The Anatomy Of Ghosts

33

When he left the Master’s Lodge, Holdsworth walked swiftly through the passage into Chapel Court. The more he knew of Jerusalem, the more he glimpsed beneath its surface strange and unsettling shapes he had no wish to examine closely. During that terrible interview in the garden, he had hardly been able to restrain his desire for Elinor Carbury. His own stupidity nauseated him. He could hardly have fixed his desires on a less suitable person.

Worse than stupid. Adulterous. Elinor was married to Dr Carbury. And Maria had been in her grave for little more than three months. How could he betray his dead wife even in his desires?

He forced his mind into another, safer channel. Had Elinor Carbury been lying? Had she walked under the plane tree on the night that Frank Oldershaw went mad? Was she herself the ghost? Or did she merely find other ways to haunt a man?

It was not until Holdsworth was halfway down Chapel Court that he noticed the two familiar figures standing outside the doorway to the library. Mr Richardson was talking to his pupil, the dapper Mr Archdale, who seemed even pinker and more inflated than usual. Holdsworth was too late to alter course to avoid them but he put on a preoccupied air and tried to slip by with a rapid bow as though absorbed in the execution of an urgent errand. But Richardson turned towards him, his hand held out.

‘Mr Holdsworth, the very man! Pray, sir, will you join us a moment? I am in urgent need of your advice.’

There was no help for it. He allowed Richardson to draw him aside. Archdale waited a few yards away, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The tutor lowered his voice. ‘I am afraid we have a thief in our midst, sir. Mr Archdale went up to the library just now and found that the lock on one of the cupboard doors had been forced. It’s the cupboard where we house our more valuable books and also those of a delicate nature. You remember it, no doubt? I pointed it out to you. To the left of the fireplace.’

‘Yes. Set in the wall. When did this happen?’

‘Probably during or just after dinner. The library was unlocked, and few people were about. When he discovered the cupboard had been broken into, Mr Archdale very properly sought me out. I’ve made a quick survey of the contents, and I believe only one volume is missing. A play by Marlowe.’

‘The Massacre at Paris?’

‘Exactly so. A strange choice – there are more valuable books.’

‘Or astute?’ Holdsworth suggested.

‘How so?’

‘It’s an unusually unblemished copy of the earliest-known edition of the play and it appears to be in its original binding. But nobody knows how many copies were printed, how many still are in existence, or where they are. So if the thief took care to remove any marks of ownership from it, it would be relatively easy to dispose of.’

‘Ah. I catch your drift. So this is perhaps a thief who knows his work?’

Holdsworth bowed. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And what might such a book fetch?’

‘That I cannot tell you. These things fetch what the market will bear. Marlowe is not much sought after these days but there are those who would be delighted to have a copy of it in their collection. If the thief is as clever as he seems to be, he would bide his time. He would look for a private gentleman perhaps, rather than a bookseller. The alternative is that he has stolen the book to order, as it were, and already has a purchaser waiting for it.’

Richardson glanced at Archdale, just out of earshot. ‘Mr Holdsworth, I have not told you the whole of it yet. There is another circumstance, and I scarcely know whether this makes it worse or better.’ He took something from his pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand. ‘When Mr Archdale found that the cupboard had been broken into, he also found this inside. I can swear that it was not there this morning – I had occasion to open the cupboard then. So we can only conclude that it belongs to the thief.’

In the palm of Richardson’s hand lay a small penknife with a bone handle. The knife was open. The dull metal of the blade was pitted and scarred. Constant sharpening had worn it down to a shadow of its original self. The metal shone brightly only along the edge.

‘You believe this was the instrument used to force the lock, sir?’

‘So it would seem. And both Mr Archdale and I have had occasion to see this particular knife before. It is quite distinctive in shape, you see, and there is a black smudge on the bone as if a red-hot poker had lain there briefly, or something of the sort. I’m afraid there can be no doubt of it. It belongs to Mr Soresby. I have seen him use it on countless occasions. He picks his teeth with it, pares his nails, even cuts his meat.’

‘Has Mr Soresby been seen in the library today?’

Richardson shrugged. ‘Why, as to that, he comes and goes so often that no one notices him most of the time. After all, he’s the library clerk.’

Archdale had edged closer. ‘Look here, sir,’ he said to Richardson. ‘This is devilish unpleasant. I can’t believe Soresby would be such a blockhead. And to leave his knife behind as well.’

‘We cannot be sure it was he,’ Richardson said, frowning. ‘Besides, who can trace the hidden springs of another human heart? When one hand commits a guilty act, the other hand may find a way to confess it. I am much obliged to you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Archdale, and I would not wish to keep you from your studies any longer. But may I ask you not to say anything of this to anyone until I have had an opportunity to interview Mr Soresby? There may be a perfectly innocent explanation.’

