“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.
“There are precedents,” said the Senior Tutor. “Thomas Wilkins was a pastrycook.”
“He was also an eminent theologian,” said the Dean.
“Dr Cox began his career as a barber,” the Senior Tutor pointed out. “He owed his election to his wealth.”
“I take your point,” said the Dean. “In the present circumstances it is one that cannot be ignored.”
“There is also the question of public opinion to consider,” the Senior Tutor continued. “In the present climate it would not be an unpopular appointment. It would disarm our critics entirely.”
“So it would,” said the Dean. “It would indeed. But the College Council -”
“Have no say in the matter,” said the Senior Tutor. “Tradition has it that the Master’s dying words constitute an unalterable decision.”
“If uttered in the presence of two or more of the Senior Fellows,” agreed the Dean. “So it is up to us.”
“There is little doubt that he would be malleable,” the Senior Tutor continued after a long pause. The Dean nodded. “I confess to finding the argument unanswerable,” he said. They rose and snuffed the candles.
Skullion sat in the darkness of his kitchen, shivering. It was a cold night but Skullion was unconscious of the cold. His tremors had other causes. He had threatened the Master. He had in all probability killed him. The memory of Sir Godber lying in a pool of blood in the fireplace haunted Skullion. He could not think of sleep. He sat there at the kitchen table shivering with fright. He couldn’t begin to think what to do. The law would find him. Skullion’s innate respect for authority rejected the possibility that his crime would go undetected. It was almost as monstrous a thought as the knowledge that he was a murderer. He was still there when the Dean and the Senior Tutor knocked on his door at eight o’clock. They had brought the Praelector with them. As usual his was a supernumerary role.
Skullion listened to the knocking for some minutes before his instincts as a porter got the better of him. He got up and went down the dingy hall and opened the door. He stood blinking in the sunlight, his face purple with strain but with a solemnity that befitted the occasion.
“If we could just have a word with you, Mr Skullion,” the Dean said. To Skullion the addition of the title had the effect of confirming his worst fears. It suggested the polite formalities of the hangman. He turned and led the way into his front parlour where the sun, shining through the lace curtains, dappled the antimacassars with a fresh embroidery.
The three Fellows removed their hats and sat awkwardly on the Victorian chairs. Like most of the furniture in the house they had been salvaged from the occasional refurbishment of Porterhouse.
“I think it would be better if you sat down,” said the Dean when Skullion continued to stand before them. “What we are about to tell you may come as something of a shock.”
Skullion sat down obediently. Nothing that they could tell him would come as a shock, he felt sure. He had prepared himself for the worst.
“We have come here this morning to tell you that the Master has died,” said the Dean. Skullion’s face remained impassively suffused. To the three Fellows his evident self-control augured well for the future.
“On his deathbed Sir Godber named you as his successor,” said the Dean slowly. Skullion heard the words but his expectations deprived them of their meaning. What had seemed unthinkable to the Dean and Senior Tutor at first hearing was inconceivable to Skullion. He stared uncomprehendingly at the Dean.
“He nominated you as the new Master of Porterhouse,” continued the Dean. “We have come here this morning on behalf of the College Council to ask you to accept this nomination.” He paused to allow the Porter to consider the proposal. “Naturally we understand that this must come as a very great surprise to you, as indeed it did to us, but we would like to know your answer as soon as possible.”
In the silence that followed this announcement, Skullion underwent a terrible change. A tremor ran down his body and his face, already purple, became darker still. He wrestled with the terrible inconsequentiality of it all. He had murdered the Master and they were offering him the Mastership. There were no just rewards in life, only insane inversions of the scheme of things in which he had trusted. It seemed for a moment that he was going mad.
“We must have your answer,” said the Dean. Skullion’s body acted uncontrollably as he went into apoplexy. His head nodded frantically.
“Then we may take it that you accept?” asked the Dean. Skullion’s head nodded without stop.
“Then let me be the first to congratulate you, Master,” said the Dean and seizing Skullion’s hand shook it convulsively. The Praelector and the Senior Tutor followed suit.
“The poor fellow was quite overcome,” said the Dean as they climbed back into the car. “It seemed to leave him speechless.”
“Hardly surprising, Dean,” said the Praelector, “I find it difficult to voice my feelings even now. Skullion as the Master of Porterhouse. That it should come to this.”
“At least we shan’t have any speeches at the Feast,” said the Senior Tutor.
“I suppose there is that to be said for it,” said the Praelector.