The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  There was a long silence while she reflected on his words. And then she said quietly, ‘It is very decent of you to say that, Mr Smythe, but perhaps, after all, I should report it to the authorities, make a clean breast of things. One gathers that “tampering with the evidence” or “interfering with the course of justice” is a serious offence. Perhaps you think that I ought to bite on the bullet and take the con …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Not unless you have a fetish for confession, I don’t,’ Felix answered mildly. ‘From what you have described I cannot see that the course of justice has been remotely hampered. As said, his death was an accident; you were in no way to blame. And as to the additional “embellishments” – well, unless they had materially affected the outcome I cannot see that they are of significance.’ He returned his gaze to the azaleas, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He was dying to spend a penny.

  Anthea regarded him with grateful surprise. (How much more comforting than bloody John Smithers!) ‘Even so—’ she began tentatively.

  ‘Listen,’ Felix interrupted quickly, ‘any such confession would open a can of worms, you must surely realise that. There would be an awful scandal, your husband would look a fool, the affair with your friend would be made public, you would be humiliated and possibly land in the divorce court, and the whole statue project and its link with the college would doubtless be tarnished and lose kudos … Is that what you want?’

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘That’s just it, I don’t!’

  ‘Well then, take my advice: do not cross dodgy bridges whether arrived at or not.’

  Felix wasn’t quite sure of his metaphors for his bladder was taking precedence over thought. Besides, he was also desperate for a triple dry martini: he had spent an exhausting hour.

  Thus he stood up to take his leave, assured her that by remaining quiet things were bound to be all right, and with a languid wave strolled off as casually as he could towards a clump of friendly trees.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Cedric expostulated as Felix walked through the door. ‘I have been waiting here for ages utterly parched!’ He removed his spectacles and waved them irritably.

  ‘Huh,’ Felix replied, ‘not half as parched as me. I have spent a most taxing afternoon.’

  ‘But you only went out to look at some flowers in the Botanic Garden. Don’t tell me you fell in the fountain or something?’

  ‘No,’ replied Felix, tight-lipped, ‘I was being charming to a lady in distress. It required both tact and patience, and I am now rather fatigued.’

  ‘You were exercising tact and patience? Oh, I can just imagine that,’ observed Cedric acidly. He hesitated, before adding, ‘Anyway, what lady? You don’t know any except Angela Fawcett and the Queen Mother.’

  ‘Nonsense, I know several, including Lady Dick, the Master’s wife.’

  ‘Well, hardly that – you only saw her the other night at the reception. A mere passing encounter.’

  ‘I can tell you,’ Felix retorted testily, ‘that this afternoon’s encounter was far from passing, and I should now like a large—’

  ‘You have been with her?’ Cedric asked, suddenly intrigued.

  Felix nodded. ‘I have indeed.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I was giving moral support and useful counsel,’ the latter replied primly.

  Cedric stared in wonder. ‘You were? But whatever about?’

  Felix sighed and said that were he to be offered a strong drink he might be prepared to divulge – although in principle his lips were sealed.

  ‘But not with me, they aren’t,’ Cedric reminded him. ‘As you know, dear boy, I am famed for my silence. Nothing shall pass beyond these four walls.’ He slid quickly over to the chest serving as a drinks cabinet, while his friend stretched out a wilting hand.

  After Felix had finished his account and his second dry martini Cedric regarded him speculatively.

  ‘Very dramatic,’ he observed, ‘but how do you know she wasn’t making the whole thing up – the part about the accident, I mean? If the Smithers liaison were ever revealed she would have a lot to lose. Admittedly, it all sounds quite plausible – Reid stepping back and then tripping – but I can envisage another scenario: one where she clutches him with all her force and then with a knee in the back hoofs him down into the hall. The lady stands “immobilised” at the top of the staircase, not out of shock, but because she is holding her breath in the hope that the blighter has broken his neck.’ Cedric lit a cigarette, while despite the two martinis Felix gave sober consideration.

