The Music Box Enigma

by R. N. Morris

  ‘What if he’s wrong? What if it’s just a broken music box? He could be finding patterns where there aren’t any.’

  Leversedge was no fool. His scepticism chimed with Quinn’s own. And it was a useful antidote to Macadam’s enthusiasm. Quinn rewarded him with a minimal nod.

  Soon after, Inchball came in. Leversedge jumped on him straightaway, briefing him to follow up on Dame Elsie and the Belgians for him. Inchball made clear his displeasure at being given Leversedge’s donkey work to do with a roll of the eyes that was positively adolescent.

  Quinn ought not to have indulged him. Especially as it might be seen by Leversedge as undermining his authority. However, it was unavoidable. ‘Before you do that, I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Yes, guv?’ Inchball’s eagerness was in marked contrast with his response to Leversedge.

  ‘Get on to the Middlesex Regiment in Gravesend. See if they can tell you the whereabouts at the time of Sir Aidan’s murder of one of their men – Private Jack Delaware.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Quinn avoided Leversedge’s disgruntled glare by affecting to be engrossed in the statements that the Hampstead police had taken on Saturday from the witnesses at the school.

  It wasn’t long before Inchball had a result. Quinn could tell by listening to one half of the telephone call – ‘Yes, I see. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful’ – that he had discovered something interesting. Inchball’s jubilant nod as he hung up the receiver confirmed it.

  ‘He’s on leave. Has been since Friday.’

  Quinn nodded appreciatively. So it was not true, as Miss Greene had insisted, that Delaware was with his regiment. ‘They could have met, after all, Delaware and the nanny. She could have told him about Fonthill’s attempted seduction.’ Quinn would have the opportunity to press her on this apparent contradiction when she brought the boy in later. ‘Did you get a home address for him?’

  Inchball nodded. ‘Do you want me to have a word with him?’ He was already on his feet, halfway to the door, happy to escape the task that Leversedge had lined up for him.

  Eleven o’clock came and went. By noon, there was still no sign of John Fonthill. Quinn could only assume that Lady Fonthill had gone back on her word.

  He was about to put in a call to Inspector Pool at Hampstead to have him pick up the boy when the telephone in front of him blared into life. Quinn still hadn’t quite got used to the presence of the infernal contraption on his desk. He loathed calling people on it because he knew how jarring its cry was. It seemed a callous act to inflict that on another human being.

  Marginally worse was receiving a call. It always brought with it a sense of dread that was rarely relieved by picking up the receiver. ‘Quinn?’ He gave his name as an interrogative, as if his identity was in doubt.

  ‘Pool here, from Hampstead CID.’

  This was not the first time that Quinn had experienced this: no sooner had he thought of calling someone than that very person called him. It reinforced his fear and suspicion of the device, which he could not help but see as irredeemably sinister.

  ‘Just had a call from Hackney police station.’ Pool’s voice as it came down the line was harsh and business-like. But there was an edge of something else there. It almost felt like panic. ‘Someone broke into the mortuary there.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, you know that’s where they took Sir Aidan Fonthill’s body?’

  Quinn felt a sudden thrashing in his chest, like the frantic muscles of a trapped animal. He could barely hear what Pool was saying over it.

  ‘The queerest thing … never known anything like it …’

  The dread that always accompanied the ringing of the telephone crystallized into a specific premonition. ‘It’s gone,’ said Quinn flatly. ‘The body’s gone.’

  ‘How the devil did you know?’

  Quinn held the receiver away from his ear while he tried to form an answer to Inspector Pool’s question.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Macadam came back into the department just before one. He announced his arrival with a cheery whistle, a hangover from his piccolo playing days no doubt, which was curiously at odds with the mood in the room. It didn’t take him long, however, to get his emotional bearings. ‘What’s happened?’

  This time he didn’t even bother to hang up his bowler.

  ‘I need you to take me over to Hackney morgue,’ said Quinn.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ insisted Leversedge, jumping to his feet.

