Some of the Characters Appearing or Mentioned:

Mark Henry Foster  The story‑teller:  Pennefather Organ Scholar

Tristan (Tris) Price‑Williams  His well‑proportioned boyfriend

Gabriel Pack   A most friendly Aussie

Joshua Gibbons  Another friendly Aussie, Gabriel's cousin

Toby Barker    A bright boatie and actor

Louis Mantegnant   Another bright boatie and actor

Charles Fane‑Stuart  Research Student and Assistant to the Bursar

Brigadier Robert Taylor  The Bursar

Hon Jeremy (Tosspot) Foskett  A supercilious dilettante student

Boswell Johnson  BA(Cranwell)  The new Servant of the Chapel

Benjamin Mostyn  Organ Scholar [2002]

Jonathan Matthews [Jonty]  An habitue of the Club

Daniel Springer  Jonty's boyfriend

Sergeant Dudley Woolpit  A hunky policeman  [Dude]

There was also a bit of information which flew around without resting.  We were having our

usual 'Nine o'clock' chat, this time over a bottle of port which Oliver brought in.  He said his

Grandfather had left it unopened when he'd gone home after his stay.  We were talking about

football mainly and names cropped up and someone said he hadn't noted many Waynes,

Lees,  Kevins or Rodneys around the College.  I said, I'd noted that at school as well.  We did

have a Lee, at least.  Charles said there was an effort to get a bigger 'social mix' now in the

College and we might have a Dwayne or a Gary if applications came in and selection

procedures were engineered.  He had the idea that 'you know who' had been a prime mover

of this.  I said I knew from what the Master had said last year that he was also advocating a

greater mix but wanted also to increase the College's appeal.

     I said as far as I was concerned my name was from my Grandma's insistence, Mark

after the College and Henry after my Grandfather.  Oliver said his was a family name, it had

been his mother's father's name and so on, and went back well into the eighteen, and

probably the seventeen, hundreds.  Ben laughed and said after four daughters his parents had

decided on Benjamin as the Biblical most beloved youngest son.  Tris just snorted and said

'Wagner'.  Of course, we were really all intrigued about the conjunction Boswell Johnson.

He just laughed and said his father was plain John Johnson and he'd decided his kids would

be more famous.  His sister was Amy, after the flier, and she'd just qualified as a doctor.  His

mother was annoyed as his father went straight to the office and registered his name while

she was still in hospital.  She wanted him to be called Anthony.

     He laughed, "So Dad and Amy are also Doctor Johnson and all I'm doing is a BPhil."

     "But don't medical doctors just have it as a courtesy title," said Ben.  "My aunt's

called 'doctor' but she just has the bachelor degrees of MB and BS, medicine and surgery."

     "That's right," said Boz, "Amy's the same, MB and BCh her's are, but Dad got an

MD a few years back from the University of London for his thesis and publications on

adolescent compulsive behaviour."

     "Is he a consultant?" asked Oliver.

     "Yes, he's a psychiatrist at the big hospital back home in Wales."

     "But you're not Welsh, dearest one," said Charles, "You share Mother's birthplace of

that delightful Bognor Regis."

     "That's right, I told you that.  Dad was a houseman there and Mum was a nurse.

Usual conjunction!  He's from Norfolk himself."

     A fleeting thought connected Wales, Drew, Boz.  I supposed Boz might have met him

there.  I knew little about Wales other than Dad's joke about the Heavenly Choir, thirty‑

thousand sopranos, thirty‑thousand altos, thirty‑thousand basses and one Welsh tenor!

     I got a bit worked up about my Wednesday evening  recital.  Good job I had Tris and

the others to keep me calm.  I had that horrid dream again.  This time running through rooms,

trying doors, trying to find the entrance to the Chapel as it was time for me to play.  As usual

I finished up in the large, quiet room and there was the door.   Still, all went well and we had

a most convivial gathering in our set afterwards.  I think the Chaplain wondered who the

rather 'nice' young lads were, Danny, Jonty and a couple of the others from the Club.  He

looked rather closely at Danny who sported some very artfully applied eye‑liner but in his

neat, not gaudy, clothes could have passed for an undergraduate from one of the other,

perhaps more flamboyant, Colleges.  Or, perhaps he thought we were engaged in some sort of

social work especially as James Tanner and Paul Phillips his solicitor companion, were there

chatting to them at one stage!  Danny said he was enjoying his placement at the rather up‑

market restaurant.  He was quite a character and, after regaling us with a couple of tales

about  some of the peculiar customers they'd had who had more money than food sense,

wanted to know why we had all the knobs round the walls.

