Fall of Angels

by Barbara Cleverly

  But this was no melancholy soul, enfeebled by impossible longings. She put out her strong potter’s hands and held him up by the biceps for inspection. She tweaked his tie this way and back again that way, looking at him in a teasingly critical and decidedly proprietorial way. He had an awful feeling that her next words would be, “He’ll do!” though for what purpose he could not be sure.

  “You know Gerald’s dying?” she said.

  He mumbled that he was aware of the family concern for her husband insofar as Earwig had revealed it when they met last week.

  “He has deteriorated since then. We’re just hoping he will get through the evening. He turned his face to the wall some months ago in the best Viking tradition, but it didn’t take. He had to get up to tend his droopy gloxinia. I can’t tell you how his hothouse blooms are suffering! He’s upstairs, saving his strength until it’s time for the announcements and the toasts, when he will join us. We didn’t think it at all suitable for one of the boys to stand here at the door greeting our guests while his father was on his last legs—imagine the gossip!—so we all agreed you’d be the perfect person to help me out. Do you mind? All you have to do is smile! I’ll tell you who’s coming at us. Ah! I know who this is,” she said as a Rolls Royce slid towards them. “Sir Nicholas and Lady Crawley. Dash forward and help her out, will you, John? She’s a martyr to arthritis.”

  Earwig had said it: “They’re flooding in!” Dozens of people arrived, all with smiles on their faces and a clear determination to enjoy the occasion with an appropriate pagan gusto. It was the winter solstice, after all. If they wanted that dying sun to rise again in the morning, they had to play their part in its resurrection. Give the sun god a taste of what he would be missing if he refused to get out of bed the next morning. Feasting, jollity, music, dancing, song were all on the programme. Consciences—though none were much in evidence—were easily appeased by the thought that sober Christian devotions would be given full rein in the week to come.

  After half an hour of bobbing out onto the chilly forecourt and back into the warmth of the hall, Redfyre realised that he had been deserted. Clarissa had disappeared, probably gone to find a fur stole.

  “We’re about halfway through the list,” a voice said cheerfully at his elbow. “I’m taking over from mother. She’s been called away to the kitchen. Here, I thought you might be ready for this!”

  “This” proved to be a glass mug of hot and fragrant cider punch.

  “Ah! Not a moment too soon. Here comes the Lord Lieutenant. Take a quick swig and push him indoors quickly.”

  They worked on, smiling and merry, glad to hear behind them a jazz band letting rip on a few well-known, loved by all, rags and syncopations. A high level of noise and regular bursts of laughter from the reception room made Redfyre, tense though he was, wish he could go through and join in. Earwig caught his thought and reassured him. “We’ll do two more and then go inside. Lots of people you know in there. Many left over from teatime. Your aunt? She’s already installed. And some chaps from Cambridge claiming an acquaintance? Old college chums of yours, I think, queuing up to book the first waltz. Suzannah’s expected, but she hasn’t arrived yet.”

  The final couple, a young married pair Earwig had met in the war, greeted them both warmly. The girl of the pair tugged Earwig excitedly aside and whispered in her ear. The sideways look she slid at Redfyre spoke volumes. The young man gave him an open, bluff and approving stare.

  “I say, old chap,” he said hesitantly, “so much going on in this family, it’s hard to keep up. I’m always the last to hear. Could it be that, er, congratulations are in order?”

  “Congratulations, commiserations and farewells, all in order and in that order tonight, but none of ’em for me,” Redfyre said with a disarming grin. “Do go through and take a glass of this excellent toe-curler from Frank’s tray, er, Edwin.”

  “Earwig!” he called her to his side. “The two people I most want to see tonight haven’t arrived. Aethelwulf and Juno. Where are they?”

  “Oh they’re about the place somewhere,” she said vaguely. At his ice-cold stare, she began again. “You passed by the gatehouse on the way up the drive . . .”

  “Is there any other way to get here?”

  “Well no. But that’s where they are.”

  “Are you going to explain?”

  “It may look—deliberately—like a medieval ruin.”

