And thus with project firmly established and mind clear as a bell, she had followed him, waited and caught him. Dame Margery Collis, respected government mandarin, had fulfilled her latest project: scuppered the sculptor.
At last the packing was finished, coat and handbag ready, and room spick and span. She consulted her watch. Good, barely eight o’clock; a few hours and she could be in Dover ready for France. She would just have time to catch the afternoon ferry. For a second she allowed herself a pang of jaunty pride: what foresight to always carry her passport – a habit advised by her brother. ‘You never know’ – he had laughed – ‘one day you might need to make a quick getaway!’ They had laughed and she had called him an idiot, but had followed his advice all the same.
Leaving a note warmly thanking her friend for the use of the flat and regretting her early departure (pressing engagements), Margery stepped into the street, and as far as suitcase would allow walked briskly to her car.
Already the sun was out and at that peaceful hour Cambridge at its best – fresh, benign and beautiful. Being Sunday there could be heard the age-old sound of a distant bell chiming for matins (from Great St Mary?) and, as she passed the gated lawns and placid frontage of St Catharine’s, Margery wondered if this was a city to which she would ever return. With a pang of regret she felt it unlikely.
But Dame Margery was not the only one awake and alert at that early hour. Felix too was up betimes. After the drama of the previous evening, let alone yet another tiresome police interrogation, he had spent a night of wakeful tedium and violent nightmare. Thus, by seven o’clock the shafts of bright daylight came as a welcome relief. He decided to do what he rarely did: leap from the bed and go for a reviving walk. (Admittedly, it might not revive, but it would be better than languishing sleepless in that spartan room with Finglestone’s sullen ghost as a companion!)
Thus the decision made, and like the other early riser, Felix was soon dressed and ready to go. And also like Dame Margery, he too was appreciative of the morning’s soothing calm unruffled by scurrying dons and clanging bicycle bells. He strolled through silent streets, the tensions of the night gradually fading. He thought of Cedric, presumably still slumbering dead to the world … not surprising after that astonishing display of pugilism. Goodness, he had had no idea his friend was so disposed! He really must ask him about it at breakfast.
He wandered down a deserted Bene’t Street into King’s Parade, pausing to take in the lofty stillness of the college opposite. How stately it was, how regally imposing – and how utterly aloof from the mean and sordid events so recently enacted. Felix gazed at it, debating. Which way to turn, left or right? On a whim he chose left in the direction of Trumpington Street and Peterhouse. He could perhaps take a look at the river; it would be especially appealing at this hour.
Occasionally he met a random dog walker, but such encounters were welcome for on the whole Felix felt attuned to dogs (except for corgis) and was always ready to murmur a kindly word. Besides, confronting such trusting, tousled faces helped to erase the image of that raving idiot’s the night before. What a frightful business that had been, and how bad for one’s nerves! Cambridge was all very nice and historical, but he was beginning to think fondly of the safety of Sloane Street and his own floral habitat of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms. For all its charm and antiquity Cambridge clearly held a sinister aspect for which, being of a sensitive nature, Felix felt he was far from suited.
He crossed the road, and preoccupied with such thoughts did not at first see the woman with the suitcase. It was only when she stopped beside a blue Hillman and started to fiddle with its boot that he both noticed and recognised her.
He was slightly surprised that Dame Margery should be about at this early hour, and not a little disappointed to see that she seemed on the point of leaving. He had been intending to compliment her upon the striking blue jacket and tactfully enquire if it was bespoke, and if so might she divulge her tailor. Besides, he had quite liked the woman: poised, elegant and unusually knowledgeable about hothouse flowers. It was a shame he hadn’t had a chance to speak more with her. And who knows, with a little discreet nudging he might even have persuaded her to open an account with Bountiful Blooms. He recalled her saying she often visited the Knightsbridge area, so the idea was perfectly reasonable. Well, at least now he could give her his card. He quickened his pace.
