“Your apprehension was natural, my flower of the lily. I myself felt some trepidation when I learned you were to sing at the Wagstaffe, but how, I reasoned, could the eminent Sir Emlyn Rhys have chosen another contralto? It is well known that he seeks always the best, even the Fawn. That one is a bitch in heat, no doubt, but she is a voice! Not such a voice as you, my incomparable, and with none of your serene beauty and dignity of manner, need it be said? But still a voice. In any event, Ochs made no scene but behaved himself with what grace he might command. If he sought that which had been, I saw no sign.”
“I assure you, my amorous, he did not. Wilhelm was amiable in his greeting to me. He expressed pleasure that I had gained a little weight; a compliment I did not much appreciate, you understand. He invited me to lunch on the first day, I confess, but I explained that I had experienced enough of watching him eat during our days of cohabitation. He found this a great amusement and we parted without rancor, I to a teashop and he to a Burger King. You surely find no fault in this?”
“There is none to be found. My own, let us forgive each other: And this young inspector of police will forgive us both, eh?” He cast a hopeful glance at the bed on which Madame Bellini was still sitting. She blushed, but demurred.
“But he has not yet told what you gave him permission to say. Speak, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. Of his great perspicacity, Jacques-Marie Houdon will no doubt be able to cast light on this vile deed.”
So Madoc at last got to explain. The concertmaster was interested though not unduly agitated by the news that a second member of the brass section had been done away with.
“One sees it was inevitable. Rintoul was naturally from the beginning the intended victim. Ochs, poor fellow, had without a doubt eaten the poison intended for him.”
Madoc turned to Norma Bellini. “Would your husband have done that? Taken food from other people’s plates?”
“Oh yes, all the time. It was his favorite prank, to dart his fork across the table into some interesting tidbit on another’s plate and gobble it down, laughing all the while. With his mouth open, alas. Jacques is right, without doubt. I know something of these things, I read sometimes to improve my English the Miss Marple and the Peter Shandy, you know? It has been said that murderers employ always the same methods; but I have not found this so in the books.”
“That is perhaps only because the authors wish to display their ingenuity, my innocent,” Houdon murmured.
“Bah, it is mere practicality. Figure yourself, Jacques. It is clear to me that, the too-cunning technique of the ground-up bean of the castor plant having proved unreliable, the murderer would then attempt what you call the hands-on method of the stabbed-in icepick. Is that not correct, my cabbage?”
“My beautiful, I have to agree with Monsieur l’Inspecteur. It is in no way correct for musicians of a respectable orchestra to be killing each other, even though I ask myself why with Rintoul, it has not happened sooner. There have been times, I admit freely, when I have felt the urge. Always I had to remind myself that here was a trombonist of the first rank who, whatever his enormities, did not ever try to imitate the swing band and put in hot licks while playing the trombone solo in the Tuba Minim movement of the Mozart Requiem, which happened once in the States while I myself was conducting.”
“My God! They are all barbarians down there, of course. Still it is incredible, the audacity,” Madame Bellini remarked.
“And here is more audacity in the stabbing of Rintoul,” Houdon continued. “It is therefore for us a duty to assist in bringing the malefactor to justice. Even”—he sighed and glanced once more at the bed—“when we might naturally prefer to be doing something else.”
Chapter 18
“PERHAPS, AS A MATTER of form,” Madoc suggested diffidently, “we might start by making sure you yourselves are eliminated from suspicion.”
Madame Bellini nodded. “That is correct Sherlock Holmes procedure. One sees first that we could not have poisoned Wilhelm because, my faith, we would not have eaten with Wilhelm.”
“And we could not have stabbed Rintoul,” added Houdon, “because I tell you in confidence we spent all last night exchanging with one another that solace which a man and a woman can find to give in even the darkest of circumstances, you comprehend?”
“Fully,” sighed Madoc. “Then what about the rest of the company? Have you any thoughts or opinions you’d like to share?”
