Fall of Angels Read online

  “At least that policeman chappie seemed to know what he was doing,” said the whisky, trying for a less lurid approach. “No fuss, army type. All safe in his hands, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed! Good fellow! But why, perhaps we should ask, was a policeman there at all?” a dry sherry wanted to know. “Instantly on hand to catch the body as it fell? How likely is that? Bit queer that, don’t you think? Dirty work at the crossroads?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Monty!” the whisky expostulated. “It was that bloody old staircase, I expect! Medieval and wormy as hell! Doesn’t always show on the surface, you know . . . Solid as a rock one minute, a pile of dust the next. It can happen to the best staircases. My father once put his foot through a tread at the Earl of Aldeburgh’s seat.”

  “Mungo, it was the back stairs, and your father had no business being there in the middle of the night,” the dry sherry pointed out slyly. “Still—death traps, I’d agree.”

  The body? Death trap? Policeman? Thomas staggered to his feet, gripped the table to steady himself, looked at his wristwatch and set out to make his way into the night. There was something he had to do before the unexpected, berserking heat of a long-lost Viking ancestor faded and left him once again Thomas Tyrrell, the subservient music scholar. If only he could steer a straight course between the tables and keep down the two pints of beer he’d unwisely quaffed.

  Chapter 5

  “So? Did he confess?”

  Redfyre took three more strides along the pavement of King’s Parade before he answered.

  “You must be more precise when you speak to a police officer. A few linguistic clues like nouns come in useful to us plodding members of the force,” he prevaricated. “Who? Confess to what?”

  “Come off it! Did Coote push Juno down the stairs? Did he say so? He was the only person around when she came tumbling down. I’m surprised you’ve let him stroll off back to his room free as a bird, when you’ve got me clamped in an arm lock on my way to heaven knows what interrogation scene. My only questionable act the whole evening was sitting down next to you. Coote was within an arm’s stretch of Juno when she fell headfirst down the stairs. I say again, did he come clean?”

  “I’m surprised that you need to ask. I could have sworn I saw you skulking behind an adjacent pillar when I drew him aside to put the suggestion to him.”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t make it all out. You were talking deliberately quietly.”

  Redfyre smiled. “How inconsiderate and annoying of us! Well, you didn’t miss much. He says he didn’t touch her, and I believe him. According to a very distraught Christopher, they were packing up amicably when Juno announced that she wouldn’t wait for him to be ready—it takes far less time to put one small trumpet in its carrying case than it does to put a pipe organ to bed, and she had a train to catch. Don’t bother to escort her down, she told him—she could manage. He wasn’t even aware that the stairs were still swathed in darkness when he heard the scream and the thumps as she fell. Next thing, the master was yelling at him to stay put. It was an accident, and bad enough, but that’s all it was. He was certain that there was no other presence on the organ loft or the staircase when they made their way up to the performance area after the interval. After that, the whole scene was the centre of attention for over three hundred pairs of eyes—including yours and mine. No one entered that staircase. The stair treads themselves were jolly sound, he remembered—didn’t even creak. He’d been thumping up and down them all day rehearsing, after all—he’d have noticed. Juno must have simply missed her footing. Caught her heel in her evening gown? He had noted her shoes—red satin, Spanish heels. Women were tripping themselves up all the time with dresses the length they currently were. It had happened to Coote’s own grandmother, apparently—with tragic consequences.”

  “I expect you come across that quite a lot—rich, elderly persons falling down stairs?” Earwig asked.

  “It’s the weight of the gold sovereigns in their pockets—they overbalance,” he said. “But yes, I take your meaning. Juno is young and agile . . .”

  “And hasn’t a penny to her name. No, really—she wasn’t joking when she raised the matter of the doctor’s bill. It would be a concern. I shall offer to pay it, of course, but there’ll be a rush to oblige. Juno’s loved by all; no one would want to kill her. That’s the puzzle. I’m wondering how long it’s going to take the great detective to work out just what it is about her that someone wanted to obliterate.” Her hand tightened on his arm as she turned to him, face pale with concern. “And as she’s survived, may still want to obliterate.”

  The wretched girl had voiced his fear and his dilemma.