About to access her vehicle Dame Margery was none too pleased to be confronted by the Smythe fellow; or indeed, given the circumstances, by anyone. All she wanted was to stow her things, jump in the car and make a quick getaway to Dover. However, seeing Felix approach with a greeting on his lips and clearly about to help her with the case, she knew she was caught.
‘Why, Mr Smythe, how nice to see you, and so early on a Sunday morning!’ she exclaimed and lied.
‘I could say the same,’ Felix responded eagerly, ‘but in my case I am up because of the dreadful tragedy last night. I expect you’ve heard all about it – although at this hour perhaps you haven’t. But anyway, it was too dreadful. I couldn’t sleep a wink!’ Then hastily brushing Finglestone aside in favour of matters sartorial, he swiftly broached the subject of the jacket.
‘So becoming,’ he smarmed, ‘and such style. I can assure you it turned every head in the Master’s drawing room! Tell me, do you have a pet tailor?’
‘No,’ she said curtly, ‘I bought it in a sale at Selfridge’s.’
In a Selfridge’s sale? Felix was shocked. Huh! And in the bargain basement no doubt! Well, that was the end of that subject. He tried another, and deftly withdrawing a card from his breast pocket thrust it towards her. ‘Do visit my little place when you are next passing. We stock some intriguingly exotic blooms, which might be just up your street. Indeed, the Queen Mother often says that—’
But Margery wasn’t interested in Her Majesty’s words or indeed the man’s wretched flowers. All she wanted was to be away! With a perfunctory and ill-meant smile, she snapped shut the boot and opened the driver’s door. As she did so she dropped her handbag. It fell into the gutter, its clasp undone. Felix scrabbled to retrieve it, hastily stuffing a compact, nail file and fountain pen back inside.
‘Oh, clumsy me,’ she said, grabbing the bag from him. ‘Thank you so much, but I simply must fly otherwise I shall get caught in the morning traffic.’ She rammed the starter, yanked the choke, and with a brisk wave sped off in a cloud of exhaust.
Slightly nonplussed, Felix stared after her wondering vaguely why Cambridge should expect heavy traffic at quarter past eight on a Sunday morning. He shrugged. Oh well … Ruefully he looked down at the card still in his hand. At the same time his eye was caught by a couple of objects in the gutter, small things which he must have overlooked when scrabbling for the other stuff. He bent to pick them up. At first he took them to be lipsticks, but on closer inspection recognised them as something else. He slipped the items into his pocket. Really, it was amazing what women carried in their handbags!
He set off back to the college feeling put out, though why it was difficult to define. Things had been going well until he encountered Dame Margery: his night-time fears had calmed, his headache gone and he had been enjoying the unaccustomed early morning exercise. Yet after he had waved her goodbye he felt vaguely ruffled. Why?
Had she been there observing the encounter, Betty Withers, Rosy’s psychologist friend, might well have had the answer: disappointment and let down. The admired Dame Margery had failed to live up to expectations. Overtly polite, she had nevertheless shown little interest in talking to Felix, was unmoved by his allusion to his patron, and her departure had been marked by haste and indifference. Not only that, but she had spurned his business card, made the dire admission of having bought her jacket in something as lowly as a department store sale, and (he had wincingly observed as she climbed into the car) she had been sporting a whopping double-lined ladder in one of her stockings. Thus, while shoes may have been polished, the feet were definitely showing traces of c
lay.
To quote Robbie Burns via Geoffrey Hinchcliffe, the best laid schemes of mice and men ‘gang aft agley’. And so it was to prove for Dame Margery. Having extricated herself from Felix Smythe and sped on down to Dover to catch the ferry, she reached the port in excellent time. Pleased by her progress and in need of a coffee, she went into a small snack bar … and it was there that she made a prosaic but unfortunate discovery: her passport was out of date.
It was an appalling shock – not just because it stopped her flight to the Continent, but because it was the sort of absurd mistake that someone of her undoubted competence should not have made. It went against all her training and professional pride. Rarely had she felt so devastated. Her immediate reaction was to approach the officials and to try to sweet-talk them into allowing her on to the boat. A vain hope, but worth a try. Or was it? Her whole object was to keep a low profile, to melt unobtrusively into the ether; not to invite attention by creating a palaver, however mild, in public and with a line of impatient cars behind her. Highly imprudent, as her father would have said.
