The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (13 page)

“Oh, I do not sing,” said Mrs Ridolfi.

“Mrs Ridolfi does sing,” said Watkins, “and most beautifully. She is another of my mother’s pupils.”

“Really?” said Canon Fforde.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, “and I do not sing any more.”

“That is a great shame,” said Watkins. “My mother always had the greatest regard for your talent.”

“It’s true – she did,” said Mrs Morgan. “And Paulina, I think your technique was better than mine – and you certainly studied harder.”

“That is such a pretty piece of work you are doing there, Mrs Fforde,” said Mrs Ridolfi. “Did you design the pattern yourself?” She was examining Mrs Fforde’s white work as if her life depended on it.

“Yes, that is a beautiful design,” said Mrs Morgan, pausing at her tent stitch. “I wish I could master white work, but I always prick my finger and bleed on it.”

“My interest is now thoroughly aroused, Mrs Ridolfi,” said Lord Rothborough. “Mrs Watkins was such a wonder in her day, and to find not one, but two of her pupils in the same drawing room, well, I can only wish that at least one of them might favour us with an air.”

He looked from one woman to the other.

“I will sing, if you will, my Lord,” said Mrs Morgan, returning to her sewing. She was working a vividly coloured parrot on canvas, and the intense colours of it glowed against the midnight blue of her gown.

“That is not an unreasonable demand,” said Lord Rothborough. “But of course you are only hoping to make your performance more memorable by forcing them to sit through my indifferent one. Yes, ma’am, is that it?”

“I must do anything I can to add lustre, yes, of course,” said Mrs Morgan, with a slight smile, snipping her thread.

“What shall it be then, Mrs Morgan?” Lord Rothborough said.

“‘Where ere you walk’, by Handel,” she said. “You have mastered that.”

Watkins was now sitting at the piano and began, as if on cue, to play the introduction.

“You will not play for me?” Rothborough asked her. She shook her head.

He went away to the piano.

“You had better start again, Mr Watkins,” he said. “And a trifle slower, if you please.”

Felix endured the song as best he could. It seemed to last an eternity. He managed to salvage some pleasure from looking at Mrs Morgan with her head bent over her work, her quick needle pulling a bright blue thread to and fro, but it was only a small pleasure. He was tormented by the familiarity the last exchange implied. Then, as the song reached its conclusion, she put down her work, rose and walked across to the piano, without a trace of self-consciousness. She was clearly comfortable with being admired, and the eyes of every person in the room were upon her, even Watkins who was still playing the piano.

She was preparing for her cue, Felix supposed.

“Nicely done, my Lord,” she said, tapping her fingertips together, and making a slight, but elegant inclination of her head, when the song was finished. It was a gesture of submission, surely, an acknowledgement of his authority over her. Rothborough had had her, there was no doubt about it, and Felix’s misery was complete.

She was talking to Watkins quietly, presumably about what to play, while Lord Rothborough, his side of the bargain concluded, took a chair and placed it in front of the piano, so as to get the best sight of her. It was for all the world as if no-one else was there.

“I need some air,” Felix muttered to Major Vernon. “I took too much port. It doesn’t agree with me.”

The Major nodded as if to give him permission to leave, and he crossed the room, just as Watkins had launched into a sequence of throbbing, lustrous chords, which in their beauty were a prelude to something yet more beautiful from Mrs Morgan.

He was right. As he went downstairs, her voice, like mercury, seemed to flow out from the drawing room, almost as if in pursuit of him. He was not allowed to escape.

He went to the front door, and out into the small courtyard that fronted the Treasurer’s House. There was only a low wall separating the courtyard from the road, and he was surprised to see a woman standing on the other side of the wall. She moved at the sight of him, and attempted, not very successfully, to conceal herself to one side of the arch that formed the entrance to the court. Anxious for a distraction, he went to see who it was, and in a moment found himself face to face with Miss Kate Pritchard. She shrank into the darker shadows under the archway.

He would have greeted her but she raised her finger to her lips, with such a look of appeal on her face that he could not possibly have refused her request. They stood in silence while the music continued, clearly audible through the open windows of the first floor drawing room.

