The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  “That is the word he uses in the letters. Which are as frank in their way as that little volume I found you with.”

  “That was...” Felix wondered how he could begin to explain it.

  “There is no need for you to explain,” said Major Vernon. “At least not that. What I am far more interested in is who it was you talking to last night. The young woman who ran away.”

  “I really cannot say,” Felix said, pushing his hand through his hair. “A promise is a promise especially when a lady is involved.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but do you wonder why she has sworn you to secrecy? Is that honourable of her?”

  “Should one question a lady’s actions?”

  “In an ideal world, no,” said Major Vernon. “But this is not the realm of the saints. We are all imperfect creatures. We all have our secrets, our flaws, our shortcomings. Ask yourself, does she deserve this protection and what harm would it do her if you were to tell me? A great deal may depend on it. The fact she has asked you to lie and –”

  “I cannot say, truly, I cannot.”

  “She has bitten into you, then.”

  “No, not at all. No that is not the case.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Major Vernon said. Felix did not answer. “Well, think on it, if you please. It would be helpful if you could bring yourself to tell me.” He looked at his watch. “Now, the rehearsal at the Minster is at three. I propose we attend and observe Harrison. Yes? And you will have the chance to hear Mrs Morgan. I will see you there, Mr Carswell, if no medical emergencies intervene.”

  “I doubt that,” Felix said. “And you, sir, what will you do until then? It is only one.”

  “I have a few errands to run,” he said, and set off down the street at his usual formidable pace. He stopped, though, and turned back to Felix. “Perhaps you might call on that young woman and clarify the situation,” he said, and then started off again.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Felix began with good intentions, the Major’s counsel ringing in his ears, and he walked up the hill into the Minster Precincts, intending to go and speak to Miss Pritchard. But as he approached the Deanery, he found himself thinking again of Mrs Morgan and he could no longer resist the impulse. He turned towards Avonside Row.

  He found Mrs Morgan alone, which surprised him. She was stretched out on a long couch in front of the fire. There was a score open on her lap and a pencil in her hand but she was not paying it much attention. She had put her head back on a cushion, and was at first sight in such perfect profile and so still, her gaze focused somewhere other, that he felt she might be sitting for her portrait, or in character for some operatic role. He wondered if she were about to rise and sing some aria of longing and loss.

  For a moment he wished that was the case. If she had been on stage and he sitting in the audience, then he might have been able to enjoy the moment. It was far easier to manage such desire when one did not have to make conversation with the woman in question.

  “You’re not unwell, I hope, ma’am?” he managed to say, his throat as dry as ashes.

  “No, I am just resting before my rehearsal.” She looked up at him rather searchingly. “I don’t usually allow interruptions. I was in two minds whether to let you in or not, but my curiosity overcame me.”

  He could not think how to answer that. The idea of her being curious about him created a heart-pounding sense of anxiety, mixed with excitement.

  “May I sit...?” he asked, indicating the chair which sat near the couch, almost as if it had been placed especially for visitors, the visitors which she said she did not usually permit.

  She nodded but he hesitated, imagining Lord Rothborough sitting there, in his usual languid way: ankles crossed, one arm hooked over the back rail of the chair, and his head thrown back in amusement. He imagined her laughing too, both of them on easy terms, so companionable and comfortable with one another.

  So he perched there, his hat in his hands, wishing for a moment that he had the grace and polish that Lord Rothborough complained that he lacked. It would have been pleasant to be able to simulate some façade of ease, however thin, but he could not. He felt his every gesture betrayed him as the provincial booby in the grip of romantic passion, a feeling not helped by her continuing to look at him in the same penetrating manner. He had lain awake half the night thinking how glorious it might be to have her to himself for a moment, but now he had been granted this private audience with her, he wished he could be anywhere but there, such was his confusion.

  “I am inclined to be a little offended by you,” she said.

  Felix swallowed.

  “If I have given offence, then I am sure...” he began.

  “You did not stay to hear me sing last night,” she said.

  “Last night?” he said.

  “Last night,” she said, with a gracious nod.

  “I...” He looked down at his fingers and his hat. He had not thought she would have noticed him go, let alone take it as a slight. He had imagined that she was only looking at Lord Rothborough. “The wine was very strong. I needed some fresh air.” He managed to look her directly again.

  “Are you sure it was just the wine, Mr Carswell?” she said, with a slight smile.

  The smile relieved him, but only a little. He felt it was tinged with mockery.

  “It was Lord Rothborough’s singing that drove me from the room,” he said, with as much lightness as he could muster.

  “Can you do better?”

  “No. I have no ability. I sing like a bear.”

  “You ought to have been taught. A man ought to cultivate his voice.”

  “Is that what he says?”

  “He?” she said. “Whom do you mean?” Her manner of asking implied she knew the answer, but she waited for him to speak.

  “I mean Lord Rothborough.”

  “No,” she said with a frown. “I am not his parrot, Mr Carswell. If we are to have good music in our houses the men must play an equal part. An accomplished man can play and sing as well as a woman.”

