Grantchester Grind

24

And Skullion did. He had enjoyed sitting-beside Kudzuvine's bed and exercising his authority over him. It was a long time since Skullion had been able to demonstrate the power of his personality to any worthy adversary, and to be called The Thing and Quasimodo and Hunchback by a damned Yank had provided him with the sort of stimulus he needed. With Kudzuvine to reduce to a state of gibbering terror he had escaped the boredom he had suffered ever since his Porterhouse Blue but now the boredom had returned, made worse by the knowledge of what he was missing. To make up for it he insisted on Arthur bringing up bottles of Hardy's Special Ale from the Buttery where very few people knew it had been laid down twenty years before to mature. 'Piquant yet without a twang,' read the label, 'full in body' Which was more than could be said for Skullion, but it was still his favourite tipple and as the Master he was free to drink as much of it as he liked and his obnoxious bag would hold. Or far more if he was out in the garden with the bag removed from the end of the pipe and hidden from view under a rug over his knees where the bottles of ale were hidden too. As Arthur, who shared his taste in beers, pointed out, 'You can always have a leak under there and no one will notice. Not out on the lawn they won't. Now, if you was a bitch it would be different, Mr Skullion, but you ain't that. You're an old dog, you are.' Skullion had smiled at the compliment. 'Bitch pee leaves marks on lawns,' Arthur went on, 'but dog's piss don't. Know that for a fact because my old dad was kennel man out Hardingley and old Mrs Scarbell used to carry on something frightful if a bitch peed on the lawn. "What do you think you're doing, Arthur?" she would say to my dad who I was named after. "You know nothing will grow when a lady dog has passed water." And my old dad would say…'

It was on conversations such as this that Skullion depended for any interest in his life. And on his daily consumption of Hardy's Special Ale and the memories the ale seemed to encourage. Every day the Chef would come over for a chat or, if there was anything very special for High Table dinner, he would bring some over for the Master's approval. 'Knowed you liked this, Mr Skullion, and I've cut it up small so it's easier to chew,' he would say and Skullion would answer, 'Very nice, Cheffy, very tasty. Always were the best Chef I can remember in this or any college and old Whatsisname in Trinity used to take some beating.' Almost every day the Chef brought over some quails' eggs even when they weren't on the Fellows' menu because Skullion was partial to them like and they went down easy and hardly needed any chewing to speak of.

Most of these little meetings of like minds took place out of sight of the rest of the College and were held round the corner on the far side of the Master's Maze but from his study Purefoy Osbert could only see the foot of the wheelchair and was intrigued by the routine of the Chef in his white hat and coat crossing the lawn bearing dishes on a great silver tray with napkins, immaculately ironed, laid out over the serving dishes, just as he was intrigued by the sight of the Master leaning with infinite patience late into the night against the great beech tree watching the back gate tipped with formidable revolving spikes over which no one ever climbed. It was as though he were witnessing some ancient Porterhouse ritual that had been handed down through the centuries. And always Purefoy wondered what was being said behind the yew hedge of the maze and what he might learn if he listened to it. In the end his curiosity got the better of him and one lunchtime, when Skullion was safely in the Master's Lodge, Purefoy Obsert sauntered casually through the rose garden before doubling back out of sight of the Lodge and entering the maze. It was not a large maze but it was an unusually difficult one, and the yew was old and dense. It took Purefoy twenty minutes to reach the corner beyond which Skullion sat in the afternoon and the Chef came with his offering. Purefoy Osbert sat down and waited.

