“Good morning! I have an appointment to meet Dean Herbert here at noon,” Redfyre shouted above the clamour of the local bells tolling out twelve.
Impassive, Mr. Bowler took the warrant card offered for his inspection and he examined it with not exaggerated but professional care. His insolent eyes fixed Redfyre’s in a further, more personal, assessment. “The dean does not attend backdoor callers in person,” he said smoothly. “Hawkers, beggars, rat-catchers and other riff-raff are required to move on.”
That was quite obviously the end of his official speech. The sentence that followed, being delivered sotto voce out of the corner of his mouth, came straight from the man himself and reflected his scorn for the plainclothed posh boys of the CID. “So shift yer arse, nancy boy!”
Smiling pleasantly, Redfyre took a step closer until he stood invasively close, broken nose to broken nose. His hands whipped up one on either side of the bowler hat and rammed it down over the man’s eyes. Instinctively, and with a yell of, “Oi! What the ’ell’s this then?” the man raised both his hands to reinstate his hat.
Redfyre’s right fist immediately punched into the undefended midriff, releasing a burst of used air and cutting off further speech. Into the rasping and gobbling noises that ensued, he spoke cheerfully. “This is one rat catcher who won’t be moved on. I never leave the premises without a rat between my teeth.”
Then, in a crisp officer’s voice, he rapped out, “Name! Rank! Number!”
The spontaneous reaction to the command, still powerful, had the man trying to raise himself from his doubled-up posture and begin to mouth words. Redfyre thought he made out “Dooley . . . Sergeant . . .” and a run of indecipherable but clearly well-remembered numbers.
“Right. Sergeant Dooley! Stand to attention!” He waited for the man to attempt this, while still whooping for breath. “Cambridgeshire Regiment, were you?”
And, rasping: “First Division, sir.”
Redfyre took a step back and observed the man for a moment. “The storming of the Schwaben Redoubt . . . Commendation from Earl Haig himself, I remember. Hmm, you’ve gone a bit soft, Sarge. Too many good college dinners! I thought my fist was going through a pavlova pudding before it reached a backbone. Glad to see that’s still in position, at least. Now, before you take me up to meet your boss, just show me around this gateway, will you?”
By nods and grunts and shakes of the head that developed with recovery into sentences, Redfyre established that the solid gate swung open with oiled ease when one of the two copies of the key was used. One was kept in the bursar’s office, and the other was in the charge of the dean, since his quarters were the nearest and he sometimes used the gateway as an exit. His own house was over the river in Grange Road and, if on foot, he would make off through the side gate and across the river. Yes, sometimes he used his bike. He kept a Raleigh in the sheds.
The gate was used as a discreet channel for the college’s rubbish, a tradition left over from medieval times when a short path straight down to the river had facilitated the dumping of refuse straight into the Cam. Modern regulations forbade this, but the practice lingered. College servants would daily clear away items of unwanted linen, broken tennis racquets, empty bottles . . . At the ends and beginnings of terms, when the young gentlemen were coming and going on holiday, it was in constant use by the porters. At this point, a challenging yell and a creaking of wheels announced such an operation. Two porters bearing down on them called out a warning to clear out of the gateway—they were coming through. A trolley piled high with students’ trunks on their way to the railway station thundered through and turned left onto Trinity Street.
“And whose duty was it to check that the gate was locked for the night?” Redfyre wanted to know.
The domestic bursar’s staff, usually a senior porter, did a walkabout, checking all doors and windows and gates. This one was checked routinely at eleven o’clock. Any vagrants would be sent packing, and then he’d close and lock the gate. The key would be hung up in its usual place in the bursar’s office at about midnight when the inspection came to an end. Nothing untoward had been reported last evening.
“Thank you, Dooley. Reconnaissance over, I think. Time to engage the enemy! Lead on, will you?”
