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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Rosy Gilchrist
- Sprache: Englisch
Rosy Gilchrist and her hesitant sidekicks, Felix Smythe and Professor Cedric Dillworthy, are visiting Cambridge: Rosy to attend a Newnham reunion, and Felix and Cedric to attend preparations for the unveiling of a statue of the latter's old tutor. But plans for the statue are far from set in stone, and the meddling Gloria Biggs-Boothby is determined to see it created by another artist. It's inconvenient, then, when he turns up dead. As Rosy and her associates become increasingly embroiled in events, they face a number of teasing questions: is the deaf and frail Emeritus Prof. Aldous Phipps quite as benign as he seems? Is the Bursar a secret misogynist with a rooted aversion to large women (e.g. to Gloria)? And who is the unwitting husband that Dr John Smithers is so busy cuckolding?
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Seitenzahl: 362
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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The Cambridge Plot
SUZETTE A. HILL
To Julian and Mary again In gratitude for happy times
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Rays of the early evening sun gave the usually sombre study a mellow hue, and to those seated around its gleaming mahogany table a spurious air of kindly warmth. The Plot and Monument Committee was gathered to discuss the final details of the college’s bid to obtain from the municipal grasp a patch of land in which to honour one of its eminent and erstwhile members.
‘So what are we going to call it,’ enquired the bursar, ‘the Bugger’s Burial Ground?’
Dr Maycock, Senior Fellow, tittered. ‘An inspired suggestion if I may say so – but a trifle too explicit, surely. What about Percy’s Patch? A sort of ironic nod to Parker’s Piece, and—’
‘Huh,’ interrupted John Smithers, ‘from what I’ve heard, the old boy didn’t appreciate irony. Besides, I doubt if the daughter would sanction “Percy” – far too diminutive for the noble parent. She takes his title very seriously and don’t we know it!’ Adopting a braying falsetto, he cried: ‘“May distinguished father, you know, Sir Pahcival Biggs-Brookby.”’
The bursar grinned. ‘Got her in one, Smithers. I didn’t know you were such a mimic.’
Sir Richard Dick the college’s newly elected Master, sighed. ‘Yes, all very risible, I am sure, but this is hardly the spirit in which to approach our project. Sir Percival may not have been to everyone’s taste, but his contribution to the university, and to this college in particular, is undeniable. I need hardly remind you that the honour we bestow is in rightful recognition of his services. As to our present purpose, the choice of name for the site is immaterial; we are here to discuss the finances of the acquisition and how much the benefactors can be persuaded to donate. But when we do come to discuss the question of nomenclature, I trust you may give the matter a rather more sober appraisal.’ He paused, looking round at the table, before adding grimly, ‘And that goes for the issue of the daughter too. Do not underestimate.’
He was about to continue, but the bursar interrupted. ‘What issue? What has Gloria B-B to do with things? Admittedly, she does loom rather large’ – he smirked – ‘but I can’t see why she should cast a shadow in this particular matter. Presumably she is pleased that distinguished Daddy is being thus honoured. So what’s the issue? After all, it is hardly her—’
‘But that is just it,’ the Master replied wearily, ‘it is precisely because she is so pleased that I am not getting a moment’s peace. She is determined to involve herself personally with every aspect of the project, from the commissioning of the sculptor to the planting of the rhododendrons.’
‘Rhododendrons?’ Professor Turner exclaimed. ‘Who’s talking of rhododendrons? Odious plants in my opinion, vulgar and overrated. Besides, they’ll swamp the whole plot. We can’t possibly have those.’
The Master closed his eyes. ‘We may have to,’ he said quietly. ‘Apparently they were Sir Percival’s favourite shrub and much beloved by the daughter too. I have already been bombarded by plant catalogues from Suttons and gather I am required to peruse them with her.’
‘But you know nothing about horticulture,’ Turner observed.
‘I soon shall,’ was the gloomy response.
‘Well, whatever the damn plants, at least she can’t dictate the choice of sculptor,’ the bursar snorted.
‘No, but she would like to,’ the Master replied. ‘She has a personal dislike of our man – something to do with his voice and gait apparently – and is convinced there are others just as suitable.’
‘Absolute nonsense! We have already approached Winston Reid and he is more than willing: a sound fellow, reasonable rates and not too imaginative. Just the man for the job. He’ll produce something solid and uncontroversial.’ The bursar turned to his neighbour, a small man with pinched face and darting eyes. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Aldous?’
There was a pause while Aldous Phipps, Emeritus Professor of Greek, reflected. He gave a dry cough. ‘Oh yes, he would do that all right, but whether he will get the chance is another matter.’