He had to wait for an hour before the Master wheeled himself out and stationed himself only a yard or two away with his bottles of ale and his memories of Porterhouse past. But this afternoon he was in a bad temper. He had had a run-in with the Matron who had insisted on his having a bath. 'It's no use your grumbling at me, Master,' she had said, 'we can't have you smelling. You're going to have a bath and a change of clothes. That old suit of yours has got to go to the dry cleaners and if I had my way it would go to the incinerator. Now then, off with your jacket and…' Being bathed by the Matron was Skullion's worst moment in the week. It was the ultimate indignity. Deprived of his clothes and the bowler hat, that badge of his office as Head Porter which he had refused to part with even as Master, he not only was naked; he felt naked, naked and vulnerable and in the presence of a woman with none of the sensibilities and respect for human decencies he demanded. Not that he minded having his back scrubbed-he quite liked that-but there were other areas, his privates as he called them, in which the Matron took what he considered a thoroughly indecent interest and insisted on washing very meticulously because, as she put it so coarsely, if she didn't he'd smell even more like an old dog fox than he did already. Skullion didn't mind being compared to an old dog by Arthur but for a bitch like the Matron to liken him to an old dog fox was going a damned sight too far. And he'd told her so in no uncertain terms. 'You aren't even a married woman and no bloody wonder and, if you want to find out what you've been missing, you go and find some other man to fiddle with because I bloody don't like it. Or you. I can look after them myself.' Which had done nothing to improve the Matron's temper or her treatment of him.

'You've got a dirty mind, you have, and it's no use your looking at me like that. Call yourself the Master of Porterhouse and you can't even talk like a gentleman,' she had snapped back at him and had then really put the boot in. 'I heard the Dea-well, never you mind who, say the other day, and I did too, that it was about time they sent you to the Park. Oh yes, he did. Where do you think he's been these past weeks? Hasn't been visiting any sick relatives in Wales. Been going round the important Old Porterthusians looking for a Master. That's what he's been doing. And if you don't believe me, you ask Walter in the Porter's Lodge and he'll tell you. In fact I wonder you don't know it already because it's common knowledge in the College. You're for Porterhouse Park and I for one won't be sorry to see you go. I won't have to soil my hands bathing you there.' She had said it with such venom and conviction that Skullion had sensed she was telling the truth. Besides he had suspected something of the sort himself from the way Cheffy and Arthur and Walter had all treated him with more sympathy than they had ever shown before. He had never wanted sympathy and until very recently they had not wasted it on him. Instead they had shown him the respect they had shown when he was Head Porter and the most important servant in the College. Not that he was going to ask them. He didn't want them to have to lie to him. That wasn't proper and he had always done things the proper way.

So, now, on this warm afternoon, he sat drinking an unusually large number of bottles of Hardy's Special Ale which Arthur had opened for him, all the time nursing a growing sense of grievance against the world. He even snapped at Cheffy for cutting off the crusts of his cucumber sandwiches for tea which he had never done before. And when Arthur had come out to tell him his dinner was ready, Skullion said he didn't want any.

'Got to keep your strength up, Mr Skullion,' Arthur told him.

'What for?' Skullion demanded. 'What bloody for?'

Arthur was nonplussed. 'Well, I don't really know, Mr Skullion. But you've always been so fond of your grub.'

'Well, I ain't now. You go and get me another half of Hardy's. I've got things to think about.'

