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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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“You don't have to be the one to tell them. Why don't you talk to Mr. Abernathy about it, see what he thinks you ought to do? He told me he knows about Bettina's lovers.”
“Oh yes, he's always known, poor Roger. She never tried to keep it a secret from him, only from our parents. Yes, I'll ask him,” said Muriel with relief.
“Are you going to introduce Mr. Levich to them?”
Muriel's mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“Good. However much one loves and respects one's parents, one can't go on forever living one's life to please them.” Daisy raised a hand to her shingled head: Alec liked it; Mother would simply have to put up with it.
“But you will stay another night, won't you? At least one more? With you here, they won't be able to … to … .”
“To rag you quite as freely,” said Daisy dryly. “Yes, I'll stay, but I'll have to bring some work over. I've got an article on the V and A due next week.”
“You can use the music room. There's a desk down there,
and I shan't let Roger go down for several days at least.”
Beryl came in with a duster and a pile of clean sheets and pillow-cases. Daisy helped Muriel carry the jewellery cases and other odds and ends to her own bedroom, then they went downstairs.
While Muriel consulted Abernathy about what to tell her parents, Daisy talked music with Yakov Levich until the telephone rang and he went to answer it. He came back to announce that the Reverend and Mrs. Westlea had arrived at Liverpool Street Station and were about to take a taxi-cab to Chelsea.
Glancing at the clock, Daisy was disappointed to realize it was ten to one so she wouldn't be there when they arrived. Promptly at one, Alec's yellow Austin Seven “Chummy” pulled up outside the house.
The small knot of reporters and photographers still lingering hopefully at the gate converged on him. Lurking behind the drawing-room curtains, Daisy saw him say something and shake his head before proceeding up the path. Two of the photographers snapped his back view with the murder victim's house as background.
“Drat!” Daisy exclaimed. “I can't say I'm frightfully keen on appearing in the papers either as Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher's ‘friend' or as ‘helping the police with their enquiries.'”
“You're both welcome to stay to lunch,” Muriel suggested tentatively as Levich went out to open the front door.
Daisy didn't think lunching with the infirm widower, two suspects, and the victim's censorious clergyman father would suit Alec at all. Nor could they very well seek privacy afterwards to discuss the case before Alec interviewed said suspects. While she hesitated over a polite refusal, Abernathy intervened.
“I expect you and the Chief Inspector will want to talk privately,”
he said in his gentle way. “Why don't you go out the back way through the music room into the alley, Miss Dalrymple? There are several cafés and restaurants within easy walking distance.”
“An excellent idea, Mr. Abernathy,” said Alec, following Levich into the drawing room. “I was wondering how to avoid the hounds of the Press.” He greeted Daisy and Muriel, then turned back to Abernathy. “I'm glad to see you looking better, sir, well enough to answer one or two questions later on, I hope?”
“Certainly, Mr. Fletcher. Here's the key to the back door so that you can return that way. I shall be here.”
“Thank you. I'll be wanting a word with you, too, Miss Westlea, if you wouldn't mind staying at home this afternoon. And since you happen to be here, Mr. Levich … ?”
“I shall remain,” said the violinist uneasily.
“Then, if you'll excuse us, Miss Dalrymple and I will be on our way.”
Passing Muriel, Daisy squeezed her hand and whispered, “Don't worry, it'll be all right.”
As they went down the back stairs, Alec said, “I didn't expect to find Levich letting me in. What the deuce is he doing here?”
“
Not
letting people in. He's been invaluable, pretending not to speak English so that the reporters don't pester us.”
“At least he had the goodness to speak English to me last night, though he didn't tell me anything. The other Russian, the bass, wouldn't admit to understanding either English or French.”
“Marchenko is a Ukrainian, not a Russian, and he speaks adequate, if not brilliant, English.”
“I knew he'd been communicating with you somehow. I take it Miss de la Costa is also reasonably fluent? She managed the odd phrase in English between floods of Spanish.”
“Liberally larded with dramatic gestures?” Daisy laughed.
“She is not merely fluent but voluble in English. This way, I think.”
The wide passage was glassed on one side and wicker chairs showed it also served as a sunroom or summer-house, pleasant even on this grey March day. It led to Roger Abernathy's music room—converted from the old mews like Lucy's studio—which contained a full-size grand piano. The walls were lined with shelves piled high with neat stacks of scores and sheet-music. The desk in the corner was also neat, Daisy noted with approval, the appointment book open at the right page and ready to hand, unlike Lucy's.
