The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  ‘Does that really help us, Eccles?’

  ‘Well it is one defnite point of reference… ’

  ‘Anything more tangible?’

  ‘I found out who Mr Tokoro is, or at least was. He was the cultural attaché to the Japanese embassy in London.’

  ‘You say was. What is he now?’

  ‘Dead.’

  For the frst time in this conversation, Eccles had the undivided attention of his con-versant.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Most defnitely, I found his obituary in The Times . Like most obituaries it rambled on about how great he was but didn’t give much detail on how he died or even when. From the date it was published it must have been pretty close to the end of last term.’

  ‘Splendid. Truly splendid.’

  It wasn’t at all clear to Eccles from this response whether his roommate was delighted Mr Tokoro had died or was impressed by his detective prowess. Kingsley-Hampton sat back on the sofa with his hands behind his head, a smile – or perhaps it could be better called a smirk – spreading across his face. Eccles watched and waited for the plan that was clearly crystallising in Kingsley-Hampton’s head.

  ‘I have to say, Eccles, an excellent bit of detective work.’ Though Eccles found Kingsley-Hampton more than a little patronising at times, he

  still felt an inordinate pride in the compliment. Unfortunately it was a short-lived glow. It didn’t take long for Kingsley-Hampton to reaffrm his place in the social hierarchy.

  ‘Looks like we have a real mystery on our hands now, Dr Watson. So why don’t you go and start questioning the locals? Find anyone who’s heard of Fugu or, even better, anyone who looks shifty when you ask the question. I’ve got a blasted essay to write and my usual scribe is in bed with the lame excuse of a kidney infection.’

  Kingsley-Hampton rarely wrote essays as he had already mastered the art of deleg-ation. With a small fnancial inducement, an impoverished PPE student from Hertford College would generally oblige with more speed and erudition than Kingsley-Hampton was able to offer, and this arrangement certainly required less effort than he was inclined to expend on such distractions.

  Eccles had briefy settled into his chair, waiting for the offer of a cup of tea, but the slight elevation of a single eyebrow on Kingsley-Hampton’s face was suffcient to indic-ate that he was expecting a prompt response to his instructions. Eccles wasn’t sure ex-actly who he was meant to be asking. After all, he knew only a handful of his own year and anyone else he’d met had been through Kingsley-Hampton. Eccles reluctantly rose to his feet. He consoled himself with the thought of having his tea in the junior common room. As for Fugu, he had his next tutorial in less than an hour so he could always ask his tutor, Dr Bloom, about that.

  *

  After delivering his various invitations, Augustus turned to his second mission that morning: the challenging task of getting Professor Arthur Plantagenet to see sense. He had planned to tackle Arthur at dinner last night, but he had been far too engrossed in his conversation with the Master on quinces and every other variety of exotic fruit. For Plantagenet, who usually learnt of new and unusual fruits in the Bodleian library, the Master’s frst-hand experience as he had worked his way up the diplomatic ladder from the Turks and Caicos Islands to Peking was a gold mine. Later in the senior com-mon room parlour after dinner when the Master had retired for the night, Augustus was forced to listen as Arthur waxed lyrical about Lord Faulkner and his virtues. The little matter of Arthur’s dire medical situation seemed to pale into insignifcance compared to the best way of determining the ripeness of a durian.

  Augustus had frst tried Arthur Plantagenet’s rooms. Failing to fnd him he had checked the usual haunts, the parlour for breakfast and the informal morning crossword competition amongst the dons in the leather chairs of the senior common room. As it was still far too early for Arthur to be heading to the Bodleian to work, there was only one place left: Martha’s. Augustus left St Jerome’s and passed along the cobbled streets leading up to the High Street before turning towards the covered market. The market contained an eclectic combination of shops selling everything from goldfsh to travel trunks, but it was above all a place for food. The very best butchers, fshmongers and grocers had their premises in the narrow alleys.