  ‘What if the boy turns up?’ objected Quinn.

  ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to freeze me out.’

  Quinn sighed. He didn’t have time for a showdown with his DI right now. ‘Very well. Come along if you must.’

  It seemed an odd thing to say, and Quinn could barely admit it to himself, but Hackney Mortuary was one of his favourite places in London. From the outside, it didn’t look like a mortuary at all, or any kind of public building. The exterior was well-maintained, cheery even, with tawny bricks and glossy red woodwork. It looked like someone’s home, not a way station for the dead. The wide door in one side of the building hinted at something other than a domestic purpose, though few would have guessed it was for the passage of hearses through to the courtyard at the rear.

  This homely building was located alongside the church of St-John-at-Hackney. Also nearby was the local police station. The proximity of these two buildings seemed somehow appropriate, representing as they did the forces of law and religion. They leant their influence, benignly, to their neighbour, and those who were brought there.

  The setting, away from the main road, was tranquil, and would have been leafy in the summer. Now, the surrounding trees were stark, their stripped branches scratching the wintry sky.

  Generally, it was a place where people spoke in hushed, respectful voices, although today, in the aftermath of the break-in, was a level of excitement in evidence that Quinn had not seen there before. A small crowd had gathered outside to enjoy the spectacle, rubbing their hands to keep them warm, or perhaps in glee, their day enlivened by the theft of a dead body. A local bobby did his best to keep them back. Quinn kept his eyes straight ahead, not wishing to engage the bystanders, whose air of giddy exultation did not sit well with him. He had the subliminal impression that there was someone there he knew, without doubt one of the newspapermen who habitually took delight in alternately lionizing and vilifying him.

  Don’t give them the satisfaction.

  The three detectives from SCD were greeted by Inspector Pool, who looked as if he wished a hole would open up and swallow him. Given his size, it would have to be a big hole. DS Kennedy stomped around ineffectually, scowling and barking at the local uniforms, whom he seemed to hold personally responsible for what had happened.

  ‘The burglary must have taken place last night or in the early hours of this morning.’ If this was the extent of Pool’s intelligence on the crime, then it did not amount to much.

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. ‘Burglary?’ The word hardly did justice to the crime that had been committed.

  Pool heaved his massive shoulders hopelessly. ‘It’s possible they made a mistake. They thought it was a private house and were expecting to find valuables.’

  ‘And when they saw the corpses, changed their mind and decided to take one of those instead?’ Leversedge made no attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  Quinn crouched down to examine a heavy chain lying on the ground. The links were about a quarter of an inch in diameter. One of them was cleanly cut in two places. It must have taken a hefty pair of wire cutters to snip through it. ‘It looks like a professional job. Whoever did it came with tools. Were any windows broken?’

  ‘No. The locks were picked.’

  Quinn hauled himself to his feet. ‘Anything else taken, other than the body?’

  Pool shook his head.

  Quinn signalled he was ready to go inside with a nod. But an agitated shout from the c
rowd delayed him. ‘It isn’t right!’

  There was something familiar about the voice. Quinn turned to scan the faces of those jostling forward to get a closer look. One man was pushing against the bobby, who was holding out his arms to keep him back. ‘Mr Metcalfe?’ said Quinn. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The policeman who was trying to restrain him cast a questioning glance back at Quinn.

  ‘It’s all right, let him through,’ said Quinn.

  Donald Metcalfe lurched forward. ‘It isn’t right,’ he repeated.

  ‘Do you know something about what has happened here?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Where’s Sir Aidan?’ demanded Metcalfe, in obvious distress.

  ‘We don’t know. Someone has taken him. If you know anything about what has happened, please tell me.’

  But all Metcalfe would say was: ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. It isn’t right. I understand that you’re upset. I can only apologize. I assure you, we’re doing everything we can to find Sir Aidan’s body.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand. His ring. It was on his right hand. It isn’t right.’

