Matricide at St. Martha's

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  The Bursar patted herself happily. ‘I’ve decided to stop bothering about being fat; I’ve got to build up my strength to defeat the legions of Satan. Talking of which, what the devil happened this morning? I thought you told me Mary Lou was on our side. She’s obviously either afraid to come out of the closet or she was having you on.’

  ‘I’m sure she wasn’t having me on.’

  ‘She’s probably hoodwinked you. It’s those great eyes of hers. Has she been bestowing her favours on you?’

  ‘I must remind you, Jack, that I am an engaged man.’

  She laughed sardonically. ‘I don’t think even you can be as much of a prig as you make out. Enough of that. What’s with Francis Pusey?’

  ‘I intend to find out this afternoon, even if it involves me in more cake and a lecture on the development of over-mantles in the Tudor refectory.’

  ‘And I’d better work over that little rat Crowley. I don’t like the smell of any of this. I fear some deals have been done which can only lead to disaster.

  ‘Ah, good. Thank you, Maureen. Just pour it. My friend and I are in urgent need.’ She took a great gulp. ‘Yum, yum.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You like claret.’

  ‘I like most things, but not any of those frightful bitches. Poor little Emily. She was dreadfully hurt.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have proposed her.’

  ‘Who the hell else was there to propose? Anyway, the Senior Tutor always becomes Deputy Mistress. God help us, it’s a tradition. Nor was I exactly spoilt for choice of candidate.

  ‘The trouble is that on my side they’re nearly all wimps. Old Maud was such a benevolent dictator that there was never any real need for the Virgins to think for themselves and by the time even they began to grasp that the Dykes were dangerous it was too late; they’d lost whatever political skills they ever had. Speaking of which, do you know the great line from Kipling? “Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed.”’ She chortled long and loudly.

  ‘Perhaps you could get Francis Pusey to embroider it on a sampler.’

  She ignored him: the Bursar always liked her own jokes best. ‘Maud imported me because she realized she needed a robust ally and I imported you for the same reason, but the way things have worked out, I’d have been better bringing in an SAS squad. I must talk to Myles about it.’

  ‘Myles is not quite my idea of an SAS man, Jack. With respect.’

  ‘Never judge by appearances, old boy.’ She closed one eye conspiratorially.

  Amiss sipped his wine moodily. ‘I think our side has had it. Dame Maud’s death and its consequences have totally altered the balance of power. Fear has driven the Old Women to snuggle up to the Dykes and even the Virgins have not held firm.’

  ‘Something’s going on with old Windlesham, that’s for sure. That speech about harmony and unity was hilarious when you think of it. It was only Maud’s iron hand that kept her from stirring up trouble right through the years. She’s a vicious old cow, so there was nothing in the notion that she might be following the precept of making the most troublesome girl in the class Head Prefect. Bridget Holdness is a fascist who believes in acquiring power by any means available and if you know your history, you will know that when you hold out a hand of friendship to a fascist you find it’s bitten off. To do her justice, I thought that Windlesham might have spotted that.’

  ‘Ah, excellent! This smells extremely good.’ She probed her steak anxiously with her knife. ‘Excellent, my dear, very bloody indeed. Robert, is yours as anaemic as you wanted?’

  ‘Thank you, Jack, it is perfection.’

  ‘Good. Eat up, drink up. We mustn’t lose heart; we must find out the price the Old Women have exacted and try to top it.’

  ***

  Amiss spent the latter half of the afternoon fruitlessly stalking Francis Pusey and Mary Lou. In the end, he went out for a long walk from which he returned bearing some bottles, for Pooley had virtually finished his whisky the night before. At 6:15 he arrived at Pusey’s door and knocked once more.

  His quarry was there. His initial slight look of alarm quickly turned to delight when Amiss, with a flourish, pre sented him with the best bottle of sherry the excellent wine merchant could provide. ‘Francis, I can’t go on sponging on you. I brought this to give us both an excuse.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, what a very sweet gesture. Isn’t it, Bobsy? Do come in, Robert. What a treat. Sit down, dear boy. You look tired.’

