Death's Bright Angel

by Janet Neel

  ‘We couldn’t, could we?’ Francesca observed, coolly. ‘Rajiv, I have to say it would not be helpful to ask the committee. Much better, surely, to let Henry, as the hard-nosed commercial adviser, sell that one to Ministers rather than have them feel that the civil servants were being obstructive, as per usual.’ She grinned at him. ‘May Martin and I come too? I wouldn’t want to miss this.’

  Rajiv considered her carefully. ‘Yes,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You may. I am not feeling quite disagreeable enough to send you and Henry by yourselves, but I see no reason why you — and Martin if he wants – should not come and watch Henry telling a Minister of the Crown that the only rescue package he would support, in a political mate’s constituency, involves handing the company to some dodgy Americans.’

  ‘There is nothing dodgy about these Americans,’ Henry protested. ‘It’s a huge, well-respected textile company.’

  Rajiv sighed, and said that Henry should nonetheless understand that to this administration all foreigners were, by definition, dodgy. Particularly American foreigners. The meeting dispersed, gloomily, but Francesca lingered.

  ‘Henry,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Your secretary told me that you are singing in the Messiah just before Christmas in Huddersfield. You wouldn’t like to do the same for the Aquarius Choir, would you? You needn’t rehearse, only we are very short of men and a decent bass would do wonders for us.’

  ‘How do you know I am a decent bass?’

  ‘Well, you must be a bass. And I know your choir. The chap who taught Perry at St Joe’s came from there.’

  Henry tidied his desk as he thought about this efficient piece of staffwork. He decided he would rather enjoy singing the Messiah twice and let Francesca lead him to the rehearsal room and introduce him to the choirmaster, tactfully expressing his sense of obligation to the choir for being prepared to consider letting him in this late in their preparations. Francesca cast him just the sort of approving glance, he felt, with which she would have recognized a piece of mannerly behaviour from one of her brothers, and waited to listen to him sing part of one of the bass recitatives, and to sight-read an unfamiliar Brahms anthem.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Blackshaw,’ the choirmaster, a slight man in his forties with glasses, said briskly. ‘You are rehearsing in Huddersfield as well? I am sure you will be able to catch up here.’ He glanced sardonically across the room, and rose to his feet from behind the piano, eyes fixed speculatively on a small group of middle-aged ladies gathered round a tall, harassed, balding man.

  ‘Ah, Sandy,’ the tall man hailed him in a relieved shout, but paused punctiliously to be introduced to Henry. ‘Just before we start to sing, we have a small matter to discuss.’

  Henry watched with interest while he made no fewer than three attempts at the next sentence. Francesca, who had been sitting waiting with courteous patience, stirred after his third shot, and said generally that Michael had already told her that some anxiety was being expressed about undesirable publicity that might be attracted to the choir by the presence of her brother, Peregrine Wilson, as the tenor soloist. It was clearly right that this anxiety should be aired. Henry, enjoying himself hugely, waited for someone to air any anxiety that might be being felt, and a thin, nervous middle-aged lady obliged him by making a disjointed statement which touched at some length on the traditions of the Choir, and the difficulties of controlling access to St Mary’s, both apparently assuming equal importance in her mind. ‘Of course,’ she concluded, with a waspish glance at Francesca, ‘I appreciate that some members who are used to singing with larger choirs may feel differently, and it would not be for me to push my views in these circumstances.’

  ‘I hope, Helen, that it is for all of us, as fellow members of the Aquarius Choir, to speak our minds on this issue,’ Francesca said formidably, giving Henry a sudden vision of her in twenty years’ time. ‘Perhaps I could help the discussion a bit? When Sandy Laing, as choirmaster, and Michael Snowden, as Chairman of the Choir Association, invited Peregrine nine months ago to be the tenor soloist at this performance of the Messiah, I believe they hoped to be getting a high-quality young choral tenor, who would be particularly happy to sing with us because of a family connection.’ She paused, and Henry mentally saluted the negotiating competence which had reminded all present just who had selected her brother, and that he was a higher-quality article than they could have hoped to secure in the open market.

