The Music Box Enigma

by R. N. Morris

  It also occurred to him that Sir Aidan’s murder, given the choice of weapon and the location of the fatal wound, was a deliberate insult to his carefully constructed identity.

  Over by the desk, Callaghan gestured to a small mahogany box, about the size of a tea caddy. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Don’t touch it.’

  The butler appeared put out by Quinn’s abrupt command.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there may be prints on it that will enable us to identify its sender. Who has handled it so far, do you know?’

  ‘As far as I know, only Sir Aidan.’

  Quinn turned to Macadam enquiringly. Macadam held up his gloved hands in answer, then squeezed past to examine the box.

  ‘Mahogany inlaid with marquetry formed from some lighter wood, perhaps ash. The design of a harp or lyre is depicted.’ Macadam turned the object in his hands. ‘I would estimate its weight to be three to four pounds. Perhaps a little more. There is a key projecting from one side. The underside is unvarnished and bears a crude inscription.’ Macadam looked up significantly. ‘In German.’

  ‘German?’ Quinn felt his heart quicken. Suddenly he understood Kell’s interest; Churchill’s too.

  ‘I would say so, yes.’

  ‘May I see that?’ Elgar’s softly spoken enquiry was strangely startling. It was the first thing he had said since they had left his house. And yet for all the self-effacing politeness of his voice, there was something steely and confident about this intervention.

  Macadam held the bottom of the box up for Elgar to read.

  ‘Ehre verloren, alles verloren.’ His pronunciation was assured and persuasive.

  ‘I am right? It is German?’ said Macadam.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ confirmed Elgar. ‘It is German.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ demanded Quinn.

  ‘It means, “When honour is lost, all is lost.”’

  ‘When honour is lost, all is lost,’ repeated Quinn.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Open it,’ Quinn commanded Macadam.

  Macadam lifted the lid, activating a single plink that was the last note of a dying melody.

  ‘A music box,’ observed Macadam.

  ‘So it would seem,’ agreed Quinn. ‘Wind it up. Let’s hear it play properly.’

  Macadam closed the lid again and turned the key, ratcheting up the mechanism. When the spring was fully wound and the key would turn no more, he opened the box once more.

  The tune that played, if tune was the appropriate word, was not one that Quinn recognized. It ground on relentlessly, repeating the same limited sequence of notes over and over, until at last, to everyone’s relief, it stopped.

  Elgar’s expression was pained. It was clear that he considered the sound that had just been inflicted on him as an insult to his ears.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Quinn.

  Elgar pulled a face and shrugged.

  ‘You don’t recognize the tune?’

  ‘There is no tune. It’s just a succession of random notes. May I?’ Elgar gestured at the piano.

  ‘Be our guest,’ said Quinn.

  Elgar seated himself at the piano, taking a moment to arrange the skirt of his overcoat, as if he were a concert pianist in a swallow-tailed coat. He lifted the lid and held his right hand over the keys for a moment while cocking his head, as if listening to a melody that only he could hear. At length, he nodded with satisfaction and picked out the same sequence of notes as the music box had produced.

  The composer shook his head and gave a sigh of dissatisfaction. ‘Musically, it makes no sense.’

  ‘So why would anyone go to the trouble of constructing a music box that plays … that?’ wondered Quinn.

  Elgar played the sequence again, this time at double the speed, with a fluency that was impressive, despite the discordancy of the notes. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Of course, it may be the work of some avantgarde composer of whose work I am blissfully ignorant. We live in an age when all manner of fraudulent trash is not only perpetrated but encouraged.’

  ‘I cannot imagine that there would be much of a market for such items,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Nor I.’

  Quinn completed his own thought. ‘This must have been made to order, specifically for Sir Aidan. But why?’

  Macadam repeated the words on the bottom of the box. ‘When honour is lost, all is lost.’

  ‘A warning? A reminder? A call to action?’

  Elgar played the notes again, slowing them down and improvising a left-hand accompaniment to fill them out. It was an improvement perhaps on the notes by themselves, but still the odd phrase ended without resolution and carried with it no sense of shape or purpose. Elgar shook his head and smiled, ruefully, as if the notes were a puzzle whose solution had so far eluded him but which he was determined to crack.

  ‘It must have meant something to Sir Aidan,’ posited Quinn. He knew, as he said it, that it was by no means certain. But they had to start somewhere. That usually meant making assumptions, which may turn out to be valid or may not.

  ‘Perhaps Lady Fonthill would know?’ suggested Macadam, with a hopeful glance towards the butler.

  Callaghan narrowed his eyes, as if he suspected some trick was being played on him. But in the end, it seemed he was as intrigued as the rest of them. He gave a small bow. ‘If you will come this way.’

  They left Elgar at the piano, picking away at the broken melody.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Leversedge took in the foyer of the Ritz Hotel with a sweeping glance. The place made him feel jumpy. He knew he didn’t belong in this world. What was worse, he felt that everyone else there knew it too, from the liveried bellboys pushing around their arched luggage carts to the jewel-laden society ladies with their even more arched eyebrows.

