Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Have you any idea how much she earns, Beth?”

  “No, sir. She never did say. Enough to bulge one of them brown pay envelopes. And seeing as she’s living here, all found, whatever she gets is just pin money. What she doesn’t leave in the bank I reckon goes to clothes she buys in London. She goes up on the train about once a month with her smart friends, and sometimes she stays over. That’s why I wasn’t too worried. But if her bag’s been taken, well . . . She wouldn’t give it up without a fight, sir. P’raps she’s been knocked unconscious and left in a ditch on the common, sir. In this cold!”

  Redfyre cut short the beginnings of gloomy speculation, assured her that the common was being searched, and drew her attention to the room and Louise’s belongings. A diary was located and placed confidingly in his hand. “You’ll find names and addresses and telephone numbers and such like at the back, sir.”

  He began to look about him from the doorway, quartering the space as he had been trained to do when dealing with a crime scene. The pretty room was decorated in fresh shades of green and yellow and predictably furnished by Heal’s of Tottenham Court Road. The eye-catching draperies hanging at the two windows were of printed cotton in a design he thought he recognised—Charles Voysey? Amongst the swirling shades of jungle green, he could just make out the mysterious shapes of exotic birds. Parrots? Peacocks? Despite the lack of occupant, Beth had faithfully gone about her duties; the fire was cheerfully taking the edge off the cold, and the curtains had been drawn back to reveal a pleasant view over the stretch of common and on down to the river. The tree-lined river path, he thought, must be a wonderful sight in the summer with its constant parade of boat crews, cycling coaches and loafers. With a stab of belated concern, he approached to check whether the scene of the discovery was visible from the house in the now-watery sunshine that seemed to be dispelling the gloom. How appalling if the family had been able to catch sight, unwittingly, of the body of a loved one being carted off on a stretcher to the ambulance. He stopped a few paces from the window and stared. Something nagged at his attention. His eyes were sending him a message that his brain was too stunned to make sense of. He looked again more carefully, filled with foreboding.

  “Sir? Sir!” Beth was calling him over to the wardrobe. “Come and look! I can tell you what she was wearing, because it’s missing. Would that be any help?”

  Although he had personally inspected the outfit on the girl’s body all too recently, Redfyre took out his notebook, wrote down the clothes Beth listed and thanked her.

  “Mmm, all smart lady-about-town items. She wasn’t planning an evening at the tango club, would you say?”

  “Lord, no sir! That’s Tuesdays and Saturdays. These are her tango frocks on the other side.” Beth pulled out one or two skinny, silken, brightly coloured dresses. “These ones with fringes on them must look lovely when you’re shimmying about in them,” Beth sighed.

  “And the other days of the week, Beth? How does Miss Louise spend her time? Does she enjoy reading? Knitting?”

  A gurgle of derision greeted this suggestion. “Course not! She can’t keep still a minute! Always something on the go. She plays tennis, goes off on walking holidays. Skiing—she’s off to Switzerland next month. On her afternoon off work—that’s a Wednesday—she packs her sporting gear and bicycles off into town for a couple of hours. She gets back in time for tea and sometimes brings back her . . . teammates.”

  “Team, did you say? What sort of team are they in, these girls?”

  “Not really sure. Would it be netball? Indoor tennis? Not something outdoors, because her kit’s never wet. Or dirty.”

  “Kit? What does she wear for these events?”

  “White trousers like boys wear for cricket and her old school gym shirts. What she must look like!”

  The response was rather scornful, Redfyre noted.

  Suddenly conscious that this quiet, agreeable man was in fact recording her words, Beth applied a correction: “But that’s not to say she hasn’t a serious side to her nature. No, sir! She’s a member . . . Is that the right word? Dunno. It may not even be a club . . .” Beth lapsed into thought and uncertainty.

  “I’d like to hear anyway. It would be very helpful to know what societies she’s joined, whose company she enjoys, what activities she’s engaged in. Somehow, I don’t picture your Miss Louise as a member of the Band of Hope Temperance Movement or a recruit to the Women’s Institute.”

