'None of us did,' the Praelector said. 'I only learnt about it this afternoon.'
The Chaplain looked at him in some astonishment. 'But you were there when he admitted it. We all were. It was after his Induction Dinner. He got pickled.' But before the matter could be satisfactorily cleared up dinner was announced. They filed into the Hall and the Chaplain shouted Grace.
'Praelector,' said Sir Cathcart in a conspiratorial whisper when they were finally seated. 'I know we can't talk about Dr Osbert now, but perhaps we should have a word in private afterwards.'
'Just as you like,' said the Praelector with an insouciance that took the General's breath away, 'though frankly I should have thought it was the other…er…matter, you know, we should consider.'
Sir Cathcart glanced cautiously around. 'The other matter?' he asked through gritted teeth. 'Other matter?'
'Can't talk about it now for goodness' sake,' said the Praelector hurriedly. 'I just hope to God the Chaplain keeps his trap shut. I told the Dean only this afternoon not to mention it to anyone. If it got to the Senior Tutor's ears the fat would really be in the fire. The fellow's in a bad enough state already without provoking him any further. He's as unstable as the very devil.'
'Yes,' Sir Cathcart agreed, with the private thought that a man who had so recently murdered the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow was bound to be in a pretty bad way. Unstable was putting it mildly. Mad as a hatter was more like it. He peered down the table at the Senior Tutor and was relieved to see him talking quite naturally to the Fellow beside him, exhibiting no signs of homicidal mania. He was so engrossed in the thoughts this news had provoked, and in particular how he was going to get back the half of the two thousand pounds he had given Myrtle Ransby, that he hardly noticed what he was eating until _Canards pressés à la Porterhouse_ was served.
Even by Porterhouse standards it was exceptional. In the belief that, with the collapse of the Chapel and the gloom emanating from the Bursar's office about the state of College finances, this was in all likelihood the last time he would be allowed the chance to do a Duck Dinner, the Chef had gone to town. To be exact, he had gone to three of East Anglia's largest duck farms and had returned with over one hundred and thirty plucked Aylesburys and the determination to so concentrate them that this last Duck Dinner would go down in the gastronomic annals of Porterhouse. For days the ancient presses had been groaning under the strain of achieving the greatest possible mass of duck in the least possible volume or, to put it another way, that three overweight ducks should be compressed into an oblong no larger than a matchbox. And while he hadn't entirely succeeded in this remarkable compression, what was finally placed in front of General Sir Cathcart D'Eath had so little resemblance to a duck or anything vaguely capable of flying or floating that he had munched his way with some difficulty through the first forkful before realizing what he had just swallowed. He turned a bulging eye to the menu and then looked down at his plate. 'Dear God, I thought this was some sort of pâté,' he muttered, and tried to dislodge a compacted feather from his dentures. "This isn't pressed duck, it's triple-distilled cholesterol. God alone knows what it does to the arteries.'
'An interesting point,' said the Praelector, finishing his first helping and signalling for a second. 'The calorific value is quite astonishingly high. In my younger days I did some slight calculations into the matter. I forget what the exact figures were but I do remember concluding that a starving man of medium build adrift on an iceflow could survive perfectly well on one portion every third day.'
'I daresay, but since I'm not on a damned iceflow,' the General began and was about to push his plate away when the waiter intervened.
'Anything wrong, Sir Cathcart? Chefs special, sir.'
The General picked up his knife and fork again. 'Momentary hiccup,' he said. 'Give the Chef my compliments and tell him this duck is delicious.'
'These,' said the waiter enigmatically, and went away.
'As I was about to say,' continued the Praelector happily, 'I have always found duck a very delicate dish. Goose tends to be a bit on the greasy side but with far more flavour to the meat whereas duck, unless it's wild mallard of course, has always struck me as a bit bland. On the other hand with sage and onion…'
Sir Cathcart picked at his duck and tried to shut out the words. Never a great trencherman-his interest in the less savoury qualities of the opposite sex inclined him to pay attention to his figure-he was feeling decidedly liverish. He wasn't helped by Professor Pawley, who pointed out that he had known people drop dead immediately after a Duck Dinner. 'Dr Lathaniel was one, I remember, and then there was Canon Bowel. A question, I suppose, of the individual's metabolism.'
'Canon Bowel?' said the Praelector. Another rotten Master. I must say we've had more than our fair share of bad Masters. Not that he died at a Duck Dinner. Had an ulcer and wouldn't attend.'
'He tried to introduce compulsory Compline,' shouted the Chaplain. 'We had to do something about him, you know. Now what was the menu that night? I know we had devilled crabs with tabasco sauce to start with but…'
'It was the jugged hare and the zabaglione…'
'Oh yes, the zabaglioney' sighed the Chaplain ecstatically. 'It was a special recipe I remember. A dozen yolks of goose eggs and a pound of sugar and instead of sherry we had Cointreau. Oh, it was wonderful.'
'And we had a special cheese with peppers on it,' the Praelector said.
Down the table the Senior Tutor had pricked up his ears. 'You're talking about Canon Bowel, I can tell,' he called out. 'It was the cigars that finished the man off. They were enormous ones. We had to budget for them. Ah, those were the days. We were a proper college then. Used to call us Slaughterhouse.'
By the end of dinner Sir Cathcart's sympathies had gone out to Canon Bowel, and he could fully understand the Dean's absence. To have to sit down to a Duck Dinner knowing full well that the Senior Tutor was a murderer, and so evidently revelled in the College being called Slaughterhouse, was more than enough to put any man off colour. It was with an ashen, though mottled, face that he followed the Praelector into the Combination Room. 'I won't have any port or coffee, if you don't mind,' he said. 'Perhaps a breath of fresh air might help.' They went out into the Fellows' Garden and the Praelector lit a cigar.
'Now then, about this business of the murder,' said Sir Cathcart. 'What on earth are you going to do?'
'Get rid of him of course,' said the Praelector. 'Can't have him in the College any longer.'
'You mean to say he's still here?'
'Of course he is. Can't simply sneak the damned man out at dead of night,' said the Praelector and intensified the General's mental and physical discomfort by adding, 'actually I intend to talk to him about it some time tonight. It won't be easy but I'll have to try. Of course it all depends on the weather.'
'Really? Does it?' said Sir Cathcart. 'How very remarkable. Of course one's heard about, well…this sort of thing before but I never realized communication could be affected by the weather.'
'Only possible when it's fine, according to the Dean,' said the Praelector. 'He's the expert. I can't be bothered myself. It's so difficult to make out what the damned man's saying. Not surprising in his condition but I suppose I'm too squeamish or something. Beastly state to be in. I always feel so sorry for the poor devil. A dreadful way to go.'
Sir Cathcart said nothing. He was feeling dreadful himself. He had always thought of the Dean and the Praelector as perfectly rational men, not at all inclined to superstition, and to discover now that they were both convinced spiritualists was almost as disturbing as the knowledge that the Senior Tutor had murdered the man the Praelector was hoping to talk to that night if the weather was fine. And the fact that the corpse or cadaver or whatever murdered bodies were called was still in the College, and in a beastly condition to boot, did nothing to put his mind at rest. It was no longer a question that things in Porterhouse might be in need of change. They bloody well had to be changed before the police and the media were swarming all over the place and all the Senior Fellows had been arrested. That sort of thing was going to do the College no good at all. The old name of Slaughterhouse would become a permanent one. For the first time in his life Sir Cathcart regretted his own name. It was bound to be up on the billboards.