They trooped out across the Court, Mrs Morestead following with her pad and pencil, and it was only when they were seated round a mahogany table in the Private Dining Room that the Praelector explained the purpose of the meeting. He did so in a decidedly sepulchral manner.

'We are gathered here today,' he said, 'to take measures to deal with what can only be described as a major catastrophe both for the College itself and for the architectural heritage of the entire country. The Porterhouse Chapel is one of the finest examples of late mediaeval neo-Romanesque religious architecture in Britain. Its style is unique in owing very little to the influence of the Gothic. Constructed at a time when the Gothic style was predominant, it speaks volumes for the conservative nature of the College even in those days that our predecessors chose to celebrate the faith in the most traditional fashion. Porterhouse has always prided itself on being, in the truest sense of the expression, "behind the times" or, to be even more precise, to exist in a timeless world. It is therefore supremely important in an age in which change seems all-conquering, and the future seems to hold nothing but the stultification of the human spirit by the endless watching of television and the proliferation of appalling programmes to satisfy man's baser-desires, that we should fight the company that has deliberately and criminally done such terrible damage to our Chapel. It is our bounden duty to extract the maximum in compensation from these people at Transworld Television not only for the physical damage done to the entire fabric of the College but for the mental suffering they have inflicted on members of the College. I for one will never recover from the shock…'

While the Praelector's peroration rambled on the Bursar tried to think what other bits of the College buildings had recently become unsafe and whose condition Transworld Television Productions could be forced to make good. There was a length of gutter behind the Cox Block that had recently dropped into the road, fortunately when no one was underneath. Not that any of those awful young men could have reached it, the pitch of the roof was far too steep for that and they'd have needed ropes, but all the same. Then there was the entire section of the Library that required repointing, and all the chimneys were in a dangerous state…The Bursar occupied himself by making an inventory of repairs needed.

Opposite him Mr Retter and Mr Wyve sat side by side and said nothing. They had inherited their position as legal advisers to Porterhouse with the firm Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine, when they had joined it. They had been regretting the connection ever since. Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine had all been dead a great many years before, but Mr Retter and Mr Wyve, being sound legal men, had insisted on keeping their names. It provided them with an adequate cover for their own legal inadequacies by allowing them to say that Mr Waxthorne had given it as his opinion that…Since Mr Waxthorne had been lying in the cemetery on the Newmarket Road for sixty-five years he could be said to act only in a consultancy role, and it was perfectly reasonable and indeed proper for Mr Retter and/or Mr Wyve to explain that he was unable to see any of their clients personally. Exactly the same could be said on behalf of Messrs Libbott and Chaine, the former having chosen to be cremated rather than share the same earth even approximately close to the partner he had loathed for years, and the latter having bequeathed his body to the University Medical Faculty for research purposes and dissection, less out of a desire to advance medical knowledge than to make absolutely sure he was well and truly dead before he went to the crematorium on the Huntingdon Road. Up to a point his wishes had been fulfilled, though his skull was still used as a wine bumper by a rather effete Drinking Club in King's called the Chaine Males. And up to a point Mr Retter and Mr Wyve had prospered. They had always specialized in work for colleges and had never been known to undertake any case that required them to appear in court, although Mr Retter had had to appear once before the magistrates for driving under the influence and had lost his licence for a year. Faced with anything involving litigation they invariably briefed other solicitors in London who in turned briefed counsel.

In short, the fees of Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine were extortionate. This was hardly surprising. They were the solicitors for Porterhouse and were forced to work for the College for nothing. There were days when they cursed the Praelector. He had known Mr Waxthorne as a young man and had attended his funeral and had for many years kept in touch with his widow and knew perfectly well that Libbott had been cremated and Chaine had gone to that part of the Medical School from which only bits and pieces return. Now, however, they felt they could be taking on a case which might just be so rewarding for Porterhouse that they would be paid. After all we've nothing to lose,' Mr Wyve had said. 'If they win against Transworld, an unlikely outcome I agree, they'll be in a position to make good some of our losses on their behalf…'

'But if they lose, as surely they must against such a vast company, the costs will be enormous.'

'Theirs, not ours,' said Mr Wyve, and the matter was settled.

All the same they said nothing at the meeting, and left it to the Praelector and the Senior Tutor to explain to the Bursar what they wanted him to do. They also felt it wiser to leave the meeting before the facts were placed before him. As Mr Retter put it to Mr Wyve, 'We cannot be party to any dubious actions they may take. It would invalidate our role in the case and do our reputation no good at all. I did not like the look in the Senior Tutor's eye. However, having read the Bursar's statement, I'm beginning to think they do stand a chance. Transworld Television Productions did make the approach to the Bursar, and he has lunched with this Hartang man. I cannot say I like the sound of any of them.'

Behind them in the Private Dining Room the Bursar was appalled. 'Go and sit with Kudzuvine?' he gasped. 'Go and sit with him? I don't want to go anywhere near him. I won't do it. I won't.'

The Senior Tutor stood up slowly. The neat rum was really eating into him now. 'Mrs Morestead, if you wouldn't mind leaving us,' he said with a terrible menace. 'We do not need a transcript of what is going to be a private discussion,'

For a moment the College Secretary hesitated. She was slightly fond of the Bursar, largely because he never shouted at her whereas the Senior Tutor almost always did. But she gave in and left the room. Dr Buscott didn't like either the Bursar or the Senior Tutor, but he was interested to see what was going to happen. He sat back in his chair and waited.

The Bursar didn't. He made a dash for the door but the Praelector, who had been sitting beside it, had already locked it and pocketed the key.

'Just let me get my hands on that bastard…' the Senior Tutor began but the Praelector stopped him.

'If you will be so good as to sit down,' he said. 'We need the Bursar in one piece if he is to sit with the man Kudzuvine and get him to answer the questions necessary for our case against his company. If you start knocking the Bursar about we'll merely have three sick men in the Master's Lodge. Besides, his own evidence is vital.'

'Oh, all right,' the Senior Tutor grumbled but he returned to his chair. The Bursar didn't. He stood ready to dash round the table if the Senior Tutor got up again.

The situation was calmed once more by the Chaplain. 'I must say that our guest, Mr Kudzuvine, did not strike me as being in much of a condition to answer questions when I visited him the other day. He made some most peculiar noises, especially when I asked him if he wanted to make his Confession before taking Communion.'