Murder in Cambridge E-Book

Christina Koning

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Blind Detective
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 452

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'With vivid characterisation and a keen ear for dialogue, Christina Koning has all the qualities of a first-class mystery writer.' - DAILY MAIL First published as End of Term under A. C. Koning. Cambridge, 1935. Frederick Rowlands, blind war veteran, is attending an event at St Gertrude's College. However, the festivities are harshly interrupted when when a research student is found dead in suspicious circumstances. As one of the last people to see the student alive, Rowlands finds himself at the heart of the murder investigation. On the hunt to identify the killer, Rowlands is shocked to learn of the hidden secrets of this seemingly idyllic city. As the violence escalates and the body count increases, Rowlands must act quickly to save St Gertrude's reputation, and his own, before it is too late ...

Leseprobe

MURDER IN CAMBRIDGE

Christina Koning

To the memory of all the brave and brilliant women who fought for equal rights in education and the suffrage – and the men who supported their endeavours.

‘Better is wisdom than weapons of war.’ Cambridge Alumnae Suffrage Banner (1908)

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorBy Christina KoningCopyright

Chapter One

One, two, three, four … The clock in Trinity Great Court struck twelve, its sonorous chimes echoing around that enormous space, which had seen so much coming and going of young men since its foundation nearly four hundred years before – some of them belonging to that doomed generation which had come of age in 1914. How many of those, thought Frederick Rowlands, had left these hallowed courts never to return? His commanding officer, Gerald Willoughby, had been one of them – although he had not in fact been a casualty of the war, Rowlands reminded himself. He recalled something Willoughby had said, which hadn’t meant much to him at the time. They’d been 8under heavy fire at Polygon Wood, and were having to advance at the double. ‘You might think this is bad, but it’s not half as bad as the Great Court Run,’ the young officer had laughed.

Smiling at the memory of his late friend, Rowlands paused for a moment in the middle of the flagstone path that bordered the expanse of grass on which – he’d been informed a few minutes earlier – only fellows of the college were permitted to walk. As he did so, a group of undergraduates loudly discussing Trinity’s prowess on the river that morning barged past him. ‘I say – look where you’re going!’ cried an indignant voice.

‘Can’t you see the gentleman’s blind?’ It was Maud Rickards, who had been walking a few paces behind with Rowlands’ wife, Edith. A chorus of sheepish apologies followed.

‘Awfully sorry, sir!’

‘Didn’t see you, sir.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Rowlands. ‘Although they barely touched me,’ he added to Miss Rickards when the youths had taken themselves off.

‘It makes no difference,’ was the tart reply. ‘They should make way for their elders and betters. If you ask me, there’s far too much of this kind of boisterous behaviour going on, and from university men, too. It sets a bad example – not least to my girls.’

Rowlands wasn’t about to disagree, although privately he felt some sympathy with the miscreants. What he wouldn’t give to be out on the river this 9afternoon instead of trailing round some stuffy garden party! He knew Miss Rickards’ intervention had been well-meant, but he’d disliked having his disability drawn attention to. He kept his thoughts to himself, however. In the space of the past couple of hours, since he and Edith had been met at Cambridge Station by his wife’s friend and fellow VAD, he had been discovering what a formidable woman she was. From her brisk instructions to the taxi driver – ‘Now, don’t go the long way round, will you? I live here and I’ll know’ – to the way she’d just ticked off the noisy rowers, it was evident that she was not to be trifled with. ‘Maud’s a dear, really,’ Edith said when they found themselves briefly alone. ‘It’s just her way. She was like that when we were at 1st London together. Always convinced she was right. She had some fine rows with Matron, I can tell you!’

Rowlands could well believe it. Now, as he felt his arm being firmly grasped by the determined Miss Rickards, he decided it was time to take a stand. ‘I can manage quite well by myself, you know,’ he said, gently disengaging his arm. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice, haven’t I, dear?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Edith, with the faintest note of irony in her voice. She’d seen some of the scrapes he’d got himself into through his stubborn desire to be independent.

‘It’s just that there’s a step here,’ said Maud Rickards, sounding a little put out. ‘I didn’t want you to fall flat on your face.’ 10

‘Thank you,’ said Rowlands humbly. ‘I wouldn’t have enjoyed that.’

Emerging through the great gate onto Trinity Street, the three of them made their way towards King’s, having already taken in Magdalene and St John’s on their whistle-stop tour of the colleges. ‘You might as well see something of the really beautiful ones,’ Miss Rickards had said, with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think they’re all as hideous as our dear Gertie.’

‘Cambridge is a remarkably pretty place,’ said Edith as they strolled along the narrow street, at the end of which, Rowlands knew, was one of the city’s most spectacular views: that of King’s College Chapel and the ornate Gothic gateway that led from King’s Parade to the college’s central court. He could picture this, even now, although he couldn’t see it. As with much of his mental furniture, the image was linked with a memory – in this instance, with his first visit to Cambridge, the summer before the war, a year or so after he’d started the job at Methuen. He’d had a meeting with the bookshop manager at Heffers in Petty Cury, and had wandered around the market for a while looking at the second-hand bookstalls before doubling back along King’s Parade and turning down Bene’t Street for a pint at The Eagle. Now there was a thought …

The two women were still admiring the view. Edith (whose brother had been at Worcester College, Oxford) said she thought it compared very favourably with that of the Radcliffe Camera. ‘Wait until you’ve seen the 11Chapel’s interior,’ said her friend. ‘It’s said to be one of the finest examples of Late Perpendicular in Europe.’ But they hadn’t time for that now, regrettably, she went on. They’d have to hurry if they were to get a bite of lunch before they were due back at college. ‘There’s the new Dorothy Café, in Rose Crescent,’ Miss Rickards suggested, with this end in view. ‘They do a very good Welsh Rarebit.’ Rowlands decided to leave them to it.

