The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Initially they were too startled to say anything and it was the intruder who broke the silence. ‘That’s torn it,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘I should think it has, Mr Finglestone,’ Cedric snapped, recovering himself. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing? This is Mr Smythe’s room and Mr Smythe’s belongings you have thrown all over the floor!’ He gestured to the mess of toiletries and shirts littering the carpet.

  ‘Yes, it is a bit of a mess,’ the other conceded truculently ‘but if Mr Smythe had returned my diary in the first place, I shouldn’t need to be here. I realised I had dropped it, but when I went back there was no reply to my knock and I assumed he would give it to me later. But I haven’t got time to waste while he sits on it. I want it now.’ He glared at Felix. ‘So where is it, bright arse?’

  Never before having been addressed as ‘bright arse’, Felix was enraged. The cultivated Knightsbridge vowels slipped somewhat and were replaced by a Lambeth twang. ‘If you hadn’t been so damned rude, I might have,’ he rasped with feeling.

  ‘Oh yes? Like hell,’ Finglestone retorted. ‘I know your sort, creepy little faggots. I bet you’ve inspected the whole thing, haven’t you!’

  Felix stamped his foot. ‘I am not a bleeding fa—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Cedric ordered. He looked at Finglestone: ‘If my friend has anything of yours, then he will be only too ready to return it. And why he should want to read anything you have written I cannot imagine – it is unlikely to be edifying.’ With studied disdain he surveyed the young man over the rim of his spectacles, and Felix couldn’t help thinking that age was giving him the look of a cadaverous owl.

  Finglestone scowled, but ignored the jibe. ‘Say what you like, I bet he’s got it and I want it.’ He stepped towards Felix, who backed hastily.

  ‘Felix, dear boy,’ said Cedric gently, noting the signs of mounting fury in Finglestone’s face, ‘if you do have anything belonging to this gentleman, I suggest you give it to him. The sooner he is gone the better.’ He turned and glared at the intruder: ‘Naturally, we shall report this matter to the authorities in the morning. I suspect you have had too much to drink, but that is hardly an excuse to ransack Mr Smythe’s bedroom. You may be a sensitive artist, but your behaviour is gross.’

  There was a fraught silence during which the sculptor looked increasingly fierce – but also increasingly taut, his face pale and beads of sweat showing on his forehead. For a second Felix was reminded of poor Hinchcliffe, except that the latter had been strangely controlled whereas this one was simmering with rage … Oh well, anything for a safe life. He cleared his throat.

  ‘As it happens, I do have it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to muddle it up with my other things, so I popped it into the po cupboard for safe-keeping.’ Felix pointed towards the small wooden chest. ‘After you dropped the thing I was naturally going to return it – but you know how it is, one is so often overtaken by more congenial events and it completely escaped my mind. Silly me!’

  Felix’s last words betrayed more edge than he had intended. Had he meekly retrieved the diary from the po cupboard and said nothing things might have been different. As it was, with a grunt of rage Finglestone wrenched the little door open, snatched the book and brandished it in Felix’s face. ‘You’ve looked at this, haven’t you, you little shit,’ he snarled. ‘I can see it in your prying eyes!’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Cedric said angrily, ‘and kindly watch your language. Your behaviour is disgraceful.’ He stared furiously at the young man. But his words were lost on Finglestone, who was busy leafing through the pages; until coming to a particular one he stopped, and clutching Felix’s arm thrust the book in front of his face. ‘That’s what you’ve seen, isn’t it! Safe-keeping? Huh, you were hiding it away. Going to give it to me later? Like hell. You were going to take it to the police. Well, not now, you aren’t – but, in any case, I’ve got more than the police to fucking worry about!’

  Dazed by the onslaught, Felix gazed unseeingly at the diary and its open page. And then gathering his senses he looked harder. There was no writing – or virtually none. But there was a drawing. A pen-and-ink cartoon of a fat female sprawled over a bridge with a knife stuck in her back. Underneath was the caption ‘Gloria done’, followed by a tick in red ink. The entry was dated the day the deceased was found.

  ‘Christ,’ Felix muttered. And mechanically taking the book from the other silently passed it to Cedric.

