The Whippingham College Saga, Part 8: The Nine Skulls

1: NOT GOOD NEWS

  Miss Cynthia Spankington, the dedicated secretary of Dr Septimus Seiss-Urquart, High Master of Whippingham College, frowned as she looked at the small pile of papers on her desk. It was the grand purpose of Whippingham (the strictest and poshest public school in all of England, if not the entire world) to turn out brave and resourceful young men, men who would be equipped to take their rightful places in society as aristocratic landowners, as leaders of the nation’s greatest institutions and (if all else failed) as captains of industry or as bishops in the Anglican Church. In order to fulfil the College’s proud aims, savage corporal punishment and strict discipline were required. It was allegedly slightly sad that many boys were not man enough to survive four or five years at Whippingham: every term there were a few deaths from suicide, from over-energetic use of the cane by the zealous masters, by untrammelled sadistic bullying by power-mad prefects or by disease caused by the imperfect hygiene rules in the college kitchens or as a result of inhalation of the noisome and noxious odours from the neglected and rat-infested sewers of the historic buildings.

  Additionally, each term saw a few runaways, lads who fled the rigours of college life – but they usually surfaced after a few days, either brought back by their parents to face a terrible Official Public Flogging from Dr Seiss-Urquart or shamefully withdrawn from the college by fathers under pressure from over-protective mothers; these latter lads naturally inevitably grew up to be filthy pansies. A few sad refugees from Whippingham enrolled in the Armed Forces seeking an easier life; others were found floating head down in some lonely ditch or beaten to death by drunken oiks in the nearby villages, victims of the timeless class conflict which divided England into two nations. As the Very Reverend Adolphus Samuel Saydysste-Streke, the fanatically cruel housemaster of Thrashmore Hall, a man feared for his terrible temper and his freezing punishment dungeons for slow learners, had wisely commented only the other week in chapel, ‘You don’t make an omelette without smashing a few fucking eggs’. But the current situation was different and Miss Spankington felt she should speak to the High Master about the matter.

  ‘Nine boys missing in the past six weeks? Three from Thrashmore Hall, two each from Flagellators and Birchington, one from Ramsbottom’s and one from Flogwell House. Have you checked with the house masters concerned, Miss Spankington?’
  ‘Indeed I have, High Master, none of the missing boys had been particularly severely thrashed, none had been due for any severe punishments, there were no suicide notes or any other signs of anything untoward.’
  ‘And the parents? Any messages from them? These cowardly little scumbags could be just runaways.’
  ‘No, High Master, not a sausage.’
  ‘Hmmm. Since next weekend is half-term, perhaps it would be wise to contact the parents concerned to let them know their boys have gone missing; it might be awkward if parents come to pick up an absentee,’ commented the great intellectual pedagogue. ‘This is most annoying as I was congratulating myself on having got six weeks into the new term without a suicide or other unavoidable tragic fucking demise.’
  ‘The lads are only missing, High Master, none has been found dead. Yet.’
  ‘True, Miss Spankington, very true. We must be optimistic. Anyway, all this chat has made me intensely randy, I really need a blow-job, dear. Perhaps you would do the honours?’ And she got down on her knees to oblige her hero.

  After a most satisfactory sucking-off, Miss Spankington enquired, shortly after swallowing an enormous mouthful of delicious warm living sperm, ‘I was thinking, High Master: do you not feel we should contact the police?
  ‘Surely we need not involve the authorities?’
  ‘They might have found some bodies in the fields or in a pond. The boys might not have been in school uniform; they might not be recognisably Whippinghamians.’
  ‘Unlikely, breeding will out, don’t you know? In any case who says the little shits are dead?’
  ‘High Master, it might reflect unfavourably on the College if we do not take some steps to trace the missing lads.’
  ‘As always, my dear lady, your counsel is invaluable, both in terms of l’amour and realpolitik. Yes, we must contact the local constabulary. But please be discreet as possible, Whippingham must never be involved in scandal! Some of our parents are most sensitive about such matters. And, now we have royalty among our students, even though Crown Prince Bongowongo of Bongobongoland is as black as the ace of spades, we must be especially careful not to harm our reputation!’
  ‘With all due respect, High Master, the parents of the missing boys might be sensitive to the loss of their offspring and might feel the College was at fault for delaying reporting the matter to the police.’
  ‘How true, how true. I trust there were no aristocratic names on the missing list – I am sure you would have brought the matter to my attention earlier had that been so. In any case, you had better be a bit vague about which dates the brats disappeared. We can always prevaricate to protect the good name of our great school.’

