The Anatomy of Ghosts Read online

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  THE ANATOMY OF GHOSTS

  AN INQUIRY INTO THE DISTRESSING CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING AN ALLEGED APPARITION LATELY RECORDED IN CAMBRIDGE

  Set Down for the Curious in the Form of a Novel

  By ANDREW TAYLOR

  London:

  Printed for Michael Joseph

  an imprint of PENGUIN BOOKS

  No. 80, THE STRAND,

  by The Adelphi

  2010

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  First published in 2010

  Copyright © Lydmouth Ltd, 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WITHOUT LIMITING THE RIGHTS UNDER COPYRIGHT RESERVED ABOVE, NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, STORED IN OR INTRODUCED INTO A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, OR TRANSMITTED, IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS (ELECTRONIC, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHERWISE), WITHOUT THE PRIOR WRITTEN PERMISSION OF BOTH THE COPYRIGHT OWNER AND THE ABOVE PUBLISHER OF THIS BOOK

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-94397-8

  In memory of Don

  It is wonderful that five thousand years have now elapsed since the creation of the world, and still it is undecided whether or not there has ever been an instance of the spirit of any person appearing after death. All argument is against it; but all belief is for it.

  Dr Johnson, 31 March 1778 (Boswell’s Life of Johnson)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Author’s Note

  1

  Late in the evening of Thursday, 16 February 1786, the Last Supper was nearing its end. The new Apostle had taken the oaths, signed the membership book and swallowed the contents of the sacred glass presented by the late Morton Frostwick, to the accompaniment of whoops, cheers and catcalls. Now it was time for the toasts that preceded the grand climax of the ceremony.

  ‘No heeltaps, gentlemen,’ Jesus commanded from the head of the table. ‘All rise. I give you His Majesty the King.’

  The Apostles shuffled to their feet, many with difficulty. Four chairs fell over and someone knocked a bottle off the table.

  Jesus raised his glass. ‘The King, God bless him.’

  ‘The King, God bless him,’ bellowed a chorus of voices in return, for the Apostles prided themselves on their patriotism and their attachment to the throne. Each man drained his glass in one. ‘God bless him!’ repeated St Matthew at the far end of table, and his passionate exhortation ended in a hiccup.

  Jesus and the Apostles sat down and the buzz of conversation resumed. The tall, long room was brightly lit with candles. A shifting pall of smoke hung above the table. A great fire blazed in the hearth beneath the marble chimneypiece. The curtains were drawn. The mirrors between the windows caught the flames, the sparkle of silver and crystal, and the glitter of the buttons on the gentlemen’s coats. All the Apostles wore the same livery – a bright green coat lined with buck silk and adorned with prominent gilt buttons down the front and on the cuffs.

  ‘How long do I wait?’ said the young man at the right hand of Jesus.

  ‘Be patient, Frank. All in good time.’ Jesus raised his voice. ‘Recharge your glasses, gentlemen.’

  He poured wine into his neighbour’s glass and his own. He watched the other men obeying him like sheep.

  ‘One more toast,’ he murmured in Frank’s ear. ‘Then we have the ceremony. And then the sacrifice.’

  ‘Pray tell me,’ Frank said, resting his elbow on the table and turning towards Jesus. ‘Does Mrs Whichcote know I am to be sanctified tonight?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Frank’s face had grown very red. ‘I – I merely wondered. Since I am to spend the night here, I thought perhaps she must know.’

  ‘She does not,’ Jesus said. ‘She knows nothing. And you must tell her nothing. This is men’s business.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I should not have asked.’ Frank’s elbow slipped and he would have toppled from his chair if Jesus had not steadied him. ‘A thousand apologies. But you’re a lucky dog, you know, she’s so very lovely – oh damnation, pray do not take it amiss, Philip, I should not have said that.’

  ‘I was not listening.’ Jesus stood up, ignoring Frank’s desire to continue apologizing. ‘Gentlemen, it is time for another toast. All rise. I give you damnation to the Great Whore of Babylon, his foulness of Rome, Pius VI, and may he rot in hell for all eternity along
with his fellow Papists.’

  The Apostles drained their glasses and burst into applause. The toast was traditional, and dated back to the earliest days of the Holy Ghost Club. Jesus had no personal animosity towards Papists. In fact his own mother had been raised in the Roman Catholic Church, though she had laid aside her religion at the time of her marriage and adopted her husband’s, as a good wife should.

