The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘The forty-seventh proposition is generally held to be the most difficult in the first book,’ the tutor was saying. ‘But you will conquer it with application. It would be worth your while to –’ Seeing Holdsworth, he turned from Archdale. ‘My dear sir, how do you do? You have been sadly missed. Pray, will you take a turn in the garden with me? I have something most particular I wish to discuss with you. Mr Archdale and I have almost finished, and I shall be with you in a trice.’

  After a flurry of bows, Richardson turned back to his pupil. ‘Yes, our own Mr Dow has written most illuminatingly on the trickier propositions of Euclid. You will find his little book in the library, and I should advise you to look over it before attempting the problem. And while we are about it, you cannot do better than consult Maclaurin for your algebra.’ He glanced at the chapel clock. ‘But I will not detain you any longer, Mr Archdale – I see it is nearly time for dinner.’

  The undergraduate looked towards Holdsworth as if he wished to say something. But Richardson gave him no opportunity. He took Holdsworth by the arm and guided him down to the chapel arcade and out into the gardens beyond. As they were walking down the path towards the gate of the Fellows’ Garden, it began to rain. They sought shelter under the umbrella of the oriental plane. The rain was falling heavily now, but no drops of water penetrated the thick green canopy above their heads.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Richardson’s face had lost its customary urbanity; anger twisted his features. He rushed on without giving Holdsworth a chance to reply. ‘I had not thought it possible, even of Dr Carbury.’

  ‘Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘He has suborned one of my pupils. I can use no other word, sir. The Rosington Fellowship will soon become vacant, and he has offered it to Soresby of all people. But I have smoked him. It is clearly designed to buy Soresby’s loyalty. And the pity of it is, such a mean stratagem as that appears to have succeeded. One can hardly blame the poor fellow for accepting, I suppose. What is mere gratitude worth, after all, when it is weighed in the balance against so substantial a temptation as the Rosington?’

  The shower lasted no more than three or four minutes and, as it exhausted its course, so did Mr Richardson exhaust his rage.

  ‘You must pardon the force with which I express myself,’ he said, touching Holdsworth’s sleeve. ‘It is foolish of me to let the matter rankle. But when we live cheek by jowl as we do here, it is not easy to keep a sense of proportion. But to have it reserved for a man who, however able, has not yet graduated as bachelor of arts is most irregular. I shudder to think what the other colleges are saying of us. But let us leave that aside – I wished to ask you about something of far more importance. It has been rumoured that you have been with Mr Frank Oldershaw. Is it true? How is the dear boy?’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot break a confidence,’ Holdsworth said, smiling.

  ‘Ah, so that’s the way the wind blows, eh? Well, wherever he is, I hope his health improves. You must let me know if I may be of service either to you or to him. And if you should chance to see him, pray give my compliments.’

  The rain had stopped. The two men strolled slowly under the green shade of the tree in the direction of Chapel Court and New Building. Neither of them spoke. Over to the left there was a metallic rattling that continued for a few seconds and then stopped. It was the sound of iron-rimmed wheels rolling over flagstones. Tom Turdman was doing his rounds. The chapel bell began to toll.

  ‘Ah – dinner time. Do you dine with us, sir? You would be very welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Holdsworth said. ‘By the by, and under quite a different head altogether, I wanted to ask you about Mrs Whichcote’s wound.’

  ‘Her wound?’ Richardson stopped, his eyebrows rising. ‘You have the advantage of me.’

  ‘When I talked to the night-soil man, he mentioned that there was a wound of some sort on her head. On the left temple.’

  Richardson laughed. ‘What Tom referred to as a wound was no more than a slight discoloration. An old bruise, no doubt – perhaps the poor lady knocked her head on a beam a day or two before her death. How typical of the uneducated mind to make a melodrama from the most mundane circumstance.’

