“We’ll have to charm her.” Jonty grinned. “Is housekeeper a euphemism, do you think? For common-law wife? I believe you said Denison left no legitimate family.”
“It’s possible. We can’t speculate until we have more information.” Orlando checked his watch. “We’ve just got time, then we can discuss our findings over dinner. I’ll even appreciate the metal monster getting us out there and back again quickly.”
Jonty almost broke into a jig as they walked along. “Miracles will never cease!”
It wasn’t long before they had plenty of information to discuss over dinner.
The house where Denison had lived was a small but well kept modern villa, dating to 1902 if the engraved block above the front door was to be believed, with ample room for a man, his violins and a trusted servant. Their knock was answered by a stout lady in black bombazine, whose sense of fashion hadn’t progressed out of the Victorian era. She’d be about the same age as Denison had been, Orlando guessed, perhaps in her fifties so there was no reason they couldn’t have been lovers in the past or more recently. He mentally shook himself, while Jonty effected the introductions: he shouldn’t assume that a romantic relationship should depend on the lovers being of a similar age. That really would be losing his touch.
Mrs Evans’s forbidding expression—here was somebody who’d clearly take no nonsense—transformed to a welcoming smile when she read Jonty’s calling card.
“Come in, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you, since Professor Lewis-Duckworth told me he’d called you in. I’m sorry to have been so unwelcoming when I opened the door but I’ve had the men from the papers here more than once and I feared you were prying reporters. Have they nothing better to do than harass people in their time of grief?”
“I doubt it.” Jonty gave her his most winning smile. Always a good stratagem to form an alliance against a common enemy. “They’ll only make up stories, anyway, no matter what you tell them. They seemed pretty sharp off the mark, according to the professor.”
“Oh yes.” She rolled her eyes. “I daresay that was the old biddy next door. Her nephew is a reporter, as she never ceases to remind her poor housekeeper. She’ll have seen the undertakers and rushed to tell him.”
It seemed a reasonable theorem.
Mrs. Evans led them into the part of the house where Denison must have practiced. Part drawing room, part study, part music room, it ran the depth of the house with windows to the front and French doors to the garden. A delightful, well lit and clearly well used area. “I’ve not moved anything, I haven’t had the heart. I’ve just kept his things clean. If you’re looking for evidence, I’m not sure you’ll find anything. I haven’t.”
Orlando would bet that if there was the faintest scrap of incriminating evidence she’d have located it. “You’ll appreciate that we have a number of questions to ask and apologise for any pain they’ll cause. Did he die in his bed?”
“No. He died out in the garden, which is a small consolation. It’s only a little plot, but he loved it.” Mrs. Evans dabbed at her eyes with an immaculately clean and starched handkerchief. “You probably think I’m being over-sentimental but I’ll keep the garden exactly as he had it, too. It was a terrible mess when we moved here and he had a lot of work done to make everything just so.”
“Not sentimental at all,” Jonty said, piling on the sympathetic charm. “You mentioned incriminating evidence. Does that mean that you also don’t believe he died of heart failure?”
“I do not. His heart was as strong as mine. He had the odd palpitation, about which he’d consulted the doctor, but to be honest that man’s about as much use as a boat with a hole in it. Drinks too much.” Mrs. Evans briefly shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I simply dislike inefficiency, wherever it’s to be found. Whether you sweep the streets or run the country you should do it properly.”
“My mother would agree with you.” Jonty cast a glance around the room. “You run a tight ship here, I can tell.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Evans beamed. “Shall I go and make us a pot of tea and find a piece of cake?”
“Tea would be most welcome but I fear that Professor Lewis-Duckworth has filled us with cake.” Orlando gleefully noted Jonty’s look of disappointment. The little toad needed to leave a hole for his dinner. “Mr. Denison always said he was a good host.” She blew her nose. “Please feel free to roam the house wherever you wish.”
