“Made a lot of sense.”
“Yes. But I was quite surprised when Benson suddenly struck up and started making the decisions. The upshot was—yours truly could make the cocoa while he put on his galoshes and overcoat. He’d take Lois home and give Bruno the unexpected treat of a second walk that evening. No trouble at all! He’d lost the plot of the play they were listening to, anyway. Would enjoy a bit of fresh air. I thought he was just doing what he did quite a lot of—getting out from under Mrs. B’s feet using any excuse. So I made the cocoa and put the dog on a lead. Lois had recovered by then and was keen to return home. With Bruno in one hand, she was as safe as houses. She knew that. That hound would have torn the throat out of anybody putting a finger on her. She set off into the dark with her boss, and that’s the last I saw of her. ”
“Did you note the time Mr. Benson returned?”
“Oh, yes. All this malarky’d made me late for nipping out for my usual, so when ’er indoors dismissed me and went off back upstairs to her play, I went to my room. Couldn’t settle. Worried-like. I was keeping half an eye on the clock. He was back by twenty past ten.” He looked earnestly at Redfyre. “Bloody fool! All he had to do was drop her off on her own doorstep! Are we missing something, Inspector?” And finally, “What time did she die?”
“Let’s say she was dead by the time Benson got home.”
Into the silence, Redfyre offered, “Can I get you another pint? Or a scotch? I’m having a scotch.”
He returned, two Johnny Walkers in hand, to find Vaudrey motionless, chin sunk on his chest, holding back his emotions. “She was a good ’un, Inspector. Caught me having a quick ciggie on the common on her first day. The Missis can’t abide tobacco smoke in the house. No smoking on pain of instant dismissal. ‘Cripes! I’m for it!’ I thought. But, ‘Got another one of those, Vincent?’ she says. ‘Half a day in this madhouse and I’m back on the gaspers again. By next Tuesday I’ll be on the booze. How do you live with it?’” He gave a watery smile. “She brightened the whole house. And she was sharp. She sussed out what was going on with the master and that streak of whitewash he calls his office manager.”
“George Philpott?” Redfyre tried to keep his voice steady.
“That’s ’im. George Discretion Philpott. No one else has a clue. I mean, well, women have no idea, do they? But Lois had lived among—what did she call ’em? Bohemian?—families. Posh, arty folk who tried a bit of anything they fancied. Thought themselves a cut above morality and the law. And she’d been to Paris.” He rolled his eyes as he delivered this last unanswerable argument. “It didn’t seem to affect her; she took people as she found them, without any of their nastiness rubbing off on her.”
“She kept her uncomfortable knowledge to herself?”
“Yes. Never breathed a word, even to me, though sometimes we’d catch each other’s eye, grin and look away. But a word in the wrong ear, and she could have had him arrested and sent to jail. You know how it is! It’s worse in London . . . bloody witch-hunt going on down there! A mate of mine on the fabrics in Liberty’s got caught chatting up a customer—a male customer. Police were called in. A year of hell in jug, poor bloke.” His mouth clamped into an unforgiving line. “They tacked a sign up over his cell door to announce his crime. ‘Buggery,’ it said. And he never! He never! He was lucky to get out of that hell-hole alive. And you coppers wonder why people hate your guts.”
“I don’t. I know very well why. Some of us struggle against a bad system and even manage to change it. Look, Vaudrey, I have a proposition to put to you—no, this isn’t a trap! You have your bag packed, you said. Go and pick it up. I’m offering you a lift to the station and a night’s free lodging. I’ll guarantee that you can jump on the first train north tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t be quite easy thinking you were spending another night under that roof. Come and meet my sergeant. He’ll show you the way to the nick.”
