The Cambridge Plot Page 11

  ‘But rather a small plot of land for the college to acquire,’ Felix remarked. ‘I mean, it is hardly going to add much to its acreage. The kudos will be minimal, surely?’

  ‘Yes. But in a way that’s what would have been so frustrating.’ Turner smiled. ‘After all, the project is a sort of qualifying test: if the new Master can’t get that right, what can he? Circumstances alter cases; and I bet that with Reid dead and now Cuff gone, he will want to press on quickly and produce a solid achievement. And if that means paying out more, then so be it … Besides, as Phipps has been saying, I gather that the chap is starting to make his mark – and not just in the capital. Rumour has it that the other place is already putting out feelers for him.’

  Felix looked blank. ‘What other place?’ he asked.

  ‘Oxford,’ Cedric whispered.

  ‘So you see,’ Turner continued, ‘that’s even more of a reason for the Master to grab him. If Finglestone really is good, then we may as well be the first seat of learning to display his work.’

  ‘Unless the rhododendrons obscure it,’ Felix tittered.

  Professor Turner’s smile was replaced by a scowl. ‘I can assure you, Mr Smythe, contrary to what you may have heard, there will be no rhododendrons. That’s one thing the daughter won’t screw out of us. Sir Richard and she will have to reach an accommodation: Daddy on the plinth; plant catalogues in the fire!’ He folded his arms and stared defiantly at his empty glass.

  The conversation switched to other matters, but before they broke up returned once more to the project.

  ‘So, assuming Finglestone does get the green light, where is he going to do his work – in his London studio or here in Cambridge? Aren’t there some units near Jesus Green that are let out for that sort of thing? I know a couple of artists who use them. In fact, I think Reid used to have one there before he converted his garden shed.’ Smithers looked enquiringly at the bursar.

  The other agreed that it would probably be the case. ‘But I tell you one thing, he won’t be lodging with Miss Biggs-Brookby. Oh no! Sir Richard won’t stand for that. If we are the paymasters, then we shall settle him in one of the university’s rooms.’ He turned to Cedric. ‘There’s one empty on your staircase, he can probably go there. The less that lady intrudes on things the better. She has already shoved her nose in far enough. Any more and our dear friend Maycock is liable to get the vapours and never recover!’

  ‘Oh, heaven forbid,’ said Smithers piously.

  ‘Well,’ Cedric declared, as he and Felix ambled back across Little Court and into town, ‘at least the chief hurdle is down. With that alderman throwing in the sponge, they can get on with the statue itself. The sooner the better, in my view.’

  ‘So you think Sir Richard will definitely go for Finglestone?’

  ‘Bound to. The Reid business blew things apart, but from what I’ve seen of Sir Richard he’ll pick up the pieces and push ahead. Turner was right: with Cuff caved in the college has both the means and the man. There’s no point in delay. You’ll see, Master Finglestone will be taking up residence before you can say knife.’ Cedric laughed: ‘In fact, what’s the betting the bursar isn’t composing a telegram this very minute.’

  ‘Well that will certainly please Gloria B-B all right. Judging from the oozing flattery in the hotel she thinks he’s God’s gift.’

  ‘So what is he like? I only had the briefest glimpse when I saw them in the taxi the other day.’

  Felix gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Tall, muscular … I daresay he can wield a chisel well enough. Handsome, if you like that sort of thing. I don’t especially: too big, too obvious.’

  ‘You mean he lacks a certain – how should one put it – suave subtlety?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Felix beamed at his friend.

  They continued in silence, Cedric dwelling upon the benefactors’ plaque scheduled for display at the plot’s entrance. He wondered whether that too would be part of the sculptor’s brief. He rather hoped so – after all, they didn’t want some paltry piece of pasteboard cobbled up by the local ironmonger! That would be most incongruous. The thing should have a lasting solidity and harmonise with the work itself … Yes, he must make enquiries. His thoughts were interrupted by Felix, who had been making his own reflections.

  ‘You know, I think John Smithers’ suggestion about a statue of the Queen Mother was quite enlightened. Her Majesty would look very fetching against a background of hollyhocks … though I am not so sure about the horse.’

