The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  Frank Oldershaw and Harry Archdale were also there, exercising their right as fellow-commoners. Everyone wanted to shake Frank’s hand, to congratulate him on his restoration to health. After dinner, Whichcote took advantage of the general movement in the combination room to approach Frank under the pretence of drawing out a chair.

  ‘Remember your mother,’ he murmured. ‘Her ladyship’s happiness is so bound up with yours.’

  Frank’s head snapped round. Whichcote tensed, half expecting a blow. Suddenly Holdsworth was between them, at once helping Whichcote with the chair and nudging Frank towards the other table where Mr Archdale was already sitting with some of the younger fellows.

  Glancing across the table, Whichcote registered the fact that Richardson had been watching the little charade. Ah well, he thought, they would soon dance to another tune. In the meantime it was enough to remind them both, Frank and Richardson, who held the whip hand.

  Whichcote did not linger over his wine. He walked back to his rooms. Augustus had returned with the fruit and cheese from the market and was occupied in unpacking his master’s clothes.

  ‘Are they there still?’ Whichcote asked without preamble.

  ‘Who, your honour?’

  ‘The bailiff’s men.’

  ‘Yes, sir. They – they tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t let them.’

  ‘Good.’

  Whichcote left the boy to his work and went into the little study. The black valise was standing on the table. His first task was to go through the register of the Holy Ghost Club, which went back to its earliest years. Unlike the other records, which used only the apostolic names of the members, the register gave their real names as well, and the dates of their admission and departure from the club. Some of the older members were of course dead. He intended to work backward from the present, making a list of those whom he knew to be alive. Many of them would not be worth the trouble of approaching. He needed only those who had a position in the world, or great resources, or both. Then it would be simply a matter of cross-referencing these names from the register with their activities as Apostles, as recorded in other volumes of the club’s archives.

  Next would come the most delicate part of the business, writing the letters. It was a risky endeavour, which was why he had not tried it before, but if he prosecuted it with care, there was every chance of success. He would need to consider carefully the individual circumstances of each recipient and adjust the demands he made of them accordingly. One should make it a maxim never to ask for too much, he thought, nor for anything that the donor would not find it easy to give.

  After all, one could always come back for more.

  He had been working away contentedly for twenty minutes when there was a knock. He heard Augustus answering the door and the rumble of a man’s voice. The footboy knocked on the study door and opened it to say that Mr Holdsworth presented his compliments and wondered whether Mr Whichcote was sufficiently at leisure to receive him. The foolish boy left the door ajar so Whichcote, looking up, saw his visitor standing at the outer door. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. Holdsworth was sufficiently well bred to look away and pretend that no such recognition had occurred.

  ‘By all means,’ Whichcote said, rising to his feet. He restored the papers to the valise and turned the key in both locks.

  In the sitting room, the two men bowed to one another.

  ‘Are you staying in college now, sir?’ Whichcote asked.

  ‘Yes – in the apartments above this, as it happens.’

  ‘A charming view of the gardens. Quite delightful, is it not?’

  Holdsworth nodded. He glanced at Augustus and begged the favour of a word in private.

  When they were alone, Whichcote indicated the chair for Holdsworth. Holdsworth said he preferred to stand.

  ‘No doubt you are come from Mr Oldershaw,’ Whichcote said, smiling.

  ‘No, sir, I am not,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Mr Oldershaw went off with Mr Archdale shortly after you left the combination room.’

  ‘Well – that may well make things easier. Some matters are best settled between men of mature judgement.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I shall not beat about the bush, sir – I am here to tell you that you must leave Mr Oldershaw alone. He has already had to pay too high a price for your acquaintance.’

  ‘That’s plain speaking, at least. What if I were to tell you that Mr Oldershaw owes me a considerable sum of money?’

  ‘Then I should say you were wrong.’

  Whichcote smiled. ‘I make every allowance for the fact that you cannot know everything your charge has done. But I cannot believe that either you or her ladyship would welcome the truth about him being made public.’

