Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  “You’re right. It should have been a dead cert!” The prisoner once again read his mind and responded to his thoughts. “And one day, if our relationship—such as it is—isn’t cut off too abruptly, Redfyre”—with a quick gesture, he indicated hanging—“I should like to ask how on earth you, a professional, would have proceeded.”

  The moment he’d been working towards had arrived, and Redfyre seized it. He returned the prisoner’s challenging stare. “Why wait?” he suggested cheerily. “Looked at clinically, what we have here is a textbook crime scene. Do you agree? May I suggest that we try to put aside any distracting emotions and ancient loyalties to find a solution to your problem? It’s high time someone spoke the name of the guilty party. The man whose original crime has wreaked such havoc with your life and that of others and placed you right there, sitting opposite me in manacles—I think I know his name.”

  He left a pause for this news to impress and continued thoughtfully: “It seems impertinent of me to sit here all these miles and all these years distant from the action and say to the chief protagonist, ‘I know what happened. I know your secret,’ but I have access to information of a special nature. Records, sealed even to the participants, are opened to a policeman who knows how to play his cards right. And I haven’t hesitated to rig the deck to get to the bottom of this festering sore. Some sources, like the King’s Own Yorkshires, were pleased to share with us the details of one or two of their heroes and villains without any strong-arming.”

  “I’m thankful to hear that at last someone in authority has been seriously looking into the case. It took a few corpses to claim your attention, but I do believe we may have gotten there.” The tone was almost teasing.

  Redfyre responded with an equivalent lightening of mood. “You’ve no idea what I’ve suffered in the pursuit of the truth! I’ve skirmished with the master of a college, danced a fandango in the High Street, battled with a squad of pipistrelle protection ladies . . . I’ve even toothed a jellied eel.”

  “And they say a policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

  “People are always telling me, ‘Ah yes! But this is Cambridge.’ Sometimes, fancy footwork is of more use than a truncheon and a helmet, and I’ve put on a display of my most impressive boleos to crack this case. We each have our special advantages, Captain Dunne. Between us, we should at last begin to make some progress, solve a few mysteries. What do you say?”

  He waited for the grin and nod of assent. “Now, your original request when you came in this morning, if I remember, was for a sketch pad? Prescient of you!” He took a pad from a drawer and found a pot of pencils. At the invitation to sketch in the environs of the cabin, including stabling arrangements, latrines, the railway line, the river, points of the compass and estimated off-plan positions of Kimberley and the army HQ, the captain obliged with speed and neatness. He drew his last line, put down his pencil, turned the map towards his interrogator and gave Redfyre a challenging but not unfriendly look.

  Suddenly, it appeared to the inspector that he was the one under scrutiny, his skill being put to the test. Well, so be it. The accused opposite him was a prisoner playing for his freedom, possibly his life. The poor bugger could have no way of knowing how much of his military career had been the subject of an enquiry in depth, but also at speed, by the Cambridge CID. Redfyre had cards left in his hand, and would hold them in reserve for as long as he needed. His adversary was a man he could respect and, yes, even like, as many others had. But Redfyre was not about to be affected by the dramatic story his investigations had produced.

  False accusations of theft and looting had been levelled against the captain and his men towards the end of the war, resulting not in the hanging of one guilty party, since the captain had accepted responsibility on their behalf. There was no way even the rigid and pitiless military court could stomach the execution of a much-decorated war hero. And the outcry against such a punishment would have echoed loudly in the English press back home in London. It was considered wiser to sentence all six men to four years’ hard labour in the army jail. Even if they survived the four years, their names would be forgotten. But the captain had made friends in the regiment and impressed senior officers by his bravery and general soldierly behaviour. What’s more, inconveniently for the prosecution, he was the man who had brought back the “Kimberley Deposit,” as the gold shipment had been called. It would have been the work of a moment for the captain to sign the official form, which was hurriedly put together and presented to him, a document exonerating him from all charges, and he could have been set free. But he had followed his principles and remained loyal to his men, fighting in their corner to the last and going down with them.