  ‘I had a long walk this afternoon. I needed to get away from the college. I was finding it a bit gloomy.’

  ‘Gloomy! It certainly is. Sometimes I don’t know how we stand it here. Bobsy and I went out too and bought ourselves something to cheer us up.’

  Amiss tried to think of something which Pusey and Bobsy were likely both to enjoy and fixed on cake. The reality proved to be another paperweight to add to their already substantial collection, on which Pusey discoursed at length and in grinding detail. As they finished their second glass of sherry, Pusey put the paperweight back on its little table and smiled brightly.

  Before he could start talking again, Amiss broke in quickly. ‘It was rather dramatic this morning, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it was all a bit horrid. I didn’t like seeing Emily upset; she’s a nice old thing.’

  ‘I don’t want to be intrusive, Francis, and you know college politics are beyond me, but I was frankly a bit baffled as to why you voted for Bridget Holdness after the things you said about her. It was largely because of your attitude that I voted for Dr. Twigg, so picture my astonishment when you went the other way.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I should have told you about it really, shouldn’t I? We men should stick together and all that. But there really wasn’t time. You see, the Mistress nobbled me after breakfast while Bobsy and I were having our little walk and,’ Pusey giggled, ‘she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. If I voted for what she called the dream ticket—well, I don’t want to go into details…’ He wriggled a bit in his seat. ‘Oh well, I’ll tell you. Have some more sherry. She said she’d give me a three-year contract.’

  ‘You mean you’re not permanent here?’

  ‘Alas, no. I’ve been on an annual contract for quite a while and it leaves us very vulnerable, especially now that there’s been all that pressure to change the statutes. If Bridget and her mob succeeded in all that I might have been out of a job and jobs in my world are very few and far between.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have been able to get something in…’ Amiss cast around desperately, ‘the Royal College of Needle work or somewhere?’

  ‘No, no. They would think what I do old-fashioned. Young people nowadays don’t want old fogeys like me making pretty things; they want their own nasty designs.’

  ‘And Windlesham has the power to do this?’

  ‘That’s what she said. And she said that Bridget wouldn’t oppose it if I voted for her. So what choice did I have?’

  Not a lot, you poor old sod, thought Amiss. ‘Oh, I do under stand, but aren’t you afraid of what Bridget might do to the college now she’s in a position of power?’

  ‘Frankly, dear boy, I don’t care if they teach theology, women’s studies or windsurfing as long as Bobsy and I are cosy and safe. Now, mind you, I’d have much preferred that bequest to be used to make our lives more comfortable but there’s no point in whistling for the moon.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Goodness, it’s dinner time. Come along.’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Lucky old you.’

  Amiss stood up, paid his respects to Bobsy and withdrew. As previously agreed, he caught the Bursar as she went into dinner and they hastily exchanged their news. ‘That’s pretty staggering,’ said Amiss when she had finished. ‘Does he know you know?’

  ‘Can’t see how he would.’

  ‘Mind you lock your door tonight, just in case.’

  ‘Don’t fuss.’

  ‘If you don’t promise to be careful an
d to lock your fucking door, I’ll tell everyone your name is Ida.’

  The Bursar grinned. ‘I like blackmail. It’s a very efficient way of getting things done. I just wish that at present I was better equipped to practise it on this mob. All right, I’ll be careful. Now go off and carouse with your sergeant. I’ll try and seduce Mary Lou.’

  Amiss repressed a pang of anguish at the image that con jured up. As he walked down the drive, he focused his mind on Rachel. ‘“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways”’, he muttered. By the time he reached the gate he had enumerated at least two dozen things he loved about her. However, the trouble was, he admitted to himself, that Rachel had one major defect: she was four thousand miles away.

  Chapter 21

  ‘This job, if I may so loosely describe it, is ruinous to the liver. For a fellow of a temperance college I seem to have to do an awful lot of drinking.’