It was an unpleasant business, and Holdsworth was anxious to be gone as well. Taking a step towards the porter’s lodge, he said, ‘You have much on your mind, sir, and you will -’

‘No, pray stay, Mr Holdsworth,’ Richardson said. ‘May I trespass on your good nature and entreat a further favour? A matter as delicate as this needs such careful handling, such nice calculations. Your assistance would be invaluable. You see, on the evidence available to us, we have as it were prima facie good reason to suspect Mr Soresby is responsible for this theft. But the evidence falls far short of absolute proof. As both librarian and Mr Soresby’s own tutor, my duty is to call on Mr Soresby at once. It would be improper for me to see him without the presence of a witness, and you unite in your person the ideal qualifications for such a man. You are not a member of this college, but you have some knowledge of its workings and of the people involved. You are here on behalf of her ladyship, whose family have so many ties with Jerusalem. And you have a particular knowledge of our library and its contents.’

Richardson took Holdsworth’s arm and led him through the screens, the passageway that separated the lower end of the hall from the buttery and the kitchens, and into the open court beyond. Directly in front of them, beyond the railings, was Jerusalem Lane. On their right was the Master’s Lodge. In the north-east corner, at right angles to the Master’s Lodge and along the boundary of Jerusalem Lane, was Yarmouth Hall. Richardson led the way diagonally across the cobbled court to the building’s entrance, a heavy oak door adorned with fragments of cracked Perpendicular tracery and set between two buttresses.

‘It is a most inconvenient lodging for students,’ Richardson said, raising the latch. ‘It is very old and constantly in need of repair.’

He led the way into a dark hallway with a stone floor. Passageways led off to either side and a staircase wound up to the floors above.

The tutor held a handkerchief to his nose. ‘I fear the air is not as healthy as it might be,’ he mumbled. ‘This way, sir.’

He conducted Holdsworth up the stairs. Yarmouth Hall had been divided into three floors, each of which now contained half a dozen small chambers. Plaster was crumbling from the partition walls, exposing the lathes beneath. The floor was gritty with dirt.

‘At least there is this to be said for the place,’ Richardson said as they rounded the last bend of the staircase and climbed the final flight to the second floor. ‘The chambers are inexpensive, and these garrets are the cheapest of all.’

On the top floor, he knocked on the door at the far end of the corridor. Holdsworth heard footsteps within, and the rattle of a bolt. The door opened a few inches, and Soresby’s long, anxious face peered out at them.

‘Mr Soresby, good day to you. May we come in?’

The undergraduate stepped back automatically, his expression blank with surprise, and pushed the door wide. Stooping, Holdsworth followed Richardson into the little room. Richardson closed the door behind them.

The room was about ten feet long, running along the pitch of the roof, but no more than five or six feet wide. There was no fireplace. Soresby’s cap and gown hung on a nail beside the door. Because of the slope of the ceiling, it was possible to stand up only along the inner side. At the further end was an uncurtained and unmade bed; here, near the door, was a stained deal table, on which were a few books and, on a wooden platter, the end of a loaf and a few crumbs of cheese. Attached to the wall directly above was a small shelf holding a collection of a dozen books.

As they entered, Soresby retreated towards the bed. Holdsworth stopped when he was next to the window, a dormer that stood wide open. The window faced south, towards the college, but there was little to be seen except a blank wall, part of the Master’s Lodge next door. Holdsworth looked down. Unpleasant smells rose up to greet him. He was directly above the little yard where the privy and the wash-house were, and where the Carburys’ servants sometimes worked in the day. No one was about.

‘Mr Soresby, I regret to say we are not here on a pleasant errand,’ Richardson was saying.

The undergraduate, bewildered, looked from Richardson to Holdsworth. ‘I don’t understand, sir. Has there been an accident? Is my father -’

‘No, no,’ Richardson interrupted. ‘You may make yourself easy upon that score, at least. No, this concerns the library. Before I continue, is there anything you wish to tell me? You may find it is in your interest to do so.’

Richardson paused. Soresby shook his head.

‘Very well then. I have to inform you that there has been a burglary. A thief entered the library some time today, probably during or just after dinner. He forced the lock of a particular cupboard and stole a valuable book.’

Soresby seemed to shrivel into himself. ‘I’m heartily sorry -I -’

‘What? You admit responsibility?’

‘No, sir.’ The undergraduate’s face lost what little colour it had. ‘Of course not. I – I only meant to say I wish I had been there to prevent the loss. As library clerk -’

‘Yes, indeed, there may be a question of a dereliction of your duties,’ Richardson said. ‘But that does not concern me at present. What concerns me is the far more serious possibility that you yourself may be the thief.’

