Treasure by Degrees

by David Williams

  The fact remains that laymen find the Hall a pretty place, and infinitely more pleasing than the imitation Gothic piles that ten years after its erection were de rigueur as homes for parvenus in search of instant provenance. Built on elevated ground overlooking a natural lake, the Hall, on its southern façade, comprises eleven pavilions and bays, dominated by a central, octastyle Corinthian portico, pedimented and topped by a squat dome. Each of the two terminal pavilions has its own smaller dome, a feature more practical and admittedly less obviously absurd than the ornamental turrets used by Wilkins to top off the ends of the National Gallery.

  Whatever its weaknesses, Itchendever Hall has survived – the scholarship and taste there still intact – and for a better reason than the mere provision of a subject for carping, purist analysis. In the late 1950s, when higher education was all the rage, the building was purchased and endowed – partly out of local and central government funds, partly by public subscription – to form the nucleus of a new university. But the project foundered a few years later. New, though nasty, purpose-built establishments were by then considered more wholesome settings for young seekers after truth and learning than places that might conceivably corrupt the atmosphere with the smell of history and blocked drains. Money intended to enable University College, Itchendever, to extend its curricula from the liberal arts into the sciences was diverted into other academic channels. Laboratories remained unbuilt, libraries were not extended, extra student accommodation became a pipe dream, and the lavatories remained inadequate – even though, taken individually, they are among the most commodious in Britain.

  No one actually demanded the closure of the College. Up to 1974, at least, there were still too many students chasing too few university places for the Department of Education formally to approve a reduction in the number of higher educational establishments. There was also the embarrassing circumstance that year after year all hundred-odd finalists at the College obtained firsts —or else good second-class degrees. This evidence of academic excellence was given little advertisement by those in authority. It stood in such sharp contrast to results obtained elsewhere as to make comparison invidious and enquiry acutely perplexing to enlightened educationalists.

  University College had fewer than three hundred students. Its facilities were limited. Local and central authority had long since ceased giving it money. Many of its students had to rely on their parents and vacation work for subsistence because most county councils refused them the grants available to those studying at ‘fully recognized’ establishments. There was no record of rioting at the College which was too small to attract the organizing talents of the National Union of Students. Loafers and lame-brains were ‘sent down’ for not working, without protest from anyone – a process that served to concentrate the minds of those wishing to stay, and one that underwrote the unsullied record of scholastic achievement. The resident staff of fifteen tutors, supplemented by ten visiting academics from other establishments as far afield as Reading and Brighton, were over-worked, underpaid, but dedicated.

  Itchendever, being in the heart of the country, offered few distractions, but the small, close-knit, industrious community owned one highly attractive compensation. The student body was equally divided between men and women. Outdoor sports held few attractions for those in residence.

  Mark Treasure was scarcely aware of the unique qualities attaching to University College as the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce swung into the main drive of Itchendever Hall. But he was delighted by the sight and quality of the English Renaissance building that commanded the view across the lake the car was skirting. The early November sunlight, the white stone, the rolling green parkland, the leafless trees – saving for a few bronzed oaks stoutly defending the retreat of autumn – the shimmering water, all combined to form the placid landscape he had been actively anticipating during the hour-long journey. It was then that the lady fell off her bicycle, causing Henry Pink to swerve and stop with an alacrity customarily associated with Trafalgar Square in the rush hour.

  Pink glanced round at his employer. ‘I never touched her, sir.’

  Treasure was already out of the car, making for the tangled mound of tweed, machinery, and stout flailing legs fetched up on the verge a yard ahead of where the car had stopped. His approach was momentarily arrested by the emergence from the pile of an enormous black cat – back arched, fur raised, teeth bared – that sprang into a sentinel position before the confused mass. Treasure had never seen such a large cat. It hissed at him venomously.

  ‘Tottle, behave.’ This command had no evident effect upon the cat, and came in a rich contralto from underneath the bicycle.

  Risking the feline threat, Treasure advanced upon the disentangling heap in time to assist the robust, dishevelled, and aged owner of the voice to her feet.

