The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Potent though her imagination was, even Rosy could not envisage the diminutive Phipps launching such an assault and plunging a dagger into Gloria’s beefy form. She would have swatted him like a blowfly.

  They were about to leave, when slightly to their surprise they were joined by John Smithers, who without being invited sat down at the table. ‘Ah, the vital three,’ he observed sardonically, ‘concocting your defence, presumably.’

  ‘Oh really!’ Cedric snorted.

  ‘A joke, Professor, a joke,’ Smithers assured him, and as a mollifying gesture proffered his cigarette case and then passed it to the others. Felix accepted, but Rosy declined, eager to return to the Fitzwilliam and pursue her fact-finding for Dr Stanley … a prosaic antidote to the current drama.

  Cedric addressed Smithers: ‘You knew the lady better than we did, so what’s your view on the matter – a random attack from a passing thug, or something more sinister?’

  Smithers sat back on his chair and blew a smoke ring. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. She wasn’t exactly popular – though had Winston Reid still been alive, I’d have pinned it on him. Since she was doing her level best to block his appointment and substitute the blue-eyed boy, the green-eyed boy wasn’t too enamoured. Reid didn’t like being thwarted and I suspect would have had no qualms in dispatching her, given half a chance. A peculiar blighter altogether.’ He paused and added acidly, ‘As it is, the stairs got in the way.’

  ‘It must be awful for Sir Richard,’ Rosy remarked, ‘finding Reid’s body like that and now being confronted with this nightmare. He is bound to be dragged into it all. Harrowing at any time, but especially in his first year as Master.’

  ‘Ah, it’s very likely to be some fiendish plot devised by Maycock in revenge for pipping him at the post. The Senior Tutor can be very obstructive when he chooses … Although, as a matter of fact I shouldn’t bother too much about old Dick being harrowed; once the dust settles and he recovers from his initial palpitations he’ll cope in his usual way: blinkered and impervious.’ Smithers flicked ash on to the grass sprinkling Cedric’s turn-up (something that fortunately the latter failed to notice), and then added, ‘And after all, he has the stalwart Anthea at his side. She’s bound to buoy him up.’

  The sardonic tone was caught by Felix, but not by Rosy, who had thought of something else: ‘Oh, talking of palpitations, has anyone seen Mr Hinchcliffe? He left early before the concert finished. Wasn’t it Basil Leason who said he had a heart problem? I hope he is all right.’

  ‘Praying, probably. I saw him in King’s Parade earlier this morning meandering towards Great St Mary. I seem to remember chapel being his first port of call after Reid’s demise, so doubtless he is now valiantly battling to assist Gloria’s soul in the preferred direction.’

  Rosy winced at the flippancy, but kept quiet.

  Smithers smiled, and then standing up said, ‘Oh, and getting back to Gloria – for everyone’s immediate concern the essential thing is being able to produce an alibi. Something that I have and you haven’t – unless you count loitering by the corpse being one.’ He winked, and with a nonchalant wave sauntered off.

  ‘That young man is too pleased with himself,’ Cedric remarked peevishly when he had gone. ‘And what’s more I just hope he won’t start going around making tasteless jests at our expense. Most people know that we found the corpse – the papers have seen to that – nevertheless, one hardly wants it constantly referred to.’

  Some of that morning’s al fresco discussion was being echoed in the stuffy office shared by Detective Inspector Tilson and Detective Sergeant Hopkins.

  The question of motive had been temporarily shelved. Both were agreed that the deceased had not been the easiest of people and was likely to have made enemies – but not, on the face of things, with sufficient cause to have prompted actual murder. Certainly face value was hardly reliable, but for the time being they were focusing on something more tangible: the victim’s reason for being in Magdalene Street in the first place and at that hour in the evening.

  ‘She lived this end of Madingley Road, so she was probably on her way home,’ Tilson said. ‘Getting there doesn’t take too long from the centre. I gather she didn’t have a car and would stride all over the place. Of course, she may have been attending some function in Magdalene College or visiting someone there. Have you checked that?’

  ‘I haven’t needed to,’ Hopkins replied with a hint of smugness.

  ‘Oh really, Sergeant? And why is that?’ Tilson frowned.

