The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Felix didn’t care a fig about Maycock’s field of study or hoary brigands, but he could certainly do with some more wine. ‘Terribly good claret, Professor. I would suggest a 1952?’ he said ingratiatingly.

  ‘Ah, there you would be wrong: Chateau Talbot 1955, but a good try. I daresay I could interest you in a little more …’

  At last. And his lucky break: Phipps had collared a waiter and was busy muttering about the vegetables. In relief, Felix turned to the person on his right and began to talk fulsomely about the plants in the Fellows’ Garden. The man listened attentively and then eventually said, ‘Afraid I am allergic to flowers, bad for my hay fever. I give them a wide berth. It’s cacti I like.’

  ‘Ah,’ the other said. They returned to their respective cutlets.

  Over the port and Stilton, Felix was once more appropriated by his neighbour on the left. ‘I have much enjoyed our conversation, Mr Smith. A grisly subject, admittedly, but not without interest. And I will tell you another thing: it is my considered opinion that Winston Reid’s fall down that staircase is also not without interest. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest it is fishy. I smell a rat and suspect that the two deaths could be complementary … However, that is not the view shared by our stalwart police officers, so who am I to stir things up? Not my place at all. As they say, one doesn’t keep a dog and bark as well. My little terrier would be most disapproving!’ He smiled benignly (or with a fair imitation) and returned to his port.

  Later that evening Felix complained bitterly to Cedric about Aldous Phipps and his beastly fishy rat. ‘And what’s more,’ he stormed, ‘it would be helpful if you could remind him that I live in Sloane Street and that my name is Smythe.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, dear boy. Have no fear.’ Cedric patted his shoulder.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As she retraced her steps to the museum, Rosy brooded. Being with Cedric and Felix that morning she had felt fine: shaken certainly, and yet at the same time oddly detached. The aftermath of the ordeal – the interrogation by the police, the quick-fire questioning from the press and the floods of alarmed sympathy from Newnham colleagues – had somehow helped to blur that dreadful image: the image of the knife’s shocking hilt dark against the lilac jacket. The ensuing furore had bludgeoned her senses, had almost anaesthetised her feelings. So much had been going on that there had been little time to dwell on the thing itself, to register its full reality. As in the proverbial dream, she had been drifting vaguely.

  But now, being alone, talking to no one and walking slowly in the warm sunshine, she had both the space and time to think and to feel. How alive the woman had been, how tirelessly (and tiresomely) assertive, tough and spirited. Gloria Biggs-Brookby may have been maddening – wrong-headed, perhaps – but she had certainly got life by the teeth. And now she was dead, and in horrible circumstances. A force had been fatally incised. Soberly, Rosy confronted that strange reality, and like the police officers Tilson and Hopkins, asked herself the teasing question: why?

  The woman had certainly antagonised people, that was quite obvious – and she hadn’t been overenamoured herself – but were those antipathies enough to prompt murder? It seemed curious. But, of course, as Felix had observed, there did not have to be a motive at all – merely the impulsive action of a passing lunatic looking for fun, and Gloria had got in the way.

  Hmm. Got in the way. Yes, the deceased had been in the way, all right: pitting her intrusive will against the Plot and Monument Committee, thwarting their plans and intentions; and then with Reid dead, chivvying the sponsors and triumphantly pushing her man for all she was worth against diehards like Phipps, Williams and Maycock. They hadn’t liked it; they hadn’t liked it at all!

  Rosy’s mind swung back to the overheard conversation between Maycock and Lord Bantry in The Eagle. Yes, feelings had clearly been running high. It was quite apparent from what she had gleaned that both men were deeply agitated by Gloria’s interference – and indeed her capacity for further meddling. Equally they were determined to put a stop to it. Maycock had implied that the Master would eventually yield to her pressure. And how had Bantry replied? She could hear the words now, dry and steely: Then we must ensure that it doesn’t reach that point, mustn’t we … And what about Maycock’s cryptic reference to ‘ways and means’ and his caustic allusion to an accident. At the time she had taken it to be a rather crude joke, but given the later event could it just possibly have held some sinister implication? Oh, surely not! But then she recalled how concerned Bantry had been about the acoustics in their corner of The Eagle – his quizzical hints that she had been eavesdropping, or at least aware of what they had been saying. Why the interest? Had it been casual, or deliberate probing?

