‘Ah, Eccles. Welcome back.’
‘Oh, yes, sir… thank you… ’ Eccles mumbled in the direction of Dr Bloom’s knees. ‘I’ll see you later to go over last term’s exams. Let’s say eleven o’clock in my rooms?’ ‘Yes… yes… of course, sir.’ Eccles paused, unsure whether to say anything about the
death of the man who was clearly a good friend of his tutor. ‘I heard all about Professor Plantagenet.’
A look of panic fashed across Augustus Bloom’s face. ‘Heard what exactly?’
‘Well, about him dying and all that,’ mumbled Eccles, suddenly fearful that the news of Professor Plantagenet’s death at the end of last term had been no more than an inaccur-ate rumour.
‘Yes, of course. Tragic, tragic… and a great loss to us all,’ said a relieved Augustus. ‘By the way there’s a memorial service in the chapel at the end of the week. Perhaps you could let the rowing club know and anyone else who might want to come.’ With that, Augustus Bloom, still rattled by the mere mention of Arthur Plantagenet, turned on his heels before Eccles could reply.
Eccles for his part was happy that their conversation proved to be so brief and hurried on to the sanctuary of his rooms. He was barely through the door when a voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Eccles, there you are,’ said Kingsley-Hampton from one of the Chesterfeld arm-chairs. ‘Be a good man and nip out to collect a cake from the covered market. I’m ex-pecting guests. After that make yourself scarce.’
Eccles turned as slowly as he could without looking surly and made for the door, but Kingsley-Hampton hadn’t fnished.
‘Oh, and you know that dining club you so singularly failed to track down last term? I asked my father about that dead Japanese bloke over Christmas and he got rather vexed and told me not to meddle. So now I’m really interested to know who’s behind it. The dinner was held in this college so someone in the kitchens must know something. Go and ask the chef while you’re out.’
The thoughts going through Eccles’ head as he let the door slam after him might of-fend the gentler reader and so perhaps are best left to the imagination. Needless to say, Kingsley-Hampton’s fnal shouted request didn’t help.
‘Oh, and get some fresh milk, there’s a good man.’ *
A few minutes later and against his better judgement, Eccles found himself climbing the stone stairs into the Great Hall. At meal times the place was thronging with students and chatter, but now there was an eerie calm about the place. He was suddenly aware of the extraordinary volume of noise coming from his shoes on the stone fags and started to tiptoe. He was looking around for a door that he knew logically must exist but had nev-er seen, the door to the kitchens below. Just then an old oak door at the far end of the entrance lobby fung open to reveal a short but ample woman using her substantial bos-oms to support the four huge silver candelabras she was carrying. She walked directly at Eccles who remained frozen to the spot. Moments before their seemingly inevitable collision she caught sight of him through all the silver and let out a squeal of shock, al-most losing her load.
‘Goodness, sir, you gave me dreadful fright creeping around like a burglar. Anyway you’re too late for breakfast. You young men these days sleep until all hours, I don’t know, really I don’t.’ After relieving herself of these observations she continued on her way, bustling past the still frozen Eccles who felt a guilty blush rush up his face as he tried to gather his remaining shreds of poise.
‘I’m actually looking for the head chef.’
She looked back in surprise at the young man. Though trying to look masterly and businesslike, Eccles’ lost-lamb look had a very benefcial effect on Mary O’Sullivan, the head housekeeper. For her, there were two types of students: the toffs and the ducklings. She was clearly looking here at her favourite type – a duckling, the ones that need look-ing after.
‘Well then, we’d better be going and fnding him. Now help me down with these can-dlestick thingies.’
Once the eighteenth-century solid silver candelabras had been laid to rest on a nearby table, Mary O’Sullivan took Eccles by the arm and led him off down the back stairs to the kitchens.
Eccles and O’Sullivan cut a fne fgure as they passed down the large central aisle of the kitchen, arm in arm as if on the way back from the altar. Eccles was amazed at the scale of this underground world that students rarely if ever saw. He had never suspec-ted so many people worked to keep people like him fed. He was naturally greeted by suspicious looks from some and giggles from the younger girls as they peeled biblical mounds of potatoes. He was fnally brought through to a small room at the back where he was presented.