  “I’d always assumed it to be a bit of a folly. Romantically covered in ivy, sawn-off tower, window overlooking the forest—when I was last here, it was the lair of a band of brigands. Wulfie’s pack! He’d declared it his headquarters. I used to run past it very fast, hoping not to be snatched, taken in and tied up for instruments of torture to be applied to my most sensitive parts. Which is what he routinely promised his little playmates.”

  “Well, it’s been tiddled up and put back into use again. The only instrument of torture down there is the trumpet, and the sensitive part it’s applied to is Father’s ear. He can’t bear the noise of it. When Juno’s staying with us, she has to practice twice a day, and for two hours at a time. Father banished her to the gatehouse. In fact, it was her suggestion. In London it’s impossible to find somewhere remote and soundproof, which is why she likes it so much here. When it comes to music, she really is a disciplined young woman and never neglects her practice. It also rather suits her to escape the Strettons for hours on end.”

  “Apart from one Stretton in particular, apparently?”

  “Wulfie is very protective of Juno. Has hardly let her out of his sight since that nastiness with the staircase at Barnabas. He didn’t want her to appear at such a well-attended gathering with a raving lunatic at large, and he’s holding on to her as long as he can. He’s taken to keeping her company down there. In fact, he’s actually bought himself an instrument and she’s teaching him to play.”

  She caught his sardonic expression and added, “To put a good face on things, of course. And after all, they are about to become engaged. Tonight. I expect you’d guessed. They’ve been told to present themselves hand in hand in blushing mode before the feast starts. Father is coming doddering down to make the announcement, and then we’ll all drink a toast. Wulfie was a bit shy about making much of an appearance . . .”

  “I can understand. We called it ‘sticking your head above the parapet.’ There’s always someone out there to shoot it off. Oh, here’s a latecomer. Who’s this?”

  A stately Daimler was approaching unhurriedly down the drive. The driver braked, paused and dipped his headlamps in salute on catching sight of Redfyre arm in arm with Earwig.

  Suzannah Sturdy leapt from the passenger seat, not waiting for the attentions of her driver. Richard Henningham stepped out, laughing and pointing with mischief at Redfyre. Leaving the motor running, he limped up the steps and announced, “Not staying! Not invited. Just delivering Miss Sturdy, who is. Her taxi didn’t turn up and she had the good sense to call on me. Just back from a duck shoot. I’ve been flat on my front in a leaky punt for four days, scaring birds out of their wits. I just had time to have a swift scrub and find the starter handle. Luckily the old brute is easier to fire up than I am.” He waved at his motorcar.

  While Suzannah chatted with Earwig, he took Redfyre by the sleeve and murmured, “Must go before she overheats. I say, could you possibly organise a taxi or a lift for Miss Sturdy at the end of proceedings? I’m a bit the worse for wear, don’t you know. The fens are never kind to joints. Don’t worry; if you can’t, I’m sure I shall rally. Or send my butler—he understands the motor. Just give me a ring when she’s had enough.” He started to slip away down the steps with a gallant wave to Suzannah.

  But he had reckoned without Earwig. “What’s this? Stop! I won’t have it. Master, you must stay for the party! Evening dress? Who cares? This is a pagan celebration you are being invited to join! A bearskin would be very authentic, a toga a
ppropriate. Your dark suit will go unnoticed. Suzannah, make him change his mind!”

  Henningham took one look into Suzannah’s warm, inviting eyes and signalled to the waiting Frank to take the car to the rear. He risked a shrug of the shoulders and a fleeting glance at Redfyre that said: “Women! What can you do?”

  Redfyre sighed in relief at his decision. He was reassured to know that he would be able to catch the eye of the master with amused conspiracy across the room crowded with revellers. “Keep tight hold of that one, Suzannah,” was Redfyre’s silent advice as they went, arm in arm, as two couples in to the heated, candlelit and pine-scented jollity of the old banquet hall.

  Any misgivings he’d had about the character of the occasion vanished the moment the hum of lively chatter and laughter enveloped them. So many of the guests knew each other well but did not meet as often as they would have wished, and there was a good deal of gossip to be exchanged. Distant members of the Stretton family were noisily rediscovering each other. Redfyre found himself being shaken by the hand by Earwig’s three older brothers, his erstwhile tormentors. Stan (of the Cambridgeshires) had stayed blond and handsome and was almost the twin of Wulfie. In Alf and Godric the fair hair had dulled to a light brown, but Redfyre would have known them anywhere. Friendly and witty, they had memories of the past that were very different from his own and were trotted out with warm nostalgia.

