Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Beaufort found splinters in the wound. Old wood, tarred with preservative. That cut down the search area. The general was bald, the wound unpleasant but clear. We found a match. On one of the planks shoring up the riverbank near the Anchor pub. Blood traces confirmed. The home office boys and the top brass, who were keen to keep a lid on it for their own undisclosed reasons, leapt on that. Clearly, the general had had a nasty accident while suffering the effects of overindulgence. ‘Drinking too deep of the Old Falernian, eh, what!’ was the conclusion of one old duffer—and he was the coroner! It was concluded that the chap had fallen, bashed his head and rolled right over the foot-high plank into a stolen punt that just happened to be drifting by. Huh!”

  Redfyre retained the police scene of crime photograph and laid it out on the table in front of him. Then, sighing, he reached for the second file. “Who’ve we got here?”

  “More ‘Corpses About Cambridge,’ I’m afraid. “January of that year. Fresh-fallen snow. It’s the best documented scene of a killing in the annals of crime! There were present: more than twenty photographers, three reporters, two deans and one bishop. All on the spot at or near the time of death,” he said with relish. “They all had plenty to say, and not one word was of any use. The buggers had seen nothing! And I believed them. Here—this official police photo says it all.”

  The church setting in the locating shots was easily identified. Redfyre found he was looking at a glamorous black-and-white photograph. A pair of cherry trees laden with snow on either side of a huge oak door and a majestic tower rising on the left of the image identified Great St. Mary’s. The direction and depth of the shadows cast by the sun told him that it was taken in the early morning in the very centre of Cambridge. A further shot from the west where the tower gave straight onto the pavings below, opposite the Senate House, would have made a wonderful Christmas card, had its subject not been a corpse lying on its back on the snow-covered slabs at the base of the tower, arms spread like an angel’s wings. A close-up of the neat, tidy body showed a face whose features were untouched by anything more than slight surprise at being caught out by death.

  “And what was the cause of this? Did someone shout, ‘Boo’?” Redfyre suggested cynically.

  “It was swiftly concluded that this gent fell or threw himself from the top of the tower after dark the previous day. And don’t forget, in the depths of January, dark starts at teatime.”

  “How is that possible? The tower isn’t open for visitors in the winter months.”

  “Special opening on account of the snow. The photography clubs of Cambridge put pressure—and probably a fat fee—on the church authorities to have the tower opened up for them. They had a competition on at the time—‘Landscapes of Academe,’ or some such. It was well attended. What really gets these photo hounds excited is their slanting light. Like vampires, they’re always to be found scurrying about at the crack of dawn and the last trump of day. There was a magnificent sunset that day, as well. That really got them going! I managed to get my hands on some of the resulting exhibits, just to see if someone had caught an image of a killer lurking. No use! But I had to admire the results.”

  “Well attended, you say?” Redfyre’s suspicious tone echoed his policeman’s concern for public safety. He knew the tower, though stout and impressive in its perpendicular style, provided limited skirmishing space for a group of visitors.

  “Yup! Swarming with them!” the superintendent replied nonchalantly. “Overcrowding to a dangerous level occurred up there, and the parapet is quite low. With everyone peering through viewfinders, elbows out, jockeying for position. Some die-hard purists were even using cameras you need to envelop your head in a black shroud to use . . . I’m only surprised worse didn’t occur. They’re quite fanatical about their art, you know. Fiends! My first thought was that this could be a case of professional—or rather amateur—competitive spirit. A naughty push in the back to ruin a hated rival’s focus . . . Everyone denied everything, of course.”

  Redfyre’s finger traced the intact features on the close-up. “Who was he, this alleged faller-from-a-height?”

  “An enthusiastic photographer. Local man. Registered member of the biggest club. The ‘Fiat Lux’, if you can believe it! Not much mourned, I think. He’d won the yearly prize the last three times, and people were getting a bit fed up with him. Rising politician. Tory. Hoping to stand for Cambridgeshire next time round. Independent means. Father was of the landed gentry and Royston Chilvers was his eldest son.”

