Delia thought without success.
‘Every concert seems to be different from the last,’ she said, ‘and this one had quite a new atmosphere, because it was a special occasion and a different sort of audience. Even if I did see anything unusual, I probably shouldn’t have realised that it was, if you see what I mean.’
‘I see,’ said Simon. ‘That’s all then, thank you very much, Delia.’ They stood up together. ‘Are you going to forgive me?’
Delia smiled wryly.
‘I expect so. But just at the moment I’m still a little hurt.’
He moved closer, his hand touched her arm.
‘I can see now that it was stupid, couldn’t have done any good. You could help me a lot on this if you would, Delia, knowing all the background. I’d like to get it cleared up quickly and then we can forget all about it.’
He was close now and very still. But there was a knock on the door, and he moved quickly away as the police sergeant entered.
‘They’ve all gone except the ones you wanted, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Simon. ‘Well, Miss Jones can go too. I’d like to see Mr Mortimer next.’
That gentleman walked in smartly and nodded his head at Simon as he took a seat. Simon sat for a moment in silence, considering the man; almost certainly a regular officer in his youth, he decided.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course, of course. Anything I can do to help.’
‘Were you in the Army long, Mr. Mortimer?’
He looked faintly surprised but answered reasonably enough.
‘Not as long as I would have wished. I went in in 1939, liked it, stayed on, but they wouldn’t give me a permanent commission. Ten years and ten months altogether.’
Simon nodded and changed the subject.
‘Tell me, do you think John Southerley was seriously annoyed with Owen Burr this evening?’
‘I’m sure he was. He’s a young fellow, all worked up for his first big concert and then someone shouts at him in the middle of it. The blow to the pride would come later, no doubt, but the immediate effect on the temperament must be devastating. And then afterwards he’d have time to think about other people hearing it and perhaps the broadcasting microphones catching it; it’s enough to make anybody see red.’
‘Why did Mr Burr do it then? Spite?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. There was a musical reason of a sort; it’s just that you couldn’t expect John to appreciate that at the time. I’ve been a tympanist myself, as an amateur, and I should guess that Mr Tredegar never has. He’d written some rolls and changes for the drums that simply couldn’t be played at the speed he’d marked. John certainly wouldn’t realise that, and perhaps Owen didn’t at first, but he cottoned on in time, and then the only hope was to slow John down. I was watching them then. John had his head down as if he were playing a solo, it was all set to be a real mess. Owen had to do something to steady things. He probably didn’t choose the best way—but then, just like John, he was a youngish fellow all worked up for his first big concert as well.’
‘Tell me, Mr Mortimer,’ said Simon, ‘what sort of a man was Owen Burr?’
‘He was a musician, Superintendent, first, middle and last, a musician. As long as the music was right, nothing else mattered. He seemed ruthless with people, but only because he hardly noticed them as individuals. Either they helped the music and he liked them, or they got in his way and he knocked them down. As a conductor he was first class. As a matter of fact, although not many people would admit it, Evan Tredegar could never have produced a performance even of his own work like the one young Owen did tonight. And Owen knew it, too—no false modesty there. But he wasn’t one to harp on things. He would have forgotten that brush with John Southerley before he left the rostrum at the end of the Mass.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Simon. ‘But would John Southerley have forgotten it equally quickly?’
The precise little man stared at him in bewilderment.
‘Have I been getting this wrong?’ he asked at last. ‘I assumed that Owen had had a heart attack.’
‘He was murdered,’ said Simon. ‘Did you keep any firearms when you left the Army?’
‘None. Are you suggesting…’
‘I’m suggesting nothing. Merely asking.’
They looked at each other across the table, Mackenzie assimilating the news, Simon summing him up.
‘Right,’ Simon said at last. ‘Will you just confirm that this mark on my diagram shows your seat and then you can get home.’
As the door opened, he caught a glimpse of Delia speaking earnestly in the next room to Mrs Bainsbury. The secretary’s name was the next on his list.
‘Well, if you’re going next, I’ll be off,’ said Delia to her. She picked up her bag and moved towards the door. Then she stopped and stood very still for a moment before turning back to Mrs Bainsbury.
‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘he asked me whether I’d noticed anything unusual, and I said No. But there was one rather surprising thing, wasn’t there?’
The secretary’s eyes flickered and then looked straight into hers.
‘Nothing,’ she said calmly, ‘which could possibly be of any relevance to the present investigation.’
Chapter Seven
‘I believe you’re a widow, Mrs Bainsbury.’
She looked across at Simon unemotionally. ‘My husband died sixteen years ago.’
‘How long have you been the Metropolitana’s secretary?’
‘About thirteen years. Even before that I used to help quite a bit, addressing envelopes and that sort of thing, but it was difficult while my son was young.’
‘So I expect you know a good deal about the members of the choir.’
She smiled faintly.
‘As much as anyone else, I’ve no doubt.’
‘What did you think of Owen Burr?’
‘I didn’t like him. But he’s dead now.’
‘Don’t let that influence anything you want to say, Mrs Bainsbury. Why didn’t you like him?’
