‘Well, they’re not ’ere so you’d best just leave them with me,’ Potts replied, stretching out his hand which hung in the air for a few moments before he fnally realised the resolve facing him.
‘As I said, Mr Potts, the vice-chancellor’s in a bit of a steam about this so if you could just tell us where Mr Eccles’ and Dr Bloom’s rooms are we will go and wait for them to return.’
‘Like I said, Eccles ain’t here. If you wait here for a minute I can see if I can fnd Dr Bloom. But I’m warning you, ’e won’t be too impressed by this sort of palaver.’
Potts stormed out of the lodge to fnd Augustus Bloom. He was in such a state that he didn’t notice the small man lurking just outside the gates. Once Potts was gone, the little man slid through the gate and walked unnoticed into the college.
Potts sped up the stairs to Dr Bloom’s room and hammered on the door with even more force than usual.
‘Is it urgent, Potts?’ asked Dr Bloom when he opened the door. ‘I’ll be fnished this tutorial in another ten minutes.’
‘Sorry, sir… yes… ’
‘Good God, man, what’s happened?’
‘Vice… ’ wheezed Potts, barely catching his breath. ‘Vice what?’
‘Chancellor… Bulldogs,’ Potts pointed in the direction of the lodge. To his great sur-prise Augustus seemed quite unsurprised.
‘Hmm. A little faster than I expected, but let’s see what they want.’ Augustus excused himself and led the way back to the lodge.
*
When Augustus reached the lodge he held out a hand to introduce himself. ‘Good morning, Gentlemen, Dr Bloom. Is there anything I can do for you?’ Rather than the expected handshake, his outstretched hand received only the letter
that the Bulldogs had been ordered to deliver. Augustus looked at the familiar envelope and crest and, to Potts complete consternation, smiled. The past few months had taught Dr Bloom a great deal about hiding one’s inner feelings.
‘And what can I do for our illustrious vice-chancellor?’ asked Augustus. ‘I believe it’s about one of your students, Mr Patrick Eccles. The vice-chancellor’s
ordered him to be gated pending a disciplinary hearing for bringing the university into disrepute,’ said Mr O’Donnell.
‘An order? Well as this is my college and Mr Eccles is my student I will consider the vice-chancellor’s… request,’ said Augustus, pocketing the letter unopened inside his jacket.
The vice-chancellor had forewarned his trusted constables that Dr Bloom was a slip-pery character and armed them with the ammunition they needed.
‘If you read this extract of the university regulations you will see that the vice-chan-cellor has the right to gate any student in the university.’ The Bulldog thrust the piece of paper with the relevant regulation at Augustus.
Augustus scanned over the piece of paper with well-hidden surprise. ‘I see. Well thank you for your assistance with the regulations,’ said Augustus, hand-
ing back the piece of paper and turning to leave. He had taken a few paces when he stopped and turned to look back at the still motionless Bulldogs.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘We have a letter for Mr Eccles too.’
‘I’ll see that he gets it,’ said Augustus.
‘I’m to deliver it in person,’ said O’Donnell, visibly bristling. ‘I know the vice-chancellor very well at this stage and I am sure he would accept my
assurance that Eccles will receive it.’
Seeing O’Donnell’s hesitation, Potts seized his chance and the letter. ‘Right, Gentlemen, job done. Time to go home.’ With that, Potts herded the two Bull-
dogs out of the gate with his outstretched arms and down the cobbled street that lay bey-ond the gate lodge. When Potts returned, Dr Bloom was still standing there.
‘Well done, Potts. Now I’d really appreciate if you could fnd Eccles and bring him to my room.’
Bloom was thoroughly relieved to fnd his room empty on his return. His student had taken the opportunity to cut short what had been proving a rather challenging tutorial. Bloom placed the letter on the mantelpiece, moved to the small kitchen alcove and flled the kettle. He had just received a small package of jasmine bud tea from a former stu-dent who was working in Hong Kong. He had placed it aside, keeping it for a special occasion. Now seemed like an excellent time, if only to try and soften the bitter pill sent by the vice-chancellor. As the kettle groaned into life, he picked up the two letters and opened the one addressed to him.
