The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  The smith, up early to tend his forge, had seen Frank Oldershaw walking south through Whitebeach not long after dawn. He had wished him good morning but Frank had not replied. The sighting confirmed that Frank was almost certainly making for Cambridge.

  Holdsworth walked after him. Once he reached Cambridge, he tried Jerusalem first. Mepal, standing by the gates with his little eyes bright with curiosity, told him that he had not seen Mr Oldershaw since they took him to Barnwell all those weeks ago. He advised Holdsworth against calling at the Master’s Lodge at present, explaining that Dr Carbury was indisposed. Mr Richardson was unavailable, for he had just begun a lecture. Holdsworth asked after Mr Archdale, only to learn that the young gentleman was among Mr Richardson’s audience.

  He walked back the way he had come and crossed the bridge. In Chesterton Lane, the gates of Lambourne House stood open. Could Frank have been so foolish as to go there? A man in a frayed brown coat was smoking a pipe on the front doorstep. He wore a red-spotted handkerchief round his neck and watched Holdsworth’s approach with a detached, faintly amused air, as a man with time on his hands might watch the antics of a stray dog. The door stood open behind him. Inside the house, someone was whistling ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’.

  Holdsworth had never seen the fellow before but there was no doubt about his identity. There were enough of the breed in London, and Holdsworth had lived in fear of finding a pair of them – they rarely worked alone – outside his own door.

  ‘If you’re looking for Mr Whichcote, he ain’t here,’ the man said, removing his pipe and peering into the bowl.

  ‘Where is he, pray?’

  ‘A pressing engagement elsewhere, that’s what I’d call it.’ Like so many of his fellows, the sheriff’s officer had developed a taste for elephantine humour, a perquisite of petty power.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me he’s been taken up for debt?’ Holdsworth asked.

  ‘Ask me no questions, I tell you no lies.’

  ‘At whose suit? How much for?’

  The man tapped his nose with the pipe-stem. ‘Ah – I cannot quite call the name or the amount to mind.’

  Holdsworth sighed and felt in his pocket for a shilling. He held the little silver coin in the palm of his hand, just outside the officer’s reach.

  ‘A matter of eighty pound,’ the man said, his eyes on the shilling. ‘And fees and expenses. Suit of Mr Mulgrave.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Whichcote now?’

  The man tapped his nose again, and continued to do so until Holdsworth had placed another shilling beside the first.

  ‘At Mr Purser’s in Wall Lane, sir.’

  ‘Mr Purser’s your master?’

  The officer nodded. Holdsworth dropped the two shillings into the outstretched hand, smelling the wine on the man’s breath as he did so. ‘Do you happen to know if a young gentleman called here to see Mr Whichcote this morning?’

  ‘Big fellow? Fresh-faced?’

  ‘The very man.’

  The man tapped his nose again but then looked at Holdsworth’s face and thought better of negotiating for more.

  ‘He was in a devilish hurry to see Mr Whichcote, I tell you that.’

  ‘Was that before or after he was taken up by Mr Purser?’

  ‘After. You’ve only just missed him. We sent him over to Wall Lane. Maybe he’s going to lend Mr Whichcote the ready. Mind you, he’ll need deep pockets. More to come before the end of the day.’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘More writs.’

  They had shown Whichcote into an apartment on the first floor near the back of the tall, thin house. The building belied its narrow frontage, straggling back from Wall Lane under a cluster of ill-assorted roofs. He sat with his elbows on the scarred table, supporting his head. Everything he was, everything he depended upon, rested on his being Philip Whichcote of Lambourne House. He had worried enough about his debts before, but in his heart he had felt he was armoured against the worst consequences of owing money to other people. A gentleman lived on credit: that was entirely to be expected. For a man of his rank to be harried by Mulgrave, who was little better than a servant, was against the natural order of things.

  Someone was knocking on the street door. The hammering seemed to pound in time with his headache, the one exacerbating the other. In a place like this there was necessarily a good deal of coming and going. He knew that Purser must be entertaining other guests, as he tactfully called them – the more fortunate class of debtors, those who had connections who were likely to pay their debts in the long run, one way or another, and in the meantime were in possession of sufficient resources to pay for their board and lodging at Purser’s. The bailiff’s charges were exorbitantly expensive but the sponging house was infinitely preferable to the debtors’ prison, the only alternative.