She hesitated slightly.
‘I don’t know that I can put a finger on anything particular; it was just his manner. Before his time, the Metro used to be a friendly choir, but since he came on the scene there were quarrels all the time. And at practices he’d hurt people’s feelings, picking on them. A good conductor knows how to make someone feel ashamed of a mistake without pointing him out by name to everyone else, but Owen could never let well alone.’
‘I see. So you felt a kind of general disapproval of him. Did you ever have any more particular disagreements?’
‘We had our arguments from time to time. But there was nothing personal in them, and I don’t remember any serious ones during the last few months.’
‘Now tell me, do you know of anyone else—anyone besides John Southerley—who had quarrelled with Mr. Burr recently?’
‘Yes. Shirley Marsden.’
There had been no pause for consideration and Simon was taken by surprise.
‘Oh. How do you know?’
‘I heard them at it after the rehearsal this morning.’
‘Do you know what the quarrel was about?’
‘I’m afraid not. They were both talking at the same time—shouting, rather. It was something about dinner, but you’d better ask Shirley herself for the details.’
‘Does anyone else know anything about it, do you think?’
‘Not directly, I imagine. I mentioned it to Delia Jones, but not more than I’ve told you.’
Simon paused for a moment, wondering why Delia had not passed on the information. As if she had read his thoughts, Mrs Bainsbury continued to speak.
‘She told me when she came out of here that she hadn’t said anything to you because all her knowledge was third-hand. I think she mentioned it to me particularly so that I shouldn’t think that you already knew about it from her. But of course it was only a lovers’ quarrel, I expect. Owen and Shirley were al
ways at each other’s throats about something. They seemed to enjoy it.’
‘Tell me something about your treasurer, Robert Stanley. What sort of a man is he?’
Mrs Bainsbury answered slowly.
‘He’s a friend of Evan Tredegar. He’s been doing the job for about nine years now. I don’t know that he’s exceptionally good at it, but it’s a thankless job and he seems to be careful and do what’s needed without making many mistakes. I don’t get on very well with figures myself.’
‘How did he get on with Mr Burr?’
She spoke even more slowly now.
‘There was—something—between them seven or eight years ago, when Owen first came on to the Committee. They never had much use for each other after that. I don’t know what it was all about, though.’
‘Right. Now would you just point to your place on this diagram?’
Mrs Bainsbury identified her seat casually enough but continued to stare at the plan.
‘What do these three stripes mean?’
‘Don’t worry about them. Now for my last question. Did you see anything unusual or surprising at all during the performance tonight?’
Mrs Bainsbury stood up to go.
‘Nothing,’ she said calmly.
‘Well, thank you very much, then. Would you ask Mrs Cuthbertson to come in next, please?’
The secretary hesitated.
‘She was sitting in the audience, you know. She didn’t come out here with us. In fact, most of the audience had left, hadn’t they, before you realised that Owen was dead? John Southerley isn’t out there either, if you’re going through the Committee.’
‘Miss Marsden in that case, if you would then, Mrs Bainsbury.’
She nodded and left. Shirley came into the room a moment later. Simon looked at her appraisingly. In his regard of Delia during the performance he had not failed to notice the glitter of the blonde beside her. At the moment, however, seen at close quarters, she made a less dazzling appearance. Although she still held her head very straight, the make-up on her face was smudged where she had dabbed at tears. She pointed to her place on Simon’s diagram without speaking and then waited patiently for his questions.
‘How long had you known Owen Burr, Miss Marsden?’
‘About five years.’
‘And you were a close friend of his?’
‘We were going to be married.’
‘Oh! Was your engagement a public one?’
‘No. Owen wanted to keep it a secret, so we did. He never seemed in much of a hurry actually to get married, but he wanted to be sure that I’d be there when he did make up his mind. I didn’t like it much.’
‘Did you ever quarrel about it?’
‘Not actually about that; we quarrelled about other things instead, but I think it was the strain. They never lasted long—the quarrels, I mean. He was very fond of me really, and I couldn’t do without him, although now I suppose…’
She looked down at the floor, swallowing hard.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, Miss Marsden. But do you mind telling me when you had your most recent quarrel?’
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
‘That’s the awful part of it. We had one today, and we hadn’t made it up and now I never can.’
‘What was it all about?’ he asked gently.
‘Oh, I was rather silly. Usually he takes me out to dinner before a concert like this, and often we have lunch and spend the afternoon together before it as well. He gets—he used to get—very nervous, and I could usually keep him fairly calm. Well, this was a bigger concert than he’d ever had before, and I expected that we’d do the same today and then I found that he was having lunch and dinner with somebody else and he hadn’t told me. I was a bit disappointed, that was all; I lost my temper and he lost his too.’
‘Who was the somebody else, then?’
‘The contralto soloist. He seemed to know her quite well, though he’d never mentioned her to me. I suppose I was jealous.’
‘There’s nothing more you want to tell me about it?’
‘I don’t think there is anything more.’
‘Then thank you for being so frank. Tell me, have you ever used firearms?’
‘Yes. But only against rabbits in the wood at home. Why do you ask that?’
