Grantchester Grind (30 page)

Darker thoughts slowly made their way into her mind. She’d been left in the fucking
lurch, which was bad enough, and she’d been made to look a bloody idiot, but, worst of all,
she had been robbed blind by an old poncey General and a Sir. Oh no, she hadn’t. Myrtle
Ransby had been through too many sordid squabbles and downright wars over payments for
services rendered to be done out of her two thousand nicker by an old fart called D’Eath,
Sir Cathcart fucking D’Eath. Well she’d D’Eath the bugger before she’d finished never
mind that Yank who killed horses. After much thought Myrtle rang her sister and told her to
come over from Red Lodge and not to say anything to anyone, not anyone at all. Maggie
wanted to know what was wrong with her voice ‘cos she sounded all hoarse or something and
anyway she couldn’t come until Perce got back from Newmarket with the car and Myrtle knew
what Perce was like when he’d been to Newmarket. Worse when he won of course. Anyway she’d
come when she could. Rather than enter into a prolonged argument with her sister, Myrtle
put the phone down and checked her handbag to see if the envelope with her half of the two
grand was still safe. She’d brought it to compare the way it was torn with the other and make
sure she wasn’t being done. She also looked at her watch and found it was 3.15. She lay on
the bed and thought even darker thoughts until 7 p.m. when Maggie drove up in front of the
house and blew the horn. Myrtle put on her leopardskin–the gold lamés were too tight to fit
over the latex leggings and went downstairs and made a dash for the car.

‘Lumme,’ Maggie said, ‘Lumme Myrt, what’s with the Michelin tyre outfit? You been to a
rubber lovers’ fancy-dress ball or something?’

A very nasty blue eye warned her not to laugh. They drove out of Cambridge on the Barton
Road.

Sir Cathcart D’Eath had had a tiring two days. Duck Dinner and the shocking events
afterwards had given him a sleepless night and he’d had to be up early the following day
to make arrangements for Skullion’s hasty removal from the Master’s Lodge. It had
involved a number of phone calls and awkward questions about covert operations of that
kind and the difficulties involved in getting an ambulance with a suitable crew up from
London at a moment’s notice. But in the end and at considerable personal expense he
had prevailed. After the lightest of lunches he rested and prepared himself for a small
dinner-party with a number of old and distinguished chums who were coming up for the
weekend with their wives. Most importantly, Sir Edmund and Lady Sarah Lazarus-Crouch had
been invited. The General was particularly anxious to ingratiate himself with the
Lazarus-Crouches because his niece, Katherine D’Eath, was engaged to their son Harry and
Sir Cathcart was anxious to avail himself of Sir Edmund’s financial acumen which, since
he had advised the Queen to sever all connections with at least three merchant ventures
which had later collapsed, was considerable. In short the gathering at Coft Castle that
evening was of the unostentatiously great and the ostensibly good. Even Sir Cathcart’s
secretary had been given the weekend off while Kentucky Fry had been sent to a pig farm in
Leicestershire for a holiday. And all the time Sir Cathcart had a nagging feeling that
he had forgotten, in the horror of Duck Dinner and the distractions of the day,
something he ought to have done and hadn’t. He very soon discovered what it was.

The General and his guests had just sauntered out into the old Orangerie with their
drinks when Myrtle Ransby drove up with Maggie in the battered Cortina. Conversation in
the Orangerie came to a sudden halt as Myrtle staggered out of the car and peered
horribly at them. Never, in Sir Cathcart’s opinion, a pleasant sight, she was
cataclysmically awful now. With her leopardskin draped over her shoulders, and with her
distorted en bouffant bulging under the hood, she advanced on the little group. In her
hand she held the torn notes and even her protruding nipples and swollen thighs had a
menace about them Sir Cathcart could not fail to recognize.

‘Oh my God, what on earth is that?’ Lady Sarah gasped as Myrtle approached.

‘There must be some mistake,’ Sir Cathcart muttered and then, with a quickness of
thought that sprang from desperation, ‘Perhaps she’s collecting for some charity.’

But before he could usher his guests back into the house Myrtle was through the door.
‘You fucking owe me,’ she shouted and waved the torn notes. ‘Two fucking thousand
smackers. And you’re going to pay me or else…’

The threat was superfluous. Nothing else could be more disastrous to Sir Cathcart
than her appearance now. Purple and speechless, he tried to mouth to her to go away but
Myrtle wasn’t having any. She had come for her money and her revenge and she was
determined to get both. She turned hideously to the guests.

‘Says he likes nigger women and he wants me in the old rubber,’ she told them. ‘He’s got
this house in Cambridge, see, and he wants me to give him the old oral and I’ve got to dye my
teats. And you know what he does then?’ She advanced, with evident social perception, on
the Lazarus-Crouches. ‘Ties me up so I can’t move and leaves me there all night and all day
so he can–’

‘I did nothing of the sort,’ stammered Sir Cathcart most inadvisedly. ‘I…’

But it was too late for any escape. Myrtle had backed Lady Sarah against a camellia and
was breathing stale brandy in her face. ‘He likes the old waterworks, know what I mean?’ she
mouthed through the hood. ‘Really dirty. Disgusting I call it. Know what I mean?’

