Requiem for a Mezzo

by Carola Dunn

  “They’re trinitrin. It’s another name for nitroglycerin, the same stuff as the explosive, believe it or not.”

  “The explosive? Great Scott! I don’t suppose you know if yet another name for it is glyceryl trinitrate?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. Why?”

  “Oh, I just wondered,” said Alec evasively.

  “Is trinitrin what Dr. Woodward told you about?”

  “It is. Who, besides Abernathy, has access to his pills? Miss Westlea, of course.”

  “Anyone who has visited the house. He tends to forget to carry them, so Muriel keeps a spare bottle in the downstairs lav. I was there once when she asked Olivia to fetch them for him. Cochran was there too. There’s a bottle in the music room, too, I think.”

  Running his fingers through his hair, Alec pulled a wry face. “Almost as accessible as Miss Fotheringay’s darkroom. But while she might not miss the small amount of cyanide needed for a fatal dose,” he added thoughtfully, “Abernathy or Miss Westlea would surely have noticed if a whole lot of his pills had disappeared.”

  “He’s absent-minded, remember. But don’t go trying to make out that Muriel must have done it,” Daisy begged. “She wouldn’t necessarily notice, not unless Roger needed one from the lav and was too ill to get it for himself.”

  “How often does he take them?”

  “Just when he needs to, not on a regular schedule. They’re an emergency remedy for an attack of angina. Which reminds me, Mrs. Gower told me they hand out trinitrin pills at the East End clinic where she volunteers, though it’s the children she works with.”

  “Do they, now! I must find out if any have gone missing.”

  “Mrs. Gower is still on your list of suspects? Who else?”

  “Daisy, you know I can’t …”

  “Blast, there’s the doorbell again, and Mrs. Potter’s downstairs cleaning the kitchen. I’ll have to see who it is. Half a mo.”

  An agitated Roger Abernathy was just raising his hand to ring again. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Daisy. Is the Chief Inspector here?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Daisy studied his lips for a trace of blue. “Do you need to take a pill?”

  “How kind of you to ask. Yes, I took one before I came. May I see him?”

  “Come in.” She led the way down the narrow hall and preceded him into the back parlour. “Alec, Mr. Abernathy would like a word. Do sit down, Roger.”

  “Perhaps I’d better,” he said apologetically.

  Daisy did her best to fade into the woodwork, but Alec said, holding the open door, “Thank you for lending us your den, Miss Dalrymple.”

  Roger stopped her. “No, please don’t go, Daisy. You ought to know what’s being said, too. Mr. Fletcher, someone at the inquest showed me some newspapers—the Daily Sketch, the Graphic, I can’t remember, not the sort of papers one reads. Their reporters claim that Yakov Levich killed my wife. You must stop them!”

  “I doubt they’re printing that, sir. That would be libel, and they’re pretty careful on the whole not to lay themselves open to a suit for damages.”

  “They don’t say it openly. They talk about foreigners and Jews in the most bigoted way, making it perfectly obvious to whom they refer.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Abernathy. It’s the penalty we pay for a free Press.”

  “It’s abominable!” Abernathy cried. “Levich’s reputation will be ruined, his future destroyed.”

  “I shouldn’t worry, Roger,” Daisy said soothingly, coming forward to lay her hand on the anguished man’s shoulder. “After all, the people who read that sort of paper go to music halls, not serious concerts. True music-lovers won’t care about beastly insinuations in the penny papers.”

  “Do you think not?” he asked, eager to believe her. “Levich is such a good fellow, as well as a brilliant violinist. I couldn’t bear it if he were to be injured by my … by my loss.”

  “Miss Dalrymple is very likely right, sir. Assuming Mr. Levich is not our man, he’ll weather the storm. Now, since you’re here, I’d like to go over people’s movements in the soloists’ room once more, just to make sure I’ve got it all clear. And since you’re here, Miss Dalrymple,” Alec added with a sardonic glance, “will you take notes for me?”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Daisy said promptly. She hadn’t yet heard the full story of who went where when.

  To her disappointment, Abernathy had been one of the last to arrive in the room. As far as she could tell from Alec’s questions and the glimpses of his demeanour she caught between shorthand scribbles, he learned nothing new.

