The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘It is if I wish him to increase my allowance. I must at least enter for it. No, I must go. I must not waste an instant.’

  Whichcote summoned Augustus. Archdale pushed back his chair and stood up. Almost immediately he lost his balance and was forced to cling to the table, knocking over his glass and spilling what was left of his wine. The footboy steadied him. Archdale pushed the servant’s arm away.

  ‘Clumsy oaf,’ he said. ‘Look what you made me do.’

  Whichcote had crossed the room to a writing table. ‘You may as well sign these now,’ he said. ‘Then we’re square for next time.’

  Archdale staggered to the writing table and scrawled his signature at the foot of a note of hand for sixty-four guineas. Afterwards, Whichcote conducted his visitor to the punt moored at the little jetty on the river bank. Augustus followed, carrying Archdale’s cap and gown with a certain reverence. Archdale was a fellow-commoner, so the cap was velvet with a gold tassel, and the gown was richly trimmed with gold lace. Whichcote and the footboy manoeuvred him from the safety of dry land.

  Cursing and puffing, Archdale settled himself on the cushions. He lay back, legs splayed apart, twitching like an upturned turtle. Signing away sixty-four guineas had raised his spirits again. He waggled his finger at Whichcote on the bank. ‘I’ve got you on the run, eh?’ he crowed. ‘Soon we shall have another partie, eh, and this time you shall find me quite merciless.’

  At a sign from his master, Augustus worked the pole out of the mud and expertly punted the unwieldy craft into the centre of the stream. Whichcote raised his hand in farewell and walked slowly up the garden to the side door of the house.

  Mulgrave was sitting on a bench in the hall. As soon as Whichcote opened the door, the gyp sprang to his feet and bowed, a little awkwardly because of his lopsided shoulders. The two men had known each other ever since Whichcote had come up to Jerusalem at the age of seventeen.

  ‘I thought you’d want to hear right away, sir,’ Mulgrave said. ‘Her ladyship’s man came by the coach this afternoon.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Holdsworth. They say he’s a bookseller from London.’

  ‘A bookseller?’ Whichcote repeated, amused. ‘I expected a physician or a lawyer. Where does he lodge?’

  ‘With the Master, sir.’

  ‘How did he strike you?’

  ‘Holdsworth?’ Mulgrave looked at Whichcote, his face guileless. ‘A big man. Bigger than poor Mr Cross, and younger too. Just as well.’ He paused a moment. ‘He don’t look as if he smiles much.’

  On the same Friday evening, Mr Philip Whichcote called on Mrs Phear. The lady lived on the east side of Trumpington Street, opposite Peterhouse, in a small double-fronted house, with four prim windows overlooking the street and a fanlight and a lantern above the front door. The doorstep was white-stoned every morning by a gangling maid named Dorcas, a poorhouse apprentice who feared Mrs Phear far more than she feared Almighty God because He at least was reputed to be merciful.

  Whichcote arrived in a sedan chair. He paid off the bearers and rapped with the head of his cane on the front door. When Dorcas saw who was waiting on the doorstep, she curtsied and stood back.

  ‘Madam is in the parlour, sir.’

  He found Mrs Phear engaged with her needle and thread in a chair by the window. There was still a little light outside but two candles were burning on her worktable. She had been working for several weeks on a small tapestry showing the destruction of Sodom, or possibly Gomorrah; it didn’t much signify which. The tapestry was designed as a sampler to aid instruction at a small school attached to the Magdalene Hospital, a reformatory for fallen women in London. When Mr Whichcote was announced, Mrs Phear set aside her embroidery and began to rise.

  ‘Pray do not disturb yourself, ma’am,’ he said coming forward. ‘No need to stand on ceremony.’

  She ignored him, however, rose to her feet and curtsied. Smiling, for he understood the game perfectly, he bowed to her.

  ‘Mr Whichcote, I am rejoiced to see you. I hope I find you well?’

  They passed a minute or two in what Mrs Phear called, when instructing some of those who paid for her services in other capacities, ‘the civilities of genteel intercourse’. Mrs Phear was a tiny, dumpy woman with a widow’s cap pulled low over her plain face. Whichcote had known her since he was five years old, when she came to be governess to his sister, and she had later married a neighbouring clergyman, who had died shortly afterwards.

  The maid was summoned, and the materials for making tea were brought to the room and set beside Mrs Phear’s chair.

  ‘Dorcas,’ Mrs Phear said. ‘Go to the kitchen and clean the knives. Do it directly. They are sadly in need of it.’

  When they were alone, Mrs Phear unlocked the caddy and busied herself in measuring the tea into the pot. She stirred the leaves into the water and stared into the vortex of black, swirling specks. She sat back and looked at Whichcote. ‘Well?’

  Whichcote drummed his fingers slowly on the arm of his chair. ‘There you are, my dear madam, sitting like patience on a monument. I am come to inquire whether matters are in order for Wednesday.’

  ‘Pray lower your voice. And yes – all is in order. A nice, plump little bird. On the young side.’

  He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Ready for the plucking, I assure you,’ she went on. ‘And it won’t be for the first time, though she knows how to make it seem so. Who is it this time?’

  ‘Young Archdale. Also ready for the plucking, in his own way. You are sure she will be here in time?’

  ‘You need not be anxious about that.’

  ‘But I am anxious,’ he said. ‘Consider what happened last time. Of course I am anxious.’

  ‘Last time we were unlucky, my dear,’ she said, handing him his cup.

  His hand shook, and tea slopped into the saucer. ‘Unlucky? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘How could we have known what would happen? What’s done is done. At least we brought Tabitha Skinner back here, and the coroner made no difficulties about either fatality.’

  ‘It was the worst night of my life. First her.’ He stared at the embroidery. ‘Then Sylvia.’

  ‘This time there will be no difficulties. Not with the girl.’

  ‘What should I do without you, dear madam?’ he said sourly.

  ‘There is no point in wasting your smooth words on me, my dear.’

  He burst out laughing, and she smiled at him. Then, serious again, he said, ‘You do not think it is too soon to have another dinner, another meeting? The long and short of it is, I need ready money, and that is the only resource left to me, besides cards.’

  ‘It is a private party, Philip, not a rout. Besides, what has your club to do with propriety? Your boys will admire you all the more. You will be confirmed as a bold spirit, a man who cares naught for petty convention.’

  ‘I have another difficulty to lay at your feet, ma’am.’

  ‘The little matter of the ghost?’

  He nodded. ‘And – worse than that, much worse – Frank Oldershaw. I feel like a man walking underneath a black cloud and expecting at any moment the heavens to open.’

  She sipped her own tea. ‘Has he regained his reason? Does he have lucid intervals?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. I should hear it if he does. But there has been one development – her ladyship has sent a man to pry on her behalf. He arrived at Jerusalem today.’

  ‘Ah – her ladyship. That is the root of the difficulty, I fancy.’

  ‘No, madam,’ Whichcote snapped. ‘The root of the matter is Sylvia. How could she do this to me? How could she, ma’am?’

  ‘I told you at the time you should have done better than the daughter of a country attorney with hardly a shilling to her name.’

  Whichcote stood up and moved restlessly about the room. ‘It is as if she haunts me, as if she finds ways to goad me, even now. Do you know, I thought I saw her today? Sitting in the pastry-c
ook’s in Petty Cury. It was someone else, of course, but –’

  ‘This is childish talk, Philip. Why do you not sit down?’

  He glared at her, but a moment later he resumed his seat.

  ‘There, that is better.’ Mrs Phear smiled at him. ‘Yes, if it pleases you, I shall agree that it is Sylvia’s fault.’

  ‘I did not mean that exactly, I –’

  ‘Sylvia is dead, my dear. That is the point. Now you must begin afresh. You are still a young man. And once you have dealt with the little matter of Mr Frank, you must forget that Sylvia ever existed.’

  9

  The air in the combination room was thick with the fumes of punch and tobacco. Holdsworth’s head was aching, and his eye sockets felt as though they were lined with fine sand. He begged to be excused. At once, Richardson rose from his seat and offered to walk with him.

