Rosy felt slightly awkward and began to get up to leave. He looked strained and the sooner she left him in peace the better.
‘Oh, but please don’t go,’ he said insistently as she picked up her bag, ‘you make me feel so ungracious. After all, by bringing my notes here you have done me a great service and the least I can do is to be the genial host!’ He gave a wry smile, gesturing at the somewhat cramped and sparsely furnished room. ‘Besides, we have much to talk about.’
Have we? Rosy thought, slightly puzzled. Oh, well, if he thinks so … She waited. But the silence continued as he stared blankly into space. She cleared her throat and tried to think of words that might generate some utterance. None came.
And then just as she was about to produce some banality about the weather or the landlady’s cat, he looked at her and in a faraway voice, said, ‘I am glad you are here. You see, it has all been rather trying and I need to unburden myself.’
Rosy felt uneasy: did she wish to have a burden lobbed into her lap by a virtual stranger? Preferably not. ‘What has been trying?’ she asked warily.
‘Death. It sort of sticks in the mind, doesn’t it?’
He was right of course. But currently the emotional trauma of death was not something she was keen to probe; after all, she had only dropped in to deliver some books.
‘I do understand,’ she replied tactfully, ‘but try not to take it too much to heart. One gathers the attack was very deft and very quick and she would have hardly registered anything. I know it was horrible, but dwelling on it really doesn’t help.’ The words were inadequate, but at that moment they were the best she could muster.
The pale face regarded her vaguely. ‘What?’
‘I do not think Gloria suffered all that much,’ Rosy declared firmly.
‘Miss Biggs-Brookby?’ he exclaimed, suddenly animated. ‘I am not talking about her – I mean Winston Reid, of course – he whom I dispatched!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
So stunned was Rosy that for a split second his words meant nothing. When they did she felt she must have misheard or that they were some tasteless joke. She gazed at him astounded, but could detect no humour in the unwavering eyes.
‘You look shocked,’ he observed quietly. ‘In your place so might I, but be assured, Miss Gilchrist, he died by my hand.’
‘No, he didn’t.’ Rosy gasped. ‘He had been drinking and fell down the stairs. Everybody knows that; it was the coroner’s verdict!’
‘Then everybody is wrong.’ He folded his hands in his lap.
She grasped at a straw, something to lessen the horror: ‘Ah, I suppose it was a mistake – you had gone there and quarrelled and somehow it just happened.’
‘Oh no, I fear there was nothing accidental about it. I came up to Cambridge with the express purpose of killing him, and as things turned out the matter couldn’t have gone more smoothly. So often one’s intentions are thwarted – don’t you find?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow, while Rosy gaped. ‘What did Burns say,’ he continued, ‘… something about the best laid plans of somebody or other?’
‘Of mice and men,’ Rosy replied mechanically, ‘and, er, it was “schemes”, actually.’ She stared in dazed disbelief, wondering if the man was mad.
‘Oh yes, that’s it – “schemes”, of course. Really, my memory these days! Still, at least I can complete the line: “Gang aft agley”, if I’m not mistaken.’ He smiled, and then with a nod of satisfaction added, ‘But in this case things did not go agley: he was already half-dead when I found him – moribund, one might say. It only needed a slight adjustment to complete the process.’
God in heaven, Rosy thought, he is either lethal or lunatic! If the latter and living a fantasy, a show of indulgence might be the best ploy … But equally, if he was telling the truth and thus indeed lethal, the same too might be wise. Thus, she gave a kindly smile and, trying to match his conversational tone, enquired the reason for the ‘scheme’.
‘A bit of a long story, I’m afraid, but I can tell you the man had only himself to blame: he had done dire things and had to bear the consequences. “As you sow, so shall you reap” – a sound precept, in my judgement. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Briefly, Rosy felt she was back in the examination hall or her tutor’s study, faced by a proposition with its peremptory command: ‘Discuss’. But this was hardly a Cambridge tutorial they were engaged in. It might be simpler (and safer) to steer him away from the moral aspect to the more practical. Best to keep on neutral ground!
