‘He says not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because one of those duties is to fertilise the roses. He says it’s a job he takes very seriously and applies the stuff as regular as clockwork. The most recent application was in the late afternoon of the day Finglestone was shot. He swears blind it wasn’t there then.’
Tilson sighed. ‘Thank you, Constable. Send in Sergeant Hopkins, will you.’
‘Have a look at this,’ the inspector directed when Hopkins arrived.
The sergeant made an examination. ‘It’s a man’s handkerchief,’ he said brightly, ‘you can tell that from the size: a woman’s hooter is smaller.’
Tilson groaned. ‘Obviously it’s a perishing handkerchief, but what about the material and those fancy initials – what does that tell us?’
‘Silk, rolled edge, hand embroidered. It’s expensive, sir, not any old thing like you’d buy at Woolworth’s,’ Hopkins declared smartly. (He had deliberately inserted the last bit knowing that the inspector’s own supply came from that source.)
‘Good. Glad you noticed, Sergeant,’ his boss said dryly. ‘Should this have belonged to the murderer then we are in luck: most clues do not come with initials attached. Now my reading of them is V. Z. C. Might that possibly accord with yours?’
Hopkins agreed that it did.
Suddenly, Tilson laughed. ‘Do you think the names Vladimir and Zeus have a Balkan ring?’
‘What about the C?’ Hopkins replied soberly.
Tilson shrugged. ‘Ceauçescu might fit.’
‘Hmm. So what shall we do with it?’
‘Well, Sergeant, we’ll keep it up our sleeve, naturally. How about that? … Now go and file it, would you, I’ve got a report to do for the chief inspector. We can’t keep Mr Wait waiting!’
Hopkins flinched. His wit will slay me, he thought gloomily as he departed for the filing cabinets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘It’s a plot,’ the Master declared, ‘that’s what it is, a confounded plot! Quite clearly a plot to foil our monument proposals. A sponsor dead, two sculptors down and none in the offing – and the daughter murdered in a public place. Mark my words, some fiendish bastard has it in for this college!’
He glared round at his colleagues hastily summoned for an Emergency Consultative Meeting to discuss the latest developments.
‘Cuff?’ someone vaguely suggested.
Sir Richard waved his hand impatiently: ‘Hasn’t got the gumption. Besides, when he’s not droning away in the Council House he’s much too absorbed with that obnoxious brood of his … No, it’s obviously someone far more astute and wily, someone utterly tenacious and unencumbered by domestic claims.’
‘In that case,’ Aldous Phipps ventured slyly, ‘were it not for your charming wife it might be you yourself, Master. Tenacious, astute … the conditions are undoubtedly there.’ He flashed a mocking smile at the rest of the table.
‘This is no joke,’ the other snapped, ‘it is a serious matter. And I would thank you, Aldous, to keep your witty pleasantries to yourself.’
Phipps gave the merest shrug and murmured something to the effect that one should never discount the impossible.
The Master affected not to hear, wishing with all his heart that someone would do away with the elderly don. After all, why should fate stop at four? he wondered.
Dr Maycock cleared his throat, before remarking that actually two of the fatalities were purely accidental and therefore could hardly be a factor in any hypothetical plot. ‘If I may say so, Master, I think you are being a trifle hasty in your assumption,’ he remarked blandly.
Sir Richard regarded him with undisguised irritation. Trust Maycock to be so damned literal! ‘As it happens, I am not so sure about that, Dr Maycock,’ he retorted. ‘I suspect there may have been more to the Reid business than meets the eye. However, since the police seem entirely satisfied with that particular demise, naturally I shall say no more. And as for Hinchcliffe, well, yes, he was always frail …’ He drummed his fingers. ‘Now, gentlemen, to our purpose: given the unfortunate circumstances, what is to be our next move?’
‘Scrap it,’ a voice said.
There was silence as all eyes turned towards John Smithers.
Sir Richard fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘Really? And on what do you base that helpful suggestion?’ he said coldly.
