Requiem for a Mezzo (15 page)

Read Requiem for a Mezzo Online

Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
9.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Just as he must have gone on hoping to the end that Bettina would stop taking lovers and turn to him, Daisy thought sadly. Poor little man, he had given her the best years of his life and now he wasn't well enough to enjoy the freedom her death had brought him. He sat huddled in his chair, drained, somehow shrunken since she first met him.
“Are you ill, Mr. Abernathy?” Alec asked sharply.
He shook his head. “No. Only tired. I seem to be tired all the time now, I'm afraid.”
“You have your pills with you? You must worry about running out.”
“It's very easy to renew the prescription. My doctor knows what I need, and it's a common medicine; the chemist always has the pills to hand. If my supply gets low, I just tell Muriel and she sees to it for me. My sister-in-law has been extraordinarily kind to me over the years, as well as quite devoted to her sister.”
“I'm sure she has, sir. Well, I shan't keep you any longer just now. I expect your lunch is waiting. Thank you for your patience, and I shouldn't worry about Mr. Levich. Those Grub Street rags will move on to some new scandal, real or invented, in no time.”
 
Daisy neither saw nor heard from Alec again until the memorial service at Chelsea Old Church on Wednesday morning.
To go with the grey silk dress she hated, because it reminded her of the deaths of Michael, Gervaise, and her father,
she had borrowed a frightfully smart little black hat from Lucy for the occasion. She was wondering whether in spite of its colour it was a bit too dashing for a funeral when she spotted Alec. She knew he hadn't been invited. No doubt he had waved his C.I.D. identification at the ushers—they had strict instructions not to admit anyone who might conceivably be a reporter.
He nodded to her gravely but made no attempt to speak, so she proceeded with the family to the front pew.
The service was extremely well attended. Roger Abernathy being in no state to deal with the matter, the Reverend Westlea had gratefully left it to Mrs. Cochran to issue invitations. She was acquainted with all the important musical personages who ought to be included, he pointed out when Muriel objected.
Muriel ceased to object when she discovered Mrs. Cochran had invited Yakov Levich. At that point the vicar had second thoughts, but by then it was too late.
Glancing back as she sat down, Daisy saw everyone who had been in the choir room that night, except Marchenko and Consuela de la Costa, which was not surprising. Both had loathed Bettina; both were foreigners with little to gain by a show of doing the proper thing; neither was well enough acquainted with Roger or Muriel to want to show sympathy.
The last explained the arrival of Olivia Blaise, looking simply stunning in black. Mrs. Cochran wouldn't have invited her, presumably, but she had asked Muriel for a list of friends who might otherwise be left out. She couldn't very well strike any names off that list.
After the service, when they emerged from the church's dimness into the sunny but wind-chilled day, Olivia was waiting to speak to Muriel and Roger. “I shan't go to the Cochrans',” she said, “but I did want you to know I was here, and feeling for you.”
“Do come. Please.” Roger looked distraught rather than ill. “If I must go through this, I need another friend to help fend
off all these well-meaning people. I can't … I can't … .”
“Of course I'll come,” Olivia said quickly, “if it will help.” She joined them in the hired motor.
Daisy saw Alec's little yellow Austin Seven taking its place in the procession. If he chose to attend the reception, she was sure he'd weasel his way in, whether Mrs. Cochran wanted him or not.
Once Daisy had recovered from the defunct wildlife in the front hall, she had to admit that Mrs. Cochran had done a good job. Double doors between drawing room, dining room, and music room stood open. The dining-room table had been moved against the wall and covered with funeral baked meats in the form of appetizing hors d'oeuvres. Two maids and a hired waiter passed among the guests with trays of sherry. A hired waiter? Daisy stared. She had almost not recognized Ernie Piper in formal black and white, a napkin over his arm, instead of his usual cheap brown serge. He had such an ordinary face. Was it really him?
Handing her a glass of medium-dry sherry, he winked fractionally before turning to Muriel, who scarcely glanced at him. Olivia looked vaguely puzzled for a moment, then joined Muriel in persuading Roger that a glass of sherry would do him good.
Daisy stood on tiptoe and peered over heads. “I'll be back in a moment,” she murmured to Muriel. Slithering between elbows, she came up behind Alec and in an undertone demanded, “How did you get Mrs. Cochran to let Piper play waiter?”
“I sincerely hope she knows nothing about it. He's not easily recognized, is he? People don't really look at waiters, and they say things in the presence of a waiter which they'd never say to a policeman.”
“But
how?
”
“I found out which agency she generally used for her parties
and prevailed upon them to hire Ernie. They wouldn't take Tom,” he added regretfully.
Daisy laughed. “And how did
you
get in?”
“Trade secret. Now go away, Daisy, before you draw attention to me.”
“They'll all recognize you, by the eyebrows if nothing else.”
“I just want to keep an eye on things from a distance. You'd be surprised how often a funeral makes a murderer let down his guard—or hers, as the case may be. So buzz off, there's a good girl.”
Daisy buzzed. She made a detour via the laden table, where she heaped two plates with a variety of tidbits; she was hungry and she was sure a bite to eat would help Roger survive the ordeal. He hadn't been eating enough recently to keep a sparrow alive.
When she reached the protective group around him, the Reverend Westlea was addressing Olivia. “I understand you are a singer, Miss Blaise? A mezzo-soprano like Elizabeth? Would you be so very kind as to sing a little something for us
in memoriam?
”
“Oh, I don't think … .”
“Please do, Olivia.” Roger looked on his father-in-law with a more kindly eye than was his wont. “I'd like that.”
“Then of course I'll be happy to. If you will play for me, Roger. If Eric … Mr. Cochran doesn't mind us using his piano.”
Unsurprisingly, Mr. Cochran didn't mind at all. As Olivia and Roger made their way into the music room, followed by those who had heard what was afoot, Daisy found herself beside the conductor.
“It's a great opportunity for Olivia,” he said to her in a low voice. “There are people here who can do much more for her than I can.”
Accompanied by Roger, Olivia sang “Ye now have sorrow,”
from Brahms's
German Requiem,
simple words of comfort very different from Verdi's visions of hellfire. Her voice had the cool, pure clarity of a mountain stream. Her last note was followed by a long hush, during which Daisy, blinking hard, saw more than one handkerchief surreptitiously touched to the corner of an eye.
Olivia stood with bowed head. Roger rose from the piano bench and went to take both her hands and kiss her cheek. Daisy heard murmurs behind her of musical personages informing each other that here was a talent to be watched. They began to move forward to congratulate Olivia.
Olivia reached for the tumbler of water standing on a doily on the piano in anticipation of her need. As she raised it to her lips, Roger dashed it from her hand, crying, “Don't drink that! Can't you smell it? Cyanide!”
F
or a frozen moment the music room was utterly still. Then Ernie Piper appeared from nowhere, dropped to his knees, righted the unbroken glass, and started to mop up the spilled puddle with his napkin.
“Don't get it on your hands, Piper!” Alec's command rang above the sudden clamour from the guests. “And try not to breathe in any fumes. Major Browne, Mr. Levich, front and back doors, please. No one is to leave. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a police officer. I'll ask you to return to the other rooms at once, if you please.”
Piper was holding his napkin by one dry corner, lowering the sodden cloth into the glass. Roger Abernathy dropped down onto the piano bench and Muriel hurried to his side. Olivia stood alone by the piano, white-faced, shaking. Hurrying towards her, Daisy thought she looked fearfully fragile, almost brittle, alone and defenceless.
Before Daisy reached Olivia, Eric Cochran was there. “Darling!”
Olivia held him off. “Don't be a fool, Eric,” she said in low, tremulous voice. “You'll ruin yourself.”
“I don't care. My poor sweet!”
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing helplessly.
“Piper, is it cyanide?” Alec arrived, having chivvied everyone else out of the music room and closed the double doors.
“Smells like it, sir. I got quite a bit sopped up here.”
“Good man. Get it into something with a lid from the kitchen, take the Austin and rush it to the lab, top priority, then the glass to Fingerprints. Miss Dalrymple, keep an eye on the French windows for me, please. Cochran, are there any other exits? Good. Where's your telephone?”
“Front hall, under the stairs.” Eric Cochran spoke without turning his head, his cheek resting on Olivia's sleek, dark hair. “Miss Dalrymple, may I prevail on you to pour a brandy for Olivia? In fact, we'd better have brandy all round. We've all had a shock.”
At that, Olivia looked up. “Is Roger all right?”
“Not too bad,” Muriel assured her.
Before fetching brandy, Daisy intercepted Alec on his way to the hall door. “Mrs. Cochran?” she whispered.
“Could be,” he said grimly. “She's being a good hostess in very difficult circumstances at present.” He nodded towards the double doors. “That may be enough to account for the desperation in her eyes, but I doubt it. I'll be right back.”
The brandy had just time enough to bring a little colour back to Roger's and Olivia's cheeks before Alec returned.
“My sergeant's on his way with several men,” he announced. “I had him in reserve at the local station, though I need hardly say I didn't expect anything like this. Until he arrives, the best I can do is ask those of you in here a few questions. Miss Blaise, it wasn't arranged beforehand that you should sing, was it? Whose idea was it?”
“Mr. Westlea. The Reverend Westlea.”
“Yes, it was Father,” Muriel confirmed.
“He didn't happen to say, ‘So-and-so suggested I should ask you?'”
“No.” Olivia thought. “He said, if I remember rightly, ‘I understand you are a singer, a mezzo-soprano like Bettina'—no,—‘like Elizabeth.'”
Daisy and Muriel nodded.
“You had the impression someone had mentioned your profession to the vicar?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Eric Cochran, looking rather sick, said quickly, “I'd pointed Olivia out to a number of people as the mezzo soloist for the repeat performance of the Verdi.”
Alec nodded. “Mr. Westlea will be able to tell me who told him … and whether that person also suggested Miss Blaise should be asked to sing.”
Now Olivia was comforting Cochran as he clung to her hand. By this time they had all caught the drift of Alec's questions.
“Wait a minute,” said Olivia suddenly. “I met Mr. Westlea at Roger's house. I don't specifically remember, but I may well have been introduced to him as a singer then.” She looked round at Roger, Muriel, Daisy. None of them remembered.
“It's likely she was introduced as one of your pupils, Abernathy, isn't it?” Cochran pleaded.
“More than likely,” Roger agreed kindly.
“Miss Blaise, did you request a glass of water?” Alec changed tack.
“No.”
“Did any of you see who put the glass on the piano?”
Murmurs of “No,” shakings of heads.
“Did anyone notice it earlier, before the question of Miss Blaise's performance came up?”
No, but no one could swear it wasn't there.
“Miss Blaise, Mr. Abernathy, would you mind coming over by the piano, just as you were when she finished singing. One
of you bring your brandy glass. Is that doily in the same position as it was with the tumbler on it?”
“I think so,” Olivia said. “I didn't move it.”
“Put your glass on it, please. Then stand as you were, pick it up, and raise it to your mouth.”
Olivia obeyed, reaching back between herself and Roger. Her hand bearing the empty glass passed close to Roger at chest level, perhaps nine inches below his nose.
“So that's why Mr. Abernathy smelt it,” Alec said with satisfaction. “I presume you are unable to detect the odour of cyanide, Miss Blaise?”
“I suppose so. I've never before had any occasion to wonder. But surely, Mr. Fletcher, this may all be a horrible mistake? Perhaps Roger was mistaken, having the beastly stuff on his mind?”
“Detective Constable Piper smelt it too, I'm afraid. It's just conceivable the smell came from something other than cyanide. We shall soon find out, I hope. It's not a difficult test, when there's enough of the stuff there. Mr. Cochran, is there somewhere we can go for a private word? I'd like the rest of you to stay here, together, for the moment.”
Cochran stared at him, aghast. “You don't think she'll … the person will try again, do you? Try to kill Olivia?”
“I doubt it, sir, but I'd rather she wasn't alone.”
“She'll come with us,” the conductor said firmly. “Anything we have to say to each other, she can hear.”
Alec conceded, and the three of them went out, leaving Daisy, Muriel, and Roger.
“Mr. Fletcher thinks it was Mrs. Cochran, doesn't he?” Muriel said to Daisy as Roger sat down at the piano and began to play softly, aimlessly.
“So does Cochran. At least, he's afraid it might be.”
“I'm so sorry for him … for her … for all three of them,
though I can't quite bring myself to like him. Daisy, does this mean Mrs. Cochran killed Betsy?”
“Possibly,” Daisy said with caution, “but not necessarily.”
Muriel shuddered. “How frightful to think there may be two murderers about!”
“It is rather, isn't it?” Involuntarily, Daisy gave a quick glance around. They were alone, of course, except for Roger. No sinister figure crept towards the French windows—and just what did Alec expect her to do about it if the murderer tried to escape that way? she thought indignantly. Hit him or her over the head with a music-stand? Call on Roger to help her tackle him?
Roger was playing something quiet and sad, deep lines of sadness carved in his face. He had aged immeasurably over the past few days, not troubled more than usual by angina but sinking into apathy. The newspapers' nasty hints about Yakov Levich had roused him, as had Olivia's singing and the attempt on her life. Now he was slipping back, the notes coming softer and slower until he sat with his hands resting on the keyboard, head bowed.
“Muriel, I'd like to go home,” he said suddenly in a low voice, raising his head with an obvious effort. “Do you think the Chief Inspector would let us go, Daisy?”
“I expect so, but I don't like to interrupt to ask. I'm sure Sergeant Tring will be here any moment, if you can hold on.”
“Come and sit in one of these comfortable chairs, Roger,” Muriel said anxiously. “You're not feeling ill, are you?”
