Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (28 page)

Stephen mixed him a large manhattan. His
guest’s eyes took in the room and settled on the desk.

“Gee–what a wonderful set of photographs.
You with the late President Kennedy, another with the Queen and
even the Pope.”

That touch was due to Jean Pierre, who had
put Stephen in contact with a photographer who had been in jail with his artist
friend David Stein. Stephen was already looking forward to burning the
photographs and pretending they never existed.

“Let me give you another to add to your
collection.” Harvey pulled out of his pocket a large photograph of himself
receiving the trophy for The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes from the
Queen.

“I’ll sign it for you, if you like.”

He scribbled an exuberant signature
diagonally across the Queen.

“Thank you,” said Stephen. “I can assure you
I will treasure it as much as my other
photographs,
and I do appreciate you sparing the time to visit me here, Mr. Metcalfe.”

“It’s an honour for me to come to Oxford and
this is such a lovely old college.”

Stephen really believed he meant it, and he
suppressed an inclination to tell Harvey the story of the late Lord Nuffield’s
dinner at Magdalen. For all Nuffield’s munificence to the university, the two
were never on entirely easy terms. When a manservant assisted the guests’
departure after a college feast, Nuffield took the proffered hat ungraciously. “Is
this mine?” he said. “I don’t know, my lord,” was the rejoinder, “but it’s the
one you came with.”

Harvey was gazing a little blankly at the
books on Stephen’s shelves. The disparity between their subject matter, pure
mathematics, and the putative Professor Porter’s discipline, biochemistry,
happily failed to strike him.

“Do brief me on tomorrow.”

“Surely,” said Stephen. “Let’s have dinner
and I’ll go through what I have planned for you and see if it meets with your
approval.”

“I’m game for anything. I feel ten years
younger since this trip to Europe and I’m thrilled about being at Oxford
University.”

Stephen wondered if he really could stand
seven hours of Harvey Metcalfe, but for another $250,000 and his reputation
with the rest of the Team...

The college servants served shrimp cocktail.

“My favourite,” said Harvey. “How did you
know?”

Stephen would have liked to say, “There’s
nothing I don’t know about you,” but he satisfied himself with, “Just a lucky
guess. Now, if we meet at ten o’clock tomorrow we can join in with what is
thought to be the most interesting day in the university calendar. It is called
Encaenia.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, once a year at the end of Trinity
term, which is the equivalent to the summer term in an American university, in
the ninth week we celebrate the ending of the university year. There are
several ceremonies and a big Garden Party, attended by the chancellor and vice
chancellor of the university. The chancellor is the old British Prime Minister,
Harold Macmillan, and the vice chancellor is Mr. Habakkuk. I am hoping it will
be possible for you to meet them both and we should manage to cover everything
in time for you to be back in London by seven o’clock.”

“How did you know I had to be back by seven?”

“You told me at Ascot.” Stephen could lie
very quickly now. He thought if they did not get their million very soon he
would end up a hardened criminal.

Harvey enjoyed his meal, which Stephen had
been almost too clever about, as each course was one of Harvey’s favourites.
After Harvey had drunk a good deal of after dinner brandy (price £7.25 per
bottle, thought Stephen), they strolled through the quiet Magdalen cloisters
past the Song School. The sound of the choristers rehearsing a Gabrieli mass
hung gently in the air.

“Gee, I’m surprised you allow record players
on that loud,” said Harvey. Stephen escorted his guest to the Randolph Hotel,
pointing out the iron cross set in Broad Street outside Balliol College, said
to mark the spot on which Archbishop Cranmer had been burnt to death for heresy
in 1556.
Harvey forebore to say that he had never heard of
the reverend gentleman.

Stephen and Harvey parted on the steps of
the Randolph.

“See you in the morning, Professor. Thanks
for a great evening.”

“My pleasure.
I’ll pick you up at ten A.M. Good night.”

Stephen returned to Magdalen and immediately
called Adrian.

“All’s well, though I nearly went too far.
The meal was altogether too carefully chosen and I even had his favourite
brandy. Still, it will keep me on my toes tomorrow. One must remember to avoid
overkill. See you then, Adrian. Have a good night’s sleep.”

Stephen repeated the same message to Jean
Pierre and James before falling gratefully into his bed. The same time tomorrow
he would be a wiser man, but would he be a richer one?

A
t five o’clock the sun rose over the
Cherwell and those few Oxonians who were about that early would have been left
in no doubt why the connoisseurs consider Magdalen to be the most beautiful
college at either Oxford or Cambridge. Nestling on the banks of the river, its
perpendicular architecture is easy on the eye. It has educated King Edward VII,
Prince Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, Edward Gibbon and Oscar Wilde. Not
that such thoughts
were passing through Stephen’s mind as he
lay awake.

He could hear his heart beat and for the
first time he knew what Adrian and Jean Pierre had been through. It seemed a
lifetime since their first meeting only three months before. He smiled to
himself at the thought of how close they had been brought by the common aim of
defeating Harvey Metcalfe. Stephen, like James, was beginning to have a
sneaking admiration for the man, although he was now even more convinced that
he could be out-manoeuvred when he was not on his own territory. For over two
hours Stephen lay motionless in bed, deep in thought, and when the sun had
risen from behind the tallest tree, he rose, showered, shaved and dressed
slowly and deliberately, his mind concentrating on the day ahead.

