Treasure by Degrees

by David Williams

  FFF

  EFF

  OFF

  The short life-span of the medium detracted nothing from the piquancy of the message – nor was the drama of it allowed to expire with the fireworks’ flame. No sooner had the more privileged spectators had time to digest the meaning and import of what had taken place than what registered as armed attack was made to supplement moral outrage. Ear-piercing bangs and blinding flashes erupted at various places on the podium causing fright and confusion amongst the academics and their familiars who, having gathered to watch a display of explosives, now found themselves featured as the main attraction.

  There being no rational explanation for what was happening, irrational thought and action triumphed. Female screams, male curses and the sound of shattering glass from the columned enclosure mingled with the mounting cheers of the undergraduate horde which now began to advance up the steps of the podium on three sides. The explosions underfoot became more frequent. ‘It’s mined,’ came one loud, deep-throated opinion, ‘get back, get back.’ The advice was superfluous since there was no going forwards or sideways into the solid wall of advancing studentry. ‘Stand still, stand still,’ came a strangled plea from another victim caught in the centre of the press, and conscious that the bombs or bullets or whatever they were seemed not be to penetrating beyond the protective periphery of the nearly captive group.

  ‘Stop it, you young bounder,’ commanded Hassock, advancing boldly down the steps, against all opposition, to grasp the arm of a student he had just observed toss a small object on to the podium.

  Treasure had quickly concluded that he had become involved in a demonstration and not an intended massacre. Even so, he was concerned for the well-being of the two old ladies. A diagonal course to them being out of the question, he raced and elbowed his way along two sides of the step immediately below the stylobate. As he neared the point where he had last seen his quarries he was thankful to observe the retreating form of Amelia making resolutely for the open door of the Hall. Miss Stopps was just behind her, but then faltered and appeared to fall.

  Ignoring an explosion virtually under his foot, and pushing aside a gesticulating student with the minimum concern for others in his path, Treasure reached the collapsing form of UGI’s important benefactress. He planted himself behind her, pressing his left shoulder into the stalwart supporting surface of a Corinthian column. With difficulty he next grasped the lady under the armpits and pulled her into the shelter available on the house side of the column, out of the path of those scurrying towards the building. Propping his charge against the curved stone-work, Treasure knelt beside her. ‘Miss Stopps, Miss Stopps,’ he cried loudly into the lady’s ear, ‘are you all right?’

  The closed eyelids flickered, the sagging mouth twitched at the edges, the dropped, but square, heroic chin jerked upwards. Miss Stopps was at least alive. ‘Mr Treasure.’ The eyes were now open and fully alert, the voice strengthened, overcoming the noise of the panicking throng. ‘You will come to think I have a propensity for falling off or falling over.’ Miss Stopps glanced about her. ‘Are we safe here? It’s my ankle; I must have twisted it – the pain was momentarily excruciating. I think I can stand with your help. Oh, goodness, where is Mrs Hatch?’

  ‘Quite safe – don’t worry. We’ll stay here a moment. This fool demonstration is nearly over. I think they’ve run out of squibs.’

  ‘Of what?’ Miss Stopps was not dazed, just querulous.

  ‘Thunder-flashes – bangers used by the army to simulate the noise of battle. They’re quite harmless, but thoroughly alarming if you don’t know they’re coming. Anyway, all will soon be back to normal.’ This honest attempt to reassure an upset, aged maiden lady was not nearly justified by events. No sooner had Treasure spoken than the hardly undisturbed night air was rent anew by the incessant clamouring of police car sirens – their decibel count increasing by the second in sharp contrast to the faltering volume of student cheering. Those who had controlled events so far were clearly not expecting such early intervention by an almost preternaturally vigilant constabulary.

  A new kind of panic now ensued as some two hundred joyful, victorious students simultaneously decided that those in authority over them had reacted with wholly uncalled-for gravity to a harmless bit of youthful exuberance. Thus affronted, there was only one course open to a student body jealous of its record for good behaviour – and that was to run for it. The earlier reaction of the senior members of the establishment to assault by firecrackers was tortoise-like when compared to the movements of their persecutors threatened by the arm of the law.

