Grantchester Grind (20 page)

Edgar Hartang wasn’t interested in intellect, pure or otherwise, but he was adamant
that something be done about Kudzuvine He had been in consultation with his legal team
for hours and nothing that Schnabel, Feuchtwangler or Bolsover had told him had been to his
liking. ‘You telling me because that fucking Kudzuvine goes apeshit in this fucking
Porterhouse I got to spit out twenty million pounds you got to be as crazy as he is,’ had
been his first reaction.

‘We are merely speaking in terms of the legal consequences of this action,’ Schnabel
had told him. And if the facts as laid out by the solicitors acting for the College are as
they state them to be liability certainly lies with Transworld. That is the unfortunate
fact of the matter and our unavoidable conclusion.’

Two days later the facts of the matter had worsened and Skundler, who had lost a stone in
weight through having to live in the presence of a man who made it abundantly clear he
intended to have him killed very painfully, had been ordered to get some independent
operatives to find Kudzuvine.

‘No, not from Chicago, not yet,’ Hartang had shouted at him. ‘Locals. And on the phone,
Skundler. You’re, not leaving this room.’

The operatives’ report that Kudzuvine was almost certainly still in Porterhouse, and
a further communication from Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine that they had even more
damaging though unspecified evidence, had sent Hartang into a paroxysm of rage. ‘You
mean the fucker’s squealed?’ he screamed at the legal team. ‘I’ll…I’ll crucify that…that…’
Words failed him.

‘Apparently he’s given an affidavit of some sort,’ Bolsover told him. ‘Like it’s a
sworn statement, a confession–’

‘I know what an affifuckingdavit is,’ Hartang bawled. ‘Whadda they mean by our
ancillary activities for shit-sake? That’s what I want to know.’

‘One can only suppose…’ Feuchtwangler hazarded to take some of the heat off Bolsover.
He preferred to leave the supposition unsaid.

‘Suppose? I knows. I know what…’ He turned to Skundler. ‘What does Kudzuvine have in that
head of his? Like details, you dummy, not fucking neurons. What he’s got to have spilt to
these fucking shysters?’

Skundler took a desperate gamble. ‘As a V-P he’s got details, sir. Got a lousy
mind…’

‘That I’m learning. Tell me the new.’

‘He’s got a photographic memory, Mr Hartang sir. Filing cabinet full of account
numbers and times of consignments and fund flows and…’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Edgar Hartang, and wiped the sweat from his face. There was a long
and terrible silence. Finally he spoke. ‘Get me some independents Stateside…’ he
began, but this time Schnabel stepped in with remarkable courage.

‘I…we would strongly advise against any action that might make the situation worse,’ he
said.

‘Worse? Just how much worse can it get you don’t think this is worst? I got to take this
shit; do nothing about it?’

‘I did not say that. I just want you to know that there is nothing in this
communication from the solicitors to indicate that they intend to move from civil
action and initiate criminal proceedings. That’s our reading of it.’ Beside him his two
partners nodded their agreement.

Hartang gnawed a knuckle. ‘You mean they’re into fucking blackmail? You saying that?’
he asked.

‘We wouldn’t put it in precisely those terms,’ said Bolsover. ‘Like they’re
negotiating.’

‘You can call it what you like. I call it blackmail.’

‘And another thing we’d have to say is that they’ll have Kudzuvine under wraps some
place we’re never going to find him. Any action that might…’

‘Don’t say make the situation worse. I’m there already,’ said Hartang. ‘What you’re
telling me is pay twenty million plus.’

‘Negotiate is all,’ said Feuchtwangler. ‘We don’t see any other way.’

‘I’ve been taken. I’ve been taken by a motherfucking cuntlapper in a suit I wouldn’t
be seen dead in. And all because I wanted to help out with their finances. Twenty million
is some helping out, and what do I get for it? Zilch. Zero and out.’ (’You don’t get prison,’
the lawyers thought simultaneously, but they kept the thought to themselves.)

‘Okay, negotiate. But afterwards…’

‘Just one other thing, Mr Hartang, we’d like Ross Skundler to come with us.’

‘What? To negotiate? Skundler stays here with me. We’ve got appointments to keep,’ said
Hartang lividly.

‘Not to negotiate,’ said Schnabel. ‘We need him to tell us everything Kudzuvine knows
could harm our case. As Assessmentation Officer he’s in a position to make things a lot
easier for us in our negotiating posture.’