Soresby raised his hands as if to ward off a blow. He retreated from Richardson and the backs of his legs came into contact with the edge of his bed. Taken by surprise, he sat down suddenly.

‘It is clear that the person responsible not only knew which cupboard to open, but also which book to steal. In other words, the thief was intimately acquainted with the library.’

‘I beg of you, sir, pray do not entertain such a suspicion,’ Soresby cried. ‘I would never -’

‘I would be obliged if you would hear the accusation before attempting to defend yourself from it. As I was saying, after dinner Mr Archdale had occasion to go up to the library. It was he who discovered the theft. He also discovered the implement used to force the door of the cupboard. Very properly, he brought it at once to me. I may add that he recognized it and so did I.’

Richardson took the penknife from his pocket and held it out. Soresby, still seated, stared at it for a moment, then stretched out his hand as if he meant to take it. The tutor pulled his own hand away.

‘You acknowledge it is your knife?’

‘Of course it is, sir. I would know it anywhere – I have had it since I was a boy. It was my father’s.’

‘Very well.’ Richardson threw a glance at Holdsworth. ‘Then I must ask you again whether you stole the book?’

Soresby opened his mouth but could not speak. He shook his head violently, his ragged hair swinging from side to side.

‘I regret to say that the evidence against you is so strong, Mr Soresby, that I have no alternative but to search your room. And the necessity is as distasteful to me as it is to you, I am sure, but you will understand that in the circumstances I have no choice. If you are innocent, which is possible, though the evidence against you is black, then you will naturally wish to see your innocence established before the world.’ Richardson looked up at Holdsworth. ‘It is important to do these things according to the proper form, sir. You would oblige me infinitely if you would stand by the door and witness the search.’ He turned back to Soresby. ‘Pray stand beside Mr Holdsworth. And, before you do, would you be so good as to turn out your pockets?’

Soresby rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned out the pockets of his coat and his breeches, one by one. ‘I – I had noticed I had mislaid the penknife, sir,’ he said. ‘I had thought…’ His voice trailed away. He stood beside Holdsworth. He was trembling like a man with an ague. There was a loud crack as he pulled a finger joint.

Richardson worked his way round the little room. He was methodical, as in everything he did. He turned over the books and examined the table, even peering underneath it. Beside it on the floor was a wooden box containing Soresby’s notes, and he tipped the contents on the table and sifted them with his forefinger. He searched the small press where Soresby kept his few clothes and a jumble of items, from candle ends to rusty needles.

Soresby’s breathing was fast and irregular. The young man was hot, too, as if running a fever. Holdsworth felt the heat coming from his body, and also a sour smell, as if fear were expressing itself as an odour.

At last the tutor came to the bed. He stripped it down to the straw mattress. He examined the bolster and the pillow. Underneath he found dust, a pot that slopped urine when he moved it, and the skeleton of a mouse. He turned his attentions to the mattress itself, feeling and kneading it on both sides, like a physician conscientiously searching for lumps all over his patient’s body.

Suddenly he looked up. ‘There appears to be a rectangular object lodged in the straw, Mr Soresby. Here – where the stitching has come adrift. Would you be so good as to extract it for me?’

Soresby swallowed. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He did not move.

‘Did you hear me, sir?’ Richardson said sharply.

Soresby stumbled across the room and fell to his knees by the bed. Richardson stood aside, watching. The student pushed his hand into the canvas cover that contained the straw.

‘Not there,’ Richardson said. ‘The other side.’

Soresby’s hand wriggled invisibly, changing position. Then, at last, he brought out a leather-bound quarto. Wide-eyed, he sat back on his heels and stared at it.

‘Pray give it me, sir,’ Richardson prompted.

Barely a yard separated the two men. Still on his knees, like a supplicant, Soresby held out the book to Richardson. The tutor took it and opened it, turning to the title-page. He angled the volume so Holdsworth could see it too. The Massacre at Paris.

‘I swear,’ Soresby said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I swear I -’

‘Pray do not add perjury to your other sins, sir. Well, we shall take our leave for the moment. You will stay in your room until I send for you.’ The tutor turned to Holdsworth. ‘It distresses me that you should have had to witness such a disagreeable interview. But may I trespass further on your good nature and ask you to accompany me to the Master’s Lodge?’

He gave Soresby the slightest of bows and left the room with his nose in the air, as if trying to raise it as far as possible above the stench of moral corruption in the atmosphere.

Holdsworth followed. In the doorway he turned back. Soresby was still on his knees. His face was a dirty white colour, almost grey. His eyes were wide and blank. Only his hands were moving. A finger joint cracked.