  ‘Oh God, I’ll be sent down for certain,’ moaned Philip Clark breathlessly as he and Sarah Green raced towards the shelter of his room in the Stable Quad.

  ‘D’you think they’re after you now?’ cried Sarah, her alarm founded on the fact that the motorized police contingent, in three cars, instead of driving to the Hall front was skirting the very lawn she and Peter were crossing, heading certainly in the same general direction as themselves.

  ‘Not the whole bloody police force.’ Philip slowed to a walk, Scottish logic replacing blind panic. ‘Listen, it could be something else that’s happened – not the demo, I mean. They’ve likely come from Winchester and you can’t do that in five minutes.’

  As if to confirm the supposition that the arrest and incarceration of the JCR President was not its immediate intention, the small army of policemen disgorging from the cars was splitting into task groups under the direction of a sergeant. Three, carrying loud-hailers, dashed through the quadrangle entrance. The tail-gate of the third car – a station wagon – was open, and two constables were withdrawing equipment through it – metal shields, floodlights, and what appeared to be a set of long-armed grappling tools.

  ‘Clear the building. Clear the building.’ The sergeant issued this echoing injunction through the microphone and amplification unit on the leading car. Students who a moment earlier had been scurrying towards the Stable Quad were now being herded back on to the grass by denizens of the law. Soon a troop of surprised-looking residents began emerging from the quad, policemen in their wake. Solemnly, and without haste, Sheikh Al Haban, his son and the three members of his retinue formed a dignified adjunct to this last group. The Sheikh approached the sergeant at the moment when Dean Ribble came puffing across from the direction of the Hall.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Ribble addressed the policeman as though the intrusion upon a private domain was likely to prove as inexplicable as it would certainly then be established as unpardonable.

  ‘The meaning, Mr Ribble, is quite simple.’ Al Haban had stepped forward to speak. ‘Some little time ago an anonymous caller on the house telephone in my son’s room informed me that there was a bomb planted in my motor-car timed to explode at seven o’clock. We phoned you, and receiving no reply, we then called the police. My men were perfectly willing to drive the car away, but we were specifically instructed not to do so.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ the sergeant added, ‘job for experts, this is. There’s a Bomb Squad Unit on the way – should be here in a few minutes. The bomb’s not timed to go up for half an hour – with any luck we could have it dismantled by then. My blokes are doing a recce on it now. ’Scuse me.’ The officer turned aside to speak with one of his men.

  ‘Your Highness, this is most unfortunate . . .’ Ribble began.

  ‘Not nearly so unfortunate as what is promised, Mr Ribble,’ the Sheikh interrupted. ‘Our caller warned that next time there would be no warning.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘Oh yes, he said there would be a next time if I persisted in attempting to take over this College.’

  CHAPTER X

  ‘LILY-LIVERED LOUTS; they deserve to get locked up. Come on, Margaret, give a heave.’ Hassock was assisting Treasure to get Miss Stopps on her feet. ‘Keep the weight off the injured ankle. D’you think you can make it to the SCR or shall we carry you?’

  ‘I’m all right
, truly I am, Marcus. So good of you both to come to my rescue.’ Miss Stopps took a tentative step forward, leaning on the Vicar’s arm. ‘Yes, quite all right, you see. My foot seemed to double up under me – the most temporary of strains, I do assure you. But what of Mrs Hatch? I told her to hurry into the Hall.’

  ‘Oh, she was well ahead of the crush,’ Treasure explained. Privately he wondered at the selfishness displayed by Mrs Hatch in not turning to the aid of her companion in time of need; Miss Stopps could easily have been trampled on by the retreating crowd. On further consideration, perhaps the stampede had not been as frenetic and mindless as it had seemed at the time, and Amelia might well have been swept along, unaware of Miss Stopps’s accident.

  ‘The rozzers got here in double quick time,’ the Vicar observed cheerfully as the trio moved slowly towards the main doorway of Itchendever Hall. ‘Ha. Interesting to see the way our revolting demonstrators upped sticks at the first sign of retribution.’

