The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Rosy nodded in deference to Betty’s psychiatric expertise, but privately suspected that it might not have been death in general that had caused Gloria’s excitement, rather the death of this particular victim. She recalled some of the woman’s words at the Master’s soirée: ‘He’s such a boring old codger and has been around for far too long; and given his alcohol intake I’m surprised he can see the bronze! What Daddy needs is someone dynamic, like young Finglestone. Now he would do him justice!’ What else had she said? Something about it being time Reid packed up his toolkit and took a long holiday … In which case, Rosy reflected, he had certainly given himself the trip of a lifetime. She flinched, embarrassed by her own flippancy – but at least the thought had been silent. Instead she asked if he had left a wife.

  Betty shrugged. ‘There was never one in evidence, not that that means anything. Spouses are not always apparent: take Mr Rochester’s, for instance – though whether Reid had an attic, I couldn’t say. But a studio would do, I suppose.’ She gave a faint smile and added, ‘But seriously, I think he did live alone – in fact, I seem to remember someone saying he considered wives inimical to the Muse.’

  ‘The converse might also be true,’ Rosy remarked lightly. ‘But at least that’s one less grief. What bad luck to be snuffed out like that at sixty-five or so. It’s a bit soon.’

  ‘“Death hath ten thousand doors,”’ quoted Mary Bradshaw darkly, adding, ‘and moments too … all the more reason to carpe diem. Let’s have a drink, it’s not too early.’

  They decided that was an excellent idea and, gathering their things, set off for a walk into the city centre and The Eagle.

  Reid’s death was also the chief topic in the Combination Room of the older college, where Cedric and Basil Leason were enjoying the company of Professor Turner and Vernon Carter, one of the younger dons.

  ‘Well, of course, he was always clumsy,’ Professor Turner said, ‘and for a sculptor surprisingly cack-handed, though oddly enough that didn’t seem to affect his actual work. Still, I bet that’s what contributed to his fall – probably missed the banister.’

  ‘What made him miss the banister,’ Carter interrupted, ‘was not lack of dexterity, merely a surfeit of drink. There was a lot of that going on recently. He was growing very peculiar too.’

  ‘Peculiar? In what way?’ Leason asked.

  ‘He would take irrational dislikes to people.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing.’ Cedric laughed. ‘I gather from Rosy Gilchrist that her boss at the British Museum is like that much of the time, particularly if he has spent a gruelling time with the trustees. He says that a good spate of vitriol soothes his nerves – that and a shot of brandy.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I doubt if he follows them about.’

  Cedric blinked. ‘Follows them about? Er, no, I don’t think so. Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘It was something Reid had developed recently. Odd, really: lurking in doorways at night – a bit like Orson Welles in The Third Man – and then suddenly emerging to give his quarry a gracious smile and broad wink. If that had been all, it would hardly have mattered, but it was when he started to pad along behind you that things got a bit unnerving.’ Carter turned to Turner: ‘Do you remember when he tried it on with Gloria Biggs-Brookby?’

  ‘Do I not! He had picked the wrong one there,’ the latter laughed. ‘She had been at some meeting at King’s, and as it was a mild night she had decided to walk back to her house in Madingley Road instead of cadging a lift. Reid emerged from the shadows, executed a deep bow and suggested that he escort her back home. Being Gloria, she declined his invitation, saying that she was perfectly capable of making her own way and that, besides, she was in no mood for social chit-chat. It was the sort of rebuff that would have made most people scuttle away. But not Reid. I gather that he stuck to her like a leech, pacing himself at about ten yards behind. After a bit Gloria stopped in her tracks and rounded on him. According to my cousin, who had witnessed the whole incident from the other side of the road, she bellowed out that in her opinion he was short of multiple screws, his sculpting as dead as the dodo and he would get the college job over her dead body. She concluded by calling him a lisping bastard, if you please!’

  ‘Did he lisp?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘What? Oh yes, a bit, I think. Anyway, apparently that was too much for Reid, who wisely slunk back into the shadows from whence he had come.’

  There was general laughter. ‘Poor old boy,’ Leason said, ‘lost his marbles, his teeth and his footing!’