  Eventually he said, ‘Had you been there as I was, you may have gained a very different impression; after all, it’s not just words in themselves that persuade, but also the manner of their delivery. Admittedly, a mite tiresome, but on the whole her manner struck me as being entirely genuine.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like Sir Laurence Olivier’s? Yes, there’s rarely a dry eye in the house. Dear Larry, such a fine actor!’

  The corners of Felix’s mouth went down and he said distantly, ‘Obviously, you are in one of your contrary moods so we shall just have to agree to differ.’ He smoothed his hair and picked up a magazine.

  ‘Alternatively,’ murmured Cedric, bending forward with a gleam of relish, ‘we could open a book on it: twenty to one on?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ was the quick response.

  ‘Good, that’s settled, then,’ Cedric declared briskly. ‘Now, I suggest you return to your quarters and get ready lickety-split. We are meeting Rosy Gilchrist for supper in half an hour.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I gather she has some news to relay.’

  Felix pulled a face. ‘It had better be good. I’ve had rather a lot of that for one day … whatever its accuracy.’ He winked and left the room.

  Left briefly on his own, Cedric mulled over Felix’s tale. She might have been telling the truth, of course; although equally, as he had suggested, it could have been an elaborate fiction to veil something more sinister. Certainly Felix had insisted the tears were real enough – but then presumably if one had recently hurled someone to their death one might indeed be a little shaky. (His older brother had once recounted an incident in the Great War when he had shot his first sniper. He had been right on target, and with a mixture of shock and pride had seen the man curl up and fall flat on the ground like a cleanly slain pheasant. Yet the initial triumph had turned to sudden tears and he been hard-pressed to conceal his distress. Subsequently, he had told Cedric, he became inured to such moments.)

  However, even if one assumed the woman’s account to have been genuine, she was clearly in a tight spot. As Felix had warned her, a candid confession to the police could lead to embarrassing consequences both publicly and privately. There would be a lot of explaining to do – not only to the police for impeding or misleading their investigation, but also presumably to her husband as to why she had been in Reid’s house in the first place – a query surely requiring more subterfuge. And, naturally, were the press to get hold of the story (a fair likelihood) the publicity could be damaging both to the Dicks personally and perhaps temporarily even to the college itself – the matter inviting attention of the kind not normally sought. Cedric could just see the headlines:

  COLLEGE MASTER’S WIFE REVEALS HER PRESENCE AT

  SCULPTOR’S DEATH PLUNGE

  Lady Dick, attractive wife of Sir Richard, has recently admitted to visiting Winston Reid on the afternoon of his death to ‘discuss an entirely private matter’. Apparently during the course of that discussion something happened to cause the sculptor to lose his balance – with fatal consequences. When asked what might have caused such loss of balance Lady Dick snapped that she had no idea – an assertion this newspaper finds hard to credit. Et cetera, et cetera …

  Cedric was warming to his little fantasy. However, such speculation was cut short by Felix returning spruced and ready for the evening’s sortie.

  ‘Very smart,’ Cedric observed,
eyeing the new bow tie and nodding his approval.

  Felix smiled modestly. But smile changed to indignant frown when Cedric added, ‘You know, it occurs to me that whether Lady Dick was telling the truth or not, she was taking an absurd risk in telling you about it all.’

  Felix bridled. ‘What can you mean? I am the soul of discretion – as Her Majesty well knows! You don’t get a Royal Warrant for being—’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, dear boy,’ Cedric said soothingly, ‘I know that, but does Lady Dick? I expect that by now she is having disturbing second thoughts – especially as she has blabbed about John Smithers – and is very possibly convinced that you are about to blackmail her to kingdom come.’

  ‘What nonsense. Do I look like a blackmailer?’

  Cedric cleared his throat. ‘Well …’ he murmured.

  When they arrived at the restaurant they were slightly surprised not to find Rosy already there. She was generally a sharp timekeeper. They took their bearings, selected a corner table and asked the waiter for menus.