‘I’m sure you both have a lot of things you want to talk about,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in The Eagle when you want me.’ Because after all, he thought, entering the courtyard of the venerable hostelry – a former coaching inn – by way of its broad gateway, it really was Edith’s show. She and her friend had a lot of catching up to do. He’d only be in the way.

With necessary caution, he made his way over the uneven cobbled yard and entered the bar on the far side of it where he ordered himself a pint of Lacons’ Best Bitter, and a Scotch egg to accompany it. There’d be tea and sandwiches later, he supposed – not that he was a great one for garden parties. Again, it was to please Edith that he’d agreed to come. She and Maud Rickards had met during the war, and had remained firm friends, although, perhaps inevitably, their paths had diverged in the years since their VAD days, owing to the demands of bringing up children, in Edith’s case, and to those of working life, in Maud’s. So it had been a pleasant surprise for Edith when she’d received the letter, two weeks before. ‘It’s from dear old Maud. You remember 12her, don’t you? She and I shared digs in Camberwell when I first started nursing. She’s asked us to go up for the May Week Garden Party at St Gertrude’s.’ This was the Cambridge women’s college where Miss Rickards was employed as Bursar. ‘There’s a dinner that evening, too. Oh, do say you’ll come, Fred! It’ll be the most marvellous fun.’

Rowlands wasn’t so sure about that – but he hoped at least that it wouldn’t be too much of a bore. And it was true, as Edith had pointed out, that they hadn’t been away together without the children for a very long time. He sipped his drink, savouring its agreeably bitter taste, and allowed his thoughts to drift, glad to be at a loose end for a while, and away from Miss Rickards’ managing tendencies. It was pleasant sitting there in the relaxed atmosphere of a lunchtime pub, with its aromas of cigarette smoke and beer, and the sound of voices drifting in through the open window beside him. Although as a rule he tried not to listen to other people’s conversations unless it was unavoidable, there was something quite beguiling about trying to guess – from the scraps of talk he could make out – what those around him were like.

That group outside in the courtyard couldn’t be anything but undergraduates, with their loud self-conscious talk of ‘ploughing’ in the end of term exams, and their boastfulness as to number of pints sunk and severity of hangovers afterwards. Those men in the room behind him must be racing men, to judge from 13the frequency with which they mentioned favourites, handicaps and each-way bets. Of course, they weren’t far from Newmarket here. As for that couple on the other side of the window next to which Rowlands was sitting, they appeared to be having a lovers’ tiff. ‘I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to say that to me.’ It was a young woman – a girl, really – who had spoken. Her voice was pitched so low that no one who wasn’t sitting opposite, or beside her, could have heard it. ‘I think that’s about the most rotten thing I ever heard …’

It was immediately apparent to Rowlands that the speaker was unaware of being overheard, a fact that made him feel rather uncomfortable. He withdrew as far as he could from the window, but was reluctant to make any further sign that might give away his presence, such as shutting the window, or moving from his seat. ‘If we’re talking about “rotten”,’ the young man to whom these remarks had been addressed now said, ‘then I think the way you’ve been behaving’s pretty rotten. I mean, stringing a chap along when all the time … No, don’t go!’ The girl must have made a move to do so. ‘Not until you’ve heard me out.’

‘I don’t see why I should stay around to be insulted,’ she replied. A moment later, came the sound of high heels stalking away. ‘Oh I say! Dash it all, Diana – I didn’t mean …’ This was said in such a plaintive tone that Rowlands felt quite sorry for the lad. Never a good idea to cross a woman when she’s in an unforgiving mood, he thought. As if on cue, he heard his name called. 14

‘Fred! Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Just coming.’ He finished his beer. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Hailing a cab,’ said his wife. ‘So there’s nothing for you to do except pay the driver, and look pleasant.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, still pondering on the acrimonious little exchange he’d overheard.

St Gertrude’s College was of considerably younger vintage than the men’s colleges around which the Rowlands had been conducted by their hostess that morning. Built a little over sixty years before, in the Gothic style which had then been the fashion, it had the look of a different kind of institution altogether.

‘People say it resembles a madhouse,’ said Miss Rickards with a chuckle as the taxi turned into the long drive that led to the entrance. ‘It’s the red brick, I suppose. Although nobody says it about Selwyn.’ This was one of the newer men’s colleges. ‘Or Newnham, for that matter.’

‘Perhaps it’s being so far out,’ said Edith as, having driven under the arch of the gatehouse, the cab deposited the three of them in the courtyard behind it. ‘It must be all of two miles.’

‘Three,’ replied her friend. ‘Although it doesn’t do the little beasts any harm to have the exercise. There is a bus,’ she added, ‘but most of them prefer to cycle to lectures. Our rowing team’s extremely fit as a consequence. Now,’ went on this forthright lady, ‘let’s 15see where they’ve put you. I asked for a nice quiet room in Tower Wing.’ This, the college’s most distinctive feature, Rowlands gathered, loomed over the gateway and was reached through one of a pair of oak doors on either side of the arch.

Their room was on the second floor. ‘It has splendid views over the grounds,’ said Miss Rickards, accompanying them to the door of the room. Rowlands forbore from pointing out that this wouldn’t make much difference to him.

‘I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable,’ he said. Then, because he always liked to get a sense of the layout of places, ‘I assume there’s a floor above this?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Rickards. ‘There’s Top Boots. It’s college servants’ rooms, and box rooms.’

‘Can one get out onto the roof of the tower itself?’ he asked.

‘One can. But I shouldn’t attempt it if I were you. The stairs are very steep. We’ve had to warn the students on more than one occasion about holding midnight parties up there. Well, if you’ve got everything you need – there should be soap and towels – I’ll leave you.’ With this, the bursar took herself off, suggesting that they should all meet an hour hence in the lobby at the foot of the tower. The garden party was due to start at three. ‘So you’ll just have time to change your frock,’ was her parting shot to Edith.