  He waited until the clapping and cheering had subsided. ‘Be seated, gentlemen.’

  Chairs scraped on polished boards. St James sat down but caught only the edge of his chair, which sent him sprawling on the floor. St John rushed behind the screen at the far end of the room and could be heard being violently sick. St Thomas turned aside from the company, unbuttoned and urinated into one of the commodes placed conveniently near by.

  There was a faint tapping on the door behind Jesus’s chair. Only Jesus heard it. He stood up and opened the door a few inches. The footboy was outside, candle in hand, and his eyes large with fear.

  ‘What?’ Jesus demanded.

  ‘If it please your honour, the lady below would be obliged if she might have a private word.’

  Jesus shut the door in the boy’s face. Smiling, he sauntered back to the table and rested his arm along the back of St Peter’s chair on the left of his own. He bent down and spoke into St Peter’s ear. ‘I shall be back directly – I must make sure that all is ready. Let them toast their inamoratas if they grow impatient.’

  ‘Is it time?’ Frank said. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘Nearly,’ Jesus said. ‘ Believe me, it will be worth the wait.’

  He straightened up. St Andrew asked Frank a question about the merits of water spaniels as gundogs, a temporary but effective distraction. Jesus left the room, closing the mahogany door behind him. The air was at once much cooler. He was on a square landing lit by two candles burning on a bracket next to a small uncurtained window. For a moment he put his head close to the glass and rubbed a circle in the condensation. It was too dark to make out much, but at the far end of the garden a lamp glimmered above the side door of Lambourne House.

  He walked quickly downstairs. The pavilion stood at the bottom of the garden. Its plan was straightforward – the great room above filled the whole of the first floor; the stairs at one end linked it to a lobby on the ground floor, where there were two doors. One door led outside to the garden, the other to a narrow hall running the length of the building and giving access to the covered terrace beside the river and to several small rooms. The footboy, who had the absurd name of Augustus, was sitting on a bench in the lobby. He sprang to his feet and bowed. At a nod from Jesus, he opened the door to the hall. Jesus passed him without a word and closed the door in his face.

  Candles in pairs burned on brackets along the walls, creating globes of light in the gloom. Jesus tapped on the second door along, and it opened from within.

  Mrs Phear drew him inside. She stood on tiptoe and murmured in his ear, ‘The little weakling has failed us.’

  The chamber was small and painted white like a cell. But it was snug enough because a coal fire glowed in the grate, the curtains were drawn and the shutters closed. The room was furnished simply with a little bed hung with white curtains, a table and two chairs. On the table stood a bottle of wine, another of cordial, two glasses and a bowl of nuts. On the mantelshelf was a candle, which provided the only light in the room apart from the fire.

  ‘Failed?’ Jesus said.

  ‘Look for yourself.’ Mrs Phear wore a nun’s habit with a black wimple that framed and obscured her face. ‘Take the light.’

  Jesus picked up the candle and went to the bed. The curtains were tied back. A girl lay on her back with her fair hair lying loose on the pillow. White cords attached her wrists and ankles to the four bedposts. She was dressed in a white nightgown with a loose neck. She must have been beautiful in life, he thought, the sort of girl you felt you could crush into a million fragments if you squeezed her hard enough.

  He bent closer. She was young – perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Her skin was naturally very pale but her cheeks were red, almost purple. Her eyes were open and her lips widely parted. He held the candle nearer. There was froth on the lips, and a trickle of vomit at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes protruded from their sockets.

  ‘God damn it.’

  ‘It is such a waste,’ Mrs Phear said. ‘And I believe she was really a virgin, too.’

  ‘The little bitch. Was ever anything so unlucky? What happened?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I made her ready for him. I went up to the house for more candles, and she asked me to put a nut or two in her mouth before I went. And when I came back she was as you see her. She’s still warm.’

  Jesus straightened up, though his eyes lingered on the girl’s face. ‘It’s as if someone smothered her.’ He looked quickly around the room.

  ‘I locked the door behind me,’ Mrs Phear said in a flat voice. ‘She choked on a nut, that’s all. The footboy was in the lobby all the time and saw no one. Is he trustworthy?’

