Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  With a smile of appreciation at the gentle joke, the newcomer handed over a straw boater sporting a Cambridge-blue grosgrain ribbon around the crown readily enough, but he confidently overruled Ambrose, who was attempting to steer him towards a chair near the door. He elected, oddly, to seat himself right next to the tramp. Ah well . . . as in the Roman baths of old, a visit to the barber’s shop was a social occasion for some. Men came in for the chat, the gossip. In his trade, Stan had heard all sorts of secrets and scandals. Some of the raciest, he’d invented himself. He’d seen contacts made, friendships develop, quarrels break out. He’d heard his own stories told back to him within the hour as the “gospel truth.” Nothing could surprise him. But the new bloke appeared not to be seeking conversation. He sat quietly, monosyllabic in his responses to Ambrose’s overtures, allowing him to lather him up for a shave of what looked to be an already immaculate face.

  Unconcerned, Stan worked away on his own client with the cutthroat, stretching the skin expertly this way and that to whisk away every scrap of stubble.

  It happened so swiftly, Stan could never untangle the series of moves that led to the appalling tableau now startling him into speechless rigidity.

  In midshave, with the sinuous speed of an adder striking from the bracken, Dickie had snatched the razor from him, whipped aside the towels, shot from his chair and elbowed Ambrose out of the way. While Ambrose sat reeling on the floor clutching his left ear, the tramp was now standing menacingly over the customer with the blade of the razor glinting through a lather of soap exactly at the point where Stan had always been taught that the jugular vein lay throbbing.

  Stan breathed in wheezily, unable even to shout a warning as the blade sank below the foam and moved in a delicate slicing movement across the skin. A trickle of blood oozed up and spread out to marble the shaving foam with red streaks under the horrified eyes gazing into the mirror.

  “Be still! Be very still!” the tramp hissed, quite unnecessarily as the realisation that he was a tenth of an inch from death had paralysed his victim.

  “Dickie! What the hell!” Stan found his voice and yelled. “Put the soddin’ razor down, you berk! It’s fresh-stropped! Sharp as hell! One slip and you could do some serious damage—”

  “Damage? He should be so lucky! It’s destruction I’ve got in mind. Unless I get a straight answer to my question from this chancer.”

  Stan was recovering his wits. “Question? Eh? What question? Look, the thing about questions is, first you’ve got to ask them, you daft ’erbert! Next—a bloke can’t answer while you’re squeezing the breath out of him with your great paw on his gizzard. Give me the blade, Dickie! Ambrose! On your feet, lad. Go and fetch that teapot in. We could all do with a cup.”

  “Ambrose, lock the door! Stay where I can see you!” Such was the cold authority behind the snapped orders, Ambrose hurried to obey him rather than his boss.

  The victim of the assault gurgled in what might have been interpreted as approval of Stan’s suggestion, staring eyes never leaving the grotesquely half-shaven, angry face that lowered over him.

  Again, Stan tried to get a handle on events. “Hear that? He’s agreeing to your terms . . . whatever they are . . . Go on, then, Dickie dear! Ask away! You’ve got everybody’s attention. What do you want him to tell you that’s so urgent? The winner of today’s three-thirty at Newmarket? The name of his tailor? Who killed Cock Robin?”

  “Shut it, Stan! He knows the question. He knows the answer.”

  He released the pressure he’d been exerting on his victim’s throat, though the blade remained in place.

  The answer, when it came, was little more than a croak. “They’re here in town. It’s on for tonight.”

  The tramp nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

  Sensing a lightening of the atmosphere, Stan leapt in with both feet. “Well, there you are, then, Dickie! You’ve got a green light for the party! Couldn’t you just have asked nicely? Don’t you think you’d better come back to the chair for the second half? You two could go over the guest list and talk about what you’re going to wear . . .”

  Dickie ignored him and looked at the wall clock, then addressed the man in the chair. “Listen, you! It’s nearly four. Not much time. I wouldn’t want to contaminate Stan’s nice linoleum with blood spatter. We’ll continue this conversation somewhere more spit and sawdust, and you can explain why you’re trawling around Cambridge dogging my every step. Meet me at the Salvation Army shelter—know where that is?—at five. Be there or you’ll regret it! You wouldn’t want me to come calling for you at the Regent.”

