The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Five minutes later she replaced the receiver on its cradle and gazed disconsolately at a butterfly crawling across the windowpane. As she had guessed, the call had come from the police … but this time it was nothing to do with Gloria. Something else.

  For a few moments she stood pondering the news. Oh, how awful, the poor chap! But at least it had been quick – a sudden seizure, a heart attack they had said: ‘Came over all queer and just collapsed. Sipped his cocoa and that was it.’ Coma, ambulance, death …

  Anthea turned to the window and released the butterfly, which fluttered gaily into the sky. She wondered vaguely what he had been doing at the police station at that time of night. (Being Hinchcliffe, it seemed unlikely he had been hauled in for gross misconduct or dislodging a policeman’s helmet.) But still, she supposed it was as good a place as any to face death. Quite convenient, really – safe hands and all that. She sighed and went to take a cup of tea up to her husband and report the bleak tidings.

  Understandably, the Master was not bolstered by the news. ‘Poor old fellow,’ he murmured, both genuinely saddened, but also annoyed. Why now, for God’s sake, just after everything else! He sipped his tea and closed his eyes.

  ‘I think we could invite the sister here for a couple of days,’ Anthea suggested. ‘They said she was coming up to identify the body and deal with things.’

  ‘What?’ he said vaguely.

  ‘The sister. The police have asked her to come. I mean, doubtless she could stay at his lodgings or a hotel, but in the circumstances it would be pleasanter for her here, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he agreed, sipping his tea and gazing glumly out of the window.

  News of Geoffrey Hinchcliffe’s sad demise filtered through to the college members and to those few sponsors extending their stay in Cambridge. These, of course, included Cedric plus Felix and Rosy as important witnesses in the Gloria knifing.

  The latter was stunned to hear the news on her return to Newnham from the Purblow lecture (long and self-promoting) and was once more undecided what to do. Betty Withers, always a reliable bloodhound, had ascertained the main details.

  She told Rosy that apparently Hinchcliffe had presented himself at the police station in a heightened state, not of inebriation but of considerable confusion, and looking pretty ropey. (Yes, he had certainly looked ropey, Rosy recalled. But confused?) He had rambled something about sin and being a killer, but had declined to elaborate and instead demanded to see the inspector. Asked to wait, he had taken one sip of the cocoa they had brought him, made a face and keeled over. And that was that. He hadn’t responded to resuscitation and died in the ambulance.

  ‘And he didn’t say anything?’ Rosy asked.

  Betty shook her head. ‘Nothing that made any sense.’

  She also told Rosy authoritatively that in her professional experience it was often the case that those leading up to acute heart failure frequently suffered delusions and mental muddle.

  Rosy noted the information, but was firmly convinced that Hinchcliffe had been far from deluded. She also recalled his detestation of cocoa. Had that been the final straw?

  Any residual doubts about what she should do were banished the next day. It had dawned bright and fresh, and that afternoon she had taken the chance to wander along the bank of the Cam and admire the houseboats moored by Jesus Lock. She had often done that as an undergraduate and doing it again stirred happy memories.

  Strolling back across the Green she noticed three people sitting on a bench at the side of the avenue, and rather to her surprise saw that two of them were Lady Dick and Dame Margery Collis. They began to get up and were clearly about to leave, but seeing Rosy the latter waved and beckoned her over. Their companion was a small whey-faced woman whom they introduced as Hortense Hinchcliffe, evidently Geoffrey’s sister. The lady smiled brightly, but there were tears in her eyes and the thin fingers trembled slightly as she shook Rosy’s hand.

  Lady Dick explained that Hortense had travelled up from London and was staying at the Lodge while she coped with the sad task of sorting her brother’s belongings. ‘It’s such a lovely day and we thought a stroll in the sunshine would do us all good,’ she said brightly.

  Rosy nodded, and uttered words of kindly sympathy to the guest, feeling sorry for the woman but also rather awkward.

