‘Oh. Well, I didn’t know that and perhaps the Old Man wouldn’t either. Anyway, if a lot of scandal broke out about someone a fortnight before his knighthood was due to be announced, they might hold it up, mightn’t they? It would look so bad otherwise.’
‘You’re very persuasive, but there’s one snag. If the Old Man really thought this was something worth committing murder for—and I think I’m prepared to accept it as a motive, if it’s true—then, surely, he would have killed Owen before the concert, so that he could conduct the Mass himself after all.’
They were both silent until Simon spoke again.
‘Well, there are a lot of things to be checked. There are too many theories and not enough facts at present.’
‘What sort of people are murderers?’ asked Delia meditatively.
Simon laughed shortly.
‘You don’t really expect an answer to that question, do you? There are almost as many kinds of murderer as there are people who commit murder. The brutal type, the drunken type, the frightened type, the mad type and the type who becomes so worked up about some quite insignificant irritation that he becomes mad for a short time. The last sort are the most difficult to find, of course, because most of their friends think of them as completely normal. You have to have the key-word before you can unravel the code.’
‘If it’s one of that sort we’re looking for, the music of the Mass might have helped him to get worked up as well—did you find it had any effect on you while you were listening?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Simon, almost blushing. ‘But I’m not going to tell you what it was. I’m prepared to grant you the point, however, that anyone already in an emotional state might find his emotions intensified by it.’
Delia smiled at him, understanding perfectly.
‘In fact, I’m sure that the time when Owen was shot is the most important thing,’ she said. ‘A clever, sane man who had the choice would surely have done his murdering privately, at a time when there was nothing to connect him with Owen at all. Someone who was mad all the time, or so furiously angry that he had come to the concert especially to kill Owen, would probably not wait until the very last note. I’m sure there’s a musical reason for the timing. It was either someone sane who wanted to hear the whole work, or someone not quite sane whose emotions were being whipped around and who therefore felt an emotional need to wait until the climax of the whipