The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  Two o’clock was striking as she left the sickroom, where Susan now sat beside the bed. Dr Carbury was awake but comatose. He seemed free from pain. Elinor closed the door behind her and walked slowly and softly down the passage towards the door of her own room. She was tired but not sleepy. She paused by the window that lit the landing and pulled the curtain a few inches aside.

  The window looked west, across the little court in front of the Lodge and over the town beyond. The rain had stopped during the afternoon. The sky had cleared. There were many stars and somewhere behind her there was a moon. The roofs, towers and spires lay before her like a sleeping herd of monsters. In their shadows clustered the lesser buildings of the townsfolk.

  A movement caught her eye. There was somebody moving in the court below. She made out a dark figure making his way towards the railings that separated the court on its north side from Jerusalem Lane. The man’s awkward and erratic movements reminded her of ungainly, long-legged insects like crane-flies.

  In an instant, she remembered that when she and Sylvia were young at school, they had called such insects daddy-long-legs, and that Sylvia had trapped one and removed its legs, in a spirit of experiment rather than cruelty. It was true that Sylvia had never been cruel. But she had always been desperate for knowledge and hungry to experiment, and sometimes that had amounted to the same thing, for desire had always been its own vindication.

  The memory of Sylvia brought with it a sour and nameless sensation, bitter as wormwood. Simultaneously, as if Sylvia herself had ignited a flare that threw a brief light on to the present, Elinor recognized the figure below as that of Mr Soresby. He had reached the far corner of the court, where the railing met solid masonry. He hauled himself up and gingerly negotiated the spikes. For a few seconds she watched him clambering over the barrier, but suddenly he was gone, swallowed up by Jerusalem Lane.

  She let the curtain fall across the window and returned to her room. Mr Soresby had absconded. Her duty, she supposed, was to inform her husband immediately or, if that proved impossible, to send Ben with a message for Mr Richardson. On the other hand, who would gain by it? Certainly neither the college nor Mr Soresby. She could not blame the sizar for running away from a situation that promised him only disgrace. And who was she to make matters worse for him?

  On Wednesday morning, Holdsworth woke to hear Mulgrave whistling cheerfully as he went about his work in the kitchen. It was nearly eight o’clock. He went downstairs, washed and sat in the cottage parlour, where Mulgrave brought him tea. The gyp had returned late yesterday evening. He had said nothing except that he had concluded a little business on his own behalf and that it had gone as well as could be expected.

  ‘Is Mr Oldershaw downstairs?’ Holdsworth asked.

  ‘Still abed, sir. Might I have a confidential word, sir?’

  ‘What is it?’

  The gyp took out a pocketbook, extracted a small news-paper cutting and laid it gently on the table. ‘From the Chronicle, sir. February last.’

  Holdsworth scanned the item. It recorded a verdict of accidental death on a fatality in Trumpington Street – a girl named Tabitha Skinner, fourteen years of age, who had suffered a fit as she slept and suffocated. The melancholy event had occurred on the night of Thursday, 16 February, at Mrs Phear’s house. Four months ago, Holdsworth thought, almost to the day. There was a particular pathos to the story, for the girl had been an orphan from the Magdalene Hospital in London. Mrs Phear, the widow of a clergyman, was active in the affairs of the charity and had brought the girl to Cambridge at her own expense in the hope of apprenticing the unfortunate girl into domestic service.

  He looked up. ‘When was Mrs Whichcote found at Jerusalem? What date, precisely? Do you know?’

  ‘The morning of Friday, the seventeenth of February, sir,’ Mulgrave said.

  ‘Who is this Mrs Phear? Does she come into this?’

  ‘She once worked as the governess in the household of Mr Whichcote’s father, sir. I’ve seen her more than once at Lambourne House, and I believe Mr Whichcote sometimes visits her in Trumpington Street.’ He waited a moment, his face impassive, but Holdsworth did not speak. ‘Shall I bring the rolls, sir, or will you wait until Mr Frank joins you?’