‘Oh, come now, it’s in the bag,’ the other protested. ‘His terms are excellent and it’s simply a matter of stamping the contract. A mere formality.’
Phipps sniffed. ‘It may be in your bag, Bursar, but I rather suspect it may not be in Gloria Biggs-Brookby’s.’ He scrutinised the ceiling and then lowered his eyes to appraise his fingernails.
The Master frowned. ‘It would be helpful if you could enlarge on that statement, Aldous. I am not sure if we entirely grasp the point.’ He sighed, and added, ‘Or at least I don’t.’
With a gleam of relish the elderly Fellow leant forward and scanned their faces, then assured of the table’s attention, said: ‘I happen to have some information …’
When doesn’t he? John Smithers wondered, and checked his watch. It was nearing the violet hour and she would protest if he were late again. ‘What information?’ he asked brusquely.
‘To do with Monty Finglestone, the young sculptor that London is currently lionising. He has great appeal, or so I hear, and great talent. Quite à la mode, one gathers.’
‘Doubtless there are many such modish artisans in London, but I can’t see how he affects our project here in Cambridge,’ the Master said dismissively.
‘Ah, but that’s just it,’ Aldous Phipps retorted, ‘at the moment he is not in London but – if I am not very much mistaken – here in Cambridge. I saw them together in a corner of The Eagle when I was there sipping my usual pear and brandy bitters – such a refreshing melange, I always find. You should try it.’ (The Master winced.) ‘Yes,’ Phipps continued, ‘Finglestone and Gloria Biggs-Brookby. She was playing her usual grande dame role and he was being all charm and oily attention. Naturally, I couldn’t hear what was being said: it’s this wretched contraption, never works when you want it to.’ He tapped the device in his ear. ‘But I can assure you they were talking very earnestly – very earnestly; and I did manage to catch one word. Oh yes, it resonated clear as a bell.’ He paused. ‘It was … rhododendrons.’ Phipps shot a triumphant look at Professor Turner, beamed happily and leant back in his chair.
There was a bemused silence. And then the bursar groaned. ‘Oh Lord, you don’t think she’s trying to nobble him re the statue, do you? The cost will be extortionate!’
Aldous Phipps beamed again, pleased with his little grenade. ‘Exactly,’ he murmured.
‘It will not be extortionate because it is not going to happen,’ the Master declared. ‘I can assure you the college’s choice of artist does not depend on the diktats of Sir Percival’s daughter. We have selected our man and that’s an end of it. And if you don’t mind my saying, Aldous, you are spreading unnecessary alarm and despondency … that capricious deaf aid may have been playing you false. And in any case, how do you know it was this Finkelstein fellow?’
‘Finglestone, actually. His photograph was in The Times only the other day. The young man’s features bear a pleasing resemblance to Michelangelo’s David; most engaging, really, virile yet seemly. Thus I cut it out to use as a bookmark for that nice volume of Euripides your wife so kindly presented me with.’ Phipps smiled benignly.
‘Sir Richard is right,’ interjected Smithers. ‘Are you sure the word was “rhododendrons”? Perhaps it was some other plant – like pansy, for instance.’
The benign smile vanished, and Phipps fixed him with one of his blanker stares. He disliked John Smithers. ‘I may be approaching decrepitude, Smithers, but I am still able to distinguish a rhododendron – both the plant and the word – from a pansy. You, of course, may not.’ He sniffed and resumed inspection of his fingernails.
The Master cleared his throat, ‘Yes, yes, gentlemen. That is quite enough about plants, or indeed other speculations. Let us return to the subject in hand: whether, as a means of hastening their turgid deliberations, we should revise our already substantial offer to the City Council; and if so, can we rely on the donors’ additional generosity? Some mightn’t be overly willing. But one or two, like Dame Margery and Cedric Dillworthy, are most keen and I suspect can be relied upon to comply – especially if it were hinted their names should occupy pole position on the plaque.’ He smirked.
‘Good idea. Nothing like a little subtle bribery to ease the purse strings,’ observed Dr Maycock.
‘Huh! Hardly subtle’ – the bursar laughed – ‘but if the benefactors will fund a higher bid to induce the City fathers to push the purchase, I’m all for it. Why the delay, anyway? We’ve been kept waiting far too long as it is.’
‘It’s Alderman Cuff – hates the whole idea,’ Maycock explained. ‘He is the one man holding out and feels the area should be retained as an exclusive spot for children – a sort of toddlers’ Tiergarten, I gather. Anyway, he is dead against it and hence the delay.’
‘Well, we can’t allow the fanciful pieties of Alderman Cuff to obstruct us,’ the Master snapped. ‘He is pure redbrick, you know. Besides, there’s obviously a hidden agenda: he has at least five offspring of his own and is doubtless looking for a handy dumping ground. No, it won’t do. We must increase our offer and get them to complete the deal post-haste.’
