John Franklin said nothing as he pushed himself away from the counter. He folded his arms, the biceps bulging through the sleeves of his thin white shirt as he did so.
He was tall, equal to Andy’s six foot two, but he carried himself differently. An upright posture and disciplined movements that only those of previous military experience seem to possess.
Hasn’t let himself go, then, Andy thought. And here he is in rolled up shirtsleeves with the door wide open. What’s he been up to?
Unlike his underlings shivering in their overcoats Franklin seemed unaware of the cold. His face was flushed, as though he’d just returned from some arduous physical activity - after all, there was some blood seeping from a plaster on his right index finger. Or perhaps it was anger and hate keeping him warm.
“Hughes.” Low, barely restrained tones in a familiar Edinburgh brogue. An anger that was kept in check, disciplined enough not to allow it in his voice. “I take it that was your van that came through the Queen’s Road access. Working for Granta Office Supplies now, are we?”
“More of a consultant.” Andy stood firm, meeting Franklin’s baleful sneer with a disdainful look. He was aware of Rob and Phil behind him, silent. Shrinking back warily from the tension between the two men, aware that it could explode into conflict at any moment. All of them knew what had happened in the bar of All Souls College one summer’s night fifteen years ago. But only Andy Hughes and John Franklin knew just how much of a role the head porter had played.
And Andy’s sudden appearance at the college was a grim reminder to Franklin. No wonder he hates me. Andy permitted himself a smile.
“Performing a risk assessment on delivery routes taken by our drivers. Researching new ways to enter old college buildings, that sort of thing.”
Franklin’s face went scarlet. The two porters behind him lowered their newspapers, picked up their distinctive bowler hats, and headed for the door.
“Now, Franklin. We have a delivery to the Master’s Lodge. Your boss. He’s expecting the furniture any moment now - as well as a meeting with my good friend Mr Philip Lotson. Do you really want to keep the Master waiting?”
Franklin’s eyes flicked from Andy, to Rob and then Phil before settling back on Andy. The porter turned away abruptly. He reaching for the phone, lifted the handset to his ear, and pressed a direct dial button.
“Franklin here, sir,” he spoke quietly, almost respectful, while keeping a hate-filled glare fixed on the man in front of him. “I have…Philip Lotson and two delivery men from Granta to see you. You may wish to…oh. Very well, sir.” He replaced the handset, a look of surprise on his flushed features. “You can go.”
“Pass me one of those maps.” Andy pointed to a pile of photocopied plans of the college grounds. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. I don’t want to take a wrong turning. Who knows what trouble I’d cause this time?”
Franklin took a deep breath. Exhaled. Then snatched the top copy and slammed it onto the counter, rattling the PC monitor and the change within the cash register. Rob winced.
Neither he nor Phil said anything about the exchange until they were out of the lodge. Then Rob exploded.
“What the fuck was all that about? You winding him up on purpose?”
“Relax, Rob. He won’t say anything.” Andy examined the map with distaste. A poor photocopy, and badly drawn, the lettering on the individual buildings was barely legible. The Master’s Lodge was just to the left of Cloister Court. Strange. The woods on the map were represented by a thin line, as if it was just a screen of single line trees rather than a full wood.
“Just wanted to see if he still remembered me.” He lowered the map and nodded through the smeared window of the lodge. Franklin stood rigid, arms folded.
Yes. Still a fan, I see.
* * * * *
Back through New Court and its smoking kitchen buildings. Through the gateway into Cloister Court with its silent, oppressive galleries. Through the last court and facing the oaks again. Even Andy shivered this time. He looked at the map on his lap. Had to turn right here…
The Master’s Lodge was a handsome two-storey structure adjoining the north side of Cloister Court. As Andy brought the van round to face the main frontage he was reminded of the late sixteenth century Long Gallery of the President’s Lodge at Queens. Like the Queen’s building, it had Tudor half timbering and white plastering. Frozen ivy clung to the timber, stretching greedily around the walls. In the centre of the Lodge was what looked to be a tower - or rather, a half-tower, bulging from the gallery almost organically, as though the structure had grown naturally rather than been built by human hands . Transoms of black timber provided dramatic frames for the mullioned windows that gaped darkly from the Lodge, overshadowed by stark gables that cast them into shadow, further darkness. There didn’t appear to be any lights on.
