Treasure by Degrees

by David Williams

  The Dean had taken great pride in showing off the Stable Quadrangle, remarking particularly on the way in which the attic storey – added only twenty years before – harmonized with the original Georgian. Certain in the knowledge that the whole Arab party was engaged elsewhere, he confidently invited Treasure and the Americans into Prince Faisal’s set of rooms, and in a distinctly proprietorial manner. That this was more assumed than justified became obvious when the style of furnishing was compared with that in Peter Gregory’s rooms opposite, and which the party had examined just before – also in the absence of the tenant.

  Gregory’s material comforts had been distinctly of the institutional variety – adequate but ordinary. The Prince, on the other hand, clearly lived in a style suited to his station. As an undergraduate at Oxford, Treasure had not been wealthy enough to do more than add a few wall prints in an attempt to stamp his own personality on the group of not very well-matched chattels provided in his College rooms. He had envied those few of his contemporaries who could afford to dispense with College furniture and bring their own from home or Harrods. Prince Faisal had evidently been able to go one further by inviting an interior designer with a great deal of taste, and a long budget, to create an atmosphere conducive to both relaxation and study.

  The arrangements and the fittings were almost wholly western and modern. Treasure noted and approved some chairs recognizably by Charles Eames, and a desk he guessed had been designed by Clive Hunt. The single marked concession to the owner’s origins was in the decoration of one wall. Above a low, long bookcase that ran the length of the sitting-room on one side there hung a variety of Arabian utensils and weaponry, mostly with gold or beaten silver ornamentation. In the centre was a truly handsome collection of swords, scimitars and daggers in delicately-worked scabbards. Amelia Hatch had been fascinated by this display and took down several pieces to examine them more closely.

  Treasure, mindful of his appointment later in these same rooms, and of the fact that the party was present in them uninvited, had quietly slipped away down the stairs and into the quadrangle where he had waited, near the empty Cadillac, for the others to complete their inspection of the Prince’s possessions. This action was prompted partly by the feeling that he was trespassing – despite the presence of the Dean – but more because it would be embarrassing for all – and especially for him – to be found trespassing through the untimely return of Sheikh Al Haban. Thus Treasure had no means of telling, later, which member of the party it had been who left the rooms last.

  The remainder of the tour had been uneventful. The Dean and his companions had run into Miss Stopps – almost literally – when she turned into the stable entrance, moving well, with head leading, and right shoulder down, at the same moment that they were emerging from the pilastered opening. She had earlier excused herself from accompanying Mrs Hatch on the journey around the College. Since lunch she had been to her cottage a mile away in the village, fed Tottle, provided herself with warmer clothing in preparation for attendance at the firework display, and returned by car. So much was evident or announced. Treasure could discern little difference in the lady’s appearance, save for a slight increase in overall bulk. Tottle was not visible, but Miss Stopps’s unexpected conveyance – a red Triumph Stag 3-litre convertible – had been neatly parked nearby. Apart from being amused by the incongruity of the vehicle in relation to its owner, Treasure had wondered which insurance company found the two acceptable as a risk.

  Miss Stopps had assured the Dean that she would be present for his meeting half an hour later, but declared that she had to call on Peter Gregory meantime. Nor was she deterred by the intelligence that Gregory was out; she had prepared a note to leave against this very eventuality.

  It was Miss Stopps that Treasure and Hunter-Smith had been discussing just before they had parted. The banker had understood earlier that Miss Stopps had been formally involved in the day’s events as proxy for the Bishop – the ailing Trustee she had inadvertently maligned. From what the Bursar said, however, it became apparent that the lady certainly owned a moral right of her own to a voice in the planning of the College’s future.

  Treasure was astonished to learn that Miss Stopps made an annual covenanted donation of ten thousand pounds to the UCI Trust Fund. He was as much surprised at the earnest this offered of affluence as at the generosity involved. Hunter-Smith had gone on to say that there had been hints of an eventual, substantial legacy for the College from the same source, that Miss Stopps was tireless in her devotion to the institution, roundly against the Funny Farms project, and rich enough to secure the financial security of UCI by herself, possibly in her lifetime and certainly at the end of it – always provided, the Bursar had cautioned darkly, that she was not upset.