  ‘Ah, but perhaps Gloria bumped him off,’ said Carter with relish, ‘piqued at being pestered and determined to oust him in favour of Finglestone.’

  ‘That sounds a bit excessive, even for Gloria,’ Turner remarked. ‘Mind you,’ he smiled, ‘Aldous Phipps has been dropping dark hints that he was murdered, though I don’t think he has anyone particular in mind – though knowing Phipps, he’s bound to pin it on somebody before too long.’

  ‘Huh! Wishful thinking,’ Carter exclaimed. ‘Aldous Phipps has murder on the brain – it’s all those Greek tragedies he reads, those and the Mickey Spillane thrillers. They fuel that waspish imagination.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘So with the sculptor dead, what’s the college going to do?’ Felix asked Cedric. ‘I wonder if they’ll scrap the whole thing; at least that should save you all a bit of money. I bet the others are already making plans on how to spend their windfall.’ He grinned.

  Cedric did not grin. After remarking that Felix had a singularly mercenary mind, he explained that the essential thing was the procurement of the plot itself, and that even without a statue it could doubtless be put to some good use.

  ‘Hmm. Pity about the plaque, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, without a statue, presumably there won’t be a list of benefactors displayed.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily follow,’ Cedric replied rather stiffly. ‘Besides, having had the dubious pleasure of being canvassed by Gloria B-B about this Finglestone character as an alternative to Reid, it is quite obvious that she certainly won’t let the thing rest. In fact, Reid’s death can only be a spur: you’ll see, she’ll be sticking to the Master like a leech.’

  Felix pulled a face. ‘Poor Master.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, doubtless we shall hear something shortly. Meanwhile, I propose that today I give you a conducted tour of a couple of the other colleges. Pembroke is particularly fine and so is St John’s. But my own favourite is—’

  ‘As a matter of fact I am rather busy,’ Felix explained. ‘I am going off to buy a hat. These things can’t be done in a hurry.’

  Cedric groaned. ‘I trust it won’t be another panama; it caused enough trouble last time.’ He closed his eyes, recalling their Suffolk sojourn.

  ‘It will not be a panama,’ Felix said stiffly. ‘It will be—’

  ‘A tasselled mortar board?’

  ‘Oh, very funny, I’m sure.’

  ‘Sorry – I just thought academia might be taking a grip on you.’

  Felix ignored the comment and confided that he had a hankering for a homburg. ‘Now that I am approaching forty-eight and a personal friend of the Queen Mother, I think a little gravitas might be in order, don’t you? Sir Anthony always used to look very elegant in his.’

  While acknowledging the matter of age, Cedric was less sure about the royal friendship, although admittedly Her Majesty was very appreciative of Felix’s flower arranging. However, out loud he said: ‘Oh, indeed. But, of course, you don’t quite have Anthony Eden’s height; I wonder if perhaps—’

  Felix sniffed. ‘It is bearing, not height, that counts.’

  The matter was clearly closed, and Felix departed to do his shopping.

  Left to his own devices, Cedric decided to take a stroll along the Cam. As an undergraduate he had never been a punter, still less an oarsman, but he had always liked the sight of the meandering river with its trees and waterfowl, the elegance of the
Backs and the sense of rural peace amid ancient stones. Thus, whenever he visited his alma mater he made a point of retracing the amblings of his youth.

  He had pocketed a copy of Trollope, hoping to find a convenient spot where he could enjoy the genteel joustings of Archdeacon Grantly and his bishop. But the hope was not fulfilled, for the first suitable bench was occupied; and as he made to pass, a reedy voice hailed him.

  ‘Ah, Professor Dillworthy, if I am not mistaken. Revisiting old haunts, I presume.’ Aldous Phipps’ spiky hand beckoned him over. ‘Bide awhile and tell me your news.’

  Having already recounted his recent travels and the success of his Cappadocia book during their encounter at the Master’s soirée, Cedric was at a slight loss. What more did the old fellow want to hear? Presumably he had forgotten their earlier talk.

  He sat down next to Phipps and, clearing his throat, tried to think of a new theme. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket. ‘I bought a fresh edition of this the other day,’ he said brightly. ‘They have just produced the whole series in a sort of condensed form – same size print, but smaller pages. Rather smart and so handy for carrying.’

