The Anatomy Of Ghosts

25

At Whitebeach Mill, time slipped away like the river itself. Day followed day, each as formless as the next. The weather continued warm, often sunny, the air heavy.

After the first night, Frank Oldershaw spent much of his time asleep. So did they all. It was as if they were convalescing after a long, wasting fever and the only remedy was time and rest. The most lively creature in the household was the ginger cat, though that was not saying much.

They had arrived at the mill on the evening of Wednesday, 31 May. After the first day, Frank became quieter. Though the water was still very cold, he swam a good deal, to and fro across the millpond, propelling himself with long, leisurely strokes. ‘Quack, quack,’ he cried at intervals, but in other respects he showed no signs of mental disturbance while swimming. At first Holdsworth tried to dissuade him from going into the water on the grounds that there might be an accident, but he might have saved his breath. Frank ignored him. Short of restraining his charge physically, there was nothing that Holdsworth could do.

Frank refused to talk about his madness or about the ghost. He became passionately angry when Holdsworth raised the subject of Lady Anne. Apart from that, he did what he was told, more or less. He did not treat Holdsworth and Mulgrave with consideration, but he did not make unreasonable demands, either. Bearing in mind the immense difference between their stations in life, his manner might almost have been called condescending.

Mulgrave had brought a valise of Frank’s belongings from his rooms at Jerusalem. There was a chess set among them, also backgammon and draughts. On most evenings, Holdsworth would propose a game to Frank. When they played chess, Frank invariably won. There was nothing wrong with his powers of reasoning. He was good at draughts, too, but less successful at backgammon, where the element of luck made him rash.

Sometimes Holdsworth read aloud. He had brought Young’s Night Thoughts with him, and he found a battered copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress in his bedroom, where it had been used to prop a table leg on the uneven floor. Neither book was exactly cheerful in tone, but Frank appeared to find them soothing, often dozing off while Holdsworth was reading.

Mulgrave effaced himself whenever he could. He lived, worked and slept in the kitchen. He watched everything and said as little as possible.

On the evening of Monday, 5 June, he came to Holdsworth and murmured that their supply of food was running low. He could obtain bread, beer, milk, eggs and some vegetables from the farm, but he was obliged to go further afield for anything else.

‘Go to Cambridge tomorrow after breakfast,’ Holdsworth told him. ‘I want you to take a letter to Dr Carbury and you can buy what we need while you’re there.’

‘It’s a long walk, sir. And there’s the matter of weight on the way back. Mr Frank said he wanted wine. And we need coals for the kitchen fire.’

‘You must call in at the farm in the morning and see what can be done,’ Holdsworth said. ‘If necessary, the carrier can bring the heavy items and leave them with Mr Smedley. But in all events you must come straight back, and you must keep your mouth shut, do you understand? You must not say where you are, or with whom. You may speak openly only to Dr and Mrs Carbury.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Holdsworth had a sense of foreboding. It was not so much that he distrusted Mulgrave, though he did not trust him either. It was more that, by leaving the mill, if only for a few hours, Mulgrave would destroy the illusion that the three of them were isolated from the outside world and its malign influences.

He slept badly that night. The mattress was lumpy. The box-bed enclosed him like a coffin. He was too hot and then, when he had flung back the covers, he was too cold. And all the while, he drifted in and out of dreams. There was a logic to the dreams that he could not grasp, though in their subjects they appeared completely unconnected. Once he woke with a start, believing that he was back in Bankside, and Georgie had woken in the night and was crying out that the drowned lighterman from Goat Stairs had come to drag him down to the bottom of the filthy river.

Now, wide awake, Holdsworth was by the steps, peering down into the water. But it wasn’t Georgie’s face he saw there: it was Maria’s. He saw quite clearly the bruise on her temple. The colour of a damson. The size of a penny piece.

But was it Maria? Or was it Sylvia Whichcote down there?

‘Wake up! Wake up!’

Holdsworth was suddenly, painfully, awake. He was fighting for air as though it were he who was drowning. He sat up sharply in bed. The grey half-light preceding dawn filled the room.

Frank was holding Holdsworth’s left arm and shaking it vigorously. ‘For God’s sake, man, what ails you?’ he demanded, for all the world like a young gentleman in perfect health berating an unfortunate servant. He stepped back and glared down at Holdsworth. ‘You woke us all with your damned noise.’

Holdsworth blinked and rubbed his eyes. Mulgrave was standing at the head of the narrow stairs looking sideways into the room. He and Frank were wearing the shirts they slept in, and nothing else.

‘What the devil is it?’ Frank said. ‘Why were you shouting?’

‘Forgive me – a dream – it was nothing.’

The old dream. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, and there never would be.

On Monday evening, Elinor heard a familiar, heavy tread on the stairs. Dr Carbury came into the sitting room, wished her good evening and sat down. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

‘You are early, sir,’ Elinor said. ‘Shall I ring the bell for the tea things?’

He shook his heavy head. Supper could only just have finished in the hall, Elinor calculated, and usually her husband would have lingered over his wine in the combination room for at least another hour. He patted his pockets one by one, searching for his snuffbox.

‘You know, if Miskin goes, I am minded to reserve the Rosington Fellowship for Soresby,’ he said abruptly, as if they had been talking about this subject for some time.

He found the box, tapped the lid, opened it and took a pinch. She waited, her stomach clenching, knowing what would follow but not when. At last he gave an enormous sneeze, spraying fragments of snuff over his lap. When he had blown his nose, he fell silent, fanning himself ineffectually with his hand and moving restlessly in his chair.

