Fall of Angels Read online

  Carefully, Redfyre said, “No wonder the professor was issuing dire warnings! Did he mention the symptoms of anyone who might have been unfortunate enough to inhale the stuff?”

  “Yes. Breathlessness, nausea, dizziness, headache, confusion, quickly followed by coma and death. Not really alarming until the two final stages are reached, of course. The earlier ones are not uncommon and are symptoms of a variety of other less sinister medical afflictions. In fact, they are closely associated with exactly the type of female complaints which normally call forth the use of smelling salts. Clever, eh? Redfyre, that cocktail was lethal. And the last thing you’d want anyone to shove up your nose if you were already unconscious, I think?”

  “No. And of course, if the worst should occur, in the case of a girl who’s just tumbled dramatically down a dozen steep stairs headfirst in the view of a hundred people—well, one would ascribe her death to the bleedin’ obvious, wouldn’t one?”

  Beaufort gave his evil pathologist’s grin. “Unless she were lucky enough to end up on my slab!”

  Chapter 12

  It was past three o’clock, but the skies over Cambridge had cleared. Redfyre calculated that he had at least an hour of useful light left in this interminable day as he parked his Riley on Maids Causeway and paused at the edge of Midsummer Common to get his bearings.

  His eye was caught by the caped figures of four uniform branch constables working their way across the cropped grass along the route Louise Lawrence might well have taken on her way home if she’d cut a corner. Backbreaking work, and Redfyre watched with sympathy and pride as, bent double, they nosed their way over the tussocky ground. The Common—the name this land had come by in the early Middle Ages was still appropriate. It was held in common ownership for the town. Any Tom, Dick or Harry was free to graze his cows here, to walk his dog, court his girl, chuck away his cigarette ends, vomit out the excess of beer downed in any of a dozen nearby pubs. Free to dump a body.

  One of the officers broke off on catching sight of him and waved with an urgency that made him hurry over.

  “Sir! Something here you might like to take a look at. Sergeant Thoday briefed us, so we know what we’re looking out for.” He led Redfyre to a narrow patch of earth, clear of both grass and snow. “Emergency water pipe repair. The workmen finished yesterday last thing. They kept at it by lamplight until the job was done. Six o’clockish, they put their spades away, the gaffer says. Loose, sandy infill. It can’t have been fully frozen over when a lady with a size six boot put her foot on it. Now, in the daylight, I reckon you’d stride over a patch like that—if you wanted to walk off the path anyway. It looks messy, and the sandy colour would stain your boots. But in the dark, you’d never notice it.”

  Redfyre peered at the clear imprint. “As you say, constable! Right foot, right size, right place, right time!” He touched him lightly on the shoulder in congratulation. “Stand up and take a butcher’s at this with me, will you?” He lined up the direction of the footprint with a forefinger and pointed.

  “Well, I reckon that, unless she did an about-turn, Miss Size Six is heading straight for that big house over there. The one on the corner.”

  “As you say! And it just happens to be next on my calling list.” His eyes narrowed as he focused on the grand house on Midsummer Place. “I wonder if she ever arrived. Perhaps someone knows.”

  Stirred by the excitement of the chase, the constable drew his attention back to the footprint. “If she ever got there! Sir, sir! Look again at this! It’s frozen over now and crisp as a plaster cast. But look again to the left edge of the heel. There’s a bicycle tyre print that just catches the edge of the boot print. Cutting over it! Someone riding or pushing a bike passed right behind her very soon after. Not walking with her, or the prints’d be some inches apart. He was tailing her, sir!”

  “Well spotted, constable! Make a sketch in your notebook for now, will you, and I’ll tell the sarge to get it photographed. Better take a plaster cast, too. Take steps to protect it overnight. Got plenty of tape, have you? Good. That’s vital evidence! Find me some more while the light lasts!”