  In view of Hunter-Smith’s obvious change of heart over the acceptability of the Funny Farms money, Treasure had allowed for a degree of subjectivity in this report. He was still curious to know more about the background of Miss Stopps and what it was that prompted her very real affection for the College. He had already worked out – almost as a reflex thought process – that if Miss Stopps’s income was generated by capital, assuming her living expenses were modest – a point not reflected by her choice of car, but allowing for occasional extravagances – her fortune could be hardly less than a quarter of a million pounds. Further, if Miss Stopps ran true to form with other elderly ladies of her type with whom Treasure was acquainted, the sum might be even larger – considerably larger.

  The Bursar was less clear about Miss Stopps’s provenance than Treasure might have hoped. He knew that her father had been ‘in trade’ in the area – probably Southampton. The Major had delivered the occupational appellation in a tone that suggested his own background lay in higher social spheres: Hunter-Smith worked hard to suggest he had been the younger son of faded gentry put to the Colours in defence of the Empire. In fact his father had been a respectable harbour master at an east coast port – just defensibly not in trade.

  Miss Stopps, despite her reputedly humble origins, had owned some connection or friendship with the last family to occupy the Hail. More than this the Bursar could not offer, save that she had lived in the village since well before the war, and had certainly been involved with UCI since its inception. ‘Dashed poor show if the dear lady is made to feel excluded by this American business. I’d hate to feel responsible for that.’ This statement, intended to sound bluff and honest, had been Hunter-Smith’s parting shot before leaving Treasure to prepare for the meeting.

  The banker strolled along the water’s edge, stopped for a moment to glance at the deserted but unfinished scaffolding for the fireworks, wondered why such complicated arrangements were necessary, and continued on towards the boat-house.

  Despite the urging of Lord Grenwood, Treasure had heard and seen enough now to have considerable doubts about the propriety of the Funny Farms Foundation adopting UCI. It was clear that the American endowment would represent far more than the College’s current income, and thus that it might become the tail that wagged the dog. There appeared to be a strong and influential body of opinion against the proposal – led by Dr Goldstein, who certainly had the best intellect in the College. The views of Peter Gregory and the Bursar in the same context rated consideration for different reasons – though Treasure had to admit still to not understanding the Bursar’s change of heart. If Miss Stopps, the benefactor, would truly be upset by the acceptance of the endowment, then, in view of her present and future importance to the institution’s financial standing, her attitude gave pause for thought.

  Treasure found it surprising that Miss Stopps had not made her opposition plain to him when there had been several opportunities for her to do so. This train of thought reminded him that it had been Miss Stopps who had first alerted him to the possibility of an Arab ‘take-over’. Surmise about this eventuality would doubtless be replaced by hard fact over tea in Prince Faisal’s rooms.

  The more Treasure thought about it, the more
it appeared to him that the College could do without the conditional endowment in Mrs Hatch’s gift which, if accepted, had to mean a fundamental alteration in the character of the place. What appeared to be needed was a modest improvement in capital or income. Several ideas went through Treasure’s mind. He excluded the notion of a sell-out to Al Haban, but he saw the possibility of a compromise solution with the Arabs. At the same time he felt obliged to caution himself into remembering the purpose of his visit. Such schemes as he had in mind hardly fitted him in his role as adviser to Amelia Hatch, nor did they even fulfil the express wishes of Lord Grenwood.

  ‘Hands up, or I fire.’

  Treasure was jerked back to reality by this stern directive. It was issued by a youth of about twenty who had suddenly got up from the bottom of a punt moored at the boat-house from where he had been watching the banker’s progress unobserved. The boy was dressed in khaki overalls; his head was uncovered and completely bald – a feature that lent his unlined face a strangely aged appearance. His legs were wide apart, and both arms were stretched out before him. His hands were clasped around a frighteningly large automatic pistol, pointed directly at Treasure.

