The Anatomy Of Ghosts

7

On Friday, 26 May, after dining as usual by herself, Elinor Carbury sat in her parlour at a table by the window, which overlooked the Master’s Garden. The garden was still laid out in the old-fashioned style with parterres, shrubs and trees, all deployed with the mechanical regularity of a regiment of soldiers upon a parade square. It was bounded largely by the sweeping curve of the Long Pond, beyond which were more college gardens.

In front of her on the table was Dr Johnson’s Rasselas, a novel she had read several times before. She heard a muffled knocking on the hall door downstairs. She turned a page and appeared absorbed in her reading when Susan, squirming with excitement, announced Mr Holdsworth.

He bowed from the doorway. Elinor responded with a civil inclination of the head. She closed the book and stood up. ‘Dr Carbury had hoped to be here to greet you, sir, but he was unfortunately called away. I trust your journey was uneventful?’

‘Yes, madam,’ Holdsworth said.

‘Would you care to take some refreshment, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you.’

She disliked the way he stared at her almost as much as his lack of conversation. He was uncouth, she decided, a veritable bear of a man. He must have intimidated that poor wife of his. The maid lingered in the room, eyeing the visitor with ill-concealed interest. Elinor told her to leave them.

‘I understand that Mr Cross has informed you of all you need to know,’ she said when they were alone. ‘So -’

‘I wish that were true.’

‘Sir? You are pleased to be droll?’

‘No, ma’am, I spoke no more than the truth. For example, Mr Cross told me little about Mr Oldershaw’s encounter with the ghost. When I inquired further, he referred me to you and Dr Carbury.’

She offered him a chair, partly to give herself time to regain control of the interview. She returned to her seat at the table and looked sternly at him. ‘There is little to say. Mr Oldershaw was in low spirits already, why I do not know. On the evening before he saw – whatever he saw – he had drunk a good deal of wine and his gyp says he also took a dose of laudanum as he retired to bed.’

‘His gyp?’

‘A gyp is a species of servant we have at the University – they condescend to work only for those undergraduates who can afford to pay their exorbitant charges.’

‘A reliable witness?’

‘I do not know the man. His name is Mulgrave. Dr Carbury says he is nobody’s fool, and he is sober in his manner of life. When Mulgrave left Mr Oldershaw at the end of the evening, he believed he was asleep. The rest is speculation, until the porter on duty heard a great shouting and splashing near the Long Pond. If you wish, you may see the spot from here.’

He joined her by the window. The unfashionably large cuff of his shabby black coat brushed her shoulder.

‘You see the water, sir?’ she said. ‘And the great plane tree on the further bank? That was where they found him. He was bellowing like a baby.’

‘What time was it?’

‘A little after two o’clock. The porter raised the alarm and pulled Mr Oldershaw out of the water. He fell into a swoon, and indeed his life was despaired of for several hours, for he was chilled to the bone. When he awoke after dawn, it was found that his reason had fled, and that he could babble of nothing but ghosts.’ She paused. ‘Or, to be more precise, of Mrs Whichcote’s ghost. In a day or two it became clear that his reason had still not been restored, though in other respects he was recovered. Dr Carbury communicated with Lady Anne, and she ordered his removal to Dr Jermyn’s.’

‘Tell me, madam, why -’

A knock at the door interrupted them. Susan announced Mr Richardson. Elinor hoped her face did not betray her irritation. A small, slightly built clergyman came towards her, took the hand she held out to him and bowed low.

‘Your servant, ma’am,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘A thousand apologies – I did not realize you had a visitor.’

‘I am afraid the Doctor stepped out after dinner, sir,’ she told him. ‘I believe he intended to call in at Trinity.’

‘No matter. I shall probably see him later this evening.’

Elinor turned to Holdsworth. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. May I present Mr Richardson? And this, sir, is Mr Holdsworth, who is come down today from London.’

The two men bowed to each other. Richardson was about fifty, a good-looking man with a gentlemanly manner. He had neat, delicate features and bright eyes like chips of glass.

‘Mr Richardson is our senior fellow,’ Elinor continued when they were all sitting down. ‘Dr Carbury informs me that this University holds few scholars who can match the breadth of his learning and the penetration of his intellect.’

