Grantchester Grind (26 page)

He pulled himself together and placed a kindly hand on the Praelector’s arm. ‘Listen,
old chap, why don’t we go inside and sit down quietly somewhere and I’ll see if I can get
hold of the College legal fellows. I really do think it’s time to get them in on this. I
mean this is a spectacularly awful situation. Now what are their names?’

‘Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine,’ said the Praelector shaking himself free rather
irritably. He disliked being called ‘old chap’ and patronized quite so openly, as if he
were in some sort of geriatric ward. ‘Though you won’t find them in at this time of night.’ He
gave a nasty chuckle. ‘In fact you won’t find them in at all. Waxthorne has been dead for the
past sixty years. Buried in the cemetery on the Newmarket Road. And Libbott was cremated
a couple of years later. I don’t know exactly what happened to Chaine though I once heard
a rather peculiar story about him ending up in King’s. Something about his skull being
used as a drinking mug. Waxthorne’s widow told me that. I used to keep in touch with her,
you know, on a regular basis. Nice woman.’ For a moment his mind wandered back to those
happy afternoons in her house in Sedley Taylor Road.

Beside him Sir Cathcart adjusted himself to another set of deaths. It was turning
into a singularly ghastly evening. All the same he tried again. ‘I thought the College
lawyers were…Retter and…Wyve,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps if I were to telephone them…’

‘Oh, them,’ said the Praelector. ‘I shouldn’t do that. They’ve got enough on their hands
with this other business. Besides, the fewer people who know about it the better. No, no,
we’ve got to handle the matter ourselves. And it is a fine night, so we should be able to
find him.’

Sir Cathcart looked balefully up at the sky and gnawed the end of his ginger moustache.
‘When you say “we”,’ he said. ‘I’m not at all sure I want to get any further
involved…in…well, you know what I mean.’

‘Suit yourself. I know my duty. And in any case I can’t see how you can slide out of it
now. We’re all involved. Question of the College’s reputation. And frankly…well never
mind about that. Least said soonest mended. We’d better go and talk it over with the Dean.’
And on this curiously ambivalent note the Praelector led the way across the garden to
the Dean’s staircase.

They found him drinking a cup of coffee. A plate of half-eaten sandwiches was on the
table beside him. Ah, hullo Cathcart, Praelector. Sorry I wasn’t at Duck Dinner. Wasn’t
in the mood somehow. Couldn’t bring myself to face it. Cowardly, I daresay.’

‘Not at all, my dear chap,’ said the General. ‘Know just how you feel. All that damned
grease and this fellow Osbert still on the premises. Ghastly business. Mangled too,
according to the Praelector here. And the Senior Tutor sitting there chatting away
cheerfully and acting perfectly normally. First thing I heard about it was from the
Chaplain.’

The Praelector addressed the Dean sternly. ‘I told you not to mention it to anyone.
And there was the Chaplain practically shouting the odds from the house tops.
Fortunately no one takes much notice of what he says.’

It was the Dean’s turn to look decidedly uneasy. ‘I can assure you I haven’t said a
word to the Chaplain. Last person I’d tell. You don’t think…’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ said the Praelector. ‘All I know is that someone’s been
talking.’

The General tried to take command of the situation. ‘Now then, you fellows, we’re not
going to get anything done nattering about it. We’ve got to think how to protect the
College reputation. If it got out that we were sheltering a murderer, the gutter press
would have a field day. And the broadsheets too. Letters to _The Times_ and television
programmes. We’ve got to be practical and find some way of keeping the police out of it.
The best way of doing that is to get the body off the premises. Where is it at the
moment?’

‘Well, at a rough guess,’ said the Praelector, now convinced that Sir Cathcart was a
great deal drunker than he looked, ‘at a rough guess I’d have to say it was still in the
Crypt. Of course I haven’t been down to have a look lately but that’s where they’re usually
kept.’

‘The Crypt, eh? Well, I suppose it’s as good a place as any. Not many people go down
there. Probably kept locked in any case.’