  “That’s that, then,” he said at last, leaning back with a sigh. “Mrs. Abernathy and Miss Westlea returned to the ladies’ dressing-room and you and Mr. Levich left together.”

  “Not quite together. I still had the cup of tea I’d fetched for Bettina in my hands. I suppose I stood there for a few moments wondering whether I ought to drink it.” Abernathy smiled faintly. “I was brought up in a waste not, want not household, Chief Inspector. But it was tepid by then, and not at all appetizing. I decided since the rest of the contents of the urn would undoubtedly go down the drain, to leave the one cup would not be too great a sin.”

  “No sin at all. By the way, why did you pour it for her in the first place? She didn’t ask for it?”

  “No. I continued to hope she’d come to find tea a sufficient stimulant in place of the liqueur she favoured.”

  Just as he must have gone on hoping to the end that Bettina would stop taking lovers and turn to him, Daisy thought sadly. Poor little man, he had given her the best years of his life and now he wasn’t well enough to enjoy the freedom her death had brought him. He sat huddled in his chair, drained, somehow shrunken since she first met him.

  “Are you ill, Mr. Abernathy?” Alec asked sharply.

  He shook his head. “No. Only tired. I seem to be tired all the time now, I’m afraid.”

  “You have your pills with you? You must worry about running out.”

  “It’s very easy to renew the prescription. My doctor knows what I need, and it’s a common medicine; the chemist always has the pills to hand. If my supply gets low, I just tell Muriel and she sees to it for me. My sister-in-law has been extraordinarily kind to me over the years, as well as quite devoted to her sister.”

  “I’m sure she has, sir. Well, I shan’t keep you any longer just now. I expect your lunch is waiting. Thank you for your patience, and I shouldn’t worry about Mr. Levich. Those Grub Street rags will move on to some new scandal, real or invented, in no time.”

  Daisy neither saw nor heard from Alec again until the memorial service at Chelsea Old Church on Wednesday morning.

  To go with the grey silk dress she hated, because it reminded her of the deaths of Michael, Gervaise, and her father, she had borrowed a frightfully smart little black hat from Lucy for the occasion. She was wondering whether in spite of its colour it was a bit too dashing for a funeral when she spotted Alec. She knew he hadn’t been invited. No doubt he had waved his C.I.D. identification at the ushers—they had strict instructions not to admit anyone who might conceivably be a reporter.

  He nodded to her gravely but made no attempt to speak, so she proceeded with the family to the front pew.

  The service was extremely well attended. Roger Abernathy being in no state to deal with the matter, the Reverend Westlea had gratefully left it to Mrs. Cochran to issue invitations. She was acquainted with all the important musical personages who ought to be included, he pointed out when Muriel objected.

  Muriel ceased to object when she discovered Mrs. Cochran had invited Yakov Levich. At that point the vicar had second thoughts, but by then it was too late.

  Glancing back as she sat down, Daisy saw everyone who had been in the choir room that night, except Marchenko and Consuela de la Costa, which was not surprising. Both had loathed Bettina; both were foreigners with little to gain by a show of doing the proper thing; neither was well enough acquainted
with Roger or Muriel to want to show sympathy.

  The last explained the arrival of Olivia Blaise, looking simply stunning in black. Mrs. Cochran wouldn’t have invited her, presumably, but she had asked Muriel for a list of friends who might otherwise be left out. She couldn’t very well strike any names off that list.

  After the service, when they emerged from the church’s dimness into the sunny but wind-chilled day, Olivia was waiting to speak to Muriel and Roger. “I shan’t go to the Cochrans’,” she said, “but I did want you to know I was here, and feeling for you.”

  “Do come. Please.” Roger looked distraught rather than ill. “If I must go through this, I need another friend to help fend off all these well-meaning people. I can’t … I can’t … .”

  “Of course I’ll come,” Olivia said quickly, “if it will help.” She joined them in the hired motor.

  Daisy saw Alec’s little yellow Austin Seven taking its place in the procession. If he chose to attend the reception, she was sure he’d weasel his way in, whether Mrs. Cochran wanted him or not.

