Adam went to make his apologies to Peacock, whom he found talking to Mr Levi in the wings. Mr Levi was a large, kindly, polyglot Jew, with a powerful if somewhat inaccurate command of the English language.
‘’Allo, Langley,’ he said. ‘Terrible ’old-up, this. Schrecklich, gar fabelhaft. I tell you, I ’ave no use for that twister someone knock-off, see, but ’e ’ad a voice. nothing like it since Chaliapin, famos, nicht wahr? And now,’ said Mr Levi with some relish, ‘’is tonsils’ll be dinner for coffin-worms’ sarcophaguses, clever little insects.’
Adam introduced him to Fen.
‘Still,’ Mr Levi resumed cheerfully, ‘we get the show on none the less.’ He patted Peacock encouragingly on the back. ‘The maestro ’ere, ’e’s good. I tell you – ’e keep that orchestra right where ’e want ’em. The ’orn-players’ – Mr Levi here became suddenly lyrical with enthusiasm, and addressed himself, gesticulating illustratively, to Fen – ‘The ’orn-players, even, they listen to what ’e say and stop shaking the spit out of their ’orns, ain’t it?’
Peacock assented confusedly to this doubtful recommendation.
‘And nicht nur das,’ said Mr Levi. ‘Not only the ’orns, but the double-basses. You know ’ow it is with double-basses. They wink and snigger. It’s the dames,’ he explained to Elizabeth, ‘what makes ’em wink and snigger. I tell you, I seen double-basses behave in a public concert like in a way would ’ave made me old mother blench, but it’s all the same nowadays, it’s Vénus toute entiére à sa proie attachée, the dames themselves is to blame for ’alf of it.’
Having delivered himself of this sentiment, Mr Levi left to return to London, after warmly wishing them all good luck and assuring them of his continued enthusiasm for the production. A few new-comers drifted in and uttered reluctant apologies to Peacock. The tuba-player arrived, unpacked his instrument, and began making a sound like a fog-horn on it, while the rest of the orchestra chanted ‘Peter Grimes!’ in a quavering, distant falsetto.
‘I think,’ said Peacock as he contemplated this phenomenon, ‘that perhaps we’d better start.’
There could be no doubt, thought Adam, that the death of Edwin Shorthouse was not much regretted by either Peacock or anyone else connected with the production. Adam said as much to Fen.
‘I know,’ said Fen. ‘It seems positively indelicate to be trying to discover his murderer.’
Joan Davis had joined them and was regarding Fen quizzically. ‘Then you’ve quite made up your minds it was murder?’
‘I have. I’m not so sure about the police . . . Adam, introduce us.’
Adam hastened to do so.
‘Your Marschallin was magnificent,’ said Fen. ‘As good as Lotte Lehmann.’
Joan laughed. ‘I wish I thought so. It would have to be superlative if it was that . . .’ Suddenly her voice changed. ‘Professor Fen, I’m in a mess. I wonder if you can help me?’
‘I’ll try. As a matter of fact I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you. Can we go’ – Fen stared gloomily about him – ‘somewhere a bit quieter?’
‘George,’ said Joan, ‘what will you do when you finally get going?’
‘The assembly of the Masters,’ Peacock replied, ‘and the trial-song.’
‘Then you don’t want me?’
‘Not for the moment.’
‘Come on,’ said Joan. ‘We’ll go up to my dressing-room.’
Fen turned to Adam. ‘Can you sing the trial-song and keep an eye on Elizabeth as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘I shall be perfectly all right,’ said Elizabeth.
‘That,’ said Fen in parting, ‘is probably what Caesar told Calpurnia at the Ides of March. So don’t go mooning off on your own.’
‘“All right”?’ said Joan, as the two of them climbed the stairs to the dressing-rooms. ‘Why shouldn’t Elizabeth be all right?’
‘For a reason’ – Fen was noncommittal – ‘which I’ll tell you about in a moment . . . I hope you aren’t on the second floor. Mon beau printemps, as Mr Levi would probably remark, a fait le saut par la fenêtre. Is this it?’
