Murder to Music

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Murder to Music Page 5

by Margaret Newman


  ‘What on earth do you mean by “the theology of the music”?’ asked Delia in bewilderment.

  ‘Well, it’s a Mass, ostensibly, and the words are the words of the Mass. But the music doesn’t illustrate the words. As I see it, the music is a sort of re-living of the last moments of a dying man. I may be wrong, but that seems to me to be the only interpretation. It starts peacefully; perhaps the man knows that he is dying, but he faces it calmly. Through the first part it becomes more and more turbulent; the pain is increasing until it is almost too great to bear. That’s where we are now. In the second part we can imagine the man being soothed by the priest. He accepts the consolation and the pain; the fear is still there, there are questions, sudden protests, but on the whole the music becomes more and more peaceful again. Then, right at the end, the man dies. Did you stay to hear the orchestra play the last section this morning?’

  Delia shook her head.

  ‘Well, you’ll be startled then. I’d read the full score, of course, but even so I nearly jumped out of my skin. It ends with a shriek of agony. The consolation has not, after all, been enough.’

  ‘Well,’ said Delia, taken aback. ‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you on your musical insight or on your imagination. Still, I suppose we’d better get back now.’

  They turned towards the door and almost knocked into John Southerley, who was hurrying into the bar. On his upper lip he wore a piece of sticking plaster.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Delia. ‘Has John walked into a door, or could he possibly have come too near to Owen’s fist?’

  Robert Stanley, who was standing nearby, answered her.

  ‘Owen’s fist, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But that appeared in self-defence. I’ve every sympathy with John, but in the interests of the music he should wait until the end of the performance before he tries to murder the conductor.’

  Together they returned to the hall, where the soloists and conductor again followed. The audience quieted at once and the second part of the work began. This time there was no hitch at all, except for Delia personally. Halfway through the Hosanna she became aware that Mrs Bainsbury, while still singing, was staring across towards the doorway below and to the left of the choir. As soon as there was a pause in the soprano part, Delia followed the secretary’s eyes. What she saw there surprised her so much that she lost her place: it was by then in the middle of a complicated run and she felt very foolish opening her mouth soundlessly until she could find a familiar note again. That was the trouble with this perfect hall, she could hardly hear the voices even of her neighbours; throughout the evening she had felt that she and one of the back violins were performing the work alone.

  The Mass was nearly at its end. The last chorus was a high one for the sopranos. Delia began to feel very tired and was glad when they had finished at last and could sit down. She listened with interest as the orchestra played the last section alone. The music swirled and rose. Owen was throwing himself about now—too much, thought Delia, who preferred a more restrained form of conducting. Suddenly violins, flutes and organ shrieked upwards; the two trumpets joined them on their highest note and began to slither down in a despairing scale. Together they faded gradually away, leaving nothing but a forlorn, hopeless memory and a roll of drums. Owen turned sideways on his rostrum; he swung over towards the drummer, who sat almost in front of Delia, willing him on to an ever-faster movement. Then there was silence; in what seemed a continuation of the same movement Owen turned to face the audience, his back to the choir, his hands outstretched to grasp the sides of the rostrum.

  For a moment Delia sat dazed. Although she had been warned, the primitive power of the last bar had startled and shocked her, and she suddenly felt the effect of the emotional strain of the whole evening. She looked with a half-smile at Mrs Bainsbury, who was sitting forward pale-faced, her fingers moving nervously. She felt Delia’s eyes, and tried to smile back.

  ‘I didn’t know it would be like this,’ the secretary whispered. She said more, but it was impossible to hear. For after little more than a second’s silence the audience had risen to its feet and the sound of cheering would have drowned even the most powerful efforts of the choir and orchestra combined. Delia found herself gasping as wave upon wave of applause seemed to hit her in the face. She glanced up at Simon; he too was standing, and as she looked, he smiled at her and gave a specially soft token clap for her alone. To conceal her blush of pleasure she looked down and then, out of the corner of her eye, glanced to the left at the doorway; but there was no one there except a uniformed attendant.

  ‘They oughtn’t to, really,’ said Shirley—almost shouting to make herself heard. ‘After all, it is a Mass.’

  ‘Well, since they are applauding,’ Delia answered, ‘I do think Owen might wave us all up to take a bit of it. He must be trying to set a record in long low bows.’

  They both looked at Owen. He stood still as he had stood when the Mass ended, facing the audience, with his hands gripping the sides of the conductor’s rostrum and his head and shoulders bowed forward. As they watched, his head dropped still further, until it seemed to be hanging uncomfortably between his shoulders. Delia drew in a quick breath and at that moment John Southerley rose from the piano-stool. He thrust his way towards the rostrum, knocking over a violin stand on his way. Before he could reach the conductor, however, Owen’s legs suddenly bent at the knees. His hands relaxed their grip and, before the startled eyes of the still cheering audience, he fell headfirst to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  In the artists’ room the members of the choir and orchestra jostled uneasily. At first, they had whispered excitedly amongst themselves but now they were beginning to tire of their wait; until they heard further news there was nothing more to be said. A few of the younger ones were still hoping that something might happen, but most were merely wondering whether they would soon be allowed to leave.