  ‘He was such a sweet boy,’ the sister murmured. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without him. He was so kind … He would do anything for me, you know.’ She smiled wanly. ‘So kind,’ she repeated. ‘“Hortense,” he used to say, “you must always be happy. I insist!”’ She bit her lip and looked pensive, and Rosy feared she might give way. But then with a little toss of her head and a squaring of the frail shoulders, she declared, ‘And with his dear help, so I will!’ She had the look of a battered but resolute robin.

  The group continued on their way, and Rosy was left knowing she would never shop the ghost of Geoffrey Hinchcliffe.

  Firm in that knowledge she watched them go, and then walked on slowly down the main avenue, savouring the blessing of the blue sky, the dappling canopy of plane trees and distant sound of children’s laughter. No longer hemmed by buildings and traffic, she felt the weight of the last forty-eight hours gradually subside, the tension stealthily relax. What a bizarre business it had all been, surreal almost, and so sad … But at least it was over now, a thing of the past. Laid to rest. Buried. Normality could be resumed.

  Normality? What on earth was that? A bit of an illusory concept, surely. The Hinchcliffe episode might fade, become unreal – but what about the very real and unfaded matter of Gloria Biggs-Brookby? That most certainly remained and made things far from normal!

  As she walked, Rosy pondered the affair, wondering if any progress had been made. The newspapers didn’t seem to think so, announcing that the local police were foxed and it was high time Scotland Yard was summoned. A large amount of print was taken up with the journalists’ own speculations, empty but lucrative.

  As with the other two witnesses, she had been recalled for additional questioning. They had been interviewed separately (something that had made Felix nervous), but whether their accounts had yielded anything further Rosy rather doubted. Neither officer had looked especially jubilant. They had been quizzed not just about the murder scene itself, but also about their impressions of Gloria when seen at the Master’s reception. Comparing notes afterwards, it emerged that their accounts had been identical in describing her mood as being robustly assertive, and that far from seeming worried or tense the victim had been alarmingly confident.

  Hmm, Rosy brooded, too confident for her own good? She had certainly got her own way over the appointment of the sculptor (so presumably had died happy!). But others had been less happy, had been infuriated by those plans and confidence, had been determined to block further intrusion … Always ways and means – and accidents, of course … Once more Dr Maycock’s words came echoing back to her. Oh, but he had been joking; of course he had been joking.

  Yet even as she dismissed such nonsense the more recent image of him and Lord Bantry at the Fitzwilliam hung before her. At the time she had scolded herself for being a paranoid fool for thinking they might be watching her. And she had probably been right: a couple of chaps conversing in low tones and stopping abruptly at her approach – one could hardly call that sinister. A little plotting, perhaps, but surely not about murder. They were respectable elderly gents with positions to protect, not knife-wielding thugs. She almost laughed out loud – and then remembered that Geoffrey Hinchcliffe had also been someone of sober gentility. More so, really: there had been a meekness there that couldn’t be said of the other two!

  Such were Rosy’s twirling thoughts that by the time she had arrived back in the city centre the benevolent effects of Jesus Green had somewhat waned. In fact, she felt quite worn out. To restore equilibrium she marched into Robert Sayle’s and bought two lipsticks, a mascara wand and some luridly pink nail varnish. Armed with these trophies s
he then treated herself to a large pot of coffee and a doughnut in the Italian cafe introduced to her by Dame Margery. No more mulling over murder, she decided. She would buy a glossy magazine and return to Newnham for a good chinwag.

  In her room experimenting with one of the lipsticks she heard a knock at the door and, on opening it, was faced by the nice girl from the office.

  ‘There’s a telephone call for you,’ the girl said, ‘but you’ll have to come down to the hall, I’m afraid we don’t have anything on the landing.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Rosy said, wondering who on earth it might be. ‘I’ll be there in a second. Please tell her to wait.’

  ‘It’s a him, actually.’ The girl smiled and went off down the passage.