  ‘You forget,’ Holdsworth said. ‘You are not in a position to make threats. A man who faces the threat of imprisonment is in a delicate situation.’

  Whichcote flicked his fingers as though brushing the threat away. ‘You allude to my temporary embarrassment, I collect – well, I don’t see what business it is of yours, but you need not trouble yourself for it is only temporary. And I shall not be inconvenienced while I lodge here in college.’

  ‘No, sir. Not that. I allude to the possibility of a criminal prosecution. This college would be no refuge to you then.’

  41

  Harry Archdale had intended to spend the hours after dinner at his books, but he had not reckoned on the unexpected reappearance of Frank. The two young men sat together at dinner and celebrated their reunion with a number of toasts. Afterwards, Frank had a fancy to go on the river and revisit old haunts.

  They took a punt to Grantchester. It was warm work in the early evening sunshine. When they reached the village they quenched their thirst at the Red Lion for the better part of two hours.

  Frank did not talk about his experiences since he had gone away. Harry did not like to pry. Indirectly, however, they arrived at the subject of Mr Whichcote and the Holy Ghost Club and found themselves in perfect agreement that they wanted nothing more to do with either the man or his club.

  ‘You know this business with Soresby?’ Archdale said as Frank was punting them towards Cambridge. ‘Didn’t you read with him last term?’

  ‘Yes. Not for long – I found it didn’t answer.’

  ‘He’s been reading with me this last week or two,’ Harry went on. ‘Devilish clever.’

  Frank thrust the pole down. He twisted it and brought it up again. ‘I daresay. Still, he’s a thief.’

  ‘You don’t think there might be some mistake? Mind you, he ran off yesterday so I doubt there was. He wouldn’t do that if he was innocent, would he?’

  Frank said nothing. He concentrated on negotiating a large willow branch that had fallen into the water.

  ‘And then there’s the letter he left for me in the book. Said he didn’t do it. Perhaps he didn’t.’

  Frank squinted down at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not listening. Perhaps he didn’t steal that Marlowe play after all. So I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Do you have to think anything at all?’

  ‘Yes – he was most obliging to me, you know. In any case, if any a man needs a friend, he does.’

  ‘A friend?’

  Archdale laughed a little awkwardly. ‘Well, perhaps not exactly that. But someone to lend a helping hand. Like you and that man Holdsworth.’

  It was the first time Archdale had touched directly on Frank’s madness. Neither of them spoke. The punt glided through the weed-streaked water, startling a pair of ducks.

  ‘Ask Mulgrave,’ Frank said. ‘That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘Mulgrave? Why?’

  Frank paused, allowing the pole to trail behind them, making a silver streak in the green water. ‘That’s what I do if I want something here. But perhaps Soresby can’t be found. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s drowned himself.’

  Soon af
ter this, they reached the landing place and walked in silence back to college. The gyp was in Chapel Court, unloading Frank’s portmanteaus and boxes from the same barrow that had carried Philip Whichcote’s belongings a few hours earlier.

  ‘Mulgrave, you know Mr Soresby, don’t you?’ Archdale said without any preamble. ‘The sizar?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard what’s happened to him?’

  ‘Mr Mepal said something about a missing library book, sir.’

  ‘That’s it. And have you also heard he’s made off? Stole away in the dead of night?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mulgrave hoisted a box on to his shoulder and took a step towards the doorway.

  ‘Any notion where he might be? Are his parents living?’

  ‘I believe his mother is dead, sir, and his father works as a road-mender somewhere beyond Newcastle. But I doubt if he’d have gone there, sir. There’s bad blood between them.’

  ‘Anyone else he might have gone to, anyone who might know where he is?’

  Mulgrave sucked in his cheeks and shifted his grip on the box. ‘I suppose Mr Soresby’s uncle might have some notion of his whereabouts, sir.’

  ‘His uncle? Who’s that?’

  Mulgrave kept his eyes respectfully on the ground but he moved another step towards the door, staggering slightly under the weight of the box. ‘Why, sir, the night-soil man. Tom Turdman.’

