Grantchester Grind

by Tom Sharpe

  The Praelector shook his head. ‘Hardly any, unfortunately. Hardening of the arteries is an occupational hazard that seems to affect cavalrymen in particular. We’ll just have to wait and see what this charge of the heavy brigade results in.’

  29

  Out in the darkness under the old beech tree by the back gate Skullion followed the General’s progress across the lawn and round the rose beds by the occasional glow of his cigar. Sir Cathcart had lit it almost as soon as he was in the open air partly to give him time to think what he was going to say but also to give Skullion warning that he was coming. ‘No point in alarming the old bugger,’ he’d said to himself.

  But Skullion wasn’t alarmed. He’d known this would happen sooner or later. He’d given the Dean his marching bloody orders and the Dean wasn’t ever going to forgive him for that. Given him a nasty shock into the bargain telling him about killing Sir Godber Blooming Evans. Only done it because he was drunk and pissed off. But what was done was done and in some ways Skullion didn’t regret it. He’d had enough of being called Master and them not thinking of him as the Master. Somehow the Bursar’s telling that bloody Yank not to call him a Quasimodo update but the Master had cleared the air and let him see his position in the College in a new light. There wasn’t any pride in being Master of Porterhouse and being helpless in a wheelchair. The fact that he’d missed sitting by the bed and gobbledygooking the Yank had told him that too.

  It had been different when he’d been Head Porter. He’d had real power then even if he did have to hide it and call the young wet-behind-the-ears ‘Sir’. He’d learnt that lesson in the Royal Marines from watching the sergeants saluting young wet-behind-the-ears officers and calling them ‘Sir’ to their faces and then seeing to it they didn’t lead them into any trouble. In France Skullion had seen a Corporal put a bullet through a 2nd Lieutenant who’d wanted to be a hero and get them all killed taking on a company of Panzer Grenadiers waiting for them in a sunken lane. He’d heard the Corporal mutter, ‘Him or us. And it ain’t going to be us,’ just before he shot the officer. And at Lympstone – or was it Deal? – Sergeant Smith had asked him one wet afternoon standing in the drill shed, ‘What’s your most important job in this bloody war, boy? I’ll tell you what it fucking is. To kill the fucking enemy. And to do that you’ve got to be alive, see? So keep your swede down and remember your blooming mother wants to see you again even if I don’t and she ain’t going to do that if you’re a dead Marine and some fucking Jerry’s done to you what you’re being paid to do to him. And what are you fucking smiling at, boy? Tell your ruddy uncle here because I’m sure we all want to share the joke.’ And 3rd Class Marine Skullion PO/X 127052 had said sheepishly, ‘It’s just that a dead Marine is an empty bottle, isn’t it, Sarge? Like a bottle of beer.’ And even Sergeant Smith had almost smiled for a moment. ‘Well, you’re going to see plenty of both where you’re going, and for your sake I hope you live to drink plenty of the one and aren’t one of the others.’ That had all been such a long time ago, but Skullion had never forgotten it nor what he’d seen in France. And people like General Sir Cathcart D’Eath talked about having a Good War. As if being cold and wet and hungry and shit-scared was fun. And hearing someone screaming wasn’t fun either even if it was a bloody wounded Jerry.

  So now in the darkness Skullion waited underneath the great tree for Sir Cathcart and wasn’t sorry it was over.

  ‘Ah Skullion,’ the General said, peering at the dark shape against the trunk of the beech. ‘Still waiting for us to climb in, what?’

  ‘You, Sir Cathcart, yes, you were a one for climbing in, you were. I caught you many a time and let you go some more, though I don’t suppose you ever knew it, sir.’

  The end of the General’s cigar glowed in appreciation. ‘You’re an old devil, Skullion, you know that, a wicked old devil.’

  Skullion grunted, or chuckled. It was impossible to tell which.

  ‘Bad business, Skullion, bad business,’ the General continued. ‘The Dean’s upset. Praelector too. Can’t have it, you know.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Skullion.

  ‘Can’t say I blame you myself. The bloody man wasn’t a fit and proper person to be Master. In your own way you were trying to do the College a service.’

  He stopped. Somewhere behind him there was a sound of raucous laughter.

  ‘Boat club,’ Skullion explained. ‘Getting ready for the Bumps. Senior Tutor’s got them in training.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the General, suddenly remembering that Skullion wasn’t the only killer on the premises. ‘And that’s another thing. College reputation’s at stake. This business is bound to leak out and once the police start poking their noses in there’ll be no stopping them. We can’t afford to let that happen. Can’t have you making threats to the Dean. He’s not a young man, you know. We none of us are and things are going to change pretty damn drastically. So, no matter what you say … well, to put it bluntly, Skullion, man to man and so on, your innings is over. Ran yourself out or played on, whichever you like. Now, I understand from the Dean you don’t want to go to the Park.’