“Opinions, yes,” said Norma Bellini. “I myself am confident this murderer is none of the singers. Carlos, Ainsworth, and I have sung together many times under the direction of your excellent father, which is a privilege to be coveted. I know them well. Carlos is a brave man. He might perhaps kill if the life of one he held dear were threatened, but never by stealth, always from the front. For Wilhelm or Cedric, he had no occasion. He had not known them before, he did not wish to know them in Wagstaffe. He is not a snob, Carlos; it is simply that singers and instrumentalists on tour do not mix.”
“Yes, that’s been mentioned,” Madoc conceded. “And the tenor, Kight?”
“Ainsworth?” She shrugged. “Ainsworth is conscious of himself and of the audience. As there is only one Ainsworth Kight, so everyone else counts as audience except his accompanist for whom he has a fondness, you understand, but did not bring on this tour. He accepts also his fellow singers because, after all, not even the great Kight can sing Judas Maccabaeus all by himself. Ainsworth is a good-natured fellow, mind you. He is not unfriendly. But he regards nobody in this world of sufficient importance for him to risk his precious throat in killing.”
“And what about Delicia Fawn?”
“What can I say? Except that she is more likely to become a victim than a murderess, and also to lose early both her looks and her voice if she keeps up these pretty tricks. It is all a nonsense with her, you know, but a dangerous nonsense. In effect, however, I cannot see Cedric Rintoul being mistaken for Delicia Fawn no matter how dark the night.”
“Norma has a point there,” said Houdon. “I believe, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, you must look among those orchestra members now with us. It was a mistake not to wait and kill Rintoul after we would be all back together at the festival; since now the field has narrowed, has it not? So we eliminate. Me, we have for the moment laid aside. Though I do not delude myself that you accept only my word, I appeal to you as a man of reason. Would I have chosen to poison Ochs with castor beans when it is known that I have in my own garden a goodly number of castor oil plants?”
“You do?” This was the most promising news Madoc had heard yet.
“But of course. I have little time for gardening, so I attempt a rich display with the least of effort. The flowers of the castor oil plant are nothing to covet, but the foliage is beyond description. One leaf may be ten inches across, I tell you, shaped somewhat like a giant maple leaf but creased into the most beguiling pleats like a lady’s fan. The texture is interesting and the colors most deliciously subtle greens and bronzy shades.”
“Oh,” said Madoc, “are those the plants they used to have growing in Assiniboine Park when I was a kid in Winnipeg?”
Houdon nodded. “I too have observed them there, ten feet tall and of a luxuriance, my word! But those were fed on wild buffalo manure, which in Wagstaffe is not easy to find. I have to buy that which comes dried in bags. I believe this must be only from contented cows as my plants never grow higher than five or six feet.”
“The bovine temperament would count, no doubt. Tell me, who in the orchestra might know you have castor oil plants in your garden?”
“Jason Jasper, for a certainty. He lives not far from me and is also a gardener, though mostly vegetables since he has a large family. He admires my plants and once intimated he would like some seeds. I had to point out that they are poisonous and therefore not a thing to plant around children.”
“When was this? Does he visit often?”
“Not in the sense of a visit, no. One takes the evening stroll. If the neighbor is out
in his garden, one might stop for a moment to exchange a word. He is knowledgeable, that Jasper, and not offensive when in his own milieu. With his children, he has the consideration not to stop. With his wife, he has attended a few garden parties at my house.”
“Recently?”
“The last one, yes, only three weeks ago. It was for Norma, to meet with the orchestra and staff before the tour. This was quite proper for me to do and gave me great satisfaction. Ochs and Rintoul both happened to be playing elsewhere with a brass ensemble that day,” he added with a tight little smile. “Anyway, there was much admiration of my magnificent plants and I had to caution again to avoid the beans. They are large, you know, and not unattractive. I had attempted to pick off and destroy the most accessible, but there were no doubt many left. I had so little time to prepare.”
“You had even less time for me.” Now that her cover was blown, Madame Bellini could be quite the coquette. “But this was a charming affair and enjoyed by all. Jacques is a superb host, you can imagine.”
