Murder to Music

by Margaret Newman

  ‘Is that Simon?’

  ‘Yes? Why—Delia. What on earth are you doing here?’

  He wanted to kiss her, to prove to himself that she had forgiven him and had come back to show her forgiveness. But he could feel that she was not ready for that and did no more than put his hand through her arm as they walked over to the car park.

  ‘Have you found out who did it?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s one who seems more likely than the others, but, as you say, most of these quarrels aren’t the sort of thing which normal people commit murder for. And except for being musical, they all seem perfectly normal. The one I think might possibly…’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to know,’ said Delia hastily. ‘I’d rather read it in the papers like everyone else. It would be horrid meeting someone and knowing he was under suspicion all the time.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Simon. ‘But in that case, you mustn’t discuss anything I say with anyone at all, because you won’t know which are the really important things. Not a word about the three funnels, for example. I say, you are shivering. It must have been frightfully cold waiting.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t been here long; I didn’t even know whether you were still inside. All the doors were locked, and I tried phoning, but no one answered. I only stayed because your car was still here, and I didn’t think you’d leave it. It’s just that I was thinking on the way home and of course you’re quite right that I ought to help if I can and to tell you things even if I don’t know what they mean.’

  She paused and he squeezed her arm encouragingly.

  ‘Well, you asked me whether I’d seen anything surprising this evening. As a matter of fact I did, but I forgot it when I was talking to you and only remembered when Mackenzie was in with you. You know it was announced that Evan Tredegar couldn’t conduct because he was ill in bed. Well, he may have been ill, but he wasn’t in bed. About a quarter of an hour before the end I saw someone staring across at the door in a funny sort of way, so I stared too when I had a break and there was the Old Man. He was standing against the edge of the door so that no one in the audience would see him, but he was clear to me. Of course, I ought to have been looking at the conductor.’

  Simon stopped dead.

  ‘Which door?’ he demanded.

  ‘The one on the choir’s left. The one that comes into your third funnel.’

  Chapter Eight

  Simon pulled towards him the file which already held an outline of the life of Owen Burr; someone had been working hard through the weekend. He read it with interest.

  Owen Williams Burr, born in Llanberis, Wales, on January 10th, 1925. Mother, Emily Williams Burr, unmarried, died 1938. Father’s name not known.

  Education: Llanberis 1930-36. Conway Secondary School 1936-8. City of London 1938-43. Royal Navy 1943-4 (invalided out). Royal Academy of Music, 1944-6.

  Career: Worked in office of county rural musical organiser in Yorkshire, 1946-7. Came to London 1948 and took post as assistant librarian, Royal United Orchestra, and was appointed assistant conductor of the Metropolitana Choir in 1951. He appears also to have undertaken casual literary jobs in the musical world: proof-reading for musical publishers and acting as editorial assistant in the production of two reference books of music. In 1952 he formed a chamber music group which built up a high reputation and in 1955 he began to do free-lance work for the BBC, training special choirs for particular effects.

  Unmarried. No relations known.

  Simon spoke into the house telephone.

  ‘Sergeant Flint? Here a minute, please.’

  The sergeant entered smartly.

  ‘You’ve done very well to get all this so quickly. I’ve only two queries to raise. Do you know what was wrong with Burr? Why did the Navy let him go?’

  ‘I haven’t seen the document yet, sir. I only had it over the telephone this morning and I was told he suffered a collapsed lung as a result of double pneumonia. He spent two days in a lifeboat in the North Sea in December 1943.’

  ‘Right. The other thing is his father. No hints at all?’