  There was a tap at his door and Purser’s manservant showed in Mrs Phear. Abandoning ceremony for once, she came straight to him and took his hands in hers. Neither of them spoke until they were alone.

  ‘I came at once when I had your note,’ she said softly.

  ‘I am ruined, ma’am.’

  ‘Whose suit? And how much?’

  ‘Mulgrave’s. Ninety pounds would see me clear of him and deal with Purser’s fees too.’

  She frowned, calculating. ‘Then we shall have you out in an hour or two at most.’

  ‘If only it were that simple. They will all be at it now. God knows what the whole will amount to.’

  ‘Hundreds?’

  ‘Thousands, probably.’

  Releasing his hands, she sat down beside him. ‘I cannot lay my hands on a sum like that. Can you raise the money, if you were given time?’

  He shrugged. ‘As likely see a hog fly.’

  She stared at him, her eyebrows a little raised.

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he said quickly, alert as ever to her moods and even in this situation amused by her genteel abhorrence of a vulgarism. ‘I spoke without thinking. But truly, there is no hope left.’

  ‘What about the house? Can you raise anything on that?’

  ‘I have only a life interest. And I’ve already borrowed on the strength of that. If I cannot redeem the bill at Michaelmas, or failing that renegotiate it, I am entirely done for. I will lose the house.’

  Without the house, there would be no meetings of the Holy Ghost Club. Without the house, he would not have a roof over his head.

  ‘Are you owed money?’

  ‘Perhaps a hundred or two. But I have no chance of laying my hands on a penny for months, if not years. You know what these young cubs are with their gambling debts. They run them up and then, if they cannot pay, what can one do but wait?’

  She left him and went to the window. He knew what she would see there: the house had eaten up half the little garden. There was a scrubby little yard, a privy and a pigsty, where one could watch the lean backs of two hogs as they rooted in the mud.

  ‘Perhaps hogs can fly,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are wrong to abandon hope,’ she said calmly. ‘I have sufficient resources laid by to deal with Mulgrave. That will buy us a little time.’

  ‘What use is a few hours? The writs will be flying again before I get home.’

  She looked sternly at him. ‘Even a little time may be enough.’

  The room was stuffy and smelled of illness. At first Dr Carbury was restless, turning this way and that as he tried to make himself comfortable. As the hours slipped by, he grew quieter. Elinor sat by his bed until she heard eleven o’clock striking, when she rose and tiptoed to the door. She waited there for a few seconds, listening to her husband’s heavy breathing.

  The nurse, who was knitting by the window, looked up. Elinor whispered that she would soon return. She left her husband’s bedroom and almost ran downstairs. Without pausing for thought she left the Lodge by the garden door and walked slowly down the gravel walk towards the pond.

  More than ever, she needed a clear head. She could n
o longer rely on the protection of her husband. She had known for months that he was ill, but it was only now, after Milton’s visit this morning, that she was forced to accept that he was dying, and that the melancholy event could be expected within weeks, or even days.

  If she was not to be utterly ruined, Lady Anne’s support was more than ever essential. All her ladyship wanted was the restoration of her son to her. If Elinor could earn her gratitude by helping Frank, then truly anything might be possible.

  Even John Holdsworth?

  The last question set off an undesirable train of thought. Or, to be precise, not exactly undesirable in every sense, but certainly inappropriate, immoral and inconvenient. Breathing faster than usual, she reached the Long Pond at its widest point, opposite the oriental plane. It was here they had found Sylvia. After a moment’s hesitation, Elinor took the path along the bank to the gate by the Frostwick Bridge. She laid her fingers on the gate’s wrought-iron screen, touching it at the precise spot where Holdsworth’s hand had touched hers. The metal was cold, rough and unresponsive. She snatched her hand away. She opened the gate and walked quickly over the bridge.

