The Cambridge Plot Page 8

  Rosy hesitated mid-pavement … If Aldous Phipps was right about Reid’s habits, wasn’t it indeed strange that the press reports had all alluded to that bottle of Scotch on his drinks cabinet? They had made a great drama of his being soaked in the stuff when found spreadeagled at the base of the stairs … Yes, surely it did seem pretty odd for him to have been slurping the one when he had so preferred the other. Evidently Aldous Phipps had thought so.

  She walked on briskly, unimpressed by her own reasoning. Why should it be so odd? After all, few people were entirely consistent in their behaviour, most being subject to whim or mood; her wayward boss Dr Stanley being a case in point! Perhaps poor Reid had had an inexplicable urge to renege, to turn quisling and retest his responses to the long-spurned Johnnie Walker. If so, there had certainly been a response all right! Poor chap, what a way to go: pickled in whisky, a missed step, headlong fall – and crash, out he went. Still, she mused, there were certainly worse and more protracted ends, but the sheer shock must have been appalling.

  Rosy winced and turned her mind to pleasanter things: her forthcoming reconnaissance of the Fitzwilliam and its fabulous collections. One could certainly be charged with more onerous missions. Her mind went back to her undergraduate days and the pleasurable hours she had spent in the building, gawping at the paintings and gathering material for her dissertation. It had been a haven of peace and visual delight. Surely to goodness they weren’t really going to revamp it into some sort of theme park: slick, glitzy and ‘relevant’ to popular taste, as Dr Stanley had darkly predicted?

  And what about that Lady Chatterley exhibition he had mentioned? Entertaining in its own way no doubt, but a bit of wasted space at the Fitzwilliam, surely. And if indeed it was scheduled, what other contemporary legal cases might they have in store for the ‘questing’ public? Perhaps Eastbourne’s Bodkin Adams enquiry would be next. Doubtless they could slip it in between the mediaeval manuscripts and the Dutch paintings, with flattering portraits of the doctor and less flattering ones of his elderly patients. And what about a waxwork mock-up of the Ruth Ellis trial – a veritable showstopper. Rosy grinned. Oh honestly, she thought, my mind. It’s becoming wild and lurid just like Dr Stanley’s!

  But then more seriously she thought about the television pundit Peregrine Purblow, whose lectures she had been instructed to attend. To put it mildly, Stanley had been scathing, but with luck the chap might be interesting with some valuable ideas. She certainly hoped so. After all, who wanted to sit through hours of claptrap?

  Still, Rosy decided, it was time she started to think seriously about her task. The museum was closed the next day, but after that she really would push on with things. Knowing her boss, he would probably expect a meticulous list of her findings. Perhaps she should buy a special notebook for the purpose (on expenses, naturally) and mark it Urgent: Top Secret.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As planned, a couple of days later Rosy set out on her mission with notebook purchased (unlabelled) and pencil poised. She mounted the museum’s steps and walked through the doors a little apprehensively, fearful it might already have undergone some mighty transformation.

  Oh, of course it hadn’t. It was exactly as it had always been: elegant, august, seductively gracious. She paused in the great hallway, absorbing the hushed stillness and sense of history. Yes, since she had last been there time had stood still … and a good thing too!

  Automatically, she began to stroll around – not inspecting but revelling, the notebook staying firmly tucked within her handbag. At that relatively early hour few visitors were about and she could revisit her favourite areas, wandering freely without distraction. The first port of call was the collection of Turner watercolours, followed by the bronzes, and then those intriguing clocks, and then …

  Rosy checked her watch. Past midday and she hadn’t even begun her enquiry! It was time for critical assessments, she told herself sternly – and promptly sat down on a nearby bench. The hours went quickly when you were enjoying yourself, but so did physical stamina. She felt quite worn out. She could also do with a cup of coffee and a fortifying sandwich. Wasn’t there a cafe of sorts? She had an idea it had been on the first floor – or had it been the basement? An attendant was bound to know.

  She was about to move, when someone sat down beside her and gave a faint cough. ‘Standing is often more tiring than walking, wouldn’t you say, Miss Gilchrist?’

