The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  The chaplain did indeed take Eccles under his wing, inviting him to a Christian fel-lowship tea party to observe him at close hand. Being rather constrained affairs at the best of times, it was unsurprising that the chaplain sensed nothing untoward in the young man’s behaviour. Equally this was hardly the venue for Eccles to unburden himself about his suspicions regarding his tutor’s involvement in a secretive and clearly danger-ous dining society. Nevertheless, Charles Pinker found reassurance in Eccles’ behaviour but heeding Augustus Bloom’s concerns, urged Eccles to pursue the rowing career he had started the previous term. Over the years, Charles had discovered that while prayer was a great solace for the older generation, physical exercise worked best for the young. And so it turned out for Eccles who was promptly recruited by the crew of the college fourth rowing VIII, which at that moment were in some diffculty as they numbered only seven.

  As much as Eccles found escape through physical exertion on the river, his greatest blessing was the non-appearance of the threatened article about the cursed menu in Styx . Even his recurring nightmares about being poisoned with Fugu-tainted fsh paste and ly-ing paralysed on his bed gasping for breath began to subside. With the publication of the next edition of Styx , Rupert Atworth was summoned by Kingsley-Hampton to explain why reporting on a speech by the vice-chancellor about the need to admit women to the traditional all-male colleges was of such importance compared to the promised but un-published article on a secretive, murderous dining society.

  ‘So Rupert, your role as defender of the truth is looking a little tarnished from where I am sitting,’ said Kingsley-Hampton, ensconced in his favourite chair by the fre and waving the front page of Styx at his guest.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll run that story of yours soon. Just doing some background checks. Not that I’ve found out any more. Still, need to check sources, you know? That’s what responsible journalism is all about.’

  ‘Don’t talk bollocks, I am your source. What else do you need?’ ‘Well, some of the editorial committee are a bit dodgy about running a story like that.’ ‘I thought you were the editor, Rupert. Tell those pathetic creatures that this is the

  frst decent story they’ve ever had.’

  ‘Oh, they know it’s a good story. It’s that Emma Bellingham girl from Somerville, her dad’s a top QC in London, so she says we need to take legal advice.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Just sort it out, Rupert, you spineless sap.’ Kingsley-Hampton was still riled at the thought of an elitist dining society existing

  right under his nose. Worse still, one that hadn’t thought him worthy of an invitation. While Atworth stared into his teacup, Eccles took advantage of the uneasy silence to recharge the cups of tea and bring across the cucumber sandwiches he’d made earlier. The last time Rupert Atworth had been in these rooms, Eccles was struggling to hear the words through the closed door of his bedroom. But the world had moved on since then. The Honourable Matthew Kingsley-Hampton was by now graciously tolerating Eccles solely in his capacity as valet, though he found Eccles’ frequent absences to attend lec-tures irksome. Domestic staff to the ruling classes were assumed to be models of discre-tion and endowed with selective deafness. So Kingsley-Hampton had openly conduc-ted his life in front of Eccles without any attempt to include or exclude him. What he had failed to grasp was that loyalty from domestic staff was based on mutual respect, something that could only be earned, not demanded.

  *

  Patrick Eccles’ new-found equilibrium was short-lived as Rupert Atworth had been true to his word on at least one front. After persistent pleas for a little more time to invest-igate, he had eventually provided the vice-chancellor with the name and college of the man who had placed the advertisement about the menu. As a result, Patrick Eccles was sitting in the very same chair where his tutor had sat a term before, ashen-faced in front of the vice-chancellor. With the relaxed manner of a man who already knew the answers to the questions he was asking, Ridgeway started his cross-examination of this poor un-fortunate.

  ‘So, Mr Eccles. Do you know why you are here?’ ‘Well, er… not exactly sir.’

  ‘The editor of Styx was kind enough to supply your name as the source of a recent… advertisement.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Relating to… ’ the vice-chancellor theatrically lifted the open copy of Styx on his desk, ‘oh yes. Relating to the ‘shadow faculty of gastronomic science.’ Can I take it that you are a member of this group?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Eccles, his head lowering with each utterance, much to the delight of the vice-chancellor.