  Arthur Plantagenet considered Oxford’s covered market the best food market in the world. In truth, Arthur had seen very little of the world in person. He had never vis-ited Venezia’s Rialto or La Boquería in Barcelona for comparison. The lack of frst-hand knowledge of the world’s great food markets did not reduce the strength of Professor Plantagenet’s opinion nor the frequency of its repetition. Augustus had once suggested they go on a tour together of the great food markets of the world. To Augustus’ great dis-appointment, Arthur felt no need to see these places in person. As a professor of ancient history, Arthur’s world survived only in books and manuscripts. They had visited Rome and Florence together many years ago, but Arthur was surprisingly unaffected by ruins and churches. Arthur was fascinated not by the stone but by what had happened inside these ancient buildings. He always began his frst lecture for frst students with the same words: ‘If you are here because you have been beguiled by the splendour of Rome and its monuments then please leave now and look for a course in Architecture or Archae-ology. This lecture is for students of history and history is made up of people and actions not buildings.’ Many years ago, a student that had come up to read modern languages had found himself in Professor Plantagenet’s lecture theatre at the start of term by mis-take. Upon hearing these words he shuffed to his feet and apologetically squeezed along the row towards the exit. The audience responded with a murmur, followed by laughter and fnally a roar as the red-faced young man struggled to escape the clamour, while be-ing slapped on the back. Professor Plantagenet stood at the lectern beaming. Every year he hoped for a repeat of this theatrical triumph, in vain as it turned out, but for Arthur, the memory was suffcient to keep him repeating the same words year in and year out.

  Today, Augustus was relying on Arthur’s predictably habitual nature and peering over the top of the yellowed net curtains in the windows of Martha’s café, he wasn’t disappointed. The clientele were grouped in their usual tables. The far corner table was reserved at this time of day for Oxford’s defenders of parking rectitude, its traffc war-dens. The tables closest to the counter were always full of other market traders. This left tables along the windows free for students, shoppers and the occasional professor with a craving for greasy food. Augustus made his way towards Arthur’s table, ordering a cup of tea as he went from the proprietor, Martha. He caught Arthur in the act of biting into a bacon sandwich with grease dribbling down his chin. Augustus saw signs of recognition on Arthur’s face, with not the slightest hint of guilt.

  ‘Good morning, Arthur. With the state of your heart I’m a little surprised to see you tucking into that. You have to start looking after yourself and that means being sensible about what you eat.’

  ‘Good God, Bloom. You sound like my mother, God rest her soul.’ ‘And you are clearly on a mission to meet her as soon as possible.’ ‘Nonsense, she’ll be in heaven and I’ll be crossing the River Styx to Hades. Augus-

  tus, dear chap, do you honestly think that this bacon sandwich, which by the way tastes sensational, will make any difference to the outcome?’

  ‘It won’t help.’

  ‘Or hinder. Augustus, you’re going to die one day. I’m just dying a little faster, which means I have to eat faster to make up.’

  As ever, when it came to being obtuse, Plantagenet’s logic had a certain appeal. Augustus tried an ancient writer in response.

  ‘Hippocrates said, “Let food be your medicine and medicine be your food” so at a time like this you should be eating things that are good for you.’

  ‘Hippocrates was quite right but your interpretation is completely wrong. What a man dying from an incurable disease needs most of all is solace. Tell me what tablet ever discovered by science g
ives solace? Food for the soul, that’s what I need, and this bacon sandwich is feeding my soul rather well.’

  Arthur looked across at the crestfallen Bloom who was at a loss for a decent retort but reprieved by the arrival of his cup of tea.

  ‘Now enjoy that cup of tea and if you stop badgering me I’ll give you this last corner of my bacon sandwich.’

  Augustus could only smile and, in response, the bacon sandwich was slid across the table. One bite and he knew he’d lost this argument. Arthur Plantagenet was right. It tasted bloody marvellous and despite the abject failure of Augustus’ mission, it brought great solace to the well-intentioned doctor as well.

  *

  Eccles idled away the last few minutes before his tutorial, checking his pigeonhole in the lodge. The rest of the college E’s – Eaton, El-Kabir, Edmonds, Ebury, Egerton, Eckhart and Easterby – seemed as popular as ever, and Eccles was starting to believe they simply left lots of mail in the pigeonhole for days to prove just how popular they were. There were two envelopes for Mr P. Eccles today: one an invitation to a prayer group from the college’s Young Christian Society, the other a letter from his mother, which he pocketed for later. It wasn’t the done thing to be caught reading a letter from one’s mother in the lodge.

