The Final Course

Dr. Grayson bit, and a shower of corpuscles sprayed up.

The preceding sentence may be incorrectly interpreted, so here is some clarification.

It does not mean that a person called Grayson bit, in the sense that teeth bite. Nor does it mean that his bite caused a gout of blood to spray forth. The corpuscles in question are not blood cells, which one may have been troubled to assume.

Rather, the bite of Grayson was of the verbal variety – a cutting remark that bit the honour of the man it was aimed at.

And the shower in question was not of the wet persuasion, but instead, a collective noun from the vernacular to describe a particularly shoddy assemblage of persons.

The corpuscles were the members of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, the name given to students of that venerable institution. None of those from Corpus Christi, Cambridge, were present, having not been invited.

Finally we come to 'spraying up', which can be dealt with quite easily. The cutting remark of Grayson was so monstrously shocking, that it caused every last corpuscle to cough and choke on their wine, fountains and mists of claret billowing into the air above the dining table.

Grayson's comment was certainly not the kind of thing they were expecting when he'd proposed a toast. Dr. Neil Grayson taught late antiquity. He was a well-respected lecturer and Fellow in Late Roman History. He was thought of as 'sound'. He had seemed to be enjoying himself in the usual, spirited way that was expected at these dinners. He had drunk his wine and eaten his starter and main with relish. All had appeared at it should be.

The diners, a hundred of the students at the college, along with most of the lecturers, filled the length of the panelled Tudor Hall. The rumble of conversation and the clatter of cutlery created a wonderfully convivial atmosphere.

The person to the doctor's left was Lawrence Scrymgeour-Wedderburn, an undergraduate under his tutelage. The person to the doctor's right was Laura FitzClarence, another undergraduate. The doctor was aware of a love affair the two had been having. This was most disagreeable to him, as he himself had designs on the girl. All perfectly improper, of course, for the lecturer to have feelings for the pretty young student... but it wasn't as if it hadn't gone on before. Indeed, it wasn't uncommon at all. But one had to maintain a certain veneer of decency. If the parents found out, there'd be the most awful scandal. The Daily Mirror would have a field day.

But he was rapidly losing patience. He wanted her. It was quite simple. And he knew she wanted him. It had been deliciously apparent when he'd marked her paper on Augustine of Hippo. The 54% he'd given her had been a trifle harsh. A little rub and a little kiss had convinced him of that. 70% was a much fairer mark.

But this pesky Scrymgeour was in the way. They had been seeing each other. If the ghastly boy could be removed from the equation, the lovely Laura could be his.

Thus, the toast.

He rose and struck his crystal glass with his silver knife. All eyes turned to him and the drone of conversation fell away.

“A toast!” he began grandiosely. “We've had several admirable toasts during the evening, for which I am sure we are all grateful.”

A grumble of 'here, here's and table-thumps demonstrated the hall's concurrence.

“I have here, by my side, one of the finest students it's ever been my honour to teach. The young rascal knows almost more about the bally Byzantine than I do!”

A murmur of polite mirth from the diners.

“He is a fine young man, and a welcome addition to these hallowed halls.”

The hum of mumbled accord rose and fell once more.

“Or at least, that would be so, were it not for certain facts that have come to my attention. For this man...” He pointed at 'this man'. “... Is a scoundrel and a plagiarist!”

The aforementioned corpuscles sprayed their wine into the aether, spluttering in amazement. The drowsy air around the hall was shattered. People sat up straight and became instantly more attentive.

“For my book on Gregory Nazianzen, the fourth-century churchman, I have done extensive – extensive – research. I had kept all this in a file – a paper file, mind. I did not wish to use my computer for it. For e-mails and research, computers are fine. But I prefer to have actual documents which can be taken anywhere and read without the need for electrical support. Old habits, and all that, eh?”

The young lad to his left was looking up at him with an unreadable expression on his smooth face. A deliberately unreadable expression, if you were to ask Dr. Grayson.

“It is interesting that young Mr. Scrymgeour-Wedderburn has recently had contact with a chap from Penguin Books. Furthermore, it is very interesting what they have been talking about. Nothing less than a complete academic study of... Gregory Nazianzen!”

Gasps of shock and disbelieving cries of, “No!”

“I know this because I paid a private detective to track this bounder's movements. I have incontrovertible evidence of his dastardly scheme. He stole the notes and manuscript in my file and was going to pass it off as his own work, knowing I had no other copies. Taking advantage of a forgetful old lecturer's lax working practices. Can you imagine anything lower?”

It had to be admitted that no one in the appalled hall could imagine anything lower. Several of those in attendance went so far as to actually voice their inability to imagine anything lower with grave intonations of, “No,” and “Absolutely not.”

“Well, sir,” said the doctor. “Your plan is revealed. The file is back in my hands, thanks to the sterling work of the detective agency. Constable, if you would.”

A policeman had quietly entered the hall through the kitchen doors. He approached Lawrence Scrymgeour-Wedderburn, who stood up, red-faced. He avoided all eye contact, save for one last glance at his beloved Laura. She turned away from him in disgust. Happy day! the doctor rejoiced in the dark secrecy of his mind. Thank God for dishonest students!

The policeman led the disgraced undergraduate away in total silence. Dr. Grayson watched his walk of shame with barely-hidden triumph. Once the policeman and his prisoner were out of sight, the hall erupted into an excited hub-bub. The doctor retook his seat and offered Laura comforting words, which she gladly lapped up.

The dinner continued, the festivities fuelled with the unhealthy energy of gossip and scandal. Everyone got very drunk, including Laura and the doctor.

Later on, in her digs, Dr. Grayson bit, and a shower of corpuscles sprayed up.