  ‘I’m sure the whole episode was inspired by a very few undergraduates,’ said Miss Stopps, defending her beloved College and its reputation. ‘So foreign to the spirit that usually prevails here. No doubt the majority were simply led into what seemed a harmless prank. I blame myself in part; perhaps the stirrup cup was too strong.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, Margaret. Treasure and I got through nearly a pint each and we’re not tipsy. Ha. You’re right in one sense though. I don’t believe chucking those thunder-flashes about was part of the official programme – came as much as a surprise to most of the kiddies as it did to us. But I noted a few names and faces I’ve got down for excommunication. The fiery message was a bit ripe – and that was certainly expected.’

  ‘The message, Marcus? Oh, you mean the letters — could we pause just for a moment?’ Miss Stopps leant heavily on the Vicar. ‘I fear I didn’t understand the meaning . . .’

  ‘And your ignorance does you credit, Miss Stopps,’ put in Treasure quickly. ‘Here, take my arm too – not far to go.’

  ‘What the devil’s that?’ said Hassock, peering back into the darkness.

  The noise of a powerful aero-engine came thrashing out of the sky from somewhere to the west of the Hall. A celestial searchlight flashed across the edge of the lake, then its restless beam raked the whole south front of the building before racing back to throw a broadening, vertical shaft of light on to a greensward of flat ground just beyond the gravelled car park. A helicopter had arrived to add to the evening’s excitement, hovering like some ungainly giant bird of prey about to pounce on Treasure’s Rolls-Royce – or so it seemed from where the car’s owner was standing. One of the police cars, siren wailing, came racing dramatically from behind the Hall, making for the cumbersome machine as it sank to earth, its rotor blades whipping the air into frenzied gusts that raised the dust even where the trio were standing a hundred yards away.

  ‘Ha. First time I went to a Coptic monastery in one of those things they thought I was the Second Coming. Took ages to persuade ’em I wasn’t the Messiah. Couldn’t blame ’em either; frightening-looking monsters – and what a racket. Here, let’s get inside.’

  ‘They must be in a hurry to get someone here,’ said Treasure as they entered the almost empty hallway. ‘Surely there’s more to this than a student demonstration?’

  ‘Ha. More than the little dears bargained for anyway.’

  ‘Mr Treasure, I feel I’m going crazy. Have you seen Mrs Hatch? – I guess I’ve looked everywhere except out on the porch. Did you just come from there? Was she out there with you?’ Witaker had come pacing down the hall towards the group. He was breathless, dishevelled, and gave every evidence of being genuinely troubled.

  ‘The last I saw of her she was coming in here. Have you looked in the SCR?’

  ‘No, it’s locked. They can’t find anyone with a key.’

  ‘Well, if it was locked before the fireworks started she can’t be in there. My name’s Marcus Hassock.’

  ‘I’m so-sorry,’ said Treasure, remembering that the Vicar had met neither Mrs Hatch nor Witaker. He completed the introduction. ‘Have you any idea what the fuss is all about?’

  ‘You don’t know about the bomb?’ said Witaker in amazement.

  ‘Ha. The anarchists are here with a vengeance. What sort of bomb?’

  Miss Stopps became suddenly very agitated. ‘Is anyone in danger?’

  ‘Is it to do with Sheikh Al Haban?’ It was Treasure who put the question that produced surprised looks from all three of his companions, and most evidently from Witaker.

  ‘Yes, it’s in his car,’ said the lawyer. ‘They have police and army personnel trying to disarm it now. I really am very worried about Mrs Hatch.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt at all she’s getting her money’s worth with that crowd of sightseers outside,’ said Treasure reassuringly. The hallway ran the width of the building to the entrance on the north front, and over Witaker’s shoulder Treasure could see a throng of people on the drive beyond. He was sure Amelia would be amongst them, gathering a first-hand account of what was happening. ‘Miss Stopps, may I leave you in the Vicar’s care while I help Mr Witaker find our straying client?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Treasure, but do take care. Marcus, if you could stay with me. I still feel a trifle wobbly . . .’

  An extraordinary meeting of the JCR Committee, hastily summoned in the Common Room itself, was sparsely attended. Due to the counter-attraction staged by police and military in the Stable Quad, Philip Clark had encountered difficulty in locating more than six members to support him in what he regarded as his hour of need. Even so, six offered some show of collective responsibility; this was a time when Sarah’s lone if undoubted loyalty failed to fill him with the same sense of well-being as her sole and uninhibited attentions in an amatory context.

