Matricide at St. Martha's

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  The Bursar burst out laughing. ‘Good old Maud. Honest to the last.’

  ‘“It was the patient work of innumerable pioneers like these that made it possible for my Cambridge generation to forge ahead and even, from 1948, to take degrees for the first time. We hope that what we have in turn achieved has helped to open up a wide world of rich opportunities to our younger sisters.

  ‘“You will notice that I have mentioned two men among our great feminists. This is to illustrate my hope that the next stage of feminism will not be an exclusive one. What I long for is respect and partnership between the sexes.’”’

  Sandra shook her head energetically. ‘She never under stood, of course. How can the oppressed be partners with the oppressors?’

  Everyone ignored her. Crowley took another sip of tea.

  ‘“Maud Buckbarrow’s scholarship was distinguished by a fastidiousness about accuracy and detail. She was, she confessed herself, not an easily accessible writer, smiling at the description of herself as ‘a scholar’s scholar’. Her best-known work was on early medieval parish records, but her interests took her over a much broader period: her distin guished monographs covered territory from Anglo-Saxon place names to early Tudor finance.

  ‘“It is, though, as a woman of the utmost integrity that Maud Buckbarrow will be remembered. There was about her nothing meretricious, nothing self-seeking, nothing self-regarding. While the tragic circumstances of her death have caused her friends great grief, they take comfort from the fact that she died at the height of her powers, with the light of scholarly battle in her eyes. She will never experience that fate of which Rudyard Kipling, her favourite poet, wrote with dread.

  ‘“This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end—

  That we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:

  And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thoughts in our head,

  We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.”’

  A subdued silence followed. As tears welled up in the Senior Tutor’s eyes, the Bursar said gruffly, ‘Got to be off,’ and disappeared at full speed from the dining room.

  Despairing of seeing Mary Lou on her own, for Sandra was talking to her agitatedly, Amiss sidled out. He found the Bursar sitting on the edge of her desk swinging her legs and puffing vigorously.

  ‘Is that a new tobacco? It seems even fouler than the last.’

  ‘You have no taste. This is particularly fine example of Capstan navy Cut Ready Rubbed at its best. Robust, I grant you. But then so am I.’

  ‘How’s the election looking?’

  ‘Dicey. By a piece of vile luck Primrose Partridge has been summoned to the bedside of her aged mother.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘But if Pusey and Mary Lou both play the white man, we should still make it. But you never know with the Dykes. They might have done some other secret deal or be at this very moment murdering Emily.’

  ‘That’s a bit unsubtle even for them.’

  ‘We can’t all be subtle. Did young Pooley come up with anything?’

  ‘He was awestruck at how you and Mary Lou had managed to perfect your alibis at such speed.’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m not just a pretty face, you know. I learnt a lot of tricks from MI6.’

  ‘Come off it, Jack. You were never a spy.’

  ‘Let us say that in the course of my civil service duties I was not averse to helping intelligence colleagues on the side. You pick up a few useful tips that way.’

  ‘I must try it sometime,’ Amiss said absently. ‘Where was Mary Lou last night?’

  ‘Am I her keeper just because we concoct a mean alibi?’

  Amiss moodily kicked the desk.

  ‘Snap out of it, my lad. We may need all our wits about us this morning. I have learned that the Dykes have called a meeting of students for immediately after the Council meet ing, presumably to announce the glad news that their leaderene has been elected. It may be a bit hairy if dear old Emily makes it.’

  ‘Have you written a victory speech for her?’

  ‘I think on this occasion I’ll have to be her mouthpiece. Emily is not cut out to be Mark Antony.’

  The telephone rang. ‘Troutbeck. Yes, yes.’ She looked up at Amiss. ‘I’ll be a while. You’d better get along. Get some fresh air. Go and walk Bobsy.’

  Obediently Amiss trailed off to the garden and joined Pusey and Bobsy on their morning constitutional.

  ‘Is it really less than a week since we had that horrid experience?’