“I’m sure he is. Other than Ochs and Rintoul, were all the orchestra people there?”
“I think so, yes,” replied the concertmaster. “It has been my habit since becoming again a householder to give on occasion these parties when time and scheduling permit. I hire an excellent caterer and nobody is asked to perform. I get few refusals. This is not helpful?”
“Not very, I have to say. On the strength of this, it looks as if anybody in the orchestra could have got hold of the castor beans. One more question; what can you tell me about David Gabriel, outside of the fact that he’s the Wagstaffe’s first chair oboist?”
“But aside from that, what is there to tell? Gabriel plays his oboe, makes reeds for his oboe, maybe on occasion he goes to bed with his oboe, who knows? Ask Ragovsky, he knows everybody. Better still, ask Gabriel.”
The interview was clearly over. Madoc exchanged a few more courtesies and went downstairs. The press conference also appeared to be winding down. Most of the participants were wandering out of the lobby, some to the kitchen where Joe Ragovsky was going to make more biscuits, some out to the flat to watch the planes go off and no doubt pester the pilots for any news about a possible rescue. Only two stayed where they were. David Gabriel was in the chair by the window where he’d been sitting last night, winding wire around another reed. Sir Emlyn remained seated where he’d been most of the morning, looking as gray around the muzzle as an aged beagle. Madoc went over to him.
“Hi, Tad. Let’s hope that’s the last of them for a while. Where’s Mum?”
“She’s gone upstairs to take an aspirin and lie down. I don’t blame her. Madoc, how long is this to go on?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Hasn’t Rick come back? What did Zlubert have to say?”
“To me, nothing whatever. As I understand it, Zlubert talked with MacVittie and Naxton for a short while, then took off again. I haven’t had a chance to get to them myself, I’ve been too busy answering the same asinine questions over and over till I’m ready to go back to Wales and spend the rest of my life herding Uncle Caradoc’s sheep. Sheep can be tiresome, too, but at least they don’t take photographs. Rick has not come back and I can’t blame him. Madoc, I am anxious, very anxious. What are we going to do about—?”
“The best we can, Tad. I’ve been working on it, but I need Rick. It’s a rotten shame Zlubert took off so fast, I wouldn’t dare ask any of these media blokes to take me down to the ranger station. You can imagine what that would lead to. Maybe Mr. Gabriel here can help us.”
Gabriel didn’t even look up from his reed. Sir Emlyn hiked himself out of the uncomfortable wooden chair, stiff from too much sitting, and walked over toward the window. Madoc went with him and did the talking.
“Gabriel?”
“Eh? Oh, yes. Sorry.” He was even younger than Madoc had thought; he must have been some kind of child prodigy. He laid his unfinished reed carefully on the windowsill and stood up. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon?”
“Who knows? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. It’s about Cedric Rintoul.”
“Cedric? I don’t think I’ve seen him this morning. Has he been around?”
“No, but he was here last night. When I went upstairs, you and he were the last ones left in the lobby.”
“Were we? I thought Joe Ragovsky was still there. Joe fixed the fire, I remember that.”
“The fire had already been banked when I got back from the ranger station.”
“The ranger station? Was that where you went? In that crazy three-winged plane with the old chap in the funny helmet, right? You got back in one piece, eh. Good flight?”
“Gabriel, could we cut the small talk?”
“Whatever you like. I’m no good at it, anyway.”
The oboist was on the gangly side, with mouse-fine light brown hair that could have stood a trimming, and baby-blue eyes that blinked a lot. No doubt he had a doting wife, mother, or sweetheart who waited on him hand and foot back in Wagstaffe; he didn’t look like the sort who’d be much good at fending for himself. Right now he was casting a worried glance at his reed. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about? Because I’ve got this reed—”
“Gabriel, you’ve been making reeds the whole time you’ve been here.”
“I know, but I have this impossible dream that one day I’ll make an absolutely perfect reed. It’s rather like the quest for the Holy Grail. Not quite on the same scale, I don’t suppose.”