  With the exception of Mrs Carbury’s maid, Susan, and the duty porter, none of the servants spent the night in college. The porter guarded the main gate throughout the night. In theory he made regular tours of the college and never went to sleep, but in practice he rarely stirred from his lodge and often slept as soundly as anyone in Jerusalem. There was one other exception – sometimes the night-soil man came early, by special arrangement with Mr Mepal, and the porter would admit him at the main gate.

  Since Augustus could not spend the night in college, Whichcote had settled that he would pass his nights at Mrs Phear’s house in Trumpington Street.

  ‘You might as well go now,’ he’d said when the chapel clock was striking seven. ‘I shall manage very well without you for the rest of the evening – you are all fingers and thumbs. Mind you give Mrs Phear my best compliments and be sure to say that I wish you to make yourself useful while you are there.’

  Augustus walked slowly through Chapel Court, his mind groping for a possible future that did not include his being involved with Mr Whichcote’s ruin. The bailiff had advised him to look for another situation. Could he put his trust in Mr Holdsworth? If not, how could he even start? His present position would be no recommendation to a possible employer. He doubted that Mr Whichcote would give him a character. He was without friends, and in a town that was positively crawling with boys looking for employment, most of whom had an uncle here or brother there willing to extend a helping hand.

  Lost in his thoughts, he almost collided with two undergraduates who were talking in the arcade by the porter’s lodge. As he cowered back, begging the gentlemen’s pardon, he recognized Frank Oldershaw and Harry Archdale.

  ‘You, boy,’ Archdale said. ‘Do you know the town well?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I was born here.’ In the cellar of a rat-infested building in a court off Green Street. ‘Every nook and cranny.’

  ‘Do you know Audrey Passage?’

  ‘Yes, sir – off King’s Lane.’ Desperation made him cunning. ‘Not easy to find.’

  ‘Will you take us there?’

  ‘Yes, your honour. Now, your honour?’

  Frank Oldershaw laid a hand on Archdale’s sleeve. ‘This is Whichcote’s footboy. I knew I’d seen his face somewhere.’

  Archdale blinked. ‘So it is.’

  ‘But I’m looking for another situation, sir,’ Augustus put in quickly.

  Archdale murmured to Frank, ‘Can’t harm, can it? This is something quite different.’

  ‘Please, sir,’ Augustus said.

  Frank shrugged. ‘I pity anyone in Whichcote’s service.’

  ‘You’ll come with me, I hope?’ Archdale went on, still addressing Frank. ‘There’s music at the Black Bull on Wednesday and we might step in there afterwards if it took your fancy.’

  The three of them left the college and walked down Bird Bolt Lane. Augustus congratulated himself – Audrey Passage lay on the other side of Trumpington Street between King’s Lane and the Black Bull Inn. He would have taken this direction for Mrs Phear’s house in any case, and she was not expecting him to arrive yet. There was a chance of a handsome tip – young gentlemen tended to be open-handed.

  He led them into King’s Lane and then turned off to the left. The two gentlemen already had their handkerchiefs up to their noses. They picked their way through narrow lanes, scarcely more than open corridors between buildings, until they came to Audrey Passage. It was a dark and winding alley, a cul-de-sac with a communal cesspool at the far end. The cobbles were greasy and damp, despite the dry weather. The place was haunted by ragged children and scrawny cats.

  ‘Ask where Tom Turdman lives,’ Archdale ordered Augustus, his voice indistinct because of the handkerchief.

  ‘The night-soil man, sir?’

  Archdale nodded. Augustus seized one of the larger children by his ear, who pointed them to a doorway halfway down the passage. The door stood open. The child said that Tom and his family lived in a room on the top floor, at the back.

  ‘You won’t want to go up there, sir,’ Augustus said to Archdale. ‘Shall I tell the girl to bring him down for you?’

