The Anatomy Of Ghosts

21

Whichcote raised the money for the dinner on the strength of his wife’s furniture. He had a long-standing arrangement with the landlord of the Hoop, who lent Whichcote his French chef and several of his waiters for the occasion. Some of the food was prepared in the inn’s kitchens. After breakfast, three footmen arrived, a father and two sons. They had worked for Whichcote before and, like the landlord of the Hoop, insisted on payment in advance. They needed nearly an hour to curl and powder their hair and dress themselves in the livery that Mr Whichcote provided. The coats were sadly shabby now and they did not fit their new wearers very well.

In the afternoon, Whichcote retired to his study and bolted the door. In a corner of the room out of sight from the window and from anyone standing in the doorway, a tall cupboard had been built into an alcove. There were two keyholes in the panelled door but no handle. He unlocked the two locks and opened the door.

The cupboard held the archives of the Holy Ghost Club, together with a number of items associated with it. On one shelf was a selection of glasses, punchbowls, plates and curiously designed cutlery. On the top shelf was a line of leather-bound volumes recording the membership, activities, accounts and decisions of the Holy Ghost Club over the three decades of its existence. Here too were the wager books and cellar books.

Whichcote took down the current cellar book. The club kept its own stock of wines, a subject of great and abiding interest to its members, and the source of considerable expense for them. He had already selected the wines for the evening and withdrawn them from that part of the Lambourne House cellar reserved for their storage. But, on reflection overnight, he had decided that there would be no harm at all in bringing up another dozen of claret and the same of port. He had overseen the withdrawal directly after breakfast. Now he carried the book to his desk, made a note of what had been removed, and replaced the volume on the shelf.

He ran his index finger along the row of spines. He had read, or at least skimmed the pages, of all of them. The club had been founded by Morton Frostwick in the 1750s. Full membership was restricted to the president, known as Jesus, and twelve Apostles. Its entertainments rapidly became legendary in Cambridge because their nature was both mysterious and lavish.

Both these qualities were due to Frostwick. He had spent many years as a servant of the East India Company in Bengal, where his activities had been immensely profitable. When he returned to England, he visited Cambridge and found the fellows’ combination room at Jerusalem so congenial a place that he had himself admitted to the college as a fellow-commoner. He enjoyed the society of younger men, and his munificence earned him the title of Nabob Frostwick. He presented the college with the little footbridge across the Long Pond, a replica in miniature of Mr Essex’s famous wooden bridge at Queens’ College.

At his own cost, Frostwick had bought wines for the club’s cellar, and also glasses, cutlery and plate, all curiously adorned, which were still used at club dinners today. Among them was a ceremonial glass from which all who desired admission were still obliged to drink: it ingeniously resembled an erect penis, complete with testicles; it had the capacity to hold about half a pint of wine, and each postulant was required to swallow its contents in one go. Frostwick left Cambridge unexpectedly after an episode rumoured to involve one of the sizars at Jerusalem, and went abroad, where it was said he kept a harem of catamites and died of cholera.

Members of the Holy Ghost Club had always had a keen interest in the deflowering of virgins, as the archives amply testified. Frostwick had pointed out that nothing could be more appropriate to the name and aims of the club than to signal the elevation of a disciple to apostolic rank with an outpouring of virginal blood. Was not he himself, in his capacity as Jesus, the son of the Virgin? Was not the very wine they drank at their meetings emblematic of blood? And were they not, by defin-ition, Holy Ghosts, and therefore obliged to lie with virgins whenever possible, in respectful imitation of a similar episode in the Gospels? In Frostwick’s time, this part of the admission ritual had been enacted in front of Jesus and the assembled Apostles. After his departure, however, his successors had decided that it would be more genteel to allow the deflowering to take place in private after the rest of the ritual, as a sort of reward that set the seal on all that had gone before.

Philip Whichcote restored the book to its place in the cupboard. As he was locking the door, Augustus entered the study, his eyes sliding from side to side as though he expected to find monsters lurking in the corners.

‘If you please, sir, it’s Mr Richardson from the college.’

