The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  ‘Good afternoon, Gentlemen,’ said the inspector as he entered. Much to the inspector’s delight, Augustus stood up as he entered the room, a courtesy

  rarely shown by the criminal classes. Theodore felt no such compunction. Not because of any base criminality, but on account of his antipathy to the British constabulary after the Bogside riots the previous year.

  ‘May I introduce Theodore Flanagan,’ said Augustus once Inspector Granger had taken his seat on the opposite side of the small interview table.

  ‘Your solicitor?’

  ‘No, he’s the law tutor at St Jerome’s and a fellow executor of Arthur Plantagenet’s will,’ explained Augustus.

  ‘Welcome, Dr Flanagan,’ said the inspector, clearly rather amused. ‘Though I should say, Dr Bloom, that in light of the seriousness of the situation you may wish to contact a proper solicitor when we do formally charge you.’

  ‘I don’t believe that is a likely event, inspector,’ said Theodore, bristling at the in-spector’s pointed emphasis on the word proper.

  ‘Really? Well let’s review the facts surrounding the theft and disappearance of Pro-fessor Arthur Plantagenet’s leg, shall we? A mortuary assistant by the name of Frederick Hogarth has told us that he was requested by Mr Potts, porter of St Jerome’s College, to remove the professor’s leg prior to the body being released to the undertakers. It was then taken by Mr Potts to you, Dr Bloom, at the University Laboratory of Physiology and at present the whereabouts of this limb are unknown. Isn’t that correct, Dr Bloom?’ ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken in several important details, inspector,’ said Augustus. ‘Firstly, from my discussions with Mr Potts, the request for the removal of the leg was made in writing by Arthur Plantagenet himself prior to his death with Mr Potts merely delivering a sealed letter. The mortuary attendant was apparently instructed by this letter

  written by Arthur to pack the limb into a box and address it to me.’ ‘I see,’ said the inspector, taking notes. ‘We will of course have to verify that with

  our own witness to these events, Mr Hogarth.’

  ‘Hardly a man of good character by all accounts,’ interjected Theodore. ‘Perhaps not, Dr Flanagan, but his extensive criminal record is no shorter or longer

  than that of your own Mr Potts. Be that as it may, Dr Bloom, you do not seem to dispute the fact that you received the dismembered limb of one of your colleagues and have so far refused to explain its whereabouts.’

  ‘I did indeed receive the leg according to Arthur Plantagenet’s will and it is in safe-keeping until we can comply with the wishes in his will.’

  ‘Ah yes, the secretive will,’ said the inspector. ‘I can scarcely imagine what possible will would require one’s leg to be removed after death and delivered on ice to a laborat-ory of physiology. It all sounds rather Frankenstein-like, does it not, Dr Bloom?’

  ‘Some people donate their bodies to science. Others like Arthur decide to donate just one part of their body, as he is quite entitled to,’ said Augustus.

  ‘Yes, but it is the manner in which it was done that raises suspicions, Dr Bloom. May I see this will?’

  ‘I don’t believe there is any need for that,’ interjected Theodore. ‘Well I do,’ said the inspector, becoming irritated with the whole carry-on. ‘Under the 1961 Human Tissues Act,’ continued Theodore, ignoring the inspector’s

  last comment, ‘a person can request in writing that any part of their body be removed after their death for medical purposes, teaching or research. Arthur Plantagenet’s written wishes were conveyed to Mr Hogarth in writing.’

  ‘That may be so, but did you ask the hospital’s permission? No, you did not. So there is the question of theft and handling stolen property. I propose to press charges on that score at least.’

  ‘I think you will fnd that under common law no person actually owns a dead body as it belongs to the earth. As a body is not property it cannot legally or logically be stolen.’ Theodore concluded his case by sitting back in his chair and smiling at the inspector, which only infuriated the poor man even further.

  ‘You clearly both think you are very clever, as I’m sure you are in your own felds of study, but rest assured what happened here is indecent, immoral and undoubtedly illegal. Dr Bloom, I am not yet ready to bring formal charges… ’

  ‘So I am free to go?’ Augustus interrupted.