     "One for each of his conquests," Tris told him, looking round first to see that the

Chaplain wasn't in listening range.  "He's good at pulling knobs.  And he likes the big ones.

Look that one's four foot and that one's eight.  You should have seen him tonight up in the

organ loft.  Couldn't keep his fingers off the sixteen footer."

     "Balls!" said Danny, as he and the others giggled, "What are they really for?"

     Tris was away.  "Well, you know those big Wurlitzers they used to have in cinemas.

You just pull that one over there and one rises up from under the floor.  We just have to put

the carpet down when we have visitors though."  He reached up and pulled one by the

fireplace, Bazun 16ft.  Nothing happened.  "Wrong one.  But anyway, we had to switch the

power off before you came."

     Danny laughed.  "Go on, pull the other one.  You're having me on."

     Tris looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.  "Pull what one?"  He lowered his

voice.  "Bet you're good at that!"

     Saved by the bell.  Or Charles, preceded by Liam with more glasses of wine.  "Dears,

do have another one.  Good wine and good music go so well together."  He spotted Dude.

"Sergeant, I am sure you would not be over the limit with a little more of the Merlot."  Dude

grinned and had another glass.

     A little later, when people were beginning to break up and say their goodnights, Dude

came over to where Oliver, Tris and I were standing.

     "Thanks, Mark, I enjoyed that very much,"  he said, "Sorry the Boss and Batman

couldn't come.  There's something on tonight and I'm on duty at midnight interviewing."  He

looked at Oliver.  "Sorry to raise it this evening, but there's something we'd like you to look

at.  Would tomorrow about five be OK."  He looked at us.  "Perhaps you'd like to see as well.

It's not an interview, but if you want the Chaplain or anyone..." he smiled, "...But I think the

three of you can look after yourselves.  See you on Saturday, anyway." He looked at Tris.

"Give my best wishes to his cousin when you e‑mail him.  But tell him not to send those anti‑

Bush jokes on the gov.co.uk address, I might press the wrong button and they'll go straight to

Tony Blair!"

     Of course, we wondered what it was and at five o'clock next day were ready with tea

and some good fruit cake.  Sergeant Woolpit drew out a portfolio from his bag after he was

plied with tea and the cake.

     "Better tell you first we might have some evidence.  It's odd, it's the coincidences we

find in all sorts of cases that crop up.  That old chap who find the first one, that Bryce

McArdle, was in Ely with his wife a week ago.  They went into one of the charity shops for a

present for their grandson.  He fourteen but quite tall for his age.  He wanted a particular

tracksuit of a particular size and they'd spotted one in the window.  They bought it and when

they got it home he remarked it looked very like the one he's seen the runner wearing.  In

fact, he'd noticed, but hadn't remembered to tell us, that the lace to drew up the hood was

red and with that particular make the lace is always black.   How he knew that he didn't

know, but he thinks his grandson might have mentioned it as he'd been out with him one

morning walking the dog when the person was running past.  Anyway, they rang us and I

went and had a look.  First thing was, that the charity shop people had had it dry‑cleaned as

they realised it was good quality.  This is it."

     He opened the portfolio which had lots of photos in protective plastic covers.  There

were two colour  photos on pages following each other.  One of a track‑suit top, the other of

the bottoms.

     Oliver was nodding.  "That looks very much the design of the one the paper‑boy, or

whoever, was wearing near Mr Finch‑Hampton's house.  But how did the charity shop get

it?"

     The Sergeant smiled.  "A bit of luck there and the link with Cambridge.  Someone

had seen a bag stuffed in the top of the dumpster by the multi‑story car park near the Round

Church.  It had the track‑suit top hanging out.  They took it home thinking it would do for

their son, but, it was too small and a bit muddy as well, so they took it with a load of the lad's

cast‑offs to the charity shop next time they were in Ely.  Pity we didn't get it with the mud

on.  But then there was this...."

