Grantchester Grind

31

Purefoy Osbert watched the Fellows file out of the old Library with interest. For a moment he thought they had been discussing the threat he posed to the Master but the meeting had been called before his confrontation with the Dean. Something else was in the wind. Some undergraduates passing him in the Court had spoken about the Master having another Porterhouse Blue and of an ambulance arriving at the Master's Lodge. Whatever the cause of the air of excitement in the College, Purefoy was determined to make use of it. His visit to the Dean and the Dean's impotent and stammering fury had done surprising things for Purefoy's confidence. He no longer felt overawed by the atmosphere of Porterhouse and in his own mind saw it as having no more importance than some casual roadside cafe. Its ceremonies and rituals like the Induction Dinner, its archaic terminology-'the Dossery', 'the Fellows' Combination Room', 'the Buttery', 'the Dean', 'the Master'-were mere devices, theatrical and phoney, having the intention of fooling immature and impressionable minds and masking, like some masonic ceremony, the littleness of the officials who hid behind such titles. In all the other colleges Purefoy had visited at one time or another there had been at least some slight self-mockery. Not at Porterhouse. Here the dense seriousness of small minds prevailed. Purefoy Osbert saw through the pretence and chose his next target. It was to be the Senior Tutor. He caught him as he came up the stairs to his room.

'Ah, there you are,' Purefoy said, corning out of his doorway. 'I'd like a few words with you.'

The Senior Tutor looked at him angrily. He didn't like being accosted without a title. It smacked of rudeness. And he certainly didn't want any words with Dr Osbert. 'Busy at the moment,' he said and turned into his doorway.'

Purefoy Osbert followed him before the Senior Tutor could shut the door in his face. 'It's about the allegations the Dean has made,' he said.

'Allegations? What the devil are you talking about?'

'I was hoping you could explain exactly what your role was,' Purefoy said.

'My role? What role?' demanded the Senior Tutor.

'In the light of Skullion's confession it is important to get things in their proper perspective,' Purefoy continued. 'Now the Dean says that…Well, perhaps it would be fairer to hear your account. That way you will be saved the need for denials.'

The Senior Tutor backed unsteadily into his study. 'Skullion's confession?' he gasped. 'What has Skullion confessed to?'

'To being responsible for the actual murder of Sir Godber Evans. Only the act of murder. He puts the responsibility…Now, if you'll just state for the record what part you played…' Purefoy hesitated and waited for the Senior Tutor's reaction to the imputation that he had played any part in a murder. It was a long time coming. The Senior Tutor was staring at him in horror.

'Sir Godber Evans' murder?' he managed to say finally. 'I had no idea.'

'That is not what the Dean has said in his statement. Now, at the time of the murder you were not in College yourself According to the evidence you gave at the inquest. If you want to change that now…'

'Change it? But I was at Coft Castle visiting Sir Cathcart D'Eath. There were people there who saw us.'

'Us?' said Purefoy with a look of some doubt on his face. 'You did say "us"?'

'Of course I said us. The Dean and I.'

'Really? That is not what the Dean has said,' Purefoy replied. 'Still, if that is your story…'

'Of course it is my story,' shouted the Senior Tutor. 'It's the bloody truth.'

'There is no need to shout,' Purefoy told him. 'Why don't you sit down and tell me about this so-called alibi? You'll feel much better when you've got this off your chest.'

Without thinking the Senior Tutor sat down. His mind was a maelstrom of hopelessly conflicting emotions. Thought hardly came into it. 'I haven't got anything to get off my chest. I don't know anything about Sir Godber Evans' murder. I didn't even know he had been murdered. No one told me.'

Purefoy Osbert smiled, and his smile seemed to imply that the Senior Tutor had hardly needed telling. 'Now, when you spoke to him earlier on the fatal evening what did you actually say to him?'

'Say to him? Say to whom, for God's sake?'

'Skullion of course.'

'But I didn't speak to him that evening. Why the hell should I have spoken to Skullion?'

'That's for you to tell me,' said Purefoy Osbert. 'Now according to the Dean you were the one…'

'Fuck the Dean,' shouted the Senior Tutor. 'I don't care what that stupid bastard says, I'm telling you I never went anywhere near Skullion that evening-'

'Right,' Purefoy interrupted. 'So the Dean is a liar and…'

'Look,' the Senior Tutor yelled, 'I don't know whether the bloody man is a liar or not. What I am…'

'So you're saying his account of your actions is correct now?'

The Senior Tutor stared wildly round the room. Purefoy Osbert recognized the symptom. It was exactly what he had experienced in Mrs Ndhlovo's apartment. He decided to strike another blow at the Senior Tutor's morale. 'As you know the Master, Skullion, was taken away this morning…'

There was no need to say more. The Senior Tutor clearly did know, but until that moment the full implications of the Extraordinary Council meeting hadn't occurred to him. He could understand only too well the Praelector's statement that Skullion was _non compos mentis._ Frankly the Senior Tutor found the Latin totally inadequate to describe the man's state of mind. He was clearly as mad as a hatter. But then so was the bloody Dean, if it came to that. In the Senior Tutor's imagination the police were already interrogating Skullion and would shortly continue their investigations in Porterhouse itself. And the Dean must have had some hand in the murder or he wouldn't be making allegations against him to this swine Osbert. The Senior Tutor made up his desperately confused mind:

'All right, I will tell you this,' he said. 'The Dean was the one who suggested we go out to Coft Castle that night. He suggested it at Dinner and I remember being most surprised. In fact I said it was not on and wouldn't work but he insisted in spite of my objections.'

