Chapter 39

‘I’ve had a very peculiar letter from the Senior Tutor,’ Goodenough told Mr Lapline over coffee one morning.

Mr Lapline said he wasn’t in the least surprised. ‘Disgusting business. You’d think a man in D’Eath’s position would have more sense. If he wants to tie women up in black latex, he could at least have maintained some degree of anonymity. It makes the worst sort of impression on the public.’

‘I wasn’t actually talking about that,’ said Goodenough who was surprised Mr Lapline read the Sun. ’It’s about that silly fellow Purefoy Osbert.’

Mr Lapline shuddered. ‘I always knew that was a terrible mistake. What’s the filthy brute done now?’

‘I think if you read the letter yourself, you’ll get a better picture of the situation,’ said Goodenough and put the letter gingerly on the desk. The solicitor read it through twice.

‘Abducted the Master? Abducted the Master from Porterhouse Park? Is the man completely insane? And where the devil is Porterhouse Park? I’ve never heard of it,’ said Mr Lapline at last.

‘I’ve no idea. He merely says that Skullion, that’s the Master, was convalescing there and that Dr Osbert turned up with some woman–’

‘I know what the Senior Tutor says. Not that it’s a coherent letter for a supposedly educated man. But to abduct the Master, who’s in a wheelchair? And what’s all this about locking the whole place up so no one can call the police? And the man’s gone a week and neither of them have been seen? It’s utterly appalling. Goodenough, I hold you responsible for ever letting this damned swine loose on Porterhouse. I do indeed.’

‘Steady on,’ said Goodenough grimly. ‘If you remember, you were the one who insisted on keeping Bloody Mary’s account and then you went sick with that wretched gall bladder you won’t have out and handed the problem over to me.’

‘You volunteered,’ said Mr Lapline, who still hadn’t had his gall bladder out: it was playing up again. ‘You specifically said you could handle the matter and keep Lady Mary happy. You then sent her a collection of sexual psychopaths and neo-Nazis knowing full well she’d reject them out of hand and finally you offer her a blighter who is into the most disgusting details of hanging and who’s convinced Crippen was innocent.’

‘Now wait a moment–’ Goodenough began but Mr Lapline hadn’t finished.

‘Anyone in his right mind could have seen catastrophe coming and, as a matter of fact, you did. You said it was called putting the cat among the pigeons and now we have this bloody man abducting–I wonder he didn’t call it kidnapping–the Master from his sickbed and for all we know hanging the poor chap.’

‘Actually, Purefoy is very much against hanging. That’s one of his pet aversions.’

‘I’ll tell you one of my pet aversions,’ said Mr Lapline viciously, but stopped himself just in time. After all, Goodenough was a partner and very successful at handling the clients Mr Lapline least liked. Anyway the damage is done and you’ll just have to tell Lady Mary–’

‘Not yet, for God’s sake,’ said Goodenough. ‘I mean there may have been some mistake.’

‘May?’ said Mr Lapline.

But in the end it seemed better to wait on events and hope for the best.

At Coft Castle General Sir Cathcart D’Eath had lost hope entirely. All the women servants had walked out, including his American secretary, and only the Japanese butler and Kudzuvine were left, though there was nothing for Kudzuvine to do now that the Cathcart’s Catfood had been closed down. The knowledge that Sir Cathcart made a habit of having old racehorses slaughtered and consigned to tins, cats for the consumption of, had alienated everyone in the district. He had been cut in Newmarket by old friends and there had been a disturbance outside the house when some Animal Rights activists broke in and had to be dispersed by the police. Worst of all the rumour had spread that he had been breeding horses simply to satisfy the nation’s cats and because horses grew faster than cows. Even his milder neighbours had been so enraged that on one occasion his Range Rover had been pelted with rotten eggs as he drove through Coft.

Sir Cathcart stayed in his study and drank with Kudzuvine, who didn’t know what all the shit was about. Horses were horses though frankly he preferred pork himself. More human he reckoned. You could keep fucking turtles and baby octopuses but, fucking pigs was something else again. Sir Cathcart said he supposed it must be, though even in his drunken state he couldn’t think it was very pleasant and talking about fucking pigs that Myrtle Ransby…Kudzuvine said she hadn’t turned him on either. Old bag like that dress her how you like and that black rubber hadn’t done anything for her except stop you having to see her face. Still some guys he’d known liked their meat well hung. Sir Cathcart said he’d have hung the bitch a long time ago if he’d known what she was going to do to him. Kudzuvine said Hartang would have Calvied her no mistake the way she’d acted. It was a most unedifying conversation.