  “What shall I tell Edith?” came the wailing complaint.

  This was greeted with exasperation, a trace of pity and wilful misunderstanding. “Just say you cut yourself shaving.”

  Stonily, at last he removed the razor from the throat and handed him his towel. “Here, tidy yourself up. Get rid of the strawberry sundae—it’s not a good advert for Stan’s business.”

  He stood aside as the customer sprang to his feet like a jackrabbit and ran for the door, dabbing at his face.

  All his courtesy training coming to the fore, Ambrose was there before him to unlock and hand him his boater as he ran out, turned left, turned about, then shot off to the right in the direction of the town centre.

  “Thank you, Ambrose,” the tramp said coolly. “Did someone mention a cup of tea?”

  “Good idea! Steady the nerves,” Stan breathed. “The way my hands are twitching, you wouldn’t want them anywhere near your throat, mate, not when I’ve half the face left to do. And if you were thinking of inviting me to your party tonight, please forget it! I think the entertainment might be a touch overstimulating for me.”

  Chapter 3

  Cambridge, Friday, the 16th of May, 1924

  The guest arrived looking about himself warily, seeking amongst the untidy row of run-down Victorian villas the number of the hostel he’d been given by the receptionist at his hotel. He’d called in at the Regent to clean up, apply a plaster to his neck and change his clothes. Edith hadn’t been there, thank God, and he’d left in good time for his dubious assignation with mad Dickie.

  The tramp stepped forward from the concealing embrasure of a neighbouring door. “Glad to see you, Oily!” Dickie greeted him by his army nickname.

  Was that meant to be reassuring? Oily thought not, but he didn’t raise an objection or demand to be addressed by his real name. Dickie was on a short fuse these days, he’d heard it rumoured . . . skittish, quick to take offence—nervous! But, then, who could blame him? They all had good reason to be nervous, though Oily preferred to think of it as alert and prepared for danger. He corrected himself: not all of them. One of their number did not need to go about in fear, looking over his shoulder. His was the face the others feared seeing.

  Best, anyway, to handle the bloke with kid gloves. He touched the sticking plaster on his neck to remind himself of the man’s bad-tempered bursts of violence. Any mention of the difference in their present social standing and financial status might well wind him up. He assessed the tramp’s getup. Still wearing that old greatcoat, swaggering about like an officer. Though with his new haircut and shave he could just about get away with it, Oily conceded. If you didn’t despise ancient eccentricity. Oily did. But at least the man was dressed correctly for the time and place—unlike himself. Oily’s London suit, his stylish hat and polished shoes would get him stopped at the doorway of this den if he attempted to go inside. Too bad. It was all he had in his suitcase. He could hardly have told Edith to pack a scarecrow outfit on the off chance he’d be invited to a down-and-outs’ tea party.

  “Don’t be concerned! You’ll do very well! I see you made time to change for dinner . . .” Dickie said reassuringly, taking him by the elbow. The arsehole had always been able to read their minds. “Now come and meet some of my friends.” He gave one of his affected pauses, then: �
�I say, I hope you don’t mind if I give a little advice, habitué that I am, concerning the correct social etiquette. You, my boy, are taking me out to dinner. It’s a set meal of two courses, you’ll find, and when asked you’re to pay in cash—sixpence for each diner. If you would like to pay extra to sponsor other indigent guests, do feel free to do that—the boater would seem to signal such magnanimity. And—most important—when you encounter the ladies who officiate, do not try to get alongside with compliments on their beauty and kindness. However angelic they may appear to you, you must resist. Remember that they are, for the most part, the wives, sisters and daughters of the volunteer army that saves the lives and occasionally the souls of the poor of Cambridge. These gentlemen are frequently on hand and have a short way with troublemakers. Shall we?”