  She thought too of the Master’s party and Bantry’s biting allusion to Gloria’s mental state. It hadn’t been lightly said. Despite the mocking smile his voice had been harsh, bitter. Rosy winced as she also recalled Gloria’s own crushing portrayal of Dr Maycock, painting the ageing scholar as a washed-up dinosaur, and saw again the angry flush colouring the man’s cheeks as he obviously caught the scathing words.

  Oh yes, the air had been full of anger, all right, but enough to induce the ultimate expedient? Dear God, she hoped not … And yet somebody had done it, had urged themselves to plunge and twist the knife. Someone had been on that bridge, waiting, skulking, gauging the right moment. She wondered if words had been spoken, noises made – and shuddered. For an instant the sun disappeared (literally), and in that moment Rosy felt a cloud of bleakness descend. It wasn’t fear exactly, but a heavy, clawing anxiety.

  Fortunately the cloud was quickly dispelled – partly by the sun’s reappearance and largely by a child dancing up and presenting her with a bunch of limp dandelions. Rosy grinned and, taking the flowers from its sticky hand, walked briskly up the museum steps ready for business.

  As Stanley had directed, under the pretext of being earnestly engrossed in the exhibits themselves, Rosy wandered from room to room scrutinising their positions, labels and layout. She stood at different angles, assessing the backdrops and lighting effects, the type of picture frames, the glass of the display cabinets. Dutifully she would make an occasional note, but was embarrassed lest she should be thought some crank or government bureaucrat. It all struck her as being perfectly normal and conventional: what you would expect from a distinguished and well-run museum, and, contrary to Stanley’s suspicions, with nothing especially radical or ‘groundbreaking’. Good. So that was fixed. Now for Purblow’s lecture programme, which would be displayed somewhere.

  She looked around, and in an anteroom found a collection of notices announcing forthcoming talks and events. A poster for ‘Art and the Modern Public’ had been given prime position, but it had a label attached expressing deep regret that the scheduled second talk had been cancelled owing to the speaker’s ‘vital’ engagement at the Washington Smithsonian. Rosy smiled in relief: a mercy for her … and presumably a perk for Purblow (first-class travel and all expenses? Dr Stanley would be green with envy; she would mention it). Making a note of the lecture’s date and time, she moved on.

  One more task: to find the curator’s office and chat up its occupier about the rumoured Lady Chatterley exhibition. She had glimpsed Mrs Maycock at the benefactors’ reception, but they hadn’t spoken. From what Rosy recalled she was somewhat younger than her husband and had looked jolly and approachable. Well, she would approach her now – and if by chance she was not available, then too bad. At least she had tried.

  Fortunately the lady was available; and when Rosy introduced herself as working at the British Museum, she seemed happy to talk. She spoke vividly about the pleasures and problems of the Fitzwilliam’s curatorship, and Rosy regaled her with a few anecdotes of life with Dr Stanley. And then rather tentatively she introduced the question of the museum’s project concerning the Chatterley trial.

  Mrs Maycock stared at her blankly. ‘I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about. I can’t say I
am mad about Lawrence … and besides, it’s hardly the sort of thing the Fitzwilliam would be interested in organising. Still, perhaps the trustees know something that I don’t! But whoever told you?’

  Rosy felt slightly embarrassed; and not wishing to rat on her boss, was about to mumble something about the grapevine, when the other glanced at her watch and gave a sigh of impatience.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Rosy exclaimed, ‘I hadn’t realised you were busy. I come blundering in and—’

  ‘No, no.’ Mrs Maycock laughed. ‘I’m not at all busy, merely waiting for my errant husband. It’s my birthday and he’s meant to be taking me out to lunch, but he is fifteen minutes late already. He will be dawdling somewhere – although more likely with Sir Richard discussing this dreadful business about the Biggs-Brookby lady.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Oh goodness, weren’t you one of the finders?’ Rosy nodded. ‘My dear, my sympathies. It must have been simply dreadful. Too horrible for words!’

