‘Into what?’ asked Milton.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Mary Lou. ‘But it was cool at the time and got him a chair in the provinces in his early thirties. There was a brief dalliance when he thought Edward Said was where it was all at so he claimed some Irish roots and went on about the colonised unconscious, then, bingo, suddenly, to great applause, he converts to feminism—a.k.a. gynocritical discourse—denounces phallocognition and gets a visiting chair at Harvard where they’re madly chasing after Yale in their espousal of crackpot ethnic and gender studies and badly need a token male. Then, kiss my butt, you take your eye off him for two seconds and he’s in at the birth of Queer Studies.’
Amiss pushed his plate away. ‘I should know the answer to this, but I couldn’t be bothered finding out. Is it to do with combing through literature looking for overlooked gays? Shakespeare’s Dark Lady of the Sonnets was a boy—that sort of thing?’
‘That was the primitive stage, Robert. Ferriter and his sort are engaged in “queering” literature on a grand scale. The QueerStud view now is that queer is normal and straight’s an aberration.’
‘Ferriter’s gay, I presume,’ said Pooley.
‘Certainly dresses like one,’ said Milton.
‘It’s not quite that simple,’ said Mary Lou. ‘Being the thorough little guy he is, he turned himself into a practitioner. As a feminist, he’d got in touch with his feminine side but didn’t actually change sex. But once a proponent of QueerStud, he turned queer along with the studies.’
‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t just do that,’ said Amiss. ‘You have to have some inclination in that direction.’
‘Ferriter would say that he was always bi, even if his experience was largely hetero.’ Mary Lou stopped and helped herself to some more Pepsi. She looked slightly embarrassed, as befitted someone known to everyone present to have once been a lover of Jack Troutbeck. She took a sip. ‘So now Felix is in touch with his inner fag: word is he’s aiming to shag his way around the entire QueerStud circuit. And being a queer academic has the great bonus that by and large, unlike feminists, gay men don’t expect you to sign contracts before you can put a hand on their thigh.’
‘I don’t follow this,’ said Amiss. ‘I thought all gays were body fascists these days. Why would they want to shag a weedy little bugger like Ferriter?’
‘They’re body fascists when it’s only about bodies. But when it comes to power, they’re just the same as straights and dykes. A Professor of Queer Studies is a very attractive proposition if you have intellectual pretensions and academic ambitions.’
‘And he did spruce himself up a bit, didn’t he?’ observed Milton. ‘Body-piercing, leather and all that. Not that I can imagine anyone thinking the effect attractive. But what do I know? I’m just a middle-aged heterosexual cop who thinks the country’s going to the dogs.’
Mary Lou stopped talking and tucked into a final slice of pizza. Pooley was looking depressed. ‘I like a few illusions, including the one that universities remain seats of learning to which we should aspire to send our children.’
‘We will, darling. We will. But you have to be able to distinguish the wheat from the vast amount of chaff. I feel really sorry for these kids who’re getting up to their ears in debt studying crap courses at crap universities. You’d think you Brits would have learned from all the mistakes we made in the States, but you’ve learned jackshit. You’re dumbing down like crazy, just like we did. We get bright students at St Martha’s, but it’s hell to inculcate them with intellectual rigour. And it’s hell to try to get through to them that most fashionable criticism isn’t worth wiping your butt with.’
‘You’re sounding dangerously elitist,’ noted Amiss. ‘Rosa Karp would have you despatched to the re-education camp.’
‘Since I came under the influence of Jack, I’ve become an unabashed elitist. But it’s a hard road and it’s beginning to wear me out.’
‘That’s Eng. Lit.,’ said Amiss, smugly. ‘Full of pseuds. History’s different.’
‘Rubbish. It’s almost as bad.’
‘No, it’s not. There are plenty of historians writing perfectly comprehensibly and they’re bestsellers.’
‘They’re the ones that can write, Robert. Plenty that can’t are lurking in academia teaching students how to ensure nobody knows what they’re talking about.’
‘To think,’ said Milton, ‘that I used to believe that professors were intelligent, peers were people of distinction and writers were dedicated to their art.’
‘And policemen were honest,’ said Amiss.
