Whichcote moved from group to group. He carried loaded dice in a concealed pocket of his waistcoat and had also taken the precaution of opening a pack of cards, filing the corners of some of them and carefully resealing the pack in its original wrapper. Not that he liked to rely on such shabby shifts. Usually there was no need: if he kept himself sober and took the trouble to calculate the arithmetical odds, he would win the cost of the dinner within twenty minutes.
The hours passed agreeably. The invisible servants, who screened off the table from the rest of the room, came and went, making preparations for supper. The drinking continued steadily, and the laughter and the voices grew louder as the last of the daylight ebbed from the room. The air filled with smoke, shifting in the draughts, and the muddy glow of candles swayed with it.
Whichcote’s winnings, partly in ready money but mainly in notes of hand, steadily increased. As he moved from table to table, he kept an eye on Harry Archdale. The young man was drinking as heavily as anyone in the room. His face had lost its pallor and was damp with sweat. His elaborately arranged hair was a ragged mop and the shoulders of his green coat were sprinkled with dislodged powder. He was playing so wildly that he had already lost at least a hundred guineas, and not all of it to his host.
It was after another loss that Archdale suddenly pushed back his chair and stumbled behind a screen in the corner where a line of commodes had been arranged along the wall for the convenience of the guests. Five minutes later, when he had not returned, Whichcote went in search of him. The young man was slumped on a window seat. His face was pressed against the glass.
‘Harry – what ails you?’
Archdale turned his head sharply and straightened up on the seat. ‘It is nothing – it’s so damned hot in here – I wanted air.’
‘Then let us take a turn in the garden.’
Whichcote led the way downstairs. The sky was now dark. A lamp burned in the doorway, and two or three more beyond, marking the path up to the side door of the house. They strolled along the gravel path between the pavilion and the river. On the far side of the water, Jesus Green lay in darkness, apart from the soft gleam of lights from the college itself and, further to the right, the lights of the town.
‘You seemed a little melancholy just now,’ Whichcote observed.
‘It was nothing,’ Archdale said hastily. ‘The closeness of the air made me feel a little fagged – I am perfectly restored now.’
‘I am rejoiced to hear it,’ Whichcote said. ‘After all, you have a man’s work to do tonight. You must go to it with a will, eh?’
‘Oh I shall, I shall indeed.’
They were now walking along the rear of the pavilion on the side facing the house. Archdale swayed. Suddenly he stopped, leaning against the wall. He stared fixedly at the row of ground-floor windows.
‘Is – is she already here?’
‘The sacrifice? Oh yes,’ Whichcote said. ‘The virgin awaits your pleasure.’
‘Does she know what is to happen?’
Whichcote laughed softly. ‘How can she? She’s a maid. Her knowledge of such matters must be entirely notional.’
‘But she knows I will lie with her?’
‘It is all arranged. You are to have the way of a man with a maid. You need not trouble yourself in the slightest about her. If she puts up any resistance, you must not scruple to overcome it. Indeed, many of us find it adds relish to the conquest. The fruits of victory are all the sweeter if hard won.’
‘Yes, yes – Philip, would you excuse me one moment?’
Without further warning, Archdale stumbled away from the path and made his way blindly to a large shrub standing in a pot. Whichcote waited, listening to the sounds of retching. Archdale returned, wiping his mouth on a scented handkerchief.
‘Very wise,’ Whichcote murmured.
‘What? I beg your pardon?’
‘Your decision to vomit. As the French say, it is a case of reculer pour mieux sauter.’
‘Yes,’ Archdale said weakly. ‘Yes, that’s it. Vomiting for that purpose was much practised by the ancients, I believe. Seneca refers to it somewhere in the Moral Epistles, I fancy, and Cicero tells us – I believe it is in the Pro Rege Deiotaro – that Caesar himself was not a stranger to the habit. It also –’ He broke off. ‘I ask your pardon, sir. I allow my tongue to run away with me.’
