Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“Punctuality is the politeness of princes.”

“I think you’ll find it is the politeness of kings, and, in this particular instance, of Louis XVIII.” For a moment Stephen forgot that Harvey wasn’t a pupil

.

“I’m sure you’re right, Professor.”

Stephen mixed him a large whiskey. His guest’s eyes took in the room and settled on the desk.

“Gee—what a wonderful set of photographs. You with the late President Kennedy, another with the Queen and even the Pope.”

That touch was due to Jean-Pierre, who had put Stephen in contact with a photographer who had been in jail with his artist friend David Stein. Stephen was already looking forward to burning the photographs and pretending they had never existed.

“Let me give you another to add to your collection.”

Harvey pulled out of his inside coat pocket a large photograph of himself receiving the trophy for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes from the Queen.

“I’ll sign it for you, if you like.”

Without waiting for a reply, he scribbled an exuberant signature diagonally across the Queen.

“Thank you,” said Stephen. “I can assure you I will treasure it with the same affection as I do my other photographs. I certainly appreciate you sparing the time to visit me here, Mr. Metcalfe.”

“It’s an honor for me to come to Oxford, and this is such a lovely old college.”

Stephen really believed he meant it, and he suppressed the inclination to tell Harvey the story of the late Lord Nuffield’s dinner at Magdalen. For all Nuffield’s munificence to the university, the two were never on entirely easy terms. When a manservant assisted the guest’s departure after a college feast, Nuffield took the proffered hat ungraciously. “Is this mine?” he said, disdainfully. “I wouldn’t know, my lord,” was the rejoinder, “but it’s the one you came with.”

Harvey was gazing a little blankly at the books on Stephen’s shelves. The disparity between their subject matter, pure mathematics, and the putative Professor Porter’s discipline, biochemistry, happily failed to arrest him.

“Do brief me on tomorrow.”

“Surely,” said Stephen. Why not? He had briefed everyone else. “Let me first call for dinner and I’ll go through what I’ve planned for you and see if it meets with your approval.”

“I’m game for anything. I feel ten years younger since this trip to Europe—it must’ve been the operation—and I’m thrilled about being here at Oxford University.”

Stephen wondered if he really could stand seven hours of Harvey Metcalfe, but for another $250,000 and his reputation with the rest of the Team…

The college servants brought in shrimp cocktail.

“My favorite,” said Harvey. “How did you know?”

Stephen would have liked to say, “There’s very little I don’t know about you,” but he satisfied himself with, “A fortunate guess. Now, if we meet up at 10 tomorrow morning we can take part in what is thought to be the most interesting day in the university calendar. It’s called Encaenia.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, once a year at the end of Trinity Term, which is the equivalent of the summer term in an American university, we celebrate the ending of the university year. There are several ceremonies followed by a magnificent Garden Party, which will be attended by the Chancellor and Vice-Chancellor of the University. The Chancellor is the former British Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, and the Vice-Chancellor is Mr. Habakkuk. I’m hoping it will be possible for you to meet them both, and we should manage to cover everything in time for you to be back in London by 7 P.M.”

“How did you know I had to be back by 7?”

“You warned me at Ascot.” Stephen could lie very quickly now. He was afraid that if they did not get their million soon he would end up a hardened criminal.

Harvey enjoyed his meal, which Stephen had planned almost too cleverly, each course featuring one of Harvey’s favorite dishes. After Harvey had drunk a good deal of after-dinner brandy (price £7.25 per bottle, thought Stephen) they strolled through the quiet Magdalen Cloisters past the Song School. The sound of the choristers rehearsing a Gabrieli mass hung gently in the air.

“Gee, I’m surprised you allow record players on that loud,” said Harvey.

Stephen escorted his guest to the Randolph Hotel, pointing out the iron cross set in Broad Street outside Balliol College, said to mark the spot on which Archbishop Cranmer was burned at the stake for heresy in 1556. Harvey forebore to say that he had never even heard of the reverend gentleman.

Stephen and Harvey parted on the steps of the Randolph.