‘Phew!’ said Rowlands when she had gone. ‘That woman makes me tired.’ 16

‘Now Fred, that’s not kind,’ said his wife in a reproachful tone. ‘She means well.’

‘I know. It’s just that she makes me feel like a rather unwieldy parcel that’s lost its label. I’m not sure she knows what to do with me.’

‘The fact is, she’s not used to men. I think they make her feel awkward. She sort of over-compensates when they’re around.’

‘Well, I’m glad it’s not just me,’ he said.

Reaching the lobby at the bottom of the tower staircase a few minutes before three, they found that Miss Rickards had yet to arrive. ‘She’ll have things to organise, I expect,’ said Edith. ‘Goodness! She looks rather a dragon.’ She was referring to the subject of one of the photographic portraits with which the walls of the lobby were hung: these, it transpired, were former alumnae, amongst them, the distinguished five who had formed the college’s first student body in its foundation year. ‘Now she’s rather lovely,’ Edith went on, moving to another portrait. ‘Rather fine eyes, you know – and such a lot of hair! How they managed with it like that, I can’t imagine.’

‘You had your hair long when I first met you,’ said Rowlands, with a twinge of regret for that lost glory.

‘So I did,’ was the reply. ‘And very tiresome it was, too. Ah, here’s Maud.’ Because the heavy oak door which led out onto the passageway that ran beneath the tower was even now creaking open. But it wasn’t Miss Rickards, after all, but a strange young woman who entered. 17

‘The bursar sends her apologies,’ she said. ‘She’s tied up at present, but would be grateful if you would join her in the Fellows’ Combination Room for tea at half past three. She suggests a walk in the gardens until then.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edith, since her husband appeared to have been struck dumb.

‘I’m to take you there,’ said the girl. ‘Unless there’s anything else you’d rather see? We have a rather good Egyptian collection in the college museum, or there’s an exhibition of watercolours by one of the founders in the Old Library.’

‘The gardens will do fine,’ said Edith, then, as their guide led the way back through the doorway to the door on the other side of the arch, she hissed in Rowlands’ ear, ‘What’s the matter, Fred? Cat got your tongue?’

‘I know that girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve just remembered where from. It was in the pub, earlier.’

‘Tell me later,’ said his wife, because they had by now caught up with their young guide.

‘It’s this way,’ she said. High heels clicked on the tiled floor of the corridor, at the end of which, said Edith to her husband, was a spiral staircase.

‘Rather an ornate one with stained-glass windows going up it.’ Years of acting as his ‘eyes’ meant she’d got into the habit of describing places for him. It seemed to surprise the girl.

‘Oh, there’s nothing up there worth seeing,’ she said. ‘Only supervisors’ offices and students’ rooms. If you 18follow me to the end of this corridor’ – it ran at a right-angle to the first – ‘we can get out through the door at the end.’

‘You’ve been most helpful,’ said Rowlands, to make up for his earlier silence. ‘Miss …?’

‘Havelock,’ said the girl. ‘Diana Havelock.’ She opened a door, and ushered them out onto a gravel path with a flower border on one side and, it transpired from her brief description, a lawn and shrubberies on the other. ‘It’s all looking rather jolly just now,’ said Miss Havelock. Edith agreed.

‘Splendid delphiniums,’ she said. ‘I do so love that particular shade of blue.’ They had by this time left the path and were crossing the lawn, towards where – to judge from the murmur of voices – a crowd of undergraduates and their guests was milling about. Cries of greeting were exchanged, ‘Too lovely to see you!’

‘Topping day for it!’

‘What is it that you’re reading, Miss Havelock?’ said Rowlands.

‘Natural Sciences,’ was the reply. ‘Physics. I’m studying for my PhD, actually,’ she added, with some hauteur.

‘I see.’ He hastened to correct his mistake. ‘And what is your field, exactly?’

‘Well …’ Diana Havelock seemed about to reply to Rowlands’ question, but then something seemed to distract her – perhaps the sound of voices, coming 19towards them. A man saying, ‘Agnes, my dear, I thought we’d been through all this?’ and a woman’s querulous reply, ‘Yes, but you said …’

‘I … ah … Will you excuse me?’ said Miss Havelock abruptly. ‘There’s someone I ought to …’

‘Of course.’ Before the words were out of his mouth, she had rushed off.

‘How very odd!’ said Edith. But before she could enlarge on this, they were hailed from a short distance away, and a moment later Maud Rickards bore down on them.

‘Glad you found your way. I asked Miss Havelock to go and find you.’

‘She did,’ said Edith. ‘But …’

‘Good, good. Now let me introduce you to some people. Ah, Professor Harding! And Mrs Harding, too … I hope the girls are looking after you?’

‘Splendidly, thanks,’ said the former. A youngish man in spite of his title, thought Rowlands. Rather pleased with himself, too. His wife remained silent.

‘Do let me introduce my friends, Mr and Mrs Rowlands,’ Miss Rickards was saying. ‘Mrs Rowlands and I were VADs together, during the war.’

‘Ah, you ladies have the advantage of me, having seen war service,’ said Harding. ‘I wasn’t in the war, I regret to say. Poor sight kept me out of it – the result, no doubt, of excessive reading,’ he added with some complacency. Rowlands, who had lost his sight at the Third Battle of Ypres, had nothing to say to this, and 20after a minute or two more of inconsequential chat – ‘I hope you’re enjoying Cambridge? We put on rather a good show at this time of year,’ Professor Harding left them, with a murmured excuse about needing to speak to the Mistress. His wife, who had scarcely opened her mouth throughout this exchange, except to agree that they’d been lucky with the weather, followed him.

‘Now that,’ said Edith sotto voce, ‘is a very handsome man. I thought all professors were about a hundred, with sloping shoulders and white hair. Your Professor Harding can’t be much more than forty.’

‘Really, Edie!’ said her friend in a tone of mock reproof, and for a moment Rowlands caught a glimpse of a more girlish Miss Rickards. ‘Your wife is quite incorrigible,’ she added to Rowlands.