  ‘It so happens that my aunt attends sewing classes run by the Townswomen’s Guild.’ Hopkins fumbled for his handkerchief and sneezed violently. And then, red-eyed, he did it again. And again. ‘Hay fever,’ he gasped, blowing his nose vigorously.

  Impatiently, Tilson waited for the trumpetings to subside, and then for fear of another eruption, said quickly: ‘So what exactly have your aunt’s sewing classes to do with Miss Biggs-Brookby being stabbed in the back? Forgive me if I am being a trifle dense, but the connection somehow escapes me.’

  ‘She ran them,’ the other explained, ‘every Wednesday and Sunday evening in the Guildhall. Regular as clockwork. So I think you were right about her being on the way home. And I bet you the murderer knew her movements, bided his time and pounced at the opportune moment. According to my aunt she was quite a tartar and played merry hell if anyone was late or had left their cotton reels behind. Sunday was the late night because she used to play dominoes with the vicar of Holy Sepulchre after evensong. The class would pack up at about ten, tidy the room and do a bit of chatting, and then go off … So, I bet you that’s what she had been doing, plying her needle before walking home and getting stabbed en route.’

  Tilson cogitated. And then he said sourly, ‘I see. At least it was done with a dagger and not with a bare bodkin. That would have been too ironic.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bare bodkin, Hopkins, don’t you know your Hamlet?’

  Hopkins did not know his Hamlet and Tilson was pleased.

  ‘And so what about that dagger?’ Hopkins asked. ‘Bill Wilton in forensics says it was foreign.’

  ‘Yes it’s a Bursa, one of those Turkish ones copied from the Albanian original. The older ones have horn handles, which this one’s got, and a long, curved blade. Most are made in Bursa, as you would expect, but quite a few are still around in Albania and the Balkans. Apparently they are favoured by the peasants for hacking off sheep’s heads and pursuing local feuds.’

  ‘So what’s one of them doing hacking into the back of Gloria Biggs-Brookby on Magdalene Bridge?’

  Tilson spread his hands. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. ‘It looks quite an old style – intricate carvings on the hilt – so it could have come from Albania: perhaps some British soldier picked it up when we were booting out the Germans and brought it home as a keepsake.’ He paused and grinned: ‘On the other hand, maybe some Turkish pasha came to Cambridge for fun and games, and finding none decided to vent his spleen.’

  ‘Still it’s quite a clue, I suppose … and I bet you that if it’s old, as you say, the thing could be quite valuable. Whoever it belongs to is probably kicking themselves for having left it in the body. Lost a pretty penny there, I daresay.’

  Tilson sighed. ‘You have a commercial mind, Sergeant.’ They turned to mull over other aspects, specifically the reliability of the three finders.

  ‘I rather liked her,’ Hopkins said.

  ‘Immaterial,’ Tilson replied curtly. ‘They say Ruth Ellis was a charmer. When you’ve been in this game as long as I have you will learn that women are just as lethal as men. Worse, really. The trouble with you, Hopkins, is that you are susceptible to the fairer sex.’

  Hopkins sneezed again and felt vaguely pleased. He wondered if the fairer sex was susceptible to him. One would have to practise! Out loud he said, ‘And what about the florist?’

  ‘The limp-fisted one? I shouldn’t worry about him. It’s that professor we need to watch. I know
the type – crafty buggers. Cambridge is full of ’em.’

  Later that afternoon the ‘limp-fisted one’ was sprawled (as far as he could be) on his narrow bed. He gazed at the ceiling and considered what John Smithers had said in the rose garden – his allusion to Winston Reid and his plunge down the staircase. Smithers had spoken coolly, jocularly, with no suggestion of ‘inside’ knowledge regarding the circumstances of the sculptor’s death. And yet according to Anthea Dick, Smithers had been apprised of every detail of the truth and knew full well that Sir Richard (and himself) were not the first ones to have encountered the body that afternoon: that Lady Dick had been there previously, witnessed the fall and made certain adjustments to the result.

