'I understand all that,' said the Bursar, whose morale-booster was beginning to wear off. 'But why give Porterhouse money?'

Kudzuvine looked at him incredulously. All this talking had improved his morale no end. 'Giving he ain't. He's buying the place. That old turtle needs another shell. Like I told you, he covers his ass. No time he doesn't. He's got too many guys like Dos Passos want him dead. So he buys protection. Gives a bit first like it's bait and before you know it you're all wrapped up webwise and he's got some new place he can hide. Like…'

'He's not hiding here,' said the Bursar. 'You'd better believe that, Kudzuvine, you better had.'

'Shoot, Prof…the Bursar, sir, I'll tell him. I'll tell him time I see him, "Mr Hartang, no way you going to Porterhouse College, Cambridge, unless you're fucking crazy. You got your figure to think about and, man, those babies eat. They don't even fucking eat, they devour like…like Sumo wrestler vultures been on hunger strike or Lent or some fucking thing. Meat? You think a Texas tenderloin's big you ain't seen nothing. Know what they give me for breakfast this morning? Blood. Said it was pudding, blood pudding. You think I'm going to get AIDS eating a fucking sausage looks like it's tar in a condom or a blacktop turd with lumps of lard in it? No way, Bursar baby, no way.'

He stopped. The Bursar was standing over him and looking livid. 'You call me "Bursar baby" one more time, Kudzufucking-vine, I'm going to wash your mouth out with Harpic. You know what Harpic is, Kudzuvine? It's toilet cleanser. You want to keep your fucking tonsils and your uvula and a tongue that doesn't look like it's been barbecued, you don't call me "Bursar baby" ever again. Right?'

'Yes sir, yes sir, _the_ Bursar sir. I ain't thinking clear. I just got carried away. I don't want no wash-out. That douche bag done for me I'm telling you. I don't want to see one of those things ever again. No sir, I'm just a good old American boy don't know nothing I swear.'

But the Bursar was still standing. American you may be but good old boy you ain't. You're just poor white trash and don't you forget it.'

'No sir, I'm just poor white trash and I ain't never going to forget it I promise you, _the_ Bursar sir.'

The Bursar sat down again. 'Now you're going to tell me exactly how Hartang works and what his telephone number is and you're going to start remembering names and places and bank account numbers and…'

Outside on the landing the Senior Tutor and the Praelector looked at one another in amazement. Even Dr MacKendly was astonished. Dr Buscott put a fresh reel on the tape recorder.

'I wouldn't have believed it possible,' said the Senior Tutor. 'I'm not even sure I believe it now.'

'Believe what?' asked the Praelector, who had found the whole episode incredible himself.

'Believed the Bursar had it in him. I've always thought him such a weedy little runt and what's all this about the douche bag? I don't understand.'

But the Praelector didn't reply. He was wondering what exactly was in the Bursar and how they were going to use the evidence Kudzuvine was providing. Even Skullion, sitting behind them, listened with interest. He'd particularly admired the way the Bursar had insisted that Kudzuvine call him _'the_ Master, emphasis _the',_ and not a Quasimodo update, whatever that was.

18

The Dean was feeling a lot better when he came down to breakfast next morning. He had bathed and shaved and had slept very well and he was looking forward to his porridge and bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and coffee. But as he crossed the Court to the Hall he was conscious that something was badly wrong with the Chapel. It was surrounded with iron scaffolding and even from the middle of the Old Court lawn he could see that the roof was tilted at a most unusual angle. Evidently the roof timbers had been giving trouble. They should have been treated years before but the Bursar had said there wasn't enough money in the College bank account for anything but the most essential repairs. That was typical of the man. Parsimonious to a degree. Well, he would have a word with him, and not a very nice word either. But that would have to wait. The Dean wanted his breakfast. He sat down and was astonished when, even before he had begun his porridge, the Senior Tutor spoke.

'It is absolutely vital that we have a meeting this morning,' he said. 'You and me and the Praelector. My rooms ten o'clock.'

The Dean looked shocked. It was an unspoken rule at Porterhouse that no one talked at breakfast. A 'Good morning' grunt was permitted but that was all. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Something had to be very seriously wrong for the Senior Tutor, a stickler for tradition, to have spoken as he had. The Dean nodded rather irritably and said nothing. His porridge was getting cold. But when the Praelector arrived and whispered the same message with a significant look at the Senior Tutor, the Dean knew there had to be a major crisis. Something truly terrible had happened. For a moment he stuck to tradition but the strain was too much for him. 'Has…has the Master passed on?' he whispered.

The Senior Tutor shook his head. 'Worse than that, much worse,' he said. 'Can't talk about it now.'

'I should hope not,' said the Dean and went back to his porridge. But his enjoyment of the first decent breakfast he had had for some weeks had been spoilt. He couldn't even concentrate on his bacon and eggs. He dreaded to think what they had to tell him. Even the damage done to the Chapel could hardly warrant such extreme talk. The College could always get a grant to pay for the repairs. The Chapel was an important architectural monument and English Heritage would be bound to put up the money. It was with the deepest sense of foreboding that the Dean finished his coffee and went outside into the clear sunlight. He was followed almost immediately by the Praelector and the Senior Tutor. 'Now, what the devil is all this about?' he demanded.

'It's all the Bursar's fault-' the Senior Tutor began but the Praelector, who, it seemed to the Dean, had changed in some important respect during his absence, stopped him.

'The matter is far too serious to start apportioning blame,' he said, 'and frankly I'm not at all sure we should be seen to be discussing the matter in public' They went straight to the Senior Tutor's rooms where Dr Buscott had set the tape recorder up and had shown the Senior Tutor how to change the reels.

For the rest of the morning the Dean listened with mounting horror and astonishment to the account, given in the main by the Praelector who seemed the better informed and certainly the more rational of the two, of the extraordinary events that had caused the crisis. He listened with even more astonishment to the recording of the Bursar's two interviews with Kudzuvine.

Only when it was finished and he had asked for something stronger than sherry, preferably a whisky and soda, was he able to speak himself. 'You mean to say this unutterable swine Whatsis-name is closeted with Skullion in the Master's Lodge? The bloody man should be behind bars,'

'Exactly my opinion,' said the Senior Tutor. 'But for some reason I cannot fathom the Praelector here seems to think it is to the advantage of the College that he remain in the Master's care.'

'Care? Care?' said the Dean, who couldn't for the life of him see how an elderly man in a wheelchair could possibly be said to be in any position to take charge and keep under control a man who on his own evidence had almost certainly murdered people and had undoubtedly been present when other people were murdered.

'Skullion seems to exercise some peculiar influence over the man,' the Praelector told him. 'It is quite remarkable to watch the creature's reaction when the Master wheels himself into the room. I believe certain snakes have the same effect on their prey. In any case I have gained the distinct impression that Mr Kudzuvine prefers to remain in the Lodge rather than return to the tender care of Mr Hartang. As far as I can gather from his garbled mutterings, and I must say his syntax leaves a great deal to be desired, he regards the College as the safest form of sanctuary.'