Grantchester Grind (34 page)

‘I’ve had a very peculiar letter from the Senior Tutor,’ Goodenough told Mr Lapline
over coffee one morning.

Mr Lapline said he wasn’t in the least surprised. ‘Disgusting business. You’d think a
man in D’Eath’s position would have more sense. If he wants to tie women up in black latex,
he could at least have maintained some degree of anonymity. It makes the worst sort of
impression on the public.’

‘I wasn’t actually talking about that,’ said Goodenough who was surprised Mr Lapline
read the Sun. ’It’s about that silly fellow Purefoy Osbert.’

Mr Lapline shuddered. ‘I always knew that was a terrible mistake. What’s the filthy
brute done now?’

‘I think if you read the letter yourself, you’ll get a better picture of the
situation,’ said Goodenough and put the letter gingerly on the desk. The solicitor read
it through twice.

‘Abducted the Master? Abducted the Master from Porterhouse Park? Is the man
completely insane? And where the devil is Porterhouse Park? I’ve never heard of it,’ said
Mr Lapline at last.

‘I’ve no idea. He merely says that Skullion, that’s the Master, was convalescing there
and that Dr Osbert turned up with some woman–’

‘I know what the Senior Tutor says. Not that it’s a coherent letter for a supposedly
educated man. But to abduct the Master, who’s in a wheelchair? And what’s all this about
locking the whole place up so no one can call the police? And the man’s gone a week and
neither of them have been seen? It’s utterly appalling. Goodenough, I hold you
responsible for ever letting this damned swine loose on Porterhouse. I do indeed.’

‘Steady on,’ said Goodenough grimly. ‘If you remember, you were the one who insisted
on keeping Bloody Mary’s account and then you went sick with that wretched gall bladder you
won’t have out and handed the problem over to me.’

‘You volunteered,’ said Mr Lapline, who still hadn’t had his gall bladder out: it was
playing up again. ‘You specifically said you could handle the matter and keep Lady Mary
happy. You then sent her a collection of sexual psychopaths and neo-Nazis knowing full
well she’d reject them out of hand and finally you offer her a blighter who is into the
most disgusting details of hanging and who’s convinced Crippen was innocent.’

‘Now wait a moment–’ Goodenough began but Mr Lapline hadn’t finished.

‘Anyone in his right mind could have seen catastrophe coming and, as a matter of fact,
you did. You said it was called putting the cat among the pigeons and now we have this bloody
man abducting–I wonder he didn’t call it kidnapping–the Master from his sickbed and for
all we know hanging the poor chap.’

‘Actually, Purefoy is very much against hanging. That’s one of his pet aversions.’

‘I’ll tell you one of my pet aversions,’ said Mr Lapline viciously, but stopped himself
just in time. After all, Goodenough was a partner and very successful at handling the
clients Mr Lapline least liked. Anyway the damage is done and you’ll just have to tell Lady
Mary–’

‘Not yet, for God’s sake,’ said Goodenough. ‘I mean there may have been some mistake.’

‘May?’ said Mr Lapline.

But in the end it seemed better to wait on events and hope for the best.

At Coft Castle General Sir Cathcart D’Eath had lost hope entirely. All the women
servants had walked out, including his American secretary, and only the Japanese butler
and Kudzuvine were left, though there was nothing for Kudzuvine to do now that the
Cathcart’s Catfood had been closed down. The knowledge that Sir Cathcart made a habit of
having old racehorses slaughtered and consigned to tins, cats for the consumption of,
had alienated everyone in the district. He had been cut in Newmarket by old friends and
there had been a disturbance outside the house when some Animal Rights activists broke in
and had to be dispersed by the police. Worst of all the rumour had spread that he had been
breeding horses simply to satisfy the nation’s cats and because horses grew faster than
cows. Even his milder neighbours had been so enraged that on one occasion his Range Rover
had been pelted with rotten eggs as he drove through Coft.

Sir Cathcart stayed in his study and drank with Kudzuvine, who didn’t know what all the
shit was about. Horses were horses though frankly he preferred pork himself. More human he
reckoned. You could keep fucking turtles and baby octopuses but, fucking pigs was
something else again. Sir Cathcart said he supposed it must be, though even in his drunken
state he couldn’t think it was very pleasant and talking about fucking pigs that Myrtle
Ransby…Kudzuvine said she hadn’t turned him on either. Old bag like that dress her how you
like and that black rubber hadn’t done anything for her except stop you having to see her
face. Still some guys he’d known liked their meat well hung. Sir Cathcart said he’d have hung
the bitch a long time ago if he’d known what she was going to do to him. Kudzuvine said
Hartang would have Calvied her no mistake the way she’d acted. It was a most unedifying
conversation.