  ‘No? So why on earth were you trying to appear so?’ His question was met with an improved view of the crown of Eccles’ head and si-

  lence.

  ‘What possible interest could you have in a menu from this society? Well? Answer me.’

  ‘My room… er… ’ Eccles ground to a halt and then made the fatal mistake of looking up. He was met by the stony-faced vice-chancellor and his meagre defences crumbled. His tongue, which seconds before had seemed unable to generate the most basic of sounds, suddenly gained a mind of its own, and he found himself gabbling away at high speed. ‘I found the menu by accident and I was interested in Fugu because my tutor had just set me an essay on action potentials. Tetrodotoxin, which is the poison in the puffer fsh, was important in working out how nerves work and well, you see, Fugu is a dish made from puffer fsh.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Now excuse me the lecture on the details. I’ve had that already. So who is your tutor, dare I ask?’

  ‘Dr Bloom, sir.’

  Dr Ridgeway stared at the young man in front of him and saw the mocking face of Augustus Bloom looking back.

  ‘Of course. Who else could it possibly be?’ The vice-chancellor paused to gather his thoughts amidst the wave of irritation launched by the mention of Bloom’s name. ‘So what was the purpose of the advertisement?’

  ‘Well I thought someone from this shadow faculty might contact us, I mean me. I wanted to know who its members were… I thought it might be fun to take part in one of their dinners.’

  ‘I doubt it would be, but did they contact you?’

  ‘Well, I got a lot of menus but no-one from this dining society replied.’ In the short silence that followed, the thought that the vice-chancellor may be a member suddenly struck him and, unfortunately for Eccles, this thought also reached his vocal cords. ‘Un-less this all means that you are a member of course.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, and no I am not. So what does this dining society have to do with the fsh you just mentioned?’

  ‘I… I… ’

  ‘Spit it out boy.’

  ‘I think someone died of Fugu poisoning at one of the dinners last year. A Japanese man called Mr Tokoro.’

  Dr Ridgeway tried hard not to reveal how much this statement had thrown him off balance.

  ‘And what makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, his name was on the menu saying he’d brought the puffer fsh.’ ‘So what made you leap to the conclusion that it had killed him?’ ‘I found his name in an obituary in The Times .’

  ‘I see. Quite the little Sherlock Holmes, aren’t we? Did The Times mention this uni-versity, by any chance?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘No it did not, and do you know why?’

  Eccles merely shook his head.

  ‘Because I spent a lot of time and effort to make sure the name of this university was not brought into it. Who else knows about your discoveries?’

  ‘No-one, sir.’ Eccles muttered to the foor.

  ‘Don’t lie, I heard you say we before.’

  ‘Really, I haven’t told anyone.’ Eccles’ insides were churning at the idiocy of this deception, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  ‘Do you know what will happen if this story gets out? What will happen to you?’ ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky if you are reading for a BSc in sewer management from the University of Bognor Reg
is, because you certainly won’t be reading for one here. Do I make myself clear? Now go.’

  Eccles shuffed out the door. Dr Ridgeway reached across to the gunmetal-grey tray that held his correspondence and pulled out the letter that had arrived the previous day from Augustus Bloom.

  Dear Dr Ridgeway ,

  Lord Faulkner asked me to write in relation to Arthur Plantagenet’s generous leg-acy to the university. One of the stipulations in Arthur’s will was that the details and bequest itself be presented to you at a dinner to be held in St Jerome’s College. Due to a range of unforeseen circumstances arising from other aspects of Arthur’s legacy, this will need to be deferred until Trinity term. Once arrangements have been fnalised I shall be in contact again .

  I remain yours faithfully ,

  Dr Augustus Bloom, MB BS MA DPhil (Oxon)

  Knowing full well that one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, the vice-chancel-lor pondered the possibilities of giving this particular gift horse a short sharp kick up the backside. If he couldn’t get at Bloom directly, he could certainly annoy him intensely by having one of his students sent down. He just needed a little more rope than this advert provided.