‘Show him in, you booby.’

The tutor advanced into the room and bowed gracefully. His wig was perfectly powdered, his coat was perfectly cut; there was a smile on his freshly shaved face. Only the eyes were unsettling, restless and flecked with amber.

‘Your servant, sir,’ Richardson said. ‘I hoped you would not be engaged. You must have so many calls on your attention.’

‘I hope I shall always have leisure enough to greet my old tutor.’

‘You are too kind. I hear that your club meets this evening and I am sure such occasions require a vast deal of work beforehand.’

Whichcote smiled. ‘Not at all, my dear sir – these things arrange themselves. The servants know what to do.’

‘Indeed.’ Richardson adroitly switched the course of the conversation to the weather, which led by degrees to the recent ill health of the Master, which Mr Richardson prayed would not recur. ‘For I am sure that he is sensible of the difficulties his indisposition causes in the college. Nothing of any importance can be done without him.’ Richardson hesitated. ‘For example, had he been in better health, he might have been in a position to help poor Mr Oldershaw.’

‘The unhappy fellow. Is there any change in his condition?’

‘Not that I am aware of. Of course, he is a member of the HG Club too. In fact, now I come to think of it, I believe his melancholy dated from the last of your dinners.’ Richardson leaned forward, his brow creased with anxiety. ‘But the subject must be inexpressibly painful to you. Pray forgive me.’

‘I’m sure no offence was intended,’ Whichcote said. ‘And certainly none was taken.’ He knew that Richardson was the last person in the world to speak without calculation. ‘As for poor Frank, I believe I perceived signs of his melancholy long before that night. He opened his heart to me on more than one occasion.’

Richardson inclined his head, acknowledging Whichcote’s superior knowledge.

‘I believe you yourself were not a member of the HG Club?’ Whichcote said.

Richardson changed countenance. ‘No. I did not move in those circles when I was an undergraduate.’

‘But you must have known our Founder, I fancy. Was he not a Jerusalem man? Morton Frostwick – a fellow-commoner, if I remember rightly, and past the first flush of youth.’

Richardson turned his head away. ‘Yes, I believe I knew him very slightly.’

Whichcote smiled. ‘Sometimes I while away an idle hour by glancing at the club archives. Mr Frostwick figures largely there, as you may imagine.’

‘I hardly remember him.’

‘Really?’ Whichcote allowed his disbelief to seep into his voice. ‘There are so many diverting stories about him.’

The senior tutor gestured gracefully with his right hand, displaying fine white fingers. ‘It is always agreeable to recall the scenes of one’s youth, but alas I have a more pressing concern on my mind. You are aware, perhaps, that Mr Archdale is one of my pupils?’

Whichcote nodded. ‘He is fortunate indeed.’

‘And I understand that he is to be advanced to full membership of the HG Club today.’

‘I am sure that he will be a popular addition to our little society.’

‘No doubt. However, I had some discussion with his guardian on Saturday, and again on Sunday when Sir Charles dined in college. He is most anxious about his nephew. May I speak in confidence, my dear sir?’

‘By all means,’ Whichcote said.

‘Sir Charles fears that the lad may be following a mode of life that can not only harm his future prospects but also undermine his health. As you are intimate with him, I thought it my duty to have a word with you on the subject. He respects you greatly. A word from you in season may work wonders.’

‘I feel you have too high an opinion of my abilities, sir.’

‘I do not think so.’ Richardson rose to his feet. ‘I must trouble you no further, sir. I know I may rely on your good offices, and I shall be infinitely obliged.’

Whichcote accompanied his visitor into the hall, where Augustus opened the door and bowed very low as Mr Richardson left. Whichcote stood on the step, his hand raised in farewell, as his visitor walked briskly down the short drive towards the main road. He had received a warning. Richardson had no wish for another club scandal touching a member of Jerusalem College.

It was a great pity that before the tutor reached the gates, Mrs Phear turned into the drive, with Archdale’s little whore for the evening walking behind her. Richardson uncovered and bowed to Mrs Phear as he passed. He looked curiously at the girl from the Magdalene Hospital, who passed him with downcast eyes.

