Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  He looked shrewdly at Redfyre. “The conversation with Lawrence will be painful, but he will be rational and helpful. I have noticed this with businessmen—they don’t waste their own time or anyone else’s. No—the problem, if you have one, will be with his wife.”

  Chapter 8

  Redfyre stood in the shelter of the deep porch of the Victorian house on the corner of de Montfort Avenue and tugged on the doorbell. As he waited for a response, he glanced about him, trying to estimate the quality of the reception he might receive from the family who lived here. He’d learned that an impressive setting was no guarantee of a civilised welcome.

  Dangerous places, doorsteps! Especially for men in uniform. He remembered examining with pleasure the delicately carved Art Nouveau framework and ravishing stained-glass panels of an entrance by Macintosh (or his equal), a splendour behind which lurked a slavering bullmastiff with no pretensions to civility. He winced at the memory and reached automatically for the twelve inches of stout English oak truncheon he no longer carried in his long-pocket.

  No expense had been spared on this building; the architect had been given his head. He’d indulged in pillars, porticoes, leaded panes in wide low windows, and topped off his creation with a mansard roofline that, taken with the rose-red brick decorative details, gave the whole capacious house the flavour of an oversized gingerbread cottage. Rather sweet-toothed for some, perhaps, but Redfyre was no Puritan. He anticipated a well-decorated and comfortable interior suited to the needs and comforts of a modern family. Perhaps, he fancied, there would be a lingering sentimental attachment to the style of William Morris expressed in the furnishings and drapes. These would have been supplied by Liberty of London—all sweeping curlicues involving birds, fruits and foliage. But the traditional Englishness would be underpinned by a severely twentieth-century approach to plumbing and electrically driven machines of one kind or another.

  He caught himself indulging in what he admitted was a personal fantasy and shook it off.

  He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. The ornate chimney pots were already contributing their dark reek to the skies over Cambridge, but he detected an underlying unpleasantness and made a swift check on the position of the weathercock, whose gilded tail was just glinting in the rising sun on the roof of the house opposite. It told him what he wanted to know. A northeasterly wind, though still too slight to loosen the grip of the frost, was oozing over north Cambridge, spreading not only an Arctic air stream, but a reminder that out there, a mile or two distant in the fenland, lay the infamous Cambridge Sewage Farm. Mr. Lawrence had chosen to call his house “Midsummer View.” He could equally have called it “Milton Miasma.” The local press had covered every irascible word uttered by the inhabitants of the harmless Cambridge village, which had had imposed on it the runoff from the open sewer that had been the River Cam for generations. And it was his new friend Mr. Hanley, Director of the Cheddars Lane Pumping Station just down river, who had the task of keeping running the massive engine which strained the river waters and diverted the glutinous product through two miles of underground pipes. The resulting effluent ended its journey in the fields of Milton, where it was dried out and prepared for reuse as fertiliser. “Well, that’s something we have in common, Hanley! Shit-shovelers, both. And proud to do it,” Redfyre was thinking when the door opened.

  He found himself face-to-face with the servant girl whose domestic duties, beginning at some unearthly hour, had most probably awakened the house and set it on its feet. She was small and young, with bright eyes in a face red-raw from washing in cold water and harsh soap. Her lips were chapped from biting, but she managed a smile warm with welcome and curiosity as she twitched her pinny into place, bobbed and told him cheerfully it was the postie she’d been expecting. Redfyre grinned, apologised for the disappointment he’d caused and showed her his warrant card. He explained that he needed to have a word, rather urgently, with the master, Mr. Lawrence.

  He was hesitantly asked inside and told, after a concerned glance at his damp brogues, to wait on the doormat while she went to find out whether Mr. Lawrence was down yet. He detained her. “Before you dash off, Miss, if I can just check a small matter with you to save time. A matter of lost property. I’m in possession of an item belonging to Miss Louise Lawrence. Is she at present under this roof?”

  “Miss Louise? Oh, yes, sir. She finished her schooling last summer and she’s back home again for the foreseeable. Would you like me to take it up for her?”

  “I must hand the item over to her directly and receive her signature for it, I’m afraid,” Redfyre persisted. He was always uncomfortable winkling information from domestic staff without the master’s permission, but one or two embarrassing incidents where close links between staff and employer had led to unforeseen collusion and worked against him had taught him to be less sensitive. Employers these days would go to any lengths to retain scarce staff, and staff would loyally support any good master or mistress.

  The maid lowered her voice. “Um . . . not at the moment, sir. I got her fire going when I took up her morning tea, but . . . well, the bed hadn’t been slept in. She’s not here—somewhere else at the moment. I’ll go and get the master.” She was glad to shoot off about her business.

  After an interval just long enough to convey the message that a visit from the police at this time was unexpected and inconvenient, the maid was sent back to tell him that Mr. Lawrence would see him in the breakfast room, but could only give him a few minutes, as he was going in to work.

