The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  And Felix, with the unsettling image of Gloria’s spreadeagled corpse, was duly silent.

  Astonished though Cedric was by Finglestone’s revelations, he was also puzzled. ‘Tell me, Monty,’ he said affably, ‘if you killed Gloria to keep her quiet and to preserve your life and reputation, why are you now in such a scramble to leave Cambridge? In theory, you should feel safe. Has there been a development since you, er – dealt with her? I mean, what is this tip-off you mentioned?’

  Finglestone put a hand in his pocket and drew out a crumpled postcard. ‘Read that,’ he said curtly. ‘It came this afternoon.’

  The message bore a Belgian postmark and was scrawled and ill-spelt. Get out quik. They are cuming. We meet you Brussels. Vite! Toni.

  ‘Who is Toni?’

  ‘My sister’s husband, a reliable source. If he says they are coming then they will be. But I’m not staying to find out.’ Finglestone stood up and began to put on his raincoat.

  Cedric was momentarily nonplussed, but then as calmly as he could, pointed out that in view of what they had just been told it was their duty to hand him over to the police. ‘If what you say is true, then clearly the authorities will need to be informed,’ he murmured in his most professorial voice.

  This clearly amused Finglestone, who with a caustic laugh enquired how exactly that would be achieved.

  Cedric hesitated, and then declared firmly that if he wasn’t prepared to cooperate, he feared they would have to take him prisoner. (Felix felt a bit uneasy about this, but tried to look appropriately tough.)

  Finglestone regarded the pair: the one thin and elderly, the other thin and weedy. They were not exactly the most daunting adversaries: pathetic, really. He gave a superior smile. ‘On the whole, gentlemen, I don’t think you are going to stop me. I am expecting a car any minute and you are in my way.’ He had taken Felix’s room key from the mantelpiece and swung it in front of them. ‘I fear it will be you who are detained, not me. There’s nobody on this staircase tonight, they’ve gone racing at Newmarket. Your bawling won’t be heard.’

  He stepped forward to pick up the rucksack, but was impeded by Cedric, who, suddenly lunging towards him, delivered a swift uppercut followed by a deft left jab to the solar plexus. Finglestone staggered back, tripped over Felix’s new shoes neatly placed by the bedside, and collapsed to the floor – felled less by force than by astonishment.

  ‘Oh my flaming aunt,’ Felix squeaked, ‘what have you done!’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Cedric replied breathlessly, ‘but grab that paperweight and when he gets up clock him one.’

  Thus, when Sir Richard Dick and the bursar opened the door their eyes were met by a curious spectacle: a broad-shouldered young man sprawled on his back staring up wildly at two slimline bruisers poised for business – or at least their attitude suggested bruisers, age and physique hinted otherwise.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the bursar cried.

  ‘Good Lord, why is Finglestone like that?’ chimed the Master.

  Cedric and Felix lowered fists and paperweight. ‘Ah, well you see—’ Cedric began.

  But before he could get any further his victim had leapt up and, thrusting the two visitors aside, rushed through the door and down the staircase. In the silence of the night, his feet could be heard pounding across the gravel path of the inner court.

  Steadying himself and adjusting his glasses, Sir Richard rounded on Cedric. ‘What on earth’s going on here? Really, Professor, I should have thought that—’

  But his thought was never uttered, for at that moment two clear gunshots rang out from the direction of the porter’s lodge.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s shooting someone!’ the bursar cried.

  ‘Absurd,’ the Master snapped, ‘that’s Jenkins potting rabbits; they come up from the Backs. It’s his evening sport.’

  ‘Rabbits or not, we’ve got to catch that man. He’s highly dangerous and thinks he is being pursued by avenging fiends,’ Cedric panted, still not recovered from his fisticuffs. ‘I’ll explain later. Come on!’

  They clattered down the stairs, Felix warily lagging behind … Really, one was not cut out for such rampage!

