Treasure by Degrees

by David Williams

  ‘Mr Treasure, I have no choice in the matter. I have told my father we shall own this College. Mr Ribble may believe he can go back on his word to me. I cannot break my word to my father.’ Al Haban fixed Treasure with a gaze so intense as to be disturbing as well as uncomfortable. He continued in a quiet, earnest tone. ‘Indeed, Mr Treasure, I will not break my word to my father – it is a matter of honour. A way must be found.’ He paused before adding, ‘Come in, my son, we are finished with our private conversation.’

  Treasure had been sitting with his back to the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder to see Prince Faisal standing at the threshold; he had no way of telling how long the young man had been there.

  News travels fast in closed communities. As soon as the College menial employed to transport the first plate of cress sandwiches to the SCR had acquitted herself of that instructive duty, numerous interested persons not present at the meeting were better informed on its alleged proceedings than some who had taken part in it.

  Philip Clark, the President of the JCR, adjusted the folds of his karate-style bathrobe and, bare-legged, struck his Bonnie-Prince-Charlie-before-Culloden pose on the threadbare rug in his room. ‘The Funny Farms business is bad enough, but to be taken over by Torchester Poly in the process is the bloody end.’

  ‘The absolute terminus,’ agreed Sarah Green from the bed where the only vestment handy for adjustment was the top sheet, now decorously wrapped around her torso in deference to the arrival of Roger Dribdon.

  ‘That’s only intelligent conjecture, mark you,’ said the JCR Secretary, who was reading for a law degree, ‘but it’s pretty easy to see the way their minds are working.’

  ‘Right, Roger; plan A with the thunder-flashes — agreed?’ said Philip from the command position in front of a wall poster depicting a well-endowed female urging all and sundry to Join the Lamb’s Navy’.

  ‘Yes – all laid on,’ replied Roger in a tone markedly less belligerent. ‘If you’ll just put your signature on these minutes, that’ll make it official.’

  Daniel Goldstein, who had a home and a wife to return to close by, continued to eschew both. Since storming out of the meeting an hour before, he had shut himself away in the College study where he gave tutorials. The room was sparsely furnished, but he kept a record-player there. Solitude and Bach invariably provided the best therapy for his troubled mind. Point and counterpoint – the essence of classical music and balanced thinking — were working to a resolution; specifically in the Fourth Brandenburg; with help, in the affairs of the College. There were two distinguishable enemies, inimical to one another as well as to the best interests of UCI – and there lay the solution he sought.

  It took a classically disciplined mind to order battle between romantic antagonists; unsuspecting barbarians might make a better description. Consciously he sought and recited Burke’s definition – ‘whatsoever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, is a source of the sublime.’ Yes, the licence in the phrases was admirably apposite,

  Reginald Hunter-Smith sat at his desk in the Bursar’s Office, closed one eye, and poured himself another stiff whisky. So long as all the liquid went in the glass he knew he was sober enough to drink it. In any case what he had consumed at the bun-fight, provided a solid enough base for at least two more tots. Damn all women – especially Mrs Hatch and his own lady wife. Gradually the fear of going home was being stifled by the resolution that he was not going home – not for a bit anyway.

  He stared at himself in the hand-mirror kept in the centre drawer. ‘Hunter-Smith,’ he said aloud, then looked hurriedly around the room to ensure he was still alone; this gave him a new idea. ‘Men,’ he exclaimed, treating each wall to an imperious glance before continuing. ‘Men, the situ . . . the situchu-chu . . . the position is desperate . . . s’calls for stern measures.’ The Major poured himself another drink, most of which went into the glass because he forgot to close an eye. ‘Courage is wass . . . wass we need. We need courage. And you’re all cow . . . cow . . . cows, that’s wass you are, cowardly cows. But have no fear . . . absolutely no fear. Your leader . . . Major . . . Reginald . . . Hunter . . . Bleeding . . . Smith has a plan. All ish not lost. We shall stand together.’ The Major got to his feet, and somewhat to his surprise found no difficulty in remaining upright.