  ‘No – rouse him now, will you?’

  The gyp limped up the stairs, dot and go one. He knocked on Frank’s door. He rattled the handle. His footsteps descended, dot and go one.

  ‘Not answering, sir. And the door’s bolted.’

  Holdsworth went upstairs. He tried the door and called Frank’s name. He raised the latch and threw his shoulder against the door. It burst open. He plunged into the room so quickly that he almost fell.

  The bed was empty, the covers thrown back. There was no sign of Frank, and nowhere he could be hiding.

  Mulgrave came up behind him. ‘At least he ain’t hanged himself, sir. Not here, anyway.’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ Holdsworth snapped, though a moment earlier the same thought had been in his own mind. He went across to the window, a small casement, which was immediately under the eaves and overhung with thatch. He put his head out and looked down. It was no drop at all for a man of Frank’s size, not if he had managed to get through the window feet first and let himself down. There had once been a flower bed directly underneath, now full of weeds. It would have given him a soft landing.

  Holdsworth withdrew his head and looked about him.

  ‘He’s took the coat and hat he wears for shooting,’ Mulgrave said. ‘And the stout shoes.’

  Holdsworth opened the drawers in the little chest, one by one. There was no telling what else Frank had taken, if anything. He found a purse containing a half a dozen guineas and some silver. Did Frank have other money? Or perhaps he hadn’t needed money where he was going.

  ‘So where the devil is he?’ Holdworth said.

  Mulgrave glanced up at the ceiling, as if perhaps the answer lay there. ‘God knows,’ he said. After one of his carefully calculated pauses, he added, ‘Sir.’

  Early on Wednesday, 14 June, there was a hammering on the front door of Lambourne House. Augustus, who slept in a room beside the kitchen, was deep in a dream involving his long-dead father, a journeyman carpenter, and at first the hammering merged with the dream and became part of it. But then the noise transferred itself to the back door of the house and became louder. At last the sound forced Augustus reluctantly out of his dream and into the waking world.

  As he stumbled out of bed, his first thought was that Mr Whichcote would be in a fury at such a racket so early in the morning. The hammering continued even when he called out that he was making all speed he could. He struggled with the bolts on the kitchen door.

  Outside in the yard were four men, none of whom he recognized. They gave him no opportunity to change his mind about admitting them. As soon as the door was open a crack, one of them had his foot over the threshold. Another pushed the door wide, took the footboy by the shoulder and moved him backward. The men pushed their way into the house.

  ‘Bear witness, boys,’ said the eldest of the four, a man with a round red face and a great stomach straining against his waistcoat. ‘This obliging young lad asked us to step in. We have not forced an entry.’ He patted Augustus’s head with a hand like a flap of belly pork. ‘Is Mr Whichcote within?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But he won’t be stirring for –’

  ‘Never you fear, he’ll stir for us.’

  ‘But, sir, it’s more than my place is worth.’

  The fat man laughed. ‘Why, your place ain’t worth a brass farthing, so I wouldn’t worry about that. Either you take us to your master directly or we find our own way. We’re sheriff’s officers, and I have a writ to serve against him. Who else is here?’

  ‘Only me, sir.’

  ‘Other servants?’

  ‘Cook left yesterday. So did the maid. There’s old Jem, but he don’t sleep in.’

  The fat man tramped upstairs, followed by his men. As he reached the first floor, Mr W
hichcote appeared in the doorway of his bedchamber. He was wearing only his nightshirt and his nightcap, and his delicate features were twisted with anger. ‘Who the devil are you?’

  ‘Sheriff’s officers, sir,’ the fat man said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a writ against you here for seventy-nine pounds, eight shillings and fourpence at the suit of Mr Mulgrave.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. He’s lying. Besides – you can’t come in here. You’ve forced an entry. I’ll have you up before a magistrate.’

  ‘No, sir, you won’t. This lad of yours invited us in, bless him. As all of us will swear on the Holy Bible itself if need be.’

  ‘God damn him, the little blockhead.’

