Requiem for a Mezzo (7 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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“It's true the Abernathys' house is not large enough to accommodate vast numbers,” Daisy said, “so Muriel and Mr. Abernathy
may
welcome your help, but the parents are still around, I believe. They may have their own ideas.”
“I'm sure they'll be glad to have the trouble taken out of their hands,” said Mrs. Cochran determinedly.
Daisy decided she wasn't mad keen on either of the Cochrans.
Major Browne came into the choir room. “Ah, you're still here, ladies,” he said cheerfully. “I've found an evening I can squeeze a repeat performance into, with a bit of juggling. If you offer people a free ticket they can't demand their money back. I hope your husband is available tomorrow week, Mrs. Cochran?”
“My good man, I haven't the faintest idea. He has a secretary to deal with that sort of business.”
“All right, I'll ring up in the morning,” said the Major, unoffended. “What about you, Miss Dalrymple? You and the Chief Inspector will be able to come, I trust, if it works out?”
“I shall, I expect. I can't answer for Mr. Fletcher.” She thought mournfully of the dinner she should have been eating with Alec at this very moment. “He's always jolly busy and things come up unexpectedly.”
“Dashed good chap. Have everything cleared up in a trice, I shouldn't wonder. Abernathy hasn't surfaced yet, eh? Well, I doubt the ProMusica has another performance so soon and Monday's their rehearsal night so there shouldn't be any problem with the members. I'll just have a word with Finch. Excuse me, ladies.”
Daisy watched him accost the organist, rousing the little man from his phantom practice, which ended with two silent, crashing chords in annoyance at the interruption.
Mrs. Cochran sat in silence for a few moments, toe tapping impatiently. At last she burst out, “I can't think why that man is keeping Eric so long!”
“It's only been a few minutes.”
“Quite long enough. Eric has no more to say to him than I did. Really, the police are getting quite above themselves these days.”
“Chief Inspector Fletcher has a murder to investigate,” Daisy reminded her.”
“Fiddlesticks! The more I consider it, the more certain I am that Mrs. Abernathy suffered a seizure. Ah, here's Eric now.”
Cochran conferred briefly with Browne and Finch, then Mrs. Cochran bore off her husband, Piper bore off Finch, and the Major rejoined Daisy.
“I think it's going to work out,” he said jubilantly. “I wish I could offer you a drink to celebrate, but the booze is in my office with the Chief Inspector.”
“Thank you, but even if you could get at it, I don't think it would be a frightfully good idea on an empty stomach.”
“My dear young lady, you must be starving! My secretary
keeps a tin of biscuits in her desk. Now just you wait here one minute.”
He bustled off, to return shortly with a tin of assorted Peek Frean's. Munching on Maries and ginger-snaps, they chatted—carefully avoiding the subject of murder—until the choir-room door opened yet again and Muriel and Mr. Levich came in.
Muriel hurried across to Daisy. “Your Chief Inspector's with Roger now,” she said. “Dr. Woodward stayed.”
“Alec won't press Mr. Abernathy beyond what he's fit for,” Daisy assured her, pulling her down onto the next chair, “and you'll feel much better—well, at least a bit—if you'll just eat a biscuit or two. I'm sure you will. I do.”
“Oh, I couldn't.”
“Eat, my dear,” said Levich, taking the tin proffered by the Major and presenting it to Muriel. “Will not help Mr. Abernathy if you ill.”
Muriel gave him a wavering smile and took a wafer, which she nibbled while he returned the biscuits to the Major.
“Help yourself, Mr. Levich,” Browne invited. “I'll have to replace the tin anyway, after the hole Miss Dalrymple and I have made in it.”
Levich hesitated, nodded, and pulled up a chair, and they had a little tea-less tea-party. Daisy, at least, tried hard not to think of poor Roger Abernathy, inevitably under suspicion for the death of his beloved wife.
 
In the conductor's room, a few doors down from the choir room, Alec sat down in a ghastly orange and green tweed chair like those in the soloists' room. Roger Abernathy slumped in a similar chair opposite him. He looked twenty-five or thirty years older than his dead wife, but making allowances for illness,
Alec thought he was probably the elder by no more than fifteen years.
