When Ben came, she inquired whether the Master was ready to receive Mr Holdsworth. Shortly afterwards, the servant conducted Holdsworth along the passage to the sickroom.
Susan opened the door when Ben knocked. She had a bundle of dirty sheets in her arms. Dr Carbury was in bed, propped up with pillows, but he waved feebly, beckoning Holdsworth towards him. His nightgown was very white and so was his nightcap, accentuating his grey skin, which hung in folds from the cheekbones as though the skull within had shrunk. His jaw was covered with greasy stubble, for he had not been shaved since being confined to bed. The nurse was tidying the bottles and pillboxes that littered the night table.
Holdsworth approached the bed. The curtains were open and he glanced out at the sunlit court below, where Mr Miskin and Mr Crowley were deep in conversation. People might live and die in the place but Jerusalem itself continued, blandly indifferent. He began to make the conventional inquiries but Carbury cut him short. He tugged at the sleeve of the nurse’s gown.
‘Go away, woman.’
‘But, sir -’
‘Do as I say.’ His hand twitched on the bed, digging the horny nails into the coverlet. ‘You too, girl. Shut the door behind you.’
Susan followed the nurse out of the room.
‘They tell me young Oldershaw is back,’ Carbury said, forcing the words out. ‘Safe and sound?’
‘Yes, sir. He seems himself again.’
Carbury winced. ‘What ailed him?’
‘I believe that Mr Whichcote and the Holy Ghost Club had done him no good whatsoever. They had undermined his health and encouraged him to all sorts of folly and dissipation. And the death of Mrs Whichcote on the very night he joined the club quite overthrew him – it was the final straw. He believed he was in some sense responsible.’
‘Absurd.’ Carbury’s nails now scratched the freshly laundered sheet. ‘But I am heartily glad to hear he is himself again. What of Lady Anne?’
‘I have written to her, naturally, and so has Mr Frank and of course Mrs Carbury. She should have received our letters today.’
‘I would not wish her ladyship to think ill of us, particularly now.’ Carbury’s head dropped to his chest. His eyelids closed.
Holdsworth wondered whether he had fallen asleep, or into a swoon. He looked down at the invalid. ‘Sir, there is something else I must tell you. It concerns Mrs Whichcote.’
Carbury’s head jerked up as if tugged by a string. ‘What? What do you mean?’
‘A curious circumstance has come to light,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I am at a loss how to explain it. On the night of her death, when she was at Lambourne House, the lady was wearing a particular pair of slippers. They were distinctive in colour and design. You may recall that when she was found in the Long Pond the following morning, she was wearing only a gown and torn stockings – her feet were bare.’
‘Well? What of it? No doubt she lost them on the way or they were washed into the culvert that drains the pond. What is this nonsense, Mr Holdsworth? I do not see the purpose of it. I am not well, sir, not well – would you have the goodness to ring the bell?’
‘One moment, if you please.’ An idea hovered like a ghost in a far corner of Holdsworth’s mind: something forgotten? A question to ask? But as soon as he was aware of it, it was gone. There was no time now to pin it down. ‘Pray hear me out.’
‘No, sir, the bell, I say.’
‘Forgive me, sir. I will not be long. The night-soil man found the slippers a day or two later. They were near the garden door of the Lodge. He knew they must be Mrs Whichcote’s. He’s used to finding unexpected trifles when he goes about his work, and he makes the best use of them he can. He reasoned that Mrs Whichcote, their owner, could no longer have a use for the slippers, so he cleaned them, had them mended, for they were much torn, and presented them to his wife.’
Dr Carbury sank back against the pillows and let out a long, windy sigh. ‘Curious, perhaps, but nothing to be wondered at. Noctambulants cannot be judged by normal standards. The sleeping mind follows its own illogical motions. But enough, sir. I am weary.’
‘But I have good reason to believe that the lady was not walking in her sleep.’
‘Eh?’ Carbury’s head was drooping again. ‘I do wish you would not go on about it. You are fatiguing me.’
‘She was greatly distressed. Mr Whichcote had beaten her savagely that night. That is what drove her to flee to Jerusalem. I cannot believe that she would throw away her slippers. Why should the thought even enter her mind? Nor is it likely that she lost them. Not on a paved path in a place she knew so well by daylight.’
Dr Carbury’s forefinger scratched the coverlet and his chin sank down on his chest. In his present state, did he realize what Holdsworth was implying? The gate to Jerusalem Lane was locked. The college itself was locked and guarded. The Master’s Lodge and its garden were locked within the college. The gate over the bridge was locked. A hortus conclusus, as Richardson had said with a touch of scholarly licence on Holdsworth’s first evening, within a hortus conclusus.
‘Suppose, sir,’ Holdsworth went on. ‘Suppose that Mrs Whichcote came running through the streets in her distress, looking for shelter here. She gained entry by the private gate to Jerusalem Lane. And then -’
A gurgle deep in Dr Carbury’s throat interrupted Holdsworth in mid-flow. The head jerked up and down. The arms flailed. The body twitched under the covers. The right arm swept to one side, colliding with the night table, which rocked, sending the tray of medicines sliding to the floor.
Holdsworth tugged the bell so hard that the rope broke. He ran to the door, opened it and called for help. Footsteps clattered on the stairs and in the hall below. Dr Carbury groaned and lay still.
Holdsworth crossed the room to the bed. He bent over the man lying there and reached for the wrist to feel for the pulse.
Dear God, have I killed him?
44
Nothing was simple in this matter of Sylvia Whichcote, Holdsworth thought, nothing was substantial. It was like mist or smoke. If you put out your hand to touch it, there was nothing there. But when your hand moved, your own action had the mysterious effect of changing the shape and appearance of whatever it was you had failed to grasp.
In one way, there was consolation in the fact that the problem was none of his. Lady Anne had employed him to act on her behalf. He would hear from her tomorrow at the latest and she would almost certainly command him to bring Frank back to London. Her interest was her son, not the death of a woman she had never met.
In the meantime, Holdsworth made a conscious effort to throw himself into other activities. He dined in college, where he sat between Mr Dow and Mr Crowley, and talked a little about the library and its shortcomings from the perspectives of their particular interests. But the main topic of conversation around the table was Dr Carbury and his illness. Holdsworth, who had seen him most recently, was much in demand as an eye-witness.
‘I understand from his servant that they almost despaired of his life when you were with him,’ Mr Richardson said. ‘Were you actually in his chamber?’
‘As it happens, yes – he suffered an acute spasm of pain, but fortunately it was brief.’
‘What brought it on?’
‘I cannot say, sir,’ Holdsworth said. ‘These things are a mystery to me.’
Afterwards, he visited the library and worked on his survey of its contents and condition. Holdsworth had to look to his own future – if the late bishop’s collection were transferred to the college, someone would have to oversee the operation, and there was no reason why it should not be him. And why not? Had he not fulfilled his side of her ladyship’s bargain and brought about Frank Oldershaw’s cure?