Porterhouse Blue (29 page)

‘Cathcart’s the only man I know who could do it,’ the Dean had said suddenly during dinner in the empty Hall.

‘Do what?’ asked the Senior Tutor.

‘See the PM,’ said the Dean. ‘Get him to rescind the Master’s nomination.’

The Senior Tutor lacerated a shinbone judiciously and wiped his fingers. ‘On what grounds?’

‘General maladministration,’ said the Dean.

‘Difficult to prove,’ said the Senior Tutor.

The Dean helped himself to devilled kidneys and Arthur replenished his wine glass. ‘Let us review the facts. Since his arrival the College has seen the deaths of one undergraduate, a bedder, the total destruction of a building classified as a national monument, charges of peculation and a scandal involving the admission of unqualified candidates, the sacking of Skullion and now, to cap it all, the assumption of dictatorial powers by the Master.’

‘But surely—’

‘Bear with me,’ said the Dean. ‘Now you and I may know that the Master is not wholly responsible, but the general public thinks otherwise. Have you seen today’s
Telegraph
?’

‘No,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘but I think I know what you mean.
The Times
has three columns of letters, all of them supporting Skullion’s statement on the box.’

‘Exactly,’ said the Dean. ‘The
Telegraph
also has a leading article calling for a stand against student indiscipline
and a return to the values Skullion so eloquently advocated. Whatever the merits of
The Carrington Programme
, it has certainly provoked a public reaction against the dismissal of Skullion. Porterhouse may have been blackguarded but it is Sir Godber who takes the blame.’

‘As Master, you mean?’

‘Precisely,’ continued the Dean. ‘He may claim—’

‘As Master he must accept full responsibility,’ said the Senior Tutor.

‘Still, I don’t see that the Prime Minister would willingly dismiss him. It would reflect poorly on his own judgement in the first place.’

‘The Government’s position is not a particularly healthy one just at the moment,’ said the Dean. ‘It only needs a nudge …’

‘A nudge? From whom?’

The Dean smiled and signalled to Arthur to make himself scarce. ‘From me,’ he said when the waiter had shuffled off into the darkness of the lower hall.

‘You?’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘How?’

‘Have you ever heard of Skullion’s Scholars?’ the Dean asked. His bloated face glowed in the light of the candles.

‘That old story,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘An old chestnut surely?’

The Dean shook his head. ‘I have the names and the dates and the sums involved,’ he said. ‘I have the names of the graduates who wrote the papers. I have even
some examples of their work.’ He put the tips of his fingers together and nodded. The Senior Tutor stared at him.

‘No,’ he muttered.

‘Yes,’ the Dean assured him.

‘But how?’

The Dean withdrew a little. ‘Let’s just say that I have,’ he said. ‘There was a time when I disapproved of the practice. I was young in those days and full of foolishness but I changed my mind. Fortunately I did not destroy the evidence. You see now what I mean by a nudge?’

The Senior Tutor gulped some wine in his amazement. ‘Not the PM?’ he muttered.

‘Not,’ admitted the Dean, ‘but one or two of his colleagues.’ The Senior Tutor tried to think which ministers were Porterhouse men.

‘I have some eighty names,’ said the Dean, ‘some eighty
eminent
names. I think they’re quite sufficient.’

The Senior Tutor mopped his forehead. There was no doubt in his mind about the sufficiency of the Dean’s information. It would bring the Government down. ‘Could you rely on Skullion to substantiate?’ he asked.

The Dean nodded. ‘I hardly think it will come to that,’ he said, ‘and if it does I am prepared to stand as scapegoat. I am an old man. I no longer care.’

They sat in silence. Two old men together in the
isolated candlelight under the dark rafters of the Hall. Arthur, standing obediently by the green baize door, watched them fondly.

‘And Sir Cathcart?’ asked the Senior Tutor.

‘And Sir Cathcart,’ agreed the Dean.

They stood up and the Dean said grace, his voice tremulous in the vastness of the silent Hall. They went out into the Combination Room and Arthur shuffled softly up to the High Table and began to collect the dishes.

Half an hour later they drove out of the College car park in the Senior Tutor’s car. Coft Castle was blazing with Edwardian brilliance when they arrived.

‘It seems an inopportune moment,’ said the Senior Tutor doubtfully surveying the shoal of cars.

‘We must strike while the iron is hot,’ said the Dean. Inside they were accosted by a puma.

