by R. N. Morris
And there might be something to be gained from having Metcalfe stew in his juices a little longer. Perhaps he could be goaded out of his strange, impassive calm. Although Quinn doubted it.
And so, Quinn had Macadam take Metcalfe outside while he and Leversedge went to work on Farthing. Quinn asked the questions; Leversedge loomed menacingly.
‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Sir Aidan?’
‘Why are you asking me?’ Farthing bristled belligerently.
‘We’re asking everyone.’
Farthing was somewhat mollified. ‘I really have no idea. But I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you go around treating people like he did, you’re bound to make a few enemies.’
‘Would you count yourself as one of his enemies?’
‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Did you not threaten to kill him?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘You were heard making threatening remarks.’
‘Who was it? Seddon? He’s a bloody liar.’
‘You had quarrelled with Sir Aidan? You don’t deny that?’
‘If I killed everyone I had a quarrel with …’ Farthing left the thought unfinished, perhaps sensing that it was not helping his cause.
‘What was this quarrel over?’
‘The usual. Money.’
‘You believed that Sir Aidan owed you money?’
‘Believed?’ shouted Farthing indignantly. ‘There’s no believed about it! I am a professional singer. I was contracted to perform in this damned concert of his. Therefore, I should have been paid for both rehearsal time and the performance itself.’
‘Do you have the contract?’
‘There was no written contract.’ Farthing writhed with fury in his seat. ‘He made sure of that. It was a verbal agreement. A gentleman’s agreement. But that bastard was no gentleman.’
‘My understanding was that it was to be a charitable concert. Doesn’t that mean that everyone gave their time for free, in order to raise funds for the cause?’
‘I’m not a bloody charity!’
‘And so, you went to confront Sir Aidan about the money. There was an argument. You lost your temper. Saw red. We all know how it is. You took whatever was to hand. And lashed out. A freakish accident. You didn’t mean to kill him. Just wanted to make him listen.’
Farthing stared at Quinn in disbelief. ‘You don’t seriously think I killed him?’
‘You weren’t thinking. It was manslaughter, not murder. Tell us what happened and I’ll make sure you are charged with the lesser crime.’
‘This is insane! You’re insane.’ Farthing looked desperately from Quinn to Leversedge. ‘He’s insane!’
Leversedge remained tactfully silent.
‘I didn’t do it!’ insisted Farthing. ‘Why would I? With Sir Aidan dead, the concert probably won’t go ahead at all now, which means my chances of getting paid are next to zero. Much as I hated the man, I had nothing to gain from his death.’
It was a valid point, but only if Farthing had been in control of his actions. ‘Rage takes over you, though, doesn’t it? It makes you do things that are not in your own best interest.’
‘No, no, no! It’s not like that at all. Look, I admit I have a temper on me. I like to blow off steam. But that’s the end of it. The ones you have to watch out for are the ones like that fellow Metcalfe. It’s all hidden with him. All bottled up and beneath the surface. He had much more reason to hate Fonthill than me. But he never showed it. He’s just the type to suddenly lose control and blow up.’
‘Why do you say Metcalfe had reason to hate Sir Aidan?’
Farthing more or less repeated the allegations that Ursula Cavendish had raised, although she had been at pains to play down Fonthill’s role as a bully. Farthing showed no such qualms.
Farthing’s denials had the ring of truth to them. The man’s temperament was such that his emotions were all out in the open. Whatever he felt, he expressed. To use the common phrase, he seemed to be a classic case of bark louder than bite.
Of course, one could never be sure. But Quinn would have put money on it that Farthing was not Sir Aidan’s killer.
Metcalfe, though – Metcalfe was a different kettle of fish.
Quinn started the interrogation of Metcalfe with the same question. ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Sir Aidan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Me. I might have wanted to kill him.’
Quinn hadn’t expected that. At least not so soon. ‘And did you? Kill him.’
‘No.’
‘Of course, if you had killed him, the chances are that you would deny it.’
Metcalfe thought about this for some time. ‘But that would mean lying to you.’ It seemed that this was an inconceivable prospect.
‘In my experience, murderers often do lie to policemen.’
‘I don’t lie.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘That would make you a very unusual person.’
Metcalfe had nothing to say to this.
‘Did you think about it? About killing him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Often?’
‘Yes. Often. If I thought about killing him, I found that I no longer wanted to kill him.’
‘When you thought about killing him, how did you imagine doing it?’
‘Different ways. For example, I would think about stabbing him with a knife. Here.’ Metcalfe rubbed himself to indicate his kidneys. ‘Or I would think about cutting his head off with a sword.’
‘A sword?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a sword?’
‘No.’
‘Any other ways?’
‘I would think about bringing a hammer down on his head. I would picture the crown of his head and imagine smashing down on it with a hammer.’
‘Do you have a hammer?’
‘Yes. I do have a hammer.’
‘Any other ways?’
