by R. N. Morris
‘Still, not many men would react the way you did.’
‘I’m not so sure. Mankind is evolving, I believe. I have read of certain experimental modes of living in Russia. Socialist communes, where all is held in common, and free love is practised. If a man and a woman wish to engage in sexual intercourse – regardless of whether they are married, either to one another or anyone else – then not merely is that condoned, it is positively encouraged. The frustration of the sexual urge is seen as a great evil.’
‘It’s all very well in Russia,’ said Quinn. ‘Between some hypothetical man and woman. But here in Hampstead, with your own wife and Sir Aidan Fonthill? That surely is a different proposition?’
‘It shouldn’t be. It is, in fact, the ultimate test of one’s principles.’
‘And after all that, after you had girded yourself up to make this fantastically selfless offer, he laughed in your face.’ For Cavendish to have his serious principles ridiculed must have been provoking, to say the least. ‘I wonder, did you tell Mrs Cavendish how he reacted?’
‘Well, naturally, Ursula was interested to know the outcome of my conversation. Weren’t you?’
Ursula did not respond, except to pucker her lips distastefully.
‘It’s regrettable that these details must come out,’ Cavendish continued. ‘But in the light of Sir Aidan’s death, I feel that I have no choice but to be completely open with you. I had no motive to kill Sir Aidan. You must believe me.’
‘What about you, Mrs Cavendish? Sir Aidan rejected you. That must have been humiliating. Especially as your husband was playing the role of matchmaker.’
‘Aidan was a gentleman. What else could he say to Charles? Naturally he would deny his true feelings.’
‘Why?’
‘To avoid a scene, of course. There was nothing Aidan hated more than a scene.’
‘He did enough to cause them,’ commented Cavendish in a muttered aside.
Ursula Cavendish was warming to her theme. ‘He probably thought that Charles was trying to trick him into some kind of confession, and then … who knows what might have happened? He might have turned violent.’
Quinn tapped seven times on the desk with the nail of his left middle finger while he tried to gather his thoughts. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Sir Aidan dead?’
The estranged couple exchanged a meaning glance.
Then, at precisely the same moment, they each said a different name.
TWENTY-TWO
‘What? Who? You first, Mr Cavendish.’
‘Well, I don’t like to point the finger. And it may have been nothing … but, Peter Farthing, that’s who I would have said.’
‘Peter Farthing?’ Quinn made a note of the name.
‘Yes.’
‘And who is Peter Farthing?’
‘A singer.’
‘With the choir?’
‘No. He is a professional singer whom Sir Aidan brings in from time to time to boost the basses. Also, he was due to sing a solo, or rather a duet with Dame Elsie.’
‘Dame Elsie?’
‘Dame Elsie Tatton.’
Quinn noted this name too and nodded for Cavendish to go on.
‘Farthing had got it into his head that Sir Aidan was trying to cheat him out of his fee.’
‘Was he?’
‘Well, oh, I … there was some confusion over the fee, I will give you that. But Farthing is a prickly character, quick to take offence. And he had also got himself worked up over the programme notes for some reason.’
‘What about the programme notes?’
‘Oh, it was nothing, just Farthing’s vanity. He was not credited for the duet I mentioned, whereas Dame Elsie was. He took great umbrage, as you might imagine he would if you knew him.’
‘Do you have a copy of the programme?’
‘I don’t see that what it has to do with anything, but, yes, here you are.’ Cavendish fished in his inner pocket to retrieve a folded sheet.
Quinn scanned the programme. ‘Why was his name left off?’
‘A simple oversight.’
‘It wasn’t a deliberate insult?’
‘Of course not. In fact, I don’t think we knew he would be the one singing with Dame Elsie at the time we had the programme printed. I rather think Farthing had not confirmed. He likes to keep Sir Aidan dangling. Either that or Sir Aidan was holding out the hope that he might get someone better. Or at least more pleasant. Farthing is a good enough musician but he does himself no favours with his attitude. An arrogant boor, he is. At any rate, he was in quite a fury over it. I believe Paul Seddon overheard him threaten to kill Sir Aidan.’
‘Strange,’ remarked Quinn. ‘Seddon did not mention this just now when we spoke to him.’
Cavendish seemed to lose faith in himself. ‘Oh, perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘You yourself did not hear Farthing threaten Sir Aidan?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘So once again, we only have Mr Seddon’s word to go on?’
‘Possibly Seddon was not being wholly serious. It may have been a joke.’
‘A joke? Rather an odd thing to joke about, is it not?’
‘Yes, but … well, I don’t know. You will have to talk to Farthing about it.’
‘I shall, don’t worry.’ Quinn turned the pages of the programme in his hands as he studied its contents thoughtfully. ‘One other question, if you don’t mind. How did Farthing get hold of a copy of this?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘They had not been distributed to the performers?’
‘No-o-o.’
‘And so, someone must have given him a copy?’
‘Must they?’
‘How else would he have got hold of it?’
‘He might have found one lying around.’
‘Who organized the printing of the programme?’
‘I did.’
‘And who had the copies of the finished programmes?’
