Soresby’s tongue flickered between his lips. He had been speaking in a level and unemotional voice but the tip of the tongue gave a suggestion of malice to the words.
‘The HG Club – what is it exactly?’ Holdsworth spoke partly from idle curiosity and partly to sustain the conversation with Soresby, for he guessed the man might feel slighted by an abrupt dismissal; a man in a sizar’s position would have a thin skin for insults.
‘Why, sir, it has been going for years, in one form or another. HG stands for the Holy Ghost.’
This put an unexpected slant on young Mr Archdale. Holdsworth said, ‘So the society’s purpose is a religious one?’
‘Not exactly.’ Soresby grinned, transforming his long face into something impish and likeable. ‘At Jerusalem, the Holy Ghost has quite a different meaning. It’s a dining club. Its amusements have nothing to do with religion, as far as I know. When you are a full member of the club, you’re entitled to wear the coat.’ He glanced down at the parcel in his arms. ‘It’s a most elegant livery. The tailor showed it me.’
‘Elegant and no doubt expensive.’
‘Yes, sir. And the entertainments are said to be extraordinarily lavish.’
‘Do they meet often?’
‘Not since February. Usually, you see, they meet at Mr Whichcote’s, as he is the president, but he has been recently widowed. But on Wednesday -’
‘Hoy – I say!’
Soresby and Holdsworth looked in the direction of the shout. Archdale himself was standing in the doorway to Frank Oldershaw’s staircase. He waved impatiently at Soresby.
‘Have you got it?’ He took in Holdsworth’s presence. ‘Beg pardon, sir, don’t mean to interrupt.’ And then he was gone, retreating abruptly inside the building.
‘I’d better go,’ Soresby said. ‘Mr Archdale does not like to be kept waiting.’ He bowed.
‘One moment,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I’ve heard that Mr Frank Oldershaw is a member of this club.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ Soresby, who had already set off, stopped and looked back. ‘I believe he was inducted on the occasion of its last meeting. A most affable gentleman, sir, most affable.’ He pulled his fingers. A knuckle cracked. ‘That was the very last club dinner. But then Mrs Whichcote died. They found her body floating in the Long Pond over there on the very morning after.’
The day had been warm and increasingly close. Elinor came downstairs and took the side door leading to the Master’s Garden. She walked up and down the gravel paths, this way and that, aimlessly crisscrossing her route as though she were lost in a maze. The ruler-straight gravel paths passed between beds that were mainly triangular in shape. All of them were bordered with low hedges of box and yew in the Dutch style. She hated their stiff, masculine conformity. She would like to have it turned into a place of grass and trees, of wild and romantic irregularities and hidden corners.
Time and again, her eyes returned to the trees in the Fellows’ Garden and beside the Long Pond, and in particular to the cool green cave beneath the oriental plane. Whichever path she took, sooner or later they all seemed to lead her to the pond, to the spot directly opposite the plane tree. Here the water was wider than elsewhere. Mepal had once told her that the largest of the carp, and even a mighty pike, lay hidden in the murky green depths. The water lilies clustered like a ruff around the patch of water where Sylvia Whichcote’s body had been found.
Elinor caught movement from the corner of her eye and with a stab of annoyance realized she was not alone. On the further bank, something black was moving in and out of the dappled shade cast by the overhanging branches of the plane. She swung round and followed the path along the length of the Long Pond, glancing every now and again across the water at the Fellows’ Garden on the other side.
She took a diagonal path to the opposite corner of the garden, where the water on her side was bordered by a high thick hedge, also of box. The path led to a wrought-iron gate set in the hedge, and on the other side of it was the little Frostwick Bridge leading to the main garden. She stood for a moment beside the gate, staring through the grille at the green and sunlit space beyond.
Holdsworth was walking towards Chapel Court. His slanting shadow sliced across the grass on the other side of the bridge. She began to move aside but she had left it too late. He caught sight of her and bowed, and she was obliged to curtsy in return. He changed course and came on to the footbridge.
‘Was your visit to the library of service to you, sir?’ she asked.
‘I have made a start, ma’am, nothing more.’ He crossed the bridge and reached the gate. ‘I have just been talking to the head porter.’
‘Mepal? Is there anything you require?’
‘I wished to ask him about the discovery of Mrs Whichcote’s body.’
Elinor tried the handle on the gate. It would not open. ‘I regret it exceedingly, sir, but the gate is locked. It seems unfriendly to speak to you like this.’
He smiled at her and she noticed that he had a full set of teeth. He was a well-made man, she thought, with nothing flabby about him. She wondered what his dead wife had been like and how she had felt about him.
‘Pray do not trouble yourself,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Was Mepal helpful?’
‘He showed me where they found the body.’ Holdsworth hesitated. ‘I hope the subject does not pain you.’
She shook her head. ‘No more than it usually does. Mepal helped pull her out of the water.’
‘Yes, he and the night-soil man who raised the alarm. Mepal told me where I might find him.’
‘I doubt you will learn much from him. Dr Carbury says he can barely string two words together.’
‘I must pursue every line of inquiry.’
She said nothing. There was dark hair on the back of his hand. He had not shaved that morning, and the stubble outlined his cheekbones and his jaw.
‘After all, what else can I do?’ he went on, sounding irritated, as if she had objected.
‘Yes, but what is the use of it, sir?’ To her horror, Elinor felt her eyes filling with tears. ‘What can any of us do that’s any use? We cannot turn back time. We cannot bring Mrs Whichcote back to us. She’s dead. And that’s an end to it.’
‘Not an end,’ he said. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But would you help me with a little matter of geography? Mepal says that Mrs Whichcote was found in the water there, just beyond the great plane.’
‘So I apprehend.’
‘Then where did her body go into the water?’
She stared at him. ‘How should I know, sir?’
‘The general assumption is that Mrs Whichcote must have fallen in from the Master’s Garden, because she had the key to the private gate from Jerusalem Lane. But – in theory at least – she could equally well have entered the pond from the Fellows’ Garden or from the college’s main garden.’
‘She must have fallen from the Master’s Garden. She could not have found her way into either of the others.’
‘But we don’t know how she died, do we?’ he said in a slow, quiet voice. ‘We do not know the full circumstances, or whether she was alone. We do not even know if it was accident, suicide or murder.’
The tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She felt terribly faint. She gripped the vertical bars of the gate to steady herself. His grave face shimmered, distorted by the water and fragmented by the iron. Then, for a brief but shocking instant, she felt the warmth of his hand on hers.
‘Madam,’ he said urgently. ‘Are you unwell? Shall I fetch your maid? Some water?’
Elinor shook her head. She turned so that he could no longer see her face and, without a word of farewell, walked rapidly towards the garden door of the Lodge. She despised herself for displaying such weakness. She hated Holdsworth for witnessing it. And she despised herself and hated him even more for the strange, tingling warmth that spread through her body from the touch of his hand.