Invitation to Die

by Barbara Cleverly

  “I’ll take it from the moment the seventh guest entered, if you don’t mind. I can’t say I was keeping count of who was drinking what. Except that Captain Dunne, Knight Templar that he is, was drinking pure spring water. He turned round and greeted the last guest as though he’d been expecting him.”

  “Oh, he had. Counting on his arrival, I’d say. He was preparing to kill him.”

  “It happened so quickly. I suppose that’s what they all say . . . We hadn’t even sat down to dinner. Still, with two old ex-soldiers facing up to each other with murder in mind and twenty years of gathered venom bursting out, who would wonder at the speed? Those men were trained to deliver the first blow and make it a cruncher. I know that much.” He suppressed a shudder.

  Redfyre looked with more care at the figure in front of him. This was the same man, handsome, broad-shouldered, who had cut a dashing figure on the dance floor, but he seemed much reduced now. The effects of a bad conscience, perhaps? Unusual for a murderer of this scale to have a conscience. Redfyre frowned, his mind darting back and forth.

  “Fanshawe saw the danger and dismissed the other guests?”

  “Yes. He dropped a hint to Rendlesham. ‘Go down to the refectory, the three of you,’ he said. ‘Digby will come down and join you in a minute. Be sure you leave a space for him.’”

  “So the first two signed in fountain pen, blue-black ink, and passed the pen to Rendlesham, who then—quite literally—left a space and signed on line four. When you came down—and you’re going to tell me how much later—you filled in the gap. But in your haste and confusion, understandable after experiencing two killings within seconds of each other, you used your black ink, italic-nibbed pen. The trailing loops of the letters y and g on Digby run over the following scrawl by Rendlesham.” He tapped the file on his desk. “Excellent forensic methods we use these days. Photographic evidence, particularly when enlarged, impresses a jury.”

  “Stop showing off! I’ve no idea how long I was trapped up there with three—three!—cold-blooded killers. As I was trying to tell you, they erupted into silent but deadly action. It was over in seconds. And I can tell you, it’s nothing like the choreographed fencing bouts you see on the silver screen: a twenty-minute reel of nimble footwork, snarling insults and swinging about on drapery! Oh no. Nobody wastes time shouting, ‘Have at you, sirrah!’ Hardy didn’t so much make an entrance as an incursion! He ignored the captain’s jeering and rushed with no warning straight across the room at Fanshawe. Fanshawe! Why him? At that moment, I had no idea what his crimes had been. I just thought he was a sadistic turd, and I was about to resign from his dining club. Couldn’t see why it had such glamour and status attached to it. I was going to tell the new master—Dr. Wells—at the end of term. Seemed the most tactful timing. I wasn’t certain how much longer the college could depend on enjoying his mastership.

  “But here he was—Fanshawe—being manhandled in front of the open window by a man with a very bad reputation. He wasn’t expecting the attack. He tried to fend him off with his hand and scrabbled about with his feet, but it was useless. He shrieked once as he disappeared over the sill, and we all heard the thump as his body hit the paving stones below. Hardy strolled to the drinks tray and picked up the bottle of sherry. He poured the rest of the wine out of the window, looked at us and intoned in mock priestly speech, ‘Let us remember the fallen,’ and then threw the empty bottle after it on top of the body. Then he turned to deal with me. I knew I was next.”

  The young man’s voice began to fail as he recalled the horror and the fear. “What sort of man does that? Kills his fellow and mocks him with a libation poured down on him as he’s taking his last breath?”

  “A soldier. I’ve seen worse,” Redfyre said quietly. “Tell me about the other soldier present. Did Captain Dunne react?”

  “Of course. Like lightning. But he’d taken up—I’d guess—a strategic position by the door. I was nearer, standing by the drinks tray. I rushed at Hardy. It all came back to me.”

  “What came back to you?”

