The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  Elinor asked if they would take tea. Mr Richardson declined, saying that he had promised to look over some lecture notes for a colleague before supper, and took his leave, apologizing again for disturbing them. At the door he turned, raised himself slightly on the balls of his feet, and bowed again.

  ‘Well, sir,’ she said to Holdsworth when they were alone. ‘And what did you think of Mr Richardson?’

  ‘I cannot imagine it much signifies one way or the other.’

  ‘He came here only to look you over.’

  ‘I thought he looked in to see Dr Carbury.’

  ‘That was a mere façon de parler,’ Elinor said. ‘Mr Richardson knew that he would see Dr Carbury later this evening, and I am sure he already knew that the Doctor was not in college. Mr Richardson knows everything about Jerusalem. Or almost everything. He will have known of your arrival. Hence his curiosity to see you.’

  ‘Then I hope he was satisfied with what he saw.’

  Elinor said softly, ‘You must be on your guard with him, sir.’

  ‘He is Mr Oldershaw’s tutor, I understand?’

  ‘Oh yes – and he made a particular pet of the boy as he was Lady Anne’s son. But I regret to say that he and her ladyship do not always agree.’

  ‘I do not understand all this,’ Holdsworth said abruptly.

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘This place. This talk of masters and tutors and fellows.’

  ‘That is because Jerusalem is a world within a world. So is any college in this University, or perhaps at any University. A college is a world with its own laws and customs.’

  ‘It might be a world of savages for aught I know.’

  Elinor repressed a most unladylike desire to laugh, converting the bubble of mirth into a cough. ‘I was situated as you are when I first came here. Worse, indeed, for I am a woman, since a college is a place exclusively composed of men. I might have made landfall on some undiscovered island on the far side of the world, but for the fortunate circumstance that the inhabitants speak English.’

  He looked surprised. And then he smiled. ‘Suppose, madam, that I too have made landfall on this island. Suppose I am a shipwrecked sailor, another Crusoe. But I have been fortunate enough to come across you on the strand the waves have cast me upon; and you are kind enough to enlighten me as to the place where we find ourselves.’

  Holdsworth’s smile took her by surprise after his surly, almost boorish behaviour earlier. ‘First, sir, you must consider that Jerusalem is a species of miniature country. It is governed by a handful of gentlemen, who are obliged to follow, at least in theory, a regimen laid down for them by the college’s Founder, and enshrined for perpetuity in the statutes. Jerusalem was founded by one of Lady Anne’s ancestors in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. We attach much importance to our Founder’s kin at Jerusalem: for not only do they have some influence upon how we may interpret our statutes, they also have the power to appoint two of our fellows, and they have been the source of many benefactions. So you see that –’

  A loud, low voice was speaking indistinctly on the stairs. Footsteps were approaching, dragging and heavy. A moment later, Susan flung open the door and a large, elderly man built like a barrel advanced into the room.

  ‘Dr Carbury!’ Elinor cried. ‘How – how delightful. I did not dare expect you so early.’

  ‘Your servant, madam.’ The voice was like the man: full, slow, deep and a trifle unsteady. ‘I tore myself away as soon as I could. I did not wish to delay the pleasure of welcoming our visitor.’

  It was nine o’clock before they sat down to supper. The room was lit by candles on tables and in wall sconces, creating uneven and shifting pools of light among the gathering shadows. The portraits of dead masters on the walls were granted a dim and spurious life by the flickering flames that illuminated them. The balcony above the screens at the far end of the room was almost invisible.

  The high table was on a dais at the eastern end, flanked by two great bay windows. There were some ten or twelve men scattered round the great slab of oak, with Dr Carbury, as of right, in the middle. Beneath the dais, several long tables stood in the body of the hall. Only one of these was occupied. It was at the further end, nearest the buttery and the kitchens. Here sat a dozen or so young men. They were eating rapidly as though their very lives depended on the speed with which they consumed their food.

  ‘I had expected to see more undergraduates, sir,’ Holdsworth said to Dr Carbury, who was fighting his way through a large slice of mutton pie.