     He turned the page and there were two photographs.  The second obviously a blow‑up

of the first.  It took a moment or two to register what the object was.

     "Ever seen anything like this?"

     Tris and Oliver shook their heads.  I thought I knew.   "My Gran's a diabetic and she

uses a syringe like that for her insulin.  But it's only part.  There's no ...."  I made a stabbing

movement.  "...I know, needle."

     "Yep.  It's one of the miniature types.  I was putting the suit in a bag as the chap was

certain it was the one he'd seen because of the red lace when I felt a ridge.  It was this.  There

was a slight hole in a pocket and it was in the lining."  He smiled.  "We got the Yard to look

at it.  Luckily there was a cap on each end and there wasn't insulin in it..."

     ".....Strychnine?" asked Tris.

     "Too right," said a beaming Sergeant.  He turned to Oliver.  "Would you be willing to

make a statement about the tracksuit and whether it is what you saw the person wearing?  We

have the original at the station so you can see it there.  OK?"

     Oliver was nodding.  What a breakthrough I thought.  Very observant of the old boy.

The Sergeant put the portfolio on the coffee table in front of me as he made some notes in his

notebook.  I idly turned a couple of pages.  There were three photos of a brick from various

angles and on the next two pages a rather crumpled and mangled tin can.  I turned the next

page and almost screeched.  I'd seen something which was only too familiar.  The Sergeant

turned and closed the portfolio.

     "Sorry, you shouldn't be looking at that..." he started.

     "...But it's mine," I almost yelled.  "Look!"

     I stood up and to the amazed looks of the three, dropped my trousers and displayed

the inner thigh of my right leg.

     "That birthmark!  It's the same as mine!  My brother's got it!  It's a family thing!"

The awful realisation struck me.  "Is that the birthmark you found on Mr Finch‑Hampton's

leg?"

     The Sergeant looked absolutely shaken.  No more than me, I expect.  "Yes," he said

quietly, "I'm afraid it is.  A relative of his said about it and before we had the dental records

that was what he was identified by."

     I sat down heavily, trousers round my ankles.  Tris came round and put his arms

round me.  "There must be lots of people with marks just like that."

     I shook my head.  "I know it's distinctive.  I know inside me it's a family thing."  I

looked at the Sergeant.  "Do you know anything about his family?"

     "A bit.  We know his father married three times and the deceased changed his name

when there was a family feud and he was left the house and money if he did so."

     "Changed his name," I said, "We'd heard that.  Do you know what his name was

before that ?"

     The Sergeant picked up the portfolio and opened it at a photocopy of a birth

certificate.  He held it out.  Tris and I read it and said simultaneously, "Simon Finch‑

Gratten."

     "Oh my God!" Tris said, "Frankie's e‑mail!"

     He got up and rushed into my study as I read that Simon Finch‑Gratten, born

fourteenth of May, nineteen seventy two, was the son of John Finch‑Gratten and Molly

Finch‑Gratten, nee Finch. Tris came back and handed the e‑mail to the Sergeant with Oliver

looking over his shoulder.

     Tris pointed.  "Look I've drawn a little family tree.  There's Mark's great‑

grandmother, she was French.  There's her twin who married someone named James Gratten

and they had a son named John."  He looked at me and patted my leg and then grinned.

"Wait until Charles hears you were Pinch‑Bum's cousin or something."  He saw my look.  A

mixture of horror and amazement.

     "Poor man," I said, "To die like that."  I was in a whirl.  "Are his parents still alive?"

     The Sergeant shook his head.  "No.  They were both killed in a car crash in 1975.  He

was brought up by a relation of the Gratten's named Hampton and when they died he

changed his name to inherit under the provisions of the Will.  Look here's a copy here."

     He looked at me.  "It's upsetting you, isn't it Mark.  We'd better leave it and perhaps

you could get Mr Phillips to see about it.  I think you'd better tell your father, though."

     "So that was why he didn't drive the car again.  He was frightened he might kill

someone.  He nearly killed Jacob."  I clutched at Tris.  "I wonder why he was so nasty?"

     Sergeant Woolpit stood up.  "I'm sorry it's all turned out like this."  He came over to

me and knelt and gave me a hug.  "Mark, it's OK.  We've still got lots to sort out.  We'll get

there in the end."

