The Anatomy Of Ghosts

43

There had been rain in the night and the river bank was muddy. Thirty yards ahead, Tom Turdman slouched steadily along the footpath, moving with unexpected speed. He was still wearing his working clothes and a whiff of the man lingered behind him like a bad dream.

Harry Archdale plodded after him. Tom had been waiting at the end of Mill Lane. As soon as he had seen Harry, he had moved off. Harry had followed because he did not know what else to do. Now his shoes and stockings were spattered with mud and he had made the unwelcome discovery that one of the shoes leaked. His clothes were too heavy and too smart: he had dressed with pavements in mind, not country rambles. Worst of all was the sensation that he was making himself ridiculous. But he could not turn back without making himself even more ridiculous.

He paused to take out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. When he looked up, Tom Turdman was no longer to be seen. Harry swore and set off down the path again, walking more quickly than before. Everything looked unfamiliar. He was used to seeing this stretch of country from the water, not the land.

The path came to a stile set in a thick hedge. He climbed up and peered into the field beyond. Half a dozen cows were further along the path, at a point where the land shelved down to the water. Two of them were drinking from the river. The others, however, were lumbering in his direction.

Harry was no expert on the habits and temperaments of the bovine species. But it seemed to him that there was something particularly menacing about the way these cows were approaching, picking up speed as they did so and quite clearly taking a personal interest in him. It was also possible that one or more of them were not in fact cows but young bulls that would see him as a dangerous intruder and therefore try to trample him to death.

Prudence was undoubtedly the better part of valour. Harry was about to jump down from the stile and return the way he had come when he heard somebody say his name. Startled, he imagined for a nightmarish instant that one of the putative bulls was so ferociously intelligent that it was endowed with human speech. But then he saw Soresby standing not five yards away, down by the water in the shelter of the spreading branches of a large willow tree, with the night-soil man beside him. Lying in the water behind them was a rowing boat.

‘Soresby! What the devil do you mean by this charade?’

He heard a familiar crack as the sizar tugged at his fingers. ‘So kind, Mr Archdale,’ Soresby said in a rapid mumble. ‘So truly condescending. Would you be so good as to step this way, sir, and into the boat?’

It was an unexpectedly attractive offer. In front of Harry were the approaching cattle. Behind him lay a sea of mud and the certainty that if he walked back he would get even hotter and filthier than he already was. He pointed at Tom Turdman with his stick. ‘What about him?’ Even the mud and the heat were preferable to sitting in a small boat with the night-soil man.

‘My uncle’s leaving us now, Mr Archdale.’

Tom Turdman nodded and bowed, making a curious twisting motion that seemed to spread from his hands to his arms and then up to his shoulders. The gesture said, as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud, that he would be delighted beyond all measure to have the honour of drinking Mr Archdale’s health.

Harry dropped a sixpence into the waiting palm. He scrambled down to the water. Soresby crouched, an ungainly spider. With one hand he held the boat close to the bank, while he offered Harry the other. The boat rocked alarmingly as Harry clambered aboard and settled in the stern. Soresby followed him and pushed off with an oar. The cattle had stopped moving and were now eating grass.

The oars dipped and rose. Harry listened to the creaking of the rowlocks and watched the green river slipping past them. Soresby was taking them towards Grantchester. The boat transformed him: the clumsiness and the diffidence dropped away. He rowed as Mulgrave opened a bottle of wine or – and here Harry blushed – as Chloe fucked, with the unassuming assurance of someone who knows exactly what he is about.

‘Well, this is a fine thing,’ Harry said.

His words were rougher than his tone. It was cool and agreeable to be borne along on the water and, besides, he was a man who found it hard to be irritable with anyone for very long.

‘I am sorry, Mr Archdale, I didn’t know what to do – who else to turn to. And I thought perhaps -’

‘There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. They haven’t laid information against you.’

‘Not yet. But they may at any moment. I wondered whether perhaps Dr Carbury has restrained them?’