  A him … who? Rosy wondered, fearing it might be the police again. Down in the hall she picked up the receiver, relieved that it was not the police, but equally unnerved to hear the voice of her boss, Dr Stanley.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he demanded. The question had a peremptory ring.

  ‘Er, yes,’ she said guardedly, ‘shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Oh, just checking,’ he replied airily. ‘A funny place Cambridge; Oxford’s far safer – though if you must go gadding off to the eastern wilds, I suppose you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Er yes, I suppose I do,’ she said vaguely, wondering what he wanted. There was bound to be something, there always was. And then of course she knew: obviously the espionage.

  It was. ‘So, what’s the progress on the Fitzwilliam front? I trust you have been keeping your ear to the ground. What are they up to?’

  ‘Nothing. And the curator was dismissive of the Lawrence idea, said it wasn’t in keeping with the museum’s image.’

  ‘Nothing? Are you sure?’ Stanley sounded almost disappointed. ‘And what about Purblow’s lectures – you did attend, I assume?’ The voice had sharpened.

  She explained that one of them had been cancelled and the other was of such nebulous waffle that she doubted if the Fitzwilliam would take note of his views.

  That seemed to please Stanley, who gave a derisive snort: ‘Running true to form, I see.’ There followed a pregnant pause. And then he said: ‘I gather you’ve had a spot of trouble – someone bumped off, some woman to do with that Biggs-Brookby cove.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Rosy said, ‘she was his daughter – but I didn’t do it. It’s not the sort of thing that is expected of visitors.’ She gave a weak laugh to cover the lie of being one of Gloria’s finders on Magdalene Bridge. It was not something she had any desire to publicise.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Make sure you take care.’

  Rosy was startled. Solicitude for the welfare of others was not one of Stanley’s noticeable traits. Had he been over the road in the Museum Tavern?

  He then asked when they could expect her back. ‘It’s in your diary,’ she reminded him, ‘first thing on the eighteenth.’

  ‘Good. Just as well. Nothing seems to work without you here. It’s most tiresome.’ The normally abrasive tone sounded not so much petulant as pensive. The last time she had heard that note was when his spaniel had died. But then with a brisk laugh, he told her to watch her back and that on her return they would celebrate. She heard him mutter something about a table at Wiltons, and the line went dead.

  Rosy contemplated the kiosk’s blank wall in some puzzlement. Celebrate? What did he mean? How curious …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The matter of Reid and the Master’s wife continued to trouble Felix. He was nagged by the urge to assure her more strongly of his utmost discretion. She had told him her story impulsively and in a state of great agitation, and, as Cedric had so helpfully pointed out, despite the enquiry being closed she was bound to be feeling vulnerable. And what if, as Cedric had also slyly suggested, she really did fear him as a likely blackmailer? Preposterous! To be cast in such a role was demeaning, to say the least, and besmirched his dignity. Things must definitely be clarified. But how? Since their encounter in the Botanic Garden he had been assiduously avoiding her (and possibly she him) so how now to approach her alone? What pretext could he use?

  Such were his thoughts as he strolled across the Market Place to inspect some flowers displayed on one of the stalls. And then just as he reached it he suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure on the corner of Trinity Street. Good Lord – it was the woman herself! He stopped and dithered. Certainly she was alone, but so public a place was hardly suitable for a serious talk. What should he do? He continued to dither.

  And then as she started to walk briskly up Trinity Street he was suddenly galvanised. He opened his wallet, withdrew a note and, without waiting for change, bought three lavish bouquets of Regale lilies. Then almost smothered in these he hastened onwards in anxious pursuit of his disappearing quarry.

  At last he caught up with her and triumphantly thrust the blooms into her arms, while at the same time embarking on a breathless explanation.

