“This is rather good,” she pronounced. “Brandy base, not rum, I’d say. Red wine. They’ve managed to get their hands on some tangerines. It’s well spiced—cinnamon, ginger—nice and fruity.”
Redfyre recognised this for the inconsequential, nervous chatter of a stranger and was reassured. He decided to break the ice himself. “I’m puzzled! Did they keep you locked up in the nursery the day my brothers and I came to visit? On the occasion of the apple fight. I don’t remember seeing you in the Stretton front line.”
She nodded. “Oh, I was there all right. The smallest. I looked just like my brothers though, same haircut . . . green cord trousers and fisherman’s sweater.” Her grin was enchanting, full of mischief and nostalgia. “I think we kept an entire Irish fishing village busy knitting jumpers for us for years. I wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs, and being the youngest, I was always the scruffiest, so people thought I must be a boy, too. My name gave no clue. I’m not sure my parents were even certain who I was. In any case, they only knew how to bring up boys—not very well, at that—and knowing nothing different, I just accepted it.”
“But you kicked over the traces rather emphatically, somewhere along the line? I like the change! Though now I’m filled with guilt that perhaps, in all innocence, I may have aimed a windfall, or even worse, a fist, at that female nose.”
The grin widened. “Heavens, no! I had more sense than to line up with the gang. I watched in a cowardly way from behind a tree, and when it dawned on me that Wulfie seriously meant to kill you, I ran off, grabbed the garden boy and asked him to come and stop the fight.”
“Jonas did indeed save me from a battering,” Redfyre said. “I add you to my list of guardian angels. Thank you! But tell me—Wulfie? Older than me by four or five years, I’d guess. Did he have a good war? Such an enterprising and belligerent character. He must have put heart and soul into whatever part he played.” Disconcerted by an uncomfortable silence, he added with a lighthearted grimace, “You’re about to tell me he’s now a major-general?”
“He’s a thug, you’re right. Martial to the core. And he . . . um, yes, you could say he had a good war. Much decorated. Reached the rank of lieutenant-colonel.” She looked thoughtfully at her punch, took another fortifying gulp and added, defiantly, “Though fighting for the other side.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Rifles regiment, Hetty tells me you served with? Snipering? You could well have had Wulfie in the sights of your Enfield! Weren’t you on the Marne? The Race to the Sea? Well, Wulfie was there too. Trying to stop you getting there. In a Saxon cavalry regiment, harrying British troops. The Tenth Magdeburg Hussars, raised in Saxony.”
Redfyre was lost for words, finally murmuring: “So, Oberstleutnant Stretton was a dreaded Uhlan? Lancers regiment. Polish originally. Yes, we encountered some of those south of Rheims.” His eyes clouded at disturbing memories. “The finest of horsemen. The most fearless. The most savage. Armed with sabers, pistols and lances. Ten foot long steel lances flying a pennant below the tip. Though those medieval weapons were swiftly jettisoned. They didn’t survive contact with an equally determined French cavalry fighting hand to hand in the narrow lanes of their own native land.” He’d reduced her to an embarrassed silence and spoke again more lightly, “Well, well! I can’t imagine how Wulfie came to be recruited to the Kaiser’s cause in Saxony. Magdeburg, you say? Isn’t that way over to the east in Prussia, seat of Otto the Great, Holy Roman Emperor and all that?”
“It’s on the River Elbe. A straight run down the river to the Baltic Sea. Next stop: Denmark and then England.”
“Ah. Not so distant if you think like a Viking,” he commented.
“Exactly. Wulfie . . . we . . . have . . . er, had cousins there. In Magdeburg. He spent every summer before the war there. He got on well with them. So well he signed up when they signed up, um . . .”
“In the spirit of the ‘pals regiments,’” Redfyre supplied, attempting to cover his intense dislike of the entire Stretton clan. “Well, bully for Wulfie!”
“But our other brother, Aethelstan, chose to return home before hostilities broke out. He joined the Cambridgeshire Regiment,” she added. Her tone, low and awkward, told him she’d picked up his sarcasm at once. She knew that her words did not go anywhere towards absolving her eldest brother of the supreme crime of treason.
