The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The passage to the staircase was only a few yards, but in that short space Rosy felt she was moving in the proverbial dream. Nothing seemed real except Hinchcliffe’s slightly stooped figure in front of her and the sound of her heels clicking on the bare boards. How bizarre to think she was accompanying a killer to meet his fate in this manner: almost as though they were setting off to the cinema!

  At the top of the stairs Hinchcliffe hesitated as if to stand aside to let her pass. And it was then that Rosy’s ‘dream’ vanished and was replaced by sudden nightmare. She looked at the narrow wooden staircase, and in a flash fancied she saw the sculptor’s lifeless body sprawled at its foot … Oh my God, she thought, he wants me to move in front so he can attack from behind and hurl me to the bottom. We’re not going anywhere: it’s all a trick. Instinctively she shrank back against the wall.

  ‘Ah, it’s probably best if I lead the way,’ Hinchcliffe said, ‘this thing is so ancient and rickety that one can easily trip. Besides, it would be awful if you fell – I shouldn’t have a witness for my statement.’ He gave a light laugh and, grasping the banister, placed his foot on the stair.

  They walked in silence across the hallway and down the path, circumventing the cat, which, as predicted, had returned and sat grooming itself with studied nonchalance. Rosy felt ashamed of her earlier panic. She recalled herself as a girl manning the searchlights at Dover during the war. Had she known such fears then? Not really, or certainly not like this. Perhaps at the advanced old age of thirty-seven she was beginning to lose her grip. She sighed, and then glanced at Hinchcliffe. Perhaps in her late fifties she too would turn homicidal!

  Emerging into Sidgwick Avenue, Rosy was reassured when her companion turned towards Queen’s Road. At least they appeared to be going in the right direction and not into some ill-lit hinterland.

  ‘It’s quite a walk,’ she said tentatively, ‘should we take a taxi?’

  He paused and glanced at the nearby rank. ‘We could,’ he replied, ‘but there is a shortcut into Silver Street and it doesn’t take long from there. And, actually, Miss Gilchrist, since this is likely to be my last hour of freedom, I should quite enjoy the evening air. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘not at all. How thoughtless of me.’ Inwardly she felt distinctly apprehensive. The rain had darkened the evening sky and the roads were relatively deserted. There flashed before her the memory of Gloria’s fate and she bit her lip. To stem unease and introduce a note of mild normality, she said, ‘I think it is awfully brave of you to do this. I mean, most people simply wouldn’t have the nerve. When did you decide?’

  Hinchcliffe consulted his watch. ‘Oh, I should say about forty minutes ago – when you asked what I proposed to do. Up until then I was exceedingly confused. But hearing the question voiced by another person somehow clarified my mind and I realised there was only one option: the moral one.’ He spoke with firm determination, but after a slight pause added, ‘Nevertheless, although I know I must take my punishment for having wilfully mistaken God’s purpose in the matter, I cannot say that I have any regrets as to the outcome. Reid was a beastly blackguard whom I still consider better dead than alive.’ He spoke with a quiet vehemence which revived Rosy’s fears. But the next moment he sighed, and said, ‘Still, I disobeyed his precept and thus must pay the rightful due. He would expect it.’ Hinchcliffe turned and regarded her intently: ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Gilchrist?’

  This was more than Rosy had bargained for. It was one thing to go with him to the police station, but did she really want to be drawn into theological speculation about God’s purpose and expectations?

  She was just trying to formulate a suitable answer, when her eye was caught by a slight movement to her left. There was a shape – the figure of a man crouched in the shadows. Alarmed, Rosy gave an involuntary jump backwards, and then let out a gasp of shocked relief. ‘Felix,’ she cried, ‘how nice to see you!’

  Unused to being greeted so effusively by Rosy, Felix too was a trifle shocked. He straightened up from tying his shoelace. ‘Ah,’ he said, rather flustered, ‘I wasn’t sure if it was you and … well, I didn’t like to intrude in case—’ He broke off, recognising Hinchcliffe.

  ‘Mr Smythe, if I am not mistaken,’ the latter observed, ‘what a coincidence. We were just on our way to the police station; you can come too, if you like. You would be more than welcome.’ He spoke as if issuing a gracious invitation to a party.