  Once through the archway, the rampage came to a sudden halt and they stared at a recumbent shape on the grass by the porter’s lodge. One thing was certain: the shape was no rabbit. Instead they were confronted by the body of a man – broad-shouldered and curly haired. Another sculptor lay before them: very dead. He had been shot in the back.

  The Master closed his eyes. ‘That’s all I need!’ he groaned silently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Roughly at the same time as this drama was being enacted, Aldous Phipps was comfortably settled by his fireside, book and pencil in hand. Suddenly, the dog pricked its ears, scampered into the hall and gave an irritable bark. It had been dreaming happily about bones and rabbit holes, or whatever it is that engages small terriers, and was none too pleased to be woken from its slumber.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Popsie,’ snapped its master, also irritably, ‘you know it’s only the evening paper.’ The dog knew better and continued to emit testy yaps.

  With a sigh Aldous Phipps cast aside his pencil and reading matter (a rather clumsy translation of a Plato work he was caustically annotating), and went into the hall to quell the dog and pick up the newspaper.

  Letter box and mat were bare, but what the elderly don did see was a face peering in at the side window. The next moment the doorbell rang.

  The noise set the dog off again. ‘Ssh!’ commanded its master. ‘Friend or foe we’ll let neither in, I am far too busy.’ He slid back the bolt, keeping the chain in place (with the number of scoundrels invading Cambridge these days one couldn’t be too careful!) and cautiously squinted into the evening gloom.

  A man stood there: not very tall, thickset and wearing a raincoat with turned-up collar. Aldous Phipps had never seen him before in his life. ‘Yes?’ he said tentatively through the narrow gap. (He had no intention of releasing the chain.)

  The man took a step forward, stooping slightly to get a clearer view of the doorkeeper. ‘Is this where Monty lives?’ he asked.

  Phipps frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Monty Finglestone. He is staying at this college I am told: number 6.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the sculptor person,’ Phipps replied indifferently. ‘Well, you may be right about the number, but this is hardly the college. Where you are now is the private mews opposite, and number 6 is my residence. The college is that rather large edifice directly behind you – normally rather difficult to miss, I should think. If you enquire at the porter’s lodge around the corner I daresay you will be directed – unless they have already closed the gates: their schedule is a trifle whimsical. Now, if you don’t mind, I have important matters to attend to …’

  Phipps gave a wintry smile and firmly shut the door. ‘Really, Popsie,’ he muttered on their way back to the sitting room, ‘what an absurd mistake. Foreign, I daresay – I detected a guttural note.’

  The dog said nothing. Its silence was rewarded with a biscuit; while to compensate for the disturbance its master poured a dry sherry.

  Twenty minutes later, and once more immersed in the pleasurable task of damning the latest Plato translation, Professor Phipps did not hear the two gunshots that rang out behind the high wall opposite.

  However, when later apprising the investigating authorities of his own experience on that disturbing night, he was able to tell them categorically that the visitor looking for Finglestone’s lodging had been a foreigner – having a very thick accent and a distinctly swarthy countenance. (Phipps was not quite sure about the latter, but was warming to the idea.)

  ‘Naturally, Chief Inspector, had I realised what his intention was I should have withheld my guidance. As it is, I fear I may have unwittingly paved the way to his unfortunate victim.’ Phipps spoke in a tone of ostensible regret.

  Later, regaling his colleagues at High Table, he was emphatic in saying
he had glimpsed a distinct bulge in one of the stranger’s coat pockets. ‘And,’ he added with a glint of triumph, ‘I don’t imagine it was a bag of toffees!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Being unquestionably a murder, and one following so soon after the Magdalene Bridge knifing, it was Chief Inspector Wait who accompanied Tilson to the crime scene.

  After the removal of the body to the pathology lab, the four witnesses were asked for their statements. These were taken separately in the porter’s lodge in the hope that being so close to the shooting its custodian could supply some revealing detail. But Jenkins reported he had heard nothing, being engrossed in a book. (He had been asleep.) Sir Richard and the bursar gave a brief account of the scene they had witnessed when entering Felix’s room, plus the hectic chase across the court. Asked why they had happened to be in that quarter of the court, they explained they had gone to call on one of the guests there, but receiving no reply assumed he was out. Passing Mr Smythe’s room they had heard a loud commotion and felt they should check to see if all was well – the last occupant having complained bitterly about marauding moths. They had been distinctly put out to find not moths but mayhem.