  He spent some time speaking to old friends from his college days, trying to account for his connection, until today unguessed at, with the Stretton family. Disturbingly, he found that Earwig was accompanying him everywhere, hanging on his arm and finishing his sentences. Increasingly there were mentions of “Earwig and Johnny.” Had he mistaken the trap the wretched girl was setting tonight? Was it made of silk not steel, and was he already enmeshed? He squashed the thought with the recognition that there were also present at this jamboree about a dozen men far more eligible than himself who would have snatched at the offer of Earwig’s hand. He noted the admiring glances she collected as she swayed her way with a sinuousness he’d not noticed before amongst the guests. A slender shape in silvery, almost see-through silky fabric trailing to the floor. Lord! Was she spinning the sticky stuff as she moved? Laying down a web to catch him by the ankles? Her thick hair had been tamed and slicked down with something shiny, and restrained over one ear with a diamond and pearl clasp, her already generous mouth was—perhaps unwisely—accentuated by red lip rouge. Nervously, he rubbed at the side of his face where he remembered her planting a greeting.

  At a word from Earwig, the chief steward nodded and summoned his staff to circulate, ensuring that all the guests’ glasses were topped up with punch, ready for the next event. Alf stepped forward and made a dinging noise on his glass. He announced the appearance of the famous opera star, straight from Sadler’s Wells, Madame Flora Fontaine with her piano accompanist for the evening. Slumming it on the keyboards tonight was a distinguished organist, also a friend of the family: Doctor Christopher Coote. Madame Flora had generously offered to thrill the audience with a medley of songs from the London stage. They were to be given a selection from The Gipsy Princess, Sally, The Merry Widow—all their favourites. Would they please gather round and make themselves comfortable?

  Redfyre noted that even here in the musical offering there was evidence of careful planning. The promised cascade of romantic tunes would bring a lump to the throat and a flutter to the heart, and everyone in the audience would be predisposed to welcome news of a real-life love story and be yearning for a happy ending. But Coote? Juno’s alter ego when it came to the musical world, of course he would. Redfyre had guessed at their closeness. And the man had a practised charm that would grace any entertainment.

  Guests hurried to fetch chairs and squeeze onto sofas. Some of the gentlemen settled cross-legged on the floor at the feet of the ladies they were squiring. To energetic applause, Christopher strode on stage left, arm outstretched to welcome Flora who came out with improbable shyness from behind a thicket of potted palms stage right.

  Taking advantage of the stir-about and glad to escape the throbbing delivery of “To Love and Be Loved,” Redfyre grabbed Earwig by the arm and, holding onto her tightly, marched her out of the room and into the entrance hall.

  “What’s the nearest quiet space? The library?”

  “No, that’s upstairs. There’s my little reading room,” she said, puzzled but intrigued.

  She led him into a small wood-panelled room off the hall. An old butler’s redoubt, Redfyre guessed, where he had kept an eye and an ear on the front door whilst polishing the silver. Decommissioned in these straightened times and made over to suit the needs of a girl who read copiously, judging by the full bookcases overflowing into piles on the floor. A desk bearing a telephone was neatly arranged with writing paper, inkwell and blotter and a filing system had been placed to hand by its side. Two comfortable armchairs filled the rest of the space. Redfyre realised that this was not only a retreat but a strong point, and its regular occupant could well be running the estate and the house from here. Earwig. Life would change significantly for her when the heir, Aethelwulf, took up his inheritance. No need to sell on if he was as rich as was hinted. He could merely pay the government-imposed death duties out of his own resources and take up life here again as the master in the company of his glamorous new wife. Earwig risked being banished to the dower house with her mother. A penniless old maid who would have to find other, more menial duties to occupy her time and energies. She was about to be displaced from the position of de facto mistress of the house by an older brother of doubtful worth who’d come swanning back into her life like the Prodigal Son. Redfyre looked at the eager, vivid face and looked away sharply. Emotion must be effaced from his next actions if he were to get this right.

