Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  “That’s correct. A tourist looking out for a good time in the sticks. But a reprobate—a gangster, fraudster and all-round scoundrel, as his wife will testify.”

  “This is the bit I don’t hold with—the ‘infamous truth,’” MacFarlane grumbled on. “Anyway, go on, dangle it in front of me again. I’ll try to put myself into the skin of that puritanical windbag of a Prosecutor for a minute. Will he understand what you’re getting at, Redfyre? It’s a bit Machiavellian even for me, and I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Well you’d better sharpen your elbow, and if he calls you up for an explanation, give him a dig in the ribs when the moment arrives. Hardy, our London sophisticate, turned up expecting a slap-up meal, perhaps to extend into one of the, er, lighter entertainments the town has to offer on a Friday night. At the very least, a round or two of bridge. Only to discover that he has been lured into a—shall we say, ‘den of iniquity’? All the participants assembled are male. (Dig here.) Suggestions are made which make it clear that a scene of illegal activity is envisaged . . . Frolicking (another dig) of a masculine nature more associated with the bathhouses of ancient times than the groves of twentieth-century academe is anticipated. I say, sir—am I getting this right?”

  “So far, so ambiguous. Go on. Nothing there yet to get me reaching for the carbolic that Jenkins’s granny would prescribe.”

  “The realisation, perhaps the suggestion itself, whispered into his scandalised ear by Fanshawe, hits Hardy as he is standing at the drinks tray in front of the open window. Totally horrified by the prospect of the depravity that he now understands to be on the menu, with a “faugh!” of disgust, he takes hold of Fanshawe and begins to shake him. In the ensuing attempt by both Digby and Dunne to rescue Fanshawe, the poor chap, who, it will be remembered was of very light-limbed constitution, goes headfirst through the open window.

  “Sir, here a reminder will not come amiss—that the master of St. Jude’s has made it known that he will totally support this version given by the two impeccable witnesses: a Judesman who is engaged to his daughter, and a retired and much-decorated war hero, Major Richard Dunne, lately of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.”

  “Was he? Light-limbed, I mean. Fanshawe?”

  “No idea,” Redfyre said cheerfully. “But anyone who has evidence to the contrary will not want to advertise the knowledge. This is about sensibilities, after all.”

  “And are we clear as to who throttled Hardy?”

  “Both would-be rescuers are uncertain whose grip it was that cut off the assailant’s blood supply. Both were devastated by the outcome, and the two have jointly admitted the resulting manslaughter.”

  “Mm. At last, a bit of solid meat in this swirling Mulligatawny! ‘Jointly’! That word does it! The word the judiciary authorities never want to hear. We all know how the Prosecution Service hates a ‘joint’ culpability charge . . . Never known one to succeed! Juries won’t commit themselves to condemning two people to hang for the death of one. It goes against nature. They won’t waste their time on it. You’re right, Redfyre. They’ll go for this fabrication of yours! You have my authority to set the jointly accused loose on bail with the usual precautions. No more disappearing acts.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s all taken care of. Mr. Gisbourne is not short of a bob or two, and he’s come up with sufficient funds to bail them both out.”

  MacFarlane laughed and shook his head. “A tramp and a business magnate locked together in a three-legged race?”

  “Oh, I think they’ve got a good step going, sir.”

  “Jenkins! Will you unlock the gentleman’s shackle, please? And Constable, bring me the parcel I left in my locker.”

  Redfyre turned to the prisoner. “I’m setting you free, Major, now that I’ve heard your story. According to your once-commanding officer General Whitcliffe and half the population of Cambridge, to say nothing of the endorsement of my own dog, you are an innocent man. No, don’t dispute what I have to say! I know you’re not as straightforward as many think. In fact, I take you for a devious old bastard. And I know you to have form when it comes to the blame-taking business. You personally accepted a charge of looting all those years ago in South Africa and saved your men—none of whom, as far as I can see, had your trust or respect—from a nastier fate than the one doled out to them. And here you are, doing it again for the son of your would-be destroyer.

