‘Perhaps it’s as well Harry couldn’t join us,’ he said with his back to Holdsworth.
‘Yes. I have something I wish to say to you alone. This threat of blackmail from Mr Whichcote – do you wish me to try to help you? Or not.’
‘Oh, sir – I will be utterly confounded if you won’t.’ Frank turned his head. The gaiety had drained away from his face, exposing something pinched and desperate underneath. ‘If he talks about the club, it means ruin for me. And my mother –I believe it would kill her. I will do anything you ask, sir, anything – only save me from this devil.’
Holdsworth leaned back in his chair. ‘Mr Oldershaw, I cannot hope to be of service to you unless you tell me everything.’
‘Of course – whatever you like.’
‘Tabitha Skinner.’
There was silence. Frank looked away.
‘When I asked you about her this morning in the coffee house, you said you had not heard of her, and then you were very haughty and we left.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was unmannerly – I acted out of turn, I –’
‘But this afternoon I hinted to Mr Whichcote that he might be in danger of having a criminal charge laid against him. It was a bow at a venture but it struck home. Just as Tabitha Skinner has done with you. Young men drink and gamble and join clubs – that is reprehensible, no doubt, and their mothers will disapprove if they learn the truth. But you fear more than disapproval here, just as Mr Whichcote does. And I am persuaded that the key to this puzzle is Tabitha Skinner.’
Holdsworth waited. Frank came back to the table and poured more wine. He raised his glass and Holdsworth thought for a moment that the foolish boy was about to propose yet another toast. Instead he stared at the candle flame through the wine and said, ‘If I tell you what happened that night, will you promise not to tell a living soul? And also –’ He broke off and swallowed the wine. ‘I – I know I have not acted wisely.’
Holdsworth thought of his own behaviour since Georgie had died. ‘You are not alone in that.’
‘Well, then, sir. When a man is made a full member of the Holy Ghost Club, it is said he becomes an Apostle and an apostolic name is bestowed on him. I was made an Apostle at the meeting in February. And there is a ceremony that is done on these occasions, a part of the proceedings that must not be omitted. We were sworn to secrecy but I shall break my oath.’ He looked into his empty glass, which was still in his hand. ‘The candidate must lie with a girl. There and then.’
‘So Mr Whichcote provides a whore for the purpose?’ Holdsworth said, after the silence had grown too long.
‘Not exactly. The club is named for the Holy Ghost.’ Frank rapped the table with the spoon, as if to put a peculiar emphasis on the words ‘Holy Ghost’. ‘And so …’
‘So?’
‘We are taught that when Mary bore the Infant Jesus she was – in a manner of speaking – impregnated by the Holy Ghost.’ He sat back and at last put down his glass. ‘Now do you see?’
Holdsworth shook his head.
‘Mary was a young virgin, sir,’ Frank hissed.
‘Ah.’
Frank recoiled from the distaste in Holdsworth’s face. ‘Mr Whichcote made it seem – made it seem so entirely a matter of course. Indeed, something devoutly to be desired.’
‘I don’t judge you,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I judge him.’
Frank began to speak again, more rapidly: ‘A little room at the pavilion is fitted up as a bedchamber and the virgin waits there for the candidate. She is dressed all in white and tied to the bed. There was also an old woman in the room, though I did not see her properly and I believe she wore a mask. She was an ugly little thing like an old toad in a nun’s wimple. I was not meant to meet her – I was before my time, you see, for I was so hot for the girl I could wait no longer. I went in and the girl was lying on the bed, just as Whichcote promised. But – but as soon as I saw her, I knew she was dead.’
‘How had she died? By her own hand?’
‘I saw no wound on her. She was merely – merely dead. Her face was strange – terribly discoloured and disfigured. Her eyes were open.’
‘You told no one of this?’ Holdsworth said. ‘You realize that lays you open to a charge of misprision of felony at the very least?’
‘It’s worse than that, sir. Whichcote will say her death was my doing, that it was at my hand, and I forced him to help me cover it up. But I swear I never touched her, I never even saw her living face. You must believe me. I swear I did not kill her.’
