In addition to the size of the wine cellars at St Jerome’s, the college also boasted the oldest wine cellar ghost. In years gone by every college seemed to have ghosts in their cellars. Many a ghost has been born from the lack of light and a nervous but imaginat-ive disposition. With suffcient illumination even the most creative mind is less prone to such fights of fancy. The arrival of the electric bulb had accordingly banished most of Oxford’s cellar ghosts. St Jerome’s ghost, the Reverend Hieronymus Bloch, proved to be much more tenacious. Reverend Bloch was the college’s frst chaplain who had, according to college lore, gone to the cellars during a dinner in search of a particularly fne port sometime towards the end of 1752 and had never been seen again in the fesh. Shortly after this he started appearing at regular intervals within the confnes of the cel-lars, apparently still searching for the elusive bottle.
Over the years Bloch became bolder, with more frequent apparitions. He was con-sidered as no more than an entertaining diversion, until one particularly disreputable cellar steward in the 1930’s had incurred Bloch’s wrath by stealing some of the fnest bottles of wine and selling them on through a well-established, if equally disreputable, wine merchant in London. Justice came not from the Oxford constabulary but mysteri-ously one night when the unfortunate man’s skull was broken with a bottle of Château d’Yquem 1921. No-one in St Jerome’s doubted Bloch’s involvement in this crime. Nor were they surprised that with Bloch’s assistance, this bottle of precious nectar had mira-culously proved to be stronger than the steward’s skull. The bottle was found alongside the corpse, the label heavily bloodstained but the wine otherwise intact.
There are those who condemn wine decanters as an affectation but this event admir-ably proved their worth, allowing the same bottle to be the splendid fnale of a Master’s Dinner in 1955. The ’21 vintage d’Yquem had turned out to be a jewel of the century. All the more rare because of a late spring frost that year. It was served without a murmur of disquiet from a fne crystal decanter. A beautiful golden colour with an orange blossom nose and a symphonic blend of favours to follow – walnut, banana, grapefruit – uni-fed by a thread of lavender running through it all. Meanwhile the bloodstained murder weapon lay safely out of sight in the college kitchen.
Despite such stories the cellars were Augustus Bloom’s favourite place. Hieronymus Bloch’s murderous reputation ensured that Bloom was unlikely to be disturbed during his visits and he felt sure that his devotion to oenology would protect him from the Reverend’s wrath. Augustus came here to think, be inspired and to escape. Add to that the benefcial physiological effects of a fne Claret and one can easily see the appeal of the cellars for Augustus. They were also an important part of his research. Dr Augus-tus Bloom, in his role as medical tutor, was a leading fgure in the investigation of the French Paradox. This is the curious injustice that allows the French to eat, drink and smoke more than the rest of Europe and yet have healthier hearts and longer lives.
Augustus Bloom pottered along the dusty racks, occasionally stopping to examine a bottle in more detail before fnally selecting one. At this time of day a good Beaujolais would go down well and the temperature straight from the racks would be just about perfect; Augustus often railed against the tendency in recent times to serve red wine half-cooked. After an enjoyable hour searching, he had fnally chosen a bottle of Mor-gon, the 1964 Château Bellevue, and was approaching his preferred resting spot. At the end of a particularly long tunnel lay a chamber. This was directly underneath the chapel and Augustus felt doubly blessed when his thoughts and wine appreciation were joined by the low rumble of the organ pipes above. The experience was made particularly res-onant by the fact that only the deepest, most visceral notes could permeate the stones and earth to reach the cellars below.
When Augustus entered the gloomy chamber in a state of almost meditative peace, he was brought up short by the sight ahead. In the old wooden chair that had been in the cellars for as long as anyone could remember sat a dark, slumped fgure. It took a second to gather himself and to be able to observe the fgure rationally. His thoughts raced ahead to the vastly improbable possibility that this might be his frst encounter with the ghostly Reverend Bloch. He inched forward, excited rather than fearful, but these fanciful no-tions were cut short by an explosive awakening of the slumbering fgure.
‘Whoaaaaa. Wazgo, who, er.’
‘Arthur? Is that you?’
