The Cambridge Plot

by Suzette A. Hill

  Barely had she finished dwelling on such matters, when the telephone rang. ‘This is the Cambridge Police,’ a sombre voice intoned. Would she kindly make herself available for a few routine questions. Two o’clock would be a convenient time and she could expect them on the dot …

  Oh, how very efficient, Dame Margery had fumed when she put down the phone. Presumably one should be grateful for such punctuality! She stalked to the bedroom, changed into her severest suit, donned high heels and applied a liberal squirt of Arpége. That should do it!

  Sergeant Hopkins had liked the scent very much, but he was not so sure about its wearer. All very charming, but a bit hoity-toity in his view, a bit too pleased with herself. He looked at the high heels: a woman of her age could come a cropper in those if she wasn’t careful. He remembered his Aunt Alice.

  Tactfully, probingly, they had broached the matter of her brother’s death and her past connection with Monty Finglestone, or Fingi as he had then been.

  She had coolly confirmed the link and acknowledged she had been appalled by the trial’s outcome. ‘But that’s fate, isn’t it?’ she had said. ‘Life has to take its course; one can’t let tragedy grind one down – or at least not in the long run. Weak as we are, we have to go on, don’t we?’ She had fixed them with a quizzical gaze and they had nodded, evidently impressed by such stoicism.

  ‘You are so right, Dame Margery,’ Tilson agreed soberly. ‘And tell me, when exactly did you realise that Monty Finglestone and Montino Fingi were one and the same?’

  ‘What? Oh … er, well, I don’t think I did, really. That is to say, I only saw him a couple of times at a distance. It, uhm – it was only when I got back here and saw a photograph in the papers that I realised it could be him. And now, from what you have been saying, it clearly was. It has all been quite a shock, Inspector.’

  Tilson nodded sympathetically. ‘I am sure it has. But just for the record, can you list your movements on the day you left Cambridge? A mere formality, you understand, but our masters require us to ask the same of anyone who had the remotest connection with the deceased, or those who shared his college staircase or were known to visit him at his studio.’ (All lies.) ‘It would help us to comply with our brief and tick a few boxes.’ The inspector smiled ruefully. ‘For example, what time did you set off from your lodgings?’

  Margery would have liked to say she had gone in the afternoon, as it would suggest an unhurried innocent ease, but the truth might be safer. Thus she explained that she had left early, as with the Girton commitment ended she had been impatient to get home and push on with work that had been delayed for far too long. ‘I hate to leave things overdue, don’t you, Inspector?’ she said brightly.

  Tilson cleared his throat, ignoring the question. ‘And did anyone see you at that time?’

  Margery hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons of mentioning Felix. Ideally, she would prefer to make no reference. If asked, who knew what the man might say about her obvious haste, her impatience to get away. She recalled that her manner to him had been less than attentive, bordering on the rude, really. Might he have resented that, and if interviewed emphasise or exaggerate what he had seen of her tension? However, to say she had met no one could be even more dangerous. If the truth came out and the lie exposed, things could be tricky.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said casually, ‘I bumped into a friend of one of the sponsors, a Mr Felix Smythe, rather a nice man – awfully keen on flowers, you know. He was taking an early morning stroll and we did exchange a few words.’ She spoke lightly, trying to imply her departure had been easy and unhurried. But then she felt impelled to add: ‘I have to say, Inspector, this whole thing is truly appalling; it has quite knocked me sideways!’

  Tilson regarded her expressionlessly. ‘I can imagine that, madam. But you have been most helpful.’ He hesitated … ‘Oh but there’s just one more thing before we go.’ He turned to Hopkins: ‘You’ve got that have you, Sergeant?’

  With a flourish Hopkins produced the green silk handkerchief and spread it on the back of a chair. (What the hell does he think he is, thought Tilson irritably, a blooming conjuror?)

  ‘Ever seen that before?’ the inspector asked.

