The Music Box Enigma

by R. N. Morris

  Men who had been pointed in the direction of a target.

  Two of the men wore police uniforms and wielded truncheons. The third, in plain clothes, wearing a bowler hat and a dark suit, drew himself up in a posture of domination. He breathed in, filling his lungs with the night air.

  Inchball gave a loud, dismissive snort. He had the measure of the neighbourhood, even in the dark. This was not a well-to-do street. Terraces of mean, little pattern-book houses, quickly built, occupied by manual workers and lowly paid clerks. Perhaps a few gentle folk who had fallen on hard times.

  Most of the houses, including the suspect’s, were already in darkness. That was the way Inchball wanted it. Everyone tucked up in bed, fast asleep. Or maybe they were getting down to their bedroom business. It was Saturday night, after all. The man of the house back from the boozer, expecting his missus to fulfil her conjugal duties. From what he knew of this fellow Masters, though, he doubted there was a missus. Some kind of musician, wasn’t he? Probably batted for the other side. That was usually the way with these artistic types.

  That would be interesting, if they caught him entertaining a friend. Something to hold over him. Could be useful.

  Or more likely he was on his own. Crying into his sad, lonely pillow. Yanking his sad, lonely cock.

  Inchball’s smirk was concealed by the darkness. He raised his hand and grasped the cheap brass door knocker to bring it hammering down. ‘Police! Open up!’

  Somewhere down the street, a dog started barking.

  Inchball kept up the pounding on the door, settling into a stubborn, belligerent rhythm.

  At last a light went on, illuminating the two upstairs windows. A curtain twitched.

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered Inchball, to himself as much as to anyone. Although the occupants of the house were without doubt aware of his presence by now, he did not let up on the knocking. He was hammering away right up to the moment that the door was opened to the extent of its chain and a pair of ice-pale eyes peered out at him fearfully. The eyes were deep-set in a thin face, above a sharp beak of a nose. A high, domed forehead was fringed with tufts of silver hair. A mouth gaped anxiously beneath a white walrus moustache. An old man’s face then.

  ‘Roderick Masters?’

  ‘No. I … I’m his father. What’s this about?’

  ‘Is your son in, Mr Masters?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But he’s in bed.’

  Inchball showed his warrant card. ‘I’d like a word with him, if you don’t mind.’

  The door closed as the chain was jangled free, then reopened. Masters senior stood with his back against the wall to let the three policemen march through. The clamour of their boots was enough to wake anyone in the street still sleeping.

  The narrow hall was lit by a single dim gaslight. Masters senior was wearing a long, striped nightgown, from the bottom of which protruded two bare, boney ankles and knobbly feet. He went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up. ‘Rod! There are some … policemen here to see you.’

  They waited in silence until soft footsteps padded down the stairs. A man in his early thirties wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown appeared. He had the same thin, anxious face as his father. His hairline was beginning to go the same way too.

  ‘Are you Roderick Masters?’ Inchball demanded when Masters had joined them at the bottom of the stairs.

  The young man looked apprehensively at his father. ‘Y-yes. What is this about?’

  Inchball nodded to the two uniforms. ‘Get ’im!’

  The men, although they were perhaps not the burliest examples of their type, were nonetheless imposing individuals, their helmets almost touching the ceiling of the cramped hallway. They rushed at Roderick Masters and wrestled him to the ground, twisting one arm up his back.

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Masters’ father. ‘This is police brutality! My son is innocent!’

  ‘Innocent, is he? We have a witness what says he is a murderer.’

  The two uniforms hefted Roderick Masters to his feet. The young man was in tears.

  Inchball sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’ he snarled in disgust.

  Masters’ face was red and streaked with wetness. Snot and blood trailed from where his nose had been driven into the hall rug. A damp patch spread out around his groin.

  ‘He’s pissed hisself,’ observed Inchball with a derisive smirk.

  Masters hung his head in shame.

  The uniforms had the cuffs on by now and were shoving him towards the door.

