Grantchester Grind (6 page)

‘You think a nice touch?’ Hartang asked. ‘You think so?’

‘I meant of course it is a delightful idea. I am sure very few men in your position
would have been so considerate.’

‘None of them would,’ Hartang insisted. ‘None.’

‘None,’ said the Bursar, sensing agreement was obligatory.

For a time he was left to eat in silence while the great man made some calls to Hong Kong,
Buenos Aires and New York and sucked what looked like an antacid tablet. It was only when the
Bursar had finished an unpleasantly sticky jam tart, which played havoc with his
dentures, and was drinking his coffee that Hartang announced his intentions. ‘I got to
see you again next week to discuss the funding requirements. Karl will coordinate with
you and the accountants. I do not involve myself in details. Only in end outcomes. Like
it has been a great pleasure meeting with you. We talk about funding requirements next
week.’

And before the Bursar could say anything by way of thanks, he had disappeared through a
small door in the wall disguised as a mirror. Karl Kudzuvine was waiting with the
elevator. ‘Same time same place and don’t forget your ID,’ he said. ‘And the College
account print-outs.’

‘Print-outs?’

‘Sure. We got to see what we’re getting. Okay?’

‘Well, actually we…’ the Bursar began, but he was already being helped into a taxi
which he directed to Liverpool Street Station. The whole experience had been most
peculiar and a little disturbing. All the same the Bursar could congratulate himself.
He might not–he certainly didn’t–know what on earth was going on, but at least he seemed to
have got some extremely rich and eccentric man, whose national, racial or linguistic
origins he hadn’t begun to fathom, interested in Porterhouse, and the repeated use of
‘funding requirements’ augured well.

During the following week he made a number of enquiries about Transworld Television
Productions and Mr Edgar Hartang and, while some of the answers were reassuring, others
were less so. TTP had been a small television and publishing company which had started
off making educational and religious cartoon movies mainly for the US market, but had
suddenly broadened its activities with the advent of satellite TV and what must have
been an enormous injection of capital though the source of the funding was unknown. The
company was a private one and owned by some sort of trust, which operated through
Lichtenstein and possibly the Cayman Islands and Liberia. In short no one–certainly no
one the Bursar could ask–no one knew who Edgar Hartang was, where he came from, or even where
his home was. In London it was thought he had an apartment in the Transworld Centre, but
since he invariably travelled incognito and by private jet what he did outside Britain
was a mystery. What Transworld Television Productions did was also a bit of a mystery.
They still made religious movies, though for so many different religions and
denominations that no one had any idea what they themselves really stood for. To make
things even more obscure they marketed whatever they did produce through so many
subsidiaries in so many countries that it was impossible to know.

‘But what about the whales and the baby octopuses?’ the Bursar asked one man he knew
who had connections with Nature Programmes at the BBC.

‘Whales and what?’

‘Baby octopuses,’ said the Bursar, who had never got over Karl Kudzuvine’s
explanation of the extraordinary security measures at Transworld Centre. ‘They made
a series that had some pretty dramatic effect on the Spanish fishing industry. They
received death threats and things.’

‘Christ. I never heard about it, but if you say so. Try World Wildlife They’d know. I
don’t.’

But the Bursar hadn’t bothered. From his point of view the only thing to matter was that
Transworld Television Productions obviously had funds to spare. A company that could
make religious movies for the Vatican, for several extreme Protestant Churches in the
Bible Belt in America, for Hindus, for Buddhists and various sects all over the world as
well as documentaries on rainforests, whales and baby octopuses, had to be incredibly
rich. The Bursar began to think he had found a private gold-mine. All the same he remained
puzzled and his bewilderment increased when he went down to London the following
Wednesday.

This time he did not meet Mr Hartang. ‘He’s busy with Rio right now and then Bangkok want
him so he’s non-available,’ Kudzuvine told him when he’d been through the metal-detector
and the Porterhouse accounts ledgers had been screened in the X-ray machine. ‘You got me
and Skundler. Skundler does the assessmentation.’

Assessmentation?’ said the Bursar.

‘Like money. Okay?’