Andy parked the van and stepped out. Phil and Rob followed warily. Jasper needed no encouragement to stay in the van. No sound from the wood they had passed through, no sign of life from anywhere else in the grounds. The noise from the city centre was once again missing. Andy turned from the woods and faced the door.
The door was set in the back of a wooden porch in the centre of the half-tower. Heavy oak, the top curving gracefully and rising to form a half-arch. The doorknocker was blackened iron, carved in the shape of a boar’s head. Andy noticed Rob shudder as he put his hand to it. Another reminder of the beast in his van.
The striking of the knocker was deep and full, three sonorous thuds echoing through the porch way as Andy slammed the boar’s head onto the wood with more force than was necessary.
The broken silence resumed, more evident and pronounced as the echoes faded. Andy, Phil and Rob waited quietly, none of them speaking.
Rob took a last drag of his cigarette, realised it was burning to the filter and stubbed it out on the door knocker, in between the beast’s eyes.
Phil knocked his hand away with a disgusted cry. The stub fell to the ground just as the door opened.
Professor David Searles was a tall man - not quite as tall as Franklin or Andy, but not far off. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored grey suit and a sober dark tie that gave a certain dignity to the man wearing it. Not that he needed it, Andy thought. Searles was a man whose pose and stature showed an effortless dignity and grace. And yet…
There was a certain downbeat aspect to this man. The straight back looked forced, as though he was fighting a temptation to slump those rigid shoulders and bow his head, to give in to the worries and pressures of his role.
It was his face that betrayed the posture of his body. The face was long, the chin prominent without being pointed. The smoothly shaven features and thinning fair brown hair with streaks of grey in the temples belonged to a man in his late fifties, but the dull, tired look in his hazel eyes made him look older. As those eyes took in the sight of Andy Hughes they flickered, almost imperceptibly, but Andy noticed it. A look of apprehension - or was it recognition? Couldn’t be. Searles was invested at All Souls just after Andy had left Cambridge; he wouldn’t have known Andy at all.
The smile that followed was forced. “You must be the gentlemen from Granta. And you must be Philip Lotson.” The eyes turned to Phil who smiled in greeting. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Please, come in.”
They followed the Master of All Souls into the lobby. The interior reflected the exterior in terms of age and the sense of antiquity. Deep mahogany wainscoting, richly varnished. The rug which ran along the parquet floor was a rich umber adding to the sense of gloom in the passageway. It would’ve helped if there were some lights on, Andy reflected. The whole place smelled musty, a museum odour of old stone and wood.
Searles led them into a room that ran off the left side of the lobby. Like the lobby, the lower halves of the walls were encased in dark mahogany and the soft pile carpet was a rich scarlet. Bevelled windows magnified and distorted the wintry scene from the Fellow
s’ Garden, grossly swelling the snow-capped oaks into monstrous, unnatural formations.
A large, ancient desk stood forlornly in the centre, the oak chipped and cracked, with jagged splits in the legs. In front were two wing-backed chairs in saggy green leather upholstery, again carved of oak but in slightly better condition than the one behind the desk that Searles now took. He reclined, steepled his fingers and smiled at Rob.
“As you can see, the working furniture of my study has seen better days. Your company’s very generous offer couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Yeah, we’re all Santa’s little helpers,” Rob muttered. “Has Kiss-ar - has Terry Harrison got here yet? I didn’t see his motor outside.”
“Not yet.” The Master gave Rob a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about putting the desk together. If you’d care to leave it in the lobby I’ll give him a hand to assemble it when he arrives.”
