“See you in the morning, Professor. Thanks for a great evening.”
“My pleasure. I’ll pick you up at 10 A.M. Sleep well—you have a full day ahead of you tomorrow.”
Stephen returned to Magdalen and immediately called Robin.
“All’s well, but I nearly went too far. The meal was altogether too carefully chosen—I even had his favorite brandy. Still, it’ll keep me on my toes tomorrow. We must remember to avoid overkill. See you then, Robin.”
Stephen reported the same message to Jean-Pierre and James before falling gratefully into bed. The same time tomorrow he would be a wiser man, but would he be a richer one?
Chapter Sixteen
AT 5 A.M. the sun rose over the Cherwell, and those few Oxonians who were about that early would have been left in no doubt as to 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. King Edward VII, Prince Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, Edward Gibbon and Oscar Wilde had all passed through its portals. But the only thing that was passing through Stephen’s mind as he lay awake that morning was the education of Harvey Metcalfe.
He could hear his own heartbeat, and for the first time he knew what Robin 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 all become in their common aim of defeating Harvey Metcalfe. Although Stephen, like James, was beginning to have a sneaking admiration for the man, he was now even more convinced that Metcalfe could be outmaneuvered when he was not on home ground. For over two hours Stephen lay motionless in bed, deep in thought, going over his plan again and again. When the sun had climbed over the tallest tree, he rose, showered, shaved and dressed slowly and deliberately, his mind still on the day ahead.
He made his face up carefully to age himself by fifteen years. It took him a considerable time, and he wondered whether women had to struggle as long in front of the mirror to achieve the opposite effect. He donned his gown, a magnificent scarlet, proclaiming him a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Oxford. It amused him that Oxford had to be different. Every other university abbreviated this universal 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 study his red dossier for the last time. He had read the closely typewritten pages so often that he practically knew them by heart.
He avoided breakfast. Looking nearly fifty, he would undoubtedly have caused a stir among his colleagues, though probably the older dons would have failed to observe anything unusual in his appearance.
Stephen headed out of the college into the High, unnoticed among the thousand or so other graduates all dressed like fourteenth-century archbishops. Anonymity on that particular day was going to be 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 day of battle.
He arrived at the Randolph at 9:55 A.M. and informed one of the younger bellboys that his name was Professor Porter and that he had come to pick up Mr. Metcalfe. Stephen took a seat in the lounge. The young man scurried away and returned moments later with Harvey.
“Mr. Metcalfe—Professor Porter.”
“Thank you,” said Stephen. He made a mental note to return and tip the bellboy. That touch had been useful, even if
it was only part of his job.
“Good morning, Professor,” said Harvey, taking a seat. “So tell me, what have I let myself in for?”
“Well,” said Stephen, “Encaenia begins officially when all the notables of the university take a breakfast of champagne, strawberries and cream at Jesus College, which is known as Lord Nathaniel Crewe’s Benefaction.”
“Who’s this Lord Crewe guy? Will he be at the breakfast?”
“Only in spirit; the great man died some three hundred years ago. Lord Nathaniel Crewe was a Doctor of the university and the Bishop of Durham, and he left £200 a year to the university as a Benefaction to provide the breakfast and an oration which we shall hear later. Of course, the money he willed no longer covers expenses nowadays, with rising prices and inflation, so the university has to dip into its own pocket to continue the tradition. When breakfast is over there is a procession and parade to the Sheldonian Theatre.”
“What happens then?”
“The parade is followed by the most exciting event of the day. The presentation of the Honorands for degrees.”
“The what?” said Harvey.
“The Honorands,” said Stephen. “They are the distinguished men and women who have been chosen by the senior members of the university to be awarded Oxford honorary degrees.” Stephen looked at his watch. “In fact, we must leave now to be sure of having a good position on the route from which to watch the procession.”
Stephen rose and guided his guest out of the Randolph Hotel. They strolled down the Broad and found an excellent spot just in front of the Sheldonian Theatre, where the police cleared a little space for Stephen because of his scarlet gown. A few minutes later the procession wound into sight around 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?” inquired Harvey.
“They are the University Marshal and the Bedels. They are carrying maces to safeguard the Chancellor’s procession.”
“Jesus, of course it’s safe. This isn’t Central Park, New York.”
“I agree,” said Stephen, “but it hasn’t always been so over the past three hundred years, and tradition dies hard in England.”