The others nodded and began to talk animatedly about the figure for the new bid and whether the sponsors could be persuaded to cooperate … All except for John Smithers, who, having checked his watch again, saw that it was well past the appointed trysting hour and that the husband would soon be returned. Piqued by Aldous Phipps’ earlier put-down he lapsed into gloomy silence brooding on his present position.
As the youngest Fellow in the college he did not always feel at one with his greying peers, impatient of what he saw as their complacent suavity, ostensible camaraderie and their collective penchant for port (Death by Vodka being his own preference). Neither did he share their settled domesticity. With the exception of one or two confirmed bachelors, such as Aldous Phipps, most were married and with children. While Smithers could not envisage himself becoming an ageing bachelor of the Phipps variety, neither was he currently seeking marital bliss … nor blight for that matter, agreeing with Cyril Connolly1 that the pram in the hallway too often led to punctured dreams and muddled aspiration.
Smithers’ aspirations were far from muddled. Clever and self-absorbed, he was also exceedingly ambitious and fully intended to scale the heights of scholarly distinction. But he also knew that such scaling was helped, or at least accelerated, by public involvement and integration with one’s colleagues. Beavering obsessively over manuscripts in dark corners was all very well, but something else was needed: the stamp of social approval.
In this belief he had been supported by the Senior Fellow, noted not just for his academic triumphs but for his sure grasp of matters practical and worldly. After dinner one evening and in a mood of kindly altruism, Maycock had offered the younger man advice. ‘It would help your career,’ he had urged, ‘to present an image of sobriety: dedication to the interests not just of your own research, but to those of the college. It would persuade the Master and those of influence that you are sound.’ He must have seen Smithers’ look of nervous recoil, for he went on, ‘You see soundness isn’t always such a bad thing; it can be, of course, and some never get beyond it, but more often than not it is handy – especially when you are trying to establish yourself quickly. You must be seen to be of use, to be contributing value beyond the solely academic.’
‘Oh yes?’ Smithers had asked warily. ‘And so how can I be useful?’
‘Oh, easily enough,’ Maycock had replied airily, ‘committee work. Committees count, Smithers. Take my advice: join one.’
And so, sulkily, cynically, Smithers had consented; and with a bit of squirming and a word from the Senior Tutor, he had found himself a member of the Plot and Monument Committee and apparently supportive of its commemorative aim. In fact, he had little interest in Sir Percival Biggs-Brookby (dead long before he had come up to Cambridge), and even less for the man chosen to sculpt his monument. Sir Richard had called Winston Reid’s work ‘solid’ … yes, solidly dull in Smithers’ view, and the chap himself puffed up with egotism and a contrived eccentricity. Still, this hardly mattered. If being on the committee would be to his own professional advantage, then so be it.
The shadows lengthened and the room grew stuffy; a desultory fly attempted hara-kiri on the windowpane. The bursar thumped the table to make some point or other, Sir Richard firmly asserted, Maycock meandered, Turner doodled daggers in his otherwise pristine notebook and Phipps twittered while others grew bored … and John Smithers lapsed into further melancholy. He brooded upon his mistress, the rather luscious wife of Trinity’s assistant librarian – and in Smithers’ view far too luscious for that whey-faced little adjutant who was surely born to be upstaged. He gave a mirthless grin. And then he scowled, recalling that the adjutant’s wife had assured him that were he to postpone one more rendezvous he could go jump in the Cam and not in her bed.
Pondering this, it occurred to Smithers that the Luscious One was getting too big for her high boots; perhaps he should start looking elsewhere. He glanced across the table and caught sight of his face in the long mirror behind the Master’s chair, and wondered whether he should grow a beard. Some women liked that apparently …
On the whole, Dr Maycock reflected as he walked home to his house in Grange Road, things had not gone badly. The new Master had conducted the meeting with a decent competence, Phipps had been quelled (moderately), there continued a consensus in favour of Winston Reid and – even more satisfactory – annoyance had been voiced at the interference of Gloria Biggs-Brookby. In his view, such annoyance was entirely right and proper: the woman was a veritable pest and at all costs should be prevented from inserting her fat oar into college concerns. Just because she was the daughter of the man to be honoured did not make her eligible for consultation, or at least only in the most cursory way. After all, she didn’t even hold a degree, let alone a Cambridge one; yet from the way she behaved you would think she was Erasmus himself!