  ‘For now. But I am formally cautioning you not to leave Oxford as I fully expect to have you charged and brought before the courts within a matter of weeks.’

  Chapter 38

  The entire senior common room had assembled in the college cloisters and were strug-gling through glasses of sherry that were overly sweet and entirely lacking in quality. The reason for their fate was revealed when Mr Potts, who had been standing on guard by the door, made his announcement.

  ‘Gentlemen, the victorious frst VIII.

  The frst VIII, in their full rowing regalia of cream blazers trimmed in purple silk, entered to polite applause from the dons. Their success at Eights week had earned the whole college a bumps supper and the crew a congratulatory drink with the senior com-mon room, though in deference to fnal examinations this had been deferred a few weeks. Despite their temporarily elevated status, this was no reason to change the tradition of offering only the cheapest sherry at any event where undergraduates were present, even those of sporting prowess. George Le Strang, who had never as much as touched an oar in his entire life, had just engaged the stroke of the frst VIII, a classicist who went by the unusual name of Atticus Plunkett in a polite if slightly stilted conversation, when Hamish McIntyre sidled up.

  ‘Come on lads, time to pour that flth into the fower beds.’ Hamish’s words were ex-plained by the appearance of a battered pewter hip fask. At this, George Le Strang dis-creetly discharged his glass through the glassless stone window onto the innocent but now doomed bedding plants that lined the walls of the cloisters. Atticus Plunkett, realising that the instruction was meant to be taken literally, followed the lead set by George and held out his now empty glass.

  ‘A pleasant 1949 Armagnac that just happens to be a similar colour to this disgrace of a sherry,’ explained Hamish to his grateful audience.

  ‘Thank you, quite a treat. 1949, goodness I hadn’t even been born then, er, Dr… ’ stuttered young Plunkett.

  ‘McIntyre, Hamish McIntyre, zoologist extraordinaire at your service,’ said Hamish offering one of his bear-like hands that swallowed the not insubstantial digits of the young rower. The glowing burn of the frst sip of Armagnac had barely reached the end of their respective oesophagi before Gerard came and shook the handbell that called the guests to dinner.

  They fled out of the cloisters in a straggling line and made their way across Chapel Quad towards the Hall. While the members of the senior common room and their guests fled in past the standing ranks of undergraduates and members of the lesser crews, the choir intoned the college song ‘Floreat Sanctus Jeromiensis’ from the balcony in a new four part arrangement prepared especially for the occasion by the Reverend Pinker. This performance was met with respectful silence. As raucous as the members of the boat club could certainly be on occasion, they were, at least in the early part of any evening, all gentlemen.

  After grace, the doors opened to let in the swarm of scouts carrying plates. This pro-cess of food delivery happened as if by magic for the diners, as they generally had only a subliminal awareness of the scouts at such moments. The hall exploded into conversa-tion and as the food arrived, the members of the college were lost in the needs of their stomachs. On this occasion they should, however, have paid more attention. Amongst the wiry old men and stocky grandmother fgures that made up the usual servers a young girl of eighteen moved gracefully forwards.

  In a college entirely bereft of young ladies and full of young men in the vigorous fush of incipient manhood she should have created a sensation, instead she passed through the hall like a mirage. Invisible to all except one young man sitting with his back agains
t the carved oak panelling, mute and unresponsive to all questions. He was transfxed by this young lady as she made several forays to serve the tables on the other side of the hall. Walking fast without rushing, she exuded grace amid the bustle. Eccles had to ima-gine her long blond hair. It was pinned up but for a few enticing locks that fell down from beneath her cap and onto her gracefully curved neck. He suddenly knew why his grand gesture in the river had failed. The Duke of Dorset had sunk to the bottom of the Isis, dragged down by the weight of unrequited love and a vision in his mind of Zuleika Dobson. Here in front of his eyes was a woman to die for. Eccles was brought back from his reverie by a solid dig in the ribs from a fellow member of his crew, Roger Sinclair.

  ‘Eccles, have you heard a word I said?’

  ‘Of course, but did you see that girl?’

  ‘What girl?’ asked Roger, craning his head.

