Although generally fercely loyal to his college, Augustus Bloom preferred the greater majesty and certainly better choirs of other colleges. Magdalen College’s evensong was by far his favourite, followed by New College, with Christchurch as a reasonable third choice if he was running late, as it was the closest of the three. But this evening he had arranged to meet the chaplain to fnalise the guest list and menu for this term’s dinner. Although the setting was not quite so atmospheric nor the choir as ethereal as it might have been, he was looking forward to the distinct pleasure of hearing the voice of God, as Charles Pinker liked to describe Bach’s organ works in his more lyrical moments, played by one of Oxford’s fnest organists.
The service turned out to be far better than Augustus had expected. An excellent in-troitus by Tomkins. The magnifcat and nunc dimittis by Orlando Gibbons was ably ex-ecuted but the anthem, Palestrina’s Exultate Deo was quite sublime. As the service came to an end, Augustus settled back and closed his eyes to listen to the organ voluntary. As the last momentous notes echoed away into the cold silence of the chapel Augustus, a confrmed agnostic, felt he had at least glimpsed ‘the peace that passes all understanding’ that the chaplain kept trying to convince him was at the heart of all spirituality. When he fnally opened his eyes, the last pairs of feet were leaving the chapel and the door clunked heavily behind them. Rising to his own feet he saw that Charles Pinker was still sitting at the organ.
Charles collected his music and spun his legs over the bench seat. ‘Augustus. Don’t just sit there, come up and give me a hand.’
By the time Augustus reached the organ loft there was no earthly sign of the chaplain. Seeing the secret panel door at the side of the organ swinging on its hinges, he knew in an instant where Charles had gone. He was about to head up the stone staircase to the room where Arthur’s leg lay in rest when the chaplain appeared from behind the organ, arms laden with boxes of papers.
‘There you are, Charles. I must say fne evensong tonight and I loved that last organ piece. Bach, I presume.’
‘Who else? Bach’s Passacaglia in C minor,’ said Charles testily. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind, could you collect the rest of our archives from upstairs? They can’t be left here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well if you already know about this room then probably half the college does. On refection I reckon they’ll be safer from prying eyes back in my rooms. At least I can lock my own door.’
‘Okay, if you say so, but why are they here in the frst place? I thought they were always kept in your room?’
‘I thought they’d be safer here after Dr Ridgeway started kicking up a stink.’ ‘I think we are safe on that score now, Charles, what with Arthur’s legacy.’ ‘Oh yes, of course. All thanks to Arthur’s bloody will. Where would we be without
it?’
Augustus knew better than to reply to that particular question and headed up the stairs in silence to collect the last of the shadow faculty’s records from the room above, fol-lowed by the muttering chaplain. Within the stone walls of the chapel, the ethereal fgure of the Reverend Hieronymus Theophilus Bloch looked down on Dr Bloom and the cur-rent chaplain with a certain annoyance. The Reverend Bloch had learnt of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science just a few months ago when the archives had been for-tuitously delivered within his sphere of movement. He was, by the curiously fckle and unpredictable spectral rules of ghosts, limited to the wine cellars and the chapel. These menus were the discovery of the century for Bloch, possibly only surpassed when the college started laying down Château Petrus at the end of the nineteenth century. Bloch was therefore not unreasonably upset with the prospect of losing such vicarious gastro-nomic delights. Charles Pinker suddenly shuddered, struck by an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Fortunately for Charles Pinker the Reverend Bloch’s interaction with the corporeal plane of existence was, by those same curiously fckle and unpredictable rules, limited to bottles of wine in the cellars. So all Bloch achieved as he tried to block Charles Pinker’s path was to make the current chaplain shiver with cold and hasten his desire to escape. Charles thrust the nearest box of documents towards Augustus and, gathering the rest in his arms, hurried down the stairs.
It wasn’t until Charles Pinker had crossed the threshold into the safety of his rooms in Old Quad that he admitted to Augustus that one of the menus had gone missing.
‘Oh, come on Charles. It’s bound to be in this pile somewhere.’ ‘Trust me, I’ve checked and double checked.’
‘Which one?’