Born three years before the death of William Gladstone, Dr Maycock took pride in having been an infant contemporary of the Grand Old Man; and as recognition of that fact, in adulthood he had espoused the liberal cause. However, although a liberal in politics, Maycock’s instincts were innately conservative. With him old habits died hard. Maycock liked old habits – which was why he deemed it so necessary to preserve the college’s autonomy and not let it yield to the outlandish dictates of interlopers like Gloria Biggs-Brookby. What mattered was not so much the choice of sculptor per se, but rather the confounding of Gloria’s will. That was the essential issue.
The Senior Tutor scowled at a passing cat, who, taking not a blind bit of notice, sauntered across his path mewing blithely. Its passage almost caused him to trip; but resuming both balance and then good temper, he too sauntered on. After all, he mused, other than the Gloria issue, matters were progressing as they should and Richard Dick was coping quite adequately in his new position. He had no quarrel there.
His mind went back to the Magisterial Election held a few months previously. His own candidature had been defeated, but only just. Did he mind? No, not really. In fact, the more he thought about things it was probably just as well. It meant he had more time to devote to what would become his magnum opus: The Unsheathed Dagger: Balkan Tribulations and the Ottoman Empire. Most certainly the conduct and progress of the college was vital, but even more vital was the integrity of academic research. The status of Master might have been gratifying (and deserved) but even more gratifying would be the applause of colleagues and the universal recognition of his years of scholarly contribution. Another laurel to be worn with modest pride!
And then, of course, there was his wife, dear Sally. From the outset she had been opposed to his getting the Mastership. ‘I dread the very day,’ she had said. ‘Just think of all those extra wretched dinners and functions one would have to attend: being on show all the time and you being called hither and yon at a moment’s notice! You’re busy enough as it is, and with all those extra duties our lives simply wouldn’t be our own. Besides,’ she had added slyly, ‘you are so much better as a covert wire-puller, calling the shots while lying doggo. That’s your forte, my boy.’
Maycock smiled into the gathering dusk. It was true. He liked playing the éminence grise, the trusty second fiddle whose genial deference belied his actual power. As a youngster he had fought on the Somme, and in the last war served rather more safely as an acting major in a clerical capacity at a large desk. Perhaps it was there that he had won his spurs as the consummate wire-puller. He recalled once overhearing the words of a young subaltern whose leave he had managed to wangle against all odds: ‘Oh yes, old Cockers will help. He’s the best fixer in the business!’
The now even older Cockers stopped to light his pipe and brooded upon Sir Richard Dick: well intentioned, he reflected, but essentially weak. Yes, he would have to fix that all right. Dick couldn’t be allowed to slacken. Currently the Master was totally against Gloria, but could that stand be sustained? Uncertain. Yes, it was surely his own bounden duty to see that the man didn’t flag; to keep him fired up and not worn down by her insidious wiles. At all costs the woman must be thwarted. The college’s honour was at stake!
Resolutely, he marched up the steps to his front door, poised for whisky and the emollient arms of his wife.
1 See Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise (1938).
CHAPTER TWO
While shaving some mornings later, John Smithers decided that a beard was not the answer to a maiden’s prayer – nor indeed the answer to the threats of Myrtle Miller to ditch him. He would stick to the chiselled features of earlier conquests. They had served him well in the past and would do so again.
He had just made that decision, when he was startled by the sound of the telephone. He scowled at the mirror. It was surely a bit early in the day to be called; he hadn’t even had breakfast. Perhaps it was for Dr Leavis next door. His flat shared a party line with the doyen of Downing Street and occasionally wires got crossed.
He put down his shaving brush, went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said tentatively.
‘Hello,’ the caller breathed. ‘And how are we this morning?’
‘What?’ Smithers snapped, wiping a wisp of foam from his cheek.
There was a chuckle. ‘Well,’ said the voice, ‘having espied you last night in the back row of the Arts Cinema with you know who, I rather wondered how things had been progressing … That is to say, I trust weedy Wilfrid didn’t turn up and spoil things for you both.’ There was a sepulchral snigger, and then the line went dead.
For an instant Smithers’ mind also died. But then with a lurch it rallied. ‘Who the effing hell!’ he cursed, glaring out of the window as if somehow the unknown caller might be seen loitering on the rooftop. One thing was for sure, it couldn’t have been his neighbour F. R. Leavis, nor presumably any of the chap’s colleagues. Leavis had once declared that he loathed the cinema; and besides, the formidable scholar was hardly known for his humour, either jovial or malign.
So who the hell was it? The librarian himself, Wilfrid Miller, cuckolded and crazed? It seemed unlikely – far too phlegmatic. In any case, would he have used the unflattering term ‘weedy’? Not unless he had a skewed vein of self-mockery, and Smithers couldn’t recall observing any of that in the moon-faced mole. Thus, who had it been, for pity’s sake? Who had seen him and Myrtle canoodling in the back row and was daft enough to play silly beggars on the telephone?