‘Morning, chef, this ’ere young man would like a word.’ She patted Eccles on the arm as she turned to leave.
‘Good luck, love.’ With a fnal smile and a wink she was gone, leaving Eccles stand-ing in front of the head chef and fervently wishing he had never started on this mission. The chef sat quietly, ticking items off a list with a pencil, which he then rather surpris-ingly stuck behind his ear. He was wearing a gleaming white coat, a relic from his days at the Savoy Hotel, with his name embroidered on the breast, Paul Roger. By this time, the soles of Eccles feet were burning and the power of speech seemed a distant memory. Finally, the chef looked up to inspect what the housekeeper had brought in.
‘So?’
‘Oh, er, well, Mr Rodger, it’s about… ’
‘ Rho-Jer , my name is Monsieur Roger .’
‘Oh, Monsieur Rho-jer, very sorry, yes, of course. Well I thought you’d be the best person to ask about an exotic dish that has come up in my studies.’
Flattery in any language, accent or country is generally well received and a slight softening could be detected on Monsieur Roger ’s stern visage.
‘Indeed, and what is zis dish?’
‘Fugu.’
Eccles fnally managed to lift his head and look his interlocutor in the eyes. ‘Fugu? Zis is not a French dish.’
‘No. Japanese, I believe.’
‘Well I zink you should be looking for a Japanese cook, no?’ ‘I heard it had been served here, at St Jerome’s… last year.’ Monsieur Roger dropped his head slightly to peer over the top of his reading glasses. ‘If such a dish ’ad been served ’ere I would be ze frst to know, don’t you zink?’ ‘Indeed, of course, er, thank you.’ Eccles retreated, nodding until he was clear of the
door and could make a dash for it.
*
When Eccles returned after a detour to collect the milk and cake, he received not a word of thanks from Kingsley-Hampton who sat in his chair engrossed in The Times .
‘Bang the kettle on there, old chap,’ Kingsley-Hampton said from behind the news-paper.
Eccles duly turned his attention to making tea. Though he resented being treated as a servant, he was more accepting of Kingsley-Hampton’s gentler requests, which put him in the role of a surrogate valet. Eccles found solace in the indubitable truth that he, like most valets, was considerably more intelligent than the man he was now expected to wait upon.
‘And?’ asked Kingsley-Hampton when Eccles handed him a cup of tea. ‘What did the chef tell you?’
‘He didn’t seem to know anything about Fugu at all. Suggested I go and fnd a Japan-ese chef.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
Eccles thought back and tried to recreate the words from the abstracted shorthand form within his head called memory.
‘Something like, “I’d have known” or “I’d be the frst person to know”.’ ‘So he didn’t give a clear “no”?’
‘Well… I thought it seemed pretty clear cut, but he didn’t actually say “no”.’ ‘I’d call that an evasive “yes”. But who the hell was it cooked for? Who is the shadow
faculty of gastronomic science? Did you ask that?’ Eccles shook his head in reply.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Eccles.’ Kingsley-Hampton gave The Times a dismissive shake and hid his annoyance behind it.
‘As they call themselves a facu
lty, it could be a bunch of dons, couldn’t it?’ said Ec-cles, trying to salvage some dignity from the conversation.
‘Can’t believe that. None of those old farts would have the balls to serve some toxic fsh at a dinner. No it has to be some secret student club.’
‘They must be pretty well connected to invite a Japanese diplomat.’ ‘No more connected than I am and as they haven’t yet invited me then it’s time to
start shaking a few trees.’ He started pacing the foor while Eccles struggled to fnd something constructive to say.
‘Perhaps they all died of Fugu poisoning at the last dinner.’ ‘We know for certain that at least one guest died, but I doubt it was all of them. I
managed to wrangle from my father that the cultural attaché at the Japanese embassy did die suddenly last term at a dinner in Oxford. When I pushed him for more details he got really stroppy. So someone around here went to a lot of trouble to keep that quiet, but the death of an entire dining society would be impossible to hide. So how do we fush them out? We need beaters.’
‘Beaters?’
‘Good God, Eccles, there are times when you’re almost intelligent and others when you are implausibly dense. Grouse-beaters are locals that march through the bracken and send the birds up in the air where you can shoot them.’
