Treasure by Degrees Read online

  ‘Not funny,’ replied the Australian, ‘and I’ve told you to forget the great-aunt bit; that information was strictly confidential. So far as I’m concerned there’s no relationship, or none that’s going to be acknowledged. After the way the Hatch family treated my mother I can do without any connection with any of ’em, thank you very much.’

  ‘And just because she became a Catholic . . .’

  ‘Bigots, the lot of them; my grandfather especially, by all accounts. Anyway, it’s all ancient history so far as I’m concerned . . . If my mother hadn’t run away to San Francisco in the war, she’d never have met my father, she wouldn’t have become an Australian, and I wouldn’t be here now . . .’

  ‘With me.’

  ‘With you.’ He smiled at the girl.

  ‘And her family still don’t even know your mother’s in Australia?’

  ‘They don’t even know she’s alive – and I don’t suppose they care either.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s simply awful,’ said Fiona with great feeling. She brightened. ‘Was your father in the regular Australian Navy then? I mean, I know he’s in sheep now.’

  ‘No, he was a reserve officer – hostilities only. And he’s not “in sheep” like your father’s “in the City”. He’s just an ordinary small sheep farmer.’

  ‘Will they like me – your mother and father, d’you think? I mean, when we’re married . . .’

  ‘Who says we’re getting married?’ Peter tried to register surprise.

  ‘I do,’ said the girl firmly, with a satisfied grin. ‘That was settled ages ago, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you . . . Well, anyway, answer the question; will they like me?’

  ‘More than your father’s going to like me – a penniless lecturer from the Antipodes.’ He made the last syllable rhyme with ‘roads’.

  ‘Absolute tosh; Daddy’s a darling, and he’ll love you. He’s not a bit snobbish . . .’

  ‘There you are . . .’

  ‘Oh, stop being obtuse.’ Fiona glanced at her watch. ‘Hey, it’s nearly twelve. You should charge extra for two-hour tutorials.’ He moved towards the sofa. ‘No, too late; it’s time to finish dressing for the top persons’ lunch.’ Peter shrugged his shoulders in reply; the girl giggled. ‘Well, at least put a shirt on.’

  A mile away in what Mrs Hunter-Smith insisted on calling the drawing-room of Number One, The Cottages, in Itchendever village, Major Reginald Hunter-Smith, Bursar of University College, was doing his best to leave for the same event that summoned Peter Gregory. He, at least, was already suitably dressed for the occasion, complete with regimental tie: it was not a well-known regiment, and one that had long since forgotten his existence, but the tie, like the military title, was essential to the wearer’s carefully contrived persona.

  ‘You’ve fluffed it again, you bloody idiot.’

  ‘Winifred, I must go . . . I’ll be late . . .’

  ‘Then be late, go sick, do anything if it’ll help put this old woman off Itchendever. Reginald – ’ the huge bosom heaved under the lambswool twin set – ‘you are no longer part of University College. You are Business Director elect of Torchester Polytechnic – there’s the letter on your desk; read it again . . .’

  ‘My love, I don’t need to read it again . . .’

  ‘Then get it into your head that you owe these people nothing. Four years you’ve worked here, and what have we got to show for it?’

  ‘It’s better than that public relations job . . .’

  ‘Don’t be irrelevant. If it hadn’t been for you, UCI would never have heard of the Funny Farms Foundation, let alone applied for the money. If Torchester are going to apply, then it’s in your interests to see they get it – and that UCI doesn’t. It’ll give you a flying start there — on top of the seven thousand a year.’

  ‘But I don’t even take up the appointment until September – and I haven’t given the Dean my notice yet.’

  ‘All the more reason for underselling UCI to Mrs Snatch . . .’

  ‘Mrs Hatch.’

  ‘All right, Mrs Hatch; all the more reason why they won’t think it fishy if you steer her off Itchendever today. Are you certain that Torchester have put in their application?’

