Grantchester Grind (28 page)

For twenty minutes the Praelector went on presenting facts and figures obtained from
the Bursar’s office to show the College debts and the temporary nature of the reprieve
offered by the Transworld Television compensatory payment when and if, as he implied,
it was finally settled. And all the time the Fellows sat mesmerized by his strange
authority. For years the Praelector had gone quietly and inconspicuously about his
little business and had been ignored as a force in the College But now, in an Indian
summer of the intellect, he had come to dominate them all. Even Dr Buscott recognized
that he was in the presence of someone, even some thing, that was too powerful to be
doubted. And at the end when the Praelector asked for their unanimous consent that he be
allowed to conduct negotiations with the candidate of his own choice and with no
questions asked, the Council passed the motion without a single dissenting voice. As
they filed out into the spring sunshine there was a new confident mood among the Fellows
of Porterhouse They had surrendered their authority to a man they could trust and they
felt a sense of freedom.

Which was more than could be said for Skullion. Seated in his wheelchair in the
ambulance, he knew he had been betrayed again. He wasn’t going to Coft Castle as the
General had promised. They had been on the road too long for that and they were moving too
fast. They were on the motorway and heading for Porterhouse Park and there was
absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had been taken for a mug again. And they had
done a good professional job getting him out of Porterhouse too, sending Arthur off to
the chemist for the prescription of his blood-pressure pills and then as soon as the
Master’s Lodge was empty coming in without so much as a by-your-leave and having him
through the doorway into the ambulance before you could say Jack Robinson and then off
through the traffic as if everything was hunky-dory.

Oh well, it was his own bloody fault. He shouldn’t have got pissed and threatened the Dean.
And he shouldn’t have listened to Sir Cathcart fucking D’Eath. He should have known those
bastards would stick together. Always did and always would when it came to saving their
own skins. Not that they were above slitting one another’s throats if it came to that. And
now that he was gone they’d say he’d had another Porterhouse Blue and Cheffy and them
wouldn’t know any better. They wouldn’t know he’d been taken off to Porterhouse Park and if
they did it wouldn’t do any good. No one ever visited the Park. It was just somewhere they
sent you when you’d lost your marbles like old Dr Vertel and Mr Manners who’d become an
embarrassment with his incontinence and his nasty habit of suddenly attacking
undergraduates with his umbrella because he thought they were sniggering at him behind
his back. And now it was his turn and no doubt they’d have some hard old woman in charge to
give him his pills and order him about and give him baths. Doubtless too they would wheel him
out on sunny days to stare out over the landscape and listen to the other old loonies
mumbling to themselves. He’d have to eat with them too and they’d call him Skullion and
treat him like dirt just as they used to do when he was a porter. Old Vertel had never liked
him, and he must still be alive because there’d been no obituary in the Porterhouse
Magazine. Skullion sat in his wheelchair and stared at the curtain they’d pulled across the
rear window of the ambulance, and cursed himself for a fool.

Purefoy Osbert watched the Fellows file out of the old Library with interest. For a
moment he thought they had been discussing the threat he posed to the Master but the
meeting had been called before his confrontation with the Dean. Something else was in the
wind. Some undergraduates passing him in the Court had spoken about the Master having
another Porterhouse Blue and of an ambulance arriving at the Master’s Lodge. Whatever
the cause of the air of excitement in the College, Purefoy was determined to make use of
it. His visit to the Dean and the Dean’s impotent and stammering fury had done
surprising things for Purefoy’s confidence. He no longer felt overawed by the
atmosphere of Porterhouse and in his own mind saw it as having no more importance than
some casual roadside cafe. Its ceremonies and rituals like the Induction Dinner, its
archaic terminology–’the Dossery’, ‘the Fellows’ Combination Room’, ‘the Buttery’,
‘the Dean’, ‘the Master’–were mere devices, theatrical and phoney, having the intention
of fooling immature and impressionable minds and masking, like some masonic
ceremony, the littleness of the officials who hid behind such titles. In all the other
colleges Purefoy had visited at one time or another there had been at least some slight
self-mockery. Not at Porterhouse. Here the dense seriousness of small minds prevailed.
Purefoy Osbert saw through the pretence and chose his next target. It was to be the Senior
Tutor. He caught him as he came up the stairs to his room.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Purefoy said, corning out of his doorway. ‘I’d like a few words with
you.’

The Senior Tutor looked at him angrily. He didn’t like being accosted without a
title. It smacked of rudeness. And he certainly didn’t want any words with Dr Osbert.
‘Busy at the moment,’ he said and turned into his doorway.’