  ‘One of the scouts. God knows what she’s doing here, but she’s gorgeous.’ ‘“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more temperate and beautiful,”’

  quoted Roger, showing off the meagre educational gains he had acquired in his years at Oxford. ‘But really, Patrick, a scout? There are probably laws against that sort of thing.’

  Before Patrick could utter any words of defence, Roger shouted down the table. ‘Guys listen to this, Eccles fancies one of the scouts!’ This was met by a chorus of jeers from the rest of the table. ‘Come on lads, we’ll have a whip-round and send him off to Mollie’s 11 . Clearly a bad

  case of full bag encephalopathy,’ said Luke Blandford, one of Eccles’ fellow medical students and crewmate who had a fne line in spurious medical diagnoses.

  ‘Full bag what?’

  ‘A form of brain rot caused by excessive sexual abstinence, very dangerous altogeth-er. You either go mad or your scrotum explodes, very messy either way. Here Eccles, have my pint. You clearly need it more than I do.’

  A pint of beer in a battered silver pot slid down the table as his fellow rowers banged their spoons on the table. In the spirit of the moment he downed the beer in a single draught.

  *

  As the frst plates reached high table, Hamish let out a quiet but indiscreet, ‘Yes!’ The reason for his excitement was sitting on his plate partially hidden by a slice of sea-bream terrine. There, lay fve plump spears of the king of vegetables – asparagus – and with it the chance for an asparagus race. What more ftting occasion for an asparagus race could there be than a dinner dedicated to a boat race. Once all on high table had been served, Hamish cast his eye around and declared to the entire table.

  ‘I see the princely shoot has arrived.’

  This was met by a mixture of bemused looks and polite nods from most of the diners, but knowing smiles from members of the declining dining society. The rules of the St Jerome’s asparagus race are fairly simple. There is no formal starting gun for an as-paragus race; such races are carried out by subterfuge under the very noses of those gast-ronomically less enlightened dons who might regard it as rather childish. Amongst the members of the shadow faculty, a race can be declared by any member with the words uttered a few seconds earlier by Hamish McIntyre. To be a race it naturally requires at least two competitors, so in accepting the challenge one replies with the innocuously cryptic response: ‘Indeed, and would you have the correct time?’ This curious inter-change serves the very practical purpose of allowing all participants to synchronise their watches. After this is done, those who accept the challenge will wait with fork raised until all have been served. To ensure that all participants take their frst mouthful at the same time, they must all wait for the nod of whoever declared the race before any as-paragus can enter their mouths.

  Once the race has commenced it continues without any visible manifestations until the frst competitor stands and excuses themselves to allow a visit to the toilet facilities. As soon as the frst competitor leaves everyone else remains seated until he returns either victorious or shaking his head in failure, in which case another competitor can take up the mantle. The nature of victory? To be the frst to pass water laced with the rich aroma of asparagus. It is of course a gamble whether to go early in the hope that one’s kidneys are working fast or bide one’s time to be sure that the aroma has reached one’s bladder in suffcient concentration to be detected. It is also highly dependent on what else has been consumed earlier in the meal and the state of one’s bladder when a race is declared. For the shadow faculty of gastronomic science an asparagus race was a very serious event, but one which Charles Pinker could barely comprehend, as he was born with a complete inability to smell the chemical that is excreted in urine after eating asparagus. It is remarkable that the potent scent of asparagus-scented urine, so vivid to most, can be entirely undetectable to some. A few unfortunate souls even lack an ability to smell the specific aroma of truffes, and so go through life blind to the delights of gastronomy’s fnest fungus. Needless to say, no-one in the shadow faculty of gastronomic science was afficted by this most extreme form of culinary blindness. Augustus’ attempts to explain this medical condition, a form of specifc anosmia, to Charles, did little to increase the chaplain’s understanding of an asparagus race, which remained as incomprehensible to

  him as a game of musical chairs would be to a deaf man. The plates had barely been collected from high table before Hamish rose to his feet

  only nine minutes into the race.

  ‘The enthusiasm of youth,’ muttered Theodore Flanagan to his neighbour George Le Strang who glanced at his watch nervously. If Hamish’s kidneys could deliver this prodi-gious feat of metabolism, Le Strang’s own record would be shattered.

