The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Rosy had gone up to Newnham soon after the war, having done her stint in the ATS manning searchlights and maintaining guns near Dover. After the hectic camaraderie and stringent discipline of service life (plus, of course, its constant dangers), post-war Cambridge had seemed another world, and Rosy had immersed herself in it with pleasure and wonder. Yes, it would be good to be back there: to retrace old haunts and renew old friendships – or at least catch up with once familiar colleagues. Settling in her chair, she lit a cigarette and savoured the prospect.

  Alas, too often plans and prospects are intruded upon by other people. And in Rosy’s case one of those people was her boss, Dr Stanley. Naturally, she had squared her absence with him well in advance, but later that week he had called her into his office and enquired (rather politely for him) whether she would care to modify her arrangements.

  Guardedly, she had asked in what way exactly.

  ‘Oh, the best way,’ he had replied airily, ‘be assured of that, Rosy.’

  Rosy was far from assured and probed deeper.

  He explained that once she had finished ‘hob-bobbing’ with her girlfriends at the ‘doubtless scintillating reunion’ she should take the opportunity to stay on longer and absorb the atmosphere of the Fitzwilliam Museum.

  ‘Oh yes, and why would I want to do that?’ she had asked.

  The reply had been swift and characteristically curt: ‘Because your boss requires it.’

  Whoops! Silly blunder. Rosy hastily composed her features into a look of rapt attention.

  In response, Stanley’s own features assumed an expression of furtive guile. ‘You see, Rosy,’ he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ‘I want you to be my mole.’

  ‘Your what!’

  ‘Well, perhaps not a mole, exactly, but – how shall I put it? – a sort of covert observer, a discreet agent ready to report back the moment you get any significant intelligence. It would be most helpful.’ Stanley leered.

  Rosy stared at him, literally open-mouthed. Over the course of time she had become inured to her superior’s whims and oddities, but this really took the biscuit. What the hell was he talking about? She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, I am not quite sure that I—’

  ‘Understand? Oh, it’s easy enough. During the last year I have noticed one or two snide references appearing in the press – specifically the liberal press – to the effect that the British Museum has become stuck in its ways, is too complacent and immured in its own renown. We are, I gather, clamped to the bosom of the nineteenth century and lack the “pizazz” – whatever that’s supposed to mean – required by its twentieth-century visitors. Indeed, one critic had the brass neck to suggest that in originality and artistic verve we were being rapidly outgunned by Oxford’s Ashmolean – and, if you please, by the Fitzwilliam!’ Dr Stanley paused to let the awful accusation sink in.

  ‘How frightful,’ Rosy replied mechanically. ‘But I still don’t quite see what my role is … I mean, what exactly is this “significant intelligence” that you want me to bring back, and how do I get it?’

  ‘You get it by keeping your eyes and ears open. And as to what it is – I tell you, Rosy, it could be total dross or dynamite. I have it on good authority that the Fitzwilliam’s trustees have recently approached Peregrine Purblow to give them his enlightened views on how the museum should revamp its image to appeal to a younger, and apparently more discerning, clientele. To my mind, that is an oxymoron. Nevertheless, that is what the trustees are intent on doing. And daft as their idea sounds, I consider that it is the British Museum’s cultural duty to learn what is being proposed. As you know, Purblow is a self-aggrandising bastard’ – Rosy did not know, never having heard of him – ‘but it doesn’t hurt to be abreast of things: forewarned et cetera. Personally, in my role as a senior executive in our venerable institution, I do not propose being upstaged by the Fitzwilliam, let alone by that smart-arsed pundit Purblow. He appears on television, you know.’

  Rosy took the final remark to be the ultimate cut and contrived to look suitably shocked.

  ‘So what do you want me to do? Loiter slyly among the columns of the Fitzwilliam with notebook poised and wearing a fedora?’