  As far as she could tell, she had the college gardens to herself. She slipped under the shelter of the plane, which enclosed her like an enormous green tent, with its branches hanging like curtains to the ground.

  It was cool and private here. No one could see her. She could think of anything she wanted. Goodbye, Sylvia; forgive me and now leave me. She hugged herself and tried to imagine what it would be like to have a man’s arms around her.

  Come what may, she decided, she would write to Lady Anne when she got back to the Lodge. She would tell her that Dr Carbury was dying.

  But she was not alone after all. Wheels rattled and scraped on the flagstones of the chapel arcade. Someone was talking. Keeping well back, she changed her position so she could see through a gap between the branches. At first she thought Tom Turdman was making his rounds. She realized her mistake as a man and a woman appeared, framed in one of the arches of the arcade.

  It was Philip Whichcote. And on his arm was a dumpy little lady old enough to be his mother.

  As Elinor watched, they walked along the façade of New Building. Behind them came a barrow piled high with portmanteaus and boxes and drawn by two servants, scarcely more than children. Elinor recognized Whichcote’s footboy. The other was a tall, thin girl whose legs and arms had grown too long for her dress.

  The rooms in New Building were arranged in sets served by three staircases. Whichcote went into the nearer of the staircases, accompanied by the lady. The barrow stopped and the servants set to unloading its cargo.

  Whichcote was coming into residence. It was a sign, Elinor thought, a manifestation of God’s displeasure with her for her adulterous desires. How could she forget Sylvia when Whichcote was here?

  38

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to?’ Holdsworth said.

  ‘None of your business.’ Frank glared at him. ‘You said you could do nothing more for me, so I’m doing it myself instead.’

  They were on the corner of Wall Lane and King Street. Holdsworth’s irritation subsided rapidly, for Frank was so clearly safe and more or less in his right mind.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Frank said.

  ‘I met a sheriff’s man at Lambourne House when I came searching for you. Why did you run off like a thief in the night?’

  Frank flushed. ‘I knew you’d try to stop me. But I won’t be stopped, do you hear? I’ve been living a nightmare all these weeks, and I have determined to deal with it once and for all.’

  ‘I am rejoiced to hear it,’ Holdsworth said. ‘And I would not stand in your way for the world. Have you seen Mr Whichcote?’

  ‘They would not let me in.’

  ‘Have you eaten this morning?’

  ‘I’ve not had time.’

  ‘Nor have I. Let’s remedy that now. If they won’t allow you to see Mr Whichcote, there’s nothing you can do here for the moment, and we cannot talk in the street.’

  Frank allowed himself to be drawn down King Street, where the smells through the open door of a coffee house added to the force of Holdsworth’s arguments. They went inside. It was a down-at-heel establishment frequented in the main by poorer students. No one paid much attention to the newcomers.

  They ordered a substantial breakfast. While they waited, Holdsworth tried to initiate a conversation, but Frank avoided this by seizing one of the newspapers that were about the place and reading it with great concentration.

  After they had eaten, however, he laid down his fork and said casually, ‘I’m damned if I’ll skulk in the country any more.’

  ‘No more quack quack then?’

  Frank laughed. ‘No more quack quack.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Why, I shall go back to Jerusalem. And I shall deal with Whichcote as he deserves, one way or another. For Sylvia’s sake.’

  Dear God, Holdsworth thought, pray do not let the young fool call him out. The romantic and quite possibly fatal trappings of a duel were just the thing to appeal to a young man in Frank’s condition.

  ‘There’s no point in delaying,’ Frank went on. ‘I shall return today. Now, in fact.’

  ‘Now? Should you not at least write and –?’

  ‘I do not think there is the slightest need to do so.’ He stared down his nose at Holdsworth. ‘I do not think I am under any obligation to consult anyone’s convenience in the matter.’

  ‘I have a question for you.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing more to tell you so you need not trouble to ask. Besides, I have told you enough already. My mother hired you to be my keeper, Mr Holdsworth. Whatever I say will go straight back to her.’