With this in mind she said, ‘I don’t quite understand. It was reported that he died as a result of a fall down the stairs – broke his neck and banged his head. Sir Richard Dick and Felix Smythe found him. There was blood and he was drenched in whisky.’
‘Oh yes, plenty of whisky,’ Hinchcliff replied casually, ‘but that had nothing to do with me, though I was responsible for the blood, I fear. Fortunately there wasn’t too much of that, and naturally as a precaution I had taken rubber gloves and an overall with me. One can never be too prepared – always the Boy Scout, that’s me! Tell me, Miss Gilchrist, were you ever in the Girl Guides?’
Rosy shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t let me in,’ she said faintly.
‘Oh, that’s a pity. You would have learnt so much; an admirable organisation and full of all manner of useful little tips – at least the Scouts were, and I imagine it was the same for the ladies.’
Despite her fear, Rosy heard herself asking dryly if those useful tips included how to dispatch an injured man lying at the foot of a staircase. ‘For example, I assume you bashed his head against the banister,’ she remarked coldly … and instantly bit her lip. Fool! He must surely have sensed the sarcasm: it was hardly the tone to soothe a raving lunatic.
But to her surprise Hinchcliffe took no offence. On the contrary, he seemed eager to explain further. ‘Oh no, a banister is relatively blunt – painful, no doubt, but not necessarily lethal; and besides, it would probably have needed a number of knocks. No, as luck would have it, Reid had placed some sort of bronze bust just next to the last step; a small head on a square marble plinth with a sharp corner. It only took one biff and I knew the job was done. Couldn’t have been better – though why he had to put the thing there, I don’t know. Most ill-placed in my opinion: the light was poor. And highly dangerous, I should have thought, but perhaps it was just temporary …’ He broke off, evidently pondering the vagaries of sculptors. Not caring to dwell on the details of the deed, Rosy hastily turned her mind to the postponed question: why had he done it? This time she was careful to make her tone suitably meek.
She cleared her throat. ‘Uhm, if you don’t mind my asking, what prompted you to do it? I mean to say, it’s not something one—’
‘Undertakes lightly? You are quite right. I thought long and hard about the problem, but came to the conclusion that in the circumstances it was all for the best.’
But not for Reid! she felt like saying, but didn’t dare. Instead, assuming an expression of docile interest, she said mildly: ‘I am not quite clear – so what exactly was the problem?’
‘He was blighting my life: destroying my anchor and casting me into the depths. Something had to be done.’ The response held a biblical ring, but it was far from mimicry and Rosy listened gravely.
‘You see, when I left Cambridge and went to live in London I happened to encounter Reid, who was just starting out on his sculpting career. We became mild friends, but then things changed and he embarked on what I can only describe as a feast of harassment and calumny. He besmirched my name and caused much harm.’
‘In what way?’
‘It so happened that all those years ago – a good thirty – I pinched his girlfriend and he didn’t like it; not one little bit.’
‘Er, well, no, I don’t suppose he would,’ Rosy ventured. ‘On the whole people do take offence when that sort of thing happens.’
‘Yes, but it was a bit more complex than that and the results were unfortunate. She beca
me pregnant.’
‘Ah … well in that case, if you had made her pregnant I suppose he would be rather annoyed. I mean—’
‘No, no! I didn’t make her pregnant, someone else did. That’s just it: she refused to name the father, and Reid put it about that I was responsible.’ Hinchcliffe flushed, and then hesitated before muttering, ‘If you want to know, I wasn’t too good at that sort of thing – one of the reasons we broke up – so I knew it couldn’t be me … Ironic, really: I was torn between being secretly pleased that I was evidently deemed sexually stalwart, and horrified that I should be traduced in that way. For a period, one was the recipient of righteous censure and knowing jibes. It was particularly humiliating as my uncle was a bishop and I was fearful the rumours might reach him.’ Hinchcliffe closed his eyes. ‘It was a ghastly time.’
Rosy nodded. ‘So what happened?’
