by R. N. Morris
Paul left the Great Hall by the main entrance. In the corridor, he found Metcalfe in conversation with a young man whom he did not recognize.
‘Pardon me, but have you seen Sir Aidan? We really ought to be getting on.’
The unknown young man bolted off with his head down. It struck Paul as a little rude at first, but then he remembered that he had been the one to interrupt the two men’s conversation.
‘Yes, I have seen Sir Aidan,’ replied Metcalfe, his voice strangely mechanical, as if he were giving a prepared answer or speaking from a script.
‘Where?’
‘In the Great Hall.’
‘Oh? He’s not there now. When did you see him there?’
‘It was a minute off half past twelve.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. I saw him then. We all saw him then. I meant, have you seen him since then?’
‘No,’ said Metcalfe flatly.
Paul studied Metcalfe for a moment. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether the fellow was being deliberately difficult or simply did not understand how to interact with other people. Either way, the result was the same. He was a decidedly tricky person to warm to.
At that moment, a soft, rhythmic tapping drew Paul’s attention. He glanced up to see the back of the blind man he had encountered outside. The man was making his way along the corridor, away from the practice room where Cavendish and Fonthill had been arguing earlier.
At virtually the same moment, there was a piercing scream, which seemed to come from that very room.
Paul looked quizzically at Metcalfe, whose expression did not change.
Paul felt himself frozen to the spot for what seemed like an age but was almost certainly no longer than one or two seconds. He was torn between giving chase and answering the cry which was still going on. The two events – this man’s appearance now and the ungodly sound – were somehow connected, he felt certain. Both repelled him in equal measure.
It was hard to ignore the scream, though. The longer it went on, the more compelling it was. He had to admit it was quite a feat of voice production. It rose in pitch to reach a firm, resonant note that might even have been a top C. This was held for an impressively long time before swooping down in a steep glissando to what sounded like the G below.
He moved tentatively towards the source of that sound, at the same time reaching out an arm ineffectually towards the blind man. ‘I say, you there! Hold on a moment, will you.’
The blind man picked up his white stick and began moving with surprising speed. In fact, it was hard to discount the idea that he was running away.
But that scream could not be ignored any more.
Paul thrust open the door.
Lady Emma Fonthill stood in the centre of the room. She turned towards Paul as he came in, her eyes fixed on him with a fierce glower. Her mouth was open in a shape that appeared almost premeditated. The extraordinarily musical scream continued to come out of it. How could she keep it up for so long?
She held one arm extended in the direction of an upright piano. It was disconcerting to notice that the hand at the end of that arm was covered in blood.
Someone, a man – good God, was it really, could it be … Sir Aidan? – was seated at the piano, motionless, his back to the room. The lid of the piano was closed, his hands resting upon it. His head was bent forward at an acute angle, his face hidden from Paul. Blood was streaming from one ear, from which also, oddly, there protruded the U-shaped end of what appeared to be a tuning fork.
THIRD MOVEMENT
EIGHTEEN
Detective Chief Inspector Silas Quinn returned the telephone earpiece to its base and looked across his desk at the man who was standing before him. Detective Sergeant Inchball held himself slightly stooped beneath the sharply sloping ceiling. When it had been decided by the powers that be – most notably, Lieutenant-Colonel Kell of MO5 (g) section – that the Special Crimes Department should be reinstated with essentially double the manpower, no provision was made for finding them a larger office. Admittedly, this doubling of resource only meant an increase from two officers serving under Quinn to four. But the room in the attic of New Scotland Yard which was SCD headquarters had already been cramped when there had just been the three of them in it – Quinn, Inchball and DS Macadam. Now there were five men crammed in like sardines around three desks. It was impossible to move around without having to climb over a colleague, or to get him to pull his chair in so tightly that the edge of the desk dug into his abdomen. Tempers were often frayed.
Being policemen, they were not on the whole small men. And Inchball was the biggest of the lot. His imposing physique was useful for certain kinds of interrogation techniques. Quinn did not generally value evidence extracted by physical violence, but he recognized that the threat of force sometimes had the effect of focusing a suspect’s mind and encouraging cooperation. A fair number of the villains they had to deal with were bullies, and so he had no compunction about treating them to a taste of their own medicine.
The stoop that Inchball was forced to adopt gave him a hangdog expression, which was curiously appropriate to the bombshell he had just dropped, right at the moment that Quinn’s telephone had rung.
‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Quinn said now.
Inchball’s brows came together in a deep frown. He shook his head in frustration. The sergeant had never been good at hiding his emotions. ‘There’s nothing to talk about, guv. I’ve made up my mind. That’s all there is to it.’