  ‘Eh? Nowadays the majority take supper in their own rooms or in those of their friends. The ones you see below are of the poorer sort – sizars in the main, that is to say, undergraduates who are supported by the foundation.’

  ‘It is a fine thing for them to have such a chance of advancement.’

  ‘Very true. But I wish they were not such a hangdog, out-at-elbows crew.’

  Mr Richardson, who was sitting opposite, leaned towards them. ‘Why, as to that, Dr Carbury, one might turn the argument upon its head. If you look around this table, at least half or more of the men you see were once sizars, here or at another college. Most of our other undergraduates do not trouble themselves overmuch with work. Many do not take a degree. So the college needs its sizars as much as they need us. Most of our scholars will come from their ranks.’

  ‘Well, sir, it is natural that you of all people should –’

  At this point there was a burst of drunken laughter in the court beyond the big window on Holdsworth’s left. Dr Carbury broke off and looked sharply in the direction of the sound.

  ‘Ah,’ said Richardson blandly. ‘I believe I recognize the merry tones of Mr Archdale. At least our sizars are not noisy. You must allow that.’

  Carbury picked a shred of meat from his teeth. ‘That young man grows rowdy.’

  ‘I am afraid so, Master. Dulce est desipere in loco.’

  A tall young man sitting near the end of the table said with a gasp of half-suppressed amusement, ‘I believe he has been dining with Mr Whichcote, sir. I fancy that might explain it on this occasion.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Dow.’ Carbury glowered down the table at him. ‘You do not seek to make excuses for Mr Archdale, I trust? You would not make light of his behaviour?’

  ‘No, no, Master. A virtuous mind allied to a cultivated understanding must ever –’

  ‘Depend upon it, I shall have a word with Mr Archdale tomorrow,’ Richardson put in smoothly. ‘A word in time saves nine, as they say. After all, Horace’s recipe advises only a dash of folly in one’s wisdom, and Mr Archdale appears to have mistaken the proportions in his moral cookery.’

  The little witticism raised a general laugh around the table, though Holdsworth noticed that Carbury did not join in. When the meal was over, the company moved to the combination room, which lay immediately behind the dais. Two tables had been set up, each with its own kettle to hand; one was for the tea drinkers, and the other for those who preferred punch. Some of the party continued with their wine.

  Mr Richardson was among the tea drinkers. He turned to Holdsworth with a smile and offered him the chair on his left. Dr Carbury took the seat at the head of the table with the decanter at his elbow. He leaned towards Holdsworth, and was on the verge of speaking when he was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other table, where most of the younger fellows had gathered.

  ‘What is it?’ Carbury asked. His thick lips were stained purple with wine. ‘Why are they making that damned racket?’

  ‘Mr Miskin has proposed another wager, Master,’ Richardson answered. ‘No doubt we shall soon learn its nature.’

  Not five minutes later a college servant appeared at Richardson’s shoulder and murmured that Mr Miskin begged permission to enter a wager in the wager book. Richardson graciously gave his consent.

  ‘The younger men derive much enjoyment from their wager book,’ he told Holdsworth. ‘And some of the older ones, I am afraid. We shall soon find out what it is �
� before the wager is officially enacted, it must be approved by me; and to do that, I must see the book and initial the entry. By virtue of being the senior fellow, you see, I am president of this combination room.’

  ‘We must not bore our guest with the minutiae of our parlour,’ Carbury interrupted. ‘His time is too valuable. Mr Holdsworth, sir, will you take a glass with me?’

  Holdsworth could not decently refuse. Richardson watched them, and for an instant the pink, wet tip of his tongue flickered between his lips.

  ‘You must let me know how I may be of service to you,’ Carbury said once he had drained his glass. ‘I shall place myself quite at your disposal.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richardson said, drawing out the monosyllable. ‘After all, Mr Holdsworth is here on behalf of Lady Anne, and I know you like to oblige her ladyship. As of course we all do.’