With that, she backed out of the door and left them to it. On first inspection the room struck Orlando as being one full of activity, not just musical. Novels lined bookshelves, and two unfinished games of chess were laid out on miniature boards on a table in the window bay facing the street. As Jonty had a rummage through the contents of the desk and its drawers—coming up with a blank—Orlando concentrated on the blotting pad, carefully removing the top sheet for later inspection. While the page looked relatively fresh, so there was nothing obvious to view except a few spots of black ink, it bore definite impressions that could be elucidated later.
Jonty, clearly having given up with the paperwork, wandered about the room, pausing to idly flip through some music on a stand at his elbow. “If the doctor was wrong about Denison’s heart, was he also wrong about the arthritis?”
“Perhaps a wrong diagnosis or aetiology, but not the symptoms, surely? Denison would have known how his joints felt and it must have been bad to prevent him playing.” Orlando paused, cast a penetrating glance around him, and then said, “If he was so badly affected in his joints, how can it be that he was still playing? Surely this room hasn’t remained this way for the best part of a year, which is when both the newspaper and the warden say he stopped the violin.”
“Perhaps he kept it so for sentimental reasons, in the same way as Mrs. Evans is reluctant to make changes. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to tidy it all away because that would be admitting he’d never play again, rather like her clearing this room would be an admission that her employer will never return.” Jonty shrugged. “While there was music on a stand, there was hope for him.”
Orlando jotted down a note. “We’ll ask her about that. In the meantime, the garden, I think.”
But the garden gave them no clues, other than being more evidence of a property well tended. It would have been a pleasant place in which to walk or sit, especially in another year or so when the shrubs would be more mature. That was hardly an indication that Denison had expected not living to profit from it.
As they made their way through the rest of the house—carefully avoiding the kitchen and the servants’ room in the attic as they weren’t sure they’d been given licence to roam there—it told much the same story, the only items of note being pictures of the dead man playing his instrument or meeting dignitaries and a striking portrait, done in oils, of him as a young man which graced the upper landing.
“Handsome chap,” Jonty observed. “You can see him much clearer here than in some of those old photographs. I do like a portrait—more revealing than what the camera captures.”
“And what does this one reveal to you?”
“That I’d not be surprised if Mrs. Evans was smitten if he retained those looks. He’d have turned heads.”
Orlando lowered his voice. “What if the espionage angle is all smoke and mirrors on someone’s part? Could this come down to old-fashioned passion? A thwarted lover who takes revenge, for example.”
“That seems much more likely than the spy angle, on the face of things, although espionage and romantic intrigue can go hand in hand, I believe.” Jonty studied the portrait again. “He might have aroused great passion among his admirers. Especially when playing. If music be the food of love and all that. I’m glad I’ve seen this. It gives me more of a feeling for the man. Some of those old photographs are rather blurred.”
“Yes. I’m no expert, but I’m sure the quality of cameras has increased hugely over the last few years. Remember showing me those pictures at the Old Manor?”
“How could I for
get? That snap of my grandpapa could actually have been a photograph of anyone. I recall Clarence telling a guest it featured Queen Victoria and they believed him.”
The sound of Mrs. Evans moving about with what sounded like clinking cups in her possession ended the conversation and sent them downstairs again. Once established at a table in the music room, all three of them with tea in hand, Orlando asked, “If we promise to be as frank with you as we can possibly be, would you promise us the same degree of candour?”
Mrs. Evans seemed slightly taken aback at the question—whether because it had been unexpected or whether she took affront at anyone implying she was ever less than candid, Orlando couldn’t tell. “I believe that the truth never hurt anyone, Dr. Coppersmith.”
There appeared to be some hidden meaning in the sentence, but Orlando couldn’t yet fathom that, either. Maybe Jonty would have some inkling. “It might be hard to get at a truthful answer to this, however. We have been told that Mr. Denison may have been involved in espionage, at the time when he was playing with an orchestra in America. Can you tell us anything about that?”