  Phipps glanced at the copy of Barchester Towers in Cedric’s hand. ‘Ah yes, Trollope,’ he said, ‘very droll. Personally, I prefer Mickey Spillane – although they tell me that the Marquis de Sade is as good as any …’ His voice faded as he watched a swooping heron.

  Cedric was a trifle startled, not sure how serious he was being. ‘Oh well,’ he observed vaguely, ‘tastes differ, of course.’

  ‘Ah, taste,’ Phipps snorted, ‘a waning commodity if you ask me – or it certainly is in Cambridge. I can’t tell you how boorish some of our young dons are, worse than the undergraduates!’ He frowned.

  Clearly as a topic of conversation Barchester wasn’t going to work. Cedric put the book aside and tried another tack. ‘It’s, uhm, tragic about Winston Reid,’ he ventured. ‘I mean, apart from anything else what a waste of a good craftsman. Death by misadventure one hears – a drop too much of the hard stuff, apparently. And from what my friend noticed, those stairs are terribly steep.’ He sighed. ‘Easily done, I fear.’

  Unlike the matter of taste, this elicited nothing. Phipps was unresponsive, his eye still seemingly drawn by the heron. Cedric was just wondering what else he should say to oil the wheels, when with a dry cough the elderly Fellow remarked: ‘A drop too much of the hard stuff, you say. What sort of “hard stuff”, may I enquire?’

  ‘What sort? … Well, er, whisky. That’s what was reported. A smashed glass was found next to him.’

  ‘Oh yes, but what type? That’s what I should like to know.’ Phipps turned and regarded Cedric intently.

  The latter was bemused and mildly irritated. Why should he be quizzed with such pedantry? ‘Well, I really don’t know,’ he replied. ‘One of the usual brands, presumably – Bell’s, Johnnie Walker or some such.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Phipps continued to stare silently at the river, while Cedric considered how he could politely take his leave.

  ‘So, he had been drinking Scotch, had he?’ Phipps murmured eventually.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cedric trying to keep the impatience from his voice, ‘the press report mentioned a half-empty bottle of Scotch uncorked on his drinks cabinet. The missing half he had partly imbibed and partly spilt on his shirtfront.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ the other replied. He paused, and then added: ‘In my experience, Reid couldn’t abide the stuff. I once made the mistake of taking him a rather expensive bottle of Talisker. He had somehow contrived to beat me at Scrabble and I thought the novelty should be celebrated. Alas, he was far from grateful, quite rude in fact – the artist in him, I suppose.’ Phipps looked distinctly peeved at the memory, before adding: ‘You see his tipple was Irish whiskey, not Scotch at all. He had a fetish of not drinking the stuff and made a great to-do about the superiority of the Hibernian – what you might call a case of Jock bad, Paddy good!’ He gave a croaking laugh, pleased at his little quip.

  Cedric shrugged and said something about people not always keeping to their principles. ‘Perhaps he had run out – a matter of necessity: any spirit in a storm, as it were.’

  His companion shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Winston Reid was not a good adaptor, too rigid – a trait reflected in his sculpting, some would say. No, if he couldn’t get his Jameson’s or Bushmills he would have opted for port. His mind wasn’t of the most flexible, hence my many victories at Scrabble.’ Phipps gave a thin smile. He seemed about to continue, but stalled, his attention caught by a passing punt. ‘What extraordinary behaviour,’ he exclaimed, ‘and who are they waving at? Not to us, surely?’

  Cedric followed the direction of his gaze to where a punt was eddying in choppy circles, and from where there wafted faint hoots of laughter. The figure standing seemed to have an uncertain grip both of his pole and his balance, while his seated companion – crouched, really – continued waving wildly.

  ‘It looks as if they’re making for the bank,’ Cedric remarked.

  ‘A forlorn hope,’ said Phipps dryly, ‘it is bound to tip. It’s the visitors, they get so excited. Haven’t a clue how to handle things … Ah well, it’s time we were off.’ He got up. ‘Now come along, Popsie.’

  In a flash the punt and its manoeuvres vanished from Cedric’s mind. He stared in consternation at Aldous Phipps … and then felt a pang of grateful relief as the latter stooped and dragged from under the seat the concealed Norfolk. ‘She’s an idle little thing,’ the owner grumbled. ‘Goes fast to sleep the moment I sit down. Any other dog would want to lark about.’

