Mrs Phear had thought everything would be better with the woman dead, but in the event everything was worse.
On the floor above her mistress’s bedchamber, Dorcas undressed herself and lay down on her bed. She was completely naked. The sweat poured off her. Her room was immediately under the roof, and all the heat of the day seemed to have gathered there.
Dorcas said the Lord’s Prayer in the usual way and then again, backward, just to be on the safe side. In her left hand she held a corm of garlic, which a gypsy in the market had told her was an infallible specific against ghosts.
In February they had laid Tabitha Skinner on the bed next to Dorcas’s and drawn the blanket over her head. Dorcas had spent a wakeful night with a dead girl. Everyone knew that the soul lingered near its earthly habitation until the body was consigned to a Christian burial. And in cases like Tabitha’s, where the circumstances surrounding her death were sinful, the soul might linger much longer in the place where its body had been.
And now when she did sleep, Dorcas sometimes dreamed that the girl pushed aside the blanket, sat up in bed and talked to her. Sometimes Tabitha talked when Dorcas was awake. But Dorcas could never make out what she was saying. Once she had a nightmare in which Tabitha got out of her bed and climbed into Dorcas’s. On that occasion, Dorcas woke up screaming, and Mrs Phear came upstairs and whipped her.
Dorcas prayed, but it did not help. The memory of Tabitha, alive and dead, lingered like a bad smell, and so did the dreadful heat. She lay there with her right hand resting between her legs and wondered exactly what they had done to Tabitha.
‘Tab?’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘Tab? Go away now, please, there’s a good girl.’
Mulgrave, who lived not far away from Lambourne House in a cottage backing on to the castle ditch, dozed in his chair after a late supper. He had spent much of the evening reckoning up his worth – the house he lived in, several hundred pounds in the bank, and nearly as much again in gilts.
He made money from catering to the whims of wealthy puppies, just as Tom Turdman made money from shit. It was tiresome work but lucrative. On the borders of waking and sleeping, he turned over in his mind a scheme to reduce his labour while increasing his profit. After all, bankers and lawyers had their clerks, tradesmen their apprentices and beneficed clergy their curates. Why should a gyp be any different?
In Dr Jermyn’s house in Barnwell, Frank Oldershaw lay on his back in his chamber. He was snoring. After the outbreak in the morning, Jermyn had ordered the attendant to dose him thoroughly with laudanum. Every hour the porter unlocked the door and shone a lantern on his face to make sure he was still there and still breathing.
Harry Archdale was in the Leys. He had taken hardly a drop of wine since dinner. He had finished working through his notes for the Vauden Medal, together with Soresby’s detailed commentary on it. Rather to his own surprise, he was confident that he had sufficiently mastered it to acquit himself respectably under examination by his Uncle Charles, whose erudition was more commonly admired than displayed. He doubted that the results would fool Mr Richardson, but that did not concern him. Ricky would not want to upset Sir Charles any more than Archdale did.
He had discovered that the combination of study and unaccustomed sobriety had invigorated him quite remarkably. The girl said she was called Chloe, a likely story, but she knew her business well enough. He pushed her up against a tree and dealt with her manfully – he fancied that she would not soon forget the vigorous thrusts of his mighty membrum virile. Archdale wore his armour for the encounter, for in his way he was a prudent youth, though there was no denying the protection affected the pleasure of an amorous engagement. But he would not need his armour at the Holy Ghost Club because the girl there would be a virgin.
Only a virgin was suitable for the occasion. It was, after all, the Holy Ghost Club, and the Holy Ghost insisted on a virgin. That was the point of the whole thing.
In the Master’s Lodge at Jerusalem, Ben was dismissed for the night. He left college and went to his room in Vauden Alley, hard by the northern wall of Jerusalem.
Elinor Carbury’s maid, Susan, the only servant who slept in college, went to her attic bedroom and bolted the door. She opened her box. She took out the special clothes she wore on her days out and laid them one by one on the bed. She kneeled before them, holding up the candle so she could see them better.