  Eccles climbed the stairs to Dr Bloom’s rooms and drew a deep breath before knock-ing on the door. To his relief, Dr Bloom was on this occasion seated, wearing a gown and looking reassuringly like an Oxford tutor rather than a cook. The stove in the alcove was bare.

  ‘Ah Eccles, do take a seat. Now tell me what you have learnt about the mysteries of the action potential. I see you’ve brought your essay with you. Why don’t you read that to me and we’ll take things from there.’

  Eccles settled back from the very front edge of the chair where he had initially perched and started into his essay on the nature of the action potential, the tiny electrical surges of current that drive our nerves and brains. Eccles’ essay was a solid, if unima-ginative, summary of the feld. The original sources had been carefully sliced and para-phrased into something different but unoriginal. The one section in which Eccles had shown some sparkle was in relation to the use of toxins in isolating the electrical com-ponents. It was his reading around this topic that had unexpectedly brought him favour with The Honourable Kingsley-Hampton and it was the one part of his essay that he de-livered with any conviction.

  The observation that the neurotoxin tetrodotoxin blocked action potentials was the clue that Hodgkin and Huxley needed to unravel the mysterious generation of electricity in nerves that led to their classic 1952 paper. Tetrodotoxin gets its name from the Tetraodontidae, the scientifc name for the various species of puffer fsh, but is also found in other marine animals such as the blue-ringed octopus. The ac-tion of this toxin in blocking the activity of nerves makes it extremely dangerous. The frst recorded case of death was noted in the voyage logs of Captain Cook. His crew ate some puffer fsh and fed the leftovers and trimmings to the pigs they kept on board. The crew complained of a variety of symptoms including shortness of breath, but the following day the pigs were found dead. The Japanese also serve puffer fsh as a delicacy called Fugu .

  Eccles had hoped to catch Dr Bloom’s expression as he delivered these words but be-fore he could look up he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Bloom sprung to his feet, eternally grateful for the intrusion, and opened the door. Although he set this same essay every year for his frst year students and tetrodotoxin inevitably came up, Fugu was rarely mentioned and hearing the word set his own nerves jangling. Dr Bloom’s scout entered carrying a small tray covered with a linen napkin, which he deposited on a small table near Bloom’s chair and then plucked the napkin neatly away.

  ‘Your lunch as requested, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Peter, very kind of you to bring it over.’ ‘No trouble, sir, no trouble at all.’

  The tray contained a tall glass of murky straw-coloured steaming liquid, a small bowl of fnely chopped raw onions and another of fnely grated Parmesan cheese. Eccles peered at this odd-looking lunch. Seeing his surprise, Bloom was more than happy to change the subject and explain.

  ‘A few extra ingredients. Ever tasted a saffron risotto?’ Eccles merely shook his head and in response, Bloom leapt to his feet to recover a

  small jar of intensely deep orange-coloured powder from his cooking alcove. ‘Saffron, the most expensive spice in the world. Made from the stamens of a type of

  crocus, Crocus Sativus Linneaus . Takes almost a quarter of a million hand-picked sta-mens to make a pound of this stuff. Now I think you were meandering a bit there on tetrodotoxin. Skip onto the Hodgkin and Huxley 1952 model, I presume you’ve covered that in detail.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Of course and sorry… ’ Eccles shuffed his papers and continued on to the very much more technical and duller aspects of the topic, a little aggrieved that it was he that was being accused of meandering off the topic. He delivered the rest of his essay with few interruptions aside from a few probing questions from Bloom on the fner details of the sodium and potassium currents that drive the action potential, while his tutor continued preparing the risotto. When he’d fnished, he sat back and waited for a verdict.

  ‘Excellent, very good start, Eccles. I think you’ve got the grasp of that. Now for next week I’d like you to cover synapses, and don’t forget to track down all the papers of your namesake, Jack Eccles.’ He pulled a reading list from a folder by his chair and handed it to Eccles who took this as his cue to leave. He was almost at the door when he turned back.

  ‘Dr Bloom, have you ever tasted Fugu?’