  Sergeant Bert Plodder at the village police station showed unusual interest in the fact that there were nine Whippinghamians missing. ‘Nine you say? Exactly nine? No more, no less? Arrrrr. That be interesting, loik. Could you describe ’em for me? ’
  ‘Describe them, Sergeant? One boy looks much the same as another to me, they are all pretty repulsive little pieces of spotty adolescence in my eyes, but no doubt their house masters would be able to give me some information about their appearance and moral attributes.’
  ‘Would they house masters have photographs of they lads, ma’am?’
  ‘The house masters would hardly need photographs of boys they have to see every day, would they, Sergeant? That would be most unhealthy, in my opinion,’ snapped Miss Spankington testily. ‘However, I myself have a file on each and every pupil, showing his academic record, his sporting achievements, naturally a list of all his canings, floggings and birchings, and also a small, passport-size photograph. I cannot vouchsafe for the quality of the photographs as the College does not organise the photography itself. This is an academic establishment, not a chemist’s shop.’
  ‘Would it be possible for we to see ’em, Miss Spunkington?’
  ‘Spankington, not Spunkington, you addled fool!’
  ‘Sorry, ma’am, Miss Spankington.’
  ‘Pupils’ files are confidential, Sergeant Plodder. I have given you the boys’ names. Just find them, you ill-educated tit.’ And with that she rang off in high dudgeon. How she disliked having to be civil to the lower orders.

  The next morning, Cynthia Spankington was most surprised when three burly men arrived unexpectedly in her office; the two in civilian clothes announced themselves as Chief Detective Inspector Head and Detective Inspector Flucker from the Criminal Investigation Department at Bogchester; the third man glowered at Miss Spankington, his peasanty face oozing unfriendliness. She noticed the three stripes on his uniform and guessed this must be the plebeian Sergeant Plodder. The fat Sergeant was sweating heavily as he dragged a large sack into the room.
  ‘The High Master is not expecting you, I’m afraid. You should have made an appointment, Inspector.’
  ‘Chief-Inspector, Miss Spunkington.’
  ‘Spankington.’
  ‘Be that as it may, Miss, but we must insist on seeing Mr Urquart immediately.’
  ‘DOCTOR Seiss-Urquart, Chief Inspector.’
  ‘Indeed. We must see the Head Master now, if you please.’
  ‘High Master, not Head Master, Chief Inspector. Are you deaf or stupid, or both, you fucking ratbag?’
  ‘Watch your lip, madam, if you please,’ snarled Detective Chief Inspector Richard Head of Bogchester C.I.D. ‘I don’t care if the headmaster is the Big White Chief Wogga-Wogga in person. Or the Archbishop of Fartlebury. Or Jesus Christ re-incarnated. We must see him now. Do not prevaricate, Miss Spankington, or I shall arrest you for obstructing the police in the course of their duty!’
  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir,’ commented Detective Inspector Flucker with a smirk, seeking as always to ingratiate himself with his superior.
  ‘Fuck me, that’s a bit lippy,’ mumbled the over-awed Sergeant Plodder to himself, ‘but it serves that old bitch right, if you asks me, loik.’

  If looks could have killed, the Chief Inspector would have been as dead as a doornail, deader than a dead person on a fatal Doomsday in the dreaded city of Deathsville . Since looks do not have a death-ray effect, Miss Spankington had to content herself with gobbing copiously onto the lapels of the Chief Inspector’s common, blue serge suit and sweeping into the High Master’s office to advise him that there were three overweight yobs from the police to see him. Dr Seiss-Urquart grudgingly allowed her to show the policemen in, pouring himself a large glass of one of his favourite and most extortionately extravagant wines, Chateau Pisse-en-Pantelon, Cotes de Merde, Premier Cru, 1922. He graciously offered his visitors a glass of highly chlorinated tap water in plastic beakers.
  ‘Since you are on duty, you will have to miss out on the claret; it’s a beauty,’ he announced imperiously, standing before the intruders, wine glass in one hand, his cane in the other, just in case they got cheeky.

  ‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Richard Head, sir…’
  ‘The famous Dick Head of the C.I.D.,’ interjected Inspector Flucker.
  ‘Keep your face shut, Flucker!’
  ‘Sorry, sir. I just thought that if Mr Urquart knew who you were…’
  ‘DOCTOR Seiss-Urquart, if you please, you common twats!’ shrieked the High Master in exasperation. ‘Have you no  comprehension of the importance of my position? I am High Master of Whippingham College, the greatest public school in England! Our pupils are la crème de la crème, the scions of the finest families in the land! Why even the Chief Constable of Bogchestershire, your superior, is an old Whippinghamian! I recall thrashing him in my first term as a junior master here! He had a very bony arse I seem to recall.’
  ‘That’s as maybe, sir. I am investigating nine deaths here and you do not seem to understand…’
  ‘Nine deaths? What nine deaths? I am unaware of any nine deaths. We have quite properly reported nine of our lads missing and…’
  ‘It is my belief, Mr Urquart…’
  ‘Dr Seiss-Urquart, dolt.’
  ‘…that your pupils have met a tragic end, and are, in fact, deceased.’
  ‘What evidence do you have to support such an outlandish and outrageous insinuation, Mr Head?’
  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Head, if you please sir.’
  ‘The famous Dick Head of the Bogchester C.I.D.’ re-iterated Inspector Flucker.
  ‘Shut it, Flucker, you stupid cunt. That’s your last warning. Any more of your repellent sycophancy and adulation and you’ll be out pounding the beat in the morning’
  ‘Sorry, guv.’
  ‘Well, Chief Inspector,’ interjected Seiss-Urquart, ignoring the gnashing of the snubbed inspector’s teeth, ‘Can you elaborate on your demented theory that our missing Whippinghamians have met with an unfortunate accident?’

  At this, the famous detective, Dick Head of the Bogchester C.I.D., lost his rag and told Sergeant Plodder to tip out the contents of the sack he had dragged into the High Master’s office. The stolid sergeant manfully up-ended the sack and out rolled nine boys’ heads; they rolled across the High Master’s priceless Persian carpet, leaving an occasional bloody smudge on its beautiful Arabic pattern. Each head had been severed from its body neatly and each face showed an expression of utter eldritch horror.
  ‘Watch out for my fucking carpet, you mongol!’ roared the High Master. ‘That’s a rare 18th century hand-sewn Bumturdistan rug. It’s worth fucking thousands!’
  ‘Sorry, sir,’ mumbled Sergeant Plodder respectfully. ‘I were only following orders.’
  ‘Was, not were, you illiterate fool.’
  ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Dr Urquart,’ commented Dick Head, ‘but I could not care a flying fuck about your fucking carpet, nor for your fucking grammatical pedantry. Do you recognise these skulls as belonging to your missing boys or not?’

  ‘Watch your mouth, you ill-dressed, jumped-up oik of a flatfoot!’ snarled Dr Seiss-Urquart, barely able to suppress his rage at being spoken to in such terms by his social inferior. He glanced at the faces of the skulls lying on his carpet. How could he possibly tell? Unattached to the rest of a body, and without identifying clothes, one dead boy’s face looks broadly similar to another. He was more worried about the Bumturdistan rug at this stage. He knocked back his claret, relishing its exquisite aftertaste. 'Mmm. Delicious,' he murmured to himself appreciatively.

  After all parties had recovered their tempers (and after the High Master had partaken of another large glass of Chateau Pisse-en-Pantelon, Cotes de Merde, Premier Cru, 1922) it was agreed that it would be sensible to compare the severed heads with the photographs of the missing boys in Miss Spankington’s files. Unfortunately, all nine corresponded. It thus transpired that the nine heads in Sergeant Plodder’s sack were positively identified as belonging to the late Anthony Foxe-Buttock, the Hon. Patrick O’Peyniss and Gerald Shagge-Spotte of Thrashmore Hall, Nepomuk St John Arse-Wriggler and his twin brother Bryan St George Arse-Wriggler of Birchington, Freddie “Bingo Wings” Featherstone and Albert William “Pansy” Sancerre-Boozer of Flagellators, Roger Bollington-Widdler (minor) of Ramsbottom’s and the Hon. Gerald R. Snyffer of Flogwell House.

