'Did you know my father was a keen student of naval history?' I asked.
'No, I didn't.'
'He told me a stirring story once,' I said, 'about the English captain who was mortally wounded on the deck of his ship in the American War of Independence. Would you like some horseradish with your beef?'
'Yes, I would.'
'Waiter,' I called, 'bring us a little fresh shredded horseradish. Now, as he lay dying, the captain...'
'Cornelius,' A. R. Woresley said, 'I have had enough of your stories.'
'This isn't my story. It's my father's. It's not like the others. You'll love it.'
He was attacking his roast beef an
d didn't answer.
'So as he lay dying,' I said, 'the captain extracted from his second-in-command a promise that his body would be taken home and buried in English soil. This created a bit of a problem because the ship was somewhere off the coast of Virginia at the time. It would take at least five weeks to sail back to Britain. So it was decided that the only way to get the body home in fair condition was to pickle it in a barrel of rum, and this was done. The barrel was lashed to the foremast and the ship set sail for England. Five weeks later, she dropped anchor in Plymouth Hoe, and the entire ship's company was lined up to pay a last tribute to their captain as his body was lifted from the barrel into a coffin. But when the lid of the barrel was prised off, there came out a stench so appalling that strong men were seen rushing to the ship's rail. Others fainted.
'Now this was a puzzler, for one can normally pickle anything in navy rum. So why, oh why the appalling stench? You may well ask that question.'
'I don't ask it,' A. R. Woresley snapped. His moustache was jumping about more than ever now.
'Let me tell you what had happened.'
'Don't.'
'I must,' I said. 'During the long voyage, some of the sailors had surreptitiously drilled a hole in the bottom of the barrel and had put a bung in it. Then over the weeks, they had drunk up all the rum.'
A. R. Woresley said nothing. He was not looking at all well.
' "Finest rum I ever tasted," one of the sailors was heard to remark afterwards. Now what shall we have for dessert?'
'No dessert,' A. R. Woresley said.
I ordered the best bottle of port in the house and some Stilton cheese. There was absolute silence between us as we waited for the port to be decanted. It was a Cockburn and a good one, though I've forgotten the year.
The port was served and the splendid crumbly green Stilton was on our plates. 'Now,' I said, 'let me tell you how I am going to make you a million pounds.'
He was watchful and a shade truculent now, but he was not aggressive. He was definitely softened up.
9
'You are virtually broke,' I said. 'You have crippling mortgage interest to pay. You have a meagre salary from the university. You have no savings. You live, if you'll forgive me for saying so, on slops.'
'We live very well.'
'No, you don't. And you never will, unless you let me help you.'
'So what is your plan?'
'You, sir,' I said, 'have made a great scientific discovery. There's no doubt about that.'
'You agree it's important?' he said, perking up.
'Very important. But if you publish your findings, just look what will happen. Every Tom, Dick and Harry all over the world will steal your process for their own use. You won't be able to stop them. It's been the same all through the history of science. Look at pasteurization. Pasteur published. Everyone stole his process. And where did that leave old Pasteur?'
'He became a famous man,' A. R. Woresley said.