The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  He had just finished its opening sentence about the new false teeth, when without a knock, the door was flung open and his friend stood on the threshold, wide-eyed and dishevelled.

  ‘I say,’ he cried, ‘you’ll never guess!’

  ‘Oh really?’ Cedric remarked, setting his book aside, ‘what won’t I guess?’

  ‘Well,’ Felix began explosively, ‘it’s been simply frightful. I can’t tell you what I’ve been through!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was early evening, and given the warm weather the Combination Room was surprisingly full. This, of course, may have had something to do with the bursar’s birthday, and in celebration of that fact he had generously ordered some rather fine Montrachet to be sampled and applauded by colleagues. He had also invited a few of the monument sponsors to share in the tasting. However, of this group a notable absentee was Professor Dillworthy.

  ‘Not like him to forget,’ murmured Basil Leason to Dame Margery, his guest for the evening. ‘Very punctilious is Cedric; and from what I recall he used to be rather keen on the white burgundies.’

  The latter smiled and observed that tastes changed, and that perhaps he had been detained by that chic florist person. ‘Quite an amusing little chap, and from what I could make out rather taken by that blue jacket I was wearing last night. He kept casting sideways looks. I think they are sharing the same staircase, so he may have got waylaid. Anyway, I am sure he’ll turn up.’

  She was perfectly right, for two minutes later the door opened and Cedric stood on the threshold.

  ‘I apologise for my lateness,’ he announced to no one in particular, ‘but there has been a fatal accident.’

  Conversation ceased as people looked up with startled interest. ‘Oh dear, anyone we know?’ Hinchcliffe enquired mildly.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’ Cedric paused, and then added, ‘It’s the sculptor.’

  There was a shocked silence as they stared at Cedric.

  ‘Hell,’ muttered the birthday boy, ‘that’s torn it.’

  The air was rent by a yelp from Aldous Phipps’ Norfolk terrier, followed by his master’s thin voice. ‘I should have thought that rather depends …’ he murmured.

  ‘Depends? What do you mean, Aldous?’ the bursar snapped.

  ‘On which sculptor, of course. You may recall that there are now two candidates – theoretically, at any rate. And based on the popular principle that the good die young, my money’s on Finglestone. He is here in Cambridge staying with Gloria.’

  ‘In which case you would lose your money,’ Cedric said. ‘It is Winston Reid, and he has fallen down his staircase sustaining lethal injuries. His neck is broken and a smashed whisky glass was found close by.’

  There was a collective gasp, a sound that generated more yaps from the dog.

  ‘Shut up!’ Smithers snapped, attracting a glare from its master.

  The bursar was the first to comment: ‘As I feared,’ he groaned. ‘And with no one else in the running, that London fellow is bound to put his price up even further.’

  Geoffrey Hinchcliffe cleared his throat. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, I don’t think that is quite the attitude, do you? Before considering the practical consequences, perhaps we should say a quick prayer for the poor chap.’ He put his hands together.

  Shocked by the news and discomfited by Hinchcliffe’s words, the others duly bowed their heads.

  Then with prayer over and heads lifted, there erupted a babble of voices.

  ‘Where did you hear that, then?’ Dr Maycock demanded of Cedric.

  ‘And who found him – not you, presumably?’ chimed Leason.

  ‘When did it happen?’ another voice cried.

  ‘Has the Master been informed?’ someone else asked.

  Cedric turned to the last speaker. ‘He doesn’t need to be,’ he replied. ‘It was he who found him – about an hour ago. He had gone to discuss a small matter concerning the statue – something to do with the positioning of the subject’s doctoral hood, I believe. He arrived at Reid’s house at five-thirty as arranged, and the door being open went in. The body lay immediately in front of him at the foot of the stairs. Rather a nasty shock, I should think. According to my friend Felix Smythe, he was white to the gills.’

  ‘Felix Smythe?’ asked Dame Margery. ‘Whatever was he doing there?’