  ‘You know,’ Cedric said conversationally, ‘it must have been awful for Anthea Dick seeing all that blood. A pretty gory business, I should think: kneeling down and dowsing him in the whisky. Presumably she was able to wash off the stains when she got home and before playing the shocked innocent to her husband.’

  ‘Hmm, I suppose so,’ Felix agreed vaguely, absorbed in the more pressing matter of the menu.

  ‘But didn’t she mention it?’

  ‘Mention what?’

  ‘The blood. It can’t have been easy keeping it off her hands and cuffs when pouring the Scotch down the poor blighter’s throat.’

  ‘Look,’ Felix protested, ‘I was about to choose the jugged hare “bathed in rich burgundy and its own juice”. In the light of your words, I shall now have to opt for the Dover sole.’ He pouted, and then added, ‘Anyway, from what I recall she never mentioned the blood – just said his limbs were all twisted and his neck looked peculiar.’

  ‘But you saw it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I glimpsed it, of course. There wasn’t much, and it was hardly something one wished to gawp at. I was more concerned with getting away and going to the telephone box. Now if you don’t mind … Ah, here comes Rosy Gilchrist with her vital news; at last we can order the drinks!’ Felix waved to her and adjusted his features to an ingratiating smile.

  Rosy’s news was that they had been invited to attend an evening of English madrigals at Westminster College. The event was part of Newnham’s entertainment programme and although several of her fellow alumni would be attending, Westminster’s music society was worried about numbers. Surprisingly there had been fewer responses than expected; and this was an embarrassment as a distinguished exponent of the genre was coming especially from London to give an introductory lecture. There had been a hasty rallying call and guests had been urged to spread the word and to bring friends.

  ‘So that is exactly what I am doing,’ Rosy said, ‘spreading the word, and in a moment of rash optimism I put your names on the list. But, of course, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ she added hastily, noting Felix’s expression.

  Cedric considered. ‘Well we might—’ he began.

  Felix, who had been about to summon the waiter to take their order, stopped in mid-wave. ‘But I don’t like madrigals,’ he said.

  ‘Nonsense, you’ve never heard one,’ admonished Cedric.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Oh yes? When?’

  Felix deliberated for some moments, and then said vaguely, ‘Oh, years before we met.’

  ‘In which case,’ Rosy cut in, ‘perhaps you should try again. It is amazing how one’s tastes can change. Who knows, you may become quite hooked.’ She smiled sweetly, before adding, ‘I have it on good authority that the place will be awash with champagne.’

  Knowing Westminster to be a theological foundation of Presbyterian bent, Cedric rather doubted this, but kept a discreet silence.

  Rosy urged her cause. ‘Betty Withers tells me the speaker is first class and very witty, and the Westminster singers excellent. It might all be totally splendid.’ She gave an encouraging laugh and poured more wine into Felix’s glass.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They were assembled for luncheon: Aldous Phipps; Mostyn Williams, the bursar; and, rather morosely, John Smithers, still pondering his predicament and the fallibility of other people. Apart from the occasional commonplace, little was being said, each absorbed in his own thoughts or the newspaper.

  Suddenly, the door was flung open. ‘Sound the bells. Bring out the banners!’ Professor Turner cried on the threshold. ‘Hosannah!’

  They looked at him with mild curiosity. ‘Oh Lord, you haven’t converted to something, have you?’ the bursar remarked. ‘We really can’t have that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, not me, but someone else has,’ Turner said gleefully. ‘Cuff has capitulated. He has withdrawn his objection and is ready to sell the plot. We can go ahead and put the damned thing up!’

  ‘Provided we have a sculptor,’ murmured Aldous Phipps. ‘You may recall that our current man is permanently indisposed.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to settle for the other chap. The sooner it’s done the better; the whole thing has dragged on long enough and there are more pressing matters to attend to.’

  ‘Not for dear Gloria, there aren’t,’ John Smithers reminded him, ‘she’ll be wetting herself with glee.’

  Aldous Phipps winced. ‘Kindly control your tongue, Smithers. That is not the sort of image to be confronted with at this time of day – or indeed at any time.’ He scowled at his pale sherry and pushed it aside.

