Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Would that be ditto for the tango school she frequented as well, sir?”

  “Inspect them first, Redfyre. We’re not unreasonable.” MacFarlane glowered and carried on. “She’s an even worse problem now she’s dead. But what a lass, eh? Has anyone done as I asked and thought to get hold of a photograph for the scrapbook?”

  Redfyre bent and retrieved his briefcase. “Sir, her mother willingly handed this one over. It’s her school-leaving photo. It’ll come in useful for identification in interviews with other witnesses.”

  “What a corker!” was MacFarlane’s verdict. “Shame she didn’t have two proper parents who kept her on the straight and narrow. Couple of loonies like the pair you’ve described, Redfyre, could turn anyone into an agitator. Now, what’s next out of the hat?”

  “A scarf. A suffragette scarf.”

  Redfyre told the tale as Ellen Lawrence had recounted it.

  MacFarlane appeared unimpressed. He refused to touch the fabric, pushing it about with the end of his pencil. “You are aware, Redfyre that these things are two a penny in Epsom High Street? Curio and memento shops? Never more than one on display at any moment, of course. They have to convince every punter that he’s being sold the one and only.”

  Redfyre didn’t believe him and said stiffly, “All the same, I should like to have it examined by forensics.”

  “As you wish. Waste of their time. They’ll find mud and manure and grass all scraped from the hallowed turf, I’m sure, and a dab or two of tomato ketchup for effect.”

  “Sir, the scarf in question did exist. It’s here in the photographs. It was abandoned on the course when Miss Davis’s body was carried off on a stretcher. There were racecourse officials instantly on the scene, and I’m sure one of them would have dutifully picked it up and removed it, not being aware of its significance at the time. It could well be in existence somewhere, and I would like to find out whether this is the one.”

  “Suit yourself. It doesn’t advance our case, whichever. Dead end.”

  Thoday, who’d been listening with increasing exasperation, stirred and nodded in agreement. “Sir! Don’t you think we’re clutching at straws in the wind?”

  “It’s possible. What is certain is that you are hybridising your metaphors, Sergeant. Not just mixing them, but breeding from them. Don’t do it. Now, Inspector—have you got anything else in there? Something more solid?”

  “Try this. A group photograph. At the last moment, Ellen remembered that just one photograph had been taken of Louise’s unnamed gang of anonymous girls in the summer. Not all the regular members are there—it was an impromptu meeting, and there are naturally no helpful names written on the back.”

  He placed the print on the table in front of his two colleagues and waited for them to study the exhibit.

  MacFarlane extended a stubby, nicotine-stained forefinger and counted up the faces. “One, two . . . seven of ’em. It’s just an innocent tea party,” MacFarlane scoffed. “Straw hats, cucumber sandwiches and jugs of lemonade on the terrace in the shade of a horse chestnut. Conkers just starting to form, I see, so—late August, early September. Louise is easy to spot. But—‘girls,’ Redfyre? I can see a couple here who are nearer fifty than fifteen. ”

  “Louise wasn’t running a Girl Guide troop. She recruited with care, according to her mother. She valued experience and wisdom.”

  “Mmm. Who recruited whom, though? We shouldn’t assume Louise was the leading light just because she’s our subject of interest. Perhaps she took her orders from above? Could be that her house—the one she seemed to have the run of—tucked away over the river away from, let’s say university eyes, was damned convenient for a bunch of militant ladies. Out of the academic orbit and off the map for townies, but only a few minutes’ walk from both. And all the wimmin have bikes these days. Do we think Miss Louise was playing the adjutant, the facilitator for some other, more experienced old biddie? An agitator-in-chief? Here, take a look at this boot-faced harridan—the one with the teapot. Bet she packs a six-inch hatpin!”

  “Sir!” Redfyre could barely hang on to a tone of reprimand through his amusement. “The lady you are speaking of is my Aunt Henrietta.”