  Lawrence was seated by himself at the table, and he was clearly in the last stages of breakfast. A napkin trailing from his neck down to his corpulent bulge showed the progress of the meal from porridge, through egg and bacon to buttered toast. His chubby fingers hesitated in a marked manner between a choice of honey and marmalade to top off his last triangle of toast. The gesture told Redfyre that he was about as welcome at the breakfast table as a wasp at a picnic.

  In understanding and pity, he watched the last piece of natural, if annoying, behaviour before shattering the man’s world with his news. He gave his name and rank again and showed his warrant card.

  “Mister Lawrence, I’m afraid I have some very bad news regarding your eldest daughter, Louise—”

  “Well of course you have! You always do—Hold it right there, inspector.” The tetchy command was delivered with an accompanying traffic-stopping gesture. “I will not be pursued into the intimate recesses of my own home by the police. What is it this time? Cycling with disregard for public safety? Knocking a bulldog’s bowler off?” He opted for the Cooper’s Oxford Thick Cut and continued as he reached for it, “How about showing disrespect for an officer of the law? That’s one I always enjoy! Have you fellows really nothing better to do on a Saturday morning?”

  “I only wish I were the bearer of such vexatious and trivial news, sir,” Redfyre said sternly. “But what I have to tell you is of the most dire nature.”

  Lawrence’s attention was captured at last. He tugged the table napkin from his neck and got to his feet to put himself on eye level with the inspector. A very male struggle for superiority ensued as Lawrence’s bulbous dark eyes engaged with Redfyre’s brown. Irrational anger gave way before cool authority.

  “Carry on, man!” Lawrence barked.

  “At about five o’clock this morning, the body of a girl was spotted in the river. Police aid was called upon, and she was taken onto the bank and examined by a police medic, who pronounced that she had been dead for possibly more than six hours. No bag and no identity papers were found with the body and, in accordance with practice, she has been taken to the police morgue at Addenbrooke’s for clinical processes. It is believed that she was the victim of murder, not suicide. I have managed to trace her identity through a marker in her clothing and believe her to be your daughter Louise, who was in Shelley House at Branscombe and was still wearing one of her school undergarments. We would much
appreciate it if you and Mrs. Lawrence would come to the hospital, where you may identify her formally in complete privacy.”

  It was impossible to tell how this was being received by the father, whose features had settled into a mask, stern and inexpressive. There they remained, his first line of defense against unpleasant matters outside his control. It seemed that, like the majority of bereaved fathers, Lawrence was choosing the stiff-upper-lip response to tragic news.

  Redfyre gave him time to reel from the shock and regain his balance. Instinctively, he poured out a glass of water from the jug on the table and held it out to the silent father. To his surprise, Lawrence accepted it and drank it down. Quietly, Redfyre began to go through the rest of his litany. He enquired as to whether Mrs. Lawrence would prefer to be told the news by her husband. Redfyre was quite willing to—

  At the mention of his wife, Lawrence found his voice. The inspector’s services were abruptly turned down. He would take that sad duty on himself. His wife was an invalid. She was frequently unwell, and as her condition stemmed from a mental rather than a physical disorder, she obviously had to be handled with care. She and her daughter had not got on particularly well, but Ella would nonetheless be devastated by her death. His younger daughters, both expected back home now for the holidays, would likewise be informed by their father. They were devoted to their older sister and would be greatly affected.

  Lawrence asked incisive questions about the circumstances and listened with care to the answers.

  The father had no idea that his daughter had been out and about late at night. He had last seen her when she popped into his study to say goodbye before she went out with friends—lady friends, of course—to a shindig at St. Barnabas. Advent carols or some such. Lawrence had rung for a taxi to take her there. It was a long walk for an unaccompanied young woman. She had plenty of cash in her bag to take a cab back from the Market Square. She’d promised to be back home by ten o’clock and told him not to wait up. No reason to assume she hadn’t; she’d always kept her promises. He’d spent the evening working in his study at the rear of the house and wouldn’t have heard her coming in anyway. He’d gone to bed himself at eleven. His daughter had received little in the way of discipline at that wretched school, and Lawrence had taken it upon himself to lay down and enforce, even at this late stage, a few rules of behaviour. It had seemed to be working, as she had been much less rebellious of late. Seemed to have settled into her life.

  Yes, she’d always been popular. Apart from school friends who visited all too often, she had friends in the town. “Town” was pronounced with a dismissive sneer. Lawrence suspected they were all rather louche, as she’d never invited any of them to the family home to meet him and his wife. Her girlfriends, of whom she had quite a collection—he frowned as he recalled them—haunted the place. Always giggling in corners. In fact, to go further, he was afraid some of them were in rather a fast set. He knew for certain, as he’d paid the subscription fee, that she was a member of a tango-dancing club. He was sure the inspector must have its name and address on his books, run as it was by a pair of dubious—Redfyre knew he was about to say “dagoes” to enjoy the alliteration—“South Americans,” he finished. “Or so they claim. It’s the home of the tango, you know, Argentina,” he added helpfully.

  Names of her friends? No idea! In the modern way, they arrived with no formal invitation. They’d usually pass one or two on the stairs on the way to her room. “This is Flora, Daddy. This is Victoria, Mummy.” Giggle, giggle.

