The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Useless. He had been utterly useless. Having a lover was all very fine and exciting, but one did rather expect an ally when times got tough, somebody to listen sympathetically and reassure one that all would be well … But what had he said when she told him about it? ‘Ah well, sweetie, better keep your trap shut. I don’t advise telling Tom, Dick and Harry.’ And that was all. That was all damn all! Anyone would think she had merely announced she was going to be forty-nine next birthday. Instead of, instead of which … Oh Christ, she had been such a fool!

  Anthea groaned and opened her eyes to glare at the ceiling. And then shutting them again, she put out a hand to grasp the brandy glass on the chair next to the bath. Predictably, she knocked it into the water, and watched as its contents trickled over her half-submerged breasts. ‘Such a fool,’ she murmured.

  Sir Richard Dick struggled with his black tie, vainly attempting to screw it into the semblance of a bow. He could have done with Anthea’s deft fingers, but where the hell was she? She had gone for her bath ages ago. High time she was out: they were due at the Senate House in twenty minutes, and it would take her a good ten minutes to apply her make-up, let alone titivate the hair.

  He scowled into the mirror, annoyed with the tie and annoyed with Winston Reid. A sound sculptor all right, but privately hardly reliable. It was just typical of the man to have been toping so heavily at that early hour. And then, instead of sitting quietly with a black coffee, toying muzzily with the crossword while awaiting his guest, he had to roam around the landing and trip down the stairs. Yes, very bad luck and all that – but what of his poor horrified visitor? Finding him like that had been a terrible shock, and the later insistent probing from the police too embarrassing for words. They seemed to think that he knew something about it! The whole thing had been exceedingly disagreeable – and not helped by that friend of Cedric Dillworthy who had suddenly turned up out of the blue. At first he had assumed the fellow might be some support. Like hell! The little chap had taken one look at the body, declared that it was as ‘cold as a kipper’ and that he felt sick and needed fresh air.

  It had been bad enough finding Reid’s corpse in that way and having to deal with all the police palaver, but what of the ramifications affecting the project? Apart from poisonous Gloria and the tedious Cuff, things had been going moderately well. With a blend of tact and brute force their objections could surely have been squashed … But now there would have to be a totally fresh approach.

  Would Finglestone fit the bill? Possibly – provided he was compliant to their requirements. The man was young and fashionable and would doubtless have ideas of his own, which might not accord with those of the conservative benefactors. What was needed was something of the kind Reid could have knocked up: sober yet elegant – not some fantastic variant of a Henry Moore and whose human likeness nobody recognised. And what about the cost, dammit? It was bound to be absurdly inflated. Still, if the chap were cooperative it might be worth it. They would have to consider … Sir Richard frowned and gave another tug to his tie; and then suddenly grinned broadly. Perhaps they could offer him an honorary fellowship as an enticement to halve his fee. A monumental discount one might say!

  Buoyed by that happy thought, he turned his attention to the immediate present. ‘Do come on, Anthea!’ he yelled at the adjoining bathroom. ‘Hurry up or we’ll be late. You know how the vice chancellor gets ratty.’

  His wife emerged, pink-cheeked and hair in rollers. She glanced at him and then at the clock. ‘It’s ten minutes fast,’ she observed, ‘I keep telling you. And what on earth have you done to your tie? It looks like something out of a Charlie Chaplin film.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Anthea Dick sat on a secluded seat in the Botanic Garden. It was the same seat where she had sat a week ago taking refuge from her recent shock. Then her mind had been in turmoil; now it was in sullen despair.

  She had returned there in the hope that the garden’s spacious tranquillity might inspire some solution, or at least relief. So far it had yielded nothing – not one iota of comfort, let alone a way out. So much for Marvell’s ‘green thought in a green shade’, she thought bitterly, casting an eye at the looping spray of the distant fountain. Being here and contemplating the problem was no better than being in bed contemplating the ceiling and listening to Richard’s snoring as he lay relaxed and oblivious beside her.