It was obvious that Lady Sarah had some idea, but would have preferred not to. ‘Well,
really,’ she said.

‘Yes, really,’ said Myrtle, and waved the torn notes under her nose. ‘Why else would he
pay two grand? Dirty old men don’t pay that sort of money for the old missionary, do
they?’

‘No, I’m sure they don’t,’ Lady Sarah murmured weakly.

‘I say’ one of Cathcart’s chums tried to intervene but Myrtle turned on him with the
money. ‘Two grand. That’s what he owes me,’ she growled through the hood. ‘I ain’t going till
I gets it.’

‘Oh quite,’ said Sir Edmund diplomatically and helped his wife towards the door.
Several of the distinguished old chums and their wives followed. Only one remained.

‘Now, my good woman, if you’ll just excuse us for a moment,’ he told Myrtle, and took
Sir Cathcart apart. ‘For goodness’ sake, give her the money,’ he said. ‘Only decent thing
to do.’

Twenty minutes later Sir Cathcart sat slumped in a chair in the library and watched the
last of the cars depart. He did not even want a drink. He had been unmasked.

The College Council met in plenary session two weeks later to hear the Praelector’s
report and come to a decision. There had been other more informal meetings and a great
many heated arguments. But the Praelector had prepared the ground with a thoroughness
that had left the Dean and the Senior Tutor furious but without any reasonable
argument. The Praelector no longer relied on his undoubted authority. He had employed
power and had done so through the strangest and most unlikely medium, that of Purefoy
Osbert.

‘This is pure blackmail,’ the Dean said lividly when the Praelector told him that Dr
Osbert’s suspicions were a weapon he was quite prepared to substantiate if the need
arose.

‘You may call it that if you choose,’ the Praelector replied. ‘It is the truth and I shall
use it if I have to.’

‘You would bring the College down if you did. You would destroy the very thing you claim
you want to preserve.’

‘Again, that is your choice to make. Stand in the way of Hartang’s nomination as Master
and Porterhouse will be destroyed in any case.’

‘But the man is a criminal and a monster.’

‘I don’t deny it. He is also immensely rich and vulnerable. By providing him with
the protection of respectability we will earn far more than his gratitude. We will have
him at our mercy.’

The Dean sneered his disbelief.

‘I mean it. At our mercy,’ the Praelector continued. ‘You have not seen the almost
ineffable surroundings in which he exists and which the pitiful man supposes must be
style. The great glass tables, the long and most uncomfortable sofa in green leather, the
wrought-iron chairs, the black leather, the windows of armoured glass. You would shudder at
the vulgarity of his minimalism. Thank God he doesn’t collect paintings.’

‘I can’t see that any of this matters,’ said the Dean. ‘You want to introduce this
murderous gangster into the College and you call that having him at our mercy. You are
mad.’

But the Praelector merely smiled. ‘Charles the Fifth of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor,
the most powerful man in Europe at the time and therefore probably more unlikeable than
Edgar Hartang, withdrew to a monastery for the last few years of his life. I haven’t put that
comparison to the new Master–I doubt if he would understand it–but I like to think we can
play a similar role in Mr Hartang’s life. A quiet period of contemplation combined
with the satisfaction of knowing that one is paying compensation for the excesses of
one’s past by contributing to the cultural achievements of the present. I am sure our
future Master will come to view life here in that gentle light. After all he has no
family.’

‘How do you know? He has probably spawned frightful offspring all over the world.’

‘Boys,’ said the Praelector smugly. ‘And since you want to know how I know, I can say
that Mr Schnabel has been most cooperative. As the new College legal advisers, the firm
of Schnabel, Feuchtwangler and Bolsover, has been most helpful. They share my feelings
about Mr Hartang’s future. I think he has uttered one threat too many. But you will meet
them when they come up to prepare the documentation. Everything must be done in the
proper manner.’

‘But what are Retter and Wyve going to say? You can’t just throw them over like that.’

‘They are not being thrown over,’ said the Praelector. “They will continue to deal with
local matters and besides they are being paid, which is an entirely new experience for
them as far as Porterhouse is concerned. I don’t suppose you realize how much we owe them
but…’

To Dr Buscott the Praelector spoke rather differently, and to Professor Pawley he
explained, ‘This will ensure that Porterhouse will be in a position to make a very
munificent contribution to the scientific funding of the University and naturally
your advice will be much sought after.’

But it was with the Senior Tutor that he had the greatest difficulty.