Though he was not to have appeared on stage that afternoon, like the performers he wore evening dress. It fitted his stocky frame awkwardly, not ill-made but draping a body on which nothing ever hung quite right. A French phrase came to Alec:
“Il n'est pas chez soi dans son peau”
—something like that. Roger Abernathy wasn't quite comfortable in his own skin, and from all Alec had heard, marriage to Bettina would not have helped him to feel more comfortable.
At least it seemed unlikely that Daisy's friend could be madly in love with her brother-in-law.
“Mr. Abernathy is a sick man, Chief Inspector,” Dr. Woodward reminded him unnecessarily. Though also seated, he gave an impression of hovering over his patient.
Alec nodded. “Tell me about your wife, sir,” he said gently.
“I loved Bettina,” said Abernathy in a low, hesitant voice. The glass of his spectacles misted with tears. “I'm aware she was no angel, but it was a constant joy to look at her, to hear her, and to know she was mine. I was privileged to discover her glorious voice. When she agreed to marry me, I could scarcely believe my good fortune. How I shall go on living without her I can't … I can't … .”
“Enough!” snapped the doctor. “I really cannot allow this, Chief Inspector. After Mr. Abernathy has had a good night's rest, you may consult his own practitioner about the wisdom of a further interview.”
Alec gave up. “Shall I telephone for a taxi-cab?” he asked. “I'll send my sergeant home with Mr. Abernathy and Miss Westlea to lend a hand and make sure they have no difficulties en route.” Not to mention to speak to their servants. Tom Tring, though devoted to his equally mountainous wife, had a way with female servants. He could weasel out information they didn't even know they knew.
D
aisy easily read Tom Tring's expression as he came into the choir room. “Did you miss your tea, Sergeant?” she asked, holding out the Major's tin of biscuits.
“Just sitting down to a nice pork pie we was, miss, me and the wife and a couple of friends, when the Chief telephoned. Ta, don't mind if I do.” A piece of shortbread vanished in a single crunch. He turned to Muriel. “You'll be Miss Westlea, ma'am? There's a motor-cab waiting to take you and Mr. Abernathy home, and I'm to go with you to see all's well.”
“Is my brother-in-law all right?”
“Not to say all right, miss, but the doctor says he'll do. If he's looking queer when we get him home, we'll ring up his own doctor, otherwise the morning'll be time enough for that. Are you ready to leave, miss? Dr. Woodward and Detective Constable Piper are helping Mr. Abernathy to the taxi-cab.”
“I'm coming too, Sergeant,” said Daisy as they all stood up. “Miss Westlea asked me to spend the night with her.”
“Very wise, too, miss. She'll want another woman with her, I don't doubt.” The twinkle in Tom's eye told her he reckoned her kindness was mixed with a determination not to be shut out of the case.
Daisy was equally sure Alec hadn't sent him only to help Roger Abernathy. She oughtn't to be so critical of Mrs. Cochran, who just might genuinely wish to be of assistance as well as to show off.
Alec met them in the lobby. “We're all off, now, Major,” he said. “You're at liberty to lock up the Hall. I'll have to keep the keys to the soloists' room for a day or two.”
“Right-ho, Chief Inspector.”
After an interested look at Muriel and Levich, their heads together saying good-bye, Alec turned to Daisy. “I have to go to the Yard. I'll run you back first but it would be much easier if Tom saw you home, if you don't mind.”
“Don't worry, Chief, I'm going to stay with Muriel anyway.”
He frowned. “That's not …”
Daisy interrupted quickly, before he could attempt to forbid her. “I've got an awful lot to tell you.” She nearly said, “in spite of your efforts to part me from the suspects,” but he looked so weary she refrained.
“Will you have lunch with me tomorrow? I'm sorry about dinner, Daisy.”
“Well, all you promised was not to vanish in the middle, presumably leaving me with the bill, so I suppose you've kept your promise. Shall I hop on a 'bus and meet you at the Yard?”
Alec grinned. “Somehow I've a feeling my convenience isn't all you have in mind. I'll show you around one day, but tomorrow I'm hoping to clear up my business there in the morning and to see your friends—among others—in the afternoon, so I'll pick you up.”
“Spiffing.”
“Tom, I'll see you at the Yard first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Right, Chief. Ready, Miss Westlea?”
Muriel was looking up at Yakov Levich with shocked dismay.
“I've just realized,” she blurted out, “I'll have to telephone my parents. To tell them about Betsy.”