He made his face up carefully to age himself
by fifteen years. It took him a long time, and he wondered whether women had to
struggle as long in front of the mirror to achieve the reverse effect. He put
on his gown, a magnificent
scarlet, that
announced he
was a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Oxford. It amused him that
Oxford had to be different. Every other university abbreviated this, the
ubiquitous award for research work, to Ph.D. In Oxford, it was D.Phil. He
studied himself in the mirror.

“If that doesn’t impress Harvey Metcalfe,
nothing ever will.” And what’s more, he had the right to wear it. He sat down
to read his red dossier for the last time. He had studied it so often that he
practically had it by heart.

He avoided breakfast. Looking nearly fifty
he would have caused an undoubted stir amongst his colleagues, though the older
dons would probably have failed to notice anything unusual in his appearance.

Stephen headed out of the college in to the
High unnoticed, joining the thousand other graduates all dressed like
fourteenth-century archbishops. Anonymity on that day was easy.
That, and the fact that Harvey would be bemused by the strange
traditions of the ancient university, were
the two reasons why Stephen
had chosen Encaenia for his battleground.

He arrived at the Randolph at nine
fifty-five and informed one of the younger bellboys that his name was Professor
Porter and that he was awaiting Mr. Metcalfe. The young man scurried away and
returned moments later with Harvey.

“Mr. Metcalfe–Professor Porter.”

“Thank you,” said Stephen. He made a note to
return and tip the bellboy. That touch had been useful, even if it was only
part of his job.

“Good morning, Professor. Where do we start?”

“Well,” said Stephen, “Encaenia starts with
Lord Nathaniel Crewe’s Benefaction at Jesus College, which is champagne,
strawberries and cream for all the notabilities of the university. They then
form a procession to the Sheldonian Theatre.”

“What happens then?”

“The most exciting event is the presentation
of honourands for degrees.”

“The what?” said
Harvey.

“The honourands,” said Stephen. “They are
the distinguished men and women who have been chosen by the senior members of
the university to be awarded honorary degrees.”

“Who’s this Lord Crewe guy?”

“Ah well, that’s most interesting. Lord
Nathaniel Crewe was a doctor of the university and the Bishop of Durham. He
died in the seventh century, but he left two hundred pounds a year to the
university as a benefaction to provide the entertainment I told you about and
an oration which we shall hear later. Of course, the money he left does not
cover expenses nowadays with rising prices and inflation, so they have to dip
into the university pocket.” Stephen rose and guided his guest out of the
Randolph Hotel. “We must leave now to secure a good position on the route from
which to watch the procession.”

They strolled down the Broad and found an
excellent spot just in front of the Sheldonian Theatre, the police clearing a
little space for Stephen because of his scarlet gown.
A few
minutes later the procession wound into sight round the corner from the Turl.
The police held up all the traffic and kept the public on the pavement.

“Who are the guys in front carrying those
clubs?” enquired Harvey.

“They are the university marshal and the
bedels. They are carrying maces to safeguard the chancellor’s processsion.”

“Hell, of course, it’s safe. This isn’t
Central Park New York.”

“I agreee,” said Stephen, “but it hasn’t
always been safe over the past three hundred years and tradition dies hard in
England.”

“And who’s that behind the bedel fellows?”

“The one wearing the black gown with gold
trimmings is the chancellor of the university, accompanied by his page. The
chancellor is the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of
Great Britain in the late fifties and early sixties.”

“Oh yes, I remember the guy. Tried to get
the British into Europe and De Gaulle wouldn’t have it.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of
remembering him. Now, he’s followed by the vice chancellor, Mr. Habakkuk, who
is also the principal of Jesus College.”

“You’re losing me, Professor.”

“Well, the chancellor is always a
distinguished Englishman who was educated at Oxford, but the vice chancellor is
a leading member of the university itself and is usually chosen from the heads
of the colleges.”

“Got it.”

“Now, after him we have the university
registrar, Mr. Caston, who is a Fellow of Merton College. He is the senior
administrator of the university, or you might look on him as the university’s
top civil servant. He’s directly responsible to the vice chancellor and
Hebdomadal Council, who
are
the sort of cabinet for
the university. Behind them we have the senior proctor, Mr. Campbell of
Worcester College, and the junior proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New
College.”

“What is a proctor?”

“For over seven hundred years men like them
have been responsible for decency and discipline in the universty.”

“What? Those two old men take care of nine
thousand rowdy youths?”

“Well, they are helped by the bulldogs,”
said Stephen.

“Ah, that’s better, I suppose. A couple of
bites from an old English bulldog will keep anyone in order.”

“No, no,” protested Stephen, trying
desperately not to laugh. “The name bulldog is only a term for the men who help
the proctors keep order. Now finally in the procession you can see that tiny
crocodile of colour: it consists of heads of colleges who are doctors of the
university, doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and heads
of colleges who are not doctors of the university, in that order.”

“Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is
money.”

“They are not that sort of doctor,” replied
Stephen.

“Forget it. You beat me. I only know about
making millions.” Stephen watched Harvey’s face carefully. He was drinking it
in and had already become quieter.

“The long line will proceed into the
Sheldonian Theatre and all the people in the procession will take their places
in the hemicycle.”

“Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?”

“The hemicycle is a round bank of seats, the
most uncomfortable in Europe. But don’t you worry. I have managed to arrange
special seats for us because of your well-known interest in education at
Harvard and there will just be time for us to take them ahead of the
procession.”

“Well, lead the way, Rod. Do they really
know what goes on in Harvard here?”

“Why yes, Mr. Metcalfe. You have a
reputation in university circles as a generous man interested in financing the
pursuit of academic excellence.”