I have ever had the misfortune to teach. He barely scraped a Third in his Honour Moderations and I do not expect big things from him in his Greats either.”
“How does he come to have a place at Oxford at all?” I said.
“That is one of the mysteries of life – although it may have something to do with the generous sum his father, himself a Magdalen alumnus, has pledged towards the refurbishment of the library roof. I was rather prevailed upon by my head of department to accept the son for matriculation, when his Oxbridge entrance exam papers suggested he has no great aptitude for Classics nor the kind of first-class brain we look for here. Money, alas, so often trumps ability.”
“Now, at least, Bancroft has sabotaged himself. He surely cannot stay on at Oxford after this. You need only present your President with the evidence which Holmes has revealed, and Bancroft will be sent down in disgrace.”
Merriweather looked very satisfied at the prospect. “I should not be sad to see him go.”
Holmes held up a hand. “Let us not be too hasty. I think it only right that we confront Bancroft first before condemning him. Who is to say that the coded signature isn’t itself a piece of misdirection?”
“Someone else sent the letters,” said Merriweather, “and is trying to pin the blame on Bancroft?”
“It is a possibility that should not be discounted. I doubt your fractious relationship with him is a secret within the college. Who better to make a scapegoat for this malfeasance than a pupil of yours with a known antipathy towards you? Watson, you and I shall pursue this further at Magdalen. Dr Merriweather, I suggest you do not come with us. To be seen at the college in the company of Sherlock Holmes may lead people there to wonder why you might need me, and that runs the risk of exposing a problem you would rather did not become common knowledge. I shall do all I can to preserve your anonymity. With luck, we shall manage to resolve this matter in such a way that your
virtus
remains intact.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
T HE H ONOURABLE A UBREY B ANCROFT
Magdalen College proved to be one of the most beautiful places I have encountered, more like a stately home than a seat of learning. It was a symphony of battlemented walls, Gothic and medieval architecture, and long sweeping elevations, all built of warm Cotswold stone and set within extensive grounds through which the River Cherwell, a tributary of the Isis, ran in several divergent channels like the marbling of fat in a side of fine beef. It boasted an imposing bell tower, tree-lined walks, and even a deer park whose expanses of grass were empurpled by spring fritillaries and being nibbled by a small herd of fallow deer.
Getting into this academic Arcadia was, perhaps predictably, not easy. At the Porters’ Lodge, the college’s main entrance on the High Street, Holmes and I were soundly rebuffed. In no uncertain terms the porter told us that as we were neither Fellows nor students, we were not permitted onto the property, not without express invitation, preferably a letter of introduction. In the absence of that, we could not take one step further, and if we tried he would summon a Bulldog, a member of the university’s private police force, and have us forcibly evicted.
Holmes took the setback in good spirit. “There is more than one way to skin this cat, Watson,” he said as we beat our retreat. “I have spent much of the time since we last saw one another familiarising myself with the layout of the city by means of long exploratory walks. I am aware that I am out of my customary milieu, and it pays to know the local terrain. The majority of the colleges in Oxford are like castles, walled and gated, their entry points manned, but Magdalen’s borders are somewhat more porous. Be warned, however. We are going to get our feet wet.”
And so we did, taking a convoluted route that entailed trudging through damp swampy meadows and a shallow stream until
“How does he come to have a place at Oxford at all?” I said.
“That is one of the mysteries of life – although it may have something to do with the generous sum his father, himself a Magdalen alumnus, has pledged towards the refurbishment of the library roof. I was rather prevailed upon by my head of department to accept the son for matriculation, when his Oxbridge entrance exam papers suggested he has no great aptitude for Classics nor the kind of first-class brain we look for here. Money, alas, so often trumps ability.”
“Now, at least, Bancroft has sabotaged himself. He surely cannot stay on at Oxford after this. You need only present your President with the evidence which Holmes has revealed, and Bancroft will be sent down in disgrace.”
Merriweather looked very satisfied at the prospect. “I should not be sad to see him go.”
Holmes held up a hand. “Let us not be too hasty. I think it only right that we confront Bancroft first before condemning him. Who is to say that the coded signature isn’t itself a piece of misdirection?”
“Someone else sent the letters,” said Merriweather, “and is trying to pin the blame on Bancroft?”
“It is a possibility that should not be discounted. I doubt your fractious relationship with him is a secret within the college. Who better to make a scapegoat for this malfeasance than a pupil of yours with a known antipathy towards you? Watson, you and I shall pursue this further at Magdalen. Dr Merriweather, I suggest you do not come with us. To be seen at the college in the company of Sherlock Holmes may lead people there to wonder why you might need me, and that runs the risk of exposing a problem you would rather did not become common knowledge. I shall do all I can to preserve your anonymity. With luck, we shall manage to resolve this matter in such a way that your
virtus
remains intact.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
T HE H ONOURABLE A UBREY B ANCROFT
Magdalen College proved to be one of the most beautiful places I have encountered, more like a stately home than a seat of learning. It was a symphony of battlemented walls, Gothic and medieval architecture, and long sweeping elevations, all built of warm Cotswold stone and set within extensive grounds through which the River Cherwell, a tributary of the Isis, ran in several divergent channels like the marbling of fat in a side of fine beef. It boasted an imposing bell tower, tree-lined walks, and even a deer park whose expanses of grass were empurpled by spring fritillaries and being nibbled by a small herd of fallow deer.
Getting into this academic Arcadia was, perhaps predictably, not easy. At the Porters’ Lodge, the college’s main entrance on the High Street, Holmes and I were soundly rebuffed. In no uncertain terms the porter told us that as we were neither Fellows nor students, we were not permitted onto the property, not without express invitation, preferably a letter of introduction. In the absence of that, we could not take one step further, and if we tried he would summon a Bulldog, a member of the university’s private police force, and have us forcibly evicted.
Holmes took the setback in good spirit. “There is more than one way to skin this cat, Watson,” he said as we beat our retreat. “I have spent much of the time since we last saw one another familiarising myself with the layout of the city by means of long exploratory walks. I am aware that I am out of my customary milieu, and it pays to know the local terrain. The majority of the colleges in Oxford are like castles, walled and gated, their entry points manned, but Magdalen’s borders are somewhat more porous. Be warned, however. We are going to get our feet wet.”
And so we did, taking a convoluted route that entailed trudging through damp swampy meadows and a shallow stream until
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