hand.
‘Really? Well I have a letter here from my very good friend, Mr Oliver Bellingham QC. I understand that his daughter Emma is on this editorial committee. She seemed quite vexed that a certain Matthew Kingsley-Hampton was trying to force publication of this story for his own ends. Is there anyone by the name of Matthew Kingsley-Hampton in this room, Mr Atworth?’
‘Yes, yes there is,’ muttered Atworth, whose confdence was waning by the second. ‘So I take it that he did provide some guidance in this story?’ ‘Yes, no, well, we talked about it… a few times,’ said Atworth. ‘So much for protecting sources,’ muttered Kingsley-Hampton. ‘I take it that you are the aforementioned Kingsley-Hampton character,’ said the
Master. ‘Do you have something to share with us?’ ‘No, please carry on,’ said Kingsley-Hampton as he tried to catch Atworth’s eye but
Dr Bloom did an excellent job of leaning forwards at just the right moment. ‘So, you accept that Mr Kingsley-Ham – ’
‘The Hon… ’ The Honourable Kingsley-Hampton stopped short in his defence of his title in response to a withering stare from the Master.
‘… that Mister Kingsley-Hampton provided information and also pressurised you in-to publication?’
Atworth sat, staring at the inside of his eyelids in silence. ‘I will take your silence as a yes. Now as editor, though I personally doubt that you
deserve that title, do you stand over the story as published or not? I will, I’m afraid, re-quire an answer on this point.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Atworth.
‘Sorry, not everyone in the room is endowed with perfect hearing.’ The Master looked across to smile at the vice-chancellor.
‘Yes. Yes, sir, I do. I stand over every word.’ Atworth, spurred on by the slight to his journalistic standing, found a sudden vein of courage and lifted his head to hold the Master’s gaze.
‘Excellent,’ the Master smiled back. ‘Now let us see what merit this story has. First, do you have proof to back up your accusations? Oliver Bellingham also shared the legal advice he gave you, on an informal basis. I understand he advised that the story should not be published without written evidence that would stand up in court. Otherwise, Styx could be in peril of an action for defamation from either the university or St Jerome’s College.’
‘Indeed and I have personally seen the menu described in the article, which is in the possession of the Honourable Kingsley-Hampton,’ said Atworth, recovering his confd-ence.
‘I see. Well that puts a different complexion on things,’ said the Master with a reason-able impersonation of concern. The vice-chancellor, for his part, released an involuntary snort of delight.
‘So, Mr Kingsley-Hampton, may I see this menu?’ said the Master. ‘Er, I haven’t got it with me exactly,’ Kingsley-Hampton said. ‘I did have it but it
seems to have disappeared.’ He spat out this last word and glared at Eccles. ‘So, Mr Atworth, it seems that you don’t have documentary proof and, from my cor-
respondence with Mr Bellingham, it seems the committee were never shown this docu-ment but relied on your assurance that it existed.’
‘It does exist, I’ve seen it!’
‘You can see a mirage, Mr Atworth, but you cannot hold one. As this mythical menu cannot be offered in proof, we shall take that as one count of falsehood in this article. Now, the death of the Japanese Ambassador. Within the last few months I have also had correspondence with this esteemed gentleman who has been in his post for fve years. So it seems that your description of his death must be an… exaggeration, Mr Atworth?’
‘Well, Mr Tokoro died, and I thought he was the ambassador.’ ‘Well, it is a matter of record that Mr Tokoro was never the ambassador. I believe he
did die almost a year ago, but as his obituary was published in The Times newspaper that was hardly a secret. Be that as it may, there lies the second falsehood. Now this deadly poison and your interview with Mr Eccles. Did you or any of the staff of your publica-tion actually interview Mr Eccles?’
‘Yes. Well, I’d met him in his rooms. He shares rooms with Mattie, I mean Matthew Kingsley-Hampton.’
‘Shared, I believe is the correct tense. I understand the Honourable Kingsley-Hamp-ton has evicted Mr Eccles to make space for one of his friends who had supposedly gone down for a year: an unseemly affair that we shall deal with later. Now, Mr Eccles was present in the same room as you, but did you interview him and take notes as a journalist should?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Mr Eccles,’ the Master turned to address Patrick. ‘Did you ever grant this man an interview or speak to anyone of his staff in a formal way?’