  The Jericho was a brick outhouse that backed against the college boundary wall on the south side of the gardens. The door was at one end, raised about a yard above the ground, and with five stone steps leading up to it. There were no windows, only a line of long rectangular vents just below the eaves. Beyond the door and the steps was another lower door, as wide as the first but no more than four feet high. Both doors were open. Tom Turdman’s barrow stood near by.

  Holdsworth went up the steps and stopped in the upper doorway. The chamber was empty. From below, however, came the sound of scraping, shuffling and spitting.

  Along the right-hand wall ran a four-seater bench, each hole separated from its neighbour by a low partition that afforded the notion of privacy rather than its reality. Generations of undergraduates had scratched their initials and a selection of insults and obscenities into the wood.

  The bell over the chapel continued to toll, calling members of the college to their dinner in hall.

  As Holdsworth came out of the boghouse, Tom Turdman emerged from the lower door, hunching forward to duck under the low lintel. A heavy apron, soiled with excrement and urine, protected his clothes. He carried a bucket overflowing with ordure and scraps of newspaper, which he emptied into the barrow. In his other hand was a stained handkerchief, trimmed with lace. Whistling tunelessly, he pushed the handkerchief into the mouth of a little sack hanging from the handle of the barrow. He straightened and blew his nose between finger and thumb. He saw Holdsworth standing over him.

  ‘Are you later than usual?’ Holdsworth said.

  ‘I come when I can, sir.’ Tom knuckled his forehead in salute and turned back to the door of the cesspool chamber.

  ‘Wait. I wish to speak to you.’

  ‘Me?’ Tom repeated, sounding like a parrot and contriving to give the impression that he understood the word as much as a parrot would have done.

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Best be getting on, sir. Always a rush on the Jericho after dinner.’ He gave another of his toothless grins. ‘You wouldn’t like to be down there when the young gentlemen is up above you, sir, upon my honour you wouldn’t.’

  Holdsworth jingled a handful of change in his pocket. ‘About your discovery in the Long Pond.’

  ‘The ghost that murdered herself, sir?’

  ‘Damn it, man, she did not murder herself and she was not a ghost and nor is she now. She was a woman of flesh and blood who had the misfortune to fall in the water and drown.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do say so. Now listen to me: when we talked in the Angel, you told me that when you found the body your first thought was that it was Mrs Carbury because she was the only woman who slept in college.’

  ‘There’s two of them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her maid sleeps in too.’ Tom Turdman chuckled. ‘Ain’t natural, sir, is it? Two women, all these men.’

  ‘Listen: you said it wasn’t her outside, not this time. So you mean to tell me that Mrs Carbury sometimes walks out in the garden very early in the morning? At night, even?’

  Tom shuffled nearer the low doorway, his bucket clanking. He did not look at Holdsworth.

  ‘Well? Is that the case or is it not?’

  The night-soil man glanced at Holdsworth and then away. ‘Sometimes, maybe.’

  ‘Does she know you see her?’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘Surely she must hear your wheels?’

  ‘I ain’t always moving around, sir. Sometimes I just stand somewhere and rest a bit.’

  ‘So you smoke a pipe or have a nip of something to warm you or fall into a doze? Very likely. And where do you do this?’

  Tom Turdman waved vaguely, his hand describing an irregular arc that took in most of t
he college. ‘Ain’t particular, sir. All I ask is a bit of shelter from the weather, a bit of quiet.’

  ‘Under that big tree by the pond, perhaps?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘And where have you seen Mrs Carbury?’

  ‘In the Master’s Garden, sir, walking up and down. Or sometimes she used to come out here. Through that gate on t’other side of bridge.’ He nodded towards the gate with the iron grille through which Holdsworth’s fingers touched Elinor Carbury’s. ‘Lady can’t sleep, I reckon.’

  Holdsworth took a handful of coppers from his pocket. ‘Used to? Does she no longer walk abroad at night?’

  ‘Don’t know, do I, sir? All I know is what I see with my eyes. And hear with my ears. And I ain’t heard her or seen her for weeks. Not that I’ve been looking out for her, though. Got my work to do, haven’t I? So for all I know she might be walking here still. Or maybe the lady sleeps more soundly now.’