  Even though, as perhaps only Redfyre understood, he had disliked and mistrusted each and every one of them. Cynically, Redfyre wondered if the captain’s motivation had been to take a swing at the higher ranks he so despised in the only way open to him. A waste of a good man’s time and reputation if so, Refyre reckoned. Those men were impervious to shame.

  The case had become a cause célèbre in the army, dividing the old-fashioned flog-’em-and-hang-’em top brass from the younger, lower-ranking officers who had learned much and fast about modern warfare in the burning crucible of South Africa. Captain Dunne was a hero to many. To the few who held the reins of power, he was a challenging, self-righteous thorn in the flesh, best silenced and held incommunicado in some remote place.

  As the war rolled to its close, the question of what to do with the contents of the prisons was mooted. Without a roll on the drums, since the much more important matter of the civilian concentration camps that had been established on both sides of the conflict was wringing everyone’s withers and claiming the headlines. But the army prisoners could hardly be abandoned in such a far-off place. Who would supervise them? They were military personnel, after all, whatever their crimes, and could not be abandoned to civilian jurisdiction. Their fit of pique and exercise of power largely forgotten, the old martinets had died off, retired or turned their attention to mischief elsewhere, and the decision to free the men with a general amnesty—very quietly given—was considered on the whole to be the least complicated thing to do.

  Captain Dunne was rescued from enforced work on the railway by secondment to a mounted infantry unit about to sail to India to fight on the North West Frontier. They were short of experienced men up there on the fringes of Empire. They’d had plenty of recruits from young bloods like Churchill who’d woken up and realised that this guerrilla war in the tribal lands on the borders of Afghanistan was the sole conflict where a true blood-spilling fight was being conducted, and if they weren’t quick, they’d have missed the action. But there was a dearth of seasoned officers of middle rank. A Colonel Harris had, according to Redfyre’s informant in the regiment, decided Dunne was exactly the type of man he was looking for. He had gone personally to the jail and delivered an ultimatum to the prisoner: “Your choice, Dunne. Break stones for rail ballast until someone blows the whistle, which may take a year or two, or leave tomorrow with your rank of captain intact to pursue your army career. Soldiering on the North West Frontier. So: a slow death or a fast one?”

  Dunne had chosen to die quickly and gloriously. In the company of the smart young Indian Army officers and their stylish and well-educated seniors, he had flourished. Displaying a courage that amounted to recklessness, he had impressed and won more medals—and, it was rumoured, hearts. A good conversationalist and an entertaining storyteller, he had been welcomed at the social gatherings of Delhi and Peshawar and Simla. That was as far as Redfyre’s informant could track the subject. Or anyone. For some reason, the army career had been abandoned. Captain Dunne had vanished from the records.

  There had been the inevitable speculation in gossip-ridden India. That he’d “gone native, loincloth—the lot!” That he’d “found religion. Gone off to Tibet to practise Buddhism.” No, none of those. “Cherchez la femme . . .
Eh? What?”

  If Redfyre wanted to know more, it would have to be elicited by careful questioning from the man himself sitting opposite, smiling gently, reading his mind.

  Unconsciously, both men leaned forward over the table at the same moment, eager to get on, the map between them. Any observer would have recognised two commanders planning a military operation.

  “Let’s clear away the undergrowth,” Redfyre said briskly. “You can be absolutely certain that no one other than your company of six came near the cabin and its environs at the time of the crime or the twenty-four hours before?”

  “Certain.”

  “So if you’re telling the truth, the diamonds were taken out of the basin at some time before breakfast on the eighth day—the Wednesday. The day after the funeral.”

  “That’s so. It could have happened on the Tuesday, but I was there on the spot directing things every minute. I would have noticed any funny business. My best guess is that the stones disappeared when Lieutenant Hardy and I were absent on the railway line. It makes sense.”

