With those rather sober thoughts, Rosy dealt with her packing; a process that, unlike Dame Margery’s, was mildly shambolic. Travelling out one tried to be orderly, but going back there was little such effort. By now most things had been collected and hurriedly stowed, but her eye was caught by something on the mantelpiece – Dr Stanley’s chocolates. Vital. Omit those at her peril! She stuffed them into the case and closed the lid.
Thinking of Stanley had strangely lifted her spirits. In a curious way it would be refreshing to be back in the old routine, at least you knew where you were: hectic eruptions, mordant sarcasm, fuming impatience, fuming cigarettes, fisticuffs with the trustees, wheedling apologies, the drama of lost lecture notes, fiendish scheming, gin … Oh yes, it would be nice to be back. Quite soothing, really, relatively speaking.
Rosy paused remembering something he had said on the telephone. What had it been – something about a celebration? Yes, how curious. Even more curious had been his reference to Wiltons restaurant. Not known for his prodigality, she thought she may have misheard. Perhaps he had been alluding to his arch-enemy, Wilson, at the Royal Academy. Still, if it was Wiltons it was just as well she had bought that new lipstick and mascara! She checked her watch. Plenty of time before her train. If she was quick she could nip down to Sayle’s and get that snazzy top she had seen in its window. Yes, her last fling in Cambridge.
Rosy procured the blouse and was duly pleased. It really was rather smart! Hovering on the corner of Downing Street debating whether to get a taxi back to Newnham, she was startled to be confronted by Lord Bantry.
He stood full square in front of her. ‘Red Shoes,’ he cried, ‘I have been hoping to catch you to apologise. I fear I was rather preoccupied the other day at the Fitzwilliam. I was cooking up something with old Maycock about my scholarship endowment. Sir Richard wanted to modify its terms, but I was telling Maycock he could think again! Anyway, it’s all wrapped up now and the college will get the funds all right. I gather you work at the BM. Who knows, I might zoom in one day and lunch you at Wiltons. Bye for now.’ He raised his hat and limped off.
Crikey! Rosy thought. Another one? Wiltons was going to be busy! Somewhat dazed she made her way to the taxi rank, holding her purchase tightly. By the looks of things it would come in useful.
As they drove back to London, Cedric and Felix had much to mull over.
‘I know there’s an embargo on our mentioning anything except the bare bones of that Finglestone affair, but I suppose at some point Rosy Gilchrist will get to hear,’ Cedric remarked. ‘At the moment she only knows we were set upon by that inebriated thug and that we chased him. I trust she won’t be too huffed about our not confiding the full details.’
‘Well, she will just have to take her turn with everyone else,’ Felix replied. ‘It will all come out, eventually. ‘And besides,’ he added primly, ‘she can’t expect us to infringe police regulations; after all, we have our reputations to consider.’ (He was thinking of royal corgis and related matters.) ‘Incidentally,’ he mused, ‘I wonder what she will do.’
‘Do? What do you mean? As far as I know she was planning to return to work fairly soon.’
‘I meant beyond that – her future, as it were.’
Cedric laughed. ‘Oh, that’s easy: she will settle down and marry Dr Stanley.’
‘Good God! You don’t call that settling down, do you? The man is impossible!’
‘Rosy Gilchrist enjoys stimulus.’
‘Well, she will certainly get that all right. Most unwise, I should say. He is like a rampaging rhino.’
‘Ah, but she will tame him. You forget that she was stationed at the Dover battery during the war. She will cope, she always does.’
‘I suppose so, but it is amazing what bizarre choices people make.’
Cedric looked sideways at his passenger. ‘Oh, amazing, dear boy. But there’s no accounting for tastes: the world would be very dull if we could predict these things, don’t you agree?’
On the whole Felix thought he did agree, and for a while they drove in silence, pondering the perversity of human preference.
And then the passenger reached into the glovebox and donned a pair of sunglasses. ‘I say,’ he said brightly, ‘we shall have an awful lot to tell Mr S. M. when we get to the Riviera.’
‘I rather think Mr S. M. has plenty of his own melodramas to narrate,’ Cedric replied dryly. ‘He has certainly done quite well so far.’
There followed a further silence, during which Felix scanned the passing scenery looking for the first signs of London. Catching a glimpse of the Marconi radio mast he relaxed and enquired casually, ‘And, uhm, might you be having any engagements scheduled for Oxford?’
‘Certainly not,’ Cedric replied indignantly. ‘A most dubious place!’
Some time after the close of both cases and the key witnesses to both events safely returned to the capital, Sergeant Hopkins had asked Inspector Tilson about the murdered man’s postcard: ‘Do you think that Toni chap was right and that they really did come for him?’
‘Who can say? But the message had obviously put him in a muck sweat. Just think, if it hadn’t been sent he might be alive now and we none the wiser about Miss Biggs-Brookby’s death.’ He chuckled. ‘They probably came and went, and felt miffed finding they had been pipped at the post. Bit of a wasted journey, really – Tirana to Cambridge is quite a trek. Still, I suppose that’s the hazard of being a hitman, you never know who’s going to steal your thunder or waste your time.’
‘And what about the lady?’
‘Oh, she will cool her heels for a bit and then get out duly chastened – or apparently so. It’s amazing what you can do with money, good looks and the gift of the gab. She’ll survive – probably write a bestselling memoir, I expect.’
In the early autumn while Cedric and Felix were basking in the south of France being indulged by their eminent host, Sir Richard and Lady Dick were also planning a holiday. They had not decided where exactly, but it would be somewhere safe and sumptuous, and free of sculpture.
To put it mildly, the Master’s first year had been a challenge, a veritable baptism by fire. But with Lady Dick at his side he had weathered it valiantly, and with the incendiaries largely extinguished had emerged unscathed … or at least, such scars as he wore were of the honourable duelling variety.
The change of plan for the plot had been an inspired move: the Hortus Pacis as it was now officially named, being a pleasing refuge for seekers of peace, repose and the companionship of birds and flowers (but not rhododendrons). It was a haven beloved by scholars and visitors alike, and the handsome plaque displaying the names of its benefactors received close and frequent scrutiny. Near the top of the list was the name of Professor Cedric Dillworthy and about halfway down that of Geoffrey Hinchcliffe. The name of Dame Margery Collis did not feature. Her donation had been withdrawn, an unfortunate loss as the sum might have been substantial. However, this was more than offset by Lord Bantry’s generous scholarship endowment, a foundation of great value to the Indigent, although less so to the Lame (there being fewer candidates).
Thus it was generally agreed among members of the erstwhile Plot and Monument Committee – Dr Maycock; Professor Turner; the bursar, Mostyn Williams; Professor Aldous Phipps et al. – that St Cecil’s College had reaped considerable benefit from their deliberations. The result had conferred additional renown on that prestigious institution. In this respect – and to the private pleasure of the Master’s wife – the name of the absent John Smithers was being duly applauded.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUZETTE A. HILL was born in East Sussex, and spent much of her childhood playing spies and smugglers on Beachy Head and picnicking at the foot of the Long Man of Wilmington. Hill worked as a teacher in both public school and adult education before retiring in 1999. She now lives in Ledbury, Herefordshire. At the age of sixty-four and on a whim, she took up a pen and began writing. Hill has since published over ten novels, including the Reverend Oughterard series.
suzetteahill.co.uk
BY SUZETTE A. HILL
A Little Murder
The Venetian Venture
A Southwold Mystery
Shot in Southwold
The Cambridge Plot
The Primrose Pursuit
COPYRIGHT
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.
Copyright © 2018 by SUZETTE A. HILL
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2293–8
The Cambridge Plot Page 23