The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  ‘Oh Christ forgive us!’ Charles slumped back in his seat. ‘Now, come on, Augustus, old chap; you can’t really be agreeing with Theodore that

  we just have to get on and eat him?’ asked Hamish. ‘I think it’s what Arthur wanted and as long as it’s not illegal then… Then I think we

  are obliged to follow the express wishes of his will. Isn’t that right, Theodore?’ ‘I’m sorry to say that I think it is. As executors we are obliged to administer the estate

  of the deceased in accordance with the terms of the will and according to the law. Unless we petition the House of Commons to introduce a law to outlaw cannibalism I see no option but do what Arthur asked of us.’

  ‘So let’s do that!’ said Charles.

  ‘I think that would draw more attention on us than you might like, Charles. It would certainly do little to endear us to the vice-chancellor,’ concluded Theodore.

  ‘Arthur’s money will keep the vice-chancellor off our backs,’ said Augustus. ‘Talk-ing of which, don’t forget Arthur’s will also requires us to invite the vice-chancellor to dinner to receive his bequest to the university and unwittingly to join in this grand gast-ronomic experiment.’

  ‘I still don’t see why we can’t just keep the will secret and forget the whole daft idea. I know you explained about executors and all that, but who would know?’ asked Ge-orge.

  ‘Well we’ve already told the Master about the money and he’s told the vice-chancel-lor. So the existence of the will is already well known. If we take the money and ignore Arthur’s other requests we are certainly acting illegally. Each provision of a will has equal weight in law,’ explained Theodore.

  ‘Why can’t we declare that Arthur was not in sound mind when he made the damn will? That sort of thing must happen all the time,’ asked Charles.

  ‘It’s not really fair to tarnish Arthur’s memory by saying he was crazy, Charles,’ said Augustus. ‘That would be the height of disloyalty.’

  The rest of the table nodded their assent. All, that is, apart from the chaplain. ‘Well, I think you are all mad, quite certifable,’ said Charles, sitting back in his chair

  and folding his arms in a weak attempt at defance. *

  By the time the fve dons had resurfaced, no avenue of escape had been identifed. Theodore and Augustus were strangely resigned to following through with the require-ments of Arthur’s will. Hamish was a little squeamish, but the idea had germinated a spark of curiosity in him. Add to that the truly delicious thought of watching the vice-chancellor tuck into Arthur’s leg and Hamish was not far from becoming an eager ac-complice. George was opposed to eating his former colleague primarily on the basis that he would most probably taste awful, while the poor chaplain was in a state of extreme theological turmoil. As Charles crossed the quad, muttering to himself, he was spotted by Patrick Eccles who was sitting in the window seat of his room ostensibly reading over his latest essay. Eccles sprang to his feet. By the time Eccles had hurtled down the stairs to reach the fagstones of Old Quad, Charles Pinker had reached the frst step of his own staircase.

  Eccles slowed to a more casual pace, trying to look as if he were merely going for a stroll, but a biting wind and the lack of an overcoat made this pretence almost im-possible as he shivered around to the other side of the quad. Sheltering inside the stone entrance of the chaplain’s staircase, Eccles paused to gather his thoughts and practise his opening words in his head. He started to climb the wooden stairs, wincing at each creak and trying to adapt his gait to make the next step quieter. By the time he reached the top, his legs were spread to each side of the stairs in the vain search for solid, non-creaking wood. He paused again outside the door, listening before raising his hand to knock. He could hear muffed voices, the chaplain’s mostly. The words Eccles frst made out were ‘Arthur’, ‘Hell’ and ‘Sin’. Then after a brief silence, Eccles could have sworn he heard the voice of the recently deceased Arthur Plantagenet himself. Before he could hear anymore, the silence of the stairwell was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps on the lower steps. Eccles spun on his heels and tripped down the stairs, just managing to fnd his balance before colliding with Augustus Bloom who was on his way up. The pair passed each other in total silence with only the briefest nod of acknowledgement.