‘Don’t I know it?’ he said. ‘Although I must say, I’m a little surprised to find a male professor at a women’s college. I’d assumed all your fellows would be women.’

‘Most of them are. Professor Harding is just a visiting fellow,’ said the bursar. ‘But he’s certainly been a great success with the undergraduates. He’s a physicist …’

‘Like Miss Havelock.’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact, Professor Harding is supervising her PhD. She got the top marks in Physics in her Finals, and so the college awarded her a studentship to carry on her research.’

‘Clever girl,’ said Rowlands.

‘Indeed. If rather …’

‘Volatile?’ he suggested.21

‘Precisely. Ah, Miss Glossop! Have you had tea yet? It’s set out in the FCR for fellows and their guests.’

Miss Glossop, who turned out to be a pleasant-sounding female of about fifty, said that she had not yet had tea. ‘I was looking for Honoria Fairclough,’ she said. ‘Wanted to ask her how she got on in the exam yesterday.’

‘She’s about somewhere,’ was the reply. ‘She and Avril Williamson are friends, aren’t they? I’m sure she’ll know.’ With her customary briskness, Miss Rickards duly collared a passing undergraduate, whom Rowlands guessed must be the aforementioned Miss Williamson. ‘Have you seen Miss Fairclough this afternoon?’ she demanded. ‘Miss Glossop wants her.’

‘It was only that I wanted to know how she did in the Shakespeare paper,’ said the English fellow. ‘But it can wait.’

‘I think she’s with Bobby Pearson’s people,’ said the girl doubtfully. ‘I’ll go and dig her out, if you like.’

‘No matter,’ said Miss Glossop. ‘Although I am hoping she’ll be one of my Firsts,’ she added as Avril Williamson, released from the obligation of tracking down her friend, scurried off.

‘Miss Glossop is our Shakespeare specialist,’ put in Miss Rickards. ‘We’re very lucky to have her.’

‘Oh,’ said Miss Glossop in a deprecating tone. ‘I don’t know about that …’ But the bursar was adamant.

‘She got the best First in her year – and that’s including the men. A pity,’ added Maud Rickards, acidly, ‘that 22she couldn’t be awarded the same degree as the men.’

‘Well, that’s just the way it is, I’m afraid,’ said the Shakespeare scholar mildly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she went on, addressing the Rowlands. ‘I didn’t catch your name. Is your daughter one of ours?’

‘I’m afraid not. Our eldest is only fifteen,’ said Rowlands with a smile.

‘Mr and Mrs Rowlands are old friends of mine,’ said the bursar. ‘And they’ve three daughters, so they’ve every reason to take a good look round College.’

‘Quite so,’ said Miss Glossop. ‘Ah, I think I see my young lady over there. Very nice to have met you, Mr and Mrs Rowlands. Do tell your daughter to think seriously about St Gertrude’s when she comes to deciding on a university, won’t you?’

Before Rowlands and his wife had a chance to discuss this interesting suggestion, they found themselves surrounded by a little knot of undergraduates, intent on reaching the tea table, which had been set up on the far side of the lawn, or so Rowlands surmised from the general movement in that direction.

‘… so I said to him, “You give me the pip, you really do.”’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I most certainly did. I won’t have chaps making mooncalf faces at me. And he isn’t even a third year—’

‘Girls, girls!’ Miss Rickards’ sharp tones cut through this gaily malicious chatter. ‘Do look where you’re going, Miss Thompson. Miss Harvey, your hat’s on 23crooked. Please put it on properly. And try not to shout, Miss Ramsay.’

‘Yes, Miss Rickards.’

‘Awf’lly sorry, Miss Rickards.’

‘Silly young things,’ muttered the bursar as the now rather subdued young women continued on their way. ‘If one could get their minds off the opposite sex for half a minute, they might be capable of doing something really useful with their lives. But instead all most of ’em can think about is getting engaged to some fatuous young man.’

‘You don’t consider marriage to be a useful occupation, then?’ said Edith innocently as they threaded their way between groups of staff and visitors, to reach the door that led to the Fellows’ Combination Room.

‘I …’ Miss Rickards realised that she’d been caught out. ‘Of course marriage is useful. It’s just that these girls have other opportunities, not available to most of their peers.’

‘I’m sure they do,’ said Edith. ‘Although I can see why the pretty one with the fair hair – Miss Ramsay, isn’t it? – might attract a bit of male attention.’

‘Oh, she’s a dreadful flirt,’ groaned her friend. ‘A pity, because she’s got quite a good brain under that platinum blonde bob.’ They had by now reached the Fellows’ Combination Room. ‘Now this we’re very proud of,’ said the bursar. ‘It was only built two years ago, and it’s given us a lot more room for entertaining – 24especially useful on occasions like this. The Old Library is charming if you like that High Victorian style, but these rooms’ – there were two, it emerged – ‘are so much more spacious and modern.’ A subdued murmur of conversation, accompanied by a clinking of teacups, showed that others had already availed themselves of the FCR’s superior amenities. ‘Such a relief to be out of the sun,’ said a voice next to Rowlands. ‘I thought I’d expire if I had to stay out there another minute …’

‘Good afternoon, Miss Crane. Miss Sissons,’ said Miss Rickards. ‘I hope you’ve got everything you need?’ To their reply that this was so, she said that in that case, she’d see about getting their own tea.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Edith. Rowlands, left standing rather awkwardly with the two fellows, decided to introduce himself, ‘How do you do? I’m Frederick Rowlands.’

‘Alethea Crane,’ said the one who’d complained of the heat. ‘I suppose you must be one of the fathers?’ It seemed to Rowlands that he was fated to be asked a version of this question all afternoon. He explained that he was accompanying his wife, who was a friend of the bursar’s. ‘Not that we wouldn’t be delighted if one of our girls were to be given the chance to come to St Gertrude’s in the future,’ he added, feeling that any standing he might have in that gathering was entirely dependent on his female relatives.