  The words seemed innocuous, but Carbury flushed a deeper colour.

  Richardson turned to Holdsworth. ‘I wonder, sir, when would you find it convenient for me to show you our library? I am at liberty tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall be engaged in the morning.’ Holdsworth saw in Richardson’s face a fleeting change of expression, a sharpening of interest, instantly smoothed away. ‘But after dinner, perhaps, if you could spare me an hour or so?’

  ‘With all my heart. At six o’clock? Would that be agreeable? I shall speak to my library clerk, too – you must call on him for assistance while you are here.’

  ‘At what hour do you dine?’

  ‘Three o’clock,’ Richardson said. ‘We are sadly rustic, I am afraid. Indeed, until a few years ago we continued to dine at one o’clock, just as our fathers and grandfathers had done. In Cambridge, three o’clock is considered almost shamefully à la mode. Shall you join us tomorrow, Mr Holdsworth? I do hope so.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I cannot say for certain at this moment. My time is not my own.’

  The combination-room servant was now hovering with a tray bearing pen and ink, and a quarto-sized book bound in leather. Richardson told the man to lay it on the table in front of him.

  ‘Now, let us see what they propose to do this time.’ He opened the book and turned the pages. ‘Ah – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that – ah –’ He broke off, frowning slightly; but after a moment he picked up the pen and initialled the entry.

  Richardson glanced across the table at Carbury. He turned the page to the previous set of wagers, angling the book so the light was better for Holdsworth to read by. ‘Some of the bets are trivial matters of interest only to ourselves, but others touch on University affairs or even matters of national moment. You see? Here is one about Mr Pitt’s changes to the administration; and here is another about the plane tree in Herodotus. And here – oh dear – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Whichcote that he can arrange the fellowship in order of weight. Mr Miskin is one of our livelier young men. I regret to say that in that case we were obliged to bring in the buttery scales to establish the victor.’

  ‘Mr Whichcote?’ Holdsworth said, playing the innocent. ‘The gentleman who was mentioned earlier, who was dining with Mr Archdale? Is he a fellow of the college too?’

  ‘Oh no. But he is something of a personage at Jerusalem. He often makes an appearance in the wager book.’

  Richardson’s head was very close to Holdsworth’s own. Immediately behind Richardson on the table was a candlestick, and the light from those flames threw his face into shadow and illuminated Holdsworth’s.

  Holdsworth said carefully, ‘Have I heard the name elsewhere? It seems familiar.’

  ‘It’s possible. Or you may have come across other members of the family. Their principal seat is in Northumberland. Our Mr Whichcote belongs to a cadet branch. He was admitted at this college as a pensioner some ten or twelve years ago but he did not take his degree. Like so many of our young men, he was not what you would call a hard-reading man. However, he still resides in Cambridge and has many friends here.’

  He would have said more but Dr Carbury had a fit of coughing and spluttering. The servant was at his side in a moment, offering a glass of water. Carbury took a sip and waved the man away. His complexion had become mottled, and he was sweating. He pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ he said to Holdsworth. ‘I have some reading to do before bed. My servant will wait up for you in the Lodge. We shall meet again at breakfast, no doubt.’

  Saying a general good night to the company, Carbury hurried from the room. The conversations around them began again, at a higher volume than before.

  Holdsworth glanced down at the book on the table and turned the page. Here was the wager that had just been recorded: The Revd Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that the ghost will not appear again before the end of term.

  ‘So the college has a ghost?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir, we merely have a foolish story.’ Richardson closed the book and handed it to the servant. ‘The undergraduates make up tales to frighten each other.’

  8

  The gardens of Lambourne House ran down to the north bank of the River Cam. The previous owner, Mr Whichcote’s great-uncle, had built the elegant pavilion there; its tall windows had a fine prospect over the water, with Jesus Green and Midsummer Common beyond. On the ground floor was a loggia where one could sit and take the air on fine afternoons. The pavilion seemed far removed from the bustle of Cambridge, though in fact Mr Essex’s Great Bridge into the town was only a few hundred yards away in one direction, and the gaol in the castle gatehouse a few hundred yards in another.