“If you like, Miss Westlea,” said Alec gravely, “I'll call them up and break the news before you have to speak to them. Just give me the name and telephone number. If they're out, I'll keep trying until I get through, and I'll advise them to ring you so you don't by chance catch them before I've told them.”
“Will you really, Mr. Fletcher?” Muriel's face cleared. “It's Bury St. Edmunds six-five-three. The Reverend Albert Westlea.”
A clergyman! No wonder Bettina's threat to inform her parents about Mr. Levich had worried Muriel. The general prejudice against Jews was bad enough. Heaven alone knew what a parson would make of his daughter's romance.
As Alec assured Muriel he would telephone right away, Daisy tried to remember who had told her of Bettina's interference. Marchenko, she thought. She hadn't believed much of what the Ukrainian told her, but that had rung true.
“I'll pick you up at one,” Alec said to her, and they all went out into the dark, rainy evening.
On the way to Chelsea in the taxi-cab, Sergeant Tring perched on the small pull-down seat, facing backwards. His bulk overflowing on each side, he kept up a soothing stream of platitudes about the weather and the increasing number of motor-vehicles on the streets of London.
When they reached Mulberry Place, Tring handed Daisy and Muriel down and then gave his arm to Roger Abernathy. Daisy saw a light in the window of the little house next door.
“I'll just pop in and tell Lucy what's up,” she said to Muriel, “and fetch my pyjamas and toothbrush. I'll be with you in half a jiffy.”
Lucy and her frequent escort, Lord Gerald Bincombe, were in the kitchen, which meant Binkie was in one of his impecunious phases. Like the Honourable Phillip Petrie, Binkie did
something in the City, though he was more successful at whatever it was than poor Phil. At least, his car was a newish Alvis in contrast to Phillip's aged Swift, and he usually managed to take Lucy out to dinner and a show instead of helping her wash up after a cheese omelette.
“What-ho, Daisy,” said Binkie, a hefty, taciturn ex-rugger Blue of about thirty with a gloomy outlook on life, who was wearing an apron over his elegant lounge suit.
“Hallo.” Daisy sat down at the kitchen table and reached for a slice of Lyons Swiss roll. Major Browne's biscuits had merely whetted her appetite.
“I thought your copper was taking you out to dinner,” Lucy said, adding hopefully, “Have you had a tiff?”
“No! As a matter of fact, I'm helping him with another case.”
“Another murder? Darling, it's not true.” Dropping her tea-towel on the draining board, Lucy sat down. “What happened?”
“In the middle of the concert, Bettina next door dropped dead of cyanide poisoning. It was rather ghastly, actually.” She'd been too startled at first, and then too busy, to realize just how ghastly: now Bettina's flushed face, clutching hands, convulsing body rose before her. She felt sick. “As a matter of fact, it was perfectly horrid.”
In silent sympathy, Binkie poured a glass of cheap South African sherry and set it down in front of her.
“If you haven't eaten,” said the more practical Lucy, “you'd better not drink that yet. There's an egg left, isn't there, old bean?”
“Two. I'll scramble 'em. Toast?”
“No, don't, Binkie, thanks. I promised Muriel I'd spend the night with her, and I think I'd better make sure she and Mr. Abernathy have something to eat, which'll mean eating with them. I'll tell you more tomorrow, Lucy.” Wearily, Daisy
started to rise. “I'd better go and get my things.”
“You sit right there, darling. I'll pack a bag for you.”
A few minutes later, Daisy was admitted to the house next door by the house-parlourmaid, a pudding-faced girl more excited than upset.
“Ooh, miss, isn't it awful?” the maid greeted her. Ushering Daisy into the drawing room, she went on, “Miss Westlea said please to make yourself comf'table for a minute or two and to help yourself to sherry. She's gone with that p'leeceman to help Mr. Abernathy to his room. If you'll excuse me, miss, I've to make up your bed.”
She scurried out, leaving Daisy a bit disappointed not to have a chance to talk to her. Just as well, she decided. All very well for the police to start questioning grieving relatives and their households right after a death, but it wasn't really quite the thing for a friend and guest to follow suit. Unless, of course, those concerned wanted a friendly ear into which to pour their concerns.
On the whole, the drawing room was stiffly formal, fashionably though not expensively furnished. Amid the conventional, the one incongruity was a baby-grand piano, which took up close to a third of the room. Daisy wandered over to it and played a few notes, vaguely wishing she had practised more in the days of obligatory lessons.