  “The training. My uncle Herbert and my father. When I was young they used to teach me self-preservation, army-style. How to kill before you were killed. I never thought I’d use such skills in earnest. But my fingers hadn’t forgotten.” He extended a pair of oarsman’s hands, and Redfyre inspected the wide span and muscular thumbs. “My thumbs knew where to go. I’m pretty strong, Inspector, and I squeezed hard. It was surprisingly quick. Uncle Herbert taught me to count to thirty, to be sure. But by twenty, Hardy was sagging weightily against me, and I knew he was dead.”

  “And Dunne? What was he doing the while?”

  “Trying to stop me! Shouting in my ear. When Hardy’s body slumped down on the carpet, he put an arm under my shoulders and helped me into a chair. He found the drink I’d poured for myself just before this burst over us and made me drink it down. He told me it was all right, I’d done the right thing, the only thing. That the man I’d just killed was a verminous rat who deserved what he’d got several times over. If I hadn’t done it, he would have. Either way, Hardy was not going to leave that room alive. ‘Listen, lad,’ he said, ‘I’ve a story to tell you.’ It wasn’t the story I’d heard from my father, and I didn’t believe the half of it, but after what’s just happened in London . . . I know the captain had it right.”

  “What’s just happened in London?” Redfyre hardly dared ask.

  “My father died yesterday. You’ll note I came as soon as I could.”

  “I’ve noted that you presented yourself for questioning twenty-four days after the murder occurred,” Redfyre said coldly.

  “Has it been that long? Really? Well, anyhow, I was with my father when he expired. No—don’t slow me down with condolences that are neither required nor appropriate. You knew he was dying. That’s why I went underground. I wanted to be sure that my father was dead and well beyond police attention before I spoke out. I wasn’t having him drawing his last breath in a prison cell.

  “I’d been suspicious of my father’s business methods over the years and the way things always tipped magically in my favour. It seemed a callous thing to do to interrogate him on his deathbed, but I went for it. I had to know the truth before he slipped away. He admitted he’d been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes for the last few weeks concerning his state of health. He’d been bed-bound indeed, but lively enough to use the services of one of his secretaries who was allowed in every morning to ‘complete my plans before I pop my clogs,’ as he put it. When I pressed him, he admitted he’d paid an assassin he’d used on previous occasions to get rid of Fanshawe. ‘The go-between, the know-it-all lightweight who could be the biggest menace of them all,’ he said. ‘He’d have you dangling on his watch chain forever more, my lad. You’d never be clear of the scandal.’ He’d ordered Hardy to kill Fanshawe first, then deal with Dickie Dunne.”

  “Leaving Hardy at liberty?” Redfyre was incredulous. “Your father can’t have been thinking very clearly.”

  “My father was sharp right to the last. It would have entertained him no end to envisage a man-to-man fight to the death between the two men he most hated. He had calculated that, as ever, the captain would beat the lieutenant. If that was the outcome, he was home and dry. Captain Dunne had known the truth for twenty-four years: the theft, the betrayal, the false witness . . . The scandal would have sunk my father, but it would especially, in his eyes, have ruined any prospects of a political career for me, or indeed any place in civilised society. Blackballing from clubs, cold shoulders, invitations refused . . . You can imagine. Yet Dunne had taken no steps to share his knowledge with anyone. He was no threat. I think my father probably had it right, judging by the size of the knuckleduster Dunne was wearing on his right hand when he charged up to Hardy. He’d arrived prepared. Pity I hadn’t known.

  “The last thing my father did was hand me this. He lifted the shopping bag. ‘You’ll lack fo
r nothing, son,’ he said. ‘But I want you to have this. There’s a note inside.’ A note that turned the world upside down for me! Would you like to see it, Inspector?”

  Would he refuse?

  Digby emptied the contents of the bag on to the desk. Out slid a battered red-and-gold commemoration tin bearing the head of Queen Victoria.

  “Take the lid off,” Digby told him.

  On top was a folded sheet of paper, and underneath it, four chocolate bars. Not the original Fry’s, but a later Cadbury’s version of the queen’s largesse. Solemnly, Digby passed Redfyre a penknife. “Will you do the honours?” he said.

  “I believe this is how it’s done,” Redfyre said. He stripped the wrapper from the chocolate bar and sliced it from north to south down the long side. It fell apart, revealing an interesting filling. “Ah. Not nutty crunch, I believe.”