  ‘Not from Somerset House, sir. But Llanberis is a smallish place. It should be possible to pick up some gossip on the spot. Would you like me to go down?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Simon, laughing. ‘Sorry to disappoint you. I may have to go myself, but we’ll see how things go today. I’m expecting Mr Evan Tredegar at any minute. Show him in as soon as he arrives. Oh, and find out who paid Owen Burr’s fees at the City of London, and also make an appointment for me to see his bank manager before lunch. Give him an idea what it’s all about. I was up at Burr’s flat yesterday and couldn’t find any record of his financial affairs except a current cheque-book.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ Sergeant Flint disappeared but returned within a few seconds. ‘Mr Tredegar is here to see you.’

  ‘Show him in.’

  Simon rose as the Old Man entered; he studied his visitor as they shook hands. But there was nothing to be learned from the deeply lined face. The eyes were sunken beneath folds of dry skin and over them the lids seemed to be permanently half-closed. Tredegar sat in the chair offered and waited, without any reference to the recent tragedy, for Simon to begin.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you can guess why I asked to see you, Mr. Tredegar. It was very good of you to offer to come up here.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Shocking business. Great loss to music. Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘How long had you known Mr Burr?’

  ‘Since he was a boy. Heard him playing at a school concert. Cello, most unusual gift. Should have kept it up. I was a governor, encouraged the boy. Glad to give him a job with the Metro. Never regretted it.’

  ‘What year was this, that you heard him play?’

  ‘No good on dates, I’m afraid. Before the war, though—1938, perhaps, or early ’39. Couldn’t say exactly.’

  ‘And you have always been on good terms with him?’

  ‘Certainly. Certainly. Both musicians, mutual respect. He was difficult, of course, but I could see he was going to be one of the great conductors. Worth encouraging him.’

  ‘You weren’t ever jealous that in the future his reputation might become greater than your own?’

  ‘Different spheres, Superintendent, different spheres. I create, Owen interpreted. No competition. No comparison.’

  ‘Did you know anything about his private life?’

  ‘You mean about Shirley?’ The heavy lids flickered fully open for a second and Simon caught a surprising glimpse of twinkling grey eyes. ‘Not more than anyone else. Owen never talked to people, no close friends. Nice girl, though. Clever.’

  ‘So that you wouldn’t know if Mr Burr had any enemies?’

  ‘Almost everyone he ever met, Superintendent, almost everyone. Too much ambition and no tact. But not enemies in the sense of potential murderers.’

  ‘When did you first know that he had been murdered?’

  ‘Don’t run out of questions easily, do you, Superintendent? Saturday night. Mrs Bainsbury telephoned to me after she’d seen you.’

  ‘You didn’t know before that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you a close friend of Mrs Bainsbury?’

  ‘Can’t stand the woman. But I’ve known her for thirty years and she likes finding excuses to disturb me. In this case, she seemed to feel that I ought to have an official report, secretary to conductor-in-chief.’

  ‘It must have been a great blow to you,’ said Simon carefully, ‘that you were not well enough to conduct the concert on Saturday yourself. I hope you are quite well again now.’

  The grey eyes opened fully and stared innocently at Simon across the table.

  ‘Never was ill. Never felt better in my life.’

  ‘That must have increased your disappointment at not hearing the first performance of your work.’

  ‘Heard it perfectly, Superintendent, perfectly. Beautiful place for acoustics, the Festival Hall. Don’t know why people bot
her to pay for expensive seats when you can hear just as well free from the doorways.’

  The twinkle was back in the eyes once more. Evan Tredegar was enjoying the failure of Simon’s little plot.

  ‘But if you were present at the concert, you must surely have known about Mr Burr’s death before Mrs Bainsbury phoned you.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Left before the end—the second the choir finished. Lingered on the stairs to hear the applause but didn’t want to be seen when the audience came out. Owen was perfectly all right when I left.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d explain then, Mr Tredegar, why you attended the concert without conducting it.’

  ‘Wanted to give the lad his chance. Difficult making a career as a conductor you know, Superintendent, very difficult. No one will let you conduct a big concert until you’ve conducted a big concert. When you’re at the top, everyone wants you, but no one helps you to start. As for attending, you wouldn’t have expected me to stay away on an occasion like that, would you? But as I was supposed to be ill, I couldn’t let any of the audience see me. Had to be very careful in the interval. Otherwise people might complain. Fraud.’

