by Bill Kitson
I paused, this time for dramatic effect, before getting to the crux of the tale. ‘They conceived a baby girl together. However, before the child was born, the father disappeared, vanishing suddenly and dramatically into the cold fog of a winter’s night after the group had performed a gig in Newcastle. A long time later, a body wearing his trademark jacket was recovered from the Tyne. Everyone believed him to be dead. It was assumed that he had committed suicide by jumping from the Tyne Bridge. Both those facts are untrue.’
I had to stop once more, but this time it was to allow the audience to settle. The gasps of shock and disbelief from those who knew or guessed what and who I was referring to died away slowly. ‘For several months prior to his vanishing act, he had been the victim of a series of carefully contrived attempts on his life. In some of those incidents, only luck and the intervention of others saved him from those murderous attacks. When the threats extended to his lover, and thereby to his unborn child, he made a courageous but painful decision. He argued that if he was no longer around, there would be no reason to attack those close to him. So he elected to disappear. He chose to forego the music career for which he had worked so hard, and the success that undoubtedly awaited him. He chose to abandon his girl and their child to prevent them coming to harm.’
This time I had to pause for breath, because despite my attempts to be dispassionate, the emotional content of the tale was having its effect on me. ‘Despite his careful preparations, his plan was upstaged, and due to an unforeseen twist of fate, those who were stalking him with murder in mind chose the wrong victim, a fact he didn’t know until long afterwards. Recently, I have been helping police investigate the events that took place back then, and together we have discovered the motive behind this cruel vendetta. It was a sordid one, but as the police officer in charge told me, they most often are. The motive was greed. Nothing more than that, but it has already cost the lives of four people and caused years of separation, loneliness, and heartbreak.’
I moved on to the climax of the story, and my next words gave Gerry the cue to begin playing, very softly, what must have seemed to those listening and watching nothing more than incidental music. ‘The reason for all this was that our musician had composed a set of instrumental pieces, the sheet music for which had been stolen. The thief recognized the huge earning potential. However, he could not perform them or present them as his own whilst the real composer was alive to challenge him. So he set out to kill the man who stood between him and his fortune. The killer thought he could present the works as his own, hiding his true identity by recording them under the name of the Mystery Minstrel.
‘Now that masquerade can be exposed, because we have the genuine article here tonight.’ As I spoke I moved away from the front of the stage and off to the right, making a sweeping gesture with my right hand. Taking his cue from my gesture, the lighting director hit the spotlight, which illuminated Crowther. He was standing with his back to the audience, who could clearly see the iconic image on the back of the jacket. Conscious that the recording was still ongoing, I ended by saying, ‘I am referring of course to Trudi Bell’s father, the genius behind Northern Lights: Gerry Crowther.’
Gerry must have turned the volume on his instrument to maximum, otherwise it would not have been audible above the pandemonium in the auditorium, where cheering, clapping, a hubbub of conversation all mingled with the notes. The dais on which he stood revolved and he was facing his audience. As he played the middle section, using the Hawaiian guitar effect on the keyboard, I felt a momentary cold shiver run down my spine. I looked towards the seats where the man who looked like Kendall and Judith Lane had been sitting, and saw they were empty. This panicked me momentarily, then, to my relief, I saw Kendall, his toupee hopelessly askew, being marched towards the back of the auditorium by a quartet of burly but immaculately dressed men sporting buttonholes.
As Trudi walked forward I handed her the microphone, took her hand and led her centre stage. She squeezed my hand before I stepped away, leaving her standing for a moment waiting for the sound to die down. ‘I would like to end by singing my latest recording. It is a song that means more to me than any other, not only because my father wrote it, but because it reunited him with my mother and brought him into my life. It is even more special because he is here with me tonight.’
Instead of remaining centre stage, she walked across to the keyboard, choosing to stand alongside Gerry, sharing the limelight with him. I watched, treasuring the moment, for it gave a feeling of satisfaction to see the happy outcome to all their tribulations. Gerry played the opening bars of the intro using only his right hand, gesturing to the wings with his left. With some reluctance, Sheila emerged onto the stage.