Dooley escorted him along the covered way fringing a sheltered and surprisingly green courtyard, which appeared to be completely frost free. A scene utterly charming to Redfyre, who lingered to examine with admiration one or two of the evergreen shrubs as they passed through. Dooley, impervious to the attractions of horticulture, pressed on to reach and climb a stone staircase. They arrived at a thick oak door marked Doctor Felix Herbert. Dooley knocked, put an ear to the door, pretended to hear a response and threw the door open.
“Ah, come in. You must be the policeman.”
The dean of the place. The fellow responsible for discipline and good order in the college. He who would ensure that the junior members of the college were respectful to authority and each other, quiet and abstemious. Undergraduates arriving from public schools recognised that the dean performed the same function as their past headmaster. Though he did not wield a cane, he had the authority to make your life hell and even send you down in disgrace if you really did something to get up his nose.
Redfyre studied the dean as the dean studied Redfyre’s warrant card.
Begowned, pale, nervous and waspish was Redfyre’s first impression as the man rose reluctantly from his armchair by the fireside. His second, seeing the man on his feet, was that he seemed rather young to hold such high office. Late thirties, perhaps? But then, the master himself, brought in from outside the college some four years ago, was on the young side and unlikely to appoint a man older than himself to the position of dean. Redfyre’s friend Freddy had just reminded him by phone that the winnowing wind of war had blown with exceptional savagery through the university. The older men, the dons, who had joined up, had been made officers and inevitably placed in the forefront of battle, had suffered exceptional casualties. One in seven of the dons and students had died, many thousands more had been wounded. And now, these days, to a policeman’s eyes, all the fellows looked young.
“Dooley, where have you been loitering? Stir up the fire, will you, and check the scuttle’s full.” He resumed his seat, leaving Redfyre standing in front of him. “Now, er, Inspector, I understand you have some questions to put regarding the side entrance to the college, which was the fortuitously chosen deposition spot for evidence of a piece of town tomfoolery last evening? You may interview Dooley, who is au fait with the locking procedures and all that sort of domestic business. Take the seats at the table over there.” He waved a pale hand towards the distant window of the large wood-panelled room. “The effects of the fire should extend as far as that if Dooley does his job, though there is always a draught between the windows. I advise you to keep on your coat and muffler.”
He picked up his book from a side table, adjusted the spectacles on his nose in a marked manner and began to read. A languid hand reached out and grasped the glass of pre-lunch madeira on the table at his elbow. He took a warming sip of the sticky, fragrant and comforting wine.
Dooley kicked the fire about a bit, then sloped off to take his place at the table indicated. Redfyre joined him, a quizzical smile on his face.
“While you’re still on your feet, Dooley, why don’t you refill Dean Herbert’s glass? Then we can settle to our business without interruption.”
Dooley responded truculently to the suggestion. His frown and exaggeratedly slow reaction to obey told his boss that he regarded this as puzzling behaviour—but that everything this copper seemed to do and say was puzzling. Duty done, he returned and sat down waiting for his chance to give pre-prepared answers to anticipated questions.
Police enquiries were clearly backdoor business for the dean. They could safely be left to the butler to be dealt with. And yet, he wished to be within earsho
t when that business was being conducted. Redfyre decided to be annoying.
“Well, well, well! Dooley—Sergeant Dooley. First Regiment of the Cambridgeshires, eh? That gory interlude, on the Ancre, was it? Where your lot made a suicidal attack on the Bosche. No cameras to record the action, alas, but a solitary plane overflying the field dropped a message off over HQ. What did it say? ‘Cambridgeshires going over the top, as if on parade.’ Do I have that right?”
He listened to Dooley’s awkward response and continued to chat about the regiment’s part in the war. Dean Herbert stirred impatiently. He called over his shoulder. “Dooley! You will please confine yourself to informing the constabulary as to the routine associated with the locking of the gate.”