The talk in the Master’s Lodge between Hartang and Ross Skundler had been only slightly
more civilized. The Bursar, the Dean and the Praelector had been present in part to
reassure Skundler that he was persona grata with the new Master but also, as the Dean put
it, to find out if there was any little thing they could do to make the new Master more
comfortable in the College and, of course, to welcome him.

‘Drop dead,’ said Hartang, looking at Skundler but evidently including the Bursar,
the Praelector and the Dean in the injunction. He had had an appalling two nights in the
Lodge in the company, by the sound of it, of a colony of enormous rats in the attic above
his head. Certainly some things had spent their time scurrying about up there and making
very strange noises. Arthur had tried to reassure him at breakfast (Hartang had been
downright rude about the cholesterol effects of two fried eggs and a Porterhouse portion
of fatty bacon, not to mention the fried bread which had been Skullion’s special
favourite) that they were merely squabs.

‘In the roof? Squabs in the roof?’ Hartang had said incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it.
That where these eggs come from?’

‘No, sir, those are hen’s eggs. We do not keep chickens in the attic.’

‘And squabs aren’t chickens, what are they?’

‘Young pigeons, sir. In the old days pigeons were a Porterhouse delicacy and some of
their descendants still inhabit their predecessors’ home. You will see the entrances on
the end gables. I believe there may be a colony of pipistrelles up there too.’

‘Bats? Bats?’ said Hartang who did at least know what a pipistrelle was. ‘Are they a
Porterhouse delicacy too? Shit.’

‘No, sir, bats are a protected species. It is unlawful to kill them,’ Arthur said, and
went back to the kitchen to see if he could find some oatbran and skimmed milk yoghurt that
Hartang insisted was all he ever ate for breakfast. Hartang was not in a good mood when
Skundler and the Senior Fellows arrived. He’d had to have muesli and even that had sugar
in it. And the coffee had been foul.

Arthur hadn’t been too happy either. ‘Very uncouth gentleman, the new Master,’ he told
the bodyguards who had heard the exchange on the wired sound system. What they were now
hearing had the same acrimoniously uncouth quality about it. The Dean’s use of the word
‘amenities’ had been the last straw.

‘What amenities? Amenity? I haven’t seen a single amenity since I got here. The fucking
bath is big enough to drown in and it takes an hour to fill and the water’s goddam cold by
the time it’s full.’

‘Well, we’ve had some rather large Masters in the past,’ the Dean explained. ‘They needed
a sizeable bath. I’m sorry about the water but Porterhouse men are used to it being on the
lukewarm side.’

‘I’m not,’ Hartang assured him. ‘I like my water hot and if what that old fool of a
waiter tried to give me for breakfast is anything to go by, like it would fur up an
elephant’s arteries in no time at all, I’d say the Masters you’ve had in the past had to
have been sick men. Didn’t think what they were doing to their bodies.’

‘Very possibly,’ the Praelector said pacifically. As you’ve undoubtedly noticed we
are a very old College and some of our ways may seem rather out of date. I am sure we can
accommodate you in circumstances more to your liking.’

Hartang didn’t say anything. He had found the Praelector daunting when he had met him
at Transworld Television Centre and he had found that ‘accommodate’ uncomfortable.
‘I’d be glad if the boiler could be fixed,’ he said. ‘Most grateful.’

For the rest he talked earnestly with Skundler who took notes and only answered
questions, none of which the Fellows understood. By the time they left the Master-to-be
had remembered his elocution and etiquette lessons, and was quietly polite, and thanked
them for coming.

‘This is not going to work,’ the Dean said when they were out of earshot. ‘That man ought
to be behind bars. I still find it difficult to believe such people exist. What on earth
are we going to do?’

‘For the time being nothing,’ said the Praelector. ‘I suggest we keep out of his way
and ensure that his bathwater is hot. And I think we must persuade his lawyers to come up
and talk to him. I have found them most helpful.’

It was not an opinion Hartang shared.

In the listening-room the tape of the conversation was locked away and the older
taller man was on the phone.