  “Such accomplishment is incompatible with learning a profession,” said Felix. “I wouldn’t have had the time.”

  “You must have been a dull student, then. Now, the French surgeon Monsieur Lebreuve – you have perhaps read him, he is something of an authority on the larynx – well, he is a most brilliant pianist, good enough to play duets with Maestro Liszt himself. And he told me that he attributes all his surgical dexterity to his mother making him learn his scales.”

  “Is this my punishment for leaving last night?” Felix said.

  “Yes, and you deserve it. It was not civil.”

  “I am not made for society.”

  “Nobody is. It is something one must learn.”

  “And you say you are not his parrot,” he said. The words tumbled out without his meaning them to, and he regretted them almost the moment he had finished. He flushed.

  She picked up her pencil, twisted it in her fingers for a moment and then pointed it at him.

  “You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension about Lord Rothborough and myself,” she said.

  “I do not like to think what he has said to you.”

  “But you do think it. Rather you imagine it, and wrongly I think.”

  “I don’t know. He gives the impression to me that –”

  “Yes?” she cut in. “What impression might that be?

  “That, that –” He broke off again and she sighed.

  “You ought to take me at my word,” she said.

  “I would dearly love to believe you, Mrs Morgan, and I know I ought, but –” He stumbled out of his chair and strode across the room to the window, where he stood with his back to her. He was so desperate for air he felt he would like to have thrown the window up, or perhaps break it with his fist. “He has said – he has implied that –”

  There was a long silence, and then she said, “Of course, you must think what you must think. In your condition there
is really nothing else you can do.”

  “My condition?” he spun round. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know perfectly well. You are not an idiot, after all. Although some physicians are notoriously bad at self-diagnosis, I am sure you are not.”

  “I do not know what you mean, ma’am,” he said. “Truly I do not.”

  She got up from the sofa and walked over to him.

  “Don’t lie to me,” she said. “Do you think I have never seen this before? I know the symptoms. It is a hazard of my profession. Men of all ages, throwing themselves at my feet.” She was close to him now and he could smell the lavender on her skin. Suddenly he ached with longing. “It happens all the time.”

  “That is not the case with me, ma’am,” he said, as coldly as he could. He could not bear the thought of all those others, fawning and drooling over her, feeling those same indecent thoughts about her that he felt. He could not be in such company. His pride would not permit him, and yet...

  “Liar,” she said and slapped him across the cheek.

  It was not a very violent blow, but it was a shock. For a moment he could do nothing and then he caught her hand in his, anxious not to let her strike him again, but having possession of it, he found he could do nothing but bend and attempt to kiss her palm. His lips had scarcely touched it, before she had pulled her hand away.

  “There, can you deny it now, Mr Carswell?” she said.

  He rubbed his cheek, feeling the smart now.

  “A most elegant demonstration,” he managed to say.

  “Good,” she said, and walked away to the piano. She opened the lid and sat down and began to play some complicated piece, full of notes and fire.

  “And did you do such an experiment on Lord Rothborough?” he said, going over to the piano, feeling his anger rising up in him now. “Is he just one of my wretched cohorts, that you clearly take such a delight in humiliating? Or is that another matter entirely? After all, you seem pretty comfortable here ma’am, in this house!”

  She broke off playing and stood up again. They were face to face.

  “Do you wish me to slap you again?” she said. “Do not think I will gratify you with an answer.”

  “Why not?” he said, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I will go away, if you will just tell me that. I will be the obedient whipped dog and slink away if you will just tell me what there is between you.”

  “No!” she exclaimed and tried to push him away, but he still had her in his grip. “I have said enough on that subject, and you must take my word. Let me go, sir!”

  But Felix could no longer help himself and pulled her closer so that he might kiss her. He felt in doing this that she would understand and relent, that she would feel all that he felt. Like some creature in a fairy tale, he for a moment believed that his kiss might transform her, that she would melt in his arms, and permit all the liberties described in ‘The Memoirs of the Comtesse’.

  Yet of course she did not. A second or two of horrible struggling followed, and he was properly repulsed by her, with a strength that surprised him. She finished by cracking him across the face again, this time with enough force he felt he might have a bloody nose as a result.

  Then, just as he was getting back his balance, the door opened and Mrs Ridolfi came in. She looked at him, he felt, with utter contempt.

  “Ah, Paulina, is it time for me to warm up already?” said Mrs Morgan.

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs Ridolfi.

  “Mr Carswell was just leaving,” Mrs Morgan said, and turned away from him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Why had he attempted to kiss her her? In what part of his disordered brain had he imagined that might improve matters? Had that wretched book somehow contributed to his reckless, wanton behaviour?

  He had gone into the Minster in order to meet Major Vernon, but he could not yet face him, and had turned into one of the gloomy side chapels, relics of another age, that were such a feature of the building. This one still contained an altar with a smudgy old painting of the Virgin Mary above it, and he considered throwing himself onto his knees in front of it, out of habit as much as anything. He felt ashamed enough to repent – to have kissed her was an act of incalculable folly, the actions of an idiotic boor. But he did not prostrate himself. He had spent enough time on his knees and it never seemed to profit him. He ran his hands through his hair and turned away.