  The sourpuss in a bonnet who kept the door looked him up and down with suspicion and held up a hand to bar his entry. After a minute or two of Dickie’s blarney, so fulsome and apparently endless even Eliza grew weary of it, she agreed to accept Oily as a twice-paying, philanthropic Friend of the Army, held out a hand for a two-shilling piece and entered it into a cash book. Their signatures were required in a second ledger, and she allowed Dickie to sign in for them both. Oily noted that for this evening they were Noël Coward and Maurice Moneybags. Finally, she tore off four dockets from a pad—two red for mains (bread included)—two yellow for puddings and let them through.

  “Gawd!” Oily exclaimed with relief. “I had less trouble getting into Suzie’s Sporting Salon in Cape Town! Cheaper, too! And at least there were some pretty girls there. I’m still looking for your ‘angels.’ His eye roamed very briefly over the lineup of capacious pinnied bosoms and muscular arms officiating over the evening’s handout. “Ah! You were having me on. Lord! Do you expect me to eat that muck they’re dishing out?”

  “Just take your plate, smile and say thank you,” Dickie muttered. “Mrs. Campion! My favourite again! How do you know when to expect me? Thank you so much! We will savour it! And apple pie for afters.”

  Without a word exchanged, they both headed with their plates towards the furthest corner of the room and chose a table where they could keep an eye on both the door and on each other. Dickie smiled. “I see neither of us has forgotten the old safety-first techniques.”

  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?” said Oily with a shrug. “Tells you something. At this moment, Cambridge is a more dangerous place to be wandering about in than the Transvaal veldt. Though we have the same problem with the enemy—where the bloody hell is he? Is he sitting right in my sights, with the camouflage of a leopard, unmoving? Which one is he? By the time you spot him, it’s too late. For a moment back there in the barber’s, I thought I’d gotten it all arsy-tarsy and you were the one coming for me. Sorry about that! From your hair-trigger reaction, I’d guess that you’re likewise aware we’re all in a spot of bother this weekend? I was about to lean over and warn you in a hissing stage whisper when you came over all Sweeney Todd.”

  “I’ve been back from the wilderness a week, mate. I’ve caught up. And, Oily, old man, I could have topped you six times since you arrived on the steps of the Regent Hotel at five past ten if I’d wanted.”

  Oily grunted. “And I thought I was tailing you.”

  “You don’t have a network of people who will report things they’ve seen. I’ve got eyes and ears in every backyard.” He grinned evilly. “And in some front parlours. I’m at home here. After years of wandering, a spell in Yorkshire finally cured me of wanderlust.”

  Oily shuddered his sympathy. “That would cure you of most things . . . torpid liver, impoverished blood, will to live. But here you are once more in your fiefdom!” He looked about him at the clattering, masticating mass of no-hopers and added, “Nirvana? You were always searching! Have you found it?”

  Dickie weathered the insult calmly. “Nirvana. To a Hindu: peace. To a Buddhist: emptiness. I’m not a man who can endure either of those for long. If you’re reaching for the classical, try: Eridu, the Sumerian Garden of the Gods. Complete with singing nymphs, golden apples and sunsets by Turner. If there’s a lusty dragon for me to slay, all the better. I’m still seeking knowledge. Acquiring experience. Eridu”—he pointed to his head—“is up here.”

  “Pity you couldn’t have used your knowledge and experience to put a stop to all this earthly and very real unpleasantness. Cleared up a corrosive misunderstanding before five lives were put at risk.”

  “A misunderstanding? Is that what you’d call it? I’d say it was plain bloody vengeful evil. And what do you mean, ‘before someone gets hurt’? Haven’t you heard? One of us is more than hurt already—he’s dead. As I see it, we were a group of one murderer with a deadly gripe against five of his ex-mates. Now those mates number four.”

  “Four? Hang on a minute, Dickie—who’ve we lost?”

  “We’re down by a corporal. Ernest’s a goner. It happened two years ago, right here in town. It was in the local paper, but it didn’t make the London Times, so you probably missed it.”

  Oily listened as Dickie filled him in on events in Cambridge two years before and gave a moment’s respect for the dead before responding. “Poor old Ernest! Still . . . two years back, you say? Why the gap? It’s more than twenty years since . . . since—”

  “Our little spot of bother?”