  ‘Oh, quite. The head of their Agriculture Department was absolutely sold on my idea for using the money. He said it was brilliant – solved all the problems they saw when they first thought of applying two years ago . . .’

  ‘There you are – brilliant. You say he said you were brilliant . . .’

  ‘Well, he didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Never mind what he meant. Just don’t go and give the same ideas to Itchendever, and most of all, don’t do a thing that’ll encourage Mrs Snatch to put the money here. You’ve got to sell her off, Reginald – get it into your head – off, off. Now get going or you’ll be late.’

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘A miracle we’ve survived at all, Mr Treasure . . . more sherry? . . . please do . . . oh, I’m sorry . . . here, take my handkerchief. Yes, continued acceptance by the CNAA – the Council for National Academic Awards, you know – is absolutely essential to us . . . our numbers are so small, you understand, they might well consider us under strength for degree recognition at any time. My own influence in that quarter has been vital . . .’

  Eric Ribble, MA, Dean of University College and Head of the English Department, bobbed up and down nervously in front of Treasure, brandishing a decanter like a conductor’s baton. Short, chubby, and evidently well-meaning, Treasure had branded him Pickwickian on first acquaintance. This good-natured assessment was now under review. Treasure disliked verbosity almost as much as sherry; he was suffering a surfeit of both.

  Since the unceasing torrent of words to which the banker had been subjected for all of ten minutes allowed neither for interlocution nor even interruption, he decided stoically to let it flow over him, like the last ministration of sherry, and – apart from an occasional nod of approval matched to the cadence of the speaker’s voice – engage his attention in observing those others present in the crowded Senior Common Room.

  Mrs Hatch was close by, dressed in the identical garments she had been wearing the day before, including the moth-eaten mink coat which she had refused to discard on arrival, exclaiming ‘Holy mackerel, when’s the heating coming on?’ Thus she had not only secured standing room before the large open log fire but also – after loud demand – a glass of rum and water, the production of which made Treasure wish he had swallowed hesitation instead of sherry and asked for a whisky and soda in the first place.

  Amelia was talking to a tall, dark, mountain of a man with a severe and fleshy countenance, clad in a jacket and trousers that might arguably have pre-dated the mink. Treasure had needed no formal introduction immediately to have recognized Daniel Goldstein when he entered the room. Senior Tutor and Head of the History Department, Dr Goldstein was an academic of some note and the author of several learned works on obscure aspects of antiquity. All this paled, however, beside the fact that he appeared regularly on television in what had originally been intended as a middle-brow programme entitled Verdict on History. This fortnightly event allowed historians and politicians in contention to examine important characters from the past – often the very recent past – and to reassess their contribution to civilization in the light of the most up-to-date evidence. The programme had come to enjoy a tremendous following, much to the delight and surprise of the television contractors responsible for its invention, who smugly accepted plaudits for cultural involvement while joyfully banking an unexpected bonus in advertising revenue.

  In truth the success of the programme had less to do with the public’s thirst for historical enlightenment than with its delight in the performances of the abrasive Dr Goldstein – the regular ‘anchor man’. To him no institution or person – living or dead – was sacred. He had proved to be the arch debunker of popularist politicians, generals and statesmen with his uncanny knack for exposing the Achilles’ heels that l
eft clay feet unprotected.

  The viewing public delighted in these twice-monthly character assassinations and the caustic, witty, irreverent, hot-tempered, and brilliant Dr Goldstein became – in television parlance – ‘a hot property’. Nor was there any risk that he might become over-exposed. Immune to better offers, from the academic as well as the entertainment world, Goldstein elected to continue teaching in a relatively unknown educational establishment, to persevere in the compiling of yet further treatises on obscure subjects, to spend some part of his summer vacation labouring like a peasant on an Israeli kibbutz, and to refuse requests to appear in quiz programmes or to write pre-digested historical philosophy for paperback publishers. In short, Dr Goldstein knew his limitations, recognized the singularity of the formulae that underwrote the success of Verdict on History, did not care for the atmosphere of large universities – which seemed always to inflame his natural acerbity – and was entirely satisfied with his life at Itchendever.

