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Authors: Carola Dunn

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“Part of Mozart's
Exultate, Jubilate.
Do you know it? Roger fell in love with her on the spot. Not that he said anything about that then. He said she ought to have proper voice lessons and if she came to London he'd be happy to teach her for free.”
“And your parents wouldn't hear of her leaving home and going off to the wicked city.”
“That was when Roger proposed, of course. Betsy agreed to marry him at once if that was the only way she could get to be a star in grand opera. Even then he was making a decent living as a teacher and choir-director, besides having a little money of his own, so in the end Father gave in to her, as always. He gave his permission—as long as I went along, too, to make sure Roger didn't mistreat Betsy. As though he would! He worshipped the ground she trod, just like Father and Mother.”
“Even when she trod on him.” The words slipped out. “Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, Muriel, I shouldn't have said that.”
“It's true, all too true. I'd better go up and see that he's all right. Beryl will bring coffee to the drawing room. There's a gramophone there, if you want to put on a record, and some magazines. I'm afraid it's going to be a dull evening.”
“I've had quite enough excitement for one day,” Daisy assured her. “A magazine and some nice, soothing music will be just the ticket.”
Unsurprisingly, the record collection strongly favoured
vocal music, but Daisy found a set of Beethoven piano sonatas played by Schnabel. She wound up the gramophone and changed the needle in case the old one was worn. Lulled by the beginning of the “Moonlight,” she picked up the latest
Town and Country
and settled into a chair to admire again the spiffing photos she had taken of Occles Hall. That article had led to the commission she was presently working on, a piece about the Victoria and Albert Museum, conveniently just up the road.
Beryl brought in a tray with a vacuum flask of coffee. “Cook thought it best, miss, seeing everything's at sixes and sevens. Shall I pour?”
“No, thanks, I'll wait for Miss Westlea.”
The maid had just left when Sergeant Tring knocked and entered, padding in with his unnaturally silent tread.
“Just you here, miss?”
“Yes, Miss Westlea went up to see Mr. Abernathy. Are you finished here? Have the servants told you anything useful?”
“Now, miss, having a bite to eat in the kitchen I was, on Miss Westlea's invitation.” Though the sergeant's tone was injured, his little brown eyes twinkled.
“Bosh,” said Daisy. “Do sit down and tell me everything.”
“The Chief'd have me guts for garters.” But he cautiously lowered his bulk into a chair. “Well now. Cook never set eyes on Mrs. Abernathy, seemingly, nor heard aught but complaints, and she reckons Miss Westlea didn't pass on the half of 'em and softened them she did.”
“That's no surprise.”
“The housemaid—house-
parlour
maid, begging her pardon—she says all anyone ever heard from Mrs. Abernathy was complaints, family included. If it weren't Miss Westlea who gave her orders, young Beryl'd've handed in her notice long since.”
“What about Mrs. Abernathy's personal maid?” Daisy asked impatiently.
“Ah.” Tring ruminated. “Well, it's not what I ought to be saying to a young lady, but Miss Elsie Pitt did let on as Mrs. Abernathy wasn't no better than she should be. The which Beryl confirmed. And that's as far as I'm prepared to go, miss.” He levered himself out of the chair. “I'll leave the Chief to tell you the rest—supposing you don't ferret it all out for yourself! I'm off home now. 'Night, miss.”
“Good-night, Sergeant.” Accompanying him to the front door, she directed him to the nearest 'bus stop.
The rain had stopped at last; the night was mild, with a westerly breeze delivering fresh air to the smoky city. Daisy lingered on the doorstep, reluctant to return to the troubled atmosphere indoors. Binkie and Lucy came out of next door and exchanged a chaste good-night kiss. Lucy went in. Departing, Binkie saw Daisy, gave her a sheepish wave, and zoomed off in his nippy Alvis sports car.
Daisy turned back into the house. As she closed the door behind her, Muriel came down the stairs.
“I was just seeing Sergeant Tring out,” Daisy explained. “How is Mr. Abernathy?”
“He's eaten a little and thinks he'll be able to sleep. Have you had coffee?”
“No, I waited for you.” She preceded Muriel into the drawing room.
“Good. I need a cup.” Pouring coffee from the flask into two dainty little demi-tasses, Muriel asked, “Daisy, how on earth did you come to know a Detective Chief Inspector?”
“I sort of got mixed up in a couple of his cases. He says I interfered, but he had to admit I helped him, too.” Daisy sipped her coffee, hesitating. “Dimitri Marchenko accused me of being a police spy. I'm not, but I shan't conceal from Alec anything which might help catch Bettina's murderer. So if you'd rather I left … .”
“No, stay, please. After all, neither Roger nor I killed her.