  ‘Put the gun down, you young fool,’ exclaimed Treasure, sounding more courageous than he felt.

  ‘I warned you,’ answered the boy – and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER VII

  TREASURE PICKED himself up from where he had dived on to the ground, and to the accompaniment of peals of laughter from the youth who had jumped ashore and was skipping towards his erstwhile victim. He waved the gun above his head so that the silk banner which had unfolded from beneath the barrel was clearly visible, as was the word ‘Bang’ inscribed upon it.

  Viewed from close quarters, the ‘pistol’ was obviously an elaborate toy. At ten yards, and to a man whose eyesight was marginally – but only marginally – less than perfect, it had looked like the real thing. The prank had been foolhardy. One read of men of Treasure’s age – indeed, of men a good deal younger — who suffered severe coronary effects as a result of such shocks. Nor were the repercussions always evident at the time; they could be cumulative. Probably the dive would have been pointless if the gun had been real – but it had been well executed. There was a grass stain on the left elbow of the dog’s-tooth check – and the joint was a bit painful. Damn the fellow.

  Treasure felt angry and foolish. ‘You realize that was an extremely stupid thing to do. I’ve half a mind to punch your head in.’ The lad was quite frail. ‘As it is, I shall certainly report you to the Dean. What’s your name?’

  The boy had stopped laughing. He stared at Treasure in evident disbelief. Then his expression changed to one of acute sadness. A tear coursed down one cheek. The slight body began to heave with silent sobbing.

  Treasure had reduced a grown youth to tears. ‘Oh, for God’s sake pull yourself together,’ he said, now more embarrassed than angry: the lachrymose reaction was disarmingly unexpected.

  The boy lifted his bald head which Treasure noticed was traced diagonally by an ugly scar. He could see too that one part of the scalp was truly hairless, while the remainder was shaven. The expression on the boy’s face was now so pathetically full of remorse that Treasure found himself growing sorry for the wretched fellow.

  ‘Please don’t tell on me, sir. Please don’t tell. I won’t do it again, I promise. You can have the gun — Auntie gave it to me, and I promised her I wouldn’t . . . Oh, please don’t tell Auntie.’ The tears were now rolling down the pale cheeks.

  Treasure was sure that the performance was genuine; what he found difficult to credit was that it was being played by a young adult and not a ten-year-old. He and his wife had lost their only child, a boy, at that last age, and the conduct of the frail creature before him was bitingly reminiscent of a dozen similar scenes played by that other, sad, anaemic child when half the age of this one.

  The sympathy Treasure was feeling deepened into understanding. ‘You’re not an undergraduate . . . a student here, are you?’

  ‘No, sir. . . I’m Andy, sir. . . I’m guard of the fireworks, sir. Auntie said I could stay if I was good . . . and the others said I could help. Oh please, sir, don’t tell them I’ve been naughty.’

  ‘Where do you live, Andy?’

  ‘In the village, sir. . . with Auntie .., You’re not going to send me home, are you, sir? Oh, please let me stay.’

  Treasure heard voices behind him. He glanced over his shoulder: Amelia Hatch and Witaker were approaching from the Hall. ‘All right, Andy, I’ll let you off this time, but you must promise never to frighten anyone with that thing again.’ He smiled gently at the boy. ‘Now cut along back to the punt . . . and, er, and keep guard.’ Treasure caught himself falling into the role of prep school master. Andy bolted towards the boat-house.

  ‘Good Gard, did you see that kid?’ Amelia looked and sounded more astonished than the sight of Andy’s disfigurement should decently have prompted in a person with normal sensitivities. Her exclamation had been addressed to Witaker; he appeared not to have noticed the boy who was now some distance away.

  ‘A case of arrested development, I think,’ said Treasure quietly, ‘possibly caused by an accident. A rather pathetic case.’ This last remark was intended as a mild reproof.

  Mrs Hatch paused uncertainly for a moment; then she gazed after Andy. ‘Poor guy. Gee, I’m sorry. Does he work here?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Treasure, mollified. ‘He lives with an aunt in the village. Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Only that it’s time for the meeting, Mr Treasure. Me and Irv were wondering if we should take up a party line.’