They went up in the elevator to Floor 9 and then down to 6. ‘Got to be careful. Drill,’
said Kudzuvine by way of explanation.

‘Are you still having trouble about the baby octopuses?’ asked the Bursar. For a
moment Kudzuvine looked a little uncertain.

‘Baby octopuses? Oh, sure, those baby octopuses. Are we ever. Those fucking wop
fishermen in Italy. They’ve given us more trouble than you can imagine. Man, death
threats.’

‘Italians? Italian fishermen too?’ asked the Bursar.

‘Who else?’ said Kudzuvine, but the Bursar hadn’t time to answer. They had reached Floor
6. Kudzuvine carried the ledgers into Skundler’s office and introduced the Bursar as
Professor Bursar.

‘Ross Skundler,’ said the man, who looked exactly like Edgar Hartang the week before,
but without the hairpiece. The desk was glass-topped too but far smaller than Hartang’s,
and while the chairs were the same green colour the leather was clearly artificial. There
was no sofa. But if the Bursar was taking in the details of Ross Skundler’s office with
its computers and telephones, the Assessmentation Officer was finding it difficult
to take in the Porterhouse ledgers. They were extremely large and quarterbound in dark red
leather. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered and looked from them to Kudzuvine. ‘What’s with those? Where’d
you find them? Ararat?’

‘Arafat?’ said Kudzuvine. ‘What’s the PLO got to do with it? Says on them Porterhouse. You
only read figures or something?’

‘Ark,’ said Skundler, who evidently didn’t like Kudzuvine’s manner any more than he
liked the look of the ledgers. ‘The Ark oh Mount fucking Ararat. Animals two by two, okay?
You can’t count or something? Makes like four.’

The Bursar was about to intervene with some light remark about baby octopuses and
Noah, but remembered in time that octopuses–or was it octopi?–could swim. He was feeling
decidedly uneasy in the company of these two men who clearly hated one another.

‘I can count,’ said Kudzuvine, ‘but Professor Bursar don’t have no print-out. Isn’t
that right, Prof?’

The Bursar nodded. ‘I’m afraid we aren’t into computers,’ he said, trying to match
their way of talking.

‘You can say that again,’ said Skundler, still looking very warily at the huge ledgers.
‘These have got to be fiscal archaeology. Like dealing with the Fuggers.’

But even the Bursar was beginning to get annoyed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said
coldly.

Mr Skundler looked up at him very suspiciously. ‘What for?’ he asked.

This time it was Kudzuvine’s turn to intervene and pacify things. ‘Just because the
Prof isn’t computer-literate don’t mean you got to call him that. Old guy can’t help
it.’

‘Call him what, for fucksake?’

‘You know. You’ve just used it again.’

‘Used it again? You mean…’ The light dawned. ‘I didn’t call him a fucker. What’s he done I
got to call him that? _Fugger,_ dummy, F-U-G-G-E-R-S. Kraut bankers way back in the
Dark Ages. Like…like the Crusades or something. Used quills. Jesus, what a way to run a
business. Got to catch a fucking goose every time you make an entry. You use a–’ But
something about the look on the Bursar’s face stopped the question. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he
said instead and opened the first ledger. ‘Just hope you’re into double entry.’

The Bursar hit back. As a matter of fact we are,’ he said. And what’s more we don’t use
quills.’

Mr Skundler pushed his blue glasses up onto his forehead and ran his eyes down the pages
for several minutes, while the Bursar sat and glared at him, and Kudzuvine peered over his
shoulder at the figures. It was clear they were having difficulty believing what they
were seeing. Finally Skundler looked up.

‘I got to tell you something, Professor Bursar,’ he said in a tone that was almost
kindly, ‘I got to tell you. With figures like these you’re wasting your time You don’t need
double entry. This is all one way. Like financially temperaturewise it’s absolute
zero.’ He shook his head. ‘I never seen like it since Maxwell took a swim in the sea some
place.’

‘Don’t you mean BCCI?’ asked Kudzuvine. ‘They buried Maxwell Mount Olive.’