The meeting was unfortunate, Whichcote thought. He hoped it was not an evil omen.

The Apostles arrived in ones and twos, some on foot, flaunting the full glory of the club livery in the afternoon sunshine, others preferring to conceal their splendour in sedan chairs or hackneys. The hired footmen ushered them down to the pavilion at the bottom of the garden, where Whichcote waited to receive them in the great room overlooking the river.

Mrs Phear and the girl from the Magdalene Hospital were in the small white bedchamber below. The girl was called Molly Price. She was not as pretty as Tabitha Skinner, but she knew what she was about. Mrs Phear had looked over the arrangements, visited the kitchen, and made her presence felt among the servants. This was all to the good, for there was no getting away from the fact that the servants were a slovenly, greedy crew who needed careful watching. They would serve the company, wait at dinner, clear away and serve supper. But once supper was on the table, they would go, leaving the club to serve itself, with a little help from Augustus if necessary. Then the real business of the evening would begin.

Harry Archdale was one of those who arrived in a sedan chair. His face had lost its usual high colour, and the pallor of his complexion contrasted curiously with the careful arrangement of his hair, which he had had thickly powdered in a shade of white with a distinctly pink tinge. Whichcote smelled brandy on his breath.

Before dinner, the members of the club strolled in the garden. It was, all in all, not a bad turnout. When dinner was announced, Whichcote led the way upstairs, where they arranged themselves around the table in the order of precedence. He placed Harry on his right hand.

He had spared no expense with the food. The first course consisted of cod, a chine of mutton, some soup, and a chicken pie as well as many puddings and roots. For the second course they had fillet of veal with mushrooms, pigeons and asparagus, roasted sweetbreads, a hot lobster, apricot tart and, in the centre of the table, a great pyramid of syllabubs and jellies. Dinner was more than a meal: it was an investment.

Afterwards, some members, including Archdale, showed a tendency to linger over their wine, but Whichcote weaned them away to the card tables set up at the far end of the room. This was, after all, the lucrative part of the proceedings. He did not encourage club members to engage in such games as piquet, which took too much time and involved only two people. Simpler, shorter games were much better, both cards and dice. With these, the players won and lost with such rapidity that they became infected with a mania for play; and each loss was obliterated by the hope of winning next time.

Whichcote moved from group to group. He carried loaded dice in a concealed pocket of his waistcoat and had also taken the precaution of opening a pack of cards, filing the corners of some of them and carefully resealing the pack in its original wrapper. Not that he liked to rely on such shabby shifts. Usually there was no need: if he kept himself sober and took the trouble to calculate the arithmetical odds, he would win the cost of the dinner within twenty minutes.

The hours passed agreeably. The invisible servants, who screened off the table from the rest of the room, came and went, making preparations for supper. The drinking continued steadily, and the laughter and the voices grew louder as the last of the daylight ebbed from the room. The air filled with smoke, shifting in the draughts, and the muddy glow of candles swayed with it.

Whichcote’s winnings, partly in ready money but mainly in notes of hand, steadily increased. As he moved from table to table, he kept an eye on Harry Archdale. The young man was drinking as heavily as anyone in the room. His face had lost its pallor and was damp with sweat. His elaborately arranged hair was a ragged mop and the shoulders of his green coat were sprinkled with dislodged powder. He was playing so wildly that he had already lost at least a hundred guineas, and not all of it to his host.

It was after another loss that Archdale suddenly pushed back his chair and stumbled behind a screen in the corner where a line of commodes had been arranged along the wall for the convenience of the guests. Five minutes later, when he had not returned, Whichcote went in search of him. The young man was slumped on a window seat. His face was pressed against the glass.

‘Harry – what ails you?’

Archdale turned his head sharply and straightened up on the seat. ‘It is nothing – it’s so damned hot in here – I wanted air.’

‘Then let us take a turn in the garden.’

