‘The biggest tribute to our dear departed friend Arthur Ignatius Plantagenet has been the extraordinary number of his colleagues, students and former students who have gathered here today. When I think back over the time I have known Arthur, I realised that the times I spent with him have been some of the most enjoyable and worthwhile moments of my life. Thinking of the gospel we have just heard about how Jesus fed fve thousand people with just fve fsh and fve loaves, I have come to realise that Arthur could create such miracles with time. Five minutes with Arthur could be more memor-able than a whole day with other mere mortals. So in tribute to Arthur I ask just one thing of you all. In his death let us keep and cherish the memory of every second we spent with him. If we do that he will never leave us.’ Augustus waited for the murmurs of agreement to abate. ‘In his will he requested that his good friend and our chaplain Charles Pinker play the organ at this service. He also requested a specific piece: the Maestoso from Saint-Saëns’ third symphony. This piece is Arthur incarnate into music. I can think of no better tribute than for all of us to listen and remember.’
With the magnifcent opening chords, the chapel was flled with a triumphant wall of sound that even stirred the souls of the several committed atheists who had attended out of loyalty to Arthur or, as in the case of the vice-chancellor, duty. The chaplain’s ar-rangement of this piece required the full range of organ, many of whose more unusual pipes had been airless for years. As the deepest notes rumbled through the foor rather than the air, a strangled rattling sound could be heard. On the frst occurrence it was hard to be sure it had really happened, but each time Charles’ left foot hit the low C on the pedal board it was there. With each blast of air sent into the great thirty-two foot diapason organ pipes, the rattling got louder. For most of the congregation, the music was barely impaired by these sonic blemishes, though two people did seem unusually affected. In the organ loft, Charles was wincing but couldn’t stop hitting the offending note without losing the whole spirit of the piece. In the stalls below, Augustus sat with his head in his hands trying to conceal the grimace that each distorted organ note de-livered. Those around him interpreted this merely as a sign of his distress at the loss of a dear friend. Augustus alone suspected the real reason for the organ’s curiously specific malfunctions.
The rest of the service passed without incident and the organ performed perfectly as Charles accompanied the choir in an arrangement of Fauré’s Requiem . The dean de-livered a homily which was spiritually well intended, but his audience were challenged to fnd the link to Arthur. This was not surprising as there was none. The congregation earlier in the day at the morning service in Christchurch cathedral had been equally con-fused by the glowing tribute to a former professor of ancient history most of the con-gregation had never heard of. It was a great sense of relief to all concerned to clear the lungs with a few more rousing hymns before the fnal prayers for former fellows.
At the end of the service, Mr Potts found himself beside Augustus as they waited to fle out of the chapel. One question had been troubling the head porter and he fnally plucked up the courage to ask it.
‘It wasn’t something ’e ate, was it, Dr Bloom? I mean like that Japanese man that died at your previous dinner?’
‘Oh no, Potts, it was everything he had ever eaten.’ Augustus smiled at Potts who, uncomfortable with such gestures of simple human kindness from any of the fellows, felt obliged to look away. He was starting to warm to Dr Bloom even though he had no idea what he was talking about. Augustus had somewhat cryptically told the truth. Ar-thur’s death was indeed the sum of every rich morsel that he had consumed. Arthur had loved every mouthful and enjoyed every moment of his life spent at the dining table. Mr Potts and Augustus stepped out into the quad, leaving the open-mouthed Patrick Eccles a few paces behind.
Following Arthur’s wishes, all those who attended were invited for restoratives in the form of toasted brioche laden with foie gras , sliced fgs and quince jelly. The jelly had been prepared appropriately by Monsieur Roger using Arthur’s own harvest from the Botanical Gardens. The chef had insisted on extending the menu to include a few of Arthur’s favourite hors d’oeuvres , fne slices of juniper-favoured dried duck breast, as well as slices of apple topped with Stilton and a walnut. In addition to several cases of Dom Perignon 1962, the fellows had also agreed to open the cellars to offer a young but fragrantly favoured sweet Jurançon to complement the foie gras and Stilton. More spec-tacularly a Ch â teau Lafte-Rothschild 1955 Grand Cru Classé Pauillac was provided as the perfect accompaniment for the sliced duck breast, though this was reserved for the fellows of the college and their more important guests.
