Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Jesus, of course it’s safe. This isn’t Central Park, New York.”

  “I agree,” said Stephen, “but it hasn’t always been so over the past three hundred years, and tradition dies hard in England.”

  “And who’s that behind the Bedel fellows?”

  “The one wearing the black gown with gold trimmings is the Chancellor of the university, accompanied by his page. The Chancellor is the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of Great Britain in the late ’50’s and early ’60’s.”

  “Oh yes, I remember the guy. Tried to get the British into Europe but De Gaulle wouldn’t have it.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of remembering him. Now, he’s followed by the Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Habakkuk, who is also the Principal of Jesus College.”

  “You’re losing me, Professor.”

  “Well, the Chancellor is always a distinguished Englishman who was educated at Oxford; but the Vice-Chancellor is a leading member of the university itself and is usually chosen from the heads of one of the colleges.”

  “Got it, I think.”

  “Now, after him, we have the University Registrar, Mr. Caston, who is a fellow of Merton College. He is the senior administrator of the university, or you might look on him as the university’s top civil servant. He’s directly responsible to the Vice-Chancellor and Hebdomadal Council, who are the sort of cabinet for the university. Behind them we have the Senior Proctor, Mr. Campbell of Worcester College, and the Junior Proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New College.”

  “What’s a Proctor?”

  “For over 700 years the Proctors have been responsible for decency and discipline in the university.”

  “What? Those two old men take care of 9,000 rowdy youths?”

  “Well, they are helped by the bulldogs,” said Stephen.

  “Ah, that’s better, I suppose. A couple of bites from an old English bulldog would keep anyone in order.”

  “No, no,” protested Stephen, trying desperately not to laugh. “The name bulldog is given to the men who help the Proctors keep order. Now, finally in the procession you can observe that tiny crocodile of color: it consists of heads of colleges who are Doctors of the university, Doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and the heads of colleges who are not Doctors of the university, in that order.”

  “Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is pain and money.”

  “They are not that sort of doctor,” replied Stephen.

  “Forget it. I love everything but don’t expect me to understand what it’s all about.”

  Stephen watched Harvey’s face carefully. He was drinking the scene in and had already become quieter.

  “The long line will now proceed into the Sheldonian Theater and all the people in the procession will take their places in the hemicycle.”

  “Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?”

  “The hemicycle is a round bank of seats inside the theater, distinguished only by being the most uncomfortable in Europe. But don’t you worry. Thanks to your well-known interest in education at Harvard I’ve managed to arrange special seats for us and there will just be time for us to secure them ahead of the procession.”

  “Well, lead the way, Rod. Do they really know what goes on at Harvard here?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Metcalfe. You have a reputation in university circles as a generous man interested in financing the pursuit of academic excellence.”

  “Well, what do you know.”

  Very little, thought Stephen.

  He guided Harvey to his reserved seat in the balcony, not wanting his guest to be able to see the individual men and women too clearly. The truth of the matter was that the senior members of the university in the hemicycle were so covered from head to toe in gowns and caps and bow ties and bands, that even their mothers would not have recognized them. The organist played his final chord and the guests settled.

  “The organist,” said Stephen, “is from my own college. He’s the Choragus, the leader of the chorus, and Deputy Professor of Music.”

  Harvey could not take his eyes off the hemicycle and the scarlet-clad figures. He had never seen a sight like it in his life. The music stopped and the Chancellor rose to address the assembled company in vernacular Latin.

  “Causa hujus convocations est ut…”

  “What the hell’s he saying?”

  “He’s telling us why we’re here,” explained Stephen. “I’ll try and guide you through it.”

  “Ite Bedelli,” declared the Chancellor, and the great doors opened for the Bedels to go and fetch the Honorands from the Divinity School. There was a hush as they were led in by the Public Orator, Mr. J. G. Griffith, who presented them one by one to the Chancellor, enshrining the careers and achievements of each in polished and witty Latin prose.

  Stephen’s translation, however, followed a rather more liberal line and was embellished with suggestions that their doctorates were as much the result of financial generosity as of academic prowess.

  “That’s Lord Amory. They’re praising him for all the work he has done in the field of education.”

  “How much did he give?”

  “Well, he was Chancellor of the Exchequer. And there’s Lord Hailsham. He has held eight Cabinet positions, including Secretary of State for Education and finally Lord Chancellor. Both he and Lord Amory are receiving the degree of Doctor of Civil Law.”

  Harvey recognized Dame Flora Robson, the actress, who was being honored for a distinguished lifetime in the theater; Stephen explained that she was receiving the degree of Doctor of Letters, as was the Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman. Each was presented with his scroll by the Chancellor, shaken by the hand and then shown to a seat in the front row of the hemicycle.

  The final Honorand was Sir George Porter, Director of the Royal Institution and Nobel Laureate. He received his honorary degree of Doctor of Science.

  “My namesake, but no relation. Oh well, nearly through,” said Stephen. “Just a little prose from John Wain, the Professor of Poetry, about the benefactors of the university.”