  If someone wanted Juno Proudfoot to die, they might try again. If Redfyre allowed that the fall was an engineered attack on Juno, then it was pre-planned and spectacular. It was comparable to a well-directed stage effect. The man whose mind was vile enough to have conceived such a deed was unlikely to simply accept defeat and creep back into the shadows. He would be looking for acknowledgement. He’d insist on taking a surreptitious bow, surely? But why Juno? What was it about this excellent girl that had incited a murderous attempt? An answer had occurred to him much earlier in the evening, but he had swatted it away instantly as a ridiculous and unworthy thought. When he had a case to solve, Redfyre stuck to common sense, modern scientific techniques and if all else failed, the Scotland Yard handbook. The victim of this possible assault was unknown to him. He had much to do before he could proceed with the investigation: a further interview with her in the morning, the doctor’s report on her injuries, a check on her background and contacts. One of the first things he had learned to set aside in murder cases, however, was the reaction of friends and family. There was nothing like an assault, successful or bungled, to confer instant sanctity on the victim.

  He slipped his free hand under his overcoat and into his jacket pocket. The coiled silk curtain tie still lurked there—cold, slippery and surprisingly repellent. It ought by now to be safely in an evidence bag on its way to police headquarters. An oversight? No. Redfyre could explain it away as such, but he needed to have it safe in his pocket. It still had a role to play. The wide, innocent eyes of Juno as she’d handed it over to him with unquestioning trust had stirred and quite disarmed him. An entirely proper response on his part, he judged, understanding and approving his initial reaction to an attractive girl in very clear distress. Man that he was, he’d been caught by her beauty and her childlike assumption that he would help her out of her unpleasant situation. Caught? Transfixed was closer to the truth, he admitted. But the policeman he was would have none of that. Redfyre would set aside his masculine urge to protect and go, as he always did, straight for the truth.

  Earwig seemed content to maintain the silence her comment had caused. She was quite like a canny old sheepdog, he was coming to realise, startling him into movement with a show of teeth and a gentle growl, only to belly down in the long grass, still and unthreatening, when he moved off in the direction she’d chosen for him. He was relieved when her attention was distracted by one of the buildings on their route.

  “This is my favourite façade in Cambridge,” she said, stopping to admire the elegant columns of the Pembroke College Chapel, gleaming in the moonlight. “By Sir Christopher Wren. His first completed work of architecture. Commissioned by the Bishop of Ely, who just happened to be his uncle, you know.”

  Was the girl incapable of saying the simplest thing without an undercurrent of bolshevism or feminism? “So I understand. And how lucky we are that his talent was spotted and encouraged to bloom,” Redfyre said easily.

  “And there’s Peterhouse, and opposite the college, there’s Addenbrooke’s. Ah, are you taking me to visit Juno? Already? I was under the impression that we really wouldn’t be welcome at the bedside while the examination was being done, and they were planning to give her a sleeping draught to settle her until morning. What are you up
to, Inspector?” After a moment’s thought: “Oh! I’ve guessed your secret! Have you fallen victim to her charms, too?” Earwig gave a shout of laughter. “Using me as a means of getting close to her? You wouldn’t be the first, or even the twenty-first man to do that!”

  “Not at all,” he managed to say equably through his surprise. “It occurred to me that it might be useful for you to be close to your friend—just across the road, you might say, in case of unforeseen problems. The doctor has a number to ring. Oh, we’re nipping down this little lane. Come on! It’s just by Little St. Mary’s Church.” His tone brightened as they homed in on their destination.

  Earwig hung back. “Are you sure? I know that lane—it leads down to the river, it’s awfully dark down there. There’s nothing but the back bits of Peterhouse, a graveyard and some run-down little houses for college servants.”

  “Drat! The gas lamp’s out again. I’ll shine my torch. It’s only a few steps, and at the end of them I promise you there’ll be electric lighting and a glowing fire to warm your toes by. Here we are!” He flung out an arm in welcome. “Magnolia Cottage, I’m afraid. Sorry about that! It’s a conceit of the owner. It’s no cottage, you’ll find, and it doesn’t possess a single magnolia, but it does have a view of a magnificent specimen opposite in the graveyard. You must try to see it when it opens its sails in May!”