  Of them all, Delia was the most unhappy. There had been a moment when she had felt great admiration for Simon, had been proud to know him. He had pushed his way through the members of the audience who were filing out in a silent embarrassment of helplessness and had joined the St. John Ambulance man who was already kneeling by Owen’s head; at that moment he had seemed purposeful, efficient, in control. She had been glad that he was a man who knew what to do, who did not get flustered.

  But now the admiration had been replaced by uneasiness. From the moment when Simon had disappeared, leaving Owen untouched on the floor with the ambulance man to keep away anyone who might try to move him, Delia had realised that the young conductor must be dead. She tried to persuade herself that a heart attack would be easily explained by the unusual excitement which Owen must have been feeling at that moment, but there was something in the grimness of Simon’s face which made her doubtful. And Christmas was so near, and her evening had been so perfect; her first sincere sympathy for Owen had changed to a selfish feeling of resentment.

  A door opened; through it Delia caught a glimpse of Simon replacing a telephone receiver. At the sight of the uniformed policeman who emerged, the crowded room was immediately silent, and he was able to make his announcement quietly.

  ‘Superintendent Hudson wishes all members of the Managing Committee of the Metropolitana to remain behind. Everyone else may go, but will each of you please give your name and address to the police sergeant at the door, and will the leader of the orchestra and the secretary of the choir stand by the door to check that this is done correctly. Would Miss Jones come in here first, please.’

  Everyone stared at Delia as she made her way towards the door which the police constable held open. He shut it behind her, and she was alone in the little office with Simon.

  He rose to his feet as she entered and smiled at her gravely but made no attempt to touch her in any way. As she sat down and faced him across a desk she felt nervously as if she were being interviewed for a job, and her voice, when she spoke, did not seem to belong to her at all.

&nbs
p; ‘Is Owen dead?’

  Simon nodded. He too seemed a little nervous; his pen was drawing unconscious circles on the notepad in front of him.

  ‘Naturally?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. That’s why I’m here. I’ve just been reporting to headquarters, they’ve told me to take over the case as I’ve been on the spot from the beginning. I’m sorry.’

  He added the apology when he saw the unhappy expression on her face. Then he took a deep breath; but he hesitated, and when he finally spoke, he was staring down at the desk.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

  Delia laughed to herself bitterly. That was a sentence she had expected him to speak to her that evening—but at a table overlooking the lights of the river, not here; and with eyes tender and not grave.

  ‘Owen Burr has been murdered. I want to know—and I’m asking you unofficially, so to speak—whether you know anything about the murder at all, whether you had anything to do with it.’

  For a moment Delia could only stare at him, speechless with incredulity. She decided at last that he must after all be joking in some way and smiled at him feebly.

  ‘What would you do if I said yes?’

  ‘I should leave the case to the man who would have handled it if I hadn’t happened to be here. It could probably be arranged without causing any comment.’

  So it was not a joke. Slowly Delia rose to her feet.

  ‘You mean that you are seriously asking me whether I had a hand in killing a man?’

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I certainly don’t think that you had. But I don’t want to get deep into this investigation and then perhaps find out something that you might not want me to know.’

  Delia looked at him stonily.

  ‘Funny,’ she said with a short laugh. ‘Only a couple of hours ago I was thinking that you loved me.’

  ‘You thought correctly,’ said Simon, standing in his turn. ‘And if you still think it now, you would still be correct. I love you very much, although this isn’t a time when–’

  ‘You must have a curious taste, to love someone whom you believe to be capable of murder.’

  ‘I don’t believe it for a minute, Delia. I only asked because —’

  ‘You believe it sufficiently to think it worthwhile to ask. I do not, apparently, strike you as the sort of woman who would be quite incapable of murder.’

  ‘There are very few people with physical courage who would be quite incapable of murder—in some, unusual, circumstances. Sooner or later I shall find out what the “circumstances” were in which Owen was involved, and then I shall find out who else was involved in them as well.’

  ‘And you think it could be me. Thank you very much.’ She turned to walk out of the room, but Simon stepped forward quickly and laid a hand on her arm.

  ‘Listen just a moment, Delia. I’ve been tactless, and I’m sorry. But look at it this way. This isn’t a murder committed in drunkenness, in a sudden fit of temper. Owen was shot dead, and since I don’t imagine that many concertgoers carry pistols in their pockets, that means that somebody came to this particular concert with the deliberate intention of shooting him dead. I don’t know yet who it was, but when I do know you may find that it is someone you know and like, someone whom you could never possibly suspect of murder.’

  ‘That may be true of casual acquaintances, but if you love someone, you know.’

  ‘Do you think that no murderer has ever been loved by someone who refused to believe him guilty?’

  ‘Well, I should think that the “someone” was absolutely right to have faith.’

  ‘Now you’ve moved from logic to ethics. As a man I agree with you,’ Simon said quietly, ‘but as a policeman I had to ask that question.’

  ‘And yet if I had given the wrong answer, you would have ignored it.’

