‘Well? Is that the case or is it not?’
The night-soil man glanced at Holdsworth and then away. ‘Sometimes, maybe.’
‘Does she know you see her?’
The man shrugged.
‘Surely she must hear your wheels?’
‘I ain’t always moving around, sir. Sometimes I just stand somewhere and rest a bit.’
‘So you smoke a pipe or have a nip of something to warm you or fall into a doze? Very likely. And where do you do this?’
Tom Turdman waved vaguely, his hand describing an irregular arc that took in most of the college. ‘Ain’t particular, sir. All I ask is a bit of shelter from the weather, a bit of quiet.’
‘Under that big tree by the pond, perhaps?’
Tom nodded.
‘And where have you seen Mrs Carbury?’
‘In the Master’s Garden, sir, walking up and down. Or sometimes she used to come out here. Through that gate on t’other side of bridge.’ He nodded towards the gate with the iron grille through which Holdsworth’s fingers touched Elinor Carbury’s. ‘Lady can’t sleep, I reckon.’
Holdsworth took a handful of coppers from his pocket. ‘Used to? Does she no longer walk abroad at night?’
‘Don’t know, do I, sir? All I know is what I see with my eyes. And hear with my ears. And I ain’t heard her or seen her for weeks. Not that I’ve been looking out for her, though. Got my work to do, haven’t I? So for all I know she might be walking here still. Or maybe the lady sleeps more soundly now.’
Holdsworth held out his hand. Tom Turdman stared at the coins.
‘I saw them both, one time,’ he said.
‘What? Who?’
The night-soil man wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘The Master’s lady, sir. She was with the one that died, the ghost.’
‘When was this?’ Holdsworth snapped.
Tom Turdman stared up at him with frightened eyes. ‘Months ago, sir. Before Christmas, before the pretty one died. They were walking in the garden under the moon.’
32
Like shrunken academics, two hooded crows stalked across the sacred square of grass in the middle of Chapel Court. Cane in hand, Philip Whichcote entered the arcade by the porter’s lodge. Everything about him was neat and genteel. The birds flapped ungainly wings and rose unsteadily into the air.
No one was about. Little happened at Jerusalem during the hour after dinner. Whichcote went to the staircase at the south-east corner and climbed to the first-floor landing. The outer door to Frank’s rooms was still closed. Harry Archdale’s oak was open, however, and he rapped on the inner door with the head of his cane. Archdale’s voice called in answer.
‘My dear Harry, how do you do? I have not seen you for an age.’
Archdale, who had been standing beside a table sorting through a pile of books, put down the volume he was holding and came forward to greet Whichcote. ‘I’ve had a vast deal of reading from Ricky. I’ve hardly stirred from college for days.’
‘That will never do,’ Whichcote said. ‘Why, surely you must allow that too much reading is bad for a man; it curdles the intellectual faculties. And I have the very plan to take you out of yourself for a few hours. I am come to invite you to a little supper party. Only a few of our most intimate friends will be there. I thought perhaps we might amuse ourselves with cards afterwards.’
‘You are very kind, but I regret I am not at leisure.’
Whichcote was too well bred to show surprise. ‘In that case we must arrange something else. It’s a fine afternoon – shall we take a walk along the river?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot.’ Archdale gestured towards the books on the table. ‘I have too much to do. When you came in I was about to go to the library.’
‘The library! Ah – I see: this is the doing of your guardian, is it not?’
‘Sir Charles naturally wishes me to pay due attention to my studies,’ Archdale said awkwardly.
‘Well, it’s of no great consequence,’ Whichcote said easily. ‘I shall wait on you later when you are less engaged with your books. I wish to settle a day for our next club dinner, and I shall make a point of ensuring you’re not engaged elsewhere before I do.’
He talked of commonplaces for another moment or two to smooth away any abruptness their conversation might have had. As he was doing so, he sauntered to the nearest window and looked idly down at the court. A tall man was walking rapidly down the opposite side towards the passage by the combination room. It was the person whom Augustus had refused admittance at Lambourne House on the Sunday morning after the storm.
Whichcote turned back to Archdale. ‘Is that not Mr Holdsworth?’
‘Quite possibly. I believe I saw him myself before dinner. He came into college when I was talking with Ricky, and they went off together.’
‘I thought he’d left Cambridge for good with Frank. How is our friend, by the way? Is there fresh intelligence?’
‘Ricky believes he must be much improved or Holdsworth would not be here.’
‘That is most gratifying. I hope we shall soon see Frank again in our midst.’ Whichcote looked out of the window again. Holdsworth was no longer in sight. ‘Does he mean to make a long visit here? Mr Holdsworth, that is. I thought he had been commissioned to examine the college library.’
‘I don’t know.’
Archdale made no offer of refreshment, and showed no signs of wanting to prolong their conversation. Whichcote took his leave. He stepped into the porter’s lodge, where Augustus was waiting for him. Mepal told him that Holdsworth had walked into college shortly before dinner time and that there had been nothing to indicate that he expected to spend the night here. Nor had Mepal heard anything about the whereabouts of Frank Oldershaw.
Afterwards, Whichcote stood irresolute outside the entrance to Jerusalem, weighing alternatives in his mind. He beckoned Augustus.
‘I want a hack for the rest of the day. Go to the stables and tell them I shall be with them within the hour, and I shall wish to leave directly.’
‘Tell me the truth,’ Holdsworth said.
Elinor Carbury did not reply for a few seconds. Their footsteps crunched in time on the gravel path. This man constantly disconcerted her. With an effort, she gathered her thoughts together and turned her face towards him. ‘The truth, sir? And which part of the truth would you like me to provide?’
‘I had in mind that part which deals with your noctambulism.’
She stopped. ‘My noctambulism?’
‘I mean the term in its literal sense. I do not mean to suggest that you walk in your sleep, madam. But the night-soil man told me that sometimes you walk about in the gardens at night-time.’
She glanced about them. They were quite alone.
‘It is true that sometimes I find I cannot sleep and so come outside for a little air. But I do not wish it generally known.’
He bowed. ‘I understand. And I also understand that exercise can be an aid to sleep. Indeed, I often find it so myself, and take a turn or two outside before retiring. So you walk here, madam, in Dr Carbury’s garden?’
‘Yes, of course. It is very secluded, as you know.’
‘And Tom says that sometimes you come through the gate and over the bridge into the college garden.’
‘Yes,’ Elinor said, and her eyes strayed towards the gate in question and the Founder’s oriental plane. ‘Very rarely, however. Dr Carbury does not like me to walk out by myself at night, even in our garden.’ She felt trapped, as so often in her life, and cast about for a means of escape. ‘Shall we go back to the house and see if he is returned? I cannot think what has kept him in the combination room.’
‘One moment, pray.’
In his urgency, he had the temerity to touch her forearm. Her body grew warm under the thin material of her gown. She frowned at him. He appeared not to notice. He was not standing so close to her now, but had moved a little away as if to study her better.