The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  “You have had too much wine,” she said, with a smile.

  “In vino veritas, Miss Pritchard,” he said. “I thoroughly enjoyed the conceit – as I think you did. And I have great news for you: I am soon to be a man of property. So if you are discovered and they scold you, tell them that, and then you will be forgiven instantly.”

  “You are cynical, Mr Carswell.”

  “I suppose I am,” he said. “Forgive me. That was unkind.”

  “But perhaps not so far from the truth,” she said after a moment. She glanced back at the windows. “I really ought to go. I must not be caught out here, really I must not.”

  The front door opened and Major Vernon came out into the forecourt. Miss Pritchard seemed to take fright. She ran straight away, with a beautiful animal swiftness, like a hare, and Felix wondered again if he would be better engaged pursuing her than dreaming feverishly of Mrs Morgan.

  “Who was that?” said Major Vernon, coming out of the courtyard.

  “I can’t say,” said Felix.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “I promised I would not say.” He pushed his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp as he did, for his headache had returned with a vengeance. “Are you leaving, or have you come to drag me back in there?”

  “Come and take your leave properly. The party is practically over.” Major Vernon was staring out in the direction Miss Pritchard had run. “Are you sure you can’t say?”

  “No,” said Felix. “I really cannot. I gave my word.”

  “Very mysterious,” said Vernon, looking about him. He crouched down and picked up a knot of ribbons that was lying on the ground, the sort that formed a trimming on a dress. Presumably it had fallen from Miss Pritchard’s dress. “And extremely interesting.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Giles’ instincts had been correct.

  A moments inspection in the grey light of morning revealed that the length of ribbon tied to the key to St Anne’s chapel was the same pattern as that forming the knot of ribbons he had found outside the Treasurer’s House: a plaid ribbon in white, red and black, with a distinct figure woven into it. It was not a commonplace style of ribbon, he reflected; it was luxurious, probably expensive and doubtless fashionable. Of course, that did not prove that the two strips were related. The ribbon itself proved no ownership. Two different ladies could have been entranced by its elegance.

  However, there was another crucial similarity between the ribbon on the key and the ribbon he had found last night. In both cases, the ends had been carefully cut into a deep ‘V’ shape, then rolled, and finished with identical tiny stitches to stop the silk from fraying. That detail seemed to remove the matter from being a simple coincidence and into the realms of potential significance.

  How, he wondered, did such a ribbon come to be marking a key in the possession of George Watkins? That was the interesting thing. Watkins was not a man with women about him. There were no work baskets for him to raid for a piece of ribbon to mark an important key. And what man, in the ordinary course of affairs, would choose such a showy piece? A piece of herringbone tape would have done the job as well. It would be more than likely that the woman in question would have been annoyed at his taking such a prize for the purpose of marking a key, unless it had been freely given, for reasons that were not strictly utilitarian.

  Perhaps he had acquired it as a keepsake from a woman – and if that were the case, was it the same woman who had been lurking in front of the Treasurer’s House, the woman of whom Carswell, with irritating gallantry, refused to reveal the identity? That he was moved to do so suggested it was someone in their social circle, someone who ought not to have been there.

  Giles put the key in his pocket, along with the knot of ribbon. Later he would see if he could find any duplicates. Lambert had summoned all the Minster employees for nine o’clock for an inspection of the keys. In the meantime, he had Rollins waiting to speak to him about Mrs Morgan’s domestic establishment.

  “I am afraid it does not shed much light on the business, sir,” said Rollins. “Neither the foreign maid nor the nurse showed a trace of any knowledge of it. I didn’t reckon either one of them was a liar. They could not account for it being there.”

  “And what about Mr Morgan? Did the nurse and the maid have anything to say about their absent master?”

  “They didn’t tell tales, no, sir.”

  “As if they had been told not to, perhaps?”

  “I should say so, but not out of fear. Out of respect and loyalty. Good women both of them, I should say. Respectable and God-fearing.”