Redfyre again addressed the old soldier. “No need for that. I’ve seen everything I wanted to see down in the passageway. But really, if we’re not to chat about our shared experiences, what is there left for me to do here? I shall have to get on and perform the task I came specifically to do—namely, to arrest your boss for obstructing a police officer in the pursuit of his enquiries into a homicide. The murder of Miss Rosalind Weston of Maids Causeway, Cambridge. A young lady with whom the dean has close connections of a disreputable nature. There will follow, subsequent to enquiries being put in the interrogation room, a warrant for Dean Herbert’s arrest on a charge of that murder. Now, what did I do with my handcuffs? Shall I cart him off through the side gate or the front entrance, Dooley?”
Herbert was on his feet, knocking over his side table and spitting with rage. “Dooley, leave us. You! Redfyre! Cretinous, bullying public servant who does not know his place—”
The invective flowed as Dooley shot off, leaving Redfyre obligingly to pick up the spilled glass and replace the table.
“There, there,” he said, falsely soothing. “I see and quite understand that you have managed to keep Miss Weston’s visits secret from Dooley—and from all here in the college, I would assume. You have the key. You dismiss your servant for the night and can come and go and entertain as you wish in complete privacy. As you did on the nights of October the third, October the twelfth, November the—”
“How dare you peddle such lies! Suggest such infamies!” Herbert spluttered, on his feet and very angry.
Redfyre didn’t want the dean on his feet. Standing up and delivering lectures was a don’s natural posture—superior, dominant. He would counter it.
“I don’t suggest. I quote from Miss Weston’s immaculate recording of her encounters.” He took her diary from his pocket and held it under the dean’s nose. “Encounters which are confirmed by the, er, company records of a Mrs. Lilian Jellico of Maids Causeway. Now, do resume your seat and answer my questions.”
Glowering, the dean obeyed.
With the man’s guard down, Redfyre pressed his advantage: “Whose persuasion led you to grant permission for Miss Proudfoot to perform in concert on college premises last Friday?”
The man gobbled at him in confusion, unable to summon up the right words.
“Standing in for the master who was aboard His Majesty’s steamship Ulysses at the time, you granted her a permission that you knew very well would have been refused had the master been present. He had refused on four previous occasions, I believe. Had they been consulted, a committee of the fellows would have upheld the master’s position I understand.” (He understood no such thing. He was merely calculating.) “So, unless you were having a sudden and complete change of heart regarding females performing on college premises in anything other than a menial role, you must have been coerced. By whom?”
“Who do you expect, you fool? Who else would know? The wretched girl herself! I haven’t set eyes on her since she started blackmailing me. That November date you have in your record is the last time I had any dealings with her. She took her cash, tucked it away in her bag and then said, almost as an afterthought, ‘Oh, by the by, Dean. I have your wife, Honoria’s, address. I intend to tell her about our encounters unless you do me a small favour.’ And that was it—the favour. Granting licence for the trumpeting. Not what I was expecting. Rather a cheap price to pay and easy enough to oblige. In some people’s eyes, I even acquired a certain kudos, a tinge of daring modernity by making it!” He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief tinged with amusement. “But she had made the threat. Blackmailers never give up—you must know that. I was in constant alarm waiting for her next demand. And upon receiving one such, I had determined to do the right thing—the only thing—and make a clean breast of it to the police.”
“And was this demand made? What did she require of you last night, Herbert?”
“Nothing. No further demand was ever made. And she never came to see me yesterday. I did not approach her with a request for an assignation, Inspector. I have been staying here in my set in college over this last bit. Ends of terms always a demanding time, don’t you know. With my wife’s encouragement. Naturally.” He gave a swift, ironic grin. “Honoria leads a busy life on her own account.”
Very busy, indeed, reflected Redfyre. According to his friend Freddy’s wife, Honoria Herbert was rumoured to be spending a good part of each day devoting herself to her new passion for gardening. And most of her nights to her passion for the new gardener.
