'I am talking about the Master, Skullion, for goodness sake,' the Dean snapped. 'His general fitness.'

'Point taken,' said the doctor. 'And I have to say that he is not at all well. The Porterhouse Blue he had, you know, was a very bad one It's amazing he survived at all. He must have the constitution of an ox.'

The Dean eyed him very unpleasantly. 'And would you assess his ability to perform his duties as Master of the College at the same bovine level?' he asked.

'Ah, there you have me, Dean. I have never really known what a Master's duties are, apart from dining in Hall and being around for official occasions and so on. Otherwise there is practically damnall to do as far as I can see. Skullion has proved that, hasn't he?'

The Dean made a final attempt to get an answer that made sense. 'And how long do you think he's got? Got to live, I mean.'

'There you have me again,' said the doctor. 'It is almost impossible to say. Only a matter of time, of course.'

But the Dean had had enough. 'Have you ever known when it wasn't?' he asked and stood up.

'Wasn't? Wasn't what?'

'A matter of time. From the day we are born, for instance' And leaving Dr MacKendly to work that out-the doctor's speciality was rugby knees, not metaphysics-the Dean went down the steps into King's Parade and walked back to Porterhouse in a very nasty temper. Around him tourists stared into shop windows or sat on the wall under King's College Chapel or photographed the Senate House. The Dean disregarded them. They belonged to a world he had always despised.

Two days later, explaining that he had a sick relative in Wales to visit, the Dean set off in search of a new Master for Porterhouse Something told him he had to hurry. It was a gut feeling, but such a feeling seldom let him down.

The feelings that Mr Lapline had in his stomach were by now so acute that it was some two weeks before Goodenough had sufficient time to spare from his partner's work to travel to Cambridge to meet the Senior Tutor for lunch at the Garden House Hotel overlooking the Cam. 'I'd have invited you to my club in London, but it gets very crowded these days and we can talk more privately here. Besides, it is always a pleasure to visit Cambridge and I'm sure you're a very busy man. I hope you don't mind lunching here?'

The Senior Tutor didn't in the least mind. He had heard good things about the Garden House, and Wednesday lunch in Hall tended to be rather meagre. He accepted a very large pink gin and studied the menu while Goodenough spoke about his nephew in the Leander Club, his own college, Magdalen at Oxford, and anything but the matter he had come to discuss. It was only after he had persuaded the Senior Tutor to have another very large pink gin and then had primed him with a sizeable helping of pâté, an excellent fillet steak and a bottle and a half of Chambertin and they were sitting with their coffee and Chartreuse, that Goodenough finally got round to the topic of the donation. He did so with an air of slight embarrassment.

'The fact of the matter is that we have been instructed by someone in the City who wishes to remain anonymous to sound out the Senior Fellows about the creation of a new Fellowship, and frankly, knowing your reputation for discretion, I thought a quiet chat with you might be the best way to start.' He paused to allow the Senior Tutor to choose a cigar to go with another Chartreuse. 'The funding for the salary of the new Fellow would of course be paid for by our client and the donation to the College would run into seven figures.'

Again he paused, this time to allow the tutor to calculate that seven figures made one million. 'In fact the client has mentioned six million pounds with possibly more to follow on her…his death.'

'Six million? Did you say six million?' asked the Senior Tutor rather huskily. If it hadn't been for the meal, and the cost of the Chambertin and the Partagas cigar, he would have wondered if he was being subjected to some fiendish practical joke. Nobody had ever offered Porterhouse such an enormous sum before.

'Oh yes, at least six,' Goodenough said, sensing the Senior Tutor's bewilderment. Taking advantage of it, he went on. 'But on condition that the donation is not made public. I'm afraid, my client is an eccentrically private person and insists on anonymity. I have to make that point.'

For a moment the thought crossed his mind of hinting the client might be Getty. He did better. 'You've heard of Getty?'

'Yes,' said the Senior Tutor almost in a whisper.

'Unfortunately my client does not possess that degree of wealth but she…he' (damn that second Chartreuse) 'has a very considerable fortune all the same.'

'Must have,' muttered the Senior Tutor, and made the mistake of inhaling the Havana too deeply. When his gasping coughs stopped, Goodenough went on. 'I'm telling you all this privately because of your reputation for discretion. It is essential that nothing leaks out. Your influence in Porterhouse is well known and I feel sure that with your backing…'

The practised words wafted happily into the Senior Tutor's mulled consciousness. The client was particularly anxious that the Bursar, whose reputation was not so…well, to be a little indiscreet, not so reliable, must not be consulted, but if the Senior Tutor could give his assurance that the donation would be accepted-the Senior Tutor could, and did-and the Fellow appointed-the Senior Tutor had no doubt about that-then the matter was settled, and Mr Goodenough's client would proceed. A letter putting forward the terms of the appointment would be drawn up and sent to the Senior tutor, who would make the necessary arrangements, presumably through the College Council, and confirm the decision in writing. By the time Goodenough had finished, the Senior Tutor was in a state of euphoria. Goodenough gave him a lift back to Porterhouse in his taxi then caught the train to London.

'He did what?' said Mr Lapline next day.

'Lapped it up,' Goodenough said.

'Lapped it up? Are you sure?' Mr Lapline couldn't imagine any of the Senior Fellows at Porterhouse lapping anything, apart from soup, up. From what he had seen of the Dean and the Senior Tutor at the inquest into Sir Godber Evans' death, they might well chew but they were definitely not of the lapping sort.

'Absolutely,' Goodenough assured him. 'Swallowed the proposal hook, line and sinker, along with an excellent bottle of Burgundy and an underdone steak-'

'For heaven's sake, Goodenough, don't talk about food. If you knew what my stomach is doing to me-'

'Sorry, sorry. All I'm trying to tell you is that you've got no reason to worry about losing Her Ladyship's account. She will find someone on that list who will prove just the sort of person she wants, and Porterhouse will accept him with open arms. Whether they like what they get is another matter altogether. That is not your problem, nor mine.'

But Mr Lapline continued to be pessimistic. 'I wish I had your confidence. I just hope to God she doesn't choose that anal-erotic swine from Grimsby. With a list of publications like that the sod ought to be in jail.'

For the next few weeks the firm of Lapline & Goodenough resumed its normal and most respectable routine. Mr Lapline's gall bladder quietened down, and Lady Mary was sent the list of candidates along with their curricula vitae. It was left to her to invite them down to her house to be interviewed. Goodenough refused to have anything to do with that side of the business. 'I wouldn't dream of involving the firm in such matters,' he said. 'We are not a scholastic employment agency. In any case, I have yet to receive written confirmation of the contract from Porterhouse, though the Senior Tutor did write to thank me for lunch and said he was sure the Fellowship would be approved.'