“If you're not in a frightful hurry,” she said as they stepped out into the alley, “I'll just pop into the studio and tell Lucy I'll be staying here another night or two.”
Alec consulted his wrist-watch. “As long as you don't get involved in a long conversation.”
“Come in, then you can drag me away. I'd like to introduce you to Lucy anyway.”
“Not today. That would take longer than I can spare. I'll wait here.”
Daisy opened the back door and went into the studio, long since recovered from her last tidying. “Lucy?”
No answer. She could ring the bell just inside the door, which sounded in the house—a convenience for clients who arrived in Lucy's absence—but Alec was in a hurry. Hastily she scribbled a note and drawing-pinned it to the open darkroom door.
“That was quick.”
“She's not there. I expect she's having lunch. I left a note.”
Alec frowned. “No one's there? And the door left unlocked?”
“Lucy's a bit careless, I'm afraid. I suppose she's pretty lucky no one has yet pinched her cameras.”
“It's not the cameras I'm thinking about. Miss Fotheringay
has a darkroom, doesn't she? Is that locked?”
“No,” said Daisy guiltily, though why
she
should feel guilty she wasn't at all sure. Except that Alec in his most policemanly aspect, fierce dark brows meeting above piercing grey eyes, was enough to make anyone feel guilty.
“Does Miss Fotheringay by any chance use cyanide of potassium as a fixing agent?” he asked, his tone caustic. “Does she happen to know it's a deadly poison?”
“Oh Alec, you're not suggesting Bettina was poisoned with Lucy's cyanide?”
“You tell me.”
“Lucy took her portrait,” Daisy admitted, “and it came out so well Mr. Abernathy recommended her to his friends. I should think at least half your suspects must know about her darkroom.”
“
I
still think you should have tried to find Lucy instead of locking the darkroom door and taking away the key.” Over her lamb chop, Daisy glowered at Alec as he returned from the telephone.
“Miss Fotheringay needs a lesson in the proper handling of deadly poisons,” he said patiently, and reminded her, “I did leave a note of explanation.”
“All the same, she'll be livid.” Daisy stabbed a Brussels sprout.
Alec winced. Though Daisy always skated tactfully around the subject, he was all too aware that Lucy Fotheringay strongly disapproved of the Honourable Miss Dalrymple's friendship with a mere copper. “Tom's on his way to fingerprint the room,” he said, squeezing a slice of lemon over his fillet of plaice. “He'll come by here to pick up the key, so she won't be kept out for long.”
Daisy cheered up. “So he can warn her about leaving poisons lying about, instead of you.”
“I shan't have to see her at all—in the way of business—if she'll cooperate with Tom. I need a list of her clients, who was alone in the studio, whether anyone expressed interest in the
darkroom or the process of developing and printing. If she won't tell Tom, I … .”
“No,
I'll
get it out of her. You must admit, Alec, she's a sight more likely to tell me than you or Sergeant Tring.”
“True.” He sighed. In her inimitable way, Daisy was getting more and more enmeshed in the case. “I gather the same applies to that lot at the Albert Hall last night. I've never met such a blank with supposedly respectable people.”
Her irresistible smile held a pardonable hint of smugness. “Yes, they talked to me.” She pondered. “Or, in a way, through me. Several told me things they wanted you to know but didn't want to tell you directly.”
“Great Scott! The artistic temperament, I take it.”
“With some of them, I expect. With the Russians—Mr. Levich and Dimitri Marchenko, that is—it's partly general mistrust of the police. Fear, even.”
“Justified, I dare say, poor devils. All right, let's start with Levich and go through them in the order you spoke to them.”
“That's another thing!” Daisy had a militant glint in her blue eyes. “Did you tell Piper always to take away whoever was with me?”
Alec grinned. “Of course. I thought you might take it amiss, but I just wanted to make sure you circulated as much as possible.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, mollified. “Let me see, Levich first? Yes, I went into the choir room with Muriel and he came dashing over.”
“There's something between those two, is there?”
“They're just friends,” said Daisy, unconvincingly casual. “He was afraid you'd been bullying her—the Russian police-persecution complex. I only had time to reassure him before Piper dragged him off to the interrogation chamber. Then Muriel went to see how Abernathy was doing and Olivia Blaise came over, ostensibly to cadge a cigarette.”
