Grantchester Grind

by Tom Sharpe

  Ten minutes later, feeling only slightly better, Myrtle rallied and tried to find something to help her cut her way out of the costume but apart from an old toothbrush which was no help at all, the only thing was a double-bladed plastic razor but even in her desperation she couldn’t get it to cut anything. Once again she set to work trying to get the gloves off and when that failed, she spent a fruitless and frequently painful twenty minutes dragging at the various slits in the costume which kept recoiling violently. There was nothing for it. She wasn’t going to risk having her nose broken or being choked to death on her false teeth. She’d just phone for help. She sat on the edge of the bed squinting down at the telephone and wondering what her husband Len would say or, more importantly, do if he came and found her like this. Knowing him, he’d either knock her about a bit, and quite a bit at that considering she was in no condition to fight back or, even worse, laugh himself sick and tell all his rotten mates down the local and she’d be the laughing stock of Thetford.

  Darker thoughts slowly made their way into her mind. She’d been left in the fucking lurch, which was bad enough, and she’d been made to look a bloody idiot, but, worst of all, she had been robbed blind by an old poncey General and a Sir. Oh no, she hadn’t. Myrtle Ransby had been through too many sordid squabbles and downright wars over payments for services rendered to be done out of her two thousand nicker by an old fart called D’Eath, Sir Cathcart fucking D’Eath. Well she’d D’Eath the bugger before she’d finished never mind that Yank who killed horses. After much thought Myrtle rang her sister and told her to come over from Red Lodge and not to say anything to anyone, not anyone at all. Maggie wanted to know what was wrong with her voice ’cos she sounded all hoarse or something and anyway she couldn’t come until Perce got back from Newmarket with the car and Myrtle knew what Perce was like when he’d been to Newmarket. Worse when he won of course. Anyway she’d come when she could. Rather than enter into a prolonged argument with her sister, Myrtle put the phone down and checked her handbag to see if the envelope with her half of the two grand was still safe. She’d brought it to compare the way it was torn with the other and make sure she wasn’t being done. She also looked at her watch and found it was 3.15. She lay on the bed and thought even darker thoughts until 7 p.m. when Maggie drove up in front of the house and blew the horn. Myrtle put on her leopardskin – the gold lamés were too tight to fit over the latex leggings – and went downstairs and made a dash for the car.

  ‘Lumme,’ Maggie said, ‘Lumme Myrt, what’s with the Michelin tyre outfit? You been to a rubber lovers’ fancy-dress ball or something?’

  A very nasty blue eye warned her not to laugh. They drove out of Cambridge on the Barton Road.

  *

  Sir Cathcart D’Eath had had a tiring two days. Duck Dinner and the shocking events afterwards had given him a sleepless night and he’d had to be up early the following day to make arrangements for Skullion’s hasty removal from the Master’s Lodge. It had involved a number of phone calls and awkward questions about covert operations of that kind and the difficulties involved in getting an ambulance with a suitable crew up from London at a moment’s notice. But in the end and at considerable personal expense he had prevailed. After the lightest of lunches he rested and prepared himself for a small dinner-party with a number of old and distinguished chums who were coming up for the weekend with their wives. Most importantly, Sir Edmund and Lady Sarah Lazarus-Crouch had been invited. The General was particularly anxious to ingratiate himself with the Lazarus-Crouches because his niece, Katherine D’Eath, was engaged to their son Harry and Sir Cathcart was anxious to avail himself of Sir Edmund’s financial acumen which, since he had advised the Queen to sever all connections with at least three merchant ventures which had later collapsed, was considerable. In short the gathering at Coft Castle that evening was of the unostentatiously great and the ostensibly good. Even Sir Cathcart’s secretary had been given the weekend off while Kentucky Fry had been sent to a pig farm in Leicestershire for a holiday. And all the time Sir Cathcart had a nagging feeling that he had forgotten, in the horror of Duck Dinner and the distractions of the day, something he ought to have done and hadn’t. He very soon discovered what it was.

