Anthea gazed at the lilies and brooded. Smythe’s words had indeed lightened her mind, but what of her other confidant? Would John Smithers be so gallant? Perhaps not gallant, but he might be prudent. With luck, his fear of being seen as remotely linked with the event would prevent him from saying anything to anybody.
But then what about Richard? Supposing that in the fullness of time he should ever sniff a rat about the affair, let alone suspect she had been at Reid’s house. What then, for God’s sake? Could she handle him, smooth him over? Admittedly, his finding out was unlikely, but not impossible. After all, that snide little fox Phipps was still wheezing on about Reid’s taste in whisky; suppose they should reopen the case? She had overheard him only the other day muttering about it to Professor Dillworthy. Fortunately the other seemed to be paying only perfunctory attention. And knowing Phipps, with any luck his interest would have been diverted by some fresh theme – namely, the conviction that but for the grace of God he had almost opened his door to Finglestone’s killer.
Though somewhat comforted, Anthea still gave a heavy sigh. Really, life was fraught with so many sneaky hazards … And now she was expected to bake a cake for sodding Smithers!
Back at his flat sodding Smithers was feeling rather pleased with the way things had gone. His argument regarding the land usage had been absolutely genuine and he was gratified that the committee had seen his point. But quite apart from the principle of the matter, it was also nice to think that tactically, too, he had made a good move, which could well be to his future advantage. Old Maycock had counselled winning the approval of his peers, and judging from the afternoon’s discussion that is exactly what had happened. His proposal had certainly not been made with that in mind, but it was what one might call a handy spin-off. The Master, in particular – who had always regarded him with a slightly distant eye – had been clearly impressed.
Smithers frowned. That was the plus side, but then there was the minus. It was all very well winning Dick’s approval, but would he be so approving if he ever learnt of the wife business? Pretty short odds, he guessed. Not even short: a forgone result with no bets taken. He winced. If Anthea Dick cared to open her charming mouth, something that out of pique or weakness she might decide to do, he would be in the can – Hortus Pacis or not!
How far could her discretion be trusted? Anyone’s guess. Since apprising him of the Reid event and his failure to respond with the sympathy evidently required, her attitude to him had cooled – which in the circumstances was no bad thing. But equally it could suggest a mounting resentment that she might pursue. You could never be sure with women; they were contrary creatures and hard to assess: devoted to you one minute and ditched you the next. Take Myrtle Miller, for example! (Smithers bristled with annoyance, recalling the scene of his recent overthrow.) Could it be that his jovial hint about her expanding girth had been a tactical error? He briefly pondered the question, and then returned his mind to the more pressing matter of Anthea.
Her role in Reid’s demise was mild dynamite – far from mild, in fact, the personal repercussions could be considerable; and with that hanging over her she was unlikely to confide the liaison to anyone, let alone her husband. Yes, unlikely, but one couldn’t be sure. Or perhaps one could. After all, in compliance with the coroner’s verdict the case had been closed. Thus, on the face of it she was safe … but only on the face of it. For he, John Smithers, held the one key to the truth (she would hardly have been fool enough to tell anyone else): he was the scaffolding to her whole deception. Mess with him at her peril!
Just for an instant he felt a satisfying sense of power. But it swiftly vanished, punctured by a stab of shame and the knowledge that such power was ignobly won and fragile, anyway. Nothing was certain. They each held a card, and if she were rash enough she might just decide to play hers and damage the pair of them. Smithers closed his eyes, unsettled by such thoughts.
He was even more unsettled when a minute later the telephone rang and he heard the Master’s voice inviting him to tea. ‘I thought we might discuss your proposal a little further and in more comfortable surroundings,’ Sir Richard said affably. ‘My wife would much enjoy your company. She’s a very good cook, you know, so you won’t starve.’
Pulling a face of spectacular contortion in the mirror, Smithers made the requisite response. In return he was directed to be at the Lodge by four o’clock sharp two days hence.
He returned to his chair and reclosed his eyes. Charming: a tea party threesome with scones and buttered toast. What more could a chap want? He swore gently.
In fact, contrary to the expectations of guest and hostess, the proposed tea party went surprisingly well. This was not simply because Anthea had baked a superb cake, which both men had obviously relished, but because John Smithers delivered some news likely to free both himself and his erstwhile mistress from their mutual suspicion.
At first he and Anthea had behaved with guarded courtesy: she only thinly welcoming, he stiffly polite. However, the tension was undetected by Sir Richard. Although still reeling from the disgraceful Finglestone palaver, he was much cheered by the committee’s enlightened decision re the usage of the plot. A moderate triumph, perhaps, in the recent ghastly scheme of things, but a triumph nevertheless. This and the fact that it was largely Smithers’ doing, made him treat his guest with uncritical warmth and any signs of awkward reserve went entirely unnoticed.
