‘So it seems. Fortunately we have other charges to lay before Dr Bloom under the Human Tissues Act of 1961.’
‘I am quite familiar with that act Cornelius and it quite clearly allows Professor Plant-agenet to leave parts of his body for research as he did. I can’t see what crime has been committed under that act.’
‘The 1961 act clearly states that any body part should be removed by a registered medical practitioner. It clearly was not removed by a registered medical practitioner but a mortuary assistant.’
‘You can scarcely be considering charging my client with not removing the leg of Professor Plantagenet.’
‘As executor of the will and a registered medical practitioner he should have ensured that he or another doctor removed the limb.’
‘As the statement from your witness, Mr Hogarth, clearly states, my client was not present at the removal of the leg and indeed until the leg was delivered he had no idea that these events were taking place. Therefore he can be no more held responsible for not removing Professor Plantagenet’s leg than any other doctor. If my client is guilty of not removing Professor Plantagenet’s leg then by extension so is every registered medical practitioner in the land. The only people who could possibly be charged of this supposed crime, are the professor himself who made these arrangements and the man who did re-move the leg, your Mr Hogarth. Since Mr Hogarth was acting under direct instructions of Professor Plantagenet, the guilt lies clearly with the professor. Sadly, Arthur Planta-genet is now dead and unable to be charged with any crime other than being a fne ex-ample of an English eccentric.’
‘Eccentric? Do you think that justifes this bizarre behaviour? It is an outrage to have bits of bodies stored wherever people want. I’ve never heard the like of it.’
‘Really? There are some eminent precedents.’ Barringer paused and smiled at the in-spector. ‘Weren’t you a member of the Benthamites when we were at Magdalen College all those years ago?’
The inspector glared at his adversary in disbelief at the mention of what he had hoped was a long-forgotten chapter in his life.
‘As you must remember your hero, Jeremy Bentham donated his body to be pre-served in a glass case in University College London. I believe you were part of a group that managed to steal his head on one occasion.’ Mr Barringer looked at the inspector waiting for a response. When he received only the most cursory humph he continued.
‘Arthur Plantagenet and Jeremy Bentham were both remarkable men who shared ec-centric wishes for how their bodies were to be dealt with after their death. It would be a sad day if we were to lose our admiration for eccentricity Cornelius. We’ve lost most of the empire and seem intent on misplacing the rest. Last week we even lost Tonga 14 . If we end up discouraging all forms of eccentric behaviour then we might as well give up and call ourselves American.’ Mr Barringer smiled across the table.
The inspector stood up, his face contorted with anger, and opened the door. ‘Do I take it that my client will face no charges and is free to go?’ The inspector, temporarily lost for words, nodded.
Augustus had been held at the police station for barely half a day, yet on stepping out that evening he discovered a quite unsuspected new taste, freedom. Undoubtedly this is one of the most pleasurable tastes that man and nature conspiring together can create. Sadly one can only truly savour it by being incarcerated frst. Most of us, who have nev-er lost our freedom or like Augustus feared its loss, wander through our liberated exist-ences as oblivious to our freedom as a blind man walking through a picture gallery is to the beautiful art all around. For that intense moment as he stood on the pavement in the slanting summer sunlight Augustus’ eyes were wide open to delights of liberty.
‘Well, that was a close call, Dr Bloom,’ said Mr Barringer appearing from inside the police station.
‘How can I repay you? You were brilliant,’ said Augustus, enveloping Mr Barringer’s right hand in both of his own.
‘Please, call me Edgar, and as for repayment, a promise never to invite me to one of your dinners will suffce.’
‘You’ve no idea what culinary delights you’d be missing,’ laughed Augustus. ‘As you must now be,’ said Mr Barringer. ‘I dare say if you hurry you might make it
in time for the main course.’
Augustus looked at his watch, barely quarter past seven. He’d easily catch the hors d’oeuvres if he hurried but frst he had to satisfy his curiosity.