  Felix’s eye wandered to a newly purchased silk shirt draped elegantly on the back of a chair, and mentally preened. An inspired choice! But the distraction was brief and his thoughts quickly returned to the wretched Reid business … Yes, despite Smithers’ biting comment about Anthea giving loyal support to her husband, there had been nothing to suggest he was not being entirely discreet on the matter. A good thing too: at least it showed the chap had some decency. But supposing Lady Dick lost her nerve and confessed to her lover that he, Felix, was also party to the truth and knew of their affair. That could be embarrassing. Damned uncomfortable, in fact. Yes, obviously Smithers should be avoided – or if they did meet, one would need to be blandly charming and lull the chap into a sense of security. A false sense? Certainly not – it was hardly his business to blow the gaffe. As he had gallantly assured the troubled Anthea, he would remain as quiet as the grave.

  At the onset of pins and needles, Felix shifted his position slightly and turned his thoughts from one lover to the other, and wondered about Anthea Dick. So how was she coping with the situation? Obviously, the coroner’s verdict of accidental death would have been a relief – but enough to allay all fears? Cedric had warned him she would be bound to regret her intemperate confession and see him as a potential blackmailer. What nonsense! … But was it? In her place he would be thinking the worst of everyone, would be as windy as a scalded cat. He pondered what to do: whether to seek her out and stress that her secret was safe with him (and with Cedric, of course, though he needn’t mention that) or, as with Smithers, keep well away and say nothing.

  He studied the ceiling morosely. Really, the whole thing was exceedingly wearing – and now there was this ghastly Gloria business. It was too bad: Cambridge was supposed to have been a joyride! He closed his eyes and began to think longingly of Cap Ferrat and Mr S. M.’s delightful ménage. With luck the invitation was still open. Ah, the balm of the Riviera with its waving palm trees, rambling bougainvillea, emerald swimming pools, the movie stars and white tuxedos … and who knew, perchance dear Cocteau …

  Worn out by agitation, and despite the rigours of the bed, Felix drifted into blissful slumber.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That evening in the Fellows’ Garden the principal topic of conversation was inevitably the murder. Apart from a glancing sympathy for the victim, the subject generated a range of responses: largely revulsion and avid curiosity, but also expressions of black humour (mainly from Smithers), and from some quarters, indignation.

  This last was most keenly shown by Dr Maycock, who, after a taxing day soothing Sir Richard, was resting briefly before escaping home to supper. ‘It really is the most shocking thing,’ he grumbled, ‘and not at all what one expects in Cambridge. And it is the sort of publicity the college can well do without. Mind you, bad enough for us, but I shouldn’t like to be in Magdalene’s shoes. Mark my words, they will have nothing but gawping tourists for months on end – hanging over the bridge, taking photographs, yelling on the river, pounding at the porter’s lodge demanding information. Frightful!’

  ‘Ah well, the price of fame, I fear,’ somebody observed. ‘But at least it will divert them from our corner for a while … Oh, and incidentally, talking of fame, what of the sculptor Finglestone? How is he taking it? After all, it was the good lady herself who landed him the job, so I don’t imagine it can be easy hearing that your benefactor has gone for a burton.’

  ‘Actually,’ Vernon Carter said, ‘I did happen to see him this morning in The Eagle, wilting over a gin. He didn’t look particularly perky. I was in a rush, otherwise I would have gone over to speak to him.’

  ‘What has Finglestone got to wilt about?’ the bursar said dismissively. ‘He has the commission, a fat advance and plenty more when the job’s done – plus presumably the additional kudos of having his creation displayed in the grounds of a Cambridge college. You’ll see, it will feature in all the guidebooks and he’ll get the kickback.’

  Listening to this exchange, Cedric was mildly shocked. How cynical one’s fellow academics could be! He glanced over to Felix, but the other did not notice, being too busy making eyes at a Pekinese belonging to the gardener.

  ‘What, even if it is listed as “Finglestone’s Folly”?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘Folly? Whatever do you mean?’ Dr Maycock exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, I can guess what he means.’ Carter laughed. ‘We don’t really know what it will be like. After all, the Master may take one look at the finished product and then gently expire. The whole thing could be a hideous fiasco. Finglestone would collect his fee and then the statue be discreetly shoved into some darkened recess: there’s a spare corner in the porter’s lodge – I am sure Jenkins could make room for it. An alternative, of course, would be to secrete it among those rhododendrons Professor Turner keeps harping on about. At least that would give them a function.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the bursar said irritably, ‘we have already been shown his preliminary sketches. Admittedly, they are a bit odd, but nothing outlandish. You really are a doom merchant, Carter – and so are you, Smithers.’ The younger dons exchanged amused glances, feeling rather like admonished schoolboys.