‘Do we look like gatecrashers?’ the Dean asked severely. The puma shook his head.

‘We have urgent business with General Sir Cathcart D’Eath,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘Be so good as to inform him that the Dean and Senior Tutor have arrived. We shall wait for him in the library.’

The puma nodded dutifully and they pushed their way through a crush of assorted beasts to the library.

‘I must say I find this sort of thing extremely
distasteful,’ said the Dean. ‘I am surprised that Cathcart allows such goings on at Coft Castle. One would have thought he had more taste.’

‘He always did have something of a reputation,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘Of course he was before my time but I did hear one or two rather unsavoury stories.’

‘Youthful excess is one thing,’ said the Dean, ‘but mutton dressed as lamb is another.’

‘They say the leopard doesn’t change its spots,’ said the Senior Tutor. He sat down in a club easy while the Dean idly examined a nicely bound copy of Stendhal. It contained, as he had expected from the title, a bottle of liqueur.

Outside the puma stalked Sir Cathcart. He found it extremely difficult. He tried the billiard-room without success. In the kitchen he asked the cook if she had seen him.

‘I wouldn’t know him if I had,’ the cook said primly. ‘All I know is that he’s gone as a horse.’

The detective went back into the menagerie and asked several guests who were wearing horsey masks if they were Sir Cathcart. They weren’t. He helped himself to champagne and tried again. Finally he ran Sir Cathcart to ground in the conservatory with a well-known jockey. The detective surveyed the scene with disgust.

‘Two gentlemen to see you in the library,’ he said. Sir Cathcart got to his feet.

‘What do you mean?’ he said indistinctly. ‘What are
they doing there? I said nobody was to go in the library.’ He staggered off down the passage and into the library where the Dean had just discovered a copy of
A Man and A Maid
inside an early edition of
Great Expectations
.

‘What the hell …?’ Sir Cathcart began before realizing who they were.

‘Cathcart?’ enquired the Dean, staring doubtfully at the General.

‘Who?’ said Sir Cathcart.

‘We are waiting to speak to Sir Cathcart D’Eath,’ said the Dean.

‘Isn’t here. Gone to London,’ said the General, slurring his voice deliberately and hoping that his mask was a sufficient proof against identity. The Dean was unpersuaded. He recognized the General’s fetlocks.

‘I am prepared to accept the explanation,’ he said grimly. ‘We have not come here to pry.’ He returned the copy of
Great Expectations
to its place. ‘We simply wanted to inform Sir Cathcart that the matter of Skullion’s Scholars is about to receive a public airing.’

‘Damnation,’ shouted the General, ‘how the hell did …?’ He stopped and regarded the Dean bitterly.

‘Quite,’ said the Dean. He sat down behind the desk and the General sank into a chair. ‘The matter is urgent, otherwise we shouldn’t be here. We have no desire to abuse your hospitality, if that were possible, any longer than we have to. Let us assume that Sir Cathcart is in London for the moment.’

The General nodded his agreement with this tactful proposition. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘Things have reached a crisis,’ said the Senior Tutor rising from his club easy. ‘We simply want the Prime Minister to be informed that Sir Godber’s Mastership must be rescinded.’

‘Must?’ said the General. The word had an authoritarian ring about it that he was unused to.

‘Must,’ said the Dean.

Sir Cathcart inside his mask looked doubtful. ‘It’s a tall order.’

‘No doubt,’ said the Dean. ‘The alternative is possibly the fall of the Government. I am prepared to place my information in the hands of the press. I think you follow the likely consequences.’

Sir Cathcart did. ‘But why, for God’s sake?’ he asked. ‘I don’t understand. If this got out it would ruin the College.’

‘If the Master stays there will be no College to ruin,’ said the Dean. ‘There will be a hostel. I have some eighty names, Cathcart.’

Sir Cathcart peered through his mask bitterly. ‘
Eighty
? And you’re prepared to put their reputations at risk?’

The Dean’s mouth curved upwards in a sneer. ‘In the circumstances I find that question positively indecent,’ he said.

‘Oh, come now,’ said the General. ‘We all have our little peccadilloes. A fellow’s entitled to a little fun.’

On the way out they were importuned by a fowl. ‘These gentlemen are just leaving,’ said Sir Cathcart hurriedly.

‘Before me?’ cackled the capon. ‘It’s against protocol.’