  ‘Aha!’ declared Detective Chief Inspector Dick Head of Bogchester C.I.D., on seeing the shock on the faces of the High Master and his secretary, the normally unshockable Miss Spankington.
  ‘Fucking Satan,’ moaned the High Master of Whippingham College.
  ‘Dear, dear me,’ murmured Cythia Spankington.
  ‘Excuse me, sir, but where is your toilet? I seem to be bursting for an enormous pump-out,’ interrupted Detective Inspector Frederick Flucker, as he stared at the skulls on the priceless rug and suddenly realised his bowels were a bit loose after having unwisely partaken of an out-of-date sausage roll in the police station canteen a couple of hours earlier. And the beaker of tap water he had just drunk was none too clean either as, whilst no one was looking, Miss Spankington had blown her nose into it as a punishment for the Inspector’s lack of respect for his betters.


2: WORSE NEWS

  In response to the police request for a tour of the College, “to look for clues” as Inspector Flucker put it after he had returned from an extended sojourn in the lavatory, the High Master asked Dr Crucifix, the diminutive master of Disembowellers (the only house not to have suffered one of the tragic murders, a significant fact as it would later appear) to conduct the officers round the College. The other six house masters were ensconced with the High Master in discussions as to the best way to deal with the deaths. The High Master felt the standard pre-printed condolences letter signed by the house masters would suffice, but there were suggestions that a telephone call to the bereaved parents from the High Master himself would be more appropriate. Dr Seiss-Urquart was less than keen as, being a kind-hearted soul, he hated telling parents their boys were dead. And this time there was a pair of twins.

  ‘What is that delicious smell, Dr Crucifix?’ enquired Detective Chief Inspector Head as the party rounded the North East corner of the Disembowellers house buildings.
  ‘Ah, that will be Crown Prince Bongowongo’s private kitchen, Chief Inspector.’
  ‘Prince Bongowongo?’
  ‘Disembowellers, the house of which I myself am master, has recently been honoured by His Majesty King Bongo XXV of Bongobongoland. The King has sent his eldest son to study with us. Naturally, we feared for racial and other problems with some of the more patriotic lads, and we felt it appropriate for the Crown Prince to have his own private quarters where he would be more secure. The Prince attends classes just like all his fellow students, but he lives and eats separately here in the North West wing. If I may make a confidential comment, Chief Inspector, the boys’ food here at Disembowellers is not very good; thus his dietary requirements are attended to by his private chef, flown in from Bongbongoland. I believe his name is Mr Sambo and he wears a grass skirt.’
  ‘Well, it smells utterly delicious; my mouth is watering,’ said D.C.I. Head.
  ‘I have been honoured to be invited to dine with the Crown Prince and his retinue a couple of times in the past few weeks since their arrival, and I can assure you that his food tastes as good as it smells! The Crown Prince’s chef, the aforesaid Mr Sambo, is truly a culinary genius, in my opinion. The royal group dispense with knives and forks and chew the meat straight off the bone, squatting on the ground, in traditional Bongbongoland style. They use rather quaint wooden spoons to convey the pre-diced vegetables and to drink the delicious gravy. I naturally emulated their somewhat primitive table manners in order to show my respect for their unique culture. I am looking forward to another meal with the Crown Prince, and Dr Seiss-Urquart and his secretary have been accorded an invitation for next week.’
  ‘Most bloody interesting, doctor,’ commented the Chief Inspector drily.
  ‘I’m bloody starving,’ observed Inspector Flucker, licking his lips, ‘I just threw up my breakfast, don’t forget. Also, losing a quart of diarrhoea leaves you with a bit of a hole in your gut.’

  Dr Crucifix continued his tour of the College, pointing out where each constituent house was situated and explaining some of Whippingham’s fascinating history. He emphasised how vital it was that any scandal should be avoided, especially now that royalty, albeit coon-flavoured, was in residence. He was explaining how upset King Bongo XXV would be if he came to hear that his son’s school had a decapitating murderer running loose and thus could well be at risk of being slaughtered himself, and the midget pedagogue was on the point of adding a witty quip to the effect that life at Whippingham might be more dangerous than life in the steamy Bongobongoland jungle, when a warning bell began ringing in his brain. Something he had read, read quite recently, something important and perhaps relevant to the tragic situation affecting the school, now what was it? Something deep in Dr Crucifix’s unconscious told him it was fucking bad news. He remained withdrawn as he completed his tour of the college with the three policemen.

