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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“He's not fit to walk, Dr. Woodward,” Muriel protested.
Yakov Levich laid his hand on her arm. “I help to carry,” he offered.
The doctor nodded. “Thank you, sir, we'll manage between us. But where to?”
“The conductor's private room,” Miss Blaise suggested, not without a glint of malice. “I know the way. Follow me.”
Muriel came over to Daisy. “Will you come with me?” she begged, her eyes anxious. “Poor Roger's in a bad way and … .”
“I would,” Daisy said apologetically, giving her a hug while watching another new arrival on the stage, “but Al … Chief Inspector Fletcher sort of depends on me to keep an eye on things here. I came with him, you see. He'll be back shortly, and I'll come and find you.”
“Oh
please
do.” Muriel followed the others.
The woman who had just arrived was middle-aged, plain
and plump, her clothes of good quality but dull and dowdy. Her lips tightened as she regarded Gilbert Gower, still locked in a barely decorous embrace with the gorgeous Consuela de la Costa.
Gower caught sight of her and let go of the soprano like a live wire. A nervous hand smoothed his waved hair.
“Jennifer, my dear.” He came over to the woman, took both her hands in his, and kissed her cheek. She must be Mrs. Gower. “Miss de la Costa was fearfully shocked, practically hysterical. I've been trying to calm her down. These foreigners, you know.”
“They do tend to be emotional, don't they?” Mrs. Gower said dryly.
“I … er … I didn't know you were coming.”
“The children were invited out to tea and tennis so I decided to make use of the ticket you gave me.”
“I'm glad.” Suddenly the aging tenor clung to his wife. “It's the deuce of a mess, old dear. The police are here already. I gather they suspect Bet … Miss Westlea was deliberately poisoned.”
Mrs. Gower started to speak, but Daisy was distracted by Alec's return. She sat down on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, to talk to him.
“Any trouble?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not exactly, except Bettina's husband's weak heart playing up. I've got lots to tell you, though.”
“I was sure you would,” he said, resigned. “Don't think I'm not grateful, but I hope you aren't expecting …”
“ … To involve myself in the case?” Daisy said guiltily. “I wasn't exactly
expecting
to, but I'm afraid Muriel wants me to be with her.”
Alec groaned. “I might have guessed. I suppose if I send you home, I'll be accused of bullying a female witness. I have
to speak to her, of course, and the husband. He's the choirmaster, right?”
“Yes. They're both fearfully upset, though I must say Muriel calmed down right away when Mr. Abernathy was taken ill. She's used to coping with his attacks, but one of those doctors is with him, too. A Dr. Woodward.”
“I suppose I'll have to take medical advice on whether he's fit to be questioned.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which, dark and crisp, showed no sign of disarray. “I've got bobbies from the local division on their way to man the doors, and most people will only need to leave their names and addresses. The trouble is going to be deciding whom else I ought to see.”
“The other soloists, for a start.” Daisy looked around, but by now the stage was empty except for the baize-covered body. The nearby area of the auditorium had cleared, too, though many people had remained in the upper reaches rather than move out to the doubtless crowded passage and lobby.
“Yes, I gather the soloists all shared a suite,” Alec said. “The organist used it, too. The manager, Major Browne, thinks Mrs. Abernathy's glass may have been there during the interval. An usher was posted at the door during that period to keep out the unauthorized, but I've not had a chance to speak to him yet, nor to see the room. Browne has locked it and given me the key.”
“It wasn't kept locked during the performance?”
“No. One doesn't exactly expect late-arriving concert-goers to pinch the soloists' handbags, let alone to poison them.”
“Rather not!”
“I'm praying I shan't have to trace latecomers. This place is a nightmare in terms of universal access to everything. With the circular construction, there's no proper backstage. The dressing-rooms—if that's the proper term—are around the
outside of the building, with performers and audience mingling in the passage. Chaos! Still, I have to concentrate on the most likely suspects.”
“You'd better have a shot at the conductor,” Daisy suggested. “He's been behaving a bit oddly. He …”
“Save the details for later, please. Any more?”
