Murder to Music
Margaret Newman
About the Author
Margaret Newman, born in 1926 in Middlesex, was educated at Harrow County School for girls and gained a BA and MA from St. Hugh’s College, Oxford.
Before writing, she worked a variety of jobs including teaching in Egypt, editing a children’s magazine in London, and advising the Citizen’s Advice Bureau in Twickenham. She published her first novel as Margaret Newman – a mystery novel entitled Murder to Music.
Newman continued publishing novels until her death in 1998, under a variety of pseudonyms and encompassing multiple genres. As Anne Melville, she focused on historical novels, including the epic wartime saga Debutante. Over the course of her career, she published fifty-five novels in romance, mystery, historical fiction, and children’s.
Also By Margaret Newman
Murder to Music
Writing as Anne Melville
The Lorimer Family Series
The Lorimer Line
The Lorimer Legacy
Lorimers at War
Lorimers in Love
The Last of the Lorimers
Lorimer Loyalties
The Hardie Family Series
The House of Hardie
The Daughter of Hardie
The Hardie Inheritance
Fiction
Sirocco
Alexa
Blaize
Family Fortunes
Marriage Without Love
The Dangerfield Diaries
The Tantivy Trust
A Clean Break
The Russian Tiara
Standing Alone
The Longest Silence
Role Play
The Eyes of the World
Home Run
Debutante
Short Story Collections
Snapshots
Just What I Wanted
This edition published in 2020 by Agora Books
First published in Great Britain by John Long in 1959
Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS
Copyright © Margaret Newman, 1959
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Chapter One
‘One of these days,’ said Delia, ‘you’re going to answer a murder call and find when you arrive that it’s from the Metro’s Managing Committee.’
Detective-Superintendent Hudson laughed softly in the darkness of the car.
‘I hope I arrive in time tonight, then, to carry you away from the scene of slaughter. What am I liable to find? The whole Committee stretched lifeless on the floor, surrounded by bottles of poisoned beer? Or only the lovely body of Delia Jones, transfixed by eight barbed agendas?’
‘Oh no, thank you: I don’t expect to be a victim myself. But there are times when I expect at every moment to become a witness.’
‘Then you must increase my chances of promotion by telling me the answer in advance. Who’s going to kill who?’
‘Whom.’
‘By that evasion I perceive that you have a guilty conscience. Obviously, you are the murderer. And the victim?’
Delia giggled.
‘I’ve no idea. I’m only sure that Owen will be one of the two. He has an incredible capacity for taking and giving offence—both at once usually. I say, stop! We’re here!’
The car skidded violently on the wet road and came to a standstill with its front wheels on the pavement.
‘Simon, really! I shan’t think that your offer of a lift was so opportune after all if you are going to kill me before we arrive.’
‘We have arrived, Delia. I’m the safest driver in London. That manoeuvre was expressly designed to bury your head in my chest, and it has been thoroughly successful. There will be a short pause while I take advantage of it.’
‘I’m late,’ said Delia after a rather long pause. ‘And you’re going to take me home again, aren’t you?’
She escaped from the car and ran hastily through the rain to ring at Mrs Bainsbury’s front door. Inside the house the Committee was just beginning the meeting which would, by words quickly spoken, bring death amongst its members.
Roger Bainsbury opened the door quietly and put his finger to his lips as Delia slipped past him into the hall.
‘Hurry up,’ he whispered. ‘They’ve started.’
‘Is everybody else here then?’
‘All except the Old Man, and they’re not waiting for him.’
He took her coat and threw it over the chest beneath the stairs to join the six rain-dampened mackintoshes already lying there. Delia smiled at him in the mirror as she ran her fingers through the auburn curls of her hair, flattened by the tight grip of a headscarf.
‘Poor Roger. Always being pushed out of your own drawing-room for us. It’s a shame.’
‘Oh not really. I’ve got my own den—and, anyway, I push Mother out for one evening a week when the soccer club selection committee meets here, so I can’t begrudge her the Metro’s one night a month. Well, I expect you’ll have a good fight.’
He gave her one of his quick, nervous smiles. It was three years now since he had so unpredictably withdrawn from the implications of their increasing friendship, and still he was too embarrassed in her presence ever to look her in the eyes. But Delia, who even at the time had been able to understand and accept his hesitations, could answer him now as unselfconsciously as he would have liked to speak to her.
‘You never spoke a truer word.’ She raised her hand in cheerful farewell and opened the door of Mrs Bainsbury’s drawing-room. She paused in the doorway, for Mrs Bainsbury herself, the Committee’s secretary, was rushing headlong through the Minutes of the last meeting. But Delia was not permitted to be tactful. The reading was interrupted as soon as her presence was observed, and seven pairs of eyes fixed themselves reproachfully upon her as she slid apologetically into one of Roger’s home-made ‘contemporary’ chairs. It was uncushioned and the wooden back creaked as she tried to make herself comfortable; in the end, as on every other occasion, she abandoned the attempt and sat stiffly upright, her eyes ticking off the other occupants of the room while her ears were battered by the secretary’s staccato paragraphs.
