The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (17 page)

“The wind,” said Harrison. “She left it open a little and it banged shut.”

“Or rather you left it open a little when you came in the night before? That would be a most extraordinary door, that managed to stay a little ajar all night.” Harrison said nothing. Major Vernon went on. “And I suppose the wind caused your footsteps on the stair as well? She heard those too. For it is a noisy staircase. I noticed that as we came in. A man could not come down it without making a fair bit of noise, and the door has a heavy latch on it, even when it is not bolted.”

“I did not go out!” Harrison said. “The silly creature has it all wrong. I was here all that day. I swear it! I was here in my bed.”

“You may have to swear it yet,” said Giles. “And perjury is a serious matter.”

“I would be telling the truth! I did not leave this room!”

Major Vernon nodded and consulted his notebook but Felix suspected that he had no real need to do so. He merely wanted to make Harrison uncomfortable with a long silence.

“You decided to leave it a long time to settle your quarrel, then,” said the Major at length.

Harrison glanced at him suspiciously. The Major went on, “I have had experiences of this kind myself. I have quarrelled with someone the night before, slept badly and then gone to them straight away the next morning in order to make amends. Given the strength of your regard for Mr Barnes, I am a little surprised that you left it so long. These things can be such a torture otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Harrison.

“When one’s affections are engaged then these things cannot be left to chance. I find it interesting that you decided to leave it so long before seeing him again.”

“What are you implying?” said Harrison.

“I have come to understand that relationship, Mr Harrison, and I see that it went a little beyond friendship.” Harrison stared across at him. “Certain letters have come into my possession.”

“Letters,” said Harrison rather dully.

“Letters,” Major Vernon said. “From you to Mr Barnes.”

There was long silence.

“You have no right to read such things,” Harrison said.

“I have every right in this case,” he said, and then added, “You know the law about such matters, I take it?”

“Letters are simply letters,” said Harrison.

“Letters indicate a great deal. A court would not look kindly on those letters. And we are talking about more than just letters. There is the matter of what happened at Mr Geoffrey’s house. Singing for your supper, I think you called it. A nice euphemism.”

“You have no evidence of anything.”

“I have plenty. I have the evidence of my own eyes, Mr Harrison,” the Major said, picking up an empty brandy bottle. “You have been living high with no debts. This is expensive stuff. You could not afford this on your salary from Carr or from your singing. You have been lining your pockets another way. Yes?”

“No, no, absolutely not. No.” He staggered out the bed as he spoke.

“Think before you speak, Mr Harrison. And remember that the truth is always the safest course.”

Harrison stood there, his dressing gown wrapped round him, biting at his knuckle, shaking his head.

“I am not saying a thing more. You will not worm anything out of me. I know what you are trying to do. I see your game but I will not play it, sir, I will not! Now I have to dress. I have a rehearsal.”

“Very well, Mr Harrison. But be aware I will watching you. We have not finished talking yet.”

***

What do you think?” Major Vernon asked when they had left the house.

“I don’t know, sir, to be frank. He seems cantankerous and proud of himself, but whether that means he could throttle the person whom he – well, loved – if that is the word for such relations.”

“That is the word he uses in the letters. Which are as frank in their way as that little volume I found you with.”

“That was...” Felix wondered how he could begin to explain it.

“There is no need for you to explain,” said Major Vernon. “At least not that. What I am far more interested in is who it was you talking to last night. The young woman who ran away.”

“I really cannot say,” Felix said, pushing his hand through his hair. “A promise is a promise especially when a lady is involved.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but do you wonder why she has sworn you to secrecy? Is that honourable of her?”

“Should one question a lady’s actions?”

“In an ideal world, no,” said Major Vernon. “But this is not the realm of the saints. We are all imperfect creatures. We all have our secrets, our flaws, our shortcomings. Ask yourself, does she deserve this protection and what harm would it do her if you were to tell me? A great deal may depend on it. The fact she has asked you to lie and –”

“I cannot say, truly, I cannot.”