Betsy was … difficult, but she didn't deserve to die like that. She … she was my sister.” The telephone rang in the hall. Muriel's cup clinked against the saucer as she set it down, slopping coffee over the rim. “Oh gosh, that must be Father.”
She went out, leaving the door ajar. Daisy heard the maid's voice: “Shall I get it, miss?”
“No, that's all right, Beryl.” The ringing stopped. “Chelsea two-two-six-one. Hallo? Yes, this is Miss Westlea. Who? Oh but … No!” Muriel's voice went shrill and indignant. “Mr. Abernathy is ill but he is
not
on his deathbed. And I have nothing else to say. Good-bye!”
Red-faced, she marched back into the drawing room.
“The Press,” Daisy guessed.
“
The Times,
wanting to verify information! Wouldn't you expect
them
to have more consideration?”
“It's a scoop. I thought I saw the
Times
music critic—I met him at a dinner party once. None of the other papers will have the news yet, I imagine, but perhaps you'd better take the receiver off the hook for the night.”
“I have to wait for Father to telephone. They must have gone out to dinner … unless … . Mr. Fletcher won't forget to ring them up, will he?”
“No, but he has other things to do, too, remember. Oh, there goes the telephone bell again. I don't expect it's a reporter, but would you like me to take it?”
Muriel nodded. “Yes, please.” She followed Daisy out to the hall.
This time it was the Reverend Westlea. Daisy handed over the apparatus and returned to the drawing room, punctiliously if reluctantly making sure the door latched behind her. She even put on another record to thwart her own eager desire to eavesdrop.
Ten minutes passed before Muriel crept back, her shoulders slumped, devastated. She stopped just inside the door and said
in a bewildered voice, “They blame me. How can they blame me?”
“You mean they think you did it?” Daisy led her to a chair and made her sit down.
“Oh no, they aren't quite that … . No, I ought to have looked after her better, protected her from … . Daisy, what could I have done?” she cried in anguish.
“Nothing. You couldn't possibly have guessed someone would poison her, though if you ask me she brought it on herself.”
“But they don't know that,” Muriel whispered. “I never told them about her lovers, never told them how tactless she could be—no, not tactless, spiteful! They thought she was an angel, and I could never bear to disillusion them. So it's my fault they've had such a dreadful shock.”
“Bosh! You couldn't tell tales on your sister, and if you had I dare say they'd not have believed you. There's none so blind,” said Daisy profoundly, “as those who won't see.”
“How shall I ever face them?”
“They're coming up to town?”
“Yes, they'll catch an early train tomorrow.”
“Then you'd better get a good night's sleep tonight. Come on, old thing, time for beddy-byes. I must say, I'm good and ready to rest my weary head.”
“Oh, Daisy, I'm sorry.” Recalled to her duties as hostess, Muriel jumped up and led the way upstairs. “I had the bed in the spare room made up for you,” she said. “It's rather small but I didn't think you'd want to sleep in Betsy's room.”
“Gosh no!” said Daisy with a shudder.
W
hen Daisy went down to breakfast in the morning, she found Roger Abernathy already in the dining room, seated at the head of the table. Glancing up, he pushed away the plate in front of him, on which a pair of kippers reposed untouched. He started to rise.
“Don't get up.” She sat down beside him. “Should you be up and about, Mr. Abernathy?”
“Miss Dalrymple, isn't it?” He gave her a shy smile. “I'm much better this morning and I have a pupil coming at nine. I can't let him down.”
“It doesn't look as if you've recovered your appetite.”
“I'll have toast,” he said apologetically. His lips quivered. “Bettina always had to have kippers for breakfast on a Monday, but I'm not very fond of them, I'm afraid.”
Though Daisy couldn't see why everyone had to have kippers just because Bettina wanted them, she herself liked them, so she said, “If those are still hot, I'll eat them.” Taking the plate, she pushed towards her host the silver toast-rack and the dishes of butter and marmalade.
Obedient to the gesture, he helped himself. He spread a triangle
of toast, then sat looking at it as if he couldn't remember what it was for.
Embarking on the dissection of her kippers, Daisy said gently, “Muriel will be upset if you don't eat.”
“Yes. I'm sorry, Miss Dalrymple, I'm neglecting my duties. May I pour you a cup of coffee? Or shall I ring for tea?”
“Coffee will be fine, thanks.” She handed him her cup.
Mr. Abernathy filled it and returned it. As an afterthought he passed cream and sugar. “Sorry,” he said again.
“It's impossible to care about food, isn't it, when your world is collapsing about your ears?” All too clearly Daisy recalled the day the news had arrived of Michael's ambulance having been blown up by a land-mine.
He turned to her, for the first time seeming really to see her. “You lost someone in the War?”