  Cedric adjusted his glasses and scrutinised the drawing. ‘Hmm. Not a bad likeness,’ he remarked, ‘but her skirt was longer than that and her hair a bit shorter. But you’ve got the dagger all right – unmistakeable really.’ He nodded and returned it to its owner.

  The mildness of Cedric’s response seemed to flummox the young man and he fixed the other with a challenging stare, clearly poised for something more violent. But the professor stared back impassively saying nothing. Astounded by the drawing, Felix also remained speechless, but out of shock more than anything else. He looked anxiously at Cedric, wondering what the hell was going to happen next.

  In fact, what happened was that, sobered by Cedric’s silence, Finglestone stuffed the book into his raincoat pocket and sat down on the bed. He glanced at his watch; and then in a rather lordly manner gestured to the chairs opposite. Tactfully, they obeyed. ‘I’ve got a few minutes,’ he said calmly. ‘I suppose you want to know why I did it.’

  ‘Can’t wait to hear, dear boy,’ Felix said brightly, his voice at a slightly higher pitch than usual.

  Cedric gave him a warning frown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘She was in my way,’ the sculptor said simply.

  ‘She was in a lot of people’s way, but that hardly justifies your action,’ Cedric said severely.

  Finglestone pulled a face. ‘Yes, I agree it was rather tasteless – but an act of expedience rather than malice. And the point is it had to be done quickly. I couldn’t afford to mess around.’

  Felix gasped: ‘“Mess around”? But that’s exactly what you were doing! The whole thing was perfectly gross – I couldn’t sleep a wink for at least three days. And in any case, why use an Albanian knife, whatever that is? I mean to say—’

  He broke off, interrupted by Finglestone’s laugh. ‘Ah,’ the young man said, ‘I suppose you wonder what was wrong with a decent British knife, one I could have purchased from a Cambridge ironmonger and sharpened up a bit.’ He paused, frowning, and then said, ‘As it happens I rather wish I had. That knife was an heirloom, and I didn’t really want to leave it in situ – but needs must when one is in a hurry. I had to scarper quickly.’ He gave a rueful smile.

  ‘The knife is an irrelevance,’ Cedric snapped. ‘More to the point is your motive. Why do it, for God’s sake?’

  Finglestone sighed and spread his hands. ‘I am a victim,’ he said simply, ‘a victim of circumstance and misplaced honour.’

  They gazed at him in astonishment. ‘You’re a victim! What about Gloria on that bridge?’ Felix exclaimed.

  Finglestone shrugged. ‘There are categories of victimhood,’ he replied dismissively, ‘and if she hadn’t been so damned interfering she would be alive now. She brought it on herself.’ He spoke with finality and seemed to think that was the end of the matter.

  But Cedric wasn’t having that and, adopting a tone of ingratiating interest, murmured: ‘Fascinating. But I’m not quite clear about that misplaced honour you mention … I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten?’ He gave a polite smile.

  The other glanced at his watch, and then evidently reassured both by the time and Cedric’s emollient tone, nodded. ‘Well, you see I am originally from Albania, and—’

  ‘I don’t care where you come from,’ Felix cried impatiently. ‘I can’t see what that has to do with you murdering that woman … and besides, where is Albania?’ he asked, looking at Cedric.

  The latter frowned, irritated by the interruption. ‘Oh, it’s a most charming country,’ he said hastily, �
��by the Ionian Sea and a little north of Greece. Glorious landscape and fiercely independent people … Isn’t that so?’ he asked blandly, turning to Finglestone.

  The other shrugged. ‘So they tell me,’ he said indifferently, ‘but I don’t remember much. I was a small child up in the mountains; and then mercifully, in 1939 when the Eyeties came in, my family was able to escape to England. Since then I have never been back; don’t want to. Safer here – or at least it was until I met the fragrant Gloria again.’

  ‘Ah, so your family were keen to escape the Italian fascists at the outbreak of war. They were lucky to get out, I imagine,’ Cedric remarked, but wondering what Gloria had to do with it all.

  ‘Oh, there were worse forces to escape than the fascists,’ the other said bitterly, ‘still are, in fact.’

  Felix gave a derisive snort: ‘Oh you mean like marauding mountain bears, I suppose. Tribes of grizzlies eager for their breakfast.’