‘This,’ Joan assured him, ‘is it.’ She unlocked the door of her dressing-room.
Physically it resembled that in which Edwin Shorthouse had met his end; but its atmosphere was entirely different, and Fen marvelled anew at the relative sensitivity of the sexes to their immediate surroundings. The difference appeared to lie – he became momentarily abstracted and analytical – in the feminine predilection for profusion and colour. Joan’s dressing-room was not less untidy than that of Shorthouse – if anything it was more so. But it was crowded with clothes, cosmetics, books, photographs, telegrams, and the effect of these things was to give it a friendlier and more comfortable air than the corresponding male habitation, with its comparative drabness and austerity. Joan switched on the electric fire (in that bitter February it was much needed); they sat beside it and lit cigarettes; and Fen returned to the matter in hand.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘What sort of a mess is this you’re in?’
Joan smiled. ‘I thought you would have known.’
‘It’s to do with the police, is it? No, I haven’t seen Mudge since lunch-time. What has he been up to?’
‘Among other things he’s been questioning Karl and me. And I think he’s developed a theory.’
Fen groaned. ‘Go on.’
‘One of the things he elicited from Karl was that yesterday evening, after dinner, several of us held a kind of emergency meeting. It was to discuss the situation that had arisen during the rehearsal, and to consider means of dealing with it. It didn’t come to any conclusion – such meetings seldom do – except that Edwin’s parents should never have met. But unfortunately I made rather a compromising remark.’
‘Well?’
‘I said: “It would be nice if we could poison him just a little – just so as to make him unable to sing”.’
Fen attempted to blow a smoke-ring, and failed miserably. ‘I begin to see.’
‘The Inspector asked me if I had said that, and of course I couldn’t deny it. The trouble is, of course, that though out of its context it sounds decidedly sinister, in fact it was just one of those careless, silly things one does say.’
‘Exactly.’ Fen was leaning forward to warm his hands at the fire. ‘But by itself –’
‘Worse is to come,’ said Joan, and laughed a little shakily. ‘It seems that Edwin’s gin was doped with Nembutal – and the only person round here who possesses any Nembutal is me.’
Fen sat upright. Distantly, they heard the music of the first act begin. Rich, sonorous, and dignified, Barfield’s voice called the roll of the Masters. ‘Now to a trial as summoned hither, masters in council are come together . . .’ A trial, Fen thought: God alone knew what fantastic notions this Nembutal business had put into Mudge’s head.
‘I get it on a prescription, of course,’ Joan went on. ‘For insomnia. And I have – or rather I had – quite a lot of it.’
‘The past tense?’
‘Most of it’s gone. Something like four hundred grains, in fact.’
‘Gone from where?’
‘From this room.’
‘You’ve been keeping it here?’
‘Yes. Purely by chance. I packed in rather a hurry, put it in my dressing-case, and forgot about it until I got out my make-up the other day. I’ve been sleeping well recently, and haven’t needed it. For the same reason I didn’t bother to take it to the hotel.’
‘But you keep this room locked?’
‘Not always. As I seldom leave anything valuable here, I sometimes don’t bother.’
‘Anyone could have snaffled the stuff, in fact?’
‘If they’d known it was there.’
‘And did anyone know?’
Joan smiled wryly. ‘Half the company, no doubt. You know Adela Brent who’s singing Magdalena?’ And when Fen shook his head: ‘Well, I told her it was here, and like most of us she gossips. “Did you know th
at Joan kept Nembutal in her dressing-room?”’ Joan mimicked. ‘“I always suspected her of taking drugs.”’
‘Yes,’ said Fen pensively. ‘It’s the sort of trivial scrap of information which does get about. There’s no lead there.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But I presume Mudge doesn’t suspect you of actually murdering Shorthouse?’
‘No, I don’t think it’s as bad as that.’ Joan drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘I fancy – though he didn’t say anything about it – that he believes Edwin committed suicide. But I also think he imagines I tried to poison Edwin, if only for the reason that the Nembutal in the gin doesn’t fit in with his suicide hypothesis.’