Simon watched as she worked it out.
‘But he couldn’t have been shot. There wasn’t any noise.’
‘There are silencers, you know. And it was a very noisy piece of music towards the end. Tell me, would the general public know about the ending? Has it been printed?’
‘Yes, but not issued yet. A few of the critics saw it last week, but that’s all. The choir and orchestra have been using single parts. Of course, anyone who was at the practice this morning would know what was coming—but most of the choir left before the end part was rehearsed, I think. I only remember Mrs Bainsbury and myself staying to the end with the orchestra.’
Simon made a note and then laid a selection of keys on the table. All except one were attached to a ring.
‘Can you tell me anything about these keys, Miss Marsden? You may have seen Mr Burr use them.’
Without hesitating, Shirley identified all those on the keyring but over the unattached one she shook her head.
‘He didn’t carry that one about normally, I’m sure. I can’t think what it would be for.’
‘Thank you very much, Miss Marsden. Would you ask Mr Stanley to come in, please?’
Something in her eyes prevented him from saying that he was sorry for her. He watched her reflectively as she left, then at once his mind switched to the next-comer. Would Robert Stanley describe the eight-year-old quarrel to which Mrs Bainsbury had alluded? Even if he did, what possible relevance could it have here today? Simon sighed to himself as the tenor entered the room.
The interview was short. Ten minutes later Robert Stanley was hurrying towards Waterloo Station, indignant and a little frightened, but unshaken in his declaration that he and Owen Burr had never been on anything but the best of terms. In the little office, Simon wearily picked up his papers: it was half-past twelve.
As he walked slowly down the darkened stairs, he seemed to hear the faint sound of music. At first, he smiled ruefully, thinking that his head was singing with tiredness. Then he stopped abruptly, for this was not imagination; it was the finale of Evan Tredegar’s Mass in C Minor.
Quickly, stumbling past invisible chairs, he followed the sounds until he found himself at the open door of the Recital Room. There was no light, but he could see the shape of a grand piano thrown open and there was only one man who could be playing that music.
‘Mr Southerley,’ he called. ‘Would you like to tell me where the light switches are?’
There was no answer. Perhaps the pianist, his head bent over the crashing chords and runs, had not heard; certainly he seemed startled when Simon reached him and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Practising?’ asked Simon.
‘No. Working off a bit of bad temper. Who are you? You don’t look like a burglar or a nightwatchman.’
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Simon. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
John left his seat and switched on the light. He had taken off his stiff collar and his tie, untied, hung dispiritedly downwards. His face was that of a sulky but still attractive schoolboy.
‘What are you in a bad temper about?’ Simon asked quietly.
‘Being deprived of the pleasure of giving Owen Burr a thrashing. I wanted to kill him, and he died on me first.’
‘Owen Burr has been murdered, Mr Southerley. I think we had better talk about the matter calmly. You will forgive me if I guess that you have been drinking. Do you mind telling me when?’
‘Since the end of the concert. Nothing else to do.’
‘You didn’t have anything earlier in the evening?’
‘No. Couldn’t. Drink goes to my fingers. Don’t touch it usually.’
‘Why did you want to thrash Owen Burr?’
‘Weren’t you at the concert? Didn’t you hear what happened?’ His head dropped heavily into his hands. Simon looked at him for a moment without speaking, mentally visualising that the pianist’s seat fell within the second funnel of his diagram. When at last he did speak, it was with sharpness.
‘Mr Southerley. Owen Burr was shot, and from a position which may have been very near your own. Can you give me any good reason why I shouldn’t think that the shot was fired by yourself?’
‘I can give you three thousand and one reasons.’
‘I should like to hear them all.’
‘Well, the one is that you need two hands to play the piano. At the end of that Mass I was having to work hard—there weren’t any rests marked in the score for taking out pistols and firing them. Look at it this way. I was convinced that Owen was trying to make me mess things up and I was determined to make a success of it; it meant quite a lot to me, you know. I was concentrating for grim life on playing well. I wouldn’t have spoiled it for the chance of killing that little twerp. If I’d wanted to shoot Owen, there would have been plenty of more convenient opportunities.’
‘But at the moment when he was facing the audience and bowing, you would presumably have stopped playing.’
‘That’s where my three thousand reasons come in. I was one of the soloists, you know. It’s reasonable to think that a good many of the three thousand people in the audience would have been looking at me at any particular moment.’
‘Somebody took that risk, though.’
‘It wouldn’t be such a risk for anyone but a soloist.’ Suddenly he straightened himself up and looked coolly and altogether soberly at Simon. ‘Do I understand that you are accusing me of murder?’
Simon stood up wearily.
‘I’m not accusing anyone of murder. All I know is that someone is a murderer in fact and several other people seem to be murderers in wishful thought. Goodnight, Mr Southerley. Don’t run away.’
He noticed, as he left the Recital Room, that the playing did not begin again.
As he let himself out of the building he shivered with the cold. Then he stopped in surprise, for a lonely figure was sheltering under a flight of stairs, turning towards him at the sound of his footsteps.
Murder to Music Page 6