Fall of Angels Read online

  “Well no, because he has bad breath. He smokes, but pretends he doesn’t, and eats mints to cover it. Yuck! But I don’t think he’d go trying to put a hand up my skirt. He may have been taller than Lois, but physically he was no match for her. She’d have just laughed and thrown him over her shoulder. It would have been Philpott’s body you had to fish out of the Cam if he’d laid a finger on Lois.”

  Seeing his bemusement, Grace explained. “Lois took lessons in jujitsu, Sergeant. Every week on her afternoon off—Wednesday. She was very fit—played a lot of sport, danced and so on, but that Japanese fighting stuff was her real enthusiasm. She learned it from a Japanese couple who hold classes in the Cornhall. I was going to join up in the new year.”

  “And she was good at it. She won a black belt to hold her trousers up, or something.”

  “Most importantly, it gave her such confidence. She didn’t exactly swagger when she walked, but people seemed always to move out of her way.”

  “Oh, tell him, Gracie, about the thug with the dog!”

  Eyes gleaming, Grace was eager to oblige. “Why don’t we all rest on the seat over there for a minute—that’s where it all happened.” When they had settled, one on either side of the sergeant, she launched into her tale. “We were down here, the three of us, eating our sandwiches for lunch one day in September when a town ruffian came ambling by. Showing off at the sight of three girls in a row. He whistled at us, but we took no notice. Then he shouted something rude, and we went on munching our sandwiches. I could see that Lois was getting cross, but she did nothing about it. Didn’t even shout back. Not many would have been foolish enough to do that anyway, because he had a big dog in tow. And it looked as evil as its master.”

  “It was a Staffordshire bull or a mastiff or whatever they call them,” Ada said. “Ugly, scarred, growly thing. The sort they keep for the dog fights behind the Wrestlers pub.”

  “The lout wasn’t satisfied with our reaction, so he proceeded to find some fault with the poor animal and hitched it to that tree, right in front of us. He picked up a stick from the ground and started to beat it. Well that did it! Lois sprang up and moved in on him. She kicked the stick out of his hand faster than you’d believe possible. Pow! That made him yelp! I think she may have broken his wrist, because it went all floppy. And then she took a step back and waited for him to turn and come towards her. Well, he did. He was a lot bigger than Lois, but”—she shook her head in wonderment—“she caught him off-balance, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and threw him in a somersault onto the ground. He landed with quite a thump! I thought he might have broken his back, because he just lay there, groaning, Lois bending over him, grinning like a mad person. She kicked him in the shins and told him to get up, that she’d do it all over again.”

  “Lord! Silly girl! Brave, but silly! That could have been dangerous!” Thoday said.

  “That’s what we thought, and it was. She wasn’t dealing with other jujitsuists who knew the rules and bowed politely at the end of a bout. This was a big backstreet scrapper in a rage. I went and picked up the stick and threatened him with it, and Ada started jumping up and down and pointed across the park, shouting that the police were coming. They weren’t. Good bit of acting though. I was convinced! He picked himself up, swearing all the while. When he made towards the dog, Lois shouted at him. ‘Leave it! You’re not fit to own an animal!’ He did as she told him and went off at a quick trot.”

  “I hardly like to ask, but what became of the dog?”

  Grace grinned. “He’s still with us. Lois spoke to him nicely, shoved a potted meat sandwich into his mouth and took him back to the office. She told Mr. Benson that he really needed a guard dog for the house. And there he still is.” She glanced across the common towards the grand house on the corner of the place and looked saddened as a further thought struck her. “We walk him every day in our lunch hour.”

  Ada also suddenly seemed stricken. “He’ll miss her, Bruno will. We all will.” The brave face crumpled, the tears started, and Grace joined in the hiccups and snuffling and dabbing and the passing of handkerchiefs to each other.

  “Watch it! Grief is always catching,” Thoday told himself sternly, biting his lower lip, “but a police officer is immune. Oh, what the hell!” Without even bothering to look about him for witnesses to the scandalous scene, he flung an arm around each girl and hugged them both.