‘By the way Edgar, who were the Benthamites?’ ‘In his frst two years at Magdalen, Cornelius Granger was a member of a hedonist
dining society dedicated to Jeremy Bentham, a philosopher of the utilitarian school who held that pleasure is the only universal good and that as humans our goal should be to ensure the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. There are stories from that time that Cornelius would undoubtedly wish to be kept quiet considering his current profession. I wondered whether playing that card was the right thing to do. In the end it seems to have brought things to a most satisfactory conclusion.’
‘Is that why he gave you such a frosty reception when you came in?’ ‘It was probably more to do with a young lady we both knew and even came to blows
about; a lady who is now Mrs Emily Barringer, my wife. I don’t believe Cornelius ever forgave me or forgot her.’
‘Hard to imagine Granger devoting his life to the pursuit of happiness and fghting with his bare fsts for a lady. He’s a nasty piece of work now.’
‘Bitterness can do that to a man, Augustus. In the end I think Bentham was right. There is no shame in wishing to be happy and no fate better than being happy.’
‘Arthur would certainly have agreed with that. Though his legacy has created more grief than happiness so far,’ said Augustus refecting on the torment of the last few months.
‘I’m sure in a few years’ time this whole story will bring great delight in its retelling. Perhaps over dinner, and talking of which, shouldn’t you be at yours?’ 14 Tonga left the British Empire on June 4th 1970, gaining independence after seventy years of colonial rule.
Chapter 42
The table had been laid as beautifully as ever, the college silver catching the early evening light streaming through the huge bay window at the end of the room. A large bouquet of lilies and white roses adorned the sideboard. This was an unusual addition to the room but Gerard had been informed that a lady would be present, and, despite knowing little of the gentler sex, he knew they appreciated fowers. The candlesticks were primed and the wicks trimmed to just the right length but still unlit. Arthur’s portrait, brought in from the Great Hall for the occasion, looked down from the walls enjoying a peace that no living soul can experience, the solitude of a completely empty room prepared for a feast.
This was potentially the fnal dinner of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science. Rule seven of the constitution of the shadow faculty states that ‘The Shadow Faculty will remain in existence until the University of Oxford inaugurates an offcial Faculty of Gastronomic Science’. If the vice-chancellor could be prevailed upon to accept the condi-tions of Arthur Plantagenet’s bequest during the course of dinner, this would be a sad day for the shadow faculty but a momentous one in the history of gastronomy. As the Master had indicated, the guest list, with the exception of the vice-chancellor, included a very distinguished group in terms of gastronomic expertise. Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher, though most famous for her translation of Brillat-Savarin, was a distinguished food writer with a long list of publications that included such intriguing titles as How to Cook a Wolf . Hamish had invited a young chemist by the curious name of Credo Ottwater who had a particular fascination for the baffing relationship between chemical structure and smell, whose interests spanned from perfumes to food additives. George Le Strang had invited an historian from Christchurch by the name of Oliver Liddell who was researching a book on dining rights through the ages. Charles Pinker’s guest, Reginald Hargreaves, was an expert on Caravaggio and Italian still-life paintings from the Cou
rtauld Institute in Lon-don. Theodore Flanagan had drawn the short straw. He had not chosen a guest by the time the invitation to the vice-chancellor was issued, so he had the honour of hosting the good Dr Ridgeway as well as looking after Mary Frances.
The door burst open with Hamish McIntyre leading the way. Several hours of cocktail-testing had left him in voluble form and he was regaling his guest Credo Ottwater with a song about a centipede.
A centipede was happy quite ,
Until a frog in fun said:
‘ Pray tell which leg comes after which? ’
This raised her mind to such a pitch ,
she lay distracted in a ditch …
On entering the room, Dr Ottwater took his chance to distance himself from his host’s rendition to bury his nose in the fowers. As he lifted his head he discreetly plucked one of the roses and gently placed it inside his jacket pocket. Sadly, the lady for whom the fowers had been intended was oblivious to their charms, due to her sudden delight in seeing her own host Augustus Bloom standing on the far side of the table.
‘Augustus, you made it.’ Mary Frances rushed around the table and, somewhat liber-ated by the effects of Hamish’s mojitos, threw her arms around Augustus.
