The Pink and the Grey

by Anthony Camber

  I went calmly to the desk, pushed Amanda’s pot of biros to one side, and perched beside the speakerphone. “I should like to make a counter-offer, Mr Burnett.”

  “Bribe, is it? We’ll add that to the list.”

  “Oh, no,” I said softly. “Let me say this. You might think your lies about me are true. You might believe you have impeccable sources.” I leaned in closer to the microphone. “You haven’t met the Archivist.”

  Amanda tensed. “I counsel and suggest caution, Dr Flowers.”

  I imagined a brewing panic amongst the Archivist’s elves, perhaps a flavour of batphone glowing red beneath a glass cloche in his lodgings. I had not, for the avoidance of doubt, mentioned this idea to him in advance.

  “Archivist?” said Burnett contemptuously. “You’re threatening me with a fucking librarian? What’s he gonna do, stamp me and lend me out?” He wheezed in laughter.

  “I’m not threatening you, Mr Burnett. I’m offering you. An hour, with the Archivist. An exclusive story from the archives. In return, you drop your fanciful and libellous stories about me and reinstate the publicity for the charity event.”

  For a moment I thought I’d left him speechless. Perhaps some asthmatic reaction.

  He replied as if to a dull child. “I don’t think you understand the concept of a counter-offer, son. You want me, seriously, to drop a sex scandal for an ‘exclusive’ about an unpaid fine from eighteen-bleedin’-ninety? You’ve been passing the port the wrong way, doncha-know.”

  I laughed, attempting an evil villain insouciance. “Mr Burnett, for a supposedly experienced and veteran journalist you are astonishingly naïve. You have ten minutes to perform the necessary research on St Paul’s. Rest assured, sir, that we have been doing our research on you.”

  I hung up before he could respond, and let out a long breath. The phrase death or glory swam in my head briefly before I banished it and replaced it with the college motto that Conor had noticed the day before: ex glande quercus, from acorn to oak. I certainly felt a little growth.

  I lifted my head expecting thunderous eyes, expecting Amanda to pounce across the desk and sink her fangs into my neck and have my blood repaint her purple red.

  And yet she said simply: “Gin, Dr Flowers? Gin?”

  Without waiting for my answer she rose and shuffled to the drinks cabinet at the far end of the airless room. The cabinet whistled in shock on being opened and exposed to twenty-first century air. On her return the Master bore a brace of generously filled, as-new crystal glasses and the vaguest simpering of a smile.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said, accepting the glass and its heartening contents readily. “I was convinced utterly you would disapprove.”

  “My disapproval is plainly and greatly zenithal. The scandal you visit upon these walls is most heinous. The allegation of malperformance in our sacred duty in logo parenthesis heinouser. The risk you invite upon the Archivist, heinousest of all. And yet, and yet, and still yet, the approach chosen and taken has much of admiration upon it.”

  “I promise no risk to the Archivist, Master. And you know that I have brought no scandal to the college. I would not and could not do so. Burnett’s allegations are lies, calculated to distract from the race. Someone wishes to disrupt it, to ensure I fail and fall in disgrace.”

  I wondered who that could be — and answer came there purple.

  The cockney one phoned Amanda back seven minutes after I hung up. It had taken only a short and rapid sweep across his network of contacts and sources — excluding Amanda, assuming she was a more recent addition to that group — to, as it were, fill in the gaps regarding St Paul’s.

  A double-edged weapon, of course. Burnett’s time of ignorance was over, which meant his time dismissing us as a big stone box of irrelevant toffs was also at an end. The plan to unseat him would have to be utterly and irrevocably successful, or else St Paul’s would be at the point of his sword and the Archivist in grave danger of terminal exposure.

  I informed Burnett he could attend college that afternoon, at four o’clock precisely. Conor and I had agreed this schedule beforehand so as to ensure the maximum time for planning and arranging our response. We had no intention of allowing Burnett to meet the Archivist: we would substitute another in his place. I thought it best not to inform Amanda of this wrinkle, to lessen her interference. And as per the original plan we would not be supplying him with a valuable and true exclusive either: Seb and, no doubt, others under his charge in deep background not part of our little cabal, were arranging one or two suitably convincing forged documents — about Amanda, I still hoped and prayed. From that loop I was excluded for my own security.