Eccles had never seen a grouse let alone shot one and so could reasonably plead ig-norance of the subtleties of shooting small defenceless birds.
‘How about placing an ad asking for information about a lost menu for this shadow faculty? Perhaps even offering a reward. They’ll know straight away that their cover has been blown. No-one else will bother to reply because we have the menu but they’ll be bound to contact us to try and shut us up if it’s that much of a secret.’
Kingsley-Hampton stopped in his tracks while his mind digested this plan. Although as a rule he always favoured his own ideas, on this occasion the lack of any thoughts of his own made him more receptive to the suggestions of others.
‘Why wouldn’t we just put up a notice saying we’d found this menu and offer to re-turn it to its rightful owner?’ Kingsley-Hampton asked.
‘They could just ignore a notice like that. If we pretended we were one of them that would really get their attention.’
‘Of course. If that were my dining society and someone like you pretended you were a member that would really piss me off. I couldn’t let anyone get away with that. Ex-cellent. I knew we’d crack this with a little effort. How about a small ad in Styx and a note on the union notice board. Something like: “Lost: one menu from shadow faculty of gastronomic science. Trinity term last year. Great sentimental value. £10 reward.” Oh, and make sure your name is on it.’
Kingsley-Hampton paused, clearly in deep thought. ‘Mind you that might link this back to me too. On second thoughts set up a post offce box number for the replies. That should do the trick, and add a nice spectre of mystery to the whole thing.’ He rubbed his hands in apparent glee.
‘Now my guests will be here soon so head off and get that sorted. Oh, and thanks for the cake.’
*
Well past the appointed tutorial hour of eleven o’clock, Augustus dashed up the stairs with a loaf of bread and a small bag of groceries to fnd Eccles sitting patiently on the top step.
‘Come in, come in. Sorry I’m late, Eccles. Grab a seat there.’ Eccles sat on the edge of the chair to the left of the fre where he always sat and
awaited his fate, as his tutor launched into the now comforting ritual of preparing tea and at least one edible item during the frst part of a tutorial.
‘So these exams of yours. Not bad but a bit patchy in places.’ Eccles nodded in agreement to Dr Bloom’s back as Augustus starting slicing into a
loaf of bread in the cooking alcove.
‘Very good essay on refexes, not bad on synapses, but a bit shaky on the humble action potential. Your exam papers are there on the desk by the window, have a look through them while I fnish off here.’
Eccles walked over and picked up his essays, which to his pleasant surprise were not heavily marked in red ink. He had almost fnished going over them when his tutor thrust a plate of fsh-smelling toast and a cup of grey Chinese tea into his hands.
‘Anchovy relish on buttered toast. It was one of Arthur Plantagenet’s favourite snacks.’
Eccles nibbled cautiously as Augustus wolfed down several slices. ‘You seem to have forgotten to mention tetrodotoxin in your action potential essay.
Odd, seeing as you seemed so interested in tetrodotoxin and Fugu last term. The chef even mentioned to me that someone had been down in the kitchens asking about Fugu this morning. That wasn’t you, by any chance?’
Dr Bloom looked across at his student who was fngering his toast and studiously avoiding eye contact.
‘Me? No, that must have been someone else.’ Eccles fushed as soon as the lie left his lips. Into his panicked mind came the image of what it would be like to die of Fugu poisoning, lying on the foor gasping for air like a goldfsh. With a shudder of revulsion, Eccles managed to clear the image and look up, only to see the shocked face of his tutor looking back.
‘Are you all right, Eccles? Is there anything you want to get off your chest?’ Augustus had just been fshing for clues. He had received a note from the chef barely
an hour ago that someone had been down in the kitchens asking about Fugu. His frst mildly paranoid reaction was that the vice-chancellor was sending in spies, but from the chef ’s description it must have been Eccles. So why would he lie about it?
‘No, sir. Nothing at all. Sorry, I’m not feeling that well, I think it may be this fsh paste. Would you excuse me?’ With that, Eccles ran out of the room, exam papers in one hand and toast in the other.
Augustus’ second and third-year student tutorials helped to take his mind off Eccles’ bizarre behaviour. Thank God the rest of them seemed sane. It was with huge relief that Augustus fnally made his way to the senior common room parlour for lunch.
