Grantchester Grind

by Tom Sharpe

  Hartang gnawed a knuckle. ‘You mean they’re into fucking blackmail? You saying that?’ he asked.

  ‘We wouldn’t put it in precisely those terms,’ said Bolsover. ‘Like they’re negotiating.’

  ‘You can call it what you like. I call it blackmail.’

  ‘And another thing we’d have to say is that they’ll have Kudzuvine under wraps some place we’re never going to find him. Any action that might –’

  ‘Don’t say make the situation worse. I’m there already,’ said Hartang. ‘What you’re telling me is pay twenty million plus.’

  ‘Negotiate is all,’ said Feuchtwangler. ‘We don’t see any other way.’

  ‘I’ve been taken. I’ve been taken by a motherfucking cuntlapper in a suit I wouldn’t be seen dead in. And all because I wanted to help out with their finances. Twenty million is some helping out, and what do I get for it? Zilch. Zero and out.’ (‘You don’t get prison,’ the lawyers thought simultaneously, but they kept the thought to themselves.)

  ‘Okay, negotiate. But afterwards …’

  ‘Just one other thing, Mr Hartang, we’d like Ross Skundler to come with us.’

  ‘What? To negotiate? Skundler stays here with me. We’ve got appointments to keep,’ said Hartang lividly.

  ‘Not to negotiate,’ said Schnabel. ‘We need him to tell us everything Kudzuvine knows could harm our case. As Assessmentation Officer he’s in a position to make things a lot easier for us in our negotiating posture.’

  Hartang thought for a moment. In fact he was heartily sick of the sight of the cowering Skundler. ‘Yeah, makes kinda sense to me,’ he said. ‘Just don’t let him out the building. I don’t need no more defectors to this Porterhouse.’

  They went out into the elevator and, as it shot up and down floors, Ross Skundler thanked them. ‘I owe you,’ he said. ‘I really owe you.’

  ‘Just don’t want more bloodshed, is all,’ said Schnabel. ‘It’s not in our line of business. And that old bastard is going to have to watch his back a lot closer with Kudzuvine over the wall. Could be piggy-chops time coming up. I heard Dos Passos is in town.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Skundler. ‘I really do owe you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ said Bolsover. ‘Someone else in the company owes twenty million plus, plus costs. With what do we negotiate? These guys Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine have got him by the balls.’

  ‘You reckon he’s going to snuff them some time?’ asked Feuchtwangler.

  Bolsover smiled. ‘Going to want to but they’re hard to find. Made enquiries. Like they’ve been dead over thirty years already.’

  The elevator shot down from floor ten to zero. Skundler followed them out into the street. His only hope lay with the lawyers.

  *

  In Cambridge General Sir Cathcart D’Eath’s Range Rover was parked in the driveway of the Master’s Lodge. There was a horsebox behind it and the doors were open towards the front door.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Arthur. ‘Streets is empty. No one there. You can bring him out now.’

  ‘Giddy up, Yank,’ said the General and Kudzuvine shot into the horsebox. The General’s Japanese attendant shut the doors and locked them and presently the Range Rover was on its way to Coft Castle. From a window on the ground floor Skullion watched it go with some regret. He’d enjoyed gobbledygooking the American.

  *

  In the offices of Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine, Solicitors, the Praelector read through Kudzuvine’s sworn statement with increasing amazement.

  ‘I must admit I do not understand many of the terms used,’ he said, ‘but my overall impression is that he has fingered – I believe that is the colloquial expression – he has fingered Edgar Hartang as a banker for a number of drug cartels. Am I right?’

  Mr Retter nodded. ‘Of course the accusation is unsubstantiated,’ he said. ‘And for that reason we have taken the precaution of drawing up two affidavits. In the first there is the full admission of Transworld Television Productions’ responsibility for the damage to the Chapel and the general fabric of the College, together with the harm done to the mental and physical well-being of over four hundred undergraduates studying for their examinations at very possibly the most crucial moment in their lives, namely just before the Tripos.’