  ‘But the bomb-planting has nothing to do with us,’ said Roger Dribdon firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s obviously not our style.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t stop them thinking it’s us – on top of the demo and everything. I mean, we’re sitting ducks.’ Philip spoke from the heart; he expected people to start shooting him at any moment.

  ‘The demo was a properly authorized protest.’

  ‘But it went too far. I mean, those thunder things . . . talk about ear-splitting . . .’

  ‘And did you see Ribble’s face? I thought he’d . . .’

  ‘Order, order,’ commanded Philip. ‘What we have to decide is whether we take sole responsibility for the demo, or whether we . . .’

  ‘There’s no question about that.’ Roger was adamant. ‘If the demo achieves its object – and I think it will – we keep our part of the bargain and take the consequences. Hell, it was our idea in the first place. We asked for advice and money, and we got both – on condition we didn’t talk about the source. The bomb business doesn’t concern us.’

  ‘Until they try to pin it on us. What then?’ The JCR President was more conscious of the responsibility of office than ever before.

  ‘We show them the minutes of today’s meeting – that you signed.’ The Secretary was intending to offer reassurance. ‘They state specifically we weren’t intending to protest about an Arab take-over.’

  ‘Yet,’ added the short, dark girl. ‘Thank heaven Faisal’s all right.’ She was, as usual, ignored.

  ‘OK,’ said Philip with resignation, ‘we carry on as agreed. But I still think we’ll be blamed for the bomb.’

  ‘The important thing is we stand together,’ said Sarah Green as instructed. ‘I mean, if they threaten to send Philip down we . . . we . . . we go down with him.’

  There followed a not very noisy murmur of assent.

  ‘Clean as a whistle. Should have been April Fool’s Day not Guy Fawkes Night.’ The lieutenant in the khaki flak jacket and the uniformed police sergeant gazed soberly at the monster Cadillac. The car looked even larger than life with all four doors open wide, the engine hood propped up, the boot cover standing high on its hinges, and an assortment of remova
ble parts scattered around its hulk.

  For a man who had spent a tense few minutes in the performance of a potentially very dangerous duty the lieutenant was, in the sergeant’s view, singularly unperturbed. The eventual exposure of a hoax had done nothing to reduce the drama of the performance. ‘I’m glad you decided not to blow it up, sir.’

  ‘Oh, wicked waste that would have been. Wouldn’t have pleased the owner either. No, there wasn’t much risk once we knew there was nothing underneath. The car was locked, after all. I suppose I’d better drive it round the block. Keep the mob back till I’m clear, will you?’

  The cheer that went up a few minutes later as the big black car emerged from the quadrangle entrance penetrated to the group standing around the still-locked door to the Senior Common Room.

  The relief at learning the bomb scare had been a hoax had done little to mollify the Dean. It was small consolation that someone had merely pretended to try blowing up the Crown Prince of Abu B’yat on College premises. Ribble still had to deal with the unforgiveable behaviour of the student body, as well as go through the motions of tracing Mrs Hatch. The possibility of the lady having locked herself in a lavatory had been eliminated through exhaustive search. While admitting that in the circumstances it was just conceivable she might have taken refuge in the SCR and secured the door behind her, if this were the case then she could perfectly well liberate herself by turning the key that was evidently in situ on the far side of the door. This much he had pointed out to the apparently distracted Witaker, while trying without success to insert his own key in the lock.

  Ribble had made it plain to the growing knot of spectators around the doorway that he was a good deal more irritated about his inability to gain access to his own Senior Common Room than he was concerned about locating Mrs Hatch. It was entirely inappropriate, not to say ridiculous, that the thirty or so guests invited to sherry after the fireworks should have insult added to the injury off the demonstration as well as the frightfulness of the bomb scare by being kept waiting in the hallway. The whole situation was untenable – and, of course, as usual he was the only senior member of the staff in evidence. No doubt Goldstein had gone home to sulk. There was no sign of the Bursar whose job it was to deal with just the kind of emergency the Dean was facing single-handed. Rebellious students, disaffected Sheikhs, mislaid American matrons – he, Eric Ribble, was expected to cope unaided.