  “Now read the note.”

  With a sigh, Redfyre began to read the dying man’s last words to his only son.

  “‘Just off now, son. Look after your mother, though Grace will get through. She’s a tough woman and far too good for both of us! You needn’t bother about that mad old bat of a granny—she’s provided for. The businesses are yours. Ditch them if you like—it might not be what you’d want to add lustre to a political career. I only did it to give you a leg up. And I’ve always taken steps to smooth your path.

  “‘Just in case, I’m leaving you these reminders of my early army days. I told you the man I hated, Dickie Dunne, had done the dirty on us. Well, not quite true—I got the better of him! Thought he was so clever! But I was the one who got away with the diamonds. Hid them in a neat place, picked them up a year later when things had calmed down. I used the bugger’s own crafty idea of a hiding place to get the stones back home in my kitbag. Who but Dickie Dunne would ever think of disembowelling a bloke’s chocolate bars? Not that it did me that much good—if you ever have to shift rough diamonds, you’ll find they’re not worth a quarter of what people think. If needs be, go to your mother’s cousin in Hatton Gardens in the Smoke. He’ll do the best for you, but don’t expect much. Farewell, Digby, and God bless you, my lad.’”

  Redfyre sighed. “Well, as a confession it’s not very specific, but it will have to do.”

  Digby Gisbourne bent his head to the list again and passed it back to Redfyre. “There. I think we’re up to date. The first, the dancer, I’ve crossed out—nothing to do with me, Guv. The second, Ernest Jessup. The zealous accountant who started it all—I’ve ticked for him. I’d give him two ticks if I could. The general in the punt? I had no idea what had happened to that old fart! He crossed my father in a business deal, I remember. He was an obstacle to a land purchase. I’d better tick for him. Royston Chilvers? He was the Winter Icarus, wasn’t he? I thought I’d heard the last of him. Didn’t he fall off a tower?”

  “No. Chilvers was cracked on the head whilst on the ground, then arranged to look interesting for the photographic record.”

  Digby’s jaw sagged in astonishment. “I knew him. Chilvers was a Tory hopeful, about five years ahead of me in experience and age. When the local member of Parliament came down with pneumonia that winter, it was a disappointment for me. Too soon, you see. Chilvers would have gotten the nomination and been a fixture for the foreseeable . . . But the MP recovered anyway.”

  “What a waste of talent. Tick?”

  “Then there’s Fanshawe. I’ve entered him on my father’s account. And last, Hardy himself. I’m writing my name in that slot. There—I’ve initialled numbers two to five for Pa and signed for the last one myself. I hereby confess to killing Abel Hardy.” He looked up from his scrawlings, puzzled and asked: “Look here, Redfyre—is this regular procedure?”

  “Lord, no. It’s very irregular. I’m taking no official notice at all.” He smiled blandly. “Just helping you to clarify the events for yourself. You’ll know it’s regular when we put the handcuffs on you and get the Bible out. Now, just to dot the is, will you tell me how the pair of you managed the disposal of the body of Hardy?”

  “I went down to the refectory, showed my face, forced down a bite of rice pudding and came away as soon as I could. Told everyone I’d be dashing in and out with an attack of the squitters. And Captain Dunne helped me dispose of the body.”

  “Mm. I worked out that it was a two-man job to get him down all those stairs, and one of them at least would have had to have a good knowledge of the building to find his way down through the master’s lodge and into the graveyard.”

  “I knew the way down and where the key to the door was kept. I unlocked it, locked up afterward and threw the key away into the grass so that no one would venture into the graveyard for a while. Dunne knew the position of the tombstones on the other side. He’d often slept there himself in the summertime. He thought the body wouldn’t be found for days,” he finished accusingly. “We spent some time putting him into Dunne’s greatcoat, fastening that ridiculous tie round his neck, emptying his pockets. At the last moment we noticed the shoes. Hardy had on a very nice pair, scarcely worn. They had to be swapped.”