‘Fortunately it eventually blew over. She went away and married, I believe. Reid lost interest and became engrossed in his sculpting, and I decamped to Africa to instruct the natives in bee-keeping.’
‘Crikey,’ Rosy exclaimed. ‘Did it work?’
He shook his head. ‘Not noticeably. They got stung and seemed to think it was my fault. After that I came home and continued my rather uninspiring life in a solicitor’s office in Neasden where I remained until the miracle.’
‘What miracle?’
‘Well, one day, when I was feeling particularly bleak, I was tapped on the shoulder.’
‘Oh yes, by whom?’
Hinchcliffe paused, and then lowering his voice, said quietly, ‘Well, it was God, you see – it was his hand.’ Rosy raised a polite eyebrow.
‘Indeed it was,’ he continued. ‘You may well look surprised, and so was I. But do you know, from that very moment my life was utterly transformed. My days took on miraculous meaning as at last I had found purpose and direction. Some would term that experience an epiphany – I see it as my moment of deliverance!’
Rosy looked at him sharply, assuming he was having her on; but the wide eyes and earnest tone suggested otherwise, and despite a natural scepticism and his earlier revelation, she felt a brief surge of sympathy. The man’s normally placid face had lit up with a radiant beam and he appeared genuinely moved by what he was telling her.
‘So you found a new direction,’ she murmured. ‘And where did that lead you?’
‘Kensington,’ was the calm response.
‘Where?’ Rosy’s flicker of sympathy vanished. Huh, she thought grimly, who would have thought that the staid pavements of W8 might form the silken ladder to heavenly bliss. Clearly the chap was barking, after all … However, she enquired patiently what was so special about Kensington.
‘Number 16, Erdleigh Place,’ he declared, ‘it’s our headquarters.’
‘Headquarters of what?’
‘Of the Lord’s work. It’s the hub of our little society – where we prepare our strategies, compose our pamphlets and interview prospective candidates.’
‘Candidates?’
‘Candidates for spreading the Word and helping the Fallen. We’re quite a thriving little community. Non-denominational, you understand – in fact, I rather suspect that one or two members may not be believers at all, or at least not in the full sense – but we all muck in and do our bit. I can’t tell you what uplift it has given me knowing that I have been involved in something productive and spiritually useful.’ Hinchcliffe’s face fell as he added bitterly: ‘It was all going swimmingly until all over again Reid started his evil nonsense. If it hadn’t been for him, my life would have continued in joy and confidence. As it is, I have been wracked with anxiety – sleepless nights and desperate days.’
His eyes took on an expression of bleak hopelessness; and despite herself Rosy felt another twinge of pity.
‘Yes, life had been proceeding most amiably until a year ago when the accusations started up again and with renewed force.’ He gave a wan smile: ‘The perverted energy of age, no doubt, the final putsch before the end. It was a sort of campaign of malice and mischief, a persecution complex in reverse. Reid kept dropping beastly hints that he would tell these lies about me to the fraternity. I couldn’t have borne it … Dear Christ, those bloody letters and phone calls were intolerable!’ His face contorted in a spasm of pain.
Rosy was startled by the sudden burst of ferocity; it punctured his usual restraint. And for a second she saw Hinchcliffe crouched by the sculptor’s body as he dashed the balding head against the ‘ill-placed’ plinth. Yes, the capacity could well be there …
However, the next moment Hinchcliffe had apologised for his ‘unseemly’ language and in milder voice continued his narrative.
‘It was sickening, and as I have said, seemed without reason. Boredom, perhaps, or a festering grudge about my taking his girlfriend? Who knows. But it was horrible; and the curious thing was I couldn’t make out what he wanted. No demands were made, no money mentioned; so it wasn’t blackmail. He seemed merely intent on filling me with the greatest discomfort and fear. Somehow, he had got wind of my activities in Kensington with the fraternity, and guessing that to be my vulnerable spot threatened to apprise them of my “past”. Not only did he threaten to tell them the old lie of my getting a girl into trouble and having a secret son, but he even said he might hint at my having interfered with small boys.’ Hinchcliffe flushed again and blew his nose.
‘And had you?’ Rosy asked.
