And he thought of Helen Scott. This was the one bright spot. Not simply the thought of Helen, but the idea that she alone out of everyone he knew might be amused, even excited, by the fact that he’d spent time in chokey.
‘You have to look at matters from my point of view,’ repeated Inspector Foster, on this bright November morning. Tom could see the blue sky out of the window.
‘I’m trying to, Inspector, but somehow my own point of view keeps getting in the way.’
‘I was summoned to Venn House yesterday evening by Constable Chesney. He had been patrolling the close. We’ve had some robberies there recently, you know. He was alerted by the women of the house, by Mrs Slater and one of the maids.’
Tom recalled the two figures rushing past him up West Walk. Was that Amelia and one of the housemaids?
‘The women are beside themselves and hardly coherent,’ continued Foster, falling into the present tense to recreate the experience more vividly. ‘It takes some time for Chesney to get an inkling of what has occurred. Well, sir, Constable Chesney then gives me the alert and by the time I arrive in the close there are other people — there are friends and neighbours — on the scene. They tell me that, to the best of their knowledge, there is no one left inside the house and that everyone has rushed out in terror. Notwithstanding, I approach the house cautiously. I can tell they fear that the murderer of the Canon might still be in the vicinity.’
‘I thought the same thing,’ said Tom. ‘Not that the Canon had been murdered but that there was an intruder in the place. That’s why I armed myself with one of the Canon’s walking sticks.’
‘Be that as it may, Mr Ansell, be that as it may. I walk into the hallway of Venn House and I know — I know — by instinct that there is someone inside. And my instinct is correct for now I am able to hear movements from Canon Slater’s study.’
Tom said nothing. Confirming his presence again merely seemed to point the finger of blame more firmly. Besides, he did not want to interrupt Foster’s narrative. The Inspector was obviously enjoying himself.
‘I walk up to the door and I see — what do I see?’
‘You see me.’
‘I see you, Mr Ansell. And I see moreover that you are wielding a club or a stick. I see by the light from the room and the passageway that there is blood on the back of your raised hands. I stand in the doorway and wait for you to explain yourself but you say nothing. What am I to think?’
‘I don’t know. No, I do know, Inspector. But it’s not what you think. I’m no murderer. You’ve just said there have been a spate of robberies in the close. Isn’t it possible that the murderer of Canon Slater was the robber?’
‘I’ve been a policeman for many years, Mr Ansell, and in my experience your thief and your murderer are like fish and fowl, quite different beasts.’
‘For heaven’s sake, what reason would I have to kill Canon Slater! He was a client of my firm’s. I came to Venn House because I had been invited to supper by the Slaters. I had business there. I had a legal document to deliver to him.’
Tom patted his inside pocket. The letter which was there, the letter formalizing the arrangements over the Salisbury manuscript, gave a reassuring rustle. It was a reminder of Tom’s real work, of his real life. But useless now, since the manuscript had disappeared and Slater was dead.
‘Just so, sir,’ said Inspector Foster. ‘I have established these facts since. Since, I say. Now I understand that the maid discovered the dead body of Canon Slater and went crying to her mistress and that, together with others in the house, they ran off in all directions looking for help. I know that there were friends and family of the Canon quite close by. But at the time, I was aware of none of this. There are still a few unexplained details. I haven’t yet spoken to Mrs Slater.’
Yes, Tom thought, there were a few unexplained details. Like the fact that friends and family of the Canon were close by the scene of his murder. There were Walter Slater and Amelia, their presence easily explicable. But what were Selby and Cathcart and Percy, Slater’s brother, doing on the spot? If he were the Inspector, he’d be aiming his enquiries in that direction. He opened his mouth to suggest something of the sort, then thought better of it. Let the police do their own work.
But there was still a small puzzle which he wanted to put to Foster.
‘You knew my name, though. You called me by it as we were leaving Venn House. Yet we’d never met before, Inspector.’
‘Someone said it, I think, as we were walking by. “Mr Ansell, he did it!” They said it in a whisper, in surprise.’
‘Who said those words?’ said Tom, more than curious. He remembered hearing the whispering behind him as he walked down the path but had been too distracted to distinguish any words. For some reason the remark — not the giving of his name but the ‘he did it!’ part — caused the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle.
‘I don’t know.’
‘A man or a woman, was it?’
‘A man,’ said Inspector Foster. ‘But it might have been a woman, now I come to think of it. A voice coming out of the dark and the mist.’
‘It’s an odd thing to say.’
Inspector Foster shrugged. ‘I do not see why. The person, whoever it was, was merely saying what others might have been thinking. From first impressions, you understand. You were in the study where Canon Slater was found dead, you were standing there wielding a stick, you had bloodied hands.’
Tom shivered and looked down at the backs of his hands. He thought he detected a speck of blood on one, still. There was a sort of sense to what the Inspector said, though no one had seen him, Tom, in the Canon’s study apart from Foster. Or had they? Had someone glimpsed him through the uncurtained windows? If so that person might justifiably have assumed Tom was the killer. Unless that very person was the killer.
‘Anyway,’ continued the Inspector, ‘I was not paying close attention to people’s words, sir. My concern was to get you away from the vicinity of Venn House before anyone could come to harm.’
‘I suppose you thought I was going to take a swing at somebody with that walking stick.’
‘I was just as concerned that harm might come to you, Mr Ansell. It seemed best to get you to a place of safety.’
‘To the county gaol,’ said Tom, gazing round the room once more.
‘This is a secure place out of the public eye. Best to keep you in here while tempers got cooler and minds got clearer and I could ask a few questions.’
‘So I can go now?’
‘In a few hours you can go. There are a handful of queries I have to make and then you can return to your room at The Side of Beef.’
‘I do not think I’ll be staying in Salisbury, Inspector. My business here is terminated with the death of my client.’
‘But I must request you prolong your visit by two or three days.’
‘Why?’
‘Because although my immediate enquiries concerning you, Mr Ansell, may be nearly finished, there is no saying whether you won’t be called to contribute to the investigation in future. If so, it would be handier to have you on the spot rather than sending to London.’
Foster looked genial enough as he said these words but he tugged at his side-whiskers as if in emphasis. Tom sensed that he might be prevented if he tried to leave the city. And, in fairness, he might have some work to do in attending to Felix Slater’s estate.
‘Did you find any documents in the study, Inspector?’ he said. ‘Or, to be more exact, did you see a volume rather like a diary with a hasp and a lock?’
‘I don’t think so. Why, is it important?’
‘Not especially,’ said Tom.
Foster looked as though he didn’t quite believe Tom but he said nothing. Instead he drained his coffee cup and stood up. He stretched out his hand and shook Tom’s, saying, ‘An hour or two, sir, and we shall have you out of here.’ The gesture and words were reassuring.