‘Are any of your daughters good at Biology?’ This was the other fellow – Miss Sissons. Rowlands smiled. 25

‘I don’t know. The eldest might be. She’s top of her class in Mathematics.’

‘Ah, if she’s a mathematician, she’ll be one of Professor Harding’s select little coterie,’ said Miss Crane, in a tone of voice that indicated she did not think much of the handsome don.

‘Well, she’s yet to sit her matriculation exams, so I don’t think …’ he began, when Edith and Maud Rickards returned, bearing cups of tea.

‘Such a crush!’ exclaimed the latter. ‘There. Have you got that all right, Mr Rowlands?’ She placed the full cup in Rowlands’ hand with exaggerated care.

‘Yes, thanks,’ he said. Something about the exchange must have caused the Biology lecturer to look more closely at the man she’d been talking to.

‘I say,’ she said. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t realise …’

‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ said Rowlands, unable to suppress a feeling of irritation at the officious way Miss Rickards had once again drawn attention to his blindness. He hadn’t crashed into anyone, or tripped over the furniture so far, and so he wished she hadn’t felt the need to make such a fuss.

‘Now, do have one of these cakes,’ she was saying.

‘Fred never eats cake,’ said Edith, perhaps reading his scowl correctly. ‘I’ve got you some sandwiches,’ she added. ‘Egg and cress. I didn’t think you’d care for cucumber.’

‘Yes, we really ought to have provided some heartier fare for the men,’ said Miss Rickards. It was hard to 26tell from her tone of voice whether or not she was being sarcastic. Rowlands decided to ignore the remark.

‘Miss Crane and Miss Sissons and I were just discussing the possibility of Margaret’s applying to study Mathematics,’ he said to his wife. ‘I gather Professor Harding’s the man we should be talking to?’

‘Yes they’re all clamouring to attend his lectures,’ said the bursar. ‘They can sit examinations with the men, too – they just can’t expect to receive the same degree.’ This was obviously a sore point, and one with which the other two academics were familiar to the point of weariness.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Miss Sissons. ‘I see some of my parents over there … that is, the parents of my pupils. So nice to have met you, Mr Rowlands. I do hope your daughter comes to St Gertrude’s.’

‘I should circulate, too,’ said Miss Rickards, hastily gulping down the last of her sandwich. ‘Will you two be all right on your own? Miss Crane here knows everybody in college, so she’ll be able to introduce you to anyone you want to meet. Only I see that Lady St Clare – she’s one of our trustees – needs looking after.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ said Edith. ‘It must be quite a responsibility,’ she observed to their new acquaintance as Miss Rickards bustled away. ‘Organising an event like this, I mean.’

‘Oh, the bursar’s marvellous,’ agreed Miss Crane. ‘She keeps the college ticking over with remarkable efficiency. We’ve over two hundred students, you 27know – to say nothing of teaching staff and research fellows. It’s a lot to keep in check.’

‘It must be,’ said Rowlands, resolving to give Miss Rickards the benefit of the doubt in future. What seemed, at first sight, to be unnecessary fussing, was probably no more that a desire to ensure that everything was running smoothly, he told himself. An institution of this size would need a lot of organisation if it were to function effectively. His army training should have told him that.

Chapter Two

‘Well,’ said Miss Crane. ‘I don’t know who else you’d be interested in meeting, but I can tell you who’s here. There’s the Mistress, of course …’

‘Is she the tall, distinguished-looking woman in the grey silk frock?’ asked Edith.

‘That’s her. She’s talking to Dr Maltravers – our chaplain. He’s Director of Music here, so I should think it’s about the concert this afternoon. Some of the undergraduates will be singing madrigals, and some acting scenes from Shakespeare.’

‘I look forward to that,’ said Rowlands, meaning it, but Miss Crane laughed.

‘Oh, the girls enjoy it, and it gives the parents a 29chance to applaud their little darlings’ artistic prowess,’ she said. It sounded as if she didn’t care much for such endeavours – but then she was a scientist, he reminded himself. ‘Come and meet Dr Bostock,’ she was saying. ‘She’s our Modern and Mediaeval Languages Fellow – newly arrived from Oxford, so she doesn’t know anyone, poor thing. It’ll be a kindness to talk to her. People do tend to clump together at these events.’

The Rowlands followed their guide across the room to a window embrasure where the aforementioned fellow was standing, nursing a cup of tea. This fact became apparent to Rowlands when, at Miss Crane’s friendly greeting, the other gave a violent start, and was only saved from disaster by her colleague’s intervention. ‘Steady on! You nearly had that all down you.’

‘You startled me,’ said the young woman hotly.

‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to,’ was the reply. ‘Let me introduce Mr and Mrs Rowlands. They’re guests of the bursar’s.’

‘Oh.’ If this was a sample of Dr Bostock’s conversational style, it was hardly surprising she was all on her own, thought Rowlands. He chose an inoffensive topic.

‘Fine day for it,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ This was hardly better. Dr Bostock was obviously one of those people with no small talk.

‘We’ve just been admiring the gardens,’ put in Edith. ‘You’re lucky to have such extensive grounds at St 30Gertrude’s. It must be very nice for the students.’

‘I expect so,’ was the indifferent reply. Miss Crane being at that moment caught up in conversation with another member of the teaching staff – evidently a friend, for they were on first-name terms – the Rowlands found themselves rather landed with the reticent Dr Bostock. Rowlands tried again, ‘I gather you teach Modern Languages? he said. ‘May I ask which languages particularly?’

‘French and Italian.’

‘Ah. I read a little French,’ he said.

‘What have you read?’ She sounded marginally more interested in this – ‘Although I don’t think she was paying either of us much attention,’ said Edith afterwards. ‘She kept glancing out of the window all the while you were talking to her, as if she was looking out for someone. Rather rude, I thought.’

