My dear child! I hear from Earwig that you have survived to toot another day!
Well done! I’m designing a medal to pin to your brave bosom!
Christopher Coote had sent a single pink hyacinth in a pot with a typed florist’s note:
Juno,
We must speak as soon as you are up and about!
I’m worried about you. I’m worried about me!
The Peelers think I pushed you! CC
A bunch of mixed freesias gave out much strong perfume, but rather less information:
A close shave! Well survived! Remember:
“A friend loveth at all times, and a sister is born for adversity.”
Your loving sissa,
M
Redfyre reminded himself to give a good shake to Juno’s family tree.
The Master of St. Barnabas had managed, in spite of his own tribulations to communicate. No flowers, Redfyre assumed, as the handwritten note stood by itself.
We met in near-tragic circumstances last evening. I was delighted to hear you are doing well and send good wishes for your speedy recovery.
May I say how very much I enjoyed your performance?
Richard Henningham
Lastly, the white rose in a Lalique vase that had so touched the nurse at reception.
The single white bud stood proudly in a four-inch-high glass vase of great beauty. The cameo pattern of gray over a white background was a misty swirl of Art Nouveau wild flowers. Lovely, but was it actually Lalique? He didn’t think so. Puzzled, Redfyre lifted it from the shelf and peered at it more carefully. With satisfaction, he saw between two curling petals a signature in cameo: Gallé. Émile Gallé, a Frenchman whose workshops in Nancy in northeast France had produced last century what Redfyre considered to be artwork superior to that of the better-known Lalique.
Frowning, he replaced it and turned his attention to the handwritten florist’s card propped against it.
Angels are bright still, and when the brightest falls . . .
My arms are outstretched.
A
Another well-wisher who felt confident enough to take liberties with the original text, adjusting the Bible and Shakespeare to carry their own meaning. “M” and now “A.” Well, “A” of the Outstretched Arms, he reckoned, must be a well-heeled chancer. Redfyre knew the value of the vase and had a good idea where “A” might have found it. He looked about him to be sure he wasn’t being observed. He took out the rosebud and popped it in amongst the freesias, poured the water down the sink, wrapped the vase in his handkerchief and slipped it into his inside pocket.
“Oh, sorry, sir! We thought the room had been vacated.”
The two puzzled girls in trainee nurses’ uniform were standing hesitantly in the doorway, mops in hand, dragging a trolley laden with clean linens.
“Ladies! Come in and carry on! I’m just organizing the removal of these flowers. I wonder, could you have them put in a box and ask a porter to bring them down in the lift to the car park? He’ll find my car just to the left of the front door.”
He swiftly gathered up the cards and slid them into his other inside pocket before returning to the reception desk, where he brandished his notebook briefly in comic triumph and told the nurse that he would be in his car awaiting delivery of the box of blooms.
“Oh, Inspector . . .” She reached under the desk and gingerly brought out yet another floral offering. “This arrived while you were upstairs. By courier. You might like to put it with the others. And here was the envelope with it.”
“Why not! I’ll take it off your hands right away.”
“Careful now! It’s awfully prickly!”
He put on his gloves to handle the object and made his farewells, eager to take the latest piece of florist’s art off to the privacy of the Riley’s front seat where he could examine it at leisure.
Settling into the deep security of the leather interior, he shivered not with cold, but at the sight of the wreath he had just been handed.
It was well constructed. But, having conceded this much, his admiration lapsed. It was an intricately contrived weaving together of winter greenery. He recognised the dark green of holly, ivy, cypress, mistletoe and yew. Unusually, there were no cheery red holly berries or mysterious milky white of mistletoe to enliven the wintry foliage; these had been stripped away to give place and emphasis to a trail of purple-black berries borne by a small, glossy-leaved plant that twined its way between the sprays. Unpleasant. Repellent, even. What was it? Buckthorn? Some garden version of the wild English hedgerow plant, he decided. Whatever it was, it had the slick, deep colour of poisonous deadly nightshade. Analyzing the contents and structure helped him to dampen the overlying sinister effect of the whole. And the sinister intent could be in no doubt, taken together with the black satin bow and ribbons that trailed from it. It was a funereal wreath. The sort of thing you’d throw on a coffin before the first shovelful of earth fell. Or weave to decorate Satan’s altar.