  “You might tell me something else – did they say anything about Lord Rothborough’s involvement in the household? Did they imply, for example, that their mistress knew him well?”

  “It was hard to gauge, sir. Usually these things are clear enough, and people are quick enough to speak, given a chance to complain of their masters and mistresses, if they can.”

  This was true enough. Mrs Ridolfi had complained of it, but Mrs Morgan’s servant’s had not. It was certainly a puzzle and Giles had no immediate idea how to solve it.

  ***

  “I do not understand this preoccupation with keys, Major Vernon,” said the Dean, meeting Giles a little later in the hall of the Chancellery where all the Minster employees had been bidden to gather. “Surely there are keys used by members of criminal fraternities that will unlock any door?”

  “Yes, but not I think in this case. I do not think we are looking at the work of such people here. Now, I take it you have never had a key to St Anne’s chapel, sir?”

  “No, never. The keys are the responsibility of the Chancellor, not the Dean.”

  “But I would imagine that your office means you do have a great many keys.”

  “I have some. I dare say the Bishop has some. I trust you will not be subjecting his Lordship to this humiliating procedure?”

  “I am afraid I can spare no-one, sir,” said Giles.

  “Oh, very well,” said the Dean, and took his bunch of keys and put it down on the table. “If the owner of the key is so likely related to the crime, then you will be suspecting Mr Watkins – for he has the only key? Yes?”

  “I am in no position to speculate on anything, sir. I have not enough facts.” He examined the Dean’s bunch of keys. There were only ten or so and he could see nothing that resembled the key to the chapel. He was surprised there were so few. He handed them back to the Dean. “Thank you, sir, your co-operation is greatly appreciated.”

  Dean Pritchard looked as if he were about to deliver a sermon, but seemed to think the better of it, to Giles’ relief. Instead he stalked off to speak to someone else, perhaps to complain about the indignity that had been heaped upon him.

  It was a frustrating hour that followed. Accompanied by Rollins, Giles looked over all the keys that were produced, but there seemed to be no match for the one given to him by Watkins.

  “I didn’t really expect to find one,” Giles said to Lambert when they had dismissed the last key holder, “to tell you the truth. What I want them all to know is that there is a key missing – and that I know there is a key missing.”

  “That is clear enough to them now, certainly. Come, you will need a drink. I certainly do.”

  “I have not looked at your keys yet, Lamb,” Giles pointed out, as they went into his private office upstairs.

  Lambert turned out his great bunch onto the table.

  “In comparison to you, the Dean has very few keys indeed,” Giles remarked, when he had finished examining them.

  “That is because I don’t choose to let him have many. He would only lose them – or confuse them. He is not a practical man, and these details bore him. He has the keys he needs.”

  “I always suspected you were the real authority here, Lamb,” said Giles with a smile. “But I have never dared articulate that truth.”

  “He who controls the purse strings controls everything,” said Lambert, his hand on th
e decanter.

  “So that’s why you don’t want preferment?”

  “I like my post here,” said Lambert. “I shouldn’t want to be Dean of Northminster, or Dean of anywhere else for that matter, let alone a Bishop! Too many sermons to preach. Far better to balance the books.”

  “You preach very well.”

  “When did you last listen to me preach, Giles?” said Lambert.

  “Only over the port,” said Giles.

  Lambert gave a slight shrug, as if he hardly expected it otherwise.

  Lambert’s secretary came in and said, “Dean Pritchard would like to speak with you, sir,”

  “Perfect timing as ever,” said Lambert, replacing the stopper in the decanter. “Very well, send him in, James.”

  Dean Pritchard came in with great briskness and looked annoyed to see Giles standing there.

  “You are still here, Major Vernon?” he said.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,”

  “However long it takes,” said Lambert, with a wave of his hand. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “I wished to talk to you about Fildyke. You said you would find him a post.”

  “Oh yes, so I did,” said Lambert.

