The Anatomy of Ghosts Page 3

  It was a fine morning: the great dome of St Paul’s shone white across the water, its outline sharp against the blue sky, and a drift of clouds like a convoy of sails lined the eastern horizon. The river itself was already crowded with wherries and barges. The tide was low, and the scavengers were out on both banks. The gulls wheeled and shrieked and snapped among them. The day was clearer than usual and the smoke that struggled up from innumerable chimneys might have been drawn with ink.

  He walked beside the Thames to London Bridge. Only poor people seemed to be about at this hour. Poverty, he told himself as he made his way across the river, was a state that favoured useful instruction in the follies and weaknesses of human nature. He had never really noticed the poor in the days of his prosperity, except as irritants like lice or, at best, as bystanders in the great drama of existence in which their betters performed the speaking parts. He murmured these words aloud and a man who was passing gave him a wide berth. The only knowledge worth having was that a hungry belly made you a little mad.

  At Leadenhall Street, one of the apprentices was already taking down the shutters. Holdsworth kept his barrow and what was left of his stock in a small brick outhouse in the yard at the back. In the old days a binder had worked there, but Ned Farmer subcontracted that part of the work because Mrs Farmer believed, probably correctly, that it would be more profitable to do so.

  Holdsworth uncovered the barrow and wheeled it slowly down the alley from the yard. He set off down Leadenhall Street. On some days he wandered as far west as Piccadilly. He never stayed long in one place. The multitude of streets was one great emporium, and every itinerant vendor was jealous of the territory he occupied. The books on his barrow were on the whole of little value, the dross left over from the sale. Still, they made it possible to earn something rather than nothing; they kept him from absolute penury and complete dependence on the kindness of Ned Farmer.

  That day he ate a meagre dinner of bread, cheese and ale in a mean little tavern in Compton Street. Afterwards he made his way by degrees back to the City. On the corner of Leadenhall Street, a man selling singing birds was packing up for the day. Holdsworth set down the barrow. The pitch was convenient for the shop and he used it whenever he could.

  The afternoon was fine, which was good for trade. It was not long before Holdsworth had three or four men turning over the stock. The majority of the books were sermons and other devotional works, but there was poetry also, some bound numbers of the Rambler and assorted editions of the classical authors, their value considerably diminished by damp stains or smoke damage. One of the browsers was a hunched little man in a snuff-coloured coat. His complexion was dark and leathery, almost a match for the binding of the book he was examining, a folio of Horace’s Odes. Holdsworth watched him, though without appearing to do so. The man looked respectable – an apothecary perhaps; something in the professional way – but then so had the fellow the previous week, a man he had taken for a clergyman up from the country, who had slipped a duodecimo Longinus into his pocket while Holdsworth’s attention had been distracted by another customer.

  The little man scratched his neck with his right hand, the fingers slipping like hungry little creatures under the unseasonably thick scarf he wore. His eyes met Holdsworth’s. His hand withdrew. He gave a little bobbing bow and edged a little closer.

  ‘Have I the honour of addressing Mr Holdsworth?’ he said in a hoarse voice, little more than a whisper.

  ‘Yes, sir. You have.’ It happened not infrequently that a customer from the old days would recognize Holdsworth in his changed situation and would seek to pass the time of day, out of curiosity, perhaps, or pity. He did not discourage them, for sometimes they would buy a book and he could no longer afford to be proud.

  ‘I hoped as much,’ the man said.

  There was a lull in the exchange while a youth with sad eyes purchased Law’s Serious Call. The little man stood to one side, while the transaction was in progress, turning the pages of the Horace. When the customer had departed, he looked up from the book.

  ‘I called in at Mr Farmer’s.’ He cleared his throat, wincing as if the exercise was painful to him. ‘If that is not an indelicate way to refer to it.’

  ‘You speak no more than the truth, sir. The establishment belongs to him.’

  ‘Indeed. Ah – at any event, he said I might find you here.’

  ‘And how may I serve you, sir? Are you looking for a particular book?’

  ‘No, Mr Holdsworth. I am not looking for a book. I am looking for you.’

