Tom Sharpe - Grantchester Grind

'I always am,' said the Praelector, and decided not to add 'when talking to lawyers'.

And so that evening a seemingly benign old man greeted Schnabel and Feuchtwangler in a corner of the lounge. 'I am sure this whole wretched business can be settled more amicably,' he told them when they had made themselves relatively comfortable. Mr Schnabel said he doubted it. Mr Feuchtwangler nodded his agreement.

'Our client is not an amicable man,' Schnabel said.

The Praelector smiled. 'So few of us are,' he said. 'But we must try to accommodate ourselves to circumstances, don't you think?'

Schnabel said he didn't think their client understood the word.

'"Accommodate," or "Circumstances"?' the Praelector enquired.

'Both,' said Schnabel.

'All the same he must have a well developed sense of self-preservation to have survived so long,' the Praelector went on. 'Is Mr Passos still in town?'

Schnabel blinked and looked at the old man with new eyes. Feuchtwangler swallowed drily.

'I wouldn't know about anything like that,' said Schnabel.

'Of course you wouldn't,' the Praelector agreed. 'It is outside your remit. However, I imagine it is a matter of some concern to your client, and I rather think he wouldn't welcome deportation to Thailand or Singapore. I believe the death penalty there is mandatory for certain commercial activities. Of course I'm by no means an expert in these matters but…'

'Shit,' said Schnabel. This wasn't a benign old man with grave-spots on his hands. This was death itself.

The Praelector signalled to a waiter. 'I wonder if you'd care to join me in a drink,' he said. Neither of them wanted anything stronger than water. The Praelector ordered a fino. 'Now, as I said at the start, I am sure this whole affair can be dealt with on an amicable and mutually beneficial basis and one that your client will find most acceptable. I shall, of course, need to put the proposal to him personally and I daresay he would prefer me to visit him in his office. I have one or two important appointments to keep tomorrow morning but perhaps four o'clock tomorrow afternoon would suit him.'

'I don't think any time is going to-' Schnabel began but Feuchtwangler cut in. 'Listen,' he said. 'When you say "a mutually beneficial basis", it would be helpful to us in arranging this meeting to know where we stand in the matter.'

'Of course, of course,' said the Praelector. 'I quite understand your concern. Let me just say that the financial consequences of the proposal I have been authorized to put before your client will not adversely affect your firm in the slightest. Quite the contrary. As you know we have been represented by Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine in Cambridge and naturally for purely minor matters we shall continue to use their services. However, in the hoped-for eventuality that your client accepts our proposal, the College will need the expertise of a firm with wider experience in the field of finance and commercial law. And now if you will excuse me I must leave you. I have a dinner appointment with my godson.'

Accompanied by the two lawyers the Praelector went out to a taxi. 'Downing Street,' he told the driver in the clearest voice. 'Number Eleven.'

Schnabel and Feuchtwangler stood on the pavement and stared after the taxi. There was no doubt now in their minds that their client was going to keep the appointment the following afternoon.

In the taxi the Praelector smiled to himself and, as they drove down Whitehall, leant forward. I have changed my mind,' he told the driver as they drove down the Mall. 'There's a rather good restaurant in Jermyn Street. I think I'll dine there.'

By luncheon the freedom the Dean had felt on leaving the Council Chamber had evaporated. In its place there was a sense of uncertainty and the feeling that things were occurring in a mysterious and secretive way which would change the College entirely. The situation had passed beyond the Dean's control. One shock after another had left him exhausted-too exhausted to notice that the Senior Tutor kept looking at him with such poisonous hatred that Sir Cathcart's belief the night before that the man was a homicidal maniac seemed perfectly plausible. Certainly the Senior Tutor had murder in his heart and only the established practice of not having full-blown rows at High Table (a practice that went back to the seventeenth century when two Fellows had fought an impromptu duel between the game pie and the roast beef over a misunderstanding of the word 'Bestiary' which duel had resulted in the death of a talented theologian with a harelip) prevented the Senior Tutor from telling the Dean exactly what he thought of him. In any case, the Friday lunch fish had its usual moderating influence. There were far too many bones in the red mullet to attend to.

Only the Chaplain was in conversational mood. 'I am most concerned about the Master,' he said. 'I tried phoning Addenbrooke's to find out his condition and they assured me he hadn't been admitted.'

'Hardly surprising. I don't suppose they recognized him,' said Dr Buscott. 'Not as the Master of a college at any rate. Possibly as a tramp or something of that sort.'

'What the devil do you mean by that?' asked the Senior Tutor, glad to be able to vent his feelings fairly legitimately.

'Simply that Masters of other colleges are rather more distinguished and don't wear bowler hats.'

'I don't suppose he was admitted in a bowler hat,' Professor Pawley commented. 'Even if he was wearing it when he had this latest stroke, which strikes me as doubtful, they would have removed it when he was put on the stretcher.'

'Nothing wrong with bowlers,' said the Senior Tutor. 'They used to be very fashionable. Guards officers in mufti had to wear them. Still do, for all I know.'

'I remember seeing Larwood when I was a small boy,' said the Chaplain. 'He was really fast. But it was Jardyne who caused all the rumpus over the bodyline bowling. Now they wear helmets.'

'We weren't talking about those bowlers. We were talking about Skullion's hat.'

'Of course I asked for him by name. They wouldn't have known who I was talking about otherwise. They still said he wasn't there.'

'Perhaps he's in the Evelyn,' said Professor Pawley. 'They say it's very comfortable there.'

The Dean ignored their talk. As far as he was concerned Skullion no longer existed, and in any case he had no intention of telling them where Skullion had gone. The fewer people who knew, the better. He was wondering where the Praelector had got to and whether it had been wise to give the old man the authority to conduct negotiations with a candidate of his own choosing. It was too late now to do anything about it, but all the same he couldn't help feeling anxious. In the end he excused himself before the end of the meal and went for a quiet walk along the Backs.

For a moment the Senior Tutor almost followed him but thought better of it. There was time enough to have it out with the Dean and for all he knew the police were keeping an eye on the College. He had never for one moment believed the story about Skullion being taken to hospital. With a sense of tact that was surprising, or perhaps for the practical reason that a wheelchair could not be got into a police car, the police had made use of an ambulance to take Skullion to the Parkside Police Station where they were undoubtedly questioning him. For a moment the Senior Tutor wondered if he ought to do something about getting him a solicitor before remembering that the Praelector had mentioned visiting Mr Retter that morning ostensibly to consult the partner about the constitutional position of a successor to a mentally incompetent Master. Again he was astonished at the tact and care the Praelector had shown in avoiding unwanted publicity. It only went to prove the College Council had been correct in putting so much trust in him.