  ‘Indeed it is. So much has happened since. One forgets.’

  ‘Bobsy and I have forgiven but we haven’t quite forgotten,’ said Pusey, ‘the Bursar was really…’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Amiss hastily. ‘But although her faults are blindingly obvious, we must remember her virtues. At least you know where you are with her.’

  Pusey sniffed. ‘Usually somewhere you don’t want to be. However, I accept that she won’t go back on her word.’

  ‘She gave you a clear-cut guarantee?’

  ‘Yes, as much as she could. What she said was that she would do everything in her power to ensure that I was given a three-year contract if the right man won.’

  ‘Have the others been after you since we last talked?’

  ‘They haven’t had the chance. I haven’t answered my phone since the Bursar rang, and Bobsy and I have lain low. There were several knocks on our door but we didn’t answer.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s time for Bobsy to go up. Oh dear, I’m not looking forward to this. It could be very, very horrid indeed.’

  ‘Courage mon vieux. Let us show the ladies what can be done when we are on our mettle.’

  Pusey tittered nervously and headed for the stairs.

  Chapter 28

  There was little eye contact visible at the Council: the certainty that among them was a murderer seemed to be a dampener on the Fellows’ spirits. The Senior Tutor’s hair was wilder than usual, perhaps in sympathy with the agita tion visible on her face. Amiss sat beside her and discreetly pressed his knee against hers; she responded gratefully. That little bit of clandestine human contact made them both feel slightly better.

  Bridget Holdness opened the meeting. She looked, Amiss was pleased to observe, a little shaken. ‘It was only yesterday that our new Mistress was talking about the need for us to all pull together in the face of tragedy. This is even more true today. All I can say is that I was looking forward to work ing in partnership with Dr. Windlesham, whose death, I know, we all greatly regret.’

  Amiss was amused at this departure from Bridget’s usual frankness; she was being positively anodyne. And the use of ‘Dr’ was a huge concession.

  ‘Now, I think we’d better get on with the main business of the morning immediately. There is much to be done in calming the fears of the students. It is our job now to choose the right person to take us through a time that requires remarkable energy and leadership skills.’

  Rather well done, thought Amiss. These were certainly not the two first attributes one could apply to dear old Emily Twigg. The Bursar, he noticed, was looking uneasy.

  ‘Nominations, please, colleagues.’

  Amiss kicked the Senior Tutor under the table. She broke into speech. ‘I wish to propose the Bursar.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Pusey. His voice was so low as to be almost a whisper.

  Jack Troutbeck looked as thunderstruck as the majority of her colleagues.

  ‘Sorry, Bursar,’ squeaked the Senior Tutor, ‘but you’re up to it and I’m not.’

  ‘Other nominations?’ asked Bridget levelly.

  ‘I propose the Acting Mistress,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Seconded,’ said the Reverend Crowley.

  Amiss was impressed; absolute gender balance on both nominations.

  ‘Bursar,’ asked Bridget, ‘do you accept the nomination?’

  The Bursar shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  ‘All those i
n favour of the Bursar, please raise your hands.’

  The hands went up slowly. First, the Senior Tutor, Pusey and Amiss, then, after a quick exchange of whispers, Anglo-Saxon Annie, Miss Thackaberry, the Bursar herself, and finally, Mary Lou. ‘Traitor,’ hissed Sandra in Mary Lou’s direction.

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Bridget. ‘Congratulations, Mistress.’ She got up and gestured to Jack Troutbeck who pushed her chair back with a resounding scrunch, walked to the head of the table and plonked herself into the Mistress’s seat. She gazed around her colleagues. ‘I appreciate Dr. Holdness’s courtesy in conceding defeat so graciously.

  ‘I am surprised, I won’t say pleased. No one could feel pleased at inheriting a job in circumstances like these, but I will do it as well as I can—in my own style. And, I can assure you, I have no intention of being murdered.