  The three turned towards the Hall.

  ‘We have not, as you keep insisting, reached a stalemate, Dean.’ Goldstein was formal, precise, and angry. ‘It is quite plain that a majority of the Governing Body and the resident staff are in favour of your proposition, as is this . . . this lady and her advisers.’ He nodded towards Mrs Hatch, as though the classification required confirming. ‘It is equally plain to me that you are ready to write off the tradition and the record of this place for the paltry reason that we are in need of money – apparently from any source and on any conditions. There is no stalemate; you intend to sell out.’

  The speaker leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and stared sternly ahead of him – which, as it happened, meant that Treasure who was sitting opposite became the undeserving object of a thoroughly disaffected glare.

  ‘In fairness to our guests, the source of the money is impeccable, and the conditions entirely to do with academics.’ Ribble spoke from the head of the table. ‘This is, after all, an educational establishment and it’s entirely reasonable . . .’

  ‘That we should turn it into a training school for milkmaids and cowboys. You’re surely not suggesting that what’s proposed would even allow us to conduct normal degree courses in agriculture?’

  Treasure looked to Witaker in expectation of some comment, but since the lawyer made none, he put in himself; ‘I understood, Dr Goldstein, that you’d all been made aware the Foundation has no objection to funding first degree courses in conventional agriculture, provided the post-graduate school is devoted to pure food projects and research.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Ribble. ‘As Dean, I insisted on that point being cleared at the early stages. Indeed, we have the Bursar to thank for producing the workable formula that has made our negotiations possible.’ He smiled warmly at Hunter-Smith, who sincerely hoped the compliment would never be repeated in the presence of his wife.

  ‘We are still having to incorporate certain safeguards . . .’

  ‘Aw, shucks to safeguards.’ Amelia Hatch interrupted Witaker loudly. ‘We bin touting this proposition long enough to know where the problems he, an’ I guess we’ve gotten smart enough to find ways around ’em. What Mr Treasure says is right. Mr Hatch would have seen the sense of it – why, he was the mos’ practical man you ever met. Ain’t that so, Irv?’

&nbs
p; Witaker did not find it necessary to do more than nod a bare assent to this tacit admission that what Cyrus Hatch had originally envisioned was wholly impractical, not to say demonstrably cuckoo. Treasure had already divined that Mrs Hatch was resigned to compromise if dedicated to establishing the Funny Farms Faculty of Agriculture at all costs, rather than have to admit failure, and, with it, her late husband’s asinine whimsicality.

  ‘Might I ask?’ The six others present, including Dr Goldstein, looked towards Miss Stopps who was making her first contribution since the start of the hour-long meeting. ‘Might I ask, does the endowment have to be for ever? It seems, as it were, such a very long time – I mean such a very permanent commitment.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is the central condition, Dean,’ said Witaker, addressing the Chairman and producing the words with great emphasis. ‘The fact that some employment of the Foundation’s capital is to be permitted during the first five years – to provide new buildings and so on — puts a legal as well as a moral obligation on the College to follow through with the project on a permanent basis.’

  ‘But, as I understand it, it’s intended that the capital should be made up again out of income over the following twenty years.’ This came from Treasure. ‘Also, the American Trustees of the Foundation can withhold the endowment at any time after the fifth year either on a temporary or permanent basis.’

  ‘By which time the College will own a whole string of new buildings, Mr Treasure, put up at our expense — we ain’t gonna abandon that kind of stake without good reason.’ Treasure had to agree with Amelia’s argument.

  ‘One might then regard the first five years as an experimental period?’ asked Miss Stopps with more than a note of hope in her voice: Treasure had an informed guess at the special reason for her question.

  ‘Oh, nothing so loose, I’m afraid,’ said Witaker, again with firmness. ‘The Trustees would only withdraw their support if totally dissatisfied with the way the Faculty was run. In view of some of the conditions applying to the curriculum – the appointment to fellowships and so on – I really can’t see the circumstances ever arising.’