The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  Chapter Eleven

  Next morning, Giles went in search of Watkins and found him marshalling his gaggle of choristers after their morning rehearsal in the song school, before sending them off to their lessons. He had his arms full of music and a vaguely flustered air as Giles approached.

  “One moment, sir,” he said, “if you don’t mind?”

  “No, not at all,” said Giles, watching the boys fidgeting and chattering in their places.

  “Silence!” Watkins shouted, and they fell silent. “Now Decani, I want you boys back fifteen minutes early this afternoon for extra rehearsal. You were all very sloppy. Cantores, that was adequate, but only just. And Herbert, your organ lesson today is in the Minster, not St Anne’s Chapel.”

  One of the older boys stuck up his hand.

  “Please sir, does that mean the body is still there?”

  “Mr Barnes to you,” said Watkins. “No, he has been taken away. And this is not a subject for idle conversation! No matter how odd the circumstances of Mr Barnes’ death, it is a great loss to us all and I hope you have all remembered him in your prayers.”

  “A good point,” said Giles, stepping forward, “and there is another way you can help Mr Barnes. If any of you saw or heard anything that seemed out of the ordinary around the Minster Precincts over the last few days, I want you to talk to a member of the constabulary about it.”

  ***

  “You have a fine house here, Mr Watkins,” said Giles, following him into the spacious hallway of a pretty double-fronted house in the Minster Precincts, that was tucked into a little yard behind the Minster school.

  “It needs furniture and a wife,” said Mr Watkins, going into a large room containing only a grand piano made with glowing yellow satinwood, and a dilapidated bureau bookcase. There were no curtains at the window, no rugs on the bare boards, and no pictures on the wall, only patches of darker paintwork where the previous occupant’s pictures had once hung.

  “And I am unlikely to get the one without the other,” Watkins went on, dumping his pile of music on the piano. “Now, the names of all the Vicars Choral? I have them in a ledger. Canon Fforde gave it to me and he was insistent about proper record-keeping – he is right; such efficiency does not come naturally to me, but I am trying. I don’t like to disappoint him. He has been good to me. I think it is only because of him that I have this position. The Dean does not much like me.” He spoke as he searched through the various pigeon-holes on his desk. “He wanted a man in orders for the job. That was the important thing with him. Not musical ability. Here we are.” He brought a battered ledger to the piano and flipped through it. “Most current list – well, it isn’t now, if you take my meaning.” His finger was resting on the entry labelled “Barnes, Charles.” He shook his head, and walked away down the room, wrapping his arms around himself, leaving Giles to study the ledger.

  Giles looked down the list of names.

  “May I borrow this?”

  “Yes, of course, take it away.”

  “Which of these men would you say Mr Barnes was particularly friendly with? His drinking companions?”

  “As I said yesterday, Jos Harrison. And Fred Taylor, I suppose. He was at the Minster school with Charlie, I think. I know they sometimes go drinking together at the Vine in Saddler Street.”

  “And did you know of any animosities among them? Any quarrels?”

  “Not that I know about. But I don’t always notice that sort of thing. I don’t know them that well. I don’t go drinking with them, well not often. I have to try to maintain a little distance – it makes things clearer, and there is of course the question of my professional standing. The Dean, you see, thinks little enough of me as it is, and wouldn’t care to hear of my going out drinking with the Vicars Choral. What I am supposed to do for amusement I do not know, for I am not invited there. Your sister and brother-in-law have been kindness itself, sir, but Dean Pritchard –”

  “They entertain very little,” Giles pointed out.

  “They entertained last night,” said Watkins. “And your surgeon Carswell was not too low for them.”

  “I am never asked,” Giles said. “And Mr Carswell was somewhat surprised to be asked. You should not make anything of it, Mr Watkins.”