  ‘He’ll do you no harm . . . thank you so much . . . his real name’s Aristotle, Tottle for short . . . naughty Tottle . . . I am so sorry.’ All this the lady delivered breathlessly. ‘Oh, so kind of you . . . all our fault, I’m afraid.’ This last was directed at Pink who was doing his best to straighten the handlebars of a pre-war Hercules lady’s cycle with a lyrically swooping crossbar, and a huge wicker basket that hung drunkenly, one securing strap broken, over the front wheel. ‘There’s the cause of our misadventure,’ continued its human victim, tapping the severed strap with a firm forefinger. ‘And perhaps poor Tottle was only trying to trim the ship.’

  ‘Are you in one piece?’ Treasure was already reasonably sure that the stout, matriarchal figure, thickly clad in matching cloak, coat and skirt of heavyweight Scottish woollens, had emerged unscathed from the spill.

  ‘Right enough, thank you so much. Just a bit winded, don’t you know. I must introduce myself. . . Miss Stopps, Margaret Stopps. Now, let me see, you’ll be Mr Treasure.’ Miss Stopps dropped her right shoulder and lunged forward as though about to add ample wing-forward support in the third row. Treasure found his hand enveloped in a tight grip almost before he was aware of having raised it.

  ‘How do you do.’ Treasure paused. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage . . .’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Treasure,’ interrupted Miss Stopps, with a confident smirk, as though this were a common enough experience. She used both hands to lift a wide-brimmed felt hat off her head, revealing a shock of short, wavy, grey hair, before cramming the hat back on with some force. ‘Intelligent deduction on my part; invited to lunch with the Dean to meet the benefactors – and clearly you’re not Mrs . . . er . . . Mrs Hatch. False economy not to come in the car, of course, but Tottle prefers the bike.’

  Since it was doubtful that Tottle had been asked to lunch, Treasure assumed the formidable animal might customarily be used to guard whatever conveyance its owner chose to employ. ‘I’m hardly a benefactor, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Just an adviser to Mrs Hatch. Are you in some way associated with the College, Miss Stopps?’

  ‘Merely what you might call a well-wisher,’ replied the lady. She opened her arms wide towards the lake and the Hall in a Valkyrian gesture made the more dramatic by the cloak. ‘Isn’t it a simply magnificent sight, Mr Treasure? So well worth preserving; oh, so very well worth preserving.’ Miss Stopps delivered the last part of this statement almost to herself. She pursed her lips together firmly, lower jaw thrust out, strong square chin set determinedly. She rounded on the banker. ‘You’ll do what you can, Mr Treasure? We must all do what we can.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Treasure, not quite certain what it was Miss Stopps was expecting of him. ‘This is my first visit; the house is even more beautiful than I had imagined.’

  ‘Quite so; they say the architect liked it best by moonlight – the reflection in the lake and so forth. Shall you stay for the fireworks? Six o’clock; I do hope so.’

  Treasure had no intention of dining as well as lunching at the College, had quite overlooked that it was November the fifth, and loathed fireworks. ‘It’s improbable I’ll be here so late, I’m afraid,’ he repli
ed.

  ‘Well, perhaps we can persuade Mrs Hatch to watch our little display. I suppose Americans would know about Guy Fawkes? – or perhaps not.’ Miss Stopps pointed across the lake without waiting for Treasure’s own conjecture. ‘The undergraduates arrange some quite beautiful tableaux of pyrotechnics; they’re starting to put up the scaffolding now in front of the Hall — so ingenious. Just one example of the splendid collegiate spirit here, Mr Treasure.’

  They stepped into the road the better to view the group activity in which Miss Stopps took such pride – and were very nearly run over. A black Cadillac of enormous dimensions appeared almost silently from behind the Rolls and glided past, at no great speed, but nevertheless perilously close to the pair, whose attentions had not been concentrated on traffic flow. The uniformed driver slowed the big car to a crawl so that Treasure, removing himself and his companion to safety, still had time to observe the three other occupants, none of whom appeared to be the least bit interested in him or his well-being.

