They settled at the table, pausing to look with anticipation on his housekeeper’s notion of Sunday tea.
“Let me show you round, Hetty,” Redfyre said with quiet pride. “We’ve got potted crab sandwiches, scones with strawberry jam and a dish of thick cream, crunchy cheese something-or-others and, in pride of place, what Mrs. Page calls a ‘gateau.’ It’s from the Black Forest, and it’s got chocolate and cherries in it—cherries that have been bottled in kirsch in your honour. A Christmas treat.”
Pouring out her third cup of Darjeeling, Aunt Henrietta made a grave observation. “Johnny, I’ve decided to make an unrefusable offer to your Mrs. Page. I shall take her into my employ from the first week of January. As long as she remains within a rolling pin’s distance of you, you will never take the trouble to marry. You are well aware that you, being not only my favourite nephew but the sole penniless one of an otherwise fortunate bunch, are my heir. Before I make myself known to St. Peter, I’d like to be assured that the large amount of cash involved is going to pass eventually to a great-niece or nephew, not a Jack Russell terrier. Tell me—what progress are you making on this front? Earwig a likely starter, is she?”
Delivering a bulletin on his marital prospects was a routine, almost a ritual that had to be got through before he could have a serious conversation with his aunt. He picked up her racing image and decided to run it into the ground.
“I’ve had four girls circling in my paddock this week, Aunt,” he began helpfully. “So, you see, I remain open to possibilities. Earwig will tell you—she’s appearing in a different fixture completely. She’s not entered in the marriage stakes at all. Surprised you didn’t know that. There was a trumpeter I loved for all of five minutes. But she mistimed her takeoff and fell at the first fence. A certain mature lady whom you would have approved of, I discover is already wearing the colours of another stable. And before my racing metaphors strain a fetlock and because distress drives out flippancy, I’ll simply say, of the fourth: she’s dead. I never met her, but she will always haunt me. I grieve to have missed her.”
His aunt was silent for a while, recognising that the conversation had taken its expected turn to the serious. “Ah! You’re talking of Louise.”
“Yes. Your young friend and fellow conspirator, Louise Lawrence. I’ve talked to her mother, her father, her employer, her friends and others who had dealings with her. One of her circle strangled her to death, and I mean to find out which one. You must tell me everything you know, Aunt. Because he’s not stopping.”
He knew that his next piece of news would shock her out of whatever complacency remained to her. “Your friend Venus—Rosalind Weston—also has fallen victim. Her body was discovered dumped at a side exit from St. Barnabas College this morning. The same manner of death was in evidence. Strangulation.”
Hetty sat back in her chair as though smacked by an invisible fist. She fished about in her sleeve and found a handkerchief. No ladylike dabbing at eyes and sighing followed—she covered her face, hiding her crumpling features with it, and howled in distress and anger.
When she had calmed a little, Redfyre went on more gently, “Juno, Louise, Venus. There are motives individual to the attempt on Juno and the killing of the other two girls. It’s not impossible that each was attacked by a different hand. Venus was engaged professionally in activities that do lead, all too frequently, to violence and death, and she was engaging in blackmail, with all the dangers that entails. I have fingerprints of two men who could easily have done for her. Louise had an enemy for each day of the week! Starting with her own father, her employer, her employer’s butler, a jilted undergraduate, a local ruffian whom she humiliated in public and whose dog she stole . . . There may be more that I am as yet unaware of. No one, it seems, was indifferent to Louise. She aroused hatred and admiration in equal measure—sometimes in the same person and all for the same reason: that tiger’s heart of hers.”
Hetty surfaced, sniffling and shaking, from her handkerchief and gave him a strange look.
“And yet—and yet, Aunt, I look at their smiling faces, caught together on that photograph. You know the one I mean?”
Hetty nodded.
“And I have the feeling that some strong web connects them. A web you would appear to be at the centre of. Perhaps you’re the one spinning it?”
Hetty shook her head.