Angrily, he finished his ablutions and then downed some black coffee. He was just pouring a second cup and deciding that it must have been some smart-arsed undergraduate, when a thought struck him. Was it his imagination or had the voice held a slight lisp? He frowned, going over the sounds of the words in his mind … Espied, last, progressing – yes, that was it, the faintest lisp: ethpied, lathd, progrethed. He brooded upon those mild distortions, and as he did so he recalled something else, something to do with the actual timbre of the voice, a sort of crackly resonance, a kind of … Yes, by God, he had heard it before!
He shoved the coffee pot aside and wracked his memory; and then stared at the wall in disbelief as a name came into mind. Could it really have been him? Surely not; he must be mistaken. He gave an impatient laugh to dispel the thought – but the voice remained, jibing and insistent.
Smithers got up from the table and started to pace the room. It was not an exercise he was practised in, and in his agitation he tripped on a pile of books, sending them sprawling across the carpet. With a curse he bent to pick them up, but stopped halfway, diverted by the image of the caller that now danced before his eyes … Yes, he thought grimly, it was definitely him and he would damn well get the bastard!
Kicking the books aside, he strode back to the bedroom, leafed through the telephone directory and dialled the number.
It rang repeatedly. And with a sense of disappointment he was about to hang up, when a voice answered. ‘Cambridge 85320,’ the speaker intoned.
Smithers tensed, and then in cold fury said: ‘Oh yes, thank you, I’ve got your number all right – and in answer to your earlier crass enquiry I am perfectly well, thank you: well enough to blow you to buggery if you ever try that on me again. So just watch it. I mean what I say.’
Snapping out the threat, Smithers felt fully in control and pleased at the sound of his words. That would settle the bugger’s hash all right! Yes, he thought, attack was definitely the best line of defence.
He was about to replace the receiver, but was checked by a roar of laughter. ‘My dear chap,’ the other said, ‘how brutal you sound! Just like my old nanny. There’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. Merely my little joke. And besides, lovely though she is, if I am not mistaken, I rather think you may have a more intriguing fish to fry – and perhaps just a teeny bit more dangerous?’ He gave a light laugh, before adding, ‘But fear not, your romantic tomfoolery is entirely safe with me. I never divulge … or at least, very rarely.’
There was a click, followed by silence. Smithers screwed up his eyes and sunk on to the bed.
Elsewhere in Cambridge another telephone call was causing less consternation.
‘Oh, Monty dear,’ crooned Gloria Biggs-Brookby, ‘how good of you to ring. As a matter of fact I was just about to do that myself and suggest that you come up to Cambridge again and stay chez moi for a couple of days. This time I can show you around, and you can assess the site and get the feel of the place … What? Am I being premature? Who? Oh, you mean Alderman Cuff. My dear, weakening by the hour. He’ll soon give in – I’ve bribed his children with cinema tickets and his wife with a seat on the board of the WI. You see, the college will get that plot of land all right. And, once Sir Richard learns of my intervention on their behalf he is bound to climb down.’ Gloria smoothed her hair and chortled, before adding, ‘I mean, I know Sir Richard is a fearful stick-in-the mud, but I am working on him, and just you see – before long the rabbit will come lolloping out of the hat! It’s just a matter of patience, really.’ She gave another hearty chuckle, which was followed by a silence as Monty Finglestone evidently had further questions.
‘Oh no,’ she assured him, ‘don’t worry about the others. I think you will find them sufficiently malleable. After all, where there is a will little Gloria generally finds her way! And as to your fee – I shouldn’t worry about that. The only tricky one is Mostyn Williams, the bursar, a tight-fisted fellow. But the essential people are the donors. A few are coming up here shortly, so I shall have the chance to massage their egos and sing your praises.’ She gave another snort of confident mirth; and then more seriously, said, ‘Be assured, Monty, Daddy would be thrilled with my choice and I just know you will do him justice. Come soon and we’ll make plans!’
Unlike John Smithers, Gloria was pleased with her telephone conversation; and once it was over – and far from collapsing on the bed – she hurried off to Fitzbillies to renew her manipulative energies over a small coffee and a large Chelsea bun.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I intend buying a plot of land in Cambridge,’ Professor Cedric Dillworthy announced.
His friend Felix Smythe, absorbed in stitching a floral tapestry, looked up startled. ‘Why on earth should you want to do that?’ he asked. ‘You have a perfectly good garden here in London.’
‘Ah, but this is to be a Garden of Remembrance.’
Felix put aside his tapestry and stared at his friend. ‘What an extraordinary idea. Remembering what?’