“Olivia Blaise—Roger Abernathy's pupil?”
“And Bettina's rival. Oh, not for Roger's affections, though she's grateful to him and fond of him—which is more than I've heard said of Bettina, come to that. But they were rivals for the mezzo part in the
Requiem,
which could have meant a big boost to someone's career.”
“Aha! And Bettina got the part.”
“By the dirtiest trick! Eric Cochran had promised it to Olivia, and Bettina threatened to tell his wife he had a mistress.” Daisy was rather pink in the face, but one way or another illicit sex had come into both the cases she'd been involved in and she didn't falter. “Cochran used to fetch Olivia from the Abernathys' house after her lessons, I think. His car looked familiar to me, as if I'd often seen it before. I'm pretty sure he's absolutely mad about her, but
his
career depends on Mrs. Cochran's money.”
“Motives for both Cochran and Miss Blaise,” Alec mused, “but rather thin. Murder in the middle of the concert was too late for her, and not exactly career-promoting for him, as both he and his wife were at pains to point out. Anything else from Miss Blaise?”
“She said Bettina was far from pure as the driven snow …”
“Again aha!”
“ … But she refused to wash other people's dirty linen in public, so you'll just have to wait until I get to that part. Who's next?”
Alec consulted the list he'd placed beside his plate. “Consuela de la Costa. Dare I hope she explained why she shrieked, ‘Assassin!' at Gower?”
“She ‘esplained' in considerable detail. Whether I can esplain her esplanation is another matter. She's Gower's mistress, and she admits to being wildly jealous because he was also Bettina's lover. As far as I can make out, she assumed when Bettina dropped dead that Gower had killed her so as to give
himself entirely to her. To Consuela, that is.”
“So she accused him.”
“No, no, let me get this straight. She was glad Bettina was dead and she'd never have given Gower away, but he guessed she thought he'd done it and he told her Bettina hadn't been his mistress for some time. He'd continued to meet her often because she was pestering him about a promise he'd made her. So then Consuela thought he'd killed Bettina because she was making a nuisance of herself, not for Consuela's sake. That's when she accused him of murder.”
Alec closed his eyes. “Are you serious?” he asked in a failing voice.
“Serious, but far from certain. I think I've got it right, but this was all in a heavy accent and interspersed with bits of Spanish, remember.”
“And dramatic gestures.”
“Of course. Anyway, Gower assured Consuela he hadn't done it. She believed him, and wanted to esplain to me that she hadn't really meant it when she screeched,
‘¡Asesino!'
So that I could tell you, which I've now done, and let's move on to the next, please.”
“Motive for Gower: Bettina was pestering him about some broken promise. You don't by any chance … ?”
“Yes, but in its proper place or I'll get all mixed up.”
“Motive for the señorita: wild jealousy.”
“She said she wanted to scratch out Bettina's eyes. Mrs. Gower's next, isn't she?”
“First, would you like pudding? Coffee?”
Daisy had managed to clear her plate despite all the talk. Head tilted, she considered her options. “I'd better stick to coffee,” she decided regretfully.
“Two coffees, please,” Alec said to the waitress, and added apologetically to Daisy, “I still owe you a slap-up dinner, to make up for last night.”
“A pie and a pint'll do me, Chief,” rumbled Tom Tring, suddenly appearing on silent feet and winking at Daisy. “You make him take you to the Ritz, miss. Got that key for me, Chief?”
“Here. If Miss Fotheringay's not there, you have Miss Dalrymple's permission to search the darkroom.”
“I never said that!” Daisy objected. “Oh, all right, Sergeant, you have my permission. But Lucy will be there and she'll be in a tearing rage.”
“You leave her to me, miss.”
She smiled at him, transferring the smile to Alec as Tring left. “I must say I'd like to see them meet. Never mind about dinner, Alec, we'll manage it some time. But we'd better not make plans in advance. Just give me half an hour's notice to dress up and powder my nose.”
“I'll try to give you a whole hour.” What a dear she was! Surely Belinda couldn't help liking her, nor his mother, however much she deplored his getting mixed up with the aristocracy. She was sure he'd be let down in the end. Well, maybe, but in the meantime … .
“Mrs. Gower,” said Daisy, as the waitress deposited two cups on the table and departed again. “Poor woman, she knows about her husband's straying. She claimed to be resigned to it, since he always returns to her and their children. She said it would be unfair to make the children suffer for the sins of their father. All the same, I can't help feeling she's at least a little bit bitter. She called Consuela a Spanish hussy.”