“Wulfie had the good sense to stay over there in Germany when it was all over, I hope,” Redfyre said coldly.
“Of course. He’d have been hanged, drawn and quartered or suffered whatever punishment they dole out in these enlightened times if he’d returned.”
“I believe it’s back against a wall of the Tower, facing a firing squad.”
“Yes. Well, as you can imagine, Father went quite mad. A lot of: ‘Never darken our doors again!’ Went on for years. Wulfie didn’t lose touch though. Pa refused to open his letters, but he didn’t forbid me from reading them and passing on the gist. But in the family, we don’t talk about it. I’d be obliged if you could keep Wulfie’s indiscretion to yourself.”
“Indiscretion! I’d have said: infamy, treachery, utter disgrace,” Redfyre thought, but aloud, he said stiffly: “Of course. But I do wonder why you decided to confide in me? We’ve never been chums.”
Earwig nodded. The conversation was clearly going exactly where she had planned that it should. He noted that her response was instant. “There is a hidden motive in seeing you this evening, as you seem to have guessed. I wanted to ask your advice. I was going to get around to it by a circuitous route, but those sharp eyes of yours tell me you’re a step ahead and perhaps I should be prepared for that.”
Redfyre was not an easy subject for flattery, and he didn’t warn her that he was two steps ahead of where she assumed him to be. He listened, sporting an encouraging smile.
“Attacking you in the orchard was the first misjudgement of Wulfie’s life. He’d never been defeated or thwarted before in any of his enterprises, and there’d been lots before you squared up to him. He thought himself invincible. It was a silly little incident, but he never forgot it, and he’s a man like no other to bear a grudge. He made us children all swear a blood oath that we’d have revenge.”
“Blood oath?” Redfyre asked in disbelief. He was unable to keep the distaste from his voice. “Bit of an overreaction, surely?”
“You don’t know the half of it! We each had to prick our thumb until it bled, suck some out and spit it onto the corpse of a crow while saying your name and uttering a black oath.”
“Ouch! Don’t, please, repeat the dire phrase. You may strike me dead before I’ve finished this delicious brew.” Redfyre saw that she was relieved that he was taking this for the nonsense it was.
“Still, that’s Wulfie. Loves drama. He could have written the script for the Götterdämmerung! But I speak too harshly of him. Black sheep that he is, he does have redeeming features.” She countered Redfyre’s sardonic expression. “No—he does have a sense of humour. And his troubles in the war have given him a certain maturity. Like a good wine, it sometimes takes a few years in bottle at the right temperature before the true character comes out.”
Redfyre had already seen where this story was leading and thought it was high time to cut it short. “I see. Tell me, when is he expected back in England?”
She gasped. Rather too dramatically, he felt. “Ah—yes. At any moment. My father, whose heir is still Wulfie, is . . . dying. At least, he’s announced that he’s dying. It’s Wulfie’s intention to return, rebuild bridges and make sure of his inheritance.”
“Why didn’t your father change his will if he was so displeased with his oldest son? He has several in reserve to choose from, I understand.”
“He’s never mentioned it. I’ve no idea what the terms are, nor has anyone I’ve spoken to. But daddy’s lawyer has been about the place quite often recently. Nearly as frequent a visitor as
the doctor. Getting things in order, you’d say. So there you are. Trouble ahead! I thought I should give you fair warning, since you’re very much a local figure—and a policeman. That really is something Wulfie would despise. As you’ve guessed, he’s on his way back home from Germany. You could well run into each other. I’m probably being unnecessarily cautious about this, but, well, it’s the least I could do! I can’t guarantee there’ll be a Jonas on hand at the next encounter.”