  ‘Lady Dick, I fear you may have been harbouring anxiety,’ he began (sensing he sounded peculiarly like Cedric), ‘but I can categorically assure you that you have nothing to fear. As I told you earlier, my lips are sealed – sealed and riveted. The thing was an accident entirely beyond your control. You were blameless and that’s an end of it. And as to related matters, they are not remotely any business of mine. As far as I am concerned the whole issue is dead as a doornail. As a doornail.’

  Delivered of his spiel, Felix stepped back still panting slightly, but looking very stern – or he would have done had it not been for the large smudge of lily pollen streaking his cheek and nose. Somehow it lessened the effect.

  Anthea was flustered by the sudden overture and, clasping the enormous bunch of flowers to her chest, regarded him in wonder torn between relief and mirth. What an odd little fellow! But how remarkably decent. She felt quite moved.

  She thanked him profusely for his gift and they parted on terms of mutual comfort … Lady Dick because she could now finally put the damn thing to rest, and Mr Smythe because he knew he had acted with style and gallantry.

  Returning to the Market Place, Felix bumped into Rosy who had also been shopping (not for flowers, but chocolates to anaesthetise Stanley).

  ‘Goodness, what have you been up to, Felix?’ she asked, eyeing him intently.

  ‘I have just been chatting to Lady Dick,’ he replied airily. ‘We were saying that—’

  ‘Yes, yes, but what’s that orange splotch in the middle of your face? It looks suspiciously like the onset of jaundice to me.’

  With face averted Felix hurried back to the college eager to expunge the embarrassing stain. Really it was too bad – you pay a lady a compliment and get that in your face!

  Halfway up the staircase he almost collided with Monty Finglestone coming down. The young man mumbled an apology, and then stopped and smirked. ‘I say,’ he observed, ‘is that a touch of jaundice or just a smear of marmalade?’ Without waiting for an answer he clattered on down the stairs.

  Felix was incensed. ‘Insolent sod,’ he seethed. He was about to continue when his eye was caught by a small pocketbook lying on one of the steps. It hadn’t been there a moment ago and had obviously been dropped by the sculptor. It flashed through his mind to run back and return it to its owner, but the impulse was instantly dismissed. Why the hell should he? Hulking barbarian! Finglestone could wait for it. In fact, he was in two minds to leave it where it was. But Felix’s better nature (which he certainly had) dictated that he retrieve the thing. Once in his room he shoved it aside and returned his attention to a more pressing concern: erasing the mark of Cain.

  Meanwhile, Cedric was feeling put out. Much as he enjoyed being back in his old stamping ground, the unsavoury events of Gloria’s killing and the Reid imbroglio were considerably more than he had bargained for. Such crude melodrama was ill-fitted to such a civilised city and had cast a long shadow on the trip. He felt guilty too about Felix. He had persuaded his friend to accompany him to Cambridg
e in the expectation they would share a jolly time and that Felix would be charmed by so special a place. And yet far from being a merry idyll away from the hurly-burly of London’s social life, their stay had been engulfed with the tiresome and grisly. It was too bad!

  That afternoon he expressed these feelings to Felix and ruefully apologised for embroiling his friend in such dark events. Felix had been touched by Cedric’s concern and had brushed aside his fears, effusively insisting that things could not have been lovelier – a claim that made Cedric smile and filled him with gratitude.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Felix had said gaily, ‘let us dine out tonight, somewhere plush and expensive where we can have fun and drown our sorrows. I heard somebody talking about a smart new place in Green Street – we could try that. How about it?’

  Cedric polished his glasses and gave the idea sober consideration. It was, he pronounced, a most sane proposal. So that is what they did: took themselves off to the restaurant and spent a time of genteel frivolity and bibulous pleasure.

  They returned to the college in good spirits; and eager to sustain the mood decided to have a final nightcap in Felix’s room. Thus, on opening the door they were surprised to find the room already lit, with both lamps full on. They were even more surprised to be confronted by the figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. Slung on the bed was a raincoat and large rucksack.

  With his back towards them Monty Finglestone was reaching up and running his hands across the top of the wardrobe.