‘I absolutely did not,’ Eccles answered in a clear and confdent tone. In advance of this meeting, Augustus Bloom had tutored him in how to handle each question.
‘I see. And Mr Eccles, this tetratoxin, have you heard of this deadly toxin?’ ‘I’m not aware of a toxin of that name, sir, no.’
‘Dr Bloom, does tetratoxin exist?’
‘No, Master. I might guess from the context that the author meant to write tetrodo-toxin, but what was actually written is factually incorrect.’
‘Factually incorrect. Did you hear that, Dr Ridgeway? So, if I may conclude, we have a story which was published without documentary proof, against legal advice which contains two other major falsehoods.’
‘Well, Lord Faulkner, with respect, they may pass as typographical errors.’ ‘Having the wrong person killed with an imaginary poison is not typographical, it is
culpable,’ replied the Master, raising his voice for the frst time. ‘But my concern is for the university and the damage this article has done. Particu-
larly if the national press pick up on the story,’ said Ridgeway. ‘That won’t be a problem, will it, Mr Atworth?’ replied the Master. Atworth shook his head, unaware exactly what he was acknowledging. ‘Because Styx is going to publish a full retraction, on the front page.’ ‘Well, I’ll have to talk… ’
‘Mr Atworth, nothing short of a full retraction will prevent an action of defamation being launched by this college against the Styx and you personally. So do you want to reconsider?’
‘I think in light of the errors that we made, a note of correction might be appropriate,’ said Atworth through clenched teeth.
‘Not a correction, Mr Atworth, a complete and unequivocal retraction with an admis-sion that the whole thing was a spoof. A belated April Fool’s prank, perhaps.’
‘But parts of it are tr – ’ One glare from the Master was suffcient to silence Atworth. ‘Legal action for defamation or a retraction. The choice is yours, Mr Atworth.’ ‘I’ll retract the story,’ muttered Atworth.
‘Excellent. Well I think we can conclude this story is well and truly dead, Dr Ridge-way,’ concluded the Master.
‘Well, that would be a… satisfactory resolution,’ muttered Ridgeway in muted re-sponse. ‘Apart, of course, from the sanctions against the students involved. We can’t forget that damage has already been done to the reputation of both the university and St Jerome’s. Perhaps we could dismiss the undergraduates so that we can discuss their fate in private.’
The three undergraduates fled out and passed down the dark passageway from the Master’s lodging in total silence. Only when they reached the Old Quad did Kingsley-Hampton turn on Eccles.
‘If anything happens to us Eccles, you’re dead, you conniving little bastard. Now piss off out of my sight.’
This was the frst of Kingsley-Hampton’s orders that Eccles was only too glad to fol-Chapter 35
It took several drafts for Rupert Atworth to produce a retraction that was acceptable to all concerned. Clinging onto the last vestiges of his journalistic pride, he initially tried to claim that Styx had been misled by its sources and tricked into publishing the story. Needless to say this frst draft left a certain Mr Eccles fully in the fring line. Under duress from the Master and threats of legal action from Mr Oliver Bellingham to protect the good n
ame of his daughter, Atworth surrendered into an admission that the entire story was a fabrication intended as an April Fool’s prank for which he took sole responsibility. Publication was further delayed by the fact that his editorial committee had resigned on mass and formed a competing publication, the Rubicon , which is still published to this day under the highest code of journalistic ethics.
What did eventually appear was published on the front page of Styx under the headline ‘Apologia’. It read as follows:
In our last edition, we ran a story about the alleged activities of a secret dining so-ciety claiming this was responsible for poisoning certain foreign dignitaries. Fur-thermore, we implicated St Jerome’s College and suggested that the university was involved in suppressing information about its existence. We would like to confrm that story was merely a spoof intended to entertain our readers and, as Editor, I Rupert Atworth take full responsibility for any distress caused to any party. Fur-thermore, certain quotes attributed to a Mr Patrick Eccles were fabricated as part of this report and Mr Eccles, while he is a medical student at St Jerome’s College, took no part in the publication of this story .