‘The Master is so very kind,’ Richardson replied with a smile. ‘But perhaps my reputation sounds more glorious to the ears of a stranger than in fact it is.’ He turned the smile on Holdsworth. ‘I fear that scholars are such a minority in this University now that the labours of those who remain shine with a lustre they do not necessarily deserve. And you must be Lady Anne’s emissary, sir. Dr Carbury told me you would arrive today or tomorrow.’

Holdsworth bowed again. He took out his pocketbook and removed a letter from the inner flap of the cover. ‘Her ladyship asked me to give you this, sir.’

Richardson thanked him with rather more warmth than was necessary. He slipped the letter into his pocket without opening it and turned back to Elinor. ‘And of course you are just returned from seeing Lady Anne, I collect. I trust her ladyship is in better health?’

‘She is no worse.’

‘I am rejoiced to hear that, at least. And, Mr Holdsworth, you must do me the honour of dining with me while you’re here. Where do you lodge?’

‘Why – here, of course,’ Elinor said, hoping to make it quite clear to both men where Holdsworth’s loyalties should lie.

‘Then Mr Holdsworth is indeed fortunate.’ Richardson turned again to Holdsworth. ‘The college is a perfect desert of masculinity. But the Master’s Lodge,’ – he bowed to Elinor – ‘thanks to this charming lady, is become an oasis of femininity. Still, since you are come to look over the library, I hope I may be of service to you. You, too, are a scholar?’

‘Not I, sir,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I have been a printer and a bookseller.’

‘Then I shall be particularly interested to hear your views on our collection,’ Richardson replied smoothly. ‘I have only recently taken over the direction of the library. It has been sadly neglected for at least a generation. All in all, our books are not as I should wish them to be.’ He smiled again at Holdsworth. ‘You may depend upon it, sir, I shall examine you very thoroughly on the subject.’

Elinor asked if they would take tea. Mr Richardson declined, saying that he had promised to look over some lecture notes for a colleague before supper, and took his leave, apologizing again for disturbing them. At the door he turned, raised himself slightly on the balls of his feet, and bowed again.

‘Well, sir,’ she said to Holdsworth when they were alone. ‘And what did you think of Mr Richardson?’

‘I cannot imagine it much signifies one way or the other.’

‘He came here only to look you over.’

‘I thought he looked in to see Dr Carbury.’

‘That was a mere façon de parler,’ Elinor said. ‘Mr Richardson knew that he would see Dr Carbury later this evening, and I am sure he already knew that the Doctor was not in college. Mr Richardson knows everything about Jerusalem. Or almost everything. He will have known of your arrival. Hence his curiosity to see you.’

‘Then I hope he was satisfied with what he saw.’

Elinor said softly, ‘You must be on your guard with him, sir.’

‘He is Mr Oldershaw’s tutor, I understand?’

‘Oh yes – and he made a particular pet of the boy as he was Lady Anne’s son. But I regret to say that he and her ladyship do not always agree.’

‘I do not understand all this,’ Holdsworth said abruptly.

‘Understand what?’

‘This place. This talk of masters and tutors and fellows.’

‘That is because Jerusalem is a world within a world. So is any college in this University, or perhaps at any University. A college is a world with its own laws and customs.’

‘It might be a world of savages for aught I know.’

Elinor repressed a most unladylike desire to laugh, converting the bubble of mirth into a cough. ‘I was situated as you are when I first came here. Worse, indeed, for I am a woman, since a college is a place exclusively composed of men. I might have made landfall on some undiscovered island on the far side of the world, but for the fortunate circumstance that the inhabitants speak English.’

He looked surprised. And then he smiled. ‘Suppose, madam, that I too have made landfall on this island. Suppose I am a shipwrecked sailor, another Crusoe. But I have been fortunate enough to come across you on the strand the waves have cast me upon; and you are kind enough to enlighten me as to the place where we find ourselves.’

Holdsworth’s smile took her by surprise after his surly, almost boorish behaviour earlier. ‘First, sir, you must consider that Jerusalem is a species of miniature country. It is governed by a handful of gentlemen, who are obliged to follow, at least in theory, a regimen laid down for them by the college’s Founder, and enshrined for perpetuity in the statutes. Jerusalem was founded by one of Lady Anne’s ancestors in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. We attach much importance to our Founder’s kin at Jerusalem: for not only do they have some influence upon how we may interpret our statutes, they also have the power to appoint two of our fellows, and they have been the source of many benefactions. So you see that -’

A loud, low voice was speaking indistinctly on the stairs. Footsteps were approaching, dragging and heavy. A moment later, Susan flung open the door and a large, elderly man built like a barrel advanced into the room.