  Cedric raised his eyes to the heavens.

  As things turned out, Cedric had been right about the speed of Monty Finglestone’s appointment. With the way clear and there being no suitable alternative, the Master was quick to swallow the extra cost and succumb to Gloria’s choice. Thus, the sculptor was blandished, summoned and installed. And in accordance with the bursar’s stipulation, he was temporarily assigned to C staircase in the spare room next to Cedric’s, and his tools and materials shipped from London to one of the lettings in the Northampton road.

  Cedric’s room was on the corner of the building and having nobody on the other side had suited him well. Thus, when he had learnt of Finglestone’s arrival and that he had indeed been installed next door, the professor was a trifle put out. ‘I trust he is not going to make a noise,’ he grumbled to Felix, ‘that would be too bad.’

  Felix had enquired what sort of noise he had in mind.

  ‘It could be anything,’ Cedric had replied, ‘banging doors, falling up the stairs blind drunk – you know what these bohemians are like – singing, sharpening his tools …’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he will be sharpening his tools,’ Felix assured him hastily, ‘they will all be stored at his studio.’

  ‘No, but he may sing,’ Cedric snapped.

  Unable to think of an answer to that, Felix just hoped the newcomer would have no such urge.

  Fortunately for everyone Cedric’s fears proved groundless. Finglestone’s presence was barely felt: he was absent by day and mercifully quiet by night. On the rare occasions Cedric passed him in their shared passage the young man was polite but uncommunicative.

  ‘A little affability wouldn’t come amiss,’ Cedric had said tartly to Felix.

  ‘Perhaps he is in awe of you,’ the latter replied. ‘Being billeted next to someone of your years and distinction might make him feel inhibited.’ (Privately he suspected that Finglestone cared not a jot.)

  ‘My years?’ was the indignant response.

  Felix smiled inwardly and changed to a less delicate topic: their proposed visit to Grantchester.

  This was something that had been arranged long in advance. Although often returning to the city of Cambridge itself, Cedric had never been back to the little village since his undergraduate days, and he had been intrigued to go there again, and indeed to show off its charms to Felix. An old friend had a house right in its centre, and while they could have made a day trip by walking the path across the fields, the friend had pressed them to spend a couple of nights with him – ‘to escape the frenzied hurly-burly of scholarly life.’ He had laughed.

  The prospect was appealing, and other than the scheduled madrigal concert at Westminster, would make a fitting finale to their sojourn in the area. ‘There’s so much to see,’ Cedric enthused. ‘The ancient church with its “Rupert Brooke” clock and the old vicarage, historic water meadows, the Orchard Tea Garden – and, of course, Lord Byron’s celebrated bathing pool. You might even fancy a dip.’

  ‘Oh, can one swim in the buff like the Fellows used to in that pool of Emmanuel’s?’ Felix asked in sudden interest.

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Cedric said hastily.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Despite not testing Grantchester’s waters, clothed or otherwise, the two friends returned to Cambridge refreshed by their rural retreat and having much enjoyed the jolly hospitality of their host. Rosy Gilchrist had left a note at the porter’s lodge reminding them of Westminster’s madrigal event the following eve
ning.

  Rosy had been right in her assurance that it would be a pleasure and worth their going for it turned out to be an excellent occasion. The speaker was well up to his eloquent best, the singing merry and masterly, and, contrary to earlier fears, the audience substantial. The champagne, while not quite of the lavish excess Rosy had described, was nevertheless plentiful and good. Already Felix was revising his ideas about such music, and during the interval was heard to enquire of the conductor where in London he might be able to hear more.

  When it was over, they hovered in the hallway congratulating the choir and chatting to Basil Leason and one or two others. During the lecture Rosy had spotted Geoffrey Hinchcliffe sitting attentively in the front row. She had meant to say hello to him during the interval, but had been waylaid by a Newnham chum. Thus, when it was over she looked for him again, eager to find out if he had enjoyed the programme, but there was no sign. She asked Cedric if he had seen him.

