Only after they’d parted company and Tom was returning to The Side of Beef did it occur to him that Walter had shown no curiosity about why he was in Salisbury. Did he know that his uncle was passing over his grandfather’s memoir-book? Was he aware that he would have the responsibility of deciding what to do with it once Felix Slater was dead? In fact there was a strange aspect to Walter Slater’s situation altogether. There he was, a lowly curate in a town parish, and yet he was destined to inherit a country estate. He must be a very devout man, since the Church could still be the preserve of younger sons without prospects. And what about Amelia Slater? How much did she know, beyond the fact that Tom was a representative of her husband’s lawyers?
Back at the inn, Tom climbed the stairs to his room. Fortunately he did not bump into Jenkins, although he did recall the landlord mentioning that one of the guests had been asking about him the previous evening. A man who was called — he grasped for the name — Cathcart, Henry Cathcart. ‘One of the leading citizens of our town,’ Jenkins had called him. Well, if the fellow was curious about Tom Ansell, he knew where to find him.
Tom put all this out of his head and settled down at the small writing table in his room to draw up the memorandum which Canon Slater had requested. It was a straightforward job but he took longer over it than was necessary, partly because he wanted to satisfy Slater and partly as a way of filling up what remained of the afternoon. In appropriate legal terminology, he indicated that the volume henceforth to be known as the Salisbury manuscript was to remain sealed in the offices of Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie until after the death of Canon Felix Slater. It was then left to Walter Slater (or in the event of his death to his heirs and successors) to read or otherwise dispose of as he saw fit.
By this time, it had grown dark outside and the traffic in the street had quietened. Tom made a copy of the document he had composed and put them both away in his bag. He wrote a letter to Helen Scott, outlining what he’d done that morning and describing Canon Slater and his collection of artefacts. He talked about the attractions of Salisbury and the grandeur of the cathedral. Then he remembered that Helen knew the town, for she had told him of visits here in her childhood. He made only a passing reference to Mrs Slater. When it came to signing off, he wavered between ‘most affectionately yours’, ‘ardently’, and ‘with my love and affection’, before settling on the last. He had brought stamps with him. Having some time in hand before supper, he went out to find a pillar-box and then wandered idly about some of the streets in the centre of town.
He must have been gone from The Side of Beef for half an hour or so. When he returned there was a welcome smell of supper wafting through the ground floor. He went upstairs to wash and change before the meal. The door to his room was slightly ajar. At first he thought the maid must be inside. But, when he pushed at the door, the room was empty. Someone had been there, however. Tom’s clothes had been taken out of the wardrobe and were scattered across the bed or on the floor. His case had been upturned and the papers which it contained were strewn about the place. His initial reaction was surprise followed by anger. He gathered the papers together. They mostly related to Canon Slater’s affairs. Nothing seemed to be missing. The document he’d just drawn up and its copy were still there. He was baffled. He had nothing of value, nothing worth stealing. He remembered to be glad that he hadn’t yet taken possession of the Salisbury manuscript.
Without stopping to pick up any of his garments, he strode into the passage and almost collided with the landlord.
‘All is well, Mr Ansell?’ said Jenkins, although the man could see that it wasn’t.
‘Is this a den of thieves, landlord?’
They stood on the threshold of the room, gazing at the mess. Jenkins stroked his moustache furiously.
‘You have lost something, Mr Ansell?’
‘You mean, has anything been stolen from me? I am not sure. I do not think so. But this could be a police matter.’
‘If you have lost nothing, there is no harm done and no need to summon the police, sir. This is an honest house, Mr Ansell. We’ve never had any trouble here.’ A wheedling note had entered the landlord’s voice, as he saw ways of retrieving the situation. Then, in a more calculating tone, ‘Did you lock your door, sir?’
‘Yes, I did — but why should I need to if this is an honest house?’ said Tom, fingering the room key in his pocket. Had he locked it? He couldn’t be sure. He asked, ‘Who else has rooms along here?’
‘You do not suspect the other guests,’ said Jenkins. He sounded genuinely indignant.
‘An outsider then?’
‘I keep a very careful watch on things, Mr Ansell. No one gets inside or comes upstairs without me knowing it.’
‘I’m sure they don’t. Well then, what access is there is to this floor apart from the front stairs?’
‘There is a back staircase down there.’
And at that moment, as if on cue, the maid appeared at the other end of the passage. Catching sight of Tom and her employer, she halted and gave a sneeze. Seeing someone on to whom the guest’s anger might be deflected, Jenkins beckoned to her.
‘Still got that cold, Jenny?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘You’d better get rid of it, hadn’t you,’ said the landlord in a tone that suggested it was either the girl or the cold that was leaving. Having established how things stood, Jenkins waved an arm at the open door to Tom’s room.
‘What do you know about this, Jenny?’
She too came to inspect the room. She wrung her hands and looked mournful. Eventually she came out with, ‘I don’t know nothing, sir. I’m terribly sorry, sir. Do you want me to tidy up?’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ said Tom. The irritation and bafflement had gone. He felt weary and did not want to make trouble for the harassed chambermaid. Jenkins, in contrast, looked relieved.
‘When you are done, Mr Ansell, please come down and have supper and a bottle — on the house, of course.’
Tom nodded and retreated into his room. It took him only a few moments to straighten his clothes and fold and hang them up. It was disagreeable to think they’d been thrown around by a stranger but, as the landlord had said in his self-interested fashion, no harm had been done. Tom remembered the odd robberies he’d heard about at Venn House, the theft of jelly moulds and cutlery. Perhaps there was an impish thief at work in the town.
Tom took a bath in the shared bathroom at the end of the passage. The gas geyser chuntered away while Tom soaped himself and pondered the mystery of the break-in without coming to any conclusion. He changed his shirt, although it was almost as creased as the one he was replacing, and put on his spare jacket. Taking care to turn the key firmly in the lock — despite the chances of being broken into twice on the same evening being vanishingly slight — Tom turned right to the head of the stairs. A man had just reached the top. He was limping slightly and panting after the exertion of the climb. Tom recognized him, despite the dimness of the passageway. It was the gentleman who’d taken an interest him during last night’s supper. Cathcart, Henry Cathcart.
For his part, he recognized Tom for he said, ‘Mr Ansell? Thomas Ansell? But you must be. You’re the spit of your father. The living spit.’
The Nethers
On the eastern fringe of the city was a public house which went by the name of The Neat-herd but which was known almost universally as The Netherworld or simply The Nethers. No one remembered when the name had changed, or rather slipped, to its new form but it suited the people who frequented the place. It was a favourite with beggars and hawkers and petty thieves, together with women who were sometimes keeping them company and sometimes striking out on their own, glugging down their profits or fortifying themselves before going out on the town in search of more.