  Sitting alone on the back seat of the Cadillac was an obviously noble Arab in full national regalia. The centre row of seats – for it was that kind of car – was occupied by two swarthy heavyweights in western clothes. Treasure correctly assumed these two to be bodyguards, and immediately set himself guessing as to the identity of the august personage requiring full-scale protection in the heart of rural Hampshire. The banker did a great deal of business in the Middle East, and he made it part of this business to meet most of the really important visitors to London from the many Arab states where Grenwood, Phipps was heavily involved. He was fairly certain that the chief occupant of the car was not from one of these. It intrigued him that the man should drive into the country dressed and attended in a style appropriate to an official occasion, or at least one where status required underlining. Most of his wealthy Arab acquaintances cultivated anonymity when in England; a lasting source of satisfaction, as well as income, to those who laboured in Savile Row. The car bore no diplomatic emblems, and the number plate was American.

  Treasure turned to Miss Stopps. ‘Are the fireworks to be followed by a performance of The Desert Song?’

  ‘What a droll and original observation, Mr Treasure.’ Miss Stopps’s large frame shook with mirth. ‘Alas, nothing of the sort is planned, at least, not until the end of term when we have our revue,’ she added earnestly, no doubt as further evidence of extra-mural esprit. ‘This year it will be called Itchen All Over – a play on words, d’you see?’ And without waiting for Treasure fully to savour this waggery, she continued. ‘Unless I am mistaken, that was the Crown Prince of Abu B’yat.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Treasure, impressed with the information but more so by the knowledge of its purveyor. ‘And is he a frequent visitor?’

  ‘I think not. He has a son here — a nice lad, not bright, but agreeably unpretentious.’ Treasure wondered whether perhaps Miss Stopps did some tutoring as part of her well-wisher role. ‘The boy was intended for Oxford but there was some misunderstanding – I believe leading to altercation – about his entrance qualifications. It was something of a coup when the Dean attracted him here.’

  Treasure agreed, though Miss Stopps’s last point implied that University College, Itchendever, was not above lowering its academic guard in the cause of celebrity.

  Abu B’yat was one of the smallest of the Persian Gulf Emirates, but certainly one of the richest. It was exceptional in that its ruler demonstrated little faith in the British economy. Only a tiny proportion of Abu B’yat’s huge oil revenues were invested in London, quite the largest portion being placed in the USA. In common with the rest of the British banking community, Treasure had long since ceased to work, or hope, for a change in attitude on the part of the ruling Emir. Now he speculated on the likelihood of the situation altering with the succession of a Crown Prince whose regard for English education at least seemed proof against American competition. Treasure testily wondered also why he had been reduced to gleaning this interesting intelligence through a chance meeting with a maiden lady in Hampshire when his company supported a whole department charged to keep him posted on just such highly portentous information.

  Miss Stopps drew Treasure aside with the air of a conspirator, although except for Pink, the chauffeur, who was busy at the rear of the Rolls-Royce, they were a quarter of a mile from any other visible human contact. ‘A word in confidence, Mr Treasure,’ she said in a subdued voice, after glancing both ways along the drive. ‘It is rumoured – and I must emphasize it is only rumour – that the Crown Prince may be planning to buy the College.’ This titbit offered, Miss Stopps drew back, eyes narrowed, the better it seemed to watch the morsel being digested.

  ‘To buy the College! But surely that would be impossible?’ questioned the putative starid-in for the institution’s Chairman of Trustees.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Treasure.’ Miss Stopps was again adopting her conspiratorial attitude. ‘The authorities,’ she continued, without specifying which bodies the phrase encompassed, ‘are ignorant enough to regard the College as a financial embarrassment, and sufficiently profligate to dispose of it, if a face-saving opportunity arose.’ She paused. ‘So it seems we may be flattered by the presence of two potential benefactors today.’

  ‘And not by coincidence.’ Treasure was beginning to catch up with the events that had so far overtaken him.