The conversation limped on for a few more minutes, Rowlands opining that it made all the difference to one’s first impression of a work to have had a sympathetic teacher or, in his case, a patient reader. ‘Being blind, you know, I’ve had to rely on my wife to read aloud to me …’

‘Unfortunately I don’t read French,’ said Edith.

‘So I’m lucky to have the use of some excellent talking books. I’m halfway through Le Rouge et Le Noir at present.’

‘I’m doing Stendhal with my first years,’ said Dr Bostock, with more warmth in her voice than before. ‘They’re making rather heavy weather of it.’ 31

‘Perhaps they need a talking book to bring it alive?’ said Rowlands.

‘Perhaps.’ Something seemed to have distracted the Modern Languages Fellow, for she broke off suddenly. ‘Do excuse me. There’s someone I … I really must speak to …’

Then she was gone.

‘Well!’ said Edith. ‘I must say …’ But she was fortunately prevented from saying it by the return of Miss Rickards, very apologetic for having abandoned them.

‘It’s just that there’s so much to see to at an event like this,’ she said. ‘With over a hundred guests, and then the dinner to organise tonight …’

‘Surely you have help?’ said Edith as the three of them strolled out into the courtyard of the fellows’ Garden. Here, a sizeable contingent of fellows and their guests had congregated, the better to enjoy the glorious weather. Several of the men – and no doubt some of the women, in such an emancipated gathering, Rowlands surmised – had lit pipes and cigarettes, and the smell of tobacco smoke mingled pleasantly with that of the roses on the garden wall.

‘Oh, as to having help,’ the bursar was saying, ‘it doesn’t make much difference. It all comes back to me in the end.’ She gave a martyred sigh.

‘Which,’ said Edith to her husband later, ‘is Maud all over. She always did like to run the show.’

Feeling that he too might take advantage of the 32prevailing informality regarding smoking, Rowlands lit a cigarette, and paying only the most superficial attention to his wife’s conversation with her friend, allowed himself to relax for a moment or two. It could be hard work, having to be on the qui vive the whole time especially when, as now, almost everybody was a stranger to him. Being blind meant you had to concentrate extra hard if you were to follow what was being said, let alone get any sense of what your interlocutor was like. Over the years, since that day in 1917 when he’d been blinded by a burst of shrapnel, he’d developed ways of assessing not only something about a person’s character but also something of their personal appearance, using the clues available to him.

Clues such as whether a person sounded old or young, whether they seemed cheerful or morose, subdued or outward-going. Physical clues – such as the vigour or otherwise of a person’s handshake, and the height from which that handshake was offered – were something else to which he’d taught himself to pay attention. Dr Bostock’s hand – a limp, cool hand, with no rings – had been unwillingly given, and hastily withdrawn. He’d had the impression of a small, slight woman with something on her mind. Painfully shy, he thought, for which one could only feel sympathy. But it had struck him that her stand-offishness was down to more than shyness. She’d seemed decidedly on edge, he thought.

The sun was warm on his upturned face, and the smell of the climbing rose on the wall behind – an Ena 33Harkness, if he wasn’t mistaken – added to his sense of well-being. Really, you couldn’t think of a more peaceful spot in which to pursue … well, whatever you felt inclined to pursue. Pleasant surroundings and three meals a day. These academics were living in clover, he thought. ‘I most strongly disagree,’ said a voice just beside him. ‘If you follow that line of argument, there’s no telling where it will end …’ The speaker was a woman – not one of the fellows (if that was what she was) to whom Rowlands had yet been introduced. ‘I rather supposed you would think that,’ said the man to whom she was speaking. Professor Harding. ‘As a historian, you take a different view of these things …’

‘I certainly do.’ The speaker had a deep, rather attractive, voice. The voice of someone used to having her opinions deferred to, thought Rowlands.

‘But my dear Miss Hall,’ went on Harding, ‘surely even you must agree that research without any outcome is … how shall I put it? Behind the times.’

‘I don’t see why …’

‘No, let me finish. In a field such as mine, one becomes used to the idea that one’s work has a practical application. After all, most of the advances we now take for granted in the modern world – electricity, radio waves – are the result of scientific enquiry. We scientists have a duty to pursue such enquiry to its limits, and to share our knowledge with mankind in general.’

‘Very laudable,’ said the woman drily. ‘Do I take it that you believe the possession of such knowledge to be 34intrinsically beneficial to mankind – or womankind?’ she added under her breath.

‘Whether it’s of benefit or not is beside the point,’ said Harding.

‘So you’d carry on regardless?’ she persisted. ‘Even if you knew your research might be harnessed to evil ends … such as those of the present regime in Germany, for instance?’

Harding sounded unperturbed by this. ‘Science has always been at the service of those in power,’ he said. ‘It isn’t up to the scientist to take issue with the way power manifests itself. But I see you don’t approve of my philosophy, Miss Hall.’ Harding sounded amused.

‘Whether I approve or disapprove is hardly relevant,’ said the History Fellow. ‘But I do know quite a bit about the way power – and the patronage of the powerful – corrupts. I mean, take the Medici …’

‘Oh, the Medici,’ said Professor Harding, as if that were scarcely to the point.

‘And then look at Francis I, and Leonardo da Vinci,’ went on Miss Hall. ‘Having to spend his time inventing war machines when he could have been painting beautiful pictures.’

‘Some of us,’ said the mathematician slyly, ‘prefer the war machines to the paintings. Well, must be pushing along. Let’s carry this on at dinner, shall we?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ muttered the History Fellow under her breath. She took a step backwards as she said these words, not looking to see if there was anyone 35behind her, for her foot in its stout Oxford landed heavily on Rowlands’ foot. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry!’ she exclaimed, although he had been too much of a gentleman to cry out.