  “What prompts you to do this? Self-sacrifice and martyrdom? Is it some religion you follow that imposes such behaviour?”

  “I don’t follow religion,” Dunne said carefully. “Religion follows me. Hound, Harlot or Siren’s voice of heaven—I’ve shaken them all off. But there’s nothing wrong with setting my own human standards. That young Digby—he didn’t commit murder. He reacted in an instinctive human way against evil when it reared its ugly, scaly head and made an attempt on his life. He’s not a warrior, though I believe he has the stuffing for it. I was prepared to rid the world of a man who would have gone on adding infinitely to his shameful list of victims for cash. I had my knuckleduster on. I would cheerfully have rid the world of that preening, overconfident sod. So I’ll take the blame. Yon Gisbourne impressed me. He must take after his mother. There’s a physical family resemblance with his ghastly old pa, but if you can overlook that, you realise he’s smart and has a conscience. Has a life in front of him—possibly an important one. Mine’s worthless. I’m just trudging about, looking for death.”

  “Oh, spare me the Sydney Carton speech!” Redfyre snapped. “You sowed the seed for this outcome yourself, in my mind. One word was enough! ‘Symposium.’ Looked at from a particular angle, this crime becomes a hot potato for the Prosecution Service, bane of our lives! But you’re lucky you spoke the word to someone who understood its dubious underlying meaning and could pick it up and run with it.”

  Dunne grinned. “I recognise fertile ground when I see it. Yon MacFarlane would have been slower on the uptake, but he’d have gotten there.”

  “Well, we’re letting you loose. That is, when you’ve finished signing various legal documents.”

  Dunne, released from the chain, shot to his feet and looked about, a little disoriented and at a loss for words.

  “You can go with Jenkins to pick up your bits and pieces below. But before you go,” Redfyre said, “here you are. You’ll be glad to be reunited with this, I expect.” He handed him the brown paper parcel the constable had left on the desk.

  Intrigued, the tramp tore off the wrappings. Out fell an army greatcoat bearing the label of a city laundry.

  “I had it cleaned, so it’s ready for the new season,” Redfyre explained. “It stank of, well . . . better not think about it too closely, I suppose. They seem to have done a good job with it.”

  Dunne had slipped his old coat on with a cry of joy and broken into his marketplace Charlie Chaplin turn, goofing around the office and humming “Goodbye, Dolly Gray” when MacFarlane came in to hand him his release documents.

  Chapter 27

  Cambridge, Saturday,

  the 20th of September, 1924

  A whirl of leaves hit Redfyre full in the face as he turned the corner into the lane. The blustery wind—the first of autumn—should have been reminder enough of the date, but it was the sight of the frail figure of his aunt Hetty holding onto her hat, standing on his doorstep with a parcel at her feet, that did the trick.

  “I’m here, Aunt! Hang on to the doorknob!” he bellowed. “Here, let me take your parcel. Oh, for me?”

  “You’d forgotten, hadn’t you, Johnny?” she asked him, eyes twinkling over her china cup when they settled down to the tea table. “Your birthday?”

  “It’s always at an inconvenient time, Hetty. Beginning of the new term. Too many things to do. Though I do love September!”

  He got up and went to the mantelpiece, pulling a coloured postcard from behind one of the porcelain lions he kept
standing gardant there over his mail. “Everyone’s flighting home, it seems. I received this card yesterday from Rosamund Wells. She’s in Florence. She tells me she’s returning to Jude’s after all with her father, who’s finally decided, and with much heel-dragging, to take on a further year as master.” He gave his aunt a sharp look. “Though I don’t imagine this is news to you?”

  “No, I had a card, too.” Hetty smiled innocently.

  “I work things out because that’s what they pay me to do, Aunt, and I calculate that you knew about Cornelius Wells’s decision to return before he even made it himself. In fact, it has occurred to me that his appointment in the first place and his task of cleansing the Augean stables that Jude’s has become,” he said evenly, holding her enquiring gaze, “was set in motion by you. Perhaps it was Uncle Gerald who was made the messenger? The one who sounded the alarm? He has entrée to the Army and Navy Club and other suchlike establishments, after all. The influential men in the London world—the Ks, the Ms, the Cs . . .”

