Grantchester Grind (25 page)

‘That’s what they said. I mean it’s something different, I guess.’

‘You can say that again,’ said the General and took a large swig of whisky. A man who
could elicit letters from Mrs Ndhlovo in which she recommended masturbatory
techniques involving avocado pears, and who was also heavily into penises, combined
so many sexual inclinations he might even find Myrtle Ransby’s elderly and over-ripe
eroticism attractive. Weirdo was definitely an understatement. ‘What exactly did they
say?’ he asked. And first of all they didn’t know who you were, did they?’

‘Oh no, General, I said what you told me to. Like I was calling from the Embassy on
account of a visa application by Dr Osbert and needed verification of his subject
specialty.’

‘And they said penises? They must have been having you on. The blighter is an expert on
crime and punishment. He’s written a book on hanging. I can’t see where penises come into
that. Unless…” He paused for a moment and gave the matter some thought. ‘Of course, they do
say you get an erection and have an orgasm at the moment of death. Not that that’s much
consolation in the circumstances.’

The girl consulted her notes. ‘I’ve got it here,’ she said. ‘I said what’s his subject
specialty and they said he’s the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow and he’s a
penologist.’

‘Oh that,’ said Sir Cathcart and relaxed. As a matter of fact it’s nothing to do with
penises. It has to do with prisons. P-E-N-A-L as in penalty not penile as
in…whatever. Natural mistake for a gal to make. Now let’s see, what have we here?’

He riffled through the copies of Purefoy’s correspondence the Dean had given him. Ah,
here we are. The American Association for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual
Punishment. Entirely appropriate. The President is coming to England in August and
would value a meeting with Dr Osbert whose book etc. Illegible signature belonging to
the Secretary. That should do very nicely. The letter-heading is easy to copy and there
shouldn’t be any trouble with the envelope and stamp. Well, my dear, now that you’ve got it
clear in that pretty little head of yours that penology has nothing immediately to do
with John Thomases, you are about to be enrolled as a member of the American Association
for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment over here to arrange for the
President’s meeting and eager to meet the distinguished Dr P. Osbert, author of The Long
Drop. I’ll get a copy from Heffer’s and you can mug it up. That shouldn’t be too difficult
for you, should it?’

‘Oh gee, General, it’s such a privilege to be of help to you,’ the blonde said. ‘Just
anything you say.’

‘Very good of you to say so,’ said the General and went upstairs, wondering not for the
first time what it was about Americans that made them such amazing experts in some of life’s
most complicated operations and absolute ignoramuses in simple matters like
geography. He put it down to specialization. That and not being European. Not that
Myrtle Ransby was any brighter. God alone knew what she’d have made of penology.

At Porterhouse there were frequent occasions when the grosser tastes of past Masters
seemed never to have gone away. This was particularly true on Thursday nights. Thursday
dinner was always a very good one. Friday was fish day, fish for lunch; and fish again for
dinner originally for religious reasons but now simply a tradition followed
implacably by the Chef. However, fish being an insubstantial dish when filleted or
with too many bones to make for large mouthfuls and easy eating, on Thursday nights the
Fellows could fill up on meat and something especially nutritious and with body to it.
And on the second Thursday after Easter _Canards pressés à la Porterhouse_ was always on
the menu. It was on Thursday that General Sir Cathcart D’Eath came to dine in College.
‘Got to put in an appearance for the good of the Society, that great community of Old
Porterthusians whose spirit spans the continents,’ he boomed in the Combination Room
where the Fellows had gathered for sherry. There was one of those sudden silences that
inflicts itself at random on such gatherings.

The Chaplain broke it. ‘What did Cathcart say?’ he yelled. He had forgotten to turn his
hearing aid on.