Despite the semi-darkness he saw that Miss Pritchard was in the thrall of it: her chest was rising and falling, and her eyes were half-closed. He found himself staring at his hands, ashamed to see her in such a condition. It felt like prying. There was so much passion and and feeling in it, as she stood there, her back pressed against the wall.

The final note died, and she said softly, “Thank you.” He was not sure whether she was thanking him or Mrs Morgan. “That was so...”

“Have you been waiting here to hear her sing?” Felix said.

“You will not say anything to anyone, will you?” she said. “About finding me here?”

“No, of course not. But your parents – won’t you be missed at home?”

“I pretended to go to bed. You will think me wicked now, Mr Carswell, but I wanted to hear her so much.” She glanced up at the window. “I wonder if she will sing again. But what are you doing out here? I would not have left my seat in that room for anything.”

“I have a thick head,” he said. “The port –”

“Oh, I see. How unfortunate. I hope you feel better soon.”

“I feel better already,” he said, and meant it.

“Then you ought to go in case she decides to sing again.”

“I would rather keep you company, Miss Pritchard – as I did last night.”

“But I am sure that is a much more entertaining party,” she said. “Mrs Fforde’s parties always are. Tell me, who was the gentleman who sang before? That was not Canon Fforde – he is a baritone and –”

“That was Lord Rothborough.”

“Oh,” she said. “I did not know he was asked.”

“He asked himself. That is the sort of thing he excels at, and no-one ever dares quarrel with it.”

“It must be hard for you,” she said after a moment. “Sometimes you must not know where your duty lies.”

“That is exactly it,” said Felix, feeling both surprised and pleased at having someone understand his peculiar situation.

“Very hard,” she said again, with a nod. “Well, I suppose I ought to go home before I am discovered.”

“Let me take you back.”

“There is no need for that. And what if we were seen?”

“Let them see us!” Felix said with sudden defiance.

After all, what was he doing wasting his energy on an unattainable, impossible object like Mrs Morgan, when there was such a passionate, sympathetic creature so close at hand? A girl who was full of feeling and spirit. Mrs Morgan had told him to look for a wife and Miss Pritchard was exactly the sort of woman he might marry. Why should he not try and make love to her? Surely that was the best treatment?

“We might build on the beginning we made last night,” he added.

“You have had too much wine,” she said, with a smile.

“
In vino veritas
, Miss Pritchard,” he said. “I thoroughly enjoyed the conceit – as I think you did. And I have great news for you: I am soon to be a man of property. So if you are discovered and they scold you, tell them that, and then you will be forgiven instantly.”

“You are cynical, Mr Carswell.”

“I suppose I am,” he said. “Forgive me. That was unkind.”

“But perhaps not so far from the truth,” she said after a moment. She glanced back at the windows. “I really ought to go. I must not be caught out here, really I must not.”

The front door opened and Major Vernon came out into the forecourt. Miss Pritchard seemed to take fright. She ran straight away, with a beautiful animal swiftness, like a hare, and Felix wondered again if he would be better engaged pursuing her than dreaming feverishly of Mrs Morgan.

“Who was that?” said Major Vernon, coming out of the courtyard.

“I can’t say,” said Felix.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I promised I would not say.” He pushed his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp as he did, for his headache had returned with a vengeance. “Are you leaving, or have you come to drag me back in there?”

“Come and take your leave properly. The party is practically over.” Major Vernon was staring out in the direction Miss Pritchard had run. “Are you sure you can’t say?”

“No,” said Felix. “I really cannot. I gave my word.”

“Very mysterious,” said Vernon, looking about him. He crouched down and picked up a knot of ribbons that was lying on the ground, the sort that formed a trimming on a dress. Presumably it had fallen from Miss Pritchard’s dress. “And extremely interesting.”

Chapter Eighteen

Giles’ instincts had been correct.

A moments inspection in the grey light of morning revealed that the length of ribbon tied to the key to St Anne’s chapel was the same pattern as that forming the knot of ribbons he had found outside the Treasurer’s House: a plaid ribbon in white, red and black, with a distinct figure woven into it. It was not a commonplace style of ribbon, he reflected; it was luxurious, probably expensive and doubtless fashionable. Of course, that did not prove that the two strips were related. The ribbon itself proved no ownership. Two different ladies could have been entranced by its elegance.