  The sense of resentment that had begun to smoulder earlier that morning flared into a hot flame. Not that he was one of those socialist types. Far from it. He was all for King and country. For Empire, too.

  He had nothing against the rich, or the gentry. He was here on their account after all, looking into the murder of one of their own. The least they could do was not look down their noses at him. He had seen things they could not imagine and faced dangers that would have them shrieking in terror. On their account, all of it.

  His eye was drawn to one woman in particular. She possessed a glacial beauty that provoked bitter anguish rather than desire. What was the point of desire? She was unattainable. He felt only a perverse desire to take her to one side and recount the details of Sir Aidan’s murder. The peculiar weapon driven into his brain. The ruined ear. The blood running down his neck. Although he had not actually seen the blood flowing, of course, and in point of fact there was less blood than he might have expected. But still he would lay it on a bit, if necessary.

  And he wouldn’t stop there, with Sir Aidan. He would describe to her every mutilated corpse he had ever been obliged to confront. So that she fully understood the horror that existed in this world, through which she blithely flitted, cosseted in fur and satin, as yet untouched by grief and unmoved by the suffering of others.

  The barbarians were not just at the gates. They were among us. That was what he needed to impress on her.

  He did not know why he had fixated on this woman. Perhaps he was doing her an injustice. He had formed an impression of her based on her dress, her posture and her looks, ascribing to her a haughtiness that for all he knew she did not possess. He imagined the la-de-da lilt of her voice, her conversation laced with fashionable slang and automatic contempt. And yet she might have been the most charming of women. Certainly, judging from the silver fox stole draped around her shoulders, she was someone he ought to have respected, rather than fantasized about upsetting. So why did he take such pleasure in imagining that stole coming to snarling life and savaging her face?

  He was not himself this morning. He could blame it on the death of young Willoughby. That had shaken them all. The real root of his discombobulation, therefo
re, the true cause of his resentment, was Quinn, for it was Quinn who had sent Willoughby to his death.

  He also suspected that Quinn was holding things back from him, no doubt so that he could appear all the more brilliant when he stepped forward and presented his solution to the case.

  The diamonds suspended from the woman’s ears glinted with preternatural clarity.

  Leversedge turned sharply round, allowing the doorman to hold the door open for him as he walked briskly out.

  THIRTY-NINE

  They were shown into a drawing room at the front of the house.

  Quinn noticed immediately the rectangle of lighter coloured paintwork over the fireplace. He drew the butler’s attention to it. ‘What was there?’

  ‘A painting. It was removed for cleaning. Lady Emma has it in mind to redecorate.’

  ‘When was this done?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Before or after Sir Aidan’s death?’

  ‘After, I believe.’

  ‘On Lady Fonthill’s instructions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How curious. I suppose grief manifests itself in many different ways.’

  Callaghan made a move to go but Quinn detained him for a moment longer.

  ‘What was the painting of, may I ask?’

  ‘It was a portrait. A portrait of them both – Sir Aidan and Lady Emma, painted at the time of their betrothal, I believe.’

  ‘And she asked for this to be taken down on the day of her husband’s murder?’

  The loyal Callaghan hurried from the room without providing an answer.

  ‘What do you make of that, Mac?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Well, we know it was not a happy marriage. A sham, perhaps, which she feels herself no longer obligated to maintain.’

  ‘But would you not want to keep up appearances for a little longer? If only for the sake of the children? To show that you detested their father so deeply, so soon after his death – it must be rather hurtful to them, do you not think?’

  Macadam looked around. ‘Perhaps the little ones are not allowed in here?’ The room presented a scene of immaculate tidiness that did not indicate the presence of children.

  The door opened and Lady Emma came in.

  She was wearing a black dress, showing that she was prepared to go this far at least in keeping to the conventions of mourning. That said, it was the kind of dress fashion editors described as ‘chic’. Grief, he might have said, became her. Her face appeared strained and sombre, but there was strength in it too. There was no hint that she had been crying.

  ‘How are they, the children?’

  His question seemed to take her by surprise. She chose her words carefully. ‘Confused. Frightened. Very sad.’ Her bottom lip came out in sympathy, as if she was about to start crying. She did not.

  ‘And you? How are you?’

  ‘Confused. Frightened. Very shocked.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Daphne is four, John six.’

  ‘They must have loved their father very much.’

  Emma’s look questioned what had led him to this conclusion. ‘He was their father. They loved him. As all children love their fathers.’

  ‘At that age though, the father is a hero. He can do no wrong.’

  ‘Oh, Aidan was quite capable of doing wrong.’

  ‘They are with the nanny now, Miss Greene?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We would like to speak to her at some point.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘You mentioned yourself, yesterday, that Sir Aidan had initiated an affair with Miss Greene.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You are mistaken.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am sure I heard you say as much to Anna Seddon.’

  ‘He auditioned her for the choir. That is all.’

  ‘You caught him making love to her. Those were your words, I believe.’ Quinn glanced at Macadam, who nodded in confirmation.

