Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  He could never be certain, but he’d always counted that as the moment when his picture of himself changed. Perhaps it happened to all eight-year-old boys? But after the rescue, he determined he would no longer be the smallest and weakest. He would be the one who helped up the fallen and encouraged the despairing, he’d decided sentimentally. “Bless you, Jonas,” he murmured, half in thought, half in prayer, “but you passed on a burden I’ve never quite been able to put down. And here I am, still hefting it.”

  At the last permissible moment, there was a scampering down the aisle, and a sides-man, face frozen in disapproval, ushered Eadwig the Unknown into the aisle-side seat next to Redfyre.

  Cold fingers reached out and grasped his hand in a firm handshake. “John Redfyre? Earwig. How d’ye do? Must be twenty years, eh? Talk in the interval. I think the players are about to make an appearance.”

  Redfyre stared, speechless for a moment with astonishment. “But . . . but you’re a girl!” he heard himself burble.

  The slender, fair-haired creature, silk- and fur-clad and scented lightly with Mitsouko, batted mascaraed lashes at him. “You noticed at once!” She smiled a smile wicked with lip rouge and twisted with sarcasm. “Hetty warned me you were a detective. What were you expecting?”

  The inspector rallied. “The clue’s in the name. Some evidence of wealth and war—an arms dealer, perhaps? A flint-eyed gent, lighting his Romeo e Julieta with a rolled-up fiver?”

  Earwig laughed. Her laughter frothed and gurgled like champagne being poured by a generous hand.

  Redfyre was charmed, but someone hissed “Shhh!” in reprimand from behind.

  Earwig turned her head and quelled the hiss with a harrumph: “I say! Do settle down, gentlemen!”

  The young organist entered the chapel from a door on the right. Clearly easy with an appearance before even an experienced audience, he came forward and acknowledged the welcome he was given with a wide smile, a bow and a flick of luxuriant, over-long chestnut hair. A splendid figure, Redfyre thought, and he twitched an eyebrow at Earwig, inviting her to share his appreciation.

  “Goodness! He’s pulling out all the stops tonight!” she chuckled under cover of the applause and dug him in the ribs to underline her joke. “That gown! What is it? Cream damask lined with cherry satin? Remind me to ask the name of his tailor.”

  “It’s his festal gown. Only paraded on certain days of the year, and this isn’t one of them. Dr. Coote must have been granted special dispensation to wear it for Advent in the name of entertainment. Good—it certainly cheers up the troops!”

  Coote raised his head and gathered the attention of the distant back row, sweeping up and reflecting the warm anticipation of the crowd, before introducing himself. Redfyre checked his program: Christopher Coote, Doctor of Music. A talent from his early years, apparently. College choir boy and organist who was beginning to make a name for himself on the international circuit. Redfyre noted that he made no mention of his growing fame in his introduction, and yet he managed somehow to bring it to mind by referring, with some fervour, to his frequent appearances in this, his own college. He implied that, however strong the attractions of the venerable organs of Paris, Amsterdam and Vienna—all yearning for his touch, apparently—his Christmas would be incomplete without an interlude on his home instrument. His audience was charmed and oddly flattered.

  And Christopher was delighted to be sharing the platform this year, he confided, with an astonishingly able musician, a rising star with whom he’d had the privilege of scoring pieces of Handel, Bach and Mozart for their two instruments. Rarely heard playing together, the organ and trumpet gave forth an inspiring sound. They were to experience an evening of spine-tingling harmonies, surprising interpretations of well-loved themes, but above all, music very much in tune with the season. His voice took on a jovial medieval throatiness as he promised them “a right merrie noyse.”

  Coote moved back to the door, opened it with a flourish and, at last, brought the soloist before the audience. He stood back, the better to assess their reaction.

  All had read the program, all had been prepared to see on stage that extreme rarity: a female trumpeter.