  ‘I don’t understand, though, why you shouldn’t have allowed Mr Burr to be billed as the conductor all along.’

  Evan Tredegar moved restlessly.

  ‘If you don’t understand, Superintendent, I can’t explain it. You’ll just have to take my word that there are people who’d come to hear me conducting who wouldn’t stir an inch for Owen Burr because they’d never heard of him. He’s had to get himself murdered to become a national celebrity.’

  ‘Obviously you behaved very altruistically, Mr Tredegar.’ Simon’s fingers were fidgeting through the open file in front of him. ‘Tell me, have you ever done any mountain-climbing?’

  There was just a second in which the grey eyes looked startled before they were hooded by the white-lashed lids.

  ‘Matter of fact, yes, when I was young. Not for years now, of course.’

  ‘Where did you climb, chiefly?’

  ‘Started out on the Alps as a young man. Declined through the Cairngorms, Lake District and Welsh highlands to the age of fifty-five and then took to climbing the stairs to my flat when I wanted exercise.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve been up Snowdon in your time, then?’

  ‘Hundreds of times. More or less born on the slopes.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised that. You don’t happen to remember whether you were there in 1924, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite possible. No memory for dates. But I kept on my mother’s house there after she died. Went there for holidays as often as I could. Welshmen aren’t like the Scots, you know, Superintendent; they like to go home. Especially when they’ve come from a poor family and done quite well for themselves.’

  ‘Which side of Snowdon did you live? The Llanberis side?’

  ‘That side, but the other end of the lake. All this relevant?’

  ‘I don’t expect so. I won’t keep you any longer now, Mr Tredegar. If you think of anything about Mr Burr or about Saturday’s performance that might give me a lead, I’d be very glad to hear about it. Thank you very much for giving up your time.’

  Simon was left alone. He received with a sigh the news that Owen Burr had paid his own school fees by cheque from the age of thirteen and set off to see the bank manager, consoling himself with the prospect of lunch with Delia.

  He was late and Delia, who had only the time allowed her by the architect for whom she worked, was already eating macaroni cheese. He ordered something more appetising for himself and began to talk at once.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen your Old Man. He’s put himself fairly well in the clear. He didn’t make any secret of the fact that he’d been at the concert, although he said he left early.’

  Delia’s face showed her relief.

  ‘I’m so glad. I didn’t really think that he could be mixed up in it. It was about a quarter of an hour before the end that we saw him, I think. Certainly when I looked again after the work was finished, he’d gone.’

  ‘Who do you mean by “we”?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Well, I suppose several people in the choir may have seen him, but it was after Mrs Bainsbury had been staring that I first noticed him.’

  Simon put down his knife and fork.

  ‘Does Mrs Bainsbury know that you saw him too?’

  Delia thought hard, trying to remember.

  ‘Yes, I think she does. I seem to remember saying something to her about it, though I’m not sure what it was. It was before I’d mentioned it to you, in fact. I’d only just remembered, and I wasn’t sure whether or not it mattered.’

  ‘But even if she thought then that I didn’t know, she must have realised that you would almost certainly discuss it with me sooner or later; I’ve called for you several times after Committee meetings at her house. She phoned the Old Man on Saturday night. Almost certainly she warned him then—so that innocent, forthcoming admission of his doesn’t mean a thing after all. I’m just back where I started. Except that I’ve discovered one possibly interesting thing. Tell me, did you ever notice any resemblance between Owen and the Old Man?’

  ‘They had the same hands,’ Delia replied promptly. ‘I often noticed that—but perhaps most musicians have the same sort of hands. There was one other thing, too. They used to run their hands through their hair in the same way, except that Owen did it in a rush and the Old Man very slowly. But they were quite different to look at—with forty-five years’ difference I suppose that’s not surprising. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve got one more question first. Do you know anything about the Old Man’s love life?’