  The principal apartment was on the first floor, a large, south-facing room in the form of a double cube. Mr Whichcote’s great-uncle had used it as a gallery to display his collection of antique statuary; he also applied himself there to the main occupation of his declining years, a biographical and critical study of Archbishop Ussher. The room was entirely separate from the house, which was why Philip Whichcote usually entertained his bachelor parties there. Some of his visitors preferred to be discreet about their comings and goings, and for these retiring souls the river frontage had much to recommend it, particularly in the warmer weather.

  On Friday, 26 May, Whichcote played cards after dinner with a group of young friends, some from Jerusalem, some from other colleges. Despite its noble proportions, the room did not look its best in the merciless early evening sunlight. It was better in the evening, when candlelight cast a forgiving glow on ragged curtains, on frayed Turkey carpets spotted with burns, and on walls stained with smoke and with the damps of winter.

  By now most of the guests had gone. Only Harry Archdale was left. He sat with his host at a table beside one of the windows. He was a plump youth with large, wet lips and a small chin. When and if he reached the age of twenty-five, he would acquire complete control of a fortune estimated at nearly £3,000 a year. He was playing piquet with Whichcote and was inordinately excited because he had won the last game. This had distracted him from the fact that he had lost not only the previous five but also the partie as a whole.

  Augustus, the little footboy, slipped into the room and sidled around the walls until he reached his master’s chair. He murmured in Mr Whichcote’s ear that Mr Mulgrave was waiting his pleasure up at the house.

  ‘Well, I had you on the run that time, eh?’ Archdale said, beaming and perspiring and seeming plumper than ever, as though someone were inflating him with gas. ‘You can’t deny that – you’d better look to your winnings! Another partie?’

  Whichcote smiled at his guest. ‘I regret we must postpone it. I have a small matter of business to attend to.’

  The animation slipped from Archdale’s face. ‘Philip,’ he said in a rush, ‘I rode out to Barnwell yesterday afternoon and tried to see Frank. But they wouldn’t let me in. There’s nothing wrong, is there? I thought you said he is on the mend?’

  ‘Indeed he is. Your feelings do you credit, Harry, but you must not disturb yourself in the slightest. I have it on ver
y good authority that he is making excellent progress. Why, I believe he may soon remove to London to be with his mother. They would not let him travel if he were not in good health, would they?’

  ‘I suppose not. But why is he like this? I cannot understand it.’

  ‘It’s simple enough. His imagination is disordered. You saw what he was like that last day when you dined with him at the Hoop. Full of fears and fidgets. I had supper with him in college that evening, you know, and he was in such a melancholy state one could hardly distinguish it from mania. Poor fellow, I have seen this happen before – he had been living too hard; some men can take it, others can’t. Frank is not as strong as you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ve always been robust.’

  ‘Quite so. But not everyone is so fortunate in his constitution. Frank’s nervous prostration is nothing out of the way. All that is needed is a little time away from the world. Nine times out of ten, tranquillity is the best medicine. If I’ve seen it answer once I’ve seen it answer a dozen times. You may depend upon it that after the Long Vacation Frank will be back among us and quite his old self.’

  ‘Still, I wish they’d let me see him.’

  ‘I am sure they soon will.’ Whichcote smiled at him. ‘Now – much as I wish you would stay, did you not tell me you had invited a party of friends to supper?’

  ‘Supper?’ Archdale pulled out his watch, a handsomely enamelled French piece. ‘Good God, is it as late as that? Devil take it, I had meant to work at my exercise for Mr Richardson before supper.’

  ‘Ricky will wait, I am sure.’

  ‘You do not understand. This is to be my entry for the Vauden Medal. And my guardian wishes to see it before I submit it. He dines in Jerusalem on Sunday, and he has a most particular interest in the medal, because his brother won it.’

  ‘Surely that’s no reason why you should trouble yourself in the matter?’