At suppertime, Dr Carbury stirred. He became conscious and was sufficiently lucid to indicate that he was hungry. First, they got him on to his night-chair. Then they wiped down his stomach, as near as they could judge where the cancer was, with a decoction made from the leaves of deadly nightshade boiled in milk. They changed his nightgown and put him in his bed, propped up against the pillows. He was tired but still in remarkably good spirits, considering everything, and still hungry.
Elinor fed him with a light gruel of oatmeal and butter, and a spoonful or two of a jelly made of calves’ feet flavoured with lemon peel, cinnamon, mace and sugar. He asked for wine, and she allowed him half a glass. He seemed to enjoy the food, though he brought most of it up almost at once. Afterwards, he beckoned Elinor towards him, closer and closer until her face was no more than two inches from his, and she smelled the wine and the sickroom on his breath.
‘Soresby?’ he whispered.
‘No news, sir. As soon as there is, you shall know.’
Carbury patted her hand and said unexpectedly that she was a good girl. Tears pricked her eyelids.
They laid him down and in a few minutes he was asleep again. By now it was quite dark. Elinor left her husband in the care of the nurse. She went downstairs and ordered Susan to take up the sal ammoniac and quicklime to place in the doctor’s night-chair to neutralize the disagreeable smells.
Susan peeped through her lashes and asked whether her mistress knew that Mr Frank Oldershaw had returned to college.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Please, ma’am, Ben says Mr Mepal said he’s quite his old self again.’
As Susan mentioned Ben’s name, she twitched as if someone had touched her skin with the point of a pin. It gave the girl pleasure even to mention his name to a third party. Elinor shivered at the thought of what a man’s touch could do. It led her quite naturally to the next question, though she already knew the answer to it.
‘And Mr Holdsworth?’ she said. ‘Is he returned too?’
Another shiver, a tiny internal tremor, delicious and disturbing.
‘Yes, ma’am, but Mr Richardson decided it was better not to disturb you so they found him rooms in New Building. And he’s not the only one, ma’am. Mr Whichcote’s there too, and the bailiffs are at the gates.’
Elinor sent Susan away. The room had grown intolerably stuffy, which did nothing for her aching head. The stink from Dr Carbury’s night-chair seemed to fill the house. She went out into the garden to escape it. There was no one to stop her now: she could walk there whenever she pleased, day or night.
Her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. Here the air smelled clean, of earth and growing things. She drifted down the path towards the gate that led to Mr Frostwick’s bridge over the Long Pond. She had in her mind some half-formed notion that she might take a turn about the college gardens.
But before she reached the gate she stopped abruptly a few yards away from it. It was only a trick of the light but it seemed to her that there was something pale moving behind the elaborate pattern of the ironwork: something pale and formless on the bridge itself.
But it was not in the least like a person. Or mist. Or like anything at all. Merely an impression of pallor, fleeting and fluid. There was nothing unsettling or mysterious about it whatsoever. But the harder she looked the less of it she saw, until it seemed to have evaporated entirely.
Nonsense – there had been nothing there. The more she thought about it, the more she thought
that the thing – the pallid patch – whatever one called it – must have been a trivial consequence of tiredness acting upon her imagination, and that there had been nothing really there on the bridge. Alternatively there was a simple physical cause, which the science of optics could explain in a flash. It was probably connected with the headache.
For some reason she wondered what John Holdsworth would say if she told him of these absurd thoughts. She shivered again. She was growing a little cold, and perhaps she should make herself eat something. She must keep up her strength, after all, for everyone knew that lack of food could give a person quite absurd fancies.
42
Mrs Phear made Augustus work for the privilege of having her roof over his head. He was up before dawn and set to cleaning shoes and scouring pots. Dorcas had her own tasks; and besides she was cross and there were dark smudges under her eyes. ‘That Tabitha,’ she muttered as they passed each other in the scullery, ‘she don’t let me rest. Worse than the old cow herself.’