He had to play the intro a second time, because the first rendition was drowned by the cheering, whistling and clapping of the audience. When Trudi began to sing, however, you could have heard a pin drop in that auditorium. The ballad’s message was a poignant tale of separation and heartbreak spanning years. For those who had just listened to my tale, the relevance was heightened, and I could see the lyrics were affecting the audience.
When the song ended there was a momentary silence, then another storm of applause. Instead of taking a bow, Trudi walked to the rear of the keyboard and stood with her parents, all three of them smiling broadly. That is another image I will treasure.
The idyll was rudely interrupted as a figure hurtled from the wings behind me and crossed the stage. The normally immaculate Judith Lane was barely recognizable in this avenging fury. The long-bladed knife in her hand was far too identifiable.
She reached the trio faster than anyone could react, or even cry out a warning. Her initial target was Trudi. Whether that was design, or because the girl was closest, I couldn’t say. As she raised the knife to deliver a fatal blow, another figure emerged from the wings. Far too late, I thought, but as I watched, still horror-struck, I saw the newcomer raise one hand; saw something fly from it, and saw the object strike Judith on the temple. She staggered, then crumpled to the floor, and a split second later, a quartet of women descended on her. The women police officers handcuffed the semi-conscious attacker and dragged her away.
Amid the ensuing chaos and melee of television personnel, I sought out Trudi’s saviour. As Charlie advanced, somewhat diffidently, onto the stage to retrieve the cricket ball he’d bought that afternoon and used as a weapon, I shook him by the hand. ‘Well thrown, Charlie, I reckon your fielding practice just paid off, big style.’
Charlie grinned, still a little overcome at being the focus of attention. A moment later, as Gerry shook him by the hand and Sheila hugged him, they thanked him for saving their daughter. Then Trudi came forward and kissed him warmly. No peck on the cheek either, but full on the lips. Charlie’s confusion was all but complete, but when I pointed out the TV cameraman who was recording everything, his embarrassment went into overdrive. He muttered something and turned back to the wings, where Eve joined us.
He looked at me, his face troubled. ‘Adam, they won’t show that last bit as part of the concert, will they?’
‘You mean the part when you got to snog a famous singer? I don’t think so.’
He nodded. ‘Thank heavens for that, I’d never live it down at school. The guys would be so jealous they’d tease me forever.’
‘No, I don’t think they’ll wait until the concert is televised. My guess is that it’ll be on tomorrow’s national news bulletins and every newspaper front page.’
As the Crowther clan, which was how I had got used to thinking of them, joined us in the wings, DI Hardy also arrived. ‘I think it’s safe to say that your problems are now behind you,’ he told Crowther. ‘I’m sorry we were unable to prevent the attack. It’s a good job this young man was on hand to spot the danger and act.’
‘How did the woman get backstage?’ Eve asked.
‘The security guards were called away by a fake message purporting to come from the centre manager reporting a disturbance
in the foyer.’
Charlie explained, ‘I heard the stagehand speaking to Aunt Evie and he pointed out where the woman and Kendall were sitting. Before he was arrested, I watched her leave her seat and when I saw her deliver a note to the security man I knew she was up to something so I followed her.’
The next couple of days were marked by a whirl of activity. Having given statements to the police, we were told that Tony Kendall and Judith Lane were being charged with offences ranging from murder downwards. We returned to Laithbrigg, having spent several hours helping Crowther to select a new car, which would be delivered to his house in a few days’ time. Once we were back at Eden House, Sheila supervised packing operations, as she, Gerry, and Trudi would be returning to Allerscar.