  Relaxed and oblivious … long might he stay that way! She shut her eyes, wincing at the consequences were he to find out. Or indeed were anyone to find out. This last thought plunged her into further gloom for, of course, somebody did know: John Smithers. And she like the fool she was had told him! At the time, fearful and panic-stricken, it had been the instinctive thing to do. But now, despite his apparent indifference, she wished to hell she had said nothing. ‘Always keep your own counsel,’ her mother had once whispered in a moment of rare camaraderie. Oh yes, doubtless good advice … But then Mummy hadn’t thrown anyone down the stairs; or at least, been next to them when they fell.

  Normally assured and self-possessed, Anthea had not cried for years, but at that moment something seemed to snap inside, and to her consternation she found herself suddenly wracked with hard primitive sobs. Sobs of the kind that a child emits when fallen from a tree or bereft of its favourite toy: shocked and uncontrolled. Thus, with manicured hands pressed to her neatly coiffed temples and with heaving shoulders, the Master’s wife rocked backwards and forwards on the public bench appalled by her plight.

  Gradually in the midst of such misery – and to her embarrassment – Anthea sensed a presence beside her.

  Someone cleared their throat. ‘I say,’ a tentative voice asked, ‘would you like a handkerchief?’

  Feeling an abject fool, she peered at the presence through half-closed fingers. Seated at the other end of the bench was the slight figure of a man, thin-faced and with short, spiky hair. He wore a look of mild enquiry and held a pristine white handkerchief, neatly folded.

  She suppressed a gulp, took a deep breath and, with hands lowered to reveal ravaged features, nodded silently.

  He passed the handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes, sniffed and smoothed her hair. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said stiffly, ‘you have caught me at a bad moment. Ridiculous. I do apologise.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Felix replied, ‘one has to let go occasionally, it’s only natural. And as you can see, there’s no one around.’ He gestured at the empty lawns.

  ‘Just as well,’ she replied nasally, and blew her nose.

  Following a brief and slightly awkward silence, Felix leant forward and said confidingly, ‘Generally speaking, it’s other people.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Other people – they mess things up. Don’t you find?’

  Anthea hesitated, and then she agreed that indeed it was often the case.

  ‘And in your case?’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘My case has nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ Felix said hastily; and then to repair the damage, added quickly, ‘If you don’t mind my saying, that nail polish is most fetching – such a delicate shade of pink. So many colours these days are absurdly garish, wouldn’t you agree?’

  She was taken aback and spread her fingers, rather pleased; and then closed them abruptly. He didn’t mean a word he was saying!

  Catching her frown of scepticism, Felix pursued the matter. ‘However,’ he observed, ‘a paler jacket would require a brighter shade, otherwise the nails would lose their impact. Subtlety is one thing, bland is quite another.’

  She regarded him suspiciously. ‘You seem to know a lot about colour. Are you an artist or something?’

  ‘You could say so,’ Felix replied modestly. ‘I have the honour of organising the flowers for Her Majesty the Queen Mother. She is very particular, you know, and so discerning.’ He beamed.

  Anthea was a trifle startled, and then experienced a flash of recognition … wasn’t this the little chap she had seen
in tow to Professor Dillworthy the other night, the one that had virtually had a seizure when galumphing Gloria had trod on his toe? The slightly prissy tones overlying the merest South London twang struck a chord.

  ‘Were you at our college reception the other evening?’ she enquired.

  Felix beamed again. ‘Yes, indeed, Lady Dick, and how delightful it was – although I fear we didn’t have a chance to talk.’

  No, she thought, there had been others there of greater account. Out loud she said: ‘Well, I am sorry you have caught me in this frightful state now. It hardly gives a good impression.’ She gave a forced laugh.

  ‘In my experience,’ Felix declared, ‘good impressions are frequently false.’ He paused, and then added: ‘Take that underfootman at Clarence House, for example – an absolute basket in my opinion, and yet to look at him you would think he was God’s gift. God’s gift, the little basket!’ Felix spoke with a spurt of furious pique, obviously lost in some past drama utterly removed from the tranquillity of the Botanic Garden, or indeed from the presence of his companion.

