Chapter 33
It was well past midnight when Augustus Bloom, unable to sleep, slipped down the stairs into the quadrangle below. He had stood up to the strain of recent events with remarkable resilience, but the news that Potts had delivered that morning had thrown him. The vice-chancellor’s rants were one thing, but the prospect of a police investigation was quite an-other. The cool night air weaved itself through every thread of Augustus’ dressing gown, soothing his frayed nerves but making him shudder involuntarily in the cold. He paused at the foot of the staircase taking in the scene. The world is a different place after mid-night and the Cinderella effect had worked its magic on the stone walls, distorting famili-ar shapes into angular shadows. A partly clouded gibbous moon offered just enough light for Augustus to navigate through the dark alley towards the chapel. Inside the building it was another story entirely. When Augustus closed the doors of the chapel a suffocating darkness enveloped him. He stood motionless, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the meagre scraps of light that found their way through the stained glass window high over the altar. Then he crept forward, holding one hand along the wall for guidance, until he reached the wooden choir stalls. Suddenly, his breath was taken away by an assault on his ears from the organ pipes above.
After the frst moment of shock had subsided, Augustus’ racing heart slowed to a more normal pace. He didn’t recognise the piece but was completely convinced that it was be-ing played by Charles. He let the resonance of the last chord fade into silence before start-ing to clap.
‘Bravo, Charles,’ Augustus called up to the organ loft. As there was no reply or ac-knowledgement he called again.
‘Charles?’
The heart in Augustus’ chest was the only thing in the chapel to respond; a gentle cres-cendo in force and a progression from calm adagio to a decidedly edgy allegro.
‘Charles, talk to me.’
The silence mocked him back. He slowly made his way to the door. Augustus closed the door and stepped back into the quad. Under the circumstances his planned commu-nion with Arthur Plantagenet’s leg could wait until morning.
The following morning over breakfast, Augustus engaged the chaplain in the usual po-lite topics that are considered safe at such a time of day. Needless to say Augustus hadn’t told the chaplain about the interest of the local constabulary in their affairs or indeed anyone else.
‘That was you playing last night in the chapel, wasn’t it Charles?’ ‘What time was that?’
‘Oh, some time past midnight.’
‘Not me. Are you sure it was coming from the chapel rather than a wayward gramo-phone?’
‘Oh, no. I was in the chapel at the time.’
‘What were you doing there at that time of… ’ Charles’ voice trailed off as the ques-tion did not need to be asked. There was only one reason these days why any of the members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science would be in the chapel at odd hours.
‘… and how was Arthur?’ asked Charles pointedly. ‘Doing fne when I checked this morning.’ Augustus looked at Charles and was taken
aback by the intensity of his gaze.
‘Listening to you and the others, you’d think we were pondering on whether one can serve cucumber sandwiches on brown bread in decent society. We are walking blindfold into a darkness beyond forgiveness.’
‘Well, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’ said Augustus. ‘Strong? I can’t see why you are so accepting of that daft old sod making… ’ Charles
leant over and hissed the word ‘cannibals’ into Augustus’ ear before continuing. ‘… of us all and laughing all the way from here to Hades, where he certainly deserves
to spend the rest of his days.’ At that, he forced a large pile of overcooked scrambled eggs into his mouth. Augustus scanned the faces around the far from empty senior com-mon room parlour looking for a sign of a reaction, an elevated eyebrow or the inclina-tion of an eavesdropping head.
‘This probably isn’t the place for that conversation, Charles. We are meeting at lunch-time after all. I was just wondering who was playing the organ last night.’
‘What was being played?’ said Charles.
‘Oh, it sort of went, di di di di di di di di daa daa darghhh,’ replied Augustus with a reasonable rendition of the rhythm but only the vaguest sense of melody.
In reply, Charles hummed and trilled a far more musical reprise and continued on for several more bars.
‘Exactly, that’s it.’