  Holdsworth held out his hand. Tom Turdman stared at the coins.

  ‘I saw them both, one time,’ he said.

  ‘What? Who?’

  The night-soil man wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘The Master’s lady, sir. She was with the one that died, the ghost.’

  ‘When was this?’ Holdsworth snapped.

  Tom Turdman stared up at him with frightened eyes. ‘Months ago, sir. Before Christmas, before the pretty one died. They were walking in the garden under the moon.’

  32

  Like shrunken academics, two hooded crows stalked across the sacred square of grass in the middle of Chapel Court. Cane in hand, Philip Whichcote entered the arcade by the porter’s lodge. Everything about him was neat and genteel. The birds flapped ungainly wings and rose unsteadily into the air.

  No one was about. Little happened at Jerusalem during the hour after dinner. Whichcote went to the staircase at the south-east corner and climbed to the first-floor landing. The outer door to Frank’s rooms was still closed. Harry Archdale’s oak was open, however, and he rapped on the inner door with the head of his cane. Archdale’s voice called in answer.

  ‘My dear Harry, how do you do? I have not seen you for an age.’

  Archdale, who had been standing beside a table sorting through a pile of books, put down the volume he was holding and came forward to greet Whichcote. ‘I’ve had a vast deal of reading from Ricky. I’ve hardly stirred from college for days.’

  ‘That will never do,’ Whichcote said. ‘Why, surely you must allow that too much reading is bad for a man; it curdles the intellectual faculties. And I have the very plan to take you out of yourself for a few hours. I am come to invite you to a little supper party. Only a few of our most intimate friends will be there. I thought perhaps we might amuse ourselves with cards afterwards.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I regret I am not at leisure.’

  Whichcote was too well bred to show surprise. ‘In that case we must arrange something else. It’s a fine afternoon – shall we take a walk along the river?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot.’ Archdale gestured towards the books on the table. ‘I have too much to do. When you came in I was about to go to the library.’

  ‘The library! Ah – I see: this is the doing of your guardian, is it not?’

  ‘Sir Charles naturally wishes me to pay due attention to my studies,’ Archdale said awkwardly.

  ‘Well, it’s of no great consequence,’ Whichcote said easily. ‘I shall wait on you later when you are less engaged with your books. I wish to settle a day for our next club dinner, and I shall make a point of ensuring you’re not engaged elsewhere before I do.’

  He talked of commonplaces for another moment or two to smooth away any abruptness their conversation might have had. As he was doing so, he sauntered to the nearest window and looked idly down at the court. A tall man was walking rapidly down the opposite side towards the passage by the combination room. It was the person whom Augustus had refused admittance at Lambourne House on the Sunday morning after the storm.

  Whichcote turned back to Archdale. ‘Is that not Mr Holdsworth?’

  ‘Quite possibly. I believe I saw him myself before dinner. He came into college when I was talking with Ricky, and they went off together.’

  ‘I thought he’d left Cambridge for good with Frank. How is our friend, by the way? Is there fresh intelligence?’

  ‘Ricky believes he must be much improved or Holdsworth would not be here.’

  ‘That is most gratifying. I hope we shall soon see Frank again in our midst.’ Whichcote looked out of the window again. Holdsworth was no longer in sight. ‘Does he mean to make a long visit here? Mr Holdsworth, that is. I thought he had been commissioned to examine the college library.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Archdale made no offer of refreshment, and showed no signs of wanting to prolong their conversation. Whichcote took his leave. He stepped into the porter’s lodge, where Augustus was waiting for him. Mepal told him that Holdsworth had walked into college shortly before dinner time and that there had been nothing to indicate that he expected to spend the night here. Nor had Mepal heard anything about the whereabouts of Frank Oldershaw.

  Afterwards, Whichcote stood irresolute outside the entrance to Jerusalem, weighing alternatives in his mind. He beckoned Augustus.

