Requiem for a Mezzo

by Carola Dunn

  “Later,” Alec said quickly, and repeated his line about last night’s shock and today’s recovered memory.

  Mrs. Cochran confirmed most of Marchenko’s report of people’s movements in the soloists’ room while she was there. She had been alone for a few moments before her husband came out of the dressing-room, but she hadn’t gone to the table.

  “The refreshments were for performers, not visitors,” she pointed out astringently. A fact liable to be overlooked by anyone so crass as to follow a maid into the drawing room before he was invited, her tone implied. “Miss Blaise didn’t appear to realize she had no right to help herself—unless she had some other purpose at the table.”

  “You saw her there?”

  Under the piercing gaze which made his subordinates jump to attention and crooks shake in their shoes, she backtracked. “I thought so. I couldn’t swear to it.”

  Alec took this as evidence that she had now guessed the true identity of her husband’s mistress. He was the more certain when she hurried on:

  “Roger Abernathy was only at the table very briefly, just long enough to pour the cup of tea he brought for his wife. Not that you can possibly suspect the unfortunate man. So kindly and gently he offered it to her, and the vulgar creature pouted and called it pig-swill!”

  Had all his suspects not been at daggers drawn, one way or another, Alec might have wondered if there was a conspiracy among them to exonerate Roger Abernathy. Conscious of the influence of the weight of opinion, he reminded himself that the man was by no means exempt from the rule that a murdered wife was most likely to have been killed by her husband. Kind, gentle, long-suffering, he’d not be the first worm to have turned. Yet the rejection of a cup of tea hardly qualified as a trigger for murder.

  Mrs. Cochran started to bemoan the Times music critic’s article on the concert, which had been more an obituary for a promising young singer than a review. Eric had scarcely been mentioned. Worse, several of the prominent musical personages who had received complimentary tickets had telephoned not to praise his conducting but to commiserate over the débâcle.

  “And not all of them are able to come again on Monday,” she lamented. “It’s a serious setback to his career. I trust you’ll do all in your power, Chief Inspector, to catch the culprit.”

  Whose major misdeed in her opinion was clearly not murder but disrupting the concert. She appeared to be perfectly sincere, and oblivious of anything to cavil at in her viewpoint.

  Alec remembered Daisy telling him of Mrs. Cochran’s obsession with her husband’s career. If she had wanted to dispose of Bettina, she’d never have done it in the middle of an important concert. He decided not to broach the subject of Cochran’s infidelity, at least until he had a firmer indication of whether she had believed Bettina to be his mistress.

  In the meantime, he’d take advantage of her words. “You can be sure we shall do our utmost to ‘catch the culprit,’ ma’am,” he assured her blandly. “You and Mr. Cochran can be of assistance by allowing my sergeant to take your fingerprints, for elimination purposes.”

  She blustered a bit but gave in. Tring and Cochran were sent for, fingerprints obtained. Then Cochran, a wary eye on his wife, invited the detectives to join him in his music room, a large room with French windows in one wall.

  The expected piano was a concert grand, its black curves reflected in the polished parquet floor, but the most impressive object in the room was an American Victrola gramophone with a huge horn. The walls were lined with shelves bearing a vast collection of records and orchestral scores, interspersed with busts of the great composers. In one corner, a group of straight chairs and music-stands suggested chamber music gatherings. Otherwise the furnishings were typical of a well-to-do gentleman’s den—leather armchairs, superb antique roll-top desk, drinks cabinet.

  “My chains,” said Eric Cochran bitterly, with an all-encompassing gesture. “Sit down, Chief Inspector. Drink? No? Do have one of my cigars—I don’t smoke them.”

  Tring, an occasional cigar-smoker who would deeply regret missing a genuine Havana, had slipped off back to the servants’ quarters. Alec preferred his pipe, which he filled and lit; Piper, in his unobtrusive corner, took out a packet of Woodbines, but put it away when Cochran offered his silver cigarette-case. An expensive cylinder of the finest Turkish tobacco between his lips, Piper produced his pencils and opened his notebook.

  Cochran was ready to talk. Excited by his new idea for the “Quam olim Abrahae,” he hadn’t paid much heed to what people did in the soloists’ room. Except for irritation at his wife’s following him, he had only noticed Olivia’s arrival.