  ‘Don’ you worry,’ said Inchball to Masters senior with a wink. ‘We’ll take good care of him.’

  Behind him, he heard the old man let out a high-pitched wail as he slumped to the floor.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Silas Quinn lived in a four-storey lodging house just off the Brompton Road, in a pleasant enough location close to Hyde Park and Exhibition Road. Once, he might have described it as a respectable house; certainly, that was how it had seemed when he had moved in. But the more he had learnt of his fellow lodgers, and, to be fair, the more they learnt of him, the less easy it had proven to maintain that appearance. Not that he, or they, were especially wicked people. Just that a certain messiness was inevitable in the lives of any group of men and women living in close proximity.

  Quinn stood on the front step and turned the key in the lock. Something dark and immeasurable pressed at his back, hurrying him over the threshold.

  He closed the door on it as quickly as he could without making a noise. Even so, he had the feeling that some of that darkness had slipped through. It was still there, dogging his steps, as he moved towards the stairs, his step as quiet and stealthy as a housebreaker’s.

  Knowing that he kept irregular hours, his landlady, Mrs Ibbott, had left the landing light on for him. It was one of the original gas lights – the house had both gas and electric lighting – and so Mrs Ibbott had been able to turn it down to a dim glow.

  There was no secret any more about Quinn’s occupation. For as long as he could, he had tried to maintain an air of convenient vagueness concerning who he was and what he did, hoping that none of his fellow lodgers would identify him as the notorious personality Quickfire Quinn whom they read about in their newspapers. Somehow, his modest habits and quiet demeanour had thrown everyone off the scent.

  But then it had come out, and there had been nothing he could do about it. Mrs Ibbott and her daughter Mary had been the first to make the connection.

  Besides Mrs Ibbott and Mary, there were only two original occupants of the house remaining, a retired army colonel called Berwick, and Mr Finch, a schoolmaster whom Quinn suspected of having socialist leanings. Old Berwick was becoming increasingly confused. Finch seemed to be giving Quinn a wide berth these days, which suited the detective. Everyone else who had known the truth about him was either dead or had moved out.

  But he sensed that somehow the new occupants – three officers billeted there by the Ministry of Defence – all came fully primed with the knowledge of his identity. He suspected that Mrs Ibbott had confided it to them as she showed them their rooms, no doubt swearing them to secrecy. A more sinister explanation was possible, however – that one or more of the soldiers was a military intelligence officer, installed in the house to keep an eye on Quinn. Quinn knew that he had a tendency to imagine conspiracies and plots, a useful enough trait when investigating crimes but potentially damaging when he imagined them directed against himself.

  By now the other occupants of the house should be asleep, or at least in their beds. Though for all Quinn knew, they were insomniacs staring at the fuzzy rectangles of their ceilings, projecting on to them their own anguished regrets, guilty secrets and humiliating memories.

  If Quinn had to guess which of the men was the spy, he would have gone for the donnish, distracted-looking fellow who lived alone in the room previously occupied by the Hargreaves (and before that by Miss Dillard). Carstairs was his name. He spoke with a genteel Edinburgh accent, but only, so far
as Quinn could tell, to say ‘Good day’ as they passed on their way in or out of the house.

  Carstairs gave every impression of being the sort of chap who liked to keep himself to himself, showing no interest in anyone else’s comings and goings. Which led Quinn to conclude that if there was a secret agent in their midst, here was the most likely candidate.

  The other two fellows, Pringle and Epping, were of a common enough male type. Indeed, to some extent they were like older, less intellectual versions of the two young men who had occupied the same room before them, Appleby and Timberley. They shared the same facetious humour and the same facility for quick and easy banter (without the irritating habit of lapsing into Latin for their numerous private jokes); the same refusal, in short, to take anything too seriously, outwardly at least – events had proven both Appleby and Timberley ultimately capable of great seriousness. And they had shown their glib-witted cheeriness for what it was: a mask.

