“Fallen from grace?”

“Not grace,” said Sir Godber desperately. “Grate.”

“Great?” Lady Mary enquired, evidently convinced she was dealing with a disillusioned megalomaniac.

“The hearth. I’m bleeding. For God’s sake come…” Exhausted by his wife’s lack of understanding Sir Godber fell back upon the floor. Beside him the phone continued to squeak and gibber with Lady Mary’s exhortations.

“Are you there?” she asked. “Are you still there? Now there’s no need to despair.” Sir Godber groaned. “Now don’t hang up. Just stay there and listen. Now you say you’ve fallen from grace. That’s not a very constructive way of looking at things is it?” Sir Godber’s stentorian breathing reassured her. “After all what is grace? We’re all human. We can’t expect to live up to our own expectations all the time. We’re bound to make mistakes. Even the best of us. But that doesn’t mean to say we’ve fallen from grace. You mustn’t think in those terms. You’re not a Catholic, are you?” Sir Godber groaned. “It’s just that you mentioned bleeding hearts. Catholics believe in bleeding hearts, you know.” Lady Mary was adding instruction to exhortation now. It was typical of the bloody woman. Sir Godber thought helplessly. He tried to raise himself so that he could replace the receiver and shut out forever the sound of Lady Mary’s implacable philanthropy but the effort was too much for him.

“Get off the line,” he managed to moan. “I need help.”

“Of course you do and that’s what I’m here for,” Lady Mary said. “To help.”

Sir Godber crawled away from the receiver, spurred on by her obtuseness. He had to get help somehow. His eye caught the tray of drinks near the door. Whisky. He crawled towards it and managed to get the bottle. He drank some and still clutching the bottle reached the side door. Somehow he opened it and dragged himself out into the Fellows’ Garden. If only he could reach the Court, perhaps he could call out and someone would hear him. He drank some more whisky and tried to get to his feet. There was a light on in the Combination Room. If only he could get there. Sir Godber raised himself on his knees and fell sideways on to the path.

Chapter 20

It was Sir Cathcart’s birthday and as usual there was a party at Coft Castle. On the gravel forecourt the sleek cars bunched in the moonlight like so many large seals huddled on the foreshore. Inside the animal analogy continued. In the interests of several Royal guests and uninhibited debauchery, masks were worn if little else. Sir Cathcart typically adopted the disguise of a horse, its muzzle suitably foreshortened to facilitate conversation and his penchant for fellatio. Her Royal Highness the Princess Penelope sought anonymity as a capon and deceived no one. A judge from the Appellate Division was a macaw. There was a bear, two gnus, and a panda wearing a condom. The Loverley sisters sported dildos with stripes and claimed they were zebras and Lord Forsyth, overzealous as a labrador, urinated against a standard lamp in the library and had to be resuscitated by Mrs Hinkle, who was one of the judges at Crufts. Even the detectives mingling with the crowd were dressed as pumas. Only the Dean and the Senior Tutor came as humans, and they were not invited.

“Cathcart’s the only man I know who could do it,” the Dean had said suddenly during dinner in the empty Hall.

“Do what?” asked the Senior Tutor.

“See the PM,” said the Dean. “Get him to rescind the Master’s nomination.”

The Senior Tutor lacerated a shinbone judiciously and wiped his fingers. “On what grounds?”

“General maladministration,” said the Dean.

“Difficult to prove,” said the Senior Tutor.

The Dean helped himself to devilled kidneys and Arthur replenished his wine glass. “Let us review the facts. Since his arrival the College has seen the deaths of one undergraduate, a bedder, the total destruction of a building classified as a national monument, charges of peculation and a scandal involving the admission of unqualified candidates, the sacking of Skullion and now, to cap it all, the assumption of dictatorial powers by the Master.”

“But surely -”

“Bear with me,” said the Dean. “Now you and I may know that the Master is not wholly responsible, but the general public thinks otherwise. Have you seen today’s Telegraph?”

“No,” said the Senior Tutor, “but I think I know what you mean. The Times has three columns of letters, all of them supporting Skullion’s statement on the box.”

“Exactly,” said the Dean. “The Telegraph also has a leading article calling for a stand against student indiscipline and a return to the values Skullion so eloquently advocated. Whatever the merits of the Carrington Programme, it has certainly provoked a public reaction against the dismissal of Skullion. Porterhouse may have been blackguarded but it is Sir Godber who takes the blame.”

“As Master, you mean?”

“Precisely,” continued the Dean. “He may claim -”

“As Master he must accept full responsibility,” said the Senior Tutor.

“Still, I don’t see that the Prime Minister would willingly dismiss him. It would reflect poorly on his own judgement in the first place.”

“The Government’s position is not a particularly healthy one just at the moment,” said the Dean. “It only needs a nudge…”

“A nudge? From whom?”

The Dean smiled and signalled to Arthur to make himself scarce. “From me,” he said when the waiter had shuffled off into the darkness of the lower hall.

“You?” said the Senior Tutor. “How?”

“Have you ever heard of Skullion’s Scholars?” the Dean asked. His bloated face glowed in the light of the candles.

“That old story,” said the Senior Tutor. “An old chestnut surely?”

The Dean shook his head. “I have the names and the dates and the sums involved,” he said. “I have the names of the graduates who wrote the papers. I have even some examples of their work.” He put the tips of his fingers together and nodded. The Senior Tutor stared at him.

“No,” he muttered.

“Yes,” the Dean assured him.

“But how?”

The Dean withdrew a little. “Let’s just say that I have,” he said. “There was a time when I disapproved of the practice. I was young in those days and full of foolishness but I changed my mind. Fortunately I did not destroy the evidence. You see now what I mean by a nudge?”

The Senior Tutor gulped some wine in his amazement. “Not the PM?” he muttered.

“Not,” admitted the Dean, “but one or two of his colleagues.” The Senior Tutor tried to think which ministers were Porterhouse men.

“I have some eighty names,” said the Dean, “some eighty eminent names. I think they’re quite sufficient.”

The Senior Tutor mopped his forehead. There was no doubt in his mind about the sufficiency of the Dean’s information. It would bring the Government down. “Could you rely on Skullion to substantiate,” he asked.

The Dean nodded. “I hardly think it will come to that,” he said, “and if it does I am prepared to stand as scapegoat. I am an old man. I no longer care.”

They sat in silence. Two old men together in the isolated candlelight under the dark rafters of the Hall. Arthur, standing obediently by the green baize door, watched them fondly.

“And Sir Cathcart?” asked the Senior Tutor.

“And Sir Cathcart,” agreed the Dean.

They stood up and the Dean said grace, his voice tremulous in the vastness of the silent Hall. They went out into the Combination Room and Arthur shuffled softly up to the High Table and began to collect the dishes.

Half an hour later they drove out of the College car park in the Senior Tutor’s car. Coft Castle was blazing with Edwardian brilliance when they arrived.

“It seems an inopportune moment,” said the Senior Tutor, doubtfully surveying the shoal of cars.