Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Well, I’d say he’s probably right in his assumption. Sounds like gippy tummy to me. It’s becoming fashionable to call it ‘European cholera’ these days. Still, murder is what you blokes have to deal with, and I expect you know your job. Let’s take no chances, shall we? I’ll bring this back to the lab and let you know if there’s anything in here that shouldn’t be as soon as I can.”

  The professor paused in the doorway and spoke again, thoughtfully. “I’m not a pathologist, but, you know, if I were, I’d take especial care in investigating the nasal tissues of any victims of heart attack, lung collapse and pneumonia that fetched up on my slab.”

  “Not sure he was taking us very seriously, but the feller’s right, you know,” grumbled MacFarlane. “All too easy! You can imagine the conversation: ‘Aunt Matilda’s had one of her turns . . . Heart attack this time, would you say, Brenda? Then we’re all agreed? It’s a heart attack! Send for the doctor. It’ll take him ages to get here so, meantime, why don’t we try to bring her round with a sniff of this stuff I got from the pharmacy? Still unconscious? Try again—the other nostril this time. Oops! Oh, dear! Never mind the doctor—send for the priest!’”

  MacFarlane’s voice trailed away, his black humour silenced by the dire implications of the theory he was forming. “By Gow! I wonder how many we’ve missed? When you think how many dodgy substances are available over the counter in a pharmacy! All it takes is a little ingenuity to put them to lethal use. And it’s worse in France! La pharmacie means ‘what’s your poison?’ You just stroll in and take your pick! Even their tonics are nothing other than red wine with a hefty slug of cocaine. Ever tried Vin Mariani, favourite pick-me-up of Queen Victoria? Even endorsed by Pope Leo!”

  Satisfied with Redfyre’s stricken nod, he advised, “Stick to your whisky, lad. Now I’m wondering how many death certificates hastily signed in the presence of weeping relatives should have triggered a searching look up the nose of the corpse!”

  “Lucky young lady, Miss Proudfoot. Doubly lucky. High time I went down there and asked her a few searching questions, I think, before she hares off back to London.” Redfyre got to his feet.

  “Sit down a moment. She’ll keep for a while.” MacFarlane smirked.

  “How can you know that? She’s a free agent and a very determined young woman. She’s probably on the London train as we speak.”

  “Hardly! I’ve given instructions to the matron. They’ve managed to mislay the suitcase her friend Miss Stretton took along for her this morning. She has no clothes or shoes to put on, poor lass—she arrived in evening dress and a woolly blanket last night, of course, but that won’t get her on the train to London. Her things will be found again only when Inspector Redfyre gives the all clear.” MacFarlane’s granite features cracked into a fissure that Redfyre interpreted as his grin of triumph. “So give her a good grilling when you see her. Find out what her connection is with Louise Lawrence. Get to the bottom of the first attempt, and the business of the second girl will soon unravel. And see if there’s anything to be gained from tugging at this university thread while you’re at it. I don’t much like the sound of the dean’s wife the master mentioned. Or even her name. Honoria Herbert! What’s the betting she wields a six-inch hatpin?”

  “I wonder if at this point we ought to ask ourselves if we may be barking up the wrong tree, sir. Are we getting ahead of ourselves? We can’t be sure at all that Louise Lawrence didn’t fall foul of some passing footpad or pickpocket intent on robbery. It wouldn’t be the first time a villain has panicked and decided to silence his victim.”

  “Come on, Redfyre! Chancers of that type seek out crowds in busy places, not deserted river banks. I’ve read your notes. Who would have known—apart from Tyrrell—that she was carrying an unknown but suspiciously large amount of cash in her bag? Where did she get it? Why cart it about with her?”

  “Waiting for the banks to open on Monday morning when she could pay it in over the counter . . .”

  “At her local branch, we assume? We’ll get Thoday in and brief him—he can do the legwork. Check where her account was held and the payment pattern. Why would she take her pay in cash, are you asking, Redfyre? Girls of her class would expect to be paid by check, wouldn’t they? And allowing for the evidence from Tyrrell that she was flush, so to speak—why would she be wandering about after dark by herself on the tow-path? Shows a high level of recklessness to me.”