Thus such was his host’s genial manner, that in a pause between scoffing a scone and accepting a second slice of cake, Smithers saw fit to make his announcement. This was to the effect that on that very morning he had received an invitation from Yale to become their resident exponent on his specialist subject, the writer Henry James, with exclusive access to some recently unearthed manuscripts (sources untapped even by the eminent authority Leon Edel). Diffidently, he enquired whether Sir Richard would endorse his absence. Yale had offered a year’s initial appointment with minimum teaching and maximum research. ‘It would enhance my current study enormously,’ he said eagerly, ‘and naturally the college’s name would appear in the book’s dedication. Indeed, you might be so kind as to write a brief foreword yourself – that would really be its crowning distinction!’ This last remark was delivered with jocular ease, but it was not without purpose and Anthea could see that Smithers had clearly profited from the Senior Tutor’s influence.
She glanced at her husband, hoping he would take the bait and approve the transfer.
Sir Richard was acquiescent. ‘Well, you have certainly earned your Fellowship here, Dr Smithers, and Yale will be lucky to have you. Spend your time wisely, as I know you will. Meanwhile, I will make a note to myself about that foreword. It will be a pleasure – though you may need to tell me what to put!’
‘Oh, and who knows,’ Anthea said gaily, ‘you may even return with an American wife. You had better watch your step!’
‘I must indeed, Lady Dick,’ he had replied with mock gravity.
There was general laughter and the guest was prevailed upon to have another scone.
When it was time to leave, Anthea accompanied Smithers into the porch where he gladly accepted the remains of the cake which she had wrapped for him to take home. He thanked her for the delicious tea and its accompanying gift and started to walk away, but then stopped. He turned and winked. It was a valedictory wink and she knew she was safe.
At about the same time as Sir Richard had been considering inviting Dr Smithers to tea, i.e. soon after the Emergency Consultative Meeting, Maycock had telephoned Bantry with news of the committee’s decision and urged him to dine later that week. ‘There are one or two things we might mull over,’ he had chuckled.
Thus a few hours after John Smithers had left the Master’s Lodge, Lord Bantry was being entertained by the Senior Tutor in the latter’s large and cheerful sitting room. On the table between them stood a polished whisky decanter and two glasses. (Sally Maycock was slurping Asti in the kitchen, cooking up a feast of coq au vin, her new re
cipe gleaned from Elizabeth David.) Although summer, a small fire was flickering brightly and the two men were on good form, verging on the gleeful even. The smells from the kitchen enhanced their spirits and the whisky was being liberally shared.
‘One has to admit,’ Maycock observed, ‘that just occasionally things turn out with astonishing good luck.’
‘Astounding,’ Lord Bantry agreed. ‘What you might call a left and a right. I’ve never achieved that on a grouse moor, birds are too damn fast, but here in Cambridge … well, things are different, aren’t they.’ He grinned and raised his glass.
His host reciprocated. ‘We owe someone a debt, that’s for sure, but who I cannot imagine. But as you say, two birds at one go …’ He raised his glass again.
‘I see the crabbed hand of Aldous Phipps in this,’ Bantry said darkly. ‘You must admit he puts the knife into most people and he disliked both Gloria and Finglestone. My God, when I think of how he hounded me when he was my tutor!’
‘Doubtless deserved.’ Maycock laughed. ‘But I don’t see Phipps in quite so active a role. I should think poison would be more his style. But, of course, we don’t know that the murders were done by the same person. There might have been two of ’em. In which case a second toast is needed.’ He reached for the decanter.
At that moment his wife appeared announcing supper.
‘Join us, my dear,’ Dr Maycock said, extending a fond arm, ‘we were just pouring libations to the gods for granting our prayers. You must admit things have resolved themselves most satisfactorily – no more interference, the college saved a heap of money, and a plot of land destined to be a noble garden of which we can be justly proud.’
‘Some may be proud, but you may not get the chance,’ Sally Maycock replied crisply.
‘What can you mean?’
‘I mean that the murderer has not been caught and that for all we know is still out there lurking in a side alley just waiting to pounce. I suggest you avoid Laundress Lane for the next few weeks, you could be the next target … Now, hurry up and come and taste the stew.’
‘Your wife has the most exquisite imagination’ – Bantry laughed – ‘and such a good cook too!’
The evening was passed most agreeably and the following day the Senior Tutor was able to telephone the bursar to announce that Lord Bantry was now more than ready to proceed with his scholarship endowment for the Lame and Indigent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Stay cool, whatever the circumstances. That is what their father had always counselled. Rush and you will stumble, panic and you are lost. Instead speak slowly, think quickly and above all retain your poise and dignity. By acting thus you will always be in control …
Since their father had been the most impetuous of people and often the victim of his own quick temper, Dame Margery Collis and her twin brother had found such advice amusing. And yet as they had quickly learnt it was very much a question of ‘do as I say, not as I do’. For while being quizzical of the parental practice, their own lives had proved his precepts sound. Both children had developed a shell of austere self-discipline, which together with natural talents had brought to each considerable professional success: the girl as a respected educationalist and government advisor, the boy as an eminent heart surgeon.