‘Who? Oh, Bloom, thank God. I thought I’d died, having an awful dream. Gates of hell, earthquakes.’
‘Just Charles Pinker upstairs doing a bit of early morning practice on the organ; either that or we’re both dead, but it’s too cold to be hell and too dark to be heaven,’ said Augustus Bloom smiling at his old friend and colleague. In reply Professor Arthur Plant-agenet shook his head in the manner of a wet dog before surfacing back into full con-sciousness, still wearing the gown and clothes he had worn last night at dinner.
‘Have you been here all night Arthur?’ asked Augustus. ‘I couldn’t sleep, kept wandering and suddenly I’m down here being woken by a
shrieking maniac.’
Augustus desperately wanted to say that Arthur had cried out frst, but he graciously allowed the Professor of Ancient History the privilege of rewriting history on this occa-sion.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy a glass of Château Bellevue?’ asked Augustus. ‘What year?’
‘The ’64.’
‘Hmm, not a bad year. Anyway it won’t last much longer, so pour away.’ Augustus pulled his prized scrimshaw-handled corkscrew from his jacket, deftly
plucked the cork from the bottle with a sound that raced off into the darkest reaches of the cellars only to return in a shower of faint echoes. He gave the cork to the professor for the requisite sniff. After fnding approval, he offered the bottle.
‘A little liquid history, Arthur?’
‘Good God man, do you expect me to swig from the bottle like an inebriated townie?’ ‘Heavens forbid no, just hold onto the bottle for a moment. I’ll get something to drink
from.’
Augustus rummaged in a small alcove just to the left and emerged with two silver goblets carrying the college crest.
‘Will these do?’
‘Perfectly.’
After polishing them with his tie, one of few practical uses for such a garment, Bloom flled both goblets and raised his for a toast.
‘To the new academic year, Arthur.’
‘Indeed. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.’ The mention of death caught Augustus Bloom off guard and, while Arthur Plantagenet drained his glass, Augustus was thrown back to the moment three months ago where Mr Tokoro’s head lay cradled in his hands.
An hour later, Augustus Bloom surfaced thoroughly recharged by a fascinating dis-cussion on the battle capabilities of ancient Greek fghting ships, diets of gladiators and the wicked sins committed by ancient physicians on their trusting patients. Arthur Plant-agenet had fnally nodded off again while Augustus was holding forth on the medicinal value of wine, and Augustus had left him as he had found him, deeply asleep. Heading into the porter’s lodge he was faced with a wall of trunks. The invasion of the under-graduates had begun. Augustus dived for the door to check his mail, dodging the trunks and avoiding all eyes as he went in case he met a pair that he might be forced to talk to. Potts was absent from his chair, corralling the gathering masses somewhere outside, so Augustus ficked through the envelopes in his pigeonhole looking for letters more in-
teresting than the usual start of term memoranda. What he was hoping to fnd was an envelope with an American postmark written in
a familiar fowing hand. His search stopped temporarily at a fne ivory envelope with the university crest and the ominous printed message indicating its source: from the of-fce of the vice-chancellor. This letter was not totally unexpected, but was defnitely un-welcome. He stuck the letter between his teeth and kept searching for better news from across the Atlantic, but like the day before and most likely the
day after, no such let-ter had arrived. He put the rest of the letters back unopened. Taking the letter from his mouth and placing it in his jacket pocket, he turned to leave and locked eyes with the returning Potts.
‘Good day, Dr Bloom.’
‘No, not really Potts.’
