Grantchester Grind (11 page)

The Praelector looked up at him. So did Kudzuvine. About what?’ asked the Praelector,
who couldn’t for the life of him believe that this filthy American gangster could be right
about anything at all.

‘About the television thing. Weren’t they trying to bring some sort of lorry with wires
in through the Main Gate, Walter?’

‘What, this morning, sir? Come to think of it, they were. Had Transworld Television
written on the side. I wouldn’t let them. I wasn’t having that. I told them the last time
them bolts was undone was when Her Majesty–’

‘Is this true, Walter?’ the Praelector interrupted. ‘You actually saw this…these
words?’

‘Oh yes, sir, and Henry did too, didn’t you, Henry?’

The Junior Porter nodded. ‘He kept asking for Professor Purser and you said we didn’t
have no Professor Purser and the Bursar came along. Been to Early Communion the Bursar
had and you said that wasn’t like him to come so early…’

On the floor Kudzuvine managed to find words. Brandy had been dripping from the end of
the douche onto his face. ‘Professor Bursar,’ he screamed, ‘Professor Bursar gave me
permission to take…to video the College for Mr Hartang. You ask him he’ll tell you. I had
his authorization. Okay, so not on the lawns.’

‘Not on the lawns? What not on the lawns?’

‘Like walk on them. They’re hundreds of years old you know that? Hundreds and hundreds of
years old.’

‘Really?’ said the Praelector, who happened to know they had been relaid ten years
before ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ He was beginning to think that
whatever had been going on the Bursar was going to have a quite staggering amount of
explaining to do. In the meantime this man, whose name seemed as unlikely as his syntax,
had to be handled with rather more care and sophistication than he had been shown to date
It would do the Porterhouse reputation no good at all if it leaked out–the word was
unfortunately most appropriate–that he had been threatened with forced
brandy-drinking by means of a douche that had for ten years been used for colonic
irrigation purposes by the Chaplain. That sort of thing would not look good in the
_Cambridge Evening News._

The Praelector set out on a policy of appeasement. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, helping
Kudzuvine to his feet. ‘You were saying something about the lawn being hundreds of years
old and…’

‘Sure. Professor Bursar told me that. They’re protected species like whales and stuff,’
said Kudzuvine, still eyeing him very warily indeed. ‘Didn’t say nothing about roofs and
chapels. They a protected species too?’

‘More or less,’ said the Praelector and changed his mind. This man Kudzuvine, if that was
really his name, had very little grasp of English. ‘In fact very much more. They are
Listed Buildings under an Act of Parliament signed by Her Majesty the Queen and cannot be
altered, touched, damaged or in any way interfered with without the duly obtained
permission given in writing and after due consultation by Her Majesty’s
Commissioners for Ancient Monuments which permission will only be given should the
Monument or Listed Building be in serious danger of collapsing. I can assure you that
the Porterhouse Chapel and the Monuments it contains come into the latter category as a
result of the actions of the men you introduced into the College and for whom you are
responsible. I cannot begin to imagine the full consequences of your action except
that they will be extremely drastic The issue may have to go to the Privy Council. I hope
I have made myself clear.’ By which the Praelector of course meant the opposite.

Kudzuvine was still gaping at him. ‘The Privy Council?’ he muttered. ‘Did you say Privy
Council?’

‘Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second’s Privy Council deals with matters–’

Kudzuvine held up a shaking hand. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘and I had romantic dreams
about that Princess of Wales and the Royal Family. And now you tell me Her Majesty…Shit! You
British. I’m never going to understand anything round here.’

‘Few people do,’ said the Praelector. ‘We are, I suppose, an acquired taste. Am I not
right, Chaplain?’

Kudzuvine turned to look at the Chaplain, who was helping Walter and Henry to drain the
cooking brandy back into the bottle. ‘Did you say “an acquired taste”?’ he said. ‘I
shouldn’t have thought so. It’s only cooking brandy and I very much doubt that anyone will
notice the Blu-Tack. In fact it might actually add a certain bouquet to the brandy which
it presently lacks.’

‘I got to get out of here but now,’ said Kudzuvine and stumbled towards the door only to
be tripped up again by the Praelector using the umbrella. As he slumped forward and hit
his head Kudzuvine had the briefest moment of lucid thought. He had to get out of this
terrible, terrible place before…

By the time Walter and Henry carried him across the Fellows’ Garden to the Master’s
Lodge he was mercifully quite unconscious.

‘I am afraid the creature will have to be our honoured guest for a few days until he has
quite recovered,’ the Praelector said. ‘I can think of no better place for an honoured
guest than the Master’s Lodge It is immensely secure and well-protected, and besides he
will be company for the Master. I am sure Skullion will see he is looked after properly.
I shall send for Dr MacKendly and perhaps it would be advisable for Matron to move into
the room next to his with another porter on hand and possibly even one or two of the
larger kitchen staff to see to his needs and to ensure he does not leave the College. In the
meantime, I think a word with the Bursar is called for.