‘Maybe things don’t get worse,’ said Pooley. ‘Maybe it’s always been like that but one just didn’t know.’
‘All I know is academia,’ said Mary Lou. ‘And it’s getting much worse now that political correctness has infected staff and students. No one can say what they think any more.’
Into the general gloom, the sound of Mary Lou’s phone ringing was a welcome relief. The baroness’ voice was audible to everyone. ‘That’s it,’ she bellowed. ‘I won’t rest until I’ve strangled that little shirt-lifter with the entrails of the frog-lover.’
***
Prothero woke Amiss at seven-fifteen, close to hysteria. ‘What did your old bag mean by it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve just had Rosa Krap on, incandescent.’ To Amiss’ astonishment, Prothero reported that despite her stated intention of talking to no one, the baroness had told a Guardian reporter her approach would not be that of Hermione Babcock since they had radically different views on fiction. ‘She said she didn’t share any of Hermione’s tastes, and when the reporter asked how she felt about Virginia Woolf, according to Krap she said something really awful about how the only significant thing about Woolf and her circle was their sex-lives and that they all screwed each other since no one else would have them.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Amiss, yawning. ‘Didn’t Dorothy Parker say the Bloomsbury set were pairs who lived in squares and loved in triangles?’
‘Wake up, Robert! You can guarantee that interview will alienate nearly all the committee.’
‘Maybe, Georgie. But Jack doesn’t get trapped by reporters. She’ll have done this for a reason. Jack moves in mysterious ways and the thing to do is not to worry and to leave her to it.’
‘But they’ll all be ringing me to complain.’
‘Tell them you know nothing and refer them to Jack,’ said Amiss firmly. ‘Now let me get back to sleep for half-an-hour. I’m a bit tired.’
***
At Prothero’s request, Amiss had arrived early at Warburton House, which was just as well, for Prothero was so jittery that he was annoying the normally imperturbable Birkett. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Prothero, but the menu was decided on days ago. What exactly do you want me to do?’
Prothero wrung his hands. ‘I don’t really know. I’m just fretting. This new chair, Lady Troutbeck, she’s a foodie and things are so tense already I don’t want a big fuss developing about salmon not being wild and all that sort of thing.’
‘We are not having salmon today, Mr Prothero,’ said Birkett frostily. ‘We are having roast saddle of lamb with a vegetarian option. And, yes, it is English spring lamb and no, it has not been frozen. I trust that meets the obvious questions that may come to her ladyship’s mind.’
‘That admirably addresses all that might concern her, Mr Birkett,’ said Amiss firmly. ‘Now, Georgie, let’s have a word about the press release.’
Prothero looked distractedly at Amiss. ‘Oh, all right. Thank you, Birkett. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’
***
As was customary, Rosa Karp arrived first and sat down with a brief hello; she did not waste time on people she thought irrelevant. She took from her briefcase a pile of spreadsheets which she proceeded to distribute around the table, before settling down to read her own copy intently. Ferriter was next, closely followed by Den Smith. This m
orning Ferriter was wearing a T-shirt with a face on it that Amiss could not quite place. ‘You’ve made me curious, Felix. I know that person on your chest but I’m damned if I can remember who he is?’
‘Gore Vidal. He’s the focus for my QueerStud’s strand on twentieth-century martyrs.’
‘Where does the martyrdom come in?’ asked Amiss politely.
‘He suffered for his beliefs, like all non-hetero-affectionals.’
‘As he’s suffering now like the rest of us who oppose the Bush-Blair axis of capitalist/imperialist evil,’ added Den Smith. Rosa looked up and murmured her agreement.
‘I read an interview with Gore Vidal the other day,’ said Amiss in the most courteous tone he could muster, ‘and I thought him a condescending, name-dropping snob who has made millions through shocking the great American public. He lives in luxury in Italy and Hollywood while being widely venerated by smart society as a sage. I could cope with that amount of suffering.’
