The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  “You don’t sound as sure as you’d like to be on that point.”

  “It’s a difficult matter. Rothborough is certainly besieging her – at least from what I can observe, but whether she has succumbed is another thing entirely. A matter of conjecture – and town gossip, it seems. And I should not add to it. It is not honourable, let alone kind.” He rubbed his face. “I wish she were not here, to be honest. I have enough to do with this murder. Any insights on that, by the way?” O’Brien had been at the inquest, taking careful notes.

  “I wouldn’t presume,” said O’Brien.

  “If you hear anything interesting –”

  “I’ll let you know, of course. And I’ll put out another appeal for information.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and there was another thing,” said Giles. “Your wife’s sister – the one you mentioned – the widow. She was looking for a place as a housekeeper, I think? Mrs – I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name.”

  “That would be Susanna,” said O’Brien. “Susanna Connolly. Did I mention her to you?”

  “I think it was Mrs O’Brien,” said Giles, after a moments reflection.

  “She’s with my brother-in-law in Manchester at present.”

  “But she’s still looking for a place?”

  “Yes, I think so. Bridey would know more about that than I do. You have heard of something for her?”

  “Yes, well, it’s a rather delicate thing,” said Giles. “It might not suit her. There would be a great deal of responsibility. But if she’s anything like her sister that wouldn’t be a difficulty. I’m looking for someone capable, calm and intelligent.”

  “She’s all that,” said O’Brien.

  “And she has no dependants?”

  “No, which is just as well, given the state her husband left his finances in. And that wasn’t Susanna’s fault. He looked solid – it turned out he wasn’t. You know how it is, sometimes?” Giles nodded. “She could do with a bit of luck,” O’Brien went on. “What is it you have in mind for her?”

  “I have taken a small house – one of those new ones on the far side of Martinsmount, with the large gardens. I need a housekeeper for it.”

  “What!” said O’Brien, with a smile. “And desert your HQ? I’m shocked, Major – how can you think of it? How will they manage without you?”

  “No, I don’t intend to live there,” said Giles. “It’s... it’s for my wife.”

  There was a little silence while O’Brien digested this.

  “And I apologise for never having mentioned her to you before, O’Brien,” Giles went on, “but it is only that our circumstances have been difficult. She is not well. At present she is in a place where she is not being looked after as she should and I wish to have her near me and cared for properly, decently. I do not know if she will ever recover from her condition, but things cannot go on as they are. I must do something.”

  “Her condition,” O’Brien said, after a moment. “It is not that she is... distressed, in some way, is it?”

  Giles looked across at O’Brien, who sat with his elbows on the table, wringing his fingers together. His concern was palpable and comforting, and deserved honesty.

  “She is in a mad house,” Giles said, and then rubbed his face. “There is almost a sort of relief in saying that aloud.”

  “I should think so,” said O’Brien. “My God, man, how have you stood it?”

  “Because one has no choice but to stand these things,” Giles said.

  O’Brien said, after a moment, “We’ve wondered often enough, Bridey and I, why there was no Mrs Vernon. Oh dear God in heaven, but that’s cruel, beyond cruel. And that you, of all people, should be tried like that –”

  “Oh, it is not so hard for me,” said Giles. “But for her – that is the worst of it. If I could lift the suffering from her in some way, bring her some relief from it, bring her back to what she was...” He could not prevent himself from sighing.

  “How did it happen?”

  “There was no sign of it when we married – she was high spirited – but that was nothing to alarm a man. Rather it charmed me. But it was when our boy was born – that was when it all began. Apparently it is not so uncommon.”

  “You have a boy?” said O’Brien.

  “He died at three months. Like your little Eliza.”

  There was silence then for a long moment.

  “Yes, you must bring her here,” said O’Brien, breaking it. “That is the right thing to do. And Sukey may be just the woman for the job.”

  “Will you have Mrs O’Brien write to her and explain? Tell her that it will not be easy – she will have control over the household and supervision of the nurses. I will, of course, be on hand, and Mr Carswell will be in charge of the medical arrangements. He is up to date in his information so I am hopeful – well, I must be hopeful, always, must I not?”

  O’Brien nodded.

  “She’ll write today,” he said. “You will want this settled, as soon as you can. You’ve enough to worry about just now, as it is.”

  “Thank you,” said Giles, getting up and picking up his box.

  “By the way, what’s in the box?” O’Brien asked.

  “I don’t know yet. It belonged to the dead man.”

  “The solution you hope for?”

  “Unlikely. But it may tell me something of use.”

  ***

  Dean Pritchard had talked of skeleton keys. Giles had such a key in his possession. They had got it from a notorious local housebreaker he had caught in his first year in the post. At the trial it emerged it had proved an effective tool for this rogue, and for many years.

  It was clearly a cast from another tool – how many of the wretched things were in circulation nobody could know – and Giles kept this example safely locked up in his writing desk.