  *

  That evening, Patrick Eccles was lying on his bed considering the ceiling and his fate when he heard the arrival of Kingsley-Hampton and entourage in the sitting room out-side. He could hear boastful snippets of how excessively each of them was planning to spend their weekend, but the volume and inconsequentiality of their chatter made it easy to ignore. There was then a loud hammer on his bedroom door.

  ‘Eccles, be a good chap and go down to the buttery for some teacakes and milk.’ There was then a poor attempt at a northern accent braying ‘Eccles cakes’ before the

  group dissolved in laughter. It was all a bit rich seeing as Patrick Eccles actually came from Bristol, but at his roommate’s bidding he rose to his feet. He could always get a job as a waiter at the King Edward Hotel when he was sent down, so a bit more practice serving tea cakes to the ruling classes wouldn’t go amiss. He consoled himself with the thought that he could fnd lodgings in Oxford and pretend to his family he was still at college.

  Chapter 26

  After the trauma of Arthur Plantagenet’s death and the ensuing events, the pace of life thankfully eased as term progressed. For no-one more so than Arthur himself. The bulk of his mortal remains stood quietly in an urn on Augustus Bloom’s mantelpiece. The remainder had a less peaceful, though just as sedentary, existence within the low C diapason organ pipe in the chapel. The chaplain had demanded its immediate removal when Augustus had frst revealed the hiding place he had chosen for Arthur’s leg. Despite much discussion, no better location could be found and so the leg remained. Charles Pinker only fnally acquiesced when Augustus repositioned the leg within the pipe to en-sure that the organ could at least be played without any recurrence of the problems exper-ienced during the memorial service. So, with the aid of Charles Pinker’s daily practice, Arthur’s leg slowly cured, benefting from the regular drafts of air through the pipe.

  For members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science, the genteel pace of the curing process of Arthur’s leg had an undoubtedly benefcial effect by allowing them to avoid thinking about the unthinkable. Add to that the unique abilities of the human mind to adapt to new circumstances and one has an explanation for the surprising calm that fell upon the shadow faculty as each day passed. Theodore Flanagan stopped poring over old acts of parliament relating to the use and misuse of the human body, now convinced that least legally they were on frm ground. George Le Strang’s mood became positively buoyant on the foot of the surprise dish he was testing out for the forthcoming end-of-term dinner: so much so that he gave poor Arthur not a second thought. Sadly for Charles Pinker the moral dilemma that Arthur’s will had created was never far from his mind and he added to his burden by taking up the task of praying for all their souls. Hamish had been thoroughly distracted by a pretty new librarian who had started work in the Zoo-logy department. As for Augustus, he had become absorbed with monitoring the curing process itself. Indeed Augustus had just fnished one of his now regular inspections of Arthur’s leg and was on his way down the stairs to the organ loft when a booming voice flled the entire chapel.

  ‘Augustus, you up there?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Hamish,’ he hissed in reply. ‘You could wake the dead with a voice like that.’

  ‘Talking of which, how is our old friend Arthur?’ ‘Doing very nicely thank you, Hamish.’

  ‘Excellent. Now I brought a spare coat because I knew you’d be late. It was bloody freezing down at the river yesterday.’ Hamish tossed the coat at Augustus when he ap-peared from the organ loft. Hamish opened the door of the chapel with a fourish and the words, ‘“Lead on Macduff”, as Arthur used to say.’

  ‘“Lay on”,’ corrected Augustus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“ Lay on Macduff” is the actual quote.’

  ‘Nonsense, Augustus. Lay on doesn’t even make sense. Now come on or we’ll miss the whole damn day’s racing,’ said Hamish as he marched out the door frst.

  Hamish was right about the temperature at least. It was indeed bloody freezing as the two men wandered down Dodgson’s Walk towards the river and the last day of Torpids. Hamish flled his coat amply and cut a fne fgure as he strode down the gravel path. Augustus, lost in the voluminous garment he had been given, looked rather less im-pressive. Although hardly trim himself, he certainly lacked Hamish’s Falstaffan girth. Coming in the opposite direction was a steady stream of lightly chilled spectators and clusters of rowers from the lower divisions. It was not hard to determine the success or failure of their crews from their demeanour. The unsuccessful crews ambled slowly and disconsolately, any conversation punctuated by long, cold silences. The successful bounded along in incessant chatter.