  Finglestone regarded him coldly. ‘No, Mr Smythe. I mean creatures more dedicated, more dangerous: marauding locals out for vengeance.’

  There was a bemused silence while they digested his words. Cedric cleared his throat: ‘Er, I see – so what exactly were they trying to avenge?’

  ‘A death. One I happen to have caused and which triggered a manic blood feud. It’s what they like doing there: feuding. It’s part of the culture,’ he added carelessly. ‘And now I am a marked man.’

  A marked man? Cedric thought quizzically. The phrase had the ring of a John Buchan novel or one of those derring-do thrillers, Bulldog Drummond or some such. Was the young man a fantasist? Still, he recalled with a shudder, there had been nothing fantastic about Gloria’s murder; that had been real enough! Could there really be truth in what he was saying about the blood feud? The Balkans, of course, had always been notorious for its vendettas, but surely that sort of thing had long died out – hadn’t it?

  ‘But if you were such a small child, how could you have caused a death, and whose was it?’ Felix demanded accusingly, echoing Cedric’s scepticism. He sniffed. ‘Anyway, you don’t sound at all foreign to me. Sloane Square, I should say.’

  The young man gave him a pitying look. ‘Not all barbarians speak with a guttural accent, Mr Smythe. I was educated at Winchester, followed by the Chelsea School of Art – not within your province, I imagine.’

  Felix tossed his head. ‘Well really!’ he exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘Ssh!’ Cedric said curtly and, turning away from Felix, asked if Finglestone would care to enlarge. ‘So who was the victim?’

  ‘An uncle’s child, my first cousin. I was six, he was four. A nasty little brat, always grabbing my food. I couldn’t stand him. One day he went too far: he had discovered my cache of goats’ cheese and raki, and—’

  ‘Raki? But that’s surely not a child’s drink?’ Cedric was mildly shocked.

  Finglestone grimaced and shook his head. ‘You’re right, it wasn’t very nice: bravado, I suppose – anything to put one over the grown-ups. I had a secret store in an old hut my grandfather used to keep his pigs in. And then one day when I was sitting there quietly, fat Fico came crawling up and tried to nab the cheese. So I biffed him one. Two or three times actually. It was rather fun …’ A faraway look came into Finglestone’s eyes as if recalling the scene. ‘Or at least it was fun until the little blighter failed to get off the ground, and then, of course, all hell was let loose. The cousins never forgave my family and swore undying vengeance. Fortunately their plans were stymied by Mussolini’s invasion, and amidst the ensuing havoc my father was able to smuggle us out to England to live with an exiled aunt in Islington.’

  ‘Exciting days,’ Cedric remarked with veiled sarcasm, still not convinced. ‘But I can’t for the life of me see where Gloria Biggs-Brookby fits in, let alone why you had to kill her. You said something about meeting her for a second time. So when was the first?’

  ‘In the war, when I was an evacuee. It may not have been central, but Islington was getting the fallout from the Blitz and thus my sister and I were packed off to the country. Our worthy hosts were the Biggs-Brookbys – mummy, daddy and the darling daughter. Gloria was a bit too old to be in the ATS but, as you may imagine, she was tireless in organising the civilian war effort: local fire-watching rotas and all that sort of thing.’

  Finglestone paused reflectively, before adding, ‘On the whole, I suppose she had her uses.’ And then he laughed: ‘As a matter of fact, despite all that activity, she had quite a bit of time for me – must have been the curly hair. She used to give me her sugar ration; and I once overheard her telling my sister I was her refugee cherub.’

  ‘Some cherub!’ Felix muttered, but was silenced by a look from Cedric.

  ‘All right, so you were once the spoilt blue-eyed boy, but that hardly explains why you had to—’

  ‘Dispatch her? It certainly does. The woman was like a minefield: you could negotiate her so far, but you knew that one day, if you put a foot wrong, she could unleash an explosion. I simply couldn’t take the risk. The knifing was necessary, a pre-emptive action.’

  ‘Pre-empting what?’ Felix expostulated. ‘I really don’t understand what you are talking about!’