The task of escorting the vice-chancellor naturally fell to the Master. The stilted con-versation between the two men was thankfully eased as soon as they reached the hall by the champagne and exquisite hors d’oeuvres . The Master waxed on lyrically about the food, expecting no reply, while the vice-chancellor stayed silent wishing some proper food had been provided. Finally, the Master decided to broach the subject of Arthur’s bequest. Naturally the executors of Arthur’s will had not divulged the full details of this unusual document to the Master, but they had delivered the pertinent details of the dona-tion to the university, along with the requirement that it should be presented to the vice-chancellor personally at a meeting of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science.
‘Now, Dr Ridgeway, you may be unaware that Professor Plantagenet was an inde-pendently wealthy man and in his will he made a number of bequests to the college and indeed one to the university.’
Dr Ridgeway’s sullen demeanour was suddenly transformed. Despite the riches of the colleges, he had been shocked on his appointment to discover the parlous state of the central coffers of the university.
‘Really, I had no idea. What scale of donation are we talking about, Lord Faulkner?’ ‘A very generous offer indeed: the endowment of a new professorship in fact, with
support for his election here at St Jerome’s as a fellow.’ ‘Excellent, a wonderful legacy. In what faculty would this chair be, or would the uni-
versity decide?’
‘Oh, he was quite specifc but also wishes the bequest and all the details to be presen-ted to the university at a dinner here in college. I understand this was a condition in his will, so we are obliged to honour that, of course.’
‘Of course, indeed. I fully understand the need to follow the letter of his will.’ ‘So we will have to organise a dinner here in college that you can attend on behalf
of the university to accept this bequest. You’ve met a number of our fellows already so that should be a jolly affair.’ The Master indicated that this was the end of the conversa-tion with a broad and indulgently unctuous smile. The vice-chancellor reciprocated with a pale, thin-lipped imitation, which was cut short as he saw Augustus Bloom hovering nearby.
After mingling with the guests exchanging memories of Arthur’s fnest moments, the surviving members of the shadow faculty had started to gather near the door closest to the kitchens. Augustus Bloom was the last to join them. He had been attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation between the Master and the vice-chancellor while avoid-ing being seen by either, but had failed on both accounts.
‘Gentlemen. A toast to the old boy.’ Augustus greeted his fellow gastronomes with his glass raised in deference to Arthur.
‘Not a bad send off. I must say an impressive turnout,’ said George Le Strang, for whom, like many of those present, Arthur’s memory was more appealing and less infuri-ating than Arthur the man. After nods of agreement they fell into silence and Augustus took the opportunity to address them all.
‘I think it would be a good moment to share something with all of you. Something Arthur left behind.’
Seeing the expectant look in Hamish’s eye, who clearly presumed this to be some exotic and rare vintage wine, Augustus was forced to cut to the chase.
‘I’m afraid it relates to the little problem he left us in the will that I h
ad suggested would disappear with his cremation. You see, it turns out that without my knowledge he had made arrangements even before his death to ensure the success of his plan.’
‘I thought… but you said… Oh God!’ Charles Pinker’s exuberant mood at the suc-cess of his service was gone.
‘So where the hell is it now?’ asked a shocked Hamish McIntyre. ‘Curing in salt, according to Arthur ’s express wishes.’ Charles Pinker couldn’t cope with this news and gravity at the same time and
slumped onto the wooden bench that ran along the walls of the Hall. Theodore Flanagan’s contribution was apposite and revealed once again his tendency to revert to his Irish roots under stress.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I don’t believe it.’
‘But where?’ asked Hamish again, apparently more troubled about the location of the leg rather than its existence.