A week later, Eden House was once again filled with visitors. First DI Hardy arrived, his purpose to update us on their intended prosecution. He had barely entered the house when another car arrived. Crowther, it seemed, was getting used to driving again. After Eve let Gerry and Sheila in, they joined us in the lounge, which thanks to Eve’s refurbishment was now presentable again. Trudi wandered into the garden in search of Charlie.
‘You’ve saved me an extra journey,’ Hardy told them. ‘When we searched Kendall’s flat we found a selection of highly valuable paintings, antique furniture, ceramics, and jewellery, which he confessed he had bought for himself, not for the business. We also found these.’
He reached into his brief case and removed four sheets of paper, which were enclosed in clear plastic wallets. ‘Can you confirm that this is your signature?’ he asked Crowther, pointing to the top corner of one of the pages.
I peered over his shoulder and saw that the item was a page of sheet music. ‘Good heavens!’ Crowther exclaimed, ‘Where did you get those?’
‘They were locked in Kendall’s safe. I can’t let you have them back yet, not until after the trial.’
‘The last time I saw them was in a hotel room in Chester.’
‘Are you going to be able to make the charges against Kendall and Lane stick?’ I asked.
Hardy smiled. ‘That won’t be a problem. It was like an aviary in the station when they started singing. To sum up what we’ve learned, I’d say Kendall was besotted by money and would stop at absolutely nothing to get it, and Judith Lane was besotted by Kendall and would stop at nothing to get him, and keep him.’
‘Was greed the sole reason for trying to kill Gerry?’ Eve asked.
‘No, Kendall was furious because the way he saw it, Mr Crowther had denied him access to the two things he wanted in life: fame and fortune. He’d already decided to kill him. Somewhere in the process he hitched up with Judith Lane, who he knew from Pattison’s company. She supplied information that enabled him to track Mr Crowther’s movements.
‘The plan changed after Kendall overheard Mr Crowther and Billy Quinn playing one of those tunes.’ Hardy gestured to the documents. ‘He knew right off that what he was listening to would be a monumental hit. He decided that killing Mr Crowther would have to wait until he’d got his hands on the music. Then, with the real composer dead, he could pass it off as his own and reap the rewards. However, there was one major stumbling block. Kendall realized that a musician of Billy Quinn’s calibre would be bound to recognize it immediately, if he heard it, and would know that it had been stolen. So Quinn would have to die as well.’
‘We thought it was because Quinn knew Carl Long had the jacket, but Kendall set out to murder Gerry and Billy Quinn purely for the money? That is unbelievably callous,’ Eve said.
‘The rewards were too high to resist, certainly for someone who worshipped money the way Kendall does. Once he’d read all four pieces he knew they would earn him a small fortune.’
‘Why did he kill Jimmy and Steve?’ Crowther asked.
‘Jimmy Mitchell saw him near the keyboard at the venue when you were almost electrocuted, and Steve Thompson spotted him on the building site when you were almost killed by that falling girder. Kendall told us the two of them got together and realized that he must be behind whatever was going on.’
‘Those two were always as thick as thieves,’ Crowther interjected.
‘Yes, and when they tried to blackmail Kendall, he was desperate, but thanks to Judith Lane he managed to turn the tables on them. She got hold of some suppressed paperwork concerning the rape of two underage girls which was allegedly carried out by Mitchell and Thompson. Kendall threatened them with exposure, not only to the police but also the press. That kept them quiet long enough for Kendall to perform as the Mystery Minstrel, reap the rewards, and vanish from the music scene. He resurfaced years later, wearing a wig, as the owner of a chain of antique shops.’
Hardy paused for a second. ‘When Kendall found out that Pattison had asked you to search for Gerry Crowther, he was afraid Thompson and Mitchell would talk. They were the only ones who knew he was behind the murder attempts. He couldn’t use the old blackmail weapon. For one thing, Mitchell and Thompson were no longer in the public eye. Rather than take the risk, he decided to silence them.’
‘That is so cold-blooded and calculating,’ Eve remarked. ‘It makes me shiver just thinking about it.’