  He enjoyed MacFarlane’s discomfort for a moment, then explained, “Aunt Hetty is an old school friend of Mrs. Lawrence’s, and godmother to her daughters. She is the only one to have stuck by Mrs. Lawrence over the years in the face of Mr. Lawrence’s maltreatment. I was unaware that she visited every Wednesday to check on her friend’s welfare. It would be the most natural thing in the world for my gossipy old aunt to preside over the tea things and, finding herself surrounded by a gaggle of grinning girls, all friends of young Louise, entertain them with the stories of her gilded youth. And yes, she does indeed pack a hatpin that she would not hesitate to use on you, sir, if you offended her.”

  “Thanks for the warning. You’d better get over to hers and confront her with this. How well does she know these other girls? Can she give us their names?

  “I doubt it! According to young Beth, they each chose a name from the pantheon of Roman deities to disguise their identities.”

  MacFarlane’s eyes opened wide in disbelief, and he looked again at the smiling faces. “Then I think I’ve just spotted ‘Venus,’” he said with a chuckle. “Have a gander at this little bundle of fun on the front row! Blonde hair, cheeky grin, neat ankles. Do you recognise anyone else in this lineup, Inspector?”

  “Yes, one for certain.” He pointed to a girl sitting on a swing hanging from a tree bough, one leg saucily extended and showing her petticoats in deliberate imitation of the Fragonard painting. “That piece of mischief! And this lady over here on the left, hiding half her face behind her teacup. Obviously, she’s uncomfortable at the idea of being photographed. If my identification is correct, she has good reason to be. I’m marking her down as Minerva!”

  MacFarlane peered more closely at Minerva. “Mmm . . . she’d be my pick! What a smasher! Big lass, though. Look at those muscles! She’d know what to do with an oar.”

  “Indeed. I understand she rowed at stroke in her women’s college crew, some years ago,” Redfyre replied stiffly.

  “Take a posse if you’re planning on arresting her. Any more take your fancy?”

  “If I caught sight of the eighth girl, I might well be able to greet her by name.”

  “’Arf a mo’! Eight? There’s seven here.”

  “I mean the one holding the Pocket Kodak, sir. People always forget that someone is looking through the viewfinder and pressing the button. Of the party, but not recorded. The one of this crowd who would not wish her features to be recognised amongst such a gathering. The one with a reputation to make and uphold.”

  His theory was received with a measure of skepticism, followed by the orders he had hoped for to “Get your aunt in a corner and give her the third degree! I want the lowdown on every face in this picture and the one taking it.”

  And then: “Come on, Redfyre. Your bag’s still open, I see. Pull out a few more rabbits, will you?”

  He produced a box of Swan Vestas and rattled it. “Another job for our long-suffering Forensics!”

  He pushed it open, and they all peered in at the multicoloured collection of pills and tablets.

  “Mrs. Lawrence had got herself together sufficiently well—or perhaps Louise had done it for her—to present a sample of all the medicaments her husband had imposed on her over the last five years. Some, but not all, are stamped with the commercial imprint of Benson’s factory, B&H. The H of the old firm being long dead, apparently.”

  “Well done, Redfyre. She saw you coming, it seems. Just remember what the old bat said about mental jujitsu—I don’t want to see my best inspector hung out to dry. Get these over to the hospital labs with a note.”

  He looked keenly over the desk as Redfyre closed his case. “Aw! That all?”

  �
��Not quite, sir. There was one more thing Mrs. Lawrence handed me. The name of the man she is convinced killed Louise.”

  “Redfyre, you’ve got handcuffs. Why isn’t he wearing them?”

  “Time enough.” Redfyre smiled. “I’m meeting this gent in an hour’s time down the pub, at his suggestion. If he coughs up, I’ll make the arrest, but I’m not expecting it. I’d rather like to take the sarge along with me, if he can stay awake long enough.”

  Thoday grinned and mimed awakeness.

  “His name’s Vaudrey.”

  They looked at each other in puzzlement. “Not her dad, Lawrence, then? Not Benson?”

  “No. Vaudrey. As chance would have it—no, routine procedure had it!—I’d spoken to the very man on entering and leaving the Benson household. He’s the butler-cum-footman. Vincent Vaudrey. Ellen Lawrence is quite sure that he is the creature, the pair of strong hands used by either or both Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Benson.”