  “Not sure I’d say that, sir. She was stuck without a taxi and avoiding him. He may not have clapped eyes on her in the Market Square, but she could well have spotted him and made off. Allowing for the slippery conditions underfoot, it would take a healthy young girl thirty minutes at the most, I reckon. She would have returned home just before ten. A ten o’clock curfew sounds like a reasonable arrangement for a daughter, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Depends on the parents. Mrs. Mac and I have three little ’uns, two of ’em females. You wouldn’t catch me letting one of my lasses out by herself at any hour. Not in a town full of randy young, usually drunken, undergraduates.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Is all well in that family, Redfyre? Go back and dig a bit further. And this friend of the family who hires a girl who doesn’t even type . . .”

  “I thought so too, sir. He’s on my list.”

  MacFarlane grunted, scratched his head and resumed. “So, we’ve got the two of them in the Market Square, playing blind man’s bluff round the Sally Bash band before they both take off into dark streets in different directions. Or did they? Tyrrell could have overtaken her easy-peasy if he’d run. Or used his bike. Or someone else’s bike—any reported stolen? I still fancy Tyrrell for it. When you see his landlady, Redfyre, check the condition of the bike he says he has. Punctured, he claims? Have it brought in and looked at. Check the wheels for mud, gravel, dog shit, cow pats, whatever you like. And his shoes. If he crossed Midsummer Common, he’s bound to have something interesting and distinctive stuck to them.”

  “Sir. I’ll have it compared with the victim’s shoes, as well. I’ll go myself on foot over the route she must have taken.”

  MacFarlane moved over to the map of the city pinned to his notice board. “Easier said than done. There’s about ten different paths she could have taken.”

  “It’s not really difficult when you understand the girl and her circumstances, sir. I think she would have correlated safety with distance, factored in familiarity, and come up with this track.” He pointed at the Market Square. “From here, she nips down Sidney Street and turns right into Jesus Lane. King Street would have been more direct, but for a single woman out and about on a Friday night—never! It’s one rowdy pub after another, all the way down to the Four Lamps crossroads. No, she’ll get to Four Lamps along Jesus Lane. Her only problem here would be running the gauntlet of being accosted by members of the Pitt Club loitering effetely amongst their ionic columns on the steps of their classical Temple to Nobility. From what I’ve discovered about Miss Lawrence, she’d have had them ducking for cover with a few well-chosen epithets and perhaps a wolf whistle.”

  “She’s still on course for Four Lamps though,” MacFarlane commented, poking a stubby forefinger at the notorious junction of four main roads. “Our very own Red Light District, with the houses of ill repute along Maids Causeway, the taverns in King Street and the wide open, unlit spaces of Midsummer Common. Wouldn’t like to think a lass of mine was negotiating Four Lamps without an armed escort.”

  “I agree it would take some nerve, but nerve I think our girl had. And, let’s not forget, she’s now almost in home territory. Her office is here, on the other side of the crossroads, overlooking the common. She could skirt around on the north side and nip down Brunswick Walk, close to the parade of posh houses, then follow along to the Cutter Ferry Bridge. After that, it’s past the boathouses and she’s home and dry.”

  “But someone distracted her. Between her office on Midsummer Place and
the bridge, she met her killer. By chance? Possible. Was he waiting for her? If he was, he knew her regular route. Did he come out from the city centre? Following her? Trailing her and putting off catching up with her until the moment was favourable for a lethal encounter?” MacFarlane summarised with a sigh. “I dunno. It still takes a lot of pluck for a girl on her tod to do that.”

  “Courage derived from drinking two sherries?”

  “Hardly! Not with the size of the shots they dispense at that pub! You’d need half a dozen to get you going. Perhaps she picked up an escort along the way? Someone she knew?”

  Redfyre nodded. “The doctor said she might well have known the man who strangled her. She was facing him at the time of death and put up no perceptible struggle. Any sightings, I wonder? I’ll get the blokes to do a knock house-to-house along her route.”