  “I’m sure you know about me and Olivia,” he said wryly. “I was always conscious of her whereabouts in the room and she didn’t go to the table, though I don’t expect you’ll believe me. I love her, dammit! When Bettina Abernathy threatened to expose us to Ursula, I was afraid for my career and—let’s face it—for my life of luxury. Now I’m wondering whether it’s worth it if it means I can’t have Olivia. Surely you can understand that, Chief Inspector?” he pleaded.

  “We can’t condone adultery, sir.”

  “No.” Cochran sank his head in his hands. “And Ursula’s always been kind in her own way, not to mention more than generous. But she’d never give me a divorce, and Olivia won’t take me back without. What shall I do?”

  Though he could not like him, Alec admitted to himself a sneaking sympathy for the unhappy man as well as for his betrayed wife.

  “Do you think Mrs. Cochran is now aware of your involvement with Miss Blaise?”

  “There’s nothing to know now. She may have guessed that there was something, and she knows I’ve given Olivia the part.”

  Cochran said nothing else of interest. They soon left him to his miserable life of luxury, collected Tom Tring, and went out into the damp dusk. As they stood for a moment watching a brightly lit boat chug down the river, Tom reported.

  “A sly sort of chappie, the chauffeur, Chief. He used to drive Mr. Cochran to the Abernathys’ house, right enough. Cochran’ d dismiss him, give him the afternoon or evening off, the which he’d take, then go home and peach to the missus. Seems she always had to know just where hubby went, and seeing she paid the bills, this chappie blabbed.”

  “Did he know about Miss Blaise?”

  “Not him. Thought it was Mrs. Abernathy.”

  “Then the chances are Mrs. Cochran did, too. I still don’t see her—or him, come to that—wrecking the concert, but we’ll keep them in mind. All right, Tom, you’d better get back to your missus, or she’ll have my head—which reminds me, I’d best call home and say I shan’t be in for dinner. I’ll drop you at the nearest Tube station. Leave the fingerprint kit. Ernie’s been watching you, and I dare say he and I between between us can manage Levich’s dabs. I’ll want you at the Yard early enough to read over Ernie’s notes before you come with me to see Dr. Woodward.”

  “Hey, Chief,” protested Piper, “you want it all typed up tonight?”

  “That’s right, laddie. But first we get a bite to eat and head back to Abernathy’s house to see Levich.”

  Piper groaned and Tom grinned.

  “The inquest’s tomorrow,” Alec reminded them. “The Coroner is going to want to know what we’ve been doing.”

  13

  Daisy would have liked nothing better than to sneak off home to her typewriter. Contemplation of the long evening ahead filled her with dismay. The Reverend Westlea’s silent disapproval of Yakov Levich and equally silent censure of his remaining daughter were so eloquent as to be painful.

  They had dined early as Monday was the ProMusica Choir’s rehearsal night. Against Muriel’s protests, Roger insisted he was well enough to direct it, though she assured him no one would expect it of him. Quietly stubborn, he was determined to carry out what he saw as an obligation, though he quite understood that she could not face it. She made him take a taxi-cab instead of his usual ’bus.

  Adding to Daisy’s re
stlessness was an urgent need to talk to Alec, so when the front doorbell rang and Beryl announced that the p’leece were back, she was delighted.

  “The Chief Inspector wants to see Miss Muriel first, then Mr. Levich,” the maid continued.

  “You will go with her, Miss Dalrymple?” Levich asked anxiously.

  “Please, Daisy,” Muriel pleaded. The vicar pursed his lips and looked the other way.

  Daisy was only too ready to comply. They went out into the hall, where Alec and Piper were waiting, and Muriel led the way into the dining room. Alec looked resigned when he saw Daisy. Containing her impatience, she decided he would not be pleased if she produced her revelation in Muriel’s presence. She found it easier to hold her tongue when she heard what he wanted to talk about.

  “Miss Westlea, I’ve been hearing a good deal about the jewellery Dimitri Marchenko gave your sister. I should like to see it, if you have it to hand.”

