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Authors: Philip Gooden
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Salisbury errand and Tom wished him a speedy recovery.
Tom Ansell retraced his steps down the stairs to the baronial-looking hall. Mrs Mackenzie emerged from its depths.
‘Ah, Mr Ansell. How is the old boy upstairs?’
‘Mr Mackenzie seems well, all things considered.’
Mary Mackenzie looked at Tom quizzically and he remembered that she was friendly with Mrs Scott, Helen’s mother. That must be how she had known that his father was in the army.
‘Did he bend your ear about the Claimant case? I’ve heard of nothing but the Claimant case morning, noon and night.’
‘ Would you be surprised to hear , Mrs Mackenzie, that all of London hears of nothing but the Claimant case?’
She smiled in recognition of the phrase. ‘Would you be surprised to hear’ had been an expression frequently used by the Tichbourne family’s counsel in the first trial. It had caught on with the public for no discernible reason, and was even turning up in music-hall songs.
‘Good, Mr Ansell. I am pleased to see that you can make a joke. I shouldn’t want to take you altogether for a dry lawyer.’
Tom should have felt condescended to but he found himself warming to Mrs Mackenzie. It crossed his mind that she was preferable to the dragonish Mrs Scott and that she might put in a good word for him in the Scott household. Then the sour-faced Bea appeared holding Tom’s hat and coat and, saying goodbye to his employer’s wife, he left the house.
It was almost dark outside, what with the hour and the fog that, rather than shifting away altogether, had risen up from the London basin. Tom walked past the dripping laurels and into the street where an elderly lamp-lighter was at work causing sudden blooms of yellow to erupt through the haze. It was only when Tom had walked a couple of hundred yards that he recalled the ‘errand’ with which he’d been entrusted by Mr Mackenzie. Until that point his mind had been full of Helen. Collecting a ‘manuscript’ did not sound a very demanding task. He put it out of his mind again and thought instead of Miss Scott.
West Walk
Tom woke with a thick head the morning after his arrival in Salisbury. He’d had a restless night in the four-poster in The Side of Beef, with a dream of struggling to gather up scattered sheets of paper from a railway line that stretched across a bare plain. He was acutely aware that the longer his task took the more likely was a train to thunder down on him. He could hear a kind of rattling along the rails.
Then, in time with the rattling, came a series of knocks at the door of his room and a woman entered with a jug of warm water for him to shave and asked if she should draw the curtains. Tom recognized her nasal voice and visualized her mournful eyes. He muttered to her to leave the curtains and tried to get back to sleep. But he abandoned the attempt after a few moments, got up and went across to the window.
The fog had lifted and it was a bright, hard morning, with frost on the panes and sun glinting on the roofs opposite. The street below was bustling with people and carts and carriages. Tom washed and dressed rapidly and went down to breakfast. It was later than he thought and he was the only diner. The motherly woman who’d served him at supper the previous evening clucked around him, offering him more coffee and asking whether he was sure he’d had enough porridge and sausage and kidney and toast and marmalade. She seemed to have taken a shine to him. Making conversation, he asked the way to the cathedral close and she told him to ‘follow the spire and it would be difficult get lost, sir,’ and he thought, of course, stupid question.
Conscious that he had an early appointment with Canon Slater, Tom refused second helpings of breakfast. He returned to his room to get his coat and a small despatch case, suitable for holding documents. When he was going through the lobby he saw the landlord standing on the porch. Jenkins was turning his head from side to
Tom Ansell retraced his steps down the stairs to the baronial-looking hall. Mrs Mackenzie emerged from its depths.
‘Ah, Mr Ansell. How is the old boy upstairs?’
‘Mr Mackenzie seems well, all things considered.’
Mary Mackenzie looked at Tom quizzically and he remembered that she was friendly with Mrs Scott, Helen’s mother. That must be how she had known that his father was in the army.
‘Did he bend your ear about the Claimant case? I’ve heard of nothing but the Claimant case morning, noon and night.’
‘ Would you be surprised to hear , Mrs Mackenzie, that all of London hears of nothing but the Claimant case?’
She smiled in recognition of the phrase. ‘Would you be surprised to hear’ had been an expression frequently used by the Tichbourne family’s counsel in the first trial. It had caught on with the public for no discernible reason, and was even turning up in music-hall songs.
‘Good, Mr Ansell. I am pleased to see that you can make a joke. I shouldn’t want to take you altogether for a dry lawyer.’
Tom should have felt condescended to but he found himself warming to Mrs Mackenzie. It crossed his mind that she was preferable to the dragonish Mrs Scott and that she might put in a good word for him in the Scott household. Then the sour-faced Bea appeared holding Tom’s hat and coat and, saying goodbye to his employer’s wife, he left the house.
It was almost dark outside, what with the hour and the fog that, rather than shifting away altogether, had risen up from the London basin. Tom walked past the dripping laurels and into the street where an elderly lamp-lighter was at work causing sudden blooms of yellow to erupt through the haze. It was only when Tom had walked a couple of hundred yards that he recalled the ‘errand’ with which he’d been entrusted by Mr Mackenzie. Until that point his mind had been full of Helen. Collecting a ‘manuscript’ did not sound a very demanding task. He put it out of his mind again and thought instead of Miss Scott.
West Walk
Tom woke with a thick head the morning after his arrival in Salisbury. He’d had a restless night in the four-poster in The Side of Beef, with a dream of struggling to gather up scattered sheets of paper from a railway line that stretched across a bare plain. He was acutely aware that the longer his task took the more likely was a train to thunder down on him. He could hear a kind of rattling along the rails.
Then, in time with the rattling, came a series of knocks at the door of his room and a woman entered with a jug of warm water for him to shave and asked if she should draw the curtains. Tom recognized her nasal voice and visualized her mournful eyes. He muttered to her to leave the curtains and tried to get back to sleep. But he abandoned the attempt after a few moments, got up and went across to the window.
The fog had lifted and it was a bright, hard morning, with frost on the panes and sun glinting on the roofs opposite. The street below was bustling with people and carts and carriages. Tom washed and dressed rapidly and went down to breakfast. It was later than he thought and he was the only diner. The motherly woman who’d served him at supper the previous evening clucked around him, offering him more coffee and asking whether he was sure he’d had enough porridge and sausage and kidney and toast and marmalade. She seemed to have taken a shine to him. Making conversation, he asked the way to the cathedral close and she told him to ‘follow the spire and it would be difficult get lost, sir,’ and he thought, of course, stupid question.
Conscious that he had an early appointment with Canon Slater, Tom refused second helpings of breakfast. He returned to his room to get his coat and a small despatch case, suitable for holding documents. When he was going through the lobby he saw the landlord standing on the porch. Jenkins was turning his head from side to
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