  ‘No, Sir Cathcart, I don’t. Not with all them loonies like old Dr Vertel. I’d rather die here and now and be done with it. I mean it, sir. I’d rather die now.’

  Sir Cathcart mulled this over for a moment, but ruled it out. ‘Tell you what,’ he said finally. ‘There is no question of your going to Porterhouse Park. Give you my word as a gentleman that you won’t even be asked to. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Very good of you, sir, very good.’

  ‘On the other hand, the College needs a new Master. You must see that.’

  ‘Oh I do, Sir Cathcart. I’ve never been the Master the College needed. I’ve always known that.’

  ‘Good man. Now if you were to retire, of your own free will of course …’ Sir Cathcart let the question hang on the still night air. For a moment Skullion said nothing.

  ‘If I retired, Sir Cathcart, I’d have the right to name my own successor, wouldn’t I? That’s the Master’s right, isn’t it?’

  Sir Cathcart nodded. ‘You would indeed have that right,’ he said. ‘It is your absolute right as Master to name the person to succeed you. And you could come and live at Coft Castle with me, and occasionally we could drive over to visit the College, if you so wished. That is what I’ve come to tell you.’

  ‘In that case I’m prepared to go,’ said Skullion solemnly, ‘go whenever you want, sir. And I will name my successor now.’

  ‘And who is it to be?’ Sir Cathcart asked.

  ‘Lord Pimpole, sir, Lord Pimpole.’

  ‘Very good, Master, very good. And I can go and inform the Dean of your decision?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Cathcart, you can tell him. And you can tell him this too, he doesn’t have to worry about the Sir Godber Evans Fellow, Dr Osbert, about him knowing I killed Sir bloody Godber, because he already does know.’

  Sir Cathcart hesitated. ‘Knew’ would be a more appropriate word in the late Dr Osbert’s case.

  ‘He knows because I told him,’ Skullion continued. ‘He was sitting in the maze when I was telling the Dean. Been there all afternoon, waiting and listening, and he heard every word I said.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Sir Cathcart and understood why the Senior Tutor had acted with such precipitate violence.

  ‘What’s more, the stupid bugger was in the maze all bloody night, crashing about and trying to find the way out.’ Skullion chuckled at the memory.

  ‘And you knew he was listening all the time?’

  ‘Course I did. I haven’t been Skullion the Head Porter and not known what’s going on in College all these years. Yes, I heard him and I thought to myself, “I’ll tell you what you’ve come to find out and it isn’t going to do you any good at all because you ain’t going to be able to do anything about it.” And it hasn’t done him any good.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was the only comment Sir Cathcart was prepared to make. He had begun to regret with a new an
d fearful intensity ever having come near the College in these unfathomable circumstances. He certainly had no intention of incriminating himself any further by asking questions. ‘Well, I’ll be getting back to the Dean,’ he said hurriedly before there could be any fresh disclosures. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to learn of your decision. We can make arrangements for your moving out of the Master’s Lodge at some other time.’ And with a hasty ‘Goodnight’ he was off across the lawn.

  He found the Dean and the Praelector sitting in gloomy silence.

  ‘Well?’ asked the Dean without getting out of his chair, but Sir Cathcart needed a quick restorative.

  ‘Mind if I help myself?’ he asked, and without waiting for an answer poured himself a large cognac. Only when he had drunk it did he resume his stance in front of the empty fireplace.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Cathcart, put us out of our misery. What is his answer?’

  ‘Good man, Skullion,’ he said finally, having decided that even among old friends there was a great deal to be said for deception. The Praelector’s ‘Least said soonest mended’ made perfect sense to him now. ‘He’s agreed to go. I said the timing of his leaving the Lodge could be left to a later date.’

  ‘And he didn’t make any difficulties?’ the Praelector enquired.

  ‘None whatsoever. Regrets the whole business and apologies all round for making such a damned nuisance of himself.’

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ said the Dean. ‘He didn’t threaten any disclosure if he goes to the Park?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Of course he’s reluctant to go but I made it plain that, for the good of the College, it was the best thing for him. I suggest we get a move on. Like tomorrow. Leave it to me. Private ambulance and some hefty attendants to lift him into it and then straight down the motorway. You can put it about that he’s had another Porterhouse Blue.’