She closed the lid over the keys as Muriel came in, pale and strained.
“He just sits there,” she said without preliminaries. “When I asked him if he wanted something to eat, he didn't even hear me. Sergeant Tring's getting him to bed, and he says if I put a tray in front of Roger he'll probably eat automatically. What a nice man Sergeant Tring is!”
“Yes, he's a jolly good sort. Muriel, I don't want to be in the way. If you want to be with Mr. Abernathy, don't mind me.”
Muriel shrugged helplessly. “He doesn't notice I'm there. I
told Beryl to take up a tray and I'll pop up later to see how he's doing, but … . Won't you have some sherry or a cocktail?”
“No, thanks.” Did she look so desperately in need of alcoholic refreshment? Muriel certainly did. “But why don't you have a spot?”
“Oh, I couldn't,” Muriel said with a shudder. “After … after seeing Betsy, I don't think I'll ever touch another drop of
any
drink.”
“I know what you mean. You must eat, though. As Mr. Levich said, it won't help if you fall ill, too, and a couple of biscuits are
not
enough to sustain your strength.”
“Nor yours, Daisy. However little I feel like eating, I've no intention of starving you, I promise. I had a cold supper laid out in the dining room for after the concert, so let's go in.” She led the way across the hall. “I asked Sergeant Tring to join us, but he prefers to eat in the kitchen.”
“I'm sure he does,” said Daisy dryly. She had more than once heard Alec expatiate on Tom Tring's way with female servants. If the cook, the house-parlourmaid, or Bettina's personal maid knew anything useful, he'd discover it.
In the dining room, Muriel hastily cleared away the third place-setting and they helped themselves to the cold ham, salad, bread and butter, and chutney set out on the table. While satisfying her own ravenous hunger, Daisy made sure Muriel ate properly despite her tendency to fall into a brown study. Her musings did not appear to be all unhappy. Perhaps she was thinking as much of Yakov Levich as of her dead sister.
Beryl came in to clear the dishes, then returned with a rice pudding, its pallid surface dotted with pale yellow sultanas like disembodied cats' eyes.
Muriel stared at it with a strange look on her face. The moment the door closed behind the maid, she said in a tight voice, “We ate a lot of rice pudding at the Vicarage. Betsy always had to have it after a concert.”
“Perhaps it reminded her of her childhood, when life was less complicated.”
“Perhaps.” She started crying, hiding her face in her hands. “I'm sorry,” she sobbed.
“It's all right, honestly. I can't imagine how I would feel if it had happened to my sister.”
“No, you can't possibly imagine, because you love your sister, I expect, and I didn't love Betsy. I did when we were children. I thought I still did. It was when I saw her lying dead, and a great burden rolled off my shoulders, I knew that for years all I'd felt was a sense of responsibility for her. That's why I cried, because I found out I didn't love her. I can't grieve, not properly, only for Roger's and my parents' grief. And I loathe rice pudding!”
“So do I,” said Daisy inadequately, and she moved the dish to the far end of the table where the sultanas couldn't look back at her. “You felt responsible for Bettina? You can't have been much older than her, and she was an adult.”
“She was still a spoiled child. Our parents doted on her, and all I can remember from the moment she was born, when I was four, is having it dinned into me that I must look after my little sister. She had golden curls and I had straight mousy hair. She had round, rosy cheeks, and mine were thin and pale. She bounced and prattled, and I was quiet and … and mousy. But I
did
love her.” She looked an appeal at Daisy.
“I'm sure you did. A spoiled little girl can be lovable. A spoiled grown-up is another matter.”
“Yes,” Muriel mused, “I suppose it was when we came to London things began to change. At home it always seemed natural to do things for Betsy, to give up what I wanted for her sake.”
“Because your parents felt that way, I expect. Didn't you say they didn't want her to marry and come to live in town? How on earth did she ever meet Mr. Abernathy?”
“He was on a walking tour. His heart wasn't so bad then, ten years ago, and gentle exercise was supposed to strengthen it. One Sunday he came to the morning service at my father's church, chiefly to hear the music, I'm sure. Betsy and I were both in the choir, but any solo parts were always given to her, although the organist said my voice was just as good. Father thought more of his congregation would attend church to see a singer who looked like an angel.”
“Men!” said Daisy in disgust. “Bettina—Betsy—sang a solo when Mr. Abernathy was there, I take it?”

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