‘But you hear everything I say perfectly well, Janet. Have some of this cake. It’s a new recipe and most successful. And there are very few works that you would have to learn from the beginning like Evan’s Mass; you know the old favourites off by heart already.’
‘Thank you, dear. Yes, I do hear what you say, but not how you say it. It all seems to be on one note. So I should never have any idea of whether I was singing sharp or flat—in fact, I might be several tones away from the right note, and from what Owen said to me at that audition, I must assume that I was.’
‘He had no right to talk to you like that.’ Mrs Bainsbury attacked a slice of chocolate cake with her knife, chopping it sharply into fingers and then squares.
‘Isn’t that what we pay him for? I admit I was upset at the time, but that was a long time ago. Now I just try to help in other ways, since I can’t sing. Tell me, dear—I was so interested when you told me on the telephone that you were going to ask Cassati. Will he come?’
‘Unfortunately not. I had a letter from his agent this morning, sneezing politely at our offer of forty guineas. I hoped that he might be willing to haggle a little and settle for fifty at last. But not a bit of it. He just sent a printed brochure with a note attached to say that Signor Cassati’s fee for single performances was never less than a hundred guineas. So it looks as though we shall have to appeal to Davidson. I’m sure he’ll come, actually, if we can arrange it so that his face can be saved. I heard yesterday that he’d been trying to get Evan to lunch with him.’
‘Is this Cassati?’ Mrs Sheraton-Smith picked up a glossy leaflet and studied with interest the photograph on its cover. The face it showed was fat and thick-lipped, with scant hair greased flatly down. The eyes were small and lifeless; the only glint came from a tooth, presumably of gold, which showed itself beneath the posed smile. ‘It is a pity they run to fat so, isn’t it? But somebody was telling me the other day that they need the fat to increase the resonance, or something like that; it sounded quite reasonable at the time. But listen to me, Maude. I think you ought to have Cassati. After all, this is a special occasion; one wants to be a little different at such times, don’t you agree, dear? I mean, Davidson’s first-class, of course, but one can hear him somewhere almost any day of the week. And everyone tells me that Cassati is really someone quite exceptional. My maid—the one who goes to evening classes, you know—she has one of his Pagliacci records and she sits in the kitchen on her free afternoon and plays it with the tears simply streaming down her face. Of course, she hasn’t seen this!’ Mrs Sheraton-Smith poked a disdainful finger at the brochure. ‘But she certainly made me wish that I could appreciate a little more what she was hearing. So you must have him for your concert.’
Mrs Bainsbury sighed. ‘But Janet, we simply can’t afford it. Even with special prices there’s a top limit to what we can expect to get, and, if possible, we want to give Evan a much larger fee than usual—to celebrate, in a manner of speaking. It’s no good saying that we must have Cassati when we can’t pay his fee.’
‘You interrupted me, Maude dear. I wasn’t going to ask you to afford him. I’ve been thinking this over ever since you first mentioned it to me; of course I knew that you would never get him for forty guineas, but I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to try. Now, if the Metro can go up to fifty, I’ll pay the other fifty myself.’
Mrs Sheraton-Smith sat back in her chair, enjoying the sight of her friend struggling for words; then with a heavily ringed hand she helped herself to another chocolate biscuit.
‘Janet, you really are too generous. You’ve put too much money into the Metro already. Only last year you gave us thirty pounds to pay our debts after that foggy night when no one would come.’
‘My dear, I happen to have a lot of money, and now that Geoffrey’s dead the best thing I can do is to give it to people who will use it for something worthwhile.’
She had pronounced the name ‘Geoffrey’ carefully, as if she were practising it, and Mrs Bainsbury looked at her friend compassionately. It had taken Mrs Sheraton-Smith almost three years to recover from the breakdown which followed the news that her only son had died in Italy, the son who had been her whole life since his father’s death when the boy was still a baby; it was still not a subject on which she very often cared to talk, even to the mother of Roger, who had been Geoffrey’s closest friend. Mrs Bainsbury hesitated a moment and then made her voice as brisk and business-like as possible.