Chapter 16
Shivering in the bleak chill of a Sunday morning, Redfyre, still bleary-eyed from his late night, shone his torch briefly onto the face of his old army watch. Six o’clock. He leaned back against the bark of an ancient chestnut tree, his rough dark serge coat blending seamlessly with the bark, and fixed his eyes again on the front door of the Benson house. Vaudrey had told him that the dog had to be taken out onto the common at six precisely every morning or it would howl the place down. The manservant’s task, of course. He might at any moment catch sight of Mr. Benson performing the duty himself, since his man was tucked up in solitary state in a cell at headquarters, probably being handed a cup of early morning tea by the duty sergeant.
Lights flicked on in a satisfactory way, and moments later the front door swung open. His targets appeared on the top step, sniffed the air and ventured forth. Redfyre gathered himself and moved silently forward, gratifyingly taking Benson by complete surprise. The man would have liked to shoot back indoors and pretend he hadn’t seen the policeman, but Redfyre fixed him on the spot with a cheerful bellow.
“Ah! Good morning, Benson! And good morning, Bruno!”
His friendly greeting elicited two suspicious growls.
“What the hell are you doing here, Redfyre?” came the astonished and grumpy response. “Not still combing the common for fag ends, are you?”
“Let’s say I’ve found a few ends and am now busy tying them together. I’ve gathered nearly enough to knit a noose.”
“Ha! And you’re sizing up necks to fit it? Well, let me offer you another. I’ll tell you something very odd. The bloke who works for us, Vincent Vaudrey—you saw him yesterday—has done a bunk. Never bothered to hand in his notice, just disappeared in the night. Are you wondering why, Redfyre? I am!”
“I have my theories. I even have the man. He spent the night enjoying police hospitality in St. Andrew’s Street.”
“Good Lord! That’s impressive! And you’ve come to inform me? At this unholy hour? That’s impressive, too. But it’s all a dashed nuisance. I didn’t get my early morning cup of tea. He was a good worker. We’ll miss him. Still . . . Mrs. Benson would have been somewhat agitated by his presence about the house in the circumstances, I fear. Hysterics might well have ensued.”
Redfyre smiled and with a gesture invited Benson to step down and join him. “Shall we walk? Your dog seems quite desperate to get onto the grass.”
“Inspector. I have a confession,” Benson began again slowly. “We fobbed you off, the wife and I, yesterday. Told you less than the truth. No malicious or devious intent, of course. We were just trying to avoid attracting an unnecessary police attention to the household and business. When an employee gets herself murdered practically on the doorstep, tongues are bound to wag. Isn’t that so?”
“I was not unaware of the attempt at fabrication and wasting of police time. Would you now care to enlarge on or correct your story?”
Redfyre’s tone was stiff enough to make Benson drop his blarney and confine himself to the bald truth. He began briskly. “You have perhaps realised that Miss Lawrence and this wretch, Vaudrey, were close. Closer than a girl of her status had any right to be with a servant. And a Londoner, what’s more! One of dubious background. You should—perhaps you already have—looked into it?”
He waited for Redfyre to acknowledge with a nod and continued. “Manservants are like gold dust these days, and they don’t apply for jobs in the provinces unless they have a very good reason for avoiding the capital. It was clear that Vaudrey was impressed by Miss Lawrence—a pretty girl—and perhaps he fancied his chances, got the inevitable rebuff and couldn’t stomach it. She turned up on our doorstep on Friday night with a cock-and-bull story about being followed from town by some stranger. Vincent was very eager to accompany her back home across the river. Suspiciously eager. I smelled a rat and stepped in. ‘No,’ I said, ‘leave it to me. I’ll take the dog with us. He’ll enjoy the walk and see off any ruffians.”
“Considerate
of you, sir. And did you deliver Miss Lawrence safely to her home?”
Benson stopped and moved the dog lead from one hand to the other with irritation as they walked along. He seemed to be having such difficulty holding back the dog that Redfyre, overcome by good manners, was on the point of offering to take the lead himself.
