Invitation to Die Page 23

  Chapter 17

  Cambridge, Wednesday, the 21st of May, 1924

  Redfyre and Thoday spent Wednesday morning alerting railway, bus and even motorcar services in the city that a man of no fixed abode answering to the name of Richard Dunne was being urgently sought by the Cambridge CID. This man would be required, on apprehension, to help the police with their enquiries regarding a recent crime in the city. Anyone spotting him was asked to telephone the police or report to any constable.

  “Bit late, sir, don’t you think?” Thoday asked. “I mean, smart chap like him, he’ll be miles away by now.”

  “We have to do it by the book, Sarge. Though I agree our Dickie bird has most probably flown. It doesn’t feel quite right to me, though. There’s something we haven’t spotted yet. Little things for me just don’t add up, and it’s making me a bit fractious.”

  “The most obvious being what on earth were, not one, but two old KOYLIs doing having a barney in the graveyard? Old enemies—old friends, sometimes—will have a fight over booze, women, even sleeping space. I’ve never heard of anyone putting out an expensive contract with a London hit man to rub out a harmless vagrant,” Thoday agreed.

  “That’s the thing, Thoday. And I’m not at all certain the murder was done where we found the body. My mind keeps going back to the door in the wall between Jude’s College and the cemetery. Why is the key missing? Where was it on Friday night? Where is it now, and are there prints on it? Did our Dickie actually turn up for his epicurean last supper? Have you thought, Sarge, that he may be dead himself? We could stumble on his body any moment—but only if our feet are in the right place. And why did our so careful murderer leave behind a clunking great clue?”

  “Clue, sir?”

  “This one,” he said. “I’ve been carrying it around with me.” He took the small white invitation card from his wallet and showed it to Thoday. “I shan’t settle until I’ve tracked them down. These Friends of Apicius who invite people inside to dine and die. Let’s go where Dickie’s been leading us and take another look at the crime scene, shall we?”

  They glowered up at the college windows, looking for an indication of life being lived, and saw none.

  “There’s a connection, Thoday. Over there. And I shall have to gain entry to investigate it. I’m sure it’s in that place that our chap encountered the pair of thumbs that choked off his life.”

  “You’ll never get inside a college without a search warrant, sir.” Thoday, a born and bred Cambridgeman, shook his head knowingly.

  Redfyre smiled. “I’m not envisaging mounting a frontal attack, going in with a warning blast on the trumpet and a rattle on the snare drum. But a sneaky rogue might creep about and find a sally port left open. Might even find a dea ex machina who’ll ease his path.” He looked up, located the window he thought the girl Rosamund had indicated was her own room and lined it up with his own upper floor front. Worth a try? His smile widened. “How’s your lettering, Sarge? Mine’s terrible, and I need some help with a notice. Let’s step over to my house. Mind the dog.”

  Minutes later, to his mystification, Thoday was at the kitchen table, glass of lemonade at his elbow, copying out a brief message on a large sheet of drawing paper. “There you are, sir. Best copperplate!” He read out his work:

  PERCANTA!

  4:30

  “Is this a tip, sir? Should I call in at the bookie’s and put a bob on Percanta in the four-thirty race?”

  “No horses involved, sadly. But I am risking all I’ve got on a certain little filly.”

  Feeling uncomfortable and anxious, Redfyre tapped on the locked door between the graveyard and the master’s garden at half past four.

  A shadow passed over the keyhole, and the remembered voice said softly, “I’ve got the key. Do you promise to misbehave yourself if I let you in?”

  The large door swung open on silent hinges and he stepped through into enemy territory.

  “I can spare you a few minutes. I’m free until five. Clever of you to choose this time of day. It’s the quiet time between morning work and evening entertaining. Rosamund Wells—I prefer ‘Rosa.’ How do you do, John? Yes, I know who you are, John Redfyre. I’ve heard all about you from Earwig.”

  “Indeed! Then I’m only surprised you let me in,” he said, and hoped his smile was not as ingratiating as his comment.