  The General and his guests had just sauntered out into the old Orangerie with their drinks when Myrtle Ransby drove up with Maggie in the battered Cortina. Conversation in the Orangerie came to a sudden halt as Myrtle staggered out of the car and peered horribly at them. Never, in Sir Cathcart’s opinion, a pleasant sight, she was cataclysmically awful now. With her leopardskin draped over her shoulders, and with her distorted en bouffant bulging under the hood, she advanced on the little group. In her hand she held the torn notes and even her protruding nipples and swollen thighs had a menace about them Sir Cathcart could not fail to recognize.

  ‘Oh my God, what on earth is that?’ Lady Sarah gasped as Myrtle approached.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ Sir Cathcart muttered and then, with a quickness of thought that sprang from desperation, ‘Perhaps she’s collecting for some charity.’

  But before he could usher his guests back into the house Myrtle was through the door. ‘You fucking owe me,’ she shouted and waved the torn notes. ‘Two fucking thousand smackers. And you’re going to pay me or else …’

  The threat was superfluous. Nothing else could be more disastrous to Sir Cathcart than her appearance now. Purple and speechless, he tried to mouth to her to go away but Myrtle wasn’t having any. She had come for her money and her revenge and she was determined to get both. She turned hideously to the guests.

  ‘Says he likes nigger women and he wants me in the old rubber,’ she told them. ‘He’s got this house in Cambridge, see, and he wants me to give him the old oral and I’ve got to dye my teats. And you know what he does then?’ She advanced, with evident social perception, on the Lazarus-Crouches. ‘Ties me up so I can’t move and leaves me there all night and all day so he can –’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort,’ stammered Sir Cathcart most inadvisedly. ‘I …’

  But it was too late for any escape. Myrtle had backed Lady Sarah against a camellia and was breathing stale brandy in her face. ‘He likes the old waterworks, know what I mean?’ she mouthed through the hood. ‘Really dirty. Disgusting I call it. Know what I mean?’

  It was obvious that Lady Sarah had some idea, but would have preferred not to. ‘Well, really,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Myrtle, and waved the torn notes under her nose. ‘Why else would he pay two grand? Dirty old men don’t pay that sort of money for the old missionary, do they?’

  ‘No, I’m sure they don’t,’ Lady Sarah murmured weakly.

  ‘I say –’ one of Cathcart’s chums tried to intervene but Myrtle turned on him with the money. ‘Two grand. That’s what he owes me,’ she growled through the hood. ‘I ain’t going till I gets it.’

  ‘Oh quite,’ said Sir Edmund diplomatically and helped his wife towards the door. Several of the distinguished old chums and their wives followed. Only one remained.

  ‘Now, my good woman, if you’ll just excuse us for a moment,’ he told Myrtle, and took Sir Cathcart apart. ‘For goodness’ sake, give her the money,’ he said. ‘Only decent thing to do.’

  Twenty minutes later Sir Cathcart sat slumped in a chair in the library and watched the last of the cars depart. He did not even want a drink. He had been unmasked.

  34

  The College Council met in plenary session two weeks later to hear the Praelector’s report and come to a decision. There had been other more informal meetings and a great many heated arguments. But the Praelector had prepared the ground with a thoroughness that had left the Dean and the Senior Tutor furious but without any reasonable argument. The Praelector no longer relied on his undoubted authority. He had employed power and had done so through the strangest and most unlikely medium, that of Purefoy Osbert.

  ‘This is pure blackmail,’ the Dean said lividly when the Praelector told him t
hat Dr Osbert’s suspicions were a weapon he was quite prepared to substantiate if the need arose.

  ‘You may call it that if you choose,’ the Praelector replied. ‘It is the truth and I shall use it if I have to.’

  ‘You would bring the College down if you did. You would destroy the very thing you claim you want to preserve.’

  ‘Again, that is your choice to make. Stand in the way of Hartang’s nomination as Master and Porterhouse will be destroyed in any case.’

  ‘But the man is a criminal and a monster.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. He is also immensely rich and vulnerable. By providing him with the protection of respectability we will earn far more than his gratitude. We will have him at our mercy.’

