Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  “But he’s been wounded, you say?”

  “Yes. Here, you see. And here. Well healed. Old ones. But the sort you get in battle, not streetfighting down King Street on a Saturday night. Two bullet wounds, one in each arm. Flesh only penetrated, not bone. He was twice lucky. And this here’s a graze in the flesh over the ribs that looks very like a glancing lunge from—of all things—a British bayonet or a blade with similar profile. Typical battle wound.”

  “God, you’re right! Seen enough of those to confirm,” Redfyre muttered. “Sharp cutting weapon, anyway. Couldn’t be an assegai, could it? Too early? When were the Zulu wars?”

  “1879. Too early for our chap. The first war against the Boers was sixteen years after that—1895. Hardly more than a skirmish, the throwing down of gauntlets. And the big one, the Second Anglo-Boer War, was in the final years of Victoria’s reign. 1899 to 1902 or thereabouts. When did the old lady die? 1901, was it?”

  “I believe it was. So, we’re looking at a man who could have fought, certainly not against the Zulu, but against the Boer, either in the first or the second South African war. And/or played some part in the most recent Great War against the Germans.”

  “And there’s always the Irish troubles. Rifles and sharp implements not unknown over the western sea . . . I reckon that narrows his identity down to about a million men.” The doctor gave a hopeless shrug. “No trace of that regimental badge he might have been wearing? Did your blokes turn anything up? No? Pity. But there are pinholes on the left lapel. There was a badge of some sort at some time in there. Dislodged when the body was being dragged about? You’re sure the men haven’t found something in the grass? Perhaps over the fence, then. Old soldiers sometimes throw away their medals in a fit of belated regret, but they always hold on to the symbol of their regiment. Their soldierly family.”

  “Indeed. If they lose that sentimental tie, they are surely cut adrift.”

  With an apologetic smile, Redfyre fished in the pocket of his own tweed jacket and held out his hand, a small, shining object visible in his palm.

  “Ah! Silver for an officer, wreath of laurel encircling a cross. The upper ends linked by a tablet saying ‘Waterloo.’ Now, there’s a giveaway! Rifle Brigade,” the doctor identified confidently. “Greenjackets. Sharpshooters. Among other things. Darlings of the Duke of Wellington in their heyday. A distinguished history.” He gave Redfyre a keen look. “Am I to infer that you are one of those cases where a bloke’s name influences his career or character?”

  The inspector was puzzled for a moment, then, “Oh, I see! No, no! Never occurred to me. Being a country child, I was always good with a gun. I won the shooting cup at school. When the last lot broke out I had no family military tradition to follow, none of that ‘I’ll be following my father into the Guards,’ stuff, so I went where my skills, if not my inclination, took me. The recruiting officers agreed, and I was accepted. Only four years of my life were spent in the army, but I understand the loyalty, the pride a soldier feels in his own regiment.”

  “And if you should be discovered dead in a back alley one night without your ID in your pocket, your old regiment would be able to identify and claim you before even your mother was aware. But our search reveals nothing of the sort on this old bugger.”

  “Sadly, no. The regiments keep strict and full records. If we could place him with one of them, they’d tell us where and why he was discharged, good and bad conduct, and what he had for breakfast. And, Beaufort—speaking of food—you were going to tell me about his last supper?”

  The doctor waved in the direction of a line of labelled specimen jars on the shelf of a cupboard. “All present and correct and ready for your inspection. No noxious substances, so you don’t need a mask. He was quite definitely not fed any known poisons or drugs. Apart from the alcohol, which I’ll come to . . .”

  He pointed to the bottles and drew Redfyre’s attention to the numbers on the front. “I thought I’d treat it like a menu and go through the courses in reverse order of discovery, if you see what I mean.”

  Redfyre peered at the bottles with distaste. “I can only count to three. Short menu? Hardly what we were expecting for a bloke who’s just been invited to break bread with a coterie of epicures.”

  “Quite so. But there were eels! Now, how on earth could you have foreseen the eels?”

