In memory of his friend, Charles decided to take his early morning walk in the Botan-ical Gardens, a place where they would often bump into each other and then sit for hours as Arthur would engage in his favourite pastime – disguising a soliloquy as a conversa-tion. As it was fercely cold, he took the shortcut across Christchurch Meadow to reach the gardens. Augustus was already halfway to the Botanical Gardens. He had taken the slower, more refective route down Dodgson’s Walk to the river. With term essentially over, there was no shouting from coaches or splashing of oars to disturb the peace. Only the swans were left, cutting a poetic swathe through the mist that foated on the Isis on mornings such as this. He saw Charles Pinker just ahead of him as he came up the wind-ing path that led to the back gates of the meadows. Quickening his pace, he drew along-side and gently placed a hand on the chaplain’s shoulder.
‘Morning, Charles. How are you?’
‘If truth be told I’m just plain sad, Augustus. Sad and, as Arthur might say, bloody freezing.’ He managed a weak smile and his best Arthuresque accent.
‘I miss the old sod too,’ said Augustus trying to put a brave face on things and admir-ing Charles’ honesty. ‘Mind you, I could have done without that damned will,’ Augus-tus continued after they had walked on for a few minutes in companionable silence. At the mention of the word ‘will’ memories started crystallising in the chaplain’s mind: the room, the laughter, the chaos, the solicitor’s shocked expression and sweating brow.
‘That really happened, did it? The will. Arthur requiring that we eat him?’ ‘It certainly did, Charles. But it’s not all bad. Remember the bit about being
cremated?’
‘Did it involve a truffed turkey, by any chance?’ Details were now fooding back for Charles, pushing back the tide of his beer-induced amnesia.
‘Oh don’t forget the punt and Rossini on the gramophone, but I’ve thought of a way out of our dilemma,’ said Augustus beaming.
‘You have?’
‘You see, Arthur left a letter for me with old Potts to be delivered when he died. It had lists of all sorts of things to do, people to call. This was one of the best-planned deaths you could ever imagine. He left all the contact details for the crematorium. So yesterday morning I’d gone ahead and booked the cremation for tomorrow morning before we’d even heard the terms of the will.’
‘But how does that help?’
‘Well, if we forget to collect dear Arthur’s leg then our problem will have literally gone up in smoke by Saturday lunchtime.’
‘But I thought we were obliged to carry out the wishes of his will.’ ‘If we can, of course. But if an overzealous cremator cremates our friend before we
can carry out his wishes to the letter, then what can we do?’ ‘Brilliant Augustus, quite brilliant.’
In a state of mutual reassurance, the pair headed off to the nearest warm place in Ox-ford, the Palm House in the botanical gardens.
It was mid-morning by the time the chaplain returned to college, forsaking his usual short cut along Blue Boar Street without knowing why. The amnesia of excess had spared him the memory of his forceful ejection from the Bear. His subconscious mind was in turn being kind to him in guiding him away from the scene lest the sight of it should restore memories best left forgotten. He crossed the threshold and felt an envel-oping security. He was met in the lodge by Mr Potts.
‘These letters were just dropped in for you and all the other gentlemen.’ Charles thanked Potts and pocketed the crisp ivory envelope that was addressed to
him before heading off to the chapel for a bit of organ practice. Before climbing the stairs to the organ loft he settled down on the frst row of choir stalls, opened the letter and cast an eye over the impressive letterhead of Cragsworth, Cawl and Barringer Soli-citors.
Dear Sir ,
Despite the apparent amusement displayed at the reading of Professor Arthur Plantagenet’s will, I am obliged to inform you of the serious and consequential nature of your responsibilities as executors of this legal document. You have all agreed to take on these responsibilities and must now follow them through to com-pletion with due diligence. In light of the worrisome content of Professor Plant-agenet’s will, I strongly urge you to take appropriate legal and indeed spiritual advice before completing your prescribed duties. I must emphasise that at the offces of Cragsworth, Cawl and Barringer will be in a position to assist or advise you in this matter .