  Margery regarded it, her eyes widening slightly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  Left alone, Margery found that her hands were shaking and her breath unsteady. This was not so much because she had been horrified by the handkerchief (as she most certainly was), but by something potentially worse. Throughout the interview a thought had been stealthily boring away at the back of her mind, a growing realisation that, for all her outward poise, had been making her feel slightly sick. It was all to do with the Smythe fellow and her handbag.

  Knowing what she would find, or rather not find, she rushed into the bedroom and pulled from the wardrobe her two Rayne handbags. The smaller she kept for everyday use, the larger for travel. It had always been her practice to keep in each a duplicate set of essentials – pen, powder, comb etc – thus when she had returned from the abortive trip to Dover, apart from removing her purse she had put the travel one away untouched. Feverishly, she now unzipped it and rummaged inside … Oh Christ, just as she had feared, they had gone! She closed her eyes, recalling dropping the bag as she leapt into the car, the things spilling out and Smythe retrieving them. She had grabbed it from him and slung it on the passenger seat.

  But another image also danced before her eyes: it was what she had glimpsed in the driving mirror as she sped away. The man had been stooping down … to tie his shoelace? Or to pick something up? Oh yes, she thought bitterly, obviously the latter: he had been picking up those two spare cartridges – the remaining Webley slugs surplus to requirements and which she had left in their open packet at the bottom of her bag. And now presumably sodding Smythe had got them!

  She sat on the bed and stared into space. Well, one thing was certain, she could hardly visit his flower shop (as he had eagerly suggested) and enquire sweetly if by chance he had happened to find a couple of her bullets. So what could she do? Nothing at all. Sit tight, wait, hope and if necessary brazen it out … whatever ‘it’ might be. The image of the handkerchief fluttered sadly before her eyes. She had kept one of Victor’s and without thinking had stuffed it up her sleeve before setting out that evening: a subconscious talisman, perhaps. Some talisman! It had probably destroyed her freedom … what you might call a sacrifice of safety to sentiment! She heaved a sigh: the gun had better go. She would chuck it in the Thames that evening.

  She returned to the drawing room, lit a cigarette and poured a Scotch. Mission accomplished all right, but at what cost? She shrugged. It remained to be seen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The two policemen agreed that their time in the Smoke had been well spent.

  ‘I think we’ve got something there,’ Hopkins said. ‘All very cool to begin with, but you could see she was getting agitated. Something was worrying her, all right – and you noticed how she stumbled over the Finglestone/Fingi question? She seemed flustered, sort of off guard, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes, and by the looks of things she didn’t like that handkerchief either; not one little bit, she didn’t. I’ve never seen a blank face look less convincing.’ Tilson laughed.

  ‘But appearances aren’t proof.’ Hopkins sighed. ‘If we are going to nail her, we shall need something stronger than our noses.’

  ‘So let’s go and talk to the little guy. You never know, he may be able to tell us something. Patience and optimism, that’s my motto,’ Tilson observed airily.

  Sergeant Hopkins could not recall his boss exhibiting either of the two qualities, but he thought it a good idea all the same. There was an outside chance that Smythe could be useful.

  Satisfied with the witnesses’ statements, and doubtful if much more could be gleaned from that quarter, Chief Inspector Wait had announced that Cedric and Felix would no longer be required and were free to leave Cambridge. Naturally, should anything further emerge p
ertinent to the shooting they would be contacted. The news had been received with some relief as both were becoming restless to return to their more predictable lives in London.

  These lives were being discussed in Felix’s room before dinner, with engagement diaries being consulted and dates noted. But although deciding to make a swift departure, there were certain issues that needed to be settled first. One of these was whether to tell Rosy Gilchrist about the part played by Lady Dick in the drama of Winston Reid’s death. ‘We know all about Rosy and the Hinchcliffe business and have sworn not to divulge it to anyone, so perhaps we should even things up and complete the full picture for her,’ Cedric mused.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Felix protested. ‘In no circumstances!’ He looked very fierce.

  Cedric was startled. ‘Well, of course not, dear boy, not if you don’t want to,’ he said hastily.