Quinn glanced across quickly at DI Leversedge, who was pretending to be engrossed in reading through a case file, but it was obvious that he had been listening attentively to the conversation between Quinn and Inchball. Quinn suspected that Inchball’s unhappiness was due to the addition of an extra layer of command above him. The original team had worked as a tight unit, the skills of each individual officer complementing his fellows’. Inchball had brought brute force and energy. But more than that, he had a directness of approach that often cut through confusing complications. His impatience could be a liability, but Quinn had learnt not to underestimate the man’s detecting instincts. To dismiss him as the hired muscle was a mistake – and one which DI Leversedge had been quick to make. The thing was that although Quinn had clearly been the commanding officer, he had both trusted and respected his men. Often it had felt as though they were three equals working together in a common endeavour. If he could at all help it, he would rarely fall back on simply pulling rank. He preferred to win their cooperation because they understood and agreed with his directions. And besides, their contributions often played a part in shaping his strategy, Macadam, the autodidact, with his fund of idiosyncratic knowledge and Inchball with his bluntness and instinct. And Quinn, of course, with whatever it was he brought to the team. Although they were at times hard-pressed and overstretched, they had achieved a certain balance, which the addition of the new members threatened to throw out of kilter. DC Willoughby wasn’t so much of a problem, being as he was the junior party, subordinate to everyone. That said, he had succeeded in putting Macadam’s nose out of joint by driving the department’s vehicle, the Ford Model T that had until now been Macadam’s sole prerogative, as well as his pride and joy. Unfortunately, Macadam’s recent injury, a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty, meant that he was not as quick at responding to the command to ‘bring the car round’ as young Willoughby was. Sometimes Quinn even directly charged Willoughby with driving, having got into the habit during Macadam’s period of convalescence.
But surely none of this was grounds for the decision that Inchball had just announced?
Quinn could not help giving voice to his sentiments. ‘I cannot allow it.’
‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’
Quinn sensed Leversedge bristle on his behalf at Inchball’s insubordinate tone.
‘I’m a free man. And I answer to my own conscience, nobody else’s.’
‘I simply don’t see why you would wish to do
this.’
‘We’re at war!’
‘Yes. And you would serve your country better by remaining in your post as a police officer.’
Inchball shook his head. ‘You don’t see the way they look at me.’
‘Who?’
‘People.’
‘And how are they looking at you?’
‘Like I’m a coward! Am I a coward?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘One bitch even gave me one of those bloody white feathers! The nerve.’
Quinn had a vague memory of Inchball mentioning this once before. ‘But that was months ago. You haven’t been fretting over it all this time?’
‘I don’t fret. If I don’t like something, I do something about it. And I’m doing something about it now.’
Quinn shook his head impatiently. He really didn’t have time to go into this now, but neither did he want to lose his sergeant. ‘There’s no need for that. Just wear the war service badge. Then people will know you’re doing your duty.’
‘I do wear it. But people still think you’re a shirker.’
‘Look, all I ask is you wait. That call … we have a new case. A murder. I need you with me on this, Inchball.’
‘I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving the force. I’m going to join the Military Police.’
‘Just so that you can wear khaki?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Because … don’t you see? That is more of an act of cowardice than staying here.’
Quinn could see immediately that he had blundered. Inchball’s face darkened in fury. ‘So you do think I’m a coward?’
‘No!’ But Quinn found himself shouting at Inchball’s back as he pushed his way through the obstacles formed by his colleagues. ‘Wait!’
Inchball hesitated at the door, head bowed, fists clenched. Quinn could see that he was trembling with rage. The whole room waited on what he would do next.
He turned slowly to face Quinn. ‘If that’s what you think of me, then you’ll be better off without me.’
Quinn winced his eyes shut as Inchball took the final few steps of his storming out. ‘Bloody fool,’ he said. What the men watching him did not know was that he was addressing that remark to himself, not Inchball.
After a moment, he scratched an imaginary itch in his left eyebrow and sighed. ‘Willoughby, bring the Ford round, will you.’
He caught Macadam’s eye just as Willoughby rushed from the room. His remaining sergeant’s expression was hurt rather than angry. Quinn gave a small shake of his head, which was somewhere between discouraging and apologetic.
‘What’s the case, sir?’ The eagerness that Leversedge injected into the question seemed a little overdone.
‘There’s been a murder,’ said Quinn. After a moment, he added: ‘In Hampstead.’
Leversedge nodded briskly, as if this were exactly what he had been expecting. And Macadam, Quinn sensed, seemed to revive at the announcement. There was something about investigating a murder that could compensate a man for any disappointment.
NINETEEN
On reflection, it was perhaps not such a good idea for Macadam to occupy the front passenger seat of the Model T next to Willoughby.
‘Come on, boy, you can get past that.’
‘Put your foot down!’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘You could get a bus through there.’
‘Sound your horn! Sound your horn!’
This was the only one of Macadam’s instructions that Willoughby did not need any encouragement in. His hand was never far from the rubber bulb of the car’s horn. In fact, Quinn suspected he was using it as means to drown out Macadam’s constant exclamations. These were accompanied by much shaking of the head and angry gesticulation. Perhaps his tactic was to make Willoughby so uncomfortable that he no longer wished to volunteer as the driver. It was possible his intention was even darker: to throw the young copper off his stride and force him into a mistake, or even an accident.