  The skeleton key was not the easiest tool to use, and naturally the man from whom they confiscated it had declined to give them a demonstration of his skills. Ever anxious to know his enemy better, Giles had however attempted to master the technique. As he now tried to open the box he had found under the boards, he was not entirely unprepared as to how to use it, but it still took some time, determination and patience. Lock-picking, even with the right tools, was regarded as a skilled trade amongst the criminal fraternity for good reason. At last he felt the lock turn and yield to him. Housebreakers had their uses, after all.

  The box was as fancy within as it was without: lined in green satin trimmed with gold braid. It contained a bundle of letters; a badly executed miniature of a woman and a leather purse that was filled with coins. The box had been heavy – so that was was the answer to that. The miniature, judging by the look of the woman’s hair and dress, looked as if it had been painted twenty years ago and the subject looked a great deal like Barnes – his mother, Giles supposed. The purse was of greater immediate interest. He tipped out the contents onto his writing table, and was surprised to see a great many sovereigns among the silver. He reckoned it up and found it came to just short of a hundred pounds. Where had such a quantity of money come from?

  Then he turned to the letters, all in the same hand. He plucked out one at random.

  “You are my only heart’s darling. If I were only to see you and speak to you again, as we did last night, if you would only permit me to hold you in my arms again, and kiss your sweet lips, then I would be the happiest man on this earth. My darling boy you are everything to me.”

  They were the sort of letters a man would write to a woman, except they were written from a man to a man, for they were all signed “Jos Harrison”.

  Giles frowned. Harrison might not be a murderer but he might well be a sodomite. That was an indictable offence and Giles had strong evidence for it, enough to bring it before the justices.

  Yet he hesitated.

  Such acts went against accepted morality of the day and yet he knew that such inclinations were sometimes unavoidable. Human passion was a strange thing. A man might find himself
bewitched by another man, as another man might be enslaved by the face of a pretty woman.

  The acts might not be in themselves vicious if there was an element of consent. But a court might well argue that Harrison had seduced and corrupted Barnes. His youth and inexperience in the hands of an older man made him a victim.

  He locked up the letters in the box. He needed to talk to Harrison again.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “The lady then smiled, and took his hand saying, ‘Dear sir, your pleasure would be mine entirely. Do as you will with me.’ I was still standing behind the screen, but I had a perfect view as my good aunt then stretched herself out upon the sopha, throwing back her silken skirts and displaying all her charms to the young officer, who could not restrain himself from gasping at the beauty revealed to him. Her snowy belly, rising in a gentle curve above that exquisite region, the summit of all pleasures...”

  Felix could scarcely believe what he was reading. He turned the page, half afraid to go on. He rapidly scanned the passage of description, which if anything, became more deliciously lewd, and found himself fingering his cravat as the couple set to on the sopha. Such was the power of the words, he felt he too was concealed behind the screen, watching the action for himself, and as the breathless narrator gave into her own excitement and felt the urgency of her own arousal, he felt a fury of lust which brought him as much pain as pleasure.

  A brisk knock at the door startled him back to reality. He felt he had been caught in flagrante delicto, and he realised he could scarcely decently rise from his chair.

  “Yes?” he called out cautiously.

  “Mr Carswell?”

  It was, of course, Major Vernon.

  “Come in, sir.”

  He found he was forced into a rather disrespectful sort of salutation, twisting in his seat and giving a mere lazy wave of the hand.

  “We need to go and talk to Harrison,” said Major Vernon.

  “Why do you need me?”

  “I want to know what you make of him.”

  “I am rather busy –” Felix managed to say.

  “With what?”

  “I am working up some notes. For the Lancet.”

  He reached for a pencil, attempting to look a little more studious. As he did so the book went flying to the floor, where it lay open, all its charms exposed, just like the heroine’s wanton aunt. The Major stooped and picked it up before Felix had a chance to. He glanced at it and then his glance became a moment’s study.

  “The Lancet, you say,” he said, snapping it shut. “You really do not have enough to do here.”

  “I was merely –”

  “There is no need to go into details,” said Major Vernon. “Such books exist for a reason, but there are times and places for such things. And this is neither the time nor the place. I think you know that.” He strolled into the bedroom and tossed the book onto Felix’s bed. “Come now, I need you with your considerable wits about you, Mr Carswell. We need to get some sensible answers from Harrison. There is a good chance he is our murderer.”

  ***

  “He’s upstairs,” said Harrison’s landlady.

  “And how’s your boy, today?” asked Major Vernon

  “Much better, sir. On the mend, I’m pleased to say.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  They went up the narrow stairs.

  “Mr Harrison,” she said knocking on the door in front her, with a loud rat-tat. “You’ve got visitors.” She knocked the door again, with more force.

  There was a lengthy pause and then Harrison’s voice, slurry and hoarse, answered: “Yes, yes, Mrs M, for the Lord’s sake...”

  The latch was lifted, the door partially opened and Harrison was revealed to them, wearing a dressing gown, with a long red scarf wound about his neck.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Visitors for you.”

  “I thought I said no visitors,” he said sourly.

  “There are visitors and there are visitors,” said Mrs Marling. “Major Vernon and Mr Carswell.”

  Harrison exhaled loudly and wandered back into the room. Mrs Marling bustled in after him and looked about her.

  “Well this is a fine state, I must say,” she said, clearly offended by what she saw.