  ‘Well, I did tell Miss Stopps, and that’s an end to it. Oh, darling Peter, are you very angry?’ Fiona Trigg tried to look penitent. Gregory made no reply. They were standing in the centre of the sitting-room. She put her arms around his neck. ‘Really, it’s better that someone knows – Miss Stopps agreed. She said otherwise it might be compromising for you if the Funny Farm thing is called off.’

  Peter pushed the girl away from him, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains, though whether he was piqued or merely being practical was not clear to Fiona. ‘Well, it’s not likely to be called off, and it’ll be a bloody sight more compromising when everybody finds out I’m half Hatch. There’s going to be a hell of a bust-up here when this thing breaks officially – and I’m with Goldstein in opposition, remember?’

  ‘Miss Stopps says it will be much better for the College if we don’t get the endowment – and better for you too if nobody gets it. Then you could claim part of the money eventually.’

  ‘So she knows that too, does she? I wish people would mind their own business.’

  ‘Meaning me? Darling, you are my business, and I refuse to be scolded. Anyway, it was all in the Daily Mirror. You’re not really going to refuse your Hatch inheritance if it’s offered, are you?’ Fiona sounded truly incredulous.

  ‘That’s just what I’m going to do.’ There was no point in raising false hopes, whatever his considered intention. He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, it’s nearly twenty to six and we’re due to scoff some of the hooch your precious Miss Stopps has provided for the JCR. I suppose it was nice of the old girl to get me invited.’

  ‘Itchendever Hall by moonlight. C’mon, Irv, this may be the chance of a lifetime.’ Amelia Hatch had put down the glass and was standing in the SCR doorway with Margaret Stopps beside her. Both ladies were dressed for an outdoor excursion; Amelia looked ready for a trip to the Arctic. She had borrowed a grey woollen scarf from Miss Stopps which was wrapped around her head and neck, covering her ears and chin. This left only her eyes, nose and mouth visible. Witaker wished it might inhibit her powers of speech. The straw hat looked even more ridiculous than usual, crammed over the wool swaddling.

  ‘No, you go right along,’ he answered as amiably as he could, ‘I’ll join you at firework time.’ It was just 5.30. With luck he would have the room to himself when the two old birds had departed.

  ‘The buildings are very beautiful on a fine night, Mr Witaker. Anyway, we’re only taking a quick toddle around. I especially want Amelia to see the reflections in the lake.’ Miss Stopps beamed at her companion; they left together, arm in arm.

  Witaker was alone for the first time since the fateful meeting: alone to contemplate the undeniable fact that the impossible had happened. An apparently respectable British educational establishment was about to get its hands on this imbecile endowment, and he was powerless to stop it – powerless to ensure the half-wit who had married his daughter would inherit better than one and a half million dollars on Amelia’s death. It was that same half-wit who had already invited Witaker to manage the handsome inheritance for him when the time came. This had been the slim justification for Witaker’s speculating more than a little on his own account with some of the Trust funds two years ago, which in turn explained why those funds were now worth a million dollars less than they appeared to be worth on paper. Witaker needed time, or else he needed the funds of the Funny Farms Foundation distributed amongst the nine great-nieces and nephews of Cyrus Hatch, one of whom could be relied upon not to require an audit of his portion. What he did not need was a massive demand on the Trust capital to pay for extravagant enlargements to an
English stately home turned university.

  Irvine J. Witaker was immoral and dishonest; the fact that he had survived that way for so long indicated also that he was not entirely lacking in resource. Some time after he had begun to turn his fertile brain to assessing the several extreme courses of action open for relieving his plight, the house telephone close to where he was sitting rang insistently. He picked up the receiver. A muffled voice asked, ‘Is Mr Witaker there?’

  ‘This is he,’ came the somewhat surprised reply.

  ‘Good. Listen carefully, Mi Witaker. Unless the Funny Farms offer to endow UCI is withdrawn without delay a photographic record of your visit to a certain commercial college last evening will be issued to newspapers in this country and America by the Abu B’yat Embassy.’

  Witaker tried to overcome the trembling – to make his voice sound as normal as possible – to think quickly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this some kind of blackmail attempt because if it is . . .’