  ‘I have given Lady Dick my word to keep silent on the matter,’ Felix replied with dignity. ‘A gentleman does not renege.’

  ‘But you have told me.’

  ‘You don’t count.’

  Cedric heaved a sigh: ‘One’s role in life, I fear.’ He smiled, proud of his friend’s decision.

  ‘But I tell you what,’ the friend said, leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, ‘I am blowed if I know what I should do about those cartridges. That sergeant said the gun used on Finglestone was a Webley – and you say these are the Webley style. It seems a bit fishy to me.’

  ‘It would be fishier still if they were spent,’ Cedric observed, ‘but I do agree it is odd – very peculiar, really.’

  They embarked on an interesting discussion as to whether Felix should apprise the police of his find: to what extent such information would be justified and to what extent gratuitously officious.

  ‘After all, we didn’t like Finglestone,’ Cedric remarked, ‘and given his murder of Gloria and that child he told us about, he was clearly an utter scoundrel. I cannot see that his death is to be lamented. Besides, she may not have done it.’

  ‘On the other hand, she may have,’ Felix retorted. ‘And if so, for a woman of her position and status I consider it a bit much.’ He sniffed and looked indignant. (Had Dame Margery shown a more emollient attitude in their last encounter, Felix may have been less disapproving. And as the lady was to later discover, such hasty lapses can bring unfortunate results.)

  They continued to argue the pros and cons of the matter, but were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Jenkins, the porter, who announced that there were two gentlemen to see Mr Smythe. ‘Police,’ he said in a darkened voice, ‘they are out ’ere now.’ He winked and cocked his thumb towards the passage.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ Cedric murmured, politely beckoning them in, ‘I thought you had finished with us – or so your Chief Inspector Wait implied. We were thinking of leaving for London tomorrow, but I take it there is something else we can help you with?’ The distant tone belied any particular desire to help.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Tilson explained, ‘that is what we have come about. As the chief inspector said, you are of course at total liberty to leave Cambridge, but I must stress that those two cases are by no means closed. We are at a very delicate stage in our enquiries and any loose talk could be highly dangerous. I don’t mind telling you in strictest confidence that we are on the trail of those assassins Mr Finglestone was telling you about. It wasn’t such a tall story, after all! So for the time being I must remind you that you are required to keep silent about anything Mr Finglestone divulged about his past association with Miss Biggs-Brookby. Once the “gagging” order is lifted, we shall of course inform you immediately.’ Tilson’s voice was stern but affable.

  He turned to Felix. ‘I realise these rules are tiresome, sir; and it’s easy to let something slip, especially when having undergone the kind of ordeal that you did. Don’t suppose he was the easiest of chaps!’

  Felix was about to reply that he most certainly was not, but wasn’t given the chance for Tilson went on quickly: ‘For example, Dame Margery said that she happened to bump into you when she was leaving on the morning after the shooting and had a brief conversation. You didn’t by chance say anything to her about it, did you? I mean like some mention in the course of your little chat – because if you did, I shall have to include her in the warning too.’ Tilson gave a hearty laugh, which to Hopkins, standing by the door, sounded uncomfortably fake and he hoped he wouldn’t do it again.

  A little chat? Felix thought sourly. There had been no such thing. She had been most curt. Out loud he said: ‘I don’t recall much chatting taking place, she seemed in a tearing hurry. I think her mind was elsewhere. In fact,’ he said, vividly recalling his spurned overtures, ‘as it happens, I think she thought I was in the way.’

  ‘What, because she was in a hurry?’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Felix replied with sudden asperity. ‘She drove off like a bat out of hell. I got smothered in exhaust and practically choked!’

  The inspector smiled politely, thanked Felix for his cooperation and seemed satisfied.

  But then Hopkins gave a slight cough, and said casually: ‘So that was the only thing you noticed, was it – the speed factor? I take it there was nothing else that struck you as odd or unusual in her behaviour?’ It was a long shot, but no harm in asking.