“Of course I did!” Benson snapped. “We went over Cutter Ferry Bridge. It’s a fifteen-minute walk for me. Would have been five at the pace Bruno and the girl set. I don’t walk with the easy grace of youth any longer, Inspector. I took the trouble to keep looking about me and, I have to say, I saw not a soul. There was definitely no man on a bicycle for half a mile in any direction. What was she up to? At any rate, she couldn’t wait to be rid of my company. It wasn’t an easy conversation. We didn’t get on as well as I would have wished, Inspector.”
“Would you like to confide the reason for the bad feeling?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. She’s of a different generation. She is—was—demanding, overconfident, manipulative and damn clever, Inspector. Mrs. Benson and I have not been blessed with children. And I do mean blessed. We would have welcomed them, sons or daughters. If we’d had a son with Louise’s qualities, we’d have thought we’d died and gone to heaven!”
He stood for a moment, commanded the dog to sit and spoke earnestly to Redfyre. “Louise did not know, nor would she ever have guessed, that I intended to pass the business on to her upon my death. My wife would be quite unable to cope—she can barely manage the household accounts—and when I began to look at the situation in an unbiased way with my lawyer at my elbow, it occurred to me that the solution was obvious. She was right there in front of me. Redfyre, I was about to make Miss Lawrence the heir to my business concerns. The disposition would have caused much distress to Mrs. Benson, though I would always have left her well provided for. I leave to your imagination the scenes that would have ensued on the reading of my will, Inspector! Oh, the shrieks and screams!”
The twinkle in his eye encouraged Redfyre to comment indiscreetly. “Shrieks that would have fallen on dead ears, however! You risked little as long as both ladies remained unaware of your intentions until you were safely away in your box.”
“My reasoning exactly! Redfyre, a further disgraceful satisfaction I had planned but would never have enjoyed was to cock a snook at Lawrence, her father. We work well as business colleagues, but I have little respect for the man. He mistreats his wife, sets aside his daughters as worthless. He never valued Louise’s talents.”
Time, Redfyre thought, to reveal a strong card. “Talents, sir? Would you consider an ability to extract money from her boss a talent? In my book, blackmail is a crime, not an admirable character trait.”
Benson resumed his walk. “The Friday envelopes? Is that what you’re referring to? None of your business, of course, but no! I won’t allow you to blacken Louise’s memory with the most sordid of police aspersions. She asked me for money one day, Inspector. Oh, not for any substantial amount. She wanted to borrow it in advance of her wages—an undeclared bank loan sort of arrangement. I had the cash, she said she would work off the sum. Gents’ agreement. It would have been impossible to set up such a loan with her bank. Being a woman, and a young one at that, any transaction would have necessitated the involvement of her father, which she was at great pains to avoid. She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted it for, but knowing her as I did, I trusted her in her intentions. We worked out our pay packet arrangement. Probably incurring the wrath of the Tax Inspectorate, if anyone would be so vindictive as to inform them . . .”
“They will not hear from me, Mr. Benson.”
“I was going to reveal my plans for the business to Louise as we walked. It’s hard in the office to find a quiet moment when four or five pairs of ears aren’t wagging. But the mood wasn’t right that night. She was tense, eager to be getting home.
“When we’d crossed the bridge, she told me there was no need to escort her any further. She was within sight of home and admitted that she must have imagined the follower. She began to give Bruno his orders to go or turn around—whatever it is she says to him. But, ‘No, no, my dear!’ I said.” He hung his head and looked aside. “I fear I spoke out of a spirit of mischief. I wanted to annoy her. ‘I undertook to deliver you safely and that’s what I shall do. Every slow step of the way, don’t you fret!’”
He paused again to massage his left hand, wincing with pain. “This dog is too much for me. It will have to go. I only kept the wretched animal on as a favour to Louise.”
“And where exactly did you say goodbye to her?”
Benson pointed across the river. “Right there, at the bottom of de Montfort. Thirty yards from her house. Her father was standing on the porch watching out for her. He must have caught sight of us approaching when we were lit by that gas lamp over there on the corner. Louise shouted, ‘Yoo, hoo!’ and waved at him. He waved back. ‘Well, there’s daddy!’ she said. ‘Duty done, Mr. Benson. Thank you so much, and good night.’ And off she skipped.”