  ‘Well, that’s because it’s not actually a temperance college,’ said Pooley. ‘Temperance, after all, is moderation and there’s nothing wrong with moderate drinking. It’s when they inter pret temperance as a total ban that the problems arise and people overreact.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Amiss. ‘Now, what are we going to drink?’

  The restaurant was cosy, they had a quiet table and no body looked familiar. After they had ordered and Pooley was well into his gin and tonic, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m knackered.’

  ‘Why, particularly?’

  ‘Because it’s exhausting doing anything with Romford; he’s so slow he wears you out. Everything that would take three minutes with Jim takes thirty minutes with Romford and it’s a kind of contagious stupidity. By the end of a day with him your IQ has halved, your energy level is at rock bottom and the whole world seems confusing.’

  ‘Is that why he runs his home the way he does?’

  ‘Ah, you mean an oasis of order? I suppose that figures. Fundamentalists like making order out of chaos. I want another gin and tonic. What about you?’

  ‘Why not? This is most encouraging, Ellis. Spend much more time with Romford and you’ll end up a disorganized alcoholic rather than the anal retentive I occasionally fear you might become.’

  ‘Does that mean that by spending too much time with you anal retentiveness becomes inevitable?’

  ‘I expect so. So for perfect balance you should spend your life shuttling between the two of us. Now, what gives?’

  ‘What gives is that the students and domestic staff appear to be out of it. You can’t get into the library after nine o’clock at night without a key and Primrose Partridge, who was in there about 9:30, is convinced that the end-of-groove stoppers were still in place.’

  ‘How could she know?’

  ‘Wasn’t used to them. The steps, I mean. Those back at her school are much heavier. So she climbed off them about three-quarters of the way down the room and gave them a sharp push, intending them to travel a couple of yards. Instead they flew ahead, clanged noisily on the stoppers at the end, shot backwards another couple of feet and hit her on the arm. Indeed, she was able to show us the bruise.’

  ‘Was she lying?’

  ‘Give me one good reason why she should.’

  ‘Pass. And only the Fellows have keys?’

  ‘Yes. There were some valuable volumes pinched from the library in the last year and it was decided to make it off bounds from the time it ceases to be supervised. So from 9:00 at night until 9:00 the following morning it’s locked.’

  ‘So any of us could have fixed the steps.’

  ‘Except Sandra, Bridget and the Bursar, who all have alibis.’

  ‘Surely Bobsy vouched for Francis? And vice versa?’

  Pooley sighed. ‘Shall we order, or do you intend to go on being silly?’

  ‘Oh, let’s order by all means. Now, let me choose some thing serious. A boiled egg, perhaps? And maybe a tiny tiny glass of tap water? Or would that be too self-indulgent?’

  ‘Robert!’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll have the terrine and the pot-au-feu and a lot of red wine. I’m told it’s very good for the arteries.’

  ‘Now,’ said Amiss, when Pooley had ordered, ‘to recap. Do I gather that Sandra and Bridget spent the night together?’

  ‘So they claim.’

  ‘Romford must have been dead chuffed about that.’

  ‘Nearly as chuffed as when he discovered that you had spent the night in the Bursar’s bedroom.’

  ‘Didn’t you explain the circumstances?’

  ‘Well, of course I did, but Romford’s got a filthy mind.’

  ‘I suppose a man who dwells so much on Sodom and Gomorrah has sex on the brain.’

  ‘I think I did eventually convince him that your motives were altruistic, but he’s not keen on your alibi. Are you abso lutely sure that you didn’t sleep heavily enough for Miss Troutbeck to have been able to sneak out unbeknownst to you?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all,’ said Amiss testily. ‘And as to her sneaking out, does she look like somebody who can sneak out? She’s as heavy-footed as a bison.’

  ‘OK. That’s her in the clear as far as I’m concerned. But you’ve no alibi since she slept so well and neither Romford nor I are entirely convinced by the others.’

  ‘What about alibis for the time when the Bursar was attacked? Or does Romford think she knocked herself out?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s occurred to him yet. Sandra and Bridget were apparently together again; you were with Francis Pusey; Primrose Partridge says she was with the Mistress and that’s it on the alibi front. But then any number of the students, and even Greasy Joan, could have done that.’