  “Oh, darling! The whole alphabet soup were at school with him,” said Hetty comfortably.

  Redfyre sensed that was as far as she would go for the moment in the way of an explanation for her involvement in the Jude’s debacle. He would have to reconstruct the rest for himself. He was sure that Gerald had been steered by Hetty to exactly the right club-land after-dinner brandy drinker with his tale of woe. A tale triggered by the death of the tango dancer, perhaps? Information derived from Hetty’s swarm of busy worker bees? It had even occurred to his suspicious mind that the glamorous Madame Dorine and her troupe of light-footed ladies could well be a fruitful source of information. Why not? After his recent discovery that Hetty’s organisation extended to the brothels of the town, nothing could surprise him. Wherever women and men exchanged conversation or money, it seemed that Hetty had acquired recruits to her cause.

  Waiting nervously in the King’s Parade for the dance to begin, he hadn’t failed to notice the mix of male characters performing for the crowd back in May. Along with the student contingent, some socially prominent men about town had taken part in the demonstration. Sportsmen all—and bless ’em! Not too proud to put on a pair of dance shoes and a show for the public. He’d recognised men who were in their professional lives politicians, economists, scientists. Even a humble policeman and the policeman’s dentist had stepped up and put their reputation and dignity on the line.

  “And with your new informant—little Pansy-Face—you were on the inside of the bend,” he persisted.

  “I don’t much like the word ‘informant,’ Johnny, though I accept that it has a place in your policeman’s vocabulary—along with ‘snitch,’ perhaps. Rosamund is an intelligent young woman, alert to the problems and injustices of her times. If she seeks out or welcomes the company of like-minded, public-spirited ladies, we will listen, support and advise her. Her father, Cornelius, was judged the ideal man to perform the diagnosis and excision of the rot that had set in at a fine establishment. Now you’ve met him, I’m sure you agree with that judgement. And he was most ably assisted by his daughter, who managed to—”

  He used her hesitation to supply mischievously: “Infiltrate? Or does that have an uncomfortable flavour of ‘plod parlance,’ too, Hetty?”

  “You might say ‘act as a stool-pigeon’ for greater accuracy, if you don’t despise the vernacular. But I do. I was about to say, ‘manage to get close to and distract one of the reprobates.’ We women do not falter when it comes to a little deception, Johnny.”

  “I can’t make my mind up, Aunt, whether your actions cut off and exposed past disgraceful behaviour or led to further bloody crimes.”

  “Certainly the first. Our involvement had foremost, and you ought to know this, a political motive. Honestly, Johnny, I had no idea about the other entanglement and won’t be held responsible in any way. That appalling South African war business you stepped into with both feet? Lost loot, ambition, revenge, defenestrations . . . dear me! For a while, I thought I was reviewing the Tory monthly digest.” She dismissed a summer of gut-wrenching work with her tone. Then she went on, suddenly earnest, “We’ve lived through dangerous times, these last few years. You, of all men, are well placed to know how near to the edge we’ve stepped—”

  “Aunt, I felt the cliff edge crumbling under my foot.”

  “Then you would agree that this is no time to tolerate the demoralising philosophies that are being fomented in our seats of learning? The very places like Jude’s and Trinity, which have always produced our brightest and most adventurous young men, are under clandestine attack from the barbarian in the east. And I can tell you, because it has at last been reported in our national newspapers, that the new communist empire, now rapidly building, is injecting vast amounts of cash into our universities and our press, as well as our unions and factories. This is not the time for our exhausted country to take its eyes off the ball, Johnny.”

  Looking with affection at the earnest, wise old face, Redfyre wondered whether to plunge into a string of comforting phrases praising the resilience of the young, stressing their need to experience argument, exhilaration, conviction and—yes—deception, to be able to judge what truly had value. And the absolute necessity for free and true speech in all this.

