“Oh, right up at the front of the stalls,” said Laura. “We have favourite seats here: being our local concert hall we have been regulars ever since it was built. There are quite a lot of people in the Kent area who make use of this fabulous hall – we are really rather lucky. I think the acoustics are meant to be the best of any concert hall in the country.”
“I’ve not played here before,” admitted Kirsten. “I’m quite excited – or is that nervous! That’s why I came out here. Sometimes sitting in the dressing room before hand is the worst time.”
“You must be used to the pressure by now,” ventured Rupert. “Or is it one of those things you never get used to, however long you have been performing solos?”
Kirsten wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “It becomes a familiar sense of anticipation, but I’ve never lost my pre-concert anxiety. I always feel nervous right up to the point when I start playing – and then I just forget everything and am lost in the music: that is why I love it so much. It’s the most important thing in my life.”
For some reason there was a silence after this final remark. It wasn’t that Kirsten said it with particular emphasis; it was simply a statement of fact.
“Well,” said Laura, smiling at her cousin. “We can meet up afterwards for supper, if that is all right?”
“Oh, I thought you were coming to my dressing room in the interval?” intervened Kirsten. “Then you can tell me if you enjoy the Debussy.”
“I’m sure you’ll be wonderful,” Rupert smiled at her. Suzy moved off with a little wave at her cousin and Laura and her husband resumed their drinks.
“Like her?” asked Laura, bluntly.
“No opinion either way,” replied Rupert.
“Something about her...” mused Laura. “She was friendly enough, but somehow one senses an intensity.”
“I imagine that a degree of obsession is a prerequisite in a musician of her calibre,” said Rupert.
“But obsession doesn’t come in degrees; it is by its nature all-consuming.”
“As long as it results in music inspiring enough to keep me awake, I’m happy,” said Rupert. “Champagne always makes me drowsy.”
Settled in her front row seat, the stage rising in front of her, Laura took a look around. Mr and Mrs Posh were in their usual place to the left of Rupert and the vagrant was two removed from Laura on the right. The lights went up and a muttering of applause broke out as members of the orchestra made their way onto the stage. Once the orchestra was settled, the conductor came out to more prolonged clapping and soon there was an anticipatory silence before the melancholy opening strains of the music commenced. The audience lapped up the enthralling subtlety of the music and its stirring climax. More applause broke like a wave as the piece finished. The audience settled and then sat back to enjoy the Dvorak. The man in the aviator hat had his eyes closed, but the smart couple were staring ahead as if transfixed. Applause again, and then the audience rustled with excitement as they waited for Kirsten Norman to come on stage. A sweep of green satin and rapturous applause. Just the piano and clarinet sounded, weaving around each other in the lyrical piece. Rupert’s concentration was broken by Mr and Mrs Posh getting up and leaving just as the first note of the clarinet sounded, and by the time he was back with it, the music was over.
“That was hardly worth bothering with,” commented Rupert as the audience rose en masse and made for the exits and a drink in the interval.
“Just a warm up for Kirsten, I suppose,” said Laura. “We had better find our way around backstage.”
Suzy was waiting for her cousin. Kirsten had returned, flush faced, and deposited her clarinet before rushing off to have a quick word with the conductor. Just after she left, a man’s head popped around the door.
“Can I bring you two ladies some coffee?”
“Oh, yes please,” replied Suzy.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Black no sugar for me. Milk no sugar for Kirsten – thank you.” The man disappeared and Suzy went out to see if she could spot Laura and Rupert and show them which room they were in. Eventually she found them and led them in.
“Did you enjoy the first half? I didn’t make it out there; I was sorting out things in here.”
“Oh yes: Kirsten was wonderful – brief, but wonderful!” commented Laura.
Rupert, as was his custom, was walking around examining everything he saw with interest.
“Kirsten has a spare dress?” he commented, noticing a rose coloured confection on a hanger.
“Oh, yes. We are prepared for all eventualities.”
Rupert was now studying something that looked like a laptop case. “Is this hers? – K.C.N.” he read the initials aloud.
“Yes: the C is for Cleo. She should be back any moment.” There was a gentle knock at the door and Suzy opened it. “Oh, here is our coffee.”
Rupert glanced up and briefly caught sight of a familiar face – that of Mr Posh – handing two cups to Suzy. The door closed.
“Does she have a spare clarinet?” Rupert asked, putting the initialled bag down.
“Yes,” Suzy put Kirsten’s coffee on the side and took a sip of her own. “That is the bag for the one she is using. In fact our spare is still in the boot of the car. Do you two want a drink? – I should have had some wine in here.”
“Don’t worry,” said Laura. “We just wanted to see backstage. I have some water in my bag. You have your coffee whilst Rupert turns the place upside down. It’s his way, you know: incurably nosy!”
Suzy laughed and drank some more of her coffee.
“What is this?” asked Rupert, holding up a little plastic case.