  ‘Well I must say, Cathcart, you’ve done sterling work this evening,’ the Dean said, rising and reaching for the brandy. ‘I think this calls for a celebratory drink.’

  ‘I must say it comes as a great relief,’ the Praelector agreed, ‘though it does leave us with the question of who is to be the new Master.’

  Sir Cathcart raised a hand. ‘No need to trouble yourself about that either. Skullion has exercised his traditional right and named his successor.’ He paused for effect. The two old men looked at him with amazement.

  ‘Well, it is his right, you know. I could hardly refuse him,’ Sir Cathcart continued.

  ‘Absolutely his right,’ the Dean agreed. ‘One of our oldest traditions as a matter of fact. Dates back, I believe, to 1492.’

  ‘Yes, well there you are. I suppose I’d better be on my way. It’s been a difficult evening, but at least you don’t have to worry about Skullion any more.’

  ‘But you haven’t told us whom Skullion, the Master that is, named as his successor.’

  ‘It is rather important to know,’ said the Praelector.

  ‘Oh that. Of course, how stupid of me. Jeremy Pimpole. That’s who he’s named. Lord Pimpole …’ He stopped and looked at the Dean. ‘Are you all right, Dean?’

  It was a stupid question. It was obvious that the Dean was far from all right. He was clutching the edge of the table and had dropped the brandy. ‘No, no,’ he gasped. ‘Not him. For God’s sake, not the Dog’s …’ He staggered for a moment and almost collapsed.

  ‘Not the what?’ asked Sir Cathcart as he and the Praelector helped the Dean to a chair.

  ‘Not the Dog’s Nose man,’ he whimpered.

  Sir Cathcart bent over him solicitously. ‘The Dog’s Nose man?’

  ‘Pimpole. It isn’t possible. Not Pimpole.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be very well,’ the Praelector said. ‘Perhaps the strain has been too much for him. And I shouldn’t give him any of that brandy.’

  But Sir Cathcart had reached the end of his own tether. ‘I’m not going to give him any,’ he snapped. ‘I need some myself. Come here for that infernal dinner and find the place has been turned into a human abattoir. And then when I’ve managed to persuade one murderer to get the hell out … Damn it, what the hell is wrong with Lord Pimpole? Knew his father. Charming family. Pots of money, too. Just the chap.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ moaned the Dean. ‘He is nothing like the man he used to be. He’s a filthy soak. Pimpole Hall and the estate have been sold to meet his debts. He has drunk a fortune away. He doesn’t even wash. Pimpole lives in a dilapidated cottage with a vile dog and drinks Dog’s Noses.’ He paused and looked wildly around at them. ‘Have you ever drunk a Dog’s Nose?’ Both men shook their heads.

  ‘Heard of ’em,’ said Sir Cathcart, ‘but –’

  ‘Then don’t,’ the Dean continued. ‘Not ever. If you value your sanity. Pimpole drinks them all the time. Seven ounces of gin to thirteen of beer.’

  ‘Dear shit,’ said Sir Cathcart, ‘the bugger must be off his head.’

  ‘Cathcart, he is. And what is more … no, I can’t tell you how depraved Pimpole is. It’s too awful.’

  ‘Try, old fellow,’ Sir Cathcart said. ‘Try and tell us. You’ve done jolly well so far.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to hear any more,’ said the Praelector. ‘Seven ounces of gin …’ His voice trailed away in disgust and disbelief. But Sir Cathcart wanted to hear about depravity.

  The Dean told them. And even Sir Cathcart understood. ‘Sheep?’ he said slowly. ‘Sheep and dogs? Well, that does put a rather different complexion on the matter.’

  He helped himself to some more of the Dean’s brandy and sat down. It was the Praelector who spoke. ‘It also puts an entirely different complexion on Skullion’s apparent willingness to retire. He has, in old-fashioned golfing parlance, laid us a perfect stymie.’

  There was silence in the room as they took this in. Again from somewhere in the College there came the sound of raucous laughter. It reminded Sir Cathcart of the Senior Tutor. ‘I know why the Senior Tutor …’ he hesitated for a moment and chose his words with care. ‘I know why the Senior Tutor took the desperate action he did. Skullion had told Dr Osbert that he had murdered Sir Godber. Obviously the Senior Tutor realized he had to act immediately. All the same this second killing has made things damnably awkward. Still, if the body is in the Crypt I daresay we can buy time.’ This time there could be no mistaking the Dean’s and the Praelector’s unease. They exchanged a glance and turned back to Sir Cathcart.