I enclose a copy of Professor Plantagenet’s will for your records. You’ll note that the general hilarity on the day prevented me from reading the fnal clause, which I will leave you to peruse at your leisure .
Yours faithfully ,
Mr C.P.P. Barringer, BCL MBE
This letter could easily have thrown the chaplain into a total tailspin. But buoyed up by Augustus’ confdence that the crematorium would see off the moral and legal dilem-mas bequeathed by Arthur, he could now look back at the recently remembered meeting in the solicitor’s offce with detached amusement. Charles noted with a wry smile that the words ‘no-one’ in the typed letter had been underlined in the same vivid green ink that Arthur was so fond of himself. He pocketed the letter and copy of the will and just as he rose to leave the chapel, he heard laughter. It was Arthur’s type of laugh, as clear as day. His head spun towards the door, which was still shut, and he sat motionless, listen-ing intently. Through the silence, random sounds permeated in from the quad as the end of term exodus from college continued, muffed certainly but audible. Then some more laughter, distant, not quite the same, but laughter nonetheless that clearly came from the quad outside. Charles sighed with relief and, remembering Arthur’s wishes about his memorial service, decided to go in search of the music for Camille Saint-Saëns’ third symphony. This piece required both an organ and a full orchestra, so Arthur had clearly not considered the full practical implications of having this performed in St Jerome’s small chapel. Charles wasn’t sure an arrangement for solo organ existed but failing that he could write his own arrangement – a ftting tribute to his departed friend. The remaining members of the shadow faculty assembled the following morning at the small but eminently functional crematorium in Headington. At the express wish of Ar-thur, no-one else had been invited: all pomp and ceremony were to be reserved for the memorial service. They sat in complete solemnity in the small chapel. They had all heartily subscribed to Augustus’ plan of saying nothing to the undertakers at the cremat-orium. Only when the coffn containing Arthur’s remains was carried in and laid gently on the track did it fnally seem likely that this plan might work. The service proceeded with an almost indecent haste and before they realised, the last fnal words were being intoned.
Into your loving arms, O God, we commend our dear friend Arthur Plantagenet, at the end of his earthly life. We commit his body to be cremated, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen .
With that, Arthur Plantagenet’s coffn disappeared from view. *
When Augustus got back to college he went over to Arthur’s former rooms. As soon as he opened the door he was met by the stale smell of Arthur’s pipe. As he looked around, every detail of the room exuded Arthur Plantagenet’s personality, all apart from the si-lence. Every fat surface held a bottle of one of the many embalming liqueurs with which he had been preparing his body. It was clear that Arthur hadn’t expected his end to arrive quite so soon. He had planned to start the process of collecting Arthur’s belongings but this was not the day for that. Today was a day for slow refection and Augustus always found he refected best on foot.
Without much idea of where he was going, Augustus headed down the stairs, straight through the lodge and up the road to the High Street. There were too many people there so he cut up past the Radcliffe Camera. Normally one of the quietest parts in Oxford, this morning students were piling out the entrance of Brasenose College, forcing Augustus to cut across to the opposite side. He smiled ironicall
y at the copy of the Bridge of Sighs at Hertford College and on past the King’s Arms, promising himself a pint on the way back. He paused for a second to enjoy the view of the beautifully frosted lawns through the tall iron gates of Trinity College, before fnding himself heading towards the science area and the reassuring peace of the Laboratory of Physiology. He was in as close to a state of contentment as was possible under the circumstances. The faculty of gastronom-ic science might not be able to fulfl all of Arthur’s wishes, but they would organise the best memorial service Oxford had seen in decades. There would be no point in deposit-ing Arthur’s ashes in the Cherwell at this time of year, so that could wait until summer, with a full picnic to go along with the sacrifcial turkey. The thought of Arthur’s fnal funerary voyage was beginning to form an enchanting image in Augustus’ mind as he reached the main entrance of the laboratory.
Picking up his post he found a small handwritten note in his pigeonhole from the de-partmental porter.
