“Well,” she said stoutly, “it was nothing to do with us. I’m sorry he’s dead — no one deserves to be murdered — but I’m not going to weep crocodile tears for him. He made a lot of enemies for himself.”
“Mr. Fenshawe?”
“I — only met him once. I can’t say I cared for him. In fact, I thought him an arrogant bastard, if you want the truth.”
“Oh, we certainly want the truth, Mr. Fenshawe. By the way, what colour is your car?”
Fenshawe stared at him. “My car? Blue. Why?”
“May we have a quick look at it?”
But when, at Webb’s request, it was driven out of the garage, no scratch was visible to the naked eye. No matter; if the paint sample corresponded to last year’s Ford Escort, the tyres would be the deciding factor.
“Well, thank you for the coffee,” Webb said. “And if either of you remembers anything you’d like to tell us, you know where we are.”
“Why did you let him off the hook, guy?” Jackson demanded, as they drove away. “He obviously knew something, and he’d have cracked in another minute or two.”
“I decided to leave it to his wife,” Webb replied. “She was as conscious of his nervousness as we were, and was surprised by it. She’ll get it out of him, and provided he’s not the killer, she’ll tell us about it.”
“But he could be the killer. An evening at the cinema’s no alibi for a late-night murder, and he has the right colour car.”
“Don’t worry, Ken. I’ll have a tail put on him just in case, but I’m willing to bet either he or his wife will show up at Carrington Street within the next twenty-four hours. Let’s see if I’m right.”
9
ONCE AGAIN, it was the interval before Felicity’s performance, and this time, Mark was alone in the crowded foyer. Gwen, hearing the tickets were at a premium, had decided not to attend. “I’ll have heard her play once,” she’d explained diffidently. “It’s only fair to let someone else have a chance. It’s different for you, dear, being such a devoted fan and so much more musical than I am. And you’ll have Jackie for company.”
In which, of course, she was mistaken. At least he’d handed back her ticket, Mark thought, and wondered guiltily where she was this evening. No more worrying, anyway, about keeping the two girls apart. He’d seen Camilla in the box with her mother and Miss Matthews. Sir Julian, of course, was conducting, and although the first half of the concert had been well received, the audience was clearly here for the world premiere. BBC microphones were in position, and everyone had the excited air of being present on a historic occasion.
“Hi there,” said a soft voice, and Mark turned to see Camilla.
“Hello. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ve had one, thanks. I was looking for you. Aren’t you with anyone?”
“No, my — er — friend couldn’t come.”
“We thought you looked rather lost, in the middle of a row with no one to talk to. Mother wondered if you’d like to join us in the box? There’s plenty of room.”
“That’s very kind of her — I’d love to.”
“Let’s get back then, out of this crush.”
Lady Harwood greeted him graciously, and there was a nod and brief word from Hattie Matthews. The latter was pale and austere in a severely styled black dress, which emphasized the poor condition of her skin.
“You’ll have to excuse Hattie,” Camilla told him. “She suffers agonies at Felicity’s concerts, but refuses to stay home and listen on the radio.”
Mark looked at the woman with a raised eyebrow. “Are you afraid she’ll make a mistake?”
“Nothing so rational,” Hattie replied. “But since I suffer enough stage fright for both of us, she’s free to concentrate on her music.”
Mark glanced down at the glossy programme. “I see there’s a new photograph for the occasion.”
“Is there?” Camilla turned the pages of her own programme. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Quite right, Mr. Templeton. We have them taken every three years or so; Felicity has a horror of people finding her older than her photograph.”
A rustling in the auditorium indicated that the audience was returning and the second half of the concert was about to start. Mark settled back with a feeling of anticipation as the orchestra filed in. The great moment was at hand.