For a moment Arthur hesitated. He knew he ought to say he'd had enough already and another six bottles, which was what Skullion meant by a half, and he wouldn't just be half-seas over, he'd be all the bloody way. But he knew better. It wasn't just that Skullion-that Mr Skullion-was the Master. If that had been all, like with the previous Masters, he'd have told him to his face he'd had enough and it wasn't right the Master getting pissed. No, he'd have said that and been cursed for his damned insolence, and maybe he'd have got the Master in to his dinner and maybe he wouldn't, but in the morning the incident would have been forgotten and certainly ignored. But with Mr Skullion it was different. Mr Skullion wasn't just any old Master of Porterhouse, he was Mr Skullion the Head Porter which meant far more to Arthur and Cheffy and the rest of the College servants who remembered him in his prime. It went still deeper, far, far deeper than that. It was that Mr Skullion was Mr Skullion who'd always done things proper and never lied except when he had to save someone else's bacon or the College reputation. He'd have died for Porterhouse, Mr Skullion would have, and no mistake. As Head Porter he'd licked the young gentlemen into shape. 'You'd better get your hair cut, Mr Walker,' Arthur had once heard him tell an undergraduate. 'We can't have them saying Porterhouse is full of nancy boys like King's, can we, sir? And if you haven't got it on you, sir, here's half a crown and I'll put it down against the slate.' And he had done the same with every College servant who'd needed pulling up and told to do it proper, whatever it was. 'Proper is as proper does,' had been Mr Skullion's motto and, if there'd been one word he'd used more than any other-and there was-it was proper. Mr Skullion was proper. There was no other way of putting it and, if he wanted to get properly pissed, Arthur wasn't going to stop him. Mr Skullion was his own man and there weren't many in Cambridge or anywhere else for that matter you could say that about. And so, after the briefest of hesitations, Arthur went back, into the Master's Lodge and came back with the bottles and put them down with the tops off on the tray under the rug where Skullion could reach them and all he said was, 'Are you all right, Mr Skullion?' And Skullion had replied with a strange look, 'All right, Arthur? All right? Oh I'm all right. It's the others is all wrong.' And as Arthur had walked away back to the Lodge he'd heard Skullion call out, 'And thank you, Arthur, thank you,' which was only proper.

Three yards away behind the yew hedge Purefoy Osbert sat on the mossy grass and wished he could move. He was getting hungry himself and cold and he had learnt nothing except that the Master was drinking halves and didn't want his dinner or the crusts cut off his cucumber sandwiches for tea. Above him the sky darkened-it was already dark in the maze-but still Skullion sat there and Purefoy Osbert with him, each keeping a vigil the other would not have understood, they were such worlds apart. He was still there after ten o'clock when the Dean came out of the Combination Room and walked towards the Master's Lodge. He had dined well and had had another talk with the Senior Tutor about Dr Osbert and had assured him without going into any detail at all that he need not worry any longer because the matter was being attended to. Now he wanted a word with Skullion to warn him about not talking to the new Fellow. Skullion didn't seem to hear him coming.

The Dean's footsteps were soft upon the lawn and it was only when he had passed the maze that he became aware of the dark shape behind him and heard the clink of a bottle. 'Good Heavens, Master,' he said. 'What on earth are you doing out here?' It was a silly question. Skullion nearly always sat out at night but usually by the back gate.

'Sitting,' said Skullion, slurring the word more than usual. A whiff of Hardy's Special Ale reached the Dean. 'Sitting and thinking.'

'Sitting and drinking?' said the Dean, choosing to interpret the word differently. It was an unwise remark.

'Sitting and thinking and drinking,' said Skullion and there was no friendliness nor the deference the Dean had come to expect. This was no way for the ex-porter to speak to him.

'Mostly drinking, by the sound of it,' he said.

'Mostly thinking. The drinking is my business, not yours. I'm entitled to it.'

'Of course, Master, of course,' said the Dean hurriedly. He realized he had gone too far. 'You have every right to drink.'

'And think,' said Skullion.

'That too, of course,' said the Dean. And what have you been thinking about?'

'About you,' said Skullion. About you and the Park. Porterhouse Park where you send all the old Fellows you want to get rid of, the loonies like old Dr Vertel.'

'Dr Vertel? What utter nonsense, Skullion. You know perfectly well-'

'Oh, it's Skullion now, is it?' There was no mistaking the savagery in Skullion's voice. 'And I do know perfectly well. Old Vertel turned dirty, didn't he? Started flashing the bedders and the kiddies over at the Newnham swimming pool so he had to go.'

'You're drunk and you don't know what you're saying,' said the Dean angrily.

'I'm drunk and I do know what I'm saying because I was in the Porter's Lodge when the police came and I held them off till you got him out the back into the Senior Tutor's car and down to the Park where they couldn't find him or want to. Under the carpet you said, under the carpet. And the Praelector made a joke and said, "Under the Parket," and you all laughed over your, coffee in the Combination Room. So don't tell me I don't know what I'm saying. And don't think you're sweeping me under the carpet because you ain't. And that's a fact.'