Dear Dr Bloom. Don’t forget your delivery. It’s a wooden box just on the left as you go in the cold store marked with your name .
He couldn’t think who could be sending him a package requiring cold storage, but then thoughts of a Christmas hamper flled with foie gras , confture of fgs and bottles of Sauternes came into his head. A hamper had arrived last year from one of Augustus’ old and generous friends from medical school, Henry Hyde, now one of London’s leading surgeons with elegant rooms in Harley Street and a Bentley to match. This sumptuous gift was sent in gratitude for a slender act of courtesy on Augustus’ part last year when he had met and offered a few words of encouragement to Mr Hyde’s nephew who was intent on reading medicine at Oxford. With that nephew now safely ensconced in Mag-dalen College, a repeat gesture seemed the most likely reason for the delivery.
Augustus walked down the corridor to the basement stairs with a sense of eager anti-cipation. He swung open the heavy industrial door into the dark Siberian underworld of the laboratory’s cold store. Pulling the cord of the light switch, he found the wooden box just as described with a note bearing his name. This was clearly no hamper. He fipped down the large metal catch and opened the lid to fnd a large plastic bag with crushed ice. Somewhat perplexed, he opened the top of the bag and cleared away the top layer of ice before recoiling in horror. As the lid on the box slammed down, his proposed escape route for the shadow faculty of gastronomic science was now in ruins. In the box, lay the unmistakable shape of a human thigh, undoubtedly that of Professor Arthur Plantagenet, lately of St Jerome’s College Oxford.
Augustus’ chest began to hurt as his panicked breathing pulled more and more freez-ing air into his lungs. Slowly, he managed to quell frst his wild breathing and then his racing heart. It was then that he remembered the letter from Arthur that Potts had given him the other day. It was still sitting on his desk upstairs. Despite his better judgement, he pulled the plastic bag out of the box and headed back to his offce.
The letter was sitting propped up against the lamp on his desk. He ripped it open and started reading. On the paper was the fowing and familiar script of his good friend. Ar-thur had clearly researched the topic in some detail as the two pages of closely packed writing contained detailed ‘suggestions’ as to how to prepare his leg in the style of air cured ham. While he had gallantly offered to leave the exact details for members of the faculty to decide, there was certainly no doubt about Arthur’s seriousness in this endeav-our. The frst and most urgent step was to start the drying process by packing it in salt for two weeks. Arthur strongly advocated that it should be done as rapidly as possible, preferably on the day of receipt. Then the salt should be washed off and the leg dried in a cool dry place with good airfow. He was particularly adamant that the choice of dry-ing location be selected very carefully. Although Iberico and Parma hams are only salt cured, Arthur had suggested that applying a cure of juniper berries and molasses might help to enhance the favour of the meat, as he was no longer, as he put it, a spring chick-en.
*
When the ashen-faced Dr Bloom returned to the reassuring security of college he was carrying Arthur’s leg in the plastic bag, which was now dripping water. He was hailed by Mr Potts as he passed through the gates.
‘Sir, could I have a word?’
‘Not now, Potts.’
‘It’s important, sir. It’s about the professor.’
Seeing the look in Potts’ eyes Augustus realised he had no choice. ‘We’d better talk in ’ere, sir,’ said Potts, leading the way into the back room. ‘The letters that the professor left for me have got me a bit… er… edgy-like, sir,’
continued Potts when they were a safe distance inside the lodge. ‘Letters? Like the one Arthur left for me?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t just you, you see. There was a whole load of ’em and… one for me, too.’
‘You know he had great respect for you, Potts.’
‘Well, he had a few kind words for me in his letter, but the rest was instructions. I was sent off to the Radcliffe mortuary straight after it all ’appened. I gave this letter to the head man and ’e opened it there and then.’ Potts, who had been talking to the thread-bare carpet for the last few minutes, looked up as if asking permission to continue his confession. Dr Bloom’s heart was now beating as weakly and unevenly as Arthur’s once had, but still he managed a nod of dread thinly disguised as encouragement.