Recoiling in disgust, he noted that the envelope was addressed to Miss Proudfoot in black-inked block capitals. He opened it. He saw one line, in the same hand:
pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall.
When a porter appeared, carrying a box of Juno’s flowers, he helped him to lower it onto the back seat of the Riley and put the additional offering on top. He would suppress it. She’d suffered enough; no reason to frighten the poor girl any further. But, with anger beginning to burn bright, Redfyre knew at that moment that if he could have laid hands on the soul who’d sent the wreath, he would have made him eat it. Every poisonous berry and sharp prickle.
He reflected for a moment on the quality of a girl who could inspire, on the one hand, a carefully contrived black-hearted curse and, on the other, a flawless beauty spontaneously offered by—surely?—a lover?
Redfyre had to see a man about a vase. He checked his watch. Only two o’clock! God, it felt like midnight! But with a bit of luck, Marcus Milsom (Antiques and Objets d’Art) only a few strides away opposite the Fitzwilliam Museum, would be behind his counter and ready to talk about French art glass.
Milsom’s welcoming smile froze when he recognised Redfyre.
“Stand at ease, you old rascal! I haven’t come to tell you that last seascape you sold me wasn’t by Buttersworth. Because I’m sure you already knew that. Well, so did I, so no harm done. I shall be keeping it. The price wasn’t too bad, and I like it. Now, I’m assuming you’d like to creep back into my good books, eh?” A gulp and a widening smile gave him his answer. “Right-o. Take a look at this. I think you may recognise it.”
He produced the French vase and watched as the antiquary greeted it like a long lost son.
“No, I’m not selling it back to you. The lady who was given this as a gift this morning is very happy with it. I just need to find out who was the generous gentleman who bought it here before popping a choice rosebud into it to present to her in hospital.”
The information he received was readily given. The description matched exactly the one Sister had given him for the gent masquerading as S.J. Proudfoot, and included a detail which would clinch any future identification. One of those outstanding characteristics which polite witnesses only remember to mention at the very last, blurting it out almost as an afterthought for a run-of-the-mill account of height, weight, colouring and age.
Mr. “A” had apparently bowled over old Marcus with his good looks and charm, and gone on to impress him with his instant appreciation of the Gallé—well, who wouldn’t just adore the Gallé? Marcus had another one, its twin, out in the back if Redfyre was interested. The customer hadn’t bothered to bargain when a price was quoted, just coughed up in cash like the gent he was. No, nothing odd about that. Many transactions were conducted in cash rather than checks. It was encouraged in the trade, checks being such bouncers after th
e war. Couldn’t trust anyone these days . . . The price Marcus confessed to asking made Redfyre flinch and purse his lips. He remembered with a flush of embarrassment that he had offered the same girl a bag of sherbert lemons. But, he reminded himself, she had left this gift behind on the window ledge and fled to safety with Earwig in the country.
Could he be misinterpreting the intentions of this admirer? Mashers who hung about stage doors hoping for contact with a girl who’d taken their fancy were a scourge in London. Had one of these pests pursued Juno to Cambridge? Sir Reynold Brandon was homegrown and a nuisance rather than a danger, but Redfyre knew of one or two cases where a determined masher had tracked his target as a huntsman stalks deer through the heather. Unnerving behaviour for a woman whose profession exposed her onstage to the public’s eye. Six nights a week plus matinees. He knew that the danger point was generally reached when the deluded stalker finally woke from his fantasy and boiled over with rage and shame.
Such a man knew exactly where and when his prey would appear within range of his knife, bullet, bottle of face-scarring acid. He would enjoy the performance for one last moment of bittersweetness and make his way to the stage door for his lethal confrontation.
Had Juno rushed away in fear, knowing that the man who stalked her had suddenly closed the distance between them, even wormed or tricked his way into the confidence of her best friend?