‘Dr Carbury!’ Elinor cried. ‘How – how delightful. I did not dare expect you so early.’

‘Your servant, madam.’ The voice was like the man: full, slow, deep and a trifle unsteady. ‘I tore myself away as soon as I could. I did not wish to delay the pleasure of welcoming our visitor.’

It was nine o’clock before they sat down to supper. The room was lit by candles on tables and in wall sconces, creating uneven and shifting pools of light among the gathering shadows. The portraits of dead masters on the walls were granted a dim and spurious life by the flickering flames that illuminated them. The balcony above the screens at the far end of the room was almost invisible.

The high table was on a dais at the eastern end, flanked by two great bay windows. There were some ten or twelve men scattered round the great slab of oak, with Dr Carbury, as of right, in the middle. Beneath the dais, several long tables stood in the body of the hall. Only one of these was occupied. It was at the further end, nearest the buttery and the kitchens. Here sat a dozen or so young men. They were eating rapidly as though their very lives depended on the speed with which they consumed their food.

‘I had expected to see more undergraduates, sir,’ Holdsworth said to Dr Carbury, who was fighting his way through a large slice of mutton pie.

‘Eh? Nowadays the majority take supper in their own rooms or in those of their friends. The ones you see below are of the poorer sort – sizars in the main, that is to say, undergraduates who are supported by the foundation.’

‘It is a fine thing for them to have such a chance of advancement.’

‘Very true. But I wish they were not such a hangdog, out-at-elbows crew.’

Mr Richardson, who was sitting opposite, leaned towards them. ‘Why, as to that, Dr Carbury, one might turn the argument upon its head. If you look around this table, at least half or more of the men you see were once sizars, here or at another college. Most of our other undergraduates do not trouble themselves overmuch with work. Many do not take a degree. So the college needs its sizars as much as they need us. Most of our scholars will come from their ranks.’

‘Well, sir, it is natural that you of all people should -’

At this point there was a burst of drunken laughter in the court beyond the big window on Holdsworth’s left. Dr Carbury broke off and looked sharply in the direction of the sound.

‘Ah,’ said Richardson blandly. ‘I believe I recognize the merry tones of Mr Archdale. At least our sizars are not noisy. You must allow that.’

Carbury picked a shred of meat from his teeth. ‘That young man grows rowdy.’

‘I am afraid so, Master. Dulce est desipere in loco.’

A tall young man sitting near the end of the table said with a gasp of half-suppressed amusement, ‘I believe he has been dining with Mr Whichcote, sir. I fancy that might explain it on this occasion.’

‘Indeed, Mr Dow.’ Carbury glowered down the table at him. ‘You do not seek to make excuses for Mr Archdale, I trust? You would not make light of his behaviour?’

‘No, no, Master. A virtuous mind allied to a cultivated understanding must ever -’

‘Depend upon it, I shall have a word with Mr Archdale tomorrow,’ Richardson put in smoothly. ‘A word in time saves nine, as they say. After all, Horace’s recipe advises only a dash of folly in one’s wisdom, and Mr Archdale appears to have mistaken the proportions in his moral cookery.’

The little witticism raised a general laugh around the table, though Holdsworth noticed that Carbury did not join in. When the meal was over, the company moved to the combination room, which lay immediately behind the dais. Two tables had been set up, each with its own kettle to hand; one was for the tea drinkers, and the other for those who preferred punch. Some of the party continued with their wine.

Mr Richardson was among the tea drinkers. He turned to Holdsworth with a smile and offered him the chair on his left. Dr Carbury took the seat at the head of the table with the decanter at his elbow. He leaned towards Holdsworth, and was on the verge of speaking when he was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other table, where most of the younger fellows had gathered.

‘What is it?’ Carbury asked. His thick lips were stained purple with wine. ‘Why are they making that damned racket?’

‘Mr Miskin has proposed another wager, Master,’ Richardson answered. ‘No doubt we shall soon learn its nature.’

Not five minutes later a college servant appeared at Richardson’s shoulder and murmured that Mr Miskin begged permission to enter a wager in the wager book. Richardson graciously gave his consent.

‘The younger men derive much enjoyment from their wager book,’ he told Holdsworth. ‘And some of the older ones, I am afraid. We shall soon find out what it is – before the wager is officially enacted, it must be approved by me; and to do that, I must see the book and initial the entry. By virtue of being the senior fellow, you see, I am president of this combination room.’