  Rosy looked up, startled, and was confronted by a pale face, vaguely familiar.

  ‘You may recall we exchanged a few words at the Master’s party the other evening,’ Geoffrey Hinchcliffe said politely, proffering his hand. ‘Or at least I recall; you, of course, may not,’ he added, smiling apologetically.

  Rosy recalled the exchange perfectly well – although they hadn’t said much, having been interrupted by the Master’s wife who had whisked him off to be introduced to Gloria. Clearly he had survived the ordeal. Or perhaps for him it had been a pleasure? She rather doubted this: he did not strike her as being especially robust.

  ‘Of course I remember you,’ she said firmly, ‘you were telling me about your passion for Schubert.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say passion, exactly,’ he murmured, ‘but I do find his music most soothing – the lieder, I mean. Such exquisite melodies. And when sung by that young Dieskau, or indeed a tenor such as Pears, it is a veritable treat …’ He gazed pensively into the distance as if hearing their voices.

  Rosy was about to make some observation on the same theme, but before she had the chance, he said, ‘That is one of the things so gratifying about being in Cambridge and that makes one want to stay. Wherever you go there is euphony: musical harmonies in college, hall and church. Naturally, London has its venues, but they are more widespread and less intimate. Whereas here … well, the place is a true balm to the soul!’

  Rosy saw his point, although perhaps not quite sharing his evident rapture.

  ‘It is a lovely city,’ she agreed, ‘and as you say, has so much to offer. I think we have all enjoyed coming back here – which makes it so sad that things have been a bit overshadowed by that poor Mr Reid’s death. A shock for everyone, but I imagine especially for those of you involved in the sculpture project.’

  Hinchcliffe nodded. ‘Yes, we were on the point of celebrating his commission. It was quite a blow. And I doubt if that Monty Finglestone would have stood much of a chance had he still been here – although one or two people seem to favour him. As it is things are hanging in limbo, for the moment at any rate. It’s conceivable that the whole project will be cancelled, but I rather doubt it. I think the powers that be will want to press on.’

  ‘So where does that leave the sponsors? Presumably they’ll go home and await developments.’

  ‘Most will. But one or two, such as Lord Bantry, and I think George Rawlings, live locally so will have their ear to the ground. And I gather Dame Margery has some lecturing commitment at Girton.’

  ‘Yes, she has. And you?’

  ‘Ah, I am one of the stayers,’ Hinchcliffe said with a smile. ‘One doesn’t often get up to Cambridge and it is a wonderful chance to have an intensive dose of the music. Although, as a matter of fact I have a rather less indulgent reason for staying on: I am writing a little monograph on East Anglian saints for our local church society, and as a Cambridge alumnus both Trinity and Emmanuel have kindly allowed me access to their libraries. So that’s where I shall be beavering for the next fortnight. It will provide me with much pleasure – and no doubt relief for my dear sister. She keeps house for the two of us in London, and when I am away I suspect she makes wild whoopee!’

  Hinchcliffe laughed. As did Rosy. Yes, it was difficult to envisage the mild and decorous Hinchcliffe having a riotous sister.

  After a few more pleasantries and with the thought of coffee having been replaced by the thought of a stronger libation, Rosy stood up and made her excuses to leave. Hinchcliffe also rose and, shaking her hand, said he hoped they would meet again. ‘With
you being a friend of my old colleague Professor Dillworthy, I trust we shall.’ He gave a diffident smile.

  Rosy walked down the museum steps debating where to have lunch. She was torn between The Eagle and the Free Press; both were congenial. She liked the latter’s intimacy, but the other was nearer, and it had nooks and corners where one could read a book or wrestle with a crossword undisturbed. In fact, she bought a copy of The Times for just that purpose, and entering The Eagle ordered a thick ham sandwich, pickled onions and a half-pint of bitter. She found an alcove table, and after turning to the newspaper’s inside page to scan the day’s headlines, settled down to pore over clues.

