The Music Box Enigma

by R. N. Morris

  The heavily bearded Paul Seddon shifted uncomfortably. ‘So you think this piano tuner was the murderer?’

  ‘If he exists, then certainly. Why else would he be bearded?’

  Seddon’s embarrassment exploded into outrage: ‘What do you mean, if he exists?’

  Quinn turned to Inspector Pool. ‘Has anyone else mentioned this piano tuner in their statements?’

  Pool deferred to his subordinate: ‘Kennedy?’

  ‘That chap Cavendish mentioned him.’

  ‘That’s right! Cavendish and Ursula saw him,’ piped up Seddon, desperately hopeful.

  ‘Ursula?’ wondered Quinn.

  ‘Ursula Cavendish. Charles’s wife.’

  Sergeant Kennedy consulted his notebook. ‘Cavendish confirmed you told him about some geezer with a white stick. He says nothing about clappin’ eyes on him hisself.’

  Paul Seddon looked imploringly towards Lady Fonthill, but she turned away as if embarrassed to meet his eye.

  ‘Why would I lie about such a thing?’ Seddon must have wished he hadn’t asked the question. The only possible answer was writ clearly in the faces of all the policemen.

  ‘Come on, Anna, I’ll get you home.’ Seddon reached out a protective arm towards his sister.

  ‘Not so quickly, if you don’t mind,’ said Quinn. ‘I have a few questions for your sister.’

  ‘What can she know? She’s only just got here.’

  A questioning look shot from Anna Seddon towards her brother. It appeared she was not used to him looking out for her in this way.

  But there was something about Seddon’s remark that bothered Quinn. ‘Have you, Miss Seddon, only just got here? In which case, I wonder, how did you get past the constable at the gate?’

  ‘I told him that I was Sir Aidan Fonthill’s mistress and he simply must let me through.’

  There was a shriek from Lady Fonthill.

  Evidently in Special Constable Elgar’s eyes, a mistress outranked both a detective inspector and a detective chief inspector. No doubt he ought to be reprimanded, but his lapse had proved useful to the enquiry. ‘I see,’ continued Quinn. ‘And so, may I ask, why did you come here today, Miss Seddon?’

  Anna considered a moment before answering quietly, ‘I came to see Aidan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s never seen his son. I thought it was time he did.’

  ‘The baby is Sir Aidan’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Quinn glanced at Lady Fonthill. She did not offer any denial.

  ‘I thought if he saw Tristan, he would relent.’

  ‘Relent?’

  ‘Acknowledge him.’

  ‘Perhaps you hoped that he would leave his wife for you?’

  Anna Seddon shook her head. ‘I had no such expectation.’

  ‘Then it was money you were after?’ This was Leversedge.

  ‘I didn’t want anything from him,’ insisted Anna. ‘Except that he look at his son.’

  Leversedge shook his head incredulously, his mouth twisted into a cynical leer.

  ‘You had a right, I think, to expect some material support,’ suggested Quinn gently.

  Paul Seddon drew himself up self-righteously. ‘I am perfectly capable of providing for my sister and my nephew. We neither expected nor needed any help from Sir Aidan.’

  Anna Seddon’s eyes opened wide in amazement at her brother’s declaration. ‘But you didn’t know he was the father until yesterday. And before I told you who it was, you were all for getting some contribution from … whoever. I believe you used the word bounder.’

  Seddon bowed his head in contrite embarrassment. ‘I am sorry. I had no right to say what I said. I was in a foul mood. I didn’t mean any of it.’ He lifted his face and looked directly into his sister’s eyes. ‘Of course, I will take care of you. Of you both. You are my family. I will never turn my back on you. No matter what. We have each other. And even if that’s all we have, it’s enough.’