Hartang thought for a moment. In fact he was heartily sick of the sight of the cowering
Skundler. ‘Yeah, makes kinda sense to me,’ he said. ‘Just don’t let him out the building. I
don’t need no more defectors to this Porterhouse.’

They went out into the elevator and, as it shot up and down floors, Ross Skundler thanked
them. ‘I owe you,’ he said. ‘I really owe you.’

‘Just don’t want more bloodshed, is all,’ said Schnabel. ‘It’s not in our line of
business. And that old bastard is going to have to watch his back a lot closer with
Kudzuvine over the wall. Could be piggy-chops time coming up. I heard Dos Passos is in
town.’

‘Jesus,’ said Skundler. ‘I really do owe you.’

‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ said Bolsover. ‘Someone else in the company owes
twenty million plus, plus costs. With what do we negotiate? These guys Waxthorne,
Libbott and Chaine have got him by the balls.’

‘You reckon he’s going to snuff them some time?7 asked Feuchtwangler.

Bolsover smiled. ‘Going to want to but they’re hard to find. Made enquiries. Like they’ve
been dead over thirty years already.’

The elevator shot down from floor ten to zero. Skundler followed them out into the
street. His only hope lay with the lawyers.

In Cambridge General Sir Cathcart D’Eath’s Range Rover was parked in the driveway of
the Master’s Lodge There was a horsebox behind it and the doors were open towards the front
door.

‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Arthur. ‘Streets is empty. No one there. You can bring him out
now.’

‘Giddy up, Yank,’ said the General and Kudzuvine shot into the horsebox. The
General’s Japanese attendant shut the doors and locked them and presently the Range Rover
was on its way to Coft Castle. From a window on the ground floor Skullion watched it go with
some regret. He’d enjoyed gobbledygooking the American.

In the offices of Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine, Solicitors, the Praelector read
through Kudzuvine’s sworn statement with increasing amazement.

‘I must admit I do not understand many of the terms used,’ he said, ‘but my overall
impression is that he has fingered–I believe that is the colloquial expression–he has
fingered Edgar Hartang as a banker for a number of drug cartels. Am I right?’

Mr Retter nodded. ‘Of course the accusation is unsubstantiated,’ he said. And for
that reason we have taken the precaution of drawing up two affidavits. In the first
there is the full admission of Transworld Television Productions’ responsibility for
the damage to the Chapel and the general fabric of the College, together with the harm
done to the mental and physical well-being of over four hundred undergraduates
studying for their examinations at very possibly the most crucial moment in their
lives, namely just before the Tripos.’

The Praelector considered the word ‘crucial’ and found it inappropriate. ‘I rather
doubt that,’ he said. ‘Half of them would get Thirds or what were once called Specials.’

‘Aren’t you being overly pessimistic?’ asked Mr Wyve, but the Praelector wouldn’t have
it.

‘The College has never been noted for its academic excellence. I have always liked
to think on the other hand that we exert a civilizing influence.’

‘No doubt about that. However, since there is no way of knowing what the examination
results might have been had this shocking event not taken place, I think we are entitled
to assume they would have been excellent. Then again there is the mental suffering caused
to the research graduates and the academic staff. We can fairly assert that scientific
discoveries of considerable importance have been put in jeopardy.’

‘One can assert it,’ said the Praelector, ‘but I cannot conceive that anyone would
find the statement in the least credible.’

‘Again, no one can tell. What cannot be denied or quantified is the physical damage
done to one of the oldest architectural monuments of Cambridge.’

The Praelector had no argument with this. Porterhouse might lack academic
reputation but there could be no doubting the unique qualities of its ancient buildings.
And how do you rate our chances of getting Hartang to settle out of court?’ he asked. ‘It
would save a great deal of time and money.’

Mr Retter exchanged a significant look with his partner. It was Mr Wyve who replied.
‘That is more difficult to say. These things do tend to drag on for months and even years,
you know. We can only hope that Transworld will see the justice of our case and not prolong
the proceedings.’

‘I should have thought this second affidavit would speed things up,’ said the
Praelector.

‘Quite so,’ said Mr Retter and took the document from him. ‘Let us just say that it will
be better to keep it in reserve. I don’t think I need say any more. I’m sure you
understand.’