Mrs. Evans glanced at Jonty then back to Orlando, before chuckling. “Espionage? What nonsense. I travelled out there with him, to ensure his domestic needs were attended to both on the ship and when he was working. You never know what sort of arrangements they have in these heathen places. I never saw or heard anything that would suggest he was mixed up in that sort of business. Whoever told you that needs to get their facts straight.”
The assertion was an impressive one, but if Denison had been good at his job he might well have kept that part of his life from her, irrespective of what role she really held. The fact she’d gone with him to America meant she was, at the very least, an invaluable servant. It also accorded with what the warden had said about Denison not discussing secrets from his past in the housekeeper’s presence.
“Did he ever receive any threats, to your knowledge?” Jonty said, while stirring his tea, a gesture which was merely for effect as he’d had no sugar in it. “Perhaps he emerged from a meeting more upset than he should have been, for example?”
She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “He had rivals, of course, people envious of his talent. There were people who’d have been all too ready to snatch the musical opportunities that he was offered, but none of that was any worse than other musical rivalries have been. Or so Mr. Denison said.” She sipped her tea. “I can’t imagine any of those rivals doing anything worse than whispering behind backs to sully his reputation for their own gain. Perhaps they spread these ludicrous stories about spying.”
“Possibly. When did he stop playing?” Orlando asked.
“Oh.” Mrs. Evans for the first time appeared flustered, perhaps wrestling with her conscience before deciding how frank she should be, despite the earlier protestation. “In the interests of candour, I should tell you that he never gave up playing entirely. He couldn’t do without it, you see, despite the fact his glory days were gone. How could any man give up the thing which he loves most?”
A man would have to be made of stone to deny that argument: Orlando knew how he would feel if he could no longer have Jonty at his side or be able to understand his beloved calculations. It might drive him to the worst of actions.
“But he was unable to play in public, we understand?” Jonty chipped in.
Mrs. Evans nodded. “Exactly. The condition of his hands sometimes abated so there were occasions he could almost reach old heights in a short passage, but not enough to sustain even the shortest of performances, nor with any predictability. That’s why he only played for his own pleasure. And mine. I quite miss sitting in the kitchen listening.”
Would the condition coming and going accord with Dr. Panesar’s idea that the so-called arthritis was being caused by a chemical of some sort? How much evidence would they have to accumulate to persuade the police that an exhumation might be necessary in order to make the appropriate tests?
“Quite understandable.” Jonty scanned the room, with an appreciative smile. “He was clearly still playing to some extent right up until the time of his death. No sudden worsening of his condition?”
“No. He had been playing very nicely the evening before he died.” She took in the room with a sweep of her hand. “It was no secret, as anyone who peered in through the front window could have seen for themselves.”
“Did people often look in?” Orlando asked. “Professor Lewis-Duckworth tells us that Mr. Denison believed that people were following him, perhaps because of his involvement with espionage and that he also believed his life to be in danger.”
Mrs. Evans, smiling and shaking her head, topped up their cups. “Followed? That was just some silly notion. I remember there was some poor lad who was waiting to see his lass and Peter got it into his head that the young man was actually watching the house.”
Orlando had noticed the use of Denison’s Christian name, guessing that Jonty would have done the same and would add it to his evidence for a closer relationship between this pair. “Did you tell him he was mistaken?”
“I tried to. He’d believe me for a while but then he’d be off again. Sometimes people did stop and listen to his playing, if it was one of his good days and the windows were open.” She frowned. “I suppose that might have played on his mind.”
Orlando made a note, then took another drink of tea, leaving Jonty to change the line of questioning.
“Are all his violins still here? He didn’t bequeath any of them, for example?”
“Not in his will, although he told me that he wanted them to benefit young players. I’ve spoken to his solicitor and asked him for permission to give them to local schools. It might have to wait for the will to pass through probate.” She glanced at one of the instrument cases. “Better they get used than sit here.”
“And you’ve not donated any yet?” Jonty asked.