  “I say! So sorry to break in on an emotional scene but—needs must!” a warm baritone interrupted the wails and sniffles. “That’s my sergeant I believe you have in your joint grasp, ladies. Would you mind awfully releasing him to his duties?”

  Redfyre had been on his way to his next interview with Louise Lawrence’s mother via Cutter Ferry Bridge when he’d caught sight of his sergeant flanked by two young women, apparently out for a late afternoon stroll. In a spirit of mischief fueled by the depressing half hour he’d just spent with the Bensons, he’d dodged from tree to tree like a trainee plod honing his clandestine surveillance skills. So absorbed were they by their conversation, his three targets had not noticed his arrival until he was close enough to breathe down their necks. They all squealed and exclaimed in a very satisfying way as they sprang to their feet.

  To his credit, Thoday was swiftly in control of himself and the situation and, of all things, was performing an introduction. “Sir! Good afternoon, sir! What a stroke of luck meeting you here. I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Ada Drake and Miss Grace Jewell of Trafalgar Street? Miss Drake, Miss Jewell, may I present my commanding officer, Detective Inspector Redfyre of the Cambridge CID? Sir, the ladies were fellow workers of Miss Louise Lawrence and knew her well. They have been giving me a very useful witness account of her character and circumstances.”

  “Indeed! And there was I, suspecting the sergeant of double dalliance whilst on duty. I should have remembered that he is not an officer to be distracted from his task.”

  To his surprise, the girl Grace squared up to him. “Yes, you should. The sergeant stepped out here with us to have a bit of privacy. To hear our statements and view the scene of one of Miss Lawrence’s exploits. He’s been nothing less than correct and respectful.”

  Redfyre gave a deferential nod of the head. “I’m delighted, though not surprised, to hear that, Miss. He is indeed a rising star in the police force and a credit to us all.”

  She held his gaze long enough to satisfy herself that this imposing man meant what he said and then spoke to Ada. “Now, Ada, love, I think we’ve had our say. We ought to be going back and getting the tea on.” Grace turned to Thoday. “Nice meeting you, Sergeant. You’ve got our addresses and are welcome back to Trafalgar Street any time. Just say you’re a friend of Gracie’s.”

  Watching the girls hurry off, Thoday turned to Redfyre and murmured, “Thank you, sir. And thank the Lord it wasn’t the gaffer creeping up behind me! If MacFarlane had caught me in a flurry of female histrionics, I’d never have heard the last of it!”

  “Not sure that’s much of a compliment, Sarge, but I’ll take it as one.”

  “Sir, they did have some surprising things to tell me about the victim. How are you fixed? Do you want to hear them now or wait for my report?”

  “Now! Sit back down again and tell me how you managed to run to earth the very pair of girls I’d just put on my ‘to-interview’ list. And what on earth you said to be granted the Freedom of Trafalgar Street! I’ve got five minutes to spare before my next date with a lady. It would be useful to have another angle on Miss Lawrence before I talk to her mother.”

  Chapter 14

  He was met in the hallway by Beth, who managed to be both conspiratorial and alarmed. Her eyes were reddened, he guessed, from weeping, and she had changed into the appropriately dark uniform of a parlour maid. She was wearing a cap with black ribbons in recognition of the sad circumstances and the trembling of the ribbons echoed her state of agitation. “There’s no one home b
ut me and the missis,” she said, getting down to essentials. “She’ll see you upstairs in Miss Louise’s room. The master went in to work to take his mind off things and he’s not returned.” She leaned close, and in spite of the assurance of privacy, whispered, “But it can’t be long before he gets back. The missis has taken it very bad but wants to see you. Says she’s sure she knows who killed Miss Louise. She’s pulled herself together and seems to be a bit—well, clearer in the head than she usually is.”

  He found himself whispering back, “I’ll make the most of it. Thank you Beth. Will you take me up?”

  The curtains were drawn, and the room was lit by one solitary bedside lamp. Entering from the brightly lit landing, Redfyre found he had to rake the dark shadows before his eyes made out a darker shape moving towards him from the window, murmuring a greeting.