  A species as rare as the black-tailed godwit in these parts. No verifiable sightings ever made in the east of England. It was rumoured that they existed, but no one Redfyre knew had actually clapped eyes on a living, breathing specimen. People had sisters whose best friend’s cousin swore that she’d seen one at the Wigmore Hall—or was it the Albert Hall?—before the War. On reading her name, Redfyre had tried, but not managed, to censor the ribald old men’s club piece of guidance on choice of instrument for musical daughters: “Remember, now! You are to have no truck with any instrument you have to put in your mouth or between your thighs, Amelia!” And, strangely, the world had complied, as Redfyre knew of no female cellists, either.

  What had the audience expected? A doughty, middle-aged dame, freethinking and determined to outdo her male counterparts? Yes! She’d be clad in rusty black taffeta down to her sturdy ankles, and her gaze would be as steely as her instrument. Undoubtedly a suffragist, Redfyre had surmised. And yet, the name had not rung a bell with him when he’d called to mind his gallery of female firebrands about Cambridge. Not a name he would have forgotten: Juno Proudfoot. Now, that was a name that announced a lady who would put up with no nonsense. Reassuringly classical. Yes, a Cambridge audience would be very ready to give the lady a sympathetic hearing. She was probably the daughter or wife of one of the assembled dignitaries.

  No one had expected a Florentine angel straight from the walls of the Uffizi to step shyly on stage. The beauty and grace of the young woman who now, holding her instrument by her side, stood bowing and smiling, drew first a stunned silence, then a vigorous clapping. Hair the colour of silver gilt coiled about her head in a style that would have had Fra Angelico running for his paints; pale blue eyes glinting with mischief in the candle light; her dress a slip of white silk in the Greek style, which clung in a daring way to the contours of her lithe figure. The girl was very definitely not wearing a corset.

  “So that’s Juno!” Earwig commented under cover of the thunderous applause. “Scheming Queen of Olympus, huh? Looks more like an apprentice Aphrodite to me!” To make herself heard, she leaned close to Redfyre, her lips brushing his ear, her fringe tangling with his eyelashes. His head was beginning to spin. Angels to right of him, angels to left. He was caught in a heavenly pincer movement.

  “Lord!” Earwig made a second assault on his ear. “What an elf! She doesn’t look strong enough to blow out the candles on her birthday cake!”

  “I’ll say! Let alone survive two hours competing with a pneumatically powered pipe organ,” Redfyre agreed politely. “Recently re-voiced,” he added, reading from his program notes. “Will she have the puff?”

  “You must avert your eyes, Inspector, if a Hummel crescendo proves too demanding. I’m not sure that wisp of silk that passes for a bodice can cope with the lung expansion, in addition to accommodating a not-inconsequential bosom,” she hissed under cover of the over-lengthy applause.

  Redfyre was stunned by the boldness of the remark—he’d have thought it rather salty coming from one of his male friends—but he’d learned how to respond to Anglo-Saxon challenge. Go on the attack at once. Fists, apples, deception—use whatever came to hand. He reached for an overconfident statement, not to say a blatant lie. “Lovely gown! A Captain Molyneux confection, if I’m not mistaken? Stout English seams by stout English seamstresses. The good captain will not let her down. Or out,” he said repressively.

  The program got underway with the Handel trumpet concerto, a choice of opener designed to reassure by its familiarity that all was well. Here was a confident player able to take her place on any concert platform. Juno’s unspoken message to the audience was, You’ve all heard this before. You know how it should sound. Now listen again!

  An
astonishing performance. The thunderous applause that followed brought a flush to her cheek and a smile to her lips. Redfyre was glad she would never overhear the remark (kindly meant) from the gentleman sitting behind him to his wife: “Great Heavens, Edna! Shut your eyes and you’d never know it wasn’t a man playing!” Juno was emboldened to approach the rail, the better to take in both sides of the audience to make her own introduction to the next item on the program.

  Earwig appeared disconcerted by this manoeuvre. She had begun to mumble a warning between her teeth. Leaning closer, Redfyre made out, “No, Juno darling! Not too close . . . Oh, do watch it!” Then, to Redfyre, a hasty, “So sorry, John! I have vertigo—rather disabling vertigo. It’s so bad, I can’t even bear to see others approach a drop.”