  At this point Felix, abandoned by the Pekinese and hearing part of the conversation, observed that preliminary sketches did not always match the end product. ‘You can start with a concept, but the whole thing can go utterly awry in the production and the result bear little resemblance to the original plan. Sometimes, of course, this can be quite a good thing. But I remember once when I was designing a floral pillar for Her Majesty, and she was most put out when—’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Cedric said hastily, ‘but I think this can be true of all artists: plans are not sacrosanct and deviation is inevitable.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope the chap keeps his deviations to a minimum,’ the bursar growled, ‘otherwise I might be very slow in writing the cheque. Might even break my arm!’

  They laughed. And then someone else said: ‘But in terms of Gloria, I know that in all the best crime fiction the victim is supposed to know their assailant, but that’s just a popular convention. For all one knows, this chap chose her randomly and is still around waiting to pounce again … on any of us.’

  ‘In which case he will have to purchase a new knife,’ Carter pointed out.

  ‘Ah, but perhaps he has an arsenal,’ observed Smithers darkly. ‘One dagger down and several to go.’

  Listening to these suggestions, Felix began to feel worried. The image of a skulking assassin biding his time for further attack had entered his own mind, and hearing the idea mooted by somebody else was not exactly reassuring. Clearly he would need to take a sleeping pill that night, two in fact. Meanwhile he wished they would change the subject. Covertly he looked at his watch. Thank goodness it was nearly time for dinner. He could do with some grub; it would calm his nerves.

  Fortunately the dining hour soon struck, and with the exception of Maycock, John Smithers and a couple of others, the group left the garden to take their places in Hall.

  As ill luck would have it, Felix again found himself sitting next to Aldous Phipps. Ill luck not because he disliked his neighbour, rather because the latter’s presence could unsettle all but the most stout-hearted, and Felix was not of that ilk.

&n
bsp; ‘Ah, we meet again.’ The old man beamed. ‘Mr Smith, the florist from Camberwell! And how are you weathering this Gothic horror, may I ask? Not the most fragrant business, I fear. I gather you were one of the unfortunate finders. You must tell me all about it! Here, let me poor you a drop of this excellent claret,’ he added winsomely.

  Felix was glad of the claret, but less glad about the proposed topic of conversation … and distinctly needled by the insistent allusion to Camberwell and the mishandling of his name (the long vowel being so important). Really, he must try to put the old boy straight about such matters – it was too bad!

  But before he could correct the errors – or fortunately supply any of the requested data – Phipps said, ‘To my mind it is obviously an inside job. Oh yes, you can be sure of that. I know some people are suggesting otherwise, but I think that is poppycock – merely a way of making them feel more comfortable. And when I say “inside”, I do not mean from within the Town, Mr Smith, but from within the Gown, if you get my meaning. How about that then, eh? How about that?’ The old man fixed Felix with a look of sly relish.

  Though smarting from the mode of address, Felix was nevertheless relieved that Phipps should be so sure the killer was from within the circle of scholars. At least that reduced his own chances of getting slaughtered! He took a sustaining sip of claret and was about to turn to his neighbour, when Phipps plucked him by the sleeve. ‘I have it on good authority that a foreign weapon was used; oh yes, a dagger from the Balkans, it is rumoured. Would that have been your observation, Mr Smith?’

  ‘Er, I hadn’t really noticed,’ Felix murmured vaguely.

  Phipps looked disappointed. ‘Ah well, I don’t suppose we can all be detectives, can we.’

  Not all detectives? Huh! Try looking for clues when you are being sick all over the pavement! Felix inwardly fumed and eyed the claret jug, hoping Phipps might take the hint and pour him some more. But his neighbour’s mind was elsewhere: fixed on the Senior Tutor, in fact. ‘An odd coincidence,’ he chuckled, ‘I expect you know that the Balkan peninsula is Dr Maycock’s particular province. He used to go there quite often. An interesting field of study, I should say, but not for the likes of me – too many hoary brigands!’