He found the Dean and the Praelector sitting in gloomy silence.
'Well?' asked the Dean without getting out of his chair, but Sir Cathcart needed a quick restorative.
'Mind if I help myself?' he asked, and without waiting for an answer poured himself a large cognac. Only when he had drunk it did he resume his stance in front of the empty fireplace.
'For goodness' sake, Cathcart, put us out of our misery. What is his answer?'
'Good man, Skullion,' he said finally, having decided that even among old friends there was a great deal to be said for deception. The Praelector's 'Least said soonest mended' made perfect sense to him now. 'He's agreed to go. I said the timing of his leaving the Lodge could be left to a later date.'
'And he didn't make any difficulties?' the Praelector enquired.
'None whatsoever. Regrets the whole business and apologies all round for making such a damned nuisance of himself.'
'It's unbelievable,' said the Dean. 'He didn't threaten any disclosure if he goes to the Park?'
'None whatsoever. Of course he's reluctant to go but I made it plain that, for the good of the College, it was the best thing for him. I suggest we get a move on. Like tomorrow. Leave it to me. Private ambulance and some hefty attendants to lift him into it and then straight down the motorway. You can put it about that he's had another Porterhouse Blue.'
'Well I must say, Cathcart, you've done sterling work this evening,' the Dean said, rising and reaching for the brandy. 'I think this calls for a celebratory drink.'
'I must say it comes as a great relief,' the Praelector agreed, 'though it does leave us with the question of who is to be the new Master.'
Sir Cathcart raised a hand. 'No need to trouble yourself about that either. Skullion has exercised his traditional right and named his successor.' He paused for effect. The two old men looked at him with amazement.
'Well, it is his right, you know. I could hardly refuse him,' Sir Cathcart continued.
'Absolutely his right,' the Dean agreed. 'One of our oldest traditions as a matter of fact. Dates back, I believe, to 1492.'
'Yes, well there you are. I suppose I'd better be on my way. It's been a difficult evening, but at least you don't have to worry about Skullion any more.'
'But you haven't told us whom Skullion, the Master that is, named as his successor.'
'It is rather important to know,' said the Praelector.
'Oh that. Of course, how stupid of me. Jeremy Pimpole. That's who he's named. Lord Pimpole…' He stopped and looked at the Dean. Are you all right, Dean?'
It was a stupid question. It was obvious that the Dean was far from all right. He was clutching the edge of the table and had dropped the brandy. 'No, no,' he gasped. 'Not him. For God's sake, not the Dog's…' He staggered for a moment and almost collapsed.
'Not the what?' asked Sir Cathcart as he and the Praelector helped the Dean to a chair.
'Not the Dog's Nose man,' he whimpered.
Sir Cathcart bent over him solicitously. 'The Dog's Nose man?'
'Pimpole. It isn't possible. Not Pimpole.'
'He doesn't seem to be very well,' the Praelector said. 'Perhaps the strain has been too much for him. And I shouldn't give him any of that brandy.'
But Sir Cathcart had reached the end of his own tether. 'I'm not going to give him any,' he snapped. 'I need some myself. Come here for that infernal dinner and find the place has been turned into a human abattoir. And then when I've managed to persuade one murderer to get the hell out…Damn it, what the hell is wrong with Lord Pimpole? Knew his father. Charming family. Pots of money, too. Just the chap.'
'No, he's not,' moaned the Dean. 'He is nothing like the man he used to be. He's a filthy soak. Pimpole Hall and the estate have been sold to meet his debts. He has drunk a fortune away. He doesn't even wash. Pimpole lives in a dilapidated cottage with a vile dog and drinks Dog's Noses.' He paused and looked wildly around at them. 'Have you ever drunk a Dog's Nose?' Both men shook their heads.
'Heard of 'em,' said Sir Cathcart, 'but-'
'Then don't,' the Dean continued. 'Not ever. If you value your sanity. Pimpole drinks them all the time. Seven ounces of gin to thirteen of beer.'
'Dear shit,' said Sir Cathcart, 'the bugger must be off his head.'
'Cathcart, he is. And what is more…no, I can't tell you how depraved Pimpole is. It's too awful.'
'Try, old fellow,' Sir Cathcart said. 'Try and tell us. You've done jolly well so far.'
'I don't think we need to hear any more,' said the Praelector. 'Seven ounces of gin…' His voice trailed away in disgust and disbelief. But Sir Cathcart wanted to hear about depravity.
The Dean told them. And even Sir Cathcart understood. 'Sheep?' he said slowly. 'Sheep and dogs? Well, that does put a rather different complexion on the matter.'
He helped himself to some more of the Dean's brandy and sat down. It was the Praelector who spoke. 'It also puts an entirely different complexion on Skullion's apparent willingness to retire. He has, in old-fashioned golfing parlance, laid us a perfect stymie.'
There was silence in the room as they took this in. Again from somewhere in the College there came the sound of raucous laughter. It reminded Sir Cathcart of the Senior Tutor. 'I know why the Senior Tutor…' he hesitated for a moment and chose his words with care. 'I know why the Senior Tutor took the desperate action he did. Skullion had told Dr Osbert that he had murdered Sir Godber. Obviously the Senior Tutor realized he had to act immediately. All the same this second killing has made things damnably awkward. Still, if the body is in the Crypt I daresay we can buy time.' This time there could be no mistaking the Dean's and the Praelector's unease. They exchanged a glance and turned back to Sir Cathcart.
'Cathcart my boy,' said the Praelector, 'have you ever had any allergic reaction to duck? By that I mean, has the ingestion of concentrated fat ever affected the way you perceive things?'
Sir Cathcart D'Eath's eyes bulged in his purple face. 'Have I what?' he bellowed. 'An allergic reaction to duck? Are you quite insane? Here we are with dead bodies littering the damned College and you want to know if the ingestion of digitalized duck affects the way I perceive things. Well, as a matter of fact…'
'Hush, my dear chap, do keep your voice down,' the Dean intervened.
Sir Cathcart did. As a matter of fact the way I perceive things has changed,' he said hoarsely. 'I perceive that the College has gone collectively off its trolley. Not only have we an ex-Head Porter as Master and one who admits to killing his predecessor but we also have a Senior Tutor who has beaten, anyway mangled, another Fellow to death and put his body in the Crypt and to top it all…'
'What on earth are you talking about? What makes you think the Senior Tutor has beaten anyone to death? Bodies in the Crypt? Of course there are bodies in the Crypt. The Masters are buried there. No one else.'
Sir Cathcart eyed them with a doubtful and extremely cautious suspicion. 'Then why did you tell me before that damned dinner that the Senior Tutor had butchered this new Fellow, Osbert?' he demanded of the Praelector.
'Me? I never said a word about the Senior Tutor murdering Dr Osbert,' said the Praelector indignantly. 'I've never heard such a farrago of nonsense in my life.'
'You bloody well did. You said you blamed the Senior Tutor…' Sir Cathcart hesitated. In his befuddled mind a fresh doubt had arisen.
The Praelector took advantage of the pause. 'I said I blamed the Senior Tutor for allowing Dr Osbert to be appointed without properly investigating who was putting him up for the Fellowship. I said nothing about him murdering anybody.'
'And to the best of my knowledge Dr Osbert is still alive,' said the Dean.