  After the cops had left, taking the slightly odorous sackful of severed heads with them, Crucifix sat down quietly in his study and racked his brains. After a few minutes’ concentrated thought, he remembered with cold horror what he had read. ‘Oh no, no, no, no, fucking no,’ he muttered as he leaped down from his chair and rushed out of his study, leaving his hideous secretary staring as she watched him hurry down the corridor as fast as his plump little legs could carry him.

  Dr Crucifix trotted at top speed to the Great College Library in Main Quad and went straight to the extensive reference section. He whizzed up a library ladder to reach the dread volume: Encyclopaedia Britannica Vol. 3 (BLO-BYZ). Under “Bongobongoland” he found the entry he had recalled reading when the Bongobongolese High Commissioner had first approached the College and his eyes raced down the text, seeking the half-remembered passage. ‘Oh dear Jesus Christ!’ he burst out as he realised he had not been mistaken. “Bongobongoland is one of the few countries in the world where cannibalism is still legally practised, although it is no longer universally the norm, as was the case until the end of the nineteenth century,” the text ran. “In pre-colonial times the Bongobongolanders were great warriors and many wars were fought with the inhabitants of nearby Ougybougywougiland and Mumbojumboland; it became traditional that the victors of a tribal battle would eat the bodies of their defeated enemies, all parts being consumed bar the heads. The introduction of militant evangelical Christianity by the Wesleyan missionaries in the 1800s, and the continuing Methodist presence in the country, has meant that cannibalism has become the exception instead of the rule. However, the eating of human flesh is still favoured by certain Bongobongoland tribal chiefs and is regularly practised by the nobility of this small, landlocked country in spite of repeated campaigns by the British Colonial Office to persuade the inhabitants to desist. King Bongo XXII, the great-grandfather of the present King Bongo XXV, was a devoted cannibal who never ate any meat apart from the flesh of his enemies, and his descendants have upheld the ancient traditions from time to time.” Dr Crucifix was not looking forward to showing this to the High Master, and it was with a fearful heart that he carried the volume to Dr Seiss-Urquart’s study.


3. STILL WORSE AGAIN

  ‘What?’ bellowed Dr Seiss-Urquart. ‘Prince Bongowongo is a fucking cannibal?’
  ‘It would appear so, High Master.’
  ‘And you knew about this, you bloody midget?’
  ‘It never occurred to me that the Crown Prince would follow in his ancestors’ footsteps, so to speak, if you will forgive my mixed metaphor, High Master. The relevant passage in the Encyclopaedia seemed a little unrealistic and irrelevant at the time.’
  ‘Unrealistic? Irrelevant? We accept a crazy jungle bunny cannibal into the school and he and his cronies guzzle nine pupils and it’s fucking irrelevant?’
  ‘I recall you were most keen on accepting the Prince and his pater’s offer of huge amounts of money for a bursary, High Master.’
  ‘I didn’t know they were a load of murderous bloody cannibals, you little twat! And who says it’s only nine? There may be more!’
  ‘Indeed there may be, High Master,’ agreed Dr Crucifix, dodging a swipe from the High Master’s cane.
  ‘And, you yourself partook of two of the Crown Prince’s cannibal feasts!’
  ‘It was very tasty, High Master, a bit like roast pork. He has formally invited you and Miss Spankington to dine with him next week. I think I mentioned it to you earlier. I assume you won't be going now.’

  The High Master sat back in his chair, wincing slightly as his piles rubbed up against each other. He glared at poor Dr Crucifix and the shamefaced, gnomic housemaster of Disembowellers averted his eyes. They both knew they were well and truly up the proverbial Shit Creek without a paddle.
  ‘We’re up Shit Creek without a paddle. Dr Crucifix,’ said Dr Seiss-Urquart, his learned head in his hands.
  ‘Never have you spoken a truer clause,’ agreed Crucifix emotionally. ‘We are well fucked, High Master. If this scandal ever breaks, Whippingham College will be a laughing stock throughout the land.’
  ‘And bang go both of our pension funds,’ moaned the High Master in self-pity.