‘Perhaps I should show you?’ Augustus had hoped sharing this secret would have eased the burden on his own shoulders, but looking around at the emotions etched on the faces of the group he realised it had just made things worse. Augustus led the group out of the dining hall and back into the gloom of the quadrangle at twilight.
As they passed along the gravel path, not one of them noticed the fgure sitting on his own on one of the old wooden benches that lined the quad. Patrick Eccles didn’t register their existence either. His mind was racing trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. His tu-tor must be part of this mythical dining society upon whose existence his roommate had stumbled. Now they’ve gone and killed Professor Plantagenet. If the story got out, God knows what might happen. Looking up, Eccles caught sight of a shaft of light cutting across the grass from the open chapel door through which he saw the chaplain disappear.
Inside the chapel, Augustus led the group up to the organ loft. To Charles’ great sur-prise Augustus went behind the organ and, with gentle pressure on the edge of the pan-elling, opened the secret door that the chaplain thought was known only to him. The men climbed the narrow stone staircase and emerged into the cool darkness of the room above. Augustus lit the candle he had taken from the organ loft, revealing the beams high in the ceiling and the letters carved on the gable wall H T B MDCCL. The chaplain glanced nervously at the pile of faculty documents he had hidden in the corner, which, to his great relief, looked undisturbed.
‘Wow, what a brilliant place,’ said Hamish, his enthusiasm obliterating the memory of why they were here. ‘What does this HTB mean? And the year, seventeen hundred and er… ?’
‘1750 is the year, so I think the other letters must stand for Hieronymus Theophilus Bloch, who was the chaplain at the time,’ explained Augustus.
‘The cellar ghost? Excellent,’ said Hamish.
Theodore Flanagan gave a mannered cough. ‘I believe there is something here you wish to show us Augustus?’
Without a word Augustus handed the candle to Charles Pinker. The golden stone walls of the room shuddered as the fame fickered from the shake in the chaplain’s hand. Augustus knelt down on his knees and peered into the top of one of the longest organ pipes that protruded through the foor, a 32-foot diapason. He then pulled on a small rope. During previous inspections he had felt no resistance, but the object at the other end of the rope was frmly wedged into the organ pipe, amply explaining the strange sounds that this pipe had made during the service. A frm yank with both of his hands was required to lift the muslin sack holding Arthur ’s thigh into view.
Chapter 22
The following morning, the fve remaining members of the shadow faculty assembled in their tasting kitchen within the cellars. For the frst time since these meetings started, no food or indeed wine graced the makeshift table. Without the usual culinary odours, the air was heavy with a dank musty smell. Charles Pinker’s shoulders shuddered with the cold as he tried to pull the collar of his winter coat even tighter.
‘So?’ started Charles valiantly.
‘So we are in a right pickle, legally and morally it seems,’ offered Hamish before the table fell silent again. They all looked at each other, all except Augustus Bloom who was staring intently at the foor. Eventually George Le Strang could take it no more.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, will you look at yourselves. It was all a bit of a lark, but it is time to thank Arthur for his entertaining prank of a will, bury the damn leg and get on with our lives.’
‘I second that,’ added Hamish.
‘I’m not sure we can. As executors of his will we are obliged to follow his wishes… to the letter,’ said Theodore.
‘But, if he’d said “go and throttle the vice-chancellor and throw him off a punt” we wouldn’t have to do that, surely?’ asked Hamish.
‘Well, I’d join you in that, Hamish. I’ll throttle him and you can throw him in. Better than eating Arthur’s leg at any rate,’ said George.
‘Thankfully Arthur didn’t ask us to murder the vice-chancellor, but if he had our ob-ligations under the will would be waived as that would be illegal,’ said Theodore.
‘We can’t surely be asked to commit the equally illegal – and might I add immoral – act of cannibalism just because a dead person asked us to?’ asked Charles.