  “You’ve told me you normally worked together in pairs—a rough precaution, I’m assuming, against a quick pocketing of a slab of gold or an interesting lump from the sugar basin?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Useless!” Redfyre commented. “Well-intentioned, perhaps, but I shall rule it out as a consideration in the little enquiry we’re about to pull off. It doesn’t work. One of each pair goes to the latrines, for a bath in the river, tracks down an antelope and gets lost for half an hour . . . knows the truth and is loyal to his other half or is in it together with him. People alibiing each other is a continual hazard. I discount such stories. No, any alibiing your men came up with should be regarded as not to be trusted without further evidence. Still there is one advantage to this pairing system of yours—it reduces the activities of the company to three instead of six. Let’s go through the day’s activities between breakfast and breakfast for each pair, starting with yourself and Lieutenant Abel Hardy.”

  “Nickname ‘Oily,’” the captain supplied.

  “Why Oily?”

  “Oh, you know the army, everyone has to have a nickname.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “The men catch on to quirks of character with alarming speed. The lieutenant did have a certain, um, emollience of manner. To begin with. In the nicest way—if two men were scrapping, he would intervene. Pour oil on troubled waters? I think the men had in mind the useful qualities of an oil can on engine parts rather than personal charm.”

  “A fixer?”

  “A bit harsh, but yes. He also was capable of seeing things through. An ideal lieutenant, in fact. We had the same kind of grammar school background and Christian upbringing. Much in common.”

  “So you trusted him?”

  “As much as I trusted any of my men, or even myself. Which is to say, hardly at all. Let’s say, rather, I understood him.”

  “Tell me how you spent your day.”

  “Reconnaissance. We took the Boer mounts after our communal breakfast. We went north up the railway line, scouting for sign. Passing riders, game . . . We rode for five miles. It took us some time because we were also logging on a chart the extent of the depredations to rail infrastructure and communications. We thought it would be of some use to the engineers if they ever came near the place. And it kept us busy. In fact, it was of use, I believe. On our return, we handed it over and the rail, and the telegraph system was repaired in seven days before the march into Kimberley. The engineers were the most efficient of our forces, since no officer knew enough about engineering to put his oar in and ruin their plans.”

  “All was well back home at Lemon Tree Lodge when you returned?”

  “Just fine. Completely normal. The lads had put yesterday’s stew on to reheat, and we had supper at the table. We bunked down for the night. It was Syd and Herbert on outpost duty that night, and off they went. The other four kipped down inside the hut. We had erected a bivouac tent just by the back door for the outpost lookouts, and when they were relieved at crack of dawn, they went and put their heads down there. They were allowed to sleep in until midday. I don’t think the stones disappeared during the night. Some of us were light sleepers—goes with the job. We’d have woken up if someone had been creeping about sieving the contents of the sugar bowl. I think the dirty deed was done before suppertime.”

  “What steps did you take to retrieve the stolen diamonds?”

  “Swift, stringent, ruthless. Without fear, favour or regard for rank.”

  “The only way,” Redfyre commented.

  “I sent them all into the outhouse, watching each other, and there they stayed until called in for their individual interviews. In alphabetical order.

  “I made it an impersonal process. I told them each exactly what had happened and made no bones about the consequences for every man in the unit if the stones were not recovered. Then I ordered a strip and I searched each man. Thoroughly. I searched his clothes, every seam. Each man presented his kitbag, and I searched that, too. Wallets, chocolate tins, sewing cases, envelopes, the lot. Nothing. Every man was as clean as a whistle. When I’d put the fear of God into them, I told them that war does strange things to a man’s mentality. I understood that. If whoever had taken the diamonds came clean and discreetly handed me the loot within the next twenty-four hours, I would take no further action.”

  “And yourself, Captain?”

  He’d anticipated Redfyre’s question and smiled. “I subjected myself to the same routine. I chose Private Sexton to conduct the search of my person and effects. Choosing Hardy, the only other officer, would have been the correct procedure, but might have been misconstrued by the men.

  “Next up was a search in possible hiding places. The cabin was sparsely furnished, and it didn’t take me long. No result. I had the lieutenant perform the same duty and he, too, came up empty-handed.