“At any event, I’m not blaming you for the fatal consequences—just trying to understand and ward off any further horrors. But please share your thoughts—there’s something that’s eluding me. Louise and Venus—both bodies were symbolically placed, I think. Louise was thrown into the river only yards upstream from the place where the sewerage works performs its gruesome task of straining out the effluent, the rubbish, the contaminations, before the cleansed water is channeled away. Venus was left for all to see in the place where traditionally the discarded items of college life are dumped. A message, are we thinking? But it’s the double attack on Juno that puzzles me most.”
“Double? Double, John? What are you talking about?”
“Prepare yourself for another shock, Aunt.” He filled in as unemotionally as he could manage the events he’d witnessed in the chapel. The offering of the sal volatile to the master, Henningham’s experimental sniffing of the contents and subsequent striking down with suspected Delhi Belly, Earwig’s deft gesture and firm control, which had prevented Juno’s certain death.
“Smelling salts?” his aunt said faintly. “My God! I could do with some now! But—laced with cyanide? How simply awful! And what a sneaky way of administering it! Tell me again, Johnny, what woman do you know of who could have handed such a lethal device to the master?”
She shook her head in confusion when he gave her the description. “A spray of holly in her hat? Oh, you’re wasting your time running round the modistes of Cambridge looking for such a thing! This is Cambridge. At Christmas time! Lighthearted, enjoying a seasonal joke. There were probably a dozen ladies who’d picked a spray of holly leaves from a tree in the front garden or from a green garland and popped it onto their hats at a jaunty angle. The naughtier ones choose mistletoe. But, Johnny, would I be assuming too much if I—”
“No, Aunt. I’m sure Juno is still in danger. We’re looking for a man intent on exterminating all those infected—in his thinking—by Louise Lawrence’s new and muscled brand of feminism. For one reason or another—and for me, the word ‘reason’ strikes me as a bad choice—he’s afraid and angry and implacable. He wants your group stamped out.”
“He must be mad, Johnny! Don’t you think? What other cause could there possibly be?”
“Must he? I wish I could be so certain. I can’t tell you what madness is, Hetty. I’m not sure how it differs from evil. I can’t bring myself to trust the theories of the mind-scientists who observe behaviour in consulting rooms or laboratories. There are the officially mad—those unfortunates having had a disease of the mind since birth, a condition which has always been common knowledge to their family and medical authorities. And then there are those who are mentally diseased through their own folly. Drugs, venereal diseases. The few who have suffered mental trauma to their head in war . . . All these will be labelled ‘mad’ by the public without argument or qualification.”
Abandoning his police-lecture voice, he turned to her in appeal. “Aunt, I pick up the dead and the desecrated. The battered, the poisoned and the strangled. I see them, I smell them, I mourn for them. And I vow to find and deal with the person who has killed them. As part of that, I have to guess at the state of mind as well as the physical condition of the guilty, and it’s never straightforward. There may be two knifings-to-death of a woman in one night. One will have been killed by a stranger in a sexually-driven attack and left for dead on the common. The other, after a lifetime of provoking and bullying her husband, may have been stabbed by him when—as he hopelessly tells the police—‘Something just snapped, office
r.’”
“These crimes occupy the ground somewhere between the two?”
“No. I fear this is something worse. On entirely different territory. It’s more akin to a military manoeuvre. There are no qualms about killing a woman. Equally, there seems to be no perverted relish taken in the killing. Silent, sharp and inescapable. Hetty, I want you and Earwig and anyone else you can think of who may be a potential victim to—” At the sight of her hardening expression he paused. “I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?”
“Yes. I’m afraid we’re going nowhere, Johnny. We’re staying put. If we give in and flee—what then? He’s won whatever battle he imagines he’s fighting. And do we stay away? For how long? Besides, I’m sure we’ve all made our plans for Christmas. No one can live with such a threat over them. And the women you have become acquainted with, the nameless bunch of to-the-core feminists, are hardly likely to run away. We haven’t given up. And you don’t know of half the membership, my lad! The fight will go on. In the same spirit of clandestine conniving, confusion spreading, bribery, incitement, blackmailing, seduction and mayhem. Each woman has her own strengths and talents. No one is expected to do more than she is capable of or is willing to do. Some of us are in powerfully manipulative positions.”