  Redfyre gaped. “I didn’t! I was making a silly joke, Beaufort. Displaying my very sketchy historical knowledge of food-induced deaths.”

  “Well, here they are. The first course. Not lampreys, I think, just common or garden eels out of the River Ouse a few miles north of here. They’re in season at the moment. And these ones—a modest portion, by the way—are what a Cambridge man or a Londoner would call ‘jellied.’ In the Pie and Mash shops, they shuck their eels into rounds and boil them up in water and vinegar, flavour the stew with black pepper, nutmeg and lemon or herbs and let them cool. The eel is a gelatine-producing fish, according to an angling friend of mine, and what you get in your little round dish is usually four chubby pieces of eel in a shiny and nutritious jelly. Yum!” he added unconvincingly. “Kept the Victorian poor on their feet and working for decades.”

  “Right. And to follow that?”

  “Jar number two. Common or garden apple pie. Mostly pastry, with a touch of blackberry jam for colour. Washed down with water. And that’s it. A modest meal.”

  “Jar three seems to be almost empty.”

  “Yes it is. The last swab. And taken not from his gullet, but the inside of his mouth. Brandy. From the bottle we found with the body, I’m guessing. He didn’t ingest any. Someone might have poured a shot into his mouth after death and splashed it about a bit, hoping the lumpen plod would assume he was a drunk.”

  “I’m afraid I did!”

  “It’s very easy to envisage a tramp who’d strayed into the college and helped himself to a bottle of booze. One of his fellow roughs challenging him for possession in the churchyard where he’d sloped off to down the brandy in peace and killing him in a drunken rage. A fight between down-and-outs, that’s all. ‘Nothing of interest to see here! Move along!’ is what you’re supposed to be saying, Inspector.”

  “Mm, I think you’ve solved the case, Doctor. MacFarlane may have been right again. Motive and commission of the crime understood, but neither party identifiable due to social circumstances. He had a feeling this case would be one for the ‘coffin box.’ Do you know?”

  “Know of it? I’m a contributor! I believe quite a few of my reports have ended up in that sinister little receptacle, one or two involving ingredients worthy of ‘The Forme of Cury,’ royal cookbook from the Middle Ages. I mean . . . Swan? Wild boar? Foie gras? Who on earth puts things like that on the table this century, and in Cambridge?”

  “And kills the guest so soon after supper the ingredients are still identifiable in the laboratory? What did he say to annoy the chef?”

  “Well, if you envisage a killer chef on the rampage, look no further than Bert the jellied eel maker and the pie man in Cambridge Market!”

  “Do you have a time for the consumption of this meal?”

  “Yes. From about teatime onwards on Friday, if my calculations about the time of death are correct. And the cause of death? I confirm our first estimates. Pressure on the carotid artery. Here and here. Do you see the bruising? Blood choke. The assailant knew exactly where to place his thumbs. It would have been over in seconds. No sign of resistance. And the attack came from in front. I’d say the victim knew his murderer and was not expecting trouble.”

  “Mm. Thank you. The pie stall is open for business every day but Sunday. It’s certainly a possibility. I’ll go and interview Bert about his jellied eels this afternoon, when MacFarlane’s finished with me.”

  “Well, if you find yourself doing an exchange of recipes, ask Bert about the herb he favours. Every pie man has his favourite for eels, I’m told
. Whoever cooked these loves his dill. Good choice, but unusual. Oh, and there was celery seed in there, too.”

  “Well, what do you make of that!” MacFarlane slapped a large printout of a black-and-white photograph in front of his inspector. It was the item from the coffin box that he’d chosen to present first. Knowing that his boss was something of a showman at heart, Redfyre expected that he’d selected the most jaw-dropping of the pieces of evidence on the cold cases, and he leaned forward with anticipation of thrills or intrigue.

  Finally, “Um,” he said. “Er . . .”