“She saw them embracing on the stage? It's possible she hadn't realized till then that Miss de la Costa had replaced Bettina in Gower's affections.”
“Yes, but I don't think she knew about Bettina.” Daisy sounded distinctly dubious. “She talked about foreign divas who go home to their own countries, leaving Gower to her.”
“If she poisoned Bettina, that's the impression she'd want to
give,” Alec pointed out. “Especially as Bettina, not being foreign, must have seemed a much greater threat to her marriage. A more than adequate motive for murder—if any motive can ever be considered adequate. Did she say anything else of interest?”
Daisy pulled a face. “She and Gower and their children all had their photographs taken by Lucy.”
“Did they, indeed! Means, motive, and opportunity, as she admits she was in the soloists' room. We'll have to take a close look at Jennifer Gower.”
“And at Gilbert Gower. He admitted to his affairs with Consuela and Bettina. Do you know, Alec, Mrs. Gower said Gower had told her how devoted Roger Abernathy was to Bettina, and the two men were supposed to be friends, yet Gower seduced Abernathy's wife!”
“Perhaps it was the other way round.”
“Bettina seduced Gower?” Daisy frowned. “Could be, considering his preference for exotic foreigners, and … but I'll get to that in a minute. Anyway, Gower told me it was all over between him and Bettina and he was sure Marchenko had killed her.”
“Marchenko!” said Alec, startled. “I'd pretty much written him off, in spite of his refusal to communicate. What's
his
motive supposed to be?”
“He was in full pursuit of Bettina, gave her valuable gifts—I mean really precious stuff he'd smuggled out of Russia—and then she turned around and publicly humiliated him. Gower said she slapped his face and called him a disgusting Russian pig. It was at a rehearsal, so other people must have seen it.”
“Now I know what to ask about, I'll doubtless get confirmation. Motive for Marchenko, and opportunity. What about means?”
“I don't think Lucy photographed him. She'd have mentioned such an unusual client.”
“Well, if he bought cyanide at a chemist's, for photography or as a pesticide, we shouldn't have any trouble tracing him.”
“No, he's certainly memorable. He was the next one I talked to, wasn't he? He accused me of being a police spy. He's got spies on the brain, and Bolsheviks, and Jews, and Russians.”
“Russians?”
“I told you, he's a Ukrainian. I don't know their history much, but I dare say the Russians have been oppressing the Ukrainians for centuries. Yakov Levich being a Russian and a Jew, Marchenko's convinced he's a Bolshevik spy, too. He must have murdered Bettina because murder is what Jews, Russians, Bolsheviks, and spies like to do. Q.E.D.”
“Great Scott! He didn't accuse Levich of having an affair with Bettina?”
“No, not a hint. I wonder how he missed that one?”
“Then we can safely assume that Levich did
not
have an affair with Bettina. Unless someone else … ?”
“No, no one even suggested the possibility.”
She wouldn't lie to him outright, but Alec was convinced she was withholding something Marchenko had told her. Protecting Muriel Westlea?
“Mrs. Cochran, on the other hand, doesn't believe it was murder at all,” Daisy rushed on, making Alec the more sure she had something to hide from him. “Murder at Eric's concert would be bad for Eric's career, might even prevent his being knighted one day, therefore Bettina had a seizure.”
“So the lady informed me.”
“I asked her about the effect on the soloists' careers. She said the foreigners can always go home and Gower's career is fading anyway because he's losing his voice due to dissipation. Which ties in with what Cochran told me about …”
“Wait a minute. I can't see how it would affect the case, but does she know about Cochran and Miss Blaise?”
“If so, she won't admit it. She was frightfully condescending
about what poor Jennifer Gower puts up with from her husband.”
“In any case, it wouldn't give her a motive for doing away with Bettina.”
Daisy sat bolt upright, eyes gleaming with excitement. “But Alec, suppose she thought it was Bettina, not Olivia, who was Cochran's mistress! I told you they used to meet at the Abernathys', remember? I bet she found out he kept going there, and drew the wrong conclusion.”
“Do I gather you dislike Mrs. Cochran?” Alec asked dryly.
“Yes,” she admitted, abashed. “She's overbearing and self-centred, and the only reason she cares about Cochran's career is that she desperately wants him to be knighted so she'll be Lady Cochran.”
BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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