“Don’t I know that! You, Aunt, seem to think you have the Cambridge CID in your dainty pocket! Tell me, what are you trying to achieve?”
“I could bore you silly by delivering the usual polemic on equality and votes. But I’ll just say: without the unfurling of a single banner, by next year we want to see the University of Cambridge, which has slighted many of our members, agreeing as Oxford has already done, to allow our brightest girls to be awarded the full degrees they have worked for. We want at least two hundred more female undergraduates and access to courses which are at the moment open only to men. We want equal pay for equal work. We want suffrage for all women over the age of twenty-one. Whether they have cash in the bank or not. We want to see the first female MPs taking their seats on the benches of the House of Commons—”
“Enough!”
“You see, you are horrified at what you consider my stridency. Because I list complaints and injustices and demand change, you consider me noisily capricious and unreasonable. And that is exactly why you have never heard me express these sentiments before and will never hear them from me again. We are working towards certain ends, but sub rosa. And one by one. We won’t shout from the rooftops or go about the place breaking windows. But you will hear about our achievements in the press.”
“Oh, good Lord! You’ve seduced a press baron!”
She considered this for a moment. “No. No one fancied that task. But we have access to one, and a potential noose around his neck.”
“And what about the dramatic but just-this-side-short-of-fatal tumble down the stairs by Juno—her grande finale. Did Juno volunteer to perform her acrobatics in full view of a witness planted in the front row? Had she any idea what danger she was running into?”
His aunt wriggled with embarrassment. “You must refer your question to Earwig and Juno. That arrangement was none of my making. They simply asked my help in ensuring you were present. We do not involve the whole group in each project. A cell of six, a hexagon, would seem to be the ideal for strength and security. The bees understand that. It’s the only way of keeping careless gossip to the minimum. Inform only those who need to be actively involved. Compartmentalise. It seems to work for the Secret Intelligence Service.”
“Oh, my God! You’ve infiltrated the SIS?” His tone was teasing, but with an undercurrent of concern. Redfyre sighed. “And now, tell me: Elli, Goddess of Old Age! Is she by any chance related to Loki, God of Mischief, I wonder? His aunt, perhaps? I want to know where and how you’re thinking of spending your Christmas.”
“Not quietly! I’m hoping to have a riotous time in the company of old friends and family. Watching the young folk fall in and out of love, break each other’s hearts . . . the usual Christmassy things. And it’s almost upon us! We’re rather hoping you can join us, Johnny. In fact, I’m delegated to invite you to a jolly Advent party at Earwig’s. She’s putting on some Scandinavian candle-lighting celebrations to mark the midwinter solstice. That’s the twenty-first, next Friday. Apparently, our ancient ancestors were doing this thousands of years ago. Much slaughtering of pigs and oxen, feasting and drinking and dancing around in stone circles.”
“Human sacrifice an item on the programme, Aunt?”
He could have wished her pause to consider this flippancy had been shorter.
“Not on the one the Strettons are drawing up. Nothing more alarming than apple-bobbing, I believe. Earwig’s arty lot would always be willing celebrants of any ceremony of that kind. Did you know that one of the brothers—Alf, I believe—has turned into an archaeologist and is digging away at Stonehenge under the direction of Colonel Hawley? Ghastly little Alf! He’s now quite the distinguished professor figure—exchanging correspondence with Howard Carter no less.”
“Alf?”
“Elf-helm, spelled: A-E-L-F-H-E-L-M. You don’t imagine he would allow that to be shortened to ‘Elf’ do you? The brothers will be there in force.”
At his frown, she changed tactics. “Earwig’s father has declared he is dying. This will be their last Christmas as a family. Certainly their last one in that lovely house. Death duties are crippling, and to pay our rapacious government’s taxes, it will have to be sold. If indeed there is anyone left in the country who can afford to buy it. But, always ready to cock a snook at fate, they are filling the house with guests—not all fuddy-duddies like me and your uncle—oh, no. The smartest young things in the county—like you—will be there. Earwig has asked for you particularly. There’s going to be a dance band up from London . . .”
Correctly reading his expression, which told her he would rather have his toenails pulled out to the sound of Wagner than be present, she shrugged. “Oh, well . . . I tried.”