  Augustus didn’t pause at the door. If he had stopped to listen, he would also have heard the intense conversation from the other side. Instead, he hammered insistently on the door. As anxious as he was to calm his friend’s nerves, more pressing was the need to make sure the chaplain didn’t do anything that might expose them all. With his knock, all sounds from the chaplain’s room stopped and then the door opened by a small crack, revealing an ashen-faced Charles Pinker.

  ‘Augustus, er… can’t talk now. Can I see you later?’ ‘Are you all right, Charles?’

  ‘Fine, really fne. Just got someone here now, a bit delicate. I’ll see you later.’ Augustus nodded in assent and slowly wound his way down the stairs. Charles closed the door and leant against it in relief with his eyes closed. Then, after

  a deep breath he opened his eyes.

  ‘Arthur!’ he hissed scanning the room. ‘Where are you? Come back, you old bastard, I hadn’t fnished yet.’

  On getting back to his rooms, Augustus Bloom collapsed into his favourite armchair, mentally going over the morning’s events. For Augustus, the sooner they completed the tasks Arthur had bequeathed them the sooner life would return to normal, so from that perspective things had gone passably well. Augustus looked up at the urn on his mantel-piece that contained Arthur’s ashes, well the ashes of most of his body at least. His mind turned to the more practical aspects of Arthur’s last will and testament. The picnic with the truffed turkey could wait until the frst fne weekend of next term. As to visiting Rome and Venice to deposit the rest of the ashes, that would have to wait until the long vacation. Once he had mentally resolved these more pragmatic issues, Augustus was left looking at the urn. After a long period of refection his mind returned to the question of serving Arthur at dinner. He looked up and addressed the urn.

  ‘Arthur, have you any notion of the mayhem you are creating down here?’ Chapter 23

  Dr Ridgeway, the vice-chancellor, turned over the pages of the newspaper on his desk with disdain. He held the pages cautiously in just one fnger and thumb with his other fngers held as far away from the paper as anatomy permitted, as if he were afraid of catching a morbid disease from its pages. The editor of this particular publication was at that moment being escorted up St John’s Street by one of the university proctors, accom-panied by two bowler-hatted assistants, or Bulldogs as they are commonly called. Rupert Atworth had been publicly hauled out of the junior common room at Worcester College just after breakfast, protesting violently and incoherently about the freedom of the press and the fascist forces of the university establishment. Whilst sharing these very valid sen-timents, not one of the other undergraduates felt the need to support Atworth in any signi-fcant or practical manner. They nodded, tutted and a few even clapped in what they had hoped was an obvious sign of support for their fellow student. Unfortunately, this was interpreted by the Bulldogs as support for their actions and by the student in question as treasonable disloyalty.

  Atworth was manhandled through the door of Dr Ridgeway’s offce, truly baffed as to which of the glib and inconsequential stories about undergraduate life had been deemed so dangerous.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. There is no need to be so… rough.’ He smiled sycophantically at Atworth before continuing. ‘Now Mr Atworth… May I call you Rupert?’

  Atworth looked back at the vice-chancellor in a blank and unresponsive stare. Even the difference in age and status between them was not enough to assuage the inalienable sense of superiority that Rupert Atworth felt over the vice-chancellor by virtue of his breeding. Unbeknownst to the vice-chancellor, the student who had been frogmarched in-to his offce was the second son of Field Marshall Atworth and thirty-ffth in line to the throne, further deaths and
breeding amongst those closer in line notwithstanding. Some-what thrown by the icy defant stare, the vice-chancellor continued more cautiously.

  ‘I must apologise for the harshness of the proctors. I had merely asked that they bring you along to my offce. This is really just an informal chat.’

  ‘My father won’t be impressed, you know.’

  ‘Indeed. Now I need some more information about a certain advert that was placed the other week in your publication: this one.’ He tossed the copy of Styx , an unoffcial undergraduate newspaper, across the table. At the open page, one particular advert had been circled in red.

  Lost: One menu of great sentimental value relating to a dinner of the Shadow Faculty of Gastronomic Science. Reward of £10 if returned.

  ‘Only a post offce box number is given in the advertisement for contact. I merely need to know who placed this advertisement.’

  ‘Do you know who my father is?’

  ‘The problem I have is that when I approached the post offce they could only tell me that all mail was being forwarded on and I would need a court order to be told to where and to whom.’