Still stood in the doorway, behind Rob and Phil, Andy frowned as he saw Searles’ eyes flick in his direction.
“Although I might even make him do it all himself. That young man seems a little too cocky for my liking. I think a little honest toil - to which I am certain he is unaccustomed - will do him some good.”
Rob laughed at that, but Andy didn’t. He saw the Master’s eyes turn to him once again. A knowing look. You don’t want me or Rob hanging around, do you?
“Besides, I’m sure you two have a lot more deliveries to be doing this afternoon. That would explain your apparent haste in arriving here.”
“Guess Franklin had some words, did he?” Rob shuffled his feet.
Searles smiled. “I must apologise for my head porter’s abruptness. Ex-military man, so not the world’s greatest diplomat. However, he has a point. I decided to close off the Queen’s Road access because we are having difficulties with delivery vehicles. The courts are too narrow to accommodate anything larger than a car, and the trees outside Cloister Court are becoming damaged. They are very old trees, as Mr Lotson knows. Living history.” Searles sighed. “The events of last year - and the attempted sabotage - have made us very protective of our college. I explained all this to young Terry when he took the order. Perhaps he neglected to pass the details on?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. If - ‘
“As I said, I’m sure you have more work this afternoon.” The interruption was smooth and well mannered, not brusque, but a dismissal nonetheless. Andy’s eyes narrowed as Rob failed to take the hint.
“No rush, boss. All Souls is our last drop. We’re giving Phil a lift back, so - ‘
“In that case, please feel free to wander through the college grounds. Explore the courts, the gardens if you wish. Or have a meal in the Buttery. I think you’ll find that our kitchens do some very warming festive lunches, ideal for keeping out the winter chill.
“I shall telephone Mr Franklin and inform him that you have free access to the parts of the college that do not require a security pass.” Again, he looked at Andy while speaking to Rob. The message was clear: leave us alone. But explore the college. We have nothing to hide.
Andy nodded in acknowledgement of the offer, but said nothing. It was too much of a coincidence. A free reign around the college on the same day that Phil Lotson was invited to discuss the history of the college. And the remark about the kitchens…it made Andy remember the complaint Rob’s boss had made about Jasper intruding in the kitchens. And it was the kitchens that would be preparing the boar for the Founders’ Feast tomorrow.
No, this is no coincidence. Searles is giving us some clues. Time to play Kojak.
“Come on, Rob. I could do with something to eat. Let’s drop the desk off and go. Phil, we’ll catch you later.”
Rob walked to the doorway, a bewildered expression on his face, his eyes never leaving the Masters’. Andy moved aside to allow him to pass. He smiled at Searles knowingly before leaving. Searles nodded his head once but didn’t smile. As Andy closed the door he heard the Master’s voice.
“Well, Mr Lotson. I believe we have much to discuss.” Andy paused before leaving, taking in the tone and delivery of the words. The Master’s voice was tremulous, the voice slightly high pitched. He’d done well to cover it so far but now it was obvious.
Phil was right. The Master of All Souls was a frightened man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Phil gratefully accepted the large measure of whiskey the Master offered. The lead crystal tumbler was heavy in his hands, the vessel of high quality. As was the liquid that burned a welcoming path down his throat, warmed his body and alleviated the pain in his elbows. Single malt, matured over fifteen years. He sighed with pleasure.
The Master sipped his whiskey delicately, thoughtfully. His chair was turned to the bevelled windows that offered a distorted, almost surreal view of the Fellows’ Garden. Phil followed his gaze, watching the sun shine on the spires of King’s College Chapel, temporarily banishing the dark winter shadows from the painstakingly trimmed lawns. The borders were empty, yet well maintained and free from any visible sign of weeds. Only the snow and ice held them prisoner.
“A bitterly cold winter,” the Master remarked as he cradled the tumbler in his delicately formed hands. “Just like last year.”