'I see,' said Purefoy after a significant pause. "That isn't the story the Dean provided us with. He said you were the one who insisted on being out of the College that night. He says…'

'Then he's a bloody liar,' shouted the Senior Tutor. 'I'll tell you exactly what he said.'

Ten minutes later Purefoy Osbert left the room. The Senior Tutor had given him some very surprising information, had in fact opened up an entirely new can of worms and one that would almost certainly provoke General Sir Cathcart D'Eath to an ouburst of fury and indiscretion. Purefoy couldn't imagine what it would do to the Dean. In his room he checked his pocket tape recorder and changed the tape. Then he went down into the Fellows' Garden well pleased with himself. Mrs Ndhlovo and her friend had done him a good turn after all.

The Praelector travelled down to London by train and caught a taxi to the Goring Hotel. It was not where he usually stayed, preferring a more modest establishment near Russell Square on his very infrequent visits to the capital, but the Goring had a solid respectability about it and in the circumstances the Praelector knew he needed all the solidarity and respectability he could muster. It was there that he received Schnabel and Feuchtwangler for the informal meeting he had requested. The deeply alarmed Mr Retter had advised against it. 'You're going to be talking to men…' Mr Retter had hesitated over the word and almost said 'shysters' '…who would skin their grandmothers alive for the sort of fees they're earning from Transworld. You really must be most careful what you say to them.'

'I always am,' said the Praelector, and decided not to add 'when talking to lawyers'.

And so that evening a seemingly benign old man greeted Schnabel and Feuchtwangler in a corner of the lounge. 'I am sure this whole wretched business can be settled more amicably,' he told them when they had made themselves relatively comfortable. Mr Schnabel said he doubted it. Mr Feuchtwangler nodded his agreement.

'Our client is not an amicable man,' Schnabel said.

The Praelector smiled. 'So few of us are,' he said. 'But we must try to accommodate ourselves to circumstances, don't you think?'

Schnabel said he didn't think their client understood the word.

'"Accommodate," or "Circumstances"?' the Praelector enquired.

'Both,' said Schnabel.

'All the same he must have a well developed sense of self-preservation to have survived so long,' the Praelector went on. 'Is Mr Passos still in town?'

Schnabel blinked and looked at the old man with new eyes. Feuchtwangler swallowed drily.

'I wouldn't know about anything like that,' said Schnabel.

'Of course you wouldn't,' the Praelector agreed. 'It is outside your remit. However, I imagine it is a matter of some concern to your client, and I rather think he wouldn't welcome deportation to Thailand or Singapore. I believe the death penalty there is mandatory for certain commercial activities. Of course I'm by no means an expert in these matters but…'

'Shit,' said Schnabel. This wasn't a benign old man with grave-spots on his hands. This was death itself.

The Praelector signalled to a waiter. 'I wonder if you'd care to join me in a drink,' he said. Neither of them wanted anything stronger than water. The Praelector ordered a fino. 'Now, as I said at the start, I am sure this whole affair can be dealt with on an amicable and mutually beneficial basis and one that your client will find most acceptable. I shall, of course, need to put the proposal to him personally and I daresay he would prefer me to visit him in his office. I have one or two important appointments to keep tomorrow morning but perhaps four o'clock tomorrow afternoon would suit him.'

'I don't think any time is going to-' Schnabel began but Feuchtwangler cut in. 'Listen,' he said. 'When you say "a mutually beneficial basis", it would be helpful to us in arranging this meeting to know where we stand in the matter.'

'Of course, of course,' said the Praelector. 'I quite understand your concern. Let me just say that the financial consequences of the proposal I have been authorized to put before your client will not adversely affect your firm in the slightest. Quite the contrary. As you know we have been represented by Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine in Cambridge and naturally for purely minor matters we shall continue to use their services. However, in the hoped-for eventuality that your client accepts our proposal, the College will need the expertise of a firm with wider experience in the field of finance and commercial law. And now if you will excuse me I must leave you. I have a dinner appointment with my godson.'

Accompanied by the two lawyers the Praelector went out to a taxi. 'Downing Street,' he told the driver in the clearest voice. 'Number Eleven.'

Schnabel and Feuchtwangler stood on the pavement and stared after the taxi. There was no doubt now in their minds that their client was going to keep the appointment the following afternoon.

In the taxi the Praelector smiled to himself and, as they drove down Whitehall, leant forward. I have changed my mind,' he told the driver as they drove down the Mall. 'There's a rather good restaurant in Jermyn Street. I think I'll dine there.'