  ‘Not blackmail, Mr Witaker. We’re not asking you to give us money; we’re telling you not to give us money. They’re very good pictures by the way.’

  ‘I shall speak to the Grown Prince without delay. He cannot be condoning . . .’

  ‘You do that, Mr Witaker, You do that.’ The line went dead.

  Effect

  CHAPTER IX

  IF THE STUDENT population of University College, Itchendever, was not much in evidence during the daytime, there was no doubting its presence and strength after nightfall – or so Treasure concluded after taking his leave of Sheikh Al Haban.

  Groups of young people were everywhere converging on the south front of the Hall. There was merriment in the air, and a good deal of raucous bantering. Torches flashed, a few antique candle-lanterns were carried along in the throng, providing more for atmosphere than illumination. A well-harmonized chorus somewhere struck up ‘The First Nowell’, indicating that the College choir was into rehearsal and strong on musical timing, if ahead of season.

  Treasure had returned to his car to fetch a light topcoat. The Rolls was parked on a wide gravelled area at the end of the main drive on the nearside of the Hall – somewhat conspicuously parked just off the drive itself. A good many students – presumably those ‘boarded out’ in the village – passed close by. Most of them cast curious or appraising glances at the car and its owner. One cry of ‘Turn left for the Motor Show’ produced a crop of other good-humoured comments: ‘Come back in an hour, James, there’s a good fellow’ and ‘Who’s for caviare?’ preceded ‘It’s the Area Secretary for the National Union of Students.’

  ‘No,’ Treasure shouted back in the general direction of the last offering, ’I’m filling in while he’s in Bermuda.’ This produced loud cheers, and passing confirmation of UCI’s much remarked distaste for student organization outside its own tiny bailiwick.

  Pink, the chauffeur, had earlier returned to London by bus and train. Treasure had arranged to dine and spend the night with friends in nearby West Meon – his actress wife was filming in Jamaica, and the prospect of a convivial evening followed by local golf in the morning had been more appealing than the thought of a lonely night in his Chelsea home. It concerned him only that he had expected to quit Itchendever an hour before; the further confrontation with Ribble and the Sheikh he hoped would be concluded quickly.

  ‘Coming to get lit up?’ Treasure turned from locking the car door to face a plump clergyman of middle height and age, sensibly robed in cassock and a warm black cloak that reached nearly to the ground. ‘Name’s Hassock – known to the undergraduates as Kneeler, well, there it is – I’m the Vicar. You a parent?’ All this the Reverend Mr Hassock delivered in booming tones of great bonhomie.

  ‘Treasure, Mark Treasure,’ said the banker, shaking hands and immediately electing to enjoy the company of his breezy new acquaintance. ‘No, I’m here on business – but that seems to include compulsory fireworks.’

  ‘Ha, you don’t care for fireworks. Neither do I, as a matter of fact, but it’s an opportunity for a bit of social evangelizing. I’m Chaplain here as well as parish priest – strictly an honorarium job, they can’t afford a full-time chap. Still, it saves me getting lumbered with an extra church.’

  Treasure assumed this comment reflected more on the real difficulties of running pluralities than on Mr Hassock’s professional zeal. As if to confirm this, the Vicar set an energetic pace as the two fell in together on the walk towards the Hall.

  ‘You mean it squares the Archdeacon?’ said Treasure, to advertise his understanding of such matters.

  ‘Yes, and I’m the Rural Dean, so I’ve got it covered both ways. Ha! Come on, you miserable sinners, make way for the carriage trade.’ The group of dawdling students immediately ahead parted at the loud injunction and with evident good humour. Treasure decided he had something to learn about social evangelizing.

  ‘I’ve been here since before lunch and this is the first time I’ve seen any students to speak of.’

  ‘Ha,’ the Vicar began with the sharp expletive that peppered all his utterances, ‘they spend the mornings sleeping, the afternoons fornicating, then they come out at night like hamsters – don’t you, my dears?’ He smiled benignly at the three or four young people who had overheard this highly libellous account; their expressions registered neither surprise nor disagreement. ‘Incredible thing is, they all get good degrees. Different in my day. I got a rotten degree. Ha!’

