Not a Penny More Not a Penny Less Read online

  “You look magnificent.”

  “What do they cost?”

  “About £100, I think.”

  “No, no. How much would I have to give…?”

  “I have no idea. You would have to discuss that with the Vice-Chancellor after the Garden Party.”

  Harvey took a long look at himself in the mirror, and then returned to the dressing room while Stephen thanked the assistant, asked him to wrap up the gown and cap and send them to the Clarendon building to be left with the porter in the name of Sir John Betjeman. He paid cash. The assistant looked even more bewildered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was not sure what to do, except continue praying for Mr. Venables’s arrival. His prayers were answered some ten minutes later, but by then Stephen and Harvey were well on their way to Trinity College and the Garden Party.

  “Mr. Venables, I’ve just been asked to send the full D. Litt. dress to Sir John Betjeman at the Clarendon Building.”

  “Strange. We kitted him out for this morning’s ceremony weeks ago. I wonder why he wants a second outfit.”

  “He paid cash.”

  “Well, send it around to the Clarendon, but be sure it’s in his name.”

  When Stephen and Harvey arrived at Trinity College shortly after 3:30, the elegant green lawns, the croquet hoops having been removed, were already crowded with over a thousand people. The members of the university wore an odd hybrid dress: best lounge suits or silk dresses topped with gowns, hoods and caps. Cups of tea and crates of strawberries and cucumber sandwiches were disappearing rapidly.

  “What a swell party this is,” said Harvey unintentionally mimicking Frank Sinatra. “You certainly do things in style here, Professor.”

  “Yes, the Garden Party is always rather fun. It’s the main social event of the university year, which as I explained, is just ending. Half the senior members here will be snatching an afternoon off from reading examination scripts. Exams for the final-year undergraduates have only just ended.”

  Stephen observed the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest carefully, and steered Harvey well away from them, introducing him to as many of the older members of the university as possible, hoping they would not find the encounter too memorable. They spent just over three-quarters of an hour moving from person to person, Stephen feeling rather like an aide-de-camp to an incompetent dignitary whose mouth must be kept shut for fear of a diplomatic incident. Despite Stephen’s anxious approach, Harvey was clearly having the time of his life.

  “Robin, Robin, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, James.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the Eastgate Restaurant: come and join me here and bring Jean-Pierre.”

  “Fine. We’ll be there in five minutes. No, make it ten. With my disguise, I’d better go slowly.”

  Robin paid his bill. The children had finished their reward, so he took them out of the Eastgate to a waiting car and instructed the driver, who had been hired especially for the day, to return them to Newbury. They had played their part and now could only get in the way.

  “Aren’t you coming home with us, Dad?” demanded Jamie.

  “No, I’ll be back later tonight. Tell your mother to expect me about seven.”

  Robin returned to the Eastgate to find Jean-Pierre and James hobbling toward him.

  “Why the change of plan?” asked Jean-Pierre. “It’s taken me over an hour to get dressed and ready.”

  “Never mind. You’re still in the right gear. We had a stroke of luck. I chatted up Harvey in the street and the cocky bastard invited me to tea with him at the Randolph Hotel. I said that would be impossible, but asked him to join me at the Clarendon. Stephen suggested that you two should be invited along as well.”

  “Clever,” said James. “No need for the deception at the Garden Party.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not too clever,” said Jean-Pierre.

  “Well, at least we can do the whole damn charade behind closed doors,” said Robin, “which ought to make it easier. I never did like the idea of walking through the streets with him.”

  “With Harvey Metcalfe nothing is ever going to be easy,” said Jean-Pierre.

  “I’ll get myself into the Clarendon Building by 4:15,” continued Robin. “You will appear a few minutes after 4:20, Jean-Pierre, and then you, James, about 4:25 P.M. But keep exactly to the same routine, act as if the meeting had taken place, as originally planned, at the Garden Party and we had all walked over to the Clarendon together.”

  Stephen suggested to Harvey that they should return to the Clarendon Building, as it would be discourteous to be late for the Vice-Chancellor.

  “Sure.” Harvey glanced at his watch. “Jesus, it’s 4:30 already.”

  They left the Garden Party and walked quickly down toward the Clarendon Building at the bottom of the Broad, Stephen explaining en route that the Clarendon was a sort of Oxford White House where all the officers and officials of the university had their rooms.

  The Clarendon is a large, imposing eighteenth-century building which could be mistaken by a visitor for another college. A few steps lead up to an impressive hallway, and on entering you realize you are in a magnificent old building which has been converted for use as offices, with as few changes as possible.

  When they arrived the porter greeted them.

  “The Vice-Chancellor is expecting us,” said Stephen.

  The porter had been somewhat surprised when Robin had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and told him that Mr. Habakkuk had asked him to wait in his room; even though Robin was in full academic dress, the porter kept a beady eye on him, not expecting the Vice-Chancellor or any of his staff to return from the Garden Party for at least another hour. The arrival of Stephen gave him a little more confidence. He well remembered the pound he had received for his guided tour of the building.

  The porter ushered Stephen and Harvey through to the Vice-Chancellor’s rooms and left them alone, tucking another pound note into his pocket.

  The Vice-Chancellor’s room was in no way pretentious and its beige carpet and pale walls would have given it the look of any middle-ranking civil servant’s office, had it not been for the magnificent picture of a village square in France by Wilson Steer which hung over the marble fireplace.

  Robin was staring out of the vast windows overlooking the Bodleian Library.

  “Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor.”

  Robin spun around. “Oh, welcome, Professor.”

  “You remember Mr. Metcalfe?”

  “Yes, indeed. How nice to see you again.” Robin shuddered. All he wanted to do was to go home. They chatted for a few minutes. Another knock and Jean-Pierre entered.

  “Good afternoon, Registrar.”

  “Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, Professor Porter.”

  “May I introduce Mr. Harvey Metcalfe.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Registrar, would you like some…”

  “Where’s this man Metcalfe?”

  The three of them stood, stunned, as a man looking ninety entered the room on sticks. He hobbled over to Robin, winked, bowed and said:

  “Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor,” in a loud, crotchety voice.

  “Good afternoon, Horsley.”

  James went over to Harvey and prodded him with his sticks as if to make sure he was real.

  “I have read about you, young man.”

  Harvey had not been called young man for thirty years. The others stared at James in admiration. None of them knew that in his last year at university James had played L’Avare to great acclaim. His Secretary of the Chest was simply a repeat performance, and even Molière would have been pleased with it. James continued:

  “You have been most generous to Harvard.”

  “That’s very kind of you to mention it, sir,” said Harvey respectfully.

  “Don’t call me sir, young man. I like the look of you—call me Horsley.”