  ‘Item two on the agenda—the election of a Deputy Mistress—I suggest should not take place today; one press-ganging is enough. With your agreement, I shall refer it to the next meeting along with elections for other vacancies.’

  There was a squeak of protest from Sandra. ‘But Bridget is Deputy Mistress.’

  ‘Not so. If you read your standing orders you will find that on the election of a new Mistress, the Deputy Mistresss hip also becomes vacant. My predecessor had not done her homework.

  ‘Item three, “Any other business.” Under this heading, Dr. Holdness, I think it would be appropriate for you to tell us about the student meeting you have organized.’

  ‘It was a meeting properly called under the auspices of the Gender and Ethnic Workshop.’ She sounded defensive.

  ‘So that’s why most of your colleagues were not told about it? Despite the subject being the future of St. Martha’s?’

  ‘In a feminist context,’ said Bridget. As an answer it was clear it seemed weak even to her.

  ‘Hah! It was intended as a victory rally,’ said Pusey, emboldened by his success as Mistress-maker.

  ‘Let us avoid recriminations, Dr. Pusey. We have to clear up the mess we’re in as fast as possible. Where and when is this meeting, Dr. Holdness?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock in the library.’

  ‘Do all the students know about it?’

  Bridget looked at Sandra. ‘Yes,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I put a leaflet under all the students’ doors this morning.’

  ‘Very good. I’m sure you’ll be pleased, Dr. Holdness, in your capacity as’—the new Mistress paused for a brief consideration of the appropriate nomenclature—‘chairman of this group to call the meeting to order, announce my election and hand over to me.’ She paused. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bridget Holdness.

  ‘Very good. Now, I shall require you all to be there standing around me showing solidarity. This college will not survive any further dissent.

  ‘I declare the meeting closed. I shall see you all later.’ She rose, bowed low and left the room. Within half a minute the only people remaining were Amiss, Pusey and the Senior Tutor.

  ‘Well done, both of you,’ he said. ‘Worked like clock work.’

  ‘Well, you should have the credit,’ said Pusey.

  ‘Oh, it’s such a relief.’ The Senior Tutor looked happier than he had seen her in days. ‘You took such a weight off my shoulders when you suggested this. She’s to the manner born.’

  ‘Fancy Mary Lou coming over to our side,’ said Pusey. ‘Was that anything to do with you?’

  Amiss shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her since I had the idea. But she’s got a mind of her own. I think you and she will have a great deal in common, Senior Tutor.’

  ‘I suppose I’m not the Senior Tutor any more. How nice.’ She gathered up her belongings. ‘It’s all very muddling. I do hope this meeting goes well. I’m so happy I don’t have to do anything at it.’

  ‘I wonder what the Mistress has in mind?’ said Pusey.

  ‘Let’s just enjoy the surprise,’ said Amiss. He smiled at his co-conspirators and set off once again in pursuit of Mary Lou.

  ***

  ‘Could I have a look at the drug tip-off note, sir?’

  ‘You’ve got that on the brain, Pooley. I read it to you over the phone. It’s plain and straightforward and could have been written by anyone.’

  ‘Please, sir.’

  ‘Oh, all right, all right. I think I’ve a photocopy here.’

  He hunted through his file and drew it out. As Pooley looked at it he felt murderous. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ His voice was almost level. ‘Just one point occurs to me.’

  ‘Yes, yes. What is it?’

  ‘The way the word centre is spelt.’

  ‘Oh, it’s spelt wrong, I saw that, but everyone’s illiterate these days.’

  ‘It’s the American spelling, sir—“center”.

  ‘Well, so if it is, that’s a coincidence. It’s just a spelling mistake.’

  ‘It’s not a common spelling mistake, sir. It’s much more likely to be a cultural slip by an American.’

  ‘You mean that black girl sent it herself?’

  ‘I can’t think it very likely that she set out to frame herself.’

  ‘Maybe she wanted to be a martyr, be able to sue us after wards. You know what Americans are like.’

  ‘Maybe somebody else wanted to make a martyr of her. Someone like Sandra Murphy; she’s American too.’