“No. Ah...now.” Mrs. Evans steepled her fingers to her lips. “About a month ago, Mr. Denison lent a violin to someone. I’m afraid I don’t know who borrowed it, but my master was getting a touch agitated about its return. Rather a valuable instrument, I believe, although whether that was primarily monetary or sentimental value, I couldn’t say.”
“Did Mr. Denison keep a record of all his violins?” Orlando chipped in.
“No, he didn’t, more’s the pity, or I could have given you the details of the missing one and you could have retrieved it.”
Perhaps Orlando could still retrieve it. Time to address the main issue, though. “Mrs. Evans,” he kept his voice even, “you told us that your employer’s death wasn’t due to his heart. Do you think another medical condition was involved or do you believe there is a more sinister explanation?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Evans turned to stare out of the French doors, perhaps to the spot where Denison had died. “I’ve thought about it time and again, wondering what might have happened. I don’t think he was deliberately given a severe shock nor had poison administered to him or anything strange like that, although I wasn’t here when it happened so I can’t swear to that in a court of law, but something doesn’t ring true. The warden believes he was killed, and he’s not a stupid man. The times he came here and the pair of them talked over dinner about things that went right over my head. A lot of meaningless words I’d have called it but it makes sense to you clever gentlemen.” The handkerchief—less pristine and more crumpled now—made a reappearance.
“This is clearly painful for you,” Jonty said, “and I’m afraid that my next questions—I promise they will be our last for the time being—might be more painful still. Were you the person who found him dead?”
“Yes. I’d been out to get some eggs, because Mr. Denison wanted an omelette for lunch and the boy who delivers for the grocer really can’t be trusted to handle them properly. I arranged to visit a friend on the way, as she’s not been well and I combined my shopping with the things she needed. Mr. Denison didn’t mind if I took some tim
e for myself. When I came back, I saw him, just lying peacefully on the lawn. As though he was taking a little nap.” She dabbed her eyes.
It was the right time to ask the question that had nagged Orlando. “Is it at all possible that he took his own life, perhaps in frustration at his ability to play dwindling and no prospect of things getting better?”
Mrs. Evans looked into her teacup, like a fortune teller trying to read the leaves. “If he did, he gave no indication beforehand, but I suppose it’s possible. I hadn’t considered that before.” She glanced up, face awash with emotion but the meaning unreadable. “Yes, it could well be so, if the silly man somehow got hold of the means.”
Orlando pressed on. “You didn’t find anything hidden in the house that might support that point of view?”
“No. But perhaps he disposed of it, somehow. Dissolved something in water and had time to wash out the glass. Do poisons act slowly enough for a man to do that?” She fiddled with her, by now, completely dishevelled handkerchief. “If only I’d not gone out for those blessed eggs, I might have stopped him.”
If suicide was the explanation, given that Denison might have deliberately sent her on an errand for the eggs, Orlando doubted it. He’d seen his father take his own life, been tormented for years that he could have done something to prevent it, and finally concluded—with the help of Jonty and his family—that nobody could have made a scrap of difference to the outcome. Had Denison been prevented on that occasion, he’d have found another.
With that unpleasant association in his mind, it was time to draw the interview to an end.
Chapter Five
They’d returned to the Randolph with enough time to take a bath and wash the dust of the road and the sweat of investigation away. Jonty had been protective of Orlando on the way home, aware how much the talk of suicide would have unsettled him given his present fragile emotional state and had been reassured at how quickly his spirits had appeared to revive. So much so that they’d been able to discuss whether Denison had deliberately got Mrs. Evans out of the house, encouraging her to make the call on the sick friend, and what purpose that would have served. Killing himself wasn’t the only explanation: being alone suited the purpose of meeting somebody without her knowing. Perhaps he’d simply wanted some time to himself.
Lessons in Playing a Murderous Tune: A Cambridge Fellows Mystery novella (Cambridge Fellows Mysteries) Page 5