  ‘Thank you, but I do not think I shall lose my way.’

  ‘I am sure you won’t, but should you like a turn or two in the garden before you retire? I find that a little fresh air and healthful exercise clear the head and promote sleep.’

  Holdsworth accepted the invitation. Richardson led him outside into a court surrounded by buildings faced in palely gleaming ashlar. On the right were the lofty bay windows of the combination room and the hall. Richardson nodded at the nearer window. It was uncurtained, and the men they had just left were seated at the two tables in a haze of fellowship.

  ‘They are clubbable fellows, by and large,’ he remarked. ‘One cannot begrudge them their dull potations. But some of them will have sore heads in the morning.’

  He took Holdsworth’s arm, and they strolled along the arcade in front of the chapel. There were lighted windows in the building on the other side of the court, directly facing the hall and the combination room. From one of them on the first floor came a burst of laughter and a muffled thumping as though many fists were pounding against a table.

  Richardson sighed. ‘Mr Archdale continues to enjoy the pleasures of society.’

  A voice began to sing, at first uncertainly but then finding the tune and gaining in volume. Other voices joined in. The sound was not melodious but it was undoubtedly vigorous. The thumping continued, beating time to the song. Holdsworth and Richardson lingered in the shadows under the arcade. The verses were short and many of the singers appeared not to know the words. All of them, however, joined in the refrain with great gusto.

  Jerry Carbury is merry

  Tell his servant bring his hat

  For ’ere the evening is done

  He’ll surely shoot the cat.

  ‘Some of our young men do not treat the Master with the respect he deserves,’ Richardson murmured. ‘That vulgar ditty has attained a lamentable popularity among them. It is unkind indeed – Dr Carbury has a weak stomach, and was once compelled to vomit in public.’

  A door opened further along the range, and a gowned man was briefly illuminated by the lantern hanging above the archway. Glancing towards the sound of the singing, he then set off at a fast pace towards the screens at the western end of the hall.

  ‘Mr Soresby?’ Richardson called. ‘A moment of your time, please.’

  The man changed direction and made his way towards them. He was tall and thin, and he did not so much walk as scurry. He doffed his cap and bowed awkwardly to Mr Richardson. He looked towards Holdsworth, who was in the shadows of the arcade. Richardson did not introduce him.

  ‘Mr Soresby,’ he said gently. ‘Would you oblige me by stepping up to Mr Archdale’s? Pray present my compliments and inform him that he would do me a great service if he would close his windows and moderate the volume of his singing.’

  ‘I – I believe there is a porter in the lodge, sir. Perhaps it would be fitter if –’

  ‘I should be so very grateful, Mr Soresby.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  The man slipped away to the doorway leading to Archdale’s staircase. Richardson laid a hand on Holdsworth’s arm, detaining him. Once again, the light above the doorway fell on Soresby’s stooping figure and shabby gown. The singing continued for a few minutes more and then tailed away. To Holdsworth’s surprise, Richardson did not move. Next came a silence, followed swiftly by a great burst of laughter. In another moment, the two sash windows belonging to the room were closed and the shutters were drawn across. This was followed almost immediately by a thumping sound, as if someone had fallen down a flight of stairs, which terminated in a gasp of pain. Richardson made a sign to Holdsworth, and the two men walked away.

  The arcade, which ran the entire length of the eastern range, backed on to the chapel in its centre but on either side of this were two bays that opened on to the gardens beyond. Stretching south from the arcade was another range, which the tutor said was known as New Building.

  Mr Richardson led Holdsworth on to a path running eastwards into the gathering darkness. Holdsworth’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The flagged path glimmered before them. The stars were beginning to emerge. On their left was the chapel, and then a stretch of water crossed by a humped wooden footbridge.

  ‘Mr Soresby did not have an enviable task by the sound of it,’ Holdsworth said.

  ‘He is a sizar,’ Richardson replied. ‘It is not an enviable position.’

  ‘They are the very poorest of the undergraduates?’