  ‘Well, sir, you have found me. And what do you want with me?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I have not introduced myself. My name is Cross, sir, Lawrence Cross.’

  They bowed to each other across the barrow of books. The other browsers had now drifted away.

  ‘I wish to put a proposition to you.’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘It is not a subject that can be discussed in the street. When will you be at leisure?’

  Holdsworth glanced at the sun. ‘Perhaps another half an hour. Then I need only enough time to wheel my barrow to Mr Farmer’s.’

  Mr Cross rubbed his neck again. ‘That would answer very well. Would you be so kind as to favour me with your company at St Paul’s Coffee House? In forty minutes’ time, shall we say?’

  Holdsworth agreed, and the little man walked swiftly away.

  Twenty minutes later, Holdsworth wheeled the barrow down the street and laid it up for the night in the yard behind the shop. He had hoped to leave unnoticed but Ned Farmer bustled out of the shop and laid his hand on his arm.

  ‘John, that’s damned uncivil, sneaking away without a word.’ He clapped Holdsworth on the shoulder. ‘Where were you this morning? You must have slipped out of the house at cockcrow.’

  ‘I rose early. I could not sleep.’

  ‘Yes, but now.’

  Holdsworth explained that he had an appointment. He could not give his other reason, that he found Ned’s cheerful conversation almost as trying as his unfailing kindness. Away from the house, away from Mrs Farmer, he showed it without restraint, which Holdsworth found harder to bear than he would have imagined possible.

  ‘There was a man asking if I knew your direction,’ Ned rushed on, for he was not insensitive. ‘Wizened little fellow like a brown monkey with a bad cold. I said he might find you on the corner.’ A frown passed over his broad red face. ‘I hope I did not act amiss.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So he found you? And?’

  ‘I am meeting him later. That’s my appointment.’

  ‘I told you! A man of your reputation must attract offers from every quarter. It is only a matter of time, John. Sit tight, and all will come right again.’ Ned flushed a deeper red. ‘Damn my tongue, always running away with me. I ask your pardon. I meant merely in terms of money, of course.’

  Holdsworth smiled at him. ‘I don’t know what he wants yet.’

  ‘Perhaps he wishes to buy books,’ Ned suggested. ‘And he needs you to advise him.’

  ‘He did not look like a man who has much to spare on luxuries.’

  ‘Pooh,’ Ned bellowed. ‘Books are not luxuries. They are meat and drink for the mind.’

  Though Holdsworth was before his time, Mr Cross was already at the coffee house, seated at one of the small tables by the door.

  ‘I have ordered sherry,’ he murmured. ‘I trust that will be agreeable?’

  Holdsworth sat down. Mr Cross showed no inclination to rush into the business that had brought him here.

  ‘You are a tall man,’ he observed. ‘And broad with it, are you not? I marked you in the crowd when you were some distance away. I thought you would be older but you are still quite a young man.’

  ‘But not inexperienced, sir.’

  ‘I do not doubt it.’

  While they waited for the sherry, Cross talked doggedly about the warmth of the weather, the crowdedness of the streets, and the intolerable stench fro
m the river. The waiter came soon enough, and Holdsworth was pleased to see that the man had brought biscuits as well. The first mouthful of wine seemed simultaneously to glide down in a warm flow to his stomach and to move up in an equally warm vapour to his brain.

  Mr Cross set down his glass and drew out a snuffbox made of horn. He tapped the lid but did not open it.

  ‘It cannot be easy for you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘No, the shoe is upon the other foot. Pray forgive me if I seem impertinent but I was watching you this afternoon. You bear your misfortunes with great patience.’

  Holdsworth inclined his head, thinking that the man presumed much on so slight an acquaintance.

  Mr Cross took a pinch of snuff, closed his eyes and sniffed. A few seconds later, he sneezed with such an explosion of sound that the conversations around them faltered. He took out a stained handkerchief, wiped his streaming eyes and blew his nose. ‘Pray believe me, sir, I did not mean to offend. Tell me, have you sufficient leisure at present to accept a commission?’