  The Dean sneered his disbelief.

  ‘I mean it. At our mercy,’ the Praelector continued. ‘You have not seen the almost ineffable surroundings in which he exists and which the pitiful man supposes must be style. The great glass tables, the long and most uncomfortable sofa in green leather, the wrought-iron chairs, the black leather, the windows of armoured glass. You would shudder at the vulgarity of his minimalism. Thank God he doesn’t collect paintings.’

  ‘I can’t see that any of this matters,’ said the Dean. ‘You want to introduce this murderous gangster into the College and you call that having him at our mercy. You are mad.’

  But the Praelector merely smiled. ‘Charles the Fifth of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, the most powerful man in Europe at the time and therefore probably more unlikeable than Edgar Hartang, withdrew to a monastery for the last few years of his life. I haven’t put that comparison to the new Master – I doubt if he would understand it – but I like to think we can play a similar role in Mr Hartang’s life. A quiet period of contemplation combined with the satisfaction of knowing that one is paying compensation for the excesses of one’s past by contributing to the cultural achievements of the present. I am sure our future Master will come to view life here in that gentle light. After all he has no family.’

  ‘How do you know? He has probably spawned frightful offspring all over the world.’

  ‘Boys,’ said the Praelector smugly. ‘And since you want to know how I know, I can say that Mr Schnabel has been most cooperative. As the new College legal advisers, the firm of Schnabel, Feuchtwangler and Bolsover, has been most helpful. They share my feelings about Mr Hartang’s future. I think he has uttered one threat too many. But you will meet them when they come up to prepare the documentation. Everything must be done in the proper manner.’

  ‘But what are Retter and Wyve going to say? You can’t just throw them over like that.’

  ‘They are not being thrown over,’ said the Praelector. ‘They will continue to deal with local matters and besides they are being paid, which is an entirely new experience for them as far as Porterhouse is concerned. I don’t suppose you realize how much we owe them but …’

  *

  To Dr Buscott the Praelector spoke rather differently, and to Professor Pawley he explained, ‘This will ensure that Porterhouse will be in a position to make a very munificent contribution to the scientific funding of the University and naturally your advice will be much sought after.’

  *

  But it was with the Senior Tutor that he had the greatest difficulty.

  ‘Drugs? Heroin, cocaine, and you want to let a drug trafficker become Master of Porterhouse? I shall most certainly oppose the nomination,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘After all we have always prided ourselves on our athletic prowess, particularly on the river. You are setting a fearful precedent. No, I refuse to be party to such a vile conspiracy. Over my dead body.’

  For the briefest of moments the Praelector thought of saying that that could be arranged, but he desisted. ‘There will be no drugs in Porterhouse,’ he said. ‘Funnily enough, Mr Hartang shares your feelings exactly. True, in the past he has had some dealings with the drug trade but he has long since seen the error of his ways.’

  ‘Not according to those tapes. How else do you think he has made so much money? He’s hand in glove with the Mafia and the drug cartels of South America. He has people murdered, he hires killers, he commits the most monstrous crimes …’

  ‘True, Senior Tutor, very true. Anyone who opposes him does tend to come to a sticky end.’ He paused for the inference to sink in. ‘However, he has learnt from history that there is advantage to be gained from respectability. Take President Kennedy’s father. Started life as a bootlegger and a gangster selling gutrot gin and whiskey during Prohibition and almost certainly had competitors murdered. He ended up as Ambassador over here during the war.’

  ‘The bastard said Hitler was going to win,’ the Senior Tutor retorted, ‘and in any case they had to repeal the Prohibition law because they couldn’t stop people drinking and they were putting money into the hands of gangsters like Al Capone and Joseph Kennedy.’

  ‘Exactly the point I was going to make,’ said the Praelector. ‘Do you seriously suppose that the present American authorities, in so far as there are any, with their incredible financial deficit are going to succeed in stopping the drug traffickers? Do you really think that?’

  The Senior Tutor said he sincerely hoped so.