‘Drugs? Heroin, cocaine, and you want to let a drug trafficker become Master of
Porterhouse? I shall most certainly oppose the nomination,’ said the Senior Tutor.
‘After all we have always prided ourselves on our athletic prowess, particularly on
the river. You are setting a fearful precedent. No, I refuse to be party to such a vile
conspiracy. Over my dead body.’

For the briefest of moments the Praelector thought of saying that that could be
arranged, but he desisted. ‘There will be no drugs in Porterhouse,’ he said. ‘Funnily
enough, Mr Hartang shares your feelings exactly. True, in the past he has had some
dealings with the drug trade but he has long since seen the error of his ways.’

‘Not according to those tapes. How else do you think he has made so much money? He’s hand
in glove with the Mafia and the drug cartels of South America. He has people murdered, he
hires killers, he commits the most monstrous crimes…’

‘True, Senior Tutor, very true. Anyone who opposes him does tend to come to a sticky
end.’ He paused for the inference to sink in. ‘However, he has learnt from history that
there is advantage to be gained from respectability. Take President Kennedy’s father.
Started life as a bootlegger and a gangster selling gutrot gin and whiskey during
Prohibition and almost certainly had competitors murdered. He ended up as
Ambassador over here during the war.’

‘The bastard said Hitler was going to win,’ the Senior Tutor retorted, ‘and in any
case they had to repeal the Prohibition law because they couldn’t stop people drinking
and they were putting money into the hands of gangsters like Al Capone and Joseph
Kennedy.’

‘Exactly the point I was going to make,’ said the Praelector. ‘Do you seriously
suppose that the present American authorities, in so far as there are any, with their
incredible financial deficit are going to succeed in stopping the drug traffickers? Do
you really think that?’

The Senior Tutor said he sincerely hoped so.

‘Ah, but think of the financial advantages that will accrue to the Governments when
drugs are legalized,’ the Praelector told him. And the social benefits will be enormous
too.’

‘What social benefits? The wholesale consumption of crack cocaine does not strike me
as having any social benefit whatsoever.’

‘I can think of one. The elimination of the criminal coterie that controls the trade
now. And besides, I have never believed in the regimentation of society by a
self-appointed and supposedly moral elite. If people choose to indulge tastes that hurt
only themselves, they are entitled to do so. To attempt to dragoon them into moral
perfection always fails. Or ends in war.’

‘You are a cynic,’ said the Senior Tutor.

‘I have fought in one war and, while I cannot claim to have known what I was fighting for,
I think I knew what I was fighting against,’ said the Praelector. ‘So far I have always
found myself on the side of right. An accident of birth and history, I daresay, but one
that doesn’t incline me towards cynicism.’

‘Not this time,’ the Senior Tutor said. ‘This time you are on the side of wrong and I
shall oppose you.’

‘It is your right to do so,’ said the Praelector. ‘Though I must warn you that you may
come to regret it.’

The Senior Tutor did, almost immediately. Two days later he found a letter
demanding immediate payment of far more than he had expected in connection with
repairs, renovations and the re-roofing of the Porterhouse Boat House.

‘This has nothing to do with me,’ he told the Bursar, who had finally been persuaded
to resume his duties. ‘The College funds the Boat Club. I don’t.’

‘I daresay in the past…’ the Bursar began, but the Praelector came out of the
Secretary’s office in support.

‘You’ve evidently not boned up on the College ordinances of 1851 lately.’

‘Ordinances of 1851? Of course I haven’t. I didn’t know there were any,’ spluttered the
Senior Tutor.

‘Oddly enough, I have a copy of the relevant clause with me,’ the Praelector said and
handed him a page of numbered paragraphs. ‘Number 9 is the one that applies to your
position with regard to the expenses you have incurred without the authority of the
College Council Bursarial and Finance Committee. Most unfortunate of course, but
there you are.’

The Senior Tutor read the offensive paragraph and was appalled. ‘”In the event of an
officer of the College in whatsoever capacity acting without the consent of the
Bursarial and Finance Committee to incur expenses…” Are you mad? I can’t pay forty
thousand pounds and I’m damned if I’m going to. I’ve never even heard of this fuck–’ (Mrs
Moreland had added her presence to that of the Bursar and the Praelector) ‘of…of this
Committee.’

‘It meets every term, doesn’t it Bursar?’

The Bursar nodded weakly. He was too frightened to speak. He had horsewhips on his
mind.

‘Of course, in the past these matters have been a mere formality,’ the Praelector
continued, ‘but in the light of the financial crisis now facing the College, I am afraid
that Clause 9 has become obligatory. Our creditors are insisting on immediate payment
and since you are legally responsible…’

The Senior Tutor retreated and consulted his own solicitor. ‘I’m afraid there is
very little we can do,’ he was told.

By the time the College Council met in plenary session the Senior Tutor had
capitulated. A bankrupt Porterhouse was one thing, but he was not prepared to be a
bankrupt himself. Hartang was set to become the new Master.