  The Praelector considered the word ‘crucial’ and found it inappropriate. ‘I rather doubt that,’ he said. ‘Half of them would get Thirds or what were once called Specials.’

  ‘Aren’t you being overly pessimistic?’ asked Mr Wyve, but the Praelector wouldn’t have it.

  ‘The College has never been noted for its academic excellence. I have always liked to think on the other hand that we exert a civilizing influence.’

  ‘No doubt about that. However, since there is no way of knowing what the examination results might have been had this shocking event not taken place, I think we are entitled to assume they would have been excellent. Then again there is the mental suffering caused to the research graduates and the academic staff. We can fairly assert that scientific discoveries of considerable importance have been put in jeopardy.’

  ‘One can assert it,’ said the Praelector, ‘but I cannot conceive that anyone would find the statement in the least credible.’

  ‘Again, no one can tell. What cannot be denied or quantified is the physical damage done to one of the oldest architectural monuments of Cambridge.’

  The Praelector had no argument with this. Porterhouse might lack academic reputation but there could be no doubting the unique qualities of its ancient buildings. ‘And how do you rate our chances of getting Hartang to settle out of court?’ he asked. ‘It would save a great deal of time and money.’

  Mr Retter exchanged a significant look with his partner. It was Mr Wyve who replied. ‘That is more difficult to say. These things do tend to drag on for months and even years, you know. We can only hope that Transworld will see the justice of our case and not prolong the proceedings.’

  ‘I should have thought this second affidavit would speed things up,’ said the Praelector.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Retter and took the document from him. ‘Let us just say that it will be better to keep it in reserve. I don’t think I need say any more. I’m sure you understand.’

  The Praelector did. He had revised his opinion of Mr Retter and Mr Wyve. The law might be an ass, but these lawyers weren’t.

  23

  The Dean had risen earlier than usual. He usually stayed in bed rather longer after an Induction Dinner but he had a special reason for being up and about. He had to prevent the Senior Tutor from carrying out his threat to consult his lawyers over the accusation that he had had a hand in murdering the late Master. The Senior Tutor was an impetuous man and, in the light of Purefoy Osbert’s dangerous reasoning of the night before, it was essential that neither the Senior Tutor nor the Dean himself should make any real response to what was a manifest absurdity. He waited until after breakfast before broaching the subject.

  ‘Senior Tutor, if I might have a word in your ear,’ he said as they passed through the Screens.

  ‘If it’s about last night and that impertinent young scoundrel’s accusation, I don’t think there is anything to discuss. I am seeing my lawyer at eleven. I phoned him at home first thing this morning. I am not taking this sort of thing lying down.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ the Dean agreed. ‘Perhaps if we were to stroll in the garden we can discuss what is to be done.’ Presently, as they walked up and down the beech avenue and the Senior Tutor had uttered his usual threat to horsewhip Dr Osbert, the Dean got to the nub of the argument.

  ‘Dr Osbert was exceedingly drunk last night,’ he said. ‘The mixture of port and cognac is a particularly lethal one.’ The Senior Tutor said he knew it was from recent experience and it served the little liar right if he felt like death this morning.

  ‘I absolutely agree with you,’ said the Dean, ‘but the point I am trying to make is that we should in a sense
be very grateful to the wretched man for telling us exactly why he had been appointed and what Lady Mary expects for her six million pounds. Forewarned is, after all, forearmed.’

  ‘I’ll forearm the bastard. Nobody is going to call me a murderer and get away with it. The damned swine is going to regret making that accusation.’

  ‘I’m sure he is doing so already,’ said the Dean and decided that now was the time to take the wind out of the Senior Tutor’s sails. ‘Frankly, I think it was most unwise to approve his Fellowship at such short notice and without properly examining his credentials.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ the Senior Tutor demanded angrily. ‘There were six million pounds at stake and in any case he came with the very best recommendation.’

  ‘From Lapline and Goodenough, no doubt,’ said the Dean, playing his trump.

  The Senior Tutor stared at him. ‘How the devil … how did you know that?’