Purefoy Osbert followed him before the Senior Tutor could shut the door in his face.
‘It’s about the allegations the Dean has made,’ he said.

‘Allegations? What the devil are you talking about?’

‘I was hoping you could explain exactly what your role was,’ Purefoy said.

‘My role? What role?’ demanded the Senior Tutor.

‘In the light of Skullion’s confession it is important to get things in their proper
perspective,’ Purefoy continued. ‘Now the Dean says that…Well, perhaps it would be
fairer to hear your account. That way you will be saved the need for denials.’

The Senior Tutor backed unsteadily into his study. ‘Skullion’s confession?’ he
gasped. ‘What has Skullion confessed to?’

‘To being responsible for the actual murder of Sir Godber Evans. Only the act of
murder. He puts the responsibility…Now, if you’ll just state for the record what part you
played…’ Purefoy hesitated and waited for the Senior Tutor’s reaction to the
imputation that he had played any part in a murder. It was a long time coming. The Senior
Tutor was staring at him in horror.

‘Sir Godber Evans’ murder?’ he managed to say finally. ‘I had no idea.’

‘That is not what the Dean has said in his statement. Now, at the time of the murder you
were not in College yourself According to the evidence you gave at the inquest. If you
want to change that now…’

‘Change it? But I was at Coft Castle visiting Sir Cathcart D’Eath. There were people
there who saw us.’

‘Us?’ said Purefoy with a look of some doubt on his face. ‘You did say “us”?’

‘Of course I said us. The Dean and I.’

‘Really? That is not what the Dean has said,’ Purefoy replied. ‘Still, if that is your
story…’

‘Of course it is my story,’ shouted the Senior Tutor. ‘It’s the bloody truth.’

‘There is no need to shout,’ Purefoy told him. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me about
this so-called alibi? You’ll feel much better when you’ve got this off your chest.’

Without thinking the Senior Tutor sat down. His mind was a maelstrom of hopelessly
conflicting emotions. Thought hardly came into it. ‘I haven’t got anything to get off my
chest. I don’t know anything about Sir Godber Evans’ murder. I didn’t even know he had been
murdered. No one told me.’

Purefoy Osbert smiled, and his smile seemed to imply that the Senior Tutor had hardly
needed telling. ‘Now, when you spoke to him earlier on the fatal evening what did you
actually say to him?’

‘Say to him? Say to whom, for God’s sake?’

‘Skullion of course.’

‘But I didn’t speak to him that evening. Why the hell should I have spoken to
Skullion?’

‘That’s for you to tell me,’ said Purefoy Osbert. ‘Now according to the Dean you were
the one…’

‘Fuck the Dean,’ shouted the Senior Tutor. ‘I don’t care what that stupid bastard says,
I’m telling you I never went anywhere near Skullion that evening–’

‘Right,’ Purefoy interrupted. ‘So the Dean is a liar and…’

‘Look,’ the Senior Tutor yelled, ‘I don’t know whether the bloody man is a liar or not.
What I am…’

‘So you’re saying his account of your actions is correct now?’

The Senior Tutor stared wildly round the room. Purefoy Osbert recognized the
symptom. It was exactly what he had experienced in Mrs Ndhlovo’s apartment. He
decided to strike another blow at the Senior Tutor’s morale. ‘As you know the Master,
Skullion, was taken away this morning…’

There was no need to say more. The Senior Tutor clearly did know, but until that moment
the full implications of the Extraordinary Council meeting hadn’t occurred to him. He
could understand only too well the Praelector’s statement that Skullion was _non compos
mentis._ Frankly the Senior Tutor found the Latin totally inadequate to describe the
man’s state of mind. He was clearly as mad as a hatter. But then so was the bloody Dean, if
it came to that. In the Senior Tutor’s imagination the police were already
interrogating Skullion and would shortly continue their investigations in
Porterhouse itself. And the Dean must have had some hand in the murder or he wouldn’t be
making allegations against him to this swine Osbert. The Senior Tutor made up his
desperately confused mind:

‘All right, I will tell you this,’ he said. ‘The Dean was the one who suggested we go out
to Coft Castle that night. He suggested it at Dinner and I remember being most
surprised. In fact I said it was not on and wouldn’t work but he insisted in spite of my
objections.’

‘I see,’ said Purefoy after a significant pause. “That isn’t the story the Dean
provided us with. He said you were the one who insisted on being out of the College that
night. He says…’

‘Then he’s a bloody liar,’ shouted the Senior Tutor. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what he
said.’