But ten years ago Victor had died, mown down in his prime by ‘a senseless joyrider’ as the newspapers had described his killer. ‘Juvenile high jinks tragically misfired,’ they had reported. It had been termed a terrible accident, they declared, one of those grievous quirks of fate … An accident? Margery thought bitterly. Not in her view it wasn’t. A gross uncaring murder, that’s what it had been! But now, nurtured by parental advice (staying cool, watchful and resolute) she had avenged both the crime itself and what she deemed the disgraceful travesty of justice that had allowed the killer to thrive.
Well, not any more he doesn’t, she thought triumphantly, eyeing the Webley nestled in her open suitcase. The gun had been Victor’s, one of several he had used at their local pistol club in London. They had joined together, in those days an unusual choice for a woman. But she had soon demonstrated a natural skill and become a welcome member. Indeed, with their quiet confidence, steady nerve and almost impeccable aim, brother and sister had made quite a formidable team. The ‘terrible twins’, they had been dubbed. Margery smiled wryly. It was a term more apt for one of them now than had ever been dreamt of.
She glanced again at the gun, and thanked her lucky stars that it had been in the car when she had driven up to Cambridge. She had been competing at the pistol club prior to setting off. Her luggage was already in the boot, though she had intended to make a quick dash home to drop off the gun and cartridges. But it was Friday night, and with the traffic already thickening she had decided to press straight on. Yes, it had been a bit of luck … She thought of her father again and another of his constant sayings: Some things are meant, he would assert confidently. Fatuous! Meant by whom or by what? Yet for once the words made sense. She had certainly meant to kill Monty Finglestone (or Montino Fingi as his name had been at his court appearance ten years previously), so perhaps keeping the pistol in the car had indeed been oddly destined.
It was destiny too, perhaps, that the opportunity for the task had arisen on the very anniversary of his death – and ironically the same day she had completed her fortnight’s lecturing at Girton. It would have been galling to have had to quit Cambridge halfway through her contract and with valuable insights left unsaid. Not at all her reliable style. (Admittedly, she could have stayed put, tensely riding out the storm, but it might have been dangerous; no point in taking unnecessary chances. The sooner she left and the more distance put between herself and the dispatched the better.) Thus things had worked most conveniently: her departure would go unremarked with no queries made or eyebrows raised. She could then retire discreetly for a three-month sabbatical to her cottage in France; a quiet little bolthole. There was a backlog of reviews and correspondence she had to attend to – not to mention that article for the Times Higher Education Supplement they had been pestering her for. Yes, plenty to do all right.
Methodically, she gathered up books and papers and began to pack her other belongings, placing the pistol securely at the bottom of the case. Seconds after the shooting her instinct had been to toss it away into the nearby hedge or the ornamental pond. But then a stronger instinct had made her hang on to it. It had belonged to her beloved twin. It had to be cherished, not chucked aside like a piece of garbage. And besides, the thing had performed stout service! And so, with task accomplished and gripping it firmly like a talisman, she had slid deep into the shadows and walked calmly away, leaving the body to face the hullabaloo of its finders. The dispatch had been as simple as that.
Yes, as simple as that … although, she recalled with slight irritation, there had been the mildest of glitches – a hiccup really and nothing of consequence. Despite her smooth exit into the seemingly deserted alley, she had in fact met someone, but it had been a meeting so piffling as to be of no account. As she reached the corner of the alley she had been accosted by a squat figure smelling heavily of drink and who had mumbled something in what she took to be a foreign tongue. She had the impression he was making a request (for a light?), but given the momentous thing she had just performed she had been in no mood to parley with foreigners. ‘Go to hell,’ she had snapped and brushed past. There had been silence, except for the faintest sound of a disgruntled belch.
She folded her clothes carefully, interlacing them with tissue paper; and put her shoes, their toes stuffed with newspaper, into drawstring bags. Margery had always been a meticulous packer, and present circumstances made little difference to her habitual routine.
As she busied herself her mind roved over the preceding events. Before getting involved with the tiresome monument business she had never heard of Finglestone, and it was only after she arrived in Cambridge and had seen the rival candidate with the Biggs-Brookby woman that it had dawned on her that
she had once known the man. ‘Dawned’ because since her first encounter both his name and his looks had changed. At the time of the trial he had been Montino Fingi, and at sixteen – shorter and with much fairer hair – he had had the features of a youth, a boy really. Now, tall and filled out, he displayed both the physique and assurance of a man. The slight trace of a foreign accent she had detected at the trial had also disappeared. And yet as she had watched him talking to Gloria he had seemed oddly familiar. It had been something about the soft brown eyes with the long lashes, the curly though darker hair, the way he held his head and the rather supercilious grin. God, how she remembered that grin! Questioned by the prosecuting barrister at the trial he had given whingeing, tearful answers, but just fleetingly there had been that beastly little smirk. It would flash upon him suddenly for no apparent reason, and it had made her sick. It was that smile, seen again a decade later in the staid surroundings of the University Arms, that had jolted her into definite recognition and had sealed his fate. There had been no question as to identity: boy and man were the same. The shock had been tremendous, but so too had been her instinct … the instinct to kill.
The Cambridge Plot Page 20