‘Then that’s wonderful, Janet dear. I’ll tell Robert Stanley and write off to the agent straight away. Everyone will be so grateful.’
‘Oh no. That is not what I want at all. I shan’t let you have the money unless the whole thing is kept completely secret. You can arrange it, can’t you? The agent will have to send half the bill to Mr Stanley and the other half to me. The Committee can simply think that you have been lucky to get the man for fifty guineas.’
Mrs Bainsbury looked doubtful. ‘It might lead to a lot of complications. If people think that Cassati is available at that fee he’ll be deluged with offers, which will infuriate him. The Metro itself might want him again, and then it would be essential to tell them.’
‘In that extreme case you would have to talk about a “friend of the choir”, without giving my name. I don’t see that there should be any difficulty and I am sure that you can deal with it. In any case, that is the condition on which I offer the money. I am sorry if it will force you to cook your files, but I must insist.’
‘Well, of course you’re quite entitled to do so, and I’ll do my best. But why must it be so secret?’
Mrs Sheraton-Smith rose straight-backed from her chair. ‘I don’t want to embarrass anyone, Maude. Your young Owen is not quite such a boor as you occasionally appear to think him. He has his own feelings and he sometimes appreciates those of other people, though he doesn’t seem able to stop himself hurting them. He knows that he hurt me a little when he made me leave the choir and I don’t want him to think that I’m collecting coals of fire for his head. I know it means a lot to his pride that you should invite Cassati and not Davidson, and I have a little sympathy for him. He’s going to be a very great musician one of these days, Maude, so we must forgive him if he isn’t always very great as a man.’
Mrs Bainsbury stared in incredulity. ‘Of all the reasons which you might have had for giving away fifty guineas, that really seems to me the most difficult to believe.’
Her friend paused for a moment in her progress to the door. ‘But then, Maude, forgiveness is something which you have never been able to practise, isn’t it—perhaps you have never even wanted to do so.’
She left the house with the dignity of an old lady, bowing her head slightly in thanks for her entertainment. Mrs Bainsbury was left standing in the hall, still uncomprehending. When she returned to the drawing-room she found Roger there; he had returned from work to enter the house by the back door, and now he too was standing very still, looking, as he always did, a little over-dressed in his neat office suit—the cricket flannels or soccer shorts which he so much preferred were the only clothes which ever seemed appropriate on his compact, muscular body. He turned now as his mother entered.
‘Are you starting to collect a Rogues’ Gallery?’ he asked quietly, pointing at the brochure which lay on the tea-tray. ‘He looks like someone wanted for White Slave Trafficking.’
‘My dear Roger, he’s a singer. A very eminent singer. He’s going to sing in Evan’s Mass with us.’
‘Can you afford to bring such eminent singers all the way from Italy?’
‘Well, not really, but…’ Mrs Bainsbury hesitated, looked at her son, and then said confidentially: ‘I should think it’s all right to tell you since you don’t belong to the choir, but keep it to yourself. Janet’s paying half his fee for us.’
Roger looked startled, almost unbelieving. ‘Aunt Janet!’ Then he laughed shortly. ‘I shouldn’t have thought she’d be too keen on encouraging Italians.’
‘Be
cause of Geoffrey, you mean? Well, I don’t think she would hate all Italians just because one Italian bullet killed him. You don’t, do you, just because they took you prisoner?’
‘Not all of them, no, but I wasn’t killed. Anyway, if you want him, I’m glad you’re going to have him. What’s his name? Cassati. Sounds like an ice-cream. By the way, talking of the Metro, I saw your Owen in the lunch hour. It looked to me as if young Shirley is about to get left at the altar. He was being very friendly with a neat little brunette. I wouldn’t fancy giving the push to a girl like Shirley myself. I’ve seen her being angry with someone whose only crime was to lose a hired copy of a score, so what she’s like in a real crisis I shudder to think.’
‘Not “my” Owen, please, Roger. Is it your selection committee tonight?’