Chapter 3
Augustus Bloom started the day with a fne breakfast at the King Edward Hotel. Perfectly poached eggs with smoked salmon, capers, Earl Grey tea and toast lavishly adorned with salty butter. As in college, the scrambled eggs at the King Edward Hotel were an affront to a delicate palate, yellow rubber robbed of favour by the misguided use of milk and ex-cessive heat. Poached eggs were a safer bet when eating out, not that poaching eggs isn’t an art in itself. For all the mystique and bizarrely complicated methods, it is hard to ruin a poached egg except by overcooking. Bloom had experimented methodically with all the described methods for poaching. He found the use of vinegar unnecessary and ruinous in terms of favour. As for the challenging task of rapidly whisking water into a whirlpool while dropping an egg into the centre, he had dismissed this long ago as no more than French culinary theatre. The result of his endeavours was this: simply lower a truly fresh egg into a shallow pan of water heated just enough to coat the bottom with fne bubbles. Turn down the heat and in fve minutes the resulting egg would invariably meet his exact-ing standards, though if the egg weren’t fresh or the water were actively boiling the result could, all too easily, become a chaotic mass of white strands and an inedible yellow ball. At a temperature well below boiling, Augustus had discovered that the egg white would cook perfectly while leaving the yolk, as it should be, gloriously runny.
The treat of breakfast at the King Edward cast the day into a much better light than it had started; the frst thing Augustus remembered on opening his eyes at dawn was his meeting with the vice-chancellor. The letter had merely stated:
‘ In light of recent events, the vice-chancellor requests that you attend his offces at 10 a.m. Monday next .’
The letter may have been gently worded, but Augustus was under no illusion that this was to be a friendly encounter. His only hope was that the vice-chancellor was feeling in a mellow mood this morning although, under the circumstances, that seemed unlikely.
*
Professor Arthur Plantagenet had started the day with a less enlightening culinary exper-ience at the hands of St Jerome’s kitchen staff. The college chef Monsieur Roger never supervised breakfast. As a result, this meal fell far short of what St Jerome’s kitchens could offer. In a triumph of hope over experience, Arthur Plantagenet had opted for kip-pers. Shocked by their inedibility, he consoled himself with copious quantities of the one reliable breakfast offering: tea. He too was venturing into town summoned by a letter. On this occasion it was from his physician who had rooms on St John’s Street. Doctor Reginald Pierce was an eminent man who, for all his eminence, had spectacularly failed
in his attempts to curtail Plantagenet’s gargantuan appetite. Shortly before 10 o’clock in the morning, Professor Plantagenet walked into the wait-
ing room of Dr Pierce. Vanity Fair prints of famous doctors adorned the walls that them-selves wore elegant striped wallpaper. He had barely settled into the burgundy leather Chesterfeld sofa before he was ushered in.
‘Good day, Arthur.’
‘Reginald.’ Arthur nodded.
Arthur Plantagenet settled down and Reginald Pierce pulled up a chair and sat beside him rather than at his usual position on the other side of his large partner’s desk. He took Plantagenet’s wrist without saying another word and felt his pulse while looking intently down in deep concentration. Dr Pierce fnally looked up and gave his verdict.
‘Arthur, those tests I did last week on your heart. I’ve gone over the results and I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.’
‘Good God man, I’m as ft as a fddle; never felt better. I must say you’re looking a little peaky yourself these days. You could do with a little more fesh on your bones.’
‘Quality not quantity is what counts in health, Arthur. With your unfortunate family history you must know that your current eating habits are putting you in signifcant danger.’
‘Danger of what?’
‘The grave, if I must be so stark.’
‘We’re all dying, so we might as well enjoy ourselves during the process. I’d rather die now than starve myself for the sake of a long but miserable and hungry life.’
‘A rather bizarre philosophy, don’t you think, Arthur?’ ‘Not at all Reginald, an ancient and entirely logical stance. I take my cue from Api-
cius.’
The lack of reply and slightly baffed look on Dr Pierce’s face told Arthur he was on winning ground and he took great delight in pushing forward his advantage.
‘Marcus Gavius Apicius. Greatest food writer of the Roman Empire. Nobly decided to poison himself in the prime of life rather than face the prospect of poverty and starva-tion in old age.’
‘Noble indeed, Arthur, but I think your risk of starvation would be slight and imagine how many meals you’d miss by an early death.’
Uncharacteristically Arthur didn’t have an immediate retort, so Dr Pierce cut straight to the point he had been circling around for the last few minutes.
‘I’m afraid that your situation is rather serious, Arthur. Your heart has become very enlarged and developed a dangerous rhythm.’