  “Ha! Speechless, are you? Not surprised! You’re looking at the most worrying scene encountered in Cambridge crime fighting since the camera was invented.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not seeing what you’re seeing, then, sir,” Redfyre muttered. Feeling that something further was needed, he launched into a hesitant description of the subject, hoping that something pertinent would occur to him as he stumbled along. “It’s a good shot of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Trumpington Street. Taken from across the street at an angle—which is the only way to encompass such a grand façade. Those bold columns, the giant portico, enormous tympanum laden with sculpture . . . I can’t be sure whether it suggests a Roman or an Egyptian architectural influence. It certainly doesn’t speak to me of Grecian grace . . .” This was offered uncertainly, and he waited for the shot that would sink him.

  A sigh and a rolling of the eyes greeted his comments. “None of those, you chump! It’s British! It’s got the broad shoulders of a pugilist, the swagger of a bulldog. The architect was a pupil of Sir John Soane—George Basevi, the chap who gave us Belgrave Square and Ely prison. It’s the architecture of empire! Everything the Victorians had to say about their country is there in stone. Look at the lions!”

  “The lions? Ah yes, funny how such an exotic animal has been adopted by the British. Gardant, passant or like this pair, couchant, they’re everywhere. Cuddly on the outside, but watch out for the teeth and claws. In fact, there are four of these beasts. I’ve long admired them. Two are on guard at the northern side and two snarling out towards the south. Only the southern pair visible here, of course. When I was a child, I was brought into town by a new nanny one morning and managed to escape her vigilance. By the time she caught up with me, I was halfway up the side of this one here, nearest the—”

  “I said, Look at the lions!”

  At last he saw it. “Oh! Sir, would you hand me your magnifying glass?”

  Glass in hand, Redfyre passed it slowly over the lion he’d attempted to scale. “It appears to have grown an extra-shaggy mane . . . Oh, Good Lord!”

  MacFarlane was all satisfied smiles. “Well, you didn’t manage to get up there, but someone did. Back in 1919, three years before you arrived on the squad. That’s not a thickening of the mane. It’s a figure slumped over its neck. The lion has a rider! And the rider is a corpse! Some joker killed a man—knife stab to the heart—and parked him up there for all to see. And that must have taken a bit of effort and care in the dark, though if he was lurking about next morning watching for a reaction from the great British public, he must have been a bit disappointed! People bustle along here in their droves in the morning going about their business, and how many even noticed? If they did, they probably thought it was just another boring, juvenile joke by a bunch of drunken undergraduates. It wasn’t spotted until a sharp-eyed nurse on her way into work saw that something was amiss and she approached, took a look, probably reached for his pulse and decided that this was a matter for the Cambridge CID. It still is.”

  “The placing looks very dramatic from the street,” Redfyre commented. “What you can’t see is that immediately behind there’s a useful flight of stone steps between the lions. I managed to get up there using them on four-year-old legs. But hefting a lifeless body about—that would take some strength. Or backup.”

  The superintendent passed a second photograph to Redfyre.

  “A close-up of the unfortunate. I see the body has been secured in place by a rope fastening his hands together and passed around the lion’s neck. Did the rope . . . ?”

  “First thing they checked. It was the only clue, really—his clothes had been gone over and cleared of all evidence. The length of rope had been taken from a pile of rejected odds and ends round the back of the museum, where there was building work of some sort going on. Opportunistic? Or done by some perfectionist who’s taken the trouble to do a reconnaissance of the site beforehand and nick a few feet of suitable cord. A planned killing? In fact, the victim was quickly identified. Well-known bloke about Cambridge, as it happens. Rather too well known! Quite a few people had a bone to pick with him, and the CID had a list as long as your arm of people who laughed and said good riddance when they heard the news of his demise. The knife used was the dead man’s own. Fancy job with an ivory handle. Handle wiped clean, of course. Knife left in the wound. So again a dead end.”

  “Anyone I might know?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. He was one Ricardo de Angelis. ‘Chiqui’ to his friends and dancing partners.”

  “Heavens! A dancing instructor, are you saying?”