“She has bitten into you, then.”

“No, not at all. No that is not the case.”

“Are you sure about that?” Major Vernon said. Felix did not answer. “Well, think on it, if you please. It would be helpful if you could bring yourself to tell me.” He looked at his watch. “Now, the rehearsal at the Minster is at three. I propose we attend and observe Harrison. Yes? And you will have the chance to hear Mrs Morgan. I will see you there, Mr Carswell, if no medical emergencies intervene.”

“I doubt that,” Felix said. “And you, sir, what will you do until then? It is only one.”

“I have a few errands to run,” he said, and set off down the street at his usual formidable pace. He stopped, though, and turned back to Felix. “Perhaps you might call on that young woman and clarify the situation,” he said, and then started off again.

Chapter Twenty-three

Felix began with good intentions, the Major’s counsel ringing in his ears, and he walked up the hill into the Minster Precincts, intending to go and speak to Miss Pritchard. But as he approached the Deanery, he found himself thinking again of Mrs Morgan and he could no longer resist the impulse. He turned towards Avonside Row.

He found Mrs Morgan alone, which surprised him. She was stretched out on a long couch in front of the fire. There was a score open on her lap and a pencil in her hand but she was not paying it much attention. She had put her head back on a cushion, and was at first sight in such perfect profile and so still, her gaze focused somewhere other, that he felt she might be sitting for her portrait, or in character for some operatic role. He wondered if she were about to rise and sing some aria of longing and loss.

For a moment he wished that was the case. If she had been on stage and he sitting in the audience, then he might have been able to enjoy the moment. It was far easier to manage such desire when one did not have to make conversation with the woman in question.

“You’re not unwell, I hope, ma’am?” he managed to say, his throat as dry as ashes.

“No, I am just resting before my rehearsal.” She looked up at him rather searchingly. “I don’t usually allow interruptions. I was in two minds whether to let you in or not, but my curiosity overcame me.”

He could not think how to answer that. The idea of her being curious about him created a heart-pounding sense of anxiety, mixed with excitement.

“May I sit...?” he asked, indicating the chair which sat near the couch, almost as if it had been placed especially for visitors, the visitors which she said she did not usually permit.

She nodded but he hesitated, imagining Lord Rothborough sitting there, in his usual languid way: ankles crossed, one arm hooked over the back rail of the chair, and his head thrown back in amusement. He imagined her laughing too, both of them on easy terms, so companionable and comfortable with one another.

So he perched there, his hat in his hands, wishing for a moment that he had the grace and polish that Lord Rothborough complained that he lacked. It would have been pleasant to be able to simulate some façade of ease, however thin, but he could not. He felt his every gesture betrayed him as the provincial booby in the grip of romantic passion, a feeling not helped by her continuing to look at him in the same penetrating manner. He had lain awake half the night thinking how glorious it might be to have her to himself for a moment, but now he had been granted this private audience with her, he wished he could be anywhere but there, such was his confusion.

“I am inclined to be a little offended by you,” she said.

Felix swallowed.

“If I have given offence, then I am sure...” he began.

“You did not stay to hear me sing last night,” she said.

“Last night?” he said.

“Last night,” she said, with a gracious nod.

“I...” He looked down at his fingers and his hat. He had not thought she would have noticed him go, let alone take it as a slight. He had imagined that she was only looking at Lord Rothborough. “The wine was very strong. I needed some fresh air.” He managed to look her directly again.

“Are you sure it was just the wine, Mr Carswell?” she said, with a slight smile.

The smile relieved him, but only a little. He felt it was tinged with mockery.

“It was Lord Rothborough’s singing that drove me from the room,” he said, with as much lightness as he could muster.

“Can you do better?”

“No. I have no ability. I sing like a bear.”

“You ought to have been taught. A man ought to cultivate his voice.”

“Is that what he says?”

“He?” she said. “Whom do you mean?” Her manner of asking implied she knew the answer, but she waited for him to speak.

“I mean Lord Rothborough.”