‘Invariably,’ said the Dean. ‘I can’t see that it matters much. The really important
thing is to get Skullion out of the Master’s Lodge. Now he has already threatened to tell
the world he killed Sir Godber if we even think of having him shifted to the Park and’

‘Excuse me,’ said Sir Cathcart, sliding slowly into an armchair. ‘I don’t feel
awfully well. Must be that damned duck, though how the hell all that fat can affect the
brain so quickly I’m damned if I know. You don’t think I’m having a Blue, do you?’

‘A Blue? Oh no, no,’ said the Praelector. A Porterhouse Blue always attacks the speech
first. You wouldn’t be making any sense if you’d had a Blue.’

‘And how does it affect the hearing? I mean, I’m not hearing any sense half the time. I
thought I heard the Dean say Skullion had threatened to tell the world he killed Sir Godber
Evans.’

‘Quite right too. That’s what I did say,’ said the Dean. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

Words failed Sir Cathcart. Slumped in the old leather armchair he looked pucely up at
them and shook his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t begin to
understand.’

‘We none of us do,’ said the Praelector. ‘That is one of the problems but it’s not one we
can get to grips with now. We have to take immediate action. No matter how many threats he
makes Skullion must go, if necessary by force. We simply cannot afford to have a
murderer as Master.’

‘Of course we can’t but don’t you see he may say something to the Press,’ the Dean said
anxiously.

But Sir Cathcart D’Eath had overcome his temporary lapse. The words ‘immediate
action’ and ‘force’ had reawoken his military spirit, and the clear statement that the
Master of Porterhouse was a murderer had driven all other considerations out of his
mind. The Senior Tutor’s killing of Dr Osbert was by comparison a minor misdemeanour.
He got to his feet and stood with his legs apart in front of the empty fireplace. ‘Right, the
first thing is for one of us to go and explain the situation to him,’ he said. ‘Now I’ve
known Skullion a long time and I think I can say with some confidence that he trusts me. I
shall speak to him man to man, soldier to soldier, and…’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ muttered the Praelector but the General ignored the
interruption, ‘…and I shall put it to him that his duty now is to go. He has always been a
loyal College servant and I daresay the action he took, however regrettable, against
the late Sir Godber Evans was done for the sake of Porterhouse. Frankly I have a great deal
of sympathy for the old boy and, speaking as a military man, I have little doubt that in
the same circumstances I would have done the same thing. Can’t say fairer than that. We had
to put some of the Watussi Rifles down in Burma one time and I can say with some
confidence that I did not shrink from putting my hand to the wheel. Now you chaps just wait
here and I’ll go and look Skullion up. Daresay I’ll find him on sentry duty by the back
gate.’

And before either the Dean or the Praelector could say anything to stop him he strode
from the room and could be heard clattering down the staircase into the night.

‘Did he have an awful lot of pressed duck?’ the Dean asked.

The Praelector shook his head. ‘Hardly any, unfortunately. Hardening of the
arteries is an occupational hazard that seems to affect cavalrymen in particular.
We’ll just have to wait and see what this charge of the heavy brigade results in.’

Out in the darkness under the old beech tree by the back gate Skullion followed the
General’s progress across the lawn and round the rose beds by the occasional glow of his
cigar. Sir Cathcart had lit it almost as soon as he was in the open air partly to give him
time to think what he was going to say but also to give Skullion warning that he was
coming. ‘No point in alarming the old bugger,’ he’d said to himself.

But Skullion wasn’t alarmed. He’d known this would happen sooner or later. He’d given
the Dean his marching bloody orders and the Dean wasn’t ever going to forgive him for
that. Given him a nasty shock into the bargain telling him about killing Sir Godber
Blooming Evans. Only done it because he was drunk and pissed off. But what was done was done
and in some ways Skullion didn’t regret it. He’d had enough of being called Master and them
not thinking of him as the Master. Somehow the Bursar’s telling that bloody Yank not to
call him a Quasimodo update but the Master had cleared the air and let him see his
position in the College in a new light. There wasn’t any pride in being Master of
Porterhouse and being helpless in a wheelchair. The fact that he’d missed sitting by the
bed and gobbledygooking the Yank had told him that too.