‘My old tutor, Sir Percival Biggs-Brookby. The college is going to erect a small statue to his memory and plans to acquire a patch of derelict ground bordering the south wall to accommodate it. A group of’ – he broke off, giving a discreet cough – ‘suitable alumni has been approached to bear the cost. Naturally, I said I would.’
‘But you never liked the man, or so you’ve always said. I recall the words “bumptious” and “unhinged” being mentioned; and at some point the term “monumental prig” was applied – or at least I think the word was prig.’ Felix giggled.
Cedric regarded him coldly. ‘Just because one may have made a few negative observations does not mean one has overlooked his invaluable contribution to archaeological scholarship. And his book on Cappadocian topography is a minor classic.’
‘Hmm. But if I’m not mistaken, I seem to remember you also saying that in your opinion he was an unmitigated humbug and charl—’
‘I am sure I said no such thing,’ Cedric exclaimed angrily. ‘You exaggerate as usual.’
‘If you say so.’ Felix shrugged and with a sniff resumed his stitching. For a time silence reigned. But then unable to contain puzzled curiosity, Felix enquired: ‘So are you the only one selected to fund this plot, or are other “suitable” alumni involved? I mean to say, it sounds a bit expensive to me. I trust it won’t inhibit your travel plans. It would be unfortunate should you have to replace Bologna with Bognor; or indeed forgo our scheduled cocktails with Mr Somerset M. at his villa on Cap Ferrat this summer.’
His friend gave a wintry smile. ‘I can assure you that Bognor is not on the agenda; and as for our distinguished host, the arrangement remains. We shall most certainly be among his honoured guests. And in answer to your query: no, Felix, I am not the only one involved. My old colleague Basil Leason has also graciously accepted sponsorship, as has Dame Margery Collis, the Girton girl we all quite liked … Oh, and Hinchcliffe too – can’t recall his first name, never saw him much. There are various others as well. Anyway, once the ground is cleared and the statue installed, our names as benefactors will be inscribed on a discreet plaque beside the gate.’ Cedric gave a light laugh and added, ‘Apparently there are plans for a grand inaugural ceremony with the press and so forth. Interviews, you know, and all that sort of absurdity – even television cameras, I hear.’
The light slowly dawned on Felix as the motive for the professor’s interest became clear. However, not wishing to muddy already slightly choppy waters, he merely said: ‘How jolly. Now we shall both have our plaques: me with my Royal Warrant over the shopfront and you with your name up in lights in a Cambridge garden. Most fitting.’
Cedric agreed that it was indeed fitting, but reminded Felix a little stiffly that the statue project was a dignified public tribute and not a Broadway show.
‘Oh, absolutely, dear boy,’ agreed Felix, ‘a mere façon de parler … Now, let us toast the plot and its imminent incumbent – and, of course, the munificent benefactors.’ Discarding the tapestry, he bustled from the room to retrieve the ice bucket from the kitchen.
Left alone, Cedric reflected on his friend. Really, delightful though Felix could be, there were times when it was difficult to sift jest from seriousness, and this was one of them. He pursed his lips.
The professor’s connection with Cambridge, both as an undergraduate and later as a visiting lecturer, had been a source of modest pride; and it was pleasant to think that somewhere among its features and monuments his own name might be preserved for permanent display … even if it was to be linked with the insufferable Biggs-Brookby. Ah well, he mused resignedly, one couldn’t have everything and doubtless there were some who admired the man.
He turned his mind to Felix’s Royal Warrant graciously granted by the Queen Mother the previous year. Polished daily, it shone out like a beacon above the entrance to his friend’s flower shop: Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms. Not a speck of Sloane Street dust was allowed to besmirch that crown of honour! Cedric smiled. Was it the proprietor’s avowed love of corgis (Felix hated them) that had finally tipped the balance and secured him the coveted accolade? Perhaps. And if so, then Felix and he shared the tacit recognition that occasionally one type of pride had to be traded for another. It was the way of the world.
On that philosophical note the professor greeted the returning ice-bearer with a lavish smile and the offer to mix the cocktails. But just as he was perfecting these, the telephone rang from the hall and, signalling his friend to complete the process, he went to answer it.
‘Who was that?’ Felix asked when he returned. ‘Anyone I know?’
Cedric nodded. ‘Oh yes, you know her. It was Rosy Gilchrist.’
‘Really? Whatever does she want? I trust it’s nothing involving the Southwold shindig. The last thing I want is to be reminded of that dreadful experience!’
‘It wasn’t all dreadful,’ replied Cedric mildly, ‘you must admit that some of it was quite nice.’