‘It’s quite all right,’ he said quickly. ‘The name’s Frederick Rowlands,’ he added, thinking that he could hardly admit to knowing her name since he’d only learnt it inadvertently. ‘And before you ask, I don’t have a daughter at St Gertrude’s – yet.’

‘Caroline Hall. I teach History.’ She seized his offered hand and shook it vigorously. Definitely the Amazonian type, thought Rowlands. They seemed to flourish here – doubtless a result of all the bicycling and rowing. ‘So you do have a daughter?’ Miss Hall was saying.

‘Three. Although only one of them seems like university material at present.’ Dreamy Anne, though as fond of reading as her older sister, was more interested in fairytales than facts, while Joan, just turned seven, cared only for her collection of shells and beetles.

‘Well, it gives them a splendid start,’ said the historian. ‘Not just the studying, but being with their peers. They form tremendous friendships, you know, which last them all their lives.’

At that moment someone came out of the French windows onto the terrace where he and his companion were standing. ‘Ah, Miss Hall,’ said a voice – a beautiful voice, thought Rowlands. Deep and resonant, with a peculiar timbre, that suggested … what? Fragility? No. Sensitivity, perhaps. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’ 36

‘Of course, Mistress.’

‘It’s about the running order for the series of lectures on New Directions in Philosophy next term …’ She broke off. ‘But I see I’m interrupting. Do forgive me.’ Then to Rowlands, ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Beryl Phillips.’

‘Frederick Rowlands.’ He held out his hand and felt, for a moment, her slim, cool fingers touch his. A tall woman, he thought, but – unlike the ebullient History don – a woman not much given to energetic bustle. This was a stately presence: dignified, commanding.

‘Mr Rowlands has three daughters,’ said Caroline Hall, in the manner of a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of hat.

‘How fortunate,’ replied the Mistress graciously. ‘I hope you will bring your girls to St Gertrude’s one day, Mr Rowlands.’

Rowlands bowed his head, in acknowledgement of this courtesy. Although how they’d be able to afford the fees for one daughter, let alone all three, was anybody’s guess, he thought privately. ‘We have scholarships, you know,’ said the Mistress as if she guessed this thought. ‘Bursaries, too – although those are not quite so useful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rowlands, with the feeling that a considerable favour had been conferred in those few moments – if only the favour of her attention. What a presence she had! With a few of her sort running the country, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in, he thought. ‘But I should leave you to your discussion.’ 37

‘Discussion? Oh, about the lecture … It was only,’ said Beryl Phillips, in the same languidly offhand manner with which she had mentioned the scholarships, ‘that I felt that as the organiser you ought to give the first lecture, Miss Hall. I’m happy to take the second week.’

‘Just as you like,’ said Miss Hall. ‘The Mistress is an authority on Aristotle,’ she added, to Rowlands. ‘She’s written such an interesting paper on the Poetics.’

‘All I remember about that,’ said Rowlands with a self-deprecating air, ‘are his stipulations about drama having to evoke pity and terror.’

‘Catharsis,’ murmured Miss Phillips. ‘The essential element in all tragic art.’ She laughed. ‘But you mustn’t let me get carried away with my favourite topic. This is meant to be a festive occasion. We’ve all sorts of treats in store – the concert this afternoon, for one. I hope you’re staying for that, Mr Rowlands?’

Rowlands said he was looking forward to it.

‘Splendid. We’ve some talented musicians among us, some of whom will be doing double duty this evening, poor young things.’

‘Oh?’ said Rowlands politely.

‘It’s the college dance tonight,’ the other explained. ‘The girls have been looking forward to it so much, haven’t they, Miss Hall? And so our musicians will go from playing Bach and Chopin to dancing cheek to cheek, or whatever it is that they amuse themselves with these days.’ Perhaps seeing his startled expression, the Mistress said drily, ‘Oh, I’m quite au fait with all the 38latest tunes! As head of a women’s college, one gets to hear rather a lot of them. The undergraduates are allowed gramophones in their rooms as long as they don’t disturb their neighbours at unsocial hours. At St Gertrude’s,’ she added, with what Rowlands guessed was a twinkle in her eye, ‘we believe in a complete education for our girls. Not that we don’t prize getting Firsts above an ability to dance the rumba.’

‘St Gertrude’s does rather well for Firsts, I’m told.’

‘Yes, we can hold our heads up,’ was the reply. ‘Of course, we impress on our students when they come here that they have to be even better than the men.’

‘In my experience,’ said Rowlands, ‘women generally are if you give them the chance.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ proclaimed a voice from the steps behind them. ‘I have been asked to summon you all to an entertainment, which is about to start in Forest Court. The theme is “Shakespeare’s Women”, and there will be music to follow.’

‘Thank you, Angela,’ said the Mistress. ‘Miss Thompson is one of the stalwarts of our dramatic society,’ she added, for Rowlands’ benefit. ‘They build the sets and make all the costumes themselves, you know.’

‘Quite an endeavour, on top of all the other work,’ he replied.

‘Oh, it is. But Miss Glossop, our Director of Studies in English, believes that only thus will they gain a complete understanding of the workings of the theatre. It’s been a 39pleasure talking to you, Mr Rowlands. But I see that my presence is required elsewhere.’ Miss Phillips sounded as if this wasn’t entirely to her liking. ‘Ah, Lady St Clare,’ Rowlands heard her say, as she was claimed by this distinguished visitor. ‘How very good of you to come! Yes, we have been lucky with the weather …’

Rowlands was joined at that moment by his wife and her friend. ‘I say – you were having a good long chat with the Mistress!’ said Maud Rickards.

‘Yes. Interesting woman.’

‘Oh, she’s marvellous! She was up in ’97 when there was all the fuss about women’s degrees, you know,’ said Miss Rickards, taking his arm as the three of them joined the general movement towards the exit. ‘About whether women should be allowed them, that is. Can you believe they laid on special trains to bring MAs with voting privileges back to Cambridge to ensure the motion was defeated?’

Rowlands said he could well believe it.