     I was in such a turmoil Tris phoned Dad who was at the Festival Hall having tea

before the evening concert and had a long talk.  He then phoned Paul Phillips who said he'd

be at the Police Station when Oliver made his statement and would look at the documents.

And not to worry about the family research he would get the search agent they used at the

London Record Office to do that.   One thing which was good news was that Jacob's first

operation had been successful but he'd need a second minor one to be ready for the final one

after Christmas.

     We were at the Police Station at the appointed time of four‑thirty.  All was most

formal and Paul went in while Oliver made his statement.  We saw the track‑suit, displayed

in a transparent plastic covering.  A red lace?  I said to Tris it was like the laces on his

basket‑ball boots.  He said he thought so, too.  The laces were special ones which someone

had found in a sports‑shop somewhere, not in Cambridge, and had kitted out all the team

with them.  But, all the team members were over five feet ten, with Cato Mosewi at six foot

seven, so the track‑suit would not have belonged to any of them.  Had anyone lost any laces?

He would enquire.  We told Sergeant Woolpit this when he came out of the interview room.

He shook his head.  "Could do with you two on my team."

     Tris found out next practice that one of the team had lost his best boots.  He thought

they'd dropped out of his bag when cycling between colleges as he's had to borrow a spare

pair from a team‑mate at the time.  Meanwhile, Sarge had had the bright idea of searching

the dumpster which they found hadn't been emptied properly for weeks.   The lad got his

boots back ‑ they were in there and one boot had its lace missing.  Unfortunately the boots

were in a grotty mess so were unwearable again.

     The next Saturday we went to the Club.  The three policemen hadn't turned up but

there was an air of excitement.  Danny was there as he had the night off and was in a fizzing

mood. As soon as we'd sat down and Tris had signalled to Brian the Bulgy‑Boy for drinks

Jonty flourished two print‑out photos.

     "What's this," I said, holding the page I'd been given at an angle to catch the light.

"Look's like someone's bum.  You been mooning at your customers and got caught, Danny?"

     There was a hiss of laughter and Jonty gave me the second sheet.  This was even

more explicit.  It was taken from a lower angle.  The bare bum was most evident.   A pair of

balls dangled a bit and there was a hint of a prick....  Going where?  A guess?

     "Oh God, Danny, where did you get this?  Been spying?"

     It all tumbled out.  What had happened was that Danny had cycled to his mother's

house that afternoon as he wanted to collect a spare set of cook's whites, his digital camera

and a few other things he had in his bedroom to take back to Jonty's and he knew his brother

would be out watching the usual rugby match and his Mum would be at work.  He'd found a

couple of letters that hadn't been sent on to him from a friend and was sitting in his bedroom

reading them when he heard his brother Terry come in the front door with his pal, Tony

Wolstencroft the DCI's son.  They were cursing because the match they'd gone to watch had

been cancelled and nothing was happening at the clubhouse until later.  Danny was hoping

they would go off again so he kept quiet and realised after a while that other things were

happening in the room next to his.  He crept along and looked through the half‑open door.

His brother was kneeling by the bed and there was Tony shafting him.  From the things they

were saying to urge each other on it certainly wasn't the first time.  He'd got the bundle of

things he needed so he whipped out his camera, took a couple of shots and high‑tailed it

down the stairs and was out of the front door before the pair could disentangle themselves.

     He'd got to Jonty's and had immediately downloaded the two photos and e‑mailed

them to his brother with a note that he was intending to move out and live with his boyfriend

and his brother had better not make any trouble or the photos would be sent to all his mates

at the Rugby Club.  Just to confirm he could, he appended a list of a dozen e‑mail addresses

he'd loaded down before from his brother's computer.  There was no doubt it was Tony and

Terry as there was a clear view of the rugby poster on the bedroom wall.

     We said he'd better destroy the photos before Mr B, as Brad was known, came in the

Club.  The less said the better.  I said Mr B was a bit unsure about his son but this might be a

bit too much if he saw them.  Terry and Tony would know not to take any reprisals as one

click and their friends would be in the picture, as it were.  Tris took the copies and went to

the lav, tore them up and flushed them away.  Not too soon as the three came in with Davy

then and no more was said as Danny and Jonty spent the rest of the evening dancing.