His views were exactly the same as the Dean’s. The Master-to-be was not shaping up.
‘She says it’s going to take time and there’s no point in rushing things. There are still
things they need from him. Just keep him safe.’

In the kitchen Arthur explained to the Chef that ‘Him-over-there’ wanted something
called Noovell Couiseen.

‘Never heard of it,’ said the Chef. ‘Best see if they’ve got some at Marks & Sparks by
the Market We’re having beef with dumplings tonight in Hall with a Stilton soup to start
with and omelette for savoury.’

Arthur said he didn’t think ‘Him-over-there’ was very fond of eggs and Cheffy said he
didn’t care what he was fond of, he wasn’t Master yet and never would be till Mr Skullion
gave his say so because Mr Skullion was the Master still whatever anyone said.

‘I wonder where he went to, Cheffy. Him and that Dr Osbert.’

‘That’d be telling, Arthur, that’d be telling,’ was all the Chef would say. And don’t you
tell anyone I said so.’

‘I can fully understand your feelings, Master,’ said Schnabel when he finally came
up to Porterhouse. Hartang said he couldn’t. No one could live in a fucking mausoleum with
a whole lot of deadbeats who didn’t know a dollar from a peso and had to use their fingers
to count to ten, and even begin to understand what it felt like.

‘I don’t think you should allow appearances to mislead you,’ said Schnabel. ‘Academics
are deceptive people and the English have always been known for their understatement.
It’s part of the national character. They don’t like to show their feelings. You mustn’t
take them at face value.’

Hartang looked out of the window at the marquees on the Fellows’ Lawn and wished he
could express his feelings. He had never taken anyone at face value except maybe in
movies. Some of the best contractors from Chicago and Miami had nice faces. ‘Have you ever
met a fat woman with a blue hair rinse and a shopping bag who doesn’t give her name?’ he
asked. Artificial pearls and a voice like a pointed Luger. Has two men with her who could
be SAS. They’re living in the house with me. Not the woman. The men.’

‘For your protection, I’m sure,’ said Schnabel. ‘They’ll see you through this early
period until you’re settled in and then they’ll pull out. That’s the agreement. You
wouldn’t want non-professionals who don’t know their job.’

‘I certainly hope so. Anyone show around Transworld? You know “anyone”?’

‘My information is no. You’re keeping the money flowing into the same accounts so
there’s no reason to think you have been involved in any way. If you’d blown with it, that
would be different. There’s a man in your office your height and dressed the same, lives the
same way you do. So you’re there if they ask the staff. And one day, say in six months, he’ll
have an infarct and they’ll have a big cremation at Golders Green and an obituary in The
Times about how you built Transworld up from nothing.’

‘Someone’s going to want to see the body.’

‘Naturally,’ said Schnabel. ‘No one will stop them. Same build, same face, wig and
glasses. They’ll be able to take photographs but no touching. The people protecting you
have morticians who could make Boris Karloff look like Marilyn Monroe. How do you think
they get IRA informers new identities?’

‘You going to tell me they embalm them? Shit, I don’t want to know.’

‘They embalm some dead guy. Plastic surgery like you wouldn’t believe. The real guy’s
different too. So who’s to know? No one. Got a new identity and could be living in the
same street as always. That’s the way they are. Professionals.’

‘Just so long they don’t change their minds about me. I don’t want to end up this place
Golden Green.’

‘You aren’t going to,’ said Schnabel. ‘You’re too valuable. So Hartang’s dead, long live
the Master of Porterhouse.’

Hartang thought about it for a bit. ‘I’m not making a will,’ he said finally. ‘They want
my money they keep me alive.’

‘Very wise. They want your financial genius. That’s what they’re buying keeping you
alive and out of circulation. Ross Skundler making out all right?’

‘That shit,’ said Hartang and felt better.

And Skundler was. Every few days he would look at the old bound ledgers and ask the Bursar
for a quill but the new financial position was good. The Bursar was happier too. He
didn’t have to worry about money or the College debts but could go and inspect the work
being done in the Chapel and see how much better the College looked. Even Skullion’s
disappearance didn’t bother him. He’d never liked him and Skullion had never bothered
to hide his contempt for the Bursar. In fact from every point of view things were working
out very well.