“What a load of piffle!” was Redfyre’s judgement, but he censored it and replied pleasantly. “No need to fret, Miss Stretton, I’m sure. Your brother and I are both grown up, and we’ve both learned to survive. I’ve worn the bullseye on my back many times and lived to tell the tale! I’m sure Aethelwulf won’t want to draw the attention of the law down onto himself, bearing in mind the personal circumstances you’ve revealed to me. He’ll keep his head well below the parapet. So unless you ask me to tea again, our paths will never cross. We move in different circles socially, so the worst that can occur is that we will encounter each other by chance one dark night down by the river in Laundress Lane and only one of us will make it out to the Anchor for a restorative pint.”
“Laundress Lane? Sinister little alleyway! Wulfie wouldn’t be caught dead or alive down there. Not his style at all. No, you’re more likely to meet by appointment on Jesus Green, at dawn—your choice of weapon, a doctor and two seconds standing about, biting their nails.”
Catching a genuine agitation disguised by frivolity, he gave her a warm smile and told her, “All will be well, Miss Stretton. But feel free to contact me again. I’ll give you my card, should anything else be troubling you.”
He looked at her steadily, wondering if this was the moment she would come clean and tell him the real reason for this contrived meeting with an officer of the Cambridge CID, but she merely smiled, her cat’s eyes narrowing briefly before she accepted a mince pie from the plate he held out. All in good time. He guessed that her real problem, the one that had provoked Hetty’s strange ticket distribution, remained undisclosed, was still worrying her and, in some way he had not yet fathomed, involved him.
The second half of the concert took on a party mood from the first moment of Juno’s reappearance on the platform. She had changed into a shiny, dark-red ankle-length gown, low cut, and the white slopes of her upper bosom were covered with an unashamedly extravagant piece of costume jewellery: a cascade of rubies in a gold setting. On her head, in place of a formal tiara, she’d jokingly placed a wreath of dark holly enlivened by bright red berries. The Angel of Purity had changed into the Spirit of Christmas, and the audience responded to the change with warm applause. The program for this part of the evening had taken on a seasonal flavour as well, and one riotous and well-known anthem followed another. Aunt Hetty’s assurance that Redfyre wouldn’t be called upon to sing proved ill-founded, as after the first piece—a jolly “In Dulci Jubilo,” it was clear that Juno could not rein in the audience’s enthusiasm a moment longer. With perfect judgement, she invited them to join in with the words of “Deck the Halls.”
Redfyre looked at Earwig and grinned in delight. He plunged in, offering up his warm baritone unselfconsciously, years of school choir training buoying him up. Earwig sang squeakily, hitting one note in three, he estimated. She knew all the words, but was not having the happy time that the rest of the congregation was enjoying. Carried away by the jaunty tune, the punch-fired, unbuttoned humour of the crowd and not least by the joyous trumpeting, Redfyre seized the hand next to him and boldly gave it a squeeze. She smiled nervously in acknowledgement, but delicately detached it and struggled to catch up with the chorus.
At the end of the piece he leaned to her and murmured, “I think I must have died and gone to heaven! I don’t think I want this banquet of the senses to end.”
Earwig frowned and looked at her watch again. “Do you suppose they’ll keep her up there playing lots of encores?” she asked, her voice thick with concern.
“No! It’s hardly the Alhambra. It’s a Cambridge crowd. Well-mannered and aware of how exhausting playing the trumpet is. They won’t insist.”
The close of the program was, like the rest of it, well managed by both audience and players. There were polite but enthusiastic cries for more, and these were dealt with by a smiling Christopher Coote, who stepped forward to explain that Miss Proudfoot had borne the long program with exemplary stamina, but there was a limit to even her prowess and lung power. Nevertheless, he knew (he turned to Juno for a nod of acknowledgement) that she would not be able to tear herself from such a wonderfully responsive audience without leaving them with one last bonbon. Were there any suggestions?
As skilled as Juno at handling the crowd, he skated over all the well-known tunes proposed from below until he heard the one he was waiting for. “‘Hark, The Herald Angels Sing,’ did someone say? Excellent suggestion! That’s it. First and last verses.”