     It was soon after that, a week or so before the Christmas concert and the CPE Bach

Magnificat, when I was sitting during one of our 'NOK's listening while Tris was laughing

with Boz over the origin of common phrases.  Cato had said to Tris while they were changing

after a game of basketball, that he'd always been puzzled as a small boy by 'tickled pink'.

Cato was Nigerian and very black and no way if he was tickled did he go pink, he said.  Boz

said he had always wondered as a small child about 'put your best foot forward' and 'pull the

wool over your eyes' and was convinced at the age of four or so that a 'pillar box' was a

'pillow box' and why did you put letters in something which had pillows in it?  Something

was ringing bells but I wasn't sure.

     Next morning after our run I was playing the piano and looked up at the array of

organ stops along the wall.  What had Danny said?  "Pull the other one!"  One of  the odd

phrases everyone used.  "Pull the other leg!"  "Pull the..."  As I played I squinted at the

names on the round fronts of the stops.  From the door they went Principal 8ft, Unda Maris

8ft, Larigot 11/3ft, Leiblich Gedackt 8ft, Tromba 4ft, Hautbois 8ft, Erzaehler 8ft....

     I stopped playing.  I called out to Tris who was busy in the kitchen washing up the

breakfast things.  "Tris, come here please, I think I may have found something."

     He came in brandishing a half‑dried plate and the drying‑up cloth.  "What is it this

time?  The lost chord?"

     I stood up.  "No.  It's...  You know Professor Jensen said Augustus liked puns and

jokes.  I think there's something here."

     He looked sceptical, but saw I was serious.  "What?" he asked.

     I pointed to the array.  "Let's spell them out.  Look P for Principal, U for Unda Maris,

L for Larigot, L for Leiblich Gedackt, that's PULL, then Tromba, Hautbois and Erzaehler is

THE...."

     He looked at the others and read them out.  "Gambe, Aeoline, Montre, Bazun, Echo

Flute....  GAMBE.  Pull the Gambe!"

     "Oh my God!  I'd said to Frankie about the names and it's usually Gamba.  Never

thought."  I looked at him.  "Danny kept on about 'pull the other one' when you pulled on

that one there.  And it's another pun.  Gambe is 'leg'.  Pull his leg!!  I just saw the first four

letters now..."

     Tris went up and stood under the stop knob marked Gambe.  He reached up and

tugged.  Gently at first.  The stop came towards him and as he pulled it we heard three

distinct clicks.  He must have noticed something.  He tapped on the wooden panelling in

front of him and there was a slight movement.  He pressed the panelling and a section started

to open.  I rushed up to stand by him and look.  He put his fingers against the part that had

come away and a whole section about six foot tall by about two foot six wide opened back

into the room.  It was on a long, very thin hinge.  What was revealed inside was a door.  No

handle.  Tris pushed it and it opened back into a space.  A slight rush of air entered the room.

All was dark behind.  A faint musty smell came in with the draught of air.

     "Where's that torch?" he asked.  One we kept for emergencies when the power failed.

     "Do you think it's safe?" I asked.

     "That's what we're going to find out," he said.  He turned and went into the kitchen

and came back with something in each hand.  I had been staring into the blackness.  The light

from the main room penetrated a bit and I could make out shelves and what looked like

another side passage and steps down.

     "I forgot we had two," he said, handing me one.  "Come on, let's have a quick look."

     There was a small step into the void.  I went first and shone the torch round.  There

were lots of shelves and lots of books.  I shone the torch to left and right.  On the right there

was a space where Frankie had thought the broom cupboard outside might have extended

into.  More cupboards and shelves.  On the left it looked more interesting.  This stretched off,

backing the fireplace, then the rest of my set.  I shone the torch cautiously along the floor.  It

looked solid.  It was stone and, surprisingly, not very dusty.  I walked along a few paces and

there was a second door.  Open, and inside a sink and on shelves old photographic equipment

and some racks. Yes, this must have been Mr Pennefather's darkroom and photographic area.

I looked further along the passage.  This seemed a dead end.  There was a solid stone wall at

the end.  I returned to my contemplation of the darkroom.  Perhaps there was a light here.  I

seemed to remember you could develop photographs under red light.  I shone the torch up.