‘So you sprung your student from the sheriff ’s clutches,’ she said with an exaggerated American accent once they had disentangled themselves.
‘Oh indeed, snatched from the gallows.’
‘Was it the same boys as this morning? What were they up to this time?’ ‘Oh, it’s a long and rather complicated story, Mary Frances,’ said Augustus, his desire
to explain any further suppressed by the appearance in the doorway of the vice-chancel-lor himself, who glared across at Augustus with a novel blend of contempt and surprise.
Theodore rushed over to the pair of them.
‘Well done Augustus, you made it. You had me worried on the phone. How did you get off?’ Seeing the puzzled look on Mary Frances’ face, Theodore corrected himself, ‘I mean get him off?’
‘Old Barringer came down himself, thanks to your call. He played a blinder as you would say, Theodore.’
‘Brilliant. Look you can tell me all the details later but now you’re here you’d better look after Arthur’s cheque.’ Theodore pulled the cheque from his pocket under the watchful eye of the vice-chancellor and gave it to Augustus.
‘Enough of this chit-chat,’ said Mary Frances, taking Augustus’ arm. ‘Let me tell you about my new book.’
As they made their way across the room to the dining table, the vice-chancellor tried to cut in.
‘Dr Bloom, could I possibly have a word before dinner?’ ‘Unfortunately I think we are just about to start. Now you’ll be sitting here, vice-
chancellor.’
Augustus moved around the table to his own seat, which was several places further on, ushering Mary Frances to his left. That should have placed the vice-chancellor at a safe distance with Hamish and his guest Dr Ottwater in between. The vice-chancellor had other plans and, as soon as Augustus had turned his back, he deftly swapped his name card with Dr Ottwater’s and stood back from the table to let events unfold. Gerard moved around the table flling one of the two champagne glasses laid out at each setting with vintage Bollinger champagne. When Augustus took his place he had the unpleasant experience of fnding the vice-chancellor on his right.
‘So glad you could join us, Dr Bloom,’ said the vice-chancellor. ‘I noticed you were delayed. Nothing serious I hope?’
‘A little misunderstanding, but my solicitor sorted it all out,’ Augustus replied with a barb in his voice, certain that the vice-chancellor was behind it all.
‘That is good news I’m sure. Now about this cookery faculty… ’ ‘Faculty of Gastronomic Science,’ Augustus corrected him. ‘Well, titles apart, we obviously can’t set up this faculty without spending time and
a little money frst in research and resource planning. So if you could just hand me the cheque at an appropriate moment during dinner, I will of course provide a full account of our progress but it would naturally be a slow and possibly expensive process.’
‘A vote approving the setting up of the faculty at Hebdomadal Council would suffce. Until then the cheque is quite safe,’ said Augustus patting his jacket. Then he raised his glass and announced the frst toast of the dinner, which was dedicated to the man who had frst inspired their endeavours, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin.
‘Who is this Jean whatsit we are all toasting?’ the vice-chancellor asked. ‘A dead Frenchman you have clearly never heard of,’ said Augustus shaking his head
in disbelief before draining his glass entirely. Fortunately, Gerard was on hand in mo-ments to immediately refll it.
‘Best sort to my mind,’ said the vice-chancellor. ‘Not as good as a dead vice-chancellor,’ muttered Augustus under his breath as
Charles said grace and set the scene for George Le Strang to describe the theme for this particular dinner.
‘Lady and Gentlemen,’ George began. ‘Tonight’s dinner explores every aspect of gastronomy to exemplify the breadth and signifcance of this neglected science, in the hope that our ancient university will have the foresight to accept Arthur Plantagenet’s legacy and create the world’s frst Faculty of Gastronomic Science. With the experience of our distinguished guests, I hope we can explore the visual, olfactory, historical and literary facets of dining. In the spirit of exploration may I present a frst challenge, a comparison of the taste of champagne from a modern champagne fute with the tradi-tional coupe.’
‘I thought the fute has been determined to be best because it helps to keep the bubbles. It’s all about surface area isn’t it?’ offered Reginald Hargreaves, showing a re-markable grasp of physics for an art historian.