  “Then close your eyes,” he advised, clapping heartily. “I’ll tell you when to open them.”

  The angel’s speaking voice did not disappoint. He’d anticipated the deep yet penetrating tone, bearing in mind her extraordinary lung capacity but the voice was also warm and intelligent. She spoke at an easy pace, giving just the right amount of information to what she assumed to be a knowledgeable audience. Having promised a piece of everyone’s favourite Haydn concerto to follow, she paused and ran a quizzical eye over the rows. As though they had somehow earned her trust, she took a step even closer to the edge. (Earwig shuddered.) Head tilted slightly in a conspiratorial attitude, she spoke again, delivering an apparently unplanned confidence.

  “Forgive me. I should have checked that the acoustics are all that one would wish . . .”

  A concert audience was not accustomed to being consulted on such matters, but they responded at once. Smiles and grunts of approval broke out. A few soldierly thumbs were raised in reassurance. One daring and public-spirited chap even got to his feet and chirruped his assessment: Here, in the back row, apparently, the sound was well balanced and crystal-clear. Though perhaps he could use this opportunity to tell Cootie he was coming on a little heavy with the left foot?

  Juno took this in the spirit in which it was offered—with amusement and an ironic bow. Redfyre was beginning to think that this musical sprite had all the aplomb of a Marie Lloyd facing a rowdy music hall audience. And they were readily seduced, caught by the casual intimacy of the exchange and warmed by the spirit of Yuletide. She held them in the palm of her hand, John reckoned. He was delighted when she decided to prolong the moment by giving an impromptu introduction to her instrument. She held it aloft and told them briefly how the shape had evolved and why it had started life as the voice of war. She conceded that, as a woman trumpeter, she was certainly a rarity, but she was not the first; she had been preceded by about three thousand years by the warrior women of the ancient world, the Amazons. There was a particularly lively depiction of one such giving a good blast on a very recognizable instrument on a black figure vase in the Fitzwilliam Museum, if they cared to go along and have a look.

  “And up here, on high in this magnificent loft,” she confided, “I’m taken back to an earlier time, a time when this heroic little instrument had its part to play in every citizen’s life. To the very beginning of the trumpet’s transformation from clarion of war into the supple and sophisticated concert performer we’re hearing this evening. I’m taken back in particular to the watch towers of Medieval Europe. Mounted above the city gates in their wooden eyries, the watchmen would sound the trumpet at dusk and dawn to announce the opening and closing of the gates. And sometimes, more urgently, to warn of danger.” She asked, like a kindly school mistress: “I wonder if anyone has heard the ‘Hejnal Mariacki’ played from the watch tower of Krakow?”

  An excited young man in the third row was so carried away as to put up his hand. This was instantly hauled down with an admonishing cluck by his mother, seated next to him.

  “Oh, good! Then you’ll recognise this,” Juno said, involving the lad and melting away his embarrassment at being caught showing a schoolboy’s eagerness. “It’s the warning a trumpeter of Krakow gave in the thirteenth century when he caught sight of a Mongol horde riding fast towards the city.” She put the trumpet to her lips and there blared out a rousing five-note anthem, which she repeated. When she reached the tenth note, to everyone’s alarm, it soared out of control and was abruptly cut off, sending an almost human shriek reverberating around the beamed ceiling.

  The audience was aghast. They looked up anxiously, fearing she had played a wrong note. Had she got her tongue stuck? Trapped a finger?

  Juno staggered for a moment, took an uncertain step closer to the edge of the platform, wobbled, then regained her balance. As her eyes lifted to follow the wounded note into the ether she slowly lowered the trumpet and with her left hand clutched at her throat.

  With perfect timing, a second before Redfyre and other alert ex-military men on their feet and poised to storm the organ loft could dash forward, she straightened up, put out a quieting hand and spoke to them again. “At this point, the sentry was shot in the throat by a Mongol archer,” she explained. “Or so the story goes. An unduly harsh judgement, you might say, on a poor chap bravely doing his duty! And the townsfolk agreed, since the death note, in all its discord, has been played at dawn and dusk down the centuries to this day. And we remember that watchman.”

