The Anatomy Of Ghosts

external reason why Mr Oldershaw should have attacked him, any more than there is any reason why he should have attempted to destroy himself in the college pond. No, in both cases he was in the grip of the delirium of mania. The technical phrase for it is mania furibunda; that is to say, mania attended by violence.’

‘Let us not be technical for a moment, sir,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Had anything happened to make him believe Mr Cross was his enemy?’

‘Not as far as I know.’ The doctor leaned forward. ‘Sir, I cannot yet fully explain these particular manifestations of mania, but I believe I know the general phenomenon that makes them possible. You are perhaps familiar with Locke’s Essay upon Human Understanding?’

‘I have glanced over it, yes.’

Jermyn permitted himself another smile. ‘Inter alia, it deals with how we discern, and other operations of the mind. And Mr Locke makes acute remarks on the subject of why madmen fail to discern matters correctly. In fine, he argues that madmen are perfectly capable of rational thought. In this, by and by, they differ from idiots, who are constitutionally incapable of reasoning.’ The physician’s voice had imperceptibly acquired the inflections of the pulpit. ‘But for madmen, the difficulty arises from the propositions they reason from, rather than -’

‘Forgive me, sir, but I do not understand how a philosophical error could result in Mr Oldershaw’s mania,’ Holdsworth said. ‘And I am also puzzled to understand what his physiology has to do with it.’

‘You have strayed into the province of the physician, sir, and I’m afraid some confusion is inevitable. It is usually safe to take Mr Locke as a guide on such matters. Believe me, when you have seen as many of these unfortunate young men as I have, Mr Locke’s theories may not seem so improbable.’

‘But you are still unable to attribute a cause to his mania? That is the long and the short of it.’

‘ I’m interested in the fact of Mr Oldershaw’s delusions, not their content. In general, the ravings of a madman signify no more than the wanderings of a will-o’-the-wisp, and tracking the course of their vagaries is equally beside the point. What does signify, however, is the fact that he is raving. Like everything in the universe, from the orbit of the sun to the migration of swallows, melancholia and mania follow immutable laws. Such laws are like the master keys that permit us to unlock the mysteries of nature, including those of the human mind. They are all we need.’

‘And all Mr Oldershaw needs is to recover his senses,’ Holdsworth said. ‘What course of treatment do you follow, sir?’

‘I practise a system of moral management. I believe it the only effective way. The physician must achieve a benign domination over his patient, both in the psychological and the physical spheres. Once this is done, he can set to work on the defects of understanding that lie at the heart of the patient’s malady. Much depends on the physician’s ability to master his patient. It is not unlike training a child.’

‘Moral management,’ Holdsworth repeated. ‘You make your patients obedient to you? Like a dog?’

‘In essence, yes. It is a system of re-education. We insist on their following appropriate lines of thought, speech and conduct. I confess that with Mr Oldershaw, I was over-sanguine. I advised Mr Cross to say to Mr Oldershaw that he would soon take him home to her ladyship and that, since he was so much improved, it might be agreeable to have a little dinner party here – for Mr Oldershaw to act as host, and to invite not only Mr Cross and myself but also some of his acquaintances in Cambridge.’

‘Who?’ Holdsworth said.

‘Oh, only three other men. His tutor, Mr Richardson, of course. And Mr Whichcote, a most reputable gentleman of some substance, who goes much in society here; recently widowed but he still dines out at small private parties. He made something of a pet of Mr Oldershaw. And the other man is called Archdale, a fellow-commoner at Jerusalem – he and Oldershaw were always together. I hoped a small dinner for Mr Oldershaw’s intimates would be the first step to restoring him to society. In the event, all was in vain. He became increasingly agitated and, most unfortunately, my attention was distracted for a moment, and as you know he lost all control and tried to assault Mr Cross. Mania furibunda operates in just such a way – as impossible to predict as summer lightning.’

‘I should like to see him, if I may.’

‘I cannot advise it, sir. It may provoke -’

‘I must insist. Her ladyship has charged me to see him with my own eyes.’

With another of his smiles, Dr Jermyn rose to his feet. He held open the door. There was something shiny and impervious about him, Holdsworth thought, as if he had been coated with a veneer of resin. Neither harsh words nor arguments seemed to reach the interior of the man: they remained on the outside, and drained harmlessly away.

‘Very well,’ Jermyn said. ‘Even a physician must bow before the tender curiosity of a mother.’

11

Philip Whichcote stood in the doorway and gnawed his forefinger. He did not like looking at the bed but he could not stop himself staring at it. It was an ugly, old-fashioned thing, too big for the room; Sylvia’s mother, who had been inordinately proud of it, had given it to them as a wedding present. The bare mattress rested on the wooden skeleton of the frame. The four carved posts at the corners supported a canopy that had always reminded him of the top of a hearse.

Here Sylvia had lain, night after night. Here he had lain with her. Her warm body had pressed down on that mattress, and he had pressed his body against hers. Night after night.

The still, silent room oppressed him for more reasons than he cared to count, but the bed was the worst part of it. He would like to have been able to order them to break it up, take it downstairs to the kitchen garden and burn it, along with the mattress. Instead he would have to sell it for what he could get.

Whichcote went next door to Sylvia’s sitting room. He walked rapidly to the nearest window and pulled up the blind. Midday sunshine streamed into the room. Motes of dust danced in the air. He tugged the dust sheets from the furniture. The bureau bookcase was a handsome piece, which had come from his great-uncle. It should be worth something. He pulled the volumes at random from the shelves. Her books should fetch a few guineas at least as well. He’d call in someone from Merrill’s or Lunn’s and see what they would offer.

He opened the bureau and poked his fingers into its recesses and compartments, hoping he had overlooked something of value the last time he looked. There were rusty nibs, paper, dried-up ink, sealing wax and string. Sylvia had left surprisingly little trace of herself. It was as though she had barely existed. She had spent half her life writing to other women, to her mother in the country, to Elinor Carbury at Jerusalem. But she had not kept the letters she received. She had not kept a diary, either. There was nothing left of her.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

He closed the bureau flap. Behind him, there was a squeak as Augustus cleared his throat. The footboy aimed to produce the discreet cough of a well-trained servant advising his master of his presence. But nature decreed otherwise.

‘What is it now?’

‘If you please, your honour, Mr Mulgrave is below.’

‘Send him to me in the study.’

Whichcote locked the door leading to Sylvia’s apartments and went downstairs. Almost at once, Augustus announced Mulgrave. The gyp came slowly into the room, his body leaning to the left as it always did because his left leg was shorter than the right.

‘Well?’ Whichcote demanded.

Mulgrave shrugged. ‘Not much change, sir. Mr Oldershaw is quiet enough, they say. They keep him dosed up so he’s sleeping most of the time. He’s eating like a horse. But there’s no life in him, any more than that there sofa.’

‘Do his attendants believe their master will cure him?’

‘They say the doctor’s mended a lot of people.’ Mulgrave smiled. ‘Made a deal of money out of it at any rate. But he don’t seem to have got very far with Mr Oldershaw. He shouts at him, like at the others – says do this, do