In the darkness, and silhouetted against the lighted windows of the Master's Lodge, the Dean felt that strange feeling of alarm he had felt listening to Purefoy Osbert a few nights before. But this time he felt an even greater threat. There was a strength about Skullion and a depth of anger that had been absent in the younger man. The Dean tried appeasement. 'I assure you, Master, that there is no question of your being sent to the Park. The idea hasn't crossed anyone's mind. It's absurd.'

From the wheelchair there came a sound that might have been laughter. 'Bullshit,' said Skullion, 'bullshit. Where've you been the past weeks? Visiting someone sick in Wales? My eye and Betty Martin. Been going round asking the OPs, the important ones, who's to be the new Master. And don't tell me you haven't because I know.'

'How do you…' the Dean stopped himself but it was too late. The hair on the back of his neck was tingling. Skullion's knowledge was terrifying and somehow the Dean knew there was worse to come.

'How I know is my business,' Skullion went on. He didn't sound in the least drunk now. He was frighteningly sober. And what I know is my business and what you'd better know is you aren't sending me to Porterhouse Park not never.' He paused and let the statement sink in. 'Know why?'

The Dean didn't and he didn't want to know. But there was no stopping Skullion now. He was the Master of Porterhouse and for the first time the Dean knew it. He was the lesser man. 'Because I've got you by the short and curlies,' Skullion said. 'Know what that means?'

The Dean thought he did but he said nothing.

'By the balls,' said Skullion. 'By the bloody balls and you want to know how and why?'

'Skullion, you've said enough…' the Dean began but Skullion's voice merely rose.

'Don't you Skullion me,' he said. 'It's Master from now on.'

The Dean gasped. Something had happened to Skullion but he had no idea what it was.

'You ask yourself this question,' Skullion said. 'You ask yourself this question. Who put up six million quid to send the new Fellow here, the one they call Oswald or something? Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow. Who did that?'

The Dean seized what he supposed briefly was his opportunity. 'That is exactly what I was coming to talk to you about, Master.'

'Well, you came too late, you did,' Skullion continued. 'That bloody Lady Mary sent him. And why? I'll tell you why. Because she still wants to know who murdered her husband and this fellow's here to nose about.'

He paused. The Dean was stunned. Skullion seemed to know everything. Didn't seem to. Did know. It was a long pause full of horror.

'And I can tell him,' said Skullion. 'And if you try to sweep me under the carpet to Porterhouse Park I will tell him. Want to know why?'

'No, Skullion, no,' the Dean pleaded.

But Skullion was ready with the coup de grâce. 'Because I did. I murdered the bastard. So put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it.'

And before the Dean could say another word the Master had pressed the button on his wheelchair and was moving implacably towards the Master's Lodge, leaving a trail of empty beer bottles behind him on the lawn.

In the maze Purefoy Osbert had forgotten how cold he was. What he had just heard had stunned him almost as much as it had stunned the Dean, who still stood rooted to the spot. Through the thicket of the yew Purefoy could see part of him outlined against the lights of the Lodge and he still didn't move. In a long lifetime of College intrigue and bitter contest the Dean had never before been outmanoeuvred so completely. Outmanoeuvred was the wrong term. Skullion hadn't been manoeuvring: he had been fighting a battle tooth and claw. And brain. And the Dean had been crushed. Against the power of Skullion's verbal onslaught he had been destroyed, and made to eat humble pie in a way that had never happened to him before. And all this by a man in a wheelchair who was largely paralysed and who had drunk numerous bottles of strong ale and was a mere college servant. The Dean had always thought of him as that. He knew better now. Skullion had spoken no more than the truth. He was indeed the Master of Porterhouse. It was five minutes before the Dean could recover sufficiently to stumble away across the lawn. As he went, he stepped into a damp spot where Skullion had been but he didn't notice. What thoughts he had left, and they were bitter ones, were concentrated on other things.