  Oily grunted. “If you like. And why the sudden rush? I doubt his death’s connected. Look, leave this with me. I can have it all verified and examined. I have the expertise and the secretaries to sit for hours with their ears to the telephone. Ernest, eh? Can’t say I’m surprised to hear he’s not the man responsible for all this hysteria. He never had the belly for killing when it was legitimate—he’s hardly a likely candidate to have set up as a self-appointed slaughterer once the Queen stopped paying his wages! Though there were bits of army life he didn’t despise. Something of a spit-and-polish merchant, I seem to remember. Obeyed every rule you could chuck at him to the letter. He was always meticulous about observing the Armistice and joined the Royal British Legion when it was set up in . . .”

  “1921, it was. The only one of us who bothered to sign on. I checked the lists at the library. You should start frequenting the public libraries, Oily. It’s splendid for keeping tabs on world and local events while keeping warm and dry. It’s a good way of keeping track of old friends.”

  “You say the police found no one they could pin it on?”

  “No, his death remains a mystery. His murder, rather. There were clear indications that he’d been done in. I had a quiet word with one of the PCs on the case. Somebody’d grabbed him by the ears and bashed his head against the nearest hard surface.”

  “Sounds like a drunken altercation to me.”

  “Except that he wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been in a fight. It was neat and sweet, Oily. Just like we were taught. His private life was a bit messy, apparently. Unsatisfactory wife he wanted to be rid of and who would have been glad to be rid of him. Otherwise? Perhaps we’re destined to go one at a time, perhaps all in one fell swoop. But why? Is it revenge, impure but simple, or does one of us know something he shouldn’t, and we’re all being picked off in case he ever opens his mouth? We were witness to some strange events, Oily.”

  “Witness to? Huh! We triggered most of ’em! But that’s defeatist talk! I’m not going to succumb. I have a life to lose. I’ve got two boys at Eton, three businesses to run and Edith depending on me! But at least this meeting . . .” Oily put down his fork and grimaced, his plate only half-empty. “This meeting . . . encounter between us . . .” He floundered theatrically for a moment. “Not quite sure what you’d call an assault with a razor, followed by attempted poisoning! But at least it’s cleared up one thing. It’s not you, it’s not me. One of our number you say is dead. That leaves three men.”

  “And what a trio! Not one of them at all likely.” Dickie sighed. “Not one capable of murder. Killing, for
God’s sake—well, yes, we’ve seen enough of that. With rifle and bayonet. But murder? No. We all know the difference. Oily, what is it we’re not seeing? Tell me in detail how you got that message today.”

  “By letter. Typed . . . No signature, of course. I kept my copy. Want to take a look?”

  He passed an envelope across the table and commented as Dickie glanced at the address and date stamp before he opened it up. “You can hardly be surprised you didn’t get one. You’re the only one of us not in plain sight. You have no forwarding address or even name. A. Vagrant, Halfway down the Great North Road, England doesn’t hack it. Not sure I’d resort to the life of a wandering man even if it guaranteed my safety. I could never go on the run. Though heaven knows we all had good reason to bury ourselves in anonymity. Mud doesn’t just stick, it swallows you and smothers you. I did consider changing my surname when I had sons to think about. It was lucky for us that back in Blighty, folk didn’t give a shit. By the time we got out of there, the old queen and the last century were dead and buried. People were throwing off their mourning weeds, shortening their skirts, widening their trousers and going out to have a good time. No one wanted to look back to a distant war. There were excursions to take, trains and bikes to ride, seas to swim in, picnics to have.” He gave Dickie a pitying smile and added, “Fortunes to be made. I did well in those Golden Years. I’m still doing well. And murky events that happened in the Transvaal I left back there in that benighted continent. We should never have been sent there anyway!”

  “A gentleman in khaki ordered south,” murmured Dickie. “That’s what you were, according to Kipling. Not many of us were gentlemen when we came back north.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Oily’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “You did pretty well for yourself! Ordered east to the land of blazing sunsets, silks and perfumes, soft-footed khitmutgars at your elbow offering iced cocktails on the terrace . . . wasn’t it?”