by R. N. Morris
The girl threw herself towards her mother, her own grief catching in her throat as if she were trying to cough it up.
And now another noise crashed into this, doors thrown open, the thunder of boots, all hard-edged and brutish, as Willoughby’s father burst into the room.
Disarrayed by drink he might have been, but now something else had undone him utterly. His eyes stared wildly as he tried to take in the scene. A bedraggled moustache jumped and writhed as his mouth twitched with questions he could not bring himself to ask.
Quinn and Macadam rose to their feet, as if they had been caught out doing something they shouldn’t have.
‘Mr Willoughby?’ Quinn tensed his lips together, as if he was determined to hold in the terrible news it was his duty to share. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Quinn, Martin’s commanding officer. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Martin is dead. He was shot in the line of duty earlier today. We don’t as yet know who killed him, but please be assured that we are doing everything in our power to apprehend his murderer. There will be an inquest, of course.’
The father stood stupefied, uncomprehending, as if he could not grasp it, not even after Quinn had spelled it out so bluntly. But no, that was unkind. It was simply that he could not take it in, or more likely refused to. Quinn suspected that, unlike his wife, he had not prepared himself for this moment at all.
The boy, dead? It was impossible. He had seen him only that morning, and he was as alive as any of them.
Such were the thoughts Quinn imagined rushing through the father’s head.
Willoughby senior shook his head in vigorous denial. An unvoiced no, no, no, repeated and repeated and repeated.
His face darkened, incomprehension making way for rage. Rage, surely, against the men who had brought this hard word – dead! – to his door, and had smuggled it into his parlour and smeared it about, defacing the walls of the little house his wife kept so neat and tidy. It was a credit to her, really it was.
There was no place for such words in here.
He shook his head, still, silently gainsaying the news they had brought.
Any minute now, Quinn thought, he will start shouting.
The rage will be too much for him. And the drink, the drink will have him shouting.
But no. Instead he turned his face to the wall, so that they could not see what havoc was being played with it now. There was a groan, a deep, suffering groan, then the man’s whole body seemed to quake. A vein bulged on his neck. His right arm tensed. Quinn watched in horror as he threw a punch. There was a sickening crack. The man’s fist crashed through the flimsy lath and plaster partition. The smell of plaster dust. Forever, now, Quinn would think of it as the smell of grief.
Willoughby’s father began to whimper, as he stood there with his broken knuckles half-buried in the wall.
It was strange to see them so isolated from one another in their pain. The mother, cleaving to her daughter for comfort. The father, lashing out at the very fabric of his ruined home, as if he would tear it down around them.
Quinn and Macadam exchanged a look and slipped away.
The boy Steve stood in the hall, outside the room, looking in, awestruck by his parents’ emotions.
Quinn reached out as if he might tousle his hair. He stopped himself just in time, his hand hovering uselessly between them.
‘Can you make your ma and pa a cup of tea, Steve?’
The boy nodded.
‘Then do that, why not. Do that for them. Make it sweet, very sweet, if you have sugar. They’ve had a shock, a terrible shock.’
Quinn nodded, then bowed his head as he charged out into the waiting darkness.
In the distance, the drunken singing continued.
THIRTY
It had been a long day, but Quinn was not ready for it to end yet. He was running on a kind of buzzing, empty energy that left him exhausted but incapable of even thinking about sleep.
He had Macadam take him back to the Yard, where he trudged heavily up to the attic room that housed the Special Crimes Department. He was surprised to see a light on there, and even more surprised to find DS Inchball at his desk.
Inchball looked up as Quinn came in, his expression more complicated than Quinn was used to seeing. A little shamefaced, contrite even, but still retaining enough bullishness that Quinn could be sure it was Inchball sitting in front of him.
Quinn turned his back on Inchball to hang up his bowler. He slowly extricated himself from his ulster before asking, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard. About Willoughby.’
‘Yes? And?’
‘I knew you’d be back. So I waited for you.’
‘I thought you were leaving us.’
‘I haven’t left yet.’