  She glanced at Sandy Laing and went on. ‘None of us bargained for the fact that in the nine months intervening Peregrine would also become an internationally known popular recording star whose very presence at a concert might draw an undesirable audience. Peregrine understands this very well, and I am quite sure that, rather than cause us any difficulty or embarrassment, he would wish to withdraw from this engagement.’

  Sandy Laing came in as smoothly as if he had been rehearsed. ‘I recognize members’ anxieties, but I believe we would have the most serious difficulty in finding a replacement for Peregrine, at this stage and given the time of year.’ He flicked a glance at Michael Snowden who managed this time not to drop the baton.

  ‘For myself, I have to confess that I am tempted by the vision of St Mary’s actually full, though perhaps not with quite the audience we had envisaged. I should like to feel that for once the hard work of everyone here would be rewarded and that we should be enabled to make a major contribution to the funds of the Civil Service Sanatorium, and the Post Office Rest Home.’ Francesca’s bleak eye alone kept Henry from choking. ‘I wonder how difficult it would in practice be to control an audience when Peregrine performs. Francesca? Do you have much experience of this?’

  ‘I cannot believe that Peregrine’s appearance in what his more flamboyant supporters must view as a long boring piece of religious music is going to cause undue excitement. I would like to think, moreover, that any of his fan club who did attend would benefit thereby.’

  The choir considered this right and left judiciously.

  ‘Indeed,’ Sandy Laing agreed cordially. ‘But, Helen, what do you feel? How do you see the balance between taking an undoubted risk on Peregrine, or ending up with a less well-rehearsed tenor soloist, less of an audience, and less of a contribution to the Sanatorium?’

  The unfortunate Helen, plainly uncomfortable at finding herself singled out and conscious that her support was ebbing away, produced a series of disjunctive statements which amounted to a total, if ungraceful, capitulation, while Francesca watched unblinkingly, her face set in an expression of courteous concern. Sandy Laing was also watching in catlike silence, but Michael Snowden was making helpful, assenting noises in counterpoint to Helen’s grudging acquiescences.

  ‘Splendid,’ he cried, coming strategically up to full volume as she faltered. ‘I am glad that we have aired this concern, and very glad that we have decided as we did. We had better now start to rehearse if we are to be ready for our large audience.’ He nodded winsomely to Francesca, confirming Henry’s observation that she had orchestrated the whole performance. She avoided his eye as they assembled to sing, and the rehearsal passed off without further incident. At the end she collected the conductor and the three of them walked off together to get a sandwich.

  ‘We do still need more men,’ he said, gloomily accepting a sandwich. ‘Can we co-opt more Wilsons, Francesca?’

  ‘When Helen has simmered down a bit, I don’t see why we shouldn’t co-opt Charles and Jeremy. That’ll make another bass, and a tenor. Can’t have Tristram because the Bach Choir is doing carols that night. Shall I go and try the idea on Michael?’

  Sandy Laing nodded and she skipped off, still chewing a sandwich.

  ‘Dear Francesca. I can safely leave that in her hands and we’ll have some reinforcements for the day as well as yourself. You know that all four boys are old boys of the choir school where I teach. No? Do you know the story of how this came about?’ He was obviously longing to tell it, and Henry was equally willing to listen, urging him on by observing that he
had not realized all four boys had been at the same school.

  ‘Well, that was partly my doing. We do the voice tests in March every year, when the boys are eight. It’s a dreadful occasion, endless little boys and their anxious mothers and a lot of musical dross to be got through to find any speck of gold. The year Perry came, I was in my first year teaching at the school; it was getting to the end of the morning and I was getting tired.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘The school secretary came through in a fuss because there was one boy who didn’t have a mother, just a not much older sister, and was that all right? So I said we might as well hear the child, and in came Perry and Francesca, both of them skinny little things. Francesca was about twelve and everything was too short and too tight, and she was obviously very anxious. So I treated her as if she was a mother, and shook hands with her, and said of course she could play the piano for Perry. He wasn’t nervous at all. He sang the test piece, which I had only heard about fifty times — just opened his mouth and this wonderful sound came out, astonishing amount of volume, too.’

