side in a proprietorial fashion, as if he owned not merely The Side of Beef but the entire street it was situated in.
‘Ah, Mr Ansell of Messrs Scott, Lye & Mackenzie. You are well rested, I hope, sir?’
‘Comfortably enough, thank you.’
‘And well fed?’
‘That too.’
‘Have you a moment, sir?’
‘No more than a moment, I am on my way to meet someone.’
‘It is only that I took a liberty last night and I thought I ought to tell you of it.’
Tom hesitated between annoyance and curiosity. He said nothing but stood opposite Jenkins on the porch. The landlord stroked his blackened moustache while his breath frosted in the cold air.
‘You may have observed last night, sir, at supper that I was talking to some ladies and gentlemen. One of them was asking about you. He wanted to know your name.’
Tom recalled the stouut individual leaning back in his chair and tapping the side of his nose, together with the frequent glances he’d cast in his direction. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not a spy with his secrets. You are welcome to give him my name if you like. But if he can ask about me, I can ask about him. Who was it?’
‘Mr Cathcart, Mr Henry Cathcart. He is one of the leading citizens of our town.’
‘And why did Mr Henry Cathcart want to know the name of one of your guests?’
‘He didn’t say, sir.’
‘Well then, there’s an end of it,’ said Tom, making to move off the porch. But the landlord hadn’t finished.
‘All he did say, was that he thought he knew you from somewhere.’
‘Not from here, Mr Jenkins. I’ve never visited Salisbury before in my life.’
With that, Tom strode down the street, without giving Jenkins another word or look. His irritation with the proprietor of The Side of Beef was sharp enough that he didn’t give much thought as to why one of last night’s diners should have been enquiring after his name. Damn Jenkins! He was obviously one of those hotel-keepers who liked to insinuate himself into his guests’ lives and pry out their business. Well, the man would get no more out of him, not even the time of day.
As the woman serving breakfast had said, it would be difficult to get lost on the way to Salisbury Cathedral. Wherever he turned a corner and had an uninterrupted vista down a street, the spire rose up like a needle into the clear light of the November morning. Tom pushed his way through a market and passed an elaborately crowned and buttressed landmark that he assumed was the Poultry Cross, before turning into a High Street which was lined with ancient-looking inns. It struck him that for hundreds of years people had been coming to this place, to carry on their business, to do penance, to visit one of the finest churches in the land.
There was an arched entrance at the end of the High Street, beyond which lay the close and the wide grounds of the cathedral. Once inside, the houses became both grander and somehow more sedate. There were stretches of lawn and walks overshadowed by elms and beeches. Beyond and to his left, effortlessly dominant, rose the vast bulk of the church. The little knots of visitors were easy to distinguish not just by their clothes but by their ambling gait even on this cold sunny morning. Tom was searching for Venn House, Canon Slater’s dwelling, and he might have asked directions from one of the dark-garbed clerics moving as purposefully as crows among the sightseers. But he was oddly reluctant to reveal where he was going, especially after the encounter with Jenkins.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the clerical figures making for him.
It was Canon Eric Selby. As last night at the railway station, he was wearing a coat and muffler and his shovel-hat. The coldness of the morning had brought a hectic colour to the cleric’s smooth-shaven cheeks. Tom was pleased to see him and said as much. By the light of day Tom saw how blue the old man’s eyes were, a blinking blue. He looked like an owl caught by