Dr Buscott took the opportunity he had been waiting for ever since the General had
mistaken him for a junior porter and had told him to get his hair cut or lose his job.
‘General Sir Cathcart D’Eath,’ he announced in tones that would have done credit to a
toastmaster at a rowdy banquet, ‘General Sir Cathcart D’Eath, KCMG, etcetera, has just
stated that the spirit of the Old Porterthusians spans the continents.’

‘What on earth can he mean?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dr Buscott, and moved away into the company of his fellow
scientists where he felt safer.

The Senior Tutor prevailed upon the General to have some more Amontillado. ‘It’s
the Special Old one, you know. We only bring it out on certain occasions,’ he said.

‘Where’s the Dean?’ asked the General, who felt like saying he hadn’t come to be
insulted by long-haired louts who only deemed his DSO worth an etcetera. In any case he had
a special reason for being there that night. He was hoping to meet Dr Osbert and assess
his suitability for the ordeal of Myrtle Ransby. ‘No use wasting a perfectly foul old
bag on some swine of a sexual athlete who doesn’t mind being filmed under half a ton of
lard trussed up in rubber. Got to gauge his psychology, don’t you know. Some chaps like that
sort of thing,’ he had said to his secretary, who already knew it. Now, clutching his
sherry, he peered round the exceptionally crowded Combination Room in search of the
Dean.

‘I don’t seem to see him here,’ the Senior Tutor commented. ‘Mind you, he’s been a bit
off colour lately. We all have. Those terrible American TV people and the damage to the
Chapel, you know.’

‘Well of course,’ the General boomed, ‘but the rumour I’ve heard is that the
compensation is going to be enormous. Bound to be. Kentucky Fry tells me they’re worth
billions.’

‘Kentucky Fry?’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how
people can stomach that stuff. I made the mistake one night in London somewhere. Most
indigestible.’

‘Really?’ said the General and looked at the Senior Tutor suspiciously He had the
feeling that someone was taking the piss out of him.

It was confirmed by the Chaplain who had got his hearing aid going again. ‘Colonel
Someone’s Chicken,’ he shouted. ‘I had some once. You had to lick your fingers
afterwards. I can’t remember why. Mind you, the waitresses were most attractive.
Lovely legs and things.’

‘What’s this new chap, the Godber Evans Fellow, like?’ the General asked, to change the
subject.

‘He died, you know,’ bellowed the Chaplain. ‘I’m surprised no one told you. Murdered,
they say.’

‘What?’ said the General. ‘Murdered? Already?’ He looked round for the Senior Tutor
but he had disappeared in the crowd.

‘I’m surprised nobody informed you,’ the Chaplain continued. ‘It happened quite a
long time ago. I found it most distressing. Of course none of us liked him but…’ Any further
information that might have cleared the matter up was prevented by the arrival of the
Praelector.

‘I’ve just been hearing about Dr Osbert,’ the General told him.

The Praelector looked at him curiously and shook his head. ‘A nasty business,’ he
said. ‘I blame the Senior Tutor myself.’

‘The Senior Tutor?’ said the General. ‘You’re not seriously telling me…” A waiter
with the decanter slid between them and filled his glass.

‘He should never have allowed the Fellow to be appointed,’ the Praelector
continued. ‘We weren’t properly informed. All we were told was that some City friends had
put up the money. Now, of course, it’s too late. The damage has been done.’

‘It is never too late to repent,’ bawled the Chaplain, who had been elbowed aside by the
waiter and had only just rejoined them. ‘On the other hand, when you’re murdered you don’t
have much opportunity.’

This time it was the Praelector who was shocked. ‘Don’t use that word,’ he told the
Chaplain sharply. ‘It isn’t generally known. We can’t have rumours spreading.’

‘I should damned well think not,’ said Sir Cathcart. ‘I for one had no idea.’

‘None of us did,’ the Praelector said. ‘I only learnt about it this afternoon.’

The Chaplain looked at him in some astonishment. ‘But you were there when he admitted
it. We all were. It was after his Induction Dinner. He got pickled.’ But before the
matter could be satisfactorily cleared up dinner was announced. They filed into the
Hall and the Chaplain shouted Grace.