  ‘He happened to be taking an evening stroll and had stopped to admire the roses,’ Cedric explained. ‘I gather they cascade over the garden wall. Felix was unfamiliar with the type, and noticing that the front door was open decided to make bold enquiry of the owner. He walked up the path, and on reaching the threshold was confronted by the Master’s back stooped over the body.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Sir Richard directed that Felix stay with the body while he went to telephone the police; however, my friend is a little sensitive in such matters and said that he had no intention of staying alone with the deceased, but would undertake to do the telephoning. Fortunately there is a phone box close to the house.’

  ‘But there’s a phone in the hall. Why didn’t they use that?’ Maycock asked.

  ‘I gather it was out of order – had been for days, apparently … typical of the Post Office engineers, always diverted by another job.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but are you sure he is dead?’ Hinchcliffe interrupted, clearly agitated. ‘Perhaps Sir Richard and your friend misread the signs – I gather it is not always easy to tell. Who knows, the poor man may have been spared and at this very moment is being resuscitated by our splendid medical staff.’

  ‘You mean having the hooch pumped out of him?’ Smithers gave a caustic laugh.

  ‘No, Dr Smithers, I do not mean that. It is just possible that—’

  ‘He is perfectly dead,’ Cedric assured them. ‘It has all been officially verified, and Felix is now resting.’

  ‘So what has Felix Smythe got to rest about?’ enquired Aldous Phipps, stroking the now quietened terrier.

  ‘He had a brief glimpse of the body and has been questioned by the police – all rather harrowing.’

  ‘A bit harrowing for old Reid too, I should imagine,’ observed Basil Leason quietly.

  ‘Appalling,’ Hinchcliffe agreed. ‘But I fear drink was always his thing – used to get a bit wobbly of an evening, or so one hears. Presumably he overstepped the mark – literally – and fell headlong.’

  ‘But why was the front door open?’ Dame Margery asked.

  ‘Probably expecting someone,’ Smithers suggested. ‘The Master, one assumes. Or perhaps he was one of those who wilt at the first sign of heat; it’s amazing how hysterical people become when faced with a ray of sunshine.’

  ‘Ah well, doubtless Sir Richard will make an official announcement shortly,’ Hinchcliffe remarked. ‘Meanwhile, I am going to the chapel to say a word for the departed. Anyone coming with me?’ He scanned the room hopefully, his eye falling on Cedric.

  The latter intimated he must bolster his flagging friend … but privately was glad to note that in spite of the hesitant looks, Hinchcliffe had elicited two volunteers. Thus, relieved of sober duty Cedric quit the room to return to Felix and a sustaining Gin and French.

  Walking across Main Court, Cedric saw that he was not the only person to have eluded Hinchcliffe and the madding throng. Strolling ahead of him was John Smithers, hands in pockets and whistling jauntily.

  Cedric disliked whistling. He also had an irrational dislike of brown plimsolls, especially when worn with a grey suit. Smithers was clad in both. Thus irritated by sound and sight, and having no wish to speak, Cedric slowed his pace hoping that Smithers might branch off towards the library. This the young man did, but not before ceasing the whistling and breaking into a baritone rendition of ‘John Brown’s Body’. Cedric was startled. Such a display seemed inappropriate in the cloistered surroundings … and indeed, given the news they had just received, far from tasteful.

  He shrugged. Perhaps I am getting old, he thought, cr
abby and critical. If I’m not careful I shall become another Aldous Phipps. He winced and quickened his step to the beckoning refreshment.

  As he passed the Master’s Lodge he saw the drawing-room window brightly lit and curtains open. Standing prominently in the bay were Sir Richard and Lady Dick, and behind them more obscurely two other figures he did not recognise. They seemed in deep conversation, the Master gesturing dramatically.

  As well he might, Cedric thought as he hurried past. After all, no one liked to be faced with a dead body sprawled at their feet when paying a social call. And in this particular case the death held ramifications far beyond the merely personal. With Reid dead, members of the Plot and Monument Committee would need to review their choices; and from what he could make out the field was small. Conventional Edwardian-style statues were losing favour in artistic circles, and those still practising the form far from the first rank – crude derivative hacks, for the most part. In this respect Winston Reid had been rare: blending convention with genuine ability; the result would have been moderately decent. However, with the change of circumstances – and assuming they would discount the third rate – the selectors might now perforce settle on the novelty of the vaunted (if expensive) Finglestone.