  The semi-basement floor serving as offices for Messrs. Benson & Uppingham, Purveyors of Medicaments to His Majesty King George V and the royal family, were in darkness and clearly unoccupied late on a Saturday afternoon, but the three floors above where Mr. and Mrs. Benson lived were in use. Lamps were already being lit and, as he watched, Redfyre saw curtains being whisked across windows, preparing to keep out the twilight. Someone anticipating a cozy Saturday evening at home was shortly to be disturbed by a police presence. He tugged on the bell and waited. In the depths of the building, or perhaps in a courtyard behind, a dog gave a startled and menacing warning howl. He rang again, and after an annoyingly long interval, he heard someone approach the door.

  A young footman opened up, surly faced and suspicious, and announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Benson are not at home.”

  “Oh dear! They forgot to tell you.” He stepped inside, offered up his warrant card and added, “You may show me in and tell them that Detective Inspector Redfyre of the Cambridge CID is paying them a call. They are expecting me.” Firmly but politely, he handed the man his hat.

  Moments later the door to the drawing room on the first floor was being opened for him, to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Benson still at the tea table. He declined the offer of a cup of Assam, pleading a late lunch, but accepted the offer of a chair to sit on. Mrs. Benson, he noted, avoided his eye and continued to butter her crumpet, applying a thick layer of raspberry jam in a marked manner. A visit from the police was unwelcome at any time in a civilised home, but a teatime appearance was beyond acceptable. Mr. Benson at least gave Redfyre frowning attention.

  The inspector established that the pair had received the news of the death of one of their employees in the environs of the Common the previous evening, news conveyed by the girl’s father, who was both a family friend and business associate. Was Redfyre aware? Redfyre was. Customary phrases of condolence and sadness at the loss were exchanged.

  “I should like to establish as many facts as possible about the movements of your, um—”

  “She was my deputy office manager, Inspector. She answered directly to and was supervised by my manager, Mr. Philpott. George Philpott. He will show you when he returns to work next week that she signed the passbook and left the premises at her usual hour of five p.m. yesterday. I have already checked. We have no information regarding Miss Lawrence’s subsequent movements.”

  “I see, sir.” Redfyre made a note. “And your Mr. Philpott left at what time?”

  “At six, his usual time.”

  “Will you give me the names of any further employees who work regularly on the premises?”

  “I keep two typists, local girls. Miss Ada Drake, aged twenty-one, and Miss Grace Jewell, aged twenty. They also left at the earlier time of five o’clock.”

  Redfyre took down their names and home addresses while Mrs. Benson glowered at him over her teacup and enlarged on the information. “Having a concern for our staff’s welfare, we think it right to dismiss the ladies earlier than might be accepted as the usual, so that they may reach the safety of their homes before the evening sets in. Ada and Grace live on the same street, ten minutes’ walk away. They come and go together.”

  “We are a relatively small concern, but growing,” her husband supplied. “Here on these—what you call premises and what I call my home—we undertake the clerkly business of the operation. This is the official address for the company, but we naturally maintain a completely domestic appearance, en suite with the other houses in the terrace.”

  “Quite understood, sir. This is a sensitive and well-regarded part of town.”

  “Exactly! My factory in the east of the city, where our product is made and shipped, has a much more fully staffed office under the direction of a Works Manager.”

  Redfyre noted that t
he address he had for the factory at Frog End, Newmarket Road, would have sounded a lot less prestigious to clients, be they royal or plebeian, than Midsummer Place, Cambridge. He went on to ask the routine background questions on Louise Lawrence and her terms of employment, which were answered succinctly by Mr. Benson. He made a point of hearing a response from both husband and wife when he asked at what hour they had each last set eyes on Miss Lawrence. Mrs. Benson had not seen her since half past five on Thursday, the day before, as Mrs. Benson had left early on Friday morning to spend the day with her sister in Ely, where both ladies were involved in money-raising efforts—a knitting bee on this occasion—on behalf of the cathedral. She had commandeered the family motorcar for this expedition and returned with her chauffeur at six o’clock precisely. One’s servants worked to ever tighter schedules these days, she confided to Redfyre. Employers who disregarded their wishes in the matter of time-tabling found themselves deserted. Supply and demand, she admonished him, had absolutely to be born in mind. One hardly needed the economic astuteness of Maynard Keynes to appreciate that.

