Grantchester Grind by Tom Sharpe Read Free Book Online

had

    said, made him no sort of Porterhouse man.
    ‘Not that the system always works, if memory serves me,’ said the Praelector finally.

    ‘That young man who blew up the Bull Tower with gas-filled condoms was found to have been

    fornicating with his bedder at the very moment of the explosion. Name of Zipser, I seem

    to remember. Now what was the bedmaker’s name?’
    ‘Biggs. Mrs Biggs,’ the Chaplain shouted suddenly. ‘Big Bertha Biggs I remember

    they called her. Wore tight boots and a shiny red mackintosh. A splendid woman. Most

    ample. I shall never forget the way she smiled.’
    ‘I doubt if anyone else will either, come to that,’ said the Dean grimly, ‘though whether

    she was smiling when the Tower exploded we will, I am glad to say, never know. Not that I

    am in the least interested. Any sexual deviant, and a young man who could find Mrs Biggs

    in any way desirable must have been a pervert, deserves to die. It was the other

    consequences I found deplorable. Quite apart from the enormous cost of the restoration, it

    gave that damned Master, the late Sir Godber Evans, the chance to exert his authority over

    the College Council. The only good thing to come out of the whole ghastly affair was that

    he died of drink not long afterwards.’
    ‘I always understood that he had an accident and fell over,’ Dr Buscott intervened

    from the far end of the table.
    ‘He would not have fallen had he not been drunk.’
    But Dr Buscott hadn’t finished. ‘And saddled the College with a Head Porter as Master.

    I have never been able to understand why he named Skullion. If, of course, he did.’
    The Senior Tutor almost rose from his chair and the Dean’s face was suffused. ‘If you

    are accusing us of lying…’ the Senior Tutor began but the Chaplain provided a

    diversion.
    ‘Dear Skullion,’ he shouted. ‘I saw him sitting in the garden the other day wearing

    his bowler hat. He seemed to be much better and certainly much happier.’
    ‘Did he have his bottle with him?’ asked the Praelector.
    ‘His bottle? I didn’t notice. He used to have a bag, you know. It was on the end of a pipe

    and sometimes would slip out. I once stepped on it, quite by accident of course, and the

    poor fellow–’
    ‘For God’s sake, shut up, ‘–snarled the Senior Tutor and pushed his plate away. ‘I

    really don’t see why we should discuss Skullion’s bladder problems over the kidney

    ragout.’
    ‘I entirely agree,’ said the Dean. ‘It is a most unsavoury topic, and not at all

    suitable at table.’
    ‘Savoury now?’ the Chaplain shouted. ‘But I haven’t even finished my main course.’
    ‘I think if someone would switch off his hearing aid…’ said the Praelector.
    The Dean’s first port of call in his search for a new Master was Coft Castle, the

    training stables belonging to the President of the Old Porterhouse Society, General

    Sir Cathcart D’Eath, to consult him.
    ‘Seen this coming,’ said the General. ‘Bad show having to have a Porter as Master.

    Worse still a chap in a wheelchair. Makes a bad impression in a sporting college, don’t you

    know.’
    ‘Quite,’ said the Dean, who didn’t share the General’s view of Porterhouse. For him the

    College was the repository of traditional values. ‘The fact of the matter is that our

    finances are in a dreadful state. We need a very rich Master to put us in the black again.

    Can you think of anyone who might be suitable?’
    ‘Daresay you could try Gutterby down in Hampshire. Good family and plenty of money,’

    the General said. ‘Things haven’t been good for anyone lately, though. Difficult.

    Difficult.’
    They sat in Sir Cathcart’s library late into the night. From inside the cover of Sir

    Walter Scott’s _Rob Roy_ the General had produced a bottle of Glenmorangie.
    The Dean on the other hand was drinking Armagnac which came from _The Three

    Musketeers._ It put an idea into Sir Cathcart’s head.
    ‘I