“No, just tired. So very, very tired.” He moved to one of the leather armchairs and at her coaxing drank a little more of the brandy left in his glass.
A few minutes later, Alec returned with Cochran, Olivia, and a uniformed constable whom he posted at the French windows.
“Yes, you can go,” he told Muriel, “though I'll need to talk to you both again. Miss Dalrymple, I want you to go home with Miss Blaise if you would. Otherwise I'll send for a woman police officer.”
“No, I'll go.” She was more pleased to have the opportunity of talking to Olivia than annoyed at his high-handedness.
“Thank you. Lock the door and don't open it until you hear from me … .”
“I'll take Miss Blaise home,” interrupted Eric Cochran, who looked utterly wretched.
“Sorry, sir, I need you here. Is there a telephone in your house, Miss Blaise?”
Olivia shook her head. She was still pale, but calm and self-possessed. Though she stood a little apart from Cochran, not touching him, the link between them was almost tangible.
“I'll send an officer to let you know what's going on,” Alec decided. “I 'phoned for a taxi. Here's for the fare, on the Yard.” He handed Daisy a ten bob note.
“We'll drop Muriel and Roger on the way, shall we? They'll want to leave the hired motor for the Westleas.”
Alec gave Muriel and Roger one of his searching looks, then nodded. “Yes, that'll do. I must talk to the vicar and Mrs. Westlea before they leave here.” He held Daisy back as another policeman came in to announce the arrival of the taxi-cab and usher them out. “Daisy, may I take you out to dinner tomorrow?” he said softly.
“Yes, spiffing!”
“Don't get too excited.” He grimaced. “Unless this is all cleared up by then, it'll be a mixture of business and pleasure, I'm afraid, but on Saturday, if you're free, Belinda and my mother hope you'll come to tea. I promise to be there, if I have to disconnect the 'phone!”
“Tea on Saturday?” Don't be ridiculous, she admonished
the butterflies which suddenly took flight in her middle. “Please tell them I'll be delighted and I look forward to meeting them.”
“Good. Belinda will be thrilled. Off you go, now. Don't worry, I don't really think Miss Blaise is in any further danger, but she ought to have someone with her.”
As she hurried after the others, Daisy wasn't worrying about Olivia. She was thinking that he hadn't said Mrs. Fletcher would be pleased—let alone thrilled—by her coming to tea.
The policeman showed them out by the back door, through the kitchen where Tom Tring was already ensconced at the table with a cup of tea and several excited servants. He lumbered to his feet as the ladies passed, giving Daisy a wink as infinitesimal as Ernie Piper's. Clad in funereal black instead of his usual wild checks, he looked slightly less bulky and much less vulgar, more like an undertaker than a second-hand car salesman.
In the taxi, Olivia insisted on Roger settling on the forward-facing seat while she perched on a pull-down seat. Daisy told the driver to take them to Mulberry Place, and they set off.
“My dear,” Roger said to Olivia, “I'm so very sorry.”
“I don't mind sitting here in the least, honestly. I was going to walk or take the 'bus.”
“No, no, about the dreadful fright you've had. I feel responsible.”
“Good heavens, Roger, why? I owe you my life.”
He looked a bit nonplussed. “Well, I … Suppose it was a false alarm, as you suggested?”
“I only said that for Eric's sake.” Olivia continued seriously, “I simply can't think of anyone other than his wife who might want me dead, you know. It's too frightful for the poor darling.”
“Yes, but … if it was indeed Mrs. Cochran, the idea must have been put into her head by … what happened to Bettina.”
The three women exchanged glances. It would be too cruel to remind him that Mrs. Cochran had probably imagined she had the same motive for murdering Bettina as she had for Olivia.
“If so,” said Daisy, “you can hardly be blamed for that, Roger. Olivia's right, she owes you her life, and if by some outside chance you were mistaken, I'm sure she's jolly glad you didn't wait until she dropped dead to cry wolf.”
“That goes without saying,” Olivia agreed dryly.
Roger seemed not entirely reassured, but the taxi-cab pulled up outside the house so it was left to Muriel to set his mind at rest. They got out and Olivia gave the driver her address.
She moved across to sit beside Daisy. “Thank you for coming. I couldn't have borne some grim police matron. I must say, your pet policeman's a pretty decent chap.”

Other books

The Rope Dancer by Roberta Gellis
The Wanted by Lauren Nicolle Taylor
Ready to Fall by Olivia Dade
Water From the Moon by Terese Ramin
Dogs Don't Lie by Clea Simon
Always Emily by Michaela MacColl
This Dog for Hire by Carol Lea Benjamin