She drove dismally back to her flat. Here she telephoned the London passport office in Petty France, but regretfully they explained there was an unusual backlog of renewal applications and she could not expect to receive anything under three weeks. Thus, adopting her most managerial but charming voice, she had tried subtly to pull rank and persuade them it was a matter of some importance. But to no avail. They conceded that as a special favour they could reduce the waiting period, but only by one week. In this they were adamant and Dame Margery was left fuming and helpless.
However, she resigned herself to the situation. Her plan to flee to France had been precautionary rather than vital, and a similar purdah could be moderately maintained at home in London. Thus she stayed largely within the flat, pursued her writings and avoided contact with inquisitive friends (or journalists) intrigued by the curious goings-on at Cambridge. A detached reticence was the name of the game – and thus, with luck, any unscheduled knock on the door would be merely that of the meter reader!
The days went by uneventfully and Margery relaxed, became blasé almost. She was sure that there was nothing tangible to connect her with the sculptor’s disposal. But what really nagged her (if anything, more than fear of being questioned by the police) was the passport blunder. How humiliating to think that she was capable of such idiocy – such sloppiness. Scrupulous attention to detail had been her great thing, her professional strength; and now she had messed things up like some bovine typist or gormless first-year. Disgraceful!
CHAPTER THIRTY
Since the convivial celebrations at the Master’s Lodge and Maycock’s house, Detective Sergeant Hopkins had been a busy man. Busy and productive. At Tilson’s instigation he had been laboriously tracing and checking the details of Finglestone’s past as disclosed to Dillworthy and Smythe. It had been a challenging, painstaking process, but it is amazing how the odd discovery here and a hint there will spur one on to renewed effort. It had been like a jigsaw, recalcitrant and frustrating but ultimately submissive, with pieces eventually fitting and images gradually cohering … until at last, voilà! a whole picture was formed.
He had tried to explain the analogy to Inspector Tilson, but his efforts had been met with a stony stare. ‘Cut the cackle, Hopkins, and get to the perishing point,’ his boss had said irritably. ‘What have you found out?’
Hopkins hesitated, relishing his moment of power. Eventually he said, simply, ‘Everything.’ And then just for good measure, he added carelessly, ‘Oh, and I think there is something else you might be interested in …’
‘Oh yes, what?’
Hopkins prevaricated. ‘Well, it’s a bit complicated. Do you mind if I sit down, sir?’
The other sighed. ‘If you must.’
Hopkins took a chair and commenced his tale. This amounted to the fact that his researches had pretty well supported what the sculptor had told the two witnesses: that he originally came from Albania, from a poor family in the mountains of the southern part; had arrived in England in the early stages of the war and as a refugee escaping the Blitz had been taken in by the Biggs-Brookbys. His later studies at Winchester and the Chelsea art college had been verified.
‘Very neat, Hopkins, you’ve established the chap’s origins, but hardly why he thought he was the target of some Mafia-like compatriots.’ Tilson observed tartly.
‘But you see, sir, I have managed to ascertain the name of that family. They lived above Butrint and were called Fingi. Apparently there are quite a few still there – cousins, uncles and such. According to an old newspaper article, one branch of the family with the same name sustained a loss: the death of a small child in tragic circumstances, a little boy of about four years old. The date coincides with our man having been six years old at the time – 1939, I think it was, just before he came to England …’ Hopkins took a quick glance at his notebook and then at Tilson. ‘Do you see a picture forming?’ he asked eagerly.
Tilson assured him that he did see a bloody picture forming and would he please hurry up.