  Beth grinned at the idea of the Women’s Institute. “Well, it sort of is that, sir. Not the regular one that meets to pass on jam-making recipes and bake Victoria sponges. Nah! That’s of no interest to Miss Louise! But there is something she and her friends are nuts about. There’s a group of them, and they go round each other’s houses for a natter. At least once a week. It’s not regular. Sometimes they see each other twice or three times when they’ve got something important on. If you can find them, they might know what she’s up to.”

  “How many of them? What do they talk about, Beth?”

  Beth hesitated, perhaps wondering if she had been unwise to have spoken out. “There’s about eight of ’em, though they don’t all come at once. Between eight and a dozen, I’d say. They always talk private, sir. When I’m around handing the tea, they just talk amongst themselves about fashion and men and what’s on at the Alhambra. But I have overheard them gabbing on about politics . . . if that’s the right word for cursing the government?”

  “It’s spot on, Beth. Names? Do you know the names of any of these girls?”

  “Not their surnames. I’ve never heard them.” Beth hung her head and looked aside. She was regretting opening up this line of thought. “Look, sir, perhaps I’ve got this all wrong. It sounds so silly now you make out it’s important. It’s rubbish, really. A right daft, kiddies’ playground thing to do.” She took a deep breath and rushed on. “Well, there’s: Diana, Flora, Vesta, Victoria, Laetitia and Luna—such a pretty name. If ever I have a daughter, I’ll call her Luna.”

  “Well, that’s a relief! They don’t exactly call to mind a witches’ coven, do they? Very proper English names. Do they all end in an ‘a’?” Redfyre asked with a smile.

  After a moment’s thought, Beth came up with, “No, sir. Venus. There’s a Venus. She doesn’t come round much, and she’s . . . different, not like the other young ladies.”

  “In what way is she different, Beth?” Into the frowning silence that greeted this, he added, “Dress? Speech? Manners?”

  “All those. She’s a Cambridge girl, sir, judging by the accent. I mean, a town girl, not like the others who all talk posh. Not that she has much to say for herself. She’s a year or two older than Miss Louise. She wears nice clothes, but they’re always a bit . . . bright, if you know what I mean. Off the peg rather than bespoke. Gamages catalogue, not Harrods. But she must be something special—the others all treat her with respect. You know, pour her tea out first, offer her the last cream bun. I did wonder if she was in the Salvation Army . . . you know, some sort of do-gooding God Squad. The master’s a big supporter of the Sally Bash.”

  “Are there any others who don’t quite fit the mold, Beth?”

  “Oh yes, there’s one who stands out. She’s a bit older than the rest, and bossy with it. I actually heard her giving Miss Louise a good wigging when she’d done something silly. This one’s called Minerva.”

  “Ah, yes she would be. Goddess of wisdom and warfare. You’d want her on your side,” Redfyre said softly, beginning to see a pattern.

  “Minerva! Sounds to me like somebody’s headmistress. Bit stiff and old-fashioned. Still, it suits her.”

  “And Louise?” Redfyre pushed her, seeing a connection and an exception.

  “Um, Miss Louise was called plain ‘Iris,’ sir, for purposes of these club meetings. That’s what makes me think they were all using . . . er . . .”

  “An alias?”

 
“That’s right. That’s young ladies for you. Never satisfied with their given name! What’s wrong with Louise? Not much you’d say, but it was never quite good enough. She started calling herself ‘Lois’ when she got down to that school in Surrey. Sounds much smarter, she said. And she had a right to all the letters anyway, she’d just chucked away two she didn’t need. But when it came to these ladies’ club meetings she was ‘Iris.’ Why? There’s dozens of Irises in Cambridge. Nothing special.” Beth shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes in exasperation of such infantile frivolity.

  “That’s eight names with something in common, though.” He sighed. “A self-regulating group with a common purpose? And they’ve awarded themselves seats at the very highest table, it would seem. Higher even than the highest table in Cambridge!” He added mischievously to lighten the mood, “I begin to suspect Miss Louise has joined something more terrifying even than the Women’s Institute, Beth!” He lowered his voice and confided, “I think she may be a member of a pantheon!”