  “Of course I should not,” said Watkins, sitting down at the piano. “But I cannot help being offended. Not for myself, but for my people. The Dean seems to think that my people are no-one. He is offended by the notion of my mother having performed in public, that is at the root of it, and that I will not –” He broke off and played a rapid succession of loud, dissonant chords, than stopped and went on, “She never appeared on the stage, sir, perhaps you might tell him that. He would listen to you, I am sure. Only ever in oratorio. She has never acted. My grandparents would not have dreamt of allowing such a thing.”

  “Yes,” said Giles, returning to his study of the names in Watkin’s ledger. “Whose name is this crossed out? I cannot make it out.” He brought the book over to Watkins who was still sitting at the piano.

  “Oh, Fildyke,” said Watkins starting to pick out a figure which soon turned into an elaborate fugue.

  “That is what I thought,” said Giles.

  “It is crossed out because I dismissed him,” said Watkins, continuing to play. “One of the first things I did when I got here. What he was doing in the choir I can’t imagine. He can’t sing. And of course I had no idea that he was a pet of the Dean’s. Not an auspicious start.”

  “Does this Fildyke have a shop in All Souls?” Giles was forced to speak rather loudly for Watkins was now going at his fugue fortissimo.

  “Yes, I think so,” said Watkins ending with a flourish. “I didn’t deprive him of his livelihood.”

  “Was that Bach?” said Giles.

  “Yes,” said Watkins, with some surprise. “Do you like Bach?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” said Giles, thinking of Laura playing to him on the old piano he had rented for her. How imperfect and yet how delightful it had sounded.

  “I want to do one of his Passions,” said Watkins. “Nan Morgan agrees with me – they should be performed more widely here – and it would be a great thing for Northminster and the Festival. Herr Mendelssohn has brought out some new editions. If there is a taste for Handel, I think we may develop a taste for Bach.”

  “Do you know Mrs Morgan well?” Giles said, a little astonished at such a casual reference to the lady.

  “She’s known me since I was a drooling babe,” said Mr Watkins. “She was one of my mother’s pupils – one of the best, my mother says. Not that she listened to all her good advice. She would be in a better situation now if she had not been seduced by the idea of doing opera. My mother told her it would not do.”

  “You think she is in a difficult situation?”

  “A woman artist must guard herself more carefully than a man. It is a fact. And the opera house stage is no place for a respectable woman. But when she fell for that wretch Morgan there was no stopping her. He convinced her to do it.”

  “Did her family consider it a bad match, then?”

  “Her parents were dead by then, and her brother did little to stop it. He was thinking only of the money – and she made vast sums in those early years. But my parents certainly advised her against it and the match with Morgan, but Nan was so in love with him, and in love with the opera. I went to see her début as Cherubino – a friend of mine was depping in the pit and I could not resist going. It was shocking – brilliant, but shocking, none the less.”

  “Then you are pleased that she only sings at sacred concerts now?”

  “Yes, but the damage is done. It is a great shame. For such an extraordinary talent to be tainted in that way.”

  “I had the honour of meeting Mrs Morgan yesterday,” Giles said, “and I see no damage done. She was every inch a lady.”

  “Of course, of course she is, but that is not what the world thinks. And until the world changes, then...”

  “B
ut perhaps a woman such as Mrs Morgan is what is required to change that reputation. If women on the opera stage, indeed women on the stage in general, are seen to be as uncorrupted and incorruptible as any ordinary decent woman, then the reputation of the professional will change. She can be an exemplar.”

  “Perhaps. That was her argument, of course, Major Vernon. She will be pleased to find you espousing it. But I have no great faith in it happening. People will always think ill of women on the stage, no matter how they conduct themselves.”

  The sort of people who write malicious, anonymous letters, Giles thought, closing the ledger of names. As he picked it up, he revealed a name, hand-written on the unbound folio of music he had put it down on: K. E. Pritchard. Furthermore, Watkins appeared to see him see it, for he at once picked it up and dropped it on another pile, in a manner that was too casual to be anything but deliberate.

