The Anatomy of Ghosts

by Andrew Taylor

  They listened to his unsteady footsteps on the landing. Holdsworth laid five keys on the table. They were tied together with a piece of string.

  ‘Should we wait, sir?’ Frank said in a whisper, though there was no one to hear. ‘Until it’s darker, I mean.’

  ‘Too dangerous. We don’t know how long Whichcote will be.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘It will be better if I go alone. But would you be so good as to walk awhile in the arcade by the chapel, as if you’re taking the air? If Whichcote returns, he must come that way. You will see him coming through the main gate and you will have time to warn me. I am on the same staircase so no one will wonder to see me there.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we shall see.’ Holdsworth stood up and pocketed the keys. ‘It partly depends on Mrs Phear, does it not? How long she keeps him.’

  ‘Under the tree?’ Elinor said as Susan cleared away the supper things.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am?’

  ‘Yesterday you told me Ben took advantage of you for the first time in March. “Under the big tree.” Which tree?’

  Susan, always rosy, became purple-faced. ‘Oh, ma’am – the one by the pond, the Founder’s tree. He fooled me something terrible, he did, said he wanted to see my new cloak – you remember, ma’am? You’d just given it to me, and I’m so grateful, truly I am. So I slipped out in the night, he came over the wall from his lodging and he wanted to touch the cloak, and he was saying it was soft and warm like my skin, and then it was fondling and kissing and sweet words, and then –’

  ‘Stop,’ Elinor commanded. ‘But it was night-time. How did you get out of the house?’

  For an instant she surprised on the girl’s face a smug, almost mocking superiority. ‘Oh, ma’am,’ Susan said, ‘he made me come down the back stairs and let myself out the garden door. He’d left the gate at the bridge unlocked when he was doing his rounds. And he was there waiting for me.’

  Elinor thought how cold the March night must have been, and how warm their desire.

  ‘But I learned my lesson, ma’am. Next time we tried it, I had a terrible fright. I was there first, see, and someone bumped into me in the dark.’ She stared at Elinor with large brown eyes. ‘So I never went there again.’

  No, Elinor thought, you and Ben used the wash-house in the daytime instead. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘The person you encountered in the dark, the person who wasn’t Ben. I suppose it was Mr Frank Oldershaw?’

  45

  After supper, Mrs Phear made tea, humming as she set to work. Whichcote sat back in his chair. The curtains were drawn across the window, and the door was shut. He listened to the humming and the chink of spoons on china and the rustle of water into the pot. For the first time in days, he felt tranquil. When all this was done, he thought, he would move to London, and perhaps winter abroad in a dry and sunny climate where money would stretch further. He had had enough of the dampness of Cambridge with its Fen fogs and its dreary, provincial inhabitants.

  Mrs Phear passed him his cup. ‘You look a little better now. I declare you seemed quite hag-ridden when you came to the house.’

  ‘It has not been easy, dear madam. I am like a rat in a hole. If you’d not been here to lend a helping hand I might be still in that sponging house.’

  She frowned at him, rejecting his gratitude. ‘When will you send the first letters?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think. To start with, I have a peer of the realm, a dean, an under-secretary at the Ministry of War and a member of the Royal Household.’

  ‘It will take time. No one likes parting with money.’

  ‘I have time,’ Whichcote said. ‘Too much time.’

  ‘Though of course it is not merely money that’s the issue here. If this scandal with the girl rears its head, you will need powerful friends who feel it in their own interest to oblige you.’

  They stayed together for another hour, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in a comfortable silence. Mrs Phear took up her embroidery. At one point Whichcote was on the verge of drifting into a doze to the sound of her humming; and when he snapped awake, he was momentarily confused, believing himself a boy again in his father’s house, sitting in the little parlour with Mrs Phear and nodding over his book.

  He left the house at about a quarter past eleven, with Augustus beside him to carry the lantern. Inevitably they were obliged to walk slowly because Trumpington Street was ill-paved and ill-lit. Pembroke Lane was even darker and dirtier underfoot.