‘Well, ’e read it and then just laughed, but not a normal laugh like… told me to wait half ’n hour and it would be ready. So I went off for a cup of tea and when I came back ’e had this box… with your name on it.’
The two men stood in brooding silence, the only sound the dripping of water onto the foor from the plastic bag. Finally Potts asked the question.
‘What’s going on, sir? It’s all a bit… you know… ’ ‘It certainly is, Potts. It certainly is. This is all Arthur’s idea of a joke, I guess. One
that is getting a bit out of hand, that’s all.’
‘Pulling our leg you mean… ’ Potts started to chortle but on seeing the look of panic on Augustus’ face, Potts stumbled on. ‘I didn’t look, ’onest. It was the mortuary man, he told me. I’ll take it to me grave, won’t tell a soul, promise.’
Augustus knew Mr Potts would do just that. He placed a reassuring hand on the port-er’s shoulder and turned to leave.
‘There’s one more fng.’ Potts disappeared for a second, returning with two large sacks of salt. ‘The professor said you’d know what to do wiv ’em. Shall I drop ’em up to your room, sir?’
‘That would be very kind, Potts, but not for a while. I need… a little time to myself.’ Chapter 19
Potts was true to his word and several hours later the two sacks of salt were delivered to Augustus along with a smaller bag of saltpetre. Augustus was perplexed as to the purpose of the saltpetre, or potassium nitrate to give it its modern name, but assuming Arthur had provided this for a purpose, he consulted his bookshelves for guidance. A nineteenth-cen-tury tome from his private library entitled Culinary Chemistry solved the mystery, provid-ing a suitably simple recipe for curing ham, which called for a pound of saltpetre, three quarts of fne salt and pepper. As he read, Augustus’ mind slowly turned from moral tur-moil to the more reassuring practicalities of the curing process.
Curing is a remarkable process that halts the ravages of decay with the simplest of ingredients and it is worthy of a short digression. The simplest form of all is salt-curing where salt draws out water and creates an environment in which the normal bacteria of putrefaction cannot survive. Once protected from rotting, the meat needs to dry to achieve the frm, translucent character of the best hams. This is a slow process traditionally per-formed in open-sided buildings in clean mountain air or in rafters of houses or barns. Smoking is commonly used in Germany, most notably in Westphalia. Smoking has the additional benefts of adding a new dimension to the favour and providing additional pre-servation against bacteria, though at the price of a favour that most connoisseurs o
f dried meats would consider too dominant.
Augustus locked his door and started clearing space in his cooking alcove in prepara-tion for the task in hand. Only then did he remove Arthur’s leg for inspection. The gen-tleman from the hospital mortuary who had removed the limb clearly had some training or, at least, innate skills in the art of butchery, as the thigh was well presented and neatly trimmed. The skin tone was unappealing in colour, but the fesh was impressively frm for a man of Arthur’s age. He knew he should have felt at least some sense of revulsion, but having spent several of his formative years as a medical student learning anatomy from the formalin-scented remains of his fellow humans, Augustus had acquired a certain sense of composure when it came to death, or indeed severed limbs. So, as the hour ap-proached midnight, Augustus set about the task of curing Professor Plantagenet, carefully drying the surface before rubbing in the salt and saltpetre mixture to which he had added a few additional herbs from his own collection.
Chapter 20
Hilary Term 1970
Patrick Eccles walked up from the station to college at the start of the new term. Over Christmas he had revelled in the adulation of his family as the bright young thing from Oxford. Patrick was one of only a small number of the extended Eccles clan that had ever been to university and the frst to go to Oxford. Every arcane feature of college life was examined at the family table with doting aunts hanging on his every word. But the feeling he didn’t deserve to be here lingered over him and turning into the gate, he felt as nervous as he had on his frst day last term. In the lodge, Eccles almost collided with his tutor Dr Augustus Bloom, making conversation unavoidable for either of them.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 15