‘Jerry Carbury’s not doing much of anything at present. They say he’s at death’s door.’

Soresby leaned on his oars and the boat glided into the silence. ‘That’s what I feared.’

‘You’d hoped he might stand your protector? But why should he do that even if he was well? Oh, I know he took a liking to you before but – well, the fact remains, that library book was in your room. The evidence against you looks black, very black.’

‘But I didn’t do it. If only I could see Dr Carbury -’

‘But you can’t. In any case, what could he do?’

Soresby looked up. ‘Mr Archdale, may I tell you something in confidence?’

‘If you must, I suppose you must,’ Harry said.

Soresby’s mouth was working and for an instant Harry thought he might burst into tears. ‘Through no fault of my own,’ the sizar began, ‘I have in my possession a piece of information. It is of a delicate nature.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about that so pray don’t tell me what it is. I don’t want to know.’

‘It’s something that Dr Carbury would not wish to have made public.’

‘Ah.’ Harry stared at him, sensing that at last there was a glimpse of a pattern in all this. ‘Do you mean to tell me that’s why Carbury offered you the Rosington?’

‘I – yes. But it was not like that, I swear – I did not make interest with him for it – I merely sought an interview and I believe he mistook my motive.’

‘Very likely,’ Harry said. ‘But when you went over to Carbury’s camp, you burned your boats with Ricky, eh? And now Carbury’s dying, Ricky won’t do you any favours.’

‘But the information, Mr Archdale. I simply do not know what to do. It weighs on my conscience. Is it my duty as a Christian to tell someone or should I simply let it lie? Or perhaps I should see Mr Richardson and make a clean breast of everything?’

Archdale sighed. The fresh air was making him hungry. ‘This information, Soresby – is it of a sort that would damage the college if it came out?’

Soresby nodded.

‘Surely that would have some weight with Ricky?’

‘Perhaps not in this case.’

Harry felt his bewilderment grow. Ricky identified his own interests with the college’s. If Carbury died, and he became the next Master, that identification of interests would strengthen rather than diminish.

Unless there was something that Ricky thought was a greater good? Or was this not a matter of deriving benefit so much as satisfying hatred?

He stared at Soresby’s pale, thin face, which was sprinkled with muddy freckles like small sultanas. The sizar’s expression reminded Harry of a stray dog fearing a kicking but hoping against all hope for a pat. It was true he was an able scholar and a good teacher; if Harry were going to pursue his studies any further, then Soresby’s assistance might be useful, though not irreplaceable. Over and above this, Harry felt that he had acquired without conscious volition a sort of responsibility for Soresby. It was as if he had patted the stray dog once or twice and the brute had responded by selecting him as his master throughout all eternity.

‘Damnation,’ he said aloud.

‘What’s wrong, Mr Archdale?’

Harry opened his mouth to tell the fellow to go to the devil but, as he was about to speak, he glimpsed a way that might resolve the problem, or at least transfer it. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘If Carbury’s too ill to see you and Ricky hates you too much, there’s only one person who can be of any use. Only one person who can protect you: and that’s Lady Anne Oldershaw.’

‘But she’s in London, Mr Archdale, and I -’

‘I don’t mean you should go to her directly. That wouldn’t answer at all. But you could talk to her man Mr Holdsworth. He’s back in Jerusalem with Mr Oldershaw now, did you know? You may depend upon it, Mr Holdsworth can tell you what to do if anyone can.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Holdsworth,’ Elinor said.

‘And how is Dr Carbury, ma’am?’

‘He is awake now, and more comfortable in himself. He has just eaten a little soup. Susan and the nurse are changing his nightgown. He asked after you when he woke. I shall ring for Ben and send him to ask whether my husband is in a fit state to receive you.’

‘Shall I ring the bell?’ Holdsworth moved towards the rope that hung to the left of the fireplace.