At last she made her choice. She chose the velvet cloak that Mrs Carbury had given her. It was her favourite, the most magnificent thing she owned, and looked so neat and fresh it might have been delivered but yesterday from Mr Trotter’s shop in St Mary’s Lane. Despite the warmth of the evening, she draped it around her shoulders. The rich, soft folds fell to the floor, enveloping her. She breathed deeply, sucking in their smell, absorbing the cloak’s essence and making it a part of her.
She closed her eyes, stroked the fabric and thought of Ben.
Elinor Carbury also went to her bedchamber and also did not sleep. She sat in the darkness in her chair and listened to the sounds around her. She heard footsteps on the landing, and she knew which ones were Holdsworth’s. She tried to persuade herself that it was unprofitable to look back at one’s mistakes, in marriage as in all else. One must make the best of things. After all, if one had a roof over one’s head and food on one’s plate, there was no need to despair. The condition she feared above all was poverty.
She wondered what Sylvia Whichcote would have thought of Holdsworth, and he of her. Would she have enchanted him, as she had so many men? Holdsworth was clearly a man of parts and had some elements of cultivation about him. However, there was a ruthlessness about him, a sense that it didn’t much matter whether he walked round an obstacle in life or simply kicked it out of his way. Perhaps the death of his wife and son had made him sour and fanatical. All in all, Elinor was not entirely comfortable with him as her guest, or even with him at Jerusalem. She wondered whether there was something she might say to Lady Anne that would shorten his stay at the Master’s Lodge. On the other hand, she didn’t want him to go.
Time passed. The clocks on colleges and churches rang the quarters. The air grew hotter and stuffier. It was not until well after midnight that the first heavy drops of rain fell on warm lead on old roofs, on dusty, stinking streets, on parched gardens and on those few people still abroad.
Beyond the river, in Lambourne House on Chesterton Lane, Philip Whichcote was still wide awake. He was sitting at his desk in the study. The pile of papers on top seemed to have grown larger and more confused than earlier in the day, as though the bills had been breeding among themselves with feckless enthusiasm during his absence.
The rain pattered against the window. Whichcote shouted for his footboy, who was dozing on a chair in the hall. The child stumbled into the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Augustus was such a grand name for such an insignificant boy.
‘Bring more candles. Stay a moment – how old are you?’
‘Thirteen, your honour.’ Augustus dropped his eyes. ‘Well, in September, anyway.’
‘Come here. Stand before me.’
Augustus advanced slowly towards him, coming to a halt when he was four feet away from his master. Whichcote turned his chair around so they were facing one another. He looked up at the scrawny child before him. The boy was trembling slightly. He expected a blow.
‘How long have you been part of my household?’
‘Nearly nine months, sir.’
‘You wish to remain in my employ?’
‘Oh yes, your honour. If you please. There’s eight of us at home, you see, and Ma can’t feed us all.’ There was a note of panic in the boy’s voice. ‘I like my position, truly, sir. I hope I give satisfaction.’
‘That remains to be seen. Fetch the candles now.’
When the boy returned, Whichcote ordered him to light him upstairs. On the landing, he unlocked the door to Sylvia’s apartments. Once he was inside, he told the boy to put down the candles and go away. When he was
alone he wandered from room to room with a candle in his hand. He would put Sylvia’s furniture up for auction on Monday. It would send a signal that he was short of money to his creditors but it couldn’t be helped. At least he would have something in hand and he wouldn’t have to look at that damned bedstead any longer.
Sylvia had kept secrets from him. He knew that now. So she might have hidden valuables from him. It was worth making absolutely sure that he had overlooked nothing – a ring, perhaps, a few guineas; anything would help.
He opened the bureau and set the candlestick on the flap. He stretched out his hand towards the back of the recess. In the poor light he misjudged the distance. His fingertips jarred against the mounting that held the little drawers and pigeonholes. He felt it give a little at his touch. He took out one of the drawers and tugged at the mounting. It moved smoothly away from the back of the bureau.