‘Certainly not,’ he exclaimed indignantly, ‘I do not like small boys!’ Rosy considered the man sitting opposite her with the troubled eyes and drumming fingers, and reminded herself that he was a murderer.
‘You could have told the police,’ she said sternly. ‘They would have done something.’
‘Oh really?’ he replied with some asperity. ‘What exactly? I had no hard evidence. The nastiest things were said by telephone, only the more ambiguous by letter … although I do recall one letter more explicit than the others, but it so sickened me I threw it away. I can see the passage now: “My dear good fellow, we both know that mud sticks: a nod here, a wink there, and your pious colleagues would drop you like the proverbial hot coal – or do I mean potato? Either way, you wouldn’t last.”’
Rosy’s distaste must have shown, for Hinchcliffe nodded. ‘I see you get the picture: a despicable type and dangerous with it. He had to be stopped. He deserved to go.’
‘Who said so – God?’
There was a long pause while he studied the ceiling. Finally, he said, ‘Yes, I believe so: God speaking via my heart. I was his emissary doing good works. Reid tried to prevent that. Thus I smited him.’
‘Smited’? Rosy wondered. Shouldn’t it have been ‘smote’? She pulled herself together. Really, this was hardly the moment to ponder grammatical niceties, but to work out what the hell to do next! She shot a covert glance at his briefcase. If he had ‘smited’ Winston Reid, who knew what might be concealed there – a meat cleaver? One false move and she could end up like the sculptor!
Would she be able to reach the door before he did? Perhaps she could throw her chair at him. Would screams be heard? Certainly not by the landlady, far off playing her bingo. Rosy’s mind whirled feverishly. But then seeing the man’s eyes fixed hard upon her, his fingers gripping the marble ashtray on his desk, such thoughts of escape suddenly vanished and her limbs felt riveted. She gave a faltering smile, and with pumping heart enquired what he proposed to do next.
Hinchcliffe regarded her for a long time without expression, while she felt her stomach clench and her mouth go dry like a stone. Eventually he stood up and took a step towards her.
There flashed before Rosy an image of Johnnie, shot to smithereens over Dresden. Their ends would be the same: smash and horror … She shut her eyes, paralysed by the man’s closeness. Oh dear God, she thought, this is it, and waited for the blow.
The blow when it came was that of his voice saying: ‘What I propose, Miss Gilchrist, is to bear my cross. My course is obvious: I must confess all
to the police and take the consequences. Perhaps you will be so kind as to come with me; a companion on such an occasion would be most fortifying. Will you do that? I should be greatly obliged.’
Looking back on events, Rosy wondered why she hadn’t gone out like a light there and then. The mixture of relief and incredulity had been so engulfing that she could scarcely breathe, and for a few seconds all she had done was to gaze witlessly at the man before her, his brow creased in earnest enquiry.
‘Of course,’ she answered mechanically with mind utterly numbed, ‘if that’s what you would like.’
He gave a formal little bow. ‘Most kind,’ he said. ‘A veritable act of charity. I shall pray for you on the gallows.’
The raw term seared and, recovering herself, she said briskly, ‘Oh, I am sure it won’t come to that … besides, these days it’s not a public scaffold they use, but a sort of trapdoor in the cell.’
‘A great improvement,’ he murmured.
On reflection, Rosy felt her response had been a bit tactless and wondered if he was being sarcastic. She heard her mother’s voice from long ago: ‘Think, dear, before you speak. Otherwise the bogeyman will bite your tongue off.’ Well, it was too late now – there was a matter of much greater concern to confront: a visit to the Cambridge constabulary.
But had he really meant it? Surely not. Yet presumably he must have, for already he was buttoning his coat and fiddling with his briefcase. He glanced around for his umbrella, picked it up and walked to the door, where he turned. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded silently.
‘Then off we go.’
She may have imagined it, but he seemed to brace himself; and then opening the door he ushered her through. Flustered, she dropped her open handbag but without waiting he went ahead while she hastily picked it up and replaced the fallen debris.
The Cambridge Plot Page 14