The other mentioned one or two more details establishing the close link between Gloria and her protégé, and then with concealed relish produced his coup de théâtre. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ‘I forgot to mention that other bit of his biography, quite important really. Ten years ago, under his family name of Montino Fingi, Finglestone was had up for running down and killing Sir Victor Collis, that London heart surgeon. The trial was featured in all the newspapers and there was quite a rumpus. I don’t remember a lot about it, but I expect you do. Anyway, the press reports all refer to his having had a twin sister, Dame Margery Collis. She had been present at the young man’s trial and kicked up quite a shindig when the judge recommended leniency on account of his age. Apparently she is here in Cambridge at this very moment … was here on the night of his murder, in fact, maybe still is.’
For a few moments Tilson regarded his sergeant impassively and then studied the ceiling. ‘Was she now?’ he murmured. ‘Now there’s a coincidence.’
Hopkins nodded. ‘Yes, and here’s another coincidence. Finglestone was shot on the same date of her brother’s fatal accident – exactly ten years to the day. Sir Victor died immediately, never recovered.’
‘Is that so, Hopkins, is that so …’ Tilson looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a nice little motive, all right – not the first time that someone has been killed to avenge a sibling’s death, and I like the anniversary touch. Gives it a sort of theatrical twist, wouldn’t you say? But where’s the evidence, old son?’
There was a long pause as Hopkins contemplated his boots, and Tilson assumed he was stumped.
But then, lifting his eyes from his laces, Hopkins cleared his throat and said, ‘Identical twins: they have a sort of rapport, don’t they? A mutual need stronger than the usual kind – or so I’ve heard. It’s a need that if one of them died the other might carry around a sort of souvenir, perhaps wear the deceased’s watch or tie – socks, even. A way of keeping close, I suppose.’
Tilson was baffled. What was he chuntering on about now?
‘It’s that handkerchief, you see,’ Hopkins continued. ‘It’s my belief it once belonged to Sir Victor Collis. I’ve looked him up in Who’s Who. His second name was Zachary … V. Z. C.’
‘Christ,’ Tilson murmured. His fingers drummed the desk rhythmically, pausing between the three set of beats: VZC, VZC, VZC, he drummed. It could have been the Morse code. ‘But that’s still not hard proof, though not bad for a start,’ he said quietly. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it …’
Hopkins nodded. ‘I suppose she could have passed through that side gate – the mains being closed at that hour – and either before or after the shooting dropped the thing. Perhaps it had slipped from her cuff or maybe a piece was sticking out of her pocket and it got caught on a twig.’
‘Or maybe she had been blowing her nose, and in her haste to get out dropped it,’ Tilson suggested helpfully.
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Hopkins was a bit doubtful about that, and moved on: ‘As you say, given her link with the victim and now this handkerchief, I suppose she ought to be questioned – if only to eliminate her from the enquiry.’
‘You bet she should, Hopkins. Find her and pull her in,’ Tilson said curtly.
Contrary to Hopkins’ surmise, the bird of course had already flown, albeit only as far as London. After making enquiries both from Girton and from the friend who had lent the flat, Hopkins learnt that she had left Cambridge the day after the sculptor’s demise, although it was unclear exactly when. He asked Tilson if they should bring her back to Cambridge.
‘No, Wait will probably want us to keep things low-key. After all, these are only preliminary enquiries – or they are, as yet. If our suspicions are up the creek, things could be embarrassing and the super will get egg on his face, and we shall all be splattered. I think Wait will suggest a nice day out in the Smoke. Stand by.’
Immured in her Chelsea flat, Dame Margery was working quietly on her professional papers. It was a way of resuming normality and keeping distasteful thoughts at bay. So far there had been no ominous knock on the door and certainly no mention of her in any of the newspaper reports … But then why should there be? Other than the man himself blundering across the grass, the court had been empty and windows unlit; she had left no tell-tale trace and had vanished immediately. Easy-peasy!
So easy, in fact, that perhaps soon she could boldly raise her head above the parapet: the essentials were dealt with. And yet ironically, what really continued to nag was the vexing thought of that laddered stocking! She told herself sternly that murder was no excuse to slacken standards of dress. (Murder? What nonsense – it had been justified homicide. Of course it had.) Yes, she must definitely avoid that brand in the future, and she just hoped that no one had noticed …
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