  He looked at her coldly. ‘Certainly not. I expect you to make a thorough reconnaissance of the place, noting how the exhibits are displayed, what kind of labelling is used and the quality of the lighting effects. I also want you to sign up for Purblow’s two lectures on “Art and the Modern Public”, and – most importantly – ingratiate yourself with their chief curator, a Mrs Sally Maycock, wife of one of the university’s worthies, and find out what she has in mind for the future. For example, it’s rumoured that someone has the bright idea of mounting an exhibition of the Old Bailey’s recent Chatterley trial – sketches and photographs of the barristers and chief witnesses etc. I gather such a project is intended to impress those not normally familiar with the interior of museums.’ Stanley’s voice took on a sardonic note.

  ‘Huh!’ he continued, ‘the novel was tame enough, so why pictures of the trial should entice a philistine public I cannot imagine. A far better bet would be to do a mock-up of the Brides in the Bath murders, or John Christie and Rillington Place. Now they could be a crowd-puller! In fact, if it transpires that the Fitz really is going to do the Chatterley thing, then I think the British Museum might well counter it with a Christie recreation, gas tubes, ropes and all. We could even get the Madame Tussauds’ lot to lend a hand. So what do you think of that, Rosy?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she replied woodenly.

  2 See A Southwold Mystery

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cedric had been right: negotiating King’s Cross had not been particularly jolly, the buffet being closed and the platform draughty. Rosy was glad that she had taken his advice and opted for first class. She settled back comfortably in the padded seat, and watched as the grey and muddled vista of London’s eastern suburbia meandered past the window: Finsbury Park, Potters Bar, Welwyn … names etched in her mind, but places never visited.

  Gradually, the train gathered speed and open spaces began to appear: random indeterminate tracts of wasteland, half-hearted cast-offs from the city. Uninspired, Rosy turned to her book, a biography of Disraeli. Yet despite her liking for the subject, this too failed to capture her interest. That afternoon the wiles of Dizzy were eclipsed by the wiles of her boss, and she put the book aside. Was she really going to have to spend part of her time in Cambridge playing at being a fifth columnist? The idea was absurd! And how was she going to ‘ingratiate’ herself with the curator, the Maycock lady? After all, they might not like each other. Rosy sighed irritably. She was getting a little tired of the missions imposed upon her by the imperious Stanley!

  But then she brightened. Still, if such a mission meant she could extend her leave and thus have longer to relive the past and enjoy the present, why complain? She started to envisage how she might spend the extra time (other than skulking within the portals of the Fitzwilliam). A number of possibilities came to mind. And then turning to gaze out of the window again, she noticed how the landscape had slipped into proper countryside, open and green, sprinkled with farms and cows, hedges and willow-herb. She glimpsed more names, Baldock, Royston … ah, at last they were getting nearer and London was far behind.

  Far too early she started to gather her things, eager to arrive yet a little nervous as to what she might find. Supposing there would be an anticlimax. Supposing that after London, Cambridge seemed flat and parochial. Supposing her college contemporaries had grown staid and dull. And what about herself: how would they view her? Ah well, these were things she would soon discover …

  The train was punctual and Rosy alighted at the instantly familiar station – mercifully unscathed by the axe-wielding Dr Beeching. She picked up her case, smiled at the ticket collector and, declining a porter’s offer, made her way out to the cab rank.

  As she trundled along in the taxi, taking in all the old familiar landmarks, she noticed t
wo men walking slowly along the pavement. They were talking animatedly, the taller waving his left hand as if to make a point, the shorter nodding in seeming agreement. There was something familiar about the former’s manner, as also about his companion’s short, spiky hair and thin shoulders. They looked a little like … Oh no, surely it couldn’t be? Not here, suddenly in the middle of Cambridge. Ridiculous! But as Rosy turned, straining her neck to get a better view, she realised that it most certainly was … Yes, Cedric Dillworthy and Felix Smythe. Oh really, she thought indignantly, Cedric might have said they were planning a visit when I phoned asking him about travel arrangements – but oh no, not a word. Fairly typical, of course, the professor rarely disclosed anything unless you took a hammer and chisel!