  “Makes sense to me. The first bit of sense you got out of that nutcase. The father and the employer both wanted her out of circulation, neither having the physical or mental strength to do the dirty deed.”

  “So they look about them and ask—‘Who will rid me of this turbulent daughter?’ Vaudrey is a London man, possibly a villain on the run, according to Mrs. Lawrence. She blames the postwar servant shortage.”

  “Hear this, Redfyre. With the stakes as high as I’m beginning to think they are, you ought to get your skates on and nab this bird before he goes missing. He’ll be under the ice in the Cam or on his way to the Riviera in no time—they won’t want him being interviewed by CID. Paid assassins have the shortest survival rate of any villain, largely because they’re never local and nobody’s interested in tracking them down. If he’s still running free, nick him and put him in the cells. Tell him it’s for his own protection. It’s Saturday night—I’ll tell the duty sergeant to reserve cell number ten. Solitary occupancy, so no one’ll get to him.”

  And in a rush of concern for the late hour and the extended day his officers had worked, he muttered, “Better take the Riley.” He promptly spoiled it by adding, “Easier to transport a prisoner in the back than invite him to walk along back to the nick with you, even if there’s two of you. Conversation might become a little stilted.”

  It was well managed. Thoday had entered the Champion of the Thames ten minutes before Redfyre, and he was five minutes before he expected Vaudrey to make his appearance.

  Thoday was settled at the main bar, elbow to elbow with a couple of the regulars whom he seemed to know. The pint in front of him was already half empty. Redfyre noted that the sergeant had chosen a spot where he could cover the whole of the small-panelled room with one glance in the mirror behind the barkeeper. Redfyre approached, ordered two pints of the best bitter and looked about him while they were pulled. The “Champ” was uncomfortably crowded. He decided the best way to establish a space in which he could conduct an uncertain conversation with a dubious character was to pick that space and clear it. He gathered up his pints, selected a table which would be well within the sight of Thoday and approached the pair of town roughs who were lounging there looking disconsolately at their empty glasses.

  “Finished here, have you, fellers?” he said jovially. “Bit quiet in here for you? Why don’t you join the funsters in the public bar, eh? And have one on me.” He winked and put a half crown onto the table. This seemed to take the edge off the riposte they had initially been about to summon up, and they moved off, taking their empties with them.

  Vaudrey came in at 9:37, greeting several of the men in the bar. He caught sight of Redfyre sitting behind his two pints and steered a course through the crowd to join him.

  “Vincent Vaudrey,” he said politely, extending a hand.

  Redfyre felt in his grasp the calloused palm of a gardener, a trench digger, or a hard-worked footman. “Recently of London?” he enquired with a smile. “I believe you know some friends of mine down there in the Smoke.”

  “I think you mean ‘am known to’ some of your pals. The ones with a lovely view over the Thames,” he said with bluff openness. “Don’t believe a word they tell you. Those lying turds fitted me up. For something that got me a year in the Scrubs. If you’re ever on the blower to them again, say Vincent sends them a two-fingered salute. That he’s working a cushy little number in Cambridge, where he’s enjoying the unpolluted air. Even the coppers up here are clean.” The voice had the speed and jerky rhythm of an Eastender. The sharp eyes and intelligent face were making a swift assessment of him.

  “Happy with your employment, then, are you?”

  “What do you think? It’s bearable.” He took a deep swig of his beer. “At least, it was until very recently. I’ve packed my bags. I’m getting the first train up north tomorrow morning to where my sister lives in Sheffield. They were lying to you, did you know that? The old trout and her weasel husband.”

  “I knew. What I want to establish is why they felt they needed to lie.”

  “I’m not sure myself. It’s probably not safe to know. They’re up to something, and Lois had an idea what it was. Look, do you want to hear what really happened on Friday night?”

  Redfyre nodded.

