The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  ‘Succinctly put Mr Hogarth. Unfortunately, as Magdalen College have lost several deer in the last few months they seem quite insistent that we charge you with something. Did I mention I was once a student of Magdalen? No? Well never mind, why don’t we cut to the chase. One of my sergeants has prepared a statement. If you could look it over and

  sign at the bottom we’ll leave the charges at trespass and, despite your ample criminal record, I don’t suppose her Majesty will need detain you too long.’

  ‘I ain’t being put away for walking around a deer park.’ ‘With a meat cleaver?’

  Silence fell on the two men who glared at each other from opposite sides of the table and indeed opposite sides of society.

  ‘Look, inspector. There’s bigger fsh than me. What if I could help you catch one?’ ‘I hardly think you are in a position to do any kind of deal, Mr Hogarth.’ ‘What if I said I knew that one of these college types was stealing body parts… from

  dead people like.’

  The Detective Inspector sat back in his chair, looked at Mr Frederick Hogarth, then shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Very imaginative, I must say, but under the circumstances I hardly think a judge would give your evidence much credence. The only offer on the table is to sign this con-fession and save us all a lot of time and effort.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got proof. Now, why do you suppose I was asked to chop off some dead bloke’s leg and deliver it packed in ice? The instructions was very clear that the leg ’ad to get there fresh like.’

  ‘Are you saying this was someone from Magdalen College?’ ‘Oh no, inspector. St Jerome’s.’

  ‘Thank God for that at least.’

  Chapter 30

  Trinity Term 1970

  When Eccles arrived back at St Jerome’s on Monday of noughth week for the start of Trinity term he walked straight through the lodge to gaze across Old Quad at his former staircase. The window boxes were now in full bloom with crimson geraniums and the golden stone glowed in the summer sun. He looked at the still fresh-looking chalk mark-ings over the arch of staircase fve that signifed the greatest sporting achievement of his life; the four bumps that had earned the fourth VIII their blades. On the back of that and with the forthcoming fnal examinations for some of the better oarsmen, Eccles had been promoted to the second crew for the summer bumps, a signifcant accomplishment for a frst-year novice rower. Looking up above to the windows of his former room he was brought back to the searing unfairness of his eviction by Kingsley-Hampton.

  Despite Eccles’ doubts, Kingsley-Hampton had followed through on his promise and an envelope was waiting for him in the lodge. The keys were small and unimpressive looking, much as he expected his new lodgings to be. Eccles made his way out of college and headed down the cobbled street. When he arrived at the Mitre Hotel he wandered up and down looking for the grey door described on the scribbled note that came with the keys. When he fnally located it, it turned out to be the strangest door he had ever seen, barely fve foot high sitting in a crooked frame. The pavement was a good six inches above the bottom of the door giving the appearance that the door had sunk under the weight of the building above. Although it looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years, the lock clicked and the door swung inwards with the gentlest push.

  The door led into a small dark corridor with a steep staircase at the end. Climbing the stairs he came into a room fooded with light that defed his every expectation. All his books and belongings had been brought up from college and were neatly stacked. The room was huge, far larger than he ever imagined, with furnishings bordering on the eleg-ant. He threw open one of the windows and let the noise and heat from the High Street fll the room. A small plaque caught his eye beside the window.

  In Max Beerbohm’s classic Oxford novel Zuleika Dobson, The Junta met in these rooms and the Duke of Dorset leapt from this very window .

  Eccles decided he would have to get a copy of Beerbohm’s book. The smell of cook-ing from the Mitre Hotel, which was located a few doors down, caught his nostrils and diverted his thoughts to more practical issues like food. With a hotel next door and the covered market almost on his doorstep, he would be well provided for on that front. Ec-cles was starting to think that this arrangement might work out rather well. He stood mulling over the airy, literary and geographical virtues of his new rooms and found him-self feeling guilty about how much he had cursed his former roommate over the Easter holidays about this move. It was, after all, the Honourable Kingsley-Hampton who had set him up in such style, albeit to suit his own purposes.