  “We gathered as much. You’ve no idea how much time the men wasted doing a Prince Charming act. And you messed up the socks. It would have been a neat ending. Decayed body of tramp, later identified as Dunne. Hardy is buried under a false name and disappears completely, unmourned and not pursued too energetically by his wife. Edith wouldn’t have wanted a close investigation into her husband’s affairs. And ‘Dickie Dunne,’ on account of having kept a half crown in his pocket, is put into a marked grave. Two men off the face of the earth for good.”

  He turned his attention back to the list.

  “We have a problem here,” Redfyre said after a calculated moment’s hesitation. “The number-six slot is already spoken for. We’ve had a prior confession for the murder of Hardy. Major—as we should properly call him—Richard Dunne confessed two days ago to the killing of his former comrade in arms. Ah, Constable! Thank you! Cup of tea, Gisbourne? Help yourself to sugar. Oh, and Jenkins, if anyone else appears at the desk confessing to the murder of Dr. Fanshawe, please tell them to join the queue.”

  “Popular bloke, was he?” Jenkins asked innocently.

  Chapter 26

  Cambridge, Monday, the 9th of June, 1924

  MacFarlane shuffled the interview sheets for the tenth time, failing again to see what he wanted to see in them. He sighed and looked suspiciously into the eyes of Redfyre, who was sitting opposite, shrugged his shoulders and conceded defeat.

  “Right, lad. You win.”

  “Not me, sir. Justice, surely? Which is what we all signed up for. Besides, any other solution results, as we’ve both calculated, in defeat, derision—nay, contumely, even!” Redfyre smiled encouragingly. “You can imagine the headlines if we were to lose two cases, one after the other in court. ‘Cack-handed police force, failing to control crime surge in the city’ and all that. And we would lose. Gisbourne would employ the very best and smartest London lawyers and get away with it. I’m not sure, in any case, that his crime deserves an execution by hanging. But that’s not mine to judge—or yours, sir. We might both agree that he did the world a favour, but you never know. English juries are a bit odd at times. I’d rather not risk it.”

  “So what are we to make of a joint hands-up from Dunne and Gisbourne? Bloody ridiculous! Are we quite certain that the two of them aren’t colluding over their stories?”

  Redfyre had hoped his boss wouldn’t think so deeply into the matter. Again he had underrated him. “Colluding, sir?” He appeared to be giving the insight his full consideration. “No, I’m sure not. The two considered themselves enemies over past matters, if you remember, sir? And they wouldn’t have so underestimated the ability of the Cambridge CID to see through such a ploy, would they?”

  It was clear to Redfyre, having gotten to know both self-confessed, synchronised stranglers during his interview sessio
ns, that the two ingenious manipulators had certainly colluded with each other in the presentation of the body in the graveyard. They’d emptied pockets, removed shoes and socks, changed ties, planted a half crown and poured brandy down the dead man’s throat. They’d plotted and planned together, all right. Plan A relied on police stupidity and inaction: vagrant, unidentified, death by natural causes. Bury in town plot. Plan B was in reserve place in case someone raised queries and an investigation was launched. And that was where Redfyre and Dr. Beaufort came onstage, asking questions and ferreting about in pockets and digestive tracts.

  Most annoyingly, the pair had also colluded—in the most tactful way—with Redfyre himself. He was quite certain of that. They had saved themselves from a ramrod-straight police charge of first-degree murder by the subtle implication that they understood that he believed, as they did, in true justice. Plan C had been triggered. A double confession. And, most powerful of all, perhaps, before leaving the station, Gisbourne had notified him with the smiling triumph of a Parthian lining him up over his shoulder for a last shot of his readiness to marshal the forces of an extremely effective and expensive London defence lawyer.

  A furrowed brow and a slow growl greeted Redfyre’s tongue-in-cheek comment on the ability of the CID.

  “If you say so, Inspector. Right. Let’s take a last look at this fairy tale you’ve concocted before we sign our careers away. It all revolves around the victim, Hardy. The unknown element and late entrant to the party. Hardy is a man of the world, a sophisticate from London town, and it’s he who catches on first to the infamous truth behind the gathering. All right so far?”