“My brother was killed in the trenches.” She hesitated. Behind the distorting lenses, his eyes were kind. “That was bad enough but then my fiancé—he was a conscientious objector and he drove an ambulance. I knew he was in danger though he was a non-combatant, but still, the shock … .” The lump in her throat silenced her momentarily. Roger Abernathy patted her hand. “For you the shock must have been ten times worse,” Daisy went on. “Bettina's death was so utterly unexpected.”
“I thought I was going to die,” he said in a low voice. “I expected—I
wanted
—to die. Bettina was my life. People never understood our marriage, how a beautiful, talented girl could put up with a duffer like me, dull, homely, so much older and not even rich. But she needed me. She was a child when I married her, she needed someone to take care of her. And I could help her. I
did
help her. I developed her voice into a glorious instrument worthy of any opera house in the world.”
Daisy said nothing. After a moment, Abernathy sighed and went on, “My poor darling handicapped herself, sabotaged her own career. She knew her own worth and she was impatient of
any hindrance. I was afraid of turning her against me, so I gave her the freedom she craved. Perhaps I should have tried to curb her?”
“Who knows? You might well have failed and lost her altogether.” Flustered, Daisy tried to correct herself. “I mean … .”
“You mean she might have left me for one of her lovers,” he said flatly, “instead of continuing to live nominally as my wife. Did you think I didn't know? From very early in our marriage I was aware that it was only a matter of time before she was unfaithful. She was young and beautiful; she had always been pampered, always got what she wanted. I wasn't what she wanted. I loved her, but she didn't want my love. I would gladly have given her the moon, but all I had to offer that she cared for was indulgence, so that's what I gave her.”
Under other circumstances, Daisy might have told him forthrightly that he was being as wishy-washy as Mrs. Gower. It was too late. Bettina lay dead and all the firmness in the world would not bring her back to life.
At this awkward juncture, she welcomed Muriel's arrival with a hearty “Good-morning!”
“Good-morning, Daisy.” Muriel looked much better for a good night's rest. She was wearing black, which, as Daisy had noted the previous day, suited her very well. There was even something of a spring in her step as she circled the table to take the seat on Abernathy's other side. “Roger, how are you this morning?”
He managed a weary smile. “Quite well enough to give a lesson or two, my dear.”
“In the drawing room. There's no need to tackle the stairs down to the music room. But I could have telephoned to cancel your lessons. You shouldn't have let me sleep in.”
“That was my fault,” said Daisy. “I told the maid not to wake you. Your parents are coming from the wilds of Norfolk,
I gather. Even if they catch the milk-train, they can't be here for hours.”
“No.” Muriel blushed. “But Mr. Levich said he'd call this morning to see if there is anything he can do to help.”
“Yakov Levich?” Abernathy looked quietly pleased, almost relieved, Daisy thought. He must be glad to have a little of the burden of being the only gentleman in the bereaved household lifted from his shoulders. “That's good. Levich is a good fellow. Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I'll just go and prepare for the first lesson.”
Not until the door closed behind him did Daisy realize that he still had not eaten his toast.
Beryl brought a plate of kippers and a pot of tea for Muriel, and more toast. Her head bent over the bony fish, Muriel said to Daisy, “I hope you don't mind Mr. Levich coming.”
“Good gracious, no. Why should I?”
“Because he's Jewish. A lot of people will speak to him, congratulate him, even shake his hand in the concert hall but would never invite him to their homes.”
“A lot of people are absolute blithering idiots,” Daisy snorted. “Believe it or not, Lucy, who's my dearest friend, feels more or less the same about Mr. Fletcher just because he's a policeman. You're fond of Mr. Levich, aren't you?”
“Fond! I … he's just a friend. Our choir and his orchestra perform together quite often so I see him at rehearsals, and sometimes we talk. And once or twice he's given me tickets to his recitals and chamber concerts. That's all.”
“It's a good start,” said Daisy encouragingly, which made Muriel go still pinker and turn back to a close examination of her kippers.
The doorbell rang. Muriel at once lost even the pretence of interest in her breakfast. She listened intently as Beryl went to open the door. A man's voice, words indistinguishable, was followed
by the maid saying, “Miss Westlea said to expect you, sir. Please to come in.”
“Oh dear,” said Muriel in sudden dismay, “there isn't really anything he can help with.”
“We'll think of something,” Daisy promised.
At that moment the telephone bell shrilled. Muriel seized the excuse to go out to the hall and Daisy followed her to the door. Beryl, with Mr. Levich's rather shabby hat in her hand, answered the 'phone. “It's the
Daily Sketch,
miss,” she announced excitedly.
“Newspaper?” said Mr. Levich. “You want to speak, Miss Westlea?”
“No!”
“Then I will.” He took the apparatus from the maid. “Allo? Sorry, plis, I no spik Inglis,” he said in a grossly exaggerated accent and hung up.