  “Tango expert. From South America, he claimed. Worked in the Cambridge Academy of Terpsichore or some such. ‘Madame Dorine’s’ to you and me. That’s Dorine with an I, not ee. She really is French. Ricardo was very popular with the ladies who passed through his hands every week. Not so much with the men in the ladies’ lives. Ooh dear! I was a DI in those days, and it was my case. I know who wanted him dead. Never able to prove it.”

  “Are you going to confide or leave me floundering?”

  “One of his devoted and impressionable partners was Lady Amelia Bullen, daughter of the Earl of Brancaster. An elopement with ‘Chiqui’ was planned shortly before someone decided enough was enough and had the lad topped.”

  “Had him topped?”

  “The father of the would-be bride had the strongest motive. The Right Honourable Earl.”

  MacFarlane was the only man Redfyre knew who could convey a capital letter in speech.

  “I watched him drink a celebratory glass of champagne in my presence when I went over to his family seat in the Godforsaken county of Norfolk to deliver the news. Gloating. Cackling. Not a pretty sight. He knew that I knew he’d procured a murder, and he didn’t give a shit! Friends in high legal places, don’t you know. He was covered every which way. There was no possibility that he could have attended to the matter personally—he’s stuck out there, miles from the nearest lemon and something of an invalid these days.” An expression of sly satisfaction betrayed the superintendent’s prejudice against all things aristocratic and all things rustic. “Copped one up the Khyber, I believe. Second Afghan bit of bother. Or would that be the third? All the same, I suppose, being shot at from the rocks by vicious tribal barmpots . . . And I took the precaution of putting one of my good-looking detective constables into the kitchens for a cup of tea and a slice of jam sponge while I was busy interviewing the master. The staff on these remote Norfolk estates do love a good natter. And Constable Beck was all charm. He’s with the Met now and doing well. He got out of them the information that the boss, the whole family and the staff were tucked up in bed from an early hour on the night Chiqui mounted his lion.”

  “But he had the cash and the clout to order up a killing by other hands? And what other hands?”

  MacFarlane considered this. “Clout, certainly. Not so sure about the cash.” He shrugged. “The going rate for a topping rises and falls faster than Mae West’s bosom in midshimmy. Five years ago, we were just coming out of the war. There was a surplus of unemployed young men—trained killers, the lot of ’em, many with a souvenir German Luger hidden away in their kitbags being turned loose into the newly civilised world. Except that it wasn’t. It was the same hard, grudging place it always had been. Some men—Londoners, mainly—hired out their skills. Surplus of gunmen, so l
ower fees charged. If he knew where to look, his lordship could have gotten a keen price. He’d have needed that. To my beady eye, the estate was looking as dilapidated as its owner. The housekeeper was moaning to DC Beck that they were understaffed. All the signs of an aristocratic family struggling with death duties and the other swingeing taxes the government put on them to help pay for the war. I’d say the earl couldn’t afford the sum of money Chiqui usually demanded when he threatened elopement with some unfortunate girl.”

  “So this wasn’t a one-off, doomed-from-the-outset affair?”

  “Lord, no! Chiqui had form. A series of successful calculated extortion attempts. As long as he remained alive and fit to tango and the lady was still smitten, our Earl figured—quite rightly—that there must be the possibility of further demands or the ruining of the family name to consider. On the whole, a professional assassination was much cheaper and more certain of outcome for his lordship. He made sure that he and his household were well away from the scene and all accounted for at the moment the dirty deed was done.”

  “And that this information was duly passed on to your charming constable?”

  “Constable Beck is bright as well as smarmy! He played along, don’t worry! Certainly got more out of them than they got out of him.”

  Redfyre stirred uneasily. “But it’s odd, sir. Your average professional killer doesn’t go about laying his victims out in a very conspicuous position. He’s in and out and back down his rat hole in the shortest possible time. He doesn’t hang around rolling up his sleeves, flexing his muscles and hauling his handiwork into an eye-catching pose It’s macabre!”