‘Popeye,’ said Skundler. ‘Of Olives. O fucking F, for Chrissake.’

In his chair the Bursar looked on miserably. All his hopes had been dashed. ‘I’m very
sorry,’ he said, ‘but there you are. We are a very poor college and I’m obviously wasting
your time…’

Skundler raised a hand. ‘Wasting our time? Professor Baby, you are not wasting our time
one microsecond. You need us. That’s what we are here for. You’re not wasting our time. I
haven’t seen anything better than this since the Berlin Wall came down. Suddenly it’s
freedom all the way for guys like Soros.’

‘Really?’ said the Bursar. ‘How very interesting. You do mean Soros the financier who
sold sterling…? Oh well, never mind. You actually think Mr Hartang will provide some
funding for Porterhouse?’ He said it uncertainly and Kudzuvine laid a kindly though
heavy hand on his shoulder.

‘Think, Professor Bursar? We don’t think–and I heard that, Skundler–we know. The thing is
wrapped up right now.’

‘Shrinkwise,’ said Skundler, ’solid plastic You’ve got it made, no question.’

‘Well, there is just one question,’ said the Bursar, feeling suddenly extremely
happy and confident. ‘I mean…I mean why should Mr Hartang be so very generous?’

‘Generous?’ said Skundler. ‘Of course he’s generous. He’s got rich being generous.
He’s a philanthropist.’

‘He’s that too,’ Kudzuvine agreed, ‘though since he had that heart coronary thing he’s had
to go easy on the girls. Takes it out of him. I said to him one time, “Mr Hartang you want to
go easy. Take it the Clinton way like they’re on their fucking knees praying to the
thing.”‘

‘Well, I must say…’ the Bursar began but Skundler stopped him.

‘Don’t. It’s better not to with K.K. around. Like he gets everything wrong. It’s because
he’s a moron.’

‘Mormon,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘It’s got an M in it.’

‘See what! mean?’ Skundler said to the Bursar. ‘Like ignorance is a religion with
him.’

‘That ain’t ignorant. We did a series one time on Mormons outside Salt Lake City. Real
nice.’

By the time the Bursar went back to Cambridge the ledgers had been copied with some
difficulty and he was feeling both elated and peculiar. In so far as he had been able to
understand what Kudzuvine and Ross Skundler had been saying, Transworld Television
Productions and Edgar Hartang were going to pour money into Porterhouse not only
because Hartang was into philanthropy but, as Kudzuvine had put it, ‘Cambridge is where
it’s at. You got it all.’

‘It’s nice of you to say so but–’

‘Listen. You live there. Cambridge. Place has got it over Disneyworld every which way.
History, DNA, professors; a whole bunch of churches and stuff. Geniuses all over town
like Hawking. You read  The History of Time. Great book. Teaches you. I been up to
take a look-see and it was something else with all those cunts on the river and lawns like
they give them facials every day.

Cambridge. Man, Cambridge makes virtual reality look like it’s not happening.’

The Bursar felt rather the same way about Transworld Television. He still couldn’t see
how a man like Hartang could get rich by giving money away. It didn’t make sense.

Purefoy Osbert’s trip to London was pretty peculiar too. Purefoy wasn’t sure why or
rather how he had been chosen to become the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow at
Porterhouse and Goodenough wasn’t sure he wanted to meet him face to face and had to be
forced to do so by Vera who said he’d be pleasantly surprised; and Lady Mary made it a
condition of her interviewing Dr Osbert that either Lapline or Goodenough–preferably
both–should inspect him first to make sure that he was hygienic, wasn’t an alcoholic,
wasn’t a raving racist who advocated mass transportation of black people like Dr
Lamprey Yeaster from Bristol, and, most importantly, wasn’t from Grimsby.

‘Grimsby? What’s she got against Grimsby?’ asked Mr Lapline when he read the letter.
‘Perfectly respectable town. Cold in winter of course.’

‘If you remember the candidate from Grimsby was into’ Goodenough began.

Mr Lapline had remembered. ‘Oh God,’ he said violently. ‘You don’t mean to tell me Lady
Mary actually interviewed him?’