While Kudzuvine was stripped of his polo-neck sweater, his trousers and underwear, his
white socks and his moccasins and put to bed stark naked (his clothes were sent to the
College laundry for unnecessary attention), the exhausted Praelector gave orders
that only undergraduates and Fellows were to be allowed to enter or leave Porterhouse.
Then he went to see if the Senior Tutor was in a fit state to discuss matters with the
Bursar. He found him sipping a cup of beef tea and in a very nasty mood indeed. But at least
he was sober.

‘I must have been insane,’ he muttered, staring blankly into the empty fireplace.

The Praelector patted his shoulder sympathetically. ‘You certainly acted most
peculiarly, old chap, though I would not have gone so far as to say you were actually
insane Just not your usual self.’

The Senior Tutor started in his chair and looked at him with genuine hatred. ‘Don’t you
start again,’ he snarled. ‘I had enough of that this morning. Whether I was beside myself or
in two minds and whether I had a right mind or a left one. And then you accused me of
masturbating. I wonder you didn’t come out with it and say I was suffering from Wankers’
Doom and ask if I had hair on the palms of my hands. And then to top it all you had to send
that bloody Matron round when you knew I was lying naked on the floor and could hardly move.
Have you ever been…I won’t say nursed by that foul woman because her methods of nursing
predate Florence Nightingale. Do you know what she did to me?’

‘No,’ said the Praelector hurriedly; ‘I don’t. Anyway why did you say you must have
been insane when I came into the room just now?’

‘Because,’ said the Senior Tutor with extraordinary venom, ‘because I thought two
large Benedictines taken after an entire bottle of 1947 crusted port at Corpus Christi,
and that’s not a name I’d use for that damned college, would settle my stomach nicely. Have
you ever drunk an entire bottle of crusted port _and_ two Benedictines?’

The look on the Praelector’s face was a sufficient answer.

‘Well, don’t is all I can say. I wouldn’t wish the consequences on my very worst enemy.
And what damned fool told me ‘47 was a good year for port? It was a bloody awful year for
everything. Whale meat and snoek and the coldest winter imaginable…If anyone mentions
1947 to me ever again…’

The Senior Tutor sipped more beef tea and gave the Praelector the opportunity he had
been waiting for. ‘On the topic of little problems,’ he began and stopped.

The Senior Tutor had choked. ‘Little? Little problems? You come in here and talk to me
about little problems. This is the worst problem…’

He gave up and the Praelector went on. ‘I’m talking about Kudzuvine and the damage done
to the Chapel.’ He stopped. The Senior Tutor was looking homicidal again.

‘The leader of that group of hoodlums calls himself Mr Kudzuvine,’ the Praelector
explained.

Quite clearly the Senior Tutor didn’t believe him. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know why. I’m just saying he does. And I have to say I didn’t believe him to
begin with either.’

‘I don’t believe the bastard now. End of story,’ said the Senior Tutor.

‘Well, not quite, as it happens,’ said the Praelector tentatively. The Senior
Tutor’s temper wasn’t just uncertain–in fact uncertainty didn’t come into it–it was
extremely nasty all the time.

He had turned a furious face towards the Praelector. ‘Go on. What do you mean “not
quite”? You mean there’s more?’

‘I’m afraid so. You see, when the roof of the Chapel began to give way…’ he began.

‘You are a liar, a bloody liar,’ shouted the Senior Tutor. ‘You come in here and
deliberately set out to torment me.’ He rose from his chair and spilt some of the beef tea
down his trousers. ‘I’ve looked out of windows I don’t know how many times today to make sure
those ghastly figures weren’t there and I’m not going blind on account of the
masturbating you accuse me of and the Chapel roof is still there. It has not given
way.’

‘I didn’t actually accuse you of masturbating, you know. I just thought that’

‘Thought? What’s that if it isn’t accusing?’

‘Well, we all think things all the time but it doesn’t mean to say we do them. God alone
knows what would happen if we did,’ said the Praelector.

‘I don’t need God to know what I’d do. I know damned well myself The Senior Tutor slumped
back into his chair and spilt some more beef tea.

‘Well, about the roof. You’re quite right, it hasn’t given way entirely, but thanks to
those foul people stamping about on it this morning during the Sung Eucharist several
large sections of plaster have come down it’s a miracle no one was killed–Dr Cox’s
Memorial Bust has gone and the Lectern has assumed a new and rather peculiar
configuration.’

