‘What was I not to know?’
Holdsworth shrugged. ‘That I – that I have such a deep-rooted aversion to water.’
‘There is more to it than that, I fancy.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Holdsworth thought how very strange it was that he should be sitting with the grandson of an earl in a cow pasture beside a muddy river. His own life seemed no longer to make any sense whatsoever. It was as if the universe itself, with all its laws and regulatory mechanisms, had been struck with a fit of madness.
‘You cannot swim,’ Frank said softly. ‘But that in itself is not a reason to fear water. So there must be a particular cause.’
Holdsworth thought that the madness of the world had now rearranged itself and become the new mode of being rational. It seemed quite as a matter of course that he should be talking of his night terrors and his sorrows to a youthful madman he had been hired to help. After all, who better than the sorrowful to help those who are sad? Who better than a lunatic to understand the ravings of a madman?
‘I lived by the Thames for many years and it did not trouble me at all,’ he said. ‘I often went on the water. But then my little son drowned in the river, and a little later so did my wife. So that is why I fear the water. That is why I have bad dreams.’
‘I am not the only one who sees ghosts.’
Holdsworth turned his head and looked directly at Frank. ‘I have accepted your second condition. And I shall accept your first as well. Will you teach me to swim?’
27
‘You will dine with us, I hope?’ said Mr Richardson. ‘Why, we have not seen you in college for an age.’
Whichcote bowed and said that nothing would give him greater pleasure. The two men had encountered each other in Chapel Court. Whichcote had left Augustus to ferret out what he could about Frank’s whereabouts, and he himself could do nothing on the matter until he knew more. But there was no telling what might be said in the combination room or at high table, what scraps of information might emerge. Carbury must know where Frank was, and almost certainly Richardson too; and perhaps others knew or guessed. Besides, Whichcote was hungry, and his own cook, as the day of her departure drew nearer, was inclined to grow more and more lax about her duties.
Dinner would not be for another twenty minutes. Richardson proposed a stroll to work up an appetite. The two men walked through the chapel arcade into the college gardens, and passed under the shade of the oriental plane. Whichcote smiled to show he was perfectly at ease at the spot near the Long Pond, so close to where his wife’s body had been found, and where her ghost had allegedly appeared. But he thought it shockingly ill bred that Mr Richardson should have suggested a walk here. By careful study, Richardson had acquired the manners of a gentleman but in Whichcote’s opinion the imitation was only skin-deep.
They passed through the gate of the Fellows’ Garden and walked by the pond.
‘I was here with Harry Archdale the other day,’ Whichcote observed. ‘Have you seen him recently? I hope he is well.’
‘He was in rather delicate health after the last meeting of your club,’ Richardson said. ‘But I am happy to report he is entirely recovered. He has in fact been applying himself to his books, and with unusual assiduity. Sir Charles wishes him to enter for the Vauden Medal this year, and he is making a very creditable stab at it. Mr Soresby – one of our most promising young men – has been reading with him.’
‘And poor Frank Oldershaw? Is there news from that quarter?’
‘Alas, none that I know of.’
‘Harry tells me he is no longer with Dr Jermyn.’
‘Yes, I heard that too.’
‘I wonder where they took him.’
‘It is very curious,’ Richardson said. ‘I have no idea.’
When the dinner bell began to toll, Richardson and Whichcote made their way back to Chapel Court and entered the combination room, where ten or twelve of the fellows were already gathered. As the bell ceased, the door opened and the Master himself came in. Whichcote was struck by his haggard face. Carbury was a big, bulky man, but his weight seemed to have been redistributed, as if the internal framework sustaining it had lost its rigidity. He seemed in good spirits, however, and greeted the company with unusual amiability.
They went through into the hall, where the undergraduates were already gathered, waiting for the Master and fellows to take their places. When Carbury and the rest of them on the dais were standing by their chairs, a hush fell over the hall. Carbury looked towards the scholar at his lectern, a signal that he should say grace.
The silence had fallen very suddenly, and it was not quite complete. A young man at the bottom of the hall continued talking, addressing one of the buttery servants in a high, excited voice: ‘And a half-gallon jug of the audit ale, do you hear, and -’
Whichcote, who was almost opposite Carbury, happened to look at the Master’s face. He had turned his head towards the disturbance, and he was smiling.
The scholar read grace, and the company sat down.
‘Mr Soresby is in cheerful spirits,’ Mr Dow said.
‘Audit ale, too,’ Mr Crowley replied. ‘He must be in funds.’
‘Why, gentlemen, I think I can solve the conundrum,’ Carbury interrupted. ‘Mr Soresby has received some welcome tidings.’
The atmosphere changed. Whichcote sensed it, without at this point understanding why.
Glass in hand, the Master leaned across the table towards the two younger fellows. ‘You are aware, of course, that Mr Miskin is resigning the Rosington Fellowship at Christmas? Well, I have decided to reserve it for Mr Soresby, on the condition that his performance in the examinations justifies my expectations. I communicated my decision to him today, and I suspect this may have something to do with his ordering audit ale.’
Carbury had spoken loudly enough for his words to be heard by everyone at the high table. A ripple of surprise ran round the company.
Richardson laid down his knife. ‘Surely that is unorthodox, Master? As you say, Mr Soresby has not yet taken his degree.’
‘I am aware of that, sir, perfectly aware. If you take the trouble to consult the terms under which the fellowship was established, you will discover that not only is it in the Master’s gift, but also that the Master has the power to reserve it sine die, should he so wish.’
‘I have no doubt you are right.’ Richardson wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘And it is most gratifying to have one of my own pupils singled out for such a mark of approbation. Still, you will allow that it is unusual to appoint an undergraduate, even so promising a one as Mr Soresby.’
‘Why, as to that, by the time Mr Miskin leaves us Mr Soresby will be on the very threshold of taking his degree. And I have no doubt whatsoever that he will be highly placed on the list.’ Carbury smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. ‘I am sure you will agree with me, sir, that in these matters the merit of a candidate should be the only consideration. Many great scholars in this University have come from circumstances as humble as Mr Soresby’s. I do not doubt that with proper encouragement he will go far, and the college will greatly benefit from his presence.’
Carbury emptied his glass as if toasting the propriety of his sentiments. Richardson murmured that what the Master had said was very true, very true. The conversation became general round the table. Richardson said little, however, and he picked at his food.
After dinner was over, Whichcote did not linger in the combination room. He found Augustus waiting for him in the arcade beside the chapel. They left college without speaking, the footboy several paces behind his master. Outside Christ’s College, however, Whichcote beckoned to the boy to come up to him.
‘Well?’
‘I listened at the stables, sir. Ben’s to collect the pony phaeton at ten o’clock in the forenoon tomorrow.’