  Felix bit his lip, hesitated and looked at Cedric. The latter remained impassive. Felix wavered and then made his decision. He marched to the po cupboard, which this time harboured not a notebook but two revolver cartridges. He took them out and passed them to Hopkins. ‘These fell out of the lady’s handbag,’ he said.

  Strong motive, lost handkerchief, found cartridges – things were looking bad for Dame Margery. All that was needed now was for someone to have seen her at the time and place of the shooting. Then they could make an arrest, or at least descend with a search warrant for the weapon and give her another grilling … CHANCE WOULD BE A FINE THING, Tilson doodled on his desk pad.

  Sergeant Hopkins appeared, looking smug. ‘There’s a chap here who says he saw somebody and wonders if he can claim his reward.’

  ‘Oh yes? Who is it?’

  ‘Says he used to be a cab driver and lost his way.’

  ‘Ah well, there’s a lot of those about,’ Tilson remarked sardonically. ‘Wheel him in.’

  It transpired that the gentleman who had accosted Margery on that fatal night was the same one who had disturbed Aldous Phipps and then gone to the pub. He had parked his cab, but couldn’t remember where. With a number of sheets to the wind, he had been seeking his bearings when he noticed a woman emerging from a gate in the wall. The gate, he now realised, opened into part of the college he had been trying to find earlier. He had thought she might be interested in suggesting where his vehicle could be. On being told to go to hell it occurred to him that such interest was unlikely.

  Flashing the inspector a matey smile, the man asked how much money was on offer.

  Tilson shook his head doubtfully. ‘Ah well, we shall need a bit more than that, I’m afraid. Just a couple of details, maybe – for example, what did the lady look like?’ He waited tensely.

  The man frowned, screwed up his eyes and scratched his head. It had been a bit dark, he muttered, he would need to think.

  Tilson nodded, but said nothing, fearful of hindering the thinking. It’s not going to work, he thought. It’s not going to bloody work.

  ‘Well,’ the man said at last, ‘tall, thin – in her fifties, I should say. Her hair was short.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘I dunno – fair, sort of whitish, I suppose. Will that do?’

  ‘And she had come out of that side gate, had she?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  Tilson got up from his desk and opened the door. ‘Come in here will you, Sergeant, and bring your notebook. I would like you to take a statement from this gentleman.’

  She had known they would be back. And as planned she had reluctantly chucked the gun in the river. Bu
t it wasn’t enough, of course – they had found its leather case with the initials V. Z. C. inscribed. Her last memento of Victor, she had been unable to part with it and had shoved it in an old shoebox in the loft. Pointless, the police had been like sniffer dogs and there hadn’t been a chance. She had asked the officer in charge if she could have it back some day. Oh yes, he had said with a kindly smile, one day. Whether he had meant it she had no idea. Wryly, she thought of the incriminating handkerchief. Would she see that again? Probably not. What a trite little piece of evidence – but at least it had been expensively elegant!

  Not being short of funds she would naturally ensure she had a first-class lawyer; and in view of Montino Fingi’s appalling record the sentence might be lenient. As usual (or almost usual) she would show gracious fortitude … and who knew, with a bit of luck or parole she might even be available for a sixty-fifth birthday celebration at Claridge’s. Meanwhile, she could enjoy the challenge of instructing the other inmates in the art of public speaking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Newnham reunion had been splendid; and thankfully with no negative findings, Dr Stanley’s espionage mission duly accomplished. Thus in both respects Rosy’s time in Cambridge could be counted a success (and indeed with Felix’s ‘help’ she had even managed a punt on the Cam). It was just everything else that had been so disturbing. What bizarre, what fearsome events she had encountered – and those occurring in one of the country’s most loved and beautiful cities. How ironic its fusion of the quaint and the sinister, the crude and civilised, grim and lovely … Yet in that way perhaps Cambridge was simply an emblem of life itself – disarmingly seductive, craftily dangerous. Human nature did not change, however beautiful its context.