  Treasure began to feel conspicuous; perhaps a change of subject. ‘Do you know the house well?’

  ‘Born in it, my dear fellah, born in it. I’m the legendary third son pushed into Holy orders. This is my family seat – not any longer, of course. Eldest brother was killed in the war, other one’s running the family business. Sold this place years ago – but we still have the gift of the living, that’s how I got it. Cushy – ha!’

  Mr Hassock was now pushing his way through the press of spectators assembled before the Hall, with Treasure in his wake. The crowd impeded neither the Vicar’s flow of words nor his dogged progress towards an open window at the far side of the building. ‘That’s the JCR,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They’ll be serving a very fine stirrup cup through that window – courtesy of Margaret Stopps – met her, have you?’ Treasure nodded pointlessly at the back of Hassock’s neck. ‘SCR’s at the back of the building; damnfool arrangement.’ The same thought had occurred to Treasure earlier. ‘Anyway, we’ll grab some glasses — jug as well if we can – then ascend to the holy of holies under the portico. The drink’s not as good there, but the patch is reserved for VIPs – less a gathering of the great unwashed. Ha.’

  The crowd in front of the trestle table set out before the window parted more in response to the Vicar’s voice than to any physical effort on his part. ‘Evening, Fiona,’ he bellowed, ‘doin’ the honours, are you? Let’s have one of those jugs then, there’s a good girl. Where’s Peter?’

  Fiona Trigg was handing out glasses and jugs on the far side of the table. ‘Mysteriously disappeared – in a huff,’ she answered briefly, handing the Vicar a two-pint glass jug so full that part of its contents began to slop over those standing near as he carried it, shoulder high, back through the crush.

  ‘Bless you, my children. Ha!’ cried God’s local steward, sprinkling stirrup cup like holy water on a Papal progress. ‘Hang on to those glasses, Treasure, and steer due west up the steps. The pyrotechnics have begun.’

  There was much crackling and fizzing from the lakeside as Treasure shouldered his way up the six wide steps that served the podium under the impressive portico of Itchendever Hall. The first tableau in coloured flame was in progress. The crowd cheered the momentary exhibition which was quickly replaced by the simultaneous ascent of a dozen rockets. These burst above the lake sending out an impressive shower of sparkling lights, their reflection caught upon the surface of the water.

  As the display continued, Treasure contented himself with the thought that such exhibitions w
ere usually short in duration; the cup – a concoction based on mulled claret – was really quite palatable. He stared about him but had difficulty in identifying many of those favoured with access to the special arena – clearly the privilege was not a very exclusive one since the podium was almost as crowded as the area below. The light from a battery of giant Catherine-wheels briefly lit the just-remembered countenance of the Head of Modern Languages and one or two other members of the faculty encountered at lunch. Then, on the far side of the Corinthian enclosure he spied Miss Stopps and Mrs Hatch standing at the back of the crowd and in a position that hardly afforded them a good view of the proceedings.

  ‘I’m going to rescue some damsels in distress,’ Treasure bawled into the Vicar’s ear, above the noise of another shower of bursting rockets.

  ‘Which ones? Pretty ones? Ha!’ Hassock gazed about him speculatively. ‘Difficult to muster a chorus-line out of this lot – that’s what my wife always says, anyway.’ He followed the direction of Treasure’s gaze. ‘Oh, you mean Margaret and what looks like a grizzly bear. They won’t drink too much of our booze. Come on then.’

  Hassock’s intended charge through the assembled company was suspended by the first of the series of unexpected events that were destined to keep University College, Itchendever, on the front page of every national newspaper for several days – a singular achievement for so small an institution, but, sadly, one that reflected more notoriety than celebrity.

  Both the Vicar and Mark Treasure were stopped in their progress by a gasp from the crowd, followed by loud cheers from the mob of students assembled, as it were, below stairs from the faculty group. The demonstration was prompted by a new, incandescent tableau at the lakeside which proclaimed in huge, triumphant red, white and blue letters the unequivocal message: