Fell the Angels Read online

  Fell the Angels

  John Kerr

  For Baine and Mildred Kerr

  My dear father and mother

  ‘I charge thee, fling away ambition

  By that sin fell the angels’

  Henry VIII Act 3 Scene ii

  William Shakespeare

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilouge

  Copyright

  Prologue

  A LARGE ORANGE cat, a male as its owner insisted that only males possessed the requisite temperament to share his lodgings, was curled on the grand piano, swishing its ringed tail slowly back and forth like a metronome. Its master, a tall man in early middle age, sat comfortably in his favourite armchair, imagining an invisible pianist playing a melody synchronized with the motion of the cat’s tail. He gazed contentedly around the book-lined study, with its worn Persian carpet and eclectic works of art on the panelled walls and exotic objects from India and the West Indies. After a moment he lowered his eyes to the thick volume in his lap, titled Principles of Toxicology, consulted the index and located the entry he was seeking. With down-turned mouth, he grimly read the description of the properties of the powerful poison and its recommended uses, in extremely small doses, for the treatment of a host of human and veterinary maladies. Snapping the volume shut and putting it aside, he rose, walked to the coal scuttle, and used the tongs to place another lump on the grate, radiating warmth. With his back to the fire, he listened to the sound of the door in the hall and observed as a large man, wearing a heavy coat with fur collar, gloves, and astrakhan hat entered the study.

  ‘Good evening, Cameron,’ said the visitor, removing his hat and tossing it on a chair.

  ‘Good evening, Clifton,’ replied Duncan Cameron in a faint Scottish burr.

  His visitor, obviously very much at home, stripped off his gloves and coat, which he folded over the back of the chair. Reaching for a crystal decanter on a trolley, he poured an inch of brandy in a tumbler and said, ‘Wretched night out.’

  Cameron straightened his waistcoat and gazed at James Clifton, a heavy-set man of similar age with dark sideburns and moustache in contrast to Cameron’s clean-shaven face. ‘You may pour me a glass,’ Cameron said pleasantly.

  Handing Cameron his brandy, Clifton said, ‘Cheers,’ and raised his glass. ‘Who was the lady,’ he asked, ‘leaving in that elaborate coach as I was paying off the hansom?’

  ‘A certain Lady Cranbrook,’ said Cameron, swirling his brandy before taking a sip.

  ‘Oh, really? Not the same Cranbrook in the newspapers …’ said Clifton, his bushy eyebrows upraised.

  ‘Precisely. The poor man’s mother. Obviously, much distressed.’

  Clifton took a step toward the door and removed a cavalry sabre from an umbrella stand. He briefly studied its fine tempered blade and tested its sharpness on his thumb. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘did you agree to assist…?’

  ‘Without hesitation.’ Cameron sipped his brandy and smiled. ‘The lady’s prepared to pay a handsome fee.’ He walked over to take the sabre from his friend and then suddenly lunged and thrust its tip into one of the pillows on the sofa. ‘And I imagine,’ he concluded, tossing the sabre back to Clifton, ‘the case will prove to be a formidable, and exceptionally intriguing, challenge.’

  Chapter One

  CECILIA CASTELLO SAT in an over-stuffed mahogany chair in the large drawing-room at Buscot Park, her family’s country house situated on 3000 acres of rolling parkland in Oxfordshire. Wearing a pink and burgundy silk gown and matching hat just acquired from her London dressmaker, she twisted her handkerchief into a knot as she waited nervously for her father, the wealthy industrialist Sir Richard Henderson. A servant opened a door, and Sir Richard strode in, finely polished boots tapping on the old parquet. ‘There you are, dear,’ he said, as he bowed at the waist and lightly kissed her hand. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she replied with a wan smile and slight toss of her auburn curls.

  ‘Now what is it you wished to discuss?’ he asked, hooking his thumbs in his black waistcoat.

  ‘Well, Father,’ she said, ‘I’d planned only to depart on Sunday, but I’ve been thinking of extending my stay. Perhaps through the summer.’ She gazed absently at the tapestries and large oil portraits that adorned the pale-blue walls.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ said Henderson without hesitation. ‘Your place is with your husband.’

  ‘But Father.’ She looked up at him pleadingly. ‘I can’t go back to him.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘In marriage, you must learn to take the bad with the good, and besides, Captain Castello has provided very—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ interrupted Cecilia sharply. ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve been through. I can’t abide the man.’

  Henderson began to speak but thought better of it, aware that his headstrong daughter, whom he was inclined to regard as a petulant child, was determined to have her say.

  ‘Robert’s a beast, Father,’ she continued in a heated tone. ‘He’s constantly drinking, and he says and does the most unspeakable things. Ever since he resigned from his regiment, he has nothing to do but lie about the house and drink himself into a stupor.’ She paused and then said, ‘The other evening, following supper – during which Robert consumed an entire bottle of Madeira – I was reprimanding him for his shameful treatment of the scullery maid, when he flew into a violent rage. And he struck me.’

  ‘Struck you?’

  ‘Yes, three times, in the face. And then he overturned the furniture, shouting profanities, and when I struggled with him he hurled me to the floor. His manservant had to intervene or he might well have killed me.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ muttered Henderson.

  ‘Would you care to see the bruises?’ asked Cecilia, lifting the hem of her dress.

  ‘No, dear.’ Aware that his daughter was on the verge of nervous collapse, he said, ‘I’m calling for the doctor. In the meantime you should go to your room and get plenty of rest.’

  The following morning, when Cecilia was feeling well enough to dress and come down, she sat opposite her father at the breakfast-table in a sunlit alcove by the kitchen. Pouring each of them another cup of tea, Sir Richard said, ‘It’s your Christian duty, of course, to stand by your husband.’

  She looked him in the eye and said, ‘It’s quite simple, Father: I refuse to go back to him.’

  ‘Well, dear, you can’t stay here. It wouldn’t do. Despite what you say, your place is with Robert. Perhaps I could speak to him—’

  ‘No!’ she said fiercely.

  ‘All right, then,’ said Henderson, raising a placating hand. ‘Your mother and I have been talking, and we have a suggestion.’ Her features softened, and she took a sip of tea. ‘Over lunch at White’s last week,’ he continued, ‘I heard about a remarkable treatment developed by a physician named Gully. Doctor James Gully. Have you heard of him?’ Cecilia shook her head. ‘Very famous, who counts among his patients Dickens, Lord Tennyson, Charles Darwin, even the prime minister. I actually met the man, years ago….’
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  ‘Father, what can this possibly have to do with Robert?’

  Unperturbed, Henderson said, ‘Doctor Gully operates what is regarded as the finest hydro in the country. At Malvern. You’re familiar with hydros?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. Where one goes for the water cure.’

  ‘Precisely. Hydropathy, I believe they call it. Supposedly works wonders for all manner of maladies, not least mental and emotional exhaustion. All our Scottish cousins swear by it.’ Henderson gazed at Cecilia and placed a hand on her arm. ‘We can arrange for you to go to Dr Gully’s sanatorium,’ he suggested gently. ‘Spend several weeks, a month.’

  Cecilia shook her head and said, ‘I’m not sure. It’s sounds rather dreadful, like going to hospital.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Henderson. ‘Think of it as a holiday. An opportunity for rest and relaxation, and the curative effects of the famous Malvern waters.’

  Cecilia nodded, and quietly said, ‘All right.’

  ‘And then,’ he concluded, ‘when you’re rested and well, we can decide what’s best for you and Robert.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank you.’

  Standing at the open window with her hands on the sill, Cecilia Castello gazed out on the nearby promenade garden, a densely wooded hillside and beyond, stretching to the far horizon, the gently rolling fields, a patchwork of green and straw in the bright May sunshine. Taking a deep breath of the pure country air, she turned and walked to the dresser, studying her reflection in the mirror. Wearing a simple, blue cotton shift and no jewellery, she turned her chin to examine her profile and smiled at herself in the glass. In truth, she was a vain and egotistical young woman, but she considered herself entitled to vanity, as she had been blessed with a petite and rounded figure and a pretty face, with dimples that indented her cheeks when she smiled, bow lips, and auburn hair. Yet the simple, unadorned clothing made her feel drab and old. In the early morning light, she turned away from the mirror and surveyed her spacious room with its faintly striped wallpaper, a bright floral carpet, and comfortable bed with an eiderdown. She sat by the window and thought back to her arrival at the Great Malvern railway station, accompanied by one of the Buscot Park servants and two large trunks. They’d been met by a coach from the clinic, the driver of which eyed the heavy luggage sceptically as he helped the ladies up to their seat.

  After a half-hour journey through the quaint village of Great Malvern with its fine Saxon priory to the adjoining town on the edge of the panoramic Malvern Hills, they arrived at the hydro, situated on the outskirts of town with unobstructed views of the rolling countryside to the west. The complex consisted of two large, adjoining but mismatched structures; a Tudor mansion of dark-red brick, replete with towers, turrets, and leaded glass, for the men, and a more conventional Victorian house for the women, connected by a whimsical, covered bridge on the second level. A severe-looking woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Pembroke, the ladies’ ‘matron’, met them in the gravel drive. Taking one look at Cecilia’s luggage, she said, ‘Well, my dear, you shan’t be needing all of that.’ When Cecilia responded with a puzzled look, she added, ‘I presume that trunk contains your trousseau.’

  ‘M’lady’s fine dresses and gowns,’ said the servant with a slight curtsy.

  ‘You’ll have no use for them, Mrs Castello,’ said Mrs Pembroke, ‘during your stay here. I suggest you return them to the station with your servant.’ The servant, barely suppressing a smile, merely nodded.

  Now, beginning her third day, Cecilia was becoming accustomed to the unvarying routines of the clinic, though less so to the dress code. The cotton smocks worn by the female ‘guests’ – the word ‘patient’ was frowned upon – without corsets and only the plainest undergarments, were far more comfortable than typical Victorian dresses and helped to promote the general atmosphere of restorative relaxation. She was beginning to enjoy the feel of the roughly woven cotton on her bare skin, so different from her usual organdie undergarments. The body, Cecilia learned on her first day, was to be purified, first through a strict dietary regimen, then with the water treatments in their varying forms, and lastly by regular exercise in the fresh, clean air of the Malvern Hills. Awakened at 6.00 a.m. by female attendants who wore not uniforms but simple black or brown dresses, they took the ‘cold water treatment’ at 6.30 followed by breakfast, which consisted of fresh fruit, perhaps a boiled egg, wheat toast, or porridge. At mid-morning they embarked on a brisk walk in the surrounding hills followed by a light lunch in the pump room, then, perhaps an afternoon nap. Guests were encouraged to avail themselves of the various hot and cold baths and to exercise outdoors in the manicured gardens, or on the many footpaths through the countryside. The women sat for dinner at seven, fish or boiled mutton with fresh vegetables, and then retired to bed promptly at nine. All of the so-called ‘social poisons’ were prohibited: sugar, salt, coffee, tea, or alcohol in any form, and the use of tobacco. Newspapers and all visitors were banned. The aim was not only rest and clarity of mind for those, like Cecilia, suffering from emotional or mental strain, but also a cure for sufferers of chronic digestive or respiratory ailments. Indeed they were often reminded of the remarkable cure Dr Gully had effected on the famous naturalist Charles Darwin, who theretofore suffered from severe dyspepsia.

  Hearing a gentle tap on the door, Cecilia put on her house slippers and went to join the queue of identically dressed women, who ranged in age from their twenties, like Cecilia, to their sixties, for the morning session of Dr Gully’s patented ‘water-cure’ in the lower-level baths. After disrobing in the privacy of a dressing room, Cecilia nervously waited for the attendant, who soon appeared and tightly wrapped Cecilia, from her chest to her knees, in a sheet soaked in cold water. She then joined the other guests, similarly wrapped, in a large tiled enclosure which smelled of bath salts, where they were instructed to lie side-by-side on deck chairs and then covered in woollen blankets. During each of these sessions, Cecilia kept her eyes tightly shut and concentrated her mind on keeping warm and avoiding all thoughts of her life outside the clinic. After a lapse of thirty minutes, the attendants reappeared, helped the women to stand and stripped off their blankets and sheets, now warm and dry. With the other shivering women, Cecilia was herded into a separate tiled enclosure and repeatedly doused by the attendants with buckets of ice-cold spring water. Perhaps it was the shock of this final phase of the treatment that drained her of the last vestige of modesty, standing naked and dripping wet among some twenty strangers of assorted ages, shapes, and sizes.

  Having survived the early morning ordeal, Cecilia eagerly donned dry clothes and made her way to the dining-room, craving a cup of tea, which she was accustomed to taking with milk and several lumps of sugar. Instead, when her turn in line came, she stared at the unappetizing fare laid out on the sideboard and reluctantly selected a piece of dry toast, a soft boiled egg, and glass of tomato juice. Taking a seat midway down the long rectangular table, she smiled at the woman seated on her left, an attractive young woman perhaps in her early thirties, and said, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Cecilia.’

  ‘And I’m Agnes. My pleasure.’

  Cecilia quickly ascertained that Agnes was married to a successful banker in London, lived in a fashionable neighbourhood in South Kensington, and had been dispatched to the clinic for the treatment of a persistent case of pleurisy. ‘And,’ said Cecilia between mouthfuls of egg and toast, ‘have you found the water treatment to be helpful?’

  ‘I’ve found it most disagreeable,’ said Agnes, with a smile and toss of her dark-brown hair. ‘Though in the week or so that I’ve been here my condition has improved considerably.’

  Something about the slightly older woman’s handsome looks and confident tone relaxed Cecilia and made her feel more self-assured. ‘And why are you here?’ asked Agnes.

  ‘Well,’ said Cecilia, ‘my father and mother thought it best, as I’ve been under some … well, emotional strain.’ Agnes gave her a brief, searching look. ‘In
my marriage,’ added Cecilia quietly.

  ‘Frankly, dear,’ said Agnes, ‘I think Dr Gully’s methods are better suited to cure a woman’s nervous condition than her physical. Especially,’ she added sotto voce, ‘when there’s a husband involved.’

  ‘Speaking of Dr Gully, is the great man actually on the premises?’

  ‘Evidently not,’ said Agnes, after taking a sip of her juice. ‘I’m told he’s away, delivering a lecture somewhere on the Continent. I’m sure he’ll return shortly.’

  Somewhat impulsively, Cecilia decided they would become friends. ‘Agnes,’ she said, lightly placing a hand on her arm, ‘would you mind if I walk with you on the constitutional?’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  The women assembled promptly at 10.30 in the rose garden, attired in the comfortable cotton dresses that covered them from neck to ankle, straw hats, and sturdy walking shoes. Mrs Pembroke, wearing an Alpine hat with a feather and matching green jacket, belted at the back, appeared in their midst. ‘All right, ladies,’ she said in a firm voice, ‘Mr McTavish’ – she gestured to a middle-aged Scotsman wearing high laced boots, a kilt and Glengarry cap – ‘will be our guide this morning on a five-mile trek to the North Hill and back. Each of you must take your alpenstock and Gräfenberg flask.’

  ‘But, mum,’ said a rather plump woman with a worried expression, ‘what if we find it too strenuous?’

  ‘Oh, ye’ll be fine, ma’am,’ said McTavish. ‘We’ll avoid the steeper braes, passing by St Anne’s Well through the saddle between Worcestershire Beacon and North Hill. A loovely stroll on such a fine day.’

  It certainly was that, considered Cecilia as she accepted her alpenstock, a long staff with an iron tip, and strapped her water flask over her shoulder, with a deep blue sky and puffy white clouds, abundant wildflowers, a gentle breeze, and temperatures rising to the 70s. The hydro was on the northern boundary of the Malverns, a picturesque and much frequented region of tall, limestone hills and wide, sweeping valleys, famous not only for its spectacular scenery but also for the quality of its spring-fed mineral water. Within five minutes, the ladies were embarked on a leisurely stroll along a grassy footpath, gently downhill in the direction of the eminence of Worcester Beacon that dominated the landscape. Feeling remarkably refreshed by the combination of pure air, warm May sunshine, and exertion, Cecilia turned to Agnes, walking beside her, and said, ‘This is simply marvellous. I think I shall completely forget my troubles.’