  ‘He’s nothing but a child. He heard nothing?’

  ‘The walls are thick.’

  Candle in hand, Jesus moved about the room. Mrs Phear waited, with hands folded and eyes cast down.

  He pointed at the ceiling, to the great room above. ‘I cannot afford to disappoint Frank Oldershaw. Not him of all people.’

  ‘I suppose he would not take the girl like that?’

  ‘What? Dead?’ He stared at Mrs Phear.

  ‘I told you, she’s still warm.’

  ‘Of course he would not.’

  ‘But would he notice?’

  ‘Dear God, ma’am, yes – I think he would. He’s not so far gone. Besides, that’s where the sport of it is for them, the struggle. Believe me, that’s what they brag about afterwards in their cups. That and the blood on the sheet.’

  ‘Are you sure it cannot be contrived?’

  Jesus shook his head. ‘Not the struggle. And not with her face like that. I tell you, it would not answer.’

  Mrs Phear kneaded the hem of her cloak. ‘So do you tell him he must wait?’

  ‘He’s mad for it, ma’am. He’s not used to being crossed. We cannot cool his ardour with a Barnwell drab even if we could lay our hands on one at this time. When can you find me another such as this?’

  ‘In a month or so, perhaps. Even then it would not be easy. Not so soon after this.’

  Jesus said, ‘He’s worth more than the others put together. But I cannot tell him she’s dead. I must say that she was terrified at the prospect before her, and stole away in the night.’

  ‘There’s another difficulty,’ Mrs Phear said. ‘What do we do with – with that?’

  Jesus turned and looked back at the white body on the white bed. Suddenly time accelerated. Event stumbled after event in a disorderly rush. He heard a raised voice outside and footsteps. The door handle turned. He tried to reach the door, to hold it shut, but the bed and the dead girl were in his way. Mrs Phear whirled towards the sound with surprising speed but her skirt snagged on the corner of the table and the door was already opening before she had freed herself.

  Frank Oldershaw was swaying on the threshold. His face was red and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. ‘Ah, there you are, Philip,’ he said. ‘I am on fire, I tell you, I cannot wait another moment.’ He caught sight of Mrs Phear and her unexpected presence made him falter. But he was too drunk to stop altogether and the last few words tumbled from his mouth in a dying whisper. ‘And where have you hidden my sweet little virgin?’

  This body was found in Jerusalem on the morning of Friday, 17 February. The sun had not quite risen. The college gardens were filled with a grey half-light, which made it possible to distinguish the broad outlines of things, but not their details. It was very quiet.

  The man who discovered the corpse was called John Floyd. But he was known to everybody – sometimes even to his wife – as Tom Turdman. He was as brown as his name, and a finder of unwant
ed trifles, discarded memories and excreted secrets.

  Jerusalem occupied eight or nine acres of ground. The college was surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall upon a mediaeval base of rubble and dressed stone, and on the fourth side by the principal buildings. The walls were topped with rows of spikes. Behind the chapel, the Long Pond stretched in a curve towards the south-east. It was fed by a stream that the friars had culverted under the walls long ago, before Jerusalem was even thought of. On the far side of the pond were the Fellows’ Garden and the Master’s Garden. Most of the town lay some way off on the other side of the irregular huddle of college buildings.

  The only sounds were the clack of Tom’s overshoes, wooden pattens, and the trundling of the iron-rimmed wheels of his barrow on the flagged path. He visited four colleges: Sidney Sussex, Christ’s, Jerusalem and Emmanuel. He preferred to work in winter because he was paid by volume, not by the hour, and the smell obliged him to visit more frequently in the summer. He worked for a retired corn chandler whom the undergraduates called the merchant of shit. His employer derived a modest income from selling scholarly manure to farmers and gardeners.

  This morning Tom was now so cold that he could hardly feel his hands. He had just emptied the Master’s privy, never a pleasant task, and wheeled his barrow along the flagged path at the back of the Master’s Lodge, which was unexpectedly productive. The path led to a gate, which the head porter, Mr Mepal, had just unlocked for him, and then over the Long Pond by way of an intricately constructed wooden bridge. The barrow wheels rumbled like muffled thunder on the wooden planks. He turned left towards the little boghouse the bedmakers used, which was modestly tucked away on the far side of the college gardens.