The Anatomy Of Ghosts

12

Harry Archdale tried to get up – but as soon as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he felt intolerably dizzy; and the movement triggered violent internal activity that required him to plunge head first out of bed with his arms outstretched for the chamber pot. After he had vomited, he was obliged to lie down again to recover.

He drifted into an uncomfortable doze, during which fragmentary memories of the events of the previous day floated like lethargic fish through his semiconscious mind. He rather thought he had lost the deuce of a lot of money to Philip Whichcote – not because of any lack of skill but because of the way the damned cards had fallen. If Whichcote dunned him for money, which he might well do, Archdale would have to apply to his guardian for another advance on next quarter’s allowance, which would lead in turn to another ugly scene, as a consequence of which he might not be able to visit Paris in the Long Vacation after all.

The unwelcome recollection of his guardian’s existence led to another, equally unpleasant thought. It must be Saturday today. Sir Charles, who was also his uncle, would be in Cambridge by this evening: he was putting up at the Blue Boar, and tomorrow he was to attend divine service in Great St Mary’s and then dine at Jerusalem. It was of prime importance not to upset the old man. But this would not be easy. His guardian intended to discuss his ward’s progress with Mr Richardson. There was the little matter of his debts – and of course his uncle would see only those from the college and from licensed tradesmen, which came directly to Richardson; but there were others – gambling debts, for example, and all the little sundries of life. To make matters worse, Sir Charles had a bee in his bonnet about Archdale’s going in for the Vauden Medal.

Somehow tomorrow had to be managed in a discreet and mutually agreeable way that would leave Archdale in tip-top condition for the excitements of the club meeting on Wednesday evening. He did not want to miss that for the world, for he was due to become an Apostle. The Holy Ghost Club was reputed to be the most select dining club in Cambridge with its members drawn from the first rank of society. There was nothing more desirable than to be one of the Twelve Apostles. But his uncle was quite incapable of appreciating the importance of this. If the curmudgeonly old brute was in an ill humour, he might well withdraw his nephew from the University. He had threatened to do so in his last letter if Archdale failed to live within his allowance and apply himself to his studies. Something must be done, therefore, some little gesture, some coup de théâtre that would turn Sir Charles into a paragon of benevolence.

Archdale hauled himself into a sitting position and groaned aloud. There was a tap on the door, and his bedmaker cautiously poked her red face into the room.

‘Did you call, sir?’ she inquired, her eyes swinging to and fro, taking in the disordered bedclothes, the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the overflowing chamber pot and Mr Archdale huddled on his bed.

‘No,’ he bleated. ‘That is to say, yes. Where’s Mulgrave? I need Mulgrave.’

‘He’s not in college this morning, sir.’

‘That’s so provoking. I want – I need -’ He ran out of words and chewed his lower lip in silence, waiting for the pain in his head to subside a little.

The bedmaker made up her own mind. ‘You want tea, sir,’ she told him. ‘And I’ll send to the buttery for one of their special mixtures. I’ll be back directly.’

‘Yes – no – oh, all right. No, stay. There’s something else. I must see Mr Soresby without delay. Step upstairs and see if he’s in the way. They – oh God.’

Archdale broke off and reached for the chamber pot. The bedmaker slipped away.

After a while, the inner turbulence subsided, though the headache remained as did the foul taste in his mouth. The bedmaker returned with his tea and a tankard containing the nauseating and extremely expensive restorative the buttery provided for undergraduates in Archdale’s situation. She also brought the news that Mr Soresby would be down in a moment.

The restorative was worth its price. It would be hours before Archdale was fully himself again but soon he was sufficiently recovered to drink his tea in the armchair by the window. Idly, he watched the foreshortened black-clad figures in Chapel Court below. The sight of Mr Richardson moving diagonally across the lawn towards the Fellows’ combination room reminded Archdale that yet again he had missed morning chapel without taking the precaution beforehand of providing himself with a dormiat; there would be another fine to pay, and possibly an unpleasant interview with old Ricky.

Archdale’s attention was caught by a stranger, who came by himself into the court from the passage leading to the combination room and the Master’s Lodge. He turned right and walked beside the hall. Archdale assumed he was heading towards the entrance to the street. He was a tall, broad man, shabbily dressed in black, though not a clergyman.

At that moment there was a tap on the door. Soresby shambled into the room. Beside him could be heard the voice of the bedmaker, warning him to watch where he trod.

Soresby made his bow. ‘Mr Archdale, I trust I find you -’

‘Yes, yes.’ Archdale flapped his hand impatiently. ‘I say, who’s that fellow down there?’

Soresby joined him by the window. The stranger was now talking to Mepal, the head porter.

‘I’ve never seen him before in my -’ Soresby broke off. ‘No, I think I saw him yesterday evening. He was with Mr Richardson.’

‘Friend of Ricky’s, eh?’

‘That I cannot say. It looks as if he’s asked Mepal where the library is. He won’t have any luck there. The door’s locked.’

‘Can’t think why he’d want to go there. Dreary old place.’

‘Pray, Mr Archdale,’ Soresby said, his voice sharpening. ‘Do you remember seeing me last night?’

‘Not sure I do.’ He took a mouthful of tea, wincing because it was hot. ‘Did I?’

‘Yes. When Mr Richardson sent me up with a message.’

Archdale rubbed his head. ‘Now you come to mention it, that does sound familiar.’ He frowned and then with an effort actually did recall something of what had happened. ‘Yes, one or two of the men were rather elevated in their spirits, I’m afraid. We were singing, were we? Anyway – so that cove down there, he was with Ricky?’