  ‘Even if you had committed a dozen murders, I should still love you,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I should want to know if there were any questions that were better not asked.’

  ‘There was one,’ said Delia, ‘and you’ve asked it.’ Later, she knew, she would remember his voice as he told her that he loved her, but for the moment she was still bitterly hurt. Again she moved towards the door, but again he prevented her. This time his tone was business-like.

  ‘I’m afraid there are one or two questions I’d like to ask you officially before you go.’

  A little sulkily, she returned to her seat.

  ‘I wonder if you remember, a couple of months ago, after a committee meeting once, you said to me that you thought that one of these days Owen would find himself murdered by one of the Committee, or words to that effect.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Delia, suddenly angry again. ‘I was only joking—and I’m not sure I didn’t say Owen would do the murdering, anyway.’

  ‘Well, whichever way it was, I got the impression that there wasn’t much love lost between him and the Committee, and now I need to know why. Before we start, let’s look at this.’

  He pushed across the table a plan of the performers’ seating. The conductor’s rostrum at the top had been marked in red; from it ran three sets of double lines, narrowly together at the rostrum but widening as they drew further from it. One funnel thus created ran straight down through the central woodwind and tenors, stopping before the organ. Another ran diagonally down to the right, including the two adult male soloists and the piano, a section of the strings, most of the sopranos and a few of the cheap public seats behind them. The third, diametrically opposite to the second, was drawn widening upwards in the diagram and to the left; most of the area included was gangway space, but there were also a few of the end seats in the two front rows, and it ended at the doorway. Delia stared at the plan without interest.

  ‘I’ve already had a report from the doctor,’ Simon explained. ‘Owen was killed by a bullet that entered his body under the right shoulder-blade and made its way diagonally across to the heart. Unless I can find someone who heard the shot and can give an exact time, I have to consider three possibilities. If the shot was fired while he was taking his bow at the end of the work, facing the audience, it must have come from someone in this second area here, the one which included the sopranos of the choir. On the other hand, it’s possible that he might have been shot in the second before he turned, while he was still facing the orchestra; if he’d just started to turn, he could have continued the movement before he collapsed. The third area, this short strip pointing towards the organ, is not a very likely one really, but I noticed that right at the end Owen spent a few seconds leaning over towards the drummer. If he’d been shot just at that second, it would probably have been done by one of your tenors. But, as I say, that’s not very likely. The most probable time was when he had already turned to the audience, which means that I need to look closely at the sopranos. What I would like you to do is to tell me where the members of the Committee were sitting during the concert. Let’s start with your chairman.’

  ‘It’s a woman,’ said Delia, still speaking reluctantly. ‘Mrs Cuthbertson. She’s a contralto, but tonight she wasn’t singing. She had an ordinary seat.’

  ‘Where?’

  Delia pointed to the end of the public row behind the sopranos and Simon drew a little box at the place; it was just inside the second funnel.

  ‘Why wasn’t she singing?’ he asked casually. ‘Sore throat or something?’

  ‘Owen kicked her out at the practice this morning. She was making an awful noise, so he told her she couldn’t be with the choir this evening. She was very upset about it.’

  ‘And angry?’

  ‘Yes. Wouldn’t you be—in front of all those people?’ Suddenly Delia noticed that while Simon’s eyes were fixed on hers, his fingers were scribbling unseen notes, and she spoke indignantly. ‘But not murderously angry, I don’t mean, only hurt.’

  He looked at her calmly.

  ‘Tell me, of all the Committee, was there anyone who never quarrelled with Owen
in any way?’

  ‘Shi—’ Just in time Delia remembered what Mrs Bainsbury had said about Owen’s quarrel with Shirley that morning. She thought quickly, uncomfortably conscious that Simon had noticed her false start.

  ‘I think on the whole I was the one who fought with him least, because I had least to do with him. I don’t think he thought me musical enough to be worth arguing with, and, on the other hand, I didn’t do much of which he actively disapproved. Apart from me, and the Old Man, of course, I think there was only Mackenzie Mortimer. They used to spar a lot, but Owen never turned those arguments into personal attacks, as he did with everyone else.’

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘Now, where were they all sitting?’

  Delia pointed as she spoke the names. ‘Shirley Marsden, me and Mrs Bainsbury all in the front row of the sopranos. Mackenzie Mortimer and Robert Stanley in the front row of the tenors. John Southerley at the piano.’

  She looked at the drawing silently as Simon marked the places. John and the three women were all, like Mrs Cuthbertson, in the second funnel; the two men in the first.

  ‘Now then, have any others of these had any recent dispute with Owen?’

  Delia thought for a moment. She had heard about Shirley so indirectly that she decided not to mention it but to leave it to Shirley herself to explain. The quarrel with John Southerley, on the other hand, had been so public that if she made no mention of it her silence might afterwards appear surprising. She referred to it briefly, her eyes on Simon’s scribbling fingers.

  ‘Last question,’ said Simon. ‘Did you notice anything unusual at any time during the concert—anything at all, whether it seems relevant or not?’

 

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