  Cedric frowned, considering his own position. Should that happen, was he ready to contribute further finances to the project? He pondered. A moot question: whether to see his name up in lights in a Cambridge garden (as dear Felix had so elegantly put it) or to invest more lavishly in savouring the delights of the French Riviera and other such pleasures. On the whole, life being short, he preferred the latter.

  Still pondering the problem, he entered the now darkened Middle Court and made his way to his ‘own’ staircase. Here a thought struck him, and with grim amusement he visualised the reaction of Gloria Biggs-Brookby: veiled triumph, no doubt. Or not so veiled … perhaps at this very moment she and her house guest were toasting Lady Luck. With the scene vividly in mind, he mounted the stairs to minister to his fragile friend.

  ‘Ah,’ cried Felix, looking far from fragile, ‘I was wondering how long you would be. Here, take this. I am one ahead of you.’ He thrust a glass of the palest dry martini into Cedric’s hand, and the two settled down to review ‘events’.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Events were also being reviewed in the Master’s Lodge. The two figures talking with Sir Richard and Lady Dick, as recently glimpsed by Cedric, were in fact interviewing policemen pursuing the earlier enquiries held in the front hall of the dead man’s house.

  The sergeant called to the discovery was again present, but the young constable had been replaced by Inspector Ted Tilson, currently not enjoying the dry sherry thrust upon him by Lady Dick. The Master’s wife had been out when they arrived, but on return and learning of the disturbing event had been quick to adopt the role of gracious hostess. In fact, kindly though she had been, Tilson would have preferred a cup of tea – or anything really rather than this acrid dose of vinegar. He glanced at the sergeant who had assumed his coffin-like teetotal face and declined the offer. Just occasionally Hopkins’ moral obstinacy had its benefits, while his own lighter touch calculated to soften the wary (or so he felt), could sometimes backfire.

  Casually, he placed the barely touched sherry on a console table, nudging it behind a photograph, and with sympathetic expression listened to what Sir Richard was saying.

  ‘I mean it was such a shock, Inspector,’ the Master protested. ‘As I told your sergeant at the time, the door was wide open. And when I entered, what was the first thing I saw? Reid collapsed at the bottom of the stairs! At first I assumed he had just tripped and couldn’t get up, so I went to give him a hand. “Oh, you’re in a poor way, Reid,” I said. “Here, let me help you.” And then, of course, I saw my mistake and that the man was dead. It was frightful; he was all twisted and absolutely saturated in whisky. My God, I can smell it now! And then—’

  At that moment the Master broke off, distracted by a sudden moan from his wife. Anthea had sat down on the sofa, a hand over her face. ‘Do I really need to listen to these details?’ she murmured. ‘I’m afraid I am not terribly good at this; in fact, I feel a bit faint. Does anyone mind if I go and lie down?’

  ‘Of course not, Lady Dick,’ Tilson said gallantly. ‘It’s not as if you are a material witness, it’s only your husband’s account we need. You are like my wife – she can’t abide dead bodies either. You just run along now and rest.’ He beamed a paternal smile, inwardly relieved. No more sherry, thank God.

  He turned back to Dick. ‘Very sensitive, the ladies. Now sir, you were saying …’

  Half an hour later as they walked back through the centre of Cambridge to the police station in St Andrew’s Street, Sergeant Hopkins made the observation that he could do with a good cup of tea and hoped that young Spriggs hadn’t forgotten to order more sugar.

  Tilson agreed. ‘Yes, I’d have asked the lady myself, except she seemed keen on pushing the sherry. Besides, it’s bound to have been that lapsang thingamy or whatever they call it. Probably worse than the sherry.’ They strolled on, reflecting upon the strange preferences of Cambridge academics.