For a tall man, Phil noticed that his hands were rather small. The fingers constantly moved, caressing the tumbler, tapping on it, circling the rim. He wondered if the Master had recently given up smoking, and was trying to find something for his hands to do.
No, it’s another tell-tale sign of his fear and anxiety, he realised. And at the mention of the words last year, he knew Searles’ anxiety was kindling. He was preparing himself to discuss not just the history of his college, but the attempted destruction of it. Last year.
“Do you, mind, Master?” He had opened his jacket pocked and retrieved the digital Dictaphone. Searles shook his head.
Phil placed it on the desk and rested his index finger on the record button.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…why exactly did you ask to meet me? Everyone else I spoke to was reluctant to discuss last year’s events, especially when they knew I was putting it into my book. The general response was that the past should be forgotten, left to rest.”
Searles sighed heavily as he turned from the window. The sun was sinking rapidly behind the ecclesiastical horizon. The shadows in the Fellows’ Garden were lengthening.
“The past can never be forgotten, Mr Lotson. And it never rests. It lives on in the present alongside us, whether we are aware or accepting of it - or not. As men of history I think we are both aware of this.”
Phil was reminded of the introductory seminar he gave to all his first year students at Anglia Ruskin. History is not a dead subject. The past lives on. He shivered and took another sip of the whiskey.
Searles wasn’t just voicing the same sentiment he held. His tone of voice suggested that his view of what constituted the past and how it lived on was markedly different to Phil’s. The Master continued.
“I asked you to come today because I wanted to make sure you have the full facts before proceeding with your…book.” There was a look of distaste. “Quite a comedown, is it not? I’m certain your energies and talents could be better spent on more academic pursuits than this…this tourist pamphlet.”
Phil was silent. Not you as well, Searles? Or is this just for the benefit of the tape?
“Still, each to their own. But be warned. The last thing I want is last year’s episode to be sensationalised and distorted as it had been by the tabloids…and some of the so called ‘qualities’, for that matter. I am aware of the reputation and reviews of your last work, so you can understand my apprehension. Hopefully by giving you the full, detailed facts you will be certain to provide a more rational account of that night’s tragedy and will avoid the ridiculous, supernatural labels that were attached to us. I need hardly remind you that one of our own members, Professor James Freeland, sadly succumbed to the same madness. Our academic reputation suff
ered considerably. Only now are we beginning to regain credibility in the eyes of the academic world.”
Phil took another sip of the whiskey. A larger one.
“I understand that that itself had been a problem even before last year. If you don’t mind me saying, Master, All Souls has been a perceived as a bit of a joke - some would say even an embarrassment to the University. The Council of the Senate has never had a Fellow of All Souls in its membership. No member of the college has ever had an opportunity to vote on the Graces put before the Senate.
“It is even rumoured that if it were possible for a college to be removed from the University the Council of the Senate would have voted for your exclusion a long time ago.”
Searles smiled thinly.
“I’ve heard this also. Because of the college’s…chequered past, and it’s far from illustrious present. The archives compiled over the years would have blown away all the myths and rumours that enshroud our college like the festering cobwebs that they are. We have a fully competent IT department, our own web design team. It is a tragedy that we were too late to transfer our archives into the digital realm before the fire destroyed the papers. All those records, the correspondence of previous Fellows and alumni of All Souls…lost forever.
“Which is why a complete history of the college will never be written. Anything before 1799 will never be known because of the fire in the library. What you may have uncovered in previous histories of the University, any fragments of local newspaper reports relating to the college, are all that remains. You know as much as anyone else does of the college.”
The Master looked directly at Phil. He stopped playing with the glass tumbler. His fingers were now relaxed, the crystal leisurely resting in them as he reclined in his chair. He cocked his head to the sound of banging and scraping in the lobby beyond; muffled cursing that could only have come from Rob Benson. He winced at the sound of wood and plastic wrapping being scraped before continuing.
“What you really want to know about is the custom of the Founder’s Feast.”
The Caretakers (2011) Page 10
