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, sweet 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 Hold
ers’ 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.
The Cambridge Plot Page 2