Mrs Phear sent him away in time for him to join the crowd of college servants waiting for admission on the forecourt outside Jerusalem. Early though it was, he found Mr Whichcote already out of bed. Still in dressing gown and nightcap, he was at the table in the little study with his papers spread out before him. He swore at the boy, but absent-mindedly, and set him to tidying the rooms and laying out clothes.
Slowly the college came to life. The bell rang for chapel. The footboy had just begun to brush his master’s coat when Whichcote sent him out to fetch breakfast.
With a feeling of release, Augustus ran downstairs. He joined the queue of servants at the college kitchens. After chapel, everyone wanted breakfast at once, some in hall, some in their own rooms. The worst part of the waiting were the smells – hot rolls and coffee in particular – which seduced his tastebuds and set his mouth watering.
There was a tap on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up. Mulgrave was looking down at him, his mouth pursed and nose wrinkled.
‘Do you know how to find Mr Oldershaw’s rooms?’ he demanded in an undertone.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Cut along there now.’
‘But, sir, Mr Whichcote’s breakfast –’
‘This won’t take long. You won’t get served for at least another ten minutes. I’ll hold your place.’
Augustus hesitated.
‘See that?’ Mulgrave pointed to the weal on his cheek. ‘That devil Whichcote did it to me. If you’re not careful he’ll do worse to you. You don’t want to stay with a master like that. This is your chance, boy, so for Christ’s sake take it while you can.’
‘There’s not much time,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Listen carefully.’
They were alone because Frank was still in his bedroom. Holdsworth stared down at the boy, who was standing with his head bowed and his scrawny little body trembling.
‘You’re in want of another situation. As I told you yesterday, Mr Oldershaw is a very rich man. He and his family have many servants. He has promised he will find you a position. I don’t know in what capacity yet but I assure you it will be vastly more satisfactory than the one you have now.’
The boy raised his head. ‘But what do I have to do, sir?’
Holdsworth concealed his relief. ‘Mr Whichcote brought certain papers into college with him. He intends to use them to cause harm. I wish to remove them before he can do so. Do you remember when I called on him yesterday after dinner?’
Augustus nodded.
‘He was sitting in the little room when you opened the door to me. I think he was working on these papers then. Do you know the ones I mean?’
‘Yes, sir. He keeps them in the little valise. He takes them out when he’s writing his letters.’
‘Letters? To whom?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘This valise – I believe I saw it on the table.’
‘It’s got his crest on, sir, and two big locks. Most particular about locking up, he is, every time – the valise and the study door.’
‘And where does he put this valise when he is not there?’
‘There’s a cupboard in the window seat. They keep extra coals there in winter.’
‘Good. One more thing. If Mr Whichcote forms the design of leaving college, for any reason, you must find a way to let me know.’ Holdsworth felt in his pocket for a coin. ‘Here – take this.’
He held out a half-crown. Augustus moved as if to take it but then stopped when his hand was a few inches away from Holdsworth’s.
‘Dorcas, sir?’
‘What about her?’
‘Can Mr Oldershaw find her a situation too?’
‘Mr Oldershaw is always generous to those who have rendered him a service,’ Holdsworth said, wondering whether this was in fact true. ‘I have already told him of her frankness yesterday. He will find a position for her if she wishes to leave her mistress.’
He let the coin fall. Augustus caught it in mid-air.
When Augustus had gone, Holdsworth walked up and down the room. By talking to Augustus and Dorcas, he had inevitably placed himself in their power. But there was no other way to achieve what he wanted. If they exposed him, which was possible, he would become an embarrassment to Frank and to Lady Anne. He thought the Oldershaws would protect him but he could not be entirely sure. On the whole, the great ones of the world had become great and remained great partly because they resolutely placed their own interests first.
The bedroom door opened and Frank emerged.
‘I heard voices – how did you fare with the lad?’
‘I think you are not the only one.’
‘What?’
‘The boy says that Whichcote is writing letters,’ Holdsworth said. ‘He has other victims. The archives of the club are full of them.’