  Smithers grinned, and addressing Turner asked him if he had seen the rhododendrons currently displaying in the Botanic Garden. ‘They have a new species, I note, a particularly virulent puce and apparently a rampant grower. It’ll suit Gloria down to the ground.’

  This time it was Turner who scowled.

  ‘What made Cuff throw in the sponge, I wonder?’ the bursar mused.

  Professor Turner’s scowl momentarily subsided and was replaced instead by a malevolent leer. ‘I can tell you that straightaway: it was the old girl herself. Gloria wore him down and bribed his wife and kids. They took the bribes and continued her good work, i.e. nagged him to kingdom come until he caved in. I gather that his exact words to the council were: “That’s it – I’ve had it up to effing here! And that effing college can do what it effing likes. Stuff the plot!”’

  ‘Holy Moses!’ Smithers exclaimed. ‘And what was the council’s reaction?’

  ‘They cheered. Next thing they had signed on the dotted line and sent off a demand for our immediate payment. Short odds, Bursar, it’ll be on your desk tomorrow.’

  There was a stunned silence, broken by Aldous Phipps’ spindly voice: ‘Rather arresting terminology, albeit a touch repetitive. I wonder how Plato would have put it …’

  With lunch over, Professor Phipps shuffled off to feed his Norfolk terrier. The others returned to the Combination Room for coffee and Turner for a small brandy. He pulled a face. ‘There’s a trustees’ meeting this afternoon,’ he said, ‘I need to be braced.’

  They were joined by Vernon Carter accompanied by Cedric and Felix as his guests.

  ‘Mr Smythe and I had a sighting of Monty Finglestone earlier on,’ he announced. ‘He was in the University Arms with Miss Biggs-Brookby en route back to London. They were having what looked like a farewell lunch.’

  ‘So what were they doing – plotting his return as anointed sculptor?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘They were guzzling crab and Chablis,’ Felix replied. ‘Copiously.’ He sounded peeved, and Cedric remembered that crab was one of his own favourites.

  ‘Could you hear what they were saying?’ he asked.

  ‘They weren’t saying anything, just gazing. Or at least she was. Sort of devouring his face – that is, when she wasn’t devouring the crab.’

  The bursar gave a snort of mirth
.

  ‘Hmm,’ Smithers mused, ‘the prospect of having one’s face devoured by Gloria Biggs-Brookby is not a happy one. How was Finglestone coping?’

  ‘Nervously, I should say. He kept downing the wine and casting oblique eyes at the waitress.’

  ‘Ah well.’ Cedric sighed. ‘We have to suffer for our pleasures – or in his case, for our commissions. What do you think, Dr Smithers, does he stand a chance now that Reid is no longer with us?’

  ‘Frankly, I am not that bothered. The essential point is the college has at last secured the plot itself: what they do with it is almost immaterial. I mean, they could shove a statue of the Queen Mother in it if they wanted – or one of her racehorses.’

  There was general laughter. And then Turner said in mild reproof, ‘I don’t think that’s quite the spirit, do you? After all, done well, the monument will surely be an asset. We may lack the grandeur of King’s or the obvious beauty of Pembroke, but we do have a select elegance of our own. A good piece of sculpture will surely lend additional distinction.’ He turned to Cedric: ‘And to answer your question seriously, Professor, I should say the appointment is highly likely. I mean, I know the Master was dead against him when Reid was alive, but that was because things were going moderately well and that with a bit of luck, i.e. Cuff being won over, the whole thing could have been wrapped up and rubber-stamped. Gloria’s sudden intrusion with a fresh name was tiresome and disruptive. Richard Dick is not keen on his apple carts being overturned. He never was. And now with his fresh status he is even less keen. The purchase of more land and its particular purpose will put a jaunty feather in the new cap, and I guess he was damned if he was going to have that chance delayed by Gloria messing things up. However, now with Reid’s demise and with Cuff giving in—’