The Anatomy Of Ghosts

39

‘Remember,’ Mrs Phear said, ‘you must not stir outside the college walls during the day.’

‘Why, ma’am, I can hardly forget with those jackals waiting at the gates.’

There came the sound of breaking crockery from the gyp room where Augustus and Dorcas were clearing away the tea things.

Mrs Phear screwed up her mouth. ‘Dorcas,’ she said, not troubling to raise her voice unduly.

Her maid appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, and curtsied clumsily.

‘What was broken? Who was responsible?’

‘If you please, ma’am, it was a teacup, and it slipped out of my hand, ma’am, I’m terrible sorry, I -’

‘You’re a wicked, clumsy girl,’ Mrs Phear observed without anger, as one expressing a fact. ‘You shall go without your dinner today. I have noticed before, an overfull stomach makes you inattentive and stupid.’

‘If you please, ma’am,’ Augustus said, from the doorway of the gyp room. ‘Please don’t be hard on her, it was my fault, she was handing it to me, and I -’

‘Be silent,’ Whichcote snapped.

Mrs Phear turned back to Whichcote and said in the sweet, soft voice she reserved for him, ‘I shall leave you, my dear. I must have my dinner and you will soon want yours.’

‘You must allow me to escort you, ma’am.’

‘At least as far as the gates.’ She smiled at him. ‘But mind you lock your doors here. The door of the study, as well as your oak. Your future is there.’

Followed by Dorcas, Mrs Phear and Whichcote went downstairs and into the sunshine. Mrs Phear paused on the way to admire the majestic spread of the oriental plane.

‘It is truly charming,’ she observed. ‘If you have to spend a few weeks in exile, there are worse places to be.’

They strolled through the arcade and across Chapel Court to the main gate. Mepal was not in his lodge but outside on the forecourt by St Andrew’s Street, engaged in conversation with two men wearing black.

Mrs Phear laid her hand on Whichcote’s arm. ‘Ah – your jackals, I fancy.’

They shook hands. But before Mrs Phear passed through the gateway, they heard quick, light footsteps behind them. Augustus ran up to them with a handkerchief that he held out to Mrs Phear with a low, swift bow, like a duck tucking its head underwater.

‘Found it on your chair, ma’am.’

Mrs Phear nodded to Dorcas, who stepped forward, head bowed, and took the handkerchief from Augustus. Whichcote saw the girl’s sidelong glance at Augustus, and his at her. Surely Mrs Phear’s beanpole and his own grubby dwarf could not be sweethearts? The very idea struck him as so bizarre that he almost laughed out loud.

When Mrs Phear had gone, Whichcote walked back to his rooms. He paused outside his staircase in New Building. As chance would have it, Frank was coming from the direction of the Jericho, looking across the garden as he walked. He did not see Whichcote until it was too late to avoid him.

‘I am rejoiced to see you in college,’ Whichcote said blandly. He was alert for any possibility of violence; he would not be caught off guard again. ‘Dare your friends hope that this means you are entirely recovered? I do hope so.’

Frank muttered something and tried to slip past him.

Whichcote moved to block him. ‘We shall be near neighbours. Augustus, go upstairs and wait for me outside my door.’ He waited until the boy was gone. ‘I have come into residence myself for a few days, or even a few weeks. I’m here in New Building – in G4. You must do me the honour of calling on me.’

‘I’ll see you damned first.’

‘That remains to be seen. If I were to tell the authorities what you did to that girl and bring witnesses to support the accusation, it is very probable that you would be damned before me.’

‘What do you mean – what in God’s name do you want?’

‘All in good time. I am sure we shall discuss this further. You may be interested to hear that I took the precaution of bringing the archives of the Holy Ghost Club when I came into college. They are exquisitely absorbing. For example, there’s your signature, all duly witnessed, in the membership book. You were pleased enough to become an Apostle, weren’t you? And you did so on the very night the girl died. On the very night that all these people saw you with her, about to seize her and deflower her. Yes, just before she died. The implication must be that the one led to the other.’