Eager to be on his way, Redfyre left Marcus Milsom with the promise of a return visit to examine his glass stock in greater detail and made his way back to the car. He needed some lunch and thought he could find a congenial partner to eat it with very close by. Keeping his gloves on, he picked up the wreath again, then set off back into Addenbrooke’s.
As a visitor to the morgue, he felt he cut a suitably funereal figure. All he lacked was the tall top hat. He peered through the glass pane at the top of the door to the postmortem facility, saw that his quarry was up to his elbows in his work, and walked in.
“Great Heavens!” Doctor Beaufort exclaimed. “What’s this? The New Compassionate Policing? Every corpse the recipient of a funerary token of the Force’s esteem?”
“No, I’m inviting you to lunch. Bet you’ve eaten nothing since breakfast?”
“Not so lucky! It was Friday supper, if we’re being precise. Glad of the distraction. Give me a minute to finish here, and I’ll wash and be right with you. On one condition: that you leave that hideousness behind in the bin. I can’t afford to be seen out and about, bristling with floral tributes. Bad for business.”
“Gladly—but it’s evidence. I’m just about to drop it off round the back at the labs. I don’t want to send it with a note.”
“Forensics?” He looked again at the wreath. “Who needs forensics? I can tell you from here, those black berries aren’t poisonous, if that’s the bit you’re curious about. Rhamnus cathartica is what you’ve got there. Common buckthorn. Tiddled up a bit and tamed for horticultural production. The berries look jolly dangerous and they taste vile, I’m told, but are actually rather good for you. The Anglo-Saxons used to boil them up with honey to kill the bitter taste and use that as a laxative. Hence, cathartica.”
“Thought as much. In fact, it’s the ribbons I’m interested in with their lovely satin finish.”
“Oh? Ah, I see.”
“I’ll drop this off, then go and get us a table at the Anchor, shall I, while you’re scrubbing up?”
“Good. Mine’s a pint of IPA and a steak and kidney with mash.”
Beaufort dabbed the foam from his moustache with his napkin and sighed with satisfaction.
“You’ve been well-behaved and not asked me once if I have any results yet. So I’ll tell you—I have. Want to hear? I’m just about to dictate a preliminary report for MacFarlane, but it won’t do any harm to stay one step ahead of the old bugger.”
Redfyre grinned his encouragement.
“Look here, I haven’t quite finished yet, I hope that’s understood—”
“Of course. We hadn’t hoped for anything before tomorrow.”
“I had a bit of luck. The Lawrence parents were quick off the mark and arrived for the identification at eleven. We were only just prepared for them. No tears shed. Stony silence between them—I didn’t hear them exchange a word. The parents usually grasp each other’s hand for mutual comfort. These two didn’t. She chose to stand opposite her husband and fix him with a glare I wouldn’t have been able to sustain myself.
“But this is about their unfortunate daughter.” His voice took on its customary formal tone. “Louise Lawrence. Initial survey: I confirm everything I mentioned this morning in the semi-darkness on the riverbank. No evidence of a sexual motivation, none of any activity in that direction. Strangled. Left-handed? Right-handed? Impossible to say. Equal—and great—pressure exerted by two strong thumbs. Traces where his fingers dug in at the back of the neck so I can tell you his glove size. Same as yours. Big. Seven and a half. But, John, he wasn’t wearing gloves. His nails had left scratches and indentations. On a night like that, he would have been wearing gloves. Why take them off? To make his grip more certain? Or the better to enjoy the experience? Stinks of premeditation to me. The perpetrator left no physical sign of his presence. I say ‘his’ because the chances are nine out of ten that it was a man, based on hand span and strength necessary to accomplish the task of killing. It wouldn’t have been all that easy. The victim, under all those clothes, was a well-muscled girl. Did you have any idea? Rather odd for a girl who spent her working day behind a desk.”
“Which muscles do you mean? Running? Tennis?”