  Once Daisy had recovered from the defunct wildlife in the front hall, she had to admit that Mrs. Cochran had done a good job. Double doors between drawing room, dining room, and music room stood open. The dining-room table had been moved against the wall and covered with funeral baked meats in the form of appetizing hors d’oeuvres. Two maids and a hired waiter passed among the guests with trays of sherry. A hired waiter? Daisy stared. She had almost not recognized Ernie Piper in formal black and white, a napkin over his arm, instead of his usual cheap brown serge. He had such an ordinary face. Was it really him?

  Handing her a glass of medium-dry sherry, he winked fractionally before turning to Muriel, who scarcely glanced at him. Olivia looked vaguely puzzled for a moment, then joined Muriel in persuading Roger that a glass of sherry would do him good.

  Daisy stood on tiptoe and peered over heads. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she murmured to Muriel. Slithering between elbows, she came up behind Alec and in an undertone demanded, “How did you get Mrs. Cochran to let Piper play waiter?”

  “I sincerely hope she knows nothing about it. He’s not easily recognized, is he? People don’t really look at waiters, and they say things in the presence of a waiter which they’d never say to a policeman.”

  “But how?”

  “I found out which agency she generally used for her parties and prevailed upon them to hire Ernie. They wouldn’t take Tom,” he added regretfully.

  Daisy laughed. “And how did you get in?”

  “Trade secret. Now go away, Daisy, before you draw attention to me.”

  “They’ll all recognize you, by the eyebrows if nothing else.”

  “I just want to keep an eye on things from a distance. You’d be surprised how often a funeral makes a murderer let down his guard—or hers, as the case may be. So buzz off, there’s a good girl.”

  Daisy buzzed. She made a detour via the laden table, where she heaped two plates with a variety of tidbits; she was hungry and she was sure a bite to eat would help Roger survive the ordeal. He hadn’t been eating enough recently to keep a sparrow alive.

  When she reached the protective group around him, the Reverend Westlea was addressing Olivia. “I understand you are a singer, Miss Blaise? A mezzo-soprano like Elizabeth? Would you be so very kind as to sing a little something for us in memoriam?”

  “Oh, I don’t think … .”

  “Please do, Olivia.” Roger looked on his father-in-law with a more kindly eye than was his wont. “I’d like that.”

  “Then of course I’ll be happy to. If you will play for me, Roger. If Eric … Mr. Cochran doesn’t mind us using his piano.”

  Unsurprisingly, Mr. Cochran didn’t mind at all. As Olivia and Roger made their way into the music room, followed by those who had heard what was afoot, Daisy found herself beside the conductor.

  “It’s a great opportunity for Olivia,” he said to her in a low voice. “There are people here who can do much more for her than I can.”

  Accompanied by Roger, Olivia sang “Ye now have sorrow,” from Brahms’s German Requiem, simple words of comfort very different from Verdi’s visions of hellfire. Her voice had the cool, pure clarity of a mountain stream. Her last note was followed by a long hush, during which Daisy, blinking hard, saw more than one handkerchief surreptitiously touched to the corner of an eye.

  Olivia stood with bowed head. Roger rose from the piano bench and went to take both her hands and kiss her cheek. Daisy heard murmurs behind her of musical personages informing each other that here was a talent to be watched. They began to move forward to congratulate Olivia.

  Olivia reached for the tumbler of water standing on a doily on the piano in anticipation of her need. As she raised it to her lips, Roger dashed it from her hand, crying, “Don’t drink that! Can’t you smell it? Cyanide!”

  15

  For a frozen moment the music room was utterly still. Then Ernie Piper appeared from nowhere, dropped to his knees, righted the unbroken glass, and started to mop up the spilled puddle with his napkin.

  “Don’t get it on your hands, Piper!” Alec’s command rang above the sudden clamour from the guests. “And try not to breathe in any fumes. Major Browne, Mr. Levich, front and back doors, please. No one is to leave. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a police officer. I’ll ask you to return to the other rooms at once, if you please.”

  Piper was holding his napkin by one dry corner, lowering the sodden cloth into the glass. Roger Abernathy dropped down onto the piano bench and Muriel hurried to his side. Olivia stood alone by the piano, white-faced, shaking. Hurrying towards her, Daisy thought she looked fearfully fragile, almost brittle, alone and defenceless.