  ‘Indeed not. Your own visit with Mrs Hatch has been much advertised of late. If there is substance in the rumour about the Crown Prince’s intentions, then your visit has no doubt precipitated his.’

  This, thought Treasure, would also account for the Prince’s finery and the size of his entourage – natural scene-setting for an important Arab with a purchase in mind.

  ‘Well, Mr Treasure, I must delay you no longer with my spills and confidences. It has been a great pleasure, and, of course, we shall meet again at lunch. Before then I have a meeting with the Entertainments Committee.’ Miss Stopps closely examined the dial of a gold, half-hunter watch which she had produced from a capacious knitting bag suspended around her neck by a woollen cord. ‘Goodness, I’m late . . . Oh, thank you so much; how clever of you.’

  Pink, at whom the expression of gratitude was aimed, had secured the basket to the handlebars of the bicycle with a piece of stout twine produced from the boot of the car. Miss Stopps scooped up Tottle, and deposited him in the basket with a marked absence of ceremony. She then mounted the bicycle, and after a wobbly start, set off down the drive, upright in the saddle, with Tottle intently examining the front wheel from his point of vantage.

  CHAPTER IV

  FIONA TRIGG, tall and twenty, angularly beautiful, and nicely developed in all the right places, stood buttoning up her blouse near the first-floor sitting-room window. ‘I am properly dressed – and anyway, no one can see me. Darling, you are getting prissy in your old age.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Peter Gregory – who was all of twenty-seven – smirked, pushed her owlish spectacles further up the bridge of her nose, and returned her attention to the scene in the courtyard below. ’It’s the biggest car I’ve ever seen . . . and it is Faisal’s father, I told you so.’

  The lanky, bearded Australian she was addressing promptly put down the beer glasses he was carrying, hurried to the door, and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Oh, Mr Gregory, now I’m in your power,’ cried the girl in mock dismay. ‘Unlock the door immediately or I shall tell my tutor.’

  ‘I am your tutor,’ came the over-melodramatic reply from the University College Reader in English Literature. He crossed the room, grasped Fiona from behind, and drew her away from the window. ‘And I’m only protecting you from marauding Arabs.’

  ‘My hero!’ She twisted around in his arms, took off her glasses, and kissed him briefly on the lips. ‘And you should have locked the door half an hour ago.’ He wasn’t paying attention. ‘Now who’s looking out of the window? . . . Peter, they’re not likely to try busting in here, are they?’

  ‘Those two
muscle-men look capable of anything, and they’ve got a hamper big enough to put you in.’ Peter was watching the occupants of the Cadillac as they disembarked, and made for the staircase he shared with Sheikh Al Haban’s son in the quadrangle of what had been the stable block of Itchendever Hall. The building stood some fifty yards to the north of the Hall, and had been converted to provide living accommodation for students. There were some larger sets of rooms for junior teaching staff. The Crown Prince’s son had been afforded one of these in view of his status and – literally — because he could afford it.

  The elegantly planned courtyard, three-storeyed on all sides, grassed in the centre, with pedimented arch exit on the Hall side, recalled the atmosphere and arrangement of an Oxford College quadrangle. Access for motor vehicles was possible but forbidden. No one had yet appeared ready to make this point to the owner of the Cadillac that compactly provided more horse-power than the nineteenth-century stables had ever housed.

  ‘Was Faisal expecting his father?’ Fiona had moved to the sofa where she was now curled, blue-jeaned and barefoot, sipping lager from a glass tankard.

  ‘Not that I know of. . . leastways he didn’t mention it this morning. He was here just before you came. Hell, I hope he’s in, otherwise the Arab Legion will be banging on my door. Listen a minute.’

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the uncarpeted, wooden staircase ended. There were voices raised in greeting on the landing; the noise of doors opening and shutting. Fiona nodded reassuringly at her tutor. ‘D’you think he’s here to outwit the dreaded Funny Farms woman – sorry, your venerable great-aunt – in the nick of time, buy the joint, and move in with the camels?’