‘The motive for this being –’
‘Altruistic concern about the production. Or’ – Joan flushed a little – ‘not-so-altruistic concern about George.’
‘Who is George?’
‘George Peacock . . . Professor Fen, what ought I to do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Fen decidedly.
‘But I must do something; I can’t let them go on thinking –’
‘Let them think what they please, and console yourself by recalling the dreadful example of Mr Blenkinsop.’
‘Mr Blenkinsop?’
‘Mr Blenkinsop is my favourite tragi-comic figure in history. It came to Mr Blenkinsop’ (Fen went on with a happy, faraway look in his pale blue eyes), ‘in the days when locomotives were adumbrated but not yet made, that in the pattern as commonly proposed, and whose descendents waft us incompetently about nowadays, the wheels would slip on the rails and the vehicle consequently remain motionless. He therefore devoted a great deal of time, money, and trouble to inventing a locomotive with spiked wheels which would not be liable to this disadvantage . . . With the result that you see. Mr Blenkinsop is the locus classicus of misplaced foresight. And it would be just as absurd if you were to try to take action about Mudge’s suspicions.’ Fen stubbed out his cigarette and spoke more energetically. ‘There isn’t a shadow of a case against you, unless —’ Fen broke off suddenly.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless the jury brings in a charge of attempted murder or grievous bodily harm or something at the inquisition. That would be equivalent to an indictment – but of course it’s wildly unlikely, and in any case the thing would never stand up for a moment in court.’
‘In other words,’ said Joan, ‘I’m in a senseless panic . . . Well, well, one goes on learning things about oneself. And now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘A general inquisition, if I may.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Tell me about Stapleton and Judith Haynes.’
Joan’s shrewd, puckish face suggested that she was perturbed. ‘What do you want to know? They’re very much in love with one another. He composes. I was glancing through the vocal score of his opera after tea today.’
‘Mudge delivered it up?’
‘Yes, it was found in Edwin’s rooms.’
‘Is it a good opera?’
‘Not really.’ Joan grimaced. ‘But he’s quite young, of course, and some composers develop late. Anyway, it’s not fair to judge it when one’s head’s full of Meistersinger. As Puccini said, we’re all mandoline-twangers in comparison with Wagner. Pace W.J. Turner.’
‘W. J. Turner,’ said Fen dreamily, ‘thinks The Flying Dutchman is Wagner’s best opera.’ He made trumpeting noises, vaguely reminiscent of the overture to that work. ‘But as for Meistersinger – apart from Henry IV it’s the only thing I know which convinces one of the essential nobility of man; as opposed to Macbeth and the Ninth Symphony, which are really about the gods . . .’ He paused to listen to the distant strains of Pogner’s Address, and then returned somewhat hurriedly to the matter in hand. ‘But as regards Judith Haynes and Edwin Shorthouse —’
‘Edwin?’ In the flurry of the moment Joan spoke a little too casually. ‘I think he had hopes of Judith. But his intentions weren’t honourable, to say the very least of it.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Fen’s eyes held a curious glitter, like those of a snake confronted by a particularly gullible and trusting rabbit.
‘Oh, I – that’s just the way Edwin was.’
‘There wasn’t any particular incident –’
‘To be quite frank,’ Joan interrupted him, ‘I made a promise.’
‘Then you’d better break it,’ said Fen, leaning back in his chair. ‘Unless of course there’s something discreditable to these young people which you want to hide.’
‘No . . . no. But still –’
‘If I told you another person’s life was in danger, would that make any difference?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘But they can’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Probably not. But every scrap of evidence is important.’
Joan hesitated. Then: ‘Well, here goes,’ she said, ‘for what it’s worth . . . Edwin made some sort of attempt to rape Judith Haynes, when he was drunk. And Boris Stapleton heard about it.’
She explained. ‘Poor Judith,’ she said. ‘“Clothing disarranged”, as the Sunday papers put it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite such misery and hatred in a human face – she’s instinctively virginal, that child . . . Well, attacks like that haven’t much chance of succeeding at the best of times, but of course I interfered.’