‘I did.’
‘And who else had you shared a programme with?’
‘I’m not sure. Sir Aidan, certainly.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Perhaps … I might have … I can’t remember for sure.’
Quinn fixed Cavendish with a thoughtful gaze as he slowly closed the programme. ‘May I keep this?’
Cavendish shrugged his acquiescence.
‘Is it possible, Mr Cavendish, that you gave the programme to Farthing yourself?’
Quinn watched Cavendish squirm. ‘I … well, what an extraordinary … Good heavens …’
‘Perhaps you left it somewhere where you knew he would find it?’
Quinn did not press the treasurer for an answer. Instead he turned his attention to Ursula Cavendish. ‘And you, Mrs Cavendish, who was it you thought of?’
‘Donald Metcalfe.’
‘Ah, well, no. Now, really, I don’t think so,’ protested Cavendish. ‘Ursula, you really can’t mean that! Not Donald, surely not. I know he’s rather an odd cove but … no, no!’
‘Who is Donald Metcalfe?’ Again, Quinn made a note of the name.
Ursula Cavendish sat with her face pinched into a grim, self-righteous frown.
‘He’s our accompanist,’ explained Cavendish. ‘A very talented musician … He is something of a queer fish, I grant you.’
‘Queer fish? Cold fish, more like.’ Ursula shuddered in disgust. ‘You should have seen the way he looked at Sir Aidan. You could see it in his eyes. Hatred, pure hatred. Such a horrid man.’
‘But he plays like an angel!’ objected Cavendish.
‘Why did he hate Sir Aidan?’ said Quinn.
Ursula let out a long sigh. ‘To some extent, Aidan only had himself to blame.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Aidan could be quite … cruel. Or it could seem that way if you didn’t understand what he was trying to accomplish.’
‘What was he trying to accomplish?’
‘Pe
rfection. And yet his tools were very far from perfect. He often grew frustrated. And he would take out his frustrations on Metcalfe.’
‘He was a bully,’ said Cavendish bluntly.
But before he could expand on this, the piercing blast of a police whistle came to them from outside.
TWENTY-THREE
A resolute look passed between Inspector Pool and Sergeant Kennedy, a split second of hesitation before they threw themselves into a yelling rush towards the door.
At the same moment, Quinn sprang up from his seat. ‘Inchball, Macadam!’
‘Inchball’s not here, sir,’ Macadam winced as he corrected Quinn.
‘I meant Willoughby. Willoughby and Macadam. Come with me.’
‘What about me?’ asked Leversedge.
‘You stay here and finish taking their statements.’ Quinn nodded towards the Cavendishes. ‘And when you have done that, find Peter Farthing and Donald Metcalfe and have them wait here for my return.’
If Leversedge felt any slight in this, he was clever enough not to show it. He puffed himself up with a display of satisfied self-importance as if he would have it no other way.
Quinn followed the shouts out into the quad, where the sudden night was pierced by the crisscrossing beams of electric lanterns.
A huddle of bobbies was bent over something stirring on the ground near the main gate. The bobbing lights seemed to pick out the shape of a man.
‘It’s Constable Elgar!’ came back the shout.
‘Good God!’ cried Macadam. ‘That’s a national disaster!’
The distinguished composer – if Macadam was right in his identification – was helped to his feet. His special constable’s helmet had been knocked from his head, and his hair was in disarray. He drew himself up to his full height, and the full extent of his dignity. His hands trembled slightly as he took back his helmet, which one of the other bobbies had retrieved for him.
There was no shortage of police to shout questions at the victim.
‘Who did this to you? Did you see?’
‘I didn’t get a good look at him. He came at me out of the dark.’
‘Didn’t you have your lantern switched on, man?’
‘I thought to conserve the electricity.’
‘Don’t you know you get eight hours of charge out of these things?’
‘That’s not my experience.’
‘Everyone! Switch your lanterns off!’ Quinn’s abrupt command provoked a chorus of confused grumbling, dispelled with a forceful, ‘Now!’
The men stood silhouetted in the lights from the school.
‘You should have been able to form some impression of his general size. For example, was he as big as DI Pool here, or as small as DS Kennedy?’
‘Steady!’ objected Kennedy.
‘Somewhere in between,’ said Elgar. ‘In terms of his height. As for his build, I would say he was thinner than both these gentlemen.’
‘A man of medium height and slight build then.’ It was not much but it was something.
The police lanterns began to come back on again. The general feeling was that Quinn’s experiment had not resulted in any significant information. Quinn himself had to admit that the world is full of scrawny men, middlingly tall.
The mood was one of impatience. ‘Never mind that, which way did he go?’
‘He went out on to Frognal and then ran away in that direction.’ Constable Elgar pointed to the right, north towards Church Row.
Quinn had to hold out an arm to prevent Macadam from giving chase. ‘Let Willoughby go.’
His sergeant pushed against the restraint, but Willoughby was already off, with a bunch of uniforms hard on his heels. The clack of their hobnails clattered along the road as they ran headlong into the darkness.