Five joyous minutes later, that was that. The musicians waved a final goodbye to their noisily appreciative audience and remained up in their tower, pottering about packing up their instruments. Wasting time, Redfyre guessed, until the crowd had put on its gloves and scarves and moved out, calling to friends, giving and accepting invitations for nightcaps and a little last hot savoury on toast. “Welsh rarebit do you, Wilfred? A little oxtail soup? Cook’s waiting up. Join me in a snifter? You’d be very welcome,” Redfyre overheard behind him, and would at that moment have gladly swapped places with Wilfred, whoever he was. Two by two, they began to shuffle out, still humming the ancient tunes and pausing in the archway to run appreciative eyes over the medieval fairytale setting the frost-spangled courtyard offered them. Following the pale gold puffballs of light from the line of Victorian lamps leading to the great gate, they began the tramp back to the hearths they’d left carefully banked and guarded to provide a warm welcome home.
So, Aunt Henrietta! What on earth had been the point of this unexpected evening? He could only infer: matchmaking. Another failed effort to fix him up with a suitable girl. Fearing worse, his suspicious nature had unnecessarily put him through two hours of increasing tension and, while he’d much enjoyed Juno Proudfoot’s performance, he now found himself with a prickly stranger on his hands. On his arm, rather. He extended the arm with automatic good manners to escort her from the chapel. To a taxi? Had Daddy sent the car for her? That would be the ideal end to the evening, releasing him to wave goodbye and nip into the Blue Boar for a pint on the way home. The singing had given him quite a thirst. He was deciding between Greene King and Guinness as they began to move forward at the pace of the crowd around them when his pleasant state of anticipation was shattered by a piercing dread.
The evening was not yet over, and these last few moments when crowds were milling about in an uncontrolled way with all the exits wide open could be exploited.
Redfyre would never rightly know what instinct, what subliminal sound had triggered his reaction. He dropped Earwig’s arm and pushed his way towards the staircase to the organ loft. The door was closed, the brocade hangings in place over it. Fools! The two players would at any moment now be attempting to come down those high, narrow stairs in pitch blackness. Some attendant should have eased forward, cleared the exit and brought in a light as soon as it was evident they had reached the end of the performance. He tore back the drapery and seized the handle to the door.
The thud and the scream from the stairs rang out as he threw the door open and stood in alarm, trying to penetrate the darkness and make sense of the series of bumps and jagged cries cascading towards him. He rushed at the staircase, blindly reaching out his hands to break the momentum of whatever alarming avalanche was about to engulf him. To his horror, before he could climb a step, he was knocked backward, his outstretched arms filled with the slippery, satin-clad form and flopping rag-doll limbs of Juno Proudfoot, falling headfirst, bloodied and senseless, to the ground.
Chapter 3
> He dragged her body into the light and set about searching for signs that she was still alive. Through his concern, he was aware in the background of a clutch of elderly gentlemen responding urgently to the situation. A cordon of chairs was being set up around the scene, and the departing audience urged to keep clear and leave without panic. Someone called loudly up the stairs, “I say, Doctor Coote! Bit of a problem down here. Miss Proudfoot has sustained a fall. Do not attempt to descend yourself until further advised.”
A second self-appointed lieutenant, young and limber, announced he was going to run to the Porter’s Lodge to make a phone call summoning an ambulance from the hospital. He merely raised an eyebrow and sketched a salute when Redfyre shouted at him, “And the police as well. Request Sergeant Thoday, will you? Say Inspector Redfyre is already in attendance at an incident requiring their instant attention.”
But it was Earwig’s response that surprised him. No screams or palpitations. The girl who had appeared to him brittle and distracted—antagonistic even—was now all calm and focus. She threw herself to her knees opposite Redfyre, peeled her fur coat from her shoulders and placed it decorously over the undefended curves of Juno’s body. She pushed away his hand, which was indecisively hovering over potential pulse points. “Behind the ear is a good place to start,” she said, firmly tweaking aside the holly wreath lying crushed and displaced on the girl’s head. “She doesn’t seem to be breathing, but I could swear her eyelid fluttered just now. Yes, here—check this for me. I’m sure that’s a pulse.” She guided Redfyre’s hand to the small white ear and placed his finger on exactly the right spot.
Fall of Angels Page 3