‘Will the boy help us?’
‘He says he will do it. But he’s in want of a situation, here or in London, and so is that friend of his. Can it be arranged?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Cross will see to it. The boy seems obliging. I met him yesterday, you know. I saw Archdale last night and he said I might tell you about it.’
‘Why should there be any secret?’ Holdsworth asked.
‘Because it concerns Soresby. Harry has a bee in his bonnet about the man. He asked me not to mention it before.’
‘Why?’
‘He feels sorry for him, I think. Or some such nonsense. Mulgrave tipped us the wink that Soresby is Tom Turdman’s nephew. Soresby kept that very quiet, which I suppose is not to be wondered at. And nothing would satisfy Harry but that we should go and ask Tom where Soresby might be. Mepal knew where to find him and Whichcote’s footboy showed us the way. It was the damnedest thing, Mr Holdsworth – Tom wasn’t there but his old wife was. And she was wearing a pair of slippers. Just as we were leaving, the boy pipes up and says they were his mistress’s slippers.’
Holdsworth frowned. ‘His mistress?’
‘He meant Mrs Whichcote.’
‘Then surely the boy was mistaken?’
‘No. You do not understand – I recognized them too. I chanced to be with Mr Whichcote when he bought them. The shopman said he had them from a Barbary merchant, and they were very finely made. And of a particular red with a pattern on it. Ricky had been trying to din some Euclid into me at the time and the pattern seemed to illustrate one of the propositions about congruent triangles. Whichcote made quite a joke of it and the shopman said he had not taken us for mathematical gentlemen.’
‘Are you sure of the identification?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I have them here.’
Frank went into the study. He came out with a pair of slippers in his hand and placed them on the table.
Holdsworth stared at them. ‘Where did Tom get them – and when? Have you talked to him?’
Frank nodded. ‘The boy fetched him out of an alehouse. He was a trifle boozy, but we got some sense out of him in the end. He said he’d picked them up at the back of the Master’
s Lodge. It was a day or two after Mrs Whichcote died, he wasn’t sure when. You recall that there is a paved walk from the garden door? One of them was half concealed beneath the hedge that borders it, and the other was nearby beside an urn.’
The slippers were sturdy enough in their way but designed to be worn in the house or when strolling in a garden on a fine day. Holdsworth turned the nearer one over. The original sole was still there but it had been covered with a much heavier one, clumsily stitched to the upper. Both uppers were scuffed and stained.
‘She must have run through the streets in them,’ Frank said. ‘Just before she died. Tom had a cobbler repair them.’
‘Why slippers? Why not something stouter, and a pair of overshoes as well?’
‘I think she was so desperate to leave that brute of a husband that she took what lay to hand – the gown, the cloak, those slippers. After that beating she’d have run stark-naked through the streets to get away from him.’
‘But still, is it possible there is another explanation for the slippers?’ Holdsworth said, half to himself. ‘Why did no one else see them? Could she have left them at the Lodge after a previous visit, perhaps because they were damaged?’
‘I know she was wearing them. Do you hear? I know it.’
Holdsworth looked up. The boy’s eyes shone unnaturally bright, as if with tears.
‘When she came to me that night, at Mr Whichcote’s, I was sitting on the bed in my chamber.’ His voice was hoarse and scarcely louder than a whisper. ‘She heard the sounds of my distress, sir, and she came to me like the angel she was. I was weeping because of that poor girl, because of everything. And Sylvia drew my head against her bosom. She called me her poor love and mingled her tears with mine.’
Holdsworth suppressed an unkind desire to laugh at this affecting narrative. Trust youth to turn an episode of drunken adultery into a three-volume novel and present it to you before breakfast.
‘Then the button dropped off,’ Frank went on.
‘What button?’ said Holdsworth, taken by surprise.
‘The one from my coat – the club livery. I was still wearing the coat. She and I bent to pick up the button at the same time. Which was when I saw those slippers on her feet. And that was when her dressing gown fell open, and, oh God – and I –’
The Anatomy of Ghosts Page 35