Whichcote said nothing. Archdale set out to play the part of a rake but somewhere inside him was a scholar. He touched Archdale’s arm, and they moved away. They passed the shuttered window of the whitewashed bedchamber where Molly Price was waiting with Mrs Phear.
‘I wish Frank was here,’ Archdale said.
‘So do I. We all do.’
‘I asked him how it was that night – when he became an Apostle. He would not tell me.’
‘That was very proper of him. He swore a most terrible oath never to reveal what passed on that occasion to anyone who was not an Apostle. And so will you when your time comes. But since you are so nearly one of us, I may tell you in confidence that Frank dealt manfully with his virgin, just as you will, I am sure.’
They re-entered the pavilion and went upstairs. Whichcote had presided over too many initiations to be surprised by what had occurred. For two pins, Archdale would have slipped away from the club. But he was too rich a prize to lose. That was the point of the ceremony – and of the ceremony with the virgin in particular. Archdale had mentioned Caesar: well, Caesar had crossed the Rubicon when he invaded Italy and, in doing so, had taken a step that could not be reversed. Archdale would believe he had done the same when his manly ardour overcame the feigned resistance of Molly Price.
They reached the head of the stairs. Whichcote stopped. They heard the hubbub of voices in the room beyond. Some of the Apostles were singing.
Jerry Carbury is merry
Tell his servant bring his hat
For ’ere the evening is done
He’ll surely shoot the cat.
Archdale blinked rapidly. He looked on the verge of tears.
‘And now we shall have supper,’ Whichcote said quietly. ‘The servants will leave us to wait on ourselves. We shall have the toasts – we shall have the initiation – and you will be canonized. St Bartholomew is the title reserved for you. And then, when you are finally one of us, you shall be conducted to your trembling virgin.’
22
Supper passed in a dream; then came the interminable toasts; then, at long last, the initiation ceremony. Archdale kneeled before Whichcote, very grand on a throne-like chair flanked with black candles; and Whichcote, as Jesus, read out a list of apostolic tenets couched in bad Latin, to each of which Archdale was required to assent.
Archdale took the phallic glass, filled to the brim with wine, and drained it without lowering it from his lips, to the accompaniment of apostolic whoops and cheers. He committed himself to the Holy Ghost for all eternity. Amen. He swore to abominate the Pope of Rome and all his works and to leave no bottle unemptied, no toast undrunk and no virgin undefiled. Amen, amen, amen, amen. There were more tenets and more wine and his head spun around and around. He noticed that the thread at the front of Whichcote’s left shoe had frayed and the sole was beginning to come adrift from the upper. He mumbled the required responses and drank the required toasts. He would have given everything he possessed to lay his aching head on a cool pillow and fall asleep for ever. Amen.
When the ceremony was over, a procession formed up around him. Jesus was on his right and St Peter on his left. St Andrew led the way with one black candle, St Simon followed with the other and St John wielded a handbell. Jesus and the Apostles marched Archdale downstairs, chanting as they went an obscene variation of the Angelus that dwelled at some length on the phallic splendours of the Holy Ghost. The procession halted in the corridor. The discordant voices swirled around Archdale, mingling with the clanging of the bell.
Apart from the candles, the only light came from a lamp burning near the far end of the hallway. Archdale thought
he glimpsed the footboy Augustus cowering in a doorway and for an instant felt a stab of relief that he was not alone in his fear.
St John rapped smartly on one of the nearer doors, ringing the bell and calling on the occupants to open in the name of the Holy Ghost. The Apostles formed an arc facing the door with Archdale at its centre. As the door opened, it revealed the shadowy outline of a small woman, childlike in size, enveloped in a nun’s habit and with her face obscured by a domino.
‘In the name of the Holy Ghost, an Apostle demands the virgin sacrifice,’ the Apostles chanted in ragged unison.
The masked nun stepped back and pushed the door wide. The Apostles cheered. Jesus and St Peter led Archdale forward. He stared wildly around the little white cell. Only two candles were alight, one on the table near the fireplace and the other near the bed. There was his virgin, lying on the white coverlet, her limbs lashed to the bedposts. She wore a plain white shift with a loose neck. She stared up at him with wide and terrified eyes.