‘Praelector,’ said Sir Cathcart in a conspiratorial whisper when they were finally
seated. ‘I know we can’t talk about Dr Osbert now, but perhaps we should have a word in
private afterwards.’

‘Just as you like,’ said the Praelector with an insouciance that took the General’s
breath away, ‘though frankly I should have thought it was the other…er…matter, you know, we
should consider.’

Sir Cathcart glanced cautiously around. ‘The other matter?’ he asked through gritted
teeth. ‘Other matter?’

‘Can’t talk about it now for goodness’ sake,’ said the Praelector hurriedly. ‘I just
hope to God the Chaplain keeps his trap shut. I told the Dean only this afternoon not to
mention it to anyone. If it got to the Senior Tutor’s ears the fat would really be in the
fire. The fellow’s in a bad enough state already without provoking him any further. He’s
as unstable as the very devil.’

‘Yes,’ Sir Cathcart agreed, with the private thought that a man who had so recently
murdered the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow was bound to be in a pretty bad way.
Unstable was putting it mildly. Mad as a hatter was more like it. He peered down the table
at the Senior Tutor and was relieved to see him talking quite naturally to the Fellow
beside him, exhibiting no signs of homicidal mania. He was so engrossed in the thoughts
this news had provoked, and in particular how he was going to get back the half of the two
thousand pounds he had given Myrtle Ransby, that he hardly noticed what he was eating
until Canards pressés à la Porterhouse was served.

Even by Porterhouse standards it was exceptional. In the belief that, with the
collapse of the Chapel and the gloom emanating from the Bursar’s office about the state of
College finances, this was in all likelihood the last time he would be allowed the chance
to do a Duck Dinner, the Chef had gone to town. To be exact, he had gone to three of East
Anglia’s largest duck farms and had returned with over one hundred and thirty plucked
Aylesburys and the determination to so concentrate them that this last Duck Dinner
would go down in the gastronomic annals of Porterhouse. For days the ancient presses had
been groaning under the strain of achieving the greatest possible mass of duck in the
least possible volume or, to put it another way, that three overweight ducks should be
compressed into an oblong no larger than a matchbox. And while he hadn’t entirely
succeeded in this remarkable compression, what was finally placed in front of General
Sir Cathcart D’Eath had so little resemblance to a duck or anything vaguely capable of
flying or floating that he had munched his way with some difficulty through the first
forkful before realizing what he had just swallowed. He turned a bulging eye to the menu
and then looked down at his plate. ‘Dear God, I thought this was some sort of pâté,’ he
muttered, and tried to dislodge a compacted feather from his dentures. “This isn’t
pressed duck, it’s triple-distilled cholesterol. God alone knows what it does to the
arteries.’

‘An interesting point,’ said the Praelector, finishing his first helping and
signalling for a second. ‘The calorific value is quite astonishingly high. In my
younger days I did some slight calculations into the matter. I forget what the exact
figures were but I do remember concluding that a starving man of medium build adrift on
an iceflow could survive perfectly well on one portion every third day.’

‘I daresay, but since I’m not on a damned iceflow,’ the General began and was about to
push his plate away when the waiter intervened.

‘Anything wrong, Sir Cathcart? Chefs special, sir.’

The General picked up his knife and fork again. ‘Momentary hiccup,’ he said. ‘Give the
Chef my compliments and tell him this duck is delicious.’

‘These,’ said the waiter enigmatically, and went away.