“No,” she said with a frown. “I am not his parrot, Mr Carswell. If we are to have good music in our houses the men must play an equal part. An accomplished man can play and sing as well as a woman.”

“Such accomplishment is incompatible with learning a profession,” said Felix. “I wouldn’t have had the time.”

“You must have been a dull student, then. Now, the French surgeon Monsieur Lebreuve – you have perhaps read him, he is something of an authority on the larynx – well, he is a most brilliant pianist, good enough to play duets with Maestro Liszt himself. And he told me that he attributes all his surgical dexterity to his mother making him learn his scales.”

“Is this my punishment for leaving last night?” Felix said.

“Yes, and you deserve it. It was not civil.”

“I am not made for society.”

“Nobody is. It is something one must learn.”

“And you say you are not his parrot,” he said. The words tumbled out without his meaning them to, and he regretted them almost the moment he had finished. He flushed.

She picked up her pencil, twisted it in her fingers for a moment and then pointed it at him.

“You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension about Lord Rothborough and myself,” she said.

“I do not like to think what he has said to you.”

“But you do think it. Rather you imagine it, and wrongly I think.”

“I don’t know. He gives the impression to me that –”

“Yes?” she cut in. “What impression might that be?

“That, that –” He broke off again and she sighed.

“You ought to take me at my word,” she said.

“I would dearly love to believe you, Mrs Morgan, and I know I ought, but –” He stumbled out of his chair and strode across the room to the window, where he stood with his back to her. He was so desperate for air he felt he would like to have thrown the window up, or perhaps break it with his fist. “He has said – he has implied that –”

There was a long silence, and then she said, “Of course, you must think what you must think. In your condition there is really nothing else you can do.”

“My condition?” he spun round. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know perfectly well. You are not an idiot, after all. Although some physicians are notoriously bad at self-diagnosis, I am sure you are not.”

“I do not know what you mean, ma’am,” he said. “Truly I do not.”

She got up from the sofa and walked over to him.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “Do you think I have never seen this before? I know the symptoms. It is a hazard of my profession. Men of all ages, throwing themselves at my feet.” She was close to him now and he could smell the lavender on her skin. Suddenly he ached with longing. “It happens all the time.”

“That is not the case with me, ma’am,” he said, as coldly as he could. He could not bear the thought of all those others, fawning and drooling over her, feeling those same indecent thoughts about her that he felt. He could not be in such company. His pride would not permit him, and yet...

“Liar,” she said and slapped him across the cheek.

It was not a very violent blow, but it was a shock. For a moment he could do nothing and then he caught her hand in his, anxious not to let her strike him again, but having possession of it, he found he could do nothing but bend and attempt to kiss her palm. His lips had scarcely touched it, before she had pulled her hand away.

“There, can you deny it now, Mr Carswell?” she said.

He rubbed his cheek, feeling the smart now.

“A most elegant demonstration,” he managed to say.

“Good,” she said, and walked away to the piano. She opened the lid and sat down and began to play some complicated piece, full of notes and fire.

“And did you do such an experiment on Lord Rothborough?” he said, going over to the piano, feeling his anger rising up in him now. “Is he just one of my wretched cohorts, that you clearly take such a delight in humiliating? Or is that another matter entirely? After all, you seem pretty comfortable here ma’am, in this house!”

She broke off playing and stood up again. They were face to face.

“Do you wish me to slap you again?” she said. “Do not think I will gratify you with an answer.”

“Why not?” he said, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I will go away, if you will just tell me that. I will be the obedient whipped dog and slink away if you will just tell me what there is between you.”

“No!” she exclaimed and tried to push him away, but he still had her in his grip. “I have said enough on that subject, and you must take my word. Let me go, sir!”

But Felix could no longer help himself and pulled her closer so that he might kiss her. He felt in doing this that she would understand and relent, that she would feel all that he felt. Like some creature in a fairy tale, he for a moment believed that his kiss might transform her, that she would melt in his arms, and permit all the liberties described in ‘The Memoirs of the Comtesse’.