Frank seized Whichcote’s arm. ‘You blackguard,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you? Is this your revenge for Sylvia? And for me giving you a ducking?’

Whichcote stared at him but said nothing. Frank was larger than he was and Whichcote already knew the young man’s capacity for violence. But he also knew that power takes many forms. After a few seconds, Frank released his grip and took a step back.

Whichcote straightened the sleeve of his coat. ‘We shall talk later. No doubt you will want to run to your bear-leader, Holdsworth, and cry on his shoulder. You must not let me detain you. But I warn you, it won’t answer. You and I will have to come to an accommodation sooner or later.’

Elinor Carbury had a headache. She sat at her writing table and composed the third draft of her letter to Lady Anne Oldershaw. She hated herself for writing it. Life had made her do a great many things that encouraged her to hate herself.

There was a tap on the door, and Susan entered. She closed the door and stood with head bowed, waiting for her mistress to speak.

‘What is it?’ Elinor said, dipping her pen in the inkwell.

There was no reply. She glanced at her maid. There were tears running down her cheeks.

‘What is it?’ Elinor repeated, more sharply. ‘For heaven’s sake -’

‘Oh, ma’am, I have been so foolish.’ The girl cried harder. ‘So sinful,’ she gulped between sobs. ‘And you such a kind mistress! So generous! Oh, my heart could break.’

‘Do stop crying and tell me what it is,’ Elinor ordered.

Susan looked up. She said quietly, in her normal voice, ‘Oh, ma’am – I’m with child.’

Elinor had a brief and unwelcome vision of white muscular thighs pumping up and down in the wash-house. ‘You foolish girl. Whose is it? Ben’s?’

The maid nodded. ‘I couldn’t help myself, ma’am, he was so pressing. I’m sorry to trouble you, now of all times, with the Master like he is.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, ma’am – I’ve missed my courses twice and soon it’ll be again.’

‘Has this been going on for long?’

‘Since March – he persuaded me to walk out with him one night under the big tree and… and he took advantage of me. Soon the baby will show. You’ll turn me out without a character and it’ll be the poorhouse for -’

‘Do stop talking,’ Elinor snapped. ‘You’re making my headache worse. Can you not marry Ben and be done with it?’

There was a knock on the door downstairs.

‘He’d lose his place and so would I, ma’am. And we’ve nothing to fall back on.’

‘Let me turn it over in my mind,’ Elinor said. ‘You have been a very foolish girl. But perhaps something can be retrieved.’

A visitor was coming up the stairs. Ben announced Mr Richardson. The servant’s eyes widened as he saw Susan standing red-faced by the door. Mr Richardson bowed, with a graceful flutter of his fingers. Elinor sent the servants away.

‘I do not wish to disturb the Master,’ Richardson said when they were alone. ‘But I wanted to find out how my dear friend does. Is there any change?’

‘No, sir. He is sleeping. The nurse is with him and has orders to call me when he wakes.’

‘Ah – what does the poet tell us? – “Tir’d Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!’’’ Richardson murmured. ‘I bring with me the good wishes of the entire fellowship, of course, and the assurance of our prayers. But one other reason I presumed to call again was that I had a piece of news. News that Dr Carbury may find cheering. And so, I believe, will you, my dear madam. Mr Oldershaw has returned to college.’

‘I am rejoiced to hear it. Is he paying a visit or -?’

‘Oh no. He seems fully restored, and I believe he intends to come back into residence, at least until the end of term.’

‘I shall be sure to tell Dr Carbury. What of Mr Holdsworth? Since Mr Oldershaw no longer has any need of him, I suppose he will return to London.’

‘Not yet. He has to complete his survey of the library, and it is not impossible that Mr Oldershaw may have need of him again. So I have arranged for him to have a guest apartment in New Building. When he heard how things were with the Master, he did not want to disturb him – or of course you, madam.’