  He put a key in the lock of a green-painted door and pushed it open a careful inch. “Allow me to push ahead of you—there’s a fierce dog to negotiate, and it’s right by the door, waiting for an unsuspecting foot to be inserted.”

  A throaty growl was rising to a hysterical rage.

  “Snapper! Down, boy! Grrr!” Redfyre growled back. “Supper in two minutes! Basket!” He lifted the tiny dog, to its evident delight, on his toe, clearing it from the doorway and projecting it across the room.

  They entered from the lane straight into a living room in which lamps in Tiffany shades had been switched on and a fire glowed in the hearth, secured by a sturdy fireguard. The small black and white terrier whimpered with delight, dashed up again, licked Redfyre’s hand vigorously, then wagged his stump of a tail all the way to his basket by the hearth.

  Earwig stood for a moment, taking in the scene and smiling gently. “So that’s all I have to do to get the inspector’s attention? Kiss his hand and waggle my derrière? I’ve done worse, I suppose. Which is my basket?”

  Without waiting for an offer, she flopped down into Redfyre’s own armchair opposite Snapper and proceeded to hold the dog in conversation while Redfyre took off his coat and shoes. Uncannily, the dog seemed to be replying to her overtures in strangled whimpers. Finally, abandoning good manners for duty, he jumped out again and went to fetch Redfyre’s slippers one by one from where he’d secreted them under the table and delivered them to his feet.

  “I’m sorry he doesn’t have any your size to offer, but do take your wet shoes off—we’ve seen a lady’s feet before, and he won’t nibble your toes. May I take your coat?”

  Earwig removed her shoes and put them by the fire to dry out. She tucked her feet up under her, still snuggling under her fur, and made herself look completely at home. “I’ll stay inside my coat, thank you, till I decide whether I’m staying.”

  Redfyre wondered which unfortunate animal had made the final sacrifice to provide the pelt now gleaming and undulating in the firelight as she wriggled herself into a comfortable position. Knowing nothing of furs, he thought that “golden minx” sounded about right. He found himself listening for a contented purr when the uncomfortable feeling that he’d invited an oversized and malevolent marmalade cat into his home struck him. “Beware my teeth and claws,” was the unspoken message he was receiving from the sleek creature now surveying and assessing his domain. “I may be honouring you with my presence for the moment, but I can strike out and run from you whenever I please.”

  “The comforts extend to a telephone.” Redfyre pointed to his desk by the window where the gleaming black and gold instrument sat in solitary state. “Do please ring anyone who needs to know that you’ve been detained and assure them that you will be returned to base with a police escort before . . . shall we say, ten thirty?” He unleashed his most disarming smile. His show of confidence hid the disturbing knowledge that in making her come here to his home, he had overstepped boundaries. What he was doing was probably unlawful, and most certainly morally unacceptable. Would his behaviour be described as caddish? No, thuggish was nearer to the mark. He couldn’t depend on his sketchy charm to win her over; she’d seemed impervious to the few feeble attempts he’d made, preferring a salty challenge. And yet, he’d persisted in keeping her alongside in spite of what he told himself was her token resistance because he sensed that she had more to reveal to him in private than in the very public bustle and discomfort of a police interview with a yawning sergeant taking notes.

  “Telephone? That won’t be necessary. I’ve taken a room at the Royal Cambridge Hotel just down the road. Daddy has an arrangement with them. Whenever I’m in Cambridge and friends can’t put me up, they always find me a room. I was planning to stay overnight and divide my Saturday between Heffers bookshop and Vogue Fashions. I must say, I’m relieved to find that the prisoner still has access to a telephone call. May I assume that the traditional fish and chip supper’s included in police perks, too?” She looked about her quizzically, as if expecting a duty officer to step forward, enquiring, “Would you like salt and vinegar on your haddock, madam?”

  “So, here we are, in more comfortable surroundings!” she conceded. “Is this your home? Your house?”

  “It’s my home, yes. Not my house. I rent it from a rogue called Barnwell. My landlord owns several houses of odd sizes in various parts of the city, mostly named after the nearest tree.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t offer for ‘Linden Lodge’ or ‘Mulberry Manor.’ This is rather small, isn’t it?”