  ‘Actually, I saw him slip out much earlier, soon after the speaker finished,’ Cedric told her.

  ‘What? You mean before the singing started?’ Rosy was surprised, recalling how keenly he had talked of music at their last meeting and his use of the term ‘balm to the soul’.

  Cedric shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was taken short or wanted some fresh air. As a matter of fact I did think he looked a bit peaky; and before the thing started I had seen him taking a pill in the gents. Probably had a headache or something.’

  ‘Hinchcliffe?’ asked Basil Leason, who had been on the point of leaving. ‘Yes, I don’t think his health is too good, apparently the ticker plays up. He has what I believe is known as a murmur – whatever that is.’

  ‘Well, let’s just trust it stays murmuring and doesn’t decide to bellow,’ Felix said. ‘I had an aunt once with a dicky heart and I can’t tell you what appalling—’

  Fond though he was of his friend, Cedric had no wish to hear about the ailments of his relatives. Muttering an excuse, he went to retrieve his jacket from the concert room.

  Just then Betty Withers joined them to offer Rosy a lift back to Newnham. The latter declined, saying that such a warm evening deserved to be savoured. ‘I’ll walk with Cedric and Felix as far as the Market Place, and then, if I am really worn out, I’ll grab a taxi.’

  As they crossed Westminster’s wide courtyard and passed through its regal gates, Rosy looked back.

  ‘You know that frontage is really rather striking,’ she remarked. ‘I don’t think I noticed it much when I was here. Like Newnham it is rather tucked away from the centre and, of course, being on the roundabout makes it less obvious. I mean, if you are driving you tend to be more interested in the traffic.’

  ‘Yes, pure Victorian Gothic,’ Cedric agreed. ‘A very good specimen of the late style, I should say. And what with the ivy and that moon it does rather resemble a painting by the artist Atkinson Grimshaw. All that’s needed is a hazy mist and a lamplight.’

  They walked on slowly along Northampton Street before turning down towards Magdalene. Busy by day, on a late Sunday night this end of town was quiet, almost uncannily so. But suddenly the faintest noise could be heard just behind them, a sort of whispering, keening sound. The kind of sound a dying cat might make.

  Rosy swung round nervously. There was nothing and nobody there except Felix.

  ‘That wasn’t you, was it?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That peculiar moaning sound.’

  ‘If you mean my singing, then yes. I was merely trying to recapture the charming little refrain of that last madrigal. It was sung with such verve and sprightly brio.’

  There was a roar of laughter from Cedric (not given to such eruptions): ‘Well if that’s sprightly brio, I’ll eat my arse!’ he guffawed.

  Coming from Cedric so crude an outburst was startling in itself, and Rosy too roared with laughter. For a few seconds Felix stared indignantly at his companions, but mirth is infectious, and with a gulp the thin features relaxed and pride gave way to spluttering giggles.

  ‘Ssh!’ Rosy gasped. ‘People will think we are drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ Felix wheezed. ‘Besides, there aren’t any people. This isn’t London, you know. They are all tucked up in bed. It’s as quiet as the grave.’

  ‘Except for your ungodly warblings,’ observed Cedric, and started to laugh again.

  As they approached Magdalene Bridge still chortling, a figure could be seen leaning over the balustrade, head down, apparently craning to look at something in the river or under the bridge. They continued on towards it. But, suddenly, Felix stopped, spreading his arms to hold back the other two. ‘Just a moment,’ he whispered, ‘do we recognise that rump?’

  A streetlight faintly illuminated the blue floral dirndl copiously spread beneath a lilac jacket. It looked distinctly familiar.

  ‘It’s not Gloria, is it?’ Rosy whispered. ‘What on earth is she doing – fishing?’

  ‘Better not to enquire,’ Cedric said hastily. ‘Let’s cross over before she sees us.’

  They started to cross the road, but paused to allow a car to pass, its headlamps briefly picking out the form – now clearly not craning, but inertly slumped.

  ‘It is Gloria,’ Rosy exclaimed as the car trundled on its way up the slope, ‘and it looks as if she might be ill or something.’ She stared anxiously.