‘No – one moment, if you please, sir. I have been turning over that… that other matter we discussed.’ Elinor paused, and through the open window of her sitting room came the chimes of the chapel clock working its way through the quarters before striking two. ‘It occurred to me that you might not find it easy to – to dispose of the materials we discussed earlier.’

He bowed, thinking that she was a woman of such quick perceptions it was sometimes hard to keep up with her.

‘There is a brazier at the back of our little yard,’ she went on in a lower voice that made them conspirators. ‘The gardener uses it a good deal at this time of year and Ben too when there are things to be disposed of. Sometimes they leave it smouldering away all evening.’

‘So if something were burned after dark, say, no one would remark on it?’

‘It’s most unlikely it would even be noticed. At present the servants hardly stir from the house. When they retire, they are out of the way – Susan sleeps in an attic overlooking the front and Ben lodges in a cottage outside college.’ She frowned. ‘Besides, if there were any difficulty, they would do as I tell them.’

‘And the brazier – is it visible from the college gardens or any of the windows?’

‘It’s not overlooked at all. It’s quite secluded.’

Holdsworth had already fixed in his mind that the best time to set to work would be while Whichcote was at supper. Assuming all went well, it would be better to move the valise entirely away from New Building, for Whichcote might well suspect that Holdsworth had had a hand in its removal.

‘Well, sir? Do you think it would answer?’

‘In many ways, yes, ma’am. But there is a difficulty. I cannot knock at your door in the evening and demand admittance without someone noticing. And to get here, I must pass the combination room or the hall, and Mr Whichcote might well -’

‘I have thought of that. I will make sure the gate over the bridge is unlocked, with the key on the ground beside the gatepost, the one nearer the oriental plane. All you would have to do is cross the bridge, open the gate and slip into the garden. If you lock the gate behind you, you will be safe from interruption.’

He smiled at her, glad of the excuse. ‘I believe you have hit upon the perfect solution.’

She smiled back, turning towards him, which showed the swanlike curve of her long neck. For an instant she seemed to him not at all like a woman whose husband lay dying a few yards away. The fact they were conspirators brought a dangerous sweetness in its train.

Before he could stop himself, he took a step towards her and raised his hand, reaching for hers. Her face changed instantly. She rose abruptly from her chair and rang for Ben.

Neither of them spoke. Holdsworth stared at an engraving on the wall. Elinor returned to her chair and picked up a book.

When Ben came, she inquired whether the Master was ready to receive Mr Holdsworth. Shortly afterwards, the servant conducted Holdsworth along the passage to the sickroom.

Susan opened the door when Ben knocked. She had a bundle of dirty sheets in her arms. Dr Carbury was in bed, propped up with pillows, but he waved feebly, beckoning Holdsworth towards him. His nightgown was very white and so was his nightcap, accentuating his grey skin, which hung in folds from the cheekbones as though the skull within had shrunk. His jaw was covered with greasy stubble, for he had not been shaved since being confined to bed. The nurse was tidying the bottles and pillboxes that littered the night table.

Holdsworth approached the bed. The curtains were open and he glanced out at the sunlit court below, where Mr Miskin and Mr Crowley were deep in conversation. People might live and die in the place but Jerusalem itself continued, blandly indifferent. He began to make the conventional inquiries but Carbury cut him short. He tugged at the sleeve of the nurse’s gown.

‘Go away, woman.’

‘But, sir -’

‘Do as I say.’ His hand twitched on the bed, digging the horny nails into the coverlet. ‘You too, girl. Shut the door behind you.’

Susan followed the nurse out of the room.

‘They tell me young Oldershaw is back,’ Carbury said, forcing the words out. ‘Safe and sound?’

‘Yes, sir. He seems himself again.’

Carbury winced. ‘What ailed him?’

‘I believe that Mr Whichcote and the Holy Ghost Club had done him no good whatsoever. They had undermined his health and encouraged him to all sorts of folly and dissipation. And the death of Mrs Whichcote on the very night he joined the club quite overthrew him – it was the final straw. He believed he was in some sense responsible.’