  ‘You are to return to Mrs Phear’s tonight,’ Whichcote said to Augustus. ‘I shall expect you to wait on me in the morning as soon as the gates open. I intend to make an early start of it.’

  They were passing the dark open space of the Leys on the right. Ahead, and on the left, was the faint glow of the lamp on the corner of the Beast Market.

  All of a sudden, Whichcote sensed the presence of danger. Perhaps there had been a sound or even a movement of the air. Something alerted him but the warning came too late.

  There were running footsteps behind him. The lantern was thrown to the ground, extinguishing the flame, and rolled away with a clatter. Someone seized his arm. Whichcote swung round, trying to bring his stick to bear, but his assailant twisted the wrist and forced him to drop it. His other arm was gripped and pushed up behind his back.

  He shouted for help. A hand clamped over his mouth, strangling the sound. Panic rose in his throat. He gasped for air.

  Thieves, damn them, but they would not find much in his purse. How many? All he had seen were indistinct silhouettes against the night sky. Two or three, possibly four.

  He struggled but it was no use. They held him tightly and dragged him into the field. In the distance he heard more footsteps, but they were running down the street, not towards him. That damned cowardly boy had abandoned him.

  Did they mean to murder him?

  His attackers threw him to the ground. He was face down in the mud with the taste of earth on his tongue. Someone kneeled on his back, jolting his spine. Many hands turned him this way and that. A rough and foul-tasting rag was thrust into his mouth. He gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.

  It was at this point that he realized that these were no thieves. No one had said a word. They were not searching his pockets or snatching at his rings. Then what the devil did they want?

  They bound his arms and legs with ropes, tightening them until he yelped at the pain. They grasped his legs and his shoulders, and swung him into the air. They marched deeper and deeper into the darkness. With every step they took, the jolting bruised his body.

  Time and distance lost their meaning. He was aware of nothing but pain and fear. They stopped abruptly. A bolt scraped. A hinge squealed. They carried him a few more yards and dropped him. He landed heavily and the impact winded him. He lay on the ground, whimpering.

  The door closed behind him. One bolt rattled home, followed by another. His nose pressed into cold earth. There was a smell of pigs. There was no one to hear him, no one to save him. He could not move.

  Tears forced their way through his eyelids. What were they going to do? His assailants must have some purpose. They had made him as helpless as a baby in swaddling clothes.

  An uncomfortable memory flooded into his mind: Tabitha Skinner, all in white, her face discoloured, tied to the bed with her legs apart, and waiting for the Holy Ghost to ravish her.

  Elinor Carbury’s bedchamber was next to her sitting room. She pressed her face against the window, to avoid the reflections of the room behind her. Her breath misted the glass. In daylight, if she stood to the right, and craned her head, she would be able to see the wall of the service yard and, if she stood on tiptoe, a corner of the private gate to Jerusalem Lane. She saw none of these things now because it was dark.

  An orange glow flickered and danced on the wall of the yard. She was almost sure of it. She could not see the source of the glow, only a faint, blurred reflection of the movement of flames.

&nb
sp; Elinor was still dressed. Further along the passage, Dr Carbury lay snoring gently, wrapped in the peace that only opium could give him. There was a night nurse sitting beside him. She was a sensible, experienced woman who could be relied on to do her duty. Ben had been sent away to his lodgings. Susan was in her attic. For a few precious minutes, even hours, Elinor was as free as air.

  She draped a shawl round her shoulders and went quietly downstairs. She unbolted and unlocked the garden door and went outside. She waited on the path, listening, feeling the coolness of the evening grow on her cheek. Her breath was coming more quickly than usual.

  She set off along the flagged path. The entrance to the yard was just before the Jerusalem Lane gate, bounded to the north by the crumbling, windowless wall of Yarmouth Hall. She heard the flames crackling as they devoured the fuel.