  “Is that against the law, sir? Can they lock you up for it? Sir, I never meant to—she’ll kill me if she ever finds out I’ve blabbed and made her out to be an agitator.”

  Alarmed to see that he had genuinely scared the girl, he quickly said, “Just joking, Beth! A ‘pantheon’ is a collection of ancient gods and goddesses. I couldn’t help noticing that all the names you remember—including lovely Luna, goddess of the moon, are those of Roman deities. Iris is goddess of the rainbow.” His voice lost its schoolmasterly tone as he added quietly, “Shimmering, colourful, a fleeting, misleading presence. But it’s no more a crime than joining a gentlemen’s club, I assure you! Perfectly harmless! Perhaps they gather to read each other extracts from classical literature, eat dormice stewed in honey, or worship Astarte . . .”

  “Nothing like that, sir!” Beth looked at him in puzzlement for a moment, then, coming to a judgement about him, decided to confide. “I think perhaps you ought to take a look in Miss Louise’s special cupboard. It might help you to find her. I knowwhere she hides the key.”

  Chapter 9

  MacFarlane was loitering by the reception desk when Redfyre hurried in to headquarters.

  “He’s been waiting half an hour for you! Says you told him to present himself for interview at nine.” The superintendent narrowed his eyes and gave a triumphant bark. “Hah! Thought as much! You’d forgotten you’d booked him. The Barnabas man from last night’s show. The lad who should have been officiating when your lady trumpeter took a dive—remember him? The sergeant got his address from the college and left him a message. Glad one of my men at least appears to be doing what’s expected of him. You can probably do without this interruption to your busy day, so just get him to sign something and pack him off. I managed to detain him for you in the holding pen. But he’s getting twitchy!”

  “Thomas Tyrrell! Light-bearer to Juno Proudfoot—Lord! I did forget. I’ll take him up to my office.”

  “Tyrrell, Thomas. Post-graduate student at St. Barnabas,” the chap announced the moment he sat down opposite Redfyre. He checked his wristwatch. “I have a confession and an apology to make.”

  He’d have him out of his hair faster if he went with this seemingly controlled flow of narrative, Redfyre reckoned, and he smiled encouragement.

  “I was distracted and deflected from my duties at the concert last night. Had I attended to them more rigorously, the accident to the young lady—the fall she suffered—would most probably not have occurred. I was meant to pull back the curtains to the organ loft and light her descent with my lantern. The staircase is not wired for electricity, you see. I have reported my omission—my sin—to the master, and he recommended that I come to confess all to you personally.”

  At last, he was hearing a straightforward account. Redfyre noted the earnest expression, the handsome young features sculpted by guilt and a sleepless night into the image of a penitent saint. Flushed. Inward-looking. Otherworldly. For a moment, Redfyre was glad flagellation had gone out of fashion; then he remembered the theatricality of Tyrrell’s performance early the previous evening and warned himself that he was dealing with something of a poseur. He suspected the man had already obtained absolution from a higher authority than the Cambridge CID and was now free to indulge in a show of noble contrition.

  “Well, thank you for coming. I can well understand your predicament,” Redfyre said. He decided to bowl him an easy ball to test his strength. “Um, this distraction and deflection you mention—”

  His question was interrupted by a torrent of words from Tyrrell.

  “Lois Lawrence! That’s her name! Daughter of Eve! She tricked me and seduced me from my duties with blandishments and alcohol!”

  Redfyre sat up in his chair with a start on hearing the name. “What? Wait!” He held up a hand. “Hold it right there! Would this be the Lois Lawrence who lives in de Montfort Avenue? Eighteen years old? Dark-haired?”

  “That’s the one! Though she’s older than eighteen. She’s the one to blame for landing me in this hot water! And for nearly getting that poor woman killed. The master tells me Miss Proudfoot survived and was taken to hospital. How is she doing?”

  “First, Mr. Tyrrell, I’d like you to go back over yesterday evening and tell me exactly what transpired.”