However, there was another crucial similarity between the ribbon on the key and the ribbon he had found last night. In both cases, the ends had been carefully cut into a deep ‘V’ shape, then rolled, and finished with identical tiny stitches to stop the silk from fraying. That detail seemed to remove the matter from being a simple coincidence and into the realms of potential significance.

How, he wondered, did such a ribbon come to be marking a key in the possession of George Watkins? That was the interesting thing. Watkins was not a man with women about him. There were no work baskets for him to raid for a piece of ribbon to mark an important key. And what man, in the ordinary course of affairs, would choose such a showy piece? A piece of herringbone tape would have done the job as well. It would be more than likely that the woman in question would have been annoyed at his taking such a prize for the purpose of marking a key, unless it had been freely given, for reasons that were not strictly utilitarian.

Perhaps he had acquired it as a keepsake from a woman – and if that were the case, was it the same woman who had been lurking in front of the Treasurer’s House, the woman of whom Carswell, with irritating gallantry, refused to reveal the identity? That he was moved to do so suggested it was someone in their social circle, someone who ought not to have been there.

Giles put the key in his pocket, along with the knot of ribbon. Later he would see if he could find any duplicates. Lambert had summoned all the Minster employees for nine o’clock for an inspection of the keys. In the meantime, he had Rollins waiting to speak to him about Mrs Morgan’s domestic establishment.

“I am afraid it does not shed much light on the business, sir,” said Rollins. “Neither the foreign maid nor the nurse showed a trace of any knowledge of it. I didn’t reckon either one of them was a liar. They could not account for it being there.”

“And what about Mr Morgan? Did the nurse and the maid have anything to say about their absent master?”

“They didn’t tell tales, no, sir.”

“As if they had been told not to, perhaps?”

“I should say so, but not out of fear. Out of respect and loyalty. Good women both of them, I should say. Respectable and God-fearing.”

“You might tell me something else – did they say anything about Lord Rothborough’s involvement in the household? Did they imply, for example, that their mistress knew him well?”

“It was hard to gauge, sir. Usually these things are clear enough, and people are quick enough to speak, given a chance to complain of their masters and mistresses, if they can.”

This was true enough. Mrs Ridolfi had complained of it, but Mrs Morgan’s servant’s had not. It was certainly a puzzle and Giles had no immediate idea how to solve it.

***

“I do not understand this preoccupation with keys, Major Vernon,” said the Dean, meeting Giles a little later in the hall of the Chancellery where all the Minster employees had been bidden to gather. “Surely there are keys used by members of criminal fraternities that will unlock any door?”

“Yes, but not I think in this case. I do not think we are looking at the work of such people here. Now, I take it you have never had a key to St Anne’s chapel, sir?”

“No, never. The keys are the responsibility of the Chancellor, not the Dean.”

“But I would imagine that your office means you do have a great many keys.”

“I have some. I dare say the Bishop has some. I trust you will not be subjecting his Lordship to this humiliating procedure?”

“I am afraid I can spare no-one, sir,” said Giles.

“Oh, very well,” said the Dean, and took his bunch of keys and put it down on the table. “If the owner of the key is so likely related to the crime, then you will be suspecting Mr Watkins – for he has the only key? Yes?”

“I am in no position to speculate on anything, sir. I have not enough facts.” He examined the Dean’s bunch of keys. There were only ten or so and he could see nothing that resembled the key to the chapel. He was surprised there were so few. He handed them back to the Dean. “Thank you, sir, your co-operation is greatly appreciated.”

Dean Pritchard looked as if he were about to deliver a sermon, but seemed to think the better of it, to Giles’ relief. Instead he stalked off to speak to someone else, perhaps to complain about the indignity that had been heaped upon him.

It was a frustrating hour that followed. Accompanied by Rollins, Giles looked over all the keys that were produced, but there seemed to be no match for the one given to him by Watkins.