Elinor bowed her head. ‘Is there news of Mr Soresby?’

‘He appears to have vanished from the face of the earth. But we have another visitor. Mr Whichcote is in college. I hope this won’t distress you.’

Elinor looked up and surprised an air of calculation on the tutor’s face. ‘Why should you suppose it might?’

‘I feared the sight of him might bring painful memories of your dear friend, Mrs Carbury. I meant nothing else.’

She thanked Richardson for his consideration. She said nothing more and he rose to take his leave. After he had gone, she sat at her writing desk, pen in hand, but could not write another word. She thought about her dying husband, about John Holdsworth, almost within a stone’s throw of where she sat, and about Sylvia. Elinor did not know whether she loved or hated Sylvia now. Richardson had touched a sore spot when he mentioned her. All the memories were painful.

Later, when the nurse told Elinor that her husband was awake, she went into his room. They were alone, for the nurse was downstairs. The curtains were drawn against the glare of the day. Dr Carbury was lying on his back with the covers wrapped around him like a straitjacket. He stared at her with his huge doglike eyes.

‘How are you, sir? Do you feel rested?’

He ignored the questions. ‘Is there news?’

‘Mr Oldershaw is returned, and Mr Richardson says he is fully restored.’

‘Good. But what of Soresby?’

‘Nothing, sir. I hope no harm has come to the poor young man.’

‘Aye, that is certainly a possibility.’ Carbury’s head reared up from the pillows in a sudden access of energy. ‘Self-murder. Now I think of it, it is not at all unlikely.’

‘I hope it’s not so.’

Her husband appeared not to have heard her. His head fell back heavily on the pillows. ‘Soresby dead?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Yes, very likely. Quite, quite dead. But is it too much to hope for?’

‘That devil has brought the club archives with him,’ Frank said to Holdsworth as soon as he came back from the Jericho. ‘They are in his rooms, and he will blackmail me with them. Dear God, to think I esteemed him once. I thought him a man of breeding. What’s to be done?’

‘Nothing in haste, Mr Oldershaw.’

Frank glared at him. ‘That’s all very well for you to say, sir, but -’

There was a knock at the door and Harry Archdale bounced into the room like a cheerful cherub.

‘My dear Frank, how do you do!’ He seized Frank’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘You’re back at last, safe and sound. I give you joy of it. A happy return indeed.’

Holdsworth bowed and drew back, looking for an excuse to withdraw.

‘Have you heard our latest excitement?’ Archdale said after the first greetings were over. ‘Soresby has disappeared.’

‘Ricky told us just now. Bit of a scrub, eh? Always cracking his knuckles, like a regular fusillade.’

Archdale wrinkled his nose. ‘There’s been hell to pay. I can’t understand it myself – he was Carbury’s pet. The old man had even reserved a fellowship for him.’

‘I thought Soresby was Ricky’s man. By the way, have you been down to the stables lately? My horses have been -’

‘Wait, Frank – this Soresby business – you haven’t heard to the end of it. I was coming into college just now and Mepal runs up with a parcel. Somebody left it in the box last night – he didn’t see who. And it turns out it’s from Soresby.’ Archdale took a small, slim volume from his pocket. ‘Look here.’

Frank took the book and opened it to the title-page. ‘Euclid? What on earth’s this?’

‘I am become quite the reading man since you last saw me. But that’s not the point. This was inside. See here.’

Archdale held out a scrap of paper, which looked as if it had been torn from a pocketbook. Holdsworth drew nearer and read the few words it contained over Frank’s shoulder.

Mr Archdale – here is the book. Mr Dow’s second paragraph on page 41 must be mastered if one is to grasp Proposition 47 (the Pythagorean Theorem). Pray do not believe this terrible lie about me. I swear I did not steal anything. T. S.