  The calculatedly level tone of the superintendent’s victim profile betrayed his dislike and prejudice, Redfyre thought. He replied with an attempt at humour: “That’s at least five good reasons for bumping him off!”

  “You’re not kidding! I counted eight! By the time I’d investigated young Royston, I’d have given him a quick shove from a height myself!”

  Redfyre tapped the photograph. “But he didn’t fall, did he?” he suggested.

  “No. Course not. That’s no jumper. Not the bone damage you’d expect, not much bruising. He’d been placed. The forensic lads proved it by the depth and condition of the snow under and around the body. Pressure, displacement, ambient temperature, temperature of the overlying body, precipitation . . . those boys had a field day! The upshot was—you’ve likely guessed it!—he’d been bashed on the head at ground level, and his limbs arranged like a kid doing that arm-spreading malarkey. Trouble was, the press and the public took one look at the dramatic photos and decided he must have been pushed from the tower. Well, I mean! Bloke who should have been jousting in the mêlée at the top is found lying dead at the base? Join up the dots! What are towers for! That’s what the human mind does. It looks for the obvious, the link between point A and point B. It’s what’s kept us surviving as a species for so long.”

  “It’s only contrarians like us who pick at the scabs and say: ‘Ah yes, but what if . . . ?’” Redfyre murmured.

  “Exactly. And by the time we find out what if, it’s too late. People have moved on to the next excitement. A correct version was put out in the press, but no one was listening! He’d gone down in local history as the Winter Icarus.”

  “Memorable!” Redfyre commented. “Do I detect the inventive powers of our local newshound?”

  “You bet! And the notion of a fall was made indelible. The coroner hummed and hawed, and in deference to the lad’s grieving family, put it down as another ‘tripped and fell, banging his head,’ sustained in the pursuit of an interesting photographic angle. You’ll observe—because I’m sure we were meant to—that his camera has been carefully positioned on his chest with the safety strap still around his neck. And the lens was intact.”

  “A camera? Was there film in there?” Redfyre hunted eagerly through the file.

  “Carrying the smirking image of the man about to attack him? No such luck! No film in there at all. It had been removed. Something else that stuck in the Coroner’s throat . . . It was almost comical, hearing him trying to account for that.”

  “Last supper? Did you—”

  “Possibly an exception to the pattern. Nothing remarkable. Lunch had been eaten on the day of death. Brown Windsor soup, turkey and a mince pie. That selection was available at Aunty’s, the Dorothy and half a dozen city pubs.”

  Redfyre pulled the photographs of the general and Icarus towards him and studied them side by side. “There’s something about the presentation . . . a similarity, a quality . . . not of the photographer, he’s one of our lads, but the subject . . .”

  Pointing first to the general: “Surely easier to drown him and just abandon the body, don’t you think?” he asked. “Instead, someone lays him out, lounging on the cushions like a sunbather. I’m just surprised that the perpetrator didn’t fit him out with a pair of fashionable sun goggles as worn at Antibes! This was well into daylight? Yes? Elderly gent, sun reflecting off his bald pate, reclining in evening dress fo
r a solitary unpiloted cruise down the river? There must have been someone out there with a pocket Kodak tempted to snap him. Did you enquire? Oh, I say!”

  Redfyre had suddenly become still as a pointing hound.

  “Christ! I think you’re onto something there!”

  The two men looked at each other in dismay and puzzlement, each chasing an insubstantial and teasing thought.

  “What the hell’s going on?” MacFarlane wanted to know and then offered his own suggestion. “Some bugger is getting together a little collection? Holiday snaps? Souvenirs? The next offering in the Frith’s series of Beautiful Britain? Is there in some drawer in town a private photo album that would make interesting viewing?”

  “Nothing so whimsical, sir. No. I think we’re dealing with a hardheaded killer who knows his business. And who possibly goes to the trouble of photographically recording his . . . accomplishments. A modern perversion? The deviance de nos jours? I don’t think so. He could have been getting away with it for years. Cameras have been portable objects since before the war. They were carried into the trenches in kitbags. You can easily pop a Kodak into your pocket. We’ve got a series of murders—as I think you’ve realised—and it’s on our patch. In our laps. And I don’t think there’d be much help coming from the London Met, even if we asked very nicely. Do you have the resources to handle half a dozen, possibly more, cases, sir?”