  Mr. Wain delivered the Crewian Oration, which took him some twelve minutes, and Stephen was grateful for something so lively in a language they could both understand. He was only vaguely aware of the recitations of undergraduate prize winners which concluded the proceedings.

  The Chancellor of the university rose and led the procession out of the hall.

  “Where are they all off to now?” asked Harvey.

  “They are going to have lunch at All Souls, where they will be joined by other distinguished guests.”

  “God, what I would give to be able to attend that.”

  “I have arranged it,” replied Stephen.

  Harvey was quite overwhelmed.

  “How did you fix that, Professor?”

  “The Registrar was most impressed by the interest you have shown in Harvard and I think they hope you might find it possible to assist Oxford in some small way, especially after your wonderful win at Ascot.”

  “What a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Stephen tried to show little interest, hoping that by the end of the day he would have thought of it. He had learned his lesson on overkill. The truth was that the Registrar had never heard of Harvey Metcalfe, but because it was Stephen’s last term at Oxford he had been put on the list of invitations by a friend who was a Fellow of All Souls.

  They walked over to All Souls, just across the road from the Sheldonian Theatre. Stephen attempted, without much success, to explain the nature of All Souls to Harvey. Indeed, many Oxonians themselves find the college something of an enigma.

  “Its corporate name,” Stephen began, “is the College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed of Oxford, and it resonantly commemorates the victors of Agincourt. It was intended that masses should forever be said there for the repose of their souls. Its modern role is unique in academic life. All Souls is a society of graduates distinguished either by p
romise or achievement, mostly academic, from home and abroad, with a sprinkling of men who have made their mark in other fields. The college has no undergraduates, and generally appears to the outside world to do much as it pleases with its massive financial and intellectual resources.”

  Stephen and Harvey took their places among the hundred or more guests at the long table in the noble Codrington Library. Stephen spent the entire time insuring that Harvey was kept fully occupied and was not too obvious. He was thankfully aware that on such occasions people never remember whom they meet or what they say, and happily introduced Harvey to everyone around as a distinguished American philanthropist. He was fortunately placed some way from the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest.

  Harvey was quite overcome by the new experience and was content just to listen to the distinguished men around him—which surprised Stephen, who had feared he would never stop talking. When the meal was over and the guests had risen, Stephen drew a deep breath and played one of his riskier cards. He deliberately marched Harvey up to the Chancellor.

  “Chancellor,” he said to Harold Macmillan.

  “Yes, young man.”

  “May I introduce Mr. Harvey Metcalfe from Boston. Mr. Metcalfe, as you will know, Chancellor, is a great benefactor of Harvard.”

  “Yes, of course. Capital, capital. What brings you to England, Mr. Metcalfe?”

  Harvey was nearly speechless.

  “Well, sir, I mean Chancellor, I came to see my horse Rosalie run in the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.”

  Stephen was now standing behind Harvey and made signs to the Chancellor that Harvey’s horse had won the race. Harold Macmillan, as game as ever and never one to miss a trick, replied:

  “Well, you must have been very pleased with the result, Mr. Metcalfe.”

  “Well, sir, I guess I was lucky.”

  “You don’t look to me the type of man who depends on luck.”

  Stephen took his career firmly in both hands.

  “I am trying to interest Mr. Metcalfe in supporting some research we are doing at Oxford, Chancellor.”

  “What a good idea.” No one knew better than Harold Macmillan, after seven years of leading a political party, how to use flattery on such occasions. “Keep in touch, young man. Boston was it, Mr. Metcalfe? Do give my regards to the Kennedys.”

  Macmillan swept off, resplendent in his academic dress. Harvey stood dumbfounded.

  “What a great man. What an occasion. I feel I’m part of history. I just wish I deserved to be here.”

  Having completed his task, Stephen was determined to escape before any mistakes could be made. He knew Harold Macmillan would shake hands with and talk to over a thousand people that day and the chances of his remembering Harvey were minimal. In any case, it would not much matter if he did. Harvey was, after all, a genuine benefactor of Harvard.

  “We ought to leave before the senior members, Mr. Metcalfe.”

  “Of course, Rod. You’re the boss.”

  “I think that would be courtesy.”

  Once they were out on the street Harvey glanced at his large Jaeger le Coultre watch. It was 2:30 P.M.

  “Excellent,” said Stephen, who was running three minutes late for the next rendezvous. “We have just over an hour before the Garden Party. Why don’t we take a look at one or two of the colleges.”

  They walked slowly up past Brasenose College and Stephen explained that the name really meant “brass nose” and that the famous original brass nose, a sanctuary knocker of the thirteenth century, was still mounted in the hall. A hundred yards further on, Stephen directed Harvey to the right.

  “He’s turned right, Robin, and he’s heading toward Lincoln College,” said James, well hidden in the entrance of Jesus College.

  “Fine,” said Robin and checked his two sons. Aged seven and nine, they stood awkwardly, in unfamiliar Eton suits, ready to play their part as pages, unable to understand what Daddy was up to.

  “Are you both ready?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” they replied in unison.