‘I think he tried to get into her too,’ Goodenough went on. ‘As she told it, she was
lying on this chaise longue with a bad leg–’

‘I warn you, Goodenough, if you lose Lady Mary Evans’ account, I’ll…I’ll…’ Another
gall-bladder spasm silenced him.

‘That’s why we’ve got to inspect Dr Purefoy Osbert,’ said Goodenough. ‘I thought if we
took him out to lunch at the Savoy Grill…Now what’s the matter?’

Mr Lapline explained what the matter was and why he bloody well wasn’t going anywhere
near the Savoy Grill or any other restaurant in London and if Goodenough seriously
thought…

‘All I meant was we’d be able to tell whether he’s house-trained and knows how to use a
knife and fork properly and that sort of thing. We can’t possibly have some ghastly
uncouth fellow going up to Porterhouse. Or molesting Lady Mary.’

Mr Lapline looked up at him curiously. ‘Goodenough,’ he said finally, ‘there are times
when I wonder if you are entirely sane. If you can think back that far, you may remember
that when I first read that list, I said they were all impossible candidates and that
swine from Grimsby ought to be behind bars. And now you have the gall to tell me we can’t
have some uncouth fellow going to Porterhouse. The whole damned lot aren’t even faintly
couth.’

‘But no one else wanted to take the post and we had to find her some candidates,’ said
Goodenough. ‘Anyway I’ll wine and dine this Purefoy Osbert chap and tell you what it was
like. I think I’ll have Omelette Arnold Bennett.’ And on this unfortunate note he left the
office.

In the event he was pleasantly surprised by Purefoy who was relatively well dressed
for an academic and was actually wearing a tie for the occasion and wasn’t unduly
impressed by being taken to the Savoy Grill. Having passed that test with flying
colours–Purefoy had accepted a glass of dry sherry rather than the extra dry martini
Goodenough had offered him and had then quietly had two glasses of wine with the meal
Goodenough insisted on taking him to an extremely low strip joint. Purefoy expressed
the opinion that he had never been into anywhere like it before and didn’t think he
wanted to ever again. And anyway the girls were absolutely nothing to write home about
though, come to think of it, some of them were so dreadful trying to describe them in a
letter might help to exorcize the memory of them. As a result of that remark–Goodenough
had found one or two of the strippers rather attractive–their next stop, after Purefoy had
practically been forced to have two double Scotches, was at a gay bar filled with
transvestites and men in leather where Purefoy was touched up by someone who might have been
a lesbian but probably wasn’t. By that time Goodenough was almost convinced, and there was
no ‘almost’ about Purefoy’s opinion of Goodenough.

Goodenough’s next question, put as he leant negligently against the bar, clinched it.
Are you by any chance interested in anal-erotic fantasies?’ he asked.

Purefoy backed hurriedly away from him and bumped into a man wearing a leather thong
who seemed to enjoy the encounter. ‘Sorry,’ Purefoy muttered, still keeping a very wary
eye on Goodenough.

‘Don’t be,’ said the man in the thong. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

Which was, for once, true. Purefoy Osbert wasn’t enjoying himself at all. In fact the
whole evening had been excruciating. He had been taken to an extremely expensive
restaurant by a lawyer in rather too light a suit and grey suede shoes who had tried to get
him drunk on a huge export-strength gin martini which he had had the good sense to refuse,
had then eyed him most oddly throughout the meal, and had seemed particularly
interested in his hands and his mouth. After that, presumably to soften him up, the
bloody man had made him sit in a filthy strip joint and look at repulsive women taking off
their clothes and squirming. Then there had been the insistence on two double whiskies and
a bar filled with homosexuals where he wanted to know if Purefoy was interested in
anal-erotic fantasies. No wonder the bastard had been looking at him so peculiarly all
evening. Purefoy wasn’t waiting around to find out what was going to happen next. Not that
he needed to be told. And he had a pretty good idea why he had been offered the Fellowship
at Porterhouse when he hadn’t even applied for it.