  “Your butler at Melford doubtlessly has much more spacious accommodation,” he said smoothly.

  “Sorry! That was rude. I should have said ‘cozy.’ It is. But I like it! A space of your own, where you’re at no one’s beck and call. That’s wonderful! And you’ve filled it with such pretty things. It’s a Bruton Street salon in miniature! Willow-green walls, and such a daring use of white. ‘Darling! It just shrieks Sibyl Colefax,’” she said in a very convincing Mayfair accent. “Have you invited The Prince of Wales, Cecil Beaton and Noël Coward to your little soirée, too? I’m honoured!”

  Redfyre was fed up with Earwig’s ragging, but he didn’t retaliate, sensing that she was disguising a genuine appreciation of his valiant attempt at decoration. He ascribed the new glimpse of a cheerful Earwig to the dog. The wretched animal had that effect on people. Insane good humour and bounding energy were infectious. It had been a mistake to choose a dog for his small size. Snapper might well be in proportion with the house, and his fur blended well into the general colour scheme, but Redfyre should have remembered that, for all other qualities, a Jack Russell terrier was off the scale. Courage, intelligence, endurance and a manic joie de vivre—Snapper had them by the sackful. He normally showed good judgement on visitors to his home, and his instant acceptance of the unfriendly Earwig was a bit disconcerting. He’d been led astray by the misleading allure of her fur coat, Redfyre decided. An Earwig in a stout gabardine raincoat would have had quite a different reception.

  “Now, Inspector! If you’re expecting me to sing for my supper, I’ll go along with that and make a full confession to anything you like, but may I have the supper part first? Sorry to bang on about it, but it occurs to me that I’ve had one mince pie to eat since breakfast and I’m prepared to fight Snapper for his biscuits. A crust of bread will do . . . perhaps you could spare a smear of butter and jam?”

  “I can do better than that. How about beef stew and dumplings with a baked potato, followed by apple and blackberry pie? It’s all on the stove in t
he kitchen. The stew may have dried out a bit, as I’m later than I expected, so give me a moment and I’ll slosh a glass of red wine in there to slacken the gravy.”

  For one brief moment, he basked in the expression of something very like adoration in Earwig’s expression.

  Such was her curiosity about his domestic arrangements, she left her armchair and followed him into the kitchen, helpfully holding up the lid of the casserole and offering advice while he added red wine from a bottle already open, a handful of herbs and a grating of pepper. He decided to treat her as one of his mates and handed her a cloth with instructions to get the potatoes out of the oven while he laid the table. He pointed out the bathroom where she could wash her hands and, by dodging around each other and good-humouredly doing whatever seemed necessary for the next ten minutes, they were able finally to settle down to dine. Earwig had warmed sufficiently to allow him to take her coat and, laughing, pointed out that, dressed as they were in evening clothes, they could almost be dining at the Ritz.

  “Your green silk would be better complemented by foie gras and turbot than stew, I’m thinking,” Redfyre said.

  “Indeed. In deference to my outfit, we’ll say daube de boeuf à la provençale! Which it is! My compliments to your chef. It’s as good as any I’ve had in Provence before the war.” She looked at him enquiringly. “Wine? Herbs? Do I taste garlic? Now, where on earth in Cambridge did you come by garlic? We’d never persuade our cook to indulge in such foreign nonsense! If it’s not in Mrs. Beeton’s, she’ll have no truck with it.”

  “No chef, alas. But you’re right—I don’t claim responsibility. Mrs. Page at Number 10 used to work as a cook at the college over the road before she retired. She has some fancy banquet-night recipes in her repertoire carried over from the spacious Edwardian days before the war, and she still practices her skills. Stealing garlic from the pantry and smuggling it out in the pocket of her pinny is one of them. Her poor old husband and I daily risk gout, dyspepsia and embolism, I fear, as one dish after another comes steaming out of her oven. This is one of her plainer efforts. She’s accustomed to me bringing congenial company back home with me on Friday nights, so she keeps it simple, copious and English. She also keeps the place clean and looks after Snapper when I’m working long hours.”