  Clad in a mourning dress from another age, Lois’s mother unnerved him. He took the cold white hand he was offered and spoke to the cold, expressionless white face. He had no recollection of his words, but was certain that the habit of years had stepped in and spoken for him, since she nodded sadly in response and clasped his hand in a not-unfriendly way.

  He took a deep breath in an attempt to shake off the senseless terror which had seized hold of his mind. He accounted for it the moment he realised was looking at a negative photographic image of his worst childhood nightmare: the ghastly figure of Dickens’s Miss Havisham. How many children of his generation had grown up haunted into adulthood by that tragic character? Crumbling away in her loneliness, tormented face floating above an equally decaying white wedding gown from another age, Miss Havisham was still a troubling presence. Here, inches from him, was the same pale, aging face, but the gown below, covering her from throat to ankle, was unrelieved black.

  Redfyre pulled himself together. He was meeting a bereaved mother in difficult circumstances who wished to see him, according to MacFarlane.

  “You may call me ‘Ellen,’” she told him in a surprisingly low and controlled voice. “I have never enjoyed being ‘Mrs. Lawrence.’”

  “Of course. Ellen it shall be,” he replied easily.

  “I see you are alarmed by my dress, Inspector. Very old-fashioned. Edwardian, I’m afraid. It’s first—and, until today, last—outing was on the occasion of King Edward’s funeral in May 1910. Stiff, formal, outdated and dusty. It suits me perfectly; I shall go to my grave wearing it. And unless you can help me, that grave may already have been dug. He will take one look at me, know what I have done, and put me in my coffin. He has the means—means which will outwit the best of your pathologists, Inspector. His knowledge and skills are superior.”

  Mad, clearly. Several people from the local vicar onwards had warned him. He reminded himself that his main purpose in being here was to get ahold of the key to Louise’s mysterious cupboard. Beth had waved under his nose an opportunity. What had she said? “It might help you to find her” if he took a look inside. She claimed to know where Louise hid the key. But it proved to be missing, to the maid’s chagrin. “Must have taken it with her—she always had a ring full of keys in her bag. But wait a mo’! Her mother has a copy. Perhaps she’ll unlock it for you?”

  Redfyre doubted that very much, and for a desperate moment, he’d toyed with the notion of prising it open with a shoehorn, but he had no warrant for any such behaviour and held off. Though perhaps he’d been mistaken. Had she summoned him here to produce the key? There was no sign of helpfulness and cooperation in her demeanour. She seemed more set upon accusing some unfortunate gent of planning her own imminent demise. He rather thought it within his detective’s capabilities to guess the bloke’s identity. Poor old sod! Lawrence was a pharmacologist—a modern-day alchemist, pushing the frontiers of scientific and medical knowledge, a figure who attracted mistrust and fear. He was bound to be dangerously exposed to both suspicion and exploitation. Add a dash of marital disharmony, and he had a potentially explosive mixture on his hands.

  Redfyre decided to calm the situation. “You were so kind as to offer to unlock Louise’s cupboard for me, I understand. Do you have the key?”

  She sighed and produced a small silver key from a pouch attached to her belt. “Beth assures me that you are discreet and helpful, quite unlike the usual run of policemen. The girl shows good judgment as a rule, and who else is there I can trust?”

  She handed him the key and he went at once to the corner cupboard, closely followed by Ellen Lawrence.

  Disappointment was his first reaction. If he’d had sisters, he was sure they’d have all kept such a private Holy of Holies in their rooms. A toppling pile of outdated diaries occupied the whole of the topmost shelf. Below that, old letters were filed away alphabetically according to sender in brown cardboard envelopes, and on the third shelf down was a fascinating if higgledy-piggledy mixture of well-thumbed books. He noted nursery rhymes and fairy tales giving way to the even more stirring sagas of the ancient Norsemen. Tales of Ancient Rome surrendered to the romances that every girl read, Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte seeming to be favourites. Conan Doyle and Wilkie Collins were next along; swift, undemanding reading for a girl with little time to spare. These English novels were supplanted by the latest deposit in these ordered strata of literature: a vein of yellow-backed French novels, some of which he’d enjoyed himself. Madame Bovary now lay cheek to cheek with the young Don Juan, he noted, and hoped both parties were satisfied with the arrangement. One or two were plainly filthy and completely unsuitable for a young girl, the rest were the latest crime mysteries and thrillers. Redfyre smiled. He would have had a lot of views to exchange with Louise Lawrence, if he’d ever had the good fortune to meet her.