  “After six weeks of living in this institution, I’d admit Vlad the Impaler for a little distraction! The key took some finding. It wasn’t where it should have been. Look, there’s a hook for it halfway down the wall, right beside the door. But I thought that if someone had locked it from the wrong side—that is, your graveyard side—they might just have chucked it back over the wall. Someone had. It was right over there, in the middle of the lawn.” Detecting a groan swiftly stifled, she added quickly, “Calm down! I picked it up in my hanky. Not that you’d get any prints from it—the surface is too rough. Are you going to tell me what on earth was going on over there on Friday night? I’ve heard rumours, some of them quite mad and rather frightening. I live here, you know. I’d like to know why the police are suddenly interested in Daddy’s back garden.”

  Redfyre told her as much as he thought she ought to know, sparing her the details. But she seemed to be ahead of him in her speculations.

  “Poor old chap! How grim to die like that—alone—and with no one knowing who you are! Who on earth would bother to kill an old tramp? Why here? And all that business with the key . . . It’s clear from the little you’re telling me that someone from here, the college side, accompanied him or dragged his body through and put it on a tombstone. Yes? But the killer didn’t come back the same way—he could have just locked up after himself and replaced the key. He must have made off through the churchyard and on to Trumpington Street. Didn’t want to be seen on college premises? Or just not the master’s lodge and garden part of the college?”

  Redfyre looked down at the thoughtful face, which, though concerned, had a thread of excitement in the widening eyes. Her delicately pointed chin was raised in question, her mouth rather redder than it should naturally have been, and he guessed at a little lip rouge daringly applied. Today’s dress was blue linen with a white collar. What had Hetty told him was the country name for heartsease? “Jump-up-and-kiss-me.” Well, the children of Grantchester were to be commended on their poetic insight, he thought. A moment’s glance at that face and any man would have gone weak at the knees and breathed those very words.

  But Rosa wasn’t offering an invitation to dalliance. As he stared and buckled, she was taking charge of the situation. Was this what Theseus had felt as the bossy Medea handed him the end of a ball of thread, a sword and a pep talk? The labyrinth is that way, and the minotaur you’re looking for is at the end of it, chewing on the bones of his last victim. Good luck! You’ll find me here when you emerge.

  “Are you listening?” she asked suspiciously. “I was saying—why not do this the proper way and enter by the front door? My father’s the master, after all. I’m inviting you as my guest to join us for tea at five o’clock. Present yourself at the entrance and address the porter. Give me a few minutes’ start to alert him. Off you go. I’ll lock up here.”

  Taking his time, Redfyre strolled out through the churchyard and onto Trumpington Street and down to the entrance to St. Jude’s. His long strides were carrying him too fast towards his destination, he reckoned. “A few minutes,” she’d said. Why hadn’t he asked for more specific timing? He decided to waste some time dallying in the rose borders that lined the cobbled path down to the front door. Well worth anyone’s attention, they were well tended, thriving in their sunny position and already budding. Thanks to his aunt Hetty’s enthusiasm for the flower—a delight that she spread to anyone within earshot in the summer months—he managed to identify several of the species. He found one, a dark red beauty, at that moment of perfection when the bud was bursting into
a rounded flower head. He plucked it and threaded it into his buttonhole.

  Forbidding, cold, grandiose, were his first impressions of the building. The porter in his antechamber was en suite with the architecture. But he was efficient. Although he could only have been in receipt of instructions for a minute or two, he was very collected and greeted the guest by his title. “Detective Inspector Redfyre? You are expected, sir. The master will see you directly. He is at present finishing business in his office and will escort you down to take tea with him in his parlour on completion. Percy will accompany you. Percy! Master’s office, if you please.”

  He clicked his fingers and a young buttery boy stepped forward, briefly touching his own forehead with two fingers. And they set off into the labyrinth.

  Redfyre was left by his guide at the door of a first-floor room. He knocked and entered upon hearing a shout to come in.