Whichcote lifted it out and set it on the floor. He shone the candlelight into the wide, shallow space behind it and ran his fingers along. To his disappointment, there was nothing but powdery dust. He came to the corner and felt the outline of a small, shallow recess in the side of the desk. There was something inside it.
He almost upset the candle in his urgency. He took out a scrap of yellowing paper, folded into a little parcel. Dear God, he thought, a banknote, please let it be a banknote. But as he turned it over in his shaking hands, something sharp stabbed his finger and he cried out, as much in surprise as in pain. A rusty pin was attached to the paper.
Holding it close to the candle flame, he unfolded the sheet completely. The pin held in place a lock of dark, wiry hair. Sylvia had labelled it My Dearest Philip.
To his consternation, Whichcote felt his eyes filling with tears. It was a strange and uncomfortable thought that this was what Sylvia had hidden in her most secret place, carefully wrapped away for a future that had not come to pass. He remembered now that when he had wooed her, he had begged a lock of her own hair, that he had gone down on bended knee to do so, and that she had blushed and after long argument agreed to his request. And she had asked for one of his in return.
He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. He said softly, ‘Sylvia?’
The flame of the candle flickered. There was a faint sound from the bedroom. A sigh? A moan of pain, instantly suppressed.
Nonsense. Nothing but wind and rain in the chimney and the rustle of water in the downpipe outside the window.
He sucked his finger where the pin had pricked it. The wound was deeper than he had thought. His blood was salty. What had he done with the lock of hair she had given him? He had no idea.
Still with the finger in his mouth, he carried the candle to the bedroom door. He stood in the doorway and stared at the shadowy outlines of the great bedstead.
A cage of wood, he thought, a prison for shadows and secrets.
‘Sylvia?’ he whispered. ‘Sylvia? Is that you?’
18
When Susan woke her, Elinor Carbury told the girl to open the window as wide as it would go. The sky was cloaked with high grey clouds. The air was cool and smelled pleasingly of damp earth. The rain had been heavy for much of the night but by dawn it had quite fallen away. She asked after her husband and learned that Dr Carbury had not risen yet.
Elinor decided she would take her breakfast downstairs. It would only be civil, she told herself, for otherwise Mr Holdsworth would breakfast alone. She was not habitually a vain woman but she changed her cap and ribbons twice before leaving her room.
The Carburys’ dining parlour was a small square chamber overlooking the open court on the west side of the Master’s Lodge. Holdsworth was already at table with a bowl of tea in his hand. As she entered, he rose and bowed. They asked after each other’s health, and speculated with polite insincerity that the noise of the storm had prevented Dr Carbury from sleeping well. Elinor inquired, very delicately because she did not wish to seem unduly forward, about Mr Holdsworth’s plans for the day.
‘I believe I shall go to Barnwell again, ma’am.’
‘Are you expected?’
‘No.’
Grim-faced, he drank the rest of his bowl of tea. Elinor continued to crumble the roll she had been failing to eat; her own tea was untouched.
He looked up suddenly and caught her staring at him. He drew in a breath and seemed to come to a decision. ‘If I am to understand the nature of Mr Oldershaw’s delusion, I must speak to him directly, without any intermediary or interpreter or eavesdropper. If I am to move at all in this matter, I must begin with him, whether he is mad or not. But Dr Jermyn is opposed to this. No doubt he has his reasons.’
‘You will probably not find Dr Jermyn at Barnwell.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He and Mrs Jermyn come to church in Cambridge every Sunday. They attend Holy Trinity. She is most devout, and she will make a particular point of it this Sunday, for Mr Revitt is preaching, and all the Evangelicals will be there in force. Afterwards they generally dine at Mrs Jermyn’s parents’ in Green Street.’
He smiled, taking the hint at once. ‘I’m obliged to you, ma’am.’
Elinor began to smile back, and then made herself look serious. Mr Holdsworth’s manner could not be said in any way to be flirtatious, and yet it was almost as though he were flirting – or rather attempting to flirt – with her. She reminded herself sternly that he was but recently a widower, that he was a guest in her house and moreover that he was a tradesman in humble circumstances. And then she thought also of her absurd behaviour yesterday afternoon when she had looked at him through the gate of the Master’s Garden, and when he had inexplicably and no doubt accidentally touched her hand.
