Diana's Altar Read online

  A box of Swan Vestas and a bundle of tapers came neatly to hand on the altar and she proceeded to light four more fat wax candles.

  “That’s better! Now, tell me if I may be of help. My bag’s just outside in my bike basket. I have everything from sticking plaster to a shot of morphine. Ambulance perhaps? If you’re walking wounded, I can whistle up a taxi home. There’s bound to be one waiting in the market place.”

  Further to reassure a potential patient, she pulled off her hat, shook out her hair and approached the motionless figure in the pews. He extended a trembling hand from the depths of his cloak, gave up the attempt at greeting and began to cough again. Adelaide’s heart sank at the sight of a trace of blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Tuberculosis? In her London hospital posting she’d seen many cases of this killer disease. The stranger could well be in the last stages of consumption, poor fellow. What on earth was he doing here? Was he a leftover from last night’s gloom-and-doom soirée? Deserted by the rest of the congregation?

  She hurried to his side and captured the hand to take a pulse rate. The hair she had taken for silvery-grey in the candlelight was, she noted as she came closer, an ash-blond colour, the thick, shining hair of a young man. The old-fashioned garment she had assumed to be a Hallowe’en get-up or an opera cloak was, at close sight, a tweed overcoat slung about his shoulders. It was hard to guess his age from his features since they were twisted into a mask of pain, though the eyes were unclouded and sharp as he returned her quizzical gaze.

  He steadied his breathing and managed a few more words, “Not raven. Not wren. It would appear I’ve been sent the services of a golden eagle. They used to release them over the forum at the funerals of Roman emperors, you know, to give those undeserving scallywags a lift up to heaven. Are you my soul bearer?” His expression of earnest enquiry thawed into amusement and Adelaide realised that she was looking at a very handsome man. “You’ll be needing a strong pair of wings! My soul comes with heavy baggage, I’m afraid. Whatever you are and whoever sent you, you’re welcome, my dear. At the last, it’s good not to be facing the void alone.”

  “No one’s facing a void, sir. I won’t hear talk of voids! If this is consumption you’re suffering from, we can do wonderful things for it these days . . .”

  The brazen lie was accepted for the groundless but well-intentioned reassurance it was, with a knowing eye and an ironic twist of the mouth. “I’m not consumptive though I fear I am dying. Here, give me your hand.”

  He grasped her wrist and, with his remaining strength, began to draw it beneath the folds of his coat towards his heart.

  It took all of her determination not to recoil from the touch of his cold fingers as they guided her unwilling hand deeper below the layer of tweed to slide over a silken waistcoat and, though she had never given voice to surprise and horror in the presence of a patient before in her life, Adelaide knew she would never come closer to uttering an expression of revulsion than at this moment. Her fingers had come to a halt against the handle of a knife sticking out of the man’s body.

  “Don’t take hold of it!” he whispered urgently. “If you pull it out, you’re like to drown both of us in a fountain of blood—though, of course, you must know that. Just be aware that it is there. I don’t want you to handle the implement. The police will doubtless decide to test it for fingerprints—they’re sharp fellows, our local plod—and I want them to be certain that they find only traces of the person responsible.” He took three shallow breaths before he could go on. “Which is to say: my own prints. I have left no letter of confession behind—events outpaced me in the end—so I would be very grateful if you would hear this as my oral suicide statement. I wouldn’t wish anyone else to be sought in connection, as they say.” His voice was growing ever more uncertain but the urgency to communicate was unabated. Adelaide murmured encouragement, held him gently by the shoulders and leaned closer, doubting that he had the force to continue.

  He took another painful breath and, eyes holding hers, started on his confession: “Mea culpa! My sin. My crime. Suicide is still held to be a crime, I think, in this benighted country of ours? Am I getting this right?”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “My God is my witness to this, his . . .”

  The words stopped abruptly. A last flash of appeal from the ice-blue eyes before they closed and he was gone.

  An unbearable moment. The body’s gallant struggle for one more breath, the mind’s impulse to make contact with another mind even on the verge of extinction—all human energy was gone in the fall of an eyelid. In a very unprofessional way, Adelaide tightened her grip on his shoulders to shake him back to life, unwilling to accept that the irreversible moment had come, desperate as ever, to stand toe to toe, fist to fist with Death and beat him away from his victim.