  She looked genuinely concerned. And then after checking her watch again, she said, ‘Look, if by chance you should bump into my old man, could you please tell him that his starving wife is awaiting him with much impatience, and that she has a vital meeting this afternoon that can’t be missed. In other words, tell him to jolly well hurry up!’

  After wishing her happy returns, Rosy made her way back to the entrance hall where she did indeed bump into the tardy Dr Maycock. Or at least, she did not so much bump as observe from a distance. He was standing with his back to her talking to someone half-hidden by a pillar. He seemed very engrossed, and fractionally Rosy hesitated, reluctant to intrude. But thinking of the ravenous ‘birthday girl’ eager for her lunch, she went forward. And then suddenly recognising his companion, she stayed her steps. Did she really want to meet the two of them together again and so soon after that last encounter? Not necessarily.

  But it was too late. They had already seen her and abruptly broken off their conversation. Rosy approached Maycock and smilingly delivered his wife’s message. He thanked her affably and she half expected some sly greeting from Bantry (a reference to red shoes again?), but slightly to her surprise he said nothing, merely giving her a distant nod. She sensed a slight awkwardness which she couldn’t define and, not being invited to linger, turned to go.

  Crossing the then empty hall, Rosy experienced a pang of disquiet and had the uncomfortable feeling of their eyes being upon her as if she was being watched … being watched and assessed. She felt unnerved. And then she felt a fool. What absurdity: one was getting paranoid! The dreadful spectacle of Gloria’s knifed and lifeless corpse was clearly affecting her imagination and she was investing the most neutral words and actions with sinister meaning – what Betty Withers would doubtless call ‘heightened morbidity’. Yes, that’s what she was suffering from, a heightened morbidity!

  Putting two fingers up at such nonsense and with head in air, she marched firmly down the museum steps, slipped and almost took a header.

  Idiot! she thought and, regaining her balance, turned left, intending to go down to look at the river. But just as she was passing Peterhouse she heard footsteps behind her, and a voice said, ‘Ah, Miss Gilchrist – I thought it was you. Nice to see you again!’ Rosy looked up into the smiling face of Dame Margery Collis. ‘I’m dying for some coffee,’ she said, ‘and there’s a new place just opened off Bene’t Street; it’s Italian and rather fun. Will you join me?’

  Rosy was perfectly happy to do so, having enjoyed the older woman’s company at Newnham on her first evening in Cambridge.

  Over rather more than coffee (some novel Roman pastries) they briefly touched on the dreadful Gloria tragedy, but by tacit agreement moved quickly on to less disturbing topics: Rosy giving a glowing report of the recent madrigal concert, and the other extolling the comforts of her borrowed flat.

  ‘It couldn’t be better,’ she enthused, ‘and not only right in the centre, but with every mod con you can think of. And one can park right outside, so getting over to Girton couldn’t be simpler.’

  Rosy enquired how the lecturing was going.

  ‘Quite well, actually, and the girls have even managed to weather the statistics that I’ve forced upon them.’

  ‘Statistics? But I thought your thing was education.’

  Dame Margery laughed. ‘It is these days, but I was an economist originally and statistical analysis was my speciality. It’s a bit of an indulgence, really, and I slip it in whenever possible … Doubtless your psychologist friend Betty Withers would say it betrayed an arid mind!’

  Rosy suspected Margery’s mind was far from arid, and envied the woman her natural ease, self-possession and professional achievements … Cool and disciplined, perhaps, but you didn’t become a Dame by having an arid mind.

  They succumbed to another pastry and continued chatting easily. And then Dame Margery exclaimed, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot: you couldn’t possibly do me a big favour, could you?’

  ‘It depends how big.’ Rosy laughed.

  She explained that earlier on she had been in Great St Mary talking to the verger, an old friend. He had produced a couple of notebooks left behind by Geoffrey Hinchcliffe who had also been there that morning, and wondered if she could manage to pass them on to him.