The discussion was then taken deep into the realm of science by a rather tedious ana-lysis of the nucleation process for bubbles and carbon dioxide content of champagne, led by Credo Ottwater who seemed momentarily to forget he was at dinner and not in the lecture hall. Mary Frances sat back in her chair sipping her champagne from her preferred coupe glass. When the conversation on the physics of bubbles petered out she entered the fray.
‘Gentlemen, Gentlemen. You are missing the point. The only person who would want to keep their champagne fzzy for longer is someone who drinks it very slowly. To my mind anyone who drinks a glass of champagne slowly shouldn’t be allowed to drink it in the frst place.’
George Le Strang, a frm enthusiast for the fattened coupe, banged the table in agree-ment.
‘And besides,’ continued Mary Frances. ‘This glorious design is more fun and to my mind the more fun you are having the better any champagne will taste.’
‘How about this Mary Antoinette and her… ’ Hamish stopped mid-sentence. ‘Breasts?’ said Mary Frances.
‘Exactly, are these glasses really shaped on hers?’ ‘Well, as the only person in this room who has a pair of breasts may I say that she
must have been a strange-shaped gal.’
‘You are quite right to cast doubt on this story, Madam,’ said Dr Liddell. ‘History does not accurately record the shape of her breasts but this design of glass frst appeared in England in 1663, almost a century before the young lady was even born.’
‘And did you know she was betrayed by that most powerful of the gastronomic senses, smell? On attempting to escape Paris after the revolution dressed as a commoner she was pulled from the crowd on account of her fne perfume,’ said Credo Ottwater who, having spotted Mary Frances yawn during his earlier pronouncements on bubble nucleation, was keen to redress the tone of his contributions.
‘One of the lesser-known lessons from the French Revolution: better to drink like a queen and smell like a peasant, than drink like a peasant and smell like a queen,’ said Mary Frances, raising her glass. She was beginning to enjoy this dinner. In contrast, Augustus was starting to show some signs of nerves and hoped the conversation might fow into calmer waters. From where he was sitting the surface area of champagne
glasses and bubble nucleation seemed to be a perfect topic of conversation.
The arrival of the amuse-gueule offered to provide an antidote to the surfeit of cham-pagne. On each plate was a piece of San Daniele ham rolled around a fg that had been soaked in a mixture of cassis and brandy for several days. Inside each fg a core of Stilton had been carefully inserted so as to conceal its presence from casual inspection.
‘Devils on horseback, just what I felt like,’ said Hamish pulling out the silver pin that was securing the ham.
The vice-chancellor poked the object on his plate with a fork in the same way a young boy applies a stick to a cadaverous bird found on the road.
‘Please tell me this isn’t anything to do with a horse.’ ‘Not at all,’ said George Le Strang with his mouth full. ‘Mind you, we did serve up a
wonderful horse dish last Christmas.’
Charles Pinker then rose to his feet to get the attention of his fellow diners and intro-duce his guest.
‘Gentlemen and Gentlewoman. May I introduce my guest Reginald Hargreaves from the Courtauld Institute in London: an art historian with a particular interest in the visual aspects of food.’
‘Thank you, Charles,’ Dr Hargreaves replied with a gracious nod. ‘May I introduce a novel concept in gastronomy created in honour of my host and Epicurus, the Epicurate’s egg. An egg as you have never experienced, of many parts but, unlike the better known curate’s egg, excellent in all of them.’
To the great surprise of all but Charles Pinker and Dr Hargreaves, who had concocted this dish together, this dish seemed to comprise of a hard-boiled duck egg sitting in a small nest. Charles Pinker had mentioned George’s truffe-and-Worcestershire-sauce-in-jected quail eggs to his guest who had taken the concept to a new level. After much experimentation and wasted eggs, Dr Hargreaves had perfected a technique to inject dif-ferent regions of a parboiled egg with different favours prior to completing the boiling process. The parboiling had proved to be an important step in limiting the mixing to-gether of the favours and colours while still allowing them to spread within one region of the egg.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 33