  Mrs Hatch knew nothing of these matters, nor had she ever heard of Dr Goldstein, who was now listening to her with stony tolerance and mounting horror.

  Witaker was with his client, looking less apprehensive than was customary when obliged to accompany Mrs Hatch into polite society. He, too, was allowing his mind to wander – even to reminisce. The evening before he had spent on a personal inspection of some other educational establishments that had applied for the Funny Farms Foundation endowment, but which had been found wanting. Of the three listed that time and distance allowed him to include, two he viewed only from the outside. The third – the commercial college near Euston Station, and the one that interested him most from the reports – he had entered and examined closely for all of two hours, naturally without revealing his identity. In the event he was quite satisfied with the accuracy of the earlier report. Indeed, he had been so entirely satisfied that he aimed to return as quickly as possible for yet more satisfaction of a type that his sensual, sadistic propensities made irresistible. Witaker was truly a man of hidden depths – as well hidden as the man who had followed and logged his movements throughout the previous evening.

  Across the room Miss Stopps, who had just arrived, was chatting earnestly with Major Reginald Hunter-Smith, together with a bearded young man who had entered with her. Treasure knew that Hunter-Smith had been the instigator of the College’s application to the Funny Farms Foundation. In a short conversation he had found the ex-officer businesslike but limited. He evidently enjoyed a celebrity as the College’s man of affairs, a status probably not hard to achieve in a community of academics.

  The Crown Prince of Abu B’yat had not put in an appearance, which prompted Treasure to assume he had not been invited to lunch or else – perish the thought – that the promised repast was not yet imminent.

  ‘. . . multiplied by three hundred students produces an income of only £250,000 a year.’ Ribble was babbling onwards. ‘That sum is quite insufficient for our needs. We cannot increase the fees since a number of the students do receive discretionary grants from their local education authorities – not as a right, you understand, oh dear me no.’ As though to emphasize the inequity in his last report, Ribble was seized by a sneezing fit.

  Treasure grasped his opportunity. ‘Tell me, do you have a rich Arab aiming to take you over?’

  Ribble looked up from his handkerchief. ‘That possibility does exist, but I assure you it is remote. Might I ask who told you . . .?’

  ‘Oh, it’s of no consequence,’ Treasure cut in loyally. ‘I thought I saw the Crown Prince of Abu B’yat earlier. Is he joining us for lunch?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Ribble with such force as to imply that he might have some conscientious objection to breaking bread with upstart camel drivers. ‘Sheikh Al Haban does happen to be here today, visiting his son. The boy has a special set of rooms in the stable quad – very commodious and proper. Food is prepared there for parental visits . . . the religious considerations and so on. The coincidence of this visit with your own is . . . er . . . is inopportune. I fear I shall have to give the Sheikh a token of my time this afternoon . . . a progress report on his son . . .’

  Treasure was delighted at this last intelligence, which indicated that the meeting planned for later would not consist of an uninterrupted soliloquy by the Dean. ‘Quite a feather in your cap, Dean, to have bagged a prince for the College,’ he put in loudly on the chance of altering the direction if not the flow of the verbal tide.

  Ribble appeared surprisingly perplexed by the compliment. ‘I thought so at the time, yes . . .’

  ‘And now his tiger’s got us by the shorts.’ Daniel Goldstein had come to join them, and had overheard the last exchange. ‘If this nonsensical farm business gets squashed today – and I sincerely hope to ensure it does – then our next alternative to soldiering on unaided is to let Al Haban gobble us up and turn us into a sort of finishing school for the dimmer offspring of Middle Eastern potentates. Won’t work, of course, as Ribble here is perfectly well aware. We’d lose our recognition in five minutes – not to mention our credibility.’