  ‘Folly was the word you were looking for,’ replied Le Strang, as all the faculty’s eyes followed Hamish down the length of the hall.

  The delivery of new glasses and a fne Pomerol distracted their attention to such an extent that Hamish was almost back to his seat before he was spotted. His movement and stance said it all. He had, in athletics parlance, crashed into the frst hurdle and sprawled on the track was now out of the race. George Le Strang made a modest if unsuccessful effort to conceal the smile that was forming on his lips as he moved his chair back in anticipation of taking up the challenge.

  ‘Your record is safe,’ said Hamish as he passed behind Le Strang and gave him a comradely pat on the back. The brief turn of the head that Le Strang gave in acknow-ledgement was enough to let Theodore rise to his feet ahead of him.

  When Theodore returned down the hall a few minutes later it was clear that victory was his. One might reasonably wonder how victory was judged in the absence of an umpire at the urinal. After all, even the gentlemanly game of cricket requires two um-pires. An asparagus race was of course a game of honour and, as victory without honour is worse than an honourable defeat, there was never a need to doubt a result. The only question that was adjudicated was the time. Charles Pinker, by dint of his olfactory han-dicap, was the unspoken timekeeper.

  ‘Sixteen minutes and twenty seconds. I think that equals the record doesn’t it?’ said the chaplain as Theodore sat down.

  ‘Congratulations Theodore,’ said Le Strang, raising his glass. ‘To the supremacy of French and Irish kidneys over weaker English organs.’

  After this toast, which caused an understandable degree of consternation amongst the other guests at high table, the chaplain congratulated himself on maintaining détente by declaring a dead heat in a race that could have been reasonably called either way. For all his magnanimity, Le Strang was furious at Hamish, convinced that his pat on the back had been a deliberate piece of gamesmanship rather than well-meaning bonhomie. As for the victor, Theodore Flanagan, next time he vowed to walk back to the table a little faster.

  Gastronomically speaking the rest of the dinner was unremarkable. That is not to say it was a dull occasion. The captain of boats’ speech was a veritable tour de force, the eloquence of Cicero combined with a base humour that would have made Nero blush. The cancan, performed by the third VIII from the
balcony complete with stock-ings and heavy layered skirts, obtained at short notice by the ever resourceful Mr Potts, received great acclaim. The greatest cheer was reserved for former coach of the frst VIII and deeply missed patron of the boat club, Professor Arthur Plantagenet. As Augustus Bloom invited glasses to be raised in the fnal toast to their recently departed friend, a chant started in the far corner of the hall.

  ‘Planty, Planty, Planty… ’ This chant, Arthur’s nickname since his own undergradu-ate days, spread around the hall as everyone rose to their feet. Every available piece of silverware was recruited to provide a percussive accompaniment to this chant. As the spoons became fatter with every bang on the table, the chant got faster and faster until it broke down into a monumental roar that reached across the quad to shake the very organ pipe where Planty’s left leg now hung. Thanks to the Master, Arthur Plantagen-et witnessed this scene for himself. Lord Faulkner had ordered the hanging of Arthur’s portrait in the hall, a decision that had met with general approval despite the fact that the artist had left Arthur with an uncharacteristically serious expression. Had anyone been looking at Professor Plantagenet’s portrait during the chant, they might have noticed his initially sombre features ease into what almost looked like a smile.

  Rather than retire directly to the senior common room parlour after dinner, the diners from high table had gathered at the foot of the stone staircase that lead to the hall en-joying the last light of a fne summer evening. Gerard was offering around strawberries and glasses of white port as Patrick Eccles came alongside Dr Bloom. Augustus had, in light of recent events, been understandably rather subdued for most of the evening. A fact most amply demonstrated by the fact that he hadn’t even attempted to take part in the asparagus race, a sport he normally excelled in. He had, of course, risen to the occa-sion when asked to raise the toast for Arthur but he was now standing silently lost in his thoughts.

  ‘Dr Bloom, I, er… well some of the crew were wondering if we could buy you a pint.’