  ‘That would depend upon its nature.’

  ‘You have a considerable reputation as a bibliopole. They say you are a man who knows the value of a book.’

  Holdsworth remained silent.

  ‘You catalogued the Mitchell library, for example,’ Mr Cross went on, ‘and handled its sale. I understand Sir William was most gratified by the outcome. And then of course Archdeacon Carter’s collection.’

  Holdsworth nodded. Cross had done his research. His arrangement with Sir William Mitchell had not been public knowledge.

  The older man loosened the scarf around his neck. ‘So it would be no more than simple truth to assert that cataloguing and valuing such libraries is a task well within your competence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And are you also able to advise on the care and maintenance of valuable books?’

  ‘Naturally. Both printing and bookbinding are part of my trade. Am I to understand that the commission you mentioned involves cataloguing a library?’

  ‘That might be part of it.’

  ‘And is it your own library, sir?’

  ‘It belongs at present to my employer.’

  ‘And what precisely would you wish me to do for him?’

  ‘My principal is a lady, sir.’ Mr Cross refilled Holdsworth’s glass. ‘Tell me, does the name of Oldershaw mean something to you?’

  ‘The late Bishop of Rosington?’

  ‘Precisely. Were you acquainted with him?’

  ‘No, sir. I did not have the honour of being of service to his lordship. I knew him only by reputation. So his library has not been broken up?’

  ‘Not as yet. It is now in the possession of his widow. His lordship reposed perfect confidence in Lady Anne’s judgement. I believe the collection to be considerable, in both extent and value.’

  ‘That was certainly the common report.’

  Mr Cross rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, sir. You tell me you are at liberty to accept a commission of this nature. So far as I may judge, you appear well qualified for the task. But of course the decision must rest with Lady Anne herself.’

  Holdsworth inclined his head. ‘Of course.’

  Cross made a great to-do of helping himself to another pinch of snuff, which was followed by the same explosive ritual as before. He looked up quickly, as though aware that Holdsworth was studying him. ‘It remains only to fix a time for you to wait on her ladyship.’

  ‘One moment, sir. Why has your choice fallen on me? There are many others equally competent to carry out such a commission. Some would say more so.’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ Mr Cross said with calculated ambiguity. ‘Her ladyship informs me that it will be convenient for you to wait on her tomorrow forenoon.’

  ‘Very well. I assume her ladyship must be in town?’

  ‘Yes. I will give you her direction.’

  Holdsworth drank his sherry and nibbled another biscuit, trying not to wolf it down. Meanwhile, Cross took out a worn pocketbook, tore out a leaf, scribbled a few words in pencil and passed the paper across the table.

  ‘Thirty-five Golden Square,’ Holdsworth read aloud. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘The house is on the north side.’ Cross pushed back his chair and stood up, signalling to the waiter. He turned aside to pay the score. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be gone. He turned back to Holdsworth and bowed. ‘I am obliged, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Indeed I am. I give you good day.’

  Holdsworth returned the bow and watched the little man slipping like a shadow through the crowded room and into the street. He ate the remaining two biscuits and drank the last of the sherry. Until now, he had felt elated at the prospect of employment. But, as he pushed away his empty glass, it struck him that Mr Cross’s gratitude seemed out of all proportion to the nature of the arrangement they had just concluded. More than that, for an instant his countenance had betrayed an emotion that looked curiously like relief.

  In Golden Square, Lady Anne Oldershaw sat on a low mahogany armchair beside the marble fireplace in the back drawing room. Despite the warmth of the day a fire burned in the steel grate. She wore mourning and as usual her face was completely white, a monochrome intrusion in a colourful world. On her lap was an open book, and her maid was mending linen at the table by the window. Lady Anne had come here as a bride, for the house and its contents had been part of her marriage settlement. In this room, little had changed since then. The heavy velvet curtains had faded to a dusty amber, and there were pale patches on the painted walls where a generation of servants had rubbed at candle smuts.

  Elinor Carbury curtsied from the doorway. With great condescension Lady Anne held out a hand to her and even indicated that Elinor might kiss her cheek.

