Matricide at St. Martha's by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page A

dreamy-looking beanpole with cropped grey hair – later identified as the theologian, Miss Thackaberry – wore a long striped shirt inside out; the Bursar was simply turned out in knickers and vest; the Senior Tutor sported grey woollen stockings topped with an elongated grey woolly sweater; Miss Stamp, as ever, radiated brightness – this time in a tracksuit in Christmas-fairy pink with appliqued cats. ‘I hoped you’d turn up, Mr Amiss. I wore this in honour of your dear pussycat.’
    Amiss felt a momentary flash of resentment on Plutarch’s behalf; a cat of such determined fighting spirit and ferocity of temperament should not be thus slandered. As he strove to make some appropriate rejoinder, the Mistress came downstairs, looking trim in a maroon gymslip.
    She stood with her back to her followers and went instantly into action, swinging her arms forwards and backwards in a warming-up exercise which the others followed faithfully. Within a minute and with no warning she swung into the in-out jump. Amiss had not participated in an exercise class since school but he had once observed one in action on civil service premises. On that occasion, half a dozen or so women dressed in leotards had been leaping about aerobically to a frightful din of hard rock interspersed with screamed instructions from a tarty-looking, over-made-up blonde. He was not enjoying himself, but he was grateful that at least the Virgins did it quietly.
    His ruminations were shattered by a swift and extremely painful blow to the back of his neck, which turned out to be the Bursar’s delicate way of indicating that the assembled company had now moved on to toe-touching. Out of the corner of his eye he observed with pleasure that this exercise was giving her a little trouble. Even with the greatest exertion she could reach only as far as mid-calf. He was doing only slightly better, but the others – to a Virgin – appeared to be effortlessly hitting the spot.
    The Mistress took them through four or five more movements and at 7.30 said, ‘Thank you, ladies, and Mr Amiss,’ and took the stairs at commendable speed. All followed save the Bursar and Amiss, both of whom were short of breath.
    ‘I shall probably be unable to walk tomorrow,’ groaned Amiss.
    ‘That’s all right,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘You’re supposed to be a cripple.’
    ‘No thanks to you I’m not dead; you nearly broke my neck.’
    ‘All you youngsters nowadays seem to want to be treated like Dresden,’ she said contemptuously.
    ‘Well, you are certainly putting up a pretty good imitation of Bomber Command.’ He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. ‘Now what was I supposed to have got out of this new unpleasant experience? Oh, yes, I remember, snuggling up closer to the Virgins.’
    The Bursar began to climb the stairs. ‘What did you notice?’
    ‘That they seem to be a united and happy team.’
    ‘That’s correct. Except for that old cow Deborah Windlesham…’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The one who looks as if she’s just sucked on a lemon.’
    ‘Ah, and reads at meals.’
    ‘That’s her. But Maud keeps her in her place, so mostly she’s perforce a team player. What you saw there was the quintessential spirit of the college – enjoying duty and accepting leadership gratefully. That’s what I expect of you.’ Smiting him on the back from a sheer excess of good spirits she turned down her own corridor. ‘Breakfast at 8.00 sharp. Later, if it’s dry, we’ll see about the cat.’
    When he entered the dining hall, Amiss decided to sit with the students rather the Fellows. Recognizing a prettyish face from the previous night’s fiasco, he sat beside it. He introduced himself as unthreateningly as possible. She said ‘Hello’ in a more or less civil way but did not give her name.
    He helped her solicitously to cornflakes and milk and she appeared to thaw.
    ‘What’s your favourite course?’
    ‘Bridget Holdness’s Special: “Matriarchy meets