In Onion Alley Purefoy was exhausted. So was Mrs Ndhlovo. For a week they had sat and
listened to Skullion and they felt they had been living in Porterhouse for ever. It was
the repetition that had this effect, repetitions and digressions, trips Skullion took
them on down the tributaries of his main concern, the treachery he had suffered, not just
once, not even twice, but from the moment he had set foot in Porterhouse and had doffed his
cap to the gentlemen there. It was that sense of betrayal, stronger now than it had been
even when Sir Godber had him sacked, that gave him the strength to keep talking, dredging
his memory for details of those slights and little insults he knew now to be the pilot
fish for the greatest betrayal of all.

‘That bloody Sir Cathcart D’Eath promised me, swore on his oath as a gentleman, that I
wouldn’t go to the Park. Gave me his word I could stay at Coft Castle if I agreed to retire.
The bloody bastard,’ he told them any number of times. And I said I had the right to name my
own successor as Master and I have, and he agreed. Had to. College tradition since time
immemorial. The dying Master has the right to name his own successor. And I did. “Lord
Pimpole,” I said, “The Honourable Jeremy Pimpole of Pimpole Hall in the County of
Yorkshire.” That’s who I named and a nicer young gentleman you never met. Came up in 1959.
Him and Sir Launcelot Gutterby were the best.’ Skullion paused, recalling their
ineffable superiority and arrogance.

Then he spat into the fireplace. ‘So what happens next? That bastard Sir Cathcart has
me bundled into an ambulance and I’m locked in the Park and they’ve got some fucking Yank
or something in the Master’s Lodge.’ The enormity of this final betrayal overcame him
and he was silent, staring into the meaningless abyss of hatred this final act of
treachery had led to. Worst of all he had only himself to blame. He could have kept his
independent mind, he’d always believed he had, but he hadn’t. He’d surrendered it to
Porterhouse, to his cosy job and his self-indulgent consciousness of doing his duty.
Duty! About as much duty as a fucking poodle jumping through hoops in a circus and
walking on its back paws and doing tricks to satisfy an audience of idiots. That’s what
his duty had been. He knew that now. He knew it because they had betrayed him.

He knew it even more because they had betrayed Porterhouse by their stupidity. Any fool
could have seen what was happening to the College years ago and taken measures to protect
the place and keep it independent. He’d seen that himself and had denied it too because
he’d trusted them. And because there’d been nothing he could do about it. He hadn’t wanted
to think about it and had told himself it would all come right in the end. Instead it had all
come wrong. There was a worse thought at the back of his mind: that it had always been wrong
and that his life had been wasted in the service of the rotten. That was what he thought now
but he didn’t say it to Purefoy and Mrs Ndhlovo and the tape recorder. They were young and
there was no point in hurting them so early. Life would do that. Besides, he needed them
for what he had to do.

‘Still no news of Skullion?’ the Praelector asked, looking out of the Fellows’ Private
Dining Room at the marquees and the tables and wooden dance floors arranged on the lawn. A
group of sound technicians were setting up speakers and lights were already installed
round them.

‘None,’ said the Dean. And Osbert hasn’t been into College since that first night. None
of the College servants has any idea where they’ve got to.’

‘Wouldn’t tell you if they knew,’ the Senior Tutor said. ‘They’ve always kowtowed to
Skullion even before he became Master.’

‘True, but they’re worried too. If they knew and weren’t telling, they’d be in a
different mood. I’m certain they have no idea.’

‘The police have no information either. All they have found out is that Dr Osbert
hired a van in Hunstanton and brought it back two days later. They’ve contacted
hospitals but he hasn’t been admitted. It is all most disturbing.’

‘Since there is nothing we can do about it, I don’t think we should waste time worrying
about it,’ said the Praelector. ‘I have to confess the new Master is giving me more cause
for concern. He is an even more unpleasant individual than I had supposed.’

‘He was your choice and you have no one to blame but yourself,’ said the Senior
Tutor.

‘I accept that responsibility and I do blame myself. On the other hand he is yet to
be inaugurated and if anyone can think of a suitable alternative, someone who can
provide the College with the financial resources we so desperately require, I daresay
we can persuade the authorities to take him off our hands.’

‘By “authorities” I take it you mean the people with him in the Master’s Lodge,’ said
the Senior Tutor. ‘I have to say they are not very pleasant themselves. I gather they
body-searched Professor Pawley when he made the mistake of going to pay his respects. He
hasn’t got over their thoroughness yet.’

‘Well, at least they are subduing the wretched man they are looking after,’ said the
Dean. ‘We must be grateful for that, and they are on our side.’

The Praelector left them and walked pensively across the Court to the College kitchen.
He wanted a word with the Chef.