“That’s to put the reed in from the mouthpiece of the clarinet. Kirsten won’t leave it in the instrument as it needs to dry flat. You just slide the reed in under a ligature. When she puts it into the clarinet before the performance she has to wet it in her mouth – it won’t play if it is dry.”
“Interesting,” mused Rupert.
Suzy watched him tolerantly as she finished her coffee. “I’m not a musician myself, but I find the whole musical world fascinating. I met Kirsten when she was studying at the Royal Academy of Music and got to know a lot of the other musicians she knew there. Now, of course, I see a lot of the orchestra backstage.”
Rupert was glancing around, “Where is her clarinet? I won’t touch, but I’d like to look.”
Suzy looked around too. “That’s odd,” she said. “I thought Kirsten put it down in here. Why would she take it with her?” She started to look around the room lifting magazines and other objects, slightly flustered. Rupert, meanwhile, was looking at the cup of coffee that had been left for Kirsten with more interest than it seemed to warrant.
“Does Kirsten take sugar in her coffee?” he asked.
“What? No.” Suzy’s reply was rather abrupt.
“Curious,” commented Rupert, who had lifted the cup and was sniffing it cautiously. “There’s quite a bit of sugar spilled in the saucer.”
“Well I told the man no sugar. I do hope Kirsten has her clarinet...but I’m sure she left it here.”
Just then Kirsten swept in and Suzy looked up flushed faced.
“Do you have your clarinet?” asked Suzy swiftly.
“No. I left it in here.” Kirsten’s smile faded.
“Well it’s not here now,” said Suzy.
The two women continued to look around in something of a panic. As they did so, Rupert quietly beckoned his wife over. “Take a sniff of this,” he indicated the coffee. Laura sniffed. “Can you smell anything?”
“Just coffee!” said Laura. “Rupert, what are you playing at?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Suzy, go and get my spare. I must be ready. Where the hell can it have gone?” There was a note of real fear in Kirsten’s voice.
“All right. You keep looking; I’ll run down to the car.” Suzy bustled out.
“Can we help?” Laura asked.
Kirsten gave a
weak smile. “Oh, no, don’t worry; it is a crisis, not a disaster. I just can’t work out where it has gone. Was Suzy in the room all the time?”
“She did come and look for us and the room was empty when she brought us in,” said Rupert. “Someone could have stolen it, I suppose.”
“I’ll go and ask around and find out if anyone saw anything,” said Kirsten, heading for the door.
After she had left, Rupert picked up the coffee cup again and tipped the contents swiftly down the hand basin in the corner of the room. Laura lifted a quizzical eyebrow at him, but before he could explain his action, the door swung open again and Kirsten returned, carrying a clarinet.
“Panic over! It was taken by some chap who hangs around the place – apparently he is a familiar figure and virtually lives here. They said that he’s a bit odd, but harmless. The floor manager saw him wandering about with the clarinet in his arms and retrieved it. I’d better check it over, but it looks fine. I need a drink first: did I see some coffee?”
“It went cold,” said Rupert disingenuously. “I’ll go and get you something.”
“I’ve got some spring water in my bag,” said Laura, reaching for it.
“Oh, that’ll be fine. Thank you. Sorry this has been such a muddle. We’ll be able to have a proper chat after the performance.”
Just then Suzy returned carrying the spare clarinet in a case. The next few moments involved explanations and – after handing Kirsten the bottled water – Laura and Rupert made a discreet exit as Kirsten sat down to drink the water and calm down, the clarinet safely nestled in her lap.
“What was that all about?” asked Laura.
“What – the missing clarinet?”
“No: obviously the fellow in the aviator hat wandered off with that as a prank – I meant the coffee.”
“Well, for starters, why did our friend from the audience come all the way backstage to provide the coffee?”
Laura shrugged.
“Did it smell odd to you?”
“No.”
“Well it did to me. Did you notice Kirsten’s initials?” pursued Rupert.
“K.C.N. – you read them out. What was the relevance of that?”
“Just that it is the chemical formula for potassium cyanide. The coffee smelled of bitter almonds to me.”
“Rupert, your mind works in the most peculiar ways.”
“Yes: that’s why you love me!”
This statement was perfectly true, which was why Laura declined to respond – except to return the gentle squeeze that Rupert gave to her hand.