  He saw then that he was not alone. In the dustiest, darkest corner, partially obscured behind a vast white marble tomb covered in swooping putti, he noticed a woman was sitting on the bench built into the wall. There was something familiar about her, and as he approached her he saw it was Kate Pritchard.

  “We seemed destined to discover each other,” he said, and wondered if fate was trying to tell him something, for after Mrs Morgan, he was again presented with the very different charms of Miss Pritchard.

  “Because we are both looking for places to hide, perhaps,” she said. “I saw Lord Rothborough out there.”

  “And I saw your father,” said Felix. “Though he can’t have any objections to your being here, I am sure.”

  “You have no idea of the extent of his objections,” she said.

  “May I?” he said indicating the bench where she sat.

  “Of course.”

  “Have you come to hear her sing again?” he asked.

  “Have you?”

  It was a little disconcerting to be asked a question in response to his own, but he supposed she was trying to avoid answering him directly. He wondered why she was so cautious and why she was hiding.

  “No, most definitely not,” he said. “The less I have to do with Mrs Morgan the better.”

  “Then why are you here?” she said.

  “I am here to meet Major Vernon. Have you seen him?”

  She shook her head.

  “What has Mrs Morgan done to offend you?” she asked. “You sounded so vehement – you don’t mind me saying so, I hope.”

  More questions, he thought, and wondered if he ought to adopt the same defensiveness. But there was something about her which made him unable to be anything than candid.

  “It is rather what I have done to offend her,” he said, and pressed his hands to his face. “I have been excruciatingly foolish. Beyond foolish.”

  “I’m sure that is not the case.” He felt her hand press his shoulder. He glanced at her pale face in the shadows, and her enquiring yet sympathetic expression moved him. He put his own hand over hers which remained on his shoulder, and squeezed her hand in return.

  “You’re too kind,” he said, and removed her hand and laid it on her lap. “I don’t deserve sympathy, that I do know.”

  “Everyone deserves sympathy, no matter what,” she said. “And love is a great tribulation. Is that what this is about?”

  “Love – well, I’m not sure it’s as noble a sentiment as that. I rather think it’s – well you know...” He pulled away his hand, feeling ashamed to touch her with such thoughts in his head.

  “You should not be so harsh on yourself. She is impossibly attractive – so beautiful and talented. I should be surprised if a man did not find her like a siren. Her voice is so faultless – it cuts into one.”

  “Yes, a siren,” he said, “that is what she is. Then I must stop my ears with wax and tie myself to the mast.”

  “Perhaps, Mr Odysseus,” she said.

  “He had his Penelope and his Ithaca. To keep him on course.”

  “Yes, indeed he did.”

  The choir began to sing and silence fell between them as the music surrounded them.

  He watched her listening again, just as he had the other night. She displayed the same concentration, but not the rapture. That had clearly been Mrs Morgan’s doing.

  Now Miss Pritchard was beating time with her finger, her head moving with the music, and she frowned once or twice, as if displeased at what she heard. Then after a particularly pronounced wince, the choir stopped, almost as
if she had been directing them herself and had thrown up her own hands to stop them.

  “I knew they wouldn’t manage that,” she said. “The tenors are so ragged at the moment without poor Mr Barnes.” She added with a sigh, “Poor poor man.” He saw her shiver, and he reached for the shawl that lay pooled on the bench and arranged it about her. “Thank you,” she said and gave him such a warm smile of gratitude that for a moment he felt his misery lift. “You did say you had seen Lord Rothborough?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will stay here a while longer, if you don’t mind. I doubt he will find me here.”

  “And Major Vernon?”

  “He may find me. He is far better at searching things out.”

  “That I had heard. Do you think...” she broke off. “Do you think he will find who murdered Mr Barnes?”

  “I am sure of it,” said Felix. “He has a great talent for getting the truth out of people. He was curious about last night, by the way. A ribbon fell from your dress and he picked it up.”

  “Oh, that is where it went!” she said. “Oh dear.”

  “I did not tell him who you were, but he has a way of guessing at things. You must forgive me if he does realise it was you. He is so acute.”

  “I could not blame you for that, Mr Carswell. It was my conduct that was at fault. I ought not have asked you to do such a thing I know but...” She broke off, biting her lip.

  “We are back to the Siren again I think,” said Felix, pushing his fingers through his hair, and looking up at the vaults. “I wish she had never come here.”

  “It will pass, I’m sure of it,” she said. “Sooner or later.”

  “I suppose so. And I have friends to help me – you will let me call you a friend, Miss Pritchard?” he said, glancing at her.

  “It would be an honour,” she said.

  And in that moment he believed he might have found a cure for his folly: marriage and a sweet, companionable wife. He found himself thinking of the house that Lord Rothborough had spoken of, and although he disliked the implications of Lord Rothborough’s actions, it was possible to see the utility of them. If a house was to be forced on him, he might as well use it for his own ends.