“You didn’t attempt to speak to Mr. Lawrence?”
“Lord, no! Keep him out, freezing on his porch exchanging pleasantries when all he wanted to do was haul his daughter inside and tear her ears off? Not kind or necessary. I showed myself in the lamp light and did a bit of gentlemanly gesturing, made a rather exaggerated bow and gave her a theatrical shove in the back, saying ‘Over to you!’ I was glad to be rid of her by then. I pulled old Bruno off in the other direction back across the bridge as fast as I could—he seemed all set to perform that awful whining he does when she moves out of his sight, pulling frantically to get back to her.”
“I’m not sure, in these circumstances, how you think Vaudrey could possibly be involved.”
“Must I do all your work for you? He wasn’t about the place when I returned. I didn’t expect it. He used to go off to the pub, returning at closing time—about eleven. He could have left the house shortly after we did—I’ve checked with my wife and she hasn’t a clue. She dismissed him and went straight back to the play on the wireless after the interruption. There are more ways than one of reaching the bottom of de Montfort Avenue. Longer ways around, but he could have run and got ahead of us. As you’ve noticed, I walk annoyingly slowly. He could have intercepted her before she reached the house, couldn’t he?” he finished, querulous and uncertain.
“Benson, you should hear that Mr. Lawrence told me—and I believe him—that he did not see Louise arriving back. He was working in his study and she did not interrupt him. He was unaware that she was absent from the house, let alone dead, when I brought him the news the following morning.”
Benson was aghast. “God help us! It was Vaudrey. The figure waving from the porch was Vaudrey, lying in wait! I’ve known Oliver Lawrence for thirty years, but I couldn’t swear it was him I caught a glimpse of. Still, I never questioned it—who else would have been on that very spot and waving? The brain accepts what the brain expects, you know, Inspector.”
“Quite. And my brain is reminding me that Louise Lawrence knew your secret—secrets, indeed—and was taking money from you. Overstuffed pay packets every Friday? You offer an explanation and I will consider it. I consider also the fact that the girl had knowledge that any man might have killed to keep hidden. How convenient was it for you that she disappeared that night? Was strangled to death only yards from the place where you declare you left her?”
Benson was quivering in terror. He spluttered and protested his innocence. All to be expected, and Redfyre had encountered such emotion on the part of the guilty many times, but he was alarmed by the unnatural movements the man was suddenly exhibiting. The left side of his body appeared to crumple and sag. He seized his left hand in his right, abandoning the dog lead and cursing with frustration. Redfyre swiftly put a foot on the lead and shouted at the dog to sit.
“Show me your hand,” Redfyre said firmly and took hold of it.
The hand was a twitching, trembling claw, and the shuddering of the muscles continued all the way up to the shoulder.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Redfyre asked. “Are you having a fit? A heart attack? Can I get you help of some sort?”
“Nothing you can do but stop bothering me! It’s the shaking palsy. Paralysis agitans, or as my medic calls it these days, Parkinson’s disease. Incurable and progressive, I’m afraid. Even I do not have the pills to combat or even alleviate it.” He bared his teeth in what might have been either pain or a sardonic snarl. “My only respite from it is massage, expertly and devotedly administered by my employee, George Philpott. As the attacks are sporadic and never predictable, I pay him a retainer to work on the premises and be present whenever I need him.”
“Does Philpott have medical qualifications?”
“He did. He is—was—a doctor of medicine, but he was struck off in circumstances that do not concern you. An act of spite and injustice. We have long been friends, and when he found himself unemployable in his own profession, I offered him the chance of working for me in a not-unassociated capacity. He remains able to use his experience and skills in the business and on his one remaining private patient.”
“You felt you needed to conceal his role?”
“Of course. Secrecy in such matters is important to me. I run a business that is in competition with several rising young outfits who would be circling like vultures if they knew of my condition.”
Fall of Angels Page 23