  The first thing he noticed was that the large, airy room occupied a corner of the building and commanded a wide view of proceedings below in the front court. The master, now turning from the window to greet him, had probably been watching him make his way down the path, including his deviation through the rose planting. Oh Lord! He’d seen him help himself to that particularly luscious red bud and stick it in his buttonhole.

  The master was as imposing as the room, which could have been designed with him in mind. His height was all the more impressive for being swathed from shoulder to ankle in a voluminous black robe. With memories of sadistic cane-swishing, black-gowned brutes still haunting him from his school years, Redfyre found himself for a sickening moment on the back foot, dry mouthed and speechless. The figure raised bushy eyebrows to signify that he had noted Redfyre’s presence, but raised the palm of his right hand in a gesture that clearly said, Hold on! I’m in the middle of something important, and you are an interruption in my day.

  “Now what was I saying? Ah yes—petty larceny about the college will not be tolerated. When discovered, it will be dealt with in a consistent manner. Any culprit making off with college property will be asked to leave and not return. Consider yourself, accordingly, dismissed from service with St. Jude’s, and understand that no character references will be forthcoming, should you seek employment elsewhere. Yours, etc. That will be all for today, Miss Wells. Teatime calls, I believe.”

  Redfyre turned to look at the silent figure seated at a desk bearing a shining black-and-gold typewriter. Rosamund, whom he had seen just minutes ago, had been taking dictation in shorthand. Now she closed her notebook and put down her pencil, smiling back at . . . her father? Her boss?

  “Outbreak of silver-stealing in the pantry,” the master said by way of explanation. “The culprit was satisfactorily tracked down and has now been dismissed. The villain seems to have been working his way through the colleges, but his career of crime stops here.”

  Redfyre interpreted this piece of staged flummery as an assertion of power. We have our own methods and resources and never need to call on institutions like the local police force was the implication. How was he supposed to react to the man? With a demeaning Do let me know how I may help you in a professional capacity, Master? A forelock-tugging, deferential yes-sir-no-sir subservience was clearly expected. But eye-to-eye good manners and respect where earned came more naturally to Redfyre.

  He nodded at Rosamund, who seemed to be mischievously enjoying the encounter she had set up, and decided for the second time that this girl was worth watching. As also, it now appeared, was her father. “Miss Wells? So good to see you again! I thought our paths might cross, so I brought up a small gift. Stolen from your own garden, I’m afraid. I must hope that your father isn’t minded to arrest me for it and suppress a character reference. A rose for a Rose. A red rosebud.” With a gallant gesture, he snatched the rose from his lapel and handed it to her. “This one is a very old French variety, I believe. Its name is ‘Dark Secret.’ Do you see, it starts out almost purple, the colour of venous blood on its way to the heart, then, the heart having worked its life-giving magic, it bursts out into the bright red of arterial blood. And its perfume is intoxicating.”

  Rosamund gulped and murmured something unintelligible. She politely sniffed the rose, then took it to a vase of sweet peas standing on the mantelpiece and pushed it into the water with them.

  Redfyre turned to the master, and hurriedly Rosamund remembered her duties. “Father, may I present John Redfyre, who is our neighbour over the north wall and an inspector with the Cambridge police force? John, this is my father, Dr. Cornelius Wells.”

  Dr. Wells moved forward, hand outstretched, and the two men muttered polite formulae, eyeing each other with interest.

  On closer inspection, it seemed to Redfyre that the gown disguised rather than exaggerated the man’s athletic build. He had the strong shoulders of an oarsman and the sure-footed gait of a fencer. His features were more difficult to determine, covered as they were with outbreaks of facial hair. The dark eyebrows were a luxuriant windbreak for the bright eyes now scanning him from head to foot, the well-trimmed short beard slightly peppered with grey offering the only evidence of advancing age. The voice was also youthful. Firm and clear, it had none of the querulous academic affectation Redfyre had dreaded.