  “And have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He is a loyal servant and he has been badly used. I would like this matter seen to with alacrity.”

  “Dean Pritchard, you will forgive me,” Giles said, cutting in. “But there is good cause for Canon Fforde to hesitate to make another appointment. I have reason to believe that Fildyke’s character is less than spotless.”

  “In what way?”

  “I have visited his shop – his affairs are highly dubious, by my reckoning. He was selling counterfeit engravings.”

  “You are sure of this?” said Dean Pritchard.

  “I have begun an investigation, yes,” said Giles. “I would suggest that you hesitate before putting such a man back on the Minster roll.”

  “That I can scarcely believe,” said Pritchard.

  “I will soon have the evidence I need to put him in front of the justices,” Giles said.

  “I think you must be mistaken, sir,” said the Dean.

  “He isn’t usually,” said Lambert, mildly.

  “I find it hard, Major Vernon, very hard to believe that a man I have known these many years, an excellent pious man, who has served this House of God for so long and with such devotion, could be responsible for any wrongdoing.”

  “It is for the courts to judge him – not you, nor I. You may wish to offer him your support as a character witness, but the evidence is strong against him, and until the matter is resolved I suggest that you do not find him a post.”

  “I believe he is being victimised!” said Dean Pritchard. “A campaign is afoot against him and it pays neither of you gentleman any compliments to be involved in it. You, Canon Fforde, you were eager to support Watkins in his intemperate dismissal of him from the choir.”

  “That is not fair, my dear Pritchard,” Lambert Fforde, in his most conciliatory tone, though Giles heard the touch of steel in it. “We discussed the matter at great length, and I think you will recall that we decided that the Master of Music must be allowed to take such actions. The manner in which it was done was to be regretted, but the action itself was permissible.”

  “I think you recall the matter wrongly,” said the Dean.

  “I believe I minuted it,” said Lambert. “I can have my clerk look out the record if you wish.”

  The Dean twitched his face in annoyance, apparently unable to find an answer to this.

  Instead he turned to Giles. “And you, sir, seem determined to assert your authority where you have no authority. Within the walls of the Precincts, I would remind you, sir, I am sole authority, by ancient custom. You are only here with your investigations by my leave!”

  “Well, sir,” said Giles, “that is not strictly the case. Although ancient custom is something I try always to respect, I must also abide by statute. The Act of Parliament setting up the City Constabulary was clear to the letter. My force has equal jurisdiction within the Precincts as without. When we have such a grave matter on our hands as the wilful murder of a man, every step must be taken to find out who is responsible. I do regret the disruption to the Minster business, as I said to you earlier, but I must proceed as I think fit. After all, Charles Barnes was one of your own and deserves every effort we can make on his behalf.”

  “Quite so,” said Lambert.

  “Then I trust for your sake, sir, that your efforts will not be in vain!” said Dean Pritchard. “This matter of Mr Fildyke is not closed, Canon Fforde, you may be sure of that! Good day to you, gentlemen!” With which he left.

  “Is it my imagination,” said Lambert, “but is his temper getting worse? He is very quick to climb upon his high horse these days, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps,” said Giles.

  “I think it is because he is never happy in his boots. His people – well, I believe his father was a grocer in Lincoln or some such and he thinks we don’t believe him to be a gentleman.”

  “Perhaps we don’t?”

  “You may be right,” said Lambert, with a sigh. “Sally would certainly accuse me of that. Whatever, he is always trying to be something he is not. It is rather tiring for the rest of us.” He poured a glass of sherry. “And Fildyke is crooked! Ha! Well done, Giles, well done! You’ll join me?”