The Praelector did. He had revised his opinion of Mr Retter and Mr Wyve. The law might
be an ass, but these lawyers weren’t.

The Dean had risen earlier than usual. He usually stayed in bed rather longer after an
Induction Dinner but he had a special reason for being up and about. He had to prevent
the Senior Tutor from carrying out his threat to consult his lawyers over the
accusation that he had had a hand in murdering the late Master. The Senior Tutor was an
impetuous man and, in the light of Purefoy Osbert’s dangerous reasoning of the night
before, it was essential that neither the Senior Tutor nor the Dean himself should make
any real response to what was a manifest absurdity. He waited until after breakfast
before broaching the subject.

‘Senior Tutor, if I might have a word in your ear,’ he said as they passed through the
Screens.

‘If it’s about last night and that impertinent young scoundrel’s accusation, I don’t
think there is anything to discuss. I am seeing my lawyer at eleven. I phoned him at home
first thing this morning. I am not taking this sort of thing lying down.’

‘Absolutely not,’ the Dean agreed. ‘Perhaps if we were to stroll in the garden we can
discuss what is to be done.’ Presently, as they walked up and down the beech avenue and the
Senior Tutor had uttered his usual threat to horsewhip Dr Osbert, the Dean got to the nub
of the argument.

‘Dr Osbert was exceedingly drunk last night,’ he said. ‘The mixture of port and cognac
is a particularly lethal one.’ The Senior Tutor said he knew it was from recent
experience and it served the little liar right if he felt like death this morning.

‘I absolutely agree with you,’ said the Dean, ‘but the point I am trying to make is that
we should in a sense be very grateful to the wretched man for telling us exactly why he had
been appointed and what Lady Mary expects for her six million pounds. Forewarned is,
after all, forearmed.’

‘I’ll forearm the bastard. Nobody is going to call me a murderer and get away with it.
The damned swine is going to regret making that accusation.’

‘I’m sure he is doing so already,’ said the Dean and decided that now was the time to
take the wind out of the Senior Tutor’s sails. ‘Frankly, I think it was most unwise to
approve his Fellowship at such short notice and without properly examining his
credentials.’

‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ the Senior Tutor demanded angrily. ‘There were
six million pounds at stake and in any case he came with the very best
recommendation.’

‘From Lapline and Goodenough, no doubt,’ said the Dean, playing his trump.

The Senior Tutor stared at him. ‘How the devil…how did you know that?’

‘Because,’ said the Dean, ‘I recall that they acted for Lady Mary at the time of the
inquest. I am sure you realized that yourself.’ Internally the Dean smiled. He was
saving the Senior Tutor’s face for him. It was important to win the man over.

‘Now that you come to mention it,’ the Senior Tutor muttered submissively, ‘I did
wonder at the time…The anonymity of the sponsor…’

‘Not that it matters. We could hardly have turned our noses up at that sort of sum of
money’ The Dean had landed his fish. There was no need to use the gaff. ‘The crux of the
matter is this, that I stayed on last night after you’d left to hear what he was going to
say next and I have to tell you that, while his argument is wholly and completely wrong,
he has got enough circumstantial evidence to goad us into an action for libel which
would do–’

‘Goad? Why do you say goad us into an action for libel? We’d be bound to win enormous
damages.’

‘Possibly. But from whom? Dr Osbert? I think not. The man would be bankrupt and we should
receive nothing except the most unpleasant publicity.’

‘But Lady Mary has put him up to this. You said yourself she must be his sponsor. The
woman is enormously rich.

‘But even if we could prove she sponsored the Fellowship, the libel would be coming
from Dr Osbert. Apart from her outburst at the inquest she has said nothing in public and
written nothing,’ said the Dean. ‘We are up against a formidable enemy.’

The Senior Tutor’s eyes were on the ground as they walked. He had to acknowledge the
force of the Dean’s argument. All the same the situation was intolerable. ‘But what are
we to do?’ he asked finally. ‘We cannot simply allow a man to go round accusing us of
murder and do nothing about it.’

‘I quite agree,’ said the Dean. ‘I propose to do something to put a stop to it but I have
had too little time to work out the correct tactics. I only know that we must wait for him
to make the next move. In the meantime, I for one intend to pursue a course of insistent
friendliness towards him and I would advise you to do the same. It will embarrass him no
end.’