‘If you see Mr Frank this morning, and if – if he gives you the opportunity, pray give him my compliments.’
‘You may depend on me to do so, ma’am. And may I wait on you later today when I know the result of my visit to Barnwell? In case there is news?’
She nodded and began to crumble another roll. ‘Of course.’
He thanked her again for her kindness and left the room with a want of ceremony that verged on rudeness. Elinor became aware that her plate was almost entirely obscured by a mound of crumbs.
The streets were quiet, and they smelled sweet because the rain had settled the dust. Most of the people Holdsworth encountered were on their way to church. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and kept his head averted from the passing carriages that rumbled past him, splashing through the puddles from last night’s storm. He did not want to encounter Dr and Mrs Jermyn on their way to Holy Trinity. As he came into the village, he saw and almost immediately recognized a small figure limping in front of him. He accelerated and drew level with him.
‘Mr Mulgrave – good day to you.’
The gyp bowed. ‘And to you, sir.’ He showed no surprise at the meeting.
‘Are you going to see Mr Oldershaw?’ Holdsworth asked.
‘No, sir. I see him next on Tuesday, I believe. But it’s cooler this morning after the rain, and I thought I would walk over with my account for Dr Jermyn.’
‘I thought he was at church.’
‘Indeed he is, sir.’ Mulgrave’s dark eyes were full of malicious intelligence. ‘Saw him and his lady on the road not ten minutes ago.’
‘What happens at the doctor’s house on Sunday? Do the people go to church?’
‘A parson comes in to read prayers in the morning, sir, and in the evening Dr Jermyn often takes some of the gentlemen to church. The more sober ones, sir, if you take my meaning.’
Holdsworth nodded. They walked on in silence, with Holdsworth shortening his stride to fit with Mulgrave’s.
‘You work for quite a number of gentlemen, I apprehend?’
‘Oh yes, sir. A man must make ends meet the best he can. And it is not always easy, however hard a man works, because not all gentlemen are prompt payers. And some of them run up bills they can’t hope to pay.’
Holdsworth glanced a
t him. ‘When I kept a shop, I could not help but notice that gentlemen have a very different view of money from the rest of us. Indeed, some of them appear not to have any view at all, nor indeed any money. Yet that did not stop them spending what they had not got.’
‘Young gents ain’t so bad. You can always have a word with their tutors, and they generally knows what’s what. The trouble is the older gents. That Mr Whichcote, for example.’ Mulgrave turned his head and spat on the roadway. ‘Trying to get money out of him is like trying to get a pint of blood out of a veal cutlet.’
There was another silence. They covered another hundred yards of their road.
‘I like a man who pays his way,’ Holdsworth observed, jingling the loose coins in the pocket of his coat. ‘You may know that I am here on Lady Anne’s business.’
Mulgrave looked sharply at him.
‘She has a mother’s tender feelings for her son’s plight,’ Holdsworth said.
‘As is very natural, sir.’
‘It is indeed. She wishes me to talk to him as soon as possible, to see how I may best help him. However, I find that Dr Jermyn is fixed upon a certain method of treatment that does not allow of a patient to have a private conversation with his own mother’s representative. It is most vexatious.’
Mulgrave shook his head solemnly. ‘Dr Jermyn can be very set in his ways, sir.’
‘I shall of course write to her ladyship and obtain the necessary permission,’ Holdsworth went on. ‘But that will take time. I have very real grounds for believing that I can be of material assistance to Mr Frank in his plight, and I would not wish to extend his distress by another minute if I could help it. Nor would her ladyship, I am sure.’
The two men walked along, side by side, with Holdsworth jingling the coins in his pocket.
‘Her ladyship is not one to forget a service,’ he said. ‘Nor for that matter am I.’
The Anatomy of Ghosts Page 15