  Another reason for the four o’clock meeting: it was past the Bugle’s print deadline for the week’s edition. Conor could and did gleefully confirm that after a small argument between the editor and his deputy — the latter wanting to persevere with the smear — the Band on the Run front-page story, complete with its photo of Cody and the girls cavorting in college, had gone to print. It would appear on doorsteps and in selected newsagents across the city the next morning without fail.

  This was a great relief: the event planning could now proceed in earnest. My diary, heretofore containing mostly student supervisions and appointments to booze, began to fill with race-related duties. But all would come to nothing unless our deception held.

  I parked myself inside the porters’ lodge twenty minutes ahead of the scheduled time to ensure Burnett did not curry favour with a porter on duty via cash or other sundries and obtain advance entry. We most certainly did not want that odious man having unfettered access to the student body. In parallel I felt a nagging concern that I had heard nothing from the Archivist, the true Archivist. I had expected a tussle regarding the plan, with some unseemly knee-based pleading on my part: but I was not contacted.

  On the hour, with shadows lengthening across Bottom Court, a thin-faced man with silver slicked-back hair and a sheepskin coat of a more prosperous era nosed his way into college grounds beside the lodge. He was not as I had imagined Burnett to appear: he was decidedly scrawnier. It was evident he hadn’t laughed since the dawn of the internet, and knew seven different ways to kill with bare nicotine hands. The porter scrambled to inquire his business, and then indicated towards me. Innards twisting, forcing a smile, I went to meet him.

  “Mr… Burnett?” I asked.

  “Wantage. Simon Wantage. Geoff’s busy.” He looked me up and down. Ordinarily I might have considered that a sign, but for this person I made a grateful exception.

  “Mr Wantage. I see. And what is your role, may I ask, at the Bugle?”

  “I’m Geoff’s deputy. Who the hell are you?”

  A fair question. I apologised and introduced myself.

  The walk to Top Court was fraught and rather tense, and was dominated on my part by elaborate gestures and throat-clearing. I attempted to describe some of college’s more impressive architectural features. Alas, he was uninterested. I was thankful no students crossed our path for impromptu interrogation.

  We could not possibly allow Wantage near the true Archivist’s offices, and so I had arranged for a small function room to be set aside. It had a discreet camera mounted in a corner, of course: I could do nothing about that. The device would reveal our multiple forgeries to the Archivist, who I hoped would be amused, and quite possibly also to Amanda, who I hoped would be implicated.

  I showed Wantage to the room, which was bare but for a central desk of some antiquity and three similarly aged chairs: two between desk and door for myself and our fake Archivist in case a getaway at some velocity might be required, and one for Wantage across from us behind the desk. The room was lit by two rather severe spotlights, one of which seared my scalp and I suspect illuminated me like Captain Kirk at a Klingon show trial.

  As a function room it was only lightly functional, but served our purposes.

  I did not dare leave Wantage alone for one moment, and so I made a short phone
call to set rolling the ball while the newspaperman and I failed an examination in small talk.

  It was a minute of some duration, with all the warmth and relaxed nature of a political show trial on a Neptunian satellite. I learned newspapermen have a hundred words for grunt, and little else.

  Finally I heard the door behind me swing open, and I turned to see our fake Archivist, procured by me and briefed by Seb. I had called upon the only person I could trust: Claire.

  It was a great risk, to say the least. Another great risk. We dared not use Seb himself as he was too young and insufficiently pallid, and it placed rather too much temptation in the hands of the noble Baroness Fate and the Lord Sod. It was imperative that Seb stay in the shadows until the time was right. And so Claire had been drafted, or press-ganged, as our guest star and saviour. Seb had filled the gaps in her knowledge, I hoped, and we would rely on her abilities upon the local stage to spin us through.