  ‘Indeed they are. The statutes laid down that they should be supported partly from the foundation but that they should also earn their keep through working as menials. That has largely changed, I am glad to say. But when I entered this college as a youth of sixteen, they still waited upon the fellows and fellow-commoners as they ate, and then they dined from the scraps left over. Some of them would even act as private servants to the fellows. Even now, many are poor devils who scrimp and save to take a degree, who are not too proud to run errands to make ends meet. Yet we may be sure that among them are those who will go on to earn distinction both in the University and in the wider world. In point of fact, I was once a sizar myself.’

  The night was very still. The revelry in Chapel Court had died away and they might have been in the depth of the country. Most of the windows of New Building were in darkness. They passed under the shadow of a great tree.

  ‘Soresby serves as my library clerk – you will meet him again tomorrow.’ Richardson gestured at the shadows above and around them. ‘By the way, we are beneath the Founder’s oriental plane. We are very proud of it here. Sir Walter Vauden planted it with his own hands. Some say it is the greatest tree in Cambridge, and certainly there is none quite like it.’

  ‘There was a wager concerning a plane tree.’

  Richardson chuckled. ‘Members of this college take notice of plane trees wherever they find them. That one is in Herodotus. The Emperor Xerxes conceived an admiration for it and ordered it to be adorned with gold.’

  ‘Is this water called the Long Pond?’ Holdsworth asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Holdsworth waited but Richardson made no mention of the body that had been found in it earlier in the year.

  The pond curved to the left and the path came to a gate set in a wrought-iron screen. Richardson unlocked it and they passed through.

  ‘This is the Fellows’ Garden,’ he said. ‘The ancients would have called it a hortus conclusus.’

  ‘An enclosed garden?’

  ‘Just so. Enclosed and inviolate.’ Richardson’s voice was so quiet now that the other man had to strain to hear it. ‘The college itself becomes a fortress at night when its gates are locked. But here, in the Fellows’ Garden, we are doubly enclosed, and so doubly inviolate. Look to your left, my dear sir, through that opening among the branches on the other side of the water. There you see Dr Carbury’s private garden. It runs all the way from here up to the Master’s Lodge.‘

  Holdsworth stared through the gap at the further bank. Directly ahead was a lighted window on the first floor of the Lodge. The window was open, and the sound of raised male voices
came faintly through the still night air. Beside him, Richardson was as rigid as a dog scenting game.

  As they watched, a figure appeared at the window. Holdsworth saw only a fuzzy silhouette, outlined by candlelight in the room behind, but the shape was almost certainly Carbury’s. The lower sash scraped downwards and hit the sill with the sound like the rapping of a gavel.

  Carbury tugged the curtains across the window. The light vanished.

  ‘Ah,’ said Richardson, letting out his breath in a lingering sigh. ‘And now all is darkness.’

  Out of the darkness.

  ‘Georgie? Georgie?’

  The voice pulled Holdsworth towards consciousness. Maria. This was his first thought, instantly suppressed.

  It was still dark. Am I dreaming? He was too warm, his body shrouded in the bedclothes. His mouth was dry, which was not surprising after so much wine at supper. And he was uncomfortably aware of another source of discomfort, as shameful as it was urgent. He was as stiff as a ramrod.

  ‘Georgie? Come to Mama.’

  Let me consider this analytically, he thought, I am not an animal.

  His wife returned to his sleeping self more often now than just after her death. Sometimes it was only the echo of her voice or a smell lingering in the air – or even a painfully sharp awareness of her absence, as though she had very recently been there. Or not there, depending on how you looked at it. Because that, surely, lay at the heart of the thing: it was not really she who was or had been there. It was a personalized emptiness – a sort of enclosed nothing, a longing for something that no longer existed, or not in this world.

  But still – one could give a name even to an irrational sensation. Why should he not call this one Maria? It was a species of philosophical shorthand.

  He tried to turn his body in the bed but the blankets still held him fast. All the abortive movement achieved was the application of sweetly uncomfortable pressure to his membrum virile.

  My love, forgive me. My prick misbehaves.