‘I think it was him. It was dark, of course, and he stayed in the shadows. I believe his name is Holdsworth.’

They watched the man trying the door of the library. Afterwards, he retraced his steps.

‘You wanted to see me, Mr Archdale?’ Soresby pulled at his fingers and one of the joints cracked, a small, unsettling explosion he appeared not to notice. ‘I must confess that after last night -’

‘Yes, yes, I’m truly sorry about that. I told you, some of the men were a trifle foxed and got carried away. A thousand apologies. Hope you weren’t incommoded. No bones broken, eh?’

‘No. Only bruises on my arms, and this graze on my -’

‘Good, good – I’m heartily relieved to hear it. Now look here, Soresby, never mind that now – you’ve simply got to lend me a hand. Two things I need you for. First, I want you to collect something from Pranton’s this afternoon – you know? The tailor’s in Green Street? – and keep it for me until tomorrow evening. My guardian’s coming, you see, and he’s dead against a fellow buying a decent suit of clothes occasionally. And Ricky wouldn’t approve either, because we’re not meant to go to Pranton’s, he’s not on the college list, which is why it has to be collected. I’d ask Mulgrave to go, but the damned rogue isn’t in the way this morning. Isn’t that servants all over, eh? Always there when they’re not wanted, and vice versa… Where was I? Yes, and the other thing, that’s even more important. You see, he’s got this idea that I should enter for the Vauden Medal, and there’ll be the devil to pay if I don’t.’

‘I beg your pardon – who?’

‘I told you – my uncle, Sir Charles. He is quite settled in his mind that I shall shed lustre on the family name. He’s dining in college tomorrow, and he writes that he expects the pleasure of reading my entry for the Vauden afterwards. I meant to talk to you about it weeks ago, but somehow it slipped my mind. It’s all damnably awkward, I tell you. I haven’t even started the damned thing. And at present I particularly want the old gentleman to be in a philanthropic frame of mind.’

Soresby frowned but did not speak. He unfolded a long arm and pushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

‘You could do it in your sleep, my dear fellow,’ Archdale rushed on, sensing opposition. ‘Each to his own, eh? Can you see your way clear to helping me? If we sit down together we can turn out something in a trice. Only it must be done soon. I must have at least something to show my guardian tomorrow or I can’t answer for the consequences.’

‘The pity of it is, I’m pressed for time,’ Soresby said slowly.

‘But I’m depending on you! A man like you, always with his nose in a book – why, upon my honour, I wager you could have turned out a creditable set of verses when you was in short-coats.’

‘But, Mr Archdale, pray consider, there’s very little time if you must have something to show for tomorrow. And a good deal of preliminary work must go into an entry for the Vauden Medal. And in your case, no doubt your guardian may wish you to discuss what you have done with him, which means you must show at least some familiarity with the material.’

‘You must help me,’ Archdale burst out. ‘Come, to a man of your parts it will be next to nothing. Consider – one needs a theme, of course – that could be anything, so long as it proves the existence of God according to the regulations. Isn’t that what it’s meant to be about? God or something? Then all we need do is turn it into a set of Latin verses. And I wouldn’t worry too much about the old fellow – my uncle is no great scholar himself, which makes it so damnably unfair that he should expect me to be one. I promise you won’t regret it.’ A thought struck him. ‘Oh – you are not entering for the medal yourself, are you? Is that why you are dragging your feet?’

Soresby shook his head. ‘I won it last year, Mr Archdale. The regulations do not permit a man to win it twice.’

‘Ah – and what was the prize?’

‘A guinea, Mr Archdale, and the medal of course.’

‘Pooh – was that all? I call that downright shabby. I tell you what, I’ll give you three guineas if you help me to write a passable entry.’

‘Three guineas?’ Once again, a finger joint popped. ‘Dear me, Mr Archdale, that is a great deal of money.’

‘It need not win the damned medal, either. The only thing is, I must have it now. Or at least a draft of the damned thing.’

‘Perhaps I might possibly be able to assist you in this.’

‘I knew it! Clever man like Soresby, I told myself, sure to find a way.’

‘I do not say it would answer, mind. But I have an idea.’

Archdale bounced up and down in his seat. ‘What is it?’

‘Last year I tried more than one theme for the medal before I settled on the one I used.’ Soresby cracked another joint. ‘I believe I may be able to lay my hand on my notes.’

‘Now that’s a fine idea. Pray do not make that noise with your fingers again, my dear fellow, it makes me start.’

Soresby coloured. ‘I’m sure I beg your pardon.’

‘It’s nothing, nothing at all. Pray continue.’

‘I had only laid the groundwork for the project, Mr Archdale. I had sketched the theme – I had drafted perhaps a third or a half of the verses but I thought them a trifle pinguid.’

‘Eh?’

‘Pinguid, Mr Archdale – which is to say, unctuous, even turgid, as Tully called Asiatic rhetoric.’

‘If you say so. Anyway, that would be more than enough for my uncle to be going on with. He might like it, in fact – he verges on the pinguid himself.’ Archdale could feel his hangover drifting away from him. ‘Go and fetch it right away. After dinner, and after you’ve been to Pranton’s, you shall cram it into me as far as you’ve got, and then you can work on the remainder at your leisure. You will not be the loser for it, I promise. Here, ring the bell, will you? I believe I could take a little toast.’