  There was, of course, the issue of gender. Claire had taken the parts of males before, though perhaps only in Shakespeare and pantomime. She assured us she could adopt the manner and tone of a fellow of St Paul’s if need be, and given some of the fellows of my acquaintance I did not doubt her. Nevertheless that was a risk too far. I deliberately avoided the male pronoun on the phone with Burnett. We would not have to, as it were, man her up.

  And now Claire stood before me, in a rather severe navy trouser suit, stripped of her usual soft regalia and enveloped in a college gown. Her face was wiped clean of make-up. No earrings, no finger rings, no jewellery whatsoever. The wayward hair was wrestled into an unforgiving fringe.

  I barely recognised her.

  “Ah, Archivist,” I said, a touch of nerves hinted in my voice. “Might I introduce Mr Wantage from the newspaper? He is very eager to meet you, very eager indeed.”

  “Don’t go overboard, Flowers,” said Wantage and shook Claire’s hand. Claire took the spare chair and cleared her throat meaningfully. All good so far.

  “Now then, Mr Wantage, is it?” she said, her accent disguised as well as her body. She’d gone for generic northern, which I hoped wouldn’t transmute into comedy northern under stress. It was in a pitch lower than the natural, but not booming pit-boss deep: it was sustainable, believable. Rather fierce, I thought.

  I glanced at Wantage: he was peering closely at her. Perhaps trying to see through the disguise, perhaps trying to commit her face to memory. I worried suddenly that he might sport a hidden camera about his person, but had to admit it was a touch late for that all round.

  She continued. “Spencer has requested I fish you out an exclusive for the next edition of your newspaper. I regret I am not a regular reader of the Bugle. I find local news all too… familiar.”

  Wantage said nothing. It was a decent enough start, I thought.

  “It’s been tricky locating summat suitable for you. I hauled these old legs up and down the stacks all morning, let me tell you.”

  “Really,” said Wantage, apparently bored already. “What’s your name? I can’t call you ‘Archivist’.”

  I stepped in. “That is the title of the office, and that is how we traditionally refer to the officeholder. The Archivist’s baptismal name is not widespread knowledge.”

  “But you’ve let me see her face.”

  “These are unprecedented circumstances, Mr Wantage. Do not presume that this gives you any hold over her, or over us. We are quite capable of defending ourselves.” I rejoiced that this was at least partially true, though my heart was battering away at my shirt and my fingers trembled like a virgin at another’s belt.

  “You seem nervous. Worried.”

  “Merely anxiousness, anxiety. I do not regularly deal with gentlemen of the press.” And I was not dealing with one then.

  “Nor I,” said Claire. “I fear I am neither young enough nor… pretty enough to feature in your pages.”

  “Listen, darlin’, if you’re as powerful as you make out we’ll find a space,” said Wantage.

  “No!” I said. “Absolutely not. It is a matter of college policy.”

  Wantage looked at me, blinked slowly once, and turned to Claire. “Tell me about this archive, then,” he said. “How big is it? When did it start?”

  I held my breath.

  “That is classified, Mr Wantage,” said Claire. “Above your pay grade.”

  “Oh, is it now. You run it yourself, do you?”

  “I do not think it is of any concern to you.”

  “A secret room full of blackmail material, held by a Cambridge college? Nah,” he said sarcastically, “not of any concern to us at all.”

  Claire said nothing. I still hadn’t breathed.

  “I want to know everything,” said Wantage slowly, “and I want to know now. Unless, of course,” he leaned casually forward onto the desk, which emitted a frightened creak, “you’re trying to bullshit me.”

  I breathed at last. “I can assure you,” I said, wilting mildly under the tell-me-the-plans spotlight, “we are not making this up.”

  And strictly, we weren’t. There was a minor case of misrepresentation and impersonation to answer, but the core was sound.