  It was not surprising. For all it was a fair-sized room, probably the best room in house and furnished with old-fashioned, but still handsome furniture, the place was squalid with disorder. The air stank of stale brandy, tobacco, urine and vomit and the curtains across the two large windows had been tightly drawn to keep out the sun, making the room both gloomy and stuffy. There were books and papers scattered about, among Harrison’s abandoned linen and the dirty crockery. In one corner was an old bedstead, hung with embroidered curtains, but the bed looked as though the clothes had been dragged off by force, and were cascading down onto the floor, revealing the striped mattress beneath.

  “I’ve been ill,” Harrison said with shrug.

  “And we all know what with,” said Mrs Marling, ripping open the curtains and throwing up the sash. “I’m sorry for this, gentlemen,” she said turning round to Felix and Major Vernon. “This is not how I usually keep my house.”

  Harrison, seemingly finding the light of day too much for him, staggered back to the cave-like sanctuary of his bed, and climbed in, dragging the bedclothes with him. He pointedly would not look Major Vernon in the face.

  “I think we need to start again from the beginning, Mr Harrison,” said Major Vernon, when Mrs Marling had left. He removed a dirty shirt from a chair and set it down near the bed so that he could lean on it. “There are a few discrepancies in what you have already told me that I would like to clarify.”

  “This better not take long. I have a rehearsal at three,” Harrison said.

  “It will take as long as it needs to,” the Major said. “You said you did not leave this house on the day of the murder, yet Mrs Marling clearly remembers hearing you leave in the morning. Well before ten, she says.”

  “She says she remembers,” said Harrison. “She may be wrong.”

  “Maybe,” said Major Vernon. “So you stick by your story?”

  “It is not a story. It is the plain truth. I did not leave the house that day until I went to sing Evensong.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, as I said to you before.”

  “So how are we to account for this banging of the front door that Mrs Marling so distinctly heard?”

  “The wind,” said Harrison. “She left it open a little and it banged shut.”

  “Or rather you left it open a little when you came in the night before? That would be a most extraordinary door, that managed to stay a little ajar all night.” Harrison said nothing. Major Vernon went on. “And I suppose the wind caused your footsteps on the stair as well? She heard those too. For it is a noisy staircase. I noticed that as we came in. A man could not come down it without making a fair bit of noise, and the door has a heavy latch on it, even when it is not bolted.”

  “I did not go out!” Harrison said. “The silly creature has it all wrong. I was here all that day. I swear it! I was here in my bed.”

  “You may have to swear it yet,” said Giles. “And perjury is a serious matter.”

  “I would be telling the truth! I did not leave this room!”

  Major Vernon nodded and consulted his notebook but Felix suspected that he had no real need to do so. He merely wanted to make Harrison uncomfortable with a long silence.

  “You decided to leave it a long time to settle your quarrel, then,” said the Major at length.

  Harrison glanced at him suspiciously. The Major went on, “I have had experiences of this kind myself. I have quarrelled with someone the night before, slept badly and then gone to them straight away the next morning in order to make amends. Given the strength of your regard for Mr Barnes, I am a little surprised that you left it so long. These things can be such a torture otherwise.”

  “I don’t know what
you mean,” said Harrison.

  “When one’s affections are engaged then these things cannot be left to chance. I find it interesting that you decided to leave it so long before seeing him again.”

  “What are you implying?” said Harrison.

  “I have come to understand that relationship, Mr Harrison, and I see that it went a little beyond friendship.” Harrison stared across at him. “Certain letters have come into my possession.”

  “Letters,” said Harrison rather dully.

  “Letters,” Major Vernon said. “From you to Mr Barnes.”

  There was long silence.

  “You have no right to read such things,” Harrison said.

  “I have every right in this case,” he said, and then added, “You know the law about such matters, I take it?”

  “Letters are simply letters,” said Harrison.

  “Letters indicate a great deal. A court would not look kindly on those letters. And we are talking about more than just letters. There is the matter of what happened at Mr Geoffrey’s house. Singing for your supper, I think you called it. A nice euphemism.”

  “You have no evidence of anything.”

  “I have plenty. I have the evidence of my own eyes, Mr Harrison,” the Major said, picking up an empty brandy bottle. “You have been living high with no debts. This is expensive stuff. You could not afford this on your salary from Carr or from your singing. You have been lining your pockets another way. Yes?”

  “No, no, absolutely not. No.” He staggered out the bed as he spoke.

  “Think before you speak, Mr Harrison. And remember that the truth is always the safest course.”

  Harrison stood there, his dressing gown wrapped round him, biting at his knuckle, shaking his head.

  “I am not saying a thing more. You will not worm anything out of me. I know what you are trying to do. I see your game but I will not play it, sir, I will not! Now I have to dress. I have a rehearsal.”

  “Very well, Mr Harrison. But be aware I will watching you. We have not finished talking yet.”

  ***

  What do you think?” Major Vernon asked when they had left the house.

  “I don’t know, sir, to be frank. He seems cantankerous and proud of himself, but whether that means he could throttle the person whom he – well, loved – if that is the word for such relations.”