  “Yes,” Muriel faltered, “it’s in my bedroom. I didn’t think it would matter if I moved it out of my parents’ way, and since she left it to me … didn’t she?”

  “I believe so, and it doesn’t matter in the least that you moved it. I may want to have it appraised.”

  Daisy perked up. Marchenko was under suspicion, then, his motive presumably in proportion to the value of his gifts to Bettina.

  “I’m sure it’s very valuable,” said Muriel. “I’m going to give it back to him. It seems only fair.”

  Alec raised his eyebrows. “More than fair. That’s up to you, as long as you don’t dispose of it before the will is probated.”

  “Yes, that’s what Roger said when I told him.”

  “How is Mr. Abernathy?”

  “Quite well.” Muriel frowned. “Physically, at least. He … he seems to have lost interest in everything. He’s just going through the motions because one can’t let people down, wouldn’t you say, Daisy?”

  “Yes, he’s awfully listless and he hardly eats a thing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Was your sister in good health, Miss Westlea?”

  “Oh, yes, Bettina was never ill. That’s why she wasn’t quite sympathetic about Roger’s heart.”

  “She took no medicines?”

  “A cough elixir, I think. Singing a lot, one’s throat gets dry and scratchy. Otherwise, an occasional headache powder. I don’t know of anything else.”

  “Thank you. That’s all for now, though I expect I shall need to talk to you again at more length sometime. If you wouldn’t mind fetching the jewellery while I see Mr. Levich?”

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” Daisy said to Alec in a low voice as Muriel turned to leave.

  “Later, please, Daisy. I don’t want to keep Levich waiting.”

  “Gosh no!” she agreed, thinking of the poor man alone in the drawing room with the Westlea parents. “But don’t go away till I’ve told you.”

  He smiled, wearily. “As long as it’s short. Ernie and I still have a long night ahead of us.”

  “It won’t take long. Yes, I’m coming, Muriel.”

  While Muriel went upstairs, Daisy returned to the drawing room to summon Yakov Levich. He was obviously not at all happy about talking to the police again, still influenced more by early experience than by his previous encounter with Alec’s innocuous methods of interrogation.

  “Shall I go with you?” Daisy offered impulsively.

  His long, bony face lit up. “Please, you will?”

  “If you like, as long as you tell Mr. Fletcher you want me there.”

  At the sight of her, Alec’s expression went from incredulous to long-suffering. He voiced no protest but his eyes demanded, “How the deuce do you do it?” He glared at Piper, on whose face Daisy caught the remains of a grin, quickly wiped off. When she next glanced at Levich, she saw he had followed at least some of this by-play, for he looked faintly amused and much more relaxed.

  Alec asked him about who and what he had seen in the soloists’ room. “I hope you will remember better now that the first shock of Mrs. Abernathy’s death is past,” he added, as if reluctance had played no part in yesterday’s reticence. A clever touch to set his victims at ease, Daisy thought.

  Levich thought a moment. “First, I saw Eric Cochran and Mrs. Cochran,” he said. “We met at door. Already Cochran speaked—spoke to me about new idea for next part of Requiem, but I have one question more, so I ask. You understand, I have looked for Cochran in conductor’s room and not found. This is why I went to soloists’ room.”

  “I see, sir. So you left after speaking to Mr. Cochran?”

  “No.” Levich flushed. “When I saw Miss Westlea was there, I have hopes to exchange some words with her. But she talked with Miss Blaise. I not liked to interrupt. So …”

  “Just a minute, sir. Was anyone else in the sitting room?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy only. They too talk together. This is why I not liked to appear as if I wait for Miss Westlea, so I got drink of water.”

  “We’ll need to take your fingerprints, sir,” Alec said at this point, “just so as to be sure which glass you used and what other people touched.”

  “I had mine taken,” said Daisy cheerfully as Levich quailed. He looked a bit less alarmed and Alec gave her a nod of near approval. Just let him try to claim she wasn’t helpful!

  “Miss Blaise spoke to you as she left?” Alec asked next.

  His thin cheeks pink-tinged, Levich said, “She spoke to me that Miss Westlea is happy to see me. So I went to Miss Westlea.”

  “You’re fond of Miss Westlea, sir?”

  “Da, fond. Am affectionate friend of her, is right word?”