‘Oh, I suppose you mean me being savaged by that marsh creature and all those other dire events.’
‘Come now, you know very well that the creature never touched you.’
Felix tossed his head. ‘Not for want of trying, I can tell you!’
Cedric was about to murmur that he had been told a number of times, but was pre-empted by Felix repeating his question about Rosy.
‘As a matter of fact she wanted my advice. A bit of a coincidence, really: it was to do with Cambridge.’
‘Oh yes? And what is Rosy Gilchrist’s interest in Cambridge?’
‘She was up there; years after me, of course. She read history at Newnham. Don’t you remember her telling us? Anyway, apparently she is planning to go there for some sort of reunion next month and wants to know whether it would be best to drive or take the train. She hasn’t been back since she left so is a bit vague about travel arrangements, and wonders if it would be sensible to motor. I recommended the train; the drive can be tedious. But as she would have to endure the rigours of King’s Cross – not the most salubrious of areas – I suggested that first class might be advisable: a blessed relief after that dreary concourse and dismal waiting room.’
‘Hmm. Did she ask after me?’
‘No.’
‘Typical!’
Later that evening Cedric revealed that as a prelude to the statue’s completion it had been suggested by the Plot and Monument Committee that the prospective donors be invited to view the proposed site and to learn more about the project. It would be an opportunity for such alumni to meet informally prior to the grand ceremony scheduled a few months hence. He suggested that his friend might like to join him on the trip.
Felix frowned, pondering. ‘Er, well,’ he began hesitantly, ‘it could be rather tricky—’
‘Well, naturally, you don’t have to come,’ Cedric said mildly, ‘but I just thought it would make quite a pleasant little outing for the two of us. After all, I don’t think you’ve actually visited Cambridge before, have you? I could show you around – give you an insider’s eye-view, as it were. In fact, we might stay up there for a bit and perhaps go over to Grantchester, or motor out to Ely and visit the cathedral.’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Felix replied, ‘but it all depends on the dear Queen Mother. It’s in the wind that she is about to give one of her little soirées, and naturally were I to be on the guest list I couldn’t possibly refuse, could I?’ He succeeded in looking both apologetic and smug.
‘Well she might want you to do the flowers, I suppose,’ Cedric agreed, ‘but as to being on the actual guest list, I think that if that were the case you would have heard by now, don’t you? Clarence House is rather punctilious in such matters – something to do with the corgis’ preferences, one gathers. Are you one of their chosen?’
‘Not that I am aware,’ Felix said tightly.
With practised tact Cedric pursued his suggestion. And after some speculation about the date of the royal soirée, the perversity of the fastidious corgis, and Cedric’s assurances that in any case it was bound to be a rather stolid affair, Felix was persuaded to accompany the professor to Cambridge.
‘I mean to say,’ Cedric had said encouragingly, ‘you were such a success at the Warrant Holders’ Reception, so there is bound to be a royal invitation later in the season. Meantime, you can enjoy the cloistered harmonies of Cambridge with me.’ He smiled and patted his friend’s thin shoulder.
In her Baker Street flat, Rosy Gilchrist replaced the receiver and pondered. First class was all very well for the likes of Professor Dillworthy, but wasn’t it a trifle extravagant? She frowned, wavering … And then, recalling her recent pay rise from the British Museum and reminding herself that the Cambridge jaunt would allow relief from the hectoring claims of Dr Stanley, her volatile boss, she decided to blow the cost and take Cedric’s advice. After all, the reunion with old university chums promised to be a special occasion, so why shouldn’t she push the boat out and do the thing in style?
She grinned, thinking that the last time she had been en route to ‘eastern parts’, specifically Suffolk, it had been in the company of Lady Fawcett2 – a charming but maddening co-traveller whose incessant chatter and wild gesticulations had nearly brought the car off the road. Well, this time she would be alone, unfazed by the Fawcett presence and sitting at ease in a first-class carriage. What could be nicer?
Memories of that previous journey also brought to mind the extraordinary state of affairs that had awaited them at their destination. The Southwold business, now happily resolved, had engulfed the two women plus their companions Cedric and Felix in a clutch of truly grisly incidents. At least she wouldn’t be faced with that sort of thing this time … How lovely to spend a few days amidst the civilities of Cambridge (so different from London’s roar), boating on the calm waters of the Cam (as opposed to the mercurial tides of the North Sea) and being merry among lost friends from the class of ’49.
Rosy had gone up to Newnham soon after the war, having done her stint in the ATS manning searchlights and maintaining guns near Dover. After the hectic camaraderie and stringent discipline of service life (plus, of course, its constant dangers), post-war Cambridge had seemed another world, and Rosy had immersed herself in it with pleasure and wonder. Yes, it would be good to be back there: to retrace old haunts and renew old friendships – or at least catch up with once familiar colleagues. Settling in her chair, she lit a cigarette and savoured the prospect.