  His words hinted at orphanhood. Quinn saw in Seddon’s expression the unhappiness of a misunderstood man. The intensity of his avowal to his sister was inexplicably moving. He felt an unexpected wave of sympathy. And yet, he had to be careful that this did not blind him to the facts. Almost reluctantly, he honed in on the crucial detail. ‘I just want to be clear about one thing. You only found out that Sir Aidan was the father of your sister’s child yesterday?’

  Seddon did not reply, except to turn his head away with a telling sharpness.

  ‘And today he is dead?’ Quinn narrowed his eyes as he considered the implications of his own question.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Do you wish to see the Great Hall?’

  Quinn answered Inspector Pool’s question with a quizzical frown.

  ‘It’s where the choir was rehearsing before it happened. We’re holding everyone there for now.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I have explained to them the importance of our taking statements while everything is fresh in their minds. Quite a few members of the choir are somewhat on the elderly side and their memories may grow more unreliable with the passage of time. Normally, I would release people once my men have taken statements from them, but when I found out that SCD was to be called in, I thought it better to hold on to as many people as we could in case you wanted to speak to them yourselves.’

  Quinn gave a small bow.

  ‘This way, if you will then,’ said Pool. ‘Unfortunately, some of the people who were here have already slipped away. We are dependent on people’s goodwill, you see.’

  ‘Do you know who we are missing?’

  ‘Some members of the orchestra,’ replied Pool. ‘And those what you might call celebrities. Dame Elsie Tatton, for example. They all scarpered PDQ.’

  Pool opened a door to release a rising clamour of discontent. Multiple overlapping conversations competed in a constantly increasing volume of noise. As the detectives entered, an expectant hush descended.

  The uneasy calm lasted only a few seconds before an even louder din erupted. Quinn knew only one way to get the room’s attention. He reached inside his ulster and removed his Webley service revolver, holding it above his head. A loud collective gasp gave way quickly to an enthralled silence.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ Quinn returned the revolver to its hidden holster. ‘My name is Chief Inspector Quinn.’

  There was a murmur of excitement. A thrilling whisper crackled along the seated rows: Quickfire Quinn!

  Quinn walked slowly down the aisle dividing the auditorium seats, his boot tips clicking on the polished floor. The room was so quiet now you could hear a pin drop – or two hundred necks swivel. ‘I have no doubt that you all wish to go home as soon as possible. Believe me, I don’t want to detain you any longer than is necessary. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but as I am sure you are aware by now, a man has been murdered here today. The murderer may well be here among us.’

  The response to this admittedly melodramatic pronouncement was a second gasp, gratifyingly louder than the first.

  ‘It is possible – more than possible, likely – that some of you saw something today that could help us in our investigations, perhaps without even realizing it. That’s why we must take statements from you all and why we cannot let you go until we have spoken to everyone. In some cases, you will be interviewed by more than one officer. This is nothing to be concerned about. It simply means we are anxious not to overlook a single detail that may prove crucial to the case. We, the police, see it as our duty to investigate this horrible crime with meticulous and methodical care. I believe we owe that to the deceased, and to all of you who knew him. To that end, I crave your cooperation for a while longer.’

  Having reached the front of the hall, Quinn turned and nodded to Inspector Pool, who strode with long, easy steps to join him. ‘What was the name of that chap Seddon spoke to about the piano tuner?’

  ‘Cavendish. Charles Cavendish. He’s the treasurer of the choir. An accoun
tant by profession.’

  ‘I shall talk to Mr Cavendish first. And isn’t there a wife? Ursula, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You want them both together?’

  He answered Pool’s question with a quick nod. ‘And could you find me a room. Somewhere without a corpse would be preferable.’

  Quinn sat behind the teacher’s desk in a classroom on the ground floor. On the wall was a large map of the world with the territories of the British Empire shown in pink.

  The itch of chalk dust took him back to his own school days. He had been a hardworking student, bright enough, he supposed, but not especially brilliant. He could remember certain subjects being a struggle, mathematics in particular. But he had been eager to impress his teachers and live up to his father’s expectations, and so he had never been willing to give up on a problem. At the root of his approach was the belief that there always was a solution, and that his teachers would not have set the problem if they did not expect him to be able to solve it. It struck him now that it was a surprisingly mature approach for a boy to take.