Observing Smith going dangerously red, Amiss was relieved at the distraction caused by the simultaneous arrival of Geraint Griffiths and Hugo Hurlingham, who were chitchatting civilly about traffic. Dervla followed a moment later and Amiss, who was still buoyed up by the revelation that she found him fanciable, greeted her warmly, put her sitting beside him and told her how attractive he found her long purple suede boots. They embarked on a conversation about where she liked shopping, which he found he could follow if he concentrated very hard.
At a few minutes to ten, the baroness bounded in. ‘Where’s the butler?’ she asked Amiss.
He pointed to the far door, through which she marched. She returned with Birkett, smiling. ‘Satisfactory,’ she announced as she strode to the head of the table and sat down. ‘Lunch sounds satisfactory.’
She was wearing an eye-catching ensemble, chosen, Amiss deduced, to confuse. On the one hand, her fedora and severe suit—King Edward check with mid-calf skirt—were reminiscent of lesbians of the 1930s, but the cascades of pink chiffon at her throat made an aggressively feminine statement, while the vast piece of costume jewellery on her left breast—a diamanté and green enamel parrot—caused even Den Smith to goggle. ‘I’m Jack Troutbeck,’ she announced. ‘Which ones are you?’
‘Robert, will you do the honours?’ asked Prothero.
Amiss came to with a start. ‘Sorry, Jack, this is Dervla. Dervla, this is Lady Troutbeck.’
‘Hi,’ said Dervla nervously.
‘Hello,’ said the baroness, looking her up and down appreciatively. ‘Nice to have someone young and decorative in the middle of such a decrepit gathering.’
‘And this is Rosa Karp,’ said Amiss, pretending not to see the furious expression engendered by this remark.
The baroness nodded. ‘I know,’ she said rather ominously. ‘And I know Denzil Smith. As he knows me. We had a reunion last week many years after a dramatic parting.’ She smiled seraphically.
Smith grunted and avoided everyone’s eyes.
‘Beside Den is Geraint Griffiths.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Griffiths, ‘but I should tell you that…’
‘Later,’ the baroness said. ‘Let’s get the platitudes over with.’
‘And Hugo Hurlingham and Felix Ferriter.’
‘Good God, why are you wearing a picture of that old bore?’ she demanded of Ferriter. ‘Met him once, and of all the self-regarding, pretentious old queens…!’
‘And Georgie Prothero,’ said Amiss hastily. Prothero, who was looking dazed, managed a wan smile. ‘It’s very good to speak to you in person, Lady Troutbeck. But where is Lady Wilcox? Weren’t you giving her a lift?’
‘I did.’
‘She’s in the ladies, is she?’
‘I don’t know where she is now. I left her downstairs having first aid.’
‘Did you have an accident?’
‘No, but she claimed she was having a heart attack because of my driving. It was like giving a lift to a neurotic hen. She kept clucking. Indeed at times she sounded as if she were laying an egg. It’s all stuff and nonsense, of course, as Robert will tell you. Nothing wrong with the way I drive.’
‘Is she really ill?’ asked a worried Prothero.
‘Of course she’s not ill. She’s just looking for attention. Wysteria’s a creaking gate—she’ll outlive the lot of us. You’ll see, she’ll be along in a minute. Wouldn’t want decisions reached without her. I told her to hurry up or we’d start anyway.’
Birkett left the room quietly and shortly afterwards returned with Wysteria. Amiss, who was already having a severe attack of guilt, looked with alarm at the ashen-faced little figure who tottered in on the butler’s solicitous arm.
Rosa rushed to her side along with Prothero and Amiss and amid a chorus of ‘Are-you-all-rights?’ Wysteria fell into a chair and pawed at her chest. ‘Of course I’m not all right,’ she quavered. ‘How could I be all right? That woman is a cold-hearted lunatic. For two hours I’ve lived a nightmare. A nightmare during which regardless of my desperate pleas, there was no pity, no compassion, no mercy.’
‘Nonsense, Wysteria. It’s all in your imagination. You’re just a nervous Nellie. But you look fine now. There’s nothing wrong with you and it’s time we got down to business.’
‘I’ll leave you now, Lady Troutbeck,’ said Birkett. ‘Mr Prothero can fetch me if you need anything.’
‘When’s lunch?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘And you won’t forget what I said about the lamb being pink.’