  ‘Without thinking, I said that of course I would – but in fact it won’t be possible, as I shall be at Girton for the rest of the day and out all evening. You couldn’t possibly slip them into his digs, could you? There is a scribbled address on one of them – the place is very near to Newnham. Richard said the fellow had been looking rather pale and abstracted, so presumably the loss of vital notes might turn abstraction into distraction! So, if you would do that I should be terribly grateful.’

  Aware of how worrying (disastrous?) such a loss could be, Rosy readily agreed and put the books in her bag.

  They left the cafe, and with smiles and good wishes Dame Margery said goodbye. For a few moments Rosy watched the tall, confident figure walking briskly away among the pavement strollers. Nice to be elegant, she thought, especially at that age … still, at least I have neat ankles. She grinned and hitched up her shoulder bag, now heavy with Hinchcliffe’s books.

  That evening it had come on to rain, but only lightly and not enough to deter Rosy from her task of returning the books to their owner. Of course, there was no guarantee he would be there, perhaps being still absorbed in his researches at one of the libraries. But with luck there might be a landlady she could leave them with.

  She found the house easily enough, a high stuccoed semi wedged into a corner off Sidgwick Avenue. A light was on downstairs, which suggested that at least somebody was at home. Rosy rang the bell and waited.

  The door was opened by a grey-haired woman clad in a mackintosh and who was vainly trying to restrain a wayward cat. The cat dived past Rosy and down the front path.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I am afraid I’ve—’

  ‘Let the cat out of the bag?’ The woman laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Boris. He’s a Burmese – little buggers, they are, but he’ll come back all right – when it suits him. So what can I do for you, my dear? Not canvassing, I hope?’

  Rosy assured her that wasn’t the case and explained what she wanted: ‘… and so if Mr Hinchcliffe isn’t here, perhaps I can just leave these with you?’

  ‘Oh, he’s here all right, came in about half an hour ago. As a matter of fact he looked a bit tired to me, so I’ve just taken him a cup of hot cocoa. That should put the colour in his cheeks. Mind you, I did suggest a nice sweet sherry, but he didn’t seem too keen – he’s a mite picky, is Mr Hinchcliffe. Can you find your own way, my dear? Number 3, second floor along the passage. I’m off now – bingo night. Wish me luck!’ The woman buckled her mac, grasped a brolly from the stand and disappeared into the drizzle.

  Left alone, Rosy mounted the stairs feeling slightly embarrassed. If Hinchcliffe was feeling tired would he really welcome an unexpected visitor, even one bearing his mislaid notebooks? W
ell, she thought, the main thing was that he should get them; she needn’t stay long. Tentatively, she knocked on the door.

  It was opened almost immediately. ‘Oh my goodness,’ Geoffrey Hinchcliffe exclaimed, ‘Miss Gilchrist! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He looked slightly flustered, but ushered her in and gestured vaguely to an armchair next to which stood a small table supporting a large cup of mantling cocoa.

  Rather breathlessly, Rosy explained her visit and passed him the books.

  ‘Too kind, too kind,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I knew I had left them somewhere, but couldn’t think where. I fear this ghastly incident on Magdalene Bridge has rather knocked the stuffing out of me. My apologies. One has rather lost one’s bearings.’ He gave a rueful smile.

  Looking at him, dishevelled and wan, Rosy could believe that. The man seemed somehow vaguely adrift. ‘Yes, I think we all feel a bit like that,’ she said quickly. ‘A frightful business. But you must lose yourself in that essay you were telling me about, it sounds most intriguing.’ (It didn’t particularly, but being used to Dr Stanley’s frets Rosy was practised in tactful comment.)

  Hinchcliffe gave a thin laugh and, pointing to the cocoa, said, ‘You are right, and certainly preferable to losing myself in that cocoa. Not my stuff at all, and that is particularly frightful; almost as bad as the terrifying tea! But, oh dear, I really shouldn’t complain. She is a charming landlady, so kind, so kind …’ His voice trailed off and he stared pensively at the empty fireplace.