  The last time she had seen the two of them was in Felix’s chic sitting room above the flower shop, imbibing cocktails and reminiscing theatrically about their earlier imbroglio on the Suffolk coast. Rosy had been part of that imbroglio and was only too glad to be free of its memory and, for a time at any rate, from the company of her two colleagues-in-arms. (‘Comrades’ was too intimate a term; ‘reluctant accomplices’ might be more apt.) What on earth were they doing here – and oh dear, was there a danger of meeting them?

  She leant back against the seat, a little bemused by the term that had entered her head: why ‘danger’? she pondered. After all, they were a perfectly decent pair – civilised and mannerly; and fate having conspired to engage the three of them in rather alarming circumstances, she certainly knew them well enough. Hmm … well enough, but not enough for intimacy or real friendship. For some reason such closeness had never been established. It wasn’t that she disliked them (a view which as far as she was aware was reciprocated), but neither did she feel any special joy at the prospect of encountering them here. She saw them enough in London. But Cambridge was a place removed, a world of her past, and she did not want it suddenly invaded by Cedric and Felix.

  Rosy gave a rueful smile, remembering her mother’s words of long ago: ‘Oh really, Rosy dear, don’t be so picky! You know you quite like Alison and her little sister – why on earth don’t you want them at your birthday party?’ There had been no answer except a mulish pout.

  As the taxi slowed and the familiar shapes of her old stamping ground came into sight, the spectres of Cedric and Felix were instantly banished. Absurd to think she might meet them, and besides what if she did? Would it really matter? She scanned the gracious facade of her old college, nervously engrossed by the prospect that awaited her. Yet somehow, gazing up at those large white sash windows and solid Queen Anne gables stark against the blue sky, she felt reassured: the same harmonies, the same elegant proportions, the same stability. Yes, things would be all right.

  Momentarily she paused in front of the archway to the porter’s lodge – an imposing feature added only in her last year, yet now wreathed in foliage and seeming to have been there forever. Irrationally she felt a sense of welcome, and gripping the handle of her case stepped forward. So … back again, she thought.

  Yes, indeed, she was back again; and from what she could make out little had changed. Sitting that evening in the Senior Common Room she surveyed her past contemporaries, and with a few exceptions recognised them all. Older, smarter and perhaps more assured and worldly, they were essentially the same bunch with whom she had spent three years of her life studying, disputing, confiding, growing – and perhaps most importantly having fun. Like herself some had been in the forces during the war, one or two had worked at Bletchley or Medmenham, while others had done vital civilian work. They and Rosy had been the ‘old ones’, the war veterans; but there had been a younger group too, youngsters fresh up from school amazed by their new freedoms and eager for adventure and ‘real life’.

  And now, despite certain differences in age, background and experience, here they were again varied in their achievements and domestic status; and yet surprisingly cohesive and all intent on getting the best out of the next few days: gossiping, reminiscing, forging new friendships and renewing the old.

  To her regret, three of Rosy’s closest chums were absent abroad, either with working husbands or in their own right. But there were several old faces that she was delighted to see – Betty Withers, now a flourishing psychiatrist attached to one of London’s medical schools, and the mop-headed, gap-toothed Mary Bradshaw, once a literature student and now herself busy instructing callow first years in the exploits of Beowulf and the cerebral intensities of John Donne.

  Mary had brought a guest with her, an older woman: tall, elegant and in her fifties whom she introduced as Dame Margery Collis (‘Frightfully high-powered in education,’ Betty Withers had whispered) and whose name Rosy vaguely recalled from references in The Times.