“His wife, I should think, and Olivia Blaise, who's—who
was
a rival of Bettina's. And Gilbert Gower's wife, perhaps, though I don't know that she had anything to do with Bettina. That's her with him now. I can't think of anyone else.”
“With the organist, the three doctors, and Browne, that's plenty. They're not the sort of people I can leave Tom Tring to handle on his own, either.”
“Is Sergeant Tring coming?” Daisy was pleased. She and the elephantine sergeant had a mutual soft spot for each other.
“I telephoned him and Ernie Piper at their homes, and they'll both be here as soon as they can. I'm assuming the case will be assigned to me, as I'm on the spot, though the local divisional Super could insist on jurisdiction.”
“He's a chump if he does.” She recalled Cochran's abject despair, Marchenko's glittering eyes, Consuela de la Costa's hysterical accusation. “I've a feeling you're going to find yourself up to your ears in artistic temperament!”
D
aisy took herself off to join Muriel Westlea as Major Browne hurried up to Alec with the glass jar he had requested.
“It had olives in it,” the pudgy manager apologized, “at the bar. I had them wash it out.”
“Thank you, it will have to do.” Alec crouched and, his hand protected by his handkerchief, picked up the larger fragments of glass and put them in the olive jar, screwing the lid on tight. “Did you find a good, sharp knife?”
“Yes, but I really must protest, Chief Inspector. I can't believe it's necessary to cut a hole in the carpet!”
“Sorry, sir, but our laboratory chaps will need all I can give them of the residue of Mrs. Abernathy's drink.”
“Mrs … ? Oh, Miss Westlea. The late Miss Westlea,” he corrected himself with a nervous glance at the baize-shrouded mound on the stage. “Well, if you must, you must.”
Wringing his hands, he watched Alec slice out a good-sized patch of damp carpet and roll it up with the smallest slivers of glass embedded in it. The almond smell was still strong. The unfortunate Bettina must have been given a massive dose, Alec thought, taking the shallowest breaths possible.
Where the deuce were the local coppers?
Heavy footsteps behind him provided the answer. “Chief Inspector Fletcher?” The uniformed sergeant saluted, the constable at his heels following suit, as Alec nodded. “Sir, all the exits are guarded, like you asked on the telephone.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. They know no one is to leave without giving a seat number, or at least row number, name, and address?”
“There won't be any trouble about that,” said Browne dolefully. “They'll be only too happy to leave word where to find 'em. Seven thousand odd ticket refunds, that's what I'm looking at. It'll make mincemeat of my budget.”
With his somewhat callous concern for his carpet and his budget, Browne seemed an unlikely poisoner. However, Alec might need his knowledge of the internal working of the Albert Hall.
“I won't keep you just now, Major,” he said, “but I must ask you to stay in the building for the present. Be so good as to send to the soloists' suite the usher who was on duty at that door during the interval.”
“Right you are, Chief Inspector.” The manager trailed away, disconsolate but not visibly alarmed.
Alec turned back to the sergeant and gave him the names of the others who were to be asked to stay.
“I want them gathered in the choir's room,” he said as the man laboriously wrote in his notebook. “It's next to Browne's office, which will be a good place for interviews. As soon as you've notified all those, circulate word that the rest can go. I'm going to the soloists' suite now. When Detective Sergeant Tring arrives, send him to me.”
“Sir.”
“And you”—Alec turned to the constable—“you're to stay here to make sure no one interferes with the body or these items of evidence. A police surgeon and photographer will be along soon.”
Several times, as he made his way through the crowded passage outside the auditorium, anxious or irate concert-goers stopped him, recognizing him as the man who had taken charge. Alec soothed them with promises of being able to depart very shortly. At last he reached the soloists' suite, where a weedy youth in uniform nervously awaited him.
“You were here during the interval?”
“Y-yes, sir,” the usher bleated. “I d-didn't see anything, honest.”
“I'm not going to bite. I just want to ask you a few questions.” Alec unlocked and opened the door. “Come in here a minute.”