  ‘Ah, but think of the financial advantages that will accrue to the Governments when drugs are legalized,’ the Praelector told him. ‘And the social benefits will be enormous too.’

  ‘What social benefits? The wholesale consumption of crack cocaine does not strike me as having any social benefit whatsoever.’

  ‘I can think of one. The elimination of the criminal coterie that controls the trade now. And besides, I have never believed in the regimentation of society by a self-appointed and supposedly moral elite. If people choose to indulge tastes that hurt only themselves, they are entitled to do so. To attempt to dragoon them into moral perfection always fails. Or ends in war.’

  ‘You are a cynic,’ said the Senior Tutor.

  ‘I have fought in one war and, while I cannot claim to have known what I was fighting for, I think I knew what I was fighting against,’ said the Praelector. ‘So far I have always found myself on the side of right. An accident of birth and history, I daresay, but one that doesn’t incline me towards cynicism.’

  ‘Not this time,’ the Senior Tutor said. ‘This time you are on the side of wrong and I shall oppose you.’

  ‘It is your right to do so,’ said the Praelector. ‘Though I must warn you that you may come to regret it.’

  *

  The Senior Tutor did, almost immediately. Two days later he found a letter demanding immediate payment of far more than he had expected in connection with repairs, renovations and the re-roofing of the Porterhouse Boat House.

  ‘This has nothing to do with me,’ he told the Bursar, who had finally been persuaded to resume his duties. ‘The College funds the Boat Club. I don’t.’

  ‘I daresay in the past …’ the Bursar began, but the Praelector came out of the Secretary’s office in support.

  ‘You’ve evidently not boned up on the College ordinances of 1851 lately.’

  ‘Ordinances of 1851? Of course I haven’t. I didn’t know there were any,’ spluttered the Senior Tutor.

  ‘Oddly enough, I have a copy of the relevant clause with me,’ the Praelector said and handed him a page of numbered paragraphs. ‘Number 9 is the one that applies to your position with regard to the expenses you have incurred without the authority of the College Council Bursarial and Finance Committee. Most unfortunate of course, but there you are.’

  The Senior Tutor read the offensive paragraph and was appalled. ‘“In the event of an officer of the College in whatsoever capacity acting without the consent of the Bursarial and Finance Committee to incur expenses …” Are you mad? I can’t pay forty thousand pounds and I’m damned if I’m going to. I’ve never even heard of this fuck –’ (Mrs Moreland had added her presence to that of the Bursar and the Praelector) ‘– of … of this Committee.’

  ‘It meets every
term, doesn’t it, Bursar?’

  The Bursar nodded weakly. He was too frightened to speak. He had horsewhips on his mind.

  ‘Of course, in the past these matters have been a mere formality,’ the Praelector continued, ‘but in the light of the financial crisis now facing the College, I am afraid that Clause 9 has become obligatory. Our creditors are insisting on immediate payment and since you are legally responsible …’

  The Senior Tutor retreated and consulted his own solicitor. ‘I’m afraid there is very little we can do,’ he was told.

  By the time the College Council met in plenary session the Senior Tutor had capitulated. A bankrupt Porterhouse was one thing, but he was not prepared to be a bankrupt himself. Hartang was set to become the new Master.

  35

  It was morning and Purefoy and Ingrid lay in bed late. ‘You’re wasting your time here, Purefoy darling,’ she said. ‘You aren’t going to find out anything more and even if you did what could you do about it? They’re all so old.’

  ‘I just want to know what actually happened.’

  ‘The truth, is that it? Is that really what you want to find out? Because if it is, you’ll be wasting your time. They are never going to tell you.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I still want to know where Skullion is. He’s not at any of the hospitals or nursing homes in Cambridge, and that night he spoke about the Park. He threatened the Dean that if they sent him to Porterhouse Park, he’d tell me he murdered Sir Godber. And then three days later he suddenly disappears and hasn’t been heard of or spoken about since. The next thing they’ve chosen a new Master who is as rich as Croesus. That wasn’t a coincidence. I don’t believe that for a moment.’

  They got up and went out for coffee at the Copper Kettle.