  ‘Field Marshall Atworth. He served in the Royal Fusiliers with the real Chancellor, you know.’

  Ridgeway was a little taken aback at this news and the curiously disconnected con-versational style of this young man.

  ‘A most esteemed military gentleman whom I am sure would be most keen for you to assist me in my duties.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Atworth tried to sound surly, but unfortunately Dr Ridgeway had se-cured an unexpected direct hit with his last comment. The Field Marshall was extremely unimpressed that his son was dabbling in journalism. If he were in the room at this mo-ment he would undoubtedly clip him over the head and order a detailed statement of everything his son knew about whatever sordid affair he was mixed up with, even if he wasn’t.

  ‘This is a delicate matter with ramifcations that extend far wider than you could pos-sibly imagine. It is certainly a matter that I wish to keep the police and judiciary well away from.’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do, sorry.’ Atworth was now more perplexed than angry. How could a small ad like that cause this much trouble?’

  ‘But you’re the editor. So… ’

  After a pause of several interminable seconds, it was the editor of Styx that gave way. ‘So you want me to fnd out who it is?’

  ‘Precisely. Shall we say Monday morning, back here in my offce?’ Once Atworth had been ejected onto the street of Wellington Square, the vice-chancellor afforded himself a smile. When elected he had high hopes of sweeping away a thousand years of complacent academic torpor within his frst year of breathtaking reforms. Now he had, with a little guidance, lowered his sights to merely winning each skirmish that came his way and moving the mountain teaspoonful by teaspoonful. Spurred on by this latest small victory, he picked up the phone to call Lord Faulkner, Master of St Jerome’s.

  ‘Lord Faulkner? Kenneth Ridgeway, the vice-chancellor here.’ ‘And?’ Phone etiquette was never one of the Master’s strong points and he was really

  in no mood for small talk.

  ‘Well, it’s about the late Professor Arthur Plantagenet and his legacy to the uni-versity.’

  ‘Oh, the money. I was wondering when you’d get back to me about that.’ ‘Oh, you misunderstand, Lord Faulkner,’ said the vice-chancellor in his gentlest

  tones. ‘I fully appreciate that these things take time and I wouldn’t dream of calling you about the details. My offce can take care of that when the time comes. No, the prob-lem is that Arthur’s legacy is in peril of being tarnished by the activities of his former colleagues in this ridiculous gastronomical club. Something has appeared in one of the student newspapers, which suggests the story about Mr Tokoro we both worked so hard to suppress may be about to raise its ugly head.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about any repercussions from last year,’ replied the Master with the delight of a man holding a pair of twos who has been dealt three aces.

  ‘I can’t share your confdence. This could still refect very badly on the university, and of course Professor Plantagenet. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of it yet.’

  ‘Well, I have just received a letter from the Japanese ambassador which I think brings the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. He was extremely gracious in thanking all the members of the society for their kind letters about the incident. So there is really no problem for you to be worrying about.’

  ‘The ambassador wrote a letter of thanks? Oh well that is encouraging, but that wouldn’t stop a disreputable journalist trying to make hay.’

  ‘I’m sure there are far better things to talk about than a dead diplomat. Now, what was in this student rag?’

  ‘An advertisement asking for information about a lost menu from the… what do they call themselves? Oh, yes, the shadow faculty of gastronomic science.’

  ‘A menu? You’re worried about a lost menu? Good God man, haven’t you anything better to do?’

  It took no more than ten minutes for Rupert Atworth to reach the gates of St Jerome’s. He sped through the lodge and cut straight across the grass of Old Quad. The ‘Oy, you! Keep off the grass!’ from Potts barely reaching his ears before he had reached his old school friend’s staircase. Matthew Kingsley-Hampton was still sitting in pyjamas in front of a blazing fre when Atworth burst into the room and was confronted by a wall of heat.

  ‘Christ almighty, Mattie-boy. I don’t know what you’re up to but it must be big.’ ‘For God’s sake, Rupert, sit down. And please don’t call me Mattie-boy. I’m not one

  of your Labradors, you know. Now what has you so hot and bothered?’ ‘Why is it so damn hot in here?’ said Atworth, displaying his talent for random

  thought association.

  ‘Just burning some old menus collected by my idiot roommate. Now, do you want to explain why you just burst in like a madman or do I have to guess?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Well I was having breakfast in the junior common room when these pair of bloody Bulldogs dragged me out, right up St John’s Street to the vice-chancellor’s of-fce. The vice-chancellor’s offce for Christ’s sake.’ He paused for dramatic effect, but, disappointed by Kingsley-Hampton’s complete lack of reaction, gave up and carried on talking. ‘All because of your bloody advert.’

  He suddenly had Kingsley-Hampton’s complete attention. ‘You’re kidding. What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, “major national importance”, “didn’t want to bring in the police”. All very hush-hush.’

  ‘He must’ve explained why?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t seem to be in an explaining sort of mood.’ ‘Did you ask for an explanation?’

  ‘Oh, well not in so many words.’

  ‘In any words?’

  ‘Er, no,’ admitted a crestfallen Atworth. It was like being back at school again. He had spent his schooldays on the receiving end of these sorts of schoolmasterly put-downs. It seemed he was destined to spend much of his adult life in the same position. In contrast, his school friend Kingsley-Hampton was clearly destined for the life as a barrister in the high court, if the urge or need to work for his living ever reared its ugly head.

  ‘So what did you tell him? Did you tell him it was me?’ ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But… ’

  ‘Well, I sort of agreed to fnd out who placed the ad and tell him on Monday.’ ‘Holy crap, I’m surrounded by idiots.’ Kingsley-Hampton cradled his shaking head

  in his hands for a second. ‘Well, next time you see your friend the vice-chancellor, tell him it was Patrick no-bloody-middle-name-because-I’m-boring-and-middle-class Ec-cles.’

  Atworth stared back blankly.

  ‘My cretinous roommate. The ad was his idea and all we got in return is a room full of effing menus and a request for the £10 reward. They’ve kept the fre burning nicely for a week, but provided absolutely no information about this damn Russian roulette dining society.’

  Between the v
ice-chancellor and the now ranting Kingsley-Hampton, Atworth was more than a little out of his depth. It was therefore a great relief when Kingsley-Hampton calmed down enough to explain about the menu and the death of the Japanese diplomat. This explanation took a while, but eventually Kingsley-Hampton managed to hammer a coherent picture of events into his interlocutor’s head. As Atworth gazed at the original menu retrieved from Kingsley-Hampton’s trunk, his journalistic spirit came to the fore.

  ‘Look, if you can’t entice them out, let me fush them out. I’ll run it on the front page of the frst edition next term. Big headline: “Russian Roulette Dining Soc Kills Japanese Ambassador. Who will die next?”’

  ‘Don’t you think the vice-chancellor might get a little pissed off? Not a very hush-hush approach.’

  ‘Oh, stuff him. Christ, I could get a job at The Times on the back of this.’ In the room beside them, Patrick Eccles had been lying on his bed reading a book,

  banished from the front room by Kingsley-Hampton for crimes unspecifed. When he overheard the start of Atworth’s story, he’d sat up on his bed waiting for the right mo-ment to walk nonchalantly out of his room and join the conversation. It soon became clear to him that no such moment was likely to arise. By the time Atworth fnally took his leave, Eccles doubted leaving the room would ever be a good idea.

  Chapter 24

  Augustus Bloom sat waiting for evensong to begin in the chapel at St Jerome’s. He had arrived early to guarantee a place in the back row of the famboyantly canopied choir stalls. These seats were enveloped by carved wood embellishments that looked far more pagan than Christian, with unicorns, cloven-hoofed elephants and faces contorted in an-ger or pain or both. These canopies served to isolate the inhabitant very effectively. This spared Augustus from the need to interact with those seated on either side, which was a great blessing for Augustus who much preferred evensong as a solitary experience. Even better were the ornately carved misericords underneath the hinged seats of this back row. These small shelves that derive their name from the Latin word for mercy had the merci-ful beneft of allowing those attending services to take the weight off their feet, by resting their posteriors when the seat was folded up yet appear to be standing.