  Bidding goodbye to Cedric, he gave the creature a gentle prod with his toecap, and the pair trotted off across the meadow. Picking up his book, Cedric was also poised to leave (diversion quite enough for one morning), but happened to glance back at the river. The punt was still there, both occupants now gesturing frantically towards the landing stage some yards further downstream. ‘Oh really.’ He sighed. ‘I should have known!’

  With an exasperated scowl he waved an acknowledgement to Felix and Rosy, and then made his way to where they were pointing.

  ‘I thought you were after a homburg,’ he enquired brusquely of Felix as he met them off the quay. ‘Where is it? Dropped in the Cam, no doubt, when you were arsing about.’

  ‘Not arsing, but drowning,’ Felix giggled, giving the poet a mental bow. ‘And as for the hat, clearly Cambridge doesn’t run to homburgs; they’re insufficiently Fabian, I daresay. I’ll wait till we get back to London: Lock’s are bound to stock dozens.’

  ‘I am amazed at my powers of persuasion.’ Rosy laughed. ‘I bumped into Felix in Petty Cury and cajoled him into coming on the river. It was fairly all right till we saw you, Cedric, and then everything suddenly went wrong; we seemed to lose our bearings.’

  ‘Yes, he can have that effect,’ Felix remarked. And turning to his friend enquired who he had been with.

  Cedric explained that his companion had been the elderly Professor Phipps and that he had spent the last half-hour in stilted conversation with the old boy when he would rather have been on his own. ‘One is rather fatigued and could do with sustenance,’ he announced.

  They retired to The Anchor in Silver Street and ordered the essentials.

  ‘So what had Professor Phipps got to say?’ Rosy asked Cedric as they sat round a table in the window. ‘Ticking you off about your lack of Greek? He was certainly doing that with me when we met at Sir Richard’s party. I felt as if I was eighteen again.’

  ‘Unlike you, Rosy Gilchrist, I have quite a substantial grasp of Greek, so I escaped that particular assault. But since you ask, I did undergo a rather peculiar interrogation. It revolved around Winston Reid’s preferred style of whisky. He seemed obsessed by it.’

  ‘Who did?’ Felix asked. ‘You mean Reid?’

  ‘In one way, yes – or so I gathered. But it was Phipps I actually meant. He had a bee in his bonnet about Reid’s preference for the Irish type.
He seemed to think this held some interest, but I can’t for the life of me see what.’ Cedric proceeded to recount the gist of what Phipps had been saying.

  When he had finished Felix winked at Rosy, remarking that elderly professors could be like that. ‘Oh yes,’ he said firmly, ‘it’s a well-known fact: they develop a sort of tunnel vision and get hung up on small details. It generally shows itself around seventy – in which case our friend here has another ten years.’

  ‘Eleven, if you don’t mind,’ said Cedric dryly. ‘Meanwhile, to sustain my fading faculties, I shall require a large brandy. Perhaps you would be so good as to …’

  On her way back to Newnham, Rosy reviewed her morning and the session on the river with Felix. It had been pleasant enough, but hardly peaceful. She recalled that her earlier experiences of punting on the Cam had verged on the idyllic – gliding gently on languid waters and lazily soothed by silence and a dappled sun … Briefly she indulged the reverie and then smiled wryly, knowing that time lends enchantment and nostalgia beguiles. Besides, what her current trip may have lacked in sensuous languor it had certainly gained in perilous gaiety: a sort of hydro dodgems ride!

  As she walked on, images of that ride brought her mind back to Cedric sitting close to the bank with Aldous Phipps. How odd for the old man to have gabbled on about Reid and his tastes in alcohol. Had it simply been idle reminiscence, or had he been making some point, which Cedric, eager to be left alone, had failed to grasp?

  She reflected. So what exactly had Cedric been telling them? That Phipps had been insistent about Winston Reid’s penchant for Irish whiskey and his distaste for Scotch? Yes, it had been something like that. Still, if that were the case, was it of interest? Hardly. She was about to dismiss the matter when she stopped abruptly, causing the person behind to sidestep smartly.