  Felix was flummoxed, as well he might be. Why should Rosy Gilchrist be strolling along with the Hinchcliffe chap at this hour of the evening (not a date, surely?), and why on earth to the police station? Had they lost something? As to joining them … well he had better things to do. Dragooned by Cedric into attending a particularly dreary talk on Cappadocian cave formations, he had managed to slip away pleading a headache; and now with escape accomplished he had been relishing the prospect of an early night and another peek at his article ‘Playful Blooms’ displayed in the current Tatler. Police, Hinchcliffe and Rosy did not feature in the plan.

  He was about to make his excuses, but was forestalled by Rosy. ‘Oh yes, that would be such a help, Felix,’ she cried eagerly. ‘It’s all rather delicate and we could just do with you!’ Smiling and nodding, she gripped his arm firmly, and the next moment he found himself walking with the pair of them in the direction of St Andrew’s Street. He was none too pleased.

  ‘I expect you want to know why we are going to the police,’ Hinchcliffe said to him, conversationally.

  ‘Er, well it had crossed my mind,’ Felix replied politely. ‘Is there some problem?’ Rosy’s grip on his arm tightened. Really, he thought, did one wish to be quite so roughly manhandled? He shot her a sharp look and was met with an anxious grimace.

  The next moment Hinchcliffe had answered his question: ‘Not just now there isn’t, but I suspect there soon will be. You see, I doubt very much whether the police will believe what I have to tell them. A cynical bunch, so one hears … I fear there could be an argument.’

  Felix was just about to say that in his experience the forces of law were always inclined to argument, when Rosy stopped abruptly and pointed: ‘Oh look, we’re here already. There’s the blue lamp,’ she announced rather nervously.

  ‘Ah yes, the blue lamp,’ Hinchcliffe echoed soberly, ‘I see it beckoning.’ For a few moments he stood staring fixedly at the imposing building in front of them, and then turning to Rosy said quietly: ‘I think I have changed my mind.’

  ‘What?’ She gasped, thinking he was about to flee into the night.

  ‘Yes, I am afraid so,’ Hinchcliffe murmured apologetically, ‘and you may feel I have brought you both here under false pretences. But the fact is that I have been thinking things over and have decided that it would be best if I faced the ordeal alone. This is a crucial moment in my life and my only support must be the hand of God … I, and only I, should confront the custodian of the front desk.’ The tone was resolute, but Rosy could see a film of damp on his forehead – traces of rain or something else?

  ‘What on earth is he talking—’ began Felix.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Rosy snapped, gripped by relief and wonder. She turned back to Hinchcliffe and asked if he was really sure. ‘We are only too happy to come if you want,’ she said stoutly.

  The latter shook his head and with a pensive smile said, ‘You are most kind – but no thank you. As my father used to say, this is my party.’

  They watched, as slowly but with head erect Hinchcliffe approached the stern Victorian portals. At the threshold he paused fractionally between the heavy columns, the ray from the blue light illuminating his hollow profile; and then, without looking back, he disappeared inside.

  ‘What in heaven’s name was all that about!’ Felix exploded. ‘Surely he can speak to the duty sergeant without divine assistance, can’t he? What’s the chap done – failed to pay a parking fine?’

  ‘No,’ Rosy replied shortly, �
��assuming he was telling the truth it is a bit more serious than that.’ She reached into her coat pocket and fished out a packet of cigarettes, and with unsteady hand tried to light a match. At the third attempt it flickered and went out. She shrugged, threw it away and replaced the cigarettes in her pocket.

  Felix watched these fumblings with some curiosity, and then, producing his lighter, offered her one of his. She took it gratefully. ‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ he observed gallantly, ‘you look frightful.’

  She gave a rueful nod. ‘I daresay. Actually, if you want to know, I’ve had rather a trying time: Hinchcliffe has been telling me how he murdered Winston Reid.’

  For a few seconds Felix was speechless. And then without thinking he burst out, ‘Utterly absurd – I know for a fact he couldn’t have!’

