'Oh no, General, I said what you told me to. Like I was calling from the Embassy on account of a visa application by Dr Osbert and needed verification of his subject specialty.'
'And they said penises? They must have been having you on. The blighter is an expert on crime and punishment. He's written a book on hanging. I can't see where penises come into that. Unless…" He paused for a moment and gave the matter some thought. 'Of course, they do say you get an erection and have an orgasm at the moment of death. Not that that's much consolation in the circumstances.'
The girl consulted her notes. 'I've got it here,' she said. 'I said what's his subject specialty and they said he's the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow and he's a penologist.'
'Oh that,' said Sir Cathcart and relaxed. As a matter of fact it's nothing to do with penises. It has to do with prisons. P-E-N-A-L as in penalty not penile as in…whatever. Natural mistake for a gal to make. Now let's see, what have we here?'
He riffled through the copies of Purefoy's correspondence the Dean had given him. Ah, here we are. The American Association for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment. Entirely appropriate. The President is coming to England in August and would value a meeting with Dr Osbert whose book etc. Illegible signature belonging to the Secretary. That should do very nicely. The letter-heading is easy to copy and there shouldn't be any trouble with the envelope and stamp. Well, my dear, now that you've got it clear in that pretty little head of yours that penology has nothing immediately to do with John Thomases, you are about to be enrolled as a member of the American Association for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment over here to arrange for the President's meeting and eager to meet the distinguished Dr P. Osbert, author of _The Long Drop._ I'll get a copy from Heffer's and you can mug it up. That shouldn't be too difficult for you, should it?'
'Oh gee, General, it's such a privilege to be of help to you,' the blonde said. 'Just anything you say.'
'Very good of you to say so,' said the General and went upstairs, wondering not for the first time what it was about Americans that made them such amazing experts in some of life's most complicated operations and absolute ignoramuses in simple matters like geography. He put it down to specialization. That and not being European. Not that Myrtle Ransby was any brighter. God alone knew what she'd have made of penology.
28
At Porterhouse there were frequent occasions when the grosser tastes of past Masters seemed never to have gone away. This was particularly true on Thursday nights. Thursday dinner was always a very good one. Friday was fish day, fish for lunch; and fish again for dinner originally for religious reasons but now simply a tradition followed implacably by the Chef. However, fish being an insubstantial dish when filleted or with too many bones to make for large mouthfuls and easy eating, on Thursday nights the Fellows could fill up on meat and something especially nutritious and with body to it. And on the second Thursday after Easter _Canards pressés à la Porterhouse_ was always on the menu. It was on Thursday that General Sir Cathcart D'Eath came to dine in College. 'Got to put in an appearance for the good of the Society, that great community of Old Porterthusians whose spirit spans the continents,' he boomed in the Combination Room where the Fellows had gathered for sherry. There was one of those sudden silences that inflicts itself at random on such gatherings.
The Chaplain broke it. 'What did Cathcart say?' he yelled. He had forgotten to turn his hearing aid on.
Dr Buscott took the opportunity he had been waiting for ever since the General had mistaken him for a junior porter and had told him to get his hair cut or lose his job. 'General Sir Cathcart D'Eath,' he announced in tones that would have done credit to a toastmaster at a rowdy banquet, 'General Sir Cathcart D'Eath, KCMG, etcetera, has just stated that the spirit of the Old Porterthusians spans the continents.'
'What on earth can he mean?'
'I've no idea,' said Dr Buscott, and moved away into the company of his fellow scientists where he felt safer.
The Senior Tutor prevailed upon the General to have some more Amontillado. 'It's the Special Old one, you know. We only bring it out on certain occasions,' he said.
'Where's the Dean?' asked the General, who felt like saying he hadn't come to be insulted by long-haired louts who only deemed his DSO worth an etcetera. In any case he had a special reason for being there that night. He was hoping to meet Dr Osbert and assess his suitability for the ordeal of Myrtle Ransby. 'No use wasting a perfectly foul old bag on some swine of a sexual athlete who doesn't mind being filmed under half a ton of lard trussed up in rubber. Got to gauge his psychology, don't you know. Some chaps like that sort of thing,' he had said to his secretary, who already knew it. Now, clutching his sherry, he peered round the exceptionally crowded Combination Room in search of the Dean.
'I don't seem to see him here,' the Senior Tutor commented. 'Mind you, he's been a bit off colour lately. We all have. Those terrible American TV people and the damage to the Chapel, you know.'
'Well of course,' the General boomed, 'but the rumour I've heard is that the compensation is going to be enormous. Bound to be. Kentucky Fry tells me they're worth billions.'
'Kentucky Fry?' said the Senior Tutor. 'I can't for the life of me understand how people can stomach that stuff. I made the mistake one night in London somewhere. Most indigestible.'
'Really?' said the General and looked at the Senior Tutor suspiciously He had the feeling that someone was taking the piss out of him.
It was confirmed by the Chaplain who had got his hearing aid going again. 'Colonel Someone's Chicken,' he shouted. 'I had some once. You had to lick your fingers afterwards. I can't remember why. Mind you, the waitresses were most attractive. Lovely legs and things.'
'What's this new chap, the Godber Evans Fellow, like?' the General asked, to change the subject.
'He died, you know,' bellowed the Chaplain. 'I'm surprised no one told you. Murdered, they say.'
'What?' said the General. 'Murdered? Already?' He looked round for the Senior Tutor but he had disappeared in the crowd.
'I'm surprised nobody informed you,' the Chaplain continued. 'It happened quite a long time ago. I found it most distressing. Of course none of us liked him but…' Any further information that might have cleared the matter up was prevented by the arrival of the Praelector.
'I've just been hearing about Dr Osbert,' the General told him.
The Praelector looked at him curiously and shook his head. 'A nasty business,' he said. 'I blame the Senior Tutor myself.'
'The Senior Tutor?' said the General. 'You're not seriously telling me…" A waiter with the decanter slid between them and filled his glass.
'He should never have allowed the Fellow to be appointed,' the Praelector continued. 'We weren't properly informed. All we were told was that some City friends had put up the money. Now, of course, it's too late. The damage has been done.'
'It is never too late to repent,' bawled the Chaplain, who had been elbowed aside by the waiter and had only just rejoined them. 'On the other hand, when you're murdered you don't have much opportunity.'
This time it was the Praelector who was shocked. 'Don't use that word,' he told the Chaplain sharply. 'It isn't generally known. We can't have rumours spreading.'
'I should damned well think not,' said Sir Cathcart. 'I for one had no idea.'