Purefoy Osbert headed for the door and had several more distasteful encounters on
the way. Behind him Goodenough followed but Purefoy had had enough. ‘Now you just hold it,’
he said menacingly, backing into the road. ‘You just stay away from me.’

‘But my dear chap,’ Goodenough said by way of apology, ‘I only wanted’

‘Well, you’re not getting it and that’s for sure. I don’t know how you got the notion…oh
yes I do. It’s that bloody cousin of mine–Vera’s idea of a practical joke. My God, I’ll make
her pay for it. Dragging me all the way to London.’

‘No one is dragging you, I can assure you of that,’ said Goodenough. ‘It’s obvious
you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Purefoy with a slight slur. Those two double Scotches were having an
effect ‘The stick I’ve got hold of…’ He looked around for a weapon and was nearly run over by
a taxi. As he lurched forward Goodenough took his arm.

Purefoy shook him off. ‘Let’s get this absolutely straight,’ he said and clenched his
fist. ‘You may be a fucking poof…gay but I’m not and if you touch me again I’ll’

He got no further. A very large person in a loud check suit appeared in front of him.
‘Who are you calling a poof?’ it asked, and promptly delivered a knock-out blow to
Purefoy Osbert’s chin. Goodenough caught him and hailed a taxi.

‘Earls Court,’ he told the driver and gave the address of Vera’s flat. By the time they
arrived there Purefoy’s nose had stopped bleeding and he wasn’t at all sure what had
happened. They went up in the lift.

‘I don’t think I’d better be around when he wakes in the morning,’ Goodenough told Vera
when they’d got Purefoy to bed. ‘It’s been a perfectly ghastly evening.’

‘I can see that,’ said Vera. ‘What on earth happened?’

‘He thought I was out to seduce him. It’s all the Grimsby bastard’s fault.’

‘And you went and hit him because…?’

‘I didn’t hit him. That wasn’t me,’ said Goodenough. ‘Some weight-lifting lesbian
slugged him for calling me a poofter. And I’ll tell you another thing. He thinks you put him
my way so that I could make a pass at the brute. He swore he was going to kill you. You don’t
know what it was like. As though I wanted to bed him.’

And I’ll tell you something,’ said Vera. ‘You’re staying the night and you’re going to
bed me. It’s the only way out.’

They went through to the bedroom and began to undress.

‘I have to hand it to you,’ Goodenough said. ‘You certainly pick the perfect
candidates. Lady Mary is going to love your Purefoy, and he’s going to cause havoc in
Porterhouse.’

Two days later, and only after a great deal of persuasion and cajoling, Purefoy
Osbert went to be interviewed by Lady Mary. He still wasn’t entirely happy about
Goodenough’s sexual inclinations. ‘If you’d seen that gay bar,’ he told Vera. ‘I mean I
don’t care what people do but it was like a vision of Hell by Hieronymus Bosch. And why did
he have to look at me like that?’

‘He just had to be sure,’ Vera said.

‘Well, I hope to hell he’s sure now. And don’t ever leave me alone with him. He may be as
straight as you say he is but if you’d seen the way he looked at my mouth…’

‘I can assure you he’s all right. Now let me tell you about Lady Mary Evans…’

Purefoy Osbert spent an hour with Lady Mary, who still felt safer behind her desk and
with the housekeeper’s husband close by. ‘Dr Osbert,’ she said, ‘I see from your
application that you have been at Kloone University for eleven years. Isn’t that a long
time to remain in the same university? Haven’t you ever wanted to advance your
career?’

‘My career consists of researching what actually happened,’ said Purefoy, looking
without any warmth into her strangely blue eyes. ‘I am not interested in any other
approach and I can research the facts I need as well at Kloone as anywhere else.
Certainties are to be found in primary source materials and to some extent from
secondary opinion, though only where such opinion is confirmed from a separate and
wholly unconnected source.’

Lady Mary nodded, perhaps approvingly. And I see that your area of research is in the
methods of penal restraint or, in simpler terms, prisons.’

‘With particular reference to capital punishment,’ said Purefoy.

‘Of which you approve?’