The Managing Committee of the Metropolitana, one of London’s larger choral societies, may have had music in its collective soul, but it had little beauty in its face. Apart from Delia herself, whose good looks and trim figure were of what even her own father called the ‘sensible’ kind, only Shirley Marsden stood out at once from a first impression of dowdiness. The transitory peaches-and-cream complexion of the true blonde was displayed to its best advantage above a black sweater cut much lower than was necessary or even decent, thought Delia in disgust, for an ordinary business meeting. When Shirley (her age unfortunately fixed for ever by a mother who had wept over the first appearance of Shirley Temple) piled her hair on top of her head she attained a dignity that could make even the hardened stare. Today, however, loose curls fell in a luxuriant length. The annoying thing was that it was all natural, as untouched by the beauty salon as the slim figure which could make the most outrageous dress appear an enviable model.
And there was worse than that. If Delia could have written Shirley off as a beautiful doll, a dumb blonde, it would have been possible not to resent her. But t
he girl was clever; she had been brought up to have music in her bones until she knew, both by instinct and by study, whether an unlikely note in an edition was intended or misprinted, whether a horn part could be transcribed for organ without the effect being noticed, what balance of players and singers would be required for any work you might care to name, and where a few extra tenors could be found to strengthen a weak section on the night of a concert. She did not have a particularly good voice (Delia, whose soprano notes were pure and steady, was very conscious of this fact) but she recognised the lack by singing softly and, as the choir’s librarian, she more than pulled her weight. Even if she had been useless, of course, she would still have been a member of the Committee, with those looks—that is, if Owen had anything to do with it; for amongst the members of the choir she was popularly and with truth known as Burr’s Popsy.
Owen Burr. There was another interesting face. Sometimes the face of the dedicated musician, more often that of the ambitious young man, but always striking. The assistant conductor wore his black hair almost long enough to justify the popular impression of a musician; vividly it framed the paleness of the face in which his dark eyes darted. When, as now, he was listening inactively, his expression appeared merely to be sulky, but even those who disliked him—and they were many—were ready to admit that when he was in control of a situation he had the power to fire it with his own confidence; then every muscle was electric and those sulky eyes became compelling, able to draw music out of the two hundred men and women whom he often cursed as more recalcitrant than stones.
‘Is it the Committee’s wish,’ said Mrs Cuthbertson, ‘that I should sign these Minutes as a true record of our proceedings?’
Delia raised two fingers perfunctorily; no one else moved and the chairwoman scribbled her name without troubling to look up. As she handed the Minute Book back to the secretary, Mrs Cuthbertson breathed contentedly and settled herself more firmly in a chair several sizes too small for her. Rolls of fat leant themselves comfortably on every available support: only the stalactite hanging from her chin wobbled uncertainly as she appealed for Matters Arising. Wobbly, that was the name for Mrs Cuthbertson, thought Delia; wobbly as a body, as a chairman of committee and, above all, as a singer. It was surprising really that Owen had never managed to weed her out in the annual re-auditions which were all his own idea. Perhaps, by virtue of her office, she had quite simply excused herself from attending the ordeal, and yet it was unlike Owen to refrain from battle in the cause of musical tone—even if his adversary had been a member of the Metro since its foundation forty-two years before.
Now she was wobbling again, peering distractedly at the agenda paper on her knee. Delia, her chair creaking unbearably, strained to look over the shoulder of her neighbour, the treasurer, Robert Stanley. ‘Mr Tredegar’s Mass’, the next item, announced itself without further explanation and Delia gasped with astonishment. The Old Man had been rumoured to be working on a choral work for the past eight years; had it actually reached a stage when one could talk about it as a fact?
‘Mr Tredegar’s Mass,’ said Mrs Cuthbertson. ‘Well, I’m sure we shall all be very pleased to hear that our conductor has now completed his important work. Of course, it is bound to make a great stir in the musical world and so I am very proud to be able to tell you that the first performance is to be entrusted to the Metropolitana, with Mr Tredegar himself of course conducting. I believe Mr Burr has some more to tell us on this subject.’
Owen looked up, glancing round at the Committee. The sulkiness left his eyes, giving him an expression of eagerness which disguised an unstable state of nerves.
‘It’s a good Mass,’ he said. ‘In C minor. The Old Man’s done a really fine job this time. It’s thoroughly English but right up to date, and much more lyrical than a lot of this modern stuff—reads almost like opera at times. Shirley’s seen the score and she agrees with me that even the potatoes at the Metro ought to be able to manage it if they’re prepared to put in a bit of hard work. We can have the Festival Hall on December 19th and the BBC jumped at the chance of a broadcast. I’ve let one or two of the critics know already. They’ll give us a good bit of advance publicity—and I don’t see why we shouldn’t make it quite a social occasion too. The Old Man can rustle up a few of his posh friends and the others will start queuing for boxes before they even know what’s on. It should be quite a do.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Cuthbertson, ‘that sounds very satisfactory, doesn’t it?’ She smiled happily round, her chins swaying with pleasure.