Yes there was a lamp, a bare bulb, and the wiring had been torn away.  On the floor I nearly

stepped on something.  The beam of the torch showed it was a red cover, now broken.  As I

swung the beam round the room I heard a breathless Tris behind me.

     "I've been down the steps.  I think we've found that Aubrey whatever his name was.

At least there's a body of some sorts down there."  He sounded very calm.  "It's OK he's

dead.  I'll phone Dude and you go and get the Chaplain.  I won't touch anything and I'll wait

in the room."

     We clambered out of the door.  I rushed off to the Chaplain's House and I heard Tris

talking to Dude on his mobile as I left.  The Chaplain was having his breakfast after the early

morning service.  Mrs Henson let me in and both listened very attentively as I told them of

our discovery.  They both came back with me with the Chaplain armed with a large torch.

     Tris was at the door of the set.  "Sergeant Woolpit says not to go in until he and a

couple of officers come.  I have to admit I did pick this up."  He held up a sheet of old paper.

"There was a whole lot on the table down there and quite a few empty bottles.  Looks as if he

wrote this and waited to die."

     The Chaplain took the piece of paper and put it on the dining table.  In large letters

we could read it easily.  "Weak and it is dark.  Sorry Gus did not mean it."  The letters were

straggly at the end ending with an almost indistinct A.

     We went through the story with the Chaplain.  The finding of the rhyme in the tower

room.  Adam's exploration of the records in Peterborough.  The newspaper report noting the

disappearance of Aubrey Devereux.  The 'Pull the..' thoughts.  It wasn't long though before a

rather breathless Sergeant Woolpit knocked on the door.  He was accompanied by Jason

looking rather flustered and then Charles appeared.  I went through the story again and Sarge

looked and nodded and read the piece of paper.

     "I've sent a message to our Scene of Crime team and the forensic pathologist.  If you

don't mind we'll wait until they arrive.  They'll have lights and we can then see what's down

below.  If it's the body, and you say this happened in the 1930's, it shouldn't be too

problematical.  I've asked an ambulance to attend as it'll have to go to the mortuary and the

pathologist will have to look at it."  He looked at Tris.  "What state was it in?

     "It looked, I suppose, mummified.  It's face down on a sort of bed.  I took one look

and came back up."

     A rather subdued group sat while Sergeant Woolpit took notes of what we had said.

Mrs Henson and Charles went to the kitchen to make tea.  Jason stood guard on the front

door as a few curious souls seeing activity came to enquire.  More assembled and stared

when the SOC team and the doctor arrived and donned white suits and then an ambulance

trolley was wheeled to the door.  As rumours spread the onlookers were assured it wasn't

another death like the three recent ones affecting the College.

     After a while the doctor came up.  He said briefly that there was a body.  It was male

and had been there many years.  It was in a state of mummification and had been very

emaciated before death.  As long as we didn't touch anything we could have a look below

once the body was removed.   That was done quite speedily and with the bright lights now set

up the group went down the stairs.  We all stared.  The room was as big as the main room

above.  Just a table, four chairs and a few blankets on the floor.  There were a number of

empty bottles on the table and four glasses.  All the bottles had had the necks broken off.

There were also a few stubs of candles and a large pool of candle wax..  Sarge picked up the

sheaf of paper on the table and the broken pencil beside it.

     The SOC team gathered up their equipment and left.  I looked at my watch.  I had

missed my two morning lectures.  I hoped Fiona and Dina had taken good notes.

     Sergeant Woolpit was examining the door.  "I would like this looked at.  It's very

ingenious.  I should think as you pull that knob so it triggers a series of locks.  There must be

something the other side as well.  Don't go in and close the door in case you can't get back

out."

     "That's what happened to the man you found," said the Chaplain.  He had spread the

loose pages out over the dining table.  "Look.  It's a confession.  He and Augustus

Pennefather had an argument over his demand for money and he pushed Augustus off the

bridge as they were crossing it.  They must have walked up the Chesterton Road and they

were crossing the bridge so he could go back to his lodgings.  You said off Burleigh Road."