  Rosy was taken aback: Felix did not usually speak with such conviction. ‘What fact?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, recalling his vow of silence to Anthea Dick. ‘Well,’ he muttered rather lamely, ‘it does seem unlikely. What has he been saying?’ And so as they walked back to the Market Place, Rosy gave him a graphic account of her time with Geoffrey Hinchcliffe and the man’s startling confession. As the details emerged things began to make sense; and Felix saw that although clearly barking, Hinchcliffe could have been telling the truth. After all, the two versions, his and Anthea’s, did rather complement each other.

  His initial instinct was to tell Rosy of the part played by the Master’s wife in the event, but a twinging conscience dictated otherwise. Besides, he would first have to chew the cud with Cedric. With luck, his friend should be back from the Cappadocian talk by now, and so the whole thing could be aired over strong nightcaps. The prospect was appealing. And thus on reaching the city centre he hastily found Rosy a taxi to take her back to Newnham. As he held the cab door open, he said, ‘I wonder what the poor chap is doing now.’

  ‘Still arguing, I expect,’ Rosy replied.

  She was right. When Hinchcliffe presented himself at the reception desk, the duty sergeant – tired from dealing with drunks, professional complainers and those seeking errant pets – was in no mood to listen to some half-baked rigmarole from one claiming to have battered an evil man to death with the hand of God on his shoulder. Whether the hand was on the shoulder of the victim or of the assailant was not entirely clear. But certainly God featured somewhere. On being asked the identity of the victim he was told tartly that such details were for the ears of the interviewing officer alone and not for minor functionaries.

  The minor functionary knew his place, and wearily enquired whether the man could do with a mug of cocoa. ‘Very soothing is cocoa,’ he assured Hinchcliffe. ‘In fact, I was about to have one myself. You’ll soon feel better. Take a pew and I’ll get Charlie to bring it.’ He gestured to the young constable.

  Hinchcliffe regarded the policeman indignantly. ‘I am not a fool, you know – and one is a killer not a cocoa addict! And as to taking a pew, the only pews I am familiar with are those in God’s House. This is no such building, but an establishment operating the law of the land. That being the case it is incumbent upon you to arrest me.’ Hinchcliffe glared defiantly and folded his arms.

  The sergeant yielded, took down his name and address and switched through to the inspector’s office. ‘We’ve got a right one here,’ he muttered, ‘you had better come down.’

  Back at the college Felix was too excited to stop off at his own room, but scrambled up the staircase and knocked loudly on Cedric’s door.

  Cedric, who had been listening to the Bruch violin concerto on his rather tinny transistor, was startled. He was also annoyed, for his favourite section was imminent and despite the poor tone he resented the intrusion. Thus, his face as he opened the door was not exactly welcoming.

  Felix was undeterred, knowing that his news would soon change that. ‘You will never guess!’ he began.

  ‘The Queen Mother has sent you a telegram,’ Cedric said coldly.

  ‘Oh no, something far less likely,’ Felix exclaimed, and embarked on his tale.

  Cedric sat impassively throughout. But when it was finished (and rather as predicted) he reached for the whisky and poured two large glasses. ‘Well,’ he observed, ‘that does put a different complexion on things. Who would have thought that fusty little Hinchcliffe had it in him … extraordinary really, the things people do. Just as well I didn’t see more of him when we were undergraduates. Who knows, I might not have been here today!’

  ‘Praise be the Lord,’ Felix tittered. He took a sip of whisky, and then looked suddenly sober. ‘But what are we going to do?’

  ‘Do? We?’ Cedric asked, looking surprised. ‘Nothing at all – that is to say, keep quiet, of course. We have no connection with anything.’

  ‘But supposing he wants me to corroborate his story, to tell the police what I know?’

  ‘But dear boy, you know nothing. It’s Rosy Gilchrist who got the brunt of his confession; she’s the one they may want to interview. He hardly said a word to you – in fact,’ Cedric added mischievously, ‘he probably doesn’t remember you at all, a mere shadow on the way to the scaffold.’