  He was suddenly aware that the girl’s mother was looking at the contents with as much curiosity as himself. Could it be that she had never bothered to open the cupboard before? His question was answered a moment later when she reached in over his shoulder and picked out a slim volume.

  “Ah, I wondered where that had gone! It’s my copy of The Book of the City of Ladies. Do you know it? By Christine de Pizan. The first woman writer in France. Fourteenth century.” She put it in his hand. “Here, take it. It was written for men like you.” Then, more doubtfully, “You do read French? It’s impossible to come by an English translation, unsurprisingly.”

  “Thank you, Ellen.” He leafed through the book and added, “Modern French, which I see this is, is no problem. I wouldn’t care to attempt the medieval version! I’ll return it with my thanks when I’ve digested and been improved by the contents.”

  She almost smiled. “That is by the by. What you ought to be interesting yourself in, Inspector, are the items on the lower shelves.”

  Redfyre had been trying and failing to make sense of the piles and boxes, which looked like nothing so much as the leftover stock at the end of a very hectic jumble sale.

  “Start here, will you?” Ellen Lawrence pulled a length of fabric from the top of a pile of newspapers. “It’s important for anyone who wants to understand Louise and why she died. Do you recognise it?”

  He put out a hand and touched the length of silk. “A scarf of some sort. Green, purple and white, and it’s embroidered with the words ‘Votes for Women.’ How could I not know it? The force has confiscated many of these from over-enthusiastic ladies attempting to disrupt the normal flow of traffic in public places. They were waved about by supporters of Mrs. Pankhurst, I believe? Many were stripped down from the pinnacles of Cambridge colleges and incinerated in the station boilers, largely before the outbreak of the war. Thankfully, though there have been rumblings of dissatisfaction since the war, outbreaks of hostility are quite rare.”

  “But that particular scarf is very special. Look more carefully. You will note that it still carries smudges and stains. Mud and grass and—see here—that brown smear you will recognise as blood. Blood spilled by a martyr to the cause.”

  “I can guess the cause, Ellen,”
he said with a trace of weariness, “but you’re going to have to give me a stronger clue to the martyr’s identity if it’s important that I know it.”

  “Clue? I can do better than that! I can show her to you.” She rummaged in one of the boxes and extracted an envelope of photographs. As he removed the topmost one for inspection, she spoke again. “This one records the moment of her death. Her name was Emily. Emily Davison.”

  “Ah. That Emily Davison.”

  “I’m sure you know the story—the popular myth—but may I ask you to look through the rest of the photographs without disturbing their order? They are in series. Press photographs taken of that infamous scene from different angles. Scrupulously collected together by my daughter and presented in filmic sequence.”

  To push things along and establish his unprejudiced knowledge of the Davison affair, he said crisply, “She was a clever woman, Miss Davison. Studied at both London and Oxford universities—”

  “Though no degree was awarded her for six years’ study and work. Because she was a woman.”

  “So, understandably disgruntled, she joined Emmeline Pankhurst’s lively faction?”

  “The Women’s Social and Political Union? Yes. You may call them ‘suffragettes’ if you wish, Inspector. They did not regard the name as an insult, though as such it was certainly intended.”

  He began carefully to leaf his way through the prints as she turned on the strong overhead light.

  “Taken by both professional press photographers, carefully positioned, and by amateur members of the public standing about with a Kodak in their hand on the thirteenth of June, 1913. At Tattenham Corner on the racecourse at Epsom. The occasion of the Derby,” she commented as he silently worked his way through. “Emily had been watching the race from a vantage point behind the rails with the rest of the crowd when, several horses having raced by, she ducked under the rail and ran onto the course, spotted her target—the King’s own horse, Anmer—and, well, what exactly did she do? Look closely.”