‘No? I thought you had.’ Quinn felt a sudden welling of anger.
‘I’m here, ain’t I?’ was Inchball’s quite reasonable defence.
At last, Quinn turned to face Inchball again. He acknowledged the truth of his sergeant’s observation with a small spasm of his lips. It was as close to a smile as anyone could expect under the circumstances.
Inchball nodded sharply to acknowledge it. ‘I reckoned you could do with some help.’
Quinn sighed. ‘What do you know?’
‘I know he was shot. In a church. In Hampstead.’
As Quinn filled Inchball in on the other details of the case, Macadam came into the room. He took his seat quietly. Quinn consulted his pocket watch with a frown. He had already told Macadam to go home after parking the Model T, but he could hardly blame him if he was feeling the same impulse to work, to do something, anything, to track down Willoughby’s killer.
‘So we’re looking for a blind man with a beard?’ summarized Inchball when Quinn had got to the end of his account.
‘Except he’s not really blind, and the beard is more than likely false.’ Quinn heard the weariness in his own voice.
‘Oh, that’s just perfect! And he wasn’t the feller who knocked the helmet off the special constable?’
‘Not in my view, no. Special Constable Elgar’s assailant is, I believe, a man called Roderick Masters. Although one witness has fingered Masters for Sir Aidan’s murder, I do not believe he did it.’ It was only now that he voiced it that Quinn realized his position on Masters. ‘First there is the question of motive. The witness in question is Donald Metcalfe, the accompanist for the choir. A strange fellow. He claims that Masters killed Sir Aidan because he had rejected a piece of music Masters had composed. I suppose it’s possible, but really? A young composer must have a considerable amount of rejection to contend with. Does he go around killing everyone who doesn’t like his music? Macadam, you know more about these types than I do.’
‘It’s true. I used to play the piccolo in the Boys’ Brigade marching band.’
This information was met with a scornful roll of the eyes from Inchball.
Quinn was more encouraging. ‘And so?’
‘Well, in my experience, musical types can be very sensitive. They are capable of bearing grudges. It’s not impossible.’
Quinn nodded, but his expression was unconvinced. ‘I don’t know. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on with Metcalfe. I suspect he isn’t being entirely open with me.’
‘Perhaps he’s trying to frame Masters?’ suggested Macadam.
‘It’s possible. Leaving aside motive, there’s the question of opportunity. By his own account, Metcalfe admits that he was with Masters immediately before Paul Seddon discovered Sir Aidan’s body. He says that Seddon saw them together, so we should be able to confirm that. The discovery of the white stick and the satchel in the church suggests to me that Paul Seddon was telling the truth about seeing a supposedly blind piano tuner fleeing the scene of the crime. This is our murderer, I believe. If we had not found these items, I would suspect Seddon. So, if we accept this theory, that Sir Aidan’s murderer was someone disguised as a blind piano tuner, it can’t be Masters. He simply wou
ld not have had time to disguise himself as a blind piano tuner, murder Sir Aidan and be seen by Paul Seddon in that disguise, only minutes after he had been seen undisguised.’
‘We should talk to him, though,’ suggested Inchball. A certain steeliness in his tone intimated he had a specific kind of talking in mind.
‘And we need to find the piano tuner,’ added Macadam redundantly. He looked purposefully towards the window where an inky blackness pressed against the panes. He fidgeted in his seat with a sprung restlessness, as if he wanted to be out there now, scouring the capital for the killer.
Quinn understood the sentiment and sympathized with it. ‘We need to find out more about Fonthill’s life. We’ll look into every aspect of it, not just his work with this choir. Tomorrow I shall talk to Lady Fonthill again. There’s something she isn’t telling us, I’m sure. We know that Fonthill was unfaithful, apparently on multiple occasions. She doesn’t have to have been the one who drove the weapon into his ear, but perhaps she knows who did, and is protecting him or her. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that she had a lover of her own.’
‘She didn’t seem the type to me, guv,’ put in Macadam, morosely, as if he would prefer it if she was.