Purefoy Osbert almost stood up. ‘Of which I entirely disapprove,’ he said. ‘In fact
the word “disapprove” is not adequate to express my convictions. Capital punishment in
any form is an act of the utmost barbarity and–’

He would have gone on but Lady Mary stopped him. ‘I am delighted to hear that,’ she said.
‘Dr Osbert, what you have just said confirms the opinion expressed to me by Mr Lapline, my
solicitor, who has been handling the choice of applicants for the Fellowship I am
sponsoring at Porterhouse College.’

Purefoy Osbert stirred in his chair. He wanted the salary the Fellowship would bring
with it but he felt it only honest to tell this strange person what he truly thought. ‘I
think you ought to know,’ he said, ‘that I have grave reservations about Porterhouse
College. It has, I am sorry to say, an exceedingly unpleasant reputation and I am by
no means certain I want to go there.’

In front of him Lady Mary was smiling, if you could call what she was doing smiling. Her
yellow teeth gleamed. There could be no mistaking her feelings. ‘My dear Dr Osbert, I
trust you won’t mind my calling you that, but your opinion of Porterhouse so entirely
concurs with my own feelings about the College that I am prepared to say now that the Sir
Godber Evans Memorial Fellowship is yours if you will do me, and of course my late
husband, the honour of accepting it.’

She sat back in her chair and allowed Purefoy to savour the approval she had given him.
Purefoy Osbert thought about it.

‘I am afraid I need to know rather more before giving my answer,’ he said firmly. ‘I am
grateful to you for the offer but my area of concern is not in vague hypotheses and, to be
frank, I need to know why I am being offered this post and what the actual nature of your
intention is. I have been told it is to prepare material for a biography of your late
husband, but in view of the salary or stipend…’ There was no doubt now about Lady Mary’s
beam. It was radiant. In fact had she been anyone else, and Purefoy Osbert more
perceptive and sensible to the feelings of any woman other than Mrs Ndhlovo, he would
have said she had fallen in love with him. Instead he listened while she explained the
purpose of the Fellowship.

‘I have created it and am offering it to you because my husband’s work at Porterhouse
did not receive the recognition it deserved. We…he had intended to make the place one of
academic excellence and met a quite astonishing degree of opposition from the
Fellows. I want him to have the posthumous recognition and esteem he deserves. And I want
to see his policies put into effect.’

‘But I don’t really see that I can make any positive contribution,’ said Purefoy.

‘I am sure that your presence will be a first step,’ said Lady Mary, leaning forward
across the desk very earnestly. She paused and stared with those pale blue eyes into his.
‘And, of course, for the purpose of a biography you need to find out everything about his
life and, I may say, his death. You may find it fanciful of me but I am not happy with the
official explanation and I want to know exactly what happened. The truth, Dr Osbert,
that is all. I acknowledge that I am supposed to be a weak and fallible woman but this is
a world dominated by men and that is their opinion. For once I am prepared to accept that
judgement. I am asking you to establish the facts of the matter. If you uncover certain
evidence that proves my darling Godber’s premature death was due to natural causes I
shall accept your verdict. All my life I have had to accept unpalatable truths and I have
done so on the basis of facts, some of them quite terrible’ Purefoy Osbert already knew
that. The evidence for her past idealism was there on the walls in the signed portraits of
some of the twentieth century’s most murderous leaders. Even Purefoy Osbert, who had
never taken a very great interest in politics or politicians, was conscious of their
presence. Lady Mary’s ideals were evidently those he was used to at Kloone.

‘I am sure you are quite the right person for the position,’ she went on. ‘Mr Goodenough
will provide you with any additional information you need. There are a number of
documents you will find most informative.’ And on this practical note she ended the
interview. There was no point in setting out her real aims now. It was much better to let
him get to work quickly. Which was what she told Mr Goodenough on the phone when Purefoy had
left Kensington Square. He had agreed to go to Porterhouse on the terms stated in the
letter and with the guarantee that his researches or investigations into the facts of
Sir Godber’s life and death were to be free of any restrictions. Lady Mary had said that
she would do nothing to prevent him finding the facts but implied that other people
might.