  “Is there anything else you remember from yesterday, from when you found Mr Barnes? Anything that struck you as unusual? I suppose you got up there regularly. You give the boys lessons there sometimes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was why you were going there that day?”

  “No, I went to practice. It is a good organ.”

  “Without anyone to blow for you?”

  “No, old Walt would have been along presently. I was expecting him. He has very little to do and I can usually get him to come and blow for me as and when I need him.”

  “And you asked him yesterday?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “But he did not arrive.”

  “He did. I turned him away when I got downstairs again. After I had locked up. Why?”

  “I just want to know exactly when and how it all happened, Mr Watkins.”

  “Surely that hardly matters; what matters it who put poor Barnes there in the first place, and in that terrible condition.”

  “You may not know it, Mr Watkins, but it happens often enough that the person raising the alarm on a murder, is the person responsible for the crime.”

  “What are you alleging, sir?”

  “Nothing, I am only explaining my method. I must know all your movements so I may eliminate you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, quickly. Giles wondered if he detected nervousness in his voice.

  Chapter Twelve

  Josiah Harrison was employed as a clerk by Archibald Carr and Sons, one of the largest cloth merchants in the city, so Giles headed to their premises in Greyfriars Street. It was one of several opulent new buildings that had recently been put up in the street. The rest of the street was a building site, as the other merchant enterprises of Northminster were in the process of rebuilding their premises, anxious to keep up with their neighbours. What it would look like when it was all done, Giles could not imagine. At present the new buildings seemed too tall for the street, which was not a wide one, while the variety of fanciful architectural styles and the great expanses of glistening plate glass windows seemed at odds with each other. It was a battle between the quaint and old, and the braggardly new.

  Carr and Sons had gone for a tapestry of red and purple brick, with bright white stone dressings, and the impressive entrance took Giles into a show room, furnished with shining counters and all lit brilliantly by gas. A clerk ran up to meet him.

  “I am looking for Mr Josiah Harrison,” he said.

  “He’s not here this morning, sir,” said the clerk. “Least I don’t think so.” He glanced round towards a more senior clerk who stood at counter nearby, and seemed to be in charge of the room.

  “No, he is not,” said the senior man, with some annoyance.

  “And he did not send word he would be absent?” Giles said.

  “No,” said the senior man, taking in Giles’ uniform. “He may of course deign to show himself in due course, but I don’t expect you’ll want to wait that long, sir.”

  “He is often late?”

  “More often than not,” said the senior clerk. “It is a wonder he has a place. It is only to please Mrs Carr that he is kept on.”

  “Your employer’s wife?” said Giles.

  The clerk nodded and then straightened at the sound of footsteps behind them. Giles turned and found himself facing Mr Carr, with whom he had a slight acquaintance.

  “Major Vernon?” said Carr. “What brings you here?”

  “I came to speak to Josiah Harrison. In connection with a case.”

  “Who is not here, sir,” chimed in the senior clerk. “Again.”

  Carr frowned. “Perhaps you’d like a glass of wine, sir,” he said to Giles, and indicated his office door.

  “I have been too tolerant with that young man,” Carr said, once they were inside. He poured out the sherry. “I have known for some time that I have made a misjudgement, and now you are here. What was it you wanted with him, Major Vernon? What has he done? Nothing I trust that will bring this firm into disrepute.”

  “I wish to talk to him about a friend of his who has died in odd circumstances.”

  “That singer boy from the Minster?” said Carr, handing a glass to Giles.

  “It’s all about town then, Mr Carr?”

  “It is,” said Carr. “And I am not surprised by it. Pack of rascals.”

  “You mean the Vicars Choral?” Carr nodded. Giles went on, “Tell me about Mr Harrison. How long has he been in your employment?”