  “I’ll bear witness to that too, miss . . .”

  The voice, shockingly loud in the sudden stillness, but measured and reassuring, came from behind her and to the left.

  Risby took a hasty step back, seeing the doctor’s reaction to his tap on the shoulder. She gasped and shuddered and turned terrified eyes on him.

  “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!”

  “Constable!” Adelaide regained her composure and gave him a shaky smile. “It’s all right! I’m really pleased to see you! Don’t be concerned—nothing else could startle me after this. When—how . . . ?”

  “I followed you down here. Not the best place for a young lady to be, especially not at this time of year. Constable Risby of the Cambridge Police Force. You were so busy with the gentleman, you didn’t hear me coming in. That’s a thick carpet. Is he a gonner, doc?”

  “He is, indeed, a gonner, Constable. A lucky gonner, too, you might say, with a doctor and a policeman dancing attendance in his last moments.”

  “Don’t think lucky’s the right word, poor bloke, if I correctly heard all that stuff about blood and fingerprints.”

  “Well, no. Not when you’ve got a knife handle sticking out of your chest and you’re confessing to having put it there yourself. I think you’d better take a look under here, Constable.”

  “Thank you, miss.” He turned his own flashlight on the scene. “Stabbed in the chest area. Dagger handle protruding. Five inches. Silver. I’ll put that in my report. Do you recognise the deceased?”

  “I’ve never seen him before. I’ve been away from Cambridge for years. I know no one outside the practice.”

  Risby stared more closely at the dead man. “I think I’ve seen him somewhere . . . that hair . . . around town perhaps, but I can’t put a name to him. With a coat like that, he’s definitely not a rough sleeper or one of the drunks who lounge about in the parks. Not that they would venture inside a church anyway. I wonder who he is.”

  “Are we supposed to search his pockets to find out? Or should we avoid disturbing the body? What on earth do we do next?”

  After a moment of uncertainty, Risby’s training took over. “What we do is—you nip along to your surgery and phone the nick. Um . . . police headquarters in St. Andrew’s Street. I’ll give you the number. It’s well after six now. I should be clocking off but the super may be there already. This is definitely one for him to sort out. Tell him what happened and say I’ll stay here by the body awaiting his orders. Can you do that, miss?”

  “Ten minutes, Constable. And I’ll come straight back to tell you what he says.” She cast a glance at the features visible beneath the helmet. Thin, drawn and very young. “I say—will you be all right? I mean—in this spooky place, left alone with a dead body?”

  “I worked the Midsummer Common Killings last year, miss,” he offered cryptically. “Kind of you to ask though.”

  “Well, good luck! Crikey, what a night. Two corpses through my hands in as many hours!”

  “Goes with the job, I suppose, miss,” Risby commented, seemingly unsurprised.
“Yours and mine.” He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling a need to say something more, something to alleviate the pain and exhaustion that quenched her pretty features. “No one wants to die alone, even if they did bring it on themselves. The gentleman seemed pleased to know you were there, holding his hand at the last.”

  “Fat lot of use I was!”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . I’d say you brought him the only comfort available to him in his situation.” And, greatly daring, “Can’t think of a nicer face to be looking at when the lights go out, miss. He did have a bit of luck there. Another few minutes and it could have been mine.”

  Chapter 4

  “Superintendent! Superintendent Hunnyton!”

  The landlady knocked again on the door of the first floor set of rooms. The sound reverberated down the corridor and risked rousing all the inhabitants of the respectable Victorian boarding house, apart, it seemed, from the superintendent himself.

  Mrs. Douglas sighed in exasperation at the continued silence from the CID man’s quarters, and she looked anxiously along the row of closed doors. Police activity on the premises, no matter how legitimate, was bound to create a bad impression. She didn’t want her paying-guest establishment to acquire an undeserved reputation for dawn raids by the constabulary. “I’ve got someone with me. Someone you ought to see,” she hissed, all too aware of cocked ears behind doors, then added coaxingly, “Come on, Adam! Show a leg! You’re wanted.”