  ‘Cathcart my boy,’ said the Praelector, ‘have you ever had any allergic reaction to duck? By that I mean, has the ingestion of concentrated fat ever affected the way you perceive things?’

  Sir Cathcart D’Eath’s eyes bulged in his purple face. ‘Have I what?’ he bellowed. ‘An allergic reaction to duck? Are you quite insane? Here we are with dead bodies littering the damned College and you want to know if the ingestion of digitalized duck affects the way I perceive things. Well, as a matter of fact …’

  ‘Hush, my dear chap, do keep your voice down,’ the Dean intervened.

  Sir Cathcart did. ‘As a matter of fact the way I perceive things has changed,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I perceive that the College has gone collectively off its trolley. Not only have we an ex-Head Porter as Master and one who admits to killing his predecessor but we also have a Senior Tutor who has beaten, anyway mangled, another Fellow to death and put his body in the Crypt and to top it all …’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? What makes you think the Senior Tutor has beaten anyone to death? Bodies in the Crypt? Of course there are bodies in the Crypt. The Masters are buried there. No one else.’

  Sir Cathcart eyed them with a doubtful and extremely cautious suspicion. ‘Then why did you tell me before that damned dinner that the Senior Tutor had butchered this new Fellow, Osbert?’ he demanded of the Praelector.

  ‘Me? I never said a word about the Senior Tutor murdering Dr Osbert,’ said the Praelector indignantly. ‘I’ve never heard such a farrago of nonsense in my life.’

 
‘You bloody well did. You said you blamed the Senior Tutor …’ Sir Cathcart hesitated. In his befuddled mind a fresh doubt had arisen.

  The Praelector took advantage of the pause. ‘I said I blamed the Senior Tutor for allowing Dr Osbert to be appointed without properly investigating who was putting him up for the Fellowship. I said nothing about him murdering anybody.’

  ‘And to the best of my knowledge Dr Osbert is still alive,’ said the Dean.

  Sir Cathcart stirred unhappily in his seat. ‘There has evidently been some sort of ghastly cock-up,’ he said. ‘All the same some stupid bastard told me …’ His voice trailed away as enlightenment slowly dawned.

  ‘The Chaplain, perhaps?’ hazarded the Dean.

  Sir Cathcart nodded.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Praelector significantly and reached for the brandy. ‘That explains everything. Which still leaves us with the vexed question of a Master to succeed Skullion. I take it that we are all agreed that he has not nominated Lord Pimpole.’

  For a moment it seemed as though Sir Cathcart was going to object on the grounds that he had given his word as a gentleman etcetera, but he backed away. Sheep and dogs were too much even for his sexual eclecticism. ‘Good,’ continued the Praelector. ‘In that case I shall convene an emergency meeting of the College Council to have the Master declared non compos mentis. This will negate any future nominations he might attempt. It is the only method open to us and it will have the additional advantage of rendering any ridiculous assertions that he murdered Sir Godber Evans nugatory. And now, if you’ll excuse me, it is long past my normal bedtime.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Sir Cathcart.

  As he made his way out past the Porter’s Lodge a figure hurried by into Porterhouse. It was the man the General had come to identify.

  30

  It was a very different Purefoy Osbert who came into Porterhouse that night. He no longer felt strongly that crime was a product of the law or that human misbehaviour existed only as a side-effect of police brutality and social repression. He had moved beyond these generalizations into a more personal world in which his own anger dominated everything. He had been deliberately humiliated and made to look an idiot. All the way back from Kloone he had faced the fact, the evident fact that Mrs Ndhlovo, far from loving him or even feeling fond of him, had made a mockery of his feelings for her. Just as evidently she had always regarded him as a fool. And Purefoy was prepared to agree with her. He had been a damned fool to have been taken in by her stories of a black husband in Uganda who had ended up as various portions of President Idi Amin’s late-night snacks. A woman who could hoodwink the University authorities into believing such an unlikely story by speaking pidgin English had to be an experienced charlatan. It wouldn’t have surprised him to have learnt that she had never been anywhere near Africa and that her encyclopaedic knowledge of sexual practices had been obtained entirely from treatises on the subject or from hearsay. Whatever the case she was definitely a liar and a fraud as well as a heartless bitch and Purefoy wanted no part of her. She belonged to a past that he intended to forget. He had even given up the idea of writing her a letter in which he told her what he thought of her. She wasn’t worth the trouble, might even find some satisfaction in knowing how much she had hurt him, and besides he had more constructive things to do.