  ‘Because,’ said the Dean, ‘I recall that they acted for Lady Mary at the time of the inquest. I am sure you realized that yourself.’ Internally the Dean smiled. He was saving the Senior Tutor’s face for him. It was important to win the man over.

  ‘Now that you come to mention it,’ the Senior Tutor muttered submissively, ‘I did wonder at the time … The anonymity of the sponsor …’

  ‘Not that it matters. We could hardly have turned our noses up at that sort of sum of money.’ The Dean had landed his fish. There was no need to use the gaff. ‘The crux of the matter is this, that I stayed on last night after you’d left to hear what he was going to say next and I have to tell you that, while his argument is wholly and completely wrong, he has got enough circumstantial evidence to goad us into an action for libel which would do –’

  ‘Goad? Why do you say goad us into an action for libel? We’d be bound to win enormous damages.’

  ‘Possibly. But from whom? Dr Osbert? I think not. The man would be bankrupt and we should receive nothing except the most unpleasant publicity.’

  ‘But Lady Mary has put him up to this. You said yourself she must be his sponsor. The woman is enormously rich.’

  ‘But even if we could prove she sponsored the Fellowship, the libel would be coming from Dr Osbert. Apart from her outburst at the inquest she has said nothing in public and written nothing,’ said the Dean. ‘We are up against a formidable enemy.’

  The Senior Tutor’s eyes were on the ground as they walked. He had to acknowledge the force of the Dean’s argument. All the same the situation was intolerable. ‘But what are we to do?’ he asked finally. ‘We cannot simply allow a man to go round accusing us of murder and do nothing about it.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said the Dean. ‘I propose to do something to put a stop to it but I have had too little time to work out the correct tactics. I only know that we must wait for him to make the next move. In the meantime, I for one intend to pursue a course of insistent friendliness towards him and I would advise you to do the same. It will embarrass him no end.’

  By the time they parted, the Senior Tutor had agreed to cancel his visit to his lawyer and to hide his real feelings for Purefoy under a mask of warmth and amiability. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘But it is going to be exceedingly difficult. The bloody man …’

  *

  And Purefoy Osbert felt bloody awful. His condition was not as extreme as that of the Senior Tutor after his dinner at Corpus – Osbert had youth on his side – but it was awful enough, and made all the more so because he could not remember what he had said to the Dean or even whether he had said anything at all or had merely thought it. Or something. He was sure he had told them all why he had been sponsored by Lady Mary and what she hoped he would achieve. He could remember that as well as the Dean’s disarming remark about Sir Godber’s ineffectuality and Lady Mary being the Mistress of Porterhouse. And they had taken the accusation so calmly, though the Senior Tutor had been furious and had walked out. But when Purefoy Osbert finally dragged himself out of bed and washed and shaved and went out to go to the Library he came face to face with the Senior Tutor on the stairs.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Osbert,’ the Senior Tutor said and smiled alarmingly at him. ‘I do so hope you had a comfortable night. If there is anything at all I can do to help make life pleasant for you here, don’t hesitate to call on me. I am nearly always in and only too delighted to see you. Do you by any chance row, or play any sport?’

  Purefoy managed to smile wanly back and admitted he didn’t row and wasn’t any sort of sportsman before scuttling off downstairs more than ever convinced that the Senior Tutor fancied him.

  And he wasn’t too sure about the Dean either when he bumped into him by the Porter’s Lodge. He greeted Purefoy almost effusively. ‘Such a very pleasant evening and most enjoyable, though, alas, we have to pay for the fun the next morning with a hangover. Small price to pay for such excellent company. Most delightful.’ And the Dean passed on, a seemingly merry little man, leaving Purefoy Osbert even more mystified about Porterhouse than before. Whatever else could be said about the Senior Fellows there was no denying their aplomb.

  Purefoy went out through the Main Gate into the street and walked slowly over the Garret Hostel Lane bridge towards the University Library. On the river a few punts were out but they were mainly occupied by tourists.