  Stephen continued walking slowly toward Lincoln, and they were no more than a few paces away when Robin appeared from the main entrance of the college in the official dress of the Vice-Chancellor, bands, collar, white tie and all. He looked fifteen years older and as much like Mr. Habakkuk as possible. Perhaps not quite so bald, thought Stephen.

  “Would you like to be presented to the Vice-Chancellor?” asked Stephen.

  “That would be something,” said Harvey.

  “Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, may I introduce Mr. Harvey Metcalfe.”

  Robin doffed his academic cap and bowed. Stephen returned the compliment in like manner. Robin spoke before Stephen could continue:

  “Not the benefactor of Harvard University?”

  Harvey blushed and smiled at the two little boys who were holding the Vice-Chancellor’s train. Robin continued:

  “This is a pleasure, Mr. Metcalfe. I do hope you are enjoying your visit to Oxford. Mind you, it’s not everybody who’s fortunate enough to be shown around by a Nobel Laureate.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it immensely, Vice-Chancellor, and I’d like to feel I could help this university in some way.”

  “Well, that is excellent news.”

  “Look, gentlemen, I’m staying here at the Randolph Hotel. It would be my great pleasure if you could all have tea with me later this afternoon.”

  Robin and Stephen were thrown for a moment. He’d done it again—the unexpected. Surely the man realized that on the day of Encaenia the Vice-Chancellor did not have a moment free to attend private tea parties.

  Robin recovered first.

  “I’m afraid that would be difficult. One has so many responsibilities on a day like this, you understand. Perhaps you could join me in my rooms at the Clarendon Building? That would give us a chance to have a more private discussion?”

  Stephen immediately picked up the lead:

  “How kind of you, Vice-Chancellor. Will 4:30 be convenient?”

  “Yes, yes, that will be fine, Professor.”

  Robin tried not to look as if he wanted to run a mile. Although they had only been standing there for about five minutes, to him it seemed a lifetime. He had not objected to being a journalist, or an American surgeon, but he genuinely hated being a Vice-Chancellor. Surely someone would appear at any moment and recognize him for the fraud he was. Thank God most of the undergraduates had gone home the week before. He began to feel even worse when a tourist started taking photos of him.

  Now Harvey had turned all their plans upside down. Stephen could only think of Jean-Pierre and of James, the finest string to their dramatic bow, loitering uselessly in fancy dress behind the tea tent at the Garden Party in the grounds of Trinity College, waiting for them.

  “Perhaps it might be wise, Vice-Chancellor, if we were to invite the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest to join us?”

  “First-class idea, Professor. I’ll ask them to be there. It isn’t every day we’re visited by such a distinguished philanthropist. I must take my leave of you now, sir, and proceed to my Garden Party. An honor to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Metcalfe, and I look forward to seeing you again at 4:30.”

  They shook hands warmly, and Stephen guided Harvey toward Exeter College while Robin darted back into the little room in Lincoln that had been arranged for him. He sank heavily into a seat.

  “Are you all right, Daddy?” asked his elder son, William.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Do we get the ice cream and Coca-Cola you promised us if we didn’t say a word?”

  “You certainly do,” said Robin.

  Robin slipped off all the paraphernalia—the gown, hood, bow tie and bands—and placed them back in a suitcase. He returned to the street just in time to watch the real Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Habakkuk, leave Jesus College on the opposite side of the road, obviously making his way toward the Garden Party. Robin glanced at his watch
. If they had run five minutes late the whole plan would have struck disaster.

  Meanwhile, Stephen had done a full circle and was now heading toward Shepherd & Woodward, the tailor’s shop which supplies academic dress for the university. He was, however, preoccupied with the thought of getting a message through to James. Stephen and Harvey came to a halt in front of the shop window.

  “What magnificent robes.”

  “That’s the gown of a Doctor of Letters. Would you like to try it on and see how you look?”

  “That would be great. But would they allow it?” said Harvey.

  “I’m sure they won’t object.”

  They entered the shop, Stephen still in his full academic dress as a Doctor of Philosophy.

  “My distinguished guest would like to see the gown of a Doctor of Letters.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the young assistant, who was not going to argue with a Fellow of the University.

  He vanished to the back of the shop and returned with a magnificent red gown with gray facing and a black, floppy velvet cap. Stephen forged on, brazen-faced.

  “Why don’t you try them on, Mr. Metcalfe? Let’s see what you would look like as an academic.”

  The assistant was somewhat surprised. He wished Mr. Venables would return from his lunch break.

  “Would you care to come through to the fitting room, sir?”

  Harvey disappeared. Stephen slipped out onto the road.

  “James, can you hear me? Oh hell, for God’s sake answer, James.”

  “Cool down, old fellow. I’m having a deuce of a time putting on this ridiculous gown, and in any case, our rendezvous isn’t for another seventeen minutes.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Cancel it?”

  “Yes, and tell Jean-Pierre as well. Both of you report to Robin and meet up as quickly as possible. He will fill you in on the new plans.”

  “New plans. Is everything all right, Stephen?”

  “Yes, better than I could have hoped for.”

  Stephen clicked off his speaker and rushed back into the tailor’s shop.

  Harvey reappeared as a Doctor of Letters; a more unlikely sight Stephen had not seen for many years.