Macadam was not so practised at hiding disappointment as Leversedge. His body twitched unhappily as he looked anywhere but at his governor.
‘It is not so long since you sustained a gunshot wound in the pursuit of another suspect.’
‘I am fully recovered from that, sir.’
‘Let Willoughby go. His legs are younger.’
‘You think I am too old for active police work?’
‘I thought I’d lost you once. I’m not ready to go through that again.’
Meanwhile the questioning of Constable Elgar continued, with Inspector Pool taking the lead. Whatever stock of sympathy might have been extended to him when the attack had been discovered was obviously spent. The tone was critical, to the point of hostile.
‘How did he get past you?’
‘I wasn’t expecting violence. I had been led to believe they were musicians in there.’
‘And one of them may well be a murderer! Did that not occur to you?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Wasn’t the gate locked?’
‘No. I was told to unlock it.’
‘Yes, unlock it. By all means unlock it. But that doesn’t mean you were to let every Tom, Dick and Harry come and go as they pleased. You were supposed to be guarding it, were you not?’ This was not so much a question as an expression of the prevailing impatience.
Someone even said, ‘Bloody amateurs.’
‘What did he strike you with?’ asked Quinn.
Elgar hesitated a moment before replying uncertainly, ‘I’m not sure. His fist, I believe.’
That he should allow himself to be taken out by a mere fist provoked a chorus of disdainful snorts.
‘And did you not think to cosh him with your truncheon?’
‘I didn’t have time to wield it. It was all over so quickly.’
There was much tutting and shaking of heads at this. Constable Elgar did not appear to be bearing up well under this barrage of criticism. He was breathing heavily through flared nostrils. His agitated moustache quivered at the apparent pursing of his concealed lips. His brows came together in a thunderous expression as he stared fixedly down at his helmet, which he was dusting off with the truncated cuff of a tunic that was too small for him. He looked as if he might explode with either rage or tears at any moment.
Sergeant Macadam did his best to stand up for the beleaguered special. ‘Come now, it could have happened to any one of you fellows, you know. Why was Constable Elgar left alone on the gate? That’s what I want to know. Given the circumstances, the fact that a violent criminal is at large, I would have thought it wiser to have had two officers positioned at such a strategic point. With firearms. That would have been sufficient to deter a sole assailant.’
‘Are you criticizing my orders?’ Pool loomed threateningly over Macadam.
Macadam flashed a look of appeal towards Quinn.
Quinn thought it wise to bring the discussion back to the matter in hand. ‘Did he say anything, the man who assaulted you?’
‘He said, “That’s for Land of Hope and Glory.”’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Macadam.
‘What do you think he meant by that?’ asked Quinn.
‘I am used to the hostility of music critics, but it has not hitherto reached such violent proportions.’
‘I was right! You are Sir Edward Elgar!’
Macadam’s eager exclamation was met with a discouraging wince. ‘While I am on duty with the Special Constabulary, I am simply Constable Elgar.’
‘Are you aware that one of your compositions was to be performed in the concert the choir was rehearsing?’ Quinn took out the programme that Cavendish had given him. ‘“A Christmas Greeting.”’
‘My music is performed all the time by any number of musical societies around the world.’
‘Forgive me, you live in Hampstead, do you not? Presumably that is why you volunteered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so, this performance, by a local choir, would have come to your attention, would it not?’
‘He may have written to me about it.’
‘He?’
‘That Fonthill fellow. The one who’s dead.’
‘Sir Aidan wr
ote to you?’
‘People write to me all the time. I can’t remember them all.’
‘But you do remember that Sir Aidan wrote to you? About the concert?’
‘I suppose so. Damned impertinence. As if I should willingly inflict upon myself the torment of hearing my music mangled by that talentless ass.’
‘So you knew Sir Aidan?’
‘He had tried to make himself known to me by various clumsy subterfuges. Such as the staging of this concert. It was all designed to procure my approval and further his own ambition.’
‘I had understood that the concert was to raise money for the relief of Belgian refugees.’
‘Is that so?’
‘That’s what it says on the programme. Have you heard of Dame Elsie Tatton?’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘In what context?’
‘She is one of our finest sopranos.’
‘And she was to sing in the concert?’
‘Was she?’
‘Sir Aidan did not mention her participation in his letter?’
‘He might have.’
‘Did he also mention that she would be singing a solo in “A Christmas Greeting”?’
‘What if he did?’
‘Did it not sway you? I mean, Dame Elsie was hardly likely to mangle it, was she?’
‘Look, if she’s prepared to jeopardize her reputation by taking part in this fiasco, then that is up to her. It’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘What about Émile Boland?’
‘What about him?’
‘Have you heard of him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘He is a great artist.’
‘He was taking part too. And performing in “A Christmas Greeting”.’
‘Yes, yes, I am aware. And so, do you see how transparent this fellow was? How he sought to flatter and manipulate me into attending? That’s what it was all about. That’s why it was done. Well, let me tell you, I wasn’t having it.’
‘Do you still have the letter?’
‘Alice deals with all that. Though I doubt she’s kept it.’
‘Alice?’