  *

  Behind him the Dean was doing something he had seldom done before. He was in Purefoy’s rooms and reading his correspondence while the Senior Tutor kept watch from the window.

  ‘Here’s something interesting,’ said the Dean at last. ‘Have a read of this and see what you think. I’ll keep a look-out.’ And he handed a letter and a paper to the Senior Tutor who read them both with growing interest.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ the Senior Tutor said when he had finished reading. ‘Who would have thought a mousy little chap like that would be so depraved? No wonder the bastard doesn’t row or play any decent sport.’

  ‘Well, at least we know his little foibles,’ said the Dean, and hurried down to the College office to copy the two documents before putting them back exactly where he had found them.

  *

  ‘Coon girls, eh?’ said General Sir Cathcart D’Eath later that day. ‘Always comes in useful to know what a fellow’s tastes are. Not that I blame him. Known some dashed nice black fillies in my time. I remember a very hot little number in Sierra Leone. Name of Ruby. Dear old Rubber Ruby. By God, she knew how to turn a man on.’

  But the Dean wasn’t interested in the General’s sexual reminiscences. He had found Mrs Ndhlovo’s advice about masturbation and masturbatory techniques both deeply disturbing and psychologically very revealing. ‘Think you can do something?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t go in for hand sex myself,’ said the General, ‘but I daresay the avocado pear method might come in handy if one was ever stuck for company though it would have to be a ripe one. I suppose one could get it up to the right temperature in a microwave.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Cathcart, I’m not in the least bit interested. I want to know what we can do about Dr Osbert,’ he said. There were times when he found the General’s preoccupation with the more sordid aspects of life most uncongenial. Of course he couldn’t be compared with the appalling Jeremy Pimpole who was in a different league but all the same … And Dr Osbert and his lover Mrs Ndhlovo were obviously perverts of the very worst sort. Any woman who could write so enthusiastically about things that had never entered the Dean’s mind even in his moments of greatest sexual need, though these were few and far between, had to belong to the dregs of society. And Dr Purefoy Osbert was madly in love with the slut. That was clear from her letter which was obviously in reply to one he had written her. As the Dean had said to the Senior Tutor, ‘I must say his parents chose a most inappropriate name for him. Pure of faith, my foot.’ But now he had to concentrate Sir Cathcart’s mind on matters other than the misuse of avocado pears.

  ‘The point I am trying to make is,’ he said, ‘can we make
use of this information to stop him continuing his investigation into the circumstances surrounding Godber Evans’ death? I had the greatest difficulty dissuading the Senior Tutor this morning from instructing his lawyer to issue a writ for libel.’

  The General was shocked. ‘You mean he’s written something saying you and the Senior Tutor murdered –’

  ‘Not written. Said. I told you. Last night in the Combination Room.’

  ‘In that case it’s slander, not libel. Got to have it written for libel. Surprised you don’t know the difference.’

  ‘Perhaps it is because we don’t move in those circles where people write lies about one another so freely,’ said the Dean. ‘Now, about Dr Osbert …’

  ‘You want him taken care of, is that it?’

  The Dean hesitated. He certainly wanted something done to deter Purefoy Osbert but he wasn’t sure about his ‘being taken care of’. The General had rather too many friends in the SAS for comfort. ‘In the sense that he is put in a situation which is open to ridicule and which can be used to persuade him not to pursue his enquiries any further. Or at least not to bother Skullion, yes. I do not want him to be physically hurt in any way.’

  ‘I think he’s more likely to hurt himself quite horribly if he takes some of the advice that black woman has handed out,’ said the General. ‘Knew a chappie once got himself trapped in a milk bottle. Couldn’t smash it for fear of doing himself a frightful mischief. Had to call a doctor and he was baffled too. Rushed him into hospital and I forget how they got the dashed thing off. Told me just in case, but I’ve forgotten. Steered clear of milk bottles ever since.’

  The Dean winced. ‘I don’t think we need anything quite so drastic, Cathcart,’ he said. ‘I was thinking more of his evident need for perverse forms of sex.’ He left the General to draw his own conclusions.