“We must strike while the iron is hot,” said the Dean. Inside they were accosted by a puma.

“Do we look like gatecrashers?” the Dean asked severely. The puma shook its head.

“We have urgent business with General Sir Cathcart D’Eath,” said the Senior Tutor. “Be so good as to inform him that the Dean and Senior Tutor have arrived. We shall wait for him in the library.”

The puma nodded dutifully and they pushed their way through a crush of assorted beasts to the library.

“I must say I find this sort of thing extremely distasteful,” said the Dean. “I am surprised that Cathcart allows such goings on at Coft Castle. One would have thought he had more taste.”

“He always did have something of a reputation,” said the Senior Tutor. “Of course he was before my time but I did hear one or two rather unsavoury stories.”

“Youthful excess is one thing,” said the Dean, “but mutton dressed as lamb is another.”

“They say the leopard doesn’t change its spots,” said the Senior Tutor. He sat down in a club easy while the Dean idly examined a nicely bound copy of Stendhal. It contained, as he had expected from the title, a bottle of liqueur.

Outside the puma stalked Sir Cathcart. He found it extremely difficult. He tried the billiard-room, the smoking-room, the morning-room, and the dining-room without success. In the kitchen he asked the cook if she had seen him.

“I wouldn’t know him if I had,” the cook said primly. “All I know is that he’s gone as a horse.”

The detective went back into the menagerie and asked several guests who were wearing horsey masks if they were Sir Cathcart. They weren’t. He helped himself to champagne and tried again. Finally he ran Sir Cathcart to ground in the conservatory with a well-known jockey. The detective surveyed the scene with disgust.

“Two gentlemen to see you in the library,” he said. Sir Cathcart got to his feet.

“What do you mean?” he said indistinctly. “What are they doing there? I said nobody was to go in the library.” He staggered off down the passage and into the library where the Dean had just discovered a copy of A Man and A Maid inside an early edition of Great Expectations.

“What the hell…?” Sir Cathcart began before realizing who they were.

“Cathcart?” enquired the Dean, staring doubtfully at the General.

“Who?” said Sir Cathcart.

“We are waiting to speak to Sir Cathcart D’Eath,” said the Dean.

“Isn’t here. Gone to London,” said the General, slurring his voice deliberately and hoping that his mask was a sufficient proof against identity. The Dean was unpersuaded. He recognized the General’s fetlocks.

“I am prepared to accept the explanation,” he said grimly. “We have not come here to pry.” He returned the copy of Great Expectations to its place. “We simply wanted to inform Sir Cathcart that the matter of Skullion’s Scholars is about to receive a public airing.”

“Damnation,” shouted the General, “how the hell did…?” He stopped and regarded the Dean bitterly.

“Quite,” said the Dean. He sat down behind the desk and the General sank into a chair. “The matter is urgent, otherwise we shouldn’t be here. We have no desire to abuse your hospitality, if that were possible, any longer than we have to. Let us assume that Sir Cathcart is in London for the moment.”

The General nodded his agreement with this tactful proposition. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Things have reached a crisis,” said the Senior Tutor rising from his club easy. “We simply want the Prime Minister to be informed that Sir Godber’s Mastership must be rescinded.”

“Must?” said the General. The word had an authoritarian ring about it that he was unused to.

“Must,” said the Dean.

Sir Cathcart inside his mask looked doubtful. “It’s a tall order.”

“No doubt,” said the Dean. “The alternative is possibly the fall of the Government. I am prepared to place my information in the hands of the press. I think you follow the likely consequences.”

Sir Cathcart did. “But why, for God’s sake?” he asked. “I don’t understand. If this got out it would ruin the College.”

“If the Master stays there will be no college to ruin,” said the Dean. “There will be a hostel. I have some eighty names, Cathcart.”

Sir Cathcart peered through his mask bitterly. “Eighty? And you’re prepared to put their reputations at risk?”

The Dean’s mouth curved upwards in a sneer. “In the circumstances I find that question positively indecent,” he said.

“Oh, come now,” said the General. “We all have our little peccadilloes. A fellow’s entitled to a little fun.”

On the way out they were importuned by a fowl. “These gentlemen are just leaving,” said Sir Cathcart hurriedly.

“Before me?” cackled the capon. “It’s against protocol.”

They drove back to Porterhouse in silence. What they had just witnessed had left them with a new sense of disillusionment.

“The whole country is going to the dogs,” said the Senior Tutor as they crossed New Court. As if in answer there was a low moan from the Fellows’ Garden.

“What on earth was that?” said the Dean. They turned and peered into the darkness. Under the elms a shadow darker than the rest struggled to its feet and collapsed. They crossed the lawn cautiously and stood staring down at the figure on the ground.

“A drunk,” said the Senior Tutor. “I’ll fetch the Porter,” but the Dean had already struck a match. In the small flare of light they looked down into the ashen face of Sir Godber.

“Good God,” said the Dean, “it’s the Master.”

They carried him slowly and with difficulty down the gravel path to the Master’s Lodge and laid him on the sofa.

“I’ll get an ambulance,” said the Senior Tutor, and picked the phone off the floor and dialled. While they waited the Dean sat staring down into the Master’s face. It was evident Sir Godber was dying. He struggled to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

“He’s trying to tell us something,” said the Senior Tutor softly. There was no bitterness now. In extremis the Master had regained the Senior Tutor’s loyalty.

“He must have been drunk,” said the Dean, who could smell the whisky on Sir Godber’s feeble breath.

The Master shook his head. An indefinite future awaited him now in which he would only be a memory. It must not be sullied by false report.

“Not drunk,” he managed to mutter, gazing pitifully into the Dean’s face. “Skullion.”

The Dean and Senior Tutor looked at one another. “What about Skullion?” the Senior Tutor asked but the Master had no answer for him.

They waited for the ambulance before leaving. It had been impossible to contact Lady Mary. She was on the phone to a depressive who was threatening to end his life. On the way back through the Fellows’ Garden the Dean retrieved the whisky bottle.

“I don’t think we need mention this to the police,” he said. “He was obviously drunk and fell into the fireplace. A tragic end.”

The Senior Tutor was lost in thought. “You realize what he’s done?” he asked.

“Only too well,” said the Dean. “I’ll phone Sir Cathcart and tell him to cancel the ultimatum. There’s no need for it now. We shall have to elect a new Master. Let us see to it that he has the true interests of the College at heart. We mustn’t make another mistake.”

The Senior Tutor shook his head. “There can be no question of an election, Dean,” he said. “The Master has already nominated his own successor.”

In the darkness the two old men stared at one another digesting the extraordinary import of Sir Godber’s last word. It was unthinkable but yet…

They went into the Combination Room to deliberate. The ancient panelled walls, the plaster ceiling decorated with heraldic devices and grotesque animals, the portraits of past Masters, and the silver candlesticks all combined to urge considerations of the past upon their present dilemma.