On Friday, 26 May, Whichcote played cards after dinner with a group of young friends, some from Jerusalem, some from other colleges. Despite its noble proportions, the room did not look its best in the merciless early evening sunlight. It was better in the evening, when candlelight cast a forgiving glow on ragged curtains, on frayed Turkey carpets spotted with burns, and on walls stained with smoke and with the damps of winter.
By now most of the guests had gone. Only Harry Archdale was left. He sat with his host at a table beside one of the windows. He was a plump youth with large, wet lips and a small chin. When and if he reached the age of twenty-five, he would acquire complete control of a fortune estimated at nearly £3,000 a year. He was playing piquet with Whichcote and was inordinately excited because he had won the last game. This had distracted him from the fact that he had lost not only the previous five but also the partie as a whole.
Augustus, the little footboy, slipped into the room and sidled around the walls until he reached his master’s chair. He murmured in Mr Whichcote’s ear that Mr Mulgrave was waiting his pleasure up at the house.
‘Well, I had you on the run that time, eh?’ Archdale said, beaming and perspiring and seeming plumper than ever, as though someone were inflating him with gas. ‘You can’t deny that – you’d better look to your winnings! Another partie?’
Whichcote smiled at his guest. ‘I regret we must postpone it. I have a small matter of business to attend to.’
The animation slipped from Archdale’s face. ‘Philip,’ he said in a rush, ‘I rode out to Barnwell yesterday afternoon and tried to see Frank. But they wouldn’t let me in. There’s nothing wrong, is there? I thought you said he is on the mend?’
‘Indeed he is. Your feelings do you credit, Harry, but you must not disturb yourself in the slightest. I have it on very good authority that he is making excellent progress. Why, I believe he may soon remove to London to be with his mother. They would not let him travel if he were not in good health, would they?’
‘I suppose not. But why is he like this? I cannot understand it.’
‘It’s simple enough. His imagination is disordered. You saw what he was like that last day when you dined with him at the Hoop. Full of fears and fidgets. I had supper with him in college that evening, you know, and he was in such a melancholy state one could hardly distinguish it from mania. Poor fellow, I have seen this happen before – he had been living too hard; some men can take it, others can’t. Frank is not as strong as you, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve always been robust.’
‘Quite so. But not everyone is so fortunate in his constitution. Frank’s nervous prostration is nothing out of the way. All that is needed is a little time away from the world. Nine times out of ten, tranquillity is the best medicine. If I’ve seen it answer once I’ve seen it answer a dozen times. You may depend upon it that after the Long Vacation Frank will be back among us and quite his old self.’
‘Still, I wish they’d let me see him.’
‘I am sure they soon will.’ Whichcote smiled at him. ‘Now – much as I wish you would stay, did you not tell me you had invited a party of friends to supper?’
‘Supper?’ Archdale pulled out his watch, a handsomely enamelled French piece. ‘Good God, is it as late as that? Devil take it, I had meant to work at my exercise for Mr Richardson before supper.’
‘Ricky will wait, I am sure.’
‘You do not understand. This is to be my entry for the Vauden Medal. And my guardian wishes to see it before I submit it. He dines in Jerusalem on Sunday, and he has a most particular interest in the medal, because his brother won it.’
‘Surely that’s no reason why you should trouble yourself in the matter?’
‘It is if I wish him to increase my allowance. I must at least enter for it. No, I must go. I must not waste an instant.’
Whichcote summoned Augustus. Archdale pushed back his chair and stood up. Almost immediately he lost his balance and was forced to cling to the table, knocking over his glass and spilling what was left of his wine. The footboy steadied him. Archdale pushed the servant’s arm away.
‘Clumsy oaf,’ he said. ‘Look what you made me do.’
Whichcote had crossed the room to a writing table. ‘You may as well sign these now,’ he said. ‘Then we’re square for next time.’
Archdale staggered to the writing table and scrawled his signature at the foot of a note of hand for sixty-four guineas. Afterwards, Whichcote conducted his visitor to the punt moored at the little jetty on the river bank. Augustus followed, carrying Archdale’s cap and gown with a certain reverence. Archdale was a fellow-commoner, so the cap was velvet with a gold tassel, and the gown was richly trimmed with gold lace. Whichcote and the footboy manoeuvred him from the safety of dry land.
Cursing and puffing, Archdale settled himself on the cushions. He lay back, legs splayed apart, twitching like an upturned turtle. Signing away sixty-four guineas had raised his spirits again. He waggled his finger at Whichcote on the bank. ‘I’ve got you on the run, eh?’ he crowed. ‘Soon we shall have another partie, eh, and this time you shall find me quite merciless.’
At a sign from his master, Augustus worked the pole out of the mud and expertly punted the unwieldy craft into the centre of the stream. Whichcote raised his hand in farewell and walked slowly up the garden to the side door of the house.
Mulgrave was sitting on a bench in the hall. As soon as Whichcote opened the door, the gyp sprang to his feet and bowed, a little awkwardly because of his lopsided shoulders. The two men had known each other ever since Whichcote had come up to Jerusalem at the age of seventeen.
‘I thought you’d want to hear right away, sir,’ Mulgrave said. ‘Her ladyship’s man came by the coach this afternoon.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Holdsworth. They say he’s a bookseller from London.’
‘A bookseller?’ Whichcote repeated, amused. ‘I expected a physician or a lawyer. Where does he lodge?’
‘With the Master, sir.’
‘How did he strike you?’
‘Holdsworth?’ Mulgrave looked at Whichcote, his face guileless. ‘A big man. Bigger than poor Mr Cross, and younger too. Just as well.’ He paused a moment. ‘He don’t look as if he smiles much.’
On the same Friday evening, Mr Philip Whichcote called on Mrs Phear. The lady lived on the east side of Trumpington Street, opposite Peterhouse, in a small double-fronted house, with four prim windows overlooking the street and a fanlight and a lantern above the front door. The doorstep was white-stoned every morning by a gangling maid named Dorcas, a poorhouse apprentice who feared Mrs Phear far more than she feared Almighty God because He at least was reputed to be merciful.
Whichcote arrived in a sedan chair. He paid off the bearers and rapped with the head of his cane on the front door. When Dorcas saw who was waiting on the doorstep, she curtsied and stood back.
‘Madam is in the parlour, sir.’
He found Mrs Phear engaged with her needle and thread in a chair by the window. There was still a little light outside but two candles were burning on her worktable. She had been working for several weeks on a small tapestry showing the destruction of Sodom, or possibly Gomorrah; it didn’t much signify which. The tapestry was designed as a sampler to aid instruction at a small school attached to the Magdalene Hospital, a reformatory for fallen women in London. When Mr Whichcote was announced, Mrs Phear set aside her embroidery and began to rise.