  ‘All I care about is this writ, sir,’ the bailiff said. ‘And that tells me you got a debt to discharge, plus fees. You find me the money, sir, I give you a receipt, and away we go.’

  ‘Do you suppose I keep that sort of money in the house?’

  ‘In that case I have to ask you to come along with me, sir. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do everything pleasant and easy, is there? You’ll want to write a letter or two, I daresay. We shan’t stop you doing that. And if you want an hour or two to make yourself ready, sir, you’ll find us very obliging in that, and I’m sure you’re a gentleman as knows how to show his gratitude.’

  Whichcote held up his hands as if attempting to make a physical barrier between himself and whatever was going to happen to him. ‘This is such a trifling matter,’ he said to the bailiff. ‘It could be so easily arranged. All it will take me is an hour or two.’

  ‘I am sure that will be very agreeable to all concerned, sir. Now, perhaps you’d like to dress. We ain’t got all day, you know.’

  One of the sheriff’s men waited on the landing. The bailiff ordered another in a stage whisper to wait outside Mr Whichcote’s window in case the gentleman was in a hurry to leave. He then invited Augustus to give him and his remaining colleague a tour of the house. The fat man moved from room to room like a prospective buyer. He did not seem impressed by what he saw.

  ‘Oh, they’ve let things go here, my boy, haven’t they? You’ll be well out of it. Take my advice and look for another situation. You’ll thank us one day, you know. This is only the start of it.’ He patted Augustus’s head in an avuncular way. ‘Writs are like sheep, you see. Once one of them finds its way out, all the others follow. You mark my words, we’ll be serving more of them before the end of the day.’

  ‘But a gentleman like Mr Whichcote –’

  ‘Is a gentleman that owes money, that’s all I care about, and in the eyes of the law that makes him as common as you or me. Maybe he’ll be all right. Maybe he’s got rents due at the end of the quarter. Maybe his creditors will come to an arrangement. But if you ask me, it all depends on whether his friends will rally to his help. That’s what pulls a man through in these cases, nine times out of ten. But in the meantime it’s the sponging house.’

  The bailiff, one of his men and the prisoner left in a closed carriage, the cost of which would also be charged to Mr Whichcote. The other two men remained at Lambourne House to make sure, the fat man explained to Augustus, that nothing untoward happened to its contents in its master’s absence. Their services would also be charged eventually to Mr Whichcote. For another consideration, the fat man had agreed to have a letter conveyed to Mrs Phear in Trumpington Street.

  Left alone, the two sheriff’s men took Augustus on another tour of the house. They kept up a running commentary on its contents, casting a critical eye over them and estimating their worth. Much depended, they condescendingly explained to Augustus, on who actually owned the house and on whether there was a mortgage on it. All being well, they assured him, the contents would raise a tidy sum, particularly the wine cellar.

  They brought up a couple of bottles of wine and sat down with them at the kitchen table. They were not impressed, however, pronouncing the contents nasty thin stuff. It was a little after nine o’clock in the morning, while they were discussing whether or not they should try another bottle just to make absolutely sure, when there came a rapping on the hall door.

  The officers accompanied Augustus when he answered it. The visitor was standing with his back to the door when Augustus opened it. At first the footboy took him for a tradesman, for he was plainly dressed and the dust on his lower half showed he had come a good way by foot. But when the man turned, Augustus recognized him at once.

  ‘Where’s your master?’ Frank Oldershaw demanded.

  37

  On the same morning, while the college was in chapel, Dr Milton called at the Master’s Lodge. He was a dried-up little man, well past seventy, with a face like a prune and a snuff-stained waistcoat. His manner was never amiable but today it was worse than usual, partly because he had been forced to hurry his breakfast and partly because he had heard that his patient had had the temerity to call in a second opinion.

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ he said to Elinor when he had seen Dr Carbury, ordered a few ounces of blood to be taken from him, and prescribed more opium. ‘I do not know why you needed to send for Dr Jermyn. He can have added nothing of value to my diagnosis. The case is as plain as the nose on my face.’