  She opened the door an inch, put her ear to the crack and was rewarded with a cheery bellow, “Well, that’s always nice to hear! But hang on a minute, Hannah, while I chuck these two floozies out. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  Thumping and banging and theatrical yawning went on for a minute or two and finally, clad in a brown velvet dressing gown, Hunnyton appeared, scratching and snuffling like a grizzly bear awakened in mid-sleep. He flung the door open and blinked out at the startled face and gangly frame of the uniformed constable waiting to see him. Alternately snorting and giggling, Hannah Douglas, duty done, was already making for the stairs.

  “Ah! Good morning, young man! It’s PC Risby, if I don’t misremember? Won’t you come in?” The voice was deep but warmed by a geniality at odds with the bear-like appearance. “Glad to see you survived the night, lad. I’m not normally at home to the police before breakfast. To what dire emergency do I owe the favour of your company this bright a.m.? I say—it is a bright a.m., isn’t it? I haven’t had time to peek outside.”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. It’s nearly seven and the sun’s just up. Looks like we’re in for another good day.” Risby ran out of conversation and stood awkwardly, eyes riveted on the inspector’s bare feet. It was kinder, he felt, not to look at the dishevelled hair, the unshaven chin and the blue eyes blinking away sleep.

  “Well, as you’re here, Risby, you might as well make yourself useful. Step inside. Go and draw the curtains back and let the day in while I put my socks on. And while I’m doing that, you can tell me why I awoke to a police knock-up instead of an arousing tickle from rosy-fingered Dawn.”

  The constable swallowed. To his embarrassment, he found his eyes had betrayed him by skittering beyond the open door to the tumbled bed, in dread of detecting the presence of a leftover tart flexing her fingers. Well, he’d fallen for that one! Better watch out. He reminded himself that this bloke was known to be a strange one. Oh, a cracker at the job—none better—but a teaser. Spoke in riddles. Sometimes even in a foreign language. Thankful to have an excuse for turning his back on the superintendent, Risby crossed the room and set about attending to the curtains and heaving sash window panes up and down. “First things first, sir. Mrs. Douglas said as I was to be sure and tell you she’s put the kettle on and the stove can cope with a fry-up in five minutes.”

  The superintendent grunted. “And the second thing? Which, if I’m not mistaken, will cancel out the first?”

  “Ah, yes, sir. Immediate summons to the city centre. There’s been an incident requiring your attention. Sorry about the breakfast.” He paused for a moment, his eyes slipping dreamily out of focus. “And she had a basket of fresh mushrooms on the table . . .”

  Hunnyton ran a concerned eye over the officer’s scrawny limbs. Hardly any flesh on those bones. In these days of depression, the land was still far from being awash with milk and honey and pay was not good in the ranks. He guessed that the lad could count on a slice of bread and dripping at best when he got home to a cold stove after ten hours on the beat.

  “I’m just coming off night duty,” the young copper explained, aware of Hunnyton’s appraisal. “Quiet shift considering it’s been Hallowe’en. No hijinks on the river. No malarky of any sort. But, on my way back to the station to clock off, I encountered something a bit odd going on at All Hallows Church . . .”

  “There’s always something a bit odd going on at All Hallows,” the superintendent commented dryly. “Especially after dark. It’s an odd church. Not exclusively university, not civilian either. An uneasy mix of Town and Gown, I’d have said. The clientele don’t welcome police intrusion into their devotions and idiosyncrasies. They’re a law—possibly even a religion—unto themselves. So long as they don’t draw too much attention we look the other way. The occasional black candle on the altar isn’t going to trouble anyone. Certainly not God—if he’s looking—and, more pertinently, not the Cambridge CID. Unless someone’s defrocked the vicar and hung him from the flagpole, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  The constable refused to be discouraged. “It’s worse! And I wouldn’t want to keep Doctor Hartest waiting about with a dead body in that creepy hole, sir . . .”

  “Hang on, lad! You’ve missed a page! Doctor Hartest? Adelaide Hartest?” Without thinking the superintendent found himself miming abundant hair and generous curves and stopped himself in mid-gesture.