  MacFarlane groaned. “You know I haven’t. If I manage to get out of bed in the morning, I’ve exhausted my resources. But there is a bright side to look on. Think on, lad! There may be six, there may be a dozen cases, but if it’s a dreaded series we’ve got hold of, it’s one killer we’re looking for. That’s the thing about a series. Solve one of them, and the rest come tumbling down like a stack of dominoes. You’re right: we haven’t the manpower to look at all these again. We’ll have to leave them in the coffin box and hope that we can solve the latest one. And perhaps that will be the domino that brings down the rest.”

  Redfyre sighed. “May I make a suggestion? In the Jack the Ripper cases, the first and the last killings gave the most useful indications. Makes sense. The first time, any killer is less likely to know how to cover his tracks. He may have acted out of impulse with little planning. Made mistakes. In the last, he may have grown overconfident out of contempt for the police. Grown careless.”

  “It’s the first pull of the trigger that gives the clearest insight into motive. It tells you about the killer’s immediate location. Murderers rarely operate far from home. They have a hunting ground. It also identifies his choice of victim: prostitutes? Rich and elderly? Italian tenors? His prey. So, let’s say we were to look at our own series, taking the whole range as background and the first and the latest—as far as we know them to be—for detailed investigation. Where the hell does that leave us? Cambridge is the hunting ground, all right. But the prey? An Argentinian tango dancer and a vagrant? In whom would those two arouse an impulse to murder?”

  “Let’s give it a go, sir. Firmly put all the other bodies in between back in the box and thrash away at the first and last until they give up their secrets. Do we have any other option?”

  He knew what the response would be. The force, like all other services and businesses in the country, was suffering from the enormous losses of men to the war. And, unlike others, the police force was not able—and on top of that, was unwilling—to call on the thousands of spirited women eager to step in and fill gaps as they had learned to do throughout the four years of struggle. They were dangerously short of men of the right age and experience.

  “My remaining inspectors are up to their gum-boot tops in country crime of one sort or another, from pig-rustling to attempted witch-burning,” MacFarlane said lugubriously. “They’re covering a bloody county, and now Norfolk’s asked for help with an outbreak of pitchforkings. You’re my city boy, Redfyre.”

  “Right-oh, sir. I’ll pull in my focus and get straight on to it. With the help of a sergeant and two constables, I should manage. We’re making some headway already on the vagrant case. If I can only worm my way into St. Jude’s, I really think I may make some progress.”

  “Redfyre! There’s no warrant forthcoming. Don’t look for one. I want no trouble with the university authorities.”

  “I know the position, and I wouldn’t even ask unless I had a concrete case. No. I shall seek help from quite a different quarter.”

  MacFarlane sighed. “Not another of your fairy godmothers? Last time one of those stuck her wand in, corpses rained down.”

  “Ah, but this one’s a flower fairy godmother. And I have a very particular wish I intend to present to her.”

  Chapter 14

  Cambridge, Monday, the 19th of May, 1924

  Sergeant Thoday arrived at the graveyard at three o’clock, keen to get on. He listened quietly, making notes as his boss refreshed his memory of the crime scene. No need for that. Two hours on his knees yesterday had fixed every unproductive blade of grass in his memory. Whoever had throttled the old soldier and laid him out with such care had, predictably, not neglected to clear away any trace of his own presence. Thoday was more interested in the new evidence thrown up by the pathologist. Now he was being allocated duties that included checking a bag of clothing and effects from the corpse of the tramp and tracking down their provenance. This was more the detective work he thirsted for!

  “I need to know who he is, Sarge. Name and pack-drill by the end of the day. We won’t get anywhere until we have an identity,” Redfyre said. And when he was done at the morgue, the sergeant was told, he could well make further enquiries at the market and all the hostels and organisations that had contact with down-and-outs. “‘That hairy vagrant who hangs around the market square’ isn’t good enough. We’re not planting Dunstan in an unmarked grave.