Whichcote led the way downstairs. The sky was now dark. A lamp burned in the doorway, and two or three more beyond, marking the path up to the side door of the house. They strolled along the gravel path between the pavilion and the river. On the far side of the water, Jesus Green lay in darkness, apart from the soft gleam of lights from the college itself and, further to the right, the lights of the town.

‘You seemed a little melancholy just now,’ Whichcote observed.

‘It was nothing,’ Archdale said hastily. ‘The closeness of the air made me feel a little fagged – I am perfectly restored now.’

‘I am rejoiced to hear it,’ Whichcote said. ‘After all, you have a man’s work to do tonight. You must go to it with a will, eh?’

‘Oh I shall, I shall indeed.’

They were now walking along the rear of the pavilion on the side facing the house. Archdale swayed. Suddenly he stopped, leaning against the wall. He stared fixedly at the row of ground-floor windows.

‘Is – is she already here?’

‘The sacrifice? Oh yes,’ Whichcote said. ‘The virgin awaits your pleasure.’

‘Does she know what is to happen?’

Whichcote laughed softly. ‘How can she? She’s a maid. Her knowledge of such matters must be entirely notional.’

‘But she knows I will lie with her?’

‘It is all arranged. You are to have the way of a man with a maid. You need not trouble yourself in the slightest about her. If she puts up any resistance, you must not scruple to overcome it. Indeed, many of us find it adds relish to the conquest. The fruits of victory are all the sweeter if hard won.’

‘Yes, yes – Philip, would you excuse me one moment?’

Without further warning, Archdale stumbled away from the path and made his way blindly to a large shrub standing in a pot. Whichcote waited, listening to the sounds of retching. Archdale returned, wiping his mouth on a scented handkerchief.

‘Very wise,’ Whichcote murmured.

‘What? I beg your pardon?’

‘Your decision to vomit. As the French say, it is a case of reculer pour mieux sauter.’

‘Yes,’ Archdale said weakly. ‘Yes, that’s it. Vomiting for that purpose was much practised by the ancients, I believe. Seneca refers to it somewhere in the Moral Epistles, I fancy, and Cicero tells us – I believe it is in the Pro Rege Deiotaro – that Caesar himself was not a stranger to the habit. It also -’ He broke off. ‘I ask your pardon, sir. I allow my tongue to run away with me.’

Whichcote said nothing. Archdale set out to play the part of a rake but somewhere inside him was a scholar. He touched Archdale’s arm, and they moved away. They passed the shuttered window of the whitewashed bedchamber where Molly Price was waiting with Mrs Phear.

‘I wish Frank was here,’ Archdale said.

‘So do I. We all do.’

‘I asked him how it was that night – when he became an Apostle. He would not tell me.’

‘That was very proper of him. He swore a most terrible oath never to reveal what passed on that occasion to anyone who was not an Apostle. And so will you when your time comes. But since you are so nearly one of us, I may tell you in confidence that Frank dealt manfully with his virgin, just as you will, I am sure.’

They re-entered the pavilion and went upstairs. Whichcote had presided over too many initiations to be surprised by what had occurred. For two pins, Archdale would have slipped away from the club. But he was too rich a prize to lose. That was the point of the ceremony – and of the ceremony with the virgin in particular. Archdale had mentioned Caesar: well, Caesar had crossed the Rubicon when he invaded Italy and, in doing so, had taken a step that could not be reversed. Archdale would believe he had done the same when his manly ardour overcame the feigned resistance of Molly Price.

They reached the head of the stairs. Whichcote stopped. They heard the hubbub of voices in the room beyond. Some of the Apostles were singing.

Jerry Carbury is merry

Tell his servant bring his hat

For ’ere the evening is done

He’ll surely shoot the cat.

Archdale blinked rapidly. He looked on the verge of tears.

‘And now we shall have supper,’ Whichcote said quietly. ‘The servants will leave us to wait on ourselves. We shall have the toasts – we shall have the initiation – and you will be canonized. St Bartholomew is the title reserved for you. And then, when you are finally one of us, you shall be conducted to your trembling virgin.’