  ‘I want a hack for the rest of the day. Go to the stables and tell them I shall be with them within the hour, and I shall wish to leave directly.’

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ Holdsworth said.

  Elinor Carbury did not reply for a few seconds. Their footsteps crunched in time on the gravel path. This man constantly disconcerted her. With an effort, she gathered her thoughts together and turned her face towards him. ‘The truth, sir? And which part of the truth would you like me to provide?’

  ‘I had in mind that part which deals with your noctambulism.’

  She stopped. ‘My noctambulism?’

  ‘I mean the term in its literal sense. I do not mean to suggest that you walk in your sleep, madam. But the night-soil man told me that sometimes you walk about in the gardens at night-time.’

  She glanced about them. They were quite alone.

  ‘It is true that sometimes I find I cannot sleep and so come outside for a little air. But I do not wish it generally known.’

  He bowed. ‘I understand. And I also understand that exercise can be an aid to sleep. Indeed, I often find it so myself, and take a turn or two outside before retiring. So you walk here, madam, in Dr Carbury’s garden?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It is very secluded, as you know.’

  ‘And Tom says that sometimes you come through the gate and over the bridge into the college garden.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elinor said, and her eyes strayed towards the gate in question and the Founder’s oriental plane. ‘Very rarely, however. Dr Carbury does not like me to walk out by myself at night, even in our garden.’ She felt trapped, as so often in her life, and cast about for a means of escape. ‘Shall we go back to the house and see if he is returned? I cannot think what has kept him in the combination room.’

  ‘One moment, pray.’

  In his urgency, he had the temerity to touch her forearm. Her body grew warm under the thin material of her gown. She frowned at him. He appeared not to notice. He was not standing so close to her now, but had moved a little away as if to study her better.

  ‘Tom saw you walking by night in the garden with Mrs Whichcote.’

  She glared at him. ‘What has that to do with anything? She stayed with me at the Lodge sometimes. And she found it hard to sleep too.’

  ‘It shows that she was familiar with Jerusalem at night.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Is it possible that you were abroad on the night when Frank Oldershaw believed he saw Mrs Whichcote’s ghost?’

  She did not answer. She turned away from him and began to walk slowly down the path in the direction of the Long Pond. His footsteps followed her. She wanted to scream with frustration. Why was he so provoking?
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br />   He drew level. ‘You understand what an alluring hypothesis it is, madam, I am sure.’

  She did not look at him. ‘Alluring?’

  ‘Why, it is alluring because it answers every question at a stroke.’

  ‘Alluring,’ she repeated, with great care, as though the word were as fragile as a bird’s egg and needed the most careful handling.

  ‘Yes, alluring.’ Holdsworth was very close to her, and she wondered what echoes the adjective set off in his mind. ‘The hypothesis offers an entirely rational explanation for what occurred that night. On the one hand, we have young Mr Oldershaw who, by his own admission, had drunk a great deal, and then rammed it home with copious quantities of coffee and laudanum. He woke suddenly from a deep sleep. He was in any case in low spirits. And there he was, wandering about in a dark garden, believing himself to be entirely on his own, when he encountered a woman where no woman should be. The death of Mrs Whichcote in the very same place was lying heavily on his mind. It is not surprising that the experience should have temporarily overset his reason, given that he was already in a state of nervous exhaustion, and taking all the circumstances together. So, if true, the hypothesis would explain the alleged ghost. I am persuaded that it would convince Mr Oldershaw and satisfy Lady Anne.’

  He stopped speaking and looked at Elinor. She ignored him, turning aside to study the surface of the pond.

  ‘Madam,’ he said gently. ‘It is the truth, is it not? It is more than a hypothesis. It is what happened.’

  Still looking down at the water, she said in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, ‘And does the night-soil man claim that he saw me then? Is this your witness?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He was not aware of your presence that night. Indeed, he was not at Jerusalem at all until much later that morning. But this is not a court of law and it is not a matter of convincing the jury. It is merely a matter of finding a theory that covers the facts, such as we know them. And you must see the attraction of this one.’