  He smiled again, in memory. ‘Of course I knew immediately we must have him, but I did all the tests just in case he was a musical idiot, but he has perfect pitch as well, and I was just putting up a little prayer of thankfulness, when Francesca said that he could sightread. Well — at eight years old they mostly can’t, you know, but I gave him the Burdon “Nunc Dimittis” which I had on the piano.’

  ‘That’s the difficult one, more or less plainsong?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, the headmaster had arrived by then, summoned by bush telegraph, but Perry just glanced at the Burdon and said he had heard it sung so it would not be a fair test of sight-reading. I asked him to go ahead anyway. The Headmaster and I were both nearly in tears at the end of it, and totally agreed, you know, that we must get him before any other school nobbled him. So we advanced on Francesca, who was clearly in charge.’

  ‘That I can imagine.’ Henry spoke seriously.

  ‘She said, like someone fifteen years her senior, that she would have to consult her parents, because St Joseph’s was her idea rather than theirs. She added that if the test was over she thought she had better go home, because she had three other younger brothers in the waiting-room since the twins had been too little to leave behind and her mother had gone with her father to hospital that morning. I don’t think Peter — who was Headmaster then — and I even looked at each other but we asked, more or less in chorus, whether any of them sung and she replied that they all did but Perry was the best; quite matter of factly, you know.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Henry was both fascinated and appalled. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘We forgot about lunch, and lured all five of them into a rehearsal room and got them to do their party pieces, including Francesca. We offered Charlie a bursary on the spot because we had just lost a tenyear- old to another school, and we invented a procedure whereby we guaranteed entry to the twins for two years on. They were only six then, of course. So all the boys came to us, but as Francesca said, Perry was the best, though Tristram ran him close as a treble. One of the best days’ work I ever did for the school.’

  Henry, an only child who had barely been responsible for a goldfish until he had joined Allied Textiles at twenty-eight, contemplated this story, and wondered whether, had circumstances been different, he would have had the attack and the character to transport four younger brothers to an unfamiliar part of London on a day when his father had been taken seriously ill into hospital.

  ‘We finally remembered about lunch when one of the twins could contain himself no longer.’ Sandy Laing was laughing. ‘But it must have been a huge strain on Francesca. The father died later that year — I never knew him. Francesca used to come to school occasions when her mother was working — I am afraid we all fell into the habit of treating her as if she were a parent, but she is only two years older than Charles.’

  Yes indeed, thought Henry and it all went some way to explaining why she was both ferociously capable and utterly unwilling to put herself in a position where she might have to carry that sort of responsibility again.

  12

  John McLeish sat on the half empty train to Doncaster on Wednesday morning, guiltily hoping he wasn’t wasting police time. He was on his way to attend the funeral of William Fireman, which was legitimate police work, but he was spending the night in Doncaster afterwards almost entirely because Francesca would be there. She had rung him apologetically to explain that she could not keep their date for Wednesday because she had to accompany her boss to Doncaster to meet the Britex Board, most of whom would be there to attend the funeral. McLeish had promptly reinstated their date for the Thursday, and decided to spend Wednesday night in Doncaster too. He did, of course, need time to talk to the Doncaster CID — but he was also resolved to spin out the talks so that he could catch the same train home as Francesca. He needed to get closer to the Department of Industry team, true — but he also wanted to carry Francesca off for supper with him before her family or other concerns could overwhelm her. Also, he might manage to get her to himself for a bit tonight, since she had been sure the meeting would not go on late.

  He was met by a detective inspector whom he instantly recognized as a fellow rugby-player.

  ‘Brady. How are you? Very good of you to come yourself.’

