little call for 'aid to the civil power' on the Wall.
The train gave a sudden convulsive jerk and then stopped again. For some reason that escaped Butler it had stalled just short of the Oxford platform, alongside a somewhat tatty cemetery—obviously not the last resting place of the Hobsons —as though to remind him and the other passengers of the final destination of all journeys.
The real Oxford would be on the other side, of course. His gaze followed his thought across the carriage.
The clutter of the railway sidings along the main line was dominated by a pair of enormous cranes. But beyond them he could see the famous vista of towers and spires, clustered like so many rockets on their launching pads.
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Butler frowned and shook his head. The image was altogether too fanciful for his liking: it reminded him that this was a dangerous territory for simple men, with too many private lines linking it with the centres of power and influence. Sir Frederick and Stocker had both warned him to tread carefully in it, and even Audley himself, who was a product of such a place and at home in it, had treated it with uncharacteristic respect.
But there was still no reason why he should let it throw him off balance before he had even set foot in it.
Caution and respect were one thing, but superstitious fear was another.
All the same he watched warily through the windows of the taxi which bore him towards the King's College, as though the nature of the hazards would be immediately apparent.
But at first it seemed a dull, provincial town like any other —if anything even duller, with its dingy, lavatorial station, jammed car parks and anonymous shops stacked with electrical goods and soft furnishings. Nor did the inhabitants seem any different—no flowing gowns or flowing student hair —
from those of any other provincial city.
The only distinctive thing was the number of chalked slogans, which ranged from somewhat banal appeals for action against Greece and South Africa, and support for the NLF, Women's Lib and Black Power, to the rather more intriguing contentions that
Then abruptly brick and plate glass gave way to mellow stone and towers and crenellations and pinacles and porticoes. Butler craned his neck and twisted in his seat like any tourist to catch the famous views, absurdly pleased that the place wasn't going to let him down after all, that the distant glimpse of spires had not been a mirage.
'Dick's, sir,' said the taxi-driver.
'I beg your pardon?'
'The King's College, sir—you're looking at it.'
It looked like a king's college, certainly—the richly painted escutcheons over the gatehouse gave it a properly royal appearance, and one of the shields bore the golden leopards and lilies he had seen on the Master's notepaper.
Butler fumbled for the fare—Dick's?—damned little newfangled coins already losing their freshly dummy2.htm
minted shine—had the fellow really said 'Dick's'?
He stepped out on to the pavement, squared his shoulders —only a yokel would be overawed by huge, iron- bound gates and gold leaf—and strode under the archway.
'Can I help you, sir?'
The voice issued confidently from what looked like a booking-office window beside a thickly papered notice- board: the Porter's Lodge—even a yokel knew that every college had a Porter.
'My name's Butler. I believe the Master is expecting me.'
The Porter lowered his eyes for a moment to a pad in front of him. 'Colonel Butler, sir—yes, sir—Sir Geoffrey is expecting you, sir—he said for you to go straight to his lodging, but I don't believe he's there at the moment, sir —'
'Saw 'im go into the Chapel coupla minutes ago,' another voice sounded from the bowels of the lodge.
'I think he's in the Chapel, sir,' continued the Porter unfalteringly. 'I'll have him told of your arrival, sir.'
'No, that's not necessary,' replied Butler quickly. All this was the Master's territory, but the Chapel had a neutral sound to it. Besides, in his own lodging the Master would probably want to ply him with sherry or madeira, neither of which he could abide at any time. 'If you can just direct me to the Chapel—' he stopped as it occurred to him suddenly that the Master might be attending some obscure late-morning devotions '—unless, that is—'
'Oh, nothing like that, sir!' The porter hastened to reassure him. 'I think Sir Geoffrey'll be looking at the East Window—I think he's a bit worried about it-if you go to the far corner of the quadrangle,sir, through the archway, and you can't miss the Chapel on your left.'
Butler nodded and set out, carefully skirting the well-disciplined square of grass. This, too, was how he had imagined Oxford: this positively medieval calm. It was as though it had all been laid on for him, and because of that he ought doubly to beware of it.
He passed under the archway, one side of which was given over to Rolls of Honour of the two world wars—the first name was a Royal West Kents subaltern but the second, impossibly, was a lieutenant of Brandenburg Grenadiers. He shook his head too late to expel the thought that a Zoshchenko might not be out of place now in a foundation which had been home to a Von Alvenslaben in 1913.
The Porter's direction had been an understatement: it was quite impossible to miss the Chapel, which had clearly been built in the days when the health of the students' souls was of more consequence than dummy2.htm
the comfort of their bodies. Even to Butler's uninformed eye its proportions were noble, tower and spire, choir and transepts, stonework flowering into intricate images and patterns as though it had still been soft and malleable