  Lady Emma’s eyelids fluttered, as if they were the focus of an attempt to garner the strength that Quinn had seen signs of before. ‘I – I was upset. Lashing out. I regret saying it now.’ She opened her eyes fully and met his questioning gaze head-on.

  She was lying. Of that, he was certain. The question was, why? Obviously, by minimizing Sir Aidan’s fault, she was protecting his reputation. Preserving his image in the eyes of her children. But she was also protecting her own reputation and the myth of their marriage. More importantly, she was distracting attention from any possible motive she might have had for killing him.

  Lady Emma must have sensed his scepticism. She made the decision to throw him something more. ‘Hattie is far too sensible a girl to allow herself to be seduced by an ageing Lothario like Aidan.’

  ‘But he did make advances towards her?’

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘You might as well say, he breathed.’

  But Quinn persisted. ‘She might have found it difficult to resist. She might have feared that she would lose her position if she did not do what he wanted. It does happen, I believe.’

  ‘I would not have permitted it to happen. I would have rather sent Aidan away. The children adore Hattie. I simply cannot imagine how we would manage without her.’

  ‘She is indispensable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unlike Sir Aidan.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Inspector?’

  ‘He’s a chief inspector, actually,’ put in Macadam. Quinn waved a hand to let it go.

  ‘Well, Chief Inspector then. What exactly are you suggesting? That I murdered my husband to protect my nanny from his unwanted advances? I suppose it is a slightly more plausible theory than that I did it simply out of jealousy. I think if you knew me at all you would know that I am not a jealous person. I could not have remained married to Aidan all this time if I was.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Ten years.’

  ‘And when was the painting done? The one that you have had removed from above the mantelpiece?’

  Something changed in Lady Fonthill’s expression. The look of strain sharpened into something like wariness. ‘You probably won’t believe this, but the reason I took it down was out of respect to Aidan. He absolutely hated that painting. And I only insisted on it staying up there to torment him. Yesterday, after his death, I came back and looked at it and cried. I felt petty and ashamed. And yes, it seemed to be a lie. A terrible lie. I couldn’t bear to look at it any more. So I took it down.’

  ‘It was not to send it off to be cleaned then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘I destroyed it.’

  ‘That seems … an extreme reaction.’

  Lady Emma closed her eyes, with that same animated fluttering that had preceded her earlier lie. But this time she offered nothing, other than a look of stark defiance. Say what you want, she seemed to say, I will not explain. ‘Was there anything else, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘The music box that was delivered to Sir Aidan a few days ago … Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Music box?’ Lady Emma’s brows came together as she gave a little shrugging shake of the head.

  ‘He didn’t mention it to you?’

  Her eyes darted away from his. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  Was this another lie? Quinn was beginning to suspect everything she said. ‘Perhaps it was a gift from a lover? From Miss Seddon, for example?’

  ‘If so, he certainly wouldn’t tell me about it.’ Lady Emma seemed pleased with her retort.

  Quinn had to admit, it was a fair point.

  ‘Your husband told Mr Callaghan that he had seen a man watching the house. According to Mr Callaghan, Sir Aidan was unsettled by this. Did you see this man, Lady Fonthill?’

  ‘No. But Aidan did mention it to me. I believe it is the same man who came to the school disguised as a blind piano tuner.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘
Who else would it be?’

  Quinn thought about this for a moment. Despite the assertive, almost belligerent way she asked the question, it by no means struck him as an inevitable conclusion to draw. What was interesting though was the force with which she insisted on it. He chose to leave the question unanswered. ‘Did he give you a description of the man?’

  ‘Only to say he looked … sinister.’

  Despite Lady Fonthill’s emphasis, the word did not ring true. It sounded too novelish. ‘Did anyone else see this man?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’

  Evidently there was something in Quinn’s tone that Lady Fonthill did not like. ‘Are you questioning my word?’

  ‘Not at all. I have Mr Callaghan’s word, too. So unless the two of you have cooked this up between you …’

  ‘How strange. You seem to place more credence in the word of a butler than that of a lady!’ Lady Emma was evidently more amused than offended by her own observation. ‘What strange times we live in.’

  ‘You misunderstand. I place equal credence in the testimony given to me by any individual, regardless of class. But when I have two independent statements confirming the same detail, I am more inclined to accept it as a fact.’ Quinn gave the slightest of bows. ‘Did you know that your husband asked Charles Cavendish to write blank cheques in his favour?’

  A flush of emotion – anger? – flooded into Lady Emma’s face. A word formed on her lips, a whisper of breath barely giving it voice. Fool! ‘I trust Cavendish refused.’

  ‘He did. Do you have any idea why your husband would want to take money from the choir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were there no legitimate expenses that he might have incurred?’

  ‘I suppose there might have been.’

  ‘Were you aware of any money worries that he might have had?’

  ‘My husband had no money of his own but I had a sufficient fortune to ensure that he had no anxieties on that front.’

  ‘But there might have been a reason why he was reluctant to come to you? Perhaps someone was blackmailing him?’