He threw a swift glance around the small room. An array of easy-chairs covered in “tartan” tweed in singularly hideous shades of burnt orange and olive green met his eyes. Worse than the worst of Tring's abominable suits, he decided. To his left, in the corner, a table held small coffee and tea urns; a silver samovar; a carafe half full of water; a round silver tray with a cut-glass decanter; cups, saucers and glasses, some used, some clean—one full of tea, scummed on top, appeared untouched; a plate of digestive biscuits; and an empty ashtray.
Anyone standing at the table would effectively hide with his back whatever he was doing with his hands.
“Don't touch anything,” Alec said sharply as the usher followed him in. Closing the door, he pointed at two others, one on each side of the room. “Where do those lead?”
“The one on the right's to the ladies' dressing-room and lav, sir, and t'other's the gents'. There's mirrors and that, and the ladies' has a couple of chaze longs so's they can lie down.”
“Who came in here while you were on duty this evening?”
“Well, all the soloists, sir. That's Miss Costa, Miss Westlea that's dead—as was reelly Mrs. Abernathy and her sister's Miss Westlea, but that's arteests for you—and Mr. Gower and Mr. Marchenko.”
“And the organist?”
“Mr. Finch? That's right, though you don't hardly notice whether he's there or not. A nice, quiet-spoken gent.”
“Those are all the authorized people. Did you let anyone else in?”
“Mr. Abernathy, though he only popped in for a minute or two. In the choir room next door he was mostly. Then there was Miss Muriel Westlea, she was here the whole time, doing this and that for her sister. Sings in the choir, she does. Major Browne dropped by like he always does, to see they've got all they need, and so did the conductor, Cookham, is it?”
“Cochran.”
“Him. Then a lady came by said she was his wife.”
“Did you let her in?”
“Yes, sir. I'd got no reason to think she wasn't what she said, had I? Fancy dresser that, di'monds and all. And there was another one, proper dowdy-looking, claimed to be Mr. Gower's missus.”
“She went in too?”
“Summun came up and asked me summat, and she must've slipped past me, 'cos she came out a couple of minutes later. Said Mr. Gower was back there in the dressing-room and she wouldn't wait. I asked did she want to leave a message but she said no.”
“Mrs. Cochran. Mrs. Gower.” Alec had to admit that once more Daisy had proved right when she advised him to see those two ladies.
“Then there was Miss Blaise. She's another singer. She'd left summat at Mr. Abernathy's house when she went for her lesson, and Miss Muriel'd promised to bring it in for her today. And the only other one I can think of's Mr. Levich.”
“Yakov Levich? The violinist? The orchestra's leader?” Not on Daisy's list.
“Right, and he's another nice, quiet chap even if he is a furriner.
Always a friendly word though you can't hardly tell what he's saying. Not like some I could name.”
“What did he want in this room?”
“I didn't ask. The leader mucks in with the rest of the orchestra in their room so he doesn't properly belong in here, but I wasn't going to stop him when he came along, was I? I seen him around. I know who he is.”
“Reasonable,” Alec conceded. “I hope he hasn't left, but I suppose I can always find him later. All right, my lad, you … .” He stopped as someone knocked on the door.
“Chief?” Around the opening door appeared a large, bald head, the face beneath adorned by way of emphasis with a splendid grey walrus moustache. “Ah, there you are.” Sergeant Tring came in, a massive figure in his favourite suit of tan and yellow checks.
“That was fast, Tom,” said Alec.
“Mate of mine had dropped by for a cuppa, him and his wife. He's got a motor-bicycle so he ran me in.”
Alec's mind boggled at a vision of Tom's bulk squeezed into a side-car, or worse, balanced on the back of a motor-cycle. “A brave man, your mate. Give him my thanks when next you see him. Tom, first thing, find the local man and tell him to add Yakov Levich, the orchestra's leader, to the list of people I want to stay. Then come back here.”
“Right, Chief.” The sergeant withdrew with his curiously soft, light tread.
Turning back to the usher, Alec dismissed him. “I may have more questions for you later, but I assume Major Browne has your address, so you can go. You've been helpful. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said the young man with a slight bow, regaining the suave manner of one accustomed to dealing with the public.