  Alas, the clues proved particularly fiendish, but it was pleasant nevertheless seated quietly sipping her drink amidst the low hum of others’ conversation … what her busy mother would have called ‘disgracefully restful’. Rosy gave a wry smile, being suddenly reminded of the sound of that voice long stilled by the Blitz, and for a moment she was pensive … And then inwardly she shrugged. Ah well, such hauntings were inevitable – the loved and the dead, they never really left you. It was a blessing. Briskly, and as her mother might have done, she shook off the past and applied herself to the present practicalities of sandwich and puzzle.

  Engrossed in the latter, she was at first unaware of the two men who had seated themselves in the adjacent alcove. But their voices, though subdued, did eventually reach her. She glanced up and recognised the broad features of Lord Bantry: the man who at the Master’s soirée had gallantly applauded her shoes and most ungallantly mocked the tiresome Gloria. His companion was Dr Maycock, the recipient of Gloria’s own scathing mockery. Judging from the aroma wafting in her direction, they were tucking into one of The Eagle’s famously robust casseroles. She returned to the conundrums.

  Concentration was broken by a sudden rumble of laughter from Lord Bantry and the scraping of a match as he lit a cheroot. But then in a far from jovial tone could be heard Maycock’s voice: ‘I am glad you think it’s so funny; personally I think it’s a crying disgrace. Reid may have been an unsavoury blighter, but at least he was ours: our choice. As it is, we are now expected to appoint some callow unknown at the behest of a total outsider. Talk about the power of the barbarian. It’s insufferable!’

  (Rosy, who had been vainly seeking inspiration from the airmen’s hieroglyphics on the ceiling, lowered her head and duly wrote in the word BARBARIC and thus completed the puzzle’s left-hand corner. If she kept her ears pricked, perhaps more solutions might come her way!)

  ‘You are right. Although I believe Finglestone is quite well regarded by some in London; and as for Gloria, I suppose it could be argued that being our subject’s offspring, she isn’t exactly an outsider – though she is certainly barbarous.’ There was the sound of a faint chuckle from Bantry.

  ‘She is an outsider to the college, let alone its executive.’ Maycock snapped. ‘You’ll see, we shall have the WI putting its oar in next! Frankly, Arthur, you seem to be taking a very calm view of things. I thought you couldn’t stand the woman.’

  There was a silence. And then Rosy heard the other say in a tone now empty of humour. ‘I can’t. And I agree: the interference is intolerable. And what’s more, if she can impose her will in this issue, where will it end?’

  ‘And I’ll tell you something,’ the other said, ‘rumour has it that she is now angling to have a corner in the library specially dedicated to her father’s books and manuscripts.’

  ‘What, the public library?’

  ‘No. Ours.’

  There followed a silence sufficiently long enough for Rosy to complete another clue. CONSTERNATION, she inserted.

  ‘Outrageous!’ Maycock finally exploded. ‘That man’s stuff can be shelved piecemeal like anyone else’s. She has no right to—’

  ‘Perhaps not a right, but that woman is unscrupulous. It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t try to nobble Cuff and get him to climb down over the plot purchase. If she does that, she will have a lever on us and the Master will think he owes her one.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Maycock growled. ‘That woman must be blocked.’ His usually bluff tone had taken on a hard edge. ‘Dick tries his best, of course, but there’s a weakness there, you know, and when push comes to shove he’ll yield.’

  ‘Then we must ensure that it doesn’t reach that point, mustn’t we?’ Bantry replied quietly.

  He said something else, but the words were lost in a small commotion as someone stumbled past the tables manoeuvring a massive Great Dane, and Maycock’s response was largely lost except for a final snippet: ‘… ah well, put like that, but, yes, there are always ways and means – and accidents, of course. Take Reid, for example!’ This time it was he who laughed, and with a scraping of chairs they got up to go.

  Rosy watched as they made their way towards the door. At that moment the Great Dane, quietly recumbent at its owner’s feet, chose to give a loud woof. Bantry glanced round, smiled at the dog, and then saw Rosy. He stopped and retraced his slightly limping footsteps.