“Tennis, yes, possibly. Or fencing—that would fit the bill. The right arm is more developed than the left. But I’m thinking of the body in general. I’d have said: dancer, but more bulky, less willowy. If she were a horse, you’d say she was bred for speed and strength. A good hunter. If a man, well, a pentathlete or something of that nature. Broad shoulders and long strong legs.”
Unguardedly, Redfyre grimaced.
“Oh, nothing untoward. No, no! She was an attractive girl, but it’s unusual to see muscles most girls have never used in their lives in a fine state of development. She could have put up a fight, I’d have thought. And there’s the heaving and pushing involved in getting her body into the river. The average woman wouldn’t be able to undertake it.”
“Do you have a clearer idea of the timing?”
“Oh, yes! Very clear! Body temperature was a useless indication—impossible to calculate with any accuracy given the freezing conditions. I’ve taken a few readings, but I’ve not had the time to do the calculations and make them sound impressive for the record yet. They’ll tell you nothing useful. But the stomach contents? Now they were revealing. Sherry, a hard-boiled egg and a ham sandwich! And, to top it all off, very shortly before death, a cup of cocoa. Puzzle that. Do they serve cocoa in Cambridge pubs these days?”
“Pickled egg, would that be?”
“If you say so. Urgh! Still, the state of progress through the digestive tract tells me she died at about ten o’clock, give or take half an hour either side. If you can find a pub that served such a combination last evening—”
“We’ve got it! At least, three out of the four items. I can’t account for the cocoa. And we have the lad who was drinking with her.”
“Crikey, that was quick! He must have been waiting for you on the doorstep at the nick to hand himself in!”
“In fact, I’d booked him in already the night before. Minutes before the murder was committed, if your calculations are exact.” Redfyre laughed. “Now, that’s what we call the New Policing!”
“You have him under lock and key?”
“No. I let him out. He doesn’t have the stomach, the head or the hands for it.”
“Well, read my report when it comes through. There may be something in there that has more meaning for you than for me. Hairs on clothin
g, human and dog—that sort of thing. Scrapings from the soles of her boots we’re still waiting for. Oh, and—I think I can divulge this, she’s your case isn’t she?—the other girl, the one who fell down the stairs at St. Barnabas Chapel?”
“The trumpeter? She’s not a corpse yet. Only just evaded your clutches, though.”
“That lady. Well, a professor of toxicology nipped down to confer with me. A lot of cross-pollination goes on between them and our pathology department, you can imagine. He was rather keen for me to understand the underlying dangers of a common folk remedy for shock—smelling salts, no less! He delivered his lecture and illustrated it with an interesting exhibit. A little silver inhaler job that you’d made off with from the scene of the near-crime? Certainly made me think, and what he’d found had quite unnerved him. He’s rung in a report to MacFarlane, so you might as well hear it.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Mainly salts of ammonia, but with an added ingredient. Mercury cyanide. It’s an innocent-looking, though toxic, white crystalline powder. Similar to the ammonia. A very small quantity ingested or inhaled will kill you. And here’s the intriguing bit—it’s tasteless and odorless! All you’d smell is the sal volatile.”
“And that’s bad enough! A perfect camouflage, you’d say. Frightening! How does anyone get their hands on a supply of this mercury cyanide?”
“Well the odd thing is, it’s used in one or two perfectly innocuous ways. In the manufacture of antiseptics, for instance. Photographers use it in their dark room hocus-pocus activities. It’s also thought to have been prescribed with some success in the treatment of syphilis, though this use is very hush-hush and known only to members of the medical profession and the well-heeled clients they’re using as guinea pigs.” He fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. “You know what my profession is like when it comes to discretion. The first we ordinary mortals hear of a breakthrough is in the pages of Nature. No, this stuff’s not generally available. Different story in France, though! Stroll into any French pharmacie, and you can buy a box of ampoules over the counter. Monsieur Leclerc, Rue Napoleon in Calais, would probably be your nearest supplier, or you can make a weekend of it and pop over to Paris. No shortage there of helpful corner chemists.”
Fall of Angels Page 17