  Their statements completed they were permitted to go, and the officers then turned to Cedric and Felix. The two friends corroborated the others’ account, but added much more: namely the murdered man’s confession to killing Gloria, his motives and his fear that he was being pursued by avenging Albanians. Cedric also made the helpful suggestion that prior to the corpse being examined by the forensics they might like to retrieve the damning evidence he had stuffed into his raincoat pocket.

  ‘And what damning evidence would that be?’ Wait asked suspiciously.

  ‘A small pocket diary with an entry virtually admitting his guilt. It’s in the June section; you can’t miss it.’

  ‘Hmm, we’ll see about that,’ Wait grunted, and told a constable to alert the lab.

  He resumed the questioning.

  ‘You don’t think he was having you on, do you? I mean it sounds a bit far-fetched to me – this tale of foreign hoodlums haring across Europe intent on doing him in because of some peasant kid he had allegedly killed for eating his cheese ration.’

  ‘Yes, and that was all of twenty years ago,’ Tilson chimed. And then he added thoughtfully, ‘It would make quite a good film, really. Hitchcock could handle it, though I don’t know who the master villain could be – Sidney Greenstreet, perhaps.’ He grinned, and Wait frowned.

  Cedric shrugged and in his most haughty tone, said, ‘We can only report what we were told. It is hardly for us to make judgements as to the young man’s veracity. I rather think that is your job, Officer.’

  Felix nodded vigorously, but said nothing.

  This was just as well, for in response to Cedric’s snub Wait said woodenly, ‘A coincidence, really, you two being the same gentlemen who found the unfortunate Miss Biggs-Brookby … and she, according to you, happening to have been the victim of Mr Finglestone. You must find your time in Cambridge a mite repetitive. Odd the way things work out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, Chief Inspector,’ Cedric agreed blandly, ‘very odd. But then that’s life – a long, disjointed trail of chance and coincidence. In fact, a great friend of mine has just made a study of it. It’s a fascinating book and if you like I can give you its reference.’ He took a pen and notebook from his pocket.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Wait said curtly.

  After more probings the interview was concluded, but the witnesses told to keep themselves available for further questioning. They were also warned sternly that since the Biggs-Brookby case was still under investigation that on no account should they divulge what they had been told by Finglestone, neither to Sir Richard and the bursar, nor to anyone else.

  ‘His tale may be all hogwash,’ Wait said, ‘but we can’t be sure and at this stage any leaks would prejudice that enquiry. People will ask questions, of course, but you must say that the man was drunk, broke into the room for no coherent reason and attacked you. You need go no further than that.’

  Cedric and Felix nodded obediently.

  ‘A pompous little smart-arse, that professor,’ the chief inspector observed sourly as he got into the car. ‘Mind you, you didn’t help much – making that damn fool comment about a film. This is a serious investigation; facetious humour is not part of it.’

  Po-faced bugger, thought Tilson.

  Back at the station Wait found the requested notebook already on his desk. It contained a few entries, mainly appointments and the occasional sketch of an anatomical feature presumably of some sculpting value. He leafed quickly to the June section and stared down at Gloria’s posterior propped on Magdalene Bridge. He gave a low whistle and summoned Tilson.

  Tilson was excited, but was told curtly to hold his horses. ‘This doesn’t admit anything,’ Wait pointed out. ‘It merely suggests the chap was pleased to learn the woman was dead. I expect a lot of people did something similar when they heard Hitler had died: drew a pretty picture and added, ‘Hooray, the bastard’s gone!’

  Tilson nodded. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘as circumstantial evidence goes, it’s not bad, is it? Not something to be discounted, exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ They grinned.

