‘Indeed, Mr Dow.’ Carbury glowered down the table at him. ‘You do not seek to make excuses for Mr Archdale, I trust? You would not make light of his behaviour?’
‘No, no, Master. A virtuous mind allied to a cultivated understanding must ever -’
‘Depend upon it, I shall have a word with Mr Archdale tomorrow,’ Richardson put in smoothly. ‘A word in time saves nine, as they say. After all, Horace’s recipe advises only a dash of folly in one’s wisdom, and Mr Archdale appears to have mistaken the proportions in his moral cookery.’
The little witticism raised a general laugh around the table, though Holdsworth noticed that Carbury did not join in. When the meal was over, the company moved to the combination room, which lay immediately behind the dais. Two tables had been set up, each with its own kettle to hand; one was for the tea drinkers, and the other for those who preferred punch. Some of the party continued with their wine.
Mr Richardson was among the tea drinkers. He turned to Holdsworth with a smile and offered him the chair on his left. Dr Carbury took the seat at the head of the table with the decanter at his elbow. He leaned towards Holdsworth, and was on the verge of speaking when he was interrupted by a shout of laughter from the other table, where most of the younger fellows had gathered.
‘What is it?’ Carbury asked. His thick lips were stained purple with wine. ‘Why are they making that damned racket?’
‘Mr Miskin has proposed another wager, Master,’ Richardson answered. ‘No doubt we shall soon learn its nature.’
Not five minutes later a college servant appeared at Richardson’s shoulder and murmured that Mr Miskin begged permission to enter a wager in the wager book. Richardson graciously gave his consent.
‘The younger men derive much enjoyment from their wager book,’ he told Holdsworth. ‘And some of the older ones, I am afraid. We shall soon find out what it is – before the wager is officially enacted, it must be approved by me; and to do that, I must see the book and initial the entry. By virtue of being the senior fellow, you see, I am president of this combination room.’
‘We must not bore our guest with the minutiae of our parlour,’ Carbury interrupted. ‘His time is too valuable. Mr Holdsworth, sir, will you take a glass with me?’
Holdsworth could not decently refuse. Richardson watched them, and for an instant the pink, wet tip of his tongue flickered between his lips.
‘You must let me know how I may be of service to you,’ Carbury said once he had drained his glass. ‘I shall place myself quite at your disposal.’
‘Yes,’ Richardson said, drawing out the monosyllable. ‘After all, Mr Holdsworth is here on behalf of Lady Anne, and I know you like to oblige her ladyship. As of course we all do.’
The words seemed innocuous, but Carbury flushed a deeper colour.
Richardson turned to Holdsworth. ‘I wonder, sir, when would you find it convenient for me to show you our library? I am at liberty tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m afraid I shall be engaged in the morning.’ Holdsworth saw in Richardson’s face a fleeting change of expression, a sharpening of interest, instantly smoothed away. ‘But after dinner, perhaps, if you could spare me an hour or so?’
‘With all my heart. At six o’clock? Would that be agreeable? I shall speak to my library clerk, too – you must call on him for assistance while you are here.’
‘At what hour do you dine?’
‘Three o’clock,’ Richardson said. ‘We are sadly rustic, I am afraid. Indeed, until a few years ago we continued to dine at one o’clock, just as our fathers and grandfathers had done. In Cambridge, three o’clock is considered almost shamefully à la mode. Shall you join us tomorrow, Mr Holdsworth? I do hope so.’
‘Unfortunately, I cannot say for certain at this moment. My time is not my own.’
The combination-room servant was now hovering with a tray bearing pen and ink, and a quarto-sized book bound in leather. Richardson told the man to lay it on the table in front of him.
‘Now, let us see what they propose to do this time.’ He opened the book and turned the pages. ‘Ah – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that – ah -’ He broke off, frowning slightly; but after a moment he picked up the pen and initialled the entry.
Richardson glanced across the table at Carbury. He turned the page to the previous set of wagers, angling the book so the light was better for Holdsworth to read by. ‘Some of the bets are trivial matters of interest only to ourselves, but others touch on University affairs or even matters of national moment. You see? Here is one about Mr Pitt’s changes to the administration; and here is another about the plane tree in Herodotus. And here – oh dear – Mr Miskin wagers Mr Whichcote that he can arrange the fellowship in order of weight. Mr Miskin is one of our livelier young men. I regret to say that in that case we were obliged to bring in the buttery scales to establish the victor.’
‘Mr Whichcote?’ Holdsworth said, playing the innocent. ‘The gentleman who was mentioned earlier, who was dining with Mr Archdale? Is he a fellow of the college too?’
‘Oh no. But he is something of a personage at Jerusalem. He often makes an appearance in the wager book.’
Richardson’s head was very close to Holdsworth’s own. Immediately behind Richardson on the table was a candlestick, and the light from those flames threw his face into shadow and illuminated Holdsworth’s.
Holdsworth said carefully, ‘Have I heard the name elsewhere? It seems familiar.’
‘It’s possible. Or you may have come across other members of the family. Their principal seat is in Northumberland. Our Mr Whichcote belongs to a cadet branch. He was admitted at this college as a pensioner some ten or twelve years ago but he did not take his degree. Like so many of our young men, he was not what you would call a hard-reading man. However, he still resides in Cambridge and has many friends here.’
He would have said more but Dr Carbury had a fit of coughing and spluttering. The servant was at his side in a moment, offering a glass of water. Carbury took a sip and waved the man away. His complexion had become mottled, and he was sweating. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘Pray excuse me,’ he said to Holdsworth. ‘I have some reading to do before bed. My servant will wait up for you in the Lodge. We shall meet again at breakfast, no doubt.’
Saying a general good night to the company, Carbury hurried from the room. The conversations around them began again, at a higher volume than before.
Holdsworth glanced down at the book on the table and turned the page. Here was the wager that had just been recorded: The Revd Mr Miskin wagers Mr Crowley two bottles of wine that the ghost will not appear again before the end of term.
‘So the college has a ghost?’ he said.
‘No, sir, we merely have a foolish story.’ Richardson closed the book and handed it to the servant. ‘The undergraduates make up tales to frighten each other.’
8
The gardens of Lambourne House ran down to the north bank of the River Cam. The previous owner, Mr Whichcote’s great-uncle, had built the elegant pavilion there; its tall windows had a fine prospect over the water, with Jesus Green and Midsummer Common beyond. On the ground floor was a loggia where one could sit and take the air on fine afternoons. The pavilion seemed far removed from the bustle of Cambridge, though in fact Mr Essex’s Great Bridge into the town was only a few hundred yards away in one direction, and the gaol in the castle gatehouse a few hundred yards in another.
The principal apartment was on the first floor, a large, south-facing room in the form of a double cube. Mr Whichcote’s great-uncle had used it as a gallery to display his collection of antique statuary; he also applied himself there to the main occupation of his declining years, a biographical and critical study of Archbishop Ussher. The room was entirely separate from the house, which was why Philip Whichcote usually entertained his bachelor parties there. Some of his visitors preferred to be discreet about their comings and goings, and for these retiring souls the river frontage had much to recommend it, particularly in the warmer weather.