  “Let me get something straight, Redfyre. I want to know to what exactly I owe the pleasure of your company this afternoon. Are you here to complain about the noise, prune the roses or ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  This was more like it! Brusquerie with a touch of humour—exactly what Redfyre appreciated.

  “None of the above, sir, you’ll be relieved to hear. Your students are ideal neighbours—silent and invisible, your gardens are tended to perfection and Miss Wells has sensibly rejected my advances. We shall be free to exchange views and information on a subject of equal and vital interest to the college and the Cambridge CID.”

  “Then may I suggest we repair to my domestic quarters and embark on the discussion over a cup of tea and a scone or two? If rumour has it right, my back lawn would appear to be the centre of your current enquiries. I shall be entertained to watch the law on its knees seeking clues to . . . to what? I can’t wait to find out! Follow me.”

  They settled to their very English overtures over their very English tea in the master’s drawing room, where tall windows stood open onto the expanse of lush lawn that separated the college land from the Anglo-Saxon graveyard. The usual conversational pawns were deployed.

  “Heavenly, isn’t it?” The master picked up and echoed his guest’s thoughts. “Do you see that old mulberry tree over there? They say that it was planted by the poet John Milton himself.”

  “Like the one at Christ’s?”

  “Same vintage. King James was very keen on establishing the silk trade, and to that end purchased a job lot of mulberry plants in 1608 and sold them off all over East Anglia at six bob a hundred.”

  “Mmm . . . The poet Milton, if we’re to judge by the folklore, would have been more of a gardener than a poet. His trees are here, there and everywhere. My aunt in Madingley lays claim to one. Every town a recipient of a tree and planted by his very own hand. Quite an achievement for someone who was no more than a babe in arms at that time,” Redfyre ventured.

  “And in later years, a man much more of a disposition to have dug them up rather than cared for them.”

  “So we’re to understand, if last year’s biography of the great man has it right. Did you . . . ?”

  “I did. Much enjoyed!”

  They exchanged knowing grins, each pleased with his showing in horticulture, classic verse and local history. Rosa rolled her eyes and yawned rudely.

  “Pour your friend another cup, Rosa, love. And he looks like a man who can manage a second scone, topped off as it is with clotted cream and early strawberries from the home farm.”

  “Farm, sir?” Redfyre looked about him in surprise.

  “The c
ollege is rich in land in various parts of the county, Redfyre. We own a particularly productive farm up near Huntingdon. I think it came to us by way of the deathbed will of some Cromwell or other. They produce much fine fruit and bring on their strawberries in glasshouses. Though I must ask you again—are you perfectly sure my daughter turned you down? This is quite a spread she’s laid on in double-quick time, and I don’t think she had me in mind! A slice of leftover Victoria sponge is what I usually have on a Wednesday.”

  He directed a good-humoured gaze at his daughter, who reddened perceptibly and replied at once.

  “It was meant as an apology, Father. I was rude to the inspector the first time we met, and I hope that he will accept an offering of early strawberries as a show of contrition.”

  “For a man who spent four summers in the wastes of Flanders dreaming of little else not so long ago, strawberries will cancel out any debt, real or imagined.”

  The master laughed. “In Scapa Flow, it was jam roly-poly with custard I used to dream of.”

  “You’re a military man, sir?”

  “The Royal Navy. Not in an active way in the last lot, you understand. Advisory. Signals Intelligence.”

  Into Redfyre’s puzzled silence he added lightly, “I’m not one of your lifetime academics. I’d rather live the life of Odysseus than study it.”

  “An unusual candidate for the mastership of a college?”

  “Oh yes. The previous master was pretty ineffectual. He was sick for his latter years and, this being the sort of establishment where you die in harness, the college decayed along with him. Rudderless, no compass and no following wind. A bad situation. There was no obvious successor—four candidates who all loathed one another—so someone thought of making a bridging appointment, bringing in a piece of grit, a breath of fresh air, to wake the place from its medieval torpor.”