‘That is true, Charles, but as Arthur pointed out at dinner last term, it’s not illegal and in the absence of a law, morals carry no legal weight,’ said Theodore.
‘What’s not illegal about it?’ asked Hamish.
‘Cannibalism isn’t illegal, at least not in this country,’ repeated Theodore. ‘Don’t be daft, it must be,’ said Hamish. ‘There must be some ancient law or other. I
heard witchcraft was illegal, so cannibalism must be.’ ‘The laws against witches were repealed in 1951, but there really isn’t a law against
what Arthur has asked us to do, said Theodore, slipping into the comfortable mode of law lecturer. ‘I’ve done a bit of research and the best recent paper on cannibalism was published in the Harvard Law Review twenty years ago. It was the hypothetical case of a group of people stranded in a cave, ‘The Case of the Speluncean Explorers’, but the discussion centred on whether killing someone is ever justifed if it is the only way for others to survive. It didn’t address the act of eating someone.’
‘There must have been real cases of cannibalism in the courts, surely?’ asked Charles incredulously.
‘The most famous case of cannibalism that came to court was Regina vs. Dudley and Stephens back in 1884. After they were shipwrecked they openly admitted eating one of the crew to survive, but the act of cannibalism was never in question – it was just the fact that they killed him in order to eat him. The offence of murder catches most wanton or criminal cannibals.’
‘Well laws apart, it is certainly immoral,’ said Charles. ‘It is usually deemed so,’ continued Theodore, who was starting to sound as if he
were discussing an erudite topic in a tutorial rather than the rights and wrongs of eating their dear and recently departed friend. ‘But, as Arthur pointed out, it is not immoral in the eyes of that usual model of moral authority in these lands, the Church. The Bible really doesn’t offer much positive guidance and the Eucharist itself is essentially can-nibalistic. Emperor Nero had even accused early Christians of cannibalism to turn the Roman mob against them. I’m surprised that Arthur didn’t bring that up at the last din-ner.’
‘Last dinner, last supper,’ chortled Hamish, digging Augustus in the ribs to try and lighten the atmosphere. He failed and received a withering look from the chaplain for his efforts.
‘That’s just a metaphor,’ continued Charles. ‘It’s only wine and a wafer that you ac-tually eat.’
‘Not in my part of the world, Charles, or Rome or indeed in most of the Christian world,’ replied Theodore indignantly. ‘Wars have been fought in defence of the physical reality of transubstantiation: the idea that we are really eating the blood and body of Christ.’
Charles, puce with the exaggerated outrage of someone who knows the argument is slipping away from them, rose to his feet and start
ed pacing the foor before stopping opposite Augustus Bloom.
‘Augustus, come on, speak up, a good dose of common sense would do nicely right now. Surely there must be some medical dangers in cannibalism?’
Augustus slowly looked up and met the expectant gaze of his partners in this apparent non-crime.
‘Well, there is a fatal disease called Kuru that is thought to be spread in Papua New Guinea by cannibalism within the Fore tribe.’
‘There you have it, a perfectly sound reason not to pursue this ridiculous idea,’ said Charles triumphantly.
‘Yes, but only the women and children caught the disease from eating the offal in-cluding the brain. The men-folk of the Fore tribe ate the fesh and never seemed to come to much harm. So as Arthur died of natural causes and is only asking us to eat his leg, there should be no medical risks… ’
‘Oh Lord, give me strength. This is Lent: we’re supposed to be basing our next dinner on a Lenten feast and avoiding meat, and you’re saying we should just slap Arthur in the cooker and serve him up? Heathens the lot of you,’ said Charles in total exasperation.
‘We can’t just serve him up anyway at this next dinner, Lent or no Lent,’ offered Augustus.
‘We can’t? Excellent, fnally a grain of sense, Augustus,’ said Charles with a sense of relief.
‘Well… He wouldn’t be ready yet. Dry-curing takes months and months. He couldn’t possibly be properly cured until next term at the very earliest.’
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 17
