater barely had time to say ‘come in’ before the housemaid entered.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Mrs Slater is requiring to see you now, sir.’
Felix Slater looked at the woman — she was young and red-faced — as if she were a complete stranger. Tom expected him to dismiss her straightaway by saying he was busy but his only words to her were, ‘Your collar is not straight, Bessie.’
The housemaid’s hand flew up to her collar and she fiddled with it, disarranging it further before retreating backwards through the door. Slater rose from his seat with a kind of practised weariness, saying, ‘Excuse me, Mr Ansell, I shall not be any longer than I can help.’
He shut the door after him. Tom sat for a few moments gazing out at the sunlit garden and the bare branches of the fruit trees. He wondered what Mrs Slater was like. A formidable woman she must be, to be able to summon her husband like that. He visualized a person even more dour than her husband. He thought of Mrs Scott. And of Helen her daughter.
He continued to stare out at the garden. Other things being equal, it wouldn’t be such a bad life as a canon residentiary in a cathedral close. Tom had no idea what clerical duties Felix Slater had to perform, but he supposed they weren’t very onerous. To have a fine residence like Venn House and a garden that stretched down to a river. If he lived next to a river Tom would obtain a little rowing boat. He thought of Canon Slater in rolled-up sleeves and pulling on a pair of oars but the picture didn’t quite work.
He listened for the sounds of Canon Slater’s return but the house was as silent as if everyone had deserted it. Or deserted him. He grew bored with sitting and got up to take a tour of Slater’s study. He squinted at the spines of the books in the glassed case which almost filled a whole wall and which reminded him of the books in Mr Mackenzie’s office. Taking one down would be like picking a stone off a shelf. What did these books say about the Canon? A brief inspection confirmed his suspicions. There were county histories. Indecipherable titles in Latin and Greek and German. Enough editions of the Bible to build a miniature tower of Babel. Commentaries on the Bible and commentaries on the commentaries. No sign of a novel or of a book of poems. Then Tom told himself not to be so carping. After all, for his light reading on the train journey to Salisbury hadn’t he chosen Baxter’s On Tort? What did that say about him?