Rupert and Laura were only just back to their seats in time for the second half of the concert. The smart man was sitting with his wife and for a second Rupert caught his eyes in a glance. He had small, bright and very dark eyes; but gave no indication of recognising Rupert from when he brought the coffee to Kirsten’s room. Likewise, the vagrant was quietly seated and seemingly indifferent to the fact that his little escapade behind the scenes had nearly scuppered the performance. Kirsten, confident and elegant, made her entrance with a swift smile at the audience and nod to the orchestra, the conductor following deferentially behind her. Taking her place, Kirsten shook her hair and struck her stance: there was nothing in her demeanour to suggest the minor drama that had just occurred. The orchestra set off with a grand melodic opening whilst Kirsten swayed gently in concentration, lifting her instrument to her lips once or twice as if to moisten it, and giving the merest hint of an adjustment to the mouthpiece. Almost from the moment Kirsten started to play it was clear that something was amiss. She made the first high note and the three octave drop, but even in the few notes after that Kirsten seemed to be struggling. For a moment she tried to continue, the conductor glancing at her as if to decide whether he needed to adjust the pace of the orchestra. The first impression was that of a soloist who had lost the plot; but when the clarinet finally dropped from Kirsten’s hands and she clasped her throat, it was clear that the problem was more fundamental.
There was the moment’s pause, followed by the slow chaos which can so often accompany an unexpected calamity. The conductor dropped his baton and turned to Kirsten, but the orchestra carried on playing for a few more phrases, and then petered out in an almost comical way down to the last peep from the last instrument. The audience, at first embarrassed and then confused, seemed to draw a collective breath before breaking out into excited mutterings. The conductor, stooped over his fallen soloist and seemingly trying to raise her head as she struggled for breath, frantically indicated that medical help was needed. One or two members of the audience rushed forwards to assist. After that, Laura lost sight of Kirsten, just catching glimpses of her shiny green dress through the cluster of bodies. She registered the sight of Mr and Mrs Posh quietly leaving, whilst the man in the aviator hat seemed to push forward in the hope of making out what was happening. And then she saw Rupert, pulling himself up onto the stage and picking up Kirsten’s discarded clarinet. He was thoughtfully sniffing the mouthpiece.
Laura and Rupert were sitting in the champagne bar comforting a tearful Suzy. Chaos had come and gone and officialdom had taken over. Pronounced dead where she had fallen, Kirsten had nevertheless been taken away in an ambulance. The consensus seemed to be that she had suffered some kind of fit, but the police had appeared at the scene and were searching her dressing room. Rupert was looking thoughtful and saying very little. Laura was allowing Suzy to talk. The bar was doing a roaring trade.
“I wasn’t even there,” Suzy was saying between gulps. “I was about to come around to the front and listen; and then there was all the commotion. By the time I got anywhere near Kirsten, she was dead!”
Laura, never the most adept at comfort, patted her hand.
“Has she ever had fits before?” asked Rupert. “Is this the first time she has collapsed?”
Suzy shook her head. “Kirsten was perfectly healthy. She was allergic to nuts but we have an EpiPen for anaphylaxis: we’ve used it once or twice when she has eaten something with an unexpected trace of nuts in it, but she has never had a really bad reaction.”
“Could she have eaten anything with nuts in it this evening?” asked Laura.
“Absolutely not,” Suzy shook her head emphatically. “Kirsten would never eat before a concert – she tended to feel a bit queasy. She would have a good lunch and then nothing but coffee or water.”
“She didn’t have any enemies, I suppose?” pursued Rupert as Laura gave him her disapproving look.
“Enemies?” Suzy looked shocked. “No; she was the loveliest person.”
“But she was successful, and success – especially in the entertainment business – can lead to jealousy. Well, what about rejected lovers?”
Again Suzy shook her head. “Her longest relationship was with Hamilton Gilbert; she met him at the Royal Academy – he was a cellist. They were an item for about five years, but he was a really intense, slightly unstable character. Very good-looking and a brilliant musician, but Kirsten found his moods and emotional dependence too much to handle, especially when her career started to take off.”
“What happened to him?” asked Laura. “Did he become a professional musician?”
“No. He was very talented, but he didn’t have the temperament to be a musician. I thought he might make a mark as a composer, but I haven’t heard of him again and Kirsten never mentioned him. But why are you asking? Do the police think that she was murdered?”
“I don’t know what the police think,” admitted Rupert. “But the manner of her death, and the timing, were extraordinary.”
Suzy looked aghast and Laura, disapproving again, said, “Why don’t you go and get us all a drink, Rupert; the crowd at the bar has subsided a little.”
Rupert nodded and left Laura listening to some more of Suzy’s worries and regrets. However, rather than making his way straight to the bar, Rupert – catching sight of Mr and Mrs Posh sitting alone at a table – made his way over to join them.
“You
were in the audience just near us,” Rupert said, by way of introduction, as he sat at their table. “Are you both all right?” Up close he could see that the man, who was in his sixties with a tired, pale face which accentuated his dark eyes, looked on the verge of exhaustion. His wife, well groomed and with a bone-structure which bespoke good looks in past years, seemed almost dazed.
“Fine, thank you,” replied the man. “Just a bit of a shock.”
Rupert nodded slowly and then, with barely a moment’s hesitation said, “It wasn’t the cyanide that killed her.”
At this statement the man gave a convulsive jump and his wife actually emitted a little scream. After a moment of horrified silence, the man replied,
The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries Page 12