  Giles shook his head. He could not feel any satisfaction at it. The search for a duplicate key had proved completely futile. He had no sense of progress. He had only succeeded in closing down a somewhat tenuous avenue of enquiry. Perhaps there was only one key to the chapel, a key marked with a conspicuous ribbon which might or might not be significant.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Having finished his morning surgery, Felix was attempting to write up his notes, but found himself utterly distracted by thoughts of Mrs Morgan. It was more than distraction; it had all the qualities of a waking dream. He saw her smiling at him across the expanse of her satinwood piano, and then again recalled how she had been last night at dinner, in the austere majesty of her midnight blue silk. He could see every detail in his mind’s eye – the bright parrot tapestry on her lap, her elegant hands plying her needle, the soft pale skin of her shoulders, even the pearls about the neck which he had longed and kiss. And then her voice which seemed to ring in his head, that clarity of tone, the sweetness, the passion that conspired to be so ravishing, like the touch of her hand on his own skin.

  He had tried with some effort to think about Kate Pritchard instead. He wished she had not forced him into a falsehood. He did not like keeping such a matter from Major Vernon.

  The discomfort she had produced in him by doing this offset any enthusiasm he attempted to whip up for her. Yes, she was a good-looking and amusing young woman, but that was all. She could not hold the stage of his mind with Mrs Morgan.

  How perverse of him it was to discard that which was potentially available in favour of the unattainable!

  He was just getting up from his writing table, having almost decided that he would go and see Mrs Morgan – as if that might do him any good – when there was a knock at his door.

  It was Barker, Major Vernon’s clerk.

  “I have a Mr Fildyke here asking for you, Mr Carswell.”

  Felix went out into the passageway and found Fildyke standing there, hat in hand, revealing his greasy, over-pomaded hair.

  “I’m sorry to bother you sir – but it’s my mother. She’s so very bad today. I thought – well, if you would not mind stepping by, if you had a moment of your valuable time.”

  He had no wish at all to go back to that tawdry little shop, but he could hardly refuse. Perhaps there was a sort of providence in making him go there rather than to see Mrs Morgan.

  “I’ll come as soon as I can,” Felix said, not wishing to walk through Northminster in the company of Fildyke.
>
  “Thank you, sir, I’m much obliged.”

  Felix closed his door and managed ten minutes of writing before packing his bag and setting off for All Souls.

  Fildyke greeted him at the door of his shop, dressed now in his shopman’s apron. He took Felix straight into the stuffy little parlour with the birdcages, where Mrs Fildyke was on her couch as before. She was wearing a greasy yellow silk wrapper which made her look even more grey-faced and miserable. She was obviously in great pain and had recently vomited, for the chamber pot stood full nearby. It was no time to be squeamish, and Felix got on with his examination.

  He noticed a slight burn to the corner of her mouth, as if it had come into contact with something extremely caustic.

  “Have you taken any medicines or powders, Mrs Fildyke?” There was no knowing what she might have taken. People were quick to dose themselves with things that did more harm than good, encouraged by the quacks who passed for medical men amongst the common people. She may have taken a purge too violent for her to withstand.

  Felix had some personal experience of this. As boy, in the wake of some childish indisposition, he had been given one by a Pitfeldry apothecary. It had almost killed him. He could remember lying in his bed, his mother washing him down between those debilitating bursts of vomiting, while outside in the hall the Rev. James Carswell, who did not lose his temper easily, could be heard berating the apothecary. Then later Lord Rothborough had been there, coming into his bedchamber, a circumstance which until then he had entirely forgotten, and now which struck him forcibly and disturbed him. He had woken from sleeping to find his Lordship on his knees by the bed, apparently praying.

  “No, no, just a little gruel.” Mrs Fildyke’s pained and raspy voice pulled him back to the present. “The gruel my son makes for me.”

  “You are sure of that, Mrs Fildyke?” Felix said. The sweetmeat dishes and the port bottle were still to hand. The sugar plums looked particularly unpleasant: was that discoloured powdered sugar or dust?

  “Yes... oh my God...” was all she managed to say, for she was starting to retch again. There was no suitable vessel to hand other than the already full chamber pot which Felix was obliged to hold up to her to assist her in her distress.