  Miss Spankington entered the High Master’s study and stared sorrowfully at the two depressed pedagogues. She fondled the High Master’s thinning, grey mullet tenderly as he wept into his third glass of vintage claret. Dr Crucifix was shocked at this intimacy and was so embarrassed he farted involuntarily; such was the state of his nerves his anal sphincter was unable to prevent a slight leakage into his drawers. ‘Ooo-ahh,’ he said as he realised he had done a mini-brownie.

  ‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ she cooed. ‘Let us calmly examine the situation. Think of the power of Whippingham in this land! The Prime Minister himself is an Old Whippinghamian, the Home Secretary is an O.W., half the cabinet are O.Ws., the Chief Constable of Bogchestershire is an O.W. The matter can be easily hushed up!’
  ‘Hushed up, Cynthia? Forgive me, I mean Miss Spankington. How can we hush up nine murders, nine dead boys and a gang of cannibals, including a machete-wielding chef in a grass skirt in Dr Crucifix’s house? Get real!’
  ‘Let’s hear Miss Spankington’s plan, High Master. I have always known she was as sharp as two pins!’
  ‘Listen, my dear men, do not despair!’ And Cynthia Spankington explained how the dreadful mess could be cleared up. Indeed, she had already begun the process. Admittedly it would mean most of the bursaries kindly provided by King Bongo XXV would be diverted towards bribes to the Bogchestershire C.I.D. instead of scholarships and exhibitions to the great universities for young Whippinghamians who would otherwise never have passed an exam in their lives; admittedly some monies would have be paid as compensation for the bereaved parents of the dead lads; admittedly it would involve an embarrassing interview with the Bongobongoland High Commissioner, and sadly Whippingham would sadly relinquish its illustrious royal pupil. But she explained that she had already salted away a few thousand quid from the Bongo bursaries, so all would not be lost.

  'You are a fucking genius, dear Miss Spankington,' cried out the High Master, having digested this information, 'Our pension funds may rest secure! But I have one query - and this is mere a philosophical question, I must emphasise. On what basis were the victims selected? Was it merely random violence on the part of Mr Sambo, the Crown Prince's chef? Or some queer perverted logic at play?'
  'I believe, I may have the answer, High Master,' interjected Dr Crucifix when Miss Spankington gave no response, except to wriggle her rear end suggestively. 'Bongobongo warriors only eat their tribal enemies and, since members of my own house were honorary tribesmen, their bodies were hors de combat in the cooking pot stakes, thus no Disembowellers boys got the chop. But boys from other houses were, from the point of view of the Prince and his retinue, potential tribal rivals and therefore ripe for plucking.'
  'How clearly you have plumbed the reasoning of these savages, Dr Crucifix!' exclaimed Miss Spankington without even a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
  'Also, during Lower Fifth Latin class last week, I happened to hear one of the deceased refer to the Crown Prince as a jolly silly blackamoor. Who knows? The other unfortunates may have angered his Royal Highness in some way.'
    'Dear, dear me,' commented Miss Spankington sadly, 'We are indeed well rid of this unsavoury gang of jungle bunnies. And now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I need to go to the toilet to change my sanitary towel.' 

  And so it came to pass that Detective Chief Inspector Head got promoted to Superintendant by the Chief Constable as an aid to forgetting to investigate the matter further, Inspector Flucker got himself a nice new green Morris Minor and Sergeant Plodder was able to afford a lovely three piece Dralon suite for his family (the latter in return for burying the nine heads in his vegetable patch). The Home Secretary, the Rt. Hon. Sir Engelbert Fothergill-Flemsworth (formerly Head Prefect of Disembowellers, and a loyal Old Whippinghamian) arranged for the Crown Prince’s discreet return to his homeland and the prince’s murderous retinue were served up at a splendid state supper shortly after their ceremonial arrival in Bongoville.

  As Dr Seiss-Urquart put it succinctly to Miss Spankington one evening in bed, shortly after she had sucked him off spectacularly, ‘It was a close run thing, Cynthia, but you saved the fucking day for Whippingham! You are my heart’s delight and I would beg you to accord me the honour of becoming my lady wife.’ And thus the terrible affair of the nine skulls came to a romantic and happy ending.


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