Hardy agreed. ‘That was how I felt when I listened to his confession. He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, with no more emotion than if he was buying a newspaper.’
‘How did he find out that Lew had asked us to search for Gerry?’ I asked. ‘I take it that was Judith Lane.’
‘It certainly was. She had a habit of listening in on Mr Pattison’s intercom. As soon as she heard the name Crowther during a call from Miss Samuels here, she listened intently. When Mr Pattison asked her and Melissa Norton to collate all the paperwork there was about Northern Lights and anyone connected with the group, Judith Lane told Kendall immediately. He guessed that Crowther might still be alive. If that was so, the body in the Tyne was probably Carl Long’s. He and Lane had accidently murdered the wrong man !’
‘Was Carl Long part of the plot?’ I asked.
‘To a certain extent, yes. According to Kendall, Long didn’t know they intended to kill Mr Crowther. As far as he was aware it was nothing more than a plot to rob him. Long was used to lure him to the Tyne Bridge, in return for which he would receive a huge amount of money to feed his drug habit. I spoke to Carl Long’s mother to tell her about her son’s death and she said that her husband had booked Carl into a private sanatorium in France that dealt with people with drug addictions, but that Carl had refused to go. As a result, his father wouldn’t let him have any more money until he agreed to undergo treatment. Carl was desperate, so desperate that when Kendall approached him with the idea, he jumped at it.’
Hardy winced slightly. ‘Sorry, “jumped at it” is an unfortunate choice of words in the circumstances.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Eve reassured him, ‘Adam is capable of far worse puns than that.’
Hardy departed soon afterwards, but before the others followed him, Eve had a question to ask, one I suspected she had wanted to put to Crowther for some time. ‘It’s about that lovely song you wrote for Trudi and Sheila. Would you play it when Adam and I get married? And would Trudi sing it for us?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘We are getting married then? Would you mind telling me when? My diary gets a trifle busy at times.’
Father and daughter both laughed but responded immediately, ‘We’d be honoured to.’
Before they left, Trudi gave Charlie a parcel. ‘That’s a thank-you, from me,’ she told him, ‘and don’t forget your promise. I want to see your castle.’
We waved them off, and as we closed the door, Eve told him, ‘You should have kissed her, Charlie, there were no TV cameras pointing at you this time.’
As I’d predicted, the story had made headlines, and was still doing so when we took Charlie back to Mulgrave Castle the next day. His parents and sister had been shocked to arrive back in England and find that Charlie was something of a national hero. Tony and Harriet were justifiab
ly proud of their son, whilst Sammy and Becky wanted to know about that kiss. Their curiosity about the relationship increased tenfold when Charlie showed them the photo Trudi had given him. It was a studio portrait of her, inscribed in one corner, To Charlie Rowe. You are my hero. With love, Trudi xx.
Life returned slowly to normal. Any sense of anti-climax was dispelled by the letter that arrived some weeks later, and the royalty cheque it contained. A celebration was definitely called for.
That evening, I had just opened a champagne bottle when the phone rang. Eve answered it, and a moment later called out, ‘Adam, it’s somebody called Jeremy Powell. He says you know him.’ She handed me the phone, an enquiring look in her eyes.
I covered the mouthpiece. ‘He’s a lawyer. Used to work for the TV company I reported for.’
‘Sorry to trouble you, Adam,’ Powell began, ‘but I want to pick your brains. Actually, it’s for my kid sister, Alison. Her boyfriend’s brother has been murdered, but the police don’t know how. Apparently the wound was like no other they’ve ever come across and I wondered if you’d seen anything similar – in Africa, say. The wound was perfectly circular, like a gunshot, but when they did the post-mortem they couldn’t find a bullet. In addition …’ – Powell paused – ‘the skin, flesh, tissue and bone had been removed, right the way to his heart. He’d been cored … ’
The End
The Eden House Mysteries
Bill Kitson
For more information about Bill Kitson
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN 9781783756803