  “We were left with the possibility of a hiding place outdoors. In a wide, unbordered landscape that stretched in every direction from Boer to Boer! None of the men would have been so unwise as to go far alone in that place. I wouldn’t have done it myself. So we were left with the immediate vicinity. Not so easy. Between the river and the Kop lookout station, we were faced with a square mile of rock-strewn, channelled, porous ground where a thousand hidey-holes for a small number of diamonds were to hand.

  “They all had convincing alibis for the previous day. Each swore that his pair had been in his sight all day when outside except when visiting the latrines . . . Yes, I checked the latrines! I was never convinced that the great outdoors, the unforgiving veldt would have been chosen as the deposition spot. They all hated and feared it. Scuttled in and out, looking over their shoulders whenever they had to leave the cabin. And for good reason. Anything buried would have to be put in at a good depth, even something small, or it would be dug up by some inquisitive snout. Herds of wild creatures ran right over the terrain, stirring up the dry as dust soil. Hard to remember exactly where you’d left a few ounces of diamonds in that wilderness. I wouldn’t have chosen it, and I didn’t think any of the men would have, either.”

  “The Kop? The stables?”

  “Both. No result. I even checked the horses’ hooves and the freshly reconstructed pouches in the Frenchman’s saddle. Clean. You know, Redfyre, I still think about that wretched cabin! I know in my bones those stones were there, close by. I’d been outwitted by one of my own men. One of the number had had the nerve, the selfishness and greed to take them and the cunning to conceal them. Somehow one of us got out of that situation with the stones and profited from them at a later time. Is still profiting from them after all these years! It rankles, Redfyre. Like a festering arrowhead in a wound. I left it behind when I went to India, tramped it away for years after that. But it’s there, still buried, polluting my blood.”

  The handsome face
was looking every moment increasingly like the noble but strained image of a medieval saint. Redfyre rang for Jenkins.

  “We’ve got ourselves a two-pot problem here,” he said. “Jenkins, bring us a second round of this excellent tea, will you? No thanks, we’re fine for chocolate biscuits. Have another, Captain?”

  And then the uncomfortable theory struck him. He wriggled in his seat, trying to get his thoughts in an order he could present to the prisoner.

  “Chocolate! Can we go over the kitbag inspection again? Can you bear it? Tell me again about the status of each man’s Christmas present.”

  “Ah! Yes. Indeed! By this time five of us had eaten the entire contents of their tins. Each man had preserved the tin and put it to good use—keeping letters, sewing needles, the little pay we had. Which was never interfered with, I have to say. Everyone knew exactly how much the others had. Pay was sacrosanct.” He paused for a moment, lost in the past. “Only Sydney, I think I told you, had his preserved tin intact. For his adored mother. I had a premonition about Syd’s tin. It wasn’t in his kitbag when Oily and I were searching the cabin.

  “Oily went to the outhouse where they were all waiting and asked him where it was. He took it out of his pocket eventually when Oily barked at him. He must have left it in the outhouse in the care of one of the other blokes when he was called in to be searched and retrieved it later. The others shrank away, staring, hostile. Oily was suddenly afraid that a situation he couldn’t handle was developing. Two against four, officers against the ranks. Sensibly, he ordered everyone back into the cabin and told me what the problem was. The rest stood around the walls, silent and mystified while I sat with Syd at the table. I made him put his tin on the table between us and asked him to open it.

  “The kid said ‘No! I won’t!’ and burst into tears. I offered him one last chance before taking it from him. He still defended it, shouting that we knew it was for his old ma. Had we no shame? He’d always made a big fuss about keeping it intact, and even sneered at those of us he’d seen taking a bite or two of our bars. Though he’d very readily accepted a share of Herbert’s six bars when we’d celebrated. I had to inspect it. Feeling a crass heel, I seized the tin and prised off the lid. I realised it was coming off with surprising ease. I wasn’t the first to lift that lid!