‘What did you do?’ Fen asked, interested.
‘I got him by his coat collar and the seat of his pants,’ said Joan with nostalgic pleasure. ‘There must be something particularly disconcerting about that, because it seems to paralyse people . . . Then I tripped him, and he toppled down and banged his head.’
These amazonian tactics evidently pleased Fen. ‘Most satisfactory.’ he agreed. ‘But how did Stapleton get to know of it?’
‘Judith must have told him. He came to me the day afterwards, looking rather queer, and thanked me. But . . . well, there’s no doubt he felt pretty strongly about it.’ She paused, and as Fen said nothing: ‘I suppose that adds to your list of motives?’
‘Not appreciably,’ said Fen. He was now frankly sprawling, his long legs stretched out towards the fire, his gold cigarette-case, temporarily forgotten, held in his right hand. ‘It’s only confirmation of what I already suspected. Now about your own movements last night . . .’
‘Just as a matter of routine.’
‘Exactly what I was going to say,’ Fen remarked benevolently. He gave her a cigarette and put the case away again. ‘Any alibi?’
‘None whatever. Immediately after our meeting at the Randolph I walked back to the “Mace and Sceptre” and went to bed. That would be fairly soon after nine.’
‘And thereafter you might at any time have crept out, disguised as an atom physicist and unobserved by anyone.’
‘Yes. There are plenty of back exits from the hotel . . . As a matter of fact, though, I didn’t.’
‘No.’ Fen spoke a little absent-mindedly. He produced a lighter and lit Joan’s cigarette for her. ‘Can you tell me what you’ve been doing since lunch today?’
‘Yes, of course – but why?’
‘There are reasons,’ Fen assured her amicably. He reflected, as he spoke, that unfortunately no kind of trap was possible in inquiring about the attacks on Elizabeth. ‘And quite good ones at that.’
‘You make me nervous,’ said Joan. ‘Now I shall probably leave something out, or get my times mixed, and you’ll have me carried off to gaol on suspicion of something.’
The warmth of the electric fire was making Fen sleepy. He roused himself and grinned at her. ‘Think hard,’ he said unconsolingly.
‘Well . . . after a late lunch I went to the residents’ lounge and wrote letters. There must be plenty of people who can guarantee I really was there. About four Karl turned up – I’d invited him to tea. He’d just spent a very hectic hour, poor dear, communicating with people about this rehearsal. We went to the public lounge. Then the Inspector arrived. We gave him
a cup of tea, and he asked us questions.’
‘Did you see or talk to anyone connected with the opera while you were having tea – apart from Wolzogen, that is?’
‘No, I don’t think – oh, yes, of course, Elizabeth. But only for a few minutes. That was after the Inspector had left.’
‘What did you talk to her about?’
Joan frowned. ‘Nothing special, I fancy. Just vague chatter.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘But haven’t you spoken to Elizabeth? It seems she has some fairly definite idea about who did what to Edwin.’
‘She had such an idea,’ said Fen with great firmness. He still misdoubted this as a motive for the attacks on Elizabeth, but it might as well be quashed at the earliest possible opportunity. ‘Since then it’s been proved to be quite false.’
‘I see . . . Shall I go on?’
‘Please.’
‘Karl left shortly after Elizabeth. I think he went upstairs to see George. I finished my tea, and then it occurred to me that we’d neither of us told Elizabeth what time the rehearsal was supposed to be. I thought I’d look in and remedy that, as she was up in her room . . . At least, that’s where I imagined she was. Actually I found the door off the latch and no one there.’
The door off the latch . . . That suggested culpable carelessness on the part of Elizabeth’s attacker, Fen thought: unless of course Joan had been that attacker, and was now lying to conceal the fact. He glanced covertly at her, and it came to him with something of a shock that potentially at least she might well be without scruples. Beneath her pervasive charm there was a certain hardness – though that in itself militated against her having been concerned in the attacks on Elizabeth, which appeared to have been inadequately conceived and carried out in a state of something like panic.
Swan Song Page 11