  Quinn narrowed his eyes and looked at the accompanist closely. He remembered that Metcalfe had once said he never lied, and yet a detail from Metcalfe’s earlier statement nagged at him. ‘Mr Metcalfe, you once told me that you didn’t know Roderick Masters’ address, and yet I think you did. It was written on a sheet of music that you had certainly seen – the composition that Masters had submitted to Sir Aidan. I do not think it is the kind of detail that would have escaped your notice.’

  ‘No,’ said Metcalfe firmly. ‘You asked me where you might find him. That was a question I couldn’t possibly know the answer to. You might find him anywhere. You then asked me if I had ever been to his house. I have never been to his house. You then asked me if he had told me where he lived. He had not told me where he lived.’

  ‘But you knew his address!’ cried Quinn, his exasperation getting the better of him. ‘Did you not realize that that was what I wanted from you?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me for his address.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You’re right. That was my mistake.’ Quinn turned to Macadam. ‘Back to the car.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ demanded Leversedge, hurrying to keep up with Quinn.

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘On the way to where, sir?’ asked Macadam.

  ‘Hampstead!’ Quinn could not keep a note of impatience from his voice, as if the question was too obvious to need asking.

  FORTY-SIX

  The door was opened by the butler, Callaghan. His face was unusually grey, the only colour coming from the broken capillaries on his nose. His expression was strained, nauseous even, his eyes staring in alarm. And yet it was almost as if he was expecting them. ‘Thank heavens you’re here,’ he cried as he let them in. ‘The doctor is with Lady Emma now.’

  Quinn exchanged a quizzical glance with his two officers. ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Lady Emma collapsed. Understandably. The shock was too much for her.’

  ‘Ah. She has been informed then?’

  ‘Informed? Of course she has been informed! She was here when Miss Greene came back from the Heath.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What has Miss Greene got to do with this?’

  ‘Miss Greene was there when it happened.’

  ‘When what happened?’ Quinn had the uncomfortable sensation that they were talking at cross purposes.

  ‘When Master John was taken!’

  ‘What do you mean, taken?’

  ‘Kidnapped! Young Master John has been kidnapped! I had assumed that’s why you’re here. We tried to get hold of Inspector Pool but he had been called away on urgent business, or so they told us. What could be more urgent than this?’ Callaghan shook his head incredulously, before adding, ‘They sent a constable instead!’ He gave the word a disparaging emphasis, as if he considered this an unforgivable lapse of protocol. ‘He’s with Miss Greene now, taking a statement.’

  Quinn nodded tersely, accepting the invitation to join them that was implied in Callaghan’s statement.

  Hattie Greene was in the drawing room. Her face was pale and drawn and streaked with tears. She looked up with two huge red eyes as Quinn and the others came in.

  Quinn acknowledged the constable’s presence with a brief nod that was also a dismissal. ‘What happened?’ he demanded of the nanny.

  Pale lids trembled down to veil her raw, glistening eyes. It was a relief to have that anguish hidden from them, if only for a moment. A huge sob shook itself out from her, wracking her suddenly frail body in an uncontrollable shudder.

  But when she opened her eyes, she seemed to have found the composure she needed to speak. ‘I had taken John to Hampstead Heath. He was very excited about his impending trip to Scotland Yard this morning.’ She flashed Quinn a look of rebuke, as if this was somehow all his fault. ‘He was rather playing up, I’m afraid. Being beastly to his sister. As you can imagine, Lady Emma’s nerves were somewhat frayed, what with everything that has happened, so I thought it best to take him out of the house. I hoped he might burn off some energy. Thought it might calm him down. Or at least get him out of his mother’s hair.’ She had held herself together well until now, but suddenly the reality of what had happened must have hit her afresh. Her face crumpled and a high, keening wail came out of her mouth.

  The policemen stood over her, helpless in the face of her overwhelming emotion. All they could do was wait for the anguish to work its way through her.

