G Malliet - Death at the Alma Mater

This, in any event, was the plan, a plan that had been successful, in varying degrees, for many long years. It has since been largely agreed that no one could have foretold the calamitous events which took place during the particular reunion that is the subject of this story.

No one, after all, had ever suggested that the alumni of St. Mike's be invited back for a murder mystery weekend.

It was the upcoming Open Weekend that was the subject of a special meeting of the College Bursar and the College Dean, convened by the Master in his dark, Tudorish study one unseasonably warm evening in late June. The wealthy graduates were due to start arriving on July 4, and despite problems with the antique plumbing that had prompted some last-minute rearrangements and tested the bedders' patience, everything looked set for a memorable weekend-more memorable, as has been mentioned, than anyone could have anticipated.

There was a general bustle of activity as the three settled in their accustomed places. The Master, having surveyed his small assembly with his habitual look of contempt, took his own seat at the head of the rectangular table, first flinging aside imaginary swallowtails like a concert pianist. He then offered his brethren a wintry smile, folded his hands in his lap, and turned with a nod in the general direction of the Bursar.

Ten minutes later, a student with the cheek to peer in through the mullioned windows of the study would have seen that the Bursar was just reaching the end of a list of projected events.

"Let's see now. Croquet set up on the lawn. Tennis courts and equipment made available. Yes, I think that's it for the sporting activities. If they want to hire a punt they can easily walk into town. We could offer them access to the sculls…"

"They're getting too old for that, although they won't think so," said the Master, a man long-boned, pale, and gray, like something thrown up on the tide. He was the kind of person who even if forced into jogging togs would manage to look as if he were wearing a suit and tie. He had a wife, rumored to be sickly. She was seldom trotted out, looking when she was like a spouse at the press conference of a politician who has just been caught in a prostitution ring, appearing dazed and disoriented as if shot through with tranquilizer darts.

"It's a young person's sport. I'll not have the weekend spoiled by the sound of rescue sirens piercing the night air," continued the Master.

The Dean-the Reverend Otis-nodded his agreement, the overhead light glinting on his polished head and setting his dandelion hair aglow, giving him a halo of sorts.

"No, indeed. We wouldn't want sirens to spoil the fun," he said in his earnest way. "Will there again be a tour of the Gardens following Wilton's lecture? I do so enjoy that." He tapped fingertips together in a happy little pitty-pat of anticipation. He was a man who talked slowly and with extreme care, searching for each word, examining each thought before releasing it dove-like into the air. "Like a man with a bullet lodged in his head," the Master had been heard to say, most unkindly, behind his back.

Ignoring him, the Master again turned small, watery eyes the color of tarnished silver on the Bursar.

"The dining arrangements?" he asked.

"Yes." The Bursar flipped open a new folder. This one was red to signal its importance. "Afternoon tea in the garden of the Master's Lodge, weather permitting… a four-course dinner with wine in Hall at eight p.m. on Saturday accompanied by musical entertainment provided by our more talented undergraduates" ("When you find some, just be sure they're told to be well out of the room before pudding is served," the Master interjected. "One can never know how they'll behave.") "… followed by a gathering for port, chocolates, and coffee in the Senior Combination Room. I say," the Bursar looked up from his spreadsheet, "do we have to give them chocolates? This is getting rather expensive." The Bursar, true to his calling and training, was a man with a keen eye for the bottom line.

"Yes, Mr. Bowles, we do. Belgian chocolates." The Bursar's hand flew to his mouth to stem a cry of horror. He had been planning, as the Master had rightly surmised, to fob the guests off with something from the Christmas sale bin at Sainsbury's. "This is no time to be penny wise," continued the Master.

"'And is there honey still for tea?'" quoted the Reverend Otis.

"No!" said the Bursar, nearly shouting.

"We're going to be asking these people for donations in the hundreds of thousands of pounds," said the Master. "We're frightfully lucky to have alumni who have done so well for themselves."

He added this last sentence grudgingly, for the Master, who was a tremendous snob, was also extremely sensitive to the fact that St. Mike's was a college so small and obscure as to be invisible in the pantheon of notable Oxbridge colleges. He longed to be Master of a college in the grand tradition, to be able to boast of famous scientists and diarists nurtured upon the college's bosom, but it was not to be. Neither a Nobel laureate nor an Archbishop of Canterbury had ever swollen the college's ranks. Not even a prime minister. St. Mike's, although hundreds of years old, at the darker moments of its history had been remarkable only in that so many third-rate minds had managed to assemble under one roof.

When the Master looked at the competition-Peterhouse, founded 1284; Queens', 1448; St. John's, 1511-it was with the sinking sense of inevitability that however many centuries St. Michael's was in existence, and even if it one day managed to produce a Nobel Prize winner or two, it would never belong truly in the lineup of really old, really famous colleges. Even at two thousand years of age, it would remain young and somehow, forever, not quite the done thing.

Somehow this train of thought led him to face another anxiety that had been niggling at the corners of his mind for some time.

"That old business of the scandal," he began. "I'm a bit concerned, you know."

"Quite," said the Bursar, catching him up immediately. "When I saw how the guest list was shaping up, I did wonder whether…" As noted earlier, the Bursar, tasked with providing a list of candidates suitable for a genteel shakedown, had realized the students living in college in 1988 had turned out to be a remarkably successful lot. So he had subtly altered his usual methods of assembling his list: Those invited for this particular Open Weekend had not necessarily matriculated in the same year and were in fact a collection of former graduate and undergraduate students of varying ages.

"That kind of thing can't be encouraged," said the Master.

"Not for one single moment. No indeed," said the Bursar.

All of this was moving right past the Dean, like leaves scattering before a gentle breeze.

"Scandal?" he said, his gentle eyes wide. "I don't recall anything like that."

The Master was not surprised. There could be nightly orgies and Black Masses on the High Table and the Reverend Otis, almost childish in his innocence, would be the last to notice, or to understand what was transpiring if he did notice.

He gave the Dean a shriveling glance and said, "Well, you were here at the time, and they made little secret of it. It's incredible that even you didn't notice the drama."

Typically, the Dean took no offense at the "even you."

"Let's see. The year 1988, you say… I think I do remember something about it now. The blonde woman, wasn't it? Two blondes, actually-isn't that right? It was all so long ago. Surely…" He didn't finish the sentence. Otherworldly or not, it registered with the Dean that having all the players in such a story under one roof might make for an uncomfortable time, at least for some. Determined, as always, to put the best face on things, he continued, "Surely all is long forgiven now."