The Anatomy Of Ghosts

27

‘You will dine with us, I hope?’ said Mr Richardson. ‘Why, we have not seen you in college for an age.’

Whichcote bowed and said that nothing would give him greater pleasure. The two men had encountered each other in Chapel Court. Whichcote had left Augustus to ferret out what he could about Frank’s whereabouts, and he himself could do nothing on the matter until he knew more. But there was no telling what might be said in the combination room or at high table, what scraps of information might emerge. Carbury must know where Frank was, and almost certainly Richardson too; and perhaps others knew or guessed. Besides, Whichcote was hungry, and his own cook, as the day of her departure drew nearer, was inclined to grow more and more lax about her duties.

Dinner would not be for another twenty minutes. Richardson proposed a stroll to work up an appetite. The two men walked through the chapel arcade into the college gardens, and passed under the shade of the oriental plane. Whichcote smiled to show he was perfectly at ease at the spot near the Long Pond, so close to where his wife’s body had been found, and where her ghost had allegedly appeared. But he thought it shockingly ill bred that Mr Richardson should have suggested a walk here. By careful study, Richardson had acquired the manners of a gentleman but in Whichcote’s opinion the imitation was only skin-deep.

They passed through the gate of the Fellows’ Garden and walked by the pond.

‘I was here with Harry Archdale the other day,’ Whichcote observed. ‘Have you seen him recently? I hope he is well.’

‘He was in rather delicate health after the last meeting of your club,’ Richardson said. ‘But I am happy to report he is entirely recovered. He has in fact been applying himself to his books, and with unusual assiduity. Sir Charles wishes him to enter for the Vauden Medal this year, and he is making a very creditable stab at it. Mr Soresby – one of our most promising young men – has been reading with him.’

‘And poor Frank Oldershaw? Is there news from that quarter?’

‘Alas, none that I know of.’

‘Harry tells me he is no longer with Dr Jermyn.’

‘Yes, I heard that too.’

‘I wonder where they took him.’

‘It is very curious,’ Richardson said. ‘I have no idea.’

When the dinner bell began to toll, Richardson and Whichcote made their way back to Chapel Court and entered the combination room, where ten or twelve of the fellows were already gathered. As the bell ceased, the door opened and the Master himself came in. Whichcote was struck by his haggard face. Carbury was a big, bulky man, but his weight seemed to have been redistributed, as if the internal framework sustaining it had lost its rigidity. He seemed in good spirits, however, and greeted the company with unusual amiability.

They went through into the hall, where the undergraduates were already gathered, waiting for the Master and fellows to take their places. When Carbury and the rest of them on the dais were standing by their chairs, a hush fell over the hall. Carbury looked towards the scholar at his lectern, a signal that he should say grace.

The silence had fallen very suddenly, and it was not quite complete. A young man at the bottom of the hall continued talking, addressing one of the buttery servants in a high, excited voice: ‘And a half-gallon jug of the audit ale, do you hear, and -’

Whichcote, who was almost opposite Carbury, happened to look at the Master’s face. He had turned his head towards the disturbance, and he was smiling.

The scholar read grace, and the company sat down.

‘Mr Soresby is in cheerful spirits,’ Mr Dow said.

‘Audit ale, too,’ Mr Crowley replied. ‘He must be in funds.’

‘Why, gentlemen, I think I can solve the conundrum,’ Carbury interrupted. ‘Mr Soresby has received some welcome tidings.’

The atmosphere changed. Whichcote sensed it, without at this point understanding why.

Glass in hand, the Master leaned across the table towards the two younger fellows. ‘You are aware, of course, that Mr Miskin is resigning the Rosington Fellowship at Christmas? Well, I have decided to reserve it for Mr Soresby, on the condition that his performance in the examinations justifies my expectations. I communicated my decision to him today, and I suspect this may have something to do with his ordering audit ale.’

Carbury had spoken loudly enough for his words to be heard by everyone at the high table. A ripple of surprise ran round the company.

Richardson laid down his knife. ‘Surely that is unorthodox, Master? As you say, Mr Soresby has not yet taken his degree.’

‘I am aware of that, sir, perfectly aware. If you take the trouble to consult the terms under which the fellowship was established, you will discover that not only is it in the Master’s gift, but also that the Master has the power to reserve it sine die, should he so wish.’

‘I have no doubt you are right.’ Richardson wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘And it is most gratifying to have one of my own pupils singled out for such a mark of approbation. Still, you will allow that it is unusual to appoint an undergraduate, even so promising a one as Mr Soresby.’

‘Why, as to that, by the time Mr Miskin leaves us Mr Soresby will be on the very threshold of taking his degree. And I have no doubt whatsoever that he will be highly placed on the list.’ Carbury smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. ‘I am sure you will agree with me, sir, that in these matters the merit of a candidate should be the only consideration. Many great scholars in this University have come from circumstances as humble as Mr Soresby’s. I do not doubt that with proper encouragement he will go far, and the college will greatly benefit from his presence.’