  The official request to hear his story calmed Tyrrell, and a succinct account from the hunt for the bag and the fortuitous glimpse of its contents, through to their escape to the pub, followed smoothly. Slightly irritated by Redfyre’s insistence on knowing, down to the grains of salt on her pickled egg, what Lois had consumed, he filled in the details with a puzzled brevity.

  When he reached the moment where Lois had left him alone in the back parlour, Redfyre tugged on the reins and required him to be as precise as possible regarding the timing of his subsequent actions. “So, an hour’s performance after the interval takes us to eight-thirty, eight-forty if we add on the encore, to the moment when you were scheduled to do your stuff, but with time flying in the company of a young lady and a couple of beers, you missed your cue. When exactly did you become aware of this?”

  “When the audience—a selection of it, all male, of course—began to arrive at the bar, discussing the drama.”

  “So, at about eight fifty-five?”

  “I would think so. About nine. Yes, it was nine o’clock—I looked at my watch. Couldn’t believe the time had passed so quickly. Miss Lawrence went off at that same time or seconds after and didn’t return. Ten minutes later, I guessed she’d ditched me and gone off to get a taxi. I decided to chase after her. But then I thought: ‘What on earth shall I say when I catch her?’ And I couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound peevish and juvenile. I wandered around the Market Square for a bit, but couldn’t spot her. It would have been easy to miss her—there were crowds gathered to hear the Salvation Army band playing carols. And so many people jostling for taxis home. Perhaps someone had given her a lift? Invited her to share their cab? People do that when they’re feeling jolly. It’s quite accepted, you know. I was getting cold by then, as I’d gone out without my overcoat and was beginning to feel rather silly. And guilty, too—I’d ratted on my job and probably been the cause of a serious accident. Only one thing I could do in the circs. So I bit the bullet and came straight back to college to make a clean breast of things. I went to the master’s lodge, saw that his lights were on, and asked to see him.”

  “Timing, please Mr. Tyrrell? Can you be precise?”

  “Well yes. You can check it yourself. The porter makes a note every time you go in and out. It was nine-thirty.”

  “Doctor Henningham agreed to see you at that inconvenient hour?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s very modern in that way—always makes himself available for the students. It was especially good of him to give me a hearing, considering . . .”

  “Considering what?”

  “He was taken ill. You did
n’t know? He was actually in rather a bad way when his man showed me in. I was told to be quick about it and not be surprised if the master did a sudden bunk because he had the trots. One of those Delhi Belly interludes. He’s just back from India—been there for the last six months. They say these things sometimes catch you just when you think you’ve got away with it! I must say, he looked foul! Rational enough and his usual genial self, but green round the gills. Having trouble with his breathing, but luckily he didn’t need to sprint off before I’d made my confession.”

  “And you left him at what time?”

  “Nine-forty. I’ve told you—check the porter’s book. Then I went back to my digs on Maids Causeway—”

  “On foot or by bicycle?”

  Impatiently, the reply came. “Well, on foot, of course. My bike’s laid up with a puncture in the shed at the back of Mrs. Luscombe’s, my landlady. I let myself in and went straight to bed. Before you ask, it was ten o’clock. I have my own keys, as Mrs. Luscombe is often out in the evenings. She’s a war widow on a pension, but a very sociable type of person. I couldn’t sleep and I heard her come back in, drunk as a skunk, giggling and tripping over the stairs at about—oh, it must have been after midnight. Well, it was. She told me when she served my breakfast she’d been out with a gentleman friend for a special pre-Christmas dinner at that new Motoring Inn that’s opened on the London Road, and they’d ‘heard the chimes of midnight’ as they drew up outside.”

  Redfyre made a note.

  Tyrrell looked at him sideways. “You do go on about the time. Does it matter?”

  “Oh, you know what policemen are like. We try to plot every witness’s movements within a time frame for the record. Especially when we’re dealing with an attempted murder and an actual murder, occurring within hours of each other.”

  “I beg your pardon? I thought we were discussing one accidental fall . . .” Tyrrell’s voice lost its confidence and he gulped. “I say, would you care to elaborate on that surprising last statement?”