‘But the Lectern is made of solid bronze. It’s immensely strong,’ said the Senior
Tutor. ‘Are you saying it’s bent?’ His disbelief was patent.

‘Not so much bent as twisted. You know that bird on the front, I assume it’s an eagle?
Well, it’s no longer flying forward so much as looping the loop.’

‘Looping the loop? Are you out of your mind? The fucking thing never did fly. Couldn’t
even if it wanted to. Far too heavy and–’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ the Praelector interrupted. It was his turn to be furious.
‘Stop taking figures of speech literally and listen. A huge block of solid masonry
supporting one of the roof timbers came away and landed on the Lectern. In other words, we
are now in a position to demand the most enormous damages from these people. It could run
into millions.’

‘Could do but it won’t. Don’t suppose we’ll ever catch the swine and even if we did they’d
weasel out of it somehow.’

‘As a matter of fact Mr Kudzuvine is lying in bed in the Master’s Lodge and is
unconscious. I have sent for Dr MacKendly and the Matron is with him.’ A shiver ran
through the Senior Tutor. ‘The point I am trying to make is that Mr Kudzuvine is
Vice-President of a company called Transworld Television Productions who were here at
the Bursar’s behest to make some sort of film about the College. In other words"

‘The Bursar? You mean to say the bloody Bursar’s responsible for…? I’ll kill the swine.
I’ll tear him limb from limb. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. I’ll’

‘Sit down,’ commanded the Praelector and, exercising his temporary physical
superiority, pushed the Senior Tutor and the beef tea back into his chair. ‘You will do
nothing of the sort. Instead you will listen to me. We are strategically placed to force
this Transworld Television company to make good the damage they have done and pay very
large financial compensation into the bargain. I am now going to see if I can find the
Bursar and I want you to come with me…No, on the whole I do not think that would be very
advisable given your present condition. I shall find someone more rational.’

He went down the stairs and found Dr Buscott gloomily looking at a moccasin floating in
the Fountain. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ he said. ‘I gather there was some
sort of riot here this morning.’

The Praelector took him and a young physicist called Gilkes along to the Bursar’s
office. ‘I want you to take careful note of what is said,’ he told them. ‘We are going to
sue for damages and I need witnesses.’

They finally found the Bursar hiding in the little washroom behind the College
Secretary’s office and although it was Sunday she was there herself. ‘Ah Mrs Morestead,
have you seen the Bursar?’ the Praelector enquired.

Mrs Morestead indicated the washroom with her head and the Bursar was brought out. He
was ashen and in a state of acute anxiety.

‘Now come along and sit down and tell us all about it over a nice cup of tea,’ said the
Praelector in his most kindly manner. ‘Mrs Morestead is going to make a nice big pot of
strong tea and we’ll have some biscuits and you’ll explain why you hired this Transworld
Television Company to come and make a film about Porterhouse. Now it’s all right. Nobody
is going to hurt…to blame you and you are quite safe with us. Just tell us in your own
words…No, there’s no need to gibber and I didn’t quite catch what you were gibbering about.
No, the Senior Tutor isn’t going to find you here. And yes, I daresay he is stalking about
seeking whom he may devour, though I rather doubt he’s in any condition to stalk anything
and his desire to devour is notably absent today. Now here is Mrs Morestead with the tea.
Yes, lots of sugar. Thank you, Dr Buscott, and the biscuits please, Mr Gilkes. That’s nice,
isn’t it? Nice and cosy.’

The Bursar shook his head miserably. ‘They’ll kill me. I know they will,’ he
whimpered.

‘I don’t think so. Of course the Dean is going to be a trifle cross and the Senior
Tutor’

‘I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about those terrible people down at Transworld
Television. Skundler, for instance.’

‘Skundler?’ said the Praelector and asked for the name to be spelt so that Mrs Morestead
could get it down.

‘And then there is Edgar Hartang. He’s the head of it all and a terrifying man and
enormously rich and flies about the world in his own King Lear…’ The Bursar stopped,
conscious that there was a mistake somewhere.

‘I see,’ said the Praelector in tones that would have done credit to an undertaker at
the bedside of a dying man. ‘Do go on. In a King Lear? Does he have three daughters, by any
chance?’

‘I think he means a Lear jet,’ said Gilkes. ‘It’s an executive jet and can fly anywhere
in the world.’

‘Very useful, I’m sure, and at least we now know that Mr Hartang is a person and not a
brand of tea. But you still haven’t told us why you hired them to film the College.’

‘I didn’t,’ said the Bursar. ‘They wanted to give the College huge sums of money and I
was at this conference on fund-raising when Kudzuvine approached me and…’

While his story poured out the others sat listening raptly. As the Praelector told
the College Council when it met some days later, it was at that moment that he felt
Porterhouse had hit the jackpot.