‘Bach, Fantasia in C minor BWV 906.’ He then rose to his feet and, with a last glug of tea, he headed out of the room without a backwards glance. It was a piece that Charles knew well. As much from playing it as hearing it. He had never sat in the stalls and heard it as Augustus had, but for the last few months he had often heard snatched bars across the quad on approaching the chapel. As soon as his hand touched the door the music fell silent. At other times, he would be practising the organ only to fnd himself playing this piece rather than the one he had intended.
*
There was a loud and distinctive knock on Augustus Bloom’s door. ‘Come in, Mr Potts,’ shouted Augustus. He was sitting with Theodore Flanagan re-
counting what Potts had told him the day before about the policeman’s visit. It had seemed perfectly clear to Augustus until Theodore had started asking questions, so Mr Potts had been summoned to fll in the gaps in the story.
‘Have a seat there, Mr Potts,’ said Augustus, pulling up one of the chairs usually used for tutorials. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
‘Oh no, sir, I mean thanking you kindly for the offer, but I’m fne… thanks,’ said Potts, looking nervously across at Dr Theodore Flanagan.
‘I’ve been explaining to Theodore about the policeman’s visit, Mr Potts,’ said Augus-tus. ‘It’s never a bad idea to get legal advice early in matters such as these, even if noth-ing comes of it.’
‘So, Mr Potts,’ said Theodore. ‘It is clear from what Augustus has explained that the police have been told some of the details of what happened to Arthur’s leg. Now what can you tell me about this Hogarth character?’
‘He’s a snitch for a start, the dirty little toerag,’ said Potts. ‘Indeed, but let’s go back to the time you met him in the mortuary after Arthur died.
What exactly happened?’
‘Well, before he died, the professor gave me all these letters for different folk, me included. In my letter, the professor, God rest his soul, asked me to deliver a letter to the mortuary. When I gave this letter to ’ogarth ’e went off and come back with the box which I delivered to Dr Bloom’s laboratory, the box with Arthur’s… ’ Potts voice trailed ‘Excellent, Potts. Now did you say anything to him apart from giving him the letter?’
Theodore leaned forward on his seat, waiting for the reply. ‘Well just the normal sort of chit-chat. When ’e came back with the box ’e tried to
crack a joke or two.’
‘So how did the police know to fnd you here, Potts?’ ‘I probably introduced myself, so ’e could have remembered my name from that,’
said Potts.
‘The letters, well mine at least, was on St Jerome’s notepaper,’ interjected Augustus. ‘Did he give you the letter back when he gave you the box?’ continued Theodore,
silencing Augustus with a single look.
‘No, I’m sure I just got the box.’
‘Hmm. Did this Hogarth character know where the leg was going to be delivered?’ ‘Oh… er… yes. Yes ’e did because it was ’im that wrote the address. All that must
’ave been in the professor’s letter,’ said Potts.
‘I see,’ said Theodore, sitting back in his chair now the interrogation was complete. ‘Well thank you, Mr Potts. That was very helpful.’
‘I’m really sorry about all this, but I was just doing what the professor asked. I told the police it was all rubbish. I didn’t admit to nothing.’
‘I know, Potts,’ said Augustus, standing to open the door. ‘Don’t worr
y, we’ll get everything sorted out.’
After Potts had left, a serious-looking Theodore Flanagan looked across at Augustus. ‘You know what this means, Augustus? It is likely that Hogarth has a letter describing
every gory detail and it has your name on it. This could all get rather messy.’ There was a profound silence as the implications of Theodore’s words soaked in. It
was Augustus who spoke frst.
‘Yes, but that makes it completely clear that it was all at the specifc request of Arthur. All that matters is whether any law has been broken. Are you sure what we’re doing isn’t illegal?’
‘As sure as I can be, Augustus.’
‘So why did the police come around?’ asked Augustus, more in puzzlement than fear. ‘They’d have to investigate a thing like this to make sure there was no foul play and
I don’t suppose Potts denying all knowledge of it is going to help.’ ‘Look, Theodore, should we go to the police and explain we were just following the
instructions of an eccentric old friend and put the matter to rest?’ ‘Let’s not do anything rash. Give me a few days to double-check the laws on bodily
bequests frst. As for the rest of the faculty, I think we should keep this to ourselves until we know what we’re up against.’
