The Anatomy Of Ghosts

What am I doing?

The fear vanished as quickly as it had come when he came forward and saw her.

‘I didn’t know who it was, madam,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I feared for a moment I was discovered.’

She stood beside the brazier, holding out her hands to warm them. Scraps of paper flared brightly and crumbled almost instantly to grey ghosts of their old selves. Holdsworth poked the fire with a stick and the ghosts crumbled to powder. He dropped another handful of paper on to the embers.

‘How is Dr Carbury?’ he said.

‘Sleeping soundly.’

‘Does his health improve?’

‘Between ourselves, no. I am afraid that Dr Milton does not hold out any hope.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. I hope my visit this afternoon did not -’

‘No, you must not trouble yourself in the least. Nothing you did or said can have made matters worse.’

He did not speak. She watched him feeding the flames. The pile of papers diminished.

‘I’ve something to tell you about the ghost,’ she said. ‘But first – did it all go well?’

‘It could not have been easier. Mr Whichcote went to sup at Mrs Phear’s. No one was about. I found the valise where the boy said it would be and left with it bundled in a cloak. While I remember, I had better give you these.’ He took out a bunch of keys and handed them to her. ‘Will it inconvenience you to return them?’

She shook her head. ‘What have you found?’

‘There is a book, a sort of club register, that gives the real names of the members and identifies them with their apostolic noms de guerre. And then there are two or three other volumes, journals or minute books, I believe, recording the activities of the club and its members. Over the years, each president of the club, each Jesus Christ, has maintained both the minute books and the register. One is of no value without the other. But, taken together, it is quite clear who did what and to whom. There are also drafts of letters that Mr Whichcote intends sending to a number of former members. They are carefully worded but their sense is quite clear. All he asks from them is their good offices and perhaps a small loan, and in return they may be quite sure that their youthful indiscretions will never return to haunt them.’

‘More ghosts,’ Elinor said. ‘It seems that we constantly manufacture them. We are factories of ghosts.’

‘These ghosts will soon lose their power.’

‘Have you read the material, sir?’ She moved back from the brazier, and in doing so stepped nearer to him. ‘Surely there’s not been time?’

‘I saw enough. I came by Mr Oldershaw’s rooms to make sure we had the right valise and went through the contents. It’s vile stuff.’

Holdsworth had already torn the pages out of the books so they would be easier to burn. She crouched and took a handful of papers at random. She heard him draw in a sharp breath but he said nothing, and he did not try to stop her. She angled two or three of the sheets at the flames. Words danced before her in the shifting orange light.

‘My God! Mr Whichcote is writing to the Dean of Rosington! He dined here last term, a most agreeable man, and drank tea with me afterwards. And to Lord -’

‘Pray throw them on the fire, ma’am.’

She let papers flutter into the brazier. She took up another page at random.

‘You should not distress yourself with this trash,’ Holdsworth said. ‘It is indelicate. And worse.’

‘I may be a mere woman, sir, but I am not easily shocked,’ she said without looking up. ‘This is but a record of human folly and there is nothing so out of the ordinary in that. Women are foolish creatures too.’

He did not reply. He stooped and threw more papers on to the flames.

‘Who is this Richenda?’ she asked.

‘It appears that Morton Frostwick, a fellow-commoner at Jerusalem who was the president some twenty or thirty years ago, had a servant girl of that name. Pray let us leave it there.’

‘Good God,’ Elinor said.

It was too late. She had turned over that piece of paper and found on the back a sketch, the likeness of a girl with regular, pretty features, looking over her shoulder at whoever was taking the likeness with a coyly inviting smile. Her finger toyed with a ringlet. Underneath was the single word Richenda.

‘But this – this is so like -’

‘Yes.’ He stretched out his hand for the paper. ‘You must be growing warm, ma’am – pray allow me to feed the fire.’

On the other side of the brazier, the flames made Mr Holdsworth a stranger: half-silhouette, half-fire, all mystery. Richenda. The girl’s face and name came together in her mind with certain rumours about Morton Frostwick that had necessitated his abrupt departure from Jerusalem more than twenty years before. She recalled that there was a person still at college whom rumour (and Dr Carbury) had associated with him. As Soresby’s career showed, it was not easy for a poor and friendless sizar to defray the expenses of a University education, and in those days it had been even harder.

‘I recognize the face,’ Elinor said, studying the sketch. ‘See – do you not remark the likeness?’

‘Give it me, madam.’

‘In a moment. It might almost be Mr Richardson’s sister or daughter. But I know he has none for he told me once he was his parents’ only child and of course he is not married. Is it possible that this is not a servant girl at all, or any sort of girl, but -’

‘Yes,’ Holdsworth said. ‘Pray give me that paper.’

‘But, you see, this explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘Oh – many things. And, most recently, why Mr Richardson has been so complacent about allowing Mr Whichcote to find refuge in college.’

Holdsworth pulled another handful of papers from the valise. ‘This is not a pretty business, however one looks at it. I will not make it worse.’

She watched him feeding the last of the papers to the flames. She glanced at the sketch. It might be necessary for her to negotiate with Mr Richardson in the near future and he had no reason to grant her favours. Perhaps this would help tip the balance.

Holdsworth turned aside to empty the rest of the papers on to the fire. To Elinor it was as if he had reproved her, even rejected her, though God knew she had offered him nothing. He took out a pocket knife and slashed at the soft leather of the valise, chopping it into small fragments.

‘I do not know what I shall do,’ she said in a small voice.

She stood with her head bowed and the sketch of Richenda in her hand. She tried not to think of the future. Was not the present enough for anyone?

Holdsworth put down the knife and the ruined bag. He came towards her, making hardly any noise. For a big man, he moved quietly. She did not know what she would do. She did not know what she wanted, either.

The fire was dying. The air was growing cooler as the night advanced. She shivered, though whether it was from cold, fear, desire or a mixture of all three, she could not tell.

‘Let me put that paper on the fire for you, ma’am. It will be for the best.’

Elinor looked at him. What are you really asking? What am I choosing?

He came closer. She saw his face, the skin tinted orange by the light of the dying fire, and the hand he held out towards her. She did not move. His hand closed about her upper arm.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she turned towards him like a door swinging slowly on its hinge. His other hand slipped behind her waist. Frowning, she raised her head. He lowered his face and kissed her full on the mouth. She knew this was not possible. This must be a shameful dream.

Her lips moved under his. There was an alien softness there, a warmth, which she had not expected, and also the prickle of stubble on his skin. Anything was possible in dreams. Her lips parted, and so did his. He tasted of smoke and wine and darkness.

She pulled away from him and dropped the sketch on the fire. Richenda, the pretty girl with the coy smile, gained a final lease of life: she glowed with bright colours; she danced in the flames; she curled gracefully; and at last she blackened and crumbled away.

‘It’s growing cold, madam,’ Holdsworth said, in a voice so low she could hardly hear what he was saying. ‘You