  The Dean looked both disconcerted and annoyed. ‘Daniel, that was a singularly indelicate statement, even for you. It was also misleading and inaccurate.’

  CHAPTER V

  THE LUNCHTIME meeting of the Junior Common Room Committee had been called at short notice and was proceeding with little formality in a corner of the bar at The Trout in Itchendever. The seven elected members present constituted a quorum, but no one had bothered to count; the Secretary was amongst those absent — he and two others were in any case excused since they were gainfully employed putting up the scaffolding for the firework display.

  ‘It’s agreed then that we’re rejecting the CIA money and the Arab take-over.’ Philip Clark, the JCR President, was Scottish, resolute, and anxious to get away to the cosy afternoon he had planned with his girl-friend.

  There was a murmur of assent from the others, led understandably by Sarah Green who was the girl-friend in question.

  ‘We don’t know it’s CIA money,’ said a short, dark girl who was currently unattached, and who had nothing more pressing than a history essay to complete.

  ‘Of course it’s CIA money,’ put in a confident male. ‘There’s no other organization in the world could have cooked up anything as zany and transparent . . .’

  ‘And so unworkable it has to be a front for something else.’ There were general nods of approval at this unsupported conjecture from a student of economics.

  ‘Faisal’s all right.’ This, from the short, dark girl, was judged by the others to be more an indication of amatory aspirations than a considered opinion on the propriety of having University College ruled from Abu B’yat. The remark was consequently ignored.

  ‘It’s also agreed that Roger’s in charge of the protest tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah Green promptly, eager to provide support for the President – preferably without further delay.

  Roger Dribdon was the JCR Secretary, and since he was already engaged in constructing a key contribution to the paraphernalia of protest, it may be assumed that the outcome of the meeting was a foregone conclusion. It would nevertheless be wrong to judge that any decision had been taken lightly. The resolution here properly approved – and later minuted by the absent Roger – had been the subject of wide discussion amongst a much larger section of the student body than those in attendance at The Trout. On the previous evening, and well into the night, soundings had been taken, groups convened, points argued. The JCR Committee was a democratically-elected body which traditionally avoided behaving in an oligarchic style on issues where conscience, principle, or the possibility of official retribution demanded reference back to the voters. An agreement to protest qualified under all three headings – and most particularly the last.

  For reasons already stated, the student body at University College, Itchendever, was not normally given to protest, nor, in the memory of any of its members, had the JCR Commi
ttee ever before felt such a pressing obligation to take what almost amounted to a referendum on a special issue. With one or two exceptions, the members of the committee were by temperament and inclination entirely unsuited to provide radical leadership on subjects sterner than the pricing of drinks in the JCR bar or the size of subsidy deserved by the Film Society. It was not so much that the committee was passive as that it was rarely required to be active. People were elected to it who could be relied upon to provide a social service – not to stir up trouble. It was significant that even the course of action ratified over beer and sandwiches at The Trout had been adopted not simply on the strength of student opinion but also in secret collusion with some who might be said to exercise more than just student power.

  The meeting concluded, Philip Clark drove his Mini out of the pub car park and headed it back towards the College. ‘No one’s going to be sent down,’ he said in answer to a question from Sarah who was sitting beside him. ‘The wording is up to us, but it’s pretty mild – and quite witty. Case of honi soit when you think about it.’

  ‘You don’t believe UCI is really going bust?’

  ‘Of course not; colleges don’t go bust. This one must be coining it. If they were in trouble they’d be running appeals, and putting up the fees. They’re just greedy, that’s all – greedy for the pig farm money. Well, that should be a thing of the past after tonight.’ Philip swung the car into the college drive. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything in the Arab business in any case. Faisal’s pretty tight about it. Anyway, if it comes to anything we deal with it later. Today’s the day we rout the yokels.’ He glanced at the girl, who appeared mollified. ‘I don’t mind carrying the can for the protest; it just doesn’t compare with what goes on at some universities.’