“Right-oh, sir. I’ll pull in my focus and get straight on to it. With the help of a sergeant and two constables, I should manage. We’re making some headway already on the vagrant case. If I can only worm my way into St. Jude’s, I really think I may make some progress.”

“Redfyre! There’s no warrant forthcoming. Don’t look for one. I want no trouble with the university authorities.”

“I know the position, and I wouldn’t even ask unless I had a concrete case. No. I shall seek help from quite a different quarter.”

MacFarlane sighed. “Not another of your fairy godmothers? Last time one of those stuck her wand in, corpses rained down.”

“Ah, but this one’s a flower fairy godmother. And I have a very particular wish I intend to present to her.”

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Cambridge, Monday, the 19th of May, 1924

Sergeant Thoday arrived at the graveyard at three o’clock, keen to get on. He listened quietly, making notes as his boss refreshed his memory of the crime scene. No need for that. Two hours on his knees yesterday had fixed every unproductive blade of grass in his memory. Whoever had throttled the old soldier and laid him out with such care had, predictably, not neglected to clear away any trace of his own presence. Thoday was more interested in the new evidence thrown up by the pathologist. Now he was being allocated duties that included checking a bag of clothing and effects from the corpse of the tramp and tracking down their provenance. This was more the detective work he thirsted for!

“I need to know who he is, Sarge. Name and pack-drill by the end of the day. We won’t get anywhere until we have an identity,” Redfyre said. And when he was done at the morgue, the sergeant was told, he could well make further enquiries at the market and all the hostels and organisations that had contact with down-and-outs. “‘That hairy vagrant who hangs around the market square’ isn’t good enough. We’re not planting Dunstan in an unmarked grave.

“Oh, and when your feet are throbbing, Sarge, you can call in for a reviving cup of tea at Aunty’s!” Redfyre suggested. “We’ve had reports of an altercation on the premises on the day in question—Friday. Someone from the café rang the station, alerting them to a fracas about to break out. Constable Thompson was at the desk, just clocking off, and he was dispatched and came running. Too late. By the time he arrived, a university official—a bulldog?—had already stopped the fight and cleared the ring, Thompson was told. Our birds had flown. The constable put in a report anyway. The super, it was, who picked it up and thought it might have some significance for our case. I agree. Check it out, if you will.”

“You said ‘birds,’ sir?”