‘Agreed. At least we have one good bit of news to report to the faculty,’ said Augus-tus, opening the drawer of his desk. He then waved the long-lost menu at Theodore. ‘Skilfully retrieved by one of my students with Mr Potts’ help. We can now claim that the whole article in Styx was a fabrication. Without this bit of evidence they have noth-ing to support their story.’
‘Wouldn’t that be lying, Augustus?’
‘Not really, we’d just be saying that the editor of Styx was lying and offer him the chance to defend himself.’
‘Which he can’t do because we stole the evidence,’ said Theodore. ‘He can still defend himself and anyway you can’t be accused of stealing your own
property. Seems perfectly fair to me.’
‘I think that is stretching the concept of fairness to breaking point.’ ‘Any better ideas of how to get this story retracted?’ Theodore shook his head.
‘Well then that settles it,’ said Augustus. ‘Come on, we’d better get to this tasting meeting. Hamish has another new concoction he’s all excited about.’
*
The meeting of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science had been called for noon with the intention of setting some sort of shape on that term’s dinner. The atmosphere lacked the usual convivial cheer of such gatherings. Augustus and Theodore Flanagan were the last to arrive. Charles Pinker, George Le Strang and Hamish McIntyre were already huddled around the makeshift table in the kitchen cellar in morose silence.
‘Well, Gentlemen, at least one glimmer of good news,’ said Augustus, dropping the retrieved menu onto the table.
‘A bit late, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘I mean the cat is well out of the bag at this stage.’ ‘And sticking a cat back in a bag is a noisy, unpleasant affair,’ added Hamish, dis-
playing his zoological knowledge. Charles picked up the menu that he had lost so many months before and, deep in his own thoughts, slowly turned it over. He read down, smil-ing as he remembered the whiskey-soaked oyster. Arthur had been right, the whiskey was too dominant to blend with the subtle favours of the oyster, but the sea urchin with fennel was exquisite and the ’64 Condrieu served with it was divine. After the turbot was the cursed Fugu, and there was poor Mr Tokoro’s name too. Charles closed his eyes and rested his head on the table.
‘Well, I was expecting a bit more gratitude than that,’ said Augustus, crestfallen. Hamish patted him on the shoulder and in wordless congratulation handed Augustus a glass flled with his latest experiment: the lemon thyme and basil mojito.
‘A toast to small mercies, Gentlemen?’ Hamish raised his own glass. Once it was clear that he would stay in that position until the others relented, he was joined by everyone except the chaplain, who remained in his pensive, sullen mood. The ice in the glasses clinked and the herb-infused rum started weaving its magic in the cool dark-ness of the cellar, which had robbed the day of its summer warmth. It was a simple but masterful twist on a classic recipe: white rum, the normal fresh mint mixed with lemon thyme and basil, lime juice, sugar, angostura bitters and topped with champagne.
‘After all,’ continued Hamish, ‘it’s only a story in a student rag. I mean it’s not like anyone has died or anything.’
George turned to Hamish with a look of consternation that in an instant broke into a smile. Augustus caught Theodore’s eye and the pair of them fought hard to suppress a laugh. That was it. Four grown men sitting in a dark cellar with tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks. To any reasonable observer, they appeared on the brink of madness or beyond.
Charles Pinker alone remained immune. His head, weighed down by spiritual re-sponsibility he bore for them all, lay slumped on his hands. He muttered a prayer.
‘Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do.’ Chapter 34
‘Christ, look at the time,’ Kingsley-Hampton broke into a run, sped through the lodge and across the grass. He was halfway up the stairs before Potts got to his feet to see who had just run across the grass in defance of the ample signage. Felipe Banzarro was still in no state to run anywhere. The considerable amount of Pimms that he had consumed in the punt certainly didn’t help. He had been excused punting duty on the grounds of his convalescence, so he was in charge of keeping the glasses charged with this innocent-tast-ing but alcoholic drink. A certain class of Englishmen and indeed well-bred Argentineans feel compelled to drink Pimms whenever they are in the proximity of fresh water during the summer months. Strangely saltwater does not seem to have the same effect; drinking Pimms at the seaside would be most eccentric. The effect of all this was to slow down Felipe just enough so that as he entered the gates alone he came face to face with Mr Potts.