Nor was he disappointed. By the end of the first movement, it was clear that in this latest work, the composer had surpassed herself. Melody, composition and interpretation had reached a new level, and Mark knew, with a sense of awe, that he was hearing truly great music, worthy to stand alongside accepted masterpieces. All the more incredible, then, that the same slight figure centre-stage, whose superlative playing lifted the music to a dimension all its own, should also have had the genius to conceive it.
As the final movement came to a close, the auditorium was hushed. Then, with a swelling roar of approbation, everyone rose, many people with tears streaming unashamedly down their faces as they clapped in a frenzy of homage. In the years to come, Mark thought, applauding wildly himself, they would tell their grandchildren they’d been present at this performance. Four, five, six times, Felicity returned from the wings to bow and smile. Then came the bouquets, and Mark sensed a prickle of apprehension in the box beside him. If she should faint again —
But no incident marred tonight’s acclamation. Reviewers were now leaving the auditorium to phone in their superlatives, and up in the gods the younger element had started stamping their feet, the rhythmic rumble underlying the continuing applause.
Mark turned to Camilla. “I’ll have to go, too, and make my report,” he said. “Tell Felicity —” He broke off with a smile, and shook his head. “Never mind. Perhaps by tomorrow I’ll be able to find the words.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand. “See you then.” Excusing himself to Lady Harwood, he left the box.
*
When Webb arrived at Hannah’s flat, the broadcast of the concert had just finished. He settled himself in a chair as she switched off the radio. “That was quite fantastic,” she said. “I taped it for you, since you missed the school performance.”
“Thanks; I’ll look forward to listening to it. Actually, I met Miss Harwood yesterday. She had her bag snatched, would you believe.”
“Good heavens — how awful!”
“Not so awful. The thief ran straight into Jackson’s arms. It was all over in a matter of minutes.”
“What did you think of her?” Hannah asked curiously.
“A lady with a mind of her own. I couldn’t persuade her to press charges — it would seemingly interfere with her music. Despite her slight frame, I’d say there’s a core of steel running through her.”
“Gwen was telling me she wants Mark Templeton to write her biography.”
“Who’s Mark Templeton?”
“Gwen’s nephew. I must have mentioned him — he’s one of our music masters.”
“Well, it would be quite a feather in his cap.”
“Except that he’s had no experience of that kind of thing. Gwen doesn’t know quite what to make of it. It would mean his taking leave of absence, and so on. Quite an upheaval.”
“Is he going to do it?”
“He hasn’t decided. But you’re right about her strong will. She seems determined he should, and has offered him a dummy run while she’s here. Every spare minute, he goes round to the house with his tape-recorder. Still, enough of that. How are things with you?”
“Pretty lousy. We’ve had another April Rainers-linked murder.”
“Oh, David, no! Who was it?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard. James Jessel, of Jessel Enterprises. He —”
“Mr. Jessel? But he was one of our guests at the school concert!”
“His wife says he’d a lot of enemies. There’d been other letters as well, but since they were destroyed they can’t be checked against those Baxter received. The April Rainers’ might not have been the onl
y duplication.”
“How was he killed?” Hannah asked shakily.
“Same as the last one. A ligature round his neck. Ten to one it’ll turn out to have been a nylon stocking.”
“I just can’t take this in. I was chatting to him for several minutes, thanking him for his donation to the fund.” She drew a steadying breath. “Have you any leads on the first case?”
“Nope. Damn it, if people would only report poison-pen letters, we might have a chance. We’d certainly have been on the alert this time, given Jessel protection, and possibly been able to prevent his death. But it’s no use thinking of that now. We’re releasing their name to the press, so let’s hope that will curtail their activities.”
*
The Sunday papers certainly gave full rein to the story. WHO ARE THE APRIL RAINERS? ran one headline, and, beneath it, a two-column spread: “Two men have been murdered in the last week in Shillingham, Broadshire, after receiving death threats signed by ‘The April Rainers.’ A similar case was reported in London two years ago. Now the police, who stress that all anonymous letters should be reported, are anxious to discover whether other unsolved murders may have been preceded by such death threats. The first victim …”
Mark, about to leave for Fauconberg House, dropped the paper on the hall table. He’d read it properly this evening. Unpleasant, though, to think of some gang prowling round Shillingham. He hoped Camilla wasn’t out alone after dark.