Quinn had to admit his own instincts chimed with Macadam’s. But who was to say what a long-suffering wronged wife might be driven to do when she finally snaps?
‘They have children, don’t they?’ continued Macadam. ‘Whatever he was guilty of, do you really think a mother would do that to the father of her children?’
The door to the SCD burst open again. The three men turned to see DI Leversedge at the threshold of the room, his body set in a combative pose. His eyes were red as if he had been rubbing them. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You too?’ said Quinn.
The tension and fight suddenly went out of Leversedge’s posture. His head hung forlornly as exhaustion came over him. He held up a buff-coloured folder. It seemed that his arm was barely strong enough to brandish it. ‘I have the statements Pool’s men took this afternoon. I thought you would want to look them over tomorrow. Wanted to get them on your desk so you would have them first thing.’
Quinn nodded his gratitude.
‘Also, I have an address for that fellow Masters. It’s not likely he’s the killer but I thought you might like to talk to him all the same.’
‘Yes.’ Quinn frowned and cast a quizzical glance at his DI. He sensed his sergeants bristle with the same suspicion: had the man been listening at the door? Or was there a more innocent explanation? Perhaps he had simply come to the same conclusion independently. Still, it was impressive that he had an address already. It would save them a bit of time. ‘That’s useful,’ conceded Quinn. ‘How did you get it?’
‘I found a sheet of music on the piano. It had Masters’ name on it. Something he’d composed, by the looks of it. He’d also put his address on. It’s in the file.’
Leversedge passed the file to Quinn, who gave the barest nod of acknowledgement.
Twin spots of colour came up on Leversedge’s cheeks. ‘How did Willoughby’s folks take it?’ He did not look at Quinn as he asked the question, as if this would minimize the impact of the answer.
‘Not well,’ said Quinn.
‘It’s a bad business.’
‘Yes.’
‘We have to get the bastard who did this.’
Quinn met Leversedge’s gaze unhurriedly, as if preoccupied. ‘Yes.’ As if remembering himself, he opened the file and leafed through until he found the sheet of music Leversedge had mentioned. The first page was inscribed with the title, MISTLETOE. Beneath that was written, Words by Walter de la Mare. Setting by Roderick Masters. At the bottom of that title page was written, All correspondence concerning the musical performance of this piece should be addressed to Roderick Masters, 7, Lynton Road, Crouch End. ‘Strange.’
‘What is it, sir?’ asked Macadam.
‘Nothing. It’s just … something doesn’t quite add up.’ Quinn shook his head as if to dispel a momentary daze. ‘Inchball, you said you wanted to talk to Masters.’ He read out the address for Inchball to note down.
Inchball gave a terse nod. ‘Now?’
‘Round up a couple of uniforms to go with you. And take a Black Maria. We want to make an impression. I don’t mind if you have to drag him out of bed. Mind you, if he is the killer, the chances are he’ll have done a bunk by now. Unless he’s a very cool customer indeed. So, if you find him, put the fear of God into him. See how he responds to pressure.’
Inchball didn’t need any further instruction. It was the kind of assignment that played to his strengths. He hurried out, grabbing his bowler from the stand on his way.
Quinn narrowed his eyes. He took a dim view of overgrown schoolboys knocking bobbies’ helmets off, even if the bobby in question was only a volunteer special constable, and the attack had motives other than undermining the police.
‘We should talk to the foreigners too,’ said Leversedge darkly. ‘And that Dame Elsie woman.’
‘Very well,’ said Quinn, ‘if you think it’s worth pursuing.’ He made no attempt to keep the scepticism from his voice.
Leversedge felt the need to justify himself. ‘I’ve read the statements. It comes up time and again. Fonthill insulted the Belgian, Boland, made unflattering remarks about Dame Elsie’s weight and was rude about the Russian male dancer, practically accused him of being a nancy boy. Meanwhile he was lusting after the girl. He made numerous lascivious remarks.’
‘Numerous?’