  “The dog knew she was there. It barked a warning. At about, oh, I was just locking the back door, so it would have been nine twenty-five. He’s made a good watchdog, Bruno. But Lois was special for him, he could get wind of her a hundred yards off. I wasn’t surprised to see it was her on the doorstep a second later when the bell rang. Least, I was surprised that she was there at all. She’d gone home at the usual time. Told everybody she was going to a concert at one of the colleges. Never came round in the evenings. She shot inside when I opened up, looking over her shoulder. Scared like.

  “‘I didn’t know what to do, Vincent,’ she says. ‘There’s someone following me. Can I use the phone to ring my father and ask him to come and fetch me? Don’t bother the Bensons. I’ll just sit quietly here in the hallway and wait.’

  “It wasn’t like Lois to be scared of anything, but she did seem rattled. ‘Who is it? Any idea?’ I asked her. I walked out to the end of the path and shone the torch about. Didn’t see nobody. Nothing stirring. Still, it’s impossible to spot anybody who doesn’t want to be spotted amongst the trees. Too many hidey-holes on the common, that’s why it’s so popular of an evening. You let yourself be spooked by every squeal and squeak, and you’ll never get across it. But it was brass monkey weather last night. You’d have to be desperate for it to go out canoodling in that.”

  “Could she give you any details of her follower?”

  “Yes. He was on a bike. She’d clocked him halfway down Jesus Lane on her way to Four Lamps crossroads. She’d moved over under the trees by the wall to pull up her stocking. This bloke shot past on his bike. She watched him to the end of the road, wondering where on earth he could be going in such a hurry. Decided it was probably an undergrad rushing back to his digs out of town before curfew. He stopped at Four Lamps and looked around. She wondered why somebody who’d been in such a hurry now suddenly seemed to have all the time in the world. He was hunting, she thought. She stayed where she was and watched him checking every road out from the city centre, one by one. Then he cycled off again down Victoria Avenue towards the river on the left edge of the common. Lois set off again, navigated Four Lamps, no bother, and decided to take her chances across the common ’cos it looked deserted. And she didn’t want to pick the same road as the man on the bike. The house lights were on all along Brunswick Terrace, which was practically her backyard. She’d crossed Butt Green and was striking out across the common when she realised that the cyclist had cut across from the Avenue and was making straight for her, bumping over the grass.”

  “Same man?”

  “Yes. Same outline. Hard to tell when someone’s on a bike. He had a hat on and a cycling cape, she said. Nothing special. The
kind of gear everybody keeps rolled up in their cycle bag in winter. Thick, woolly. Again, she’s not a girl who gets frightened easily, but there was something about this bloke that spooked her. She did the sensible thing: ran to the Bensons’ and pulled on the doorbell.

  “I calmed her down and, suspicious type that I am, I said, ‘Look here, Lois—have you been up to something? Ditched some poor bugger in town and he’s trailing after you?’ I was quite near the mark, as it turns out. Well, there was this bloke—varsity type—she’d annoyed. Left him in the lurch at a pub, though she’d paid for the drinks and didn’t owe him a halfpenny. He followed her on foot as far as the marketplace. She’d spotted him in the crowd round the Sally Bash band. He could have picked his bike up from where they leave them against the railings by the church and tailed her, but he was a bit of a goof. She didn’t think he had it in him—the determination that is. I told her it’s not that, it’s the snub, the humiliation that gets them. Even a weed can get really riled when a woman turns him down. I made her tell me his name. Thomas Tyrrell, Inspector. Music student or something at St. Barnabas. That’s who you’re looking for.”

  “I’m aware of Mr. Tyrrell. Thank you, Vaudrey. But tell me—why the fandango from the Bensons to establish an alibi?”

  “It was what happened next that caused that. They were listening on the stairs. Both of ’em. They do a lot of hole-and-corner stuff.” He shrugged. “It’s their house. No reason why they shouldn’t have come down at the sound of Lois’s voice. Practically family, she was. Except she couldn’t stand them. ‘Good gracious!’ they said. What was dear Lois doing parading about in the dark on the common? They wanted to know. ‘No—don’t bother to ring and disturb your parents—you know how your mother gets overexcited. Expected back by ten o’clock? Plenty of time for a cup of cocoa, and then Vaudrey can escort you the short distance to de Montfort Avenue.’”