Andrew Taylor - The Anatomy of Ghosts

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

(Boswells Life of Johnson)

Augustus , footboy to Mr. Whichcote

Harry Archdale , an undergraduate at Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Ben , servant to Dr. Carbury

The Rev. Dr. Carbury , Master of Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Elinor Carbury , his wife

Lawrence Cross , steward to Lady Anne Oldershaw

Dorcas , maid to Mrs. Phear

Elizabeth Farmer , wife of Ned Farmer

Ned Farmer, a bookseller, of London

John Holdsworth , a bookseller, of London; the husband of Maria and the father of Georgie, both deceased

Dr. Jermyn , a physician of Barnwell, near Cambridge

Mepal , head porter at Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Mulgrave , a species of servant, Cambridge

Norcross , a man in the employ of Dr. Jermyn

Lady Anne Oldershaw , the widow of the Bishop of Rosington

Frank Oldershaw , her son, an undergraduate at Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Mrs. Phear , the widow of a clergyman, of Cambridge

The Rev. Mr. Richardson , fellow of Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Tobias Soresby , a poor undergraduate of Jerusalem College, Cambridge

Susan , maidservant to Mrs. Carbury

Tom Turdman , properly known as John Floyd, a night-soil man of Cambridge

Philip Whichcote , of Lambourne House, Cambridge

Sylvia Whichcote , his wife

S he was not alone. She would never be alone. And the key was in her hand.

Cambridge was a foreign city. The nocturnal miasma from the Fens oozed over the sleeping town. The streets lay under a fog of darkness so dense it was almost palpable to the fingertips. She had never been out at night without at least a servant to light her way, and never so late as this.

But I am not alone.

The ground underfoot was treacherous. Twice she tripped and nearly fell. If only she had proper shoes. As she crossed the bridge by Magdalene, she skidded on a patch of ice: her legs flew away from her and she sprawled, whimpering, on the stone pavement. Her cloak bunched around her shoulders. The cold seeped into her skin through the thin material of her gown.

But she still had the key. And she was not alone. In a moment, she was up and running.

There was neither moon nor stars. The few Corporation streetlamps were weak and fitful. Occasionally she crossed a wedge of brighter light thrown by a lantern over an archway or college entrance, and that was even worse, because she felt that all the world might see her as she fled.

She slowed to a walk as she passed the shuttered windows of a coffee house. A hand appeared from the shadows and snatched at her sleeve, tugging her towards the darkened entry. She slashed the key towards her attacker. It snagged on something soft and yielding. A squeal, and she was free.

She ran on. She had a stitch in her side. Her breath tore at her lungs, and blood raged in her ears.

At last there was Jerusalem Lane. She plunged across the roadway, stumbling in and out of a rut and then twisting her ankle on the edge of the gutter.

She stood by the gate, gasping for air. Her hand shook so much that she could not find the lock. She drew in a long, shuddering breath and tried again and then again. Metal whispered on metal as the key slid home. She twisted the key and the bolt scraped free of the jamb.

She pushed the gate. It swung away from her, into the garden.

L ate 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 gentlemens coats. All the Apostles wore the same liverya 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 neighbors glass and his own. He watched the other men obeying him like sheep.

One more toast, he murmured in Franks 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?

Franks face had grown very red. II 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 mens business.

Yes, of course. I should not have asked. Franks elbow slipped and he would have toppled from his chair if Jesus had not steadied him. A thousand apologies. But youre a lucky dog, you know, shes so very lovelyoh damnation, pray do not take it amiss, Philip, I should not have said that.

I was not listening. Jesus stood up, ignoring Franks 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 husbands, 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 nearby.

There was a faint tapping on the door behind Jesuss 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 honor, the lady below would be obliged if she might have a private word.