‘Surely there’s nothing wrong with a big heart, Reginald?’ ‘It’s a sick heart, Arthur. Dilated cardiomyopathy. I’m not sure there is much I can do
at this stage to reverse the process.’
‘Excellent. So I can keep on just as I am.’
‘An unusually optimistic interpretation. In terms of eating, my only advice is that if there is anything you haven’t yet tasted I’d suggest you try it soon. I don’t know how much longer this heart of yours will keep ticking.’
‘Oh now, Reginald. It can’t be that bad.’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘Oh… ’
‘Indeed.’
‘Not much time then?’
‘If the gods are smiling you may have a few months. If not it might be a matter of days. Shall I waste my breath by telling you that losing weight could take a lot of the strain off your heart? That might help it to keep beating a little longer.’
‘With the greatest respect, I wouldn’t bother. I preferred your earlier advice about eating everything I haven’t tried yet.’
*
Another member of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science was in town that morn-ing too, on a mission of great gastronomic importance. Professor George Le Strang wasn’t a man for breakfast, so a brief cup of tea in the covered market on his way to the Bodleian Library amply serviced his morning requirements. Today the covered mar-ket was itself his principal destination. Furlong and Furrow were Oxford’s best game butchers. They were also reasonably game when it came to meeting Le Strang’s some-times curious requests for meats. These requests inevitably involved some beast or fowl that rarely graced English dining tables. They were usually tricky to locate but the founder’s great grandson, Philip Furrow, took pride in meeting any challenge. All the more so as George Le Strang was generous in his thanks, which was often expressed in the form of extraordinarily good Claret from the college cellars.
Le Strang worked his way through the intricate maze of the covered market and stopped short of Furlong and Furrow’s threshold to take in the glorious sight that greeted his eyes. Pheasants, rabbits, ducks and venison all arranged with the casual, composi-tional beauty of a Caravaggio painting. He stepped inside and was a little put out to fnd the shop populated with customers. After waving a greeting from the back of the queue to Mr Furlong, Le Strang duly waited in turn. On reaching the counter he was troubled by the shoppers that stood politely behind him waiting their turn, ears alert, all appar-ently waiting for him to speak.
‘Professor, always a delight. What can we do for you today? We’ve some excellent rabbit just in.�
�
‘Marvellous Philip, but this is more of a special order for later in term,’ Le Strang half-whispered.
‘We’d be delighted to help. So what’s on the menu this time?’ Looking over his shoulder before looking back to Furrow, he muttered quietly, ‘So-
mething a little out of the ordinary.’
‘You know us, Professor, the extraordinary takes a while, but it’s always worth wait-ing for.’
‘Any chance we could pop out back to chat about it?’ ‘Of course, of course.’ Furlong called a young man who was boning geese at the side
table to take over at the counter. He then retired to the back of the shop with the profess-or who was greatly relieved not to have to discuss his specifc requirements in a shop full of English animal lovers. Le Strang always felt the English had a curiously incon-sistent and sentimental approach to eating animals, but he was sensible enough to know when discretion was worthwhile.
Even though it was only the frst week of term, Le Strang was already thinking ahead to the shadow faculty of gastronomic science’s Michaelmas dinner. This was by far his favourite dinner of the year and not only because of the unmatched pleasure of sharing a truffed turkey. With great Gallic pride he was planning a Napoleonic dish that would be impressive even by the high standards of the shadow faculty. It would require a particu-larly unusual cut of meat that might take a while to locate. With the time also needed for ageing the meat, it meant he had no time to lose.
*
Augustus sat in the room outside the vice-chancellor’s offce. It was a drab utilitarian attempt at modernity. The garish lamp that hung from the ceiling had made Bloom phys-ically shudder when he entered the room. The vice-chancellor had declared himself to be a reformer who would bring the university into the twentieth century, ‘straight from the 1860’s to the 1960’s’ as he often said. Since it was already 1969 with little eviden-ce of change, his chances of succeeding in this task looked bleak. The door opened and the vice-chancellor stood in the doorway. Dr Ridgeway was a rather short man and like many short men, made up for his lack of stature and indeed charisma with dogged de-termination.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 2