Dear Dr Bloom ,
As you may be aware, a certain matter has again been brought to prominence in the student publication Styx. The article in question frmly identifes Mr Patrick Eccles of St Jerome’s College as a prime source of information and willing inform-ant. This article has the potential to cause untold damage to the good standing of the university. In light of this I am imposing an immediate gating of this student pending more draconian sanctions that will inevitably follow once this matter has been fully investigated. Be assured that the activities of you and your colleagues will not be immune from this investigation .
Yours sincerely ,
Dr K W Ridgeway
Augustus crumpled the letter and launched it into the freless grate. Even though it was summer it felt more emphatic than throwing it in the waste-paper bin. He glanced at the accompanying letter addressed to Mr Eccles, but doubting it held any surprises placed it on the mantelpiece next to Arthur’s ashes. Returning to the alcove he lifted the lid on the shiny red octagonal box he had recently received to inspect the curious grey balls within. He dropped a few of them into two cups, added hot water and waited to be surprised. The tea was still infusing when Eccles arrived at his threshold.
‘Patrick, come in and try this new tea of mine.’
Eccles’ mental state had improved considerably after his confessional meeting with the chaplain and his tutor a few days earlier. He had been reassured that the college would handle the matter in return for his full cooperation in their own investigations into the authorship of the fateful article in Styx and of course the recovery of the menu. So apart from the surprise at being summoned by the head porter from his new rooms on the High Street, he arrived in a state of unsuspecting calm. This feeling was further enhanced by the strange and fragrant smell from the cup that was handed to him as he crossed the threshold.
‘A type of jasmine tea made from buds,’ explained Augustus, passing the cup under his nose. ‘Smells promising, but I think it will beneft from another minute or two of infusing.’
Eccles followed suit in inhaling the vapour from his cup, now familiar with the ec-centric culinary diversions of his tutor.
‘Now, a little issue has arisen with the vice-chancellor. Grab that letter there on the mantelpiece will you?’
Eccles rose to gather the letter and went to pass it to his tutor until it became clear that he was meant to read it himself. While Eccles was reading and rereading the letter, Augustus absent-mindedly peered into his cup. The small buds had burst out into a mass of folded leaves. He was about to take a taste when Eccles interrupted his reverie.
‘Gated? What does that mean, Dr Bloom?’
‘Well, technically it means that you must remain within the walls of the college until further notice. Really it is a form of house arrest, but not as serious of course.’
‘Oh,’ said Eccles initially relieved. It took a moment for him to appreciate the full implications of this ruling.
‘But what about rowing?’ Eccles asked. ‘And lectures… ’ ‘I think we can put lectures down as essential college business,’ replied Bloom.
‘Mind you, rowing might be more problematic, but we’ll see what we can do. What the vice-chancellor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’
‘But I don’t live in anymore, so how can I stay inside the college at night?’ ‘What?’ asked Bloom suddenly caught off guard. ‘Of course you do. With that
Kingsley-Hampton character who has caused us all so much troubl
e.’ Eccles chronicled the details of his eviction to suit the social needs of his former
roommate. On hearing this story his tutor became more and more agitated until he sud-denly rose to his feet and marched out of the door. Eccles sat in the oppressive silence for a few minutes, until he remembered the strange tea that had been offered. The worm-like mass at the bottom of the cup looked rather unpleasant but the taste was, even to Eccles’ untrained palate, rather good. His attention then returned to the letter. The phrase draconian sanctions stared back at him from the page.
‘Oh God,’ he muttered to himself as he began pacing the foor until he could stand it no longer and he too marched through the door.
At the bottom of the staircase, he was forced to a halt by a small balding man with a camera. He stood impatiently behind the man who was taking an inordinate length of time lining up a photograph.
‘Excuse me,’ Eccles said eventually.
‘Very sorry, young man, I didn’t mean to delay you. But if you have a minute?’ ‘Really, I have to be off and the college is closed to tourists during term, so you really
shouldn’t be here.’