By the time they parted, the Senior Tutor had agreed to cancel his visit to his lawyer
and to hide his real feelings for Purefoy under a mask of warmth and amiability. ‘I’ll do
my best,’ he said. ‘But it is going to be exceedingly difficult. The bloody man…’

And Purefoy Osbert felt bloody awful. His condition was not as extreme as that of the
Senior Tutor after his dinner at Corpus–Osbert had youth on his side–but it was awful
enough, and made all the more so because he could not remember what he had said to the Dean
or even whether he had said anything at all or had merely thought it. Or something. He was
sure he had told them all why he had been sponsored by Lady Mary and what she hoped he would
achieve. He could remember that as well as the Dean’s disarming remark about Sir Godber’s
ineffectuality and Lady Mary being the Mistress of Porterhouse. And they had taken
the accusation so calmly, though the Senior Tutor had been furious and had walked out.
But when Purefoy Osbert finally dragged himself out of bed and washed and shaved and went
out to go to the Library he came face to face with the Senior Tutor on the stairs.

‘Good morning, Dr Osbert,’ the Senior Tutor said and smiled alarmingly at him. ‘I do
so hope you had a comfortable night. If there is anything at all I can do to help make life
pleasant for you here, don’t hesitate to call on me. I am nearly always in and only too
delighted to see you. Do you by any chance row, or play any sport?’

Purefoy managed to smile wanly back and admitted he didn’t row and wasn’t any sort of
sportsman before scuttling off downstairs more than ever convinced that the Senior
Tutor fancied him.

And he wasn’t too sure about the Dean either when he bumped into him by the Porter’s
Lodge. He greeted Purefoy almost effusively. ‘Such a very pleasant evening and most
enjoyable, though, alas, we have to pay for the fun the next morning with a hangover. Small
price to pay for such excellent company. Most delightful.’ And the Dean passed on, a
seemingly merry little man, leaving Purefoy Osbert even more mystified about
Porterhouse than before. Whatever else could be said about the Senior Fellows there was
no denying their aplomb.

Purefoy went out through the Main Gate into the street and walked slowly over the Garret
Hostel Lane bridge towards the University Library. On the river a few punts were out but
they were mainly occupied by tourists.

Behind him the Dean was doing something he had seldom done before. He was in Purefoy’s
rooms and reading his correspondence while the Senior Tutor kept watch from the
window.

‘Here’s something interesting,’ said the Dean at last. ‘Have a read of this and see what
you think. I’ll keep a look-out.’ And he handed a letter and a paper to the Senior Tutor
who read them both with growing interest.

‘I’ll be damned,’ the Senior Tutor said when he had finished reading. ‘Who would have
thought a mousy little chap like that would be so depraved? No wonder the bastard doesn’t
row or play any decent sport.’

‘Well, at least we know his little foibles,’ said the Dean, and hurried down to the
College office to copy the two documents before putting them back exactly where he had
found them.

‘Coon girls, eh?’ said General Sir Cathcart D’Eath later that day. Always comes in
useful to know what a fellow’s tastes are. Not that I blame him. Known some dashed nice black
fillies in my time. I remember a very hot little number in Sierra Leone. Name of Ruby.
Dear old Rubber Ruby. By God, she knew how to turn a man on.’

But the Dean wasn’t interested in the General’s sexual reminiscences. He had found
Mrs Ndhlovo’s advice about masturbation and masturbatory techniques both deeply
disturbing and psychologically very revealing. ‘Think you can do something?’ he
asked,

‘Don’t go in for hand sex myself,’ said the General, ‘but I daresay the avocado pear
method might come in handy if one was ever stuck for company though it would have to be a
ripe one. I suppose one could get it up to the right temperature in a microwave.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Cathcart, I’m not in the least bit interested. I want to know what
we can do about Dr Osbert,’ he said. There were times when he found the General’s
preoccupation with the more sordid aspects of life most uncongenial. Of course he
couldn’t be compared with the appalling Jeremy Pimpole who was in a different league but
all the same–And Dr Osbert and his lover Mrs Ndhlovo were obviously perverts of the very
worst sort. Any woman who could write so enthusiastically about things that had never
entered the Dean’s mind even in his moments of greatest sexual need, though these were few
and far between, had to belong to the dregs of society. And Dr Purefoy Osbert was madly
in love with the slut. That was clear from her letter which was obviously in reply to one
he had written her. As the Dean had said to the Senior Tutor, ‘I must say his parents chose
a most inappropriate name for him. Pure of faith, my foot.’ But now he had to concentrate
Sir Cathcart’s mind on matters other than the misuse of avocado pears.