  Redfyre wondered silently whether Mrs. B’s economic astuteness told her that the cost of her chauffeured expedition to Ely in working hours and fuel amounted to many times the sum she had raised from knitting woolly scarves for the indigent poor as he listened on. Exhausted by her philanthropy, she had come straight upstairs to change as she normally did and had been lucky enough not to encounter any of the office staff. That must have been just after six.

  Mr. Benson had last seen Miss Lawrence when their paths had crossed at nine in the morning on Friday. She was arriving for work as he was leaving for the factory, and they had exchanged greetings in the hall.

  Redfyre interrupted him at this point to ask: “Friday. Payday, I believe? Indications are that she had received her pay packet. How was this managed?”

  “In the usual manner. I had left a sealed envelope in the drawer of her desk the previous evening, as she requested.”

  “Was this a perfectly secure means of transferring the pay?”

  “Of course. It has never yet failed. And why would it? My staff are chosen for their reliability and one hundred percent honesty. Philpott I pay by check, which he prefers. The girls, who are on a considerably lower rate of pay and may not even hold bank accounts, prefer cash.”

  Redfyre let him ramble on, thinking it was no bad idea if the man were to infer a suspicion on the unimaginative policeman’s part of intra-staff jiggery-pokery.

  “And how would you describe Miss Lawrence’s success in her post?” he asked blandly.

  “She did all that was asked of her and more,” Mr. Benson replied after a moment to reflect. “On a professional level, she was quick, insightful, able—and she was an excellent timekeeper, never once late. Always a good and surprising quality in a female.” His watery gaze skittered without emphasis over his wife.

  “My dear,” Mrs. Benson interrupted him, “you are being too kind. Inspector, my husband has an optimistic and forgiving nature. He picks out everyone’s best qualities for mention. I fear Miss Lawrence was very likely to be a temporary appointment. Without a degree, she could not expect to make much progress in a young industry which demands the very best scientific brains on one side and the most skillful business abilities on the other. With so many able young men released from wartime duties and emerging from their university courses, the connected firms of Lawrence and Benson have a large pool of talent to choose from. Miss Lawrence, Inspector, was not swimming in that pool.”

  “I’m wondering why her father arranged for her to work in the menial capacity you hint at, Mrs. Benson.”

  Marion Benson looked surprised and irritated that he should expect an answer to such a question. “She is—was—young, strong-willed, pernickety and thought herself better qualified than she was or ever could be. She expected to be successful in the cut and thrust of a man’s world, a flaw in her character which should have been eradicated by her parents at an earlier time. When she finished her expensive, and in our view, over-indulgent education, she came home and—oh dear—our families have been on friendly terms for decades, and I feel disloyal when I say it, but she made her parents’ life unbearable. She was not a girl to sit in a corner stitching and peacefully helping her mother run the household, no. Her father, at least, was aware of the problem and asked Sidney if he would take her on for experience at this, the commercial end of the business. She had already spent some time familiarizing herself with the work of the laboratory where, I’d inferred from certain things her mother breathed to me, she had outstayed her welcome.” She sighed and gave a tight, sour smile. “We did our best to employ in our office a girl who was never prepared to learn typing and stenography.”

  Had Miss Lawrence made a call at the house at sometime after nine that evening? Redfyre next wanted to know. The pair looked at each other in puzzlement for a second, then replied in unison: “Certainly not! Why would she?”

  Did they remember their guard dog barking at any time during the evening?

  Again, the response was an instant and mutual “No!”

  Whilst jotting down his notes, Redfyre had also been taking in details of the couple and their surroundings. He’d decided at once that Louise’s employer was certainly not love’s young dream. In early middle age, he was tall, but slim and pale, his graying hair at odds with his unlined and rather scholarly features. He looked, Redfyre reckoned, like a plant artificially forced along in a cellar. Someone had neglected to bring him into the light at the right moment, and now it was too late.