‘We must not bore our guest with the minutiae of our parlour,’ Carbury interrupted. ‘His time is too valuable. Mr Holdsworth, sir, will you take a glass with me?’

Holdsworth could not decently refuse. Richardson watched them, and for an instant the pink, wet tip of his tongue flickered between his lips.

‘You must let me know how I may be of service to you,’ Carbury said once he had drained his glass. ‘I shall place myself quite at your disposal.’

‘Yes,’ Richardson said, drawing out the monosyllable. ‘After all, Mr Holdsworth is here on behalf of Lady Anne, and I know you like to oblige her ladyship. As of course we all do.’

The words seemed innocuous, but Carbury flushed a deeper colour.

Richardson turned to Holdsworth. ‘I wonder, sir, when would you find it convenient for me to show you our library? I am at liberty tomorrow morning.’

‘I’m afraid I shall be engaged in the morning.’ Holdsworth saw in Richardson’s face a fleeting change of expression, a sharpening of interest, instantly smoothed away. ‘But after dinner, perhaps, if you could spare me an hour or so?’

‘With all my heart. At six o’clock? Would that be agreeable? I shall speak to my library clerk, too – you must call on him for assistance while you are here.’

‘At what hour do you dine?’

‘Three o’clock,’ Richardson said. ‘We are sadly rustic, I am afraid. Indeed, until a few years ago we continued to dine at one o’clock, just as our fathers and grandfathers had done. In Cambridge, three o’clock is considered almost shamefully à la mode. Shall you join us tomorrow, Mr Holdsworth? I do hope so.’

‘Unfortunately, I cannot say for certain at this moment. My time is not my own.’

The combination-room servant was now hovering with a tray bearing pen and ink, and a quarto-sized book bound in leather. Richardson told the man to lay it on the table in front of him.

‘Now, let us see what they propose to do this time.’ He opened the book and turned the pages. ‘Ah – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that – ah -’ He broke off, frowning slightly; but after a moment he picked up the pen and initialled the entry.

Richardson glanced across the table at Carbury. He turned the page to the previous set of wagers, angling the book so the light was better for Holdsworth to read by. ‘Some of the bets are trivial matters of interest only to ourselves, but others touch on University affairs or even matters of national moment. You see? Here is one about Mr Pitt’s changes to the administration; and here is another about the plane tree in Herodotus. And here – oh dear – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Whichcote that he can arrange the fellowship in order of weight. Mr Miskin is one of our livelier young men. I regret to say that in that case we were obliged to bring in the buttery scales to establish the victor.’

‘Mr Whichcote?’ Holdsworth said, playing the innocent. ‘The gentleman who was mentioned earlier, who was dining with Mr Archdale? Is he a fellow of the college too?’

‘Oh no. But he is something of a personage at Jerusalem. He often makes an appearance in the wager book.’

Richardson’s head was very close to Holdsworth’s own. Immediately behind Richardson on the table was a candlestick, and the light from those flames threw his face into shadow and illuminated Holdsworth’s.

Holdsworth said carefully, ‘Have I heard the name elsewhere? It seems familiar.’

‘It’s possible. Or you may have come across other members of the family. Their principal seat is in Northumberland. Our Mr Whichcote belongs to a cadet branch. He was admitted at this college as a pensioner some ten or twelve years ago but he did not take his degree. Like so many of our young men, he was not what you would call a hard-reading man. However, he still resides in Cambridge and has many friends here.’

He would have said more but Dr Carbury had a fit of coughing and spluttering. The servant was at his side in a moment, offering a glass of water. Carbury took a sip and waved the man away. His complexion had become mottled, and he was sweating. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

‘Pray excuse me,’ he said to Holdsworth. ‘I have some reading to do before bed. My servant will wait up for you in the Lodge. We shall meet again at breakfast, no doubt.’

Saying a general good night to the company, Carbury hurried from the room. The conversations around them began again, at a higher volume than before.

Holdsworth glanced down at the book on the table and turned the page. Here was the wager that had just been recorded: The Revd Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that the ghost will not appear again before the end of term.

‘So the college has a ghost?’ he said.

‘No, sir, we merely have a foolish story.’ Richardson closed the book and handed it to the servant. ‘The undergraduates make up tales to frighten each other.’