  ‘Ah, Little Red Shoes, if I’m not mistaken. What a charming coincidence. Had we known you were just behind us we would have invited you to our table – though I fear that listening to our ramblings mightn’t have been the most uplifting experience.’ He looked at her intently and then down at the half-finished crossword. ‘As it is, I trust our voices didn’t disturb the Muse; these wooden screens aren’t exactly sound barriers, are they?’

  Rosy smiled politely, gently seething at being addressed as Little Red Shoes, and shook her head. ‘Oh no, the Muse has been most dutiful for once,’ she lied, ‘deaf to the world!’

  ‘Delighted to hear that,’ he said smoothly. He nodded towards Maycock hovering by the door: ‘Always impatient, that one. I must be off – can’t keep the good doctor waiting. Enjoy your stay.’ He gave a mock salute and turned to join his companion.

  After they had gone, Rosy put The Times aside and stared at the Great Dane. Really, these chaps don’t half enjoy putting the knife in, she mused. Old Gloria had better watch it! But then reflecting on her own encounter with the lady she guessed the woman could weather most things, including caustic attacks from irate scholars. And thinking of the latter, she wondered if she should telephone her boss with a report on the Fitzwilliam – except, of course, she had so far gleaned nothing, not having made any attempt. Ah well, one couldn’t be assertive and organised all the time. She would return the next day – or the day after – full of busy enquiry, and as Stanley had directed pick the brains of the curator. Meanwhile, the sunshine beckoned. She would take a leisurely stroll down to Clare Bridge, loll on the balustrade and watch the ducks and punters …

  Outside in Bene’t Street, Rosy’s mind returned briefly to her recent neighbours. She grimaced: Little Red Shoes indeed!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dr John Smithers was a worried man. Very worried. They were right, he brooded: one should never run two horses at the same time; there was bound to be trouble. And in this case double trouble, if the newer horse happened to be the Master’s wife.

  It was horribly ironic. After that abortive exchange on the telephone, Reid’s death had seemed a godsend, and he had savoured the prospect of continuing the Anthea thing free from anxiety and with renewed vigour. Of course, there was still the hovering shadow of Sir Richard, but with Reid dead that was far less of a threat – although, if anything, the shadow had added a certain frisson to matters. (His mouth twitched with wry satisfaction.) But now with this latest business anything could go wrong, and how! When Anthea Dick had made her overture to him a couple of months back he had been surprised and amused; flattered, of course, and then intrigued. Curiosity: that had done it – a notorious goad in such matters.

  Smithers smiled ruefully, trusting that he had no feline traits, and then stared disconsolately out of the window cursing his luck. He heaved a sigh. Yes, recently things had been proceeding nicely, very nicely … and then, out of the blue, this absurdity. What a fool she had
been! She had brought the whole thing on herself. But why confide in him, for heaven’s sake? The less he knew about it the better. After all, that’s what spouses were for, wasn’t it? To bear the brunt of their partner’s stupidity. It was hardly the lover’s role.

  He scowled and admitted that in this particular case unburdening herself to Sir Richard would hardly have been wise – a divulgence inviting all manner of awkward questions. Still, that didn’t mean she should have used himself as an alternative confidant; an alternative that potentially could land him in the sodding soup. The last thing he wanted was to become involved, however loosely, in a matter of that kind – far too close for comfort! Well, as his grandmother used to say: that would learn him! Perhaps he ought to become a monk: pursuing his scholarly researches in restful solitude far from the temptation of women, the snares of the world and other people’s blunders.

  Smithers ground out his cigarette and lit another, seeing its smoke wafting lazily from some refectory fire on Mount Athos. For a few seconds the reverie absorbed him. And then the chapel bell in the Main Court boomed, and with a jolt he was returned to the present and bloody Anthea.

  Meanwhile – specifically in the bathroom of the Master’s Lodge – bloody Anthea was also cursing her luck and dreaming of being elsewhere. She stretched a toe to turn on the hot tap and stroked a willowy arm with the flannel. She wouldn’t mind where elsewhere, except not here in Cambridge amid all these tedious problems … although actually, it had to said, most problems were dealt with easily enough. But not this one. Certainly not this one! She closed her eyes, and for the umpteenth time thought of John Smithers and mildly hated him.