‘Yes please. That’s why I came in, to get the room ready. Have we any beer in the house?’
‘No. You’ll have to get some. I’m afraid I haven’t time now. I must write some letters before the practice.’
Two hours later Mrs Bainsbury, neatly unremarkable in black, caught a bus to the bleak rehearsal rooms in which the choir met every Tuesday. She was, as always, the first arrival, and she sat by the door as the rest of the singers appeared. She knew the name of each and ticked it off neatly in the long brown register. Those who came after the starting time would lose their mark for the evening, but there were few of these, for few would willingly face the sarcastic comments or the even more devastating silence with which Owen would watch them to their seats. Punctuality had also a cash value, for a singer who obtained the full qualification of marks in the rehearsals for any particular concert would be awarded a free ticket for that concert, which might be given to a friend. This system of Sunday School bribery had been originated by Evan Tredegar in the days when he was the active conductor of all the choir’s practices; although the treasurer might complain and the singers themselves (few of whom ever qualified) gently mock, no one had ever dared to suggest that the practice should be dropped.
As usual, Owen came early and fidgeted in his seat on the platform for ten minutes, glancing at his watch and rustling through the pages of the score. At the stroke of half-past seven Mrs Bainsbury closed her brown book and nodded at him. Within a second the sopranos were being coaxed upwards into a scale. The practice had begun.
The Mass in C Minor would present few difficulties to the critics, but it was not an easy one to sing. Throughout the chorus work there ran a strong melodic line, but it switched abruptly from part to part. No note could be expected, no mark of expression could be taken for granted. Mrs Bainsbury, in her front-row seat, concentrated hard, wishing that she could lose herself sometimes in the harmony, as was possible in a Bach Mass; instead, even after six weeks of practice, she had to pay almost as much attention to the score as if she were still sight-reading.
Next door to her Delia Jones sang a wrong note and clucked impatiently to herself, ringing the bar with her pencil. Owen tapped impatiently with his baton.
‘We have been practising the Credo now for six weeks,’ he said, ‘and there is still a soprano who does not know the difference between F and F sharp.’ His eyes swept the front row of the sopranos. ‘Miss Jones, would you please sing by yourself from letter B.’
Mrs Bainsbury, beside her, felt rather than saw the sudden flush on Delia’s face and sympathised with her; she would not herself have cared to sing a solo in front of the full choir, especially when it was inflicted as a punishment. For a few seconds there was silence and then Owen spoke icily again.
‘Please do not keep us waiting, Miss Jones. I hope you do not imagine that your membership of the Managing Committee exempts you from paying attention to what you are singing. We are all waiting for you.’
Mrs Bainsbury glanced across at Delia; her flush was of temper now and her knuckles showed the whiteness of the bone as she gripped her score. But she sang the bars for which Owen had asked, clearly and note-perfect; only when she had finished did her lips tighten with anger.
‘Thank you very much, Miss Jones. I’m sure you are very sorry to have wasted the choir’s time and will be more careful in future. Now everybody from A please, and no piano. Just a chord to start them.’
The choir began the chorus once more, but unhappily. The tenors, depleted by an outbreak of sore throats, struggled to the middle and collapsed, smiling gratefully at the accompanist when he came to their rescue by joining in with their part. But Owen was not so pleased; once again the tap of his baton brought the choir to an uneasy silence.
‘Mr Southerley, I particularly asked that there should be no accompaniment this time. Would you care to remember that you are not here as a concert pianist but to assist me under my direction. It’s impossible for the choir to cope with all these difficulties. Ten minutes’ break.’
There was a buzz of conversation. Only Owen himself sat silently alone on his platform, frowning at the music before him as he scribbled notes in its margins.
‘He’s in a pretty vicious mood today, isn’t he?’ said Delia. ‘I hate having to sing by myself, and it was only a slip. It isn’t as if I make mistakes all the time.’
Mrs Bainsbury smiled sympathetically, but before she could answer she was interrupted by John Southerley, who had walked over from the piano and squatted down on the floor close to her chair.