The younger man flushed slightly, but held his ground. ‘Look,’ he said slowly, ‘as you have rather implied, this statue project seems to have been unaccountably doomed. Don’t let’s chance our arm and invite further trouble or dig ourselves deeper into an already uncomfortable hole. Acquiring that bit of ground has cost us considerable time and money. Are we now to spend more of both by seeking yet another sculptor for the job? It has become pretty obvious that artists of the right calibre are thin on the ground, and thus the task of finding someone suitable – or willing – may be tediously protracted. Do we really want to start the whole thing all over again?’ Smithers cast a challenging eye around the table, but not waiting for an answer continued.
‘Now those are the practical considerations – but it also strikes me that because of the violent nature of three of the deaths, a statue of Sir Percival may become a focus not of respect but of crude curiosity. Any guide worth his salt would be bound to spice up his spiel by emphasising the events surrounding the thing. It would be those events, not the man, which would grab the public’s attention. “The college with the jinxed statue: a sinister tale!” Is that what you want?’
‘But why not?’ interrupted Aldous Phipps. ‘If it would increase our revenue, then by all means. We could advertise the monument as a special feature and make the visitors pay for the privilege of viewing it. Just think, we might make quite a financial killing. Never pass up an opportunity, that’s my motto.’
The bursar gave a snort of mirth. ‘Ah, and doubtless you would volunteer to stand at the garden gate with collecting bag in hand, all poised to shovel in their coins!’
‘I might be persuaded,’ Phipps replied.
‘Advertise?’ the Master thundered. ‘This is not a fairground we have inherited but an ancient college of noble distinction. Our aim is to elevate its name, not grind it into the dust of Mammon! I should have thought that you of all people would recognise that, Professor.’
Phipps shrugged, quite unscathed. ‘Just trying to be helpful,’ he murmured.
The Master sighed silently and shuffled his papers. When had Aldous Phipps ever been remotely helpful? he wondered.
Dr Maycock, seated at the opposite end of the table from Sir Richard, also sighed, but in his case the sound was audible and followed by a loud clearing of throat: obviously the prelude to speech.
Instinctively, John Smithers closed his eyes, expecting some lugubrious pronouncement. But on hearing the mention of his own name immediately opened them, surprised to hear the Senior Tutor applauding his proposal to abandon the project.
‘I think that Dr Smithers has made fair comment,’ Maycock declared. ‘This whole business has gone on long enough and the matter is already attracting unwanted attention from the press. There was even an article about us in yesterday’s Times. The essential thing is that we now have ownership of that piece of land. It has become part of the college’s curtilage and as such we can do with it exactly as we choose. It is not as if the presence of a statue was a condition of its sale.’
‘No, not a condition as such,’ somebody observed, ‘but nevertheless the City Council was given to understand that that was why we wanted it – to honour Sir Percival, a distinguished Cambridge scholar who has done much for the university. And other than Alderman Cuff, I think all were persuaded that our case was a worthy one. If we were now to change its purpose they might take a dim view.’
‘With all due respect to the council,’ Maycock remarked dryly, ‘I cannot see that their dim views are of much account. The point is the plot is our property; and if in our wisdom we decide to use it for something other tha
n first intended, then so be it. After all, it is only fools who never change their minds.’ This last statement was delivered with smug assurance and his eye swept the room defying a fool to object.
There was a silence followed by a burble of voices. Eventually the Master rapped the table. ‘Gentlemen, if we accept Dr Maycock’s view that the college cannot be expected to kowtow to the council’s preferences, then I should like to hear some concrete proposals as to how it might be used. Come on now, specific examples!’
‘What about a canine playground?’ suggested Aldous Phipps. ‘I gather a number of the kitchen and maintenance staff are dog owners. I am sure they would be most appreciative of the gesture – and I know that my Popsie would love the occasional frolic. We could call it “Hortus Canum”, although I think “The Dogs’ Paradise” has a friendlier ring, don’t you?’ He beamed, while the Master glared.
‘Why not just “The Dog Plot”?’ someone said brightly. His neighbour agreed, adding that he liked the snappy title – a comment eliciting good-humoured groans, except from Sir Richard, who quietly seethed.
‘In all seriousness,’ Maycock said, ‘I think we should retain its commemorative theme. For example, it could be dedicated to the memory of the college’s past Masters and there could be a plaque listing their names and perhaps fields of study. Speaking for myself, I find the sound of “The Masters’ Walk” rather appealing. It lends an air of quiet gravitas befitting our function.’