  While the young medical student relaxed in his new accommodations, he was rapidly becoming a minor celebrity around Oxford. Trinity term’s frst issue of Styx was being delivered to the lodges and junior common rooms of Oxford. The editor, Rupert Atworth had fnally managed to get the story about the mysterious dining society printed, despite the reservations of the other members of the editorial committee. Miss Bellingham’s father, a barrister, had indicated that publication was defensible provided there was solid written evidence to back up the story. The existence of the menu was deemed suffcient and Atworth had fnally prevailed. His original title with the words ‘Russian Roulette’ was deemed inappropriate as it may create a diplomatic row with two countries rather than merely one. Atworth stuck to his guns on the reference to the Japanese ambassador as he felt sure that his readers wouldn’t care who exactly died and it gave the story more gravitas than it would with the death of a mere cultural attaché. Atworth was also true to his word in placing the story prominently on the front page.

  Compared to the normal story run in Styx , this front page created quite a stir as the news started to disperse around the city. Eccles had decided to take his lunch in the covered market in celebration of his new accommodations. He was sitting in Martha’s café, in a state of perfect contentment, with the remnants of a cheese and pickle sand-wich in front of him and reading a second-hand copy of Zuleika Dobson he had picked up half an hour earlier in the bookshop next door. He hadn’t read a novel since he had left school, and at school it was a matter of necessity not choice. This was therefore the frst adult work of fction he had ever read for simple amusement and for simple amuse-ment there could be no fner place to start.

  ‘Eccles, thought it was you,’ the shaggy-haired Simon Cavendish, one of his fellow rowers from the Torpids fourth VIII, pulled out the chair opposite and sat down.

  ‘Hi Simon, good vac?’ replied Eccles, looking up. They were an unlikely pair. Cav-endish, in keeping with the fashion of the time, sported a pink paisley print shirt and a mop of hair, while Eccles was part of a dying breed, the clean-cut student in a tweed jacket.

  ‘Yeah, not bad. Too much family, not enough drink; apart from that it was okay. Christ, you’re reading a book?’ said Cavendish yanking it out of Eccles’ grasp before dropping it on the table. ‘I didn’t think medical students had time for that kind of thing. Zuleika Dobson . Oh God, you’re not in love or something horrible, are you?’

  ‘No, it’s just… ’

  ‘Anyway, sod the book. Listen, you’re famous. Look at this.’ Simon Cavendish shoved an already crumpled looking copy of the Styx into Eccles’ now empty hands.

  M YSTERIOUS D INING S OC KILLS J APANESE A MBASSADOR . W HO WILL DIE NEXT ?

  Evidence has emerged of the existence of a dangerous dining society within our midst. Though no members of this arcane organisation have come forward, report-ers for Styx have uncovered details of the dinner in Trinity term of last year that led to the death of the Japanese Ambassador. This death arose from the serving of Fugu, a delicacy made from puffer fsh, which is revered in the orient but if improperly prepared can be fatal, as it proved to be on this inauspicious night. Medical student Patrick Eccles told our reporter that this dish contains tetratox-in, a deadly poison more toxic than cyanide. Senior fgures in the university have sought to suppress this story in the apparent hope of preventing an international incident. Certainly it is remarkable that the circum
stances surrounding the death of this diplomat have been so thoroughly obscured from public view . The exotic nature of the food served at this dinner proves that this society is hell-bent on a dangerous culinary path that will surely place others in mortal peril unless this society is stamped out. Despite extensive undercover research by Styx, this newspaper has been unable to track down any members of the university who will admit to membership of this dangerous dining society. What is known from the discovery of a menu, the key evidence in breaking this story, is that this fateful dinner was held at St Jerome’s College. It is therefore likely that several members of this bizarre dining society are lurking in the midst of this ancient college. If anyone has any information that might assist Styx in preventing further loss of life, please contact the editor .

  Patrick Eccles started reading down the front page. As the words sank in, his eyes stopped scanning and started skating over the page in a panic.

