The Dean looked puzzled. 'Rich? Considering the way his father practically bankrupted the College and finished the Anglian Lowland Bank on which we relied, I'm amazed to hear his son is rich. He can't have inherited it. The College had to soak old Fitzherbert as Master.'
Sir Cathcart sipped his drink and his ginger moustache twitched. Behind the bloodshot eyes something was happening. 'Heard something,' he said, resorting to the staccato that best expressed his important thoughts. 'Rum. Very rum. After the war.'
The Dean sat rigid in his deep armchair. He recognized that the General too was following his instincts. This was no time to interrupt.
'Tell you who might know more. Anthony. Anthony Lapschott. Financial wheeler-dealer. Never quite sure what. Went into publishing too, made a small fortune. Writes books in his spare time. Tried to read one once. Couldn't make head nor tail of it. Something about the loss of power. I've never quite known what to make of him but he seems to have known everyone. Spends his time these days down in Dorset. Portland Bill. If anyone knows, he will.'
The Dean considered Anthony Lapschott. He remembered him as a strange young man whose friends were for the most part in other colleges. An Arty, not a Hearty. On the other hand he had the reputation of being one of the few serious thinkers to have emerged from Porterhouse. Yes, he would go and see Lapschott. The Dean had that gut feeling again.
5
The Bursar's feelings were strong too, but of a different kind. Unlike the Senior Tutor, whose relationship with the Dean had its up and downs, the Bursar couldn't be said to have any relationship with either of them that was not down. The Dean and the Senior Tutor despised and hated him, and he in turn detested them. Ever since he had sided with the late Master and Lady Mary over the changes they had wanted to introduce in Porterhouse, they had regarded him as a traitor and the man who had given Skullion the sack. What Skullion himself thought of the Bursar couldn't be put into words even by someone who wasn't in the Master's awful condition. In the circumstances Goodenough had made a wise decision to approach the Senior Tutor and to leave the Bursar well alone On the other hand the Bursar, who was responsible for the College's so-called finances, knew only too well the situation had reached crisis point. The actual fabric of the College, the roofs and gutters, the stonework and the old wooden floors, all needed urgent attention and, while every other Cambridge college had been able to afford general repair and cleaning-up, Porterhouse remained as grimy and smoke-blackened as ever. A piece of guttering had fallen into the street near the Main Gate, fortunately not hitting anyone, and there were leaks in the roof of the Chapel and parts of Old Court.
In short, unless funds were found quickly Porterhouse would fall apart and once again the Bursar would be blamed. In a last-ditch attempt to avoid this and learn how to raise funds he had recently attended a seminar on 'Private Fund-raising for Establishments of Higher Education etc' in Birmingham. For three days he had sat through a series of lectures on the subject and had been impressed by what he heard. For obvious reasons he hadn't spoken himself but late-one afternoon, when he was leaving a lecture entitled 'Private Influence on Education in Donational Usage' which had been given by a don from Peterhouse, the Bursar was approached by a man curiously dressed in a black blazer, a light brown polo-neck sweater, white socks and moccasins. His eyes were almost invisible behind dark blue sunglasses.
'May I introduce myself, Professor,' he said, producing a card from his breast pocket. 'My name is Karl Kudzuvine, Personal Assistant to Edgar Hartang of Transworld Television Productions and Associated Enterprises.'
He spoke in a strong American accent and the card certainly did say he was Karl Kudzuvine, Personal Assistant and Vice-President of TTP etc. There were a number of telephone and fax numbers and an address in London with another in New York.
As Vice-President and Personal Assistant to Mr Hartang it is my privilege to say how inspirational I found your comments on the need for Private Influence in Donational Usage. I want you to know that Edgar Hartang shares your opinions without reservations and I am instructed to say that he will appreciate meeting with you to discuss this issue at your convenience on Wednesday twelfth at twelve forty-five over lunch.' And before the dumbfounded Bursar could explain that he hadn't said a single thing about Donational Usage or Private Influence, and in any case he wasn't a Professor, the extraordinary American had seized his hand and shaken it, had said he'd been deeply honoured to meet him, and had hurried from the hall. The Bursar watched him get into an enormous car, with black windows and what appeared to be a satellite dish on the roof. As it disappeared into the night he read the words 'Transworld Television' on the side.
The sight galvanized the Bursar. He wasn't sure that he knew who Mr Edgar Hartang was but he was evidently a person with money to burn on huge cars. The Bursar went back down the hall to the financial expert from Peterhouse, who was arguing with several Principals of Poly-Techs who found the idea of any private interference in educational policy deeply offensive.
'I wonder,' said the Bursar in his most ingratiating manner, 'I wonder if I might borrow your lecture notes for a moment. I found what you had to say remarkably to the point.'
'More than some did,' said the lecturer, looking grimly at the backs of the retreating Principals. 'You can have the whole lecture. I've got it on hard disk and can print it out any time.'
The Bursar went back to his hotel room and read the lecture very carefully. He didn't fully understand the financial jargon, but as far as he could make out, the man was arguing that benefactors had the right to control the educational policy of establishments they'd funded. It might well have been entitled 'He Who Pays the Piper Calls the Tune'. It was not a doctrine the Bursar found at all unreasonable. All he wanted was funds.
On the way back to Cambridge by train he read the lecture several more times and memorized its more salient points. Next day in his office he altered two letters in one word on the title page and removed the author's name and made several copies.
The following Wednesday at 12.30 precisely he entered the headquarters of Transworld Television Productions near St Katherine's Dock and was surprised to find himself confronted by Mr Kudzuvine. He was standing behind the reception desk and appeared to have grown a ponytail. He also seemed to have developed a sizeable pair of breasts. On the other hand he was wearing the same blue dark glasses, light brown polo-neck and black blazer with chrome buttons. Even more disconcerting was the sight of two more Kudzuvines, this time without ponytails or breasts, coming towards him through a metal frame that looked just like an airport metal-detector.
'I've come to see Mr Hartang,' the Bursar told the person-he could see now that it was definitely female-behind the counter.
She checked the computer screen and handed him a plastic card. 'If you will just follow the brothers,' she said. The Bursar turned to find the two large men just behind him. The next moment he was emptying his pockets of any metal objects and his briefcase had disappeared through an X-ray machine. Neither of the men spoke and it was only when he was through the metal-detector and was filling his pockets again that Karl Kudzuvine appeared. He too was wearing dark glasses, brown polo-neck, white socks and moccasins. 'I got to apologize, Mr Professor sir,' he said as the Bursar was hustled into a tiny photographic booth and a Polaroid was taken of him, 'but we get a lot of terrorist threats on account some of the series we've made like on the rainforest and wildlife and whales and baby octopuses. You know.'
The Bursar didn't but it was clear that Karl Kudzuvine was determined to tell him. 'You know they eat baby octopuses some places like Spain mainly. Places like that. They don't even give them their youth and growing up and all. We done a series on baby octopuses one time…' He paused for a moment and checked the plastic card with the microchip and the Bursar's photograph on it. The Bursar was about to say that baby octopuses were delicious when Kudzuvine went on, 'Had a lot of trouble. Threats and all. So now we got to check out identities anyone enters the building. You got your ID now. Like you can come in no trouble. OK?'