‘Hmm. But it’s not a very large plot,’ Sir Richard observed doubtfully, ‘so where exactly is one going to walk?’
‘Round in circles, presumably,’ Professor Turner replied. ‘It is said that such circular perambulation feeds the brain.’
‘Is that so? How very helpful. And now, if you don’t mind I should like to—’
‘And you see,’ cut in Aldous Phipps quickly, ‘we could plant tufts of aromatic spurge, rosemary for remembrance and tendrils of charming forget-me-nots to spiral around the base of the plaque. Highly appropriate.’ His eyes held a malicious glint.
‘Oh yes, and how about a gigantic clump of rue at the entrance,’ added Turner grinning, ‘easier to contain than perishing rhododendrons and just as picturesque.’
‘Rue? I trust there would be nothing to regret,’ the Master said tightly. ‘If this is indeed to be a viable venture we need suggestions that are practical and sober. Personally, I—’
‘If you want my opinion,’ John Smithers suddenly said, ‘I think it’s a lousy idea.’
‘What – rue at the gate?’ Turner asked.
Smithers shook his head. ‘The whole idea. There’s already a list of previous Masters up in the Combination Room. We hardly need any more of them. If anything needs to be commemorated it’s the college’s martyrs – those who laid down their lives in the two wars. Admittedly, there is a Roll of Honour in the chapel, but it’s not in a very conspicuous place and I think we can do better than that. I suggest we make the plot a Garden of Remembrance, a place for quiet reflection on the horrors of war and the sacrifice of our fellow scholars.’
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
There was a long silence. And then Turner cried: ‘First class! And we can fill the whole area with scarlet poppies and white lilies. It would look and smell delightful! Unless anyone else wants the job, I should be most honoured to take on the design. A good idea, Smithers.’ He smiled broadly, clearly pleased with the prospect of himself as head gardener.
There were one or two grunts of approval from others around the table. And somewhat to his own disappointment, Aldous Phipps also thought it a good idea. ‘Most thoughtful, if I may so,’ he murmured, ‘the best suggestion yet.’ And rather reluctantly he mustered a gracious nod in Smithers’ direction.
Dr Maycock was a little more fulsome in his congratulation, pleased that his protégé had evidently absorbed his advice on the value of ‘soundness’. Perhaps he could be persuaded to replace him on the confounded Town and Gown Committee; he had been trying to resign for ages. He leant across and warmly shook Smithers’ hand. Such gestures never came amiss.
Sir Richard, who had been silently debating which would look better, i.e. his full name and title carved into the plaque or just modest initials and surname, hastily cancelled such deliberations and composed his features into an expression of sage acceptance. Already he could see the newspaper’s report:
College Executive Pays Tribute to the Fallen: Sir Richard Dick announces that his college’s latest acquisition, a plot of derelict land once owned by the council, will be a memorial to those gallant scholars who in WWs I & II made noble sacrifice for their country. ‘It will be,’ he said pensively, ‘a place of rest and grateful contemplation; a place where dons and undergraduates may sit and muse upon the sadness of war and the heroism it engenders. We shall call it,’ he declared, ‘the Hortus Pacis – the Garden of Peace.’
Yes, undoubtedly the public would approve of that – considerably more than they would of a statue to an academic of whom most had never heard. With luck, too, it would help deflect their interest away from the appalling outrage of recent events.
Out loud he said, ‘I consider that most fitting. An extremely sound suggestion, Dr Smithers, and I trust that all here will support it.’ Challengingly his eye swept the table, and the room resonated with murmured endorsements.
‘Excellent. So we are all agreed, then,’ he declared firmly (and with concealed relief). ‘We shall start preparations immediately.’ He took a covert look at his watch. With luck, Anthea would have replenished the whisky; he had need.
There was the sound of a chair being pushed back. The bursar stood up and, resting his hands squarely on the table said, ‘Ah, but haven’t we forgotten something, Master?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sir Richard replied evenly. (Typical of Williams, always had to have the last word!)