  Before Daisy reached Olivia, Eric Cochran was there. “Darling!”

  Olivia held him off. “Don’t be a fool, Eric,” she said in low, tremulous voice. “You’ll ruin yourself.”

  “I don’t care. My poor sweet!”

  She collapsed into his arms, sobbing helplessly.

  “Piper, is it cyanide?” Alec arrived, having chivvied everyone else out of the music room and closed the double doors.

  “Smells like it, sir. I got quite a bit sopped up here.”

  “Good man. Get it into something with a lid from the kitchen, take the Austin and rush it to the lab, top priority, then the glass to Fingerprints. Miss Dalrymple, keep an eye on the French windows for me, please. Cochran, are there any other exits? Good. Where’s your telephone?”

  “Front hall, under the stairs.” Eric Cochran spoke without turning his head, his cheek resting on Olivia’s sleek, dark hair. “Miss Dalrymple, may I prevail on you to pour a brandy for Olivia? In fact, we’d better have brandy all round. We’ve all had a shock.”

  At that, Olivia looked up. “Is Roger all right?”

  “Not too bad,” Muriel assured her.

  Before fetching brandy, Daisy intercepted Alec on his way to the hall door. “Mrs. Cochran?” she whispered.

  “Could be,” he said grimly. “She’s being a good hostess in very difficult circumstances at present.” He nodded towards the double doors. “That may be enough to account for the desperation in her eyes, but I doubt it. I’ll be right back.”

  The brandy had just time enough to bring a little colour back to Roger’s and Olivia’s cheeks before Alec returned.

  “My sergeant’s on his way with several men,” he announced. “I had him in reserve at the local station, though I need hardly say I didn’t expect anything like this. Until he arrives, the best I can do is ask those of you in here a few questions. Miss Blaise, it wasn’t arranged beforehand that you should sing, was it? Whose idea was it?”

  “Mr. Westlea. The Reverend Westlea.”

  “Yes, it was Father,” Muriel confirmed.

  “He didn’t happen to say, ‘So-and-so suggested I should ask you?’”

  “No.” Olivia thought. “He said, if I remember rightly, ‘I understand you are a singer, a mezzo-soprano like Bettin
a’—no,—‘like Elizabeth.’”

  Daisy and Muriel nodded.

  “You had the impression someone had mentioned your profession to the vicar?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Eric Cochran, looking rather sick, said quickly, “I’d pointed Olivia out to a number of people as the mezzo soloist for the repeat performance of the Verdi.”

  Alec nodded. “Mr. Westlea will be able to tell me who told him … and whether that person also suggested Miss Blaise should be asked to sing.”

  Now Olivia was comforting Cochran as he clung to her hand. By this time they had all caught the drift of Alec’s questions.

  “Wait a minute,” said Olivia suddenly. “I met Mr. Westlea at Roger’s house. I don’t specifically remember, but I may well have been introduced to him as a singer then.” She looked round at Roger, Muriel, Daisy. None of them remembered.

  “It’s likely she was introduced as one of your pupils, Abernathy, isn’t it?” Cochran pleaded.

  “More than likely,” Roger agreed kindly.

  “Miss Blaise, did you request a glass of water?” Alec changed tack.

  “No.”

  “Did any of you see who put the glass on the piano?”

  Murmurs of “No,” shakings of heads.

  “Did anyone notice it earlier, before the question of Miss Blaise’s performance came up?”

  No, but no one could swear it wasn’t there.

  “Miss Blaise, Mr. Abernathy, would you mind coming over by the piano, just as you were when she finished singing. One of you bring your brandy glass. Is that doily in the same position as it was with the tumbler on it?”

  “I think so,” Olivia said. “I didn’t move it.”

  “Put your glass on it, please. Then stand as you were, pick it up, and raise it to your mouth.”

  Olivia obeyed, reaching back between herself and Roger. Her hand bearing the empty glass passed close to Roger at chest level, perhaps nine inches below his nose.

  “So that’s why Mr. Abernathy smelt it,” Alec said with satisfaction. “I presume you are unable to detect the odour of cyanide, Miss Blaise?”