  ‘I know that, I know that.’ Romford was grumpy. ‘Oh well, I suppose we’d better have her in again and ask her how she spells “centre”.’

  ‘I don’t think that would get us very far, sir. If I might suggest…’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ called Romford.

  Amiss’s head appeared. ‘May I interrupt you for a moment, Inspector?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Romford sounded almost cordial.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know that the Bursar has become Mistress and that she’ll be making a speech to the whole college in the library in ten minutes. I think you might find it interesting.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Romford. ‘We’re trying to solve a murder here, not get involved with what all these women are up to.’

  ‘I think it might have some bearing, Inspector. You see, Bridget Holdness and Sandra have lost a campaign they expected to win and I think it’s just possible there might be a little bit of a breach between them. Disappointment can cause allies to fall out.’

  Romford chewed that over. ‘You mean they might shop each other?’ His brows knitted. ‘I suppose we’d better bring them in, then.’

  ‘Forgive my meddling,’ said Amiss hastily, ‘but they are likely to be in even lower spirits after the meeting and it really is in any case very important for college morale that they should be at it.’

  ‘Oh, all right, we’ll go to the meeting. Come on, Pooley.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second, sir. I just have to make a quick call to my hotel to pick up messages.’

  Failing to think of any good reason to object to this, Romford nodded curtly and followed Amiss out. Furtively closing the door, Pooley dialled Superintendent Hardiman.

  There was a full turn out. Even Greasy Joan was there, apron removed for the occasion to reveal an impressive, if sag ging, cleavage protruding from a fake leopardskin close-fitting tracksuit. Bridget Holdness played her part exactly as directed. Pausing only to offer congratulations, she stood back. Jack Troutbeck strode forward carrying a chair on which she climbed. ‘Can you all hear me?’ she bellowed.

  ‘I’d be surprised if they can’t hear her in Alabama,’ whis pered Mary Lou to Amiss under cover of the shouts of ‘Yes’.

  ‘I want to read you the obituary of a fine woman, of whom we should all be proud.’

  She read brilliantly, rather to Amiss’s surprise—the timing perfect, the voice rich, vibrant and full of controlled emotion. What had been poignant read out by Crowley was elegiac read by Jack Troutbeck. When she had finished there was an absolute sil
ence.

  The new Mistress folded the newspaper and stuck it in her pocket. She looked slowly around her audience. ‘Colleagues, friends, sisters and brothers, we have a simple choice.

  ‘As you all should know, St. Martha’s was set up by a man who believed that women were inferior creatures who might be driven insane by too much intellectual effort: if he were alive now he would be saying “I told you so”. Yet despite his vision of womanhood restricted, protected, cosseted, forced down the so-called womanly paths, the women in this college proved him wrong. They were self-reliant, honourable, hard-working, proud of each other’s achievements, supportive of each other’s endeavours and devoted to their students.

  ‘If, under them, St. Martha’s lacked glamour, it never lacked integrity. Generations of its students, among whom I am proud to number myself, were sent into the world to play a useful part and behave honourably. We were taught that to die with one’s self-respect intact was more important than to be laden with the honours and baubles of the self-seeker and materialist.

  ‘Yet recently as a college we began to lose our collective sense and to experience a fragmentation of our historical common purpose. Factions developed. I will not deny that many of those anxious to take St. Martha’s in a new direction were motivated by idealism, though I cannot pretend that I thought all were. I freely admit that on occasion I may have been less than generous in my assumptions, tactful in my speech or subtle in my battle against radical change.

  ‘At the root of the dispute over the future of St. Martha’s were two opposing views of the nature of women and the importance of sexual proclivities. On the latter, I believed, and I still do, that sex is a private matter and that the nature of one’s sexuality or sexual appetites should not dominate one’s thinking. My generation of Fellows was, I believe, right in tolerating but not highlighting each other’s sexual inclina tions; we all had the courtesy to keep the issue out of the public domain.’