‘Damned unsatisfactory,’ said Mackenzie Mortimer, a neat, precise tenor whose role on the Committee, like Delia’s, was primarily to represent the views of the two hundred members of the choir; free from the responsibility of even minor office, he felt it his duty to guard the rules and constitution of the organisation at all times. ‘Are you trying to tell us, Mr Burr, that you have already made a definite arrangement with the BBC on your own responsibility?’
Mrs Cuthbertson rearranged one or two of the higher rolls of flesh to turn towards the young assistant conductor.
‘Mr Mortimer has a point there, of course, Mr Burr. The matter should strictly have been arranged through this Committee.’
Owen ignored her completely, his eyes flashing angrily at his critic.
‘Good God, man, do you think the BBC is going to wait while you all grope your way towards the idea that there’s nothing wrong with accepting a fat fee? You’re not suggesting that we shouldn’t do the work, are you? We can’t possibly lose money on a concert like this.’
‘Unfortunately…’ The treasurer leaned back in his chair and expanded himself. ‘Unfortunately, experience has shown that there is no type of concert on which we are unable to lose money. And if the fee is fat, the expenses no doubt will be even fatter.’
‘Well, of course, I never expected you to be enthusiastic, Mr Stanley.’ Owen’s speech now was clipped, and, in the accent of his sarcasm, a touch of his Welsh childhood was betrayed. ‘You are afraid, doubtless, that the bank will refuse to meet our payments and expose to the world the exact amounts which you have embezzled since the last audit.’
It’s the sort of thing a schoolchild would say in fun, thought Delia, watching the treasurer seem suddenly to shrivel up as he rocked his chair back on to its four legs again. Only his tone makes it sound so offensive. I wonder why Robert always rises—it’s enough to make one wonder whether he does help himself occasionally.
But outwardly she decided that it was time to make her contribution to the discussion, which might otherwise prolong itself indefinitely.
‘Even though we may feel that Mr Burr has enough to do with the musical side of the choir and should be relieved of any administrative details by its officers,’ she began smoothly, rewarded by a suspicious glower from Owen and the flicker of a smile from John Southerley, the accompanist, who sat opposite her, ‘yet in this case he’s only anticipated what we would have wished, hasn’t he? I’m delighted that we are to have this opportunity, but we haven’t long to prepare for it. May I suggest that we get down to details?’
She was rather pleased with that and accepted John Southerley’s wink with a mischievous grin. The Committee settled into a familiar routine; its members had experience of everything but the requirements of this particular work, and these were supplied by Shirley.
‘Tenor, bass and contralto soloists only,’ she said. ‘The Old Man says he can’t stand these squeakers. There’s one soprano solo, but it’s written for a boy and he says he’ll find one himself for that. Organ and piano. Strings, wood, drums and two trumpets. Possibly harp, but he might write that part in for organ.’
‘Well then,’ said Mrs Cuthbertson. ‘Contraltos first.’
‘There aren’t any contraltos in England now,’ said John Southerley, and the silence seemed to confirm his opinion.
‘Jean Badham,’ said Owen firmly.
Even Shirley looked surprised.
‘I’ve never heard of he
r. Who is she?’
‘The Ferrier of the future. She’s not much more than a student, but already she’s got a voice that will make you gasp. We can carry one unknown on an occasion like this, and we’ll find her gratitude useful later when everyone wants her. She’ll be cheap, too.’
No one offered any further comment; Mrs Bainsbury made a doubtful note of the name.
‘Now the bass,’ said Mrs Cuthbertson.
‘Rolf Wenski.’ The Committee seemed to be speaking in chorus. Mrs Bainsbury wrote more confidently.
‘What about a tenor?’
There was another silence. Everyone knew that the tenor they would all prefer had been so exasperated by Owen’s comments on the rehearsal before the last concert that he had vowed never to come near the Metro again.
‘If anyone wants Davidson,’ Owen said suddenly, reading their thoughts, ‘I’m against it. He’s going downhill fast. I heard him broadcast the other day and he was consistently half a tone sharp. I don’t think he’s capable of a new work like this.’
Again Delia caught the faint grin on John Southerley’s face; but Shirley was speaking.
‘You know, Owen, you were quite right when you said that parts of the Mass were almost operatic. Why don’t we ask Cassati?’
The Committee gasped.
‘But he wouldn’t leave Italy just for us,’ objected Mackenzie Mortimer. ‘And if he did, his fee would be astronomical.’
‘I happen to know that he’s coming over for a gala at Covent Garden on December 24th,’ Shirly replied calmly. ‘He might well agree to come a few days early. The fee would be high, of course, but on the other hand our concert—a first performance—will be quite an occasion too; it won’t do his reputation any harm to be part of it. I think he might be reasonable.’
‘We could afford forty guineas, I should think,’ Robert Stanley said reflectively, his fingers doodling little sums on his agenda paper.
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