and weight of his limbs. Despite the beauty of his face, there was nothing effeminate about his appearance. He stood in front of them, shoulders rounded, head lowered. Holdsworth bowed. Frank responded with a twitch of his head.
‘Good,’ Jermyn said. ‘This is very agreeable. We are getting on famously, are we not?’
He paused but no one spoke.
‘Her ladyship has sent Mr Holdsworth down to see you,’ Jermyn went on. ‘Who knows, if you continue as you do for a few more weeks, he may even be able to take you back to London.’
Frank Oldershaw came to life like a sprung trap in a covert. He whirled round, arms outstretched, and swept the wooden pieces of the puzzle from the table. Jermyn stepped back, his face expressionless. Equally abruptly, Frank reversed the direction of his movement. He sent the little table flying into the corner.
The episode was over almost as soon as it had begun. The attendant rushed across the room and grasped Frank in such a powerful hold that he could not move his arms. The young man heaved and strained and stamped. But he could not break the grip.
Jermyn rang a bell in the wall beside the fireplace. The door opened and two more men appeared. Between them they forced Frank into the armchair and strapped him in. All this time no one said a thing. It was as if such episodes were so familiar that there was nothing left to say about them.
Holdsworth picked up the table and set it upright. As he did so, he trod on one of the cubes. He bent down and picked that up too. He put it down on the table. Animal husbandry was uppermost. He turned it over and got the sacrifice of Isaac instead. He looked up suddenly. Frank was staring intently at him.
‘That was very wrong,’ Jermyn said sternly, bringing his face down to the level of Frank’s. ‘You must not allow these fits of temper to master you.’
Frank’s mouth gaped wide. He stuck out his tongue and waggled it from side to side. ‘Quack,’ he said. ‘Quack.’
‘You must apologize,’ Jermyn went on. ‘To me, and of course to Mr Holdsworth, who, as your mother’s emissary, deserves your particular attention. And to poor Norcross, who was obliged to restrain you again.’
Frank bowed his head, shutting them all out.
Jermyn seized his patient by the hair and yanked his head back. Frank stared up into the doctor’s face. ‘Look at me, Frank,’ Jermyn said firmly. ‘Look at me and tell me who is master here.’
Frank screwed his eyes shut, retreating into a private darkness.
Jermyn nodded to Norcross, who came forward, stood behind the chair, and prised open Frank’s eyelids with his thumbs. He pulled back the head so Frank was looking directly into Jermyn’s face, hardly six inches above his own.
‘Look at me,’ Jermyn said. ‘And tell me who is the master here.’
Frank’s eyeballs twitched and rolled as though he were having a fit. He spat at Jermyn. The doctor stood back and carefully hit his patient twice, left palm to right cheek, right palm to left cheek. He took out a handkerchief and wiped spittle from his face and the sleeve of his coat.
‘You are here for your own good,’ Jermyn said in a deep, resonant voice, speaking slowly and rhythmically. ‘It is for your own good that you must obey me in all things. Who is the master here?’
Frank’s tongue appeared briefly between his lips as though he were moistening them. He made a gargling sound deep in his throat.
‘Who is the master here?’ Jermyn repeated, and as he spoke he glanced up at the attendant, who responded by jerking Frank’s head further backward and digging in his thumbs more deeply to the eye sockets.
‘You are,’ Frank burst out, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Say it like this,’ Jermyn commanded. ‘ “You are the master here, sir.” ’
‘You – you are – the master here.’
‘Sir!’ roared Jermyn.
‘Sir,’ Frank muttered.
Jermyn stepped back from his patient and Norcross released his hold. The doctor turned smiling to Holdsworth.
‘There you see it, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The modern system of moral management in action. Sooner or later it answers in every case. But you must show them who is master. Everything follows from that.’
Frank’s head fell to his chest. He closed his eyes. The lashes gleamed with moisture.
‘I wish to talk to Mr Oldershaw,’ Holdsworth said.
‘By all means.’ Jermyn waved towards his silent patient. ‘However, I do not think his replies will necessarily be much to the point.’
‘I should prefer to talk to him alone, sir. I have private matters to discuss.’
Jermyn smiled courteously. ‘I do not doubt it, sir. But I cannot permit it.’
Norcross picked up a leather gag from the mantelpiece and looked at Jermyn for instructions.
The doctor shook his head. ‘Later. It is better our visitor should understand what we have to deal with.’
Frank drew a long, sobbing breath. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.
When the noise had abated, Jermyn turned to Holdsworth. ‘Now, sir,’ he said briskly. ‘Now do you understand?’
12
Harry Archdale tried to get up – but as soon as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he felt intolerably dizzy; and the movement triggered violent internal activity that required him to plunge head first out of bed with his arms outstretched for the chamber pot. After he had vomited, he was obliged to lie down again to recover.
He drifted into an uncomfortable doze, during which fragmentary memories of the events of the previous day floated like lethargic fish through his semiconscious mind. He rather thought he had lost the deuce of a lot of money to Philip Whichcote – not because of any lack of skill but because of the way the damned cards had fallen. If Whichcote dunned him for money, which he might well do, Archdale would have to apply to his guardian for another advance on next quarter’s allowance, which would lead in turn to another ugly scene, as a consequence of which he might not be able to visit Paris in the Long Vacation after all.
The unwelcome recollection of his guardian’s existence led to another, equally unpleasant thought. It must be Saturday today. Sir Charles, who was also his uncle, would be in Cambridge by this evening: he was putting up at the Blue Boar, and tomorrow he was to attend divine service in Great St Mary’s and then dine at Jerusalem. It was of prime importance not to upset the old man. But this would not be easy. His guardian intended to discuss his ward’s progress with Mr Richardson. There was the little matter of his debts – and of course his uncle would see only those from the college and from licensed tradesmen, which came directly to Richardson; but there were others – gambling debts, for example, and all the little sundries of life. To make matters worse, Sir Charles had a bee in his bonnet about Archdale’s going in for the Vauden Medal.
Somehow tomorrow had to be managed in a discreet and mutually agreeable way that would leave Archdale in tip-top condition for the excitements of the club meeting on Wednesday evening. He did not want to miss that for the world, for he was due to become an Apostle. The Holy Ghost Club was reputed to be the most select dining club in Cambridge with its members drawn from the first rank of society. There was nothing more desirable than to be one of the Twelve Apostles. But his uncle was quite incapable of appreciating the importance of this. If the curmudgeonly old brute was in an ill humour, he might well withdraw his nephew from the University. He had threatened to do so in his last letter if Archdale failed to live within his allowance and apply himself to his studies. Something must be done, therefore, some little gesture, some
Archdale hauled himself into a sitting position and groaned aloud. There was a tap on the door, and his bedmaker cautiously poked her red face into the room.
‘Did you call, sir?’ she inquired, her eyes swinging to and fro, taking in the disordered bedclothes, the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the overflowing chamber pot and Mr Archdale huddled on his bed.
‘No,’ he bleated. ‘That is to say, yes. Where’s Mulgrave? I need Mulgrave.’
‘He’s not in college this morning, sir.’