  Detective Sergeant Thoday was summoned to the office and briefed. He produced his own map of Cambridge from his pocket and spread it on the desk. “Got it, sir,” he said and pointed a finger north of the river. “Here’s Miss Lawrence’s home. Here’s the nearest bank on Chesterton High Street. It’s a branch of the Midshires. I’ll try them first.” He traced her route back from the place her body was found along the river bank. “Not many houses along her route, in fact. And the ones there are in old alleyways, with back gardens running down to the river. I’ll start knocking here,” he pointed again, “and work my way along. I know a few characters in these streets from my beat-bashing days, and they’re always ready to have a chat. At that hour, there’s always somebody about, letting the dog or cat out, nipping down to the outside loo before retiring for the night. Worth a try.”

  MacFarlane smiled with satisfaction at the bluff confidence of the Cambridge man. “Excellent, Sarge! That will free the inspector to do his hospital visiting.” He turned to Redfyre. “Give the young lady my regards, will you? And remember—she gets no shoes until you’re satisfied you’ve squeezed everything you can from her.”

  Chapter 10

  Redfyre introduced himself at the reception desk, where he was warmly welcomed by the nurse on duty.

  “Yes, Inspector Redfyre, I’m pleased to report that Miss Proudfoot is doing well. Though I should warn you that since you saw her immediately after the event, the contusions have become evident. She’s quite a picture this morning! All the glorious colour of the Fighting Temeraire! Luckily, no bones are broken, and other injuries are superficial. However, Matron asked me to pass on a request. In cases of blows to the head—and clearly we have one here—we really prefer that our patients spend a day or two under observation. But Miss Proudfoot insists that she is perfectly well and intends to leave our care as soon as she can arrange to sign herself out. She leads a busy life, she tells us.”

  “Indeed she does. And she’s a strong-minded young lady. I’m grateful that you’ve managed to detain her as long as you have.”

  “Matron is hoping you will be able to exert some influence with our patient to encourage her to stay on at least one more night, Inspector.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sister.” Redfyre smiled. The hierarchy was as meticulously respected in the nursing profession as in the military. Constant observance of rank and use of titles was drummed into the women who staffed the hospitals from their first day in uniform. The best talent rose to the position of “sister,” which Redfyre translated as “captain”; the supremely able rose to be “matron.” And where in army ranking would one place a matron? “General,” at least, he decided. Though in the case of Stella Foxton, “field marshal” might have been perfectly appropriate. With a matron of her calibre in charge of the Great War, it really would have been over by the first Christmas, with all sent home with a flea in their ear, guns and footballs confiscated until they could behave themselves.

  “Matron can make herself available, should you wish to consult her, Inspector.”

  “Ah. Well . . .” He hesitated. He’d fenced with this matron on one or two occasions and lost each skirmish. “No need to distract her from her more pressing duties, I’m thinking, Sister.” he lowered his voice and confided, “Just a routine visit. I shall be in and out in no time.”

  Her slanted smile and nod told him that was what she wanted to hear.

  Before going up to see the patient he was careful to ask if any other visitors had presented themselves. Yes, at nine o’clock that morning Miss Proudfoot had had two callers, he was told.

  “What? Two?” he questioned. “You were asked to admit no one but Miss Stretton before I arrived.”

  “The first was, indeed, Miss Stretton, bringing a suitcase full of clothes for the patient as we had requested, Inspector. The second was her brother.”

  “Brother?” Redfyre reacted with alarm. “Miss Stretton’s brother?”

  “No, no!” The nurse produced the visitors’ book and pointed to an entry. “The patient’s brother.”

  He made out “E. Stretton” in an illegible flourish and “S. R. Proudfoot” in a neat, clear hand. Just asking to be read, he thought with suspicion.