  The companion was both shocked and amused, and what a moment ago had been a forced laugh was suddenly replaced by a splutter of genuine mirth. What an extraordinary little man! The laughter flooded out of her – and then inexplicably, and to her horror, turned to tears again.

  Although initially rather stung by her mirth, Felix once more felt sympathetic. Thus banishing the memory of the bastard footman, he said diffidently, ‘Uhm, would you like to tell me about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘It would be no good and, besides, it would be dangerous – I’ve messed things up enough as it is.’

  Dangerous? Messed things up – what things? Felix was intrigued.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied easily, ‘I am never dangerous. In fact, my friend Cedric says I am the absolute soul of light and innocence.’ He smiled disingenuously, and for some reason the claim’s patent falsity had a disarming effect upon Anthea.

  ‘All right,’ she heard herself saying dully, yet with an odd sense of relief, ‘I’ll tell you.’

  ‘All ears,’ Felix said brightly and winked.

  And so he got the whole story.

  On a whim she had gone to Winston Reid’s house to have it out with him.

  ‘Have what out?’ Felix had asked.

  The fact that late one evening the sculptor had seen her and John Smithers having a crafty embrace in the precinct of the Round Church, Anthea explained, and that the man had been pestering her ever since.

  Sir Richard had been away in London, and she and Smithers had taken the opportunity to snatch a few precious hours together. On their way back to his flat he had pulled her into the shadows of the little church, and as a prelude to things to come they had started to kiss passionately. It had been a foolish action, of course, utterly adolescent, but – Anthea had shrugged – in the heat of the moment caution takes a back seat. (Felix had agreed. ‘Oh, all the time,’ he murmured.)

  They had been too absorbed to have noticed the watcher, and it was only later that Reid began his approaches – approaches that she had concealed from Smithers for fear of his getting cold feet and perhaps dropping her. She explained that Reid’s attentions had not been sexual, nor it appeared of a crude blackmailing nature. Just maddeningly irksome. He had seemed to take a perverse pleasure in constantly reminding her of what he had witnessed – sly innuendos, knowing smirks, covert references. And then one day she had received a note delivered unobtrusively to the porter’s lodge (Jenkins being in the back room brewing tea). There had been no signature, but it was obvious who it had come from. This time the allusions were more explicit, and one line had really riled her: How fitting that a comely matron such as yourself should have a dashing young beau! ‘Oily bilge!’ Anthea had exclaimed angrily to Felix. (The latter had agreed, though privately suspecting the crucial goad to have been less its style than the contrast of ‘matron’ and ‘young’.)

  Thus, although containing no hint of blackmail, the note had been the last straw, and on impulse Anthea had driven to Reid’s house to confront the idiot and demand that he stop such nonsense. She couldn’t make out what he was playing at, but whatever it was she had had enough.

  Luckily, or unluckily as it turned out, Reid was at home and had invited her upstairs to his sitting room. Here she made her position clear, informing him that she disliked his attitude and that he must cease the ‘persecution’ and behave like a reasonable adult. Her demands had cut no ice. Quite the opposite, in fact: he had been coolly patronising. And while freely acknowledging he had seen the couple embracing, had accused her of exaggeration and hysterical paranoia. ‘When ladies reach a certain age,’ he had chuckled smugly, ‘they get all manner of funny ideas.’

  She had been appalled by the effrontery, and was just gathering her wits to make an acid retort, when he had stood up; and announcing that he was expecting an important visitor (‘your distinguished husband, no less’), had briskly ushered her on to the landing. Here he had made some unctuous pleasantry and, gripping her elbow, had nudged her firmly to the top of the stairs. ‘I fear they are rather steep. Be careful,’ he had murmured. They were his last words.

  Incensed by the sickening patronage and curt dismissal, his visitor had impatiently shaken free from his hand. He had taken an involuntary step backwards, stumbled slightly … and the next moment was hurtling headlong to the bottom.

  Anthea ceased her narrative and for a moment gazed unseeingly at Felix, and then, white-faced, closed her eyes. ‘It was ghastly,’ she breathed, ‘quite ghastly. I can hear the sound of that awful clock even now.’