  Louise had been in employment. Of a sort. One of his business associates had offered her a position in his company. Perhaps he’d heard of it? Messrs. Benson and Uppingham? Their HQ and offices were just over the common in Midsummer Place. Redfyre wouldn’t have noticed it, camouflaged as it was in the row of grand houses for the gentry of Cambridge, such as they were. Redfyre thought he detected a tinge of property envy. The desirable setting was a mere ten-minute walk for the girl over Cutter Ferry Bridge. The factory where the medicaments were actually produced was out on East Road, the factory hands all came from over there somewhere, and the management (and Louise, of course) had no contact with that side of the operation. Responding to Redfyre’s bemused look, he elaborated, “Purveyors of Perk-You-Up Pills to the Pallid, don’t you know.” This snatch of information was delivered without a touch of irony, and Redfyre took it for an advertising jingle he was not aware of. Not being one of nature’s pallid people, there was no reason why he should be. “The pills . . . Surprisingly effective, I hear . . . Some swear by them, Mrs. Lawrence included,” Lawrence was grinding on. “Oh, nothing too demanding, the job. She sat about for five hours a day in Benson’s office answering the telephone, keeping her employer’s diary in order. No, not a secretary—never let her hear you call her that. She didn’t even know how to type, I’m afraid, and refused to learn. Oh, dear . . .” He looked aside for a moment, gathered himself and continued, “At first, she was actually allowed to tot up the figures. The accounts.” Another pause. “She must have made a faux pas, however, because she was relieved of accounting duties pretty sharpish. Surprising, that—my Louise was always very good at tots. Clever with figures, when she was a little thing. Taught her myself.” A misting of regret was wiped away by a brisk stroke of resentment. “Yet another useful skill to rust away at Branscombe!”

  At this point, Redfyre produced the handbag from his inner pocket. “This was recovered near the scene,” he explained. “I wonder—”

  “That belongs to Louise. It’s her best bag. The present she chose for her eighteenth birthday. She always used it in the evenings. Could never be bothered with those little dangly things.”

  “It was empty when found. Do you have any idea of what it might have contained, sir?”

  “Not the foggiest. Whatever girls carry about with them. Powder compacts and such like? Her house keys. She was allowed her own set. Cash—she was never short.”

  Sensing that his information lacked the precision that Redfyre had been hoping for, he harrumphed a bit then said, “Look here, the maid will know more than I do. Girls keep diaries and such, don’t they? All the names you want are probably written down somewhere in her room. Beth will take you up and show you around. You’ll have to tell her why you’re snooping about, of course. Go carefully—the girl was very close to Louise, and she’ll be as devastated as her sisters. In fact . . .” Suddenly the shrewd businessman, he paused and added, “Word of advice: you’ll get the best out of Beth if you don’t let on just yet that her mistress is dead. As soon as you announce that, you’ll sink under a tide of tears and a hurricane of hysterics. Stiff upper lips never much in evidence amongst the servant classes. They enjoy their drama too much. And you’ll be exposed to three acts of it if you’re not careful. No—if you ask her help to track down her missing mistress, she’ll tell you everything she knows, calmly and as a matter of urgency. Women!” Redfyre didn’t care to hear the scorn in his voice. “Got to know how to handle ’em, don’t you know. They can be as cunning as a trout.” He tugged at a bell-pull, then sank back down into his seat, dismissing Redfyre and allowing him smoothly to carry out the next task on his list.

  Beth’s bright little face showed concern when the master told her to escort the policeman up to Miss Louise’s room. “Miss Louise has chosen to do a bunk again, Beth. You’re to do your best to help the inspector find clues to her whereabouts. Answer all his questions, there’s a good girl.”

  Redfyre breathed deeply and found that he was clenching his fists as he followed the girl upstairs. Torn between the temptation to land a punch on Lawrence’s arrogant nose and the annoying realization that the old rascal probably had it right, he tried to calm himself and take professional advantage of the easy ball he’d unaccountably been bowled.

  The first thing he did on entering Louise’s room was to explain that the young mistress had failed to return home last night, as Beth had discovered. Her handbag had be
en found and handed in. It had been identified as Louise’s, and he was here to investigate further.

  The girl was concerned but ready to do her best to help. She confirmed that the bag was indeed the one Louise had taken out with her the previous day. She was intending to go on to some musical event after work. It was her best bag. She gave him an account of the items Louise normally carried about with her.

  “She was robbed, sir, wasn’t she? Is that what you’re saying? And it was a Friday night, too.”

  “Friday, Beth?” Redfyre picked up on the precision. “Is that important?”

  “Payday. Her boss gives her her wages—never a cheque, always cash—on Friday afternoon. Banks being shut until Monday morning, she always carries it about with her at the weekend. I tell her it’s a barmy thing to do, but she always says the same thing, laughing an’ all. ‘Not on your Nellie! This house is no safe place to leave anything precious! My bag’s my bank.’”