  I continued: “May I remind you, the agreement with your esteemed editor was for a single exclusive of the Archivist’s choice. Not unchecked access, and certainly not a biography of—” I almost said Claire— “of the Archivist herself. Unless you would care to return to your office clutching air, perhaps we might move to the matter in hand?”

  Wantage sat back, almost slouching, and waved us on. His contempt was palpable, seeping from him and rising around us in the room. I hoped Claire could swim.

  She reached into her pocket for two items: a sheet of A4 paper, folded into thirds, and a small square black-and-white photograph with a narrow white border. This was, I hoped, Seb’s masterpiece of fiction. I had not yet seen what he had produced. Claire unfolded the paper onto the table, facing Wantage, and set the photograph beside it.

  He leaned across and inspected them closely, without making physical contact. “Oh, right. Him. Interesting choice,” he said.

  Damn, I thought: not Amanda.

  Still without touching anything, Wantage read through what appeared to be the transcript of a conversation of a delicate and intimate nature between a contemporaneously prominent person and his paramour. Occasionally he showed distaste or winced at its contents. The accompanying photograph allegedly showed a… moment from the events transcribed. From my position, attempting nonchalance, the fakes appeared very high quality.

  Finally Wantage sat back and coughed, and placed his hands behind his head. “Old news,” he said. “What else have you got?”

  Claire looked at me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “And I thought you toffs were supposed to be brainboxes. Listen: it’s not an exclusive if everyone knows already.”

  This was, to say the least, awkward. As far as I knew, we’d made up the transcript entirely and it was a splendid and vigorous libel.

  “I’m afraid that is all we have for you,” I said. “It is precisely what we agreed, and no more.”

  “Then let me see these archives and I’ll find something for myself.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible. Unless, like I said, you’re a bullshitter.”

  “Mr Wantage, you performed your due diligence. You know there is an Archivist, you know there is an archive. We cannot allow you free rein to rummage within.”

  “I think I’ve seen enough here. Archivist? Big fancy archive? Amateurs.” He waved dismissively at us and went to stand.

  Simultaneously, the door opened.

  “Ah, is this the man of papers?” It was Amanda. My heart raced anew.

  “And who are you? Princess Purple? Gonna drag me down a bleedin’ rabbit hole? You certainly ain’t seen a bleedin’ looking glass recently, look at you.”

  “Mr Wantage,” I said, with a trace of a tremble, “may I introduce Profes
sor Amanda Chatteris. The Master of St Paul’s.”

  “Indeed, Mr Wantage. Indeed.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “How’d you bleedin’ do. You come here thinking you can sell me this shit an’ all, have you?”

  “I shit you not, Mr Wantage. I attend in assistance of Dr Flowers and our esteemed Archivist. When, I wonder, does he reveal himself? And which lady is this?”

  My face became the very definition of a picture. A Dali, to be precise. My right eye surely jumped my nose, and my mouth was busy sliding off the end of my chin.

  Wantage laughed. “Like I said: amateurs.” He stood.

  I rose in a panic and grabbed the forged items. “You’re not going to print this?”

  “You know we’re not going to print that. And you know what we are going to print. Enjoy the last few days in your job. No need to show me out of this godforsaken pit, I’ll find my own way.”

  He slammed out, taking all the air with him, and I sagged, winded, into my chair. Claire’s head dropped.

  “Was it something I said?” said Amanda.

  twelve

  The Replan

  I messaged Spencer on Gaydar when I got home on Thursday evening. I hadn’t heard a word from him. I had no idea whether the super-secret fake Archivist and Seb’s wonder document had done the trick, and Simon had been suckered right in, or not. Either Spencer was out celebrating, drowning himself in gin, or he was in commiserating, drowning himself in gin. All systems go, or computer says no?

  Seb reached me first and gave me the bad news over the phone, as retrieved from a pretty miserable Claire in the debrief. Apparently, after Simon had run off snickering, the Master swept out in a puff of confusion and Spencer gave the forgery a good honest seeing-to and tinkered with the feng shui of the place a little. Then he’d clattered away to hide in his office and await the apocalypse.