The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (19 page)

When the duet was done, Lambert said with a sigh, “I think we have lost him. He will never stay now Mrs Morgan has heard him sing like that. Northminster’s loss will be London’s gain. I have never heard him in such good voice before. It is as if he has come into bloom.”

“He does not seem much affected by his loss,” Giles said, thinking of those letters.

“He has an excellent technique,” said Lambert. “Look how pleased Mrs Morgan is with him. So she should be. Their voices matched beautifully. We can only hope he will come back to us occasionally,” he added.

Mrs Morgan and Harrison were looking over their scores together and then she left the platform, and the orchestra began to play again. Lambert was in a sort of ecstatic rapture, following his score as Harrison again began to sing.

Giles slipped from his place in order to study him better as he sang. Harrison was not acting the least bit like a guilty man, but perhaps that excellent technique allowed him to conceal a great deal.

Leaning against one of the great Romanesque pillars, Giles turned over in his mind what he knew of the man. Harrison was undoubtedly a risk-taker, already plunged deep into a way of life that was both dangerous and illegal. He was a man who wrote passionate love letters to another man, letters that were also graphic enough in their content to get him hanged for buggery. He was also, it seemed, willing to sell his sexual favours.

Did this calmness, this remarkable control he was witnessing, indicate that Harrison was amoral? If that were the case, then the murder of Charles Barnes might be just another act which did not much trouble his conscience.

He was so absorbed in his train of thought that he did not realise until the end of the aria that Mrs Morgan was standing beside him.

“I am glad to see you,” she said, when Harrison had finished. “I need to speak to you.”

“Oh, why?”

“I’ve had another letter,” she said.

“When did it arrive?”

“I don’t know. We simply found it in the house.”

“We?”

“My sister-in-law found it.”

“And where was it?”

“It was lying in a basket in the hall, apparently – the card basket.”

“And none of the servants took in a letter?”

“No they say not.”

“And it was addressed to you in the normal way?”

“Unfortunately not,” she said. “It was addressed – well, may I show it to you? I have it here.”

“Let us go into the library,” he said. “I don’t think anyone will disturb us there.”

He showed her to the south door and they made their way along the ancient cloister until they reached the small nail-studded door that led to the medieval library.

“How beautiful this is!” she said, looking about her as they went in.

“I like it better than the Minster,” said Giles, “although that is heretical to say so.”

“Books are always comforting,” she said, touching the gilded spine of some great old volume with her lavender gloved finger. “I always think so. So much wisdom... the wisdom of all the ages. I would like nothing better than to sit here and read them all. Then I might make fewer mistakes, perhaps?”

“Great scholars are sometimes the greatest fools, in my experience,” said Giles.

“Yes, I have met some of those,” she said with a smile. “No, wisdom comes from knowledge and common sense, I think, and experience.”

“That is the harshest tutor of all,” Giles said.

“Yes,” she said, with a slight shiver. “Oh yes indeed.”

He had been carefully objective about her – he knew that much, but in that moment, her soft voice seemed to tempt that part of him he never could entirely control. She was wearing a silver grey bonnet which framed her face, and in the fading light of the room, her pale beauty was eloquent and her companionship seemed infinitely desirable.

He reached into his coat, fetched out a box of lucifers, and turned his attention to lighting the candles that were arranged in a great branched holder. They sat down on either side of an ancient blackened oak table and Mrs Morgan opened her reticule. She pushed the letter it across the table to him.

“This is not pleasant,” she said.

She was correct.

The envelope was addressed in gummed paper letters and read:

“To Nancy Morgan, a dirty whore.

You are all found out. Your wickedness is known. You are a whore and a destroyer of all that is good. You are a stain on the earth. You will fuck any man for a penny. But beware the time is coming that you must pay, and you will pay with your life. A knife will come and give you what you deserve. You will choke on your own dirty blood. A constant friend.”

“I have to admire your coolness under fire, Mrs Morgan,” he said, laying the letter down on the table.

