‘All? What about Mr Oldershaw?’
‘Not him, sir – he was up at the house.’ The boy looked up and swallowed. ‘Mistress was with him.’
‘Mrs Whichcote?’
There was a quick nod.
‘Where?’
‘In his chamber. Master found out and flew into a terrible passion. He locked me in the cellar for the night, nearly froze to death. I never saw her again, sir, not till she was in her coffin.’
And then? The upshot of it all had been that Sylvia had run through the streets of Cambridge to seek refuge at Jerusalem College. There, somehow, she too had died. Holdsworth said, ‘Did you hear nothing of what passed between them that night – Mr Oldershaw, Mr and Mrs Whichcote?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He hit her,’ Dorcas said.
Holdsworth swung round to face her. ‘I don’t understand you. How can you have been able to form an opinion on the matter?’
‘Because I saw the lady dead, sir. I helped Mrs Phear lay out her. He’d hit her -’
Holdsworth, remembering what Tom Turdman had told him, said before he could stop himself, ‘On the head?’ He touched his temple. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, sir, she’d knocked her head on something. But I didn’t mean that. When we laid Mrs Whichcote out, we washed her all over. The bruises were on the back.’
Holdsworth stared at the girl, looking for signs that she was lying. She returned his gaze but any liar knew how to do that. Why would she lie? ‘Bruises?’
‘Yes, sir. The skin weren’t broken, not so you’d notice. Just looked like someone tore off her gown and beat her with a stick till she was black and blue.’
The Master’s illness touched them all, one way or another. Nobody knew for certain how grave it was, and Dr Carbury had a reputation for being as strong as a horse. On the other hand, no one could rule out the possibility that on this occasion his illness might be either fatal or at least incapacitating.
Whichcote watched as most of the fellows who dined in college found one excuse or another to talk to Mr Richardson and do the civil to him. They were jockeying for position, he thought, and much good might it do them.
Mr Miskin, who could not yet be entirely certain of his promised living, told the tutor a good story he had heard the other day about the Vice-Chancellor, and he also recommended a man who could supply the finest eels in the Fens; all Mr Richardson had to do was to mention Mr Miskin’s name and the thing was as good as done. Mr Crowley asked Mr Richardson’s opinion on a difficult passage in the Anabasis and listened with flattering attention while he elucidated a crux in a way that threw unexpected light on Socrates’ influence on Xenophon and his comrades. Mr Dow wanted to discuss an ingenious scheme he had devised for the construction of water closets for the use of senior members of the college, employing a particularly hygienic and efficient modification that was all his own. Even Professor Trillo, who never stirred from his rooms these days, found the time to dictate a few lines to Mr Richardson praising his latest volume of sermons and offering to lend him his notes towards a grammar of the Chaldean and Assyrian branch of Eastern Middle Syriac.
Frank Oldershaw and Harry Archdale were also there, exercising their right as fellow-commoners. Everyone wanted to shake Frank’s hand, to congratulate him on his restoration to health. After dinner, Whichcote took advantage of the general movement in the combination room to approach Frank under the pretence of drawing out a chair.
‘Remember your mother,’ he murmured. ‘Her ladyship’s happiness is so bound up with yours.’
Frank’s head snapped round. Whichcote tensed, half expecting a blow. Suddenly Holdsworth was between them, at once helping Whichcote with the chair and nudging Frank towards the other table where Mr Archdale was already sitting with some of the younger fellows.
Glancing across the table, Whichcote registered the fact that Richardson had been watching the little charade. Ah well, he thought, they would soon dance to another tune. In the meantime it was enough to remind them both, Frank and Richardson, who held the whip hand.
Whichcote did not linger over his wine. He walked back to his rooms. Augustus had returned with the fruit and cheese from the market and was occupied in unpacking his master’s clothes.
‘Are they there still?’ Whichcote asked without preamble.
‘Who, your honour?’
‘The bailiff’s men.’
‘Yes, sir. They – they tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t let them.’
‘Good.’
Whichcote left the boy to his work and went into the little study. The black valise was standing on the table. His first task was to go through the register of the Holy Ghost Club, which went back to its earliest years. Unlike the other records, which used only the apostolic names of the members, the register gave their real names as well, and the dates of their admission and departure from the club. Some of the older members were of course dead. He intended to work backward from the present, making a list of those whom he knew to be alive. Many of them would not be worth the trouble of approaching. He needed only those who had a position in the world, or great resources, or both. Then it would be simply a matter of cross-referencing these names from the register with their activities as Apostles, as recorded in other volumes of the club’s archives.
Next would come the most delicate part of the business, writing the letters. It was a risky endeavour, which was why he had not tried it before, but if he prosecuted it with care, there was every chance of success. He would need to consider carefully the individual circumstances of each recipient and adjust the demands he made of them accordingly. One should make it a maxim never to ask for too much, he thought, nor for anything that the donor would not find it easy to give.
After all, one could always come back for more.
He had been working away contentedly for twenty minutes when there was a knock. He heard Augustus answering the door and the rumble of a man’s voice. The footboy knocked on the study door and opened it to say that Mr Holdsworth presented his compliments and wondered whether Mr Whichcote was sufficiently at leisure to receive him. The foolish boy left the door ajar so Whichcote, looking up, saw his visitor standing at the outer door. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. Holdsworth was sufficiently well bred to look away and pretend that no such recognition had occurred.
‘By all means,’ Whichcote said, rising to his feet. He restored the papers to the valise and turned the key in both locks.
In the sitting room, the two men bowed to one another.
‘Are you staying in college now, sir?’ Whichcote asked.
‘Yes – in the apartments above this, as it happens.’
‘A charming view of the gardens. Quite delightful, is it not?’
Holdsworth nodded. He glanced at Augustus and begged the favour of a word in private.
When they were alone, Whichcote indicated the chair for Holdsworth. Holdsworth said he preferred to stand.
‘No doubt you are come from Mr Oldershaw,’ Whichcote said, smiling.
‘No, sir, I am not,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Mr Oldershaw went off with Mr Archdale shortly after you left the combination room.’
‘Well – that may well make things easier. Some matters are best settled between men of mature judgement.’
‘Quite so,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I shall not beat about the bush, sir – I am here to tell you that you must leave Mr Oldershaw alone. He has already had to pay too high a price for your acquaintance.’
‘That’s plain speaking, at least. What if I were to tell you that Mr Oldershaw owes me a considerable sum of money?’
‘Then I should say you were wrong.’
Whichcote smiled. ‘I make every allowance for the fact that you cannot know everything your charge has done. But I cannot believe that either you or her ladyship would welcome the truth about him being made public.’
‘You forget,’ Holdsworth said. ‘You are not in a position to make threats. A man who faces the threat of imprisonment is in a delicate situation.’