‘I wasn’t at Cambridge myself at the time, but I gather there was almost a riot,’ said the bursar. ‘The undergraduates hung an effigy of a woman riding a bicycle from the window above Macmillan’s Bookshop in the market square, and another of a woman in cap and gown from a window in Caius – all of which they thought a great joke.’ Miss Rickards wasn’t laughing, however.

‘If I didn’t know better,’ said Rowlands to his wife when the bursar, having escorted them to where the entertainment was to be held, had gone to supervise the 40seating arrangements, ‘I’d say your friend had a bit of a down on men.’

‘Can you blame her?’ was the reply, then, in a softer tone, ‘It isn’t all men. She was engaged once, you know. He was killed at the Somme.’

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry I said it. But you have to admit that men are in rather a minority at an institution like this. It’s hardly surprising that I’m feeling a bit got at.’

‘Then you know how we women feel, most of the time,’ said Edith, who always liked to have the last word.

At one end of Forest Court a small stage had been set up. Seating had been arranged in front of this. As he and Edith drew near, Rowlands could hear Miss Rickards’ voice, directing operations, ‘That’s right, Thomas – a little more to the left with those chairs, if you please. We don’t want to block the actors’ route to the stage … Thank you, Mr Wainwright …’ This was the porter, with whom Rowlands had earlier exchanged a few words about their luggage. ‘If you’d direct people this way …’

A few of the male undergraduates, and a couple of the younger fathers were roped in to help, Rowlands being prevented from joining them by his wife. ‘They’ve plenty of willing hands,’ she said. ‘No need for you to exert yourself.’ Although she knew perfectly well that he never shirked such duties as a rule. But he’d turn forty-five next month, which was no longer young, he supposed. Only he was damned if he’d let himself turn into an old man 41before his time. ‘You’re scowling, Fred,’ said Edith in his ear. ‘Do try not to scowl. You’ll frighten the actors.’

Because now that the pandemonium of moving chairs and marshalling people to their seats had subsided, they could settle down to what was happening on stage: the quarrel scene from A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, as it turned out. His irritation forgotten, Rowlands focused his attention on this – one of his favourite of Shakespeare’s plays. It never failed to put the audience in a good mood. Around him, people were chuckling as insults were exchanged between tall Helena and diminutive Hermia:

How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak!

How low am I? I am not yet so low

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes …

‘She’s rather good, the little one,’ said Edith, sottovoce.

‘So I gather,’ he whispered back. Even though he couldn’t see the comic discrepancy in the two girls’ stature, he could hear it in the difference between their voices – one a shrill soprano, the other a thrilling contralto. ‘And with those dark curls …’

‘Ah.’ He could picture it, now. ‘The other one’s fair, is she?’

‘Yes. Rather statuesque.’

It was all he needed; memory supplied the rest. An open-air production in Regent’s Park before the war. Who was it he’d been with? Lizzie – no, Kitty – Carter.42That was it. Pretty little thing she was, with those big brown eyes. Worked in a florist’s shop. They hadn’t really hit it off, though, and next thing he heard she was going steady with Joe Furnival. He was a nice chap, Joe – no side to him. He’d married Kitty the week before he’d been sent to France. Killed at Mons, poor fellow. Rowlands had lost touch with Kitty after that. Had she married again, he wondered? She’d be all of forty now. Funny how a few half-remembered lines from a long-ago production could bring back the past so vividly.

With something of an effort, he dragged his attention back to the here and now, and the next item on the programme, which was the casket scene from TheMerchant of Venice. They were certainly choosing all the best-known bits, thought Rowlands, which made sense, of course. Always a good idea to meet one’s audience halfway. And they – the actors – were making a decent job of it, too. Good to see it wasn’t all swotting for exams. What was it the Mistress had said? ‘We believe in a complete education for our girls.’ Well, this was certainly a demonstration of that admirable principle. He let himself relax, drinking in the scents and sounds of the garden in which they sat, along with the music of the words, and the dark fairytale they told:

O hell! What have we here?

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

There is a written scroll …

43The girl playing Portia had an attractive voice, he thought – warm and expressive, with just a hint of laughter. Even though it would have given her more chance to shine, he was glad they hadn’t chosen the courtroom scene, in which Portia, disguised as the young advocate, turns the tables against Shylock. There was a cruelty to it he’d always found uncomfortable. The Princes of Morocco and Aragon having been given their comeuppance, and Bassanio having solved the riddle and won the lady, a brief hiatus ensued as scenery was shifted and costumes changed for what was to be the third and final scene. This, according to the programme, was to have been the courtship scene from Twelfth Night – a play which would have presented an intriguing reversal of the girl-dressed-as-boy wooing a girl on behalf of the man she’s in love with, thought Rowlands, given that all the actors were female. But just then came an announcement: ‘Owing to the indisposition of Gwendolyn Hussey, who was to have played Viola,’ said Miss Glossop, from the stage, ‘there has been a change of programme.’

A change it proved to be. Instead of the light and shade of the comedy, here was unrelieved darkness:  

That which hath made them drunk hath mademe bold:

What hath quenched them hath given me fire.

Hark!

Peace!44

‘It’s her,’ whispered Edith. ‘The one who showed us around the gardens.’

‘Diana Havelock,’ said Rowlands, who had known the voice at once. ‘Now she is good.’ Because it was apparent as the scene progressed that hers was a different order of acting. The others had merely spoken their lines; she performed them.

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures: ’tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil …

She sounded … what was the word? Haunted, thought Rowlands. As if, in that moment, she was seeing unimaginable terrors. He wondered how someone of her age – she couldn’t be more than twenty-one, surely? – had come to know such things. When the scene was over a momentary silence fell, broken at last by a smattering of applause. This grew until it reached a crescendo. ‘Bravo!’ cried a voice from somewhere behind Rowlands. One of Miss Havelock’s male admirers, evidently. ‘I suppose she was