Grantchester Grind

23

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?'

'Odd you should ask that,' said the Dean. 'Hasn't been his usual self these last few days. I think he rather misses not having Kentucky Fry about the place.'