It had been different when he’d been Head Porter. He’d had real power then even if he
did have to hide it and call the young wet-behind-the-ears ‘Sir’. He’d learnt that lesson
in the Royal Marines from watching the sergeants saluting young wet-behind-the-ears
officers and calling them ‘Sir’ to their faces and then seeing to it they didn’t lead them
into any trouble. In France Skullion had seen a Corporal put a bullet through a 2nd
Lieutenant who’d wanted to be a hero and get them all killed taking on a company of
Panzer Grenadiers waiting for them in a sunken lane. He’d heard the Corporal mutter, ‘Him
or us. And it ain’t going to be us,’ just before he shot the officer. And at Lympstone–or
was it Deal?–Sergeant Smith had asked him one wet afternoon standing in the drill shed,
‘What’s your most important job in this bloody war, boy? I’ll tell you what it fucking is.
To kill the fucking enemy. And to do that you’ve got to be alive, see? So keep your swede
down and remember your blooming mother wants to see you again even if I don’t and she ain’t
going to do that if you’re a dead Marine and some fucking Jerry’s done to you what you’re
being paid to do to him. And what are you fucking smiling at, boy? Tell your ruddy uncle
here because I’m sure we all want to share the joke.’ And 3rd Class Marine Skullion
PO/X127052 had said sheepishly, ‘It’s just that a dead Marine is an empty bottle, isn’t
it, Sarge? Like a bottle of beer.’ And even Sergeant Smith had almost smiled for a moment.
‘Well, you’re going to see plenty of both where you’re going, and for your sake I hope you
live to drink plenty of the one and aren’t one of the others.’ That had all been such a long
time ago, but Skullion had never forgotten it nor what he’d seen in France. And people
like General Sir Cathcart D’Eath talked about having a Good War. As if being cold and wet
and hungry and shit-scared was fun. And hearing someone screaming wasn’t fun either even
if it was a bloody wounded Jerry.

So now in the darkness Skullion waited underneath the great tree for Sir Cathcart and
wasn’t sorry it was over.

‘Ah Skullion,’ the General said, peering at the dark shape against the trunk of the
beech. ‘Still waiting for us to climb in, what?’

‘You, Sir Cathcart, yes, you were a one for climbing in, you were. I caught you many a
time and let you go some more, though I don’t suppose you ever knew it, sir.’

The end of the General’s cigar glowed in appreciation. “You’re an old devil,
Skullion, you know that, a wicked old devil.’

Skullion grunted, or chuckled. It was impossible to tell which.

‘Bad business, Skullion, bad business,’ the General continued. ‘The Dean’s upset.
Praelector too. Can’t have it, you know.’

‘No, sir,’ said Skullion.

‘Can’t say I blame you myself. The bloody man wasn’t a fit and proper person to be
Master. In your own way you were trying to do the College a service.’

He stopped. Somewhere behind him there was a sound of raucous laughter.

‘Boat club,’ Skullion explained. ‘Getting ready for the Bumps. Senior Tutor’s got them
in training.’

‘Yes,’ said the General, suddenly remembering that Skullion wasn’t the only killer
on the premises. And that’s another thing. College reputation’s at stake. This business
is bound to leak out and once the police start poking their noses in there’ll be no stopping
them. We can’t afford to let that happen. Can’t have you making threats to the Dean. He’s
not a young man, you know. We none of us are and things are going to change pretty damn
drastically. So, no matter what you say…well, to put it bluntly, Skullion, man to man and
so on, your innings is over. Ran yourself out or played on, whichever you like. Now, I
understand from the Dean you don’t want to go to the Park.’

‘No, Sir Cathcart, I don’t. Not with all them loonies like old Dr Vertel. I’d rather die
here and now and be done with it. I mean it, sir. I’d rather die now.’

Sir Cathcart mulled this over for a moment, but ruled it out. ‘Tell you what,’ he said
finally. ‘There is no question of your going to Porterhouse Park. Give you my word as a
gentleman that you won’t even be asked to. What do you say to that?’

‘Very good of you, sir, very good.’

‘On the other hand, the College needs a new Master. You must see that.’

‘Oh I do, Sir Cathcart. I’ve never been the Master the College needed. I’ve always
known that.’