Such is the power of journalism that even though this was the last edition of Styx ever published, the legacy of this once proud publication would live on in the form of sever-al dining societies that modelled themselves on a story declared to be entirely fctitious. The frst of which even boasted the disgraced former editor of Styx as one of its founding members.
The publication of this retraction lifted the spirits of the shadow faculty, most notably for the chaplain, Charles Pinker. None of them relished the prospect of unwanted atten-tion from the vice-chancellor or journalists, especially in light of Arthur’s legacy but, as Charles considered himself responsible for the crisis with the initial loss of the menu, it was he that benefted most by this resolution. One can reasonably wonder why the publication of this retraction had such a benefcial effect on the chaplain and the others, when they were facing what would seem a far greater moral challenge in the fulflment of Arthur Plantagenet’s will. For Charles Pinker it seemed that a straw had been lifted from the back of a camel, leaving him with enough strength to carry the weight of his own conscience as well as those of his fellow gastronomic travellers. Needless to say, Augustus still had not shared with Charles the news that Her Majesty’s constabulary
were taking an interest in the whereabouts of Arthur ’s leg. During these days, Charles prayed a great deal more and at night, alone in the chapel,
these prayers increasingly took the more informal style of a conversation with a friend who is happy just to listen – prayers delivered with an innate confdence that they were being heard.
One night, Charles was kneeling before the altar, once again rhetorically exploring the moral dilemma they were facing.
‘Lord, I’m sorry to trouble you again. I know I have talked about this before. It’s just that I have been taught to believe that the Eucharist is symbolic, but I am facing a challenge that will be easier to accept if your words were meant to be taken literally as they do in Rome. You see if… ’ Charles was brought up short by the defnite sound of a cough from the altar. He looked up and then over his shoulder as the acoustics of the chapel were notoriously fckle. Just as he had convinced himself he was imagining things, he heard a voice as clear as his own.
‘Charles, I have heard your prayers and I know what worries you.’ The voice was strangely familiar and clearly emanating directly from the altar. Although distinctly Eng-lish in accent, the voice had a disembodied and ethereal nature. Charles didn’t doubt for an instant that this was the voice of God.
‘You do? Oh, I’m sorry, of course you do, Lord,’ said Charles, bowing his head a little lower.
‘Your soul and the souls of those that travel with you are not in peril. You have been asked to help a soul of the departed in his eccentric but personal quest. Far worse has been done in my name. Curiosity is no sin as long as no-one suffers. Go in peace.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Lord. May I call on you again?’ ‘You are most welcome, and thank you for all your prayers. I may not always reply,
but I shall always listen.’
That God had taken to replying to his prayers was a great solace to the chaplain, though it would lead most men to doubt their grip on reality. True to his word, God never replied again, but Charles prayed every day for the rest of his life. On this one occa-sion when God did reply it was no more than a spiritual subterfuge but a well-meaning one. Arthur’s spirit resided mostly within the walls of the chapel and it was within these four walls that the chaplain’s deep distress was most obvious. In the months since his death, Arthur had seen Charles founder in despair and, on particularly bad days, waver on the edge of madness. Compassion was unfamiliar territory for Arthur in death as it was in life, but it was compassion rather than devilment that drove him to impersonate God, though it would only be fair to admit that a fondness for the stories of Don Camillo played a part too.
It was only later that Arthur pondered on the consequences. After all, for a soul that has died but not passed over, impersonating God to a member of the clergy could be con-sidered foolhardy in the extreme. The consequences might at worst last for all eternity. But, far from upsetting God, Arthur made an important step towards his own salvation that day by concluding that whatever the consequences for himself, restoring Charles’ peace of mind was more important. God indeed moves in mysterious ways.
Chapter 36
Eights week arrived that term with indecent haste. In a terminology that no-one in Oxford fnds in the least confusing, Eights week, an entertaining interlude where the bump races are held on the river Isis, is generally held in the ffth week of Trinity term. These are similar in most respects to Torpids, the rowing races held in the previous term, except for a few details. The rules of how the races are conducted are somewhat different and more importantly the weather is generally better which makes these races far more attractive to spectators. For the faculty of gastronomic science the arrival of Eights week came as a reminder that time waits for no man. By this stage of the term they had never been so lacking in preparation. The only practical result from their last meeting was an almost un-animous vote for Hamish’s Royal Herbal mojito as the aperitif. So another meeting had been hastily called.