  ‘It is good of you to come all this way,’ she said, ‘and by the public coach, too. I shall insist on sending you back in my own chaise. But you will not hurry away, I hope?’

  ‘I must return on Thursday,’ Elinor said. ‘The Doctor says he cannot spare me for longer on this occasion. He is not entirely himself at present. The warmer weather unsettles him.’

  With a mechanical courtesy of the very well bred, Lady Anne methodically satisfied her curiosity about Elinor’s journey, the state of the weather and the health of Dr Carbury. There was a right way to do everything, and a wrong way too. Lady Anne had known Elinor since she was a baby, and since the death of her father Elinor had lived in the Oldershaws’ household for months at a time. Lady Anne probably loved Elinor as much as she loved anyone else alive, with the exception of her son; and she missed her almost as a daughter when she did not see her for any length of time. But Elinor was not of the same rank as herself, and she would never forget that fact.

  At last the servants left them alone, and shortly after that the civilities were completed.

  Lady Anne folded her hands on her lap and stared at the fire. ‘Have you news of Frank?’

  ‘Dr Carbury sent to inquire yesterday afternoon, ma’am, and I am happy to say the news is good. His body is mending, and his spirits are much calmer than before. Dr Jermyn enclosed a letter for you, which I have here.’

  She handed it to Lady Anne, who put it aside and asked whether Elinor would take any refreshment after her journey. But her eyes kept straying to the letter, so Elinor hinted that she herself had a great desire to know how Mr Frank did and wondered aloud whether Dr Jermyn’s letter might expand on his necessarily brief verbal message to Dr Carbury. At this, Lady Anne found her spectacles, took up the letter and broke the seal. She scanned the contents rapidly and then looked up.

  ‘Dr Jermyn writes that Frank does very well. But that we must not hope for an early cure.’ She compressed her lips. ‘Well, my dear, we shall see about that.’

  ‘Dr Jermyn is very able, they say.’

  ‘No doubt. But, you know, should not Mr Richardson bear some responsibility for what has happened? After all, he is Frank’s tutor. I hope I did not
act unwisely in placing Frank in his care. At the time, I had some doubt about the choice, but Frank liked him and was very pressing in his favour. Tell me, my dear, has he said anything that might explain Frank’s behaviour? I cannot help wondering whether, if he had exercised more control over his pupil, this might not have happened.’

  ‘It is not always easy for a tutor to supervise his charges, madam, especially when’ – Elinor searched to find a term that would be suitable for Lady Anne’s ears – ‘especially when he has a pupil with such a decisive nature as Mr Frank’s.’

  ‘True, even as a boy, he found it natural to take the lead,’ Lady Anne said. ‘He is a Vauden through and through: but Frank is still young – he needs the guidance of older and wiser heads.’

  There was a knock on the door and the footman appeared. He announced that Mr Cross was below and begged the favour of a word.

  ‘Ask him to step up,’ Lady Anne said. ‘No, my dear, you may stay,’ she added to Elinor, who was rising to her feet. ‘I should like you to hear what Mr Cross has to say. He has been assisting me in my little project.’

  Mr Cross slipped into the room and bowed very low to Lady Anne, and rather less low to Elinor. He was the Oldershaws’ steward, and had in fact known Lady Anne for longer than anyone in the house, for he had grown up on the Earl of Vauden’s estate near Lydmouth and received his early training in the steward’s office there.

  ‘Well?’ Lady Anne demanded. ‘You may speak quite freely before Mrs Carbury.’

  ‘I have seen Mr Holdsworth, my lady. He will wait upon your ladyship tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I mentioned only the possibility of his cataloguing and valuing his lordship’s collection, and perhaps advising on its maintenance. Although he never had the honour of having dealings with his lordship, he was of course perfectly familiar with the reputation of the collection.’

  ‘But you said nothing else?’

  ‘No, madam. I followed your directions to the letter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He did, however, ask why I had come to him rather than to someone else with his qualifications. I was obliged to tell him that I was not able to say. I hope I did not do wrong.’