  No attempt to place him in a romantic liaison with the lovely young Amazon, Lois, was successful. Redfyre could barely envisage Mr. Benson in an intimate relationship with Mrs. Benson. She was a clear ten years his junior, in her mid-thirties he guessed, and undeniably the more forceful of the pair. Though Benson was doing most of the talking, he constantly referred to his wife. Redfyre had seen the same strained expression on faces in the back row of under-rehearsed amateur choirs as they glanced too often at their conductor for reassurance.

  His first impression of Marion Benson had been one of pink plumpness. She did not have the clear-cut features he might have looked for in a dominant partner. She had the ill-defined look of one whose chin would, in middle age, melt and flow like candle wax down into an undulation of chins. A more searching look revealed widely-spaced brown eyes, attractive and expressive, and the mouth that he had at first sight dismissed as a fitting destination for Charbonnel’s violet creams was capable of expressing firmness and derision. But humour? He couldn’t be sure. Impossible to tell. The situation was hardly conducive to light conversation.

  “Sidney was working out there at the factory until quite late, as he frequently does and returned here well after the staff had left,” his wife supplied crisply. “At about—oh, what would you say, Sidney—eight o’clock?”

  “At ten minutes before eight, my dear. I remember you asked me if I had time for a gin and tonic before dinner was to be served, and that’s always at eight. I hurried to change and accepted a dry sherry instead and went straight in to dinner clutching it. My wife and I spent the evening together. We have formed the habit of spending Friday evenings at home for the last year.”

  Redfyre shied away from any account he perceived to be a preconstructed alibi, and he sensed that one was about to be laid out for him. He decided to throw a spanner into the oiled works.

  “Miss Lawrence was very attractive. I would guess that such a fine-looking young girl must have acquired followers, admirers. I wonder what you have to tell me about intrigues in her personal life.”

  It was Mrs. Benson who replied with a laugh. “You want to know her secrets? ‘Well, I will tell you, if you solemnly promise to tell everybody else!’” she trilled.

  Her husband thought this hilarious and joined in what seemed to Redfyre a game for two players. “The inspector says thank you, and he wil
l make a point of repeating it. Ho! Ho! Ah, do I guess, Redfyre, that you’re not a fan of Oscar Wilde? My dear wife was quite the thespian in her youth and played the part of Mrs. Allonby, one of whose lines she has just given you. Well remembered, my dearest! And well delivered!”

  Marion Benson dimpled and smirked. “A Woman of No Importance, Inspector. It was on the wireless last night. We listened to it after dinner with our brandy and coffee. Second act. Five minutes in,” she explained.

  “The evening drama performance is something we have taken to hearing every Friday, as I was saying.” Mr. Benson was set on picking up his prepared speech. “Perhaps you yourself are an admirer of the British Broadcasting Corporation?” He drew Redfyre’s attention to a copy of the Radio Times, or The Official Organ of the BBC, as it proclaimed itself on the cover. The journal was sitting on a table handily alongside a magnificent nut-brown bakelite wireless set. “What a wonder it is to be able to tune in whenever one wishes to the very best of music and drama the country has to offer—and in one’s own drawing room! My dear wife risks becoming addicted to the pleasures on offer, I’m afraid, and I seriously suspect the wireless may be killing off the art of conversation.”

  “Sidney! I protest. Addicted? I always manage to resist Kiddy-Winks bedtime stories when the wireless starts up at five o’clock. And the hour they devote to ladies’ interests at six rarely fixes my attention. Yesterday’s subject—you’ll never believe this, inspector—was ‘Bringing Succour by Sleigh to the Outcast Siberian Lepers.’ A whole hour of soul-searching and wither-wringing as we were invited to struggle along with an intrepid lady adventurer by sledge over the frozen tundra! I switched off while still a thousand miles from our goal and didn’t retune until seven when 2LO broadcasts the first news of the day. I continued to listen whilst waiting for Sidney to return. The 2LO Light Orchestra was playing a selection of Russian favourites. Interspersed with contributions from the Savoy Light Opera Group . . .” Her annoying little voice pattered on, and Redfyre tried to hang on to the thread.