  “Couple of years. He came here from Winchester. He’d no background in the cloth trade. He was clerking in an attorney’s office. His references were excellent, one from a clergyman at the Cathedral – he was one of the singers there. I was short-handed at the time, and glad to have a presentable man, but he has not proved his worth. Very lax in his timekeeping and the other men do not like him. They do not like his airs.”

  “Airs?”

  “He has a great opinion of his talent. He does sing well, if you like that sort of thing, which I don’t much, but my wife who knows about these things tells me he does. But it is one thing to sing well, and another to regard yourself as better than your fellows because of it.”

  There was a knock at the door and a clerk came in.

  “Harrison has just arrived, sir,” said the clerk. “Shall I send him in to you?”

  “Yes,” said Carr.

  “Might I speak to him alone?” said Giles.

  “My office is at your disposal.”

  Harrison came into the office, looking neither defiant nor penitent. He had the air that Giles had seen many times in court as defendants shuffled into the dock. He knew that he was about to be judged. He was tall and good-looking, but any distinction he might have had was extinguished by the humiliation of the moment. He looked as if he had passed the night in a police cell having been discovered in the throes of debauchery – he had that sallow, dirty look, not helped by the brilliant red of the long scarf he had wound about his neck. With exhausted, nervous eyes he glanced from his employer to Giles, clearly trying to work out what was going on. His glance took in the sherry glasses too – Giles’ was still untouched. A sniff had been enough to establish it was not worth drinking after Lambert’s fine Oloroso.

  “This gentleman is Major Vernon, the Chief Constable, and he would like to speak to you,” said Mr Carr. “And then you and I shall have words, lad.”

  “Save your breath,” said Harrison. “I quit. There – that’s what you wanted, I’m sure.” Carr looked a little startled. “I’ve no damned stomach for this place any more. This whole stinking town.”

  It was evident from the slurring of his speech that Harrison was still somewhat under the influence.

  “Don’t expect a character, Harrison,” said Carr, on the way to the door.

  “I don’t!” said Harrison. “I don’t want one. I shall make my living by my voice. This is slavery and I want no part of it. I was a fool to waste my time here.”

  Carr stopped and turned back.

  “You ought to be grateful I did not put you out on your ear months
ago,” he said. “I should sue you for the return of your wages. You did so little work I reckon I would have a fine case.”

  “Oh, go boil your head!” said Harrison, with a flamboyant wave of his hand. Carr left the room without further words but he banged the door behind him.

  “Sit, won’t you, Mr Harrison?” said Giles.

  He did so, wearily, like an old man. He rubbed his face with both hands and then looked at Giles.

  “Chief Constable,” he said. “So, this is about Ch–”

  “Charles Barnes,” said Giles. “Yes.”

  Harrison closed his eyes for a moment. Then he gestured towards the full sherry glass.

  “Is that going begging?” he said. “I’m rather dry. It’s thirsty work quitting.”

  “You’d be better putting your head under a pump,” Giles said.

  “I am not ready to be sober,” said Harrison, each word punctuated with a pause. He reached out and pulled the sherry glass towards him. “And how sad for this poor glass to go to waste.”

  “Talk to me a little first,” said Giles, removing the glass and putting it on the mantelshelf. “And then you may have it. Tell me about Mr Barnes. You were friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close friends? Like brothers?”

  Harrison looked up at him, blinking.

  “Yes, close.” He exhaled nosily.

  “And when did you last see him alive?”

  “Night before last. Tuesday night. About eleven.”

  “And where was this?”

  “Top of Saffron Lane. Near the Fox and Grapes.”

  “And what were the circumstances?”

  “We parted there. We were walking back from an evening party.” He winced as he said it. “Oh, God.”

  “Where was this party?” asked Giles.

  “At Mr Geoffrey’s in Martinsmount.”

  “A fine address,” Giles said. “Where you working there or were you guests?”

  “We did sing for our supper,” said Harrison. “But it was a generous supper. Mr Geoffrey is hospitable.”

  “So a pleasant evening?”

  “Not really.”