  Eventually, she was able to dab her eyes with a tightly clenched hanky. She drew herself up on the sofa with an involuntary groan. Her eyes flitted about the room, as if it was the first time she had taken in her surroundings. It seemed to appal her to find herself in such elegant surroundings at this moment. ‘This is all my fault!’ Her voice was small and tremulous. Even so, it brooked no argument.

  None was offered. No mercy, either.

  ‘You went to the Heath,’ prompted Quinn. ‘Just you and John?’

  She nodded, yes.

  ‘And what? What happened?’

  ‘As soon as we got there, he ran away from me.’ She gave an anguished grimace. ‘He can be quite a handful, you know.’

  ‘Has he done that before?’

  ‘Oh, he always does it. I don’t try to keep up with him. There’s no point. He always comes back.’

  ‘But this time it was different?’

  She closed her eyes and nodded tensely. ‘He ran off shouting poop-poop!’

  ‘Poop-poop?’

  ‘His head has been full of Mr Toad these last few days. Especially since you said that you wanted him to go to Scotland Yard to look at pictures. He was convinced that you were going to arrest Mr Toad. Oh, I don’t know how seriously he believed it, but that was what he said. Anyhow, he came running back to me …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And he said that he had seen Mr Toad. That Mr Toad was there on the Heath and had been waving to him.’ Miss Greene began to sob. ‘I thought it was just make-believe! I didn’t think he really had!’

  ‘But he had seen someone?’

  ‘Yes! Oh, God forgive me!’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He said he was going to warn Mr Toad that the police were looking for him. And he ran off again.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And then I lost sight of him.’ She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if replaying the moment when John Fonthill disappeared from her view. Perhaps she hoped that when she opened her eyes again, he would reappear. ‘At first, I didn’t think anything of it. We often play hide and seek. It’s always John who hides. We have our set hiding places. I always know where to find him. I looked in every one of them. But he wasn’t there. I began to get worried. Frightened. I called out his name. He didn’t come. Didn’t answer. And then I saw …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the distance. A man. Holdi
ng a boy’s hand. Leading him away towards the exit. I shouted and ran after them. I screamed for people to help me. John looked back. And waved. I ran. I ran, as fast as I could. But when I got out on to East Heath Road, there was no sign of them.’

  ‘This man who took him. Did you see his face?’

  She shook her head with her eyes closed.

  ‘Did you form an impression of how tall he was? His build? What was he wearing?’

  ‘I don’t think he was tall. Not tall. Quite stout. He had a cap on, I think. The kind of cap men wear when they are driving.’

  ‘A chauffeur’s cap?’

  ‘No, more like a flat cap.’

  ‘Like Mr Toad,’ said Macadam.

  Hattie Greene’s mouth rippled with an involuntary spasm and she gave a weak little nod.

  ‘One more thing, Miss Greene.’ Quinn did not allow himself any pity as he looked down at the nanny. He knew that she was at her weakest now, frightened, vulnerable, and no doubt feeling guilty over what had happened to the boy in her charge. Which was precisely why he needed to press her mercilessly. ‘Your friend, Private Delaware. We contacted his regiment. He has been on leave since Friday.’

  ‘No. That’s not true.’ The confusion in her eyes seemed genuine. ‘Jack would have told me.’

  ‘Did you meet him? Did you talk about Sir Aidan?’

  ‘No! I haven’t seen Jack! I swear.’

  She began to cry. Quinn did not believe that any woman could feign the ugly, uncontrollable sobs that took her over.

  Quinn did not like to ring the bell for a servant. Instead he opened the drawing-room door and called out. ‘Hello. I say … Mr Callaghan?’

  Callaghan appeared hurriedly, his face flushed with anger. ‘Keep your voice down, will you?’ he hissed. ‘The doctor has given her ladyship a sedative.’

  Quinn did not like the sound of that. ‘What on earth for? We need to speak to her.’

  ‘That won’t be possible.’

  ‘Where is she? Unless you want to be arrested for obstructing the police, you’ll take me to her. Now.’