  ‘Hi, Dr Bloom,’ called Patrick Eccles from a one such group of happy rowers as they passed by.

  ‘One of my frst years,’ explained Augustus. ‘Got off to a rocky start but seems to be getting it together now.’

  ‘Sounds like most of my lot,’ replied Hamish.

  ‘Well there might have been a bit more to it than that. I don’t think I told you that Charles Pinker lost one of the menus from last summer ’s dinner.’

  ‘No, but does it matter?’ asked Hamish quite unconcerned. ‘Well, we think it got into the hands of that lad we just passed because he was asking

  questions around the place about Fugu and collecting menus from all over the uni-versity.’

  Hamish stopped short and looked at Augustus. ‘You might have thought of mention-ing that.’

  ‘Well, the chaplain was all in a tizzy about it at the time. He was so stressed about Arthur and was blaming himself for losing the menu in the frst place that I thought I’d let sleeping dogs lie. Nothing seems to have come of it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hamish striking out again for the river. ‘Anything more from your friend the vice-chancellor?’

  ‘Oh no, I think he’s been well bought off with the promise of Arthur’s money.’ ‘Only because he doesn’t know it’s for a professor of gastronomy,’ laughed Hamish.

  ‘Are we really going to invite him along to join in on Arthur ’s grand experiment?’ ‘Of course. I sent him a letter a few weeks ago.’ ‘You’ve really bought into this will thing hook, line and sinker, haven’t you?’ ‘The way I see it, Hamish, we’re obliged to do it and it won’t harm anyone, so why

  not?’

  ‘I must say, Augustus, you have to wonder, don’t you?’ ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘What we do actually taste like.’

  An uneasy silence fell upon them, fnally broken by Hamish. ‘And I can’t wait to see the vice-chancellor’s face when I tell him he’s just eaten a

  slice of Arthur’s leg.’

  ‘You better bloody not tell him anything,’ said Augustus, hitting Hamish’s chest with the back of his hand. Their conversation was interrupted by a m
uffed bang in the dis-tance.

  ‘Christ, that must be the second division starting already,’ said Hamish setting off at a healthy trot. ‘Come on, Augustus, we’ll miss the whole shebang with your dawdling.’

  *

  After dinner, Matthew Kingsley-Hampton made his way back to his rooms. As he ap-proached the entrance to his staircase he was confronted with a large group of rowers. The fnishing touches were being put to the chalk markings on the wall that recorded St Jerome’s only vestige of rowing success in that year’s Torpids. Eccles’ crew, the usually far from successful fourth VIII, had not only bumped that day but on each previous day of Torpids, earning them their blades. As the only member of the crew with rooms in Old Quad, Eccles’ staircase was selected for decoration with the traditional chalk draw-ings of crossed blades and the college crest. Kingsley-Hampton came up to the group.

  ‘When you’ve fnished defacing the walls I’d like to get to my room,’ said Kingsley-Hampton with contempt.

  ‘Sorry, Matthew,’ said Eccles, clearing a path. ‘Let him through lads.’ In thanks, Kingsley-Hampton offered his roommate a withering stare. ‘Only a few people can call me by my frst name… and you, Eccles, are not one of

  them.’ Kingsley-Hampton set off up the stairs.

  There was a stunned silence for a few seconds until one of Eccles’ crewmates, Roger Sinclair, issued a low ‘Eeww’ that rose steadily in pitch and volume as the others joined in.

  ‘Is he always that much of a prick?’ asked Sinclair. ‘Yeah. Pretty much. So who’s for a pint in the Bear?’ Eccles replied.

  *

  Several hours and more than a few pints later, Eccles was standing at the top of his stair-case, his ear to the door listening for any signs that Kingsley-Hampton had company. The unfortunate combination of his impaired balance and a weak lock made the door burst open, leaving Eccles sprawling on the foor. Kingsley-Hampton, sitting in his pre-ferred armchair with a glass of brandy in one hand and a Montecristo no. 4 cigar in the other, acknowledged Eccles’ arrival with surprising calm.