‘It was one from last summer’s dinner, so I know for certain that I had it here some-where.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Who is it?’ said Charles, leaping to the door and holding the handle in case anyone tried to force their way in.
‘Mr Potts, sir. I’ve a delivery from Taylor and Sons, the framers.’ ‘Oh, Mr Potts do come in. Sorry, I wasn’t quite sure who it was,’ said Charles. Potts ambled in with a large parcel immaculately wrapped in brown paper. ‘There you go, sir and I’m sorry to disturb you and… Oh, Dr Bloom, good day to you
too. It’s this er… napkin thing of yours what that clot broke when ’e bashed into you, chaplain.’
Charles Pinker pulled off the wrapping to reveal the reframed constitution of the Fa-culty of Gastronomic Science, the original having been damaged in his impetuous trans-fer of the faculty archives to the chapel.
‘Good God, Charles, what happened to it?’
‘Well, I er… ’ The chaplain’s explanation ground to a halt, but Mr Potts flled in the details.
‘It was that clot Kingsley-Hampton – walked right into the chaplain, he did. Not look-ing or caring where he was going as usual.’
Mr Potts was generally very accepting of the class divisions that Oxford and indeed English society was built upon. After the trials and tribulations of his chequered military career, Potts was delighted to have the status of head porter and felt it only right and proper that he had to defer to clever young upstarts, mostly but not entirely born into a level of society that Potts felt was far above him. But the likes of the honourable Kingsley-Hampton rankled with Potts. He liked proper toffs but Kingsley-Hampton had only acquired his ‘honourable’ title last year when his father Edmund was made a life peer for political services, despite being born into a family with a small corner shop in east London: a fact known to all as the story had been covered in depth in the Oxford Times . A scholarship to a good school and an even better marriage into the Kingsley’s of Richmond had catapulted the young Edmund Hampton into parliament and eventually the offspring of this union, Matthew Kingsley-Hampton, into Oxford University.
‘Charles, how did this character end up damaging our constitution?’ asked Augustus Bloom.
‘Well, it was all in this confusion about moving our archives. I had a small collision in the quad.’
‘The missing menu couldn’t have been lost at the same time, could it Charles?’ ‘I’m sure, no, I’d have… Potts, you didn’t fnd a menu by any chance that day?’ ‘No, sir. It was just the broken glass on this here framed whatever-it-is.’ ‘Potts, this Kingsley-Hampton chap, where are his rooms?’ said Augustus. ‘Staircase fve, at the top, room three, sharing with that new boy, Eccles. He’s another
queer one too, getting sack loads of mail.’
‘Good God!’
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, that’s fne, Mr Potts, excellent in fact. Many thanks.’ Augustus ushered the con-fused Mr Potts to the door before turning his attention again to the chaplain.
*
After leaving the chaplain’s rooms, Augustus made his way to the porter’s lodge. He found Mr Potts in the back room of the lodge sorting through a large pile of envelopes addressed to Mr P. Eccles.
‘Potts, I have a slight problem that I hope you might help me with.’ ‘Course, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s this Kingsley-Hampton chap, I have reason to think he picked up one of the menus for our little d
ining society when he collided with the chaplain. It seems he’s been getting my student Eccles to nose around and ask questions. With all this business with Arthur still going on, we don’t want anyone snooping into the affairs of the shadow fac-ulty right now.’
‘Oh no, indeed not, sir.’
‘You wouldn’t be able to get one of the scouts to keep an eye out for it would you? It would look just like this.’ Augustus showed him an elegant ivory-boarded menu from an earlier dinner bearing St Jerome’s crest with the pages behind held in place with black and purple ribbon.
‘I’ll take care of that myself, Dr Bloom; wouldn’t want anyone else getting wind of this.’
‘Thank you, Potts.’ Augustus headed off to the senior common room parlour for a badly needed sherry before dinner.
Potts collected his bowler hat and black coat and ambled out into the cold night. He stood on the worn stone step between the lodge and Old Quad, surveying the scene while rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. He looked up at the lights coming from staircase fve, letting out a little smile as the room on the second foor went dark. A few minutes later, Kingsley-Hampton and Eccles started their way across the quad: straight across the quad, in fact, ignoring the signs to avoid the grass. As they drew near Potts called out.
‘Good evening, Mr Hampton, Mr Eccles. Take care on the grass there. Bit slippy this time of year.’
‘It’s the honourable Kingsley-Hampton to you, Potts, and I’ll walk where I damn well please, thank you very much.’
‘Indeed, sir. Have a good dinner. Oh… and Mr Eccles, there’s another bag of letters here when you’ve got a chance.’
Eccles nodded an acknowledgement only to be rewarded by a clip over the back of the head from Kingsley-Hampton’s hand as they headed out of the quad and towards the Hall for dinner.
After a few more minutes of watching the college empty into the Hall, the time was right. Potts slipped almost silently around the stone fags and disappeared into the en-trance of staircase fve. At the door he removed a small ring of skeleton keys. Of course he had keys to every room in the college on huge metal rings back at the lodge, but he liked to keep his skills up. Entering the dark room he pulled a large torch from his coat and started the search, only to be met by towers of paper and card casting wild shadows on the walls behind.
‘Bloody ’eck, the little blighter ’s gone bonkers.’ Almost every fat surface was covered with stacks of menus of every style and per-
suasion, from handwritten to badly typed, and a few formal printed menus from din-ners and weddings. Eccles’ plan had not gone well from the point of view of rousing the members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science, as not one of them had seen the notice at the union or the advertisement in the Styx . These efforts had nevertheless revealed a surprising lust for the £10 reward and an enthusiasm for amateurish forgery amongst the undergraduates of Oxford.
Potts searched all the piles looking for the crest and ribbons in the style he’d just been shown by Augustus. After a fruitless search, the sounding of the nearby bells on the half hour disturbed him. If they skipped dessert, Eccles and Kingsley-Hampton could be back in a few minutes. Potts tidied up the piles and after a fnal check left the room and headed back to the lodge, grabbing all the letters bulging out of the ‘E’ pigeonhole before heading inside to put the kettle on. Five minutes later he was sitting with a cup of tea and two suspicious envelopes addressed to Patrick Eccles that had been expertly steamed open. The frst contained a poorly typed menu and a handwritten note.
Dear Sir ,
I saw your notice on the union notice board. I’m sure this is the menu you have misplaced. I look forward to receiving my £10 reward . Yours faithfully ,
Norman Linkslip
Balliol
The other note was from a young and sympathetic lady from St Hilda’s College by the name of Jean Emily Stancheon.
Dear Sir ,
I was terribly sorry to read about your loss in Styx. I hate losing things myself. Only last week I lost my fountain pen, which once belonged to my grandmother, so you can imagine how upset I was. Anyway I can’t say I’ve found your menu, but your dining society sounds terribly good just from the name and I’d love to join up. Do write and let me know how I can become a member. With the very best wishes ,
JS
Jean Emily Stancheon
ps I have rooms at 43a Banbury Road, please write to me there . Chapter 25
To the great relief of Mr Potts, the curious furry of mail forwarded by the post offce for Mr Patrick Eccles dried to a mere trickle by the end of that week. After being alerted to the problem, he had taken the precaution of discreetly inspecting the contents of all en-velopes of suffcient size to enclose the sort of menu shown to him by Augustus Bloom. Each revealed only irrelevant offerings from entirely forgettable dinners that had long been ingested, digested and abluted. The pain of failing in the mission given to him by Augustus Bloom was exacerbated by the impact on Potts’ hands. As expert as Mr Potts was at this task, the occasional contact between steam and fngers was unavoidable. The ensuing blisters had been concealed behind plasters, but the effect on Potts’ mood was all too obvious to any poor undergraduate who vexed the porter in any way during that week.
At the requested hour, Potts made his way to the kitchen cellars to meet Augustus and the chaplain. Augustus had decided that there was no need to brief the whole faculty on the loss of the menu and his student’s investigations. With each further menu that arrived in the post, it seemed less likely that he or his roommate could have any idea of the sig-nifcance of the one that Charles had lost.
‘So Mr Potts there has seen no sign of the menu that Charles thinks might have fallen into the hands of Mr Kingsley-Hampton?’ asked Augustus.
‘I’m very sorry, Dr Bloom,’ replied Mr Potts. ‘I did get back to their room a few times but I couldn’t fnd ’ide nor ’air of it, but it’s clear they’ve been burning most of them.’
‘Most unfortunate. I really don’t know what we’ll do,’ said the chaplain, whose already delicate mental state had crumbled further in recent days. ‘Imagine if the story of Mr Tokoro gets out and then Arthur. If they start asking questions the whole thing could explode in our faces. Arthur and his bloody will and the rest of it.’
‘Charles,’ said Augustus in a reassuring tone, ‘really there is nothing to worry about. If they wanted to cause any trouble, why would they bother collecting all those other menus?’
‘So what is your explanation, Augustus?’ asked Charles. ‘Well all I can think of is that Kingsley-Hampton did fnd the menu and this triggered
an interest on the part of his roommate Eccles to collect as many Oxford menus as he could. I do seem to recall from his entrance interview that he collected stamps, so he must have that sort of personality.’
‘Barking you mean?’ offered Potts, trying in vain to lighten the atmosphere. ‘He seemed quite normal when I had him in for a chat at the start of term. At your
suggestion, Augustus, I might add,’ said Charles. ‘Which begs the question, if there is nothing to worry about, why were you so concerned about him at the start of term?’
‘That was when I discovered he was asking questions about Fugu.’ ‘What? You never told me that,’ said Charles.
‘I didn’t want to worry you. Look, as far as I can tell, no harm has been done, so why don’t we just keep a close watch on the pair of them, particularly Eccles as the menus were clearly addressed to him. I see him every week anyway for a tutorial.’
‘Why don’t you just ask him straight out?’ asked Charles. ‘That would really spook him. Even if he does have our menu, he clearly has no idea
of its signifcance. It probably just caught his attention because I happened to be teach-ing about action potentials and tetrodotoxin and he’d come across puffer fsh in his stud-ies. I’ll certainly avoid that particular topic from now on. Now, Mr Potts, I’m sure we can rely on you to keep your eyes and ears open. If anything peculiar hap
pens don’t for-get to let me know.’
‘Absolutely, sir, you can count on me.’ With that, Potts nodded his head in deference and headed off through the kitchens back towards the lodge.
‘Perhaps you could keep a pastoral eye on Eccles too, Charles, just to be sure.’ Seeing the uneasy combination of doubt and annoyance in Charles’ eyes, he added, ‘Everything will turn out fne, you’ll see.’
‘Oh I’m sure this menu will turn up somewhere; it’s our eternal souls you should be worried about,’ said Charles with sudden passion.
‘We’ve been through this a hundred times, Charles. We really have no choice, and what harm can it do?’
‘Harm? Just because some daft old sod writes a will doesn’t mean we should risk eternal damnation by becoming cannibals.’ With that Charles rose to his feet and headed off into the cellars without a backward glance.
‘I think Arthur would have preferred the term anthropophagists,’ said Augustus into the darkness of the cellars.
*
Over the next few weeks, the relationship between Augustus and Patrick Eccles, though strained, returned to a semblance of normality. Both felt they knew more than the other suspected, so neither said or did anything that might arouse suspicion. Fortunately, Augustus had no need to directly raise the issue of tetrodotoxin again in tutorials. With the new term the time had come to move on from teaching about the nervous system. Augustus taught his frst-year students on a different system of the body each term: the nervous system in Michaelmas term, cardiovascular system in Hilary term, followed by the respiratory system in Trinity term. With this new term he had moved Eccles onto the apparently safe topic of the cardiovascular system as planned, though this forced Augustus to be teaching about the very subject that had caused his dearest friend’s death. It hadn’t escaped Augustus’ notice that education was mirroring tragedy term by term: death by nervous paralysis at the end of last Trinity term, and death by a failure of the normal heart rhythm at the end of Michaelmas. Though a devoutly non-superstitious person by personality and training, a small part of Augustus did worry what dire suffoc-ating fate might befall someone he knew as he moved on to teach about respiration next term.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 19