‘You may take her trussed like that,’ Whichcote murmured in his ear. ‘Or if you want her loose, you may untie her. But be warned, the little minx may struggle.’
St Peter patted Archdale’s shoulder. ‘Go to it, my lad,’ he urged. ‘Show the maid her master.’
Archdale heard the door closing behind them. Someone outside began to sing the drinking song about Jerry Carbury again. The apostolic footsteps receded into the distance. Even the nun was gone. He was alone with the girl.
He stared at her, and she stared back. She was not ill-favoured, he thought, taken all in all, and she was certainly young. She seemed clean, too, and in that she compared favourably to Chloe the other night. As he watched, she licked her lips and he noticed that they were full and prettily formed. He pulled off the green coat and draped it over the chair by the table. Still with his eyes on the girl, he slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers were clumsy and it seemed to take an age. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. There was wine on the table but what he really wanted was water. Why was there no water to be had?
He pushed the embroidered waistcoat over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind him. There were now two beds in front of him, and two virgins, and if he had not known better, he would have sworn that they were both smiling at him. He tugged violently at his necktie and the movement overbalanced him. He staggered to the right and tried to steady himself on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. His hand unaccountably missed the post. He fell forward and his face collided with it. He yelped with pain. The next thing he knew he was sprawling half on and half off the end of the bed.
The necktie felt as if it were strangling him. He tore it off and flung it on the floor. He looked at the girl, furious that she should be witnessing this moment of weakness. But her face was unchanged. Her eyes stared up at him.
Archdale used the bedpost to pull himself into an upright position. He kicked off his shoes and glanced over his shoulder again at the girl. He had to deflower her by force. That was the whole purpose of his being here. It was unthinkable that he should fail to carry out the task. Everyone would know – Whichcote, the other Apostles, the little nun, even this girl here. She would blab about it, of course she would. There was no help for it, he would have to do it.
He unbuttoned his breeches and stood up. The breeches fell about his knees. He pushed them lower and stepped out of them. At the last moment, he tripped and plunged forward on to the bed, landing partly between the girl’s legs and partly on her body. The impact made her gasp. Frowning, he pushed up her shift, exposing her fork. He pushed his hand under his billowing shirt and grasped his penis.
To his utter, unbearable horror, his manhood lay small and flaccid in his hand. He massaged it, first gently and then vigorously. Nothing happened. Sweat broke out on his temples. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, to force the erection by pure exercise of will. Still nothing happened.
The girl cleared her throat.
It was as though a waxwork had made a sound. Startled, Archdale opened his eyes and stared at her. Here was the first witness of his shame. He could not see her clearly but it seemed to him that she was looking at him with grave, unblinking eyes and there was an expression of sorrow in her face.
‘I can give you a hand, sir,’ she said in a low voice, little above a whisper.
‘Eh? What’s that? What?’
‘Sometimes a gentleman likes a little encouragement to come to attention, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s true.’ He pushed himself away from her, hugged the bedpost and leaned his cheek against it. ‘But – but how do you know?’
She laughed softly. ‘Oh, bless you, sir, when maids lie abed together at night, they talk of all sorts of things. And sometimes it’s about what gentlemen like, and how we may please them when the time comes. If you untie me, I’ll show you.’
Archdale dragged himself up and shuffled round the bed, undoing the four knots. The bonds were so loose, that it struck him that the girl could easily have extricated herself, had she so wished. When she was free, she sat up and pulled her shift down over her shoulders. She drew Archdale down beside her on the bed. She kissed him several times and encouraged him to rub his face against her little breasts, all of which he would have found agreeable enough in normal circumstances. Unfortunately he could not escape that sense of underlying panic, a suspicion of impending failure.
Murmuring endearments, some of which were quite remarkable for one who was a maid, she pushed him down on his back and straddled his legs. She tugged up his shirt, exposing his soft pink body. She set to work on his penis, first with her hands and then with her mouth.