‘The point I am trying to make is,’ he said, ‘can we make use of this information to
stop him continuing his investigation into the circumstances surrounding Godber
Evans’ death? I had the greatest difficulty dissuading the Senior Tutor this morning
from instructing his lawyer to issue a writ for libel.’

The General was shocked. ‘You mean he’s written something saying you and the Senior
Tutor murdered–’

‘Not written. Said. I told you. Last night in the Combination Room.’

‘In that case it’s slander, not libel. Got to have it written for libel. Surprised you
don’t know the difference.’

‘Perhaps it is because we don’t move in those circles where people write lies about one
another so freely,’ said the Dean. ‘Now, about Dr Osbert…’

‘You want him taken care of, is that it?’

The Dean hesitated. He certainly wanted something done to deter Purefoy Osbert but
he wasn’t sure about his ‘being taken care of. The General had rather too many friends in
the SAS for comfort. ‘In the sense that he is put in a situation which is open to ridicule
and which can be used to persuade him not to pursue his enquiries any further. Or at least
not to bother Skullion, yes. I do not want him to be physically hurt in any way.’

‘I think he’s more likely to hurt himself quite horribly if he takes some of the advice
that black woman has handed out,’ said the General. ‘Knew a chappie once got himself
trapped in a milk bottle. Couldn’t smash it for fear of doing himself a frightful
mischief. Had to call a doctor and he was baffled too. Rushed him into hospital and I
forget how they got the dashed thing off. Told me just in case, but I’ve forgotten. Steered
clear of milk bottles ever since.’

The Dean winced. ‘I don’t think we need anything quite so drastic, Cathcart,’ he said. ‘I
was thinking more of his evident need for perverse forms of sex.’ He left the General to
draw his own conclusions.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Cathcart. ‘Oh yes. See what you mean. Daresay something of that sort could
be arranged. I know a dolly bird in Rose Crescent who’ll be only too ready to lend us her
Torture Chamber.’

‘For God’s sake, Cathcart, didn’t you hear me? I said I didn’t want any violence.’

‘Not violence, old boy, just a bit of the old Tie-’Em-Up-and-Tickle-’Em stuff. Nothing
nasty about it at all. Rather jolly for a change.’

‘And is she black?’ asked the Dean, who couldn’t for the life of him imagine anything
jolly about being tied up and tickled.

‘Of course she’s not black. White as the driven snow,’ said the General. ‘But I’ll let
you into a secret if you really want to know–’

‘I don’t,’ said the Dean, ‘I definitely don’t.’

But Sir Cathcart couldn’t be stopped now. ‘Got all sorts of women at a certain training
camp not a million miles from Hereford and when they’re testing chaps to see if they can
stand up to interrogation they strip ‘em naked and blindfold ‘em and bring in–’

‘If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to hear,’ begged the Dean.

‘Nothing wrong. Don’t hurt the blighters. Bit of humiliation. Anyway it’s good for your
education to know these things Can’t live your whole life in some sort of romantic dream
world.’

‘I much prefer to, I assure you. I really do. Man cannot stand too much reality. This
man can’t at any rate.’

‘Just as you like. All I’m saying is they’ve got all sorts over there. Chinese, Indians,
Irish of course. For all I know they’ve got an Eskimo lass. Russians, naturally, and
Jerries. But the one I’ve got in mind for our young friend is a Zulu woman. Strapping great
gal. If you like them big and black, she’s right up your street.’

‘Not my street,’ said the Dean in some annoyance. ‘I’m not listening to any more of
this.’ He got up to go.

‘By the way,’ he said as the General saw him out to his car, ‘how is…what did you say
you’d changed his name to? The you know who.’

‘Oh him. Kentucky Fry. Not a bad chap at heart and I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s very
good with horses I’ve got him working in the Catfood Canning Factory. Keeps him out of
sight and he seems to feel happier with a knife in his hand and all that blood about.
Reckons we should start up a pig farm. Extraordinary. Keeps bleating every now and again
about Skullion. Seems the Master made a big impression on him. And how is the old
rascal?’