‘But if you don’t mind my asking, what about the sponsors? After all, they do have a certain role in all of this. It is just conceivable that they may not like the change of plan and thus be reluctant to contribute. Admittedly, swathes of poppies and lilies may be less costly than any sculptor’s fee, but there is still the purchase price of the plot itself to be recouped. It would be unfortunate should the college have to pick up the tab for the whole project without additional aid. Wouldn’t you say?’
The Master regarded him steadily. The bastard was right, of course, but he could deal with it. ‘My dear, Bursar,’ he replied coolly, ‘I commend your concern for our vital resources and applaud your vigilance in the matter, but I can assure you that neither the plot’s contents nor its purpose are likely to affect our benefactors’ generosity. Given the nobility of Dr Smithers’ proposal, I really cannot imagine anyone wishing to oppose it.’ He paused, before adding, ‘Besides, I think you will find that provided a suitable notice is displayed with their names writ large, the sponsors will be only too keen to dig into their pockets and support the cause … whatever that cause may be.’ He flashed a sardonic smile, which was rewarded with appreciative chuckles.
The bursar gave a peremptory nod and sat down. ‘Let us hope you are right,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Of course one was right, Sir Richard Dick told himself as he made his way back to the Master’s Lodge. Smithers’ idea was first class; and as Maycock had implied, if the City Council didn’t like it they could take a running jump! He had had enough of outsiders questioning his decisions – though at least now he was spared the awfulness of the Biggs-Brookby onslaught. That was a mercy – though naturally one would have preferred a less brutal resolution … as presumably would the lady herself. Ironic, really, what crude forms fate’s benignity could take.
But then, he mused, much the same could be said about that extraordinary Finglestone business. Most certainly an outrageous end, but at least a stroke of financial luck for the college: his suggested fee had been enormous. Besides, one had never really taken to the chap – too self-satisfied and clea
rly keen on calling the shots. (Sir Richard stopped abruptly, his eye fixed on a clump of peonies. No, not the most suitable of idioms. He flinched, recalling the sight of the body gunned down on the grass.)
Continuing on and temporarily shelving the strange drama of Finglestone’s fate, his mind returned to John Smithers and his plot proposal. Coming from that young man the idea was remarkably sage. It had been a good contribution. So perhaps he should show his personal approval by inviting him to tea at the Lodge – privately, without the overbearing presence of Maycock or Mostyn Williams. Anthea could make one of her excellent chocolate cakes and perhaps rustle up some choux buns, her speciality. She would enjoy doing that, and besides it would be good for her: take her mind off recent events. She had been looking a little drawn of late – in fact, although he couldn’t be certain, she seemed to have lost some weight. Yes, quite clearly what she needed was a diversion and some rousing compliments about her cooking. And meanwhile he could do with a damn good whisky. It had been an arduous afternoon.
He opened the front door of the Lodge and entered the hall (fragrant with Felix’s lilies). ‘I say, Anthea,’ he called, ‘I think we might ask John Smithers to tea. What do you think?’
Lady Dick thought it was a rotten idea, but was hardly in a position to explain why. Since experiencing her paramour’s patent lack of gallantry regarding the Winston Reid debacle, Smithers had fallen distinctly low in her estimation. In fact, she had been berating herself for being so foolish as to have become involved in the first place. Oh yes, handsome enough and superficially amusing, but clearly not up to supporting a lady in distress. No knight in shining armour there, that was for sure. She must have been mad! Even Richard would have been more stalwart – though given the situation, he was the last person she could have turned to.
But what bothered her more than her lover’s lack of spine was the fact that unlike the police he knew the truth of what had happened that dreadful afternoon. In her naiveté she had told him … as too she had told that Felix Smythe. Really, she thought, I may be approaching fifty, but I have behaved like a half-witted schoolgirl! Still, the one sure thing (or so it would appear) was that the florist was going to remain mum. Those flowers were lovely and he had been so insistent in assuring her of his silence, touchingly so. Yes, on the whole she felt she was safe with Mr Felix Smythe. Indeed, when she was next in London she might even make a complimentary call at his shop … Anthea pulled herself up sharply. No! Leave well alone. Certainly the man had been kind, but luck should not be pushed. As Nanny had always counselled, the less said and seen the better. Let it all just fade into the dust and the past.
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