The Chaplain smiled.  "I've been told that was a very rough area and was only improved

when it was all pulled down and the new shopping centre built."  He sighed.  "Poor man.  He

says he didn't mean to do it.  He was starving and he needed money and Gus, as he called

him, had given him some but he wanted more as he wanted to leave the country.  He thought

a cousin in Canada might take him in.  He says he came back to the set to find money which

he thought might be in the cellar.  He closed the doors but couldn't remember where the

mechanism was to reopen them.  He writes, 'I cannot find the accursed lever'.  The bulb went

out and he found a few candles and a case of wine.  He couldn't have lasted long.  Once he'd

drunk the wine he was down to his last candle and he must have scrawled that last page in

the dark."  He shook his head.  "He crawled to that bed, laid down and waited to die."

     "Is it Aubrey Devereux?" Tris asked.

     "I would think so," said the Chaplain.  He held up a ticket.  "This is a pawn ticket in

the name of Mr A Devereux."

     Things moved fast after that.  That weekend the cellar was cleared and the bulb was

replaced in the darkroom light.  Two Engineering dons came and examined the mechanism

and said it was very cleverly done and was definitely put in about 1900 because of the screws

used.  They showed us the small compartment where the lever was inside the passage way.  If

you didn't know where it was they said you would be trapped.  A solid door and the wooden

panelling would have to be broken down and there was nothing in the cellar or dark room

strong enough to do that.  They took numerous photographs and said they would be asking

permission to publish their description.  They were intrigued about who might have designed

it and built it.  Another couple of dons who were photographic buffs came and took away all

the equipment to be catalogued and placed in the College collections of various pieces of

historic apparatus which  included surgical sets from the 1700's and early surveying

equipment when several dons measured the curvature of the earth from boats on long straight

stretches of ditches in the Fens.

     Of course we had a succession of other visitors to see it all including the Master, and

Professor Tanner, as I missed his tutorial as well.  He was highly amused and said we should

come to lunch on Sunday and tell the tale and I would be busy for at least four hours on

Monday with him catching up.  All I got from Fiona when I told her was 'Lucky bugger!' and

a 'Shush' from Dina at the expletive.  Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday afternoon we spent

six hours going over all the stuff James had done with me.

     There was a formal inquest.  It was very straightforward.  It was reported that the

body had been found and he had died in unfortunate circumstances but Aubrey Devereux had

confessed he was instrumental in the death of Augustus Pennefather in July 1938.  Nothing

was said about the treasure trove of photographs, music and the missing Servants of the

Chapel records which were found neatly stacked on the shelves.  Charles was in his element.

I was, too.  The  College Music Library benefited as the collection of scores was quite

immense.  Works dating back from the early years of the 1800's into the 1900's, with many of

the later ones signed by the composers.

     Tris and I were left with the boxes and albums of photographs.  Many of College and

University worthies.  All neatly labelled on the back with name and date.  Many of the

countryside around Cambridge, of the Backs, of people enjoying themselves in punts, or

picnicking by the Cam.  There were pictures from further out.  Mainly a photographic record

of Cambridgeshire churches and of visits he had made to the Continent.  Swiss mountains,

German architecture, French vineyards and chateaux, Florence, Rome and Venice.

     Then there were the albums each year of his beloved choir.  We found my grandfather

and Oliver's grandfather in the pictures we had seen.  And there was Grandfather's own

album.  Almost a mirror of the one Professor Jensen had of himself.  Yes.  Grandfather

Foster looking even more like Bacchus with the tell‑tale dribble of grape‑juice on his chin

and a really lascivious look in his eye.  There were twenty‑seven others of these albums.

Each had the name of the boy involved.  None of the photos were at all pornographic.  The

only word to use was artistic, though each was charged with a certain sexual passion.  He

must have chosen the boys who had that spark of, I suppose, wantonness.  They looked out at

the camera knowing they would be admired.

     Over the next two months Mrs Henson tracked down twelve of the boys, now about

eighty or so.  She found six had died in the last War serving their country, out of those, two

had died in POW camps in Burma and two at Arnhem.  In the final analysis she located the

families of all the rest except two.  All the men and families were glad to have the albums

and copies were made for the College archives.  At least another part of the Pennefather

heritage was complete.