  Was it to please his father, he wondered, that he had in particular applied himself to the scientific subjects? Certainly, for as long as he could remember he had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a doctor. That was not to be, of course. Events had conspired against him, the most significant of them being his father’s suicide when he was a medical student.

  He looked across the desk at the couple seated in front of him. Ursula and Charles Cavendish held their bodies turned slightly away from one another. If he had not been told that Cavendish was an accountant, he would have guessed it. Ursula, it was clear, had been crying. That was understandable, given the circumstances, and did not necessarily imply any untoward relationship with the dead man. And yet, Quinn couldn’t help wondering. Perhaps Anna Seddon wasn’t the only female member of the choir whom Fonthill had seduced. If so, he noted, Ursula Cavendish was neither as young nor as pretty as Anna, which suggested that perhaps Fonthill had been rather indiscriminate in his affections.

  It seemed odd that Charles Cavendish was making no effort to comfort his wife.

  ‘Do you have children?’ Quinn had not expected this would be his first question. But sometimes, as an investigator, it was as important to surprise one’s self as it was the people one was interviewing.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Ursula Cavendish flushed deep red.

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ demanded her husband.

  Quinn gestured around at the classroom. ‘I was just thinking, it’s a terrible place for a murder to happen. A school. Who can say what the effect on the children will be?’

  ‘Is there any good place for a thing like this to happen?’ Ursula’s voice was indignant, her expression appalled.

  It was a fair point, as Quinn conceded with a nod. ‘What was your relationship with the deceased?’

  ‘Relationship?’ She clearly balked at the word.

  Interestingly, it was her husband who answered for her. ‘We are members of the choir. Sir Aidan was our choirmaster.’

  ‘That is the only relationship you have with him?’

  ‘I am the treasurer of the choir too. From time to time I have met with Sir Aidan to discuss choir business.’

  ‘What do you mean, choir business? Did Sir Aidan take an interest in the choir’s finances?’

  ‘He was naturally interested to know how ticket sales were going.’

  ‘And how were they going?’

  ‘Well. The concert was practically sold out. There were, in addition, a number of donations made.’

  ‘Sir Aidan must have been pleased.’

  ‘Yes. He was most gratified. So far we have raised more or less two hundred pounds for the refugees, though what will happen now, I don’t know.’

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘I do not have the exact figures in front of me.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money. Where is it kept?’

  ‘The choir has its own bank account. Any cash I keep in a secure box at home until I have the opportunity to pay it into the account.’

  ‘Did Sir Aidan have access to the account?’

  Cavendish’s eyes widened. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  The man’s barely contained panic convinced Quinn that he was on to something. ‘I’m merely trying to establish if the money could have provided a motive for Sir Aidan’s murder.’

  ‘No, he was not authorized to access the money. However …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He asked me to make over some pre-signed cheques to him.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I refused.’

  ‘What did Sir Aidan want the money for?’

  ‘I don’t really know. He said something about incurring expenses.’

  ‘Was it a normal request?’

  ‘No. It was most extraordinary.’

  ‘You have never made out blank cheques in his favour before?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘What expenses was he referring to, do you know?’

  Cavendish shook his head blankly. ‘I cannot say.’

  Quinn squeezed his lips between his thumb and forefinger as he took this in. ‘And you, Mrs Cavendish? How would you describe your relationship with Sir Aidan?’

  She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head with vehement force. Whether she was refusing to answer the question or denying that there was any relationship between them, Quinn could not be sure.

  ‘Now, Mr Seddon says that he saw a blind piano tuner – or a man who was disguised as a blind piano tuner – and that he spoke to you about this man. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, I do remember Seddon mentioning it. As I said to the other policeman, I thought it was odd because normally I am the one who books the piano tuner and I knew nothing about this. It’s not our piano anyhow, so naturally I would not presume to have it tuned without the agreement of the school. The harpsichord is supplied by a rental company who take responsibility for the tuning of the instrument.’