  Then with the anomaly shelved, they returned to the sculptor’s death. ‘Pretty clear cut, I should say,’ Hopkins remarked, ‘what you might call self-evident: old, tight as a tick, lost his footing, bashed his head and went out like a light.’ He glanced at Tilson for confirmation.

  ‘Well, providing the laboratory chaps are happy, I should say you are right. Sir Richard Dick’s account seemed genuine enough. Plausible, at any rate. Mind you,’ Tilson added, ‘for all his concern, I couldn’t help sensing there was something else on his mind. It was as if it wasn’t so much Reid’s death that was disturbing him, so much as his loss.’

  Hopkins gave his superior a puzzled look. ‘You’ve got me there, I’m afraid. What’s the difference?’

  The inspector grinned. ‘Oh, it’s very subtle, Hopkins, a fine nuance – a nuance that has clearly escaped you.’

  ‘Oh yes? Can’t wait to hear.’

  ‘Well, obviously the chap was ruffled by the physical shock of finding him like that and the sheer unexpectedness of him being dead. But I got the impression that he wasn’t just shocked but bothered. Almost as if by Reid dying something had gone amiss, that something important had been lost beyond the man himself.’

  ‘You mean that he had had a function that could no longer be used?’

  Tilson regarded Hopkins in some surprise. ‘Yes, yes, I think that’s exactly what I do mean. Clever of you to spot it too.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t spot anything,’ Hopkins replied airily, ‘but I can tell you what the function was. Winston Reid was the bloke who Sir Richard Dick was going to hire to do the statue of the Biggs-Brookby fellow. The thing is going to be erected on that bit of scrubland the university is after. My aunt knows Alderman Cuff’s wife and says she’s always rambling on about it. With Reid dead there are two consequences: a) they won’t have a sculptor for their project, and b) it will make it more difficult for the college to get its hands on that patch of land. Less justification, you see.’

  Inspector Tilson frowned, slightly put out by his sergeant’s insider knowledge, and for once feeling upstaged. ‘Ah,’ he said impassively, ‘yes, of course; that would be it.’ Then after a brief silence a thought struck him. ‘And so you see, Hopkins,’ he continued firmly, ‘with that being the case, and despite his being seen bending over the body, I think we can safely exclude Sir Richard from any further enquiries. After all, the man would hardly want to dispose of the linchpin to all his plans. A somewhat retrograde step, I should say!’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘Oh yes, I think you’re right: accidental death – that’ll be the coroner’s verdict.’

  They nodded in mutual agreement. And as they neared the police station Tilson said, ‘So with luck that’s one more case we can tick off the list … Now, what about that cup of tea you were chuntering on about? Once we get the green light from the forensics the t
hing can be wound up, and the only thing left will be to write the report for the chief inspector. You’ll like doing that.’

  The grapevine having already twirled into action, the next morning Rosy too was discussing the sculptor’s death – not on the streets of Cambridge, but upon the sedate lawns of Newnham College.

  It was a beautiful day, and a few of the circle had taken the opportunity to sit out by the sunken garden and admire the herbaceous borders … Except that it wasn’t really the summer flora that was claiming their attention, but rather the recent news.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve had it from the horse’s mouth,’ Betty Withers confided, ‘the Biggs-Brookby woman herself. She was racing along King’s Parade – well, pounding briskly, I suppose – and nearly knocked me over. I was just steadying myself, when she gripped my arm and cried: “Frightful, frightful! He’s fallen down the stairs!” When I asked if she meant her cat, she called me a fool and said it was the sculptor Winston Reid. “How is he?” I said. “He isn’t,” she said. “He’s dead.” Apparently she had just heard the news from Trinity’s porter who had got it from someone else. I was about to ask for details, but she pushed me aside declaring it was all a terrible shock and rushed on.’

  Betty paused reflectively, before adding, ‘Actually, now I come to think of it, she sounded not so much shocked as excited – but then some people are like that: they get a morbid rush of adrenalin whenever a sudden death is announced.’