     Then there was the file which was given to Jason and his father.  The evidence was

complete.  They were direct descendants of Augustus although the original birth had never

been legitimised.  Augustus had given Adeline enough money each year to live comfortably.

She never asked for more, although he offered.  There was a copy of a letter from him to her

saying he would marry her.  The letter back was there.  No, he had a useful life to lead, she

was content and the boy was her life and reminded her of him every day.  Tris and I went to

see Jason's family and handed over the documents.  We asked if Adam might write up the

history.  They agreed and we were shown the original logs of all the Knotts who had been in

the employ of the College.  The earliest they had was dated 1717 and Mr Knott was certain

there were earlier Knotts but they probably couldn't write.  I said Jason should do his own

history.  He smiled and said he would.

     Jason's father then showed us the log kept at the time of Mr Pennefather's death with

the Porters not daring to go near his set as they were certain it was haunted as strange

knockings had been heard.  This must have been Aubrey Devereux trying to gain attention.

In fact the set was used to store things in during the War and was only used again for the first

Pennefather Scholar in 1947 who was not told the stories.

     Of course, Charles was almost jumping for joy.  Here were missing records.  He

burbled on about how much Augustus must have spent setting up his 'laboratory', as he

mistakenly called it, and here there was the Servant of the Chapel in 1898 complaining that

his set was not as opulent as Augustus's, forgetting that Augustus was a Fellow of the

College and he, the Servant of the Chapel, was only an undergraduate, even though the

youngest son of an Earl.

     All was too much for him.  No Christmas appearance of Clarissa.  His historical

research and his assistance with the Bursarial affairs were much too important and time‑

consuming.  Of course, references were made by all about his sniffing round the Bursar and it

wasn't only his boots he was licking.  He took this all in good part and kept us supplied with

anecdotes of his work, of his encounters with Mrs Chalfont‑Meade and her stupidities, and,

more important, of Mother and her gifts of goodies which were shared with us.

     I was so busy, too.  The choir for the Magnificat was enhanced.  We had good players

for the instrumental parts and everyone seemed well satisfied with the performance.  Tris and

Fiona were soloists as well as Philip Orford who was a very secure male alto and Oliver as

the important bass.  The only sour note was a letter to the Chaplain from Drew, who seemed

to have almost disappeared from College life, asking why his Group had not been asked to

take part in the performance.  I am afraid the Chaplain sniggered when I said that CPE Bach

hadn't scored for bass guitar, Yamaha multi‑voice keyboard, or Mr Banks on his set of

electronic percussion.

     Really all I'd seen of Drew for the past few weeks, other than when his group played

for services, or he was giving his sporadic lessons to Tosspot, was a couple of times I was on

the Market Place and he was haranguing the passers‑by.  I couldn't help hearing his rants as I

was buying fruit at the stall each time near the corner where he was standing.  The burden of

his ragings now seemed to be directed jointly towards those who abused the Temples of the

Lord, whether it was the bodily Temples with abominations of the flesh and seductions of the

young, or the built Temples with threats and calumnies, and both required confession or the

torments of Hell would fall upon them with the fires raging being the main punishment or the

waters which submerged the ungodly in Noah's time.  Boz who had heard him on another

occasion wondered if he was quite right in the head.  He'd been raving on again about the

great flood which overwhelmed the earth in Noah's time and the earthquakes which buried

sinners before the still small voice.  He said it was a most peculiar mish‑mash of half‑

digested Biblical knowledge.   Ben seemed more sympathetic and said there was usually

some trauma in earlier life which triggered off such behaviour and it was probably a way of

getting rid of his own torments.  He wouldn't be drawn any further saying we'd better ask

one of the psychologists hanging around.

     Tris was very busy.  He disappeared to stay at the bungalow with Jacob as soon as

term ended.  Jacob was recovering from a second minor operation as the surgeon had found

more damage when he'd performed the first one and was able to work from home.  Staying

there meant Tris could deal with the Matteoli documentation more easily.  He would also get

time to discuss his Law work as his Finals would soon be upon him.

     We heard that Frankie had taken his ARCM exams in piano playing a fortnight after

his seventeenth birthday.  He would just have to wait and see.  Anyway he was determined to

try for the ARCO next Christmas.  Mr Prentice said he was very hopeful for this lot.