The Salisbury Manuscript by Philip Gooden Page A

to law business. He nodded benevolently but his ears missed nothing. He outlined a client’s chances succinctly.
    ‘Have a drink, I say. Help yourself to a glass from over there and then help yourself from this.’
    Mr Mackenzie picked up the decanter and poured himself a generous measure. Tom would have preferred to drink tea or water or nothing at all – the debris of a pie which he’d bought at a coster’s stall on the way up to Highgate sat greasily in his stomach – but it wouldn’t do to refuse his employer. He fetched a glass from the sideboard and lined the bottom with brandy, adding plenty of water. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire to Mackenzie. Feeble daylight penetrated through the leaded window but a stronger illumination came from the gas jets on either side of the fireplace.
    ‘What d’you make of this?’ said Mackenzie, tapping the newspaper on his lap with the stem of his pipe. ‘Of the Claimant case?’
    The criminal trial of the Tichborne Claimant was drawing to a close during these autumn days. At least, it was generally believed that it must be drawing to a close soon since it had begun in the spring and had already broken records for occupying court-time with a single case. But Tom sometimes wondered why it shouldn’t go on for ever. Just as things seemed to be winding down, the Claimant’s counsel introduced some sensational claim or wild accusation against the presiding judge. The case was amusing to those engaged in the law, not least because the judge who was on the receiving end of counsel’s accusations was the Lord Chief Justice, but it had extensive appeal beyond the law and could be relied on to sell the papers.
    ‘Is he genuine or isn’t he?’ said Mackenzie.
    ‘Surely there can be no question that he isn’t,’ said Tom.
    ‘Not a niggling doubt?’ said Tom’s employer, tapping the paper for emphasis. ‘Doubt is our business, you know. Doubt is the lever which can move legal mountains.’
    Tom nodded. He sometimes felt that he should produce a notebook and write down David Mackenzie’s little asides, or perhaps it was rather the feeling that Mackenzie would have liked him to do so.
    ‘However, I haven’t summoned you here today to chew over the Tichborne Claimant case, Tom,’ said Mackenzie, folding the paper and dropping it on the carpet. While Tom was waiting to hear why he had been summoned, his employer picked up a back-scratcher from the table by his elbow. He inserted the end into the gap at the top of the plaster that encased his leg, and wiggled it around. Judging by the look of satisfaction, almost of ecstasy, that wreathed his round face, he must have succeeded in reaching the itch. He replaced the back-scratcher on the side table and said, ‘How are you on the Church?’
    ‘I, er, I . . . am not quite sure what you mean.’
    ‘Can you tell your cope from your chasuble, and could you tell either of them from your alb?’
    ‘No, not even if my life depended on it.’
    ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ said Mackenzie. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’ll have much discusssion about copes and chasubles with Felix Slater. He’s a canon residentiary at Salisbury Cathedral, which is where you are to go. Slater is distinctly “low”. He’d probably flee at a whiff of incense. He’s a stiff, somewhat cold individual, to be honest. Still, he comes from a family which has a very long association with us and we can no more choose our older clients than . . . than . . .’
    ‘Than parents can choose their children,’ completed Tom.
    ‘Very good. Older clients can certainly be as trouble-some and demanding as children. Not that Felix Slater is particularly old. And I shouldn’t be too hard on him. He is a worthy and respectable man.’
    ‘So what am I to do in Salisbury, Mr Mackenzie? Is it connnected with a will?’
    ‘Why no, not directly, though there is something to be passed on, a ‘delicate’ something. Let me explain, but