  ‘Then there is no possible room for doubt, sir?’

  ‘None. It is a type of cancer that is beyond the reach of any physic.’

  ‘Perhaps a surgeon –?’

  ‘No, ma’am, no. As I have already told Dr Carbury, the location of the swelling rules out surgery entirely. The remedy would be as fatal as the disease, only swifter in action. The knife would kill him as it cut out the cancer.’

  Elinor turned aside. After a pause, she said quietly, ‘How long?’

  ‘That is a harder question. It may be days or weeks – even months, though I doubt it. These matters are notoriously hard to calculate. So much depends on the progress of the disease and the constitution of the patient, you apprehend. I will continue to do my best, ma’am, but you should not expect miracles.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Elinor said. ‘Never that.’

  He looked sharply at her, suspecting irony, then took out his watch and said his other patients were awaiting him. When he had gone, Elinor stood by the window looking down over the Master’s Garden and the Long Pond. She had known this day would come but had not expected it so soon. Her future had suddenly become a dark hole in the path before her; and she was sliding inexorably towards it, unable to change direction or even to delay the moment when she would fall into the pit.

  There was a knock at the door and Susan came in to say that Dr Carbury was awake and was asking for her. She found her husband in bed, propped up against the pillows. Beside the window sat a hired nurse with her knitting. The illness had aged him still further overnight and also shrivelled his face and body. His eyes, paradoxically, seemed to have grown more youthful. She had never had occasion before to pay much attention to them but now she realized they were large and lustrous, like those of a wolfhound Frank used to have in the country when he was a boy.

  Dr Carbury beckoned her towards him, nearer and nearer until her face was only inches from his. ‘Send the woman away,’ he whispered. ‘And have them bring me Soresby.’ His fingers gripped the sleeve of her dress. ‘It is most important, madam.’

  She tried to pull herself away, wondering whether Soresby had returned from his illicit excursion the previous evening. ‘It shall be done directly, sir.’

  ‘Soresby,’ he whispered. ‘Soresby.’

  They were interrupted by a knock at the chamber door. Mr Richardson appeared; Ben followed behind him, his face fixed in an expression of mute appeal because Elinor had ordered him not to allow anyone to come up.

  ‘Mrs Carbury, your servant, ma’am.’ Richardson advanced into the room. ‘My dear Dr Carbury, my gyp told me you had had Dr Milton this morning, and I simply could not keep away. I hope your indisposition is not serious?’

  ‘Dr Milton does not advise visitors,’ Elinor said. ‘He was most insistent.’

&
nbsp; ‘But I am hardly some chance acquaintance, ma’am.’ Richardson smiled, as if to take the sting from the words. ‘All of us in the combination room have been anxious for news and of course we are praying that it will be good news. Besides, you may remember that the fellows are due to meet at midday and this business with poor Mr Soresby makes it particularly urgent that we should do so. If the Master is too unwell to attend, I suppose I must do my poor best to take his place for the occasion.’

  Carbury, who until this moment had given no sign that he had noticed his visitor, turned his head on the pillow and stared fixedly at the far wall.

  ‘I regret to say that the Master will probably not be well enough to join you today, sir,’ Elinor said. ‘The doctor has ordered him to rest.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Richardson’s face became a picture of sorrow and concern. He neatly sidestepped Elinor so he could address the figure on the bed directly. ‘Goodbye, my dear friend, and you may be sure I shall pray for your speedy restoration to health.’

  The tutor bowed again to Elinor. But at the door he stopped. ‘By the way – have you heard the news? Mr Soresby was not in chapel this morning. I sent over to Yarmouth Hall but his room is empty. I regret to say that he appears to have absconded. It’s scarcely the act of an innocent man, is it? But I hope that no harm has come to him.’

  Dr Carbury groaned. Elinor turned. Her husband had not moved: he was still staring at the far wall.

  ‘Damn the man,’ he said. ‘Damn him. Damn, damn, damn.’