finding a theory that covers the facts, such as we know them. And you must see the attraction of this one.’
‘Does it signify what I say, sir? You have already fixed on your theory, and if my answer does not suit, no doubt you will ignore it.’
‘I can never ignore anything you say, madam.’
He stopped, but she did not speak, though she felt her colour rising at his impudence.
‘Lady Anne has laid a heavy responsibility on my shoulders,’ he went on. ‘I must discharge it as best I can. Were you in the garden that night?’
‘It is only my word one way or the other. You will believe it or not, just as you like.’
‘I had rather hear it from your own lips, madam. Whether or not you were there.’
‘I was not,’ she said.
‘It is my duty to try to restore Mr Oldershaw to himself. Even if I cannot adduce absolute proof, this remains a perfectly valid alternative to the idea that he saw an apparition of a dead woman. Surely the very knowledge of this possibility may be of service to him?’
She turned and looked up at him. Her skin was hot and clammy, and it no longer seemed to fit her very well. ‘Pray say nothing of this notion to anyone. I know her ladyship. Her principles are firm, her judgement severe. She would be horrified by the very idea of a lady in the habit of rambling alone and unprotected at night, the only female in a college full of young gentlemen. She would not hesitate to condemn both the sin and the sinner. And there would be no appeal.’
‘Madam, I cannot believe -’
‘Wait,’ Elinor interrupted. ‘That is but a part of it, and the smaller part. You are aware that Dr Carbury is not in the best of health, I think?’
Holdsworth bowed.
‘May I confide in you?’
‘I should be honoured, ma’am.’
‘If the worst happens, I cannot risk losing Lady Anne’s friendship. There is no one else I shall be able to turn to. A friendless woman cannot afford to be poor in this world.’
She looked up at him. She had never before noticed the lines that cut into his face, horizontally across the forehead and splaying out from the outer corners of the eyes. He had not shaved for a few days and there were dark flecks over his chin and cheek with a few grey ones scattered among them, particularly above the upper lip.
‘I hope your future will not be as bleak as you fear, madam,’ he said softly. ‘It may take another, happier direction altogether.’
In the silence that followed they looked into each other’s faces. Here, Elinor thought, is yet another complication. From another man, such a pretty speech might almost have amounted to a declaration of sorts.
‘I will say it again if you wish,’ she said, suddenly angry with Holdsworth because Dr Carbury was alive, and suddenly guilty too because part of her wished he were not. ‘Just to make sure. I was not in the garden on that night. Do you hear me, sir? I was not. There, does that satisfy you?’
‘Very well. But it’s a pity. It would have been an elegant solution to the difficulty.’
‘Elegant for you, perhaps, but inconvenient for me.’
He looked away. ‘There is also the other matter, and I do not think Mr Oldershaw will be entirely quiet in his mind until that is settled. If it ever is.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Why, what led to this story of a ghost in the first place: I mean the manner of Mrs Whichcote’s death.’
33
When he left the Master’s Lodge, Holdsworth walked swiftly through the passage into Chapel Court. The more he knew of Jerusalem, the more he glimpsed beneath its surface strange and unsettling shapes he had no wish to examine closely. During that terrible interview in the garden, he had hardly been able to restrain his desire for Elinor Carbury. His own stupidity nauseated him. He could hardly have fixed his desires on a less suitable person.
Worse than stupid. Adulterous. Elinor was married to Dr Carbury. And Maria had been in her grave for little more than three months. How could he betray his dead wife even in his desires?
He forced his mind into another, safer channel. Had Elinor Carbury been lying? Had she walked under the plane tree on the night that Frank Oldershaw went mad? Was she herself the ghost? Or did she merely find other ways to haunt a man?
It was not until Holdsworth was halfway down Chapel Court that he noticed the two familiar figures standing outside the doorway to the library. Mr Richardson was talking to his pupil, the dapper Mr Archdale, who seemed even pinker and more inflated than usual. Holdsworth was too late to alter course to avoid them but he put on a preoccupied air and tried to slip by with a rapid bow as though absorbed in the execution of an urgent errand. But Richardson turned towards him, his hand held out.
‘Mr Holdsworth, the very man! Pray, sir, will you join us a moment? I am in urgent need of your advice.’
There was no help for it. He allowed Richardson to draw him aside. Archdale waited a few yards away, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
The tutor lowered his voice. ‘I am afraid we have a thief in our midst, sir. Mr Archdale went up to the library just now and found that the lock on one of the cupboard doors had been forced. It’s the cupboard where we house our more valuable books and also those of a delicate nature. You remember it, no doubt? I pointed it out to you. To the left of the fireplace.’
‘Yes. Set in the wall. When did this happen?’
‘Probably during or just after dinner. The library was unlocked, and few people were about. When he discovered the cupboard had been broken into, Mr Archdale very properly sought me out. I’ve made a quick survey of the contents, and I believe only one volume is missing. A play by Marlowe.’
‘
‘Exactly so. A strange choice – there are more valuable books.’
‘Or astute?’ Holdsworth suggested.
‘How so?’
‘It’s an unusually unblemished copy of the earliest-known edition of the play and it appears to be in its original binding. But nobody knows how many copies were printed, how many still are in existence, or where they are. So if the thief took care to remove any marks of ownership from it, it would be relatively easy to dispose of.’
‘Ah. I catch your drift. So this is perhaps a thief who knows his work?’
Holdsworth bowed. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And what might such a book fetch?’
‘That I cannot tell you. These things fetch what the market will bear. Marlowe is not much sought after these days but there are those who would be delighted to have a copy of it in their collection. If the thief is as clever as he seems to be, he would bide his time. He would look for a private gentleman perhaps, rather than a bookseller. The alternative is that he has stolen the book to order, as it were, and already has a purchaser waiting for it.’
Richardson glanced at Archdale, just out of earshot. ‘Mr Holdsworth, I have not told you the whole of it yet. There is another circumstance, and I scarcely know whether this makes it worse or better.’ He took something from his pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand. ‘When Mr Archdale found that the cupboard had been broken into, he also found this inside. I can swear that it was not there this morning – I had occasion to open the cupboard then. So we can only conclude that it belongs to the thief.’
In the palm of Richardson’s hand lay a small penknife with a bone handle. The knife was open. The dull metal of the blade was pitted and scarred. Constant sharpening had worn it down to a shadow of its original self. The metal shone brightly only along the edge.
‘You believe this was the instrument used to force the lock, sir?’
‘So it would seem. And both Mr Archdale and I have had occasion to see this particular knife before. It is quite distinctive in shape, you see, and there is a black smudge on the bone as if a red-hot poker had lain there briefly, or something of the sort. I’m afraid there can be no doubt of it. It belongs to Mr Soresby. I have seen him use it on
