Court. Cane in hand, Philip Whichcote entered the arcade by the porter’s lodge. Everything about him was neat and genteel. The birds flapped ungainly wings and rose unsteadily into the air.
No one was about. Little happened at Jerusalem during the hour after dinner. Whichcote went to the staircase at the south-east corner and climbed to the first-floor landing. The outer door to Frank’s rooms was still closed. Harry Archdale’s oak was open, however, and he rapped on the inner door with the head of his cane. Archdale’s voice called in answer.
‘My dear Harry, how do you do? I have not seen you for an age.’
Archdale, who had been standing beside a table sorting through a pile of books, put down the volume he was holding and came forward to greet Whichcote. ‘I’ve had a vast deal of reading from Ricky. I’ve hardly stirred from college for days.’
‘That will never do,’ Whichcote said. ‘Why, surely you must allow that too much reading is bad for a man; it curdles the intellectual faculties. And I have the very plan to take you out of yourself for a few hours. I am come to invite you to a little supper party. Only a few of our most intimate friends will be there. I thought perhaps we might amuse ourselves with cards afterwards.’
‘You are very kind, but I regret I am not at leisure.’
Whichcote was too well bred to show surprise. ‘In that case we must arrange something else. It’s a fine afternoon – shall we take a walk along the river?’
‘I’m afraid I cannot.’ Archdale gestured towards the books on the table. ‘I have too much to do. When you came in I was about to go to the library.’
‘The library! Ah – I see: this is the doing of your guardian, is it not?’
‘Sir Charles naturally wishes me to pay due attention to my studies,’ Archdale said awkwardly.
‘Well, it’s of no great consequence,’ Whichcote said easily. ‘I shall wait on you later when you are less engaged with your books. I wish to settle a day for our next club dinner, and I shall make a point of ensuring you’re not engaged elsewhere before I do.’
He talked of commonplaces for another moment or two to smooth away any abruptness their conversation might have had. As he was doing so, he sauntered to the nearest window and looked idly down at the court. A tall man was walking rapidly down the opposite side towards the passage by the combination room. It was the person whom Augustus had refused admittance at Lambourne House on the Sunday morning after the storm.
Whichcote turned back to Archdale. ‘Is that not Mr Holdsworth?’
‘Quite possibly. I believe I saw him myself before dinner. He came into college when I was talking with Ricky, and they went off together.’
‘I thought he’d left Cambridge for good with Frank. How is our friend, by the way? Is there fresh intelligence?’
‘Ricky believes he must be much improved or Holdsworth would not be here.’
‘That is most gratifying. I hope we shall soon see Frank again in our midst.’ Whichcote looked out of the window again. Holdsworth was no longer in sight. ‘Does he mean to make a long visit here? Mr Holdsworth, that is. I thought he had been commissioned to examine the college library.’
‘I don’t know.’
Archdale made no offer of refreshment, and showed no signs of wanting to prolong their conversation. Whichcote took his leave. He stepped into the porter’s lodge, where Augustus was waiting for him. Mepal told him that Holdsworth had walked into college shortly before dinner time and that there had been nothing to indicate that he expected to spend the night here. Nor had Mepal heard anything about the whereabouts of Frank Oldershaw.
Afterwards, Whichcote stood irresolute outside the entrance to Jerusalem, weighing alternatives in his mind. He beckoned Augustus.
‘I want a hack for the rest of the day. Go to the stables and tell them I shall be with them within the hour, and I shall wish to leave directly.’
‘Tell me the truth,’ Holdsworth said.
Elinor Carbury did not reply for a few seconds. Their footsteps crunched in time on the gravel path. This man constantly disconcerted her. With an effort, she gathered her thoughts together and turned her face towards him. ‘The truth, sir? And which part of the truth would you like me to provide?’
‘I had in mind that part which deals with your noctambulism.’
She stopped. ‘
‘I mean the term in its literal sense. I do not mean to suggest that you walk in your sleep, madam. But the night-soil man told me that sometimes you walk about in the gardens at night-time.’
She glanced about them. They were quite alone.
‘It is true that sometimes I find I cannot sleep and so come outside for a little air. But I do not wish it generally known.’
He bowed. ‘I understand. And I also understand that exercise can be an aid to sleep. Indeed, I often find it so myself, and take a turn or two outside before retiring. So you walk here, madam, in Dr Carbury’s garden?’
‘Yes, of course. It is very secluded, as you know.’
‘And Tom says that sometimes you come through the gate and over the bridge into the college garden.’
‘Yes,’ Elinor said, and her eyes strayed towards the gate in question and the Founder’s oriental plane. ‘Very rarely, however. Dr Carbury does not like me to walk out by myself at night, even in our garden.’ She felt trapped, as so often in her life, and cast about for a means of escape. ‘Shall we go back to the house and see if he is returned? I cannot think what has kept him in the combination room.’
‘One moment, pray.’
In his urgency, he had the temerity to touch her forearm. Her body grew warm under the thin material of her gown. She frowned at him. He appeared not to notice. He was not standing so close to her now, but had moved a little away as if to study her better.
‘Tom saw you walking by night in the garden with Mrs Whichcote.’
She glared at him. ‘What has that to do with anything? She stayed with me at the Lodge sometimes. And she found it hard to sleep too.’
‘It shows that she was familiar with Jerusalem at night.’
‘What of it?’
‘Is it possible that you were abroad on the night when Frank Oldershaw believed he saw Mrs Whichcote’s ghost?’
She did not answer. She turned away from him and began to walk slowly down the path in the direction of the Long Pond. His footsteps followed her. She wanted to scream with frustration. Why was he so provoking?
He drew level. ‘You understand what an alluring hypothesis it is, madam, I am sure.’
She did not look at him. ‘Alluring?’
‘Why, it is alluring because it answers every question at a stroke.’
‘Alluring,’ she repeated, with great care, as though the word were as fragile as a bird’s egg and needed the most careful handling.
‘Yes, alluring.’ Holdsworth was very close to her, and she wondered what echoes the adjective set off in his mind. ‘The hypothesis offers an entirely rational explanation for what occurred that night. On the one hand, we have young Mr Oldershaw who, by his own admission, had drunk a great deal, and then rammed it home with copious quantities of coffee and laudanum. He woke suddenly from a deep sleep. He was in any case in low spirits. And there he was, wandering about in a dark garden, believing himself to be entirely on his own, when he encountered a woman where no woman should be. The death of Mrs Whichcote in the very same place was lying heavily on his mind. It is not surprising that the experience should have temporarily overset his reason, given that he was already in a state of nervous exhaustion, and taking all the circumstances together. So, if true, the hypothesis would explain the alleged ghost. I am persuaded that it would convince Mr Oldershaw and satisfy Lady Anne.’
He stopped speaking and looked at Elinor. She ignored him, turning aside to study the surface of the pond.
‘Madam,’ he said gently. ‘It is the truth, is it not? It is more than a hypothesis. It is what happened.’
Still looking down at the water, she said in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, ‘And does the night-soil man claim that he saw me then? Is this your witness?’
‘No, ma’am. He was not aware of your presence that night. Indeed, he was not at Jerusalem at all until much later that morning. But this is not a court of law and it is not a matter of convincing the jury. It is merely a matter of