Felicity was waiting for him in the music room. She looked older than usual, with purple shadows under her eyes and fine lines between nose and mouth.
“How are you?” he asked, and it wasn’t mere formality.
“Exhausted, but I daren’t admit it. Hattie always said I shouldn’t do two concerts in a week. I gather you enjoyed last night?”
“It was out of this world.”
“I’ve been reading the reviews. As usual, yours is one of the most perceptive.” Her mouth twisted. “It was the only one, I noted, to refer to me as ‘one of the leading composers and violinists of the century.’”
Mark looked surprised. “But surely I read something very similar in —”
She held up her hand. “A word’s difference, Mark — and a world of difference. The others called me a leading woman composer. Do they refer to Britten as a man? An artist shouldn’t require that qualification; it’s so belittling.”
“I’m sure it’s not meant to be.”
“I’m not saying it is — it just comes naturally to them. But not, thank God, to you. Is it any wonder I want you to do the book?”
She bent and retrieved a folded newspaper from the stack on the floor. “I particularly liked what you said about weaving together the serenity of Romanticism with the challenge of the present day. You see, that was precisely my intention.”
She leant towards him, letting the paper slide back to the floor. “Shall I tell you where I first had the idea for the piece? It was in Glastonbury, on a summer afternoon two years ago, when I saw a plane flying over the Tor. Nothing unusual, but it struck me as being symbolic of our fast-moving computer age co-existing with our most ancient and mysterious past. And you somehow picked that up. It must have been telepathy.”
Mark said awkwardly, “It was also an inspired performance. I doubt if anyone else will dare play it for a while.”
“Yes, it was good. We’d had a disastrous rehearsal in the morning, though. I’m notoriously difficult to work with; even Julian says so. But I know the way it should sound, and I won’t accept any other interpretation. However, enough of last night; let’s get back to business. Here’s the cassette you left with me last time — I’ve filled it, so you can give me another if you’ve a spare.”
They worked together for the rest of the morning, Mark asking questions, Felicity filling out her answers to encompass subjects on the fringe of the query. Several times, as she recounted past happenings, Mark found himself surprised by a streak of ruthlessness, and once, sensing his reaction, she said caustically, “I’ve never pretended to be sweetness and light, Mark. I’ve had to fight to get where I am — as you know, it’s man’s world — and I’ve made some enemies in my time.”
“Enemies?” he repeated, with raised brow.
“Yes indeed. When you’re well known and successful, it’s inevitable, but I don’t let it worry me.” Had she known it, she was paraphrasing James Jessel.
During the lunch break, Mark had no chance for a private word with Camilla, but following the afternoon session, he again walked with her in the garden. The ground was saturated from the previous day’s rain, the dahlias flattened into the soil, their proud heads twisted beneath them. “How’s it coming along?” Camilla asked idly.
“Slowly; we’re still discussing her childhood. It’s surprising how difficult her father was about her music; if he hadn’t died fairly young, she might never have got going. It doesn’t bear thinking about.” He bent, trying without success to prop up a drooping dahlia. “What was it? Heart attack?”
“Oh no. In fact, he didn’t actually die, he was killed in a rail accident. I think the fact that it was an accident made it harder to accept. Felicity told me once she was afraid she might have willed him to have one, because he wouldn’t let her study music.”
“Yes, she said as much to me.”
“Do you think you’ll do the book?” Camilla asked.