  This was a period of transition, when the authorities were improvising solutions to cope with the huge influx of men into the armed forces. Current resources were stretched to breaking point, and the necessary provisions were not yet in place, if they had been thought of at all.

  Quinn told himself, therefore, that there was little point forming any bonds of friendship with the new residents. In all honesty, he would not have done so even if their presence had been on a more permanent footing, but it was good to have the excuse. And Mrs Ibbott seemed less inclined than she once had been to try to get her guests together for social evenings in the parlour after dinner.

  Mary too was less in evidence than she had once been. Quinn could not help thinking that it was largely to avoid him. She was no doubt embarrassed by the business with Hargreaves, and however grateful she was for the part Quinn had played in rescuing her, the sight of him was bound to be a reminder of a painful episode.

  As he climbed the stairs, he felt his heart grow heavier with each tread. He willed himself to form the image of Willoughby’s face in his mind, as if every moment that he did not hold it in front of him was a betrayal. But his imagination failed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, in silent remonstration with a non-existent antagonist.

  He reached the landing where Carstairs’ room was. The sight of the door brought back difficult memories.

  Once he had pressed his ear to that door, expecting to hear the sound of Miss Dillard’s weeping. But instead he had heard a strange, unrhythmic thumping. Inconceivable that poor, sad, unloved Miss Dillard was ‘entertaining’ a ‘gentleman friend’ in her room, to employ two ridiculous euphemisms. But that was what it had sounded like, the banging of a couple going at it hell for leather. Alas, if only, but no. It had been the solitary convulsions of her body in its death throes.

  He had always believed that by his ruthless pursuit of violent criminals, he protected weak and defenceless members of society like Miss Dillard from harm. That he took the danger that threatened everyone on himself and became a kind of avenging angel, striking terror into the hearts of those who would do evil. He faced them and he killed them. A necessary act of violence for the greater good.

  But if that was true, why did so many who were innocent end up dead too?

  Was he simply deluding himself? Or was it worse than that? Was he responsible?

  No avenging angel, but an angel of death.

  He killed the light that Mrs Ibbott had left for him, erasing the shape of the door he still thought of as Miss Dillard’s despite the fact that he had carried her dying, thrashing body out of there himself.

  At last he opened the door to his own room. His curtains were open, and some light came in through the window, the feathery glow of a gibbous moon.

  He sat down heavily on his bed. The springs rattled complainingly as a violent shudder passed through his body.

  The only concession he was willing to make to his own comfort was to unlace the boots that were now so heavy that he was unable to lift his feet from the floor. This unlacing took an eternity to be completed, a long eternity.

  When it was done, he took off his bowler and dropped it carelessly on the floor.

  He lay down on the bed, pulling his ulster around him, lifting his knees to curl himself around the emptiness.

  His eyes were open. His mouth, open too. As if he were trying to emulate the look of muted wonder that he had seen on Willoughby’s face.

  And now he saw it at last, the darkness that had followed him into the house. And the darkness looked back at him, immeasurable still, and devoid of pity.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Inchball had the driver take them round the back streets of Hornsey, while he and the two uniforms worked on Masters in the back of the Black Maria. Nothing too rough. The threat of violence would be enough to crack this one. That and the darkness, and the fear of not knowing what might come out of it. He might fall over once or twice. Bang his head on the floor. That was hardly their fault was it. That’s what happened when you resisted arrest.

  ‘You know what we do to scumbags who kill coppers?’

  ‘N-n-no. W-w-what?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way. Not a lot of them go to trial. You remember Cecil Edwards, that toerag what slit the throat of a bobby in Walthamstow? Found hanged in his cell, he was, by his own belt. Let’s just say he might have had a little help. And let’s just say it was Constable Wilson here what strung him up. He’s done it before. He can do it again.’

  ‘I tell you, I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill the policeman. I didn’t know anything about it. I was nowhere near it?’

  ‘Nowhere near it? So you deny you were at University College School in Hampstead earlier today, around one o’clock?’

