'An interesting point,' said the Praelector, finishing his first helping and signalling for a second. 'The calorific value is quite astonishingly high. In my younger days I did some slight calculations into the matter. I forget what the exact figures were but I do remember concluding that a starving man of medium build adrift on an iceflow could survive perfectly well on one portion every third day.'

'I daresay, but since I'm not on a damned iceflow,' the General began and was about to push his plate away when the waiter intervened.

'Anything wrong, Sir Cathcart? Chefs special, sir.'

The General picked up his knife and fork again. 'Momentary hiccup,' he said. 'Give the Chef my compliments and tell him this duck is delicious.'

'These,' said the waiter enigmatically, and went away.

'As I was about to say,' continued the Praelector happily, 'I have always found duck a very delicate dish. Goose tends to be a bit on the greasy side but with far more flavour to the meat whereas duck, unless it's wild mallard of course, has always struck me as a bit bland. On the other hand with sage and onion…'

Sir Cathcart picked at his duck and tried to shut out the words. Never a great trencherman-his interest in the less savoury qualities of the opposite sex inclined him to pay attention to his figure-he was feeling decidedly liverish. He wasn't helped by Professor Pawley, who pointed out that he had known people drop dead immediately after a Duck Dinner. 'Dr Lathaniel was one, I remember, and then there was Canon Bowel. A question, I suppose, of the individual's metabolism.'

'Canon Bowel?' said the Praelector. Another rotten Master. I must say we've had more than our fair share of bad Masters. Not that he died at a Duck Dinner. Had an ulcer and wouldn't attend.'

'He tried to introduce compulsory Compline,' shouted the Chaplain. 'We had to do something about him, you know. Now what was the menu that night? I know we had devilled crabs with tabasco sauce to start with but…'

'It was the jugged hare and the zabaglione…'

'Oh yes, the zabaglioney' sighed the Chaplain ecstatically. 'It was a special recipe I remember. A dozen yolks of goose eggs and a pound of sugar and instead of sherry we had Cointreau. Oh, it was wonderful.'

'And we had a special cheese with peppers on it,' the Praelector said.

Down the table the Senior Tutor had pricked up his ears. 'You're talking about Canon Bowel, I can tell,' he called out. 'It was the cigars that finished the man off. They were enormous ones. We had to budget for them. Ah, those were the days. We were a proper college then. Used to call us Slaughterhouse.'

By the end of dinner Sir Cathcart's sympathies had gone out to Canon Bowel, and he could fully understand the Dean's absence. To have to sit down to a Duck Dinner knowing full well that the Senior Tutor was a murderer, and so evidently revelled in the College being called Slaughterhouse, was more than enough to put any man off colour. It was with an ashen, though mottled, face that he followed the Praelector into the Combination Room. 'I won't have any port or coffee, if you don't mind,' he said. 'Perhaps a breath of fresh air might help.' They went out into the Fellows' Garden and the Praelector lit a cigar.

'Now then, about this business of the murder,' said Sir Cathcart. 'What on earth are you going to do?'

'Get rid of him of course,' said the Praelector. 'Can't have him in the College any longer.'

'You mean to say he's still here?'

'Of course he is. Can't simply sneak the damned man out at dead of night,' said the Praelector and intensified the General's mental and physical discomfort by adding, 'actually I intend to talk to him about it some time tonight. It won't be easy but I'll have to try. Of course it all depends on the weather.'

'Really? Does it?' said Sir Cathcart. 'How very remarkable. Of course one's heard about, well…this sort of thing before but I never realized communication could be affected by the weather.'

'Only possible when it's fine, according to the Dean,' said the Praelector. 'He's the expert. I can't be bothered myself. It's so difficult to make out what the damned man's saying. Not surprising in his condition but I suppose I'm too squeamish or something. Beastly state to be in. I always feel so sorry for the poor devil. A dreadful way to go.'

Sir Cathcart said nothing. He was feeling dreadful himself. He had always thought of the Dean and the Praelector as perfectly rational men, not at all inclined to superstition, and to discover now that they were both convinced spiritualists was almost as disturbing as the knowledge that the Senior Tutor had murdered the man the Praelector was hoping to talk to that night if the weather was fine. And the fact that the corpse or cadaver or whatever murdered bodies were called was still in the College, and in a beastly condition to boot, did nothing to put his mind at rest. It was no longer a question that things in Porterhouse might be in need of change. They bloody well had to be changed before the police and the media were swarming all over the place and all the Senior Fellows had been arrested. That sort of thing was going to do the College no good at all. The old name of Slaughterhouse would become a permanent one. For the first time in his life Sir Cathcart regretted his own name. It was bound to be up on the billboards.

He pulled himself together and placed a kindly hand on the Praelector's arm. 'Listen, old chap, why don't we go inside and sit down quietly somewhere and I'll see if I can get hold of the College legal fellows. I really do think it's time to get them in on this. I mean this is a spectacularly awful situation. Now what are their names?'

'Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine,' said the Praelector shaking himself free rather irritably. He disliked being called 'old chap' and patronized quite so openly, as if he were in some sort of geriatric ward. 'Though you won't find them in at this time of night.' He gave a nasty chuckle. 'In fact you won't find them in at all. Waxthorne has been dead for the past sixty years. Buried in the cemetery on the Newmarket Road. And Libbott was cremated a couple of years later. I don't know exactly what happened to Chaine though I once heard a rather peculiar story about him ending up in King's. Something about his skull being used as a drinking mug. Waxthorne's widow told me that. I used to keep in touch with her, you know, on a regular basis. Nice woman.' For a moment his mind wandered back to those happy afternoons in her house in Sedley Taylor Road.

Beside him Sir Cathcart adjusted himself to another set of deaths. It was turning into a singularly ghastly evening. All the same he tried again. 'I thought the College lawyers were…Retter and…Wyve,' he said at last. 'Perhaps if I were to telephone them…'

'Oh, them,' said the Praelector. 'I shouldn't do that. They've got enough on their hands with this other business. Besides, the fewer people who know about it the better. No, no, we've got to handle the matter ourselves. And it is a fine night, so we should be able to find him.'

Sir Cathcart looked balefully up at the sky and gnawed the end of his ginger moustache. 'When you say "we",' he said. 'I'm not at all sure I want to get any further involved…in…well, you know what I mean.'

'Suit yourself. I know my duty. And in any case I can't see how you can slide out of it now. We're all involved. Question of the College's reputation. And frankly…well never mind about that. Least said soonest mended. We'd better go and talk it over with the Dean.' And on this curiously ambivalent note the Praelector led the way across the garden to the Dean's staircase.

They found him drinking a cup of coffee. A plate of half-eaten sandwiches was on the table beside him. Ah, hullo Cathcart, Praelector. Sorry I wasn't at Duck Dinner. Wasn't in the mood somehow. Couldn't bring myself to face it. Cowardly, I daresay.'