‘Oh, I’m not a tourist. I’m with the Daily Mail ,’ the man said proudly. ‘Following up a story about the killing of some Japanese bloke. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’
Eccles stared back in a state of disbelief bearing an expression more commonly seen on a fshmonger’s slab. He was rescued by Augustus Bloom on his return from the Master’s lodge who had overheard the reporter’s description of his assignment.
‘A mere April’s fool,’ Augustus said, taking the man frmly by the arm and marching him towards the lodge. ‘You of all people should know the dangers of believing what is written in newspapers.’
Chapter 32
Patrick Eccles was sitting out of view in the back room of the porter’s lodge on his tutor’s instructions. Mr Potts had received an unwelcome earful from Augustus Bloom about his complicity in evicting Eccles from his room. It was Potts who had moved all of Ec-cles’ books and possessions during the Easter vacation. In penance he, along with Eccles, had been recruited to recover the accursed menu from Eccles’ former roommate Matthew Kingsley-Hampton. It was for this reason that Eccles was receiving such deferential treat-ment from Potts, though Eccles could have done without another cup of tea. The strength of tea can be gauged in many ways and the English language has been amply stretched to meet this challenge. From ‘weak as gnat’s piss’ to the more obscure imagery favoured by Potts of ‘mouse-trotter’ which refers to the ability of being able to trot a mouse along the surface of a decently strong cup of tea. Potts made and drank proper mouse-trotter tea, which, as Eccles discovered, was an acquired taste he had yet to acquire. With this par-ticular cup, Potts had exceeded even his high standards, and Eccles found his digestive biscuit broke in this brew in the same manner as a shovel hitting hard ground.
Matthew Kingsley-Hampton strutted through the lodge with Felipe Banzarro, who was struggling to keep up. His bones had only recently healed after his accident on the glacier last year and he had yet to adjust fully to the challenges of bipedal locomotion, especially at the unearthly hour of nine o’clock in the morning.
‘Morning Potts… Good morning, Potts,’ repeated Kingsley-Hampton, determined to extract a response.
‘Good morning, sir,’ muttered Potts, barely lifting his head. Kingsley-Hampton marched on out of the lodge to have breakfast in Worcester Col-
lege with Rupert Atworth. Atworth, as the editor of the Styx , had received the same fate as Eccles in being gated by the vice-chancellor, but his college was taking a rather stricter view of this punishment. For the time being, Kingsley-Hampton had avoided censure by keeping his name out of the press. So out of solidarity he had arranged to visit Atworth to alleviate the worst of the boredom of gating.
‘They’ve gone,’ said Mr Potts as he handed Eccles the key to his former room. Subterfuge did not come naturally to Eccles, but he took a particular delight in cross-
ing the threshold into his former yet still rightful abode. During the time that Kingsley-Hampton had been treating Eccles as a curious fusion of acolyte, Eton fag and valet, Eccles had learnt most of his roommate’s habits and customs. Kingsley-Hampton had a range of hiding places for objects that were precious, illegal or a possible source of temptation to others. A secret compartment at the base of his travelling trunk concealed his ample collection of erotica, the preferred term for pornography amongst the ruling classes. The only functional role for the riding boots that Eccles had been forced to pol-ish at regular intervals was as a hiding place for a bottle of absinthe in the left boot and a slender hookah in the right.
Eccles started with the trunk. The distant echoes from the bells of Tom Tower brought him back to his task half an hour later, wide-eyed from his voyeuristic excursion into unsuspected realms of human activity. For all the exotic activities included in Kingsley-Hampton’s erotic archives, fne dining was certainly not one of them. A quick check of the boots revealed only their usual contents, but he noted with displaced pride that without his assistance they had lost their Napoleonic lustre. At a loss, he started check-ing, book by book, the densely packed bookcase. After checking a complete shelf of curiously random books, from William Blake to Ian Fleming, he came to an old atlas. He had often seen Kingsley-Hampton disappear into his bedroom with this book without passing much thought as to the reason for such a secretive devotion to geography. Inside this volume, he discovered the pages were stuck together and had been carefully dis-sected to create a secret compartment. Inside was a bag containing a block of a brown resinous substance that Eccles didn’t recognise and, thank God, the menu.