‘I thought Mr Soresby had not taken his degree yet,’ she said.

‘He will in January. And he is very able: he will almost certainly be highly placed on the list, and the terms of the endowment permit me to hold it open for him as long as I wish. I have been turning the matter over in my mind for some time.’

‘Your decision will please Mr Richardson, I am sure. Is not Mr Soresby one of his pupils?’

‘I don’t care a fig whether I please Richardson or not.’ Carbury was now speaking in a vehement, jerky voice. ‘It’s a matter of serving the best interests of the college and of rewarding individual merit. That’s all there is to it, ma’am.’

Elinor held her peace. Her husband was coming it very high all of a sudden. She knew that something must have happened to bring about this extraordinary change of heart. Soresby was in Richardson’s camp, and in the ordinary course of things Carbury could expect nothing in return for his patronage. Unless, of course, Soresby had changed his allegiance.

Dr Carbury took another pinch of snuff, spilling much of it on his waistcoat. He sneezed again and the two of them sat in a stunned silence, Carbury with his eyes closed. Elinor stared at her husband and thought how ugly he was. She told herself sternly that she should feel grateful to him for nearly everything that made life endurable, including the roof over her head.

‘Mrs Carbury, there is something else I must say to you.’

She felt a jolt of guilt. It was as if he could read her mind, her thoughts about himself, even her thoughts about Mr Holdsworth.

‘I had intended to mention this for some time but it was never the right moment.’ His eyes were open now, watering from the snuff, and he was staring at her. ‘Perhaps it is never the right moment. You know that I have been concerned about my health.’

‘And so have I, sir.’

‘Indeed. And I’m much obliged to you. As you know I have long been troubled by a distemper in the guts.’ He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘The English malady.’

‘Is not the remedy at least partly in your own hands, sir? If you were to change your diet, and perhaps not linger quite so long over your wine, I am persuaded your health would soon be the better for it. During the Long Vacation, you might even consider a course of sea bathing. I understand the waters of Scarborough are notably beneficial.’

He raised his hand to block the flow of words. She fell silent. She felt inexplicably unsettled, almost on the edge of panic.

‘You are very good, ma’am, but these remedies will not answer. I don’t know whether you were aware that Dr Jermyn called on me last week?’

‘About Frank?’

‘Yes. He grew heated, and I cannot blame him for that altogether. But he’s no fool – he don’t bear a grudge, or not for long. While he was here, I asked if I might consult him about my own case.’

‘You, sir? But surely you have no need for – for a man like him?’

‘You mean for the services of one who makes his living from patients with maniacal disorders?’ Carbury smiled awkwardly, almost shyly, at her. ‘No, I have not come to that. But Dr Jermyn is of some eminence in other areas of his profession. I believe he is well qualified to treat any patient he chooses.’

‘Then why did you consult him, sir?’

‘Because I desired a second opinion. Dr Milton has already examined me and diagnosed my case with I believe tolerable accuracy. But old Milton is set in his ways, and I fear has not kept up with recent discoveries.’

‘But you said nothing of this to me.’

‘I did not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. But now Dr Jermyn has confirmed the original diagnosis, the time has come.’

She stood up and went to stand beside his chair. ‘Then what is it, sir?’

‘I regret to say that I have a growth.’ He patted his abdomen with both hands. ‘Here.’

‘Surely a surgeon may cut it out?’

He shook his head. ‘It is impossible to remove it because of its position. I understand that the growth is in an advanced stage and that Dr Jermyn thinks there may be similar malignancies in other places.’

‘Another opinion might say very differently, sir,’ Elinor said wildly. ‘You are still a comparatively young man. It -’

‘No, no, my dear.’ Dr Carbury rarely used even so mild an endearment as that: it seemed all of a piece with the dreadful news he brought. ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt about it. Dr Jermyn asked to examine my stools, and I took him out to the privy where I had reserved a sample. He tells me the signs cannot be interpreted in any other way.’

Tears welled up in her eyes. She had seen the two men on their way to the outhouse from the window of this room. She tried to speak, and the words came out in a jumble. She was obliged to try again. ‘How long do they say you have?’

‘Not long. Neither of them felt able to be precise. It may be a few weeks or it may be a few months.’ He looked up at her and smiled with unmistakable warmth. ‘You must not be so distressed, my dear. I am living under a death sentence and I do not know when the sentence will be carried out. But is that so very different from the generality of mankind? We all know we must die, but none of us knows the hour of his death.’ The smile broadened. ‘Unless he is to be hanged, of course, but I trust I may escape that fate.’

‘What can I do? How can I best help you?’

‘There is nothing, thank you. Or not at present. But you must naturally be anxious about your own future. You are still a young woman. I will provide for you the best I can, but I am not a rich man. When I go, the house and income must go with me. But I shall do what I can.’

With a series of grunts, he edged forward on the seat, gripped the arms of the chair and stood up. ‘I find I am a little fatigued. I wish you goodnight, madam.’

He shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him. Elinor listened to his footsteps on the landing as he made his way slowly and painfully to his own room. She knew now that the signs had been there for weeks, if not months. Dr Carbury had not suddenly become a sick man. He had been dying in front of her eyes. She simply hadn’t noticed.

She sat down again in her chair by the window and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She wept for her husband, and because she would be sad to lose him, even though she had never loved him. She wept because of what life would hold for her as a widow. She wept because she was desperately afraid she would be poor again.

And finally, she wept because she felt guilty: because part of her was glad that she would soon be a widow.