‘Felix would like to have me declared incapable, no doubt,’ Percy continued. ‘He would like to have me admitted to some sanatorium or asylum so that his Walter can come early into possession of Northwood.’
‘I do not know, Mr Slater, but I don’t think so.’
‘Do not be taken in by that holy act, Mr Ansell. Word to the wise. I know my brother and you do not. Have you met his wife, my sister-in-law?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘What impression did you form of her?’
‘I–I really don’t know.’
‘Come on, Mr Ansell. Amelia, my sister-in-law, is an attractive woman, is she not? You can at least say that without breaking any confidences or compromising your client’s privileges.’
‘Yes, she is attractive,’ said Tom uneasily.
‘Good. We can agree on that. Can we also agree that there is, shall we say, an apparent mismatch between my brother and his attractive wife? He’s a dry old stick, after all, while she is neither so dry nor so old.’
This was pretty well exactly how things had struck Tom. He shrugged and said, ‘Who can tell with a marriage?’
Someone had made that remark to him recently. He remembered that it was David Mackenzie. Tom’s comment might have been rhetorical but it seemed to please Percy Slater.
‘True, who can tell with a marriage?’ he repeated. ‘The story of my brother’s marriage is an odd one. You know it?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Or rather all I know is that Mrs Slater grew up in Florence and that her father was English.’
‘While her mother was Italian. My brother Felix met the family when he was on a tour of Italian cities — Pisa, Florence, Lucca, Siena and the rest. He was looking at the antiquities no doubt. He was lodging with Amelia’s parents in Florence. They had a single daughter, Amelia. She must have been smitten for she came over to England not so long after his return. Her own parents were dead by this time and perhaps she had no one else to turn to apart from the nice clergyman who had spoken fondly to her.’
Percy paused to take a swig from his glass. Tom noticed the edge of bitterness in his words. Perhaps he was envious of his brother, of the fact that an attractive young woman had come in search of Felix from overseas. This seemed to be confirmed by what he said next.
‘Amelia threw herself on his mercy. She was a single lady in a country that was foreign to her. In due course, and after the necessary arrangements, they were married and they lived happily ever after.’
‘This was a long time ago?’
‘Oh, many years. Twenty or more. But Amelia has worn very well, hasn’t she, while my brother has simply grown more dry and stick-like. So we’ve had a happy ending, no?’
‘It sounds like it.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Slater.
There was a finality to his words. Tom stood up again, explaining that he had a train to catch and an appointment in Salisbury. This was a stretch, but at the moment he simply wanted to get out of Northwood House. Percy Slater pulled out a pocket watch.
‘There is no great hurry, sir. No train is due for, oh — an hour and a half at least. At two thirty to be precise. I know the train times backward. I enjoy reading my Bradshaw just as I enjoy reading the racing form. An hour and a half, I say. Plenty of time for Fawkes to take you back to Downton.’
‘Fawkes?’
‘My coachman. And valet. And factotum. I inherited him from my father just as I inherited Nan, who is my cook and housekeeper. Her name is Ann but I called her Nan with my childish tongue and it has stuck ever since. Fawkes is simply Fawkes, and there is no more to be said. My wife Elizabeth would like me to take on more servants but I tell her that since she is never here and I live essentially in two rooms out of the many in Northwood, Fawkes and Nan can cater to my needs quite adequately. She cooks well, if she has to. You will not stay for luncheon?’
Tom’s attention was caught by this reference to the man’s wife but he turned down the invitation. Turned it down with a touch of regret as well as relief. He sensed Percy Slater’s loneliness. His host waved at him in dismissal.
‘Very well, Mr Ansell. Go outside and find Nan or Fawkes. He will convey you back to the station. I would not have you stuck here.’
Slater half rose from his seat and gave Tom a perfunctory handshake.
Since Tom had rejected his invitation to stay, he seemed to have lost interest in his guest.
Tom retraced his steps from the smoking room and into the servants’ quarter of the house. He passed Nan. She was carrying a tray containing a plate of cheese and cold meats together with a wine bottle, presumably the lunch that he would have shared with Percy. The old, black-garbed servant could scarcely bring herself to acknowledge him with a nod. Fawkes, coachman, valet and factotum to Percy Slater, was sitting at the end of the kitchen table. He was tearing at a chunk of bread, the final item on his plate. Tom stood in the doorway.
‘I need to return to the station now, Fawkes. Mr Slater said you would take me.’
Fawkes looked up at Tom. He finished chewing the bread, taking his time. Then he took a swig from a tankard beside the plate. Only after that did he get to his feet, wiping at his mouth and dimpled chin. He was still wearing the little felt hat.
‘Wait in here,’ he said, ‘sir.’
Tom stood in the lobby while Fawkes went off to fetch the carriage. The rain dribbled down the window-panes in the door. Tom thought he’d seen Fawkes before somewhere, then reflected that he had — scarcely more than a couple of hours ago at Downton station. He thought of Percy Slater’s ridiculous invitation to a wager. There was something old-fashioned about it, the kind of absurd bet that two aristocrats would have indulged in during an earlier, looser age. In fact, Percy Slater himself — drinking, idling, gaming, casting his eye over the sporting press — had an eighteenth-century flavour to him. Tom recalled that David Mackenzie had described Percy’s father, George, in similar terms, an impression which was confirmed by the little he’d glimpsed of old Slater’s memoirs.
Tom continued to think about the Slater family as he was being conveyed to the station by Fawkes. There was a contrast between the two brothers in almost every way: the one lean and austere, the other slack and self-indulgent; Felix’s religious vocation, Percy’s boredom; the Canon’s passion for old artefacts and reverence for history, his older brother’s devotion to gambling and the turf. It would have been interesting to have met Elizabeth and compared her to the enigmatic Amelia, to have seen whether the difference in the brothers was reflected in their wives.
Slater’s carriage trundled into Downton, over the bridge and past the tannery. Fawkes drew up on the stand out-side the railway station. Tom got out and looked up to thank Fawkes in the driving seat. The coachman raised a forefinger and seemed to sight down it at Tom as if his finger was the barrel of a gun. ‘You have a care,’ he said, ‘sir.’
This might have been intended as a kindly parting remark but, coupled with the gun-sighting gesture and spoken without warmth, it sounded more like a warning. As he sat in the little waiting room (there was more than half an hour before his train was due), Tom did his best to shrug off the visit to Northwood House.
He hadn’t disliked Percy Slater, in an odd way he’d felt almost sorry for the fellow, but he had not cared for the cold, neglected mansion or the two retainers. Tom still couldn’t understand exactly why Percy had wanted to see him, unless he was meant to act as an intermediary between the brothers. The other puzzle was how to square the description which Felix had given of his brother with the reality. Percy might be idle and all the rest of it, but he was no fool, nor did he appear to be suffering any kind of physical decline. Tom wondered whether Felix Slater assumed that his brother must be in that condition, either because they never saw each other or because he required him to be paying some sort of price for his way of life. Perhaps that was what lay behind Percy’s claim that his brother would like to have him committed to a sanatorium or an asylum. Where had he heard, and recently, someone say that people aren’t always what they seem? Ah yes, it was Amelia Slater, the Canon’s wife. They’d been talking about the Tichborne Claimant. Well, neither of the brothers was a fraudster but nor were they quite how they’d been painted by others.