Alas, too often plans and prospects are intruded upon by other people. And in Rosy’s case one of those people was her boss, Dr Stanley. Naturally, she had squared her absence with him well in advance, but later that week he had called her into his office and enquired (rather politely for him) whether she would care to modify her arrangements.
Guardedly, she had asked in what way exactly.
‘Oh, the best way,’ he had replied airily, ‘be assured of that, Rosy.’
Rosy was far from assured and probed deeper.
He explained that once she had finished ‘hob-bobbing’ with her girlfriends at the ‘doubtless scintillating reunion’ she should take the opportunity to stay on longer and absorb the atmosphere of the Fitzwilliam Museum.
‘Oh yes, and why would I want to do that?’ she had asked.
The reply had been swift and characteristically curt: ‘Because your boss requires it.’
Whoops! Silly blunder. Rosy hastily composed her features into a look of rapt attention.
In response, Stanley’s own features assumed an expression of furtive guile. ‘You see, Rosy,’ he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ‘I want you to be my mole.’
‘Your what!’
‘Well, perhaps not a mole, exactly, but – how shall I put it? – a sort of covert observer, a discreet agent ready to report back the moment you get any significant intelligence. It would be most helpful.’ Stanley leered.
Rosy stared at him, literally open-mouthed. Over the course of time she had become inured to her superior’s whims and oddities, but this really took the biscuit. What the hell was he talking about? She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, I am not quite sure that I—’
‘Understand? Oh, it’s easy enough. During the last year I have noticed one or two snide references appearing in the press – specifically the liberal press – to the effect that the British Museum has become stuck in its ways, is too complacent and immured in its own renown. We are, I gather, clamped to the bosom of the nineteenth century and lack the “pizazz” – whatever that’s supposed to mean – required by its twentieth-century visitors. Indeed, one critic had the brass neck to suggest that in originality and artistic verve we were being rapidly outgunned by Oxford’s Ashmolean – and, if you please, by the Fitzwilliam!’ Dr Stanley paused to let the awful accusation sink in.
‘How frightful,’ Rosy replied mechanically. ‘But I still don’t quite see what my role is … I mean, what exactly is this “significant intelligence” that you want me to bring back, and how do I get it?’
‘You get it by keeping your eyes and ears open. And as to what it is – I tell you, Rosy, it could be total dross or dynamite. I have it on good authority that the Fitzwilliam’s trustees have recently approached Peregrine Purblow to give them his enlightened views on how the museum should revamp its image to appeal to a younger, and apparently more discerning, clientele. To my mind, that is an oxymoron. Nevertheless, that is what the trustees are intent on doing. And daft as their idea sounds, I consider that it is the British Museum’s cultural duty to learn what is being proposed. As you know, Purblow is a self-aggrandising bastard’ – Rosy did not know, never having heard of him – ‘but it doesn’t hurt to be abreast of things: forewarned et cetera. Personally, in my role as a senior executive in our venerable institution, I do not propose being upstaged by the Fitzwilliam, let alone by that smart-arsed pundit Purblow. He appears on television, you know.’
Rosy took the final remark to be the ultimate cut and contrived to look suitably shocked.
‘So what do you want me to do? Loiter slyly among the columns of the Fitzwilliam with notebook poised and wearing a fedora?’
He looked at her coldly. ‘Certainly not. I expect you to make a thorough reconnaissance of the place, noting how the exhibits are displayed, what kind of labelling is used and the quality of the lighting effects. I also want you to sign up for Purblow’s two lectures on “Art and the Modern Public”, and – most importantly – ingratiate yourself with their chief curator, a Mrs Sally Maycock, wife of one of the university’s worthies, and find out what she has in mind for the future. For example, it’s rumoured that someone has the bright idea of mounting an exhibition of the Old Bailey’s recent Chatterley trial – sketches and photographs of the barristers and chief witnesses etc. I gather such a project is intended to impress those not normally familiar with the interior of museums.’ Stanley’s voice took on a sardonic note.
‘Huh!’ he continued, ‘the novel was tame enough, so why pictures of the trial should entice a philistine public I cannot imagine. A far better bet would be to do a mock-up of the Brides in the Bath murders, or John Christie and Rillington Place. Now they could be a crowd-puller! In fact, if it transpires that the Fitz really is going to do the Chatterley thing, then I think the British Museum might well counter it with a Christie recreation, gas tubes, ropes and all. We could even get the Madame Tussauds’ lot to lend a hand. So what do you think of that, Rosy?’