Eventually, Quinn was obliged to lean forward and put a restraining hand on Macadam’s shoulder. Macadam turned round sharply, glaring in surprise at Quinn’s slow shake of the head.
Quinn was aware of Leversedge looking at him but did not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. If Leversedge had something to say, let him say it. At last he did speak, though it was not to do with Macadam’s behaviour. ‘So … who is the victim?’
Quinn sighed heavily. ‘A gentleman by the name of Sir Aidan Fonthill.’ He glanced briefly at Leversedge, who was nodding as if the name meant something to him. ‘Do you know him?’
‘No. But he sounds important. Some kind of bigwig, I imagine? Something to do with the war effort?’
Quinn hesitated a beat before giving his answer. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Then why are we being brought in?’
‘Probably because the local boys are short on manpower. We’re helping them out.’
‘Out of their depth?’
Quinn was wary of Leversedge’s testing question. ‘I didn’t say that.’
Leversedge narrowed his eyes as he tried to calculate what was behind Quinn’s stonewalling. ‘You didn’t need to.’
Quinn looked down at his upturned bowler on his lap, as if he would find what to say to Leversedge inside it. ‘We are simply required to go there and do our job. Examine the scene for evidence and talk to people.’
‘Making sure they haven’t missed anything, you mean?’
‘We just do our job, that’s all.’
‘But why SCD? What’s special about this murder? The victim?’
‘I suppose that’s one of the things we shall find out.’
Quinn turned his hat over so that the bowler’s perfect dome was uppermost. It was somehow a discouraging gesture. It had the effect of closing down the conversation.
They travelled the rest of the way in silence, apart from the frequent horn blasts from Willoughby. He seemed determined to show himself proficient in this most important of driving skills.
The afternoon was darkening rapidly by the time they reached the leafy, well-to-do avenue of Frognal.
An icy drizzle pierced the gloom. It held within itself the threat of something more substantial: a storm of hail, or snow, that it would be more than willing to unleash if they did not turn back now.
They were met at the school gate by an older man in an ill-fitting special constable’s uniform. He had a sensitive, rather melancholy expression, exaggerated by a drooping moustache. However, his gaze was probing and direct, with an edge of challenge to it, as if he might be quick to take offence or already had. His demeanour was a strange combination of distinguished and chippy.
Quinn approached with a terse nod. ‘DCI Quinn of the Special Crimes Department, Scotland Yard. Who’s the officer in charge here?’
‘Inspector Pool.’ The special constable spoke with an educated voice. Some local dignitary doing his bit for the war effort, Quinn decided. There was something about the way he announced the OIC’s name that left them in no doubt as to his opinion of Pool, who might be his superior in rank but whom he considered in no way his equal in any other respect. The man’s a fool seemed to hang in the air.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s inside.’
‘Take us to him.’
The elderly special constable seemed to hesitate. A pained expression winced across his face. ‘What rank did you say you are?’
‘Chief inspector.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Very well.’
The special constable locked the school gate behind them with meticulous care, then led the way across the quad towards the school building, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. A cluster of regular bobbies sheltered beneath the grandiose entrance, watching sullenly as the party of detectives approached.
‘Oi, Elgar, who’s watching the gate?’ one of the regulars snarled from the corner of his mouth.
‘You needn�
��t worry about that. I locked it.’
‘Wasn’t you told not to budge from there?’
‘Yes, but I was also ordered by this gentleman, who is a chief inspector, of Scotland Yard, no less, to leave my post. A chief inspector outranks an inspector, I believe. And when one is given two contradictory commands, one is obliged to obey that of the most senior officer.’ Special Constable Elgar turned to Quinn with a probing look. ‘Is that not so?’
‘You may leave us here, if you wish. One of these officers can take us to Inspector Pool.’
Elgar sighed heavily. He treated Quinn to a complex look. ‘Whatever I do is wrong.’ The remark was not aimed at anyone in particular and seemed not so much a comment on his experience in the Special Constabulary as a complaint about his life in general. He shook his head lugubriously and turned away.
‘Bloody amateurs,’ muttered the uniform who had challenged the special constable. ‘I mean, who does he think he is?’
‘Inspector Pool?’ Quinn reminded him.
The man tore himself away from his companions to lead the way inside.
Quinn sensed Macadam fidgeting away excitedly beside him. Eventually, his sergeant could contain himself no longer and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Elgar. Didn’t he say the chap’s name was Elgar?’
‘What of it?’
‘You don’t think it could be … Sir Edward Elgar?’
‘The composer?’
‘I do seem to remember reading something in the papers about his joining the Special Constabulary in Hampstead. And it did look like Elgar, don’t you think?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Quinn sensed that he was not responding with sufficient enthusiasm. ‘But you’re probably right. It’s an unusual name.’
More uniformed police milled purposely about in the school corridor. They regarded Quinn and his team with a wary curiosity, breaking off from making cynical asides to follow them with their eyes.
The copper led them round several corners to a closed door, outside which another constable was stationed. There was a small window in the door, which had been covered up by a sheet of newspaper from within. ‘He’s in there.’