  The fire was brighter than Elinor had expected, shockingly vivid against the darkness. Holdsworth was standing beside the brazier. He must have heard her footsteps because he was looking in her direction. The flames changed his face, making it fiery and fluid, turning him into a devilish stranger. Suddenly she was mortally afraid.

  What am I doing?

  The fear vanished as quickly as it had come when he came forward and saw her.

  ‘I didn’t know who it was, madam,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I feared for a moment I was discovered.’

  She stood beside the brazier, holding out her hands to warm them. Scraps of paper flared brightly and crumbled almost instantly to grey ghosts of their old selves. Holdsworth poked the fire with a stick and the ghosts crumbled to powder. He dropped another handful of paper on to the embers.

  ‘How is Dr Carbury?’ he said.

  ‘Sleeping soundly.’

  ‘Does his health improve?’

  ‘Between ourselves, no. I am afraid that Dr Milton does not hold out any hope.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it. I hope my visit this afternoon did not –’

  ‘No, you must not trouble yourself in the least. Nothing you did or said can have made matters worse.’

  He did not speak. She watched him feeding the flames. The pile of papers diminished.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you about the ghost,’ she said. ‘But first – did it all go well?’

  ‘It could not have been easier. Mr Whichcote went to sup at Mrs Phear’s. No one was about. I found the valise where the boy said it would be and left with it bundled in a cloak. While I remember, I had better give you these.’ He took out a bunch of keys and handed them to her. ‘Will it inconvenience you to return them?’

  She shook her head. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘There is a book, a sort of club register, that gives the real names of the members and identifies them with their apostolic noms de guerre. And then there are two or three other volumes, journals or minute books, I believe, recording the activities of the club and its members. Over the years, each president of the club, each Jesus Christ, has maintained both the minute books and the register. One is of no value without the other. But, taken together, it is quite clear who did what and to whom. There are also drafts of letters that Mr Whichcote intends sending to a number of former members. They are carefully worded but their sense is quite clear. All he asks from them is their good offices and perhaps a small loan, and in return they may be quite sure that their youthful indiscretions will never return to haunt them.’

  ‘More ghosts,’ Elinor said. ‘It seems that we constantly manufacture them. We are factories of ghosts.’

  ‘These ghosts will soon lose their power.’

  ‘Have you read the material, sir?’ She moved back from the brazier, and in doing so stepped nearer to him. ‘Surely there’s not been time?’

  ‘I saw enough. I came by Mr Oldershaw’s rooms to make sure we had the right valise and went through the contents. It’s vile stuff.’

  Holdsworth had already torn the pages out of the books so they would be easier to burn. She crouched and took a handful of papers at random. She heard him draw in a sharp breath but he said nothing, and he did not try to stop her. She angled two or three of the sheets at the flames. Words danced before her in the shifting orange light.

  ‘My God! Mr Whichcote is writing to the Dean of Rosington! He dined here last term, a most agreeable man, and drank tea with me afterwards. And to Lord –’

  ‘Pray throw them on the fire, ma’am.’

  She let papers flutter into the brazier. She took up another page at random.

  ‘You should not distress yourself with this trash,’ Holdsworth said. ‘It is indelicate. And worse.’

  ‘I may be a mere woman, sir, but I am not easily shocked,’ she said without looking up. ‘This is but a record of human folly and there is nothing so out of the ordinary in that. Women are foolish creatures too.’

  He did not reply. He stooped and threw more papers on to the flames.

  ‘Who is this Richenda?’ she asked.

  ‘It appears that Morton Frostwick, a fellow-commoner at Jerusalem who was the president some twenty or thirty years ago, had a servant girl of that name. Pray let us leave it there.’

  ‘Good God,’ Elinor said.

  It was too late. She had turned over that piece of paper and found on the back a sketch, the likeness of a girl with regular, pretty features, looking over her shoulder at whoever was taking the likeness with a coyly inviting smile. Her finger toyed with a ringlet. Underneath was the single word Richenda.