‘I don’t like pink lamb,’ whispered Wysteria.
‘Rubbish. It should always be pink.’
‘I will make sure that there is a choice, your ladyships.’
‘Waste of good meat,’ grumbled the baroness. ‘But if you must, you must, I suppose. Where’s the coffee?’
‘It will arrive at eleven unless you would prefer it at another time.’
She nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll want a double espresso.’
‘Certainly, your ladyship.’
‘And make sure it’s hot.’
‘I will ensure that it is extremely hot, your ladyship.’
‘Good. You can leave us now, what’syourname.’
‘Birkett.’
‘Birkett.’ She suddenly produced one of her sunniest smiles. ‘Thank you, Birkett. I’m very pleased with you so far.’
‘Thank you, your ladyship,’ said Birkett. ‘It’s a pleasure to be of service.’
The baroness turned her attention to her colleagues. ‘Right, the meeting is now convened.’
‘Just a moment, Chair,’ said Rosa.
‘I will not answer to Chair,’ said the baroness. ‘Or Chairperson, for that matter. I am Madam Chairman.’
Rosa and Ferriter looked at her, as Amiss put it later, as if she had just announced she intended to slaughter the first-born. ‘You can’t,’ said Rosa. ‘I cannot use such an inappropriate term. No one has used it for a decade.’
The baroness beamed. ‘I do. And so do my colleagues at St Martha’s. However, to show how extremely reasonable I am, we’ll have a compromise. You may call me Chairwoman.’
‘But it’s gender specific and…’ began Rosa.
‘Oh, knock it off, Rosa,’ said Griffiths. ‘She’s a woman and she’s in the chair and there’s no point in…’
‘Thank you, Dr Griffiths,’ said the baroness, ‘but you will speak through me in future. I believe in observing the formalities. Anyone else got any beefs?’ No one else spoke. ‘Right, we have fewer than three hours to sort these long-lists out and produce an agreed one. I’ve compared them, and, on the face of it, it looks as if doing this would tax Solomon. But if it has to be done, it has to be done. Now, first I want you to…’
Rosa broke in. ‘Chair…woman,’ she said, with an ill grace. ‘First, I want to complain about your grossly offensive remarks in The Guardian this morning.’
‘What remarks?’ asked Griffiths.
‘I spoke to some reptile last night,’ explained the baroness genially. ‘I gather Lady Karp didn’t like what I said.’
‘How can you possibly justify your attack on our dear Hermione, not to speak of what you said about…about…’
The baroness leaned over and grabbed the newspaper. ‘I expect she’s beefing about the quote, “I’ve always thought those Gloomsbury wankers self-regarding snobs and creeps who would have disappeared from the public consciousness if it hadn’t been for their titillating sex-lives.”’
Dervla giggled, Griffiths shouted, ‘Well said,’ Ferriter and Smith made protesting sounds and Wysteria clutched her chest again.
The baroness looked at Rosa. ‘So?’
‘So, I would like you to apologise.’
‘I suggest you stop being silly. I can assure you that every time I read anything you say I am not only offended; I am intellectually insulted. Here is what I propose. I will say what I like. As a quid pro quo, you can say what you like.’ She turned and addressed the committee. ‘Any objections?’
Smith opened his mouth and then thought better of it. The baroness turned back to Rosa. ‘What was the second issue you wished to raise?’
‘I’ve made the decision-making process much easier, as I’ve done a full analysis of all the long-lists according to objective criteria. That way, we can eliminate a large number of books at the very beginning, so that what we end up with will be appropriately balanced. Please look at the spreadsheet in front of you.’
‘Lady Karp, who asked you to do this?’
‘Hermione Babcock.’
‘Hermione Babcock has been dead for several days. Do you not think it would have been…’ she paused, ‘appropriate…to ask me if I concurred?’
Rosa flushed. ‘It didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t. This has been so much a part of the consensual decision-making process until now that I assumed…’
‘It is unwise to make assumptions where I am concerned, Lady Karp. And one assumption you should certainly not make is that I am driven by the need to achieve consensus. However, I am an open-minded woman, you appear to have done a great deal of work and I am prepared to listen to you explain what it has yielded.’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 14