  ‘No, I was there. I admit, I was there.’

  ‘So you admit you murdered Sir Aidan Fonthill?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I said.’

  The Black Maria went over a deep pothole in the road. Somehow, Masters found himself on the floor, between the feet of the three policemen. Somehow, as they stumbled to help him in the dark, the odd boot or two may have made contact with his body.

  When they had him back on the bench seat, Inchball tried a different tack. ‘Now now, old chap, we might have got off on the wrong foot here. You can understand how we’re upset, can’t you? A policeman getting shot down in a church? It’s not nice. We don’t like it. We wanna find the bastard what done it. You can understand that.’

  ‘It’s not me. I swear.’

  ‘I wanna believe you. I do. But you’ve got to give me something. I tell you what. Admit to the murder of Sir Aidan and we’ll find someone else for Sergeant Willoughby.’

  ‘What? No! I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it, I tell you. I didn’t kill either of them. You have to let me go. I’m innocent.’

  ‘Innocent, are you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘But you wrote that music, din’ you? What’s it called now, Holly and the Arsehole?’

  ‘You mean Mistletoe? It’s called Mistletoe.’

  ‘That’s right. I knew it was something like that. The Mistletoe and the Arsehole.’

  ‘There’s no Arsehole!’

  ‘Isn’t there? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what? You sent it to Fonthill?’

  ‘Yes … but I don’t see …’

  ‘Why d’you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought … I knew he was putting on a Christmas concert. I suppose I thought he might like to include it. It’s a choral piece. He is the choirmaster of the Hampstead Voices, a fairly decent amateur choir. I thought it would be a good opportunity. For them. To include something a little more imaginative and modern in their programme.’

  ‘He thought it was shite, though, din’ he? A shocking piece of shite, he said. That’s what I heard.’

  ‘I don’t know what he thought. He never acknowledged it.’

  ‘That’s rude, ain’t it? Very rude, I’d call that. Very rude and disrespectful. To a proud young man l
ike yourself. It must have rankled. Oh, how it must have rankled. Rankle, rankle, rankled. Ate away at you, did’n it? You couldn’t let it lie. That’s why you done him in, ain’t it?’

  ‘No! What do you mean? I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Then, as you made your escape, you attacked the constable on duty at the school gate. Poor elderly volunteer constable. Struck him down then ran off. Whereupon you shot to death one of the officers sent to apprehend you. A young fella, younger than you. With a ma and pa of his own, and brothers and sisters too.’

  ‘No! That wasn’t me! I swear! I don’t even have a gun. How could I shoot someone?’

  ‘Listen, I’m gonna try and stop ’em, course I am. But what you need to know is, these two here, they don’t take too kindly to one of their own getting murdered. Their blood’s up, you understand.’

  ‘Look, look. I confess. I confess. It was me who knocked Elgar’s helmet off.’

  ‘Special Constable Elgar to you.’

  ‘No, no, to me he’s Elgar. It wasn’t because he was a policeman. It was because he was Elgar. It was just a stupid … stupid … prank. I don’t even … My father adulates Elgar. He thinks he is the pinnacle of musical … genius. And everything I do is … rubbish.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But do you see? I wasn’t even attacking Elgar. I was attacking my father. When I found out there was to be a piece by Elgar in the programme, but mine had been rejected … Yes, I did … I was … angry. I knew my father would want to go to the concert. And yet if my piece had been included … well, I sincerely doubt he would have made the effort. But I didn’t kill Sir Aidan and I didn’t kill the policeman, honestly. You have to believe me. I even felt bad about Elgar. I didn’t know he would collapse like that. I only meant to … I don’t know … I don’t know what I meant to do.’

  ‘It’s all very well you saying that, but can you prove you wasn’t in the church when Willoughby was shot?’

  Masters stirred tensely in the darkness, his body wracked by a sudden excitement. ‘Yes! Yes, I can! I have an alibi! I really do have an alibi!’ He began to sob with relief.