‘I have thought about cutting him in half on a circular saw. The kind that is used to make planks of timber out of tree trunks.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I have thought about shooting him in the heart with a gun.’
‘Do you have a gun?’
‘No. I do not have a gun.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I have thought about pushing him in front of a bus.’
‘Any other ways?’
‘No.’
‘How about a tuning fork? Do you have a tuning fork?’
‘Yes. I do have a tuning fork.’
‘Have you ever thought about killing him with a tuning fork?’
‘How could I kill him with a tuning fork?’
Quinn let the question go. ‘I hear that he was … not very nice to you? That he could be unkind.’
Metcalfe shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Was that why you wanted to kill him?’
Metcalfe looked at Quinn without betraying any emotion. When he gave his answer, his voice was level and calm. ‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t do it?’
‘No. I didn’t do it.’
‘Why did you stay with the choir if Sir Aidan was so horrid to you?’
‘I have played for the Hampstead Voices for eleven years, four months and two weeks. I did not want to change to a different choir.’
‘A different choir would have had a different choirmaster,’ suggested Quinn gently.
‘Yes. That too.’ Paradoxically, it seemed that Metcalfe was seeing this as a reason to stay, rather than to leave.
‘One who did not torment you.’
Metcalfe’s eyes widened, as if this possibility had never occurred to him before now. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.’
‘Can you honestly say that he did not hurt you?’
‘I can honestly say he did not hurt me.’
‘Other than yourself, can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to kill Sir Aidan?’
‘Roderick Masters.’
‘Who is Roderick Masters? Is he in the choir?’
‘No. He is not in the choir. He is a composer. We were at the Royal College of Music together. He sent Sir Aidan a piece he had written. He wanted it to be included in the concert. But Sir Aidan did not like it. Sir Aidan thought it was rubbish. But it was not rubbish. Sir Aidan was wrong about that.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Yes. I saw it. And I played it. Masters had achieved some quite interesting effects.’
‘And so, you think Roderick Masters killed him? Because Sir Aidan rejected his composition.’
‘Roderick Masters was very angry. He hated Sir Aidan. He hated Sir Aidan almost as much as he hated Elgar.’
‘Roderick Masters hated Elgar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Roderick Masters here now?’
‘No. Roderick Masters is not here now.’
‘What do you mean? Was he here earlier?’
‘Yes. Roderick Masters was here earlier.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And spoke to him?’
‘Yes, I did. But only briefly. Paul Seddon interrupted our discussion and Roderick Masters ran away.’
‘When was this?’
‘In the lunch break. Shortly before the screaming started.’
‘And that was the last you saw of this Masters chap?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know he hated Elgar?’
‘Because he told me.’
‘Did you know that Elgar is here at the school? He is a volunteer special constable. Someone attacked him, apparently. At least, someone shouted at him rather viciously.’
‘What did they shout?’
‘“That’s for Land of Hope and Glory”.’
‘That sounds like Roderick Masters.’
‘Do you know where we might find Roderick Masters?’
Metcalfe frowned as he considered the question. ‘No,’ he answered decisively.
Although the man was evidently no imbecile, there was clearly something odd about the way he processed information and communicated. Quinn decided to spell it out in the simplest terms. ‘You’ve never been to his house? He didn’t tell you where he lives?’
Again, Metcalfe thought carefully before answering. ‘No.’
Quinn had the distinct impression that Metcalfe knew more than he was saying. There was something disconcerting about the steadiness of his gaze.
‘Do you think Roderick Masters killed Sir Aidan?’ Metcalfe asked bluntly.
But if Quinn had an opinion on that question, he was not prepared to divulge it yet, at least not to Donald Metcalfe.
TWENTY-SIX
Willoughby held the gun in his right hand, arm extended in front of him, steadied at the wrist by the grip of his other hand.
He moved slowly through the churchyard, pivoting left and right as he went, his senses alert for the slightest disturbance.
He saw now that there was a light on inside the church, a faint glow deep within, suggesting a candlelit vigil rather than a service.
Perhaps the vicar was inside on church business – Willoughby couldn’t imagine what, but who else could it be? Members of the congregation decorating the church for Christmas perhaps? But wouldn’t that be more easily done in the daylight?
He had heard that churches were traditionally kept open at all times, offering asylum to all. Despite his relative youth, Willoughby had had ample experience of the criminal side of human nature. He couldn’t help thinking that this was asking for trouble.
If there was someone in there, it didn’t necessarily follow it was the man he was looking for. The way he saw it, it still didn’t make sense that the murderer would take refuge in a church. If you had just taken another life, surely the last place you would want to be was inside the house of God, with Jesus looking down at you from the cross? Unless you were a religious kind of person, that is. In which case, your conscience would no doubt be giving you a hard time. And you might have come to the church to pray for the courage to give yourself up.
Willoughby wondered therefore whether he really ought to be going into a church with his weapon drawn.