“Probably not, Gabriel, but no doubt a worthy aspiration. Getting back to Rintoul, could you tell me what time you left him?”
“I don’t think I left him, exactly. That is to say, if you leave somebody, it’s more as if one of you were going away somewhere. All I did was go upstairs to bed, which doesn’t quite count because he was going to be doing the same thing. Theoretically, anyway.”
“Rintoul was, however, still in the lobby when you went to bed?”
“I assume so, if he was here before.”
“But you don’t know? Weren’t you talking with him?”
“Not that I recall. Maybe Cedric was talking to me, and I just wasn’t hearing him.” David Gabriel was blushing now, a flaming crimson with flashes of scarlet. “You see—well, maybe Sir Emlyn isn’t going to like this much, but—well, what I was doing was—Sir Emlyn, do you know those Handel sonatas for two oboes and continuo?”
The elder Rhys nodded. “The six pieces Lord Polwarth discovered in Germany, which Handel is supposed to have composed as a child of ten? Yes, they are charming. Not the sort of thing I ever get to use myself, of course.”
“I realize that, and I know I ought to have been thinking about the pieces we’re going to be playing at Fraser River, but you see”—he really was the most spectacular blusher Madoc had ever run across—“I have this pupil.”
“A young woman pupil of seemly countenance and agreeable disposition, by any chance?” For some reason Sir Emlyn was smiling. “Is it possible you were meditating on the third movement of the Number Two in D-minor?”
“Well,” the young musician actually giggled, “as a matter of fact, yes.”
“I can think of nothing more appropriate. You might also give some thought to the Number Six in D-major. There, you may recall, the Affetuoso is followed by the Vivace, which you may find even more effective in terms of the learning experience than the Allegro.”
Madoc had only a glimmer as to what his father was talking about, but Gabriel had by now faded to a nice, rosy pink and was grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you very much, Sir Emlyn.”
“Any time, my boy. And now if you could possibly turn your mind back to last night, I’m sure my son would be grateful for any recollection you might be able to dredge up about Rintoul. Perhaps it would help if you were to sit down again and get back to work on your reed? Re-create the scene, as it were.”
With the reed back in his hands and his dilemma about the Handel sonatas resolved, David
Gabriel was finally at ease. “Let’s see. I was sitting here and Cedric was over there. You know, he did say something, I remember how. He said, ‘It’s getting damned cold in here.’ I think he must have been talking to me, because nobody else said anything. They must all have gone to bed, as you say. Then it occurred to me that my hands were so numb I could hardly manage my fingers, so I put my reed and my wire cutters inside the cover of my instrument case and picked it up and went to bed.”
“You didn’t say good night to Rintoul?”
“I may have nodded or something, I’m not sure. I don’t like Cedric much.”
“But he was in fact still sitting here when you left the lobby?”
“Unless he got up after my back was turned. I’m quite sure he didn’t come upstairs right behind me. I’m always pretty wary of letting Cedric get too close. He’s too apt to do some stupid thing like pinning a sign on your back or sticking a burr in your hip pocket so you’ll sit on it. I did hear somebody on the stairs after I got into my room, come to think of it, but I don’t think it was Cedric. Unless he was trying awfully hard to be quiet, which isn’t like him.”
“It didn’t occur to you to look out and see who was there?” Madoc asked.
“No, why should it?”
“Simply that you might have helped us to answer the question of who killed him.”
At last Madoc had found a way to get David Gabriel’s complete and undivided attention. “Oh, sweet dying Jesus!” the oboist all but shouted. “What the bloody hell’s going on here, will you answer me that?”
“I hope I can, soon.”
“And what happens if you can’t?”
“Then I’m afraid we may find ourselves stuck here till I can. Mr. Gabriel, did you attend that garden party at Monsieur Houdon’s?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And did you happen to notice some rather spectacular tall plants he has in his yard?”
“With leaves like great, big fans? Yes, I—well, I’m not much good at standing around making conversation with people. I found them handy to hide behind some of the time, if you really want to know.”
Troubles in the Brasses Page 17