“I honestly don’t know. I’m waiting till she goes back to London and I’ve a chance to go over what I’ve got. Then I’ll weigh it up and see how I feel. To be honest, it’ll be a relief when this trial period’s over; trying to combine it with teaching is quite a strain. Did you know she invited me to go to Edinburgh with her? Unfortunately, though, there’s no way I can fit it in. What happens, when you’re given the Freedom of a City?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s a tremendous honour; she’s only the third person Edinburgh’s awarded it to in twenty years. They invited her to appear at the festival, too, and even though she couldn’t make it, an entire evening was devoted to her music.”
Their walk had brought them full circle to the house, and they went inside for Mark to say his goodbyes. As he was leaving, Hattie appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, Mr. Templeton — I’m glad I caught you. I’ve just found an old school photograph you might like to see.”
She came hurrying down the stairs and, a couple of steps from the bottom, stumbled suddenly as her ankle gave way. Mark and Camilla started forward, but they were not in time to catch her. With a sharp cry, she fell down the remaining steps, landing heavily with her ankle bent beneath her. The noise brought the other three hurrying from the drawing-room, and it took a concerted effort to raise her. By the whiteness of her face and the unnatural angle of her foot, it was clear some quite serious damage had been done.
“We’d better get you to Casualty,” Sir Julian said. “They’ll need to take X-rays.”
Hattie said between gasps, “They can do what they like as long as I’m mobile for Tuesday. I don’t intend to miss Edinburgh.”
“Can I help at all?” Mark asked, holding the photograph that had been the cause of the trouble.
“No, we can manage, thanks.”
He would only be in the way if he stayed; there were enough of them to do what was necessary. “I’ll phone later and see how she is,” he said.
The news when he rang that evening was much as he’d expected. Several bones in the foot had been broken, and Hattie would be immobile for some weeks. Edinburgh, naturally, was out of the question.
“That’s what’s upsetting her most,” Camilla told him, “but there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“I feel at least partly responsible,” Mark said, “since she was hurrying to show me the photograph. Do please give her my sympathy.”
So that was that, he reflected, replacing the phone. “The best-laid schemes …” He’d send round some flowers in the morning.
*
At Carrington Street, the p
hone calls had started to come in. Now the job would be to sort out the genuine ones from the cranks.
“The devil of it is,” Webb told the impromptu gathering in his office, “they’ll all have to be looked into. Still, we’ll give the most likely ones priority. Any ideas on those?”
Nina said, “As you instructed, every caller was asked to describe the notes in detail. So far, only three seem genuine, mentioning the style of message, green ink and so on. One call came from Cardiff, one from Liverpool and one from Leeds.”
“These ‘Rainers’ certainly get about,” Webb commented. “Well, we’ll start with those three. Don, you and John to Cardiff, please; Bob and Steve to Liverpool; and Harry and Fred to Leeds. Let’s hope you all have more luck than Inspector Crombie here. We’ll see what we get from these before moving on to the less likely ones.”
“I suppose the rest will be the usual attention-seekers,” Dawson said dismissively.
“Not necessarily. If someone close to you is murdered and the killer isn’t caught, it’s almost impossible to come to terms with it. Some of these poor devils are probably clutching at straws, telling themselves such a note might have been received, and hoping to renew police interest in their own cases.”
Webb’s phone rang and he reached forward wearily to answer it. But at the sound of the voice he straightened, and threw Jackson a triumphant glance. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Fenshawe. I shall be here for the next hour or so, if you’d like to come over.”
Gaby Fenshawe was more subdued than when they’d last seen her, and more formally dressed. She was accompanied by her husband, who fiddled continuously with his tie. “Chief Inspector,” she began, when they were all seated, “you said yesterday that you thought the — the harassment campaign against James Jessel was connected with his death.”
Webb had not said precisely that, but he waited in silence.
Her colour deepened. “We felt we had to come and tell you that it wasn’t.”
Webb raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d explain how you know that?”
Fenshawe straightened in his chair. “Because I was responsible for it,” he said abruptly. “And I very definitely didn’t kill him.”
David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Page 11