  Too late. He had earned the constable’s scorn. “Yes, sir. That Doctor Hartest. A very recognisable lady,” he replied, delivering a prim rebuke.

  “What in hell was she doing in the church at this hour?”

  The superintendent’s question was automatic and not directed particularly at the constable, but the reply came swiftly: “I didn’t presume to enquire, sir. It’s a free country. If the lady wishes to attend early morning mass it’s no concern of the Cambridge Constabulary. Which doesn’t stop me from casting a watchful eye, however.”

  “You’ve made your point!”

  “She was just coming off duty. She’s been on night shift this week—like me. A man has died, sir. Death witnessed by the doc who was on site attending to him at the time. She confirms the deceased died of a dagger blow to the heart or thereabouts.” He used his hands to indicate the position of the fatal wound. “Difficult to be precise seeing as how the victim—if you can call him that—was sitting slumped over in a pew.”

  Hunnyton’s reaction was all the constable could have hoped for: “Good God! Is she all right? What in hell was Adelaide doing getting mixed up with that louche bunch of scoundrels? Well come on lad! Spit it out! What’s going on?”

  “She’s all right. No evidence of scoundrels in the vicinity, sir. In fact, no evidence of foul play. But suicide is what’s been going on—and that’s bad enough. I was in attendance in time to hear the gent’s confession . . . No, sorry, sir, he’s not been identified. Died in her arms before he could tell us.” A frown and a hesitation followed then, wondering, “Funny, that . . . It’s as though he expected us to know who he was. Anyhow . . . I didn’t interfere with the body or the scene, sir. I stood guard and asked Miss Hartest to phone the station from her surgery. It was the nearest telephone. She nipped off to that house in Trumpington Street where she works—”

  “And lives,” supplied the superintendent. “She’s got a set of rooms up on the third floor.”

  “Well, she got hold of Inspector Jukes, still on duty. He decided this was no case for uniform. He wanted it done di
screetly, not on the phone with telephonists and landladies listening in, and said we ought to get you down there straight away, seeing as you are the one who handles these toffs. Erm . . . liaises with the upper classes, sir.”

  “A toff, eh? How do you know he was a toff, Risby, if you have no ID for him?”

  “Posh voice, nice manners, fifty-quid coat . . . even the dagger hilt sticking out of him was silver. Hallmarked. I got the flashlight on it. It had one of those little lions stamped in the metal . . . you know . . .”

  “Constable, you don’t need to intrigue me with hallmarks! I don’t care if the weapon was purveyed by Asprey of Bond Street or nicked from the local Woolworths’ hardware counter. A dagger in some poor bugger’s chest gets my attention, whoever put it there. We’ll go straight round and you can fill me in on the way. Seems the best use of our time.” Hunnyton noted the constable’s expression of weary compliance and added, “Now listen, lad . . . Fancy a bit of overtime? An extra hour? I’ll sign for it. Look—you’ve done a full shift and had no breakfast as yet. While I’m stirring about in the bathroom and getting dressed, I want you to go down to the kitchen and order up a cup of tea and a bacon buttie for two. Best white bread, not the gritty stuff I had yesterday. Oh, and tell Mrs. Douglas some fried mushrooms in there would be appreciated. Sharp’s the word. We’ll eat them as we go. Doctor Hartest is a tough young lady, but . . .”

  “S’all right, guv! The inspector was sending a bobby or two straight round to help out. Orders to relieve the doctor and secure the scene. They should be there any minute now.”

  Risby was taking the weight off his feet in Mrs. Douglas’s armchair, halfway down his mug of tea and halfway through an account of the film he’d enjoyed at the Tivoli on Friday night, when Hunnyton joined him in the kitchen. Risby fell silent and passed an anxious eye over his boss. The governor’s dark suit, college tie, shining city brogues and brushed hair made a favourable impression on the young policeman. The appearance of a ready-packed Gladstone bag—his “murder bag”—in his hand was a reassuring indication that he was taking the matter very seriously. Risby could not hold back a smile of approval.