‘Tell me,’ he said to Frank. ‘What if I could persuade her ladyship to order Dr Jermyn to release you into my custody?’
‘How can I trust you? You would take me back to my mother. You would take me somewhere worse, for all I know, worse than this.’
‘I cannot force you to trust me. So let me appeal to your reason.’
‘I have no reason.’
‘You have enough reason for this, sir, I think. At all events, let us suppose you have. If I ask her ladyship to release you into my custody, and if we find somewhere quite retired where we shall live – will that not be better than this? As for this matter of trust – consider it from my perspective. I can only carry out this suggestion with your mother’s agreement. If anything happens to you, if anything at all undesirable occurs because of this move, then her ladyship will lay it solely at my door. Simply for reasons of self-interest, I cannot afford to do you anything but good. Even if there is nothing I can do to cure you, at least you will be away from here. You will be away from Dr Jermyn and his moral management.’
Frank drew another zero in the earth. ‘I do not want to see my mother or Cross or Whichcote or Harry Archdale or my tutor or any of them. Anyone at all.’
‘That would be entirely understood. If you permit me to raise the matter with her ladyship, I shall say that you and I must live in seclusion. That would be a necessary precondition.’
Frank looked up sharply. ‘What if I shouldn’t want to be cured? Have you thought of that? What then?’
Before Holdsworth could reply, there was a sudden commotion behind them. Holdsworth and Frank turned. Two men had come into the kitchen garden – Norcross and Jermyn himself. Norcross had a mastiff on a short leash. The other attendant leaped to his feet, his newspaper fluttering to the ground. The only people who appeared quite unaffected were the two middle-aged patients, who continued with their work as if nothing had happened.
‘Shall I write to her ladyship?’ Holdsworth said in an undertone. ‘Yes or no?’
‘You, sir,’ Jermyn called. ‘Come here this instant or I shall order my man to unleash the dog.’
‘Yes,’ Frank whispered. ‘Quickly.’
19
After divine service, a sea of caps and gowns flooded through the doors of Great St Mary’s and gradually dissipated itself among the streets, alleys and colleges. Holdsworth paused outside the railings of the Senate House to watch the spectacle. Most of the worshippers were in academic dress, and their gowns and hoods were of many colours and textures. Some slouched, some strolled; some walked in chattering groups, others in silence, one or two with their noses in books. Here was the University in its Sunday finery, and the sight was both magnificent and slovenly.
Holdsworth was in no hurry to reach Jerusalem. On his way back from Barnwell, he had called at Lambourne House in Chesterton Lane, but the little footboy who answered the door told him that Mr Whichcote was not at home to visitors. Holdsworth declined to state his business. As he had turned to leave, he had glimpsed a gentleman with a lean, handsome face looking down at him from an upstairs window. Whichcote probably took him for an importunate tradesman with an upaid bill, and the footboy had fobbed him off with a polite fiction.
Afterwards Holdsworth had walked about the town at random. Cambridge was like a place in the grip of an occupying army. The streets were mean and crowded, the houses small and ugly, huddled in among themselves as though for protection. The citizens scurried about with surly faces as though they had little right to be there – the true masters of the place were the gowned figures who lived behind the gates and walls of the colleges. Occasionally he had glimpsed above the rooftops a tower, a soaring pinnacle or, through a great stone gateway, a quiet grassy court surrounded by gracious buildings, some modern, others Gothic and picturesque. In Cambridge, he thought, appearances were deceptive: it was a place that jealously guarded its secrets and its beauties. And perhaps its ghosts, as well.
When the crowd outside Great St Mary’s had diminished, Holdsworth crossed the road and walked into St Mary’s Passage, which ran along the south side of the church. He saw the dapper figure of Mr Richardson thirty yards ahead, walking beside a tall, stately man swinging a gold-headed cane. Another, smaller figure sauntered behind them, swaying with exaggerated motions from side to side in a manner that caricatured the movements of the man with the cane. It was young Mr Archdale indulging in his sense of humour.
Holdsworth followed them back to Jerusalem. Mepal made his obedience with particular reverence as the little party passed the porter’s lodge. The three men paused in Chapel Court, standing in the watery sunshine. The tall man looked about him with a proprietorial air. Holdsworth, judging that his presence might not be welcome, was about to slip by when Richardson murmured something to his companions and turned aside to greet him.
‘Mr Holdsworth – this is well met, sir: I had hoped to see you before dinner. You will be in the library after dinner, I apprehend? I shall be with Sir Charles. But Soresby will be your guide – he is very able – he knows almost as much about it as I do, I believe. I saw him after chapel this morning and reminded him of the engagement. Pray ask him anything you want. He will place himself entirely at your service for as long as you wish.’
Richardson said goodbye to Holdsworth, and scampered after the Archdales, who were strolling across the sacred square of grass in the centre of the court. Holdsworth walked through the passage by the combination room to the door of the Master’s Lodge. When Ben admitted him, he said that his master was now up and dressed; he was with Mrs Carbury in her sitting room.
Holdsworth went upstairs to join them. Carbury was in his armchair. He was dressed in a smarter black coat than usual, newly shaved and with his hair freshly powdered, but he looked old and ill. Elinor was seated by the window. Holdsworth was uncomfortably aware of her presence.
‘I hope you are fully restored, sir,’ Holdsworth said once the greetings were out of the way. His eyes slid towards Elinor of their own volition.
‘Yes, yes. I am very vexed, however – that fool Ben let me sleep late and I had intended to go to church. Tell me, sir, was you there?’
‘No. Although I happened to be passing Great St Mary’s as they were coming out.’
‘Sir Charles Archdale was to attend the service,’ Carbury said. ‘I wish I had been there.’
‘I believe I saw him coming out with Mr Richardson and young Mr Archdale.’
Carbury scowled. ‘I shall have the pleasure of meeting Sir Charles at dinner.’
‘Sir,’ Elinor said. ‘Is this wise? You are not entirely yourself yet.’
‘I am perfectly well,’ Carbury said without looking at her.
‘Indeed you are, sir.’ Elinor rose from her seat and came to stand by her husband’s chair. ‘Still, we must not weary Mr Holdsworth with these little details. He hoped to see Mr Frank this morning, you remember, and perhaps he has good news for us, and for her ladyship.’
Carbury looked sharply at Holdsworth. ‘Yes, how did you do? Would they admit you without an appointment?’
‘As it happened, the doctor was not in the way when I arrived.’ Holdsworth exchanged another glance with Elinor. Neither of them mentioned their conversation at breakfast, and the shared knowledge was a kind of treachery. ‘And I was able to have some private conversation with Mr Frank.’
‘Could you get sense out of him? Was he in his right mind?’
‘They had dosed him up so much that it was hard to say where he was, sir. He is fearful – and I am not sure of what. His wits are wandering but I would not call him mad. The one thing I am sure of is that he is not suited to the regimen of that place. It is doing him no good. I asked him whether he would consent to be released into my custody, on the understanding that we would live apart from the world for a while without seeing anyone from his former life, including his mother. I think he would be agreeable to that. Such a course could not harm him and might indeed be of benefit. We cannot do worse with it than he is doing now.’
‘We must have Jermyn’s opinion on this,’ Carbury said. ‘We must proceed in the proper way.’
‘I doubt he would be in favour, sir. He came upon me unexpectedly while I was talking with Mr Frank, and he was not at all pleased. He had me escorted from the premises.’
Elinor said in a low voice, ‘If Mr Frank went from Dr Jermyn’s, and that fact became known to the world, would it not seem that his health had improved? Would it not suggest that his wits were no longer disordered?’