  “Oh, and when your feet are throbbing, Sarge, you can call in for a reviving cup of tea at Aunty’s!” Redfyre suggested. “We’ve had reports of an altercation on the premises on the day in question—Friday. Someone from the café rang the station, alerting them to a fracas about to break out. Constable Thompson was at the desk, just clocking off, and he was dispatched and came running. Too late. By the time he arrived, a university official—a bulldog?—had already stopped the fight and cleared the ring, Thompson was told. Our birds had flown. The constable put in a report anyway. The super, it was, who picked it up and thought it might have some significance for our case. I agree. Check it out, if you will.”

  “You said ‘birds,’ sir?”

  “Takes at least two to make a fracas. One of the combatants was reported to be a tramp. Well-known in these parts, I understand. Get the facts from Thompson—this is his patch. I’m interested in the identity of both blokes involved. And the self-appointed umpire—I want his name. Now, while you’re busy doing that, I shall be in the marketplace sampling a jellied eel or two with Bert the pie man, and at teatime, I’m scheduled to squire a gaggle of lady bat-fanciers about the graveyard. Oh joy!”

  Thoday was glad to be excused from the eels and the batty ladies. Redfyre was welcome to those. But he decided with silent truculence to turn the inspector’s list of to-dos upside down. The clothes at the morgue weren’t going anywhere. They’d keep. You couldn’t say the same for witnesses. They upped sticks and disappeared or their memories failed. No! Attack the easily breached spot in any wall first, he reckoned. That was the best plan. Hang routine. Go for the obvious. And to Thoday, the obvious was Constable Thompson. It sounded as though he might have a few leads. This was his patrol patch, as the inspector had said. He’d know all the drifters on it by sight. With his elevation to the detective squad, local boy Thoday had become somewhat detached from the goings-on in the street. But he knew all the regulars. He’d expected to recognise the murder victim when he’d caught a glimpse of him on the slab from a distance. But, disappointingly, he hadn’t. The coat was instantly recognisable. He was sure he’d seen it (or i
ts twin) before. Always one or two of them parading about the place, even in high summer. The face had been harder to place. It had puzzled him. And then the obvious answer to his disquiet hit him: clean-shaven!

  That was unusual. And possibly opened up another avenue of enquiry: How many barber shops were there in central Cambridge that would take on a shaggy tramp? He could think of a couple. Both run by men who enjoyed a good natter. Thoday grinned at the prospect. A few interested questions, and he’d have a name for Inspector Smarty Pants by the end of the day!

  Thoday turned his long, eager lope in the direction of Parker’s Piece. And soon picked out, on the fringes of the crowd sitting on the grass watching a cricket match, a reassuring presence sweating away the afternoon heat in navy uniform and helmet.

  “Last Friday? Tramp? Yer, that were old Dickie!” Ben Thompson was perfectly certain, although he’d only caught a glimpse of him as he’d disappeared. “I’d know him anywhere! He’s been missing for quite a while, of course. That being the nature of these gentlemen. Wandering. He’s been away up north, word is, revisiting his roots. Some of them have roots, yer know. But there was no mistaking that beard and that thatch of hair and that swagger. Dickie has this special way of walking . . . brazen as a bandmaster! Put ’im in front of a regiment and they’d march after ’im, all right.”

  Hole in one! Thoday kept the thought to himself and tried to stay calm. A firm, professional identification of an individual in prehaircut state was what he’d just been handed. The poor old sod had tidied himself up in preparation for whatever skulduggery had befallen him behind closed oak doors, if Redfyre had read the tracks right. Well, now! With increased eagerness for the hunt, Thoday turned his attention back to the constable.

  In between gasps and indrawn breaths responding to heroics on the cricket field, he ascertained that the incident was not as he had supposed—a disagreement between gentlemen of the road—but a scuffle involving Dickie and the owner of the tea shop. Unusually—Dickie being no trouble and never a lawbreaker—he’d gone for him. Thumped him in the bread basket and winded the old bugger! Been asking for it for years, mind, and no one blamed Dickie at all.