The talk in the Master’s Lodge between Hartang and Ross Skundler had been only slightly more civilized. The Bursar, the Dean and the Praelector had been present in part to reassure Skundler that he was persona grata with the new Master but also, as the Dean put it, to find out if there was any little thing they could do to make the new Master more comfortable in the College and, of course, to welcome him.

‘Drop dead,’ said Hartang, looking at Skundler but evidently including the Bursar, the Praelector and the Dean in the injunction. He had had an appalling two nights in the Lodge in the company, by the sound of it, of a colony of enormous rats in the attic above his head. Certainly some things had spent their time scurrying about up there and making very strange noises. Arthur had tried to reassure him at breakfast (Hartang had been downright rude about the cholesterol effects of two fried eggs and a Porterhouse portion of fatty bacon, not to mention the fried bread which had been Skullion’s special favourite) that they were merely squabs.

‘In the roof? Squabs in the roof?’ Hartang had said incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it. That where these eggs come from?’

‘No, sir, those are hen’s eggs. We do not keep chickens in the attic.’

‘And squabs aren’t chickens, what are they?’

‘Young pigeons, sir. In the old days pigeons were a Porterhouse delicacy and some of their descendants still inhabit their predecessors’ home. You will see the entrances on the end gables. I believe there may be a colony of pipistrelles up there too.’

‘Bats? Bats?’ said Hartang who did at least know what a pipistrelle was. ‘Are they a Porterhouse delicacy too? Shit.’

‘No, sir, bats are a protected species. It is unlawful to kill them,’ Arthur said, and went back to the kitchen to see if he could find some oatbran and skimmed milk yoghurt that Hartang insisted was all he ever ate for breakfast. Hartang was not in a good mood when Skundler and the Senior Fellows arrived. He’d had to have muesli and even that had sugar in it. And the coffee had been foul.

Arthur hadn’t been too happy either. ‘Very uncouth gentleman, the new Master,’ he told the bodyguards who had heard the exchange on the wired sound system. What they were now hearing had the same acrimoniously uncouth quality about it. The Dean’s use of the word ‘amenities’ had been the last straw.

‘What amenities? Amenity? I haven’t seen a single amenity since I got here. The fucking bath is big enough to drown in and it takes an hour to fill and the water’s goddam cold by the time it’s full.’

‘Well, we’ve had some rather large Masters in the past,’ the Dean explained. ‘They needed a sizeable bath. I’m sorry about the water but Porterhouse men are used to it being on the lukewarm side.’

‘I’m not,’ Hartang assured him. ‘I like my water hot and if what that old fool of a waiter tried to give me for breakfast is anything to go by, like it would fur up an elephant’s arteries in no time at all, I’d say the Masters you’ve had in the past had to have been sick men. Didn’t think what they were doing to their bodies.’

‘Very possibly,’ the Praelector said pacifically. As you’ve undoubtedly noticed we are a very old College and some of our ways may seem rather out of date. I am sure we can accommodate you in circumstances more to your liking.’

Hartang didn’t say anything. He had found the Praelector daunting when he had met him at Transworld Television Centre and he had found that ‘accommodate’ uncomfortable. ‘I’d be glad if the boiler could be fixed,’ he said. ‘Most grateful.’

For the rest he talked earnestly with Skundler who took notes and only answered questions, none of which the Fellows understood. By the time they left the Master-to-be had remembered his elocution and etiquette lessons, and was quietly polite, and thanked them for coming.

‘This is not going to work,’ the Dean said when they were out of earshot. ‘That man ought to be behind bars. I still find it difficult to believe such people exist. What on earth are we going to do?’

‘For the time being nothing,’ said the Praelector. ‘I suggest we keep out of his way and ensure that his bathwater is hot. And I think we must persuade his lawyers to come up and talk to him. I have found them most helpful.’

It was not an opinion Hartang shared.

In the listening-room the tape of the conversation was locked away and the older taller man was on the phone.

His views were exactly the same as the Dean’s. The Master-to-be was not shaping up. ‘She says it’s going to take time and there’s no point in rushing things. There are still things they need from him. Just keep him safe.’

In the kitchen Arthur explained to the Chef that ‘Him-over-there’ wanted something called Noovell Couiseen.

‘Never heard of it,’ said the Chef. ‘Best see if they’ve got some at Marks & Sparks by the Market We’re having beef with dumplings tonight in Hall with a Stilton soup to start with and omelette for savoury.’

Arthur said he didn’t think ‘Him-over-there’ was very fond of eggs and Cheffy said he didn’t care what he was fond of, he wasn’t Master yet and never would be till Mr Skullion gave his say so because Mr Skullion was the Master still whatever anyone said.

‘I wonder where he went to, Cheffy. Him and that Dr Osbert.’

‘That’d be telling, Arthur, that’d be telling,’ was all the Chef would say. And don’t you tell anyone I said so.’