The dean sank deeper into his chair, exhausted. “I have no idea how she came to be on college premises last night—if indeed she was, Inspector. Hasn’t it occurred to you that anyone from the town could have abandoned her body on that doorstep, deliberately to cause problems for the college? My evening was a busy one, and I fulfilled all my engagements. I dined at high table, where the master presided. I joined him and about ten other fellows in the combination room where one of our number—Aitchison, I seem to remember—was offering a bottle or two of the best claret. He usually does, to mark the going down of the students and the start of the Holy Season. I retired to my rooms having eaten and drunk more than was good for me. I went to bed early with Gibbon. Edward Gibbon.” He pointed to his book. “At nine-thirty. Dooley cleared away my cocoa at nine forty-five and retired for the night himself. I didn’t see her, let alone kill her. I couldn’t have killed a mouse, Inspector, had it climbed on my pillow and thumbed its nose at me.”
He looked at Redfyre not in defiance, but in bewilderment. “The river is only a few strides away, Inspector. An open sewer-cum-cemetery. It carries away evidence and guilt in seconds. If I had had the carelessness to kill her here on the premises, it is most unlikely that I would have left her body out on the back doorstep with the empties. I’m an intelligent man, and perfectly capable of planning a good and tidy outcome to any murder I might consider committing.”
Redfyre breathed deeply and was momentarily at a loss for words. Awkwardly, he prepared to take his leave and managed to trot out a few formulae, amongst which was the baleful one where he advised his suspect not to leave town without notifying the police. As a parting shot, he couldn’t resist quoting the Latin motto of the university to him in what MacFarlane would have called his “clever-dick” way. “Well, Doctor Herbert, I think that’s all for now. Though I shall be back with the thumb screws if subsequent doubts are raised. Meanwhile your motto speaks for me: Hinc lucem et pocula sacra. ‘From this place we gain enlightenment and precious knowledge.’ Eh? What? I’ll see myself out.”
He closed the door behind him and breathed in deeply the scent of the damp stone and the wet earth and the green odours of the shrubs. Enlightenment? Not so much of that. But precious knowledge? That was another matter. He felt the bulk of the wine glass he’d picked up from the carpet and hidden in his pocket.
Two sets of fingerprints would be there. Dean Herbert’s and Dooley’s. For purposes of elimination or accusation? For information only, he reprimanded himself. The capturing and removing of fingerprints from private premises without permission of the owner gave a new meaning to “lifting prints.” MacFarlane would have his hide if he found out.
As he passed through the courtyard, he broke off a twig from one of the bushes. A berry-bearing twig. Black, evil-looking berries. An emetic for the Anglo-Saxons, Doctor Beaufort had said. Also within hand’s reach were holly, laurel and ivy.
Redfyre didn’t imagine the sudden gust of cold air that raised the hackles on his neck. It was real enough. The old yew tree in the southeast corner was stirring in similar discomfort. He eased his old cashmere scarf up to fill the gap between trench coat collar and hat brim. He was very close. As close perhaps as a trapped mouse to the watching cat.
Chapter 20
“Here you still are, Johnny!”
“Aunt Hetty! How lovely to see you again. Come in, come in! Let me take your coat. Kettle’s just beginning to sing—”
“Oh, good! My dear, the day I’ve had! I’m in need of sustenance, and I’m rather hoping for some of your Mrs. Page’s Victoria sponge.”
She stood on her toes and kissed him on each cheek. “My best stockings would seem to be unscathed after a whole minute on the premises—I take it you’ve got rid of your awful dog?”
“It’s chocolate cake today, and no—Snapper’s taking a walk through Fen Meadows with Billy next door. I say, Aunt, I’m a little behind this afternoon, could you possibly lay the table?”
With a token sigh of displeasure at the informality, Hetty peeled off her gloves and began expertly to set out plates, cups, saucers and cutlery. She went to the cold slab in the pantry and sniffed suspiciously at a bottle of milk.
“Fresh this morning, Aunt! Straight from the cows on the fen,” he called cheerily.
“I’d be very surprised,” she said. “They were yearling bullocks on the meadow when I passed this morning, fattening for the Christmas market. Still, I remain always open to new experiences and wonder daily at the advances of science.”
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