  “A very good word, sir. As you might say, you’re in love.”

  “Love, nyet. Love is not allow to me. By me is nothing to offer Miss Westlea, not money for home, for children. Miss Westlea has krasivaya dusha—beautiful soul. I admire, I like to talk, but to marry I cannot. This Miss Westlea knows.”

  Alec didn’t appear impressed by Muriel’s beautiful soul. “But she’ll have some money now, her sister’s money,” he said.

  “Not enough for family to live. She will give back jewels to Marchenko. Is right, perhaps, but … .” Levich spread his hands and shrugged. “Also, I begin think like English. In my country, to marry wife with money is good. Here I see how people talk of Mr. Cochran. Is not good. I must become Englishman.”

  “You mean,” Daisy burst out indignantly, “you’ll let poor Muriel wither away into an old maid living in some frightful cheap boarding house at some ghastly resort … .”

  “Daisy, please!” said Alec.

  She ignored him. “You might at least give her a choice!” she snapped. Levich looked bewildered, then thoughtful.

  Alec ran his fingers through his hair. “Miss Dalrymple, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief. I’ll keep quiet. But really, the way men ruin people’s lives with their idiotic scruples! It makes my blood boil.”

  “As long as it boils silently, I’ve no objection. Mr. Levich, tell me please what happened next.”

  “Mrs. Abernathy ask Miss Westlea to mend button, so I go.”

  “Did Mr. Abernathy go with you?”

  “No. He had cup of tea in hand. Perhaps he stay to drink?”

  “Perhaps.” Alec was singularly blank-faced. Daisy wondered what was the significance of the cup of tea.

  She was tempted to ask, but just then Muriel arrived with one of Bettina’s jewellery-cases. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Chief Inspector,” she said breathlessly.

  “Far from it, Miss Westlea.” He sounded rather annoyed, and Daisy guessed he had intended Muriel to wait until he summoned her when he had finished with Levich.

  “I was transferring all the pieces Mr. Marchenko gave Betsy into the same case,” Muriel explained. “I’m pretty sure this is the lot.”

  She set the case on the table in front of Alec. Opening it, he whistled.

  Daisy stood up and leaned forward
to peer around the raised lid. “Gosh!”

  Alec closed the lid, cutting off her glimpse of gleaming red and green stones in hideously ornate old-fashioned settings. “I’ll have to have these valued, Miss Westlea. Would you mind making up a list which I can sign as a receipt? I dare say Miss Dalrymple will help you while I finish up with Mr. Levich.”

  He returned Daisy’s fulminating look with one of limpid innocence. Since she was really rather keen to see the jewels properly, she changed her mind, smiled sweetly, and said, “Of course I’ll help you, Muriel.”

  They went back up to Muriel’s bedroom since she didn’t want her parents to see the loot. The gems were as stunning, the elaborate gold and silver settings as frightful as Daisy’s quick glimpse had suggested. “Did Bettina actually wear these?” she asked.

  “No, I told you, she liked to gloat over them. If I kept them I’d sell them, but I can’t think it would be right,” Muriel said wistfully.

  “It’s very noble of you to give them back.” Daisy was far from sure she would have been quite so noble.

  They listed each piece with a brief description, then returned to the dining room to find Alec and Levich chatting about life in Russia.

  Alec signed the list and took charge of the jewellery-case. “You haven’t mentioned your intentions to Mr. Marchenko, have you?” he asked Muriel. “Please don’t, nor, of course, that I’m getting an appraisal.” Politely dismissed, Muriel and Levich reluctantly returned to the drawing room and the Reverend Westlea.

  “Shouldn’t you have checked the stuff against the list?” Daisy asked.

  “If you hadn’t helped prepare it, I would have.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, enlightened. “So you weren’t just getting rid of me.”

  “Not just.” He grinned. “Though as a matter of fact Levich didn’t tell me anything new—except that you have persuaded him.”

  “I’ve what?”

  “After consulting me about the proper, gentlemanly thing to do, he’s going to propose to Miss Westlea. But not until this business is cleared up,” he warned her as she started to crow, “so not a word to your friend. Apart from anything else, remember I may yet have to arrest her.”