‘What? Is he cured?’
‘He must be.’
‘Either that or Lady Anne wished him removed – to the care of another physician, perhaps, or even to her house in London.’
‘All I have been able to establish is that Frank has left Barnwell. Her ladyship’s agent in this seems to be the man Holdsworth, who has been staying at Jerusalem. He has gone too. Archdale said that Mulgrave is with them.’
‘The college servant?’
‘A gyp – his only loyalty is to himself. But he’s a shrewd fellow, unfortunately, and knows what he’s about.’
Mrs Phear stroked her plump little hands, one with the other, looking down at them with an expression of concern in her face, as though the hands were naked little animals in need of consolation. ‘We must wait and see,’ she said. ‘Even if Mr Frank is cured, it does not follow that what he says will be believed. A man whose wits have been disordered does not make a reliable witness. It all depends on his word, after all. And he must be sensible that you could make counter-accusations. He does not come out well from all this, however one looks at it.’ She smiled at Whichcote. ‘I cannot but think that his mother has acted foolishly in allowing him to leave Dr Jermyn’s. With a young man whose wits are so far astray, anything might happen. He might kill himself and those around him before he’s done.’
Whichcote sighed. He crossed the room to the window and stood by Mrs Phear’s chair. They were so close and the room was so quiet that they could hear each other’s breathing. They did not look at each other. They stared out of the window and watched the sky gradually darken above the pear tree.
25
At Whitebeach Mill, time slipped away like the river itself. Day followed day, each as formless as the next. The weather continued warm, often sunny, the air heavy.
After the first night, Frank Oldershaw spent much of his time asleep. So did they all. It was as if they were convalescing after a long, wasting fever and the only remedy was time and rest. The most lively creature in the household was the ginger cat, though that was not saying much.
They had arrived at the mill on the evening of Wednesday, 31 May. After the first day, Frank became quieter. Though the water was still very cold, he swam a good deal, to and fro across the millpond, propelling himself with long, leisurely strokes. ‘Quack, quack,’ he cried at intervals, but in other respects he showed no signs of mental disturbance while swimming. At first Holdsworth tried to dissuade him from going into the water on the grounds that there might be an accident, but he might have saved his breath. Frank ignored him. Short of restraining his charge physically, there was nothing that Holdsworth could do.
Frank refused to talk about his madness or about the ghost. He became passionately angry when Holdsworth raised the subject of Lady Anne. Apart from that, he did what he was told, more or less. He did not treat Holdsworth and Mulgrave with consideration, but he did not make unreasonable demands, either. Bearing in mind the immense difference between their stations in life, his manner might almost have been called condescending.
Mulgrave had brought a valise of Frank’s belongings from his rooms at Jerusalem. There was a chess set among them, also backgammon and draughts. On most evenings, Holdsworth would propose a game to Frank. When they played chess, Frank invariably won. There was nothing wrong with his powers of reasoning. He was good at draughts, too, but less successful at backgammon, where the element of luck made him rash.
Sometimes Holdsworth read aloud. He had brought Young’s Night Thoughts with him, and he found a battered copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress in his bedroom, where it had been used to prop a table leg on the uneven floor. Neither book was exactly cheerful in tone, but Frank appeared to find them soothing, often dozing off while Holdsworth was reading.
Mulgrave effaced himself whenever he could. He lived, worked and slept in the kitchen. He watched everything and said as little as possible.
On the evening of Monday, 5 June, he came to Holdsworth and murmured that their supply of food was running low. He could obtain bread, beer, milk, eggs and some vegetables from the farm, but he was obliged to go further afield for anything else.
‘Go to Cambridge tomorrow after breakfast,’ Holdsworth told him. ‘I want you to take a letter to Dr Carbury and you can buy what we need while you’re there.’
‘It’s a long walk, sir. And there’s the matter of weight on the way back. Mr Frank said he wanted wine. And we need coals for the kitchen fire.’
‘You must call in at the farm in the morning and see what can be done,’ Holdsworth said. ‘If necessary, the carrier can bring the heavy items and leave them with Mr Smedley. But in all events you must come straight back, and you must keep your mouth shut, do you understand? You must not say where you are, or with whom. You may speak openly only to Dr and Mrs Carbury.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Holdsworth had a sense of foreboding. It was not so much that he distrusted Mulgrave, though he did not trust him either. It was more that, by leaving the mill, if only for a few hours, Mulgrave would destroy the illusion that the three of them were isolated from the outside world and its malign influences.
He slept badly that night. The mattress was lumpy. The box-bed enclosed him like a coffin. He was too hot and then, when he had flung back the covers, he was too cold. And all the while, he drifted in and out of dreams. There was a logic to the dreams that he could not grasp, though in their subjects they appeared completely unconnected. Once he woke with a start, believing that he was back in Bankside, and Georgie had woken in the night and was crying out that the drowned lighterman from Goat Stairs had come to drag him down to the bottom of the filthy river.
Now, wide awake, Holdsworth was by the steps, peering down into the water. But it wasn’t Georgie’s face he saw there: it was Maria’s. He saw quite clearly the bruise on her temple. The colour of a damson. The size of a penny piece.
But was it Maria? Or was it Sylvia Whichcote down there?
‘Wake up! Wake up!’
Holdsworth was suddenly, painfully, awake. He was fighting for air as though it were he who was drowning. He sat up sharply in bed. The grey half-light preceding dawn filled the room.
Frank was holding Holdsworth’s left arm and shaking it vigorously. ‘For God’s sake, man, what ails you?’ he demanded, for all the world like a young gentleman in perfect health berating an unfortunate servant. He stepped back and glared down at Holdsworth. ‘You woke us all with your damned noise.’
Holdsworth blinked and rubbed his eyes. Mulgrave was standing at the head of the narrow stairs looking sideways into the room. He and Frank were wearing the shirts they slept in, and nothing else.
‘What the devil is it?’ Frank said. ‘Why were you shouting?’
‘Forgive me – a dream – it was nothing.’
The old dream. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, and there never would be.
On Monday evening, Elinor heard a familiar, heavy tread on the stairs. Dr Carbury came into the sitting room, wished her good evening and sat down. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
‘You are early, sir,’ Elinor said. ‘Shall I ring the bell for the tea things?’
He shook his heavy head. Supper could only just have finished in the hall, Elinor calculated, and usually her husband would have lingered over his wine in the combination room for at least another hour. He patted his pockets one by one, searching for his snuffbox.
‘You know, if Miskin goes, I am minded to reserve the Rosington Fellowship for Soresby,’ he said abruptly, as if they had been talking about this subject for some time.
He found the box, tapped the lid, opened it and took a pinch. She waited, her stomach clenching, knowing what would follow but not when. At last he gave an enormous sneeze, spraying fragments of snuff over his lap. When he had blown his nose, he fell silent, fanning himself ineffectually with his hand and moving restlessly in his chair.