Skullion, who had returned from the Porter’s Lodge armed with a broom handle to which he had taped a pin, hurled himself into the shoal and struck about him with a fury that was only partially explained by having to work all night. It was rather the effrontery of the things that infuriated him. Skullion had little use for contraceptives at the best of times. Unnatural, he called them, and placed them in the lower social category of things along with elastic-sided boots and made-up bow ties. Not the sort of attire for a gentleman. But even more than their humble origins, he was infuriated by the insult to Porterhouse that the presence of so great and so inflated a number represented. The Dean’s admonition that news of the infestation must not leak out was wasted on Skullion. He needed no telling. “We’d be the laughing-stock of the University,” he thought, lancing a particularly large one. By the time dawn broke over Cambridge Skullion had cleared New Court. One or two had escaped into the Fellows’ Garden and he went through the archway in the wall and began spiking the remainder. Behind him the Court was littered with tattered latex, almost invisible against the snow. “I’ll wait until it’s a bit lighter to pick them up,” he muttered. “Can’t see them now.” He had just run a small but agile one to earth in the rose garden when a dull rumbling noise at the top of the Tower made him turn and look up. Something was going on in the old chimney. The chimney pot at the top was shaking. The brickwork silhouetted against the morning sky appeared to be bulging. The rumbling stopped, to be succeeded by an almighty roar as a ball of flame issued from the chimney and billowed out before ascending above the College. Below it the chimney toppled sideways, crashed on to the roof of the Tower and with a gradually increasing rumble of masonry the fourteenth-century building lost its entire facade. Behind it the rooms were clearly visible, their floors tilted horribly and sagging. Skullion stood mesmerized by the spectacle. A bed on the first floor slid sideways and dropped on to the masonry below. Desks and chairs followed suit. There were shouts and screams. People poured out of doorways and windows opened all round the Court. Skullion ignored the screams for help. He was busy chasing the last few remaining contraceptives when the Master, clad in his dressing-gown, emerged from the Master’s Lodge and hurried to the scene of the disaster. As he rushed across the garden he found Skullion trying to spear a contraceptive floating in the fishpond.
“Go and open the main gates,” the Master shouted at him.
“Not yet,” said Skullion taciturnly.
“What do you mean, not yet?” the Master demanded. “The ambulance men and the fire brigade will want to get in.”
“Not having any strangers in College till I’ve cleared these things up. Wouldn’t be right,” said Skullion.
The Master stared at the floating contraceptive furiously. Skullion’s obstinacy enraged him. “There are injured people in there,” he screamed.
“So there are,” said Skullion, “but there’s the College reputation to be thought of too.” He leant across the pond and burst the floating bubble. Sir Godber turned and ran on to the scene of the accident. Skullion turned and followed him slowly. “Got no sense of tradition,” he said sadly, and shook his head.
Chapter 10
“These sweetbreads are delicious,” said the Dean at dinner. “The coroner’s inquest has given me a considerable appetite.”
“Very tactfully handled,” said the Senior Tutor. “I must admit I had anticipated a less magnanimous verdict. As it is, suicide never hurt anyone.”
“Suicide?” shouted the Chaplain. “Did I hear someone say suicide?” He looked up expectantly. “Now there’s a topic we could well consider.”
“The Coroner has already done so at some length, Chaplain,” the Bursar bawled in his ear.
“Very good of him too,” said the Chaplain.
“The Senior Tutor has just made that point,” the Bursar explained.
“Has he now? Very interesting,” said the Chaplain, “and about time too. Haven’t had a decent suicide in College for some years now. Most regrettable.”
“I must say I can’t see why the decline of the fashion should be so regrettable. Chaplain,” said the Bursar.
“I think I’ll have a second helping of sweetbreads,” said the Dean.
The Chaplain leant back in his chair and looked at them over his glasses. “In the old days hardly a week went by without some poor fellow taking the easy way out. When I first came here as Chaplain I used to spend half my time attending inquests. Come to think of it, there was a time when we were known as the Slaughterhouse.”
“Things have changed for the better since then,” said the Bursar.
“Nonsense,” said the Chaplain. “The fall in the number of suicides is the clearest indication of the decline of morality. Undergraduates don’t seem to be as conscience-stricken as they were in my young days.”
“You don’t think it has to do with the introduction of natural gas?” asked the Senior Tutor.
“Natural gas? No such thing,” said the Dean. “I agree with the Chaplain. Things have gone to pot.”
“Pot,” shouted the Chaplain. “Did I hear somebody say pot?”
“I was merely saying…” began the Dean.
“At least nobody has suggested that young Zipser was on drugs,” interrupted the Bursar. “The police made a very thorough investigation, you know, and they found nothing.”
The Dean raised his eyebrows. “Nothing?” he asked. “To the best of my knowledge they took away an entire sackful of… er… contraceptives.”
“I was talking of drugs, Dean. There was the question of motive, you understand. The police seemed to think Zipser was in the grip of an irrational impulse.”
“From what I heard he was in the grip of Mrs Biggs,” said the Senior Tutor. “I suppose you can call Mrs Biggs an irrational impulse. Certainly a very tasteless one. And as for the other things, I must admit I find a predilection for gas-filled contraceptives quite unaccountable.”
“According to the police, there were two hundred and fifty,” said the Bursar.
“No accounting for tastes,” said the Dean, “though for my part I prefer… to regard the whole deplorable affair as being politically motivated. This fellow Zipser was clearly an anarchist. He had a lot of left-wing literature in his rooms.”
“I understood him to be doing research into pumpernickel,” said the Bursar. “Its origins in sixteenth-century Germany.”
“He also belonged to a number of subversive societies,” the Dean continued.
“I’d hardly call the United Nations Association subversive, Dean,” the Bursar protested.
“I would,” said the Dean. “All political societies are subversive. Must be. Stands to reason. Wouldn’t exist if they weren’t trying to subvert something or other.”
“Certainly a most extraordinary way of going about things,” said the Bursar. “And it still doesn’t explain the presence of Mrs Biggs.”
“I’m inclined to agree with the Dean,” said the Senior Tutor. “Anyone who could go to bed with Mrs Biggs must have been either demented or motivated by a grossly distorted sense of social duty and to have launched two hundred and fifty lethal contraceptives on an unsuspecting world argues a fanaticism…”
“On the other hand,” said the Bursar, “he had been to see you about his… er… compulsion for the good woman. You mentioned it at the time.”
“Yes, well, perhaps he did,” the Senior Tutor admitted, “though I’d question your use of good as far as Mrs Biggs was concerned. In any case, I sent him on to the Chaplain.”
They looked at the Chaplain questioningly. “Mrs Biggs good?” shouted the Chaplain. “I should say so. Splendid woman.”
“We were wondering if Zipser gave you any hint as to his motives,” the Bursar explained.