Annabel made to move towards him but he had already disappeared up the spiral staircase, pushing the door to behind him. She half opened it again but the door gave a great creak and she heard the shuffle of climbing feet halt above her. She looked down and observed some crumbs on the floor. He had been carrying a loaf of bread as well as the bottle, clutching the items to him as though he feared someone might seize them. She didn’t know whether to be more surprised at this or at the queer, fixed expression on his face. Was he feeding someone up in the tower? Was he feeding himself? Suddenly frightened, Annabel turned and walked quickly out of the church. She spent some time waiting outside for Walter to appear again. It was late in the day, there was no church service. What could he be doing up there in the bell-tower? She asked herself whether his mind had been turned by the murder of his uncle.
Wondering what to do next she then remembered not the vicar of St Luke’s, Mr Simpson (who, in truth, she did not like very much), but an old friend of her grandfather, the late Rev. Parsons. So she called on Canon Eric Selby and, haltingly, explained what she’d seen. And Selby had surprised her by the speed with which, after his initial doubts, he had put on his coat and shovel-hat and accompanied her back to St Luke’s. He might have been an old man, very old in Annabel’s eyes, but he walked with vigour and purpose. On the way, Annabel tried out her idea that Walter had become disturbed on account of the dreadful murder of his uncle, Felix Slater, which was the talk of the whole town. It’s possible, said Selby, without revealing that he had been present at the aftermath of the murder himself.
Once they were inside St Luke’s, Annabel grew reluctant. She wished she hadn’t summoned the nice old gent now. For sure, Walter would be nowhere to be found (certainly not up in the bell-tower), and she’d look a fool. On the other hand, part of her hoped that Walter was all right and not skulking in the tower anyway. She was a little frightened too, and allowed Canon Selby, old as he was, to go first through the creaky door and up the spiral stairs. It was almost completely dark and they had to feel their way up.
They reached the little, stone-flagged landing outside the ringing room and Annabel got a terrible shock because there was a figure standing in the doorway, waiting for them. It was Walter Slater. She would have known him in any case but a little light leaked out from the room, a couple of flickering candles which outlined his shape.
‘I heard the door,’ he said, his voice sounding strange to Annabel’s ears.
‘Miss Nugent, I recognize you but what are you doing here?’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘Who is that with you?’
‘This is Eric Selby, Walter. You know me, do you not?’
‘Yes, sir. I know you. What do you want?’
‘I think, Miss Nugent, that it would be best if you left me to speak to Walter by myself.’
Annabel was half sorry, half glad to get her dismissal. She walked back down the stairs. She thought of poor Walter up in the ringing room, and felt curious. A little frightened still. Walter wouldn’t do anything to the old man, would he? He was a churchman. They were both churchmen. Then she recalled the murder of another churchman only a few days before.
In the ringing room, Canon Selby was saying, ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You aren’t sleeping up here surely, Walter?’
But Selby saw against the wall a pile of material, old vestments and the like, which seemed to bear the marks of a body. There was, too, a kind of fustiness to the chamber for all its chill.
‘What if I am? This is my church — I mean, I am curate here. I can sleep here if I want.’
‘Most curates of my acquaintance would expect to be better accommodated than this. Does Reverend Simpson know you are here?’
‘Of course he doesn’t. No one knows I am here. Except you and Miss Annabel now.’
‘Well, well,’ said Selby, ‘never mind the fact that you are here for the time being. The question is why you are here when you have a home to go to. I am sure that your aunt needs your comfort and protection.’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Slater. Amelia.’
‘Oh, my aunt. Yes, perhaps she does.’
Both men were standing face to face. Selby was almost a head shorter than Walter but the authority seemed to lie with him. He spoke the last words softly and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. Walter irritably shook off his grasp.
‘Is this to do with your uncle’s murder?’
‘My uncle’s murder,’ said Walter as if the thought had just occurred to him. He took a step or two backwards. ‘You were there when — when Canon Slater was killed, weren’t you?’
‘Not when he was killed,’ said Selby carefully. ‘But I did arrive on the scene shortly afterwards.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I do not know that I have to answer your questions, Walter, but I was out for a walk.’
‘On such a cold and miserable night?’
‘I have always enjoyed walking in the cathedral close whatever the weather. I was out walking that evening as on so many others and I noticed a noise and disturbance coming from your uncle’s place, from Venn House. I wondered if anything was wrong.’
‘You did not like Canon Slater,’ said Walter. It was a statement rather than a question. ‘I heard you two arguing on the day that he died.’
Eric Selby looked surprised at this but he did not ask how Walter had discovered the argument. Instead he said, ‘It is no secret that there was not a great deal of love lost between your uncle and myself but I regret his passing as much as any honest citizen of Salisbury must regret it, especially as it occurred in such terrible circumstances. Does that satisfy you, Walter? I had nothing to do with his murder.’
Without giving any sign that he’d listened to these last words, Walter Slater turned away. He sat down on the makeshift bedding and buried his head in his hands. When he looked up again he seemed taken aback to find Selby still there. Selby was tired of standing. He went to sit on one of a handful of chairs placed in the room for the benefit of the bell-ringers.
‘You are a man of the cloth, Walter, as I am. We talk about the sins of others but less often of our own. Something has occurred to make you act in this very uncharacteristic way. You must either be sinning or sinned against. Which is it? Won’t you tell me?’
‘Oh, you want me to tell you, do you?’ said Walter Slater. ‘You want me to confess? Very well, I shall.’
Hogg’s Corner
Several miles away, in Northwood House, Fawkes was awakened by a shuffling and snorting from the horses. Fawkes — the coachman and valet and factotum to Percy Slater — chose to sleep in a loft above the stables rather than in the cold and cavernous main house. His master made no objection. Percy Slater ran an odd establishment, or more accurately he didn’t run it at all but let it fall to slow ruin about his ears. Fawkes might sleep where he pleased as long as he was available when required to convey his master about the place and for other odd jobs. So Fawkes had fashioned for himself quite a cosy area at the gable end which was once used for storage. He had equipped it with a simple bed and a chair and a little table. He liked the way he could look down on the world, even if it was no more than the world of the stables. It gave him the same feeling of apartness as driving a coach. He liked the privacy of the stables, the absence of visitors, not that anyone visited the main house. He probably preferred the company of horses to people. Percy Slater had once told him that he was like Lemuel Gulliver in the story but Fawkes did not know what the man was talking about.