  ‘Look, you’re there,’ Cavendish thrust his fnger to the relevant passage. ‘Medical student Patrick Eccles. How cool is that?’ ‘Oh God.’ Eccles slumped back in his seat for a second before launching for the door,

  hoping that he could reach the street before his stomach contents reached his mouth. Simon Cavendish looked after him, bemused, and after stuffng the remnants of his friend’s sandwich in his mouth, rose to his feet only to meet Martha demanding payment for a cheese and pickle sandwich and two cups of tea.

  A well-placed bin allowed Eccles to recover some semblance of dignity by hiding both the act of vomiting and his face from passers-by. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stumbled into a cautious run towards college, picking up speed down the narrow lane leading from the High Street. At frst he was unaware why he was running, but a plan started to emerge in his troubled mind as the fresh air rushed past his head and flled his lungs. He rushed through the lodge when he reached college and sped across Old Quad to the chaplain’s staircase. At the top, he paused only to catch his breath and then knocked on the door. Hearing nothing, he knocked again. He stood in silence, his heart and breathing returning slowly to a more normal rate. He turned and lowered him-self down onto the top step. He would wait. The chaplain had to come back some time. He sat in state of suspended anxiety, hearing the sounds of the comings and goings fl-tering up from the quad below. After ten minutes spent trying to calm the mental mael-strom in his head he could stand it no longer and he set off down the stairs. He emerged into the bright sunlight and met the last person on earth he wanted to see just then.

  ‘Eccles! So how is my former valet fnding his new quarters?’ Kingsley-Hampton was accompanied by an olive-skinned young gentleman with a noticeable limp and an elegant, silver-tipped walking cane.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Eccles who tried to continue on his way but Kingsley-Hampton stretched his arm out to lean against the wall and block his path.

  ‘May I introduce my new roommate, Felipe Banzarro.’ When Eccles out of politeness offered his hand to Mr Banzarro, Kingsley-Hampton

  cut him short, ‘Felipe, I wouldn’t bother,’ before offering Eccles a disdainful facial movement that resembled a smile and turned to leave. At the last moment he paused to secure the last word.

  ‘Oh, I think the vice-chancellor might want a word with you after this scurrilous art-icle in Styx with your name in it. Enjoy whatever dead-beat red-brick university you end up in.’ Kingsley-Hampton threw the copy of Styx so it landed just short of Eccles.

  ‘Come on, Felipe, I’m parched. Let’s get some refreshments.’ Kingsley-Hampton strode on, and had to pause for a second for Mr Banzarro to catch

  up.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Banzarro when he drew alongside. ‘No-one important. Just that Eccles deadbeat I threw out so you could come back.’ ‘The one who was trying to fnd your mysterious dining society for you?’ ‘The very same, but he couldn’t fnd his nose to pick in the dark. He was mildly en-

  tertaining, even useful for a while, but then he grew rather tiresome. The fnal straw was when he started inviting his new-found rowing trolls over to my room.’

  ‘Well, maybe we should just start our own dining society, The Dangerous Dining Club, sounds rather good.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. After that article in Styx that other crowd aren’t going to last long… God, it’s good to have you back in Oxford, Felipe. It’s been very dull so far this year.’

  *

  Kingsley-Hampton had unwittingly helped Patrick Eccles in providing the perfect anti-dote to his state of hopeless anxiety. In that curious way that anger can cure despair, Ec-cles stooped to pick up the copy of Styx from the fagstones and, as he regained his full height, found that his mind was clear. Eccles walked into Chapel Quad and caught sight of the man he had been looking for. The chaplain was standing at the chapel door strug-gling with keys. In the time it took for Eccles to reach him, Charles Pinker had managed to lock the door, walk away and return to check and relock the door all over again.

  ‘Chaplain, could I have a word?’

  ‘Oh, er… Eccles. Of course, of course, young man. Now what is it?’ said the chap-lain, struggling to clear his mind of thoughts of Arthur’s leg after the long one-sided conversation he had just had with it. With a sudden mini-heatwave in the making, all the members of the shadow faculty had been taking extra care to ensure that the curing process didn’t go awry. Heat could be benefcial to the process of air-drying, but only in moderation.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit delicate and I’d rather tell you in private. If you don’t mind?’ ‘Not at all, come to my rooms and have a cup of tea. Nothing a chat and a cup of tea

  can’t help, I’m sure.’ Charles smiled at Eccles, delighted at the distraction of some nice simple pastoral issue that he assumed was troubling the young man.