  Felix could believe it – the woman standing transfixed at the top of the staircase, the heap of limbs sprawled lifelessly at the bottom. The afternoon’s awesome silence broken only by the relentless ticking of the hall clock … He shuddered, imagining the scene only too well.

  ‘So what did you do?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘Nothing at first. I literally could not move. It was like one of those nightmares where you are totally paralysed and however much you try you can’t stir an inch. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he answered with feeling. ‘Sometimes I dream of being chased and pinioned by corgis. Terrifying!’

  She gave him a puzzled look. And then gazing into the distance, she said conversationally: ‘Do you remember that Marx brothers film where Groucho falls headlong down the stairs, and when sprawled at the bottom tells the onlookers to forget the glass of water and to just force brandy down his throat?’

  It was Felix’s turn to look puzzled, but he nodded vaguely.

  ‘Well, it was a bit like that … except that Groucho got up, Reid never did. And for some reason, standing there I found that episode playing in my mind. Absurd, really. In the film the line about the brandy had been so funny – though I certainly wasn’t laughing then! I was trying to think what on earth to do. I knew he was dead and I was terrified I should be accused; and somehow the thought of the brandy gave me an idea. On my way to Reid’s house I had stopped to buy a bottle of whisky at the off-licence – Richard had complained we were short. I’d meant to put the thing in the car boot, but had been so concerned with the prospect of confronting Reid that I had forgotten it was still in my shopping bag.’

  Felix said nothing, recalling Aldous Phipps’ obsession about the Scotch and guessing what might be coming next.

  Andrea sighed and then shrugged. ‘Anyway, I knew Winston Reid had a reputation for drinking over the odds. And so that’s what I did: uncorked the bottle, poured some down his throat and over his shirt, fetched a glass from the drinks cabinet, smashed it on the banister and left the remains of the bottle upstairs with the other drinks in the sitting room … I was barely aware of what I was doing; it was like being in a dream or a trance.’

  ‘But in this dreamlike trance, did you wipe your fingerprints from the bottle and glass?’ Felix enquired sternly.

  Andrea gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh yes, I’ve read enough det
ective novels to remember to do that. And I even managed to press his own fingers on to the bottle.’ She winced. ‘It was horrible. But stupidly I left the door wide open when I ran out. Still, it didn’t seem to matter. I gather it was thought he had deliberately left it like that.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Felix said dryly, recalling the open door and the sight of Sir Richard’s posterior as he bent over the corpse. ‘So what did you do then?’ he asked curiously. ‘Return to the Lodge?’

  ‘Oh no, I was in blind panic and just wanted to get as far away as possible. So I came here, to this very bench, and sat for ages. I knew that by the time I returned Reid would have been found, if not by Richard then doubtless by somebody else. But at least by staying away I should miss the brunt of the uproar and so could arrive on the scene looking appropriately bemused and shocked.’ Andrea gave a twisted smile: ‘The only snag was that I arrived minus the whisky Richard had asked me to get. Given the circumstances he had a particular need that evening and was none too pleased when I returned empty-handed. We had to resort to sherry.’

  ‘Frightful,’ Felix observed.

  He was just beginning to collect his thoughts, wondering what on earth he should say to the woman, when she turned on him fiercely and said in tones both accusing and anguished: ‘Oh well, so now you know! And I suppose you will run helter-skelter to the police and tell them too, tell them the whole godawful tale!’ She was gripping her handbag tightly, her voice harsh and strained, and for a moment Felix feared she would collapse in tears again. But the eyes remained dry and the look of anguish was replaced by one of drooping resignation.

  ‘Look here,’ he said awkwardly, ‘what exactly would I have to tell them? That Reid’s death was not an accident? That evidence had come to light suggesting his fall was deliberately engineered? But it wasn’t, was it? You may have messed about with the whisky and played silly beggars with the tumbler, but the fact remains that the thing was an accident: he tripped by mistake, just as the authorities assumed. You have told me certain details of which they are ignorant, but those details do not alter the verdict. Death by misadventure – that is exactly what it was. No, Lady Dick, I have no reason to speak to the police.’ Felix folded his hands firmly in his lap and gazed intently at a group of azaleas.