They drove back to Porterhouse in silence. What they had just witnessed had left them with a new sense of disillusionment.

‘The whole country is going to the dogs,’ said the Senior Tutor as they crossed New Court. As if in answer there was a low moan from the Fellows’ Garden.

‘What on earth was that?’ said the Dean. They turned and peered into the darkness. Under the elms a shadow darker than the rest struggled to its feet and collapsed. They crossed the lawn cautiously and stood staring down at the figure on the ground.

‘A drunk,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘I’ll fetch the Porter,’ but the Dean had already struck a match. In the small flare of light they looked down into the ashen face of Sir Godber.

‘Good God,’ said the Dean, ‘it’s the Master.’

They carried him slowly and with difficulty down the gravel path to the Master’s Lodge and laid him on the sofa.

‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ said the Senior Tutor, and picked the phone off the floor and dialled. While they waited the Dean sat staring down into the Master’s
face. It was evident Sir Godber was dying. He struggled to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

‘He’s trying to tell us something,’ said the Senior Tutor softly. There was no bitterness now. In extremis the Master had regained the Senior Tutor’s loyalty.

‘He must have been drunk,’ said the Dean, who could smell the whisky on Sir Godber’s feeble breath.

The Master shook his head. An indefinite future awaited him now in which he would only be a memory. It must not be sullied by false report.

‘Not drunk,’ he managed to mutter, gazing pitifully into the Dean’s face. ‘Skullion.’

The Dean and Senior Tutor looked at one another. ‘What about Skullion?’ the Senior Tutor asked but the Master had no answer for him.

They waited for the ambulance before leaving. It had been impossible to contact Lady Mary. She was on the phone to a depressive who was threatening to end his life. On the way back through the Fellows’ Garden the Dean retrieved the whisky bottle.

‘I don’t think we need mention this to the police,’ he said. ‘He was obviously drunk and fell into the fireplace. A tragic end.’

The Senior Tutor was lost in thought. ‘You realize what he’s done?’ he asked.

‘Only too well,’ said the Dean. ‘I’ll phone Sir Cathcart and tell him to cancel the ultimatum. There’s no
need for it now. We shall have to elect a new Master. Let us see to it that he has the true interests of the College at heart. We mustn’t make another mistake.’

The Senior Tutor shook his head. ‘There can be no question of an election, Dean,’ he said. ‘The Master has already nominated his own successor.’

In the darkness the two old men stared at one another digesting the extraordinary import of Sir Godber’s last word. It was unthinkable but yet …

They went into the Combination Room to deliberate. The ancient panelled walls, the plaster ceiling decorated with heraldic devices and grotesque animals, the portraits of past Masters, and the silver candlesticks all combined to urge considerations of the past upon their present dilemma.

‘There are precedents,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘Thomas Wilkins was a pastrycook.’

‘He was also an eminent theologian,’ said the Dean.

‘Dr Cox began his career as a barber,’ the Senior Tutor pointed out. ‘He owed his election to his wealth.’

‘I take your point,’ said the Dean. ‘In the present circumstances it is one that cannot be ignored.’

‘There is also the question of public opinion to consider,’ the Senior Tutor continued. ‘In the present climate it would not be an unpopular appointment. It would disarm our critics entirely.’

‘So it would,’ said the Dean. ‘It would indeed. But the College Council—’

‘Have no say in the matter,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘Tradition has it that the Master’s dying words constitute an unalterable decision.’

‘If uttered in the presence of two or more of the Senior Fellows,’ agreed the Dean. ‘So it is up to us.’

‘There is little doubt that he would be malleable,’ the Senior Tutor continued after a long pause. The Dean nodded. ‘I confess to finding the argument unanswerable,’ he said. They rose and snuffed the candles.

Skullion sat in the darkness of his kitchen, shivering. It was a cold night but Skullion was unconscious of the cold. His tremors had other causes. He had threatened the Master. He had in all probability killed him. The memory of Sir Godber lying in a pool of blood in the fireplace haunted Skullion. He could not think of sleep. He sat there at the kitchen table shivering with fright. He couldn’t begin to think what to do. The law would find him. Skullion’s innate respect for authority rejected the possibility that his crime would go undetected. It was almost as monstrous a thought as the knowledge that he was a murderer. He was still there when the Dean and the Senior Tutor knocked on his door at eight o’clock. They had brought the Praelector with them. As usual his was a supernumerary role.