‘Tabitha said at least she’d lose her maidenhead to a nice clean gentleman and get a good price for it. Miracle she still had it to lose. She said maybe the young gentleman would fall in love with her and offer to marry her. And then she’d have a place of her own and drive around in a gold coach and I could come and be her lady’s maid.’
‘I saw ’em,’ Augustus said. ‘Her and Mrs Phear, when they come in the coach while the company was at supper. I lighted them down the garden to the pavilion.’
‘Did she speak to you?’ Holdsworth asked. ‘How did she seem?’
‘Didn’t say nothing, sir. She was all muffled up, too. Next thing I knows, she’s dead.’
‘Mrs Phear’s dressed as a nun,’ Dorcas said. She made a face.
Augustus gave a high and nervous giggle.
‘Where did they go in the pavilion?’ Holdsworth said.
‘Little room downstairs,’ the boy said. ‘It’s fitted up as a bedchamber, all in white. I had to light a fire there earlier in the day and keep it high. It was all made ready for them, with wine and nuts and fruit and everything.’
‘Tell him how it happened,’ Dorcas said. ‘That’s what he wants.’
‘They were having their supper – and Mrs Phear comes out of the bedchamber and goes up to the house – and after she comes back, she goes into the room. They were having the toasts upstairs by then. And a few minutes later she sends me up to the master with a note. He comes down and goes in to see them. And then, in a while, Mr Oldershaw comes running down the stairs and goes in. He was that hot for Tabitha he couldn’t wait. Didn’t even close the door. That’s when I heard the girl’s dead.’
‘How did she die?’
Augustus shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘She was all in white, and tied to the bed. Her face was funny. Her eyes were open – they bulged like marbles. Maybe she died of fright.’
The boy sat down on the grass, wrapping his arms around his knees. Dorcas touched the top of his head in a gesture that was almost maternal.
‘It was just one of them nuts, boy,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I told you – she couldn’t move, could she, on account of being tied down. She choked herself on half a walnut. Found it in her windpipe when we laid her out.’
‘So then they took her back to Mrs Phear’s?’ Holdsworth said.
‘They put her in with me,’ Dorcas said. ‘All stiff and cold beside me. And I ain’t been free of her since.’
‘She haunts her,’ Augustus whispered. ‘Tabitha’s ghost.’
‘It is nothing but a bad dream,’ Holdsworth snapped. ‘And you, boy, what did you do after they found her?’
‘They sent me back with her, sir. Me and master carried poor Tabitha up the garden in a chair like she was too drunk to walk. Nearly dropped her once. She was flopping about all over the place. We got her in the coach and back to Mrs Phear’s. And when me and Mr Whichcote got back to the pavilion, all the gentlemen had gone home.’
‘All? What about Mr Oldershaw?’
‘Not him, sir – he was up at the house.’ The boy looked up and swallowed. ‘Mistress was with him.’
‘Mrs Whichcote?’
There was a quick nod.
‘Where?’
‘In his chamber. Master found out and flew into a terrible passion. He locked me in the cellar for the night, nearly froze to death. I never saw her again, sir, not till she was in her coffin.’
And then? The upshot of it all had been that Sylvia had run through the streets of Cambridge to seek refuge at Jerusalem College. There, somehow, she too had died. Holdsworth said, ‘Did you hear nothing of what passed between them that night – Mr Oldershaw, Mr and Mrs Whichcote?’
‘No, sir.’
‘He hit her,’ Dorcas said.
Holdsworth swung round to face her. ‘I don’t understand you. How can you have been able to form an opinion on the matter?’
‘Because I saw the lady dead, sir. I helped Mrs Phear lay out her. He’d hit her -’
Holdsworth, remembering what Tom Turdman had told him, said before he could stop himself, ‘On the head?’ He touched his temple. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, sir, she’d knocked her head on something. But I didn’t mean that. When we laid Mrs Whichcote out, we washed her all over. The bruises were on the back.’
Holdsworth stared at the girl, looking for signs that she was lying. She returned his gaze but any liar knew how to do that. Why would she lie? ‘Bruises?’
‘Yes, sir. The skin weren’t broken, not so you’d notice. Just looked like someone tore off her gown and beat her with a stick till she was black and blue.’
The Master’s illness touched them all, one way or another. Nobody knew for certain how grave it was, and Dr Carbury had a reputation for being as strong as a horse. On the other hand, no one could rule out the possibility that on this occasion his illness might be either fatal or at least incapacitating.
Whichcote watched as most of the fellows who dined in college found one excuse or another to talk to Mr Richardson and do the civil to him. They were jockeying for position, he thought, and much good might it do them.
Mr Miskin, who could not yet be entirely certain of his promised living, told the tutor a good story he had heard the other day about the Vice-Chancellor, and he also recommended a man who could supply the finest eels in the Fens; all Mr Richardson had to do was to mention Mr Miskin’s name and the thing was as good as done. Mr Crowley asked Mr Richardson’s opinion on a difficult passage in the
Frank Oldershaw and Harry Archdale were also there, exercising their right as fellow-commoners. Everyone wanted to shake Frank’s hand, to congratulate him on his restoration to health. After dinner, Whichcote took advantage of the general movement in the combination room to approach Frank under the pretence of drawing out a chair.
‘Remember your mother,’ he murmured. ‘Her ladyship’s happiness is so bound up with yours.’
Frank’s head snapped round. Whichcote tensed, half expecting a blow. Suddenly Holdsworth was between them, at once helping Whichcote with the chair and nudging Frank towards the other table where Mr Archdale was already sitting with some of the younger fellows.
Glancing across the table, Whichcote registered the fact that Richardson had been watching the little charade. Ah well, he thought, they would soon dance to another tune. In the meantime it was enough to remind them both, Frank and Richardson, who held the whip hand.
Whichcote did not linger over his wine. He walked back to his rooms. Augustus had returned with the fruit and cheese from the market and was occupied in unpacking his master’s clothes.
‘Are they there still?’ Whichcote asked without preamble.
‘Who, your honour?’
‘The bailiff’s men.’
‘Yes, sir. They – they tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t let them.’
‘Good.’
Whichcote left the boy to his work and went into the little study. The black valise was standing on the table. His first task was to go through the register of the Holy Ghost Club, which went back to its earliest years. Unlike the other records, which used only the apostolic names of the members, the register gave their real names as well, and the dates of their admission and departure from the club. Some of the older members were of course dead. He intended to work backward from the present, making a list of those whom he knew to be alive. Many of them would not be worth the trouble of approaching. He needed only those who had a position in the world, or great resources, or both. Then it would be simply a matter of cross-referencing these names from the register with their activities as Apostles, as recorded in other volumes of the club’s archives.