  ‘You forget, sir. I discharged myself. And you confirmed that yourself when you told me why you walked into Cambridge without informing me of the fact. Anything we talk about will therefore be in the nature of a private conversation. If you tell me anything that you wish to remain confidential, it will be so.’

  Holdsworth sat back and poured himself another cup of coffee. He knew his argument was sophistical. But that, he thought, might not signify very much. This was not a matter of reason, and never had been. The only problem was that Frank was sitting tight-lipped and silent. He showed no sign of wanting to talk about anything.

  ‘Tabitha Skinner,’ Holdsworth said, abandoning finesse.

  ‘Never heard of her. Who’s she?’

  ‘A fourteen-year-old girl. She died on the same night as Mrs Whichcote, apparently in consequence of a fit, in the house of Mrs Phear in Trumpington Street.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘Never heard of her either.’

  ‘I cannot believe that the two deaths are not linked in some way,’ Holdsworth said. ‘The same night. The connection between Mrs Phear and Mr Whichcote. And the meeting of the Holy Ghost Club.’

  ‘Well, if they are I know nothing about it,’ Frank said, pushing back his chair. ‘You’ll oblige me by putting this out of your mind entirely. I shall go back to college now.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d permit me to walk with you,’ Holdsworth suggested. ‘I shall have to call at the Lodge to tell Dr Carbury that I am no longer acting for her ladyship, at least in regard to you. And I’d better advise Mr Richardson of it too, as your tutor.’

  ‘You may accompany me,’ Frank announced in a lordly manner. ‘It would not inconvenience me in the slightest.’

  ‘Then once we have paid our shot here, we may as well be on our way.’

  Frank waved to the waiter. Suddenly his assurance dropped away. ‘I have no money on me, as it happens. That’s why that blockhead at the sponging house wouldn’t let me in.’

  Holdsworth said nothing.

  ‘I’d ask them to send me the bill,’ Frank rushed on, ‘but they do not know me here and it might be a little tiresome. If you’d advance what’s necessary, it would oblige me extremely.’

  Ho
ldsworth bowed politely. Frank see-sawed between needy schoolboy and imperious young gentleman. When he opened his mouth, it was hard to know which of them would speak.

  On their way back to Jerusalem, Frank’s irritation evaporated and he grew more and more cheerful. He looked about him as they went, peering in shop windows and surreptitiously glancing at the prettier girls they passed. ‘I have been so dull these last few weeks,’ he said as they were passing Christ’s. ‘I had not realized how much I missed all this.’

  They met no one they knew on the way. Frank was travel-stained and dressed in the clothes he wore for shooting. He was not immediately recognizable, shorn of his trappings as a fellow-commoner. But all this changed once they passed the gates of Jerusalem. Mepal saw them enter and was outside his lodge in a flash.

  ‘Mr Oldershaw, sir.’ He doffed his hat and bowed as low as he was able. ‘A sight for sore eyes, sir, if I may be so bold.’

  ‘I’m glad to be back,’ Frank said with a wave that embraced the entire college and conveyed the impression that all of it belonged to him. ‘I want someone to go over to Whitebeach Mill. They must tell Mulgrave he must close up there and bring our belongings – mine and Mr Holdsworth’s – back to college. I shall want to see him as soon as he’s here. In the meantime, where’s my bedmaker?’

  ‘Sal, sir? She’s on your staircase now, sir, in Mr Archdale’s rooms.’

  ‘Send her to me. And I want a shave, too. Send for the barber as well. You’d better tell Sal I want hot water brought up. By the bye, is Mr Richardson in the way? I should call on him first.’

  Mepal’s eyes slid towards Holdsworth, who had played no part in the conversation but had remained to one side, a spectator. ‘The fellows are in the combination room, sir. College meeting.’

  ‘Oh. So Dr Carbury will be there?’

  ‘I regret to say the Master is unwell, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Frank glanced at Holdsworth, as if for guidance. ‘I shall go to –’ His forehead wrinkled. ‘Good God.’

  He was staring past Mepal and Holdsworth. Holdsworth turned. The court itself was empty, but there were two figures, a tall, thin girl and a smaller but equally thin boy, framed in the arched opening at the right-hand end of the chapel arcade.