  It would have been the easy response. But his aunt would have seen through him and sensed his own concern that the country he loved, though declared victorious, was enjoying no more than its halftime oranges. Though war-stressed and still grieving, they would yet have to keep a weather eye open on fresh rising powers eager to knock a punch-drunk old fighter off his pins.

  In the end, he smiled and said simply, “Nor is it the time to throw away our swords, Hetty. I’m keeping mine bright and sharp. Who was it who said, ‘Only the strong are able to bring about peace’?”

  “Your Uncle Gerald. Last Tuesday, musing midcrumpet. Though it first could have been Aristotle, perhaps?”

  “It was Gerald. Aristotle’s advice, I believe, was, ‘Make war that we may live in peace.’ Unfortunately, the hotheaded youth he tutored, Alexander of Macedon, only heard the first half of the maxim. I have to say, it’s a bit further than I would go, but I see from the unholy gleam in your eye that you, too, are a disciple, Aunt.”

  Redfyre smiled and tapped the postcard, not quite ready to let her off the hook yet. “Rosa says she’s coming back. And speaking of tousle-headed young warriors, she’s said nothing about her plans for wedded bliss with Digby Gisbourne.”

  “Ah yes. Pity! They were getting along so well. This was entirely unforeseen, but it’s all come to nothing, apparently. The engagement’s off. Rosa was rather looking forward to getting hitched to a rich man with a fine political career ahead of him. Perhaps eventually a knighthood? Sir Digby and Lady Gisbourne? She would have liked that, but—”

  “Tell me. If you want a slice of chocolate cake.”

  “Digby has given up politics. Since he narrowly escaped a murder charge in the summer, he’s changed. He’s resigned from the party and left the college. Not only that—against all advice, he’s selling off his father’s grocery empire to some chaps called Sainsbury. The Drury Lane Sainsburys.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, darling. I believe it was an old army officer from his father’s past who inspired him to cleanse his soul and his bank account of the pollution of commerce. His co-accused in the murder charge, the Boer War captain, whom I’m sure you remember.”

  “Good Lord! Gisbourne’s not taken to tramping the roads, has he? A vagrant’s life and all that?”

  Hetty gave a disparaging laugh. “Digby? Never think it! I know John Clare’s romantic view of vagabondage is very fashionable at the moment, but it ought not to be encouraged. On account of its message, as well as its clumping rhythm and jangling rhymes. She recited with mischievous relish:

  “He eats (a moment’s stoppage to his son
g)

  The stolen turnip as he goes along.

  He talks to none but wends his silent way

  And finds a hovel at the close of day.

  “No—Digby might well steal a turnip, but he would never eat it!” was Hetty’s evaluation of the danger. “And in any case, it grieves me to say it, but Digby’s present situation is much worse. You’ll be horrified to hear of it, Johnny! He’s applied for, and been given a post, at a . . . certain bureau at an address in Victoria Street in London, if you follow.”

  “No! Do you mean . . .? He can’t have! Digby’s joined the Secret Service? I knew they were recruiting, but—Digby! What on earth would they do with him?”

  “The last I heard from a disgusted Rosa, they were finding him surprisingly effective. He’s in the wilds of Dartmoor at the moment, learning fieldcraft. You know—tracking, shooting, skinning rabbits, killing people. Just their kind of man, apparently. Not such a hit with Rosa. She, I must say, sees no fun in introducing herself to the world as the wife of a—well, what exactly? No one’s allowed to know!”

  But even marriage to someone in a shady government office with a staff of three men and a cat in Victoria Street was preferable to being linked with a lowly police inspector, was Redfyre’s grumpy conclusion.

  His aunt read his thoughts, as she always had. “Cheer up, darling! Earwig’s back from Berlin on Saturday, and the dancing school opens its doors next week for the new season. Dorine took quite a fancy to you, in spite of your being a little slow on your backward flicks. Or was that too fast on your progressive rocks? I expect she’ll be able to help you work on both.

  “Is she really French, you’re wondering? Oh.” Hetty sniffed, head to one side in consideration. “When she wants to be . . . or when you want her to be. So, have I earned my chocolate cake?”