  ‘Are these the kind of expenses that Sir Aidan had in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Now that you mention it, I do remember Seddon saying that it was Sir Aidan who had organized the piano tuner. Or that’s what the man told him.’

  ‘Did you see this man?’

  ‘No,’ said Cavendish emphatically.

  ‘How about you, Mrs Cavendish?’

  Ursula Cavendish appeared to be half in a daze, staring in deep fascination at Quinn’s face.

  ‘My wife is in shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She … we all … Sir Aidan … was a huge part of all our lives.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Quinn allowed a beat before asking: ‘Did you know Sir Aidan was the father of Anna Seddon’s baby?’

  A strange noise, a kind of animal yelp, escaped from Ursula Cavendish’s throat.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles Cavendish simply.

  ‘Did he have affairs with many of the women in the choir?’ Quinn was watching Ursula closely. She closed her eyes and shuddered as the colour drained from her face.

  ‘What kind of an investigation are you conducting here?’ demanded Cavendish.

  ‘A murder investigation.’

  ‘I do not see why it is necessary to engage in scurrilous, and quite frankly offensive, speculation of this nature.’

  ‘Did he have an affair with you, Mrs Cavendish?’

  ‘How dare you!’ cried Cavendish on his wife’s behalf.

  But Ursula Cavendish ignored her husband’s objection and merely shook her head with that same curious half-dazed, half-fascinated automatism.

  Perhaps it was unrealistic to expect her to admit to an affair in front of her husband. But Quinn somehow believed her and indeed read more into her response than simple denial.

  ‘What an extraordinary man he must have been,’ mused Quinn.

  Quinn turned to look at Cavendish. His mouth was pinched tightly as he stared unhap
pily at a knot on the teak surface of the desk. ‘It must have been difficult to bear, to see your wife in love with another man.’

  Cavendish gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘You went to have it out with him. Lost your temper – and in a fit of jealousy …’

  Ursula emerged from her daze enough to let out an incredulous, ‘Ha!’

  Quinn and Cavendish turned to her in astonishment.

  ‘Charles? Jealous?’ She produced a sound as dry and cold as falling stones. It took Quinn a moment to process it as laughter.

  Charles Cavendish’s face flooded pink as he wrinkled his brows. ‘The honest truth is I did go to talk to Sir Aidan about Ursula. I told him that if the two of them were in love and wished to be together, I would not stand in their way. My only wish was for Ursula to be happy.’

  Quinn felt his eyebrows shoot up at that. ‘And what did he say?’

  Ursula Cavendish seemed to stiffen in her seat. Quinn noticed her hands ball into tight fists and her jaw clench.

  ‘He practically laughed in my face.’

  Quinn winced on Cavendish’s behalf.

  ‘The whole thing was very unpleasant.’

  ‘Why did you do it? I mean, it seems a rather odd thing to do, to go to a man and offer him your wife.’

  ‘I don’t see why we should not be able to settle these things in a civilized way. We’re all adults, after all. I wanted things settled before … well, I have made the decision to fight, you see. And I wanted to make sure that Ursula would be all right.’

  ‘You are an extraordinarily selfless man,’ said Quinn. ‘If we are to believe you.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you believe me?’

  Quinn left the question unanswered.

  ‘I’d had enough,’ said Cavendish simply. ‘I couldn’t stop her falling in love with him. No more than I could stop the world turning. And so, what could I do? According to the conventional way of doing things, they would have conducted a secret affair, which perhaps I would have discovered, or at least suspected. And I should have been expected to play the part of the wronged husband. Should I have got jealous? Should I have raged and stormed and wept and begged? What a waste of time and energy that would have been. It wore me out just thinking about it. How much more civilized it would be to talk it over like adults.’