  A general release from suspense flooded through the audience at her sly humour and, under cover of the laughter and movement, Redfyre took hold of the small but strong hand that had clamped itself in terror onto his left arm and forgotten to let go. He detached it gently, patted it reassuringly and returned it to her lap.

  “But the story of the trumpet bounds on,” Juno pursued her theme, “particularly in the war-loving lands of the north. The mayor of one of these tough little towns noted down in the civic annals the very beginnings of the war trumpet’s elevation to musical instrument. He was there on the spot!” she said, consumed with wonder and enthusiasm, further enmeshing her listeners. “This clerkly figure heard it and recognised the significance of what he was hearing. ‘When our watchmen,’ he wrote, ‘in the festive season play a sacred tune from the tower, the citizens gather to listen. We are very moved and imagine we can hear the angels singing.’ The mouthpiece of war and alarm had so sweetened and softened it was thought to be a voice from heaven.”

  She left a pause, knowing well that she had just transported every man and woman in the audience back through the centuries to a chilly central European Christmas, witnessing the birth of a new and sublime music. Then, involving them all in a confidence: “They’re up there tonight, you know—the angels!” Like the rest of the listeners, Redfyre couldn’t resist glancing up into the soaring oak beams, but caught no more than the impish eye of a carved Green Man keeping watch on proceedings from his niche. He could have sworn the old Pagan mischief-maker was trying to convey a grudging admiration for a fellow agitator.

  Confident that they had shared her vision, she held out an invitation impossible to resist. “And here I am in my tower, halfway to Heaven—let’s see if I can lure them down to make music with us.” Returning to her performance spot, she raised her trumpet and added whimsically over her shoulder, “So, will any Mongolian music critics in the audience kindly leave now?”

  “Tell me,” Redfyre breathed into an ear that tilted readily towards him, “Exactly where did your friend acquire her stagecraft? The Royal Academy of Music, Regent’s Park, or the Royal Palace of Varieties, Clapham?”

  Chapter 2

  The first half of the concert passed swiftly, ending with rousing applause from a happy audience. Redfyre noted but did not comment on Earwig’s sigh, which seemed to him to be one of relief rather than pleasure. Had he communicated his own inexplicable tension to this stranger, or had she arrived trailing clouds of concern with her?

  Remembering his manners, he turned to her and asked if he might accompany her into the winter-garden anteroom where rum punch and hot mince pies (just as promised by his aunt) were being ser
ved.

  Earwig looked at her wristwatch. “We have half an hour,” she commented. “So, yes, thank you. Easier, I think, to catch up on twenty years over a stiff drink, though I suppose a policeman, even off-duty, will feel obliged to settle for a lemonade. It’s longer than the usual interval to allow the soloist time to catch her breath and change her costume, I expect.”

  “I thought it was extended for purposes of gossip. So much to say! Now, I was quite swept away in admiration. But some will consider we have just witnessed a scandalous performance,” he murmured to test her out.

  She glared at him. “I challenge you to spot a single empty seat when we return for the second half! No one looks in the least likely to stomp off hissing into the chilly night.”

  They settled, knee to knee on little gilt chairs, eyes taking each other’s measure over a steaming glass of murkily purple liquid. Earwig tried it first, grimaced and took a second, more enthusiastic sip. Redfyre decided that, seen full-face, she was even more enchanting than in profile. Her short, thick hair had been Marcel-waved by an expert hand, but he was pleased to note that it was escaping the restraints of the Amami setting lotion and bouncing back into a natural exuberance to rival a feather duster. The flaxen hair he remembered had darkened to the deep gold of a newly minted George the Fifth penny. Her eyes were not the blue he had expected, but the more nuanced greenish-brown of a cat he’d been fond of. He remembered that a brown gaze signified purring affection; a green glare warned of imminent and painful retribution for some fancied slight.