To Purefoy Osbert the Dean's going came as something of a relief. Only something, because he was freezing cold and so stiff that he had trouble getting to his feet and, when he tried to walk, he staggered. The maze was no place for staggering. It was pitch dark and, while Purefoy could vaguely see the night sky and the lights of Cambridge reflected in the clouds that had gathered, he could see nothing else. He had had enough difficulty getting through the maze to the corner where Skullion sat. Finding his way out proved impossible. Time and time again he thought he was about to succeed because he could see the lights of windows through the peripheral yews, only to find he was back in the corner he had set out from an hour before. Somewhere nearby the clock on the Bull Tower struck midnight. Purefoy tried for the umpteenth time to remember the route he had followed to get in. It had entailed going almost to the very centre of the maze and then turning to the left and then the right and then after some yards going left again-or was it right? Not that it mattered. He had no idea where to start or in which direction to go. Thought failed him entirely. With hands outstretched he crept along banging into the yew thicket up dead ends and having to turn round and try to find some other turning. The clock struck one, and then two, and Purefoy had to sit down and shiver for a while until the cold night air and fear of pneumonia forced him to his feet and another hour of stumbling in the darkness. It was well after three when he finally found his way to the very heart of the maze. At least that was where he thought he was. There was no way of telling. He was up another cul-de-sac of yew. Many times he had thought of trying to fight his way through the hedge itself to get out, but the yew was old and had been planted in staggered rows of three around the edge so that it was impossible to squeeze between the thick thrunks.

He even tried climbing, but he had never been anything of an athlete and the cold had sapped what strength he had in his arms. In any case there were no proper branches to grasp. He was in a thicket of yew. He was also in a thicket of fear. He had sat within a few yards of a murderer and heard his confession, if that was what Skullion's revelation had been. It hadn't sounded like a confession to Purefoy Osbert. It had been far too threatening to be called that. And the man had shown no remorse. 'Because I did,' he had said almost with pride and certainly with terrible menace. 'I murdered the bastard. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.' To Purefoy Osbert, whose whole career had been spent finding reasons for crime, and in particular for murder, that shifted the onus of guilt from the criminal onto the police and the judiciary and the law and the prison system, those words had come as a frightening refutation of everything he believed in. The sheer brutality and cold-blooded nature of the words had chilled him almost as much as the night air. They had done more. They had gone to the very centre of his being and unlike the cold of the night their cold would never leave him. He was trapped in a maze of knowing that was at the same time unknowing. His theory about Sir Godber's death had been almost entirely logically right-he had been wrong about the Dean's complicity, but that was all. And he knew, as certainly as he knew he would never get out of the yew maze until dawn brought some light, that he would never be able to prove it. The murderer in the wheelchair was harder than anyone he had ever encountered. He was adamantine. Nothing and no one had it in their power to break his will. Purefoy Osbert had heard that hardness in Skullion's voice and he hadn't required his intellect to tell him the strength of will that was in the mind of the man in the bowler hat. His understanding of it was more primitive than rational thought. It was like hearing death speak.

Now cold and hungry and lost, he was filled with terror too. Everything he had ever heard about Porterhouse had been an underestimation of its awfulness. As dawn began to break and the yew sides of the maze slowly changed from black walls to reveal their dark green leaves, Purefoy Osbert fought down his panic and made his last attempt to find the way out. He listened to the clock on the Bull Tower and tried to position it in his mind. The entrance had been on that side of the maze and he set out towards it. Even so the clock had struck five before he stumbled utterly exhausted onto the lawn and made his way to his rooms and collapsed on the bed. He was no longer capable of thinking. Pure instinct told him he had to get out of Porterhouse before the place destroyed him. Even, perhaps, in the way it had destroyed Sir Godber Evans.