But if it was his man in there, even if he was a religious-minded killer, he was still a killer. And by the looks of it a killer who had also attacked coppers. A desperate man cornered, in other words. The fact that he was in a church was irrelevant. Except that if there was a firefight on holy ground, whatever the outcome, the papers would have a field day with it.
What would the guv’nor do?
Willoughby didn’t need to think too hard over the answer. They didn’t call him Quickfire Quinn for nothing.
Keeping his righthand grip tight, Willoughby drew the revolver close to his cheek, while reaching out towards the door with his left. Best to get in quick, he reckoned, giving whoever was in there as little time as possible to ready themselves or hide.
He clicked the latch, holding the gun out in front of him again as he slipped inside in the lee of the door. He found himself inside a small, dark porch and suppressed a glimmering claustrophobia. What if someone had been waiting for him in there with a cosh, or even worse, a gun of their own? He would be a dead man by now.
His heart was pounding as the small space filled with his panic.
Pull yourself together! You’re not dead, are you? Bloody idiot.
After a moment, he mentally added, Pardon my French. To enter a church with a gun drawn was one thing, but to start swearing? May God forgive him! Even if it was just inside his own head.
He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the peculiar density of darkness in the vestibule, then turned slowly through 360 degrees, holding the gun out in front of him.
He sensed more than saw a door on each side, as well as the inner door leading to the church and the open door he had come through.
So if the man he was pursuing had come in here, there were three possible doors he could have gone through. If Willoughby chose the wrong one, he would leave the way open for the suspect to get away – or even worse, to take a shot at him, if the fellow had a gun of his own, that is.
He had to do something. But what?
The door facing him would be the first door the suspect would see, and therefore the most likely one for him to take. If he had come in here at all, it was a sign that he wasn’t thinking straight. He was walking into a box that could be easily sealed by police. Panic would have been driving him. Panic and instinct.
That gave Willoughby the rational justification he needed.
He groped with his free hand and found the inner door to the church.
His mind continued to present him with justifications for his action: if he was right and the killer was a religious type, then it was certain that he would have gone into the nave. The whole point of coming here would have been to commune with God.
If that idea of the criminal was correct, then Willoughby’s best hope of getting out of here without either shooting or being shot was to appeal to the man’s conscience. He slipped his gun back into its holster.
Sorry, guv!
His best bet was to keep things calm.
The door creaked as he eased it open. He waited a moment, allowing the affronted hush of the church to settle.
‘Is there anybody there?’ His tremulous voice reverberated, as the natural sounding box of the church amplified his nervousness as well as his words.
Still as it was, quiet as it was, Willoughby’s instinct was that there was someone there, someone who wanted to keep to the shadows. Not a vicar quietly praying to his God for inspiration for tomorrow’s sermon. Or a parishioner hanging festive bunting.
He moved forward one step into the gloom. The grinding crunch of his boot against the stone floor echoed ominou
sly. The unseen light source was at the front of the church, low down, casting a dim glow upwards. There was no smell of burning wax, so he guessed that it was a low-wattage electric lamp.
He had to admit there were too many hiding places in the church for his liking and it made him nervous. Jumpy. Bound to.
First there were the two rows of columns that ran the length of the nave. A man might easily conceal himself behind any one of those, on either side. Or he might be lying down beneath a pew, or crouching in the gallery, or lurking behind the altar screen. Even the pulpit.
Willoughby might stalk down the aisle like a cat in the long grass, but he couldn’t help feeling like he was the one being hunted.
A strange excitement throbbed in his throat. ‘I was just passing and I saw a light on.’ The words came out in a hoarse whisper, as if he did not want to disturb the peace any more than he already had. ‘I confess I haven’t been in a church for a long time. My folks never did go in for all that God-bothering business so much. But you get to thinking, don’t you? Especially what with Christmas just around the corner and all that. And with this war on. Sometimes I wish there was someone I could talk to, you know, like God. We had a teacher at our school, Mr Bamforth. RI master, he was. I remember he once said, “You can always talk to God. No matter how bad things get. God will always listen.” That’s what he said anyway. So, like I say, I was passing and I saw the light on, and I thought, well … I wonder if God will listen now. Is that why you came here? Got something you want to get off your chest? We all do things we regret, you know. You think you’re in a tight corner. Everything looks hopeless. But then you talk it over and you realize it’s not so bad as all that.’
‘Who are you?’ The voice came from above. It was deep and resonant and commanding. If not the actual voice of God, then certainly the voice of a toff. Willoughby looked up and scanned along the gallery. He could just about make out a dim shape lurking in the shadows at one end, near to the exit, as if he had been about to make his escape but had been detained by Willoughby’s little speech.
Although he was nervous about revealing himself as a policeman, Willoughby intuitively felt the need to be honest from the outset. It was the only way to build trust, and if it came out in the future it could damage whatever relationship he might have established with the fellow, to say nothing of its effect on any legal case. ‘My name is Willoughby. Detective Constable Willoughby, of the Special Crimes Department, Scotland Yard.’