  ‘Afraid I am a total interloper,’ the woman laughingly confided to Rosy. ‘I’m a “Girton gal”, nothing to do with Newnham at all. I am up here to attend a meeting of benefactors at my late brother’s college, St Cecil’s. They are hoping to erect a statue to one of its past luminaries, a rather eccentric Middle East archaeologist. Not my field at all, but I owe a lot to Cambridge so I’m happy to contribute. Besides, I know the Dicks slightly. His wife and I share the same London club, the University Women’s, and I get the distinct impression that Sir Richard is rather expecting me to cough up. He has only recently been appointed Master, so I suppose one ought to rally round.’ She laughed, and then added, ‘But apart from that business, I am also scheduled to give a short course of talks over at Girton. Apparently their guest wing is currently experiencing some horrendous problem with the plumbing and so they thoughtfully asked if I would like to be accommodated elsewhere. As you can imagine, I didn’t exactly dither! Still, I shall only be here a couple of days or so. Luckily, a friend is lending me her flat and it’s an arrangement that suits me better. Nice though collegiate life is, at my age one rather relishes one’s independence.’

  Her allusion to the brother’s alma mater rang a bell with Rosy. Hadn’t that been Cedric’s old college? A benefactors’ meeting, the woman had said. Could that be the reason for Cedric and Felix being in Cambridge? Cedric’s sphere was Cappadocia, its history and topography, so quite possibly he had known the scholar in question.

  ‘You don’t happen to have come across a Professor Dillworthy, do you?’ she enquired casually.

  ‘What, old Dilly? Certainly I have – or at least I used to. We were up together years ago, and he knew my brother, so we would meet from time to time. He was quite nice in a muted sort of way.’

  Rosy recognised the description and confirmed that little had changed.

  ‘So, I take it you know him well,’ the other said.

  ‘Oh, not well,’ Rosy told her hastily, ‘but I see him in London on and off – receptions, concerts, that sort of thing …’ (She spoke vaguely, deeming it imprudent to mention those times when she, Cedric and Felix had been reluctantly embroiled in situations more than a little bizarre.)

  ‘He married a botanist schoolteacher,’ Dame Margery continued thoughtfully. ‘At the time I remember our thinking it rather a peculiar move, and I gather it wasn’t a success – disaster, in fact. Is he attached now?’

  Attached? Rosy hesitated slightly, before saying that she didn’t think Cedric was really the marrying type – ‘Too independent,’ she said lightly.

  ‘I don’t blame him. It’s a condition that can be fearfully cramping; for a woman at any rate. Fortunately one has been spared.’ She spoke with crisp conviction.

  It was a conviction Rosy did not entirely share, and for a moment she thought of her pilot fiancé shot down over Germany in ’45 … My God, I would give my right arm to be married to him now!

  They were joined by others babbling fresh greetings and introductions, and her companion was whisked away to mingle with another group.

  As they trooped into dinner, Betty Withers plucked Rosy by the sleeve, and further to her earlier aside explained that Dame Margery was one of those ‘fearfully competent’ women who actu
ally had the temerity (and ability) to sit on educational committees and advise the government. ‘One hears the ministers stand in total awe of her. It must be the long legs and regal bearing – plus that immaculate manicure!’ She chuckled, looking ruefully at her own sturdy calves and bitten nails.

  Alone in her room that night, Rosy reviewed her first day. It had been, she decided, a distinct success. How easily everyone had got on, and what worthy and fascinating things many were doing. And by all accounts even those alumni remaining ‘merely’ housewives seemed to have produced offspring of spectacular oddity or achievement! She smiled, recalling some of their anecdotes. Yes, it had been an excellent start to the reunion and she knew she would enjoy the scheduled events. Even Dr Stanley’s sternly prescribed task to vet the Fitzwilliam now seemed less of a chore than originally felt.

  She took up her book and once more immersed herself in the dedicated manoeuvres of Benjamin Disraeli; and then with lids beginning to droop, flicked off the light and fell into deep sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Being able to introduce Felix to his old college gave Cedric enormous pleasure. And immediately after their arrival he took him on a brief tour, relating well-worn anecdotes and pointing with pride to those features of particular historical interest or aesthetic appeal. Felix was duly impressed, especially by the college’s gracious grounds with the arcaded rose arbour and the luxuriant, scented acacia clambering waywardly beneath the window of his room.