“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.
“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.