‘Absurd.’ Carbury’s nails now scratched the freshly laundered sheet. ‘But I am heartily glad to hear he is himself again. What of Lady Anne?’

‘I have written to her, naturally, and so has Mr Frank and of course Mrs Carbury. She should have received our letters today.’

‘I would not wish her ladyship to think ill of us, particularly now.’ Carbury’s head dropped to his chest. His eyelids closed.

Holdsworth wondered whether he had fallen asleep, or into a swoon. He looked down at the invalid. ‘Sir, there is something else I must tell you. It concerns Mrs Whichcote.’

Carbury’s head jerked up as if tugged by a string. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘A curious circumstance has come to light,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I am at a loss how to explain it. On the night of her death, when she was at Lambourne House, the lady was wearing a particular pair of slippers. They were distinctive in colour and design. You may recall that when she was found in the Long Pond the following morning, she was wearing only a gown and torn stockings – her feet were bare.’

‘Well? What of it? No doubt she lost them on the way or they were washed into the culvert that drains the pond. What is this nonsense, Mr Holdsworth? I do not see the purpose of it. I am not well, sir, not well – would you have the goodness to ring the bell?’

‘One moment, if you please.’ An idea hovered like a ghost in a far corner of Holdsworth’s mind: something forgotten? A question to ask? But as soon as he was aware of it, it was gone. There was no time now to pin it down. ‘Pray hear me out.’

‘No, sir, the bell, I say.’

‘Forgive me, sir. I will not be long. The night-soil man found the slippers a day or two later. They were near the garden door of the Lodge. He knew they must be Mrs Whichcote’s. He’s used to finding unexpected trifles when he goes about his work, and he makes the best use of them he can. He reasoned that Mrs Whichcote, their owner, could no longer have a use for the slippers, so he cleaned them, had them mended, for they were much torn, and presented them to his wife.’

Dr Carbury sank back against the pillows and let out a long, windy sigh. ‘Curious, perhaps, but nothing to be wondered at. Noctambulants cannot be judged by normal standards. The sleeping mind follows its own illogical motions. But enough, sir. I am weary.’

‘But I have good reason to believe that the lady was not walking in her sleep.’

‘Eh?’ Carbury’s head was drooping again. ‘I do wish you would not go on about it. You are fatiguing me.’

‘She was greatly distressed. Mr Whichcote had beaten her savagely that night. That is what drove her to flee to Jerusalem. I cannot believe that she would throw away her slippers. Why should the thought even enter her mind? Nor is it likely that she lost them. Not on a paved path in a place she knew so well by daylight.’

Dr Carbury’s forefinger scratched the coverlet and his chin sank down on his chest. In his present state, did he realize what Holdsworth was implying? The gate to Jerusalem Lane was locked. The college itself was locked and guarded. The Master’s Lodge and its garden were locked within the college. The gate over the bridge was locked. A hortus conclusus, as Richardson had said with a touch of scholarly licence on Holdsworth’s first evening, within a hortus conclusus.

‘Suppose, sir,’ Holdsworth went on. ‘Suppose that Mrs Whichcote came running through the streets in her distress, looking for shelter here. She gained entry by the private gate to Jerusalem Lane. And then -’

A gurgle deep in Dr Carbury’s throat interrupted Holdsworth in mid-flow. The head jerked up and down. The arms flailed. The body twitched under the covers. The right arm swept to one side, colliding with the night table, which rocked, sending the tray of medicines sliding to the floor.

Holdsworth tugged the bell so hard that the rope broke. He ran to the door, opened it and called for help. Footsteps clattered on the stairs and in the hall below. Dr Carbury groaned and lay still.

Holdsworth crossed the room to the bed. He bent over the man lying there and reached for the wrist to feel for the pulse.

Dear God, have I killed him?