‘Oh, it’s you Mr Banzarro. So that must ’ave been Mr Kingsley-Hampton running through ’ere like a lunatic.’ Potts glared for a second at the Argentinean. If he had little time for Kingsley-Hampton, Potts positively resented having to be polite to foreigners with airs and graces.
‘An’ tell ’im to keep off my grass in future.’
*
By the time Mr Banzarro had negotiated the stairs, his roommate was in quite a state. ‘Potts sends his regards, and told me to tell you to keep orf ’is grass.’ Despite his Ar-
gentinean origins, years in an English boarding school had given Felipe faultless English diction that allowed him to offer an excellent rendition of Potts.
‘Screw Potts, the grumpy old peasant. I’ve bigger worries than him. I can’t fnd this bloody menu. Remember I showed you last week? Not that you took a blind bit of no-tice.’
‘Oh, yes the dodgy dining society.’
‘Did you put it somewhere, Felipe?’
Felipe Banzarro collapsed into a chair after his exertions up the stairs. ‘Me? No. You put it back in your atlas after you showed me. That one,’ he helpfully
pointed to the atlas sitting on the top shelf of his bookcase. This useful tome had been handcrafted and glued in Kingsley-Hampton’s last year at Eton. The last vestiges of the British Empire and former colonies had been neatly cut out to create a storage place for Moroccan hashish, which was Kingsley-Hampton’s sole remaining interest in matters geographical.
‘That’s the frst place I looked. Atworth will do his nut if I’ve lost it.’ ‘Just get Atworth to tell the Master he’s protecting his sources so he can’t produce
the actual menu, but as fortieth in line to the throne he vouches on his honour to its vera-city.’
‘Atworth couldn’t protect his own arse, let alone his sources,’ Kingsley-Hampton continued his frantic search. ‘Oh and he just told me that he’s now thirty-ninth in line, the Marquis of Devon, who was at number fourteen, died.’
‘Excellent, so we just throw a dinner party for t
he other thirty-eight, poison them all and bingo, one of our amigos is the King of England.’
‘Very funny Felipe, but this is serious, so perhaps you could get out of that bloody chair and help me look.’
*
Everyone was gathered in the Master’s study. It was past the appointed hour, almost two ffteen. Immune to the rising tension in the room, Rupert Atworth was sitting confdently defant in one corner. He had tried to position himself next to Matthew Kingsley-Hamp-ton for a quiet word before proceedings began. Augustus Bloom had thwarted that plan by sidling in between the pair on a divide-and-conquer strategy. Augustus, the sole rep-resentative of the shadow faculty, maintained a composed but serious appearance. The vice-chancellor, Dr Ridgeway, was sitting in the corner on his own looking almost as confdent as Rupert Atworth. He could hardly believe his luck when he heard the Master of St Jerome’s proposal: the shadow faculty of gastronomic science would immediately be disbanded if they couldn’t prove that the story in Styx was false and force a complete retraction. From the vice-chancellor’s experience with Mr Atworth, this meant it was only a matter of time before this annoying charade of a ‘cooking’ faculty was no more.
Eccles then entered the room and took the last remaining chair, which was directly opposite Rupert Atworth. Eccles was rewarded by a fnely chiselled look of distaste from the aristocratic editor. Finally, the Master made a deliberately dramatic entrance in full robes and took no time in taking his place on the other side of his expansive desk. As the Master started his enquiries, he made it amply clear to the vice-chancellor who was running this mock trial.
‘Now, Mr Atworth, let us see where we are regarding your article in the Styx . Who suggested its publication?’ The Master looked disapprovingly at Atworth.
‘Well, I am the editor but we have an editorial committee, so we decided together.’ ‘I see. But did anyone in this room who wasn’t a member of the editorial committee
provide information, suggestions or infuence you in any way about publication?’ ‘No.’ Atworth could always lie rather convincingly when he felt he had the upper
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 26