Next would come the most delicate part of the business, writing the letters. It was a risky endeavour, which was why he had not tried it before, but if he prosecuted it with care, there was every chance of success. He would need to consider carefully the individual circumstances of each recipient and adjust the demands he made of them accordingly. One should make it a maxim never to ask for too much, he thought, nor for anything that the donor would not find it easy to give.
After all, one could always come back for more.
He had been working away contentedly for twenty minutes when there was a knock. He heard Augustus answering the door and the rumble of a man’s voice. The footboy knocked on the study door and opened it to say that Mr Holdsworth presented his compliments and wondered whether Mr Whichcote was sufficiently at leisure to receive him. The foolish boy left the door ajar so Whichcote, looking up, saw his visitor standing at the outer door. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. Holdsworth was sufficiently well bred to look away and pretend that no such recognition had occurred.
‘By all means,’ Whichcote said, rising to his feet. He restored the papers to the valise and turned the key in both locks.
In the sitting room, the two men bowed to one another.
‘Are you staying in college now, sir?’ Whichcote asked.
‘Yes – in the apartments above this, as it happens.’
‘A charming view of the gardens. Quite delightful, is it not?’
Holdsworth nodded. He glanced at Augustus and begged the favour of a word in private.
When they were alone, Whichcote indicated the chair for Holdsworth. Holdsworth said he preferred to stand.
‘No doubt you are come from Mr Oldershaw,’ Whichcote said, smiling.
‘No, sir, I am not,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Mr Oldershaw went off with Mr Archdale shortly after you left the combination room.’
‘Well – that may well make things easier. Some matters are best settled between men of mature judgement.’
‘Quite so,’ Holdsworth said. ‘I shall not beat about the bush, sir – I am here to tell you that you must leave Mr Oldershaw alone. He has already had to pay too high a price for your acquaintance.’
‘That’s plain speaking, at least. What if I were to tell you that Mr Oldershaw owes me a considerable sum of money?’
‘Then I should say you were wrong.’
Whichcote smiled. ‘I make every allowance for the fact that you cannot know everything your charge has done. But I cannot believe that either you or her ladyship would welcome the truth about him being made public.’
‘You forget,’ Holdsworth said. ‘You are not in a position to make threats. A man who faces the threat of imprisonment is in a delicate situation.’
Whichcote flicked his fingers as though brushing the threat away. ‘You allude to my temporary embarrassment, I collect – well, I don’t see what business it is of yours, but you need not trouble yourself for it is only temporary. And I shall not be inconvenienced while I lodge here in college.’
‘No, sir. Not that. I allude to the possibility of a criminal prosecution. This college would be no refuge to you then.’
41
Harry Archdale had intended to spend the hours after dinner at his books, but he had not reckoned on the unexpected reappearance of Frank. The two young men sat together at dinner and celebrated their reunion with a number of toasts. Afterwards, Frank had a fancy to go on the river and revisit old haunts.
They took a punt to Grantchester. It was warm work in the early evening sunshine. When they reached the village they quenched their thirst at the Red Lion for the better part of two hours.
Frank did not talk about his experiences since he had gone away. Harry did not like to pry. Indirectly, however, they arrived at the subject of Mr Whichcote and the Holy Ghost Club and found themselves in perfect agreement that they wanted nothing more to do with either the man or his club.
‘You know this business with Soresby?’ Archdale said as Frank was punting them towards Cambridge. ‘Didn’t you read with him last term?’
‘Yes. Not for long – I found it didn’t answer.’
‘He’s been reading with me this last week or two,’ Harry went on. ‘Devilish clever.’
Frank thrust the pole down. He twisted it and brought it up again. ‘I daresay. Still, he’s a thief.’
‘You don’t think there might be some mistake? Mind you, he ran off yesterday so I doubt there was. He wouldn’t do that if he was innocent, would he?’
Frank said nothing. He concentrated on negotiating a large willow branch that had fallen into the water.
‘And then there’s the letter he left for me in the book. Said he didn’t do it. Perhaps he didn’t.’
Frank squinted down at him. ‘What?’
‘You’re not listening. Perhaps he didn’t steal that Marlowe play after all. So I don’t know what to think.’
‘Do you have to think anything at all?’
‘Yes – he was most obliging to me, you know. In any case, if any a man needs a friend, he does.’
‘A friend?’
Archdale laughed a little awkwardly. ‘Well, perhaps not exactly that. But someone to lend a helping hand. Like you and that man Holdsworth.’
It was the first time Archdale had touched directly on Frank’s madness. Neither of them spoke. The punt glided through the weed-streaked water, startling a pair of ducks.
‘Ask Mulgrave,’ Frank said. ‘That’s what I’d do.’
‘Mulgrave? Why?’
Frank paused, allowing the pole to trail behind them, making a silver streak in the green water. ‘That’s what I do if I want something here. But perhaps Soresby can’t be found. Have you thought of that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps he’s drowned himself.’
Soon after this, they reached the landing place and walked in silence back to college. The gyp was in Chapel Court, unloading Frank’s portmanteaus and boxes from the same barrow that had carried Philip Whichcote’s belongings a few hours earlier.
‘Mulgrave, you know Mr Soresby, don’t you?’ Archdale said without any preamble. ‘The sizar?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you heard what’s happened to him?’
‘Mr Mepal said something about a missing library book, sir.’
‘That’s it. And have you also heard he’s made off? Stole away in the dead of night?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mulgrave hoisted a box on to his shoulder and took a step towards the doorway.
‘Any notion where he might be? Are his parents living?’
‘I believe his mother is dead, sir, and his father works as a road-mender somewhere beyond Newcastle. But I doubt if he’d have gone there, sir. There’s bad blood between them.’
‘Anyone else he might have gone to, anyone who might know where he is?’
Mulgrave sucked in his cheeks and shifted his grip on the box. ‘I suppose Mr Soresby’s uncle might have some notion of his whereabouts, sir.’
‘His uncle? Who’s that?’
Mulgrave kept his eyes respectfully on the ground but he moved another step towards the door, staggering slightly under the weight of the box. ‘Why, sir, the night-soil man. Tom Turdman.’
With the exception of Mrs Carbury’s maid, Susan, and the duty porter, none of the servants spent the night in college. The porter guarded the main gate throughout the night. In theory he made regular tours of the college and never went to sleep, but in practice he rarely stirred from his lodge and often slept as soundly as anyone in Jerusalem. There was one other exception – sometimes the night-soil man came early, by special arrangement with