Daisy applauded. He grinned at her. When shortly thereafter the first of a flood of reporters rang the doorbell, Levich dealt with him, and he continued to answer doorbell and telephone bell with equal aplomb and incomprehension. Word got around and the flood slowed to a trickle.
In between, since Abernathy was teaching in the drawing room, they sat in the dining room. At one end of the table, Muriel and Levich conversed in low voices. At the other, Daisy made notes on the interesting conversations she had had in the choir room at the Albert Hall, so that she wouldn't forget anything she ought to tell Alec. From across the hall wafted tenor and then contralto scales and arpeggios, long-drawn-out oohs and aahs on various notes, and occasional snatches of melody.
When Abernathy's two scheduled lessons were finished, Muriel and Daisy left the men together and went up to Bettina's bedroom.
“I told Elsie to pack up her clothes,” Muriel said unhappily.
“It may seem a bit precipitate, but Mother and Father will have to have her room. There's nowhere else to put them. I hope they won't mind.”
“If they do, they can always go to a hotel,” Daisy pointed out. The bedroom she'd slept in last night was certainly not big enough for two, and from the layout of the house, she thought Muriel's and Abernathy's could not be much larger.
They met Bettina's personal maid coming out of the bedroom with an armful of shoes. A spare, sour-faced woman, she looked as if she had a grudge against the world. Daisy wondered what Tom Tring had got out of her besides what he had revealed.
“I'm putting these up in the boxroom loose for the moment, miss,” she said. “There's not enough room in the suitcases. And I'll be wanting to talk to you about giving my notice.”
“All right, Elsie, but not just now. Is that the last load?”
“I can't get in madam's desk, miss. That sergeant had the key from her handbag, but he checked it was locked and that there's no spare and took it away again.”
“He didn't search it?”
“Sergeant Tring wouldn't do that,” said Daisy, “not without permission or a warrant.”
“And there's the valuables, miss,” the maid went on self-righteously. “You didn't say … .”
“I'll deal with those. Please tell Beryl she can make up the bed.”
Daisy followed Muriel into the blue and white bedroom. The wardrobe doors stood open, its bare interior too like a vast, empty coffin for comfort. Muriel hurriedly turned away and crossed to the dressing-table. Among the neatly ranged brushes and combs and cosmetics were three leather jewellery cases.
“Didn't she keep her jewellery in a safe,” Daisy asked, “or at least locked away?”
“No, she used to spend hours going through the cases and gloating over the contents. All her … her admirers gave her jewels. It wasn't so much the value she cared about, they were more like … .” Muriel hesitated.
“Trophies? They'll be yours now, won't they?”
“I think so, but how did you know?”
“Someone told me it was common knowledge Bettina left everything to you.”
“She used to threaten in public to change her will if I didn't do what she said.” Muriel sank onto the dressing-table stool and buried her face in her hands.
“How beastly!”
“That's not why I stayed. I told you, I'd promised my parents to look after her, besides having nowhere to go but back to the Vicarage. But she believed it gave her a hold over me, as well as spiting poor Roger. She said he'd taken advantage of her by marrying her when she was too young to know her own mind, and he wasn't going to profit from it. As though there was the slightest chance she'd die before him!”
“She did,” Daisy reminded her bluntly.
“Yes, she did.” Muriel raised her head, dry-eyed. “And if it turns out I really am the one to profit, I shall give Mr. Marchenko back his blasted Russian heirlooms and sell the rest and give the money to Mr. Levich to bring his parents here from Poland!”
Too astonished either to raise practical issues or to warn her that to the police her inheritance gave her an excellent motive to do away with her sister, Daisy exclaimed, “His parents?”
“They're stuck in Poland without the papers or the money they need to leave. Yasha—Mr. Levich, I mean—saves every penny he can to bring them here.”
“Yasha?”
“He asked me to call him Yasha.” Muriel's eyes were starry. “It's short for Yakov.”
“I told you you had made a good start,” Daisy said with a smile, but inside she felt cold. Bettina's will had been common knowledge; Yakov Levich was badly in need of money; he had made up to Bettina's drab heir and Bettina had died.
Not for a minute did Daisy believe either Muriel or Levich had murdered Bettina, but Alec would have every reason to suspect both.
Bettina's attempts to separate the two only made matters look worse. But that had been part of Marchenko's diatribe, Daisy remembered. The disgruntled Ukrainian bass had spouted a lot of drivel not worth repeating. Besides, there were plenty of other people with reason to hate Bettina.
Muriel had gone over to the desk and tried the flap-front. “Locked,” she said, sighing. “Betsy kept every love-letter she ever received. I suppose the police will have to see them. I can't see any hope of keeping the truth from my parents.”
BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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