  ‘Pre-empting her opening her fat trap and announcing to everybody that I had killed bloody Fico. Becoming a known fratricide, or whatever its cousinly equivalent is, would hardly get me my next commission. Such biographical titbits may be useful once you are safely dead, but not while you are alive and trying to make your name. But far worse than that was the chance of my Albanian pursuers getting wind of my whereabouts. Frankly, I didn’t fancy the idea of being assassinated in the middle of Trinity’s Great Court … Although if I don’t get out quick they might try that anyway,’ he added grimly. ‘I’ve had a tip-off.’

  ‘Oh, they wouldn’t do it there,’ said Felix scornfully, ‘far too public. Some sinister side alley is much more likely. I know just the place: how about down by—’

  The other regarded him narrowly. ‘You think I am making this up, don’t you? Well, I can tell you that—’

  The thought had also crossed Cedric’s mind, but noting the man’s steely tone and bitter eyes he began to wonder. ‘Oh, Felix never believes anything,’ he said lightly. ‘In fact, the only person he really trusts is the Queen Mother; and if one of those corgis nips him again she too may lose that accolade … But tell me, I still can’t see why Gloria was such a threat. I mean, how would she know about Fico?’

  ‘Because like a fool I told her. It was when I was their evacuee. I didn’t normally think about the incident, but one night I had a terrifying dream and woke up yelling the house down. Gloria and her father came rushing into the bedroom and I blabbed it all out. At that age you don’t think of consequences; and besides, three months later with the Blitz more or less over we returned to London and I got on with my new life. I forgot all about the Biggs-Brookbys, and the Albanian business became a vague and irrelevant memory.’

  The narrator paused to light a cigarette, and then gave a grim laugh. ‘Ironic, really. When years later I bumped into Gloria at a small gallery displaying some of my work it seemed a happy coincidence. She was delighted to see me, went into raptures about my exhibits and then told me about her father having been an eminent scholar (something I hadn’t realised as a kid), and that his old Cambridge college was about to commission a sculptor for his memorial bronze. “Yippee,” I thought, “this might be handy!” … And so it was. She took me under her wing, pushed my chances like hell – and then, lo and behold, with the death of old Reid the job was virtually mine for the taking.’

  ‘So why on earth kill the woman?’ Felix exploded. ‘Talk about biting the hand that fed you!’

  ‘Have you ever been sickened by someone’s fawning attentions, and then feared and hated them for what they might disclose, Mr Smythe?’

  Felix thought hard for a few seconds, and then with a modest smile replied that all attentions were most gratefully received; and as for disclosures �
� well his life was pure as the driven snow: ‘An open book,’ he smirked, winking at Cedric.

  The latter remained grim-faced and, ignoring his friend, asked why Gloria had seemed likely to disclose anything. ‘She was irritating, perhaps, but not vindictive – or at least I shouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘No, not vindictive, merely garrulous and with an elephant’s memory. I was horrified when recently she suddenly brought up the whole subject, described the details (which I could barely remember myself), and then graciously assured me that she would never say a word to anyone and that it would be “our little secret”. Personally, I didn’t want to share any secret with Gloria, least of all one like that – it would bind me to her for life.’ Finglestone paused, and then muttered quietly almost to himself, ‘There was something else, too, although she never brought it up, but I suspect she may have guessed.’

  ‘Guessed what?’ Felix interrupted. But other than an impatient sigh there was no response.

  ‘And so to prevent that life allegiance you killed her?’ Cedric asked. ‘Rather an extreme measure, I should say. And after all, had she said anything surely you could have brazened it out and said she was merely a frustrated middle-aged lady seeking attention.’

  Finglestone shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But it would have been a tedious inconvenience and a waste of valuable time. And in any case, mud sticks as they say. I couldn’t risk it.’

  He stared at them with cold defiance, and then said slowly, ‘But you see it wasn’t just a question of professional safeguard. Certainly, she was a threat to my reputation – but as I have just told you, there are those who want my life and who will not rest until they have dealt with me as I dealt with the kid Fico … They call it family honour,’ he added bitterly. ‘The merest hint from Gloria, however unwitting, and they would be on my trail immediately.’

  ‘With guns blazing?’ enquired Felix.

  ‘Shut up, Mr Smythe! I’ve had enough of your damn fool remarks!’ Finglestone glowered.