  ‘Forensic has nothing to offer?’

  ‘No. Any adult could have inflicted damage with that implement and the Bursar’s head is so peculiar that it’s impossible to assess the force of the blow.’

  An elaborate performance by the wine waiter intervened before Amiss asked, ‘Likely suspects?’

  ‘Romford would like it to be the Bursar but he’s not ingenious enough to find a way round the facts.’

  ‘And how are you doing on the motive front?’

  ‘Bridget and Sandra are strong.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Deborah Windlesham, seeing as it’s made her Mistress.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We can’t think of anyone else, although Romford would like to think that the Bursar was fiddling the college funds and was in danger of being found out.’

  ‘But her lack of opportunity has scuppered that scenario, has it?’

  ‘He has suggested that you and she might have been in cahoots.’

  ‘Christ, he never gives up, does he? I thought I’d won him over yesterday.’

  ‘The whole effect was spoiled today when he saw you arm in arm with Miss Troutbeck. He’s heard of toy boys and he’s deeply suspicious.’

  ‘She grabbed my arm,’ said Amiss peevishly. ‘She was feeling affectionate.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He can’t see any career reasons why anyone else should have had anything to gain from the Mistress being murdered? Money doesn’t seem to apply.’

  ‘She didn’t have a huge personal fortune that she was going to leave to the Rev Crowley?’

  ‘She had a small nest egg that she left to the college.’

  ‘Big help. Sex?’

  ‘Well, Romford worries over that ground diligently enough but she seems to have been a good old-fashioned celibate. Has the Bursar anything to offer on that score?’

  ‘The Bursar says that it’s a pretty sexless Fellowship even by Cambridge standards. Apart from the capital “D” Dykes and possibly Anglo-Saxon Annie and Miss Thackaberry, she didn’t think anyone did anything to anybody.’

  ‘Crowley and Pusey aren’t in a gay relationship, I suppose?’

  ‘It would have to be a troika. And I don’t think that’s Bobsy’s scene.’

  ‘No vendettas?’

  ‘Apparently n
ot.’

  Pooley disconsolately speared his fish and chewed it with out any sign that he realized what he was eating.

  ‘I can offer you another motive, Ellis.’

  ‘What? Whose?’

  ‘The Rev Crowley’s. The Bursar found the incriminating evidence in her in-tray.’

  ‘Tell me, tell me.’

  ‘She has kindly provided me with a photocopy.’

  He pulled it out of his pocket.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I’ll read it to you. It took me five attempts to master the handwriting. It’s from a pal of Dame Maud’s in Canada.

  ‘My dear Maud,

  This is a quick letter just to deal with something urgent that emerges from your long letter of today. I was much struck by the few sentences you included anent your chaplain. It wasn’t so much his name; there may be many clergymen called Cyril Crowley. Nor was it even his interest in East Anglian place names. What rang the alarm bells was your description of him as unctuous and linguistically orotund.

  Even allowing for the tendency of clergymen to adopt both those habits of manner and speech, it is too much of a coincidence. This has to be the Rev Cyril Crowley we threw out of here a year ago. Does he look like a Trollopian Bishop? Smooth-chinned, pot-bellied, pink of counte nance, elegant white hair? Yes? Then read on, for you have been lumbered with a bounder with the twin distinctions of being both a clerical and an academic fraud. He never got beyond deacon because he was thrown out of the Church before ordination, owing to a scandal over diocesan funds, which in the good old Anglican way was hushed up.

  He then appears to have popped up at a few institutions throughout the Commonwealth on visiting fellowships. He won the first on the basis of a thesis written by somebody else which he’d appropriated by the simple device of changing the title page and slightly altering the title. Later, he had a lucky break in Australia when a friend of his died leaving a body of work behind him which Crowley raided and out of which he published some articles over his own name in learned journals. He is an attractive proposition for impecunious academic establish ments in these secular days, because he can teach as well as being chaplain. However, a few years ago he was unmasked by an old colleague and was thrown out of his Australian university.