‘Pray do not disturb yourself, ma’am,’ he said coming forward. ‘No need to stand on ceremony.’
She ignored him, however, rose to her feet and curtsied. Smiling, for he understood the game perfectly, he bowed to her.
‘Mr Whichcote, I am rejoiced to see you. I hope I find you well?’
They passed a minute or two in what Mrs Phear called, when instructing some of those who paid for her services in other capacities, ‘the civilities of genteel intercourse’. Mrs Phear was a tiny, dumpy woman with a widow’s cap pulled low over her plain face. Whichcote had known her since he was five years old, when she came to be governess to his sister, and she had later married a neighbouring clergyman, who had died shortly afterwards.
The maid was summoned, and the materials for making tea were brought to the room and set beside Mrs Phear’s chair.
‘Dorcas,’ Mrs Phear said. ‘Go to the kitchen and clean the knives. Do it directly. They are sadly in need of it.’
When they were alone, Mrs Phear unlocked the caddy and busied herself in measuring the tea into the pot. She stirred the leaves into the water and stared into the vortex of black, swirling specks. She sat back and looked at Whichcote. ‘Well?’
Whichcote drummed his fingers slowly on the arm of his chair. ‘There you are, my dear madam, sitting like patience on a monument. I am come to inquire whether matters are in order for Wednesday.’
‘Pray lower your voice. And yes – all is in order. A nice, plump little bird. On the young side.’
He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.
‘Ready for the plucking, I assure you,’ she went on. ‘And it won’t be for the first time, though she knows how to make it seem so. Who is it this time?’
‘Young Archdale. Also ready for the plucking, in his own way. You are sure she will be here in time?’
‘You need not be anxious about that.’
‘But I am anxious,’ he said. ‘Consider what happened last time. Of course I am anxious.’
‘Last time we were unlucky, my dear,’ she said, handing him his cup.
His hand shook, and tea slopped into the saucer. ‘Unlucky? Is that what you call it?’
‘How could we have known what would happen? What’s done is done. At least we brought Tabitha Skinner back here, and the coroner made no difficulties about either fatality.’
‘It was the worst night of my life. First her.’ He stared at the embroidery. ‘Then Sylvia.’
‘This time there will be no difficulties. Not with the girl.’
‘What should I do without you, dear madam?’ he said sourly.
‘There is no point in wasting your smooth words on me, my dear.’
He burst out laughing, and she smiled at him. Then, serious again, he said, ‘You do not think it is too soon to have another dinner, another meeting? The long and short of it is, I need ready money, and that is the only resource left to me, besides cards.’
‘It is a private party, Philip, not a rout. Besides, what has your club to do with propriety? Your boys will admire you all the more. You will be confirmed as a bold spirit, a man who cares naught for petty convention.’
‘I have another difficulty to lay at your feet, ma’am.’
‘The little matter of the ghost?’
He nodded. ‘And – worse than that, much worse – Frank Oldershaw. I feel like a man walking underneath a black cloud and expecting at any moment the heavens to open.’
She sipped her own tea. ‘Has he regained his reason? Does he have lucid intervals?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I should hear it if he does. But there has been one development – her ladyship has sent a man to pry on her behalf. He arrived at Jerusalem today.’
‘Ah – her ladyship. That is the root of the difficulty, I fancy.’
‘No, madam,’ Whichcote snapped. ‘The root of the matter is Sylvia. How could she do this to me? How could she, ma’am?’
‘I told you at the time you should have done better than the daughter of a country attorney with hardly a shilling to her name.’
Whichcote stood up and moved restlessly about the room. ‘It is as if she haunts me, as if she finds ways to goad me, even now. Do you know, I thought I saw her today? Sitting in the pastry-cook’s in Petty Cury. It was someone else, of course, but -’
‘This is childish talk, Philip. Why do you not sit down?’
He glared at her, but a moment later he resumed his seat.
‘There, that is better.’ Mrs Phear smiled at him. ‘Yes, if it pleases you, I shall agree that it is Sylvia’s fault.’
‘I did not mean that exactly, I -’
‘Sylvia is dead, my dear. That is the point. Now you must begin afresh. You are still a young man. And once you have dealt with the little matter of Mr Frank, you must forget that Sylvia ever existed.’
9
The air in the combination room was thick with the fumes of punch and tobacco. Holdsworth’s head was aching, and his eye sockets felt as though they were lined with fine sand. He begged to be excused. At once, Richardson rose from his seat and offered to walk with him.
‘Thank you, but I do not think I shall lose my way.’
‘I am sure you won’t, but should you like a turn or two in the garden before you retire? I find that a little fresh air and healthful exercise clear the head and promote sleep.’
Holdsworth accepted the invitation. Richardson led him outside into a court surrounded by buildings faced in palely gleaming ashlar. On the right were the lofty bay windows of the combination room and the hall. Richardson nodded at the nearer window. It was uncurtained, and the men they had just left were seated at the two tables in a haze of fellowship.
‘They are clubbable fellows, by and large,’ he remarked. ‘One cannot begrudge them their dull potations. But some of them will have sore heads in the morning.’
He took Holdsworth’s arm, and they strolled along the arcade in front of the chapel. There were lighted windows in the building on the other side of the court, directly facing the hall and the combination room. From one of them on the first floor came a burst of laughter and a muffled thumping as though many fists were pounding against a table.
Richardson sighed. ‘Mr Archdale continues to enjoy the pleasures of society.’
A voice began to sing, at first uncertainly but then finding the tune and gaining in volume. Other voices joined in. The sound was not melodious but it was undoubtedly vigorous. The thumping continued, beating time to the song. Holdsworth and Richardson lingered in the shadows under the arcade. The verses were short and many of the singers appeared not to know the words. All of them, however, joined in the refrain with great gusto.
Jerry Carbury is merry
Tell his servant bring his hat
For ’ere the evening is done
He’ll surely shoot the cat.
‘Some of our young men do not treat the Master with the respect he deserves,’ Richardson murmured. ‘That vulgar ditty has attained a lamentable popularity among them. It is unkind indeed – Dr Carbury has a weak stomach, and was once compelled to vomit in public.’
A door opened further along the range, and a gowned man was briefly illuminated by the lantern hanging above the archway. Glancing towards the sound of the singing, he then set off at a fast pace towards the screens at the western end of the hall.
‘Mr Soresby?’ Richardson called. ‘A moment of your time, please.’
The man changed direction and made his way towards them. He was tall and thin, and he did not so much walk as scurry. He doffed his cap and bowed awkwardly to Mr Richardson. He looked towards Holdsworth, who was in the shadows of the arcade. Richardson did not introduce him.
‘Mr Soresby,’ he said gently. ‘Would you oblige me by stepping up to Mr Archdale’s? Pray present my compliments and inform him that he would do me a great service if he would close his windows and moderate the volume of his singing.’