Nothing happened.
After two or three minutes of her attentions, Archdale groaned. The girl raised her head and then sat back on her haunches. This was failure, Archdale knew, unalterable and absolute. Soon Jesus, the Apostles and the lesser disciples would be roaring with laughter at him. He was but half a man, a poor womanish creature, and his inadequacies would be exposed before the world. He imagined the news flying around Cambridge, whispered in coffee houses and clubs, and finding its way at last to London, where men and women would laugh at him in the street, and Sir Charles Archdale would cut off his allowance and disinherit him. He wanted to be sick, he wanted to cry, he wanted to die.
‘You poor love,’ the girl cooed. ‘It is the wine, nothing more. It is so unkind of them to press you to take so much.’
Archdale blinked. ‘Yes – yes, the wine.’
Her fingers strayed to his penis again. ‘And you have such a lovely little lad down here. Oh, how I desire it inside me.’
The possibility occurred to Archdale that perhaps this virgin was not quite the maid she was meant to be. She appeared surprisingly at home with a man’s anatomy.
‘What wouldn’t I give for the honour of losing my maidenhead to a fine gentleman like you, sir?’ she murmured. ‘Why, in an hour or two when you’re recovered, I wager you’d make me swoon with pleasure.’
Archdale felt tears prick his eyelids. Life was so unjust. The occasion was one for rejoicing. The time was right. The girl was agreeable. Yet his body would not allow him to play his part.
‘But what does it matter, sir, if you do it to me now or tomorrow? It’s all one.’
‘Yes, but you do not understand. The others will –’ He broke off and stared miserably at the little white canopy above his head.
The girl was still stroking his thigh. ‘The others aren’t here. None of them. Only you and me, sir. So they’ll know only what we tell ’em.’
Archdale lowered his eyes and looked at the girl’s face. There still appeared to be two of her. ‘You mean –?’
‘We say you had your way with me, sir. As I’m sure you will when you’re yourself again.’
‘You – you are a virgin, aren’t you?’
She stared guilelessly at him. ‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘There – there would be signs.’
‘Not always, sir. Beside
s, I have a plan.’
She dismounted him as though he were a horse and she had been riding astride him. She went to the fireplace, picked up a covered basket that stood beside it and set it on the table. She uncovered it and took out a little phial containing a dark liquid and sealed with a cork. She held it up between finger and thumb. By chance, it was on a direct line between Archdale’s eyes and the flame of the candle on the table.
Two flames, two phials, of course, and in the centre of each phial was a dull red spark.
‘A few drops of that on the sheet, sir, and there’s my maidenhead.’
‘But how did you come –?’
‘Hush, sir. Don’t speak so loud. A maid must look ahead.’
She returned to the bed and uncorked the phial. He was lying with his legs apart and his shirt rucked up. She scattered a few drops of red fluid between his thighs.
‘There, sir,’ she said, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. Now there needs only one more thing and we are done.’
He frowned up at her. ‘One more thing? What?’
She opened her mouth wide, exposing blackened teeth, and screamed.
23
On the first night at Whitebeach Mill, Holdsworth slept badly, his limbs crammed into a little box-bed built into the wall. He had given Frank Oldershaw the larger of the two upstairs rooms, the one with a decent bedstead. Frank was only a few feet away, on the other side of the lathe-and-plaster partition. The bed creaked as he moved about.
When the dawn came and the little room filled with light, Holdsworth was unexpectedly reminded of the house on Bankside near Goat Stairs. His window at the cottage overlooked the garden, beyond which was the millpond and the muddy green river, hardly more than a stream compared with the Thames at London. Some trick of reflection cast a faint and flickering image of moving waters on the ceiling of the bedroom. It was a poor and insubstantial phenomenon compared to the shimmering light, Georgie’s ghost water, that the Thames threw through the windows. But it was a connection between here and there, now and then.
The Anatomy of Ghosts Page 19