*
In another panelled room in another college, a young man was pacing the threadbare carpet.
‘Relax, will you Rupert,’ said Kingsley-Hampton, casually sitting side-saddle on a threadbare chintz armchair and drinking tea from one of his host’s ancestral china cups. ‘This will be a defning moment in your journalistic career if you can just keep your nerve. There was even a man from the Daily Mail sneaking around college looking for Eccles the other day.’
‘Really? Well that would be a scoop. Mind you, shame it wasn’t a decent newspaper. What did you tell him?’ asked Atworth.
‘Oh, I just spun him a yarn. Told him Eccles had been sent down as he couldn’t pay his bills. I don’t want that toerag getting any more publicity. I gave the reporter one of my cards to give to his editor. Told him in no uncertain terms that I’d only talk to the editor himself. Of course, I’d prefer The Times or Telegraph to pick up on the story, but we might yet get a few quid from an exclusive interview in the Mail .’ Kingsley-Hamp-ton was rarely without his expensively embossed cards that he had printed in a little place off Bond Street as soon as he’d heard of his elevation to the title of ‘The Honour-able’. He lavished them on everyone from serving girls in tea shops to the porters at the train station, usually in place of a tip.
‘Perhaps this story does have legs. Mind you, there have been times when I’ve wondered why I let you talk me into this. Most notably when the vice-chancellor’s goons burst in on me.’
‘Don’t worry, we can handle the vice-chancellor. We are on the side of truth and transparency, Rupert. For all his pomp and offce he is no better than some communist apparatchik.’ Kingsley-Hampton delivered these words in a voice he usually reserved for speeches in the Oxford union. He rose to his feet and kicked the outstretched legs of Felipe Banzarro who had fallen asleep. Felipe awoke with a squeal as the pain of the kick rattled his healing bones.
‘Come on, Felipe. If we are going to make it for lunch in town we’d better get mov-ing.’ As they made their way to the door, Kingsley-Hampton threw one last question back at Atworth.
‘Any good leads come out of the story yet? It must have stirred someone other than the vice-chancellor.’
‘Oh, nothing apart from a paranoid freak who claims that all the college kitchens ar
e run by elves who will poison anyone who threatens to reveal their secret.’
‘Excellent, you should run that story in the next edition.’ He ducked just in time to avoid the complex swerving path of the piece of toast that
Atworth threw across the room.
*
Meanwhile, Mr Potts had been sitting at his post in the lodge watching out in case Kingsley-Hampton should return, ready with a pre-prepared if fctitious letter demand-ing that Kingsley-Hampton report immediately to the Master. Potts was most certainly not expecting the person who did arrive.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the police offcer. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Potts. One of the porters, I believe.’
‘Well, well,’ said Potts who was not especially fond of Her Majesty’s constabulary, ‘and why would you be looking for ’im?’
‘Just a routine enquiry. Probably nothing really, but I’ve been asked to investigate by my superiors. You know the way it is.’
‘Well, I guess you are looking for me then. You’d better come round to the side door,’ said Potts. ‘We can talk insides.’
Sergeant Jenkins declined Mr Potts’ offer of both tea and a chair. ‘So, Mr Potts, the reason I am here is that a certain Mr Hogarth, employed by the
John Radcliffe Hospital until his recent arrest for aggravated trespass and other offences, gave us your name. He is claiming that you were instrumental in removing certain body parts from the mortuary at dates unspecifed last year.’
‘No I bloody well weren’t,’ said Potts indignantly. ‘No I bloody well weren’t,’ repeated Sergeant Jenkins, noting Mr Potts’ words in his
notebook.
‘Do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of body parts? In particular a human leg?’ asked Sergeant Jenkins.
‘No I don’t,’ said Potts emphatically.
This denial was duly noted by the policeman.
‘Well then, thank you, Mr Potts. That’s all I needed to know.’ With that, and seeming quite satisfed, he took his leave of the porter. Once on his own, Potts went into the back room to get the small bottle of whiskey he kept for emergencies. He poured a large glug into his teacup, which he drained in a single draught before heading off to fnd Augustus Bloom.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 25