  ‘Simon! At the age of seventy-nine!’

  ‘At any time. Even if it’s only rumour.’

  ‘Well, it certainly won’t be anything else. I have heard that he was a bit of a one for the ladies once, as a matter of fact. Apparently, his wife—though Mrs Cuthbertson seemed a bit doubtful as to whether he married even her, though they lived together for years—died when he was fortyish and after that he never settled down again. You ought to ask Mrs Cuthbertson. She’s known him for years, and she doesn’t like him much. Now you must tell me what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Would it surprise you if I suggested that Owen Burr might have been the son of Evan Tredegar?’

  From the look on Delia’s face it was obvious that it would.

  ‘Did he tell you that?’ she gasped.

  ‘No. I’m only guessing. But listen to this. The Old Man visits regularly that place where Owen was born. When he’s thirteen, the boy’s unmarried mother dies and he’s promptly whisked away from a perfectly good school in Wales to London. As soon as he arrives, he begins to receive an allowance of £350 a year, out of which he pays his own school fees and £2 a week to a widow who looks after him. The £350 is paid into his account by Evan Tredegar, who has previously appeared to have no knowledge of his existence at all. It’s fairly suggestive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did the Old Man tell you all this?’ asked Delia in astonishment.

  ‘No indeed—though it’s possible that he might if I asked him. I got most of it from Owen’s bank manager. Anyway, if the Old Man were Owen’s father, it would make it more understandable that he should have stood down to give his son his first big chance at the concert.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’ Delia asked doubtfully.

  ‘Why, yes. What are you frowning about?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s just in the back of my mind. There was a telephone conversation I heard. It didn’t mean anything at the time, and I can’t remember what was said, but when I heard later what was happening it left me with a very definite impression—more definite than I’m being now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind that. What was the impression?’

  ‘That it was Owen who was ordering the Old Man to stay away.’

  Chapter Nine

  Simon stared at Delia.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

&
nbsp; She shook her head.

  ‘There’s nothing I could swear to at all. I don’t remember any exact words. It’s just that after I heard that the Old Man wasn’t coming, I suddenly had a feeling that he wanted to come but that Owen wouldn’t let him. The feeling was more than just a guess; it was based on something I’d heard that I wasn’t intended to hear.’

  Simon sat so still that a nicely browned roast potato which he had been saving until last on his plate was whisked away by a silent waitress.

  ‘Let’s assume that Owen was the Old Man’s son,’ he said at last. ‘And let’s also assume that your feeling is quite correct, that Owen forced his father to stay away. Now, why?’

  ‘So that he could get the Press notices, of course.’

  ‘No, I mean why did the Old Man put up with it? Why didn’t he simply say, “Go to hell”?’

  This was a more difficult one and they both sat in silence for some minutes.

  ‘Do you think Owen was the blackmailing type?’ Simon asked suddenly.

  Delia considered.

  ‘I don’t really know what blackmailing types are like,’ she said. ‘I don’t think for money, but of course he was terribly ambitious. I suppose he might have used a threat of some sort to get himself a push-up.’

  ‘Right. Then what’s the Old Man’s weak point—criminally weak point?’

  ‘Well, Owen himself, his very existence.’

  ‘It isn’t criminal to have an illegitimate son.’

  ‘Surely blackmailers don’t restrict themselves to the use of criminal offences. People will pay to keep their reputations as well as their freedom, won’t they? And look’—Delia was by now very excited with her theory—’you remember I told you there were rumours that he might be knighted at the New Year. Well, suppose the rumours were true, the Old Man wouldn’t want all his old dirty linen dragged out just now, would he? It might be worth his while to keep Owen quiet for a couple of months.’

  ‘The New Year Honours List will have been settled in the autumn. It isn’t put together at the last minute.’