  Augustus hid his surprise, though in truth the words had hit him as hard as a well-struck cricket ball to the temple. After a moment to gather his thoughts he answered truthfully, if somewhat disingenuously.

  ‘There are lots of things that I haven’t yet tried. Now if you excuse me I need to taste this rather fne-looking risotto.’ And with that, he unceremoniously ushered Eccles out of the room.

  Chapter 9

  The last glimmers of a weak autumnal sun had just abandoned St Jerome’s when the members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science began to gather for their frst menu-planning meeting. This was to be held in the kitchen cellars, an area that the kitchen staff had refused to enter after the cellar steward was killed in suspicious circumstances thirty or more years previously. As a result, this part of the cellars had fallen into disuse for many decades until Augustus Bloom suggested that they use them to create a tasting kitchen. It was an ideal location due to its privacy and proved easy to have basic kitchen equipment installed. A quiet word and a small envelope for Mr Potts was all that was needed for the required items to arrive unseen under the cover of darkness. A fne old mahogany door and a few wooden wine cases served as their table. It was a little crowded when their meetings frst started, but with the loss of several members over the last fve years, the surviving six now ftted quite comfortably.

  Even the most observant soul in college would have been hard pressed to detect any such gathering. Through force of habit and natural inclination all the members tended to arrive by their own particular route. The most direct path was generally taken by the Reverend Charles Pinker, and today was no exception. After leaving his rooms, Charles ducked into the college chapel to collect his folder of past menus from their new hiding place. He was responsible for looking after rules four and fve of the constitution of the shadow faculty; the rules that ensured their palates were always exposed to new and chal-lenging tastes. With the passing of each term it became increasingly hard for the faculty members to remember every detail of their previous dinners. It was also a source of great pleasure when a question arose that required the Reverend Pinker to read out a particular menu. Proceedings would at this point always dissolve into a round of comments, grunts of approval and the occasional groan when a gastronomic experiment had failed to live up to expectations was revisited. With the folder safely tucked under his arm he set out across Chapel Quad f
or the most direct route to the kitchens.

  Professor George Le Strang and Dr Hamish McIntyre converged on the tradesman’s entrance of the kitchens, which was located on a quiet cobbled street at the back of the college. Both were laden with the supplies intended to inspire the faculty in today’s de-liberations.

  ‘A good day hunting and gathering, George?’

  ‘One of the fnest. Bloxham’s even had some girolles.’ He lifted the clutch of bags in his right hand in triumph. ‘How about yourself, Ham-

  ish? Any new treasures from the animal kingdom?’ ‘Shiny, spikey and wriggly. Something for everyone.’ McIntyre winked back at Le

  Strang who valiantly tried to hide his distaste for that particular quirk of English bon-homie.

  Beneath the damp turf of Chapel Quad, Arthur Plantagenet was selecting the last bottle of wine. He gently wiped away the cobwebs on the label with the tenderness of a mother stroking the head of a sleeping child, then passed the bottle behind him.

  ‘There you go, Theodore. That’ll do.’

  Poor Theodore Flanagan took the bottle and struggled to add this to his already heavy load. A bottle in each outside jacket pocket, two half bottles in each inside jacket pock-et, three bottles under his left arm held against his chest and a bottle of port in his right hand, leaving just three fngers to grasp and carry the last precious bottle. Pro-fessor Plantagenet strode on, leaving poor Flanagan struggling to keep up in the gloom. Theodore took a few seconds to balance his extensive cargo of precious wines and, in that time, Arthur had disappeared entirely from view. While Arthur could walk from one end of the cellars to the other with his eyes shut, these were less well-known parts for Flanagan.

  ‘Arthur?’ called Theodore. He stood looking at the choice of two underground pas-sages, entirely uncertain which path to take. Flanagan was well versed in the folklore of the cellars and the lurid stories concerning the spectral Reverend Bloch. He certainly had no desire to either meet him or follow him in becoming the second fellow of St Jerome’s College to disappear in the cellars. Arthur did fnally come to his rescue, not by wondering where his colleague had got to and coming to fnd him, but by a loud and prolonged laugh that solved the dilemma of which passage led to the kitchen cellars.