Andrew Taylor - The Anatomy Of Ghosts

Thieves, damn them, but they would not find much in his purse. How many? All he had seen were indistinct silhouettes against the night sky. Two or three, possibly four.

He struggled but it was no use. They held him tightly and dragged him into the field. In the distance he heard more footsteps, but they were running down the street, not towards him. That damned cowardly boy had abandoned him.

Did they mean to murder him?

His attackers threw him to the ground. He was face down in the mud with the taste of earth on his tongue. Someone kneeled on his back, jolting his spine. Many hands turned him this way and that. A rough and foul-tasting rag was thrust into his mouth. He gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.

It was at this point that he realized that these were no thieves. No one had said a word. They were not searching his pockets or snatching at his rings. Then what the devil did they want?

They bound his arms and legs with ropes, tightening them until he yelped at the pain. They grasped his legs and his shoulders, and swung him into the air. They marched deeper and deeper into the darkness. With every step they took, the jolting bruised his body.

Time and distance lost their meaning. He was aware of nothing but pain and fear. They stopped abruptly. A bolt scraped. A hinge squealed. They carried him a few more yards and dropped him. He landed heavily and the impact winded him. He lay on the ground, whimpering.

The door closed behind him. One bolt rattled home, followed by another. His nose pressed into cold earth. There was a smell of pigs. There was no one to hear him, no one to save him. He could not move.

Tears forced their way through his eyelids. What were they going to do? His assailants must have some purpose. They had made him as helpless as a baby in swaddling clothes.

An uncomfortable memory flooded into his mind: Tabitha Skinner, all in white, her face discoloured, tied to the bed with her legs apart, and waiting for the Holy Ghost to ravish her.

Elinor Carbury’s bedchamber was next to her sitting room. She pressed her face against the window, to avoid the reflections of the room behind her. Her breath misted the glass. In daylight, if she stood to the right, and craned her head, she would be able to see the wall of the service yard and, if she stood on tiptoe, a corner of the private gate to Jerusalem Lane. She saw none of these things now because it was dark.

An orange glow flickered and danced on the wall of the yard. She was almost sure of it. She could not see the source of the glow, only a faint, blurred reflection of the movement of flames.

Elinor was still dressed. Further along the passage, Dr Carbury lay snoring gently, wrapped in the peace that only opium could give him. There was a night nurse sitting beside him. She was a sensible, experienced woman who could be relied on to do her duty. Ben had been sent away to his lodgings. Susan was in her attic. For a few precious minutes, even hours, Elinor was as free as air.

She draped a shawl round her shoulders and went quietly downstairs. She unbolted and unlocked the garden door and went outside. She waited on the path, listening, feeling the coolness of the evening grow on her cheek. Her breath was coming more quickly than usual.

She set off along the flagged path. The entrance to the yard was just before the Jerusalem Lane gate, bounded to the north by the crumbling, windowless wall of Yarmouth Hall. She heard the flames crackling as they devoured the fuel.

The fire was brighter than Elinor had expected, shockingly vivid against the darkness. Holdsworth was standing beside the brazier. He must have heard her footsteps because he was looking in her direction. The flames changed his face, making it fiery and fluid, turning him into a devilish stranger. Suddenly she was mortally afraid.

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.’