  “The gentleman accompanying her was Mister Proudfoot.” The sister gave a defiant shake of her flounced linen cap and fixed him with a challenging eye. “The request was referred to Matron, of course. Miss Stretton is well-known to her and Matron had no hesitation in admitting her in the company of the patient’s own brother. He left twenty minutes later with Miss Stretton. He brought such a pretty little vase with one white rose in it. So elegant!” Her eyes closed, her nostrils flared and her starched pinny heaved in a sigh. Mr. Proudfoot, it seemed, had made quite an impression on the sister. She collected herself and carried on. “We’ve put our patient in a single private ward on the third floor, rather out of the way. I’ll call a porter to take you up, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Sister. Before I go up, I shall need a description of Mr. Proudfoot. Pernickety, time-wasting nuisance you’ll think me, but I always say to myself, ‘Better safe than sorry!’”

  “That is quite understood. We have our own watchword: ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ We count the benefits of that every day in catgut inches.”

  “Were you on duty at that time, Sister? . . . Good!”

  He produced his notebook and wrote down every word of the succinct description she gave him, pausing only slightly in surprise as she confided the last telling detail in a discreet undertone.

  Large south-facing windows were flooding the room with sunshine when he opened the door to the small ward. Juno was sitting cross-legged on the bed, swathed in a voluminous and very unbecoming gray cotton hospital gown which seemed to have been designed to slide off her slender shoulders. Her face lit up at the sight of him, and she closed the newspaper she’d been reading.

  “Ah! At last! My hero!” She chuckled. “I’ve just been reading the paper’s account of my fall yesterday and the stalwart part the Cambridge policeman played in cushioning me from disaster. So it was you I bounced off and swooned over?” She gave him an appreciative look.

  “Inspector John Redfyre,” he murmured. “Glad to be of service.”

  “I’m sorry to greet you looking like less than the contents of last week’s laundry basket, but I thought red satin and high heels were a little outré for a Saturday morning. And if I had a wardrobe in here, that’s all it would contain, I’m afraid, seeing that they’ve scuttled off with the supplies Earwig brought in for me. But since you’re here, you can tell them to stop horsing around and hand it over.” Her bobby-dazzler of a smile beamed again, and Redfyre was duly dazzled. “They seem to think I’m trying to escape! As though I’d leave before I’d seen and thanked you. Now, don’t stand about in the doorway, John—do you mind if I call you John? You did save my life, so it seems a bit unfriendly to call you inspector in the circumstances.”

  “‘Inspector Redfyre’ will do to start with, Miss Proudfoot. When you know me better, you can call me ‘Inspector.’ And I can’t claim
to have—” His smile must have defused his brusque comment, since she grinned back and interrupted him.

  “Oh yes you can. It says so in the daily rag. And anyway, I remember your face looking down at me when I came to my senses. You were holding my hand in such a reassuring way.”

  “I was searching for a pulse, I believe.”

  “Well, of course you were. So glad you found one! Now, I expect there’s lots you want to ask me. Come and sit on this chair.”

  He approached and found that, with his knees in a state of quivering indiscipline, he would be glad enough to sit down. He restrained himself from loosening his collar. The atmosphere in the room was overheated, over-bright and heavily scented by a parade of bouquets of flowers lined up on the windowsill, each one accompanied by a florist’s card. The girl’s chattering liveliness added to his discomfort, as did her unconvincing attempt at flirtation. Any assumption of intimacy from a subject raised his hackles and shortened his responses. He turned the chair round so that he could face her and avoid squinting into the sunlight. A petty manoeuvre, but it was all he could do in this alien territory to assert his authority. When in doubt, move the furniture around.

  A dour detective inspector in size ten brogues, overheating in his trench coat and agitatedly turning the brim of his fedora in nervous hands, was no match for this sunlit, bare-footed imp. She had all the moral advantage of the injured party, which she quite literally was; he could just catch sight of (and suspected he was being granted a sight of) a sticking plaster on one scraped shoulder. Her left wrist was bandaged, the forearm streaked in the purple of iodine and the yellow of an ointment of some description, and on her left eye was a shiner equal to any he’d seen on a bar brawler on a Sunday morning. The other eye, blue as he remembered, shone back at him, full of mischief. Her fair hair, which had been plaited and coiled elegantly around her head the previous evening, hung loose in waves on her shoulders.