‘Good man. Now if you were to retire, of your own free will of course…’ Sir Cathcart let
the question hang on the still night air. For a moment Skullion said nothing.

‘If I retired, Sir Cathcart, I’d have the right to name my own successor, wouldn’t I?
That’s the Master’s right, isn’t it?’

Sir Cathcart nodded. ‘You would indeed have that right,’ he said. ‘It is your absolute
right as Master to name the person to succeed you. And you could come and live at Coft
Castle with me, and occasionally we could drive over to visit the College, if you so
wished. That is what I’ve come to tell you.’

‘In that case I’m prepared to go,’ said Skullion solemnly, ‘go whenever you want, sir.
And I will name my successor now.’

‘And who is it to be?’ Sir Cathcart asked.

‘Lord Pimpole, sir, Lord Pimpole.’

‘Very good, Master, very good. And I can go and inform the Dean of your decision?’

‘Yes, Sir Cathcart, you can tell him. And you can tell him this too, he doesn’t have to
worry about the Sir Godber Evans Fellow, Dr Osbert, about him knowing I killed Sir bloody
Godber, because he already does know.’

Sir Cathcart hesitated. ‘Knew’ would be a more appropriate word in the late Dr
Osbert’s case.

‘He knows because I told him,’ Skullion continued. ‘He was sitting in the maze when I
was telling the Dean. Been there all afternoon, waiting and listening, and he heard every
word I said.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Sir Cathcart and understood why the Senior Tutor had acted with such
precipitate violence.

‘What’s more, the stupid bugger was in the maze all bloody night, crashing about and
trying to find the way out.’ Skullion chuckled at the memory.

‘And you knew he was listening all the time?’

‘Course I did. I haven’t been Skullion the Head Porter and not known what’s going on in
College all these years. Yes, I heard him and I thought to myself, ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve
come to find out and it isn’t going to do you any good at all because you ain’t going to be
able to do anything about it. And it hasn’t done him any good.’

‘Hmm,’ was the only comment Sir Cathcart was prepared to make. He had begun to regret
with a new and fearful intensity ever having come near the College in these
unfathomable circumstances. He certainly had no intention of incriminating himself
any further by asking questions. ‘Well, I’ll be getting back to the Dean,’ he said
hurriedly before there could be any fresh disclosures. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to
learn of your decision. We can make arrangements for your moving out of the Master’s
Lodge at some other time.’ And with a hasty ‘Goodnight’ he was off across the lawn.

He found the Dean and the Praelector sitting in gloomy silence.

‘Well?’ asked the Dean without getting out of his chair, but Sir Cathcart needed a quick
restorative.

‘Mind if I help myself?’ he asked, and without waiting for an answer poured himself a
large cognac. Only when he had drunk it did he resume his stance in front of the empty
fireplace.

‘For goodness’ sake, Cathcart, put us out of our misery. What is his answer?’

‘Good man, Skullion,’ he said finally, having decided that even among old friends
there was a great deal to be said for deception. The Praelector’s ‘Least said soonest
mended’ made perfect sense to him now. ‘He’s agreed to go. I said the timing of his leaving
the Lodge could be left to a later date.’

‘And he didn’t make any difficulties?’ the Praelector enquired.

‘None whatsoever. Regrets the whole business and apologies all round for making such
a damned nuisance of himself.’

‘It’s unbelievable,’ said the Dean. ‘He didn’t threaten any disclosure if he goes to
the Park?’

‘None whatsoever. Of course he’s reluctant to go but I made it plain that, for the good
of the College, it was the best thing for him. I suggest we get a move on. Like tomorrow.
Leave it to me. Private ambulance and some hefty attendants to lift him into it and then
straight down the motorway. You can put it about that he’s had another Porterhouse
Blue.’

‘Well I must say, Cathcart, you’ve done sterling work this evening,’ the Dean said,
rising and reaching for the brandy. ‘I think this calls for a celebratory drink.’

‘I must say it comes as a great relief,’ the Praelector agreed, ‘though it does leave us
with the question of who is to be the new Master.’

Sir Cathcart raised a hand. ‘No need to trouble yourself about that either. Skullion
has exercised his traditional right and named his successor.’ He paused for effect. The
two old men looked at him with amazement.

