‘No, no,’ Richardson interrupted. ‘You may make yourself easy upon that score, at least. No, this concerns the library. Before I continue, is there anything you wish to tell me? You may find it is in your interest to do so.’
Richardson paused. Soresby shook his head.
‘Very well then. I have to inform you that there has been a burglary. A thief entered the library some time today, probably during or just after dinner. He forced the lock of a particular cupboard and stole a valuable book.’
Soresby seemed to shrivel into himself. ‘I’m heartily sorry -I -’
‘What? You admit responsibility?’
‘No, sir.’ The undergraduate’s face lost what little colour it had. ‘Of course not. I – I only meant to say I wish I had been there to prevent the loss. As library clerk -’
‘Yes, indeed, there may be a question of a dereliction of your duties,’ Richardson said. ‘But that does not concern me at present. What concerns me is the far more serious possibility that you yourself may be the thief.’
Soresby raised his hands as if to ward off a blow. He retreated from Richardson and the backs of his legs came into contact with the edge of his bed. Taken by surprise, he sat down suddenly.
‘It is clear that the person responsible not only knew which cupboard to open, but also which book to steal. In other words, the thief was intimately acquainted with the library.’
‘I beg of you, sir, pray do not entertain such a suspicion,’ Soresby cried. ‘I would never -’
‘I would be obliged if you would hear the accusation before attempting to defend yourself from it. As I was saying, after dinner Mr Archdale had occasion to go up to the library. It was he who discovered the theft. He also discovered the implement used to force the door of the cupboard. Very properly, he brought it at once to me. I may add that he recognized it and so did I.’
Richardson took the penknife from his pocket and held it out. Soresby, still seated, stared at it for a moment, then stretched out his hand as if he meant to take it. The tutor pulled his own hand away.
‘You acknowledge it is your knife?’
‘Of course it is, sir. I would know it anywhere – I have had it since I was a boy. It was my father’s.’
‘Very well.’ Richardson threw a glance at Holdsworth. ‘Then I must ask you again whether you stole the book?’
Soresby opened his mouth but could not speak. He shook his head violently, his ragged hair swinging from side to side.
‘I regret to say that the evidence against you is so strong, Mr Soresby, that I have no alternative but to search your room. And the necessity is as distasteful to me as it is to you, I am sure, but you will understand that in the circumstances I have no choice. If you are innocent, which is possible, though the evidence against you is black, then you will naturally wish to see your innocence established before the world.’ Richardson looked up at Holdsworth. ‘It is important to do these things according to the proper form, sir. You would oblige me infinitely if you would stand by the door and witness the search.’ He turned back to Soresby. ‘Pray stand beside Mr Holdsworth. And, before you do, would you be so good as to turn out your pockets?’
Soresby rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned out the pockets of his coat and his breeches, one by one. ‘I – I had noticed I had mislaid the penknife, sir,’ he said. ‘I had thought…’ His voice trailed away. He stood beside Holdsworth. He was trembling like a man with an ague. There was a loud crack as he pulled a finger joint.
Richardson worked his way round the little room. He was methodical, as in everything he did. He turned over the books and examined the table, even peering underneath it. Beside it on the floor was a wooden box containing Soresby’s notes, and he tipped the contents on the table and sifted them with his forefinger. He searched the small press where Soresby kept his few clothes and a jumble of items, from candle ends to rusty needles.
Soresby’s breathing was fast and irregular. The young man was hot, too, as if running a fever. Holdsworth felt the heat coming from his body, and also a sour smell, as if fear were expressing itself as an odour.
At last the tutor came to the bed. He stripped it down to the straw mattress. He examined the bolster and the pillow. Underneath he found dust, a pot that slopped urine when he moved it, and the skeleton of a mouse. He turned his attentions to the mattress itself, feeling and kneading it on both sides, like a physician conscientiously searching for lumps all over his patient’s body.
Suddenly he looked up. ‘There appears to be a rectangular object lodged in the straw, Mr Soresby. Here – where the stitching has come adrift. Would you be so good as to extract it for me?’
Soresby swallowed. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He did not move.
‘Did you hear me, sir?’ Richardson said sharply.
Soresby stumbled across the room and fell to his knees by the bed. Richardson stood aside, watching. The student pushed his hand into the canvas cover that contained the straw.
‘Not there,’ Richardson said. ‘The other side.’
Soresby’s hand wriggled invisibly, changing position. Then, at last, he brought out a leather-bound quarto. Wide-eyed, he sat back on his heels and stared at it.
‘Pray give it me, sir,’ Richardson prompted.
Barely a yard separated the two men. Still on his knees, like a supplicant, Soresby held out the book to Richardson. The tutor took it and opened it, turning to the title-page. He angled the volume so Holdsworth could see it too. The Massacre at Paris.
‘I swear,’ Soresby said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I swear I -’
‘Pray do not add perjury to your other sins, sir. Well, we shall take our leave for the moment. You will stay in your room until I send for you.’ The tutor turned to Holdsworth. ‘It distresses me that you should have had to witness such a disagreeable interview. But may I trespass further on your good nature and ask you to accompany me to the Master’s Lodge?’
He gave Soresby the slightest of bows and left the room with his nose in the air, as if trying to raise it as far as possible above the stench of moral corruption in the atmosphere.
Holdsworth followed. In the doorway he turned back. Soresby was still on his knees. His face was a dirty white colour, almost grey. His eyes were wide and blank. Only his hands were moving. A finger joint cracked.
34
Philip Whichcote dismounted from the hack and opened the gate. He led the horse into the yard, and the sound of its hooves sent a dozen doves fluttering into the air. When he released the reins, the horse walked to the trough and lowered its head over the water.
Whichcote tried the heavy door of the mill. It was locked. He had found the place easily enough. The ostlers at the livery stable had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the surrounding countryside, and one of them had once worked for Mr Smedley, the college’s tenant at Whitebeach. Whichcote knew that the next hour could settle the direction of his future life. Prudence pointed one way. His instincts urged him in the opposite direction.
There were footsteps behind him.
Mulgrave appeared at the corner of the thatched cottage on one side of the yard. He marched unsteadily forward, tilting to and fro as he shifted his weight between the shorter leg and the longer. He stopped a few paces from Whichcote. The two men stared in silence at each other.
‘Thought I heard hooves,’ the gyp said at last with the gloomy satisfaction of one who feared the worst and now at least has the comfort of knowing he was right.
‘I’m come to call on Mr Oldershaw. Where is he?’
Mulgrave spat on the cobbles, scarcely a foot away from Whichcote’s boot. ‘He ain’t at home to visitors.’
‘Damn your impudence,’ Whichcote snapped.
Suddenly furious, he drew himself up to his full height. All the worry and frustration of the last few months flooded together and funnelled into a glorious surge of rage. Without pausing for thought, he swept up his right arm and slashed the whip across Mulgrave’s face.