  In the chaplain’s rooms, Eccles settled himself in one of the armchairs. Reverend Pinker busied himself with preparing the tea while keeping the conversation to safe top-ics such as the state of the window boxes, the weather and the refreshments.

  ‘Lapsang okay for you, er… Patrick, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you, Reverend.’

  ‘I’ll call for some cucumber sandwiches too, Gerard will be able to knock them up in no time.’

  Charles swirled the small pot trying to hasten the process of infusion and then opened a small miniature bottle of whiskey, which he tipped into the pot. He always found for-tifed tea was an even better restorative in diffcult situations and that resinous Chinese teas like Lapsang masked the favour of the whiskey rather well.

  ‘So let’s get this tea poured and you can tell me what’s troubling you,’ said Charles Pinker bringing the tray across and placing it on the table in front of them.

  ‘Oh, I must call Gerard for those sandwiches.’ He poured the tea and then made the brief telephone call to the senior common room parlour.

  ‘Now, what do you think of this tea?’ asked the chaplain. Eccles took a large slug of tea and had to admit that it was one of the fnest cups of

  tea he had ever tasted.

  ‘Now,’ said the chaplain, ‘where were we?’

  ‘Well it seems I may be in some trouble because of this article that’s just appeared in Styx .’

  ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you, dear boy,’ said the chaplain as he unfolded the newspaper that Eccles thrust anxiously at him. Ec-cles waited for the chaplain to read down, but after a second or two of silence couldn’t help defending himself.

  ‘Of course, it’s all wrong. They quoted me but I’ve nothing to do with this story really, and they’ve got all the names wrong.’

  The chaplain remained silent, staring at the front page of Styx . ‘It’s my roommate, Matthew Kingsley-Hampton. He found the menu and bullied the

  editor of Styx into publishing this story… You see he wanted to know who was in this dining society because he felt he should have known about it. Well, he really thought he should have been invited to join.’

 
; The chaplain was now shaking his head, but still showed no signs of imminent speech.

  ‘I’m afraid that my tutor Dr Bloom might be involved because I overheard a con-versation at Professor Plantagenet’s service, and I don’t want to cause any trouble for him… or the college… so I thought you might know what to do?’

  ‘I see,’ the chaplain said before running out of words. The tension was broken by a knock on the door, as Gerard brought in a plate of cucumber sandwiches and small cakes.

  ‘Thank you, Gerard,’ said the chaplain while Gerard made a discreet exit. ‘Oh, Ger-ard, could you do me a favour and see if you can track down Augustus Bloom and ask him to join us. I last saw him in the fellows’ garden.’

  Gerard nodded, gave a small bow and left the chaplain and an ashen-faced Eccles to their cucumber sandwiches.

  Chapter 31

  Into the warm silence of an unsuspecting summer morning in St Jerome’s came an un-welcome intrusion – the sound of hobnailed boots. In the lodge the sound grew louder second by second until it was suddenly silenced as the source came into view. Potts lifted his bowler-hatted head to the rare sight of two more bowler hats gazing back and four now silent boots. The hats and boots belonged to two Bulldogs. Potts had a comradely respect for these university policemen as long as they didn’t trespass into his college, but they were now standing frmly on college ground.

  ‘Mr Percival Potts. Long time no see,’ said Brian O’Donnell, the thicker necked and older of the two Bulldogs, who was an old acquaintance of Potts.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Potts in reply.

  ‘The vice-chancellor has sent us to personally deliver this letter to a Mr Patrick Eccles and I’ve got another for his tutor, Dr Bloom,’ continued O’Donnell while his companion remained in silent solidarity, which was clearly the only role he intended to play.

  ‘Leave it with me and I’ll see that they get them,’ said Potts. ‘I’m afraid the vice-chancellor was quite specifc. We aren’t to leave until we have

  personally delivered them both.’