‘Well, it is his right, you know. I could hardly refuse him,’ Sir Cathcart
continued.

‘Absolutely his right,’ the Dean agreed. ‘One of our oldest traditions as a matter of
fact. Dates back, I believe, to 1492.’

‘Yes, well there you are. I suppose I’d better be on my way. It’s been a difficult
evening, but at least you don’t have to worry about Skullion any more.’

‘But you haven’t told us whom Skullion, the Master that is, named as his successor.’

‘It is rather important to know,’ said the Praelector.

‘Oh that. Of course, how stupid of me. Jeremy Pimpole. That’s who he’s named. Lord
Pimpole…’ He stopped and looked at the Dean. Are you all right, Dean?’

It was a stupid question. It was obvious that the Dean was far from all right. He was
clutching the edge of the table and had dropped the brandy. ‘No, no,’ he gasped. ‘Not him.
For God’s sake, not the Dog’s…’ He staggered for a moment and almost collapsed.

‘Not the what?’ asked Sir Cathcart as he and the Praelector helped the Dean to a
chair.

‘Not the Dog’s Nose man,’ he whimpered.

Sir Cathcart bent over him solicitously. ‘The Dog’s Nose man?’

‘Pimpole. It isn’t possible. Not Pimpole.’

‘He doesn’t seem to be very well,’ the Praelector said. ‘Perhaps the strain has been too
much for him. And I shouldn’t give him any of that brandy.’

But Sir Cathcart had reached the end of his own tether. ‘I’m not going to give him any,’
he snapped. ‘I need some myself. Come here for that infernal dinner and find the place has
been turned into a human abattoir. And then when I’ve managed to persuade one murderer
to get the hell out…Damn it, what the hell is wrong with Lord Pimpole? Knew his father.
Charming family. Pots of money, too. Just the chap.’

‘No, he’s not,’ moaned the Dean. ‘He is nothing like the man he used to be. He’s a filthy
soak. Pimpole Hall and the estate have been sold to meet his debts. He has drunk a fortune
away. He doesn’t even wash. Pimpole lives in a dilapidated cottage with a vile dog and
drinks Dog’s Noses.’ He paused and looked wildly around at them. ‘Have you ever drunk a Dog’s
Nose?’ Both men shook their heads.

‘Heard of ‘em,’ said Sir Cathcart, ‘but’

‘Then don’t,’ the Dean continued. ‘Not ever. If you value your sanity. Pimpole drinks
them all the time. Seven ounces of gin to thirteen of beer.’

‘Dear shit,’ said Sir Cathcart, ‘the bugger must be off his head.’

‘Cathcart, he is. And what is more…no, I can’t tell you how depraved Pimpole is. It’s too
awful.’

‘Try, old fellow,’ Sir Cathcart said. ‘Try and tell us. You’ve done jolly well so
far.’

‘I don’t think we need to hear any more,’ said the Praelector. ‘Seven ounces of gin…’ His
voice trailed away in disgust and disbelief. But Sir Cathcart wanted to hear about
depravity.

The Dean told them. And even Sir Cathcart understood. ‘Sheep?’ he said slowly. ‘Sheep
and dogs? Well, that does put a rather different complexion on the matter.’

He helped himself to some more of the Dean’s brandy and sat down. It was the Praelector
who spoke. ‘It also puts an entirely different complexion on Skullion’s apparent
willingness to retire. He has, in old-fashioned golfing parlance, laid us a perfect
stymie.’

There was silence in the room as they took this in. Again from somewhere in the College
there came the sound of raucous laughter. It reminded Sir Cathcart of the Senior Tutor.
‘I know why the Senior Tutor…’ he hesitated for a moment and chose his words with care. ‘I
know why the Senior Tutor took the desperate action he did. Skullion had told Dr Osbert
that he had murdered Sir Godber. Obviously the Senior Tutor realized he had to act
immediately. All the same this second killing has made things damnably awkward. Still, if
the body is in the Crypt I daresay we can buy time.’ This time there could be no mistaking
the Dean’s and the Praelector’s unease. They exchanged a glance and turned back to Sir
Cathcart.