  Felix was both peeved and relieved – but also unsettled. He took another sip of whisky and brooded … ‘Uhm, do you really think he will swing? After all, one can’t help seeing his point about Winston Reid. The chap sounded most unsavoury; a thoroughly nasty piece, in fact. He tried the same sort of thing on Anthea Dick, pursuing her for no obvious reason, but just for the hell of it.’

  ‘Oh, I agree. But if one bumped off everyone not to one’s taste I don’t suppose there would be many of us left … And as to Hinchcliffe’s fate, I doubt very much if he’ll swing. The fact that he has given himself up is likely to be a mitigating factor; although I also suspect he could be found of unsound mind. It’s the religious aspect – the authorities get flustered and don’t know what to make of it.’

  Back in her bedroom at Newnham, Rosy was also flustered … well not so much flustered, perhaps, as deeply perturbed. Her evening with Geoffrey Hinchcliffe had been unsettling to say the least and she wondered how he was coping. But she now had another problem to confront, a decision to make: should she tell the police of her involvement? Shocked though she had been by his revelation, she had to admit to feeling sorry for the chap. Despite the awful deed, he had shown a curious vulnerability and a sort of meek mannerly stoicism. Dastardly acts should be enacted by dastardly people, and somehow she didn’t feel Hinchcliffe fitted the type. It was perplexing.

  And yet by giving her that explicit and graphic account of the murder he had made her his confidante, and were she to withhold that knowledge she would become an accessory after the fact. It was surely her bounden duty to report to the police station and tell them what she knew. The prospect was sombre and she instinctively recoiled from the task. Besides, she had had quite enough of ‘helping the police with their enquiries’ over the Gloria case. It would be embarrassing to confront them again on a completely different issue … a far from happy déjà vu.

  It also struck her that the following morning was Purblow’s lecture at the Fitzwilliam. To miss that would be to deny Dr Stanley his ‘vital’ information. She switched out the light and brooded further, but ruefully conceded that her own distaste and Stanley’s needs were small in comparison with the needs of justice. Yes, quite patently she would have to be the good citizen … Thus Rosy drifted off to sleep in a haze of reluctant duty.

  Waking three hours later she started to visualise herself being yet again at the police station: introducing herself to the desk sergeant, stating her business, narrating her account to some grave official who wondered how it was that this earnest young woman seemed so drawn to the strange and unsavoury. She lay pondering the irony … and then, with a start, sat up and stared into the darkness. Wait a minute, wait a minute: there was a let out, of course there was! Why on earth hadn’t she realised? Not only had Hinchcliffe confessed of his own free will, but more to the point he had
voluntarily given himself up. It certainly hadn’t been her idea that he should march off to the police station and spill the beans. He had chosen to pay his due freely and openly, had deliberately placed himself in the hands of the law. There had been no coercion. What on earth had Rosy Gilchrist to do with the matter? Nothing. The murderer had taken his own responsibility and was prepared to pay the price. What more could be done? For her to make an unsolicited visit to the police station and give a ‘corroborating’ statement would be irrelevant and officious. By now the truth was already known (presumably) and thus any intervention on her part nosy and gratuitous.

  Rosy relaxed on her pillows; and sedated with the prospect of Purblow’s lecture, slept soundly for a further three hours. When she awoke the sun was shining. She thought of Geoffrey Hinchcliffe in his cell and hoped they were treating him kindly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sir Richard Dick had also slept soundly on the night of Hinchcliffe’s confession, having spent a most congenial evening playing bridge with the bursar and Dr and Mrs Maycock. The matter of Finglestone’s appointment had not been mentioned; and while at first the recent appalling outrage had been the subject of comment, it had been eclipsed by the pressing matter of tricks and trumps.

  Anthea had been pleased for her husband to be so occupied: it was a brief respite from the strain of Gloria’s tragedy and the insistent attentions of police and journalists. Things had been bad enough with the Reid affair (she shuddered), but this latter event was even more irksome and already taking a toll on his digestion and temper.

  She had thought of giving him breakfast in bed, but was diverted by the telephone. Glancing at the clock she saw it was only eight-thirty. A bit early for a call, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was the police again wanting more details about Gloria, e.g. could the Master say whether the victim had had any special cronies? No, Anthea thought acidly as she picked up the receiver, only browbeaten lackeys.