‘As I was about to say,’ continued the Praelector happily, ‘I have always found duck
a very delicate dish. Goose tends to be a bit on the greasy side but with far more flavour to
the meat whereas duck, unless it’s wild mallard of course, has always struck me as a bit
bland. On the other hand with sage and onion…’

Sir Cathcart picked at his duck and tried to shut out the words. Never a great
trencherman–his interest in the less savoury qualities of the opposite sex inclined him
to pay attention to his figure he was feeling decidedly liverish. He wasn’t helped by
Professor Pawley, who pointed out that he had known people drop dead immediately
after a Duck Dinner. ‘Dr Lathaniel was one, I remember, and then there was Canon Bowel. A
question, I suppose, of the individual’s metabolism.’

‘Canon Bowel?’ said the Praelector. Another rotten Master. I must say we’ve had more
than our fair share of bad Masters. Not that he died at a Duck Dinner. Had an ulcer and
wouldn’t attend.’

‘He tried to introduce compulsory Compline,’ shouted the Chaplain. ‘We had to do
something about him, you know. Now what was the menu that night? I know we had devilled crabs
with tabasco sauce to start with but…’

‘It was the jugged hare and the zabaglione…’

‘Oh yes, the zabaglioney’ sighed the Chaplain ecstatically. ‘It was a special recipe I
remember. A dozen yolks of goose eggs and a pound of sugar and instead of sherry we had
Cointreau. Oh, it was wonderful.’

‘And we had a special cheese with peppers on it,’ the Praelector said.

Down the table the Senior Tutor had pricked up his ears. ‘You’re talking about Canon
Bowel, I can tell,’ he called out. ‘It was the cigars that finished the man off. They were
enormous ones. We had to budget for them. Ah, those were the days. We were a proper college
then. Used to call us Slaughterhouse.’

By the end of dinner Sir Cathcart’s sympathies had gone out to Canon Bowel, and he
could fully understand the Dean’s absence. To have to sit down to a Duck Dinner knowing
full well that the Senior Tutor was a murderer, and so evidently revelled in the
College being called Slaughterhouse, was more than enough to put any man off colour. It was
with an ashen, though mottled, face that he followed the Praelector into the
Combination Room. ‘I won’t have any port or coffee, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Perhaps
a breath of fresh air might help.’ They went out into the Fellows’ Garden and the
Praelector lit a cigar.

‘Now then, about this business of the murder,’ said Sir Cathcart. ‘What on earth are you
going to do?’

‘Get rid of him of course,’ said the Praelector. ‘Can’t have him in the College any
longer.’

‘You mean to say he’s still here?’

‘Of course he is. Can’t simply sneak the damned man out at dead of night,’ said the
Praelector and intensified the General’s mental and physical discomfort by adding,
‘actually I intend to talk to him about it some time tonight. It won’t be easy but I’ll
have to try. Of course it all depends on the weather.’

‘Really? Does it?’ said Sir Cathcart. ‘How very remarkable. Of course one’s heard
about, well…this sort of thing before but I never realized communication could be
affected by the weather.’

‘Only possible when it’s fine, according to the Dean,’ said the Praelector. ‘He’s the
expert. I can’t be bothered myself. It’s so difficult to make out what the damned man’s
saying. Not surprising in his condition but I suppose I’m too squeamish or something.
Beastly state to be in. I always feel so sorry for the poor devil. A dreadful way to
go.’

Sir Cathcart said nothing. He was feeling dreadful himself. He had always thought of
the Dean and the Praelector as perfectly rational men, not at all inclined to
superstition, and to discover now that they were both convinced spiritualists was
almost as disturbing as the knowledge that the Senior Tutor had murdered the man the
Praelector was hoping to talk to that night if the weather was fine. And the fact that the
corpse or cadaver or whatever murdered bodies were called was still in the College, and
in a beastly condition to boot, did nothing to put his mind at rest. It was no longer a
question that things in Porterhouse might be in need of change. They bloody well had to be
changed before the police and the media were swarming all over the place and all the
Senior Fellows had been arrested. That sort of thing was going to do the College no good
at all. The old name of Slaughterhouse would become a permanent one. For the first time in
his life Sir Cathcart regretted his own name. It was bound to be up on the billboards.