  ‘But this – this is so like –’

  ‘Yes.’ He stretched out his hand for the paper. ‘You must be growing warm, ma’am – pray allow me to feed the fire.’

  On the other side of the brazier, the flames made Mr Holdsworth a stranger: half-silhouette, half-fire, all mystery. Richenda. The girl’s face and name came together in her mind with certain rumours about Morton Frostwick that had necessitated his abrupt departure from Jerusalem more than twenty years before. She recalled that there was a person still at college whom rumour (and Dr Carbury) had associated with him. As Soresby’s career showed, it was not easy for a poor and friendless sizar to defray the expenses of a University education, and in those days it had been even harder.

  ‘I recognize the face,’ Elinor said, studying the sketch. ‘See – do you not remark the likeness?’

  ‘Give it me, madam.’

  ‘In a moment. It might almost be Mr Richardson’s sister or daughter. But I know he has none for he told me once he was his parents’ only child and of course he is not married. Is it possible that this is not a servant girl at all, or any sort of girl, but –’

  ‘Yes,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Pray give me that paper.’

  ‘But, you see, this explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Oh – many things. And, most recently, why Mr Richardson has been so complacent about allowing Mr Whichcote to find refuge in college.’

  Holdsworth pulled another handful of papers from the valise. ‘This is not a pretty business, however one looks at it. I will not make it worse.’

  She watched him feeding the last of the papers to the flames. She glanced at the sketch. It might be necessary for her to negotiate with Mr Richardson in the near future and he had no reason to grant her favours. Perhaps this would help tip the balance.

  Holdsworth turned aside to empty the rest of the papers on to the fire. To Elinor it was as if he had reproved her, even rejected her, though God knew she had offered him nothing. He took out a pocket knife and slashed at the soft leather of the valise, chopping it into small fragments.

  ‘I do not know what I shall do,’ she said in a small voice.

  She stood with her head bowed and the sketch of Richenda in her hand. She tried not to think of the future. Was not the present enough for anyone?

  Holdsworth put down the knife and the ruined bag. He came towards her, making hardly any noise. For a big man, he moved quietly. She did not know what she would do. She did not know what she wanted, either.

  The fire was dying
. The air was growing cooler as the night advanced. She shivered, though whether it was from cold, fear, desire or a mixture of all three, she could not tell.

  ‘Let me put that paper on the fire for you, ma’am. It will be for the best.’

  Elinor looked at him. What are you really asking? What am I choosing?

  He came closer. She saw his face, the skin tinted orange by the light of the dying fire, and the hand he held out towards her. She did not move. His hand closed about her upper arm.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she turned towards him like a door swinging slowly on its hinge. His other hand slipped behind her waist. Frowning, she raised her head. He lowered his face and kissed her full on the mouth. She knew this was not possible. This must be a shameful dream.

  Her lips moved under his. There was an alien softness there, a warmth, which she had not expected, and also the prickle of stubble on his skin. Anything was possible in dreams. Her lips parted, and so did his. He tasted of smoke and wine and darkness.

  She pulled away from him and dropped the sketch on the fire. Richenda, the pretty girl with the coy smile, gained a final lease of life: she glowed with bright colours; she danced in the flames; she curled gracefully; and at last she blackened and crumbled away.

  ‘It’s growing cold, madam,’ Holdsworth said, in a voice so low she could hardly hear what he was saying. ‘You must go indoors. It would not do for you to catch a chill.’

  It was only afterwards, as she lay in bed hugging herself and thinking of what had happened, thinking of the feel of him on her skin and the taste of him in her mouth, that she realized she had forgotten to tell John Holdsworth about the ghost.

  46

  Philip Whichcote did not sleep. As the long night hours drifted past, he lay in a paralysis of discomfort varied with stabs of cramp that became steadily more frequent and more acute.

  He did not know who had attacked him, or why. Did they mean to leave him here to die? Did they mean to murder him?