‘Indeed. There are multiple witnesses to that. The consensus is the Russian chap is not a nancy boy after all but a hot-blooded male of the foreign type, passionately enamoured of his dancing partner, by all accounts. Unsurprisingly therefore, he waxed jealous and wrathful.’
‘And then donned a false beard and pretended to be blind?’ objected Macadam.
‘Also, there’s the question of the weapon,’ said Quinn. ‘The handle of the tuning fork had been sharpened to a point. Dr Emsley compared it to a stiletto blade. That indicates premeditation, not a crime of passion. Indeed, it almost suggests the work of a professional assassin.’
Leversedge conceded the justice of their objections with a splayed hand. ‘I do not say I have all the ends tied up, but it is worth questioning the Russian, is it not? He strikes me as the type who would have access to such a weapon. Then there’s the fact that he was one of the ones who disappeared sharpish before the local bobbies were on the scene. Oh, and on the subject of false beards, I can tell you that such an object was retrieved from DS Willoughby’s pocket by the medical officer. He has not conducted any conclusive tests on it as yet, but he is of the opinion that it contains traces of a substance he believes to be blood.’
Quinn narrowed his eyes to take this in. ‘Perhaps he was sprayed in the face as he thrust the weapon in.’ There was a moment of silence as the other men reflected on this gruesome image. Quinn continued: ‘A strange murderer, this, who scatters items of his disguise for the police to find.’
Leversedge was ready with an explanation. ‘He’s panicking. Wants to do a quick change into someone else and make his getaway.’
‘Why go inside the church?’
‘A sudden attack of religion?’ Even Leversedge did not sound convinced by this hastily invented theory.
Quinn pursed his lips dubiously. ‘Or perhaps he went to meet someone there. Which could mean …’ Quinn did not complete his thought.
He did not need to. Macadam was there already. ‘There were two of them in there when Willoughby went in.’
‘Either one of which could have been Willoughby’s killer,’ supplied Leversedge.
Quinn crossed to his desk and sat down. He took out some blank postcards and a thick black pencil from his drawer. On the first, he wrote Sir Aidan Fonthill. He handed this across his desk to Leversedge, who pinned it in the centre of the largest wall of the attic office.
Each on a separate postcard, Quinn then wrot
e the following names: Lady Emma Fonthill, Anna Seddon, Paul Seddon, Charles Cavendish, Ursula Cavendish, Roderick Masters, Donald Metcalfe, Peter Farthing. The cards were handed to Leversedge, to be pinned in place around the first card.
‘We need to map where each of these persons were at the time of Sir Aidan’s murder. And by whom they were seen.’
Quinn then consulted the folded programme he had pocketed earlier and added further names for the wall: Emile Boland, Dame Elsie Tatton. He had to check the programme again to copy carefully: Andrei Kuznetzov, Ekaterina Volkova.
‘The same goes for these.’
He laid two final cards on the desk in front of him. On the first he wrote: Blind Piano Tuner? Who?
On the next he simply drew a large question mark. He took his time carefully drawing the curve of the punctuation mark, thickening the line with meticulous shading.
He sat back to consider his handiwork, like an artist who has just completed the provisional sketch for a new composition.
He handed the Blind Piano Tuner? card to Leversedge without comment, leaving the other in the centre of his desk. He traced the question mark with the tip of his index finger, tapping once on the point at the bottom.
‘This man is the key to it all,’ he said.
He looked up abruptly with a new eagerness. The faces of the other men showed only doubt and confusion.
‘Someone knows who he is. Someone knows what connects him to Sir Aidan.’
Finally, he relinquished the last card, watching in silence as Leversedge added it to the others.
THIRTY-ONE
The horse-drawn Black Maria clattered through the streets of North London, a dark missile piercing the night.
It was past midnight by the time it pulled up in the middle of a narrow, badly lit street in Crouch End with a restraining yell from the driver. The back doors sprang open, pouring out more darkness into that which surrounded it. This new darkness had shape and form and substance, as well as steel-tipped boots that clashed noisily with the cobbled surface. For it was made up of men. Men who had been coiled but were now sprung.
