“Am I to understand that the Senior Tutor has expressed the general feelings of the meeting?” he asked. There was a nodding of heads round the table. The Master looked crestfallen.
“In that case, gentlemen, there is little I can say,” he said sadly. “In the face of your opposition to the changes in College policy that I have proposed, I have little choice but to resign the Mastership of Porterhouse.” A gasp came from the Fellows as the Master rose and gathered his notes. “I shall announce my resignation in a letter to the Prime Minister, an open letter, gentlemen, in which I shall state the reasons for my resignation, namely that I am unable to continue as Master of a college that augments its financial resources by admitting candidates without academic qualifications in return for large donations to the Endowment Subscription Fund and selling degrees.” The Master paused and looked at the Fellows who sat stunned by his announcement. “When I was nominated by the Prime Minister, I had no idea that I was accepting the Mastership of an academic auction-room nor that I was ending a career marked, I am proud to say, by the utmost adherence to the rules of probity in public life by becoming an accessory to a financial scandal of national proportions. I have the facts and figures here, gentlemen, and I shall include them in my letter to the Prime Minister, who will doubtless pass them on to the Director of Public Prosecutions. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The Master turned and stalked out of the room. Behind him the Fellows of Porterhouse sat rigid like embalmed figures round the table, each absorbed in calculating his own complicity in a scandal that must bring ruin to them all. It took little imagination to foresee the public outcry that would follow Sir Godber’s resignation and the publication of his open letter, the wave of indignation that would sweep the country, the execrations that would fall on their heads from the other colleges in Cambridge, the denunciations of the other, newer universities. The Fellows of Porterhouse had little imagination but they could foresee all this and more, the demand for public accountability, possibly even prosecutions, even perhaps an enquiry into the sources and size of College funds. What would Trinity and King’s say to that? The Fellows of Porterhouse knew the odium they could expect for having precipitated a public enquiry that could put, would put, in jeopardy the vast wealth of the other colleges and they shrank from the prospect. It was the Dean who first broke the silence with a strangled cry.
“He must be stopped,” he gurgled.
The Senior Tutor nodded sympathetically. “We have little alternative.”
“But how?” demanded the Bursar, who was desperately trying to banish from his mind the knowledge that he had inadvertently provided the Master with the information he was now threatening to disclose. If the other Fellows should ever learn who had provided Sir Godber with this material for blackmail his life in College would not be worth living.
“At all costs the Master must be persuaded to stay on,” said the Senior Tutor. “We simply cannot afford the scandal that would ensue from the publication of his letter of resignation.”
The Praelector looked at him vindictively. “We?” he asked. “I beg not to be included in the list of those responsible for this disgraceful disclosure.”
“And what precisely do you mean by that?” asked the Senior Tutor.
“I should have thought that it was obvious,” said the Praelector. “Most of us have had nothing to do with the administration of College finances nor with the admissions procedure. We cannot be held responsible for…”
“We are all responsible for College policy,” shouted the Senior Tutor.
“You are responsible for admissions,” the Praelector shouted back. “You are responsible for the choice of candidates. You are…”
“Gentlemen,” the Bursar interposed, “let us not bicker about individual responsibilities. We are all responsible as members of the Council for the running of the College.”
“Some of us are more responsible than others,” the Praelector pointed out.
“And we shall all share the blame for the mistakes that have been made in the past,” continued the Bursar.
“Mistakes? Who said anything about mistakes?” demanded the Dean breathlessly.
“I think that in the light of the Master’s…” began the Senior Tutor.
“Damn the Master,” the Dean snarled, struggling to his feet. “Damn the man. Let us stop talking about mistakes. I said he must be stopped. I didn’t say we had to surrender to the swine.” He waddled to the head of the table, portly, belligerent and stubborn, like some crimson toad and with all that creature’s resilience to the challenges of climate. The Senior Tutor hesitated in the face of his colleague’s revitalized obstinacy. “But…” he began. The Dean raised a hand for silence.
“He must be stopped,” he said. “For the time being perhaps we must accept his proposals, but for the time being only. In the short run we must use the tactics of delay, but only in the short run.”
“And then?” the Senior Tutor asked.
“We must buy time,” continued the Dean. “Time to bring influence to bear upon Sir Godber and time to subject his own career to the scrutiny he has seen fit to apply to the customs and traditions of the College. No man who has spent as long as Sir Godber Evans in public life is wholly without fault. It is our business to discover the extent of his weaknesses.”
“Are you saying that we should…” the Praelector began.
“I am saying that the Master is vulnerable,” the Dean went on, “that he is corrupt and that he is open to influence from the powers that be. The tactics he has used this afternoon, tactics of blackmail, are a symptom of the corruption I am referring to. And let us not forget that we have powerful friends.”
The Senior Tutor pursed his lips and nodded. “True. Very true. Dean.”
“Yes, Porterhouse can justly claim its share of eminent men. The Master may dismiss our protests but we have powerful allies,” said the Dean.
“And in the meantime we must eat humble pie and ask the Master to reconsider his resignation in the light of our acceptance of the changes he has proposed?” said the Senior Tutor.
“Precisely.” The Dean looked round the table at the Fellows for a sign of hesitancy. “Has anyone here any doubts as to the wisdom of the course I have proposed?” he asked.
“We seem to be left with little choice,” said the Bursar.
“We have no choice at all,” the Dean told him.
“And if the Master refuses to withdraw his resignation?” the Praelector asked.
“There is no possible reason why he should,” the Dean said. “I propose that we go now in a body to the Master’s Lodge and ask him to reconsider.”
“In a body? Is that really wise? Wouldn’t it look… rather… well… obsequious?” the Senior Tutor asked doubtfully.
“I don’t think this is any time to be thinking about appearances,” said the Dean. “I am only concerned with results. Humble pie, you said yourself. Very well, if Sir Godber requires humble pie to retract his threat he shall have it. I shall see to it that he eats it himself later on. Besides I should not like him to think that we are in any way divided.” He stared fiercely at the Bursar. “At a time of crisis it is vital that we present a united front. Don’t you agree. Bursar?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely, Dean,” the Bursar assured him.
“Very well, let us go,” said the Dean and led the way out of the Council Chamber. The Fellows trooped after him into the cold.
Skullion listened to their footsteps on the floor above his head and climbed off the chair he had been standing on. It was hot in the boiler-room, hot and dusty, a dry heat that had irritated his nose and made it difficult not to sneeze while he stood on the chair with his ear pressed to a pipe listening to the voices raised in anger in the Council Chamber. He brushed the dust off his sleeve and spread an old newspaper on the seat of the chair and sat down. It wouldn’t do to be seen coming out of the boiler-room just yet and besides he wanted to think.