  Crowded though it was, room had been made for Christmas decorations. Green garlands were draped along the cornice, and a handmade hooped mistletoe kissing bough hung in the centre of the room. A bowl of last autumn’s apples, polished to a red brilliance, sat on a low table.

  With a flash of mischief, Earwig closed the door on the Gipsy Princess and her heartache and led him over to the mistletoe hoop. She turned to him, holding his hands, still puzzled but with what he feared might be a hopeful smile beginning to quiver on her lips.

  Moving to block her exit from the room, Redfyre adjusted his grip so that he was grasping both her wrists and spoke crisply.

  “Are you ever going to tell me, Miss Stretton, exactly why you made an attempt on the life of Juno Proudfoot last Friday evening?”

  Chapter 23

  “Oh, Lord! Is that all you want to know? Crikey! I thought I was going to have to fend off a proposal of marriage.”

  With one swift upward movement, she had broken his hold and was using her released hand to point at one of the armchairs. “Why don’t you just sit yourself down there and I’ll put you out of your obvious misery?

  “First, no, I won’t marry you. There—thought I’d get that out of the way.

  “Second, yes. Guilty as charged. I did plan Juno’s fall down the stairs at St. Barnabas. But I was not alone. ‘Conspiracy’ is the word the coppers would choose, I suppose. Juno herself was a conspirator, as was Louise Lawrence. Venus played her part. Your aunt Hettie had a walk-on role.”

  “I understand that these cells comprise six members, you’ve given me five.”

  Earwig gave out a noise which he could only have written down as “Pish, tush!” Not for the first or tenth time, he had the feeling he was failing to come up to expectation.

  “How you stickle for detail! We have no constitution, written or understood. We don’t count members. It’s not a Brownie Brigade we’re running, you know. If you want a sixth, you can count my mother. She did the cutting and pasting to make the first of the poison-pen notes. She refused to do any more on the grounds that it was too fiddly for her big fingers and too inconsequential for her big min
d to be bothered with. I had to compose the rest myself, in capital letters.”

  “And the point of all this craftwork was to impress the crime reporter of the Oracle, are you telling me? To spin him into your web?”

  “Yes. He’s a good sort, Scrivener.”

  He sighed. “The man’s a journalist, Earwig. They have no loyalties. They play one side against the other. And if there are no sides, they’ll create them. Listen—this is important. Did you show him the notes? In his article, he referred to them . . .”

  “Yes, we did. At least the first four. But it’s all right—Scrivener’s fixed.”

  “Fixed? What do you mean?”

  “We know where he spends his Sundays. Louise found out, expressed her disapproval in the sweetest terms, and threatened to share the salacious gossip with his editor if he didn’t oblige us. Louise knows—knew—some surprisingly dark people in unhealthy holes and corners. She made many enemies.”

  “And me—why did you think it necessary to involve me? You wanted a copper-bottomed, gold-braided witness?”

  She nodded and began to bite her lip, showing some tension for the first time in the interview. “There was more to it than that. Look, John, I’ll apologise later. Properly. Not much time now. The dates of the letters were the sixteenth, seventeenth and thirtieth of November. Number four—ENTER THE ORGAN LOFT ALIVE—I sent on the third of December. The last one to arrive, number five—”

  “The really nasty one about Jezebel thrown from a height and eaten by dogs?”

  “Yes. I must say you spotted there was something wrong with it the moment you saw it, John. I didn’t write it. It arrived on Tuesday the eleventh of December, the day before your aunt rang you. It threw me into a blue funk for a minute or two. I mean—a note in the same design, uttering the same warnings but much more horrid—it was startling. It felt as though a malign stranger had suddenly turned up at the gaming table and was playing an unknown hand. A man who seemed to know what cards we were holding. Hetty thought the best thing was to drag you aboard. The sight of your clever ferret’s face and broad shoulders—not to mention your copper’s bottom, sitting on the front row, would deter all but the most hardened of criminals, she said. I think you’re more of a sheepdog. It’s those brown eyes that laugh at you all the time.”