Ten minutes later Purefoy Osbert left the room. The Senior Tutor had given him some
very surprising information, had in fact opened up an entirely new can of worms and one
that would almost certainly provoke General Sir Cathcart D’Eath to an ouburst of fury
and indiscretion. Purefoy couldn’t imagine what it would do to the Dean. In his room he
checked his pocket tape recorder and changed the tape. Then he went down into the Fellows’
Garden well pleased with himself. Mrs Ndhlovo and her friend had done him a good turn after
all.

The Praelector travelled down to London by train and caught a taxi to the Goring
Hotel. It was not where he usually stayed, preferring a more modest establishment near
Russell Square on his very infrequent visits to the capital, but the Goring had a solid
respectability about it and in the circumstances the Praelector knew he needed all the
solidarity and respectability he could muster. It was there that he received Schnabel and
Feuchtwangler for the informal meeting he had requested. The deeply alarmed Mr Retter
had advised against it. ‘You’re going to be talking to men…’ Mr Retter had hesitated over
the word and almost said ’shysters’ ‘…who would skin their grandmothers alive for the sort
of fees they’re earning from Transworld. You really must be most careful what you say to
them.’

‘I always am,’ said the Praelector, and decided not to add ‘when talking to
lawyers’.

And so that evening a seemingly benign old man greeted Schnabel and Feuchtwangler in
a corner of the lounge. ‘I am sure this whole wretched business can be settled more
amicably,’ he told them when they had made themselves relatively comfortable. Mr
Schnabel said he doubted it. Mr Feuchtwangler nodded his agreement.

‘Our client is not an amicable man,’ Schnabel said.

The Praelector smiled. ‘So few of us are,’ he said. ‘But we must try to accommodate
ourselves to circumstances, don’t you think?’

Schnabel said he didn’t think their client understood the word.

‘”Accommodate,” or “Circumstances”?’ the Praelector enquired.

‘Both,’ said Schnabel.

‘All the same he must have a well developed sense of self-preservation to have
survived so long,’ the Praelector went on. ‘Is Mr Passos still in town?’

Schnabel blinked and looked at the old man with new eyes. Feuchtwangler swallowed
drily.

‘I wouldn’t know about anything like that,’ said Schnabel.

‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ the Praelector agreed. ‘It is outside your remit. However, I
imagine it is a matter of some concern to your client, and I rather think he wouldn’t
welcome deportation to Thailand or Singapore. I believe the death penalty there is
mandatory for certain commercial activities. Of course I’m by no means an expert in
these matters but…’

‘Shit,’ said Schnabel. This wasn’t a benign old man with grave-spots on his hands. This
was death itself.

The Praelector signalled to a waiter. ‘I wonder if you’d care to join me in a drink,’
he said. Neither of them wanted anything stronger than water. The Praelector ordered a
fino. ‘Now, as I said at the start, I am sure this whole affair can be dealt with on an
amicable and mutually beneficial basis and one that your client will find most
acceptable. I shall, of course, need to put the proposal to him personally and I
daresay he would prefer me to visit him in his office. I have one or two important
appointments to keep tomorrow morning but perhaps four o’clock tomorrow afternoon
would suit him.’

‘I don’t think any time is going to–’ Schnabel began but Feuchtwangler cut in.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘When you say “a mutually beneficial basis”, it would be helpful to
us in arranging this meeting to know where we stand in the matter.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said the Praelector. ‘I quite understand your concern. Let me
just say that the financial consequences of the proposal I have been authorized to put
before your client will not adversely affect your firm in the slightest. Quite the
contrary. As you know we have been represented by Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine in
Cambridge and naturally for purely minor matters we shall continue to use their
services. However, in the hoped-for eventuality that your client accepts our
proposal, the College will need the expertise of a firm with wider experience in the
field of finance and commercial law. And now if you will excuse me I must leave you. I have
a dinner appointment with my godson.’

Accompanied by the two lawyers the Praelector went out to a taxi. ‘Downing Street,’ he
told the driver in the clearest voice. ‘Number Eleven.’

Schnabel and Feuchtwangler stood on the pavement and stared after the taxi. There was
no doubt now in their minds that their client was going to keep the appointment the
following afternoon.

In the taxi the Praelector smiled to himself and, as they drove down Whitehall, leant
forward. I have changed my mind,’ he told the driver as they drove down the Mall. ‘There’s a
rather good restaurant in Jermyn Street. I think I’ll dine there.’