Carbury emptied his glass as if toasting the propriety of his sentiments. Richardson murmured that what the Master had said was very true, very true. The conversation became general round the table. Richardson said little, however, and he picked at his food.

After dinner was over, Whichcote did not linger in the combination room. He found Augustus waiting for him in the arcade beside the chapel. They left college without speaking, the footboy several paces behind his master. Outside Christ’s College, however, Whichcote beckoned to the boy to come up to him.

‘Well?’

‘I listened at the stables, sir. Ben’s to collect the pony phaeton at ten o’clock in the forenoon tomorrow.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘I don’t know, your honour. They didn’t say. But Mr Mulgrave walked over today from somewhere. He’s gone now but they say he called at the Master’s Lodge.’

Whichcote rubbed his cheek. Mulgrave was no great walker with that limp of his. The pony phaeton must be for Mrs Carbury, probably with a man to drive her. So light an equipage wouldn’t bear the Master’s weight. No one would hire a pony phaeton for a long journey, either.

He stared down at the thin, grubby face of the footboy. ‘Well, you must go to the stable tomorrow, and wait till they leave, and then you must follow them.’

‘But they will go faster than -’

‘Then you will have to run,’ Whichcote said. ‘After all, it is only a pony phaeton. It won’t proceed much above a footpace. I want to know who’s in it, where they go, and who they see. But you must not show yourself, boy, or I’ll have you whipped until you’re raw.’

They must have walked for ten or twelve miles in that long midsummer afternoon. They followed country roads that shimmered with dust and farm droves that were muddy even in this dry, warm weather. They marched along the high green banks of drainage cuts and dykes, as ruler-straight as their Dutch engineers had been able to make them. They splashed across fens where tall reeds waved above dark water stinking of rotting vegetation, disturbing countless waterfowl.

‘If only I had a gun,’ Frank said not once but many times. ‘What sport we should have.’

They met few people, and those they did were usually solitary – slouching men with muddy complexions who seemed as much a natural feature of this watery landscape as the reeds and the brackish water.

‘Ha!’ said Frank after one such encounter. ‘I wager they take us for father and son.’

Holdsworth did not reply. Georgie, he thought, my darling son.

Despite the heat, they walked rapidly. They did not talk much. The flatness of the country and the clarity of the air conspired to make Holdsworth feel he was a mere speck, lost in the immensity of the heavens. Frank, on the other hand, appeared positively to relish it. At one point, standing on top of an embankment running along a drainage cut, he stood for a moment, raised his arms and slowly spun around. Then he glanced at Holdsworth, and smiled like a happy child. Without a word, he started walking again, at the same rapid pace as before.

It was after seven o’clock by the time they came in sight of Whitebeach again. As they passed Mr Smedley’s farm, the dogs began to bark, rattling their chains and rushing to the yard gate, where they stared with wild yellow eyes at the strangers.

Mulgrave, alerted by the barking, came to meet them in the yard of the mill. Frank greeted him carelessly and went into the cottage, calling over his shoulder that he wanted a bowl of hot water, beer, bread and cheese.

Holdsworth lingered. ‘Well? Were you able to get what was needed?’

‘Yes, sir. Warm work, walking into town, I can tell you. But I got a lift back most of the way on a farm cart.’

‘Did you call at Jerusalem?’

‘Yes, sir. Mrs Carbury gave me a letter for you.’

He took it from his pocket and handed it to Holdsworth.

‘Did you see anyone else you know?’

‘Only college servants, sir. Mr Mepal at the lodge and the like.’

‘You did not tell them where we are, I hope?’

Mulgrave drew himself up, and went through the motions of looking affronted. ‘Of course not, sir.’

Holdsworth dismissed the servant and sat down on the bench near the horse trough. His tiredness forgotten, he turned the letter over in his hands. There was a curious and almost sensual pleasure in the texture of the paper and the sight of his own name in that unfamiliar handwriting. He broke the seal and tore the letter open.

Jerusalem College, 6th June.

Dear Sir, Her Ladyship commands me to call on you to see how Mr Oldershaw does in his new quarters. I have arranged to drive over tomorrow, and I hope you will both find it convenient to receive me at about two o’clock. Believe me, yours faithfully, E. Carbury

Mrs Carbury’s handwriting was like her face, Holdsworth thought, too decided and too heavily marked to be called beautiful in any formal or customary sense of the word, but undeniably striking. He read the letter again, though there was no need to do so, as if to make sure there was not some last drop of meaning to be squeezed out of those few words.

The ginger cat walked lightly across the yard and made a figure of eight round Holdworth’s ankles. He shivered at the touch of the animal’s body, at the casual intimacy of it. He thought of Elinor Carbury’s hand on the gate by the bridge.

Touch me, he thought. Touch me.