  ‘I heard it was you, so I decided to take an interest.’ Brady, a stocky chap perhaps a couple of years older than McLeish, was a walking illustration of the dangers of abandoning a competitive sport too abruptly. He was a good three stone heavier than when he had been a fly-half for the London Scottish, and had lost a good deal of hair as well. He was, endearingly, beaming with pleasure at seeing McLeish.

  ‘I’ll take you to the pub for lunch and we can talk.’ If you are unwilling to become a Freemason, McLeish reflected, being a near international class rugby-player was almost as useful in the Force. They took drinks over to a corner table from which they could survey the room, and ordered a solid lunch.

  ‘I’ve come up for the funeral and to get the local gossip.’

  ‘And you’ve come to the right man. My wife’s a local girl, you know. Related to half the town, and that’s why I am here. Julie never could settle in London, so I left the Met and came here when I got the chance; better for the kids, too. I miss London, though.’ He contemplated his beer sadly. ‘Sorry, where was I? Well, everyone says Britex is in trouble, not paying its bills, that’s for a start. Hang on, though, John — why do you think it isn’t just a mugging anyway?’

  McLeish explained about the possible link with the attack on Sheena Byers, but it did sound increasingly thin, even to him, as he expounded his theory. Rather to his surprise, Brady was interested and commented that there were really dangerous tensions in firms where the business was going badly, which might easily lead to violence; his own brotherin- law, normally the mildest of men and wholly under the thumb of Brady’s sister, had threatened his business partner with a knife at a stage when the business was drifting towards receivership. Mercifully Brady himself had been present or there was no knowing where the affair might have ended. McLeish considered this, but said sadly that nothing about Fireman suggested he would present that sort of challenge.

  ‘Someone got their hand in the till, and he found them at it?’ Brady offered.

  ‘I’m looking for something like that, and that is why I want to talk to the Department of Industry people who are in there now — that you keep to yourself by the way, it isn’t public.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where the girl comes in?’ McLeish jumped involuntarily. ‘The girl with the briefcase, I mean.’ Brady looked entirely innocent but McLeish, who remembered him as a very tricky fly-half indeed, was on guard.

  Brady smiled at him disarmingly. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what else I know. It’s an old firm, about a hundred years old, originally run by the Blackett great-grandfather. The current Sir James is the Chairman — you interviewed him? He’s all right, good name in the dis
trict. The son, William, was Sales Director, but when the old MD left, no one thought William should be Managing, Director, so they brought in this Peter Hampton. William took offence, and went off to a supplier firm. He’s on the Board of Britex, of course, because he’s a Blackett.’

  ‘Or because he has a lot of shares?’

  ‘Not him. That all went some time ago. Julie’s second cousin on her mother’s side is a partner in the local firm that does the audit, and he told me William B. sold the lot out two years ago.’

  ‘Not a bad idea if the firm is going bust now.’

  ‘Yeh, but that’s not why he did it, not according to Julie’s cousin. He needed the cash. He’s got a bloody great house over to Keighley, four kids all at boarding-school, ski-ing holidays, dances in London, all that. He’s strapped for cash now, according to the local Barclays man, but all he loses if Britex goes belly-up is a non-executive director’s salary. His main salary is from Alutex, though I do hear they’re in bother too. But that doesn’t help you, does it? I mean, Fireman didn’t work at Alutex.’

  ‘No, I can’t see where that fits in. What about Hampton?’

  Brady’s mouth compressed momentarily, and he signalled for coffee. ‘Bit of a wide boy. Thinks he’s God’s gift, always women around him. Split up with his wife a couple of years ago, moved into his own flat. Plenty of cash to flash about.’ Brady was sounding distinctly sour, and McLeish enquired whether Hampton had got up the collective police nose in the area.

  ‘No, I just don’t like the bloke — nothing known against him, except for a drunk-driving two years ago. The rest of the Board are local lads. The Sales Director and the production chap are executive — I mean they work full time — and the biggest of the local solicitors and another Blackett cousin are on as non-executives. I dunno what either of them does for the money.’