  The victim’s tale of being hounded to Cambridge by would-be assassins was in some degree supported by Aldous Phipps, who, later learning of the matter and recalling the stranger at his door that evening, toddled along to St Andrew’s Street to give his version of events. Such action had less to do with civic duty than with a desire to add his pennyworth and thus stir the pot.

  Rather reluctantly Tilson accepted his statement. A foreign-sounding stranger seeking Finglestone a little before the man was shot did rather fit the story as reported by the witnesses Dillworthy and Smythe. Clearly an alert would have to be put out for thickset swarthy-looking thugs with guttural accents. He sighed. A pointless task, surely. The man was bound to have slipped away; these professional assassins were good at making themselves scarce. But on principle a search should be made … Meanwhile, he would have to get Hopkins on to checking the alleged link between Finglestone and the Biggs-Brookby woman. If it could be proved that he had indeed been her killer that would save a lot of messing about, and with luck provide some kudos. It was about time they had a really good coup!

  Much to the disappointment of Aldous Phipps (and to Tilson’s annoyance) the professor’s version of the night’s events had taken them down a blind alley. After a search for the sinister fellow of foreign mien, it transpired that Phipps’ visitor had been a taxi driver from a small firm on the Cambridge outskirts. Apparently Finglestone had called the company earlier in the day booking a cab to take him to London Airport that evening. The request had been at short notice, something that the fare duly reflected. Thus, the job was marked top priority with the boss himself in the driving seat. But as luck would have it he had fallen ill and been replaced by an underling new to the area. The man had spent a fruitless time getting spectacularly lost and knocking on doors opened by the seductive likes of Professor Phipps. Finally cheesed off by the whole thing he had given up in frustration, gone to the pub and thrown in the job.

  Inspector Tilson recognised the inclination and felt some sympathy. Still, he reflected, even if the sculptor’s Albanian pursuers were elusive (or mythical), at least something concrete might emerge from the searches Hopkins was making about the alleged link between the dead man and the murdered woman. A slender hope, but not beyond the realms of possibility – what might be termed a decent outside chance. One couldn’t be sceptical all the time.

  Shelving Gloria, he returned his thoughts to the sculptor’s own death. Unlikely though the assassination theory was (and old Phipps’ report of a mysterious visitor being a non-starter) it would be rash to discount it. After all, there was that postcard that Finglestone had shown to Smythe and Dillworthy. Though terse and semi-literate, its warning could not have been clearer: Get out qui
k. They are cuming … Tilson studied the thing again. It was genuine, all right – Belgian stamp and postmark. The latter was too indistinct to fix its exact source, but the date was clear enough and would fit the man’s claim that he had received it on the afternoon before his murder. Had the helpful Toni’s advice to scarper come too late? Had ‘they’ indeed found their quarry, done the job and then quickly and slickly removed themselves … ? Improbable, but not impossible. Tilson frowned. Apart from the fact that the weapon was likely to have been a Webley (an old service revolver) they had nothing to go on. A search of the immediate area had yielded nothing. He smiled ruefully: a return plane ticket to Albania would have been handy.

  There was a knock and a constable entered. ‘Got a present for you, sir,’ he announced. ‘Jenkins, the porter from that college sent it over. He found it caught up on a rose trellis by the side gate and said he thought you might find it useful.’ He placed a crumpled green handkerchief on Tilson’s desk.

  The latter gazed at it. ‘So what am I supposed to do with this – blow my nose?’

  Disregarding the question, the constable explained that Jenkins had found it the day after the shooting and put it in his Lost Property box. It had been lying there for a couple of days when it recently occurred to him it might be of some relevance.

  ‘Recently? So why didn’t he bring it straightaway?’ Tilson growled.

  ‘Apparently he is a very busy man and such incidentals have to take their turn in his demanding schedule.’ The constable grinned.

  ‘I see,’ the inspector said grimly. ‘So, if Mr Jenkins has so many pressing duties to fulfil, perhaps he had overlooked its presence in the rose bush, perhaps the handkerchief had been stuck in the thing long before the murder.’