  Archdale nodded and the child sped off. The three visitors waited outside. Augustus shifted restlessly from foot to foot. Undergraduates were not popular in a place like this and nor were strange boys. There was a danger they might be attacked. On the other hand, the young men were strong, especially Mr Oldershaw, and they carried sticks.

  The child reappeared and scuttled between their legs into the safety of the alley. A woman followed, negotiating the steep and narrow stairs with caution. The first thing Augustus saw of her was a cherry-red slipper with a pointed toe. Another joined it on the step. Then came the ragged hem of a dark blue dress to which age and use had lent a green patina. At length the whole woman appeared, though she kept well away from the doorway as though fearing the visitors might bring infection into her house.

  ‘Who are you?’ Archdale said, lowering his handkerchief.

  ‘Mrs Floyd, your honour.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My husband’s the night-soil man, sir. John Floyd, sir, they call him Tom Turdman. Nothing wrong, is there?’

  Augustus stared at the cherry-red slippers. On the toe of each was a decoration, finely worked in silk, a geometric pattern that reminded him of the carpet in Mr Whichcote’s study at Lambourne House.

  ‘No, not in the world,’ Archdale said. ‘I understand he has a – a connection with Mr Soresby of Jerusalem.’

  Mrs Floyd curtsied, as though honoured that the gentleman should be aware of anything concerning her husband’s family. ‘Yes, sir – Tobias is Floyd’s poor dead sister’s child.’

  ‘Have you seen Mr Soresby in the last day or so? I am particularly anxious to talk to him.’

  The woman stared at the ground. ‘No, sir. He don’t come here. He’s a scholar, you see, up at the college.’

  Augustus frowned at the slippers. They reminded him of something else. He was conscious that all around them were ears and eyes, that the building was invisibly alive.

  ‘Well, look here, my good woman,’ Archdale said. ‘Tell your husband I want to see his nephew, and – and that I wish him nothing but good. And if either of you sees him, let me know directly. A message addressed to me at Jerusalem will reach me – you may leave it with Mr Mepal, the porter. My name’s Archdale.’

  The woman curtsied again and the slippers vanished from view for an instant, masked by the hem of the dress. In that instant, Augustus remembered.

  Frank turned and began to move away. Archdale glanced aft
er him, shrugged and followed.

  ‘Sir,’ Augustus said, with a nightmarish sense that he was about to jump off a very high cliff with his eyes closed. ‘Sir, sir.’

  The undergraduates turned back. ‘What is it?’ Archdale said.

  ‘The slippers, your honour, Mrs Tom’s slippers. I swear they’re the same as madam’s.’

  ‘Eh? What the devil do you mean? Which madam?’

  ‘Mrs Whichcote, sir.’

  *

  On the first evening after his return to Jerusalem, Frank supped in his own rooms. He had only Holdsworth to keep him company. Archdale, whom he invited to join them, cried off, saying he had one of Mr Crowley’s lectures in the morning. They were reading selected passages from Grotius, he explained, and Mr Crowley was not always kind if a man made a blunder while construing. Last week, someone had mistaken merx for meretrix, and half the college were still laughing at him.

  ‘Why?’ Frank had said. ‘What’s so droll about that? They sound much the same to me.’

  ‘Merx signifies an item of merchandise,’ Archdale explained. ‘But meretrix is a loose woman.’

  Here Archdale blushed. Holdsworth thought of that hot evening when he had seen Mr Archdale vanishing into the darkness of the Leys in pursuit of a whore.

  So Frank’s only guest was Holdsworth. Mulgrave served their supper in the keeping room. It was, Frank said drily to Holdsworth, quite like old times at Whitebeach Mill. Their table was by the window and they looked out over the garden, at the oriental plane and the Long Pond.

  There was a feverish gaiety about the young man that evening. It reminded Holdsworth of the night when the two of them had sat by the millpond in the darkness and taken more wine than was altogether good for them.

  When Mulgrave withdrew, leaving them to their wine and nuts, the atmosphere changed. It was still light outside, but Frank rose to his feet and made a great to-do of lighting a candle.