Redfyre managed a grin. “Two conditions! So long as I can do a tango or two with the prettiest girl present. And so long as I still have the use of all my limbs.” He looked at his wristwatch and sighed. “I have an engagement to fight a duel. In half an hour.” His grin widened. “I begin to regret my second slice of chocolate cake.”
“What on earth are you talking about? Where are you shooting off to in the dark?”
“Can’t tell you! Discipline of the Hexagon and all that, don’t you know! Let’s just say I’m summoned to settle a long-standing difference of opinion with an old friend.”
“Oh, no! Not fisticuffs!”
“There may be an outbreak of fisticuffs. Ambush and attack by catapult may occur.”
Hetty raised her eyes to the heavens, seeking help and understanding.
Inspiration followed. “Darling, let me write you a sick note.”
Leaving Hetty to clear the table while she waited to be picked up by her chauffeur, Redfyre put on his strong, thick-soled Oxford brogues, equally suitable for running or crotch-kicking, and tucked a skull-splitting heavy torch into his pocket. He pulled on his hat, buttoned up his coat and stepped out into the already pitch-dark lane. The stars were bright, but the moon had not yet risen. He would have to grope his way the short distance to Laundress Lane steering by the haloes of light surrounding the gas lamps strategically placed at the street corners.
In hunting—or was it hunted—mode, he paused to listen as well as accustom his eyes to the gloom. His challenger, if he had any wit at all and serious intent, would by now know where he lived and the path he would take to Laundress Lane. With the roles reversed, Redfyre would have mounted an attack before the whistle blew, right here on his doorstep. He looked across at the Saxon burial ground—now disused churchyard—immediately in front of him. The thrashing boughs of the taller trees were silhouetted by the lights shining at the windows of Peterhouse college fifty yards away, but the lower lay
ers of shrubbery, the ancient mounds of earth and the gravestones crouching at a drunken angle were invisible, shrouded in darkness and rising wreaths of ground mist. Redfyre couldn’t see them, but he knew where they were, every hump and obstacle. He’d spent many hours quietly reading in this spot in summer. He’d relished the delight of sitting on sun-warmed fallen tombstones, wandering about deciphering the eroded names carved on them, chatting sporadically with the down-and-outs who washed up in this forgotten place.
A skilled hunter would have lured him here and cracked him over the skull with a fallen branch, then disappeared, leaving no trace of his presence behind. His body could have been taken for a sleeping tramp and remained undisturbed for days.
Absolutely still and quietly listening, he detected a slight rustling from the graveyard. A rustling that was immediately cut short. His sixth sense was telling him he was being watched. Another furtive noise was followed by the clink of a glass bottle on a tombstone and a beery belch. Redfyre waited ten more seconds, then turned to the right and set off for the river.
He didn’t feel embarrassed at the amount of care he was taking. Four years of war and five years of policing had turned him into a professional survivor. He left nothing to chance. Many men would have felt foolish to be observed sniffing the air, straining an ear, or lurking in doorways. Redfyre cared nothing for many men and their feelings. He didn’t have much time for accepted notions of chivalry, either. If he knew that shots or blows were to be traded, he would always try to deliver the first. The one that always counted. And, if it proved not to be a clincher, follow up with a swift one to the privates.
So why the hell, he asked himself, hadn’t he taken the station Browning from its drawer in MacFarlane’s desk? He was a vociferous supporter of the rule that British policemen went about unarmed. It was the thought of the notoriety and scorn that would ensue and the questions that would be asked if he were seen to use a pistol on the streets of Cambridge, possibly wounding or causing the death of some idiot, that stayed his hand. No, he’d get the better of “W” without the aid of so much as a catapult. Caution again reprimanded him: Chances were that this was a childish dare, a silly game he’d been invited to play. But chances were chances, and he never counted on them. What he ought to beware of was a temptation to enjoy this threat in the dark. The ancient spirit of Celtic mischief was a useful warmth flowing through his veins, sharpening his mind, and it could be a life saver for a man caught up in a spot of trench raiding in the enemy’s front line, but this was Laundress Lane, for goodness sake!
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