‘Will you tell me something, Mrs Bainsbury?’ he asked. ‘Is my name actually in print yet in any of the publicity for this damned Mass?’
The secretary looked at him in surprise: she had never heard him swear before.
‘Not yet, as a matter of fact. We still haven’t fixed the tenor, so I’ve held up the posters. But the Festival Hall leaflet for December will be going to press this week. You’re not regretting that you were engaged for it, I hope.’
‘I certainly am. As long as you haven’t actually announced it, I shall write to the Old Man and say that I’d prefer not to play.’
‘Oh, John, don’t do that.’ Delia had turned towards them, her own humiliation forgotten in this new dismay. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing. He’ll be so disappointed because he wrote it for you. Why do you want to back out now?’
‘Why do you think? Because I won’t go on working with Owen Burr, that’s why. I’ve had enough of these rehearsals, and I can’t very well expect to keep the concert job if I walk out of this one; even the Old Man would jib at that. But by God I’ll make my reputation for myself—I don’t intend to be indebted to him for anything.’
He jerked his head resentfully towards the platform. Delia leaned forward eagerly.
‘Don’t you see, that’s exactly what he wants. He’s jealous because you’re as good a musician as he is, and younger; he wants to stop you playing in the concert by provoking you to back out yourself. You must hang on, John, to spite him. Then you can resign afterwards if you want to.’
The accompanist looked hesitatingly at Mrs Bainsbury, who smiled at him.
‘It will put you in the wrong if you walk out in the middle of a season, you know; and I think you will regret having thrown up a great opportunity in anger. We all want you to have this chance.’
John smiled his boyish smile as he stood up.
‘I suppose you’re right. But one of these days…’
He stopped suddenly as he noticed Owen approaching. But the assistant conductor ignored him completely and spoke only to Delia.
‘It was a pity it had to be you,’ he said. ‘But now that people know the notes, more or less, they’re beginning to get casual. I decided that I should have to make an example of the next careless singer I noticed, just to show the others what might happen to them. I fancy we shall notice the improvement now.’
He strolled back to his platform and Mrs Bainsbury turned to her neighbour.
‘I think, Delia dear, that that was Owen’s idea of an apology.’
‘One of these days,’ said Delia through tight lips, ‘he’s going to be rude just once too often—a
nd then perhaps he’ll find that there isn’t time for an apology.’
Chapter Four
‘Hello,’ said Delia, and paused. ‘Hello. Hello. Oh, Simon you clot, press Button A.’
There was a rattle of coins and Simon’s voice spoke apologetically.
‘It’s funny that I should always forget, isn’t it? I mean, once or twice would be normal, but always. I must ask a psychiatrist what it means.’
‘Simon darling, at any other time I would stand for hours and listen to your burbling, but I must dash. Today’s the great day—we’re doing the Mass tonight and I’m due at the Festival Hall to rehearse at nine.’
‘What a ghastly hour to make music. Is this another of Owen’s little foibles?’
‘Far from it; he’s livid. Apparently, it’s the penalty for choosing the Saturday before Christmas. There’s a children’s carol concert in the afternoon, and they can’t decorate for it until we finish our rehearsal. Anyway, did you phone up for any special reason?’
‘Yes; it’s about your concert as a matter of fact. We’ve been sent a Christmas present of four new men, so I’ve decided that I deserve a week-end off duty.’
‘You certainly do. It’s been weeks. Does that mean that you can come to the Mass after all?’
‘Don’t see how I can escape it now, do you? Can you get me a ticket?’
‘I should think so. I’ll certainly try. Any preferences?’
‘Which side of the hall will you be on?’
‘Right as we face,’ said Delia. ‘Left as the audience sees us.’
‘Then I want a seat in the front row on the left.’
‘I can tell you now that the front row is sold out. That was part of Mrs Bainsbury’s allocation and she told me on Tuesday that they were all gone. But I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye then.’
Murder to Music Page 3