“What other way is there to be?” she said. “You heard me singing just then. Handel’s heroines are full of virtuous resistance in adversity. I have learnt from their example.”

“Did Mrs Ridolfi open the letter?”

“No, seeing the address was enough for her and she she brought it straight to me.”

“You have discussed these letters with her?”

“I have – but in no great detail. I did not want to alarm her. Especially after that business with the bird which shook her badly.”

“Of course not.”

“Given that she knew of the other letters and how they distressed you, she might have dropped it in the fire, wishing to spare you the pain of it.”

“Oh, Paulina would not do that. She knows I would want to see it.”

He studied the letter, turning it in his hands and then said, “I must say I do find it curious that Mrs Ridolfi discovered both the bird and this letter.”

“What are you implying?”

“That she may have been the origin of the letters.”

“That is a harsh accusation, Major Vernon.”

“It would not be the first time such mischief has been made by a person close to the victim. It is a possibility that must be explored.”

“No, no, I cannot agree with that. Not in this case. Paulina is as dear as a sister to me. We grew up together – we were pupils with Mrs Watkins. I would trust her with my life – as I trust her with my child. You are mistaken, Major Vernon. Paulina could not, would not do anything like this.” She frowned at him reproachfully, but he was not to be deterred by that.

“Was she living in your house London when the first of these letters arrived?”

“Yes,” she said, “but that is a coincidence. It is nonsense to even think it.”

“And how long have your brother and his wife been living with you, I must ask?”

“A couple of years now.”

“They have no house of their own?”

“A house in London at a good address is a great expense and Dick is not as prosperous as he might be. He needs to be in the heart of town, as do I. It is convenient for all of us.”

“So your husband does not object to his wife’s family living in his house?”

“I don’t see what my husband’s opinions about anything have to do with this.”

“Is that because he no longer lives under your roof?” he ventured.

There was a little pause.

“That is not supposed to be common knowledge,” she said, quietly, “for obvious reasons.”

“I understand,” he said. “And it is not common knowledge.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said.

“However it would have been useful had you told me of it,” he said. “After all, an absent husband, a difficult man by all accounts – an aggrieved husband – could he not be responsible for this trouble?” he said, tapping the letter with his finger. “That must have crossed your mind, surely?”

“Perhaps,” she said after a long silence. “Perhaps.”

“And where is your husband at the moment?” said Giles. “Do you know?”

“I think he is engaged in Paris at the opera there. That is what I heard.”

“But you do not know any more than that?”

“No. I don’t really want to know. I don’t really like to think about him at all.”

“Naturally. He has obviously hurt you a great deal,” he said, “but in this case – if you wish to put an end to this, you must force yourself to consider it. I know it is painful, ma’am, but –”

“Yes, yes it is a possibility I suppose!” she said. “It would not be out of character.”

“How well does he know your sister-in-law?” Giles said. “Does he know that she is afraid of dead birds, for example?”

“He may do.” She was silent for a moment and then said. “Do you think he might be here?” she said. “In Northminster?”

“Do you?” he countered, hearing the fear in her voice.

“I hope not, but... but...” She took the letter from Giles’ hand and looked over it again. “This does suggest, does it not –” She broke off and then after a moment said, quietly, “I have been a great fool. I should have told you. I am sorry, I did not think properly, I suppose. I did not think that he – even he – would stoop so low. I thought we had settled it it. Goodness, I gave him enough!”

“You gave him money?”

“Yes, I paid him to go – it was a great deal of money. It was all the money that I had managed to save from my fees over the last few years – money that I managed to keep him from spending. I hid some away, even from the start, because, well, I knew soon enough what a mistake I had made in marrying him. In the end it was all I could do to get rid of him. He discovered I had it – and of course claimed it was his, which I suppose it was by rights, and I that I had no right to hide it from him. So I gave it to him, on condition that he left Harry and me alone for good. I thought it would be enough, but perhaps I have been deluding myself. He is an extravagant man. He could have run through it already. Is that what all this means? Is he trying to scare me into giving him more money? It is a strange way to go about it.”