  ‘Oh hell, she’s not being sick, is she?’ Felix groaned.

  Cedric gripped his arm. ‘Worse!’ he hissed. ‘There’s something sticking out of her back and it looks like a—’ He broke off, and then gasped: ‘Oh dear God, yes, it is … it’s a knife. She’s been stabbed! It’s there right in the middle, can’t you see?’

  For a few seconds the three stood paralysed, gazing in appalled disbelief. And then with a convulsive start they rushed towards the bridge and to what was now quite clearly the corpse of Gloria Biggs-Brookby.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As can be imagined, the ensuing uproar was tremendous. Cambridge was agog and aghast, and speculation stalked the streets imbuing all with fervid excitement.

  The local paper, having only managed a brief stop-press announcement on the morning following the event, compensated fully the day after: DAUGHTER OF EMINENT SCHOLAR FOUND STABBED TO DEATH ON MAGDALENE BRIDGE, its headlines ran.

  Gloria Biggs-Brookby, chairman of the Watch Committee, president of the Townswomen’s Guild and a well-known figure in Cambridge’s cultural circles, was discovered shortly after eleven o’clock last night draped over Magdalene Bridge with a dagger protruding from her back.

  Strolling back from a musical evening at Westminster College, a visiting professor and his two companions were horrified to be faced with the grisly scene. ‘It’s not quite what one expects in Cambridge,’ observed Mr Felix Smythe, one of the appalled witnesses, ‘and even Mayfair doesn’t run to such a thing, or certainly not at that early hour.’

  ‘You didn’t say that, did you?’ Rosy asked Felix accusingly as they sat in the college’s rose arbour, a copy of the newspaper spread on its rickety table. ‘It sounds a bit fatuous to me.’

  ‘I have no idea what I said,’ Felix retorted. ‘Given the circumstances it could have been anything – but I can assure you, Rosy Gilchrist, it would not have been fatuous.’ He glared.

  Cedric cleared his throat: ‘Hmm. I don’t think it is our words that matter, rather our actions, I should say. It’s the latter that is of significance – or so the police will think.’

  It was Rosy’s turn to be annoyed. ‘Oh, honestly, Cedric,’ she snorted, ‘you are not suggesting that the police suspect us of being involved – that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that the person reporting a crime has been its perpetrator. The police know that well enough … and it’s not as if we had never set eyes on her before. After all, we have all been associated with the deceased, however briefly. She wasn’t exactly a total stranger. Mark my words, judging from yesterday’s grilling
they’ll be taking this further.’ Cedric spoke with gloomy assurance.

  ‘But that’s nonsense!’ exclaimed Felix. ‘Just because we are key witnesses certainly doesn’t mean we should be key suspects. Our connection is totally tenuous. And frankly, from what little I saw, I couldn’t stand the woman!’

  ‘I should keep that under your hat if I were you,’ Rosy said slyly, and grinned. And then becoming serious, she exclaimed, ‘But who on earth would have done it? I mean, she may have been a pain, but to do that to the poor woman seems a bit excessive.’

  ‘Probably a strolling lunatic,’ Felix said dismissively. ‘It’s these cloistered academics, they get funny ideas. Wouldn’t you say so, Cedric?’

  Cedric affected not to hear – or perhaps genuinely hadn’t, for he appeared deep in thought. ‘I wonder if anyone else saw her,’ he mused, ‘but is hesitant to come forward, or perhaps simply hadn’t been close enough to see the knife? Such revelations can take a time to emerge. With luck there may be other witnesses.’

  ‘Yes, and if you remember we did see Aldous Phipps walking his fat Popsie,’ Rosy said.

  ‘Doing what?’ Felix was mildly scandalised.

  ‘Exercising his dog. That’s its name: Popsie. I saw him on our way to Westminster.’

  ‘But that was much earlier on,’ Cedric said dismissively.

  ‘Ah, but who knows, he may have been doing a stake-out,’ said Felix darkly, ‘assessing the lie of the land for his dastardly attack.’