‘Perhaps we should start with a status report on Arthur,’ said Augustus, launching the meeting with a gentle tap of an upturned spoon. He cast a concerned eye at Charles as he uttered these words.
‘I know we have all been keeping an eye on things, but I must say I think he survived the mini-heatwave last week very well, not that I am an expert in curing, of course,’ replied Charles without hesitation.
‘Coming on nicely, indeed,’ chimed in George Le Strang to fll the silence that met the chaplain’s surprisingly upbeat assessment, while the others expressed their agreement with vigorous nodding and mumbled agreement. None of the surviving faculty had any prior knowledge of curing, but were all now well-versed on this topic.
‘So how exactly do you think Arthur wished to be served?’ asked Theodore, taking the opportunity to get straight to the question that had been ignored for far too long.
‘With horseradish perhaps? An old English trick for masking the taste of bad meat,’ said George, who remained secretly convinced that being of aristocratic French lineage he would beat Arthur in a head-to-head taste comparison.
‘I was thinking of a taste comparison of different types of cured meat. We could slip Arthur in unannounced, so to speak,’ replied Augustus.
‘Oh my goodness, the guests!’ said Charles, suddenly losing his new-found equan-imity about the whole affair. ‘We surely can’t tell them, but we can hardly force them to… to… ’
‘Share the experience?’ Hamish offered.
‘Couldn’t we just get it over and done with down here before the actual dinner?’ Charles looked around the table for support. The only person who met his eye was Theodore Flanagan who pu
t the matter to rest.
‘I’m afraid Arthur’s will was painfully clear on this point Charles. Luckily we have no obligation to tell the guests of this experiment, which has the added beneft of mak-ing the whole thing more objective. Our palates will all be tainted by the knowledge of what we are eating.’
‘Who rather than what,’ Charles corrected Theodore. With the conversation turning towards guests, Augustus seized his moment to reveal his own particular coup on that front. He had been holding back on this announcement, waiting for a good moment, something that had been in very short supply in recent times.
‘On the topic of guests, I have someone rather special coming along to this dinner. M.F.K. Fisher has fnally accepted my invitation after years of badgering.’
‘Fisher? Why do I know that name?’ said a puzzled Hamish. Augustus had come pre-pared and from under his seat produced a copy of their spiritual mentor’s book – Brillat-Savarin’s The Physiology of Taste bearing in large type M.F.K. Fisher on the cover.
‘Only the translator of the best edition of The Physiology of Taste produced in the English language,’ said Augustus sitting back triumphantly.
‘Well done,’ said Hamish patting him on the back. ‘Mind you I thought the chap was long dead by now.’
‘Oh, she’s far from dead. Quite a live wire, in fact.’ ‘A female guest? Well, well. Is that allowed?’ asked Charles.
*
The gating of Patrick Eccles, which was still in force while the vice-chancellor stub-bornly tried to get at Augustus Bloom by punishing his student, had not proved too lim-iting on account of a simple subterfuge. A rangy little black and white cat that had taken residence in the porter’s lodge at the end of Hilary term was duly christened Patrick Eccles. This creature roamed the college at night and spent all day asleep under Potts’ desk in the lodge, allowing the head porter to confrm to the vice-chancellor’s offce on a daily basis that Patrick Eccles was indeed still within the confnes of the college. This allowed Patrick, at his own request, to remain in his new accommodation, and as long as he was discreet, to go wherever he wished. Sitting in his elegant rooms on the High Street, Patrick Eccles glanced down at his watch. He should have been down at the boat-house ten minutes ago, but he only had another few pages of Zuleika Dobson to fnish, so he stayed glued to his book. He had never met a lady like Zuleika in life or in fc-tion, but didn’t doubt such a creature could exist. Worse still, even though he had almost reached the end of the book, far enough for most sensible folk to have an accurately low opinion of Zuleika, he was already in love with her. He few through the last few pages with his head spinning. Once at the end he sat turning the book over in his hands looking for a few more words to keep him away from the real world and closer to Zuleika. His reverie was broken by a shout from the street below.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 27