“Was he glad to go?” Giles said.

“I don’t know. I think so. He said he was, but I know it was a humiliation for him. And he had an easy life when we were together. I did everything I could to make it pleasant for him. I tried not to be a bad wife. I looked after his linen and ordered what he liked for dinner. I was too afraid of him not to do my duty, but I wanted to be a good wife to him. I wanted it to be right and straight between us, especially when Harry was born. I thought that would make him happy, but I never could. I could never do enough. There was always this terrible resentment. Professional jealousy of course. He would have liked me to never sing again, but then we would have been paupers. He wanted what I could earn, but at the same time he hated that I could earn so much more than him.”

Giles scoured the letter for any new meaning that had yet escaped him. He wanted to ask her what was her position with Lord Rothborough. For Rothborough had enemies enough, and one of those might think of getting at him by tormenting his mistress. But it was not at all clear if she was his mistress, and in the moment he could not find a way to ask her that would not be extremely offensive. In the quiet intimacy of that library he disliked the thought of offending her.

The door opened and George Watkins came in. Giles folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

“There you are, Nan,” Watkins said, looking pleased to have found her.

“Oh, am I late, George?” she said, rising at once. “I am sorry – Major Vernon and I had a little business.”

“No, no, we begin again in five minutes,” he said. “I just wanted to discuss the tempo of the finale with you.”

“Of course. Though I thought you had it all straight the other morning?”

“Well I did, but I was looking at the score again and I thought –”

“Have the courage of your convictions, George,” she said, laying her hands on his shoulders. “It is your performance. The more conviction you show, the more convinced we all will be. Players and audience alike.”

“You’re right,” he said, “Yes, yes, of course. And the others are all here from town now.”

“Dick?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good,” she said, with a smile. “I must go then. Excuse me, Major Vernon, I must go and see my brother.”

“He has come to play the flute in the band,” George Watkins added helpfully.

“I’m glad he could get away,” Mrs Morgan said. “His employers can be so awkward.”

“Who are his employers?” Giles asked.

“He is a visiting music master,” she said. “Only to the best families, of course, but such people can be difficult, and inclined to treat him as if he is nothing more than a servant. It is aggravating as he is a fine teacher, and his pupils all love him dearly, but their parents – well, some of them really do not know how lucky they are!”

Giles went back with them into the Minster and was able to witness the reunion of Mrs Morgan and her brother. Like her, he was tall, golden-haired, and good-looking, but he had a washed-out air about him, as if the business of hearing the scales of all those noble misses had drained the life out of him. He had neither the vigour nor the fire of his sister. He struck Giles as a disappointed man, a point rather underlined by the appearance of his wife and Mrs Morgan’s little boy. Harry greeted his uncle like the dearest of fathers and would not let go of him, despite being told by his aunt several times that “Uncle Dick must go to work now.” Finally she was obliged to drag him away, and young Harry was only pacified by Ridolfi running over to him and whispering something in his ear that made the child grin with sudden happiness. The action of a man who loved children, perhaps, a man who wanted children of his own but had failed in that respect? It would have been another mortification to add to living in his more prosperous sister’s house, like a poor relation.

Mrs Morgan’s success, he reflected, seemed to be both a curse and a blessing for the men in her life.

“Mr Harrison?” George Watkins was saying, as he stood in front of his freshly assembled orchestra. “Where is Mr Harrison?”

A few moments passed and Harrison still did not appear.

Giles glanced at his watch. He had been out of his sight for only twenty minutes. Had Harrison seen him leave with Mrs Morgan and decided to make a bolt for it? Had he lost sight of his prime suspect? He sincerely hoped not.

***

Giles emerged from the Minster and noticed his niece Celia Fforde crouching on the grass. She was attempting to persuade Samson Agonistes, the big white cat who was habitually seen about the Minster Precincts, to come to her, but he was remaining aloof.