Purefoy Osbert was standing in the middle of the room with his back to the window. He said nothing and against the sunshine outside the Praelector could not see the expression on his face. He could see the Dean's face well enough though. It was purple with ashen patches.

'He's accusing me of…of…of having organized Sir Godber's murder,' the Dean managed to say. 'He's saying-'

'Oh surely not,' the Praelector began, still maintaining an air of unconcern. 'I'm sure Dr Osbert knows better than to make unwarranted accusations of that sort. He is merely fulfilling the terms of his contract as the Memorial Fellow, and we all know Lady Mary's views on the matter. They are understandable in a widow and the fact that we have a Master in the last stages of senile dementia brought on by alcoholism makes such assumptions unfortunately all too plausible.' He turned to Purefoy. 'I suppose you have been talking to poor Skullion?' He paused for a moment and smiled. 'Alas, the poor man has developed a sense of guilt, an obsession caused no doubt by his stroke and the terrible misfortune of his position as the so-called Master. He was an excellent Head Porter in his time. We can hardly blame him for taking to drink.'

Purefoy Osbert looked into the blue eyes which might have been smiling at him and he knew he had met his match. 'I have made no accusation,' he said. 'I merely wanted to know what the Dean thought. I think I have found out.' And without another word he left the room. As his footsteps retreated down the staircase the Praelector helped the Dean out of his chair.

'Come,' he said, 'we must hurry. The Council is due to meet in five minutes and I have still a telephone call to make.'

'That bloody man-' the Dean began but the Praelector raised a finger to his lips and listened. The sound of an ambulance siren was growing louder.

'They have come for the Master,' he said and led the way down into the Court.

The Extraordinary Meeting of the College Council was a solemn occasion. Even the Senior Tutor and Dr Buscott, evidently sensing that something unprecedented was in the air, were in a subdued mood, while the Dean, still shaken by Purefoy Osbert's calm assumption that he had conspired with Skullion to murder Sir Godber, was incapable of doing more than agreeing with everything the Praelector proposed even though he did not follow the argument or understand the consequences any more than the Bursar did.

'In the first place we are here today to mark the passing of the Master,' the Praelector announced. 'During the night his state deteriorated to the point where he was no longer capable of fulfilling those few statutory duties he has been limited to. This, together with his state of mind, obliged him to relinquish the position of Master on the grounds that he is _non compos mentis._ We are therefore in a state of interregnum until the new Master has been appointed. Yes, Dr Buscott?'

'I was just wondering if Skul…if the late Master exercised his right to nominate his successor,' Dr Buscott said. And, if he did, being as you say _non compos mentis, _whether his nomination had any validity.'

'It is a perfectly proper point to make and one on which I have this morning consulted the College solicitors. They have given it as their opinion that in the circumstances of the Master being unable to make a rational decision the choice of a new Master devolves upon the College Council and in the event of the Council failing to agree, the matter automatically reverts to the Crown. Or, to put it more precisely, the choice of a new Master will be decided by the Government of the day.' He paused and looked round the table. 'I, for one, am wholly opposed to such a course of action. We have had previous and catastrophic experience of a Prime Minister's choice.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the Fellows, all of whom remembered the late Sir Godber Evans.

'It is therefore essential that we show a degree of unanimity in the interest of the College and at the same time accept the indisputable fact that a wholly unprecedented and catastrophic financial crisis faces Porterhouse. I won't go into the history of it. Rather than look back, I would ask you to look to the future. We are now in a position to ensure that, from being the poorest college in Cambridge and one that is in fact on the point of total bankruptcy, Porterhouse can be among the very richest.'

A gasp of amazement ran round the table. The Praelector waited until he had their full attention again. 'You will, I am afraid, have to take my word for it. I have been a Fellow of Porterhouse for more years than I care to remember and I think I can claim to have the interests of the College at heart.'

For twenty minutes the Praelector went on presenting facts and figures obtained from the Bursar's office to show the College debts and the temporary nature of the reprieve offered by the Transworld Television compensatory payment when and if, as he implied, it was finally settled. And all the time the Fellows sat mesmerized by his strange authority. For years the Praelector had gone quietly and inconspicuously about his little business and had been ignored as a force in the College But now, in an Indian summer of the intellect, he had come to dominate them all. Even Dr Buscott recognized that he was in the presence of someone, even some thing, that was too powerful to be doubted. And at the end when the Praelector asked for their unanimous consent that he be allowed to conduct negotiations with the candidate of his own choice and with no questions asked, the Council passed the motion without a single dissenting voice. As they filed out into the spring sunshine there was a new confident mood among the Fellows of Porterhouse They had surrendered their authority to a man they could trust and they felt a sense of freedom.

Which was more than could be said for Skullion. Seated in his wheelchair in the ambulance, he knew he had been betrayed again. He wasn't going to Coft Castle as the General had promised. They had been on the road too long for that and they were moving too fast. They were on the motorway and heading for Porterhouse Park and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had been taken for a mug again. And they had done a good professional job getting him out of Porterhouse too, sending Arthur off to the chemist for the prescription of his blood-pressure pills and then as soon as the Master's Lodge was empty coming in without so much as a by-your-leave and having him through the doorway into the ambulance before you could say Jack Robinson and then off through the traffic as if everything was hunky-dory.

Oh well, it was his own bloody fault. He shouldn't have got pissed and threatened the Dean. And he shouldn't have listened to Sir Cathcart fucking D'Eath. He should have known those bastards would stick together. Always did and always would when it came to saving their own skins. Not that they were above slitting one another's throats if it came to that. And now that he was gone they'd say he'd had another Porterhouse Blue and Cheffy and them wouldn't know any better. They wouldn't know he'd been taken off to Porterhouse Park and if they did it wouldn't do any good. No one ever visited the Park. It was just somewhere they sent you when you'd lost your marbles like old Dr Vertel and Mr Manners who'd become an embarrassment with his incontinence and his nasty habit of suddenly attacking undergraduates with his umbrella because he thought they were sniggering at him behind his back. And now it was his turn and no doubt they'd have some hard old woman in charge to give him his pills and order him about and give him baths. Doubtless too they would wheel him out on sunny days to stare out over the landscape and listen to the other old loonies mumbling to themselves. He'd have to eat with them too and they'd call him Skullion and treat him like dirt just as they used to do when he was a porter. Old Vertel had never liked him, and he must still be alive because there'd been no obituary in the Porterhouse Magazine. Skullion sat in his wheelchair and stared at the curtain they'd pulled across the rear window of the ambulance, and cursed himself for a fool.