Tom wandered round Slater’s study. There were a few pictures clustered together in a corner above an old-fashioned wooden chest. As far as he could tell, they were engravings of scenes from the Bible. Not scenes of miracles or of a friendly smiling Jesus surrounded by disciples but dark and violent matter. There was a picture of a diminutive warrior whom Tom presumed to be David carrying a great severed head (Goliath’s?) past a line of smiling women. Pictures of obscure struggles. There was a sinister image of three crones, one spinning thread from a distaff and the other two deciding where to cut it. Tom recognized the Fates and the thread of human life.
He went over to look at the display cases which were against the wall by the door. Ah, here was something different again — although at first he thought the contents were as dull as what was in the bookcase. Under sloping sheets of glass was a miscellany of objects. Wedges of stone with one end honed to a blade, pieces of flint sharpened to a point were obvious weapons or cutting implements. But other items were more baffling. Small stones cut to a circular shape and pierced so that a cord might be run through them looked to be ornaments, as did pendant-like slivers of polished rock and bone. But there were miniature tablets of plain stone that served no discernible purpose although they had undoubtedly been cut and shaped by human hand. As well, there were fragments of pottery and items made of a metal which Tom supposed to be bronze: pins and things fashioned like needles and little sickles.
It was all dry stuff but it showed another side to Canon Slater (supposing that he had collected these objects himself), as did the sinister pictures in the corner.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom was suddenly conscious of a movement on the other side of the windows. He spun round to see the gardener looking at him. The man had his face almost pressed to one of the panes. His sandy hair poked out from under his cap. When he saw that Tom had seen him he quickly moved away. He’d never have dared to be so curious if he thought his employer was in the room. He must have assumed it was empty. Or perhaps it was merely that he was a little simple.
Just then the door to the study opened and Felix Slater came in. Tom was still standing by one of the display cases. Some words of explanation or excuse were beginning to shape themselves in his mind but they weren’t needed. Far from being displeased or put out, the canon allowed a smile to fasten itself on his pinched face. A genuine smile, not a tug on a piece of string.
‘Why, Mr Ansell, I am glad to see you are interested in my old artefacts.’
‘You collected all these things yourself, sir?’
‘I found them myself or have acquired them over the years. This is a very ancient place. I do not mean the city of Salisbury, although that is old enough. I refer to the countryside around here. Men have lived on the plain in settlements and stockades for many centuries. They have lived and died and been buried all around. There are signs of the past everywhere if you know where to look.’
Slater, standing next to Tom, stabbed a long forefinger at one of the items. It was made of bronze, with inter-locking circles set in a rectangular frame. He opened the hinged lid of the case and, picking up the piece of bronze, passed it to his guest. Tom cradled it in his palm. It was unexpectedly heavy.
‘You know what that is?’
‘A brooch?’
‘Most probably it is a belt-buckle. Admire the workmanship, Mr Ansell. Wonder at the skill of our ancestors in what we are pleased to call the Dark Ages.’
Tom examined the buckle more closely. In truth, the relics in the case did not signify much to him. The real discovery was the enthusiasm of Felix Slater, almost the passion of the man. He nodded and handed the buckle back. Slater replaced it carefully on the baize lining of the display case.
‘Are they valuable?’ said Tom.
‘Not especially, but to me they are beyond price.’
Tom felt rebuked by the answer, which was perhaps the intention. Slater indicated a couple of other pieces: a small bone with holes bored in it so that it might be blown like a flute, and a ring with an irregular zigzag pattern which, despite its tarnish, was gold. Then, as if realizing that their real business had been delayed long enough, the churchman abruptly went back to sit behind his desk. Tom returned to his chair. Slater went through the ritual of picking up and putting down his pen once more. He glanced at the letter from Mr Mackenzie.
‘Some of those things come from my father’s estate at Downton,’ he said, as if unwilling to leave the subject. ‘It was a great pleasure in my younger days to explore the grounds and go fossicking around. There used to be stories of a torque. . you know what a torque is, Mr Ansell?’
‘An artefact?’
‘It is a metal band for the neck or arm, sometimes made of gold or silver. If it is value you are looking for then such an item would be truly valuable. However, this is not much to the purpose. Now my older brother Percy lives on the estate at Downton. He is not concerned with his inheritance and is paying for a lifetime of indulgence with a premature feebleness of body and mind while the place falls round his ears. In the meantime his wife Elizabeth escapes to London when she can, which is all the time as far as I can see. I do not altogether blame her. Who would wish to spend their time immured with a sot? I am not shocking you by speaking frankly, Mr Ansell? Mr Mackenzie no doubt told you that — that I do not see eye to eye with my brother.’
‘He indicated something of the sort,’ said Tom.
‘Fortunately, I have a nephew, Walter. He is the person who showed you in here just now. He is the. . the son I should like to have had, Mr Ansell, I do not see any reason to conceal that from you. It was one of the happiest days of my life when Walter came to live here with me, as it was earlier when he told me that he wished to enter the Church. In due course, and with God’s grace, Walter will inherit the Downton estate. Unlike his father, Walter has not disgraced himself in the expectation of plenty. Rather, he has chosen a spiritual vocation and a life of service. When he comes into his inheritance, I know that he will restore propriety to the Slater line.’
‘You do not expect that to be long?’
‘I do not expect what to be long?’
‘The time when your nephew comes into his estate.’
‘Why do you say so, Mr Ansell?’
‘Because, well, from what you have been saying, Canon Slater, it does not sound as though your brother has the prospect of a long life in front of him.’
‘Perhaps not. Yet we should not hasten any man’s death by expecting it too fervently. We are in God’s hands after all. My brother Percy may have a few years in him still, despite his feebleness. Now, Mr Ansell, let us turn to the reason why you are here.’
Felix Slater got up and crossed to the corner of the room occupied by the Old Testament pictures. With surprising dexterity he squatted on his haunches in front of the wooden chest which Tom had noticed earlier. Retrieving a key from his pocket, he fiddled with the lock. Something about his posture, the hunched shoulders and the thin legs, reminded Tom of a heron. Slater opened the lid of the chest and reached inside. He brought out an item wrapped in cloth and, clutching it, went back to his seat behind the desk. Then, with a gesture that recalled a conjurer, he whipped off the cloth cover to reveal nothing more exciting than a large, leather-bound volume with a kind of hasp attached to it. It had the appearance of a memorandum book or a ledger.
He raised the book and seemed about to pass it to Tom. Then he hesitated and said, ‘Here, Mr Ansell. You may have a brief look. This was written by my father and it is an account of a period in his life, an early period, during which he pursued an existence which it would be kind to call unrespectable and rackety. A less charitable description would be disgraceful and immoral. These are his memoirs cast in the form of a diary. I propose that they should accompany you back to London, back to the offices of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie, where they shall remain in your vault — or in your safe — or in whatever place you store important items entrusted to you by your clients. There they are to stay secure until after my death at which time Walter, my nephew, shall decide whether to read his grandfather’s words or whether to dispose of them unread. The decision shall be his. That is only proper. After all, whatever my father’s faults, he was a Slater, and my nephew is a Slater also.’