The door clicked shut behind him. Alec turned to the table. The array of refreshments reminded him that it was teatime,
that he was not likely to be offered any, and that his dinner with Daisy was not going to reach the soup, let alone dessert. Still, since she had somehow managed to involve herself in the investigation, she could hardly take umbrage. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
Absently nibbling on a rather limp digestive biscuit, he studied the various items before him.
The door opened again. “Living dangerously, Chief!” said Tom Tring.
“She was poisoned with a drink, not a biscuit. Look, this is labelled with her name.”
The cut-glass decanter sported a silver tag engraved “Bettina Westlea.” Only a few dregs remained in the bottom. Wrapping his fingers in his handkerchief, Alec delicately removed the stopper, sniffed, and beckoned to Tom.
“Cyanide right enough, Chief. But that almond smell's strong enough with only a drop or two left, you'd think she'd've noticed before she took a swig.”
“Not everyone can smell it, as I was reminded by one of my self-appointed medical consultants.”
“Ah.” The sergeant helped himself to a biscuit and chewed it ruminatively. “Dabs?”
“Yes, you have your kit? Good. Fingerprint this room and the two adjoining, and look out for anything which might have contained the cyanide before it was put in the decanter. A photographer and a police surgeon should arrive soon, I don't know who's on call today.”
“'Cepting it weren't you and me.”
“That's life—I hope you conveyed my apologies to Mrs. Tring. Anyway, I'm putting you in charge while I start interviewing. I'll use one of the local lads for note-taking until Piper gets here.”
“You going to search 'em all for whatever they brought the stuff in?”
“I thought about that, but the easiest form of cyanide to obtain is the potassium or sodium salt, as a pesticide or photographic fixing agent. The crystals could be carried in an envelope to be flushed down the lavatory. Our murderer has had every opportunity to dispose of the evidence.”
“Ah.”
“Keep an eye out for any unexplained container, all the same. It's always possible he used prussic acid, which would require a glass vial. I'm off.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, Tom, I … er … I don't believe I mentioned on the 'phone that I came to the concert with Miss Dalrymple?”
Tom grinned. “Ah.”
“I'm afraid she … well, she's managed to get mixed up in things again. One of our suspects is a friend of hers.”
“Dunno how she does it,” said the sergeant admiringly.
“So don't for pity's sake let her interfere!”
With those heartfelt words, Alec stepped out into the passage. The crowd had thinned considerably. At the two nearest exits, constables scribbled down particulars of the audience, orchestra, and choir members in the slowly shortening queues.
As Alec turned towards the manager's office, Ernie Piper hurried towards him. The wiry young Detective Constable was out of breath, the shoulders of his brown serge suit damp and his tie awry.
“I came quick as I could, Chief,” he panted. “Ran all the way from the Tube.”
“Perfect timing. I'm just about to start interviewing.”
“Ready, Chief.” Piper's notebook and three sharp pencils instantly appeared. Alec sometimes wondered if he slept with them in his pyjama pocket.
Browne was in his office, gloomily contemplating figures in a large ledger. “You want my room, Chief Inspector?” he said. “You can have it, and the bloody job, too. What a balls-up! My only hope is to persuade people they had half the concert so
they can't expect more than half a refund.”
“Can't you reschedule the concert and offer replacement tickets?”
“Possibly, but there's all sorts of extra costs involved, and whether people'll want to come after the stupid bitch—ahem—the unfortunate woman got herself murdered in front of an audience … .” He brightened. “Still, knowing the great British public, it might even bring 'em in. Who can guess?”
“You didn't care for Mrs. Abernathy?” Alec asked.
Browne looked at him in alarm. “Now don't you go making something of a slip of the tongue!” he begged. “Except for meeting her a couple of times when they rehearsed here, I only knew her by reputation. I'd heard she was difficult, and by George, she was. Too hot, too cold—as though I could change the Hall's heating system just to please her! I tell you, if it wasn't one thing, it was another, but I'd no cause to bump her off.”

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