An Oxford Tragedy by Norman Russell

Author:Norman Russell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2015-06-03T10:33:13+00:00

Dr Joseph Steadman contemplated slipping his watch out of his waistcoat pocket to see what time it was, but thought better of it. He had long ago mastered the art of seeming to be enraptured by something that was boring him silly. Would old Boyd never stop?

He glanced at the nearby Cranmer’s pillar, where he could see the ledge that had been cut into the stonework to provide a support for the wooden stage that had been erected in 1556. There, Archbishop Cranmer had sat on the morning of Saturday, 21 March, to hear a sermon preached by Dr Henry Cole, Provost of Eton. It would not have been as interminable as Boyd’s encomium, because all present on that occasion were anxious to see Cranmer burnt at the stake outside Balliol later that day.

Podmore was clearly not listening to Dr Boyd: his mind seemed to be elsewhere. Steadman had no desire whatsoever to expose the Warden publicly for the plagiarist that he was – there was a limit to one’s dislike of the man. But it was inwardly satisfying to know that the fellow was a cheat and a fraud. Perhaps there was a suffering, guilty soul lurking behind that smug carapace of superiority? He doubted it. Men of Podmore’s stamp, whatever their outward appearance, were as hard as nails.

‘And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost… .’

At last! The Vice-Chancellor had stopped. He left the pulpit, and they all rose to receive a blessing from Bishop Mackarness. The organ sounded, the Chancellor left in his own little procession, followed by the Mayor and Council. The congregation poured out thankfully into sunlit Radcliffe Square.

‘If you are lucky enough to succeed Henry Boyd as Vice-Chancellor,’ said Steadman, ‘will you promise not to give such unconscionably long addresses?’

Podmore laughed.

‘Well, I’m not in Holy Orders, Steadman,’ he said, ‘so I will have no clerical records to break in that respect! But come, let’s get back to the reception in hall. You used the word “lucky” just now. I don’t think luck will come in to it. I’m more than confident that the powers-that-be will see the wisdom of making me their choice. John Magrath will come a worthy second.’

Fanny Fowler left the church, and hurried to a private-hire hackney carriage drawn up in nearby Catte Street. It was still the period of full mourning, so that she was afforded a welcome anonymity by her long mourning veil. What an ordeal it had been! John had attended as a matter of form, but had contrived to leave the church early through a side door, in order to catch a train back to London, where business beckoned.

Timothy – poor Tim! He was in her house, now, skulking like a fugitive. She would tell him about the service, and how appallingly dry and formal it had been.

The carriage turned into Broad Street. It would be a long haul from there, down past the Ashmolean Museum, and then along the seemingly endless Walton Street and out to Port Meadow.

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