‘Charles, glad I caught you on your own,’ said Augustus, taking the seat beside the chaplain. Charles mumbled his agreement through a spoonful of sherry-laced lobster bisque, as close to contented as his personality would allow. The chaplain was still of the belief that Arthur Plantagenet had been entirely cremated, thereby relieving them all of the more onerous obligations of his will. After setting in motion the frst steps of the curing process, Augustus had been carrying the burden of the truth for them all during the Christmas vacation. With each passing day, sharing the news of the true fate and in-deed location of Arthur’s leg became harder and harder. With the start of the new term he had vowed to tell the rest of the shadow faculty come what may. Here was the perfect opportunity.
‘What’s on your mind Augustus?’ asked the chaplain in his best pastoral tone. ‘Well… er… ’ Augustus hesitated for a fraction too long. Before he realised it he was
talking about Eccles rather than Arthur’s leg. ‘Do you know my student Eccles? Young nervous sort with a mess of red hair?’
‘Hmm, I think so.’
‘Well, the truth is I think he is going off the rails a bit. Could you have a chat with him? Make sure he is all right?’
‘Of course, of course, Augustus. I won’t make a big thing of it. I’ll try and bump into him sometime or invite him to tea. See what’s going on. First time away from home. A lot of temptations for a young man in Oxford.’
After that the pair sat in silence until the room flled with the voices and inconsequen-tial chatter of other fellows of the college as they all fled in for lunch. Augustus began to doubt there would ever be a suitable time to explain to the others what he had been doing with Arthur Plantagenet’s leg.
Chapter 21
The chapel was never designed for the crowd that assembled on that frst Sunday of Hil-ary term. The whole of the senior common room were present of course, as well as a few select dignitaries from the faculty of ancient history. It was the number of past students that exceeded
all expectations. The assembled mass of Arthur Plantagenet’s past students had clearly forgotten the ritual humiliation of his tutorials and laboured humour of his lectures, so it could only have been the appeal of the man himself that had brought them back. Nostalgia and time had distilled and glorifed their memories so much that if Arthur himself had come back from the dead to meet them they would hardly have recognised him. It wasn’t just students of ancient history who had assembled: Arthur had also been popular amongst the students of other faculties too. This popularity arose at least in part from his enthusiastic support of the rowing and rugby clubs, which was expressed in the form of funding of their respective clubs’ beer requirements each term.
The bulk of those brought back to Oxford by the announcement in The Times got no further than the grass outside the chapel on which they unconsciously assembled in groups by year, subject or, in the case of the products of the grander public schools, by their alma mater . Into the already overfowing chapel the Master arrived with his reluct-ant guest, the vice-chancellor. Those standing in the antechapel made way as the two men swept in wearing their gowns of offce, allowing them to take their place in the reserved seats next to the dean of Christchurch.
The dean was presiding over the service to allow Charles Pinker to play the organ as specifcally requested in Arthur’s will. Charles still wanted to meet the congregation per-sonally as they assembled, so St Jerome’s current organ scholar was left to serve up an innocuous menu of Bach while the guests arrived. This was delivered in the fowing and entirely ignorable fashion of a pianist during tea service at one of the better hotels. The sound was absolutely right for the occasion and its absence would have been sorely felt, but those in the chapel were only subliminally aware of what was being played and the volume of Bach’s Cantata number 208 was just right to mask the murmur of conversa-tion without in any way hindering it. When the chapel doors closed, Charles headed up the steep stairs to the organ loft.
The dean then rose for the welcoming remarks and opening prayers. The service moved onto familiar territory with a rousing chorus of ‘Jerusalem’ from the whole con-gregation. After the frst few notes escaped from the heavy doors of the chapel, the con-gregation on the lawn outside rose to their feet and joined in. Charles had selected the readings himself and, steering clear of any selections from Leviticus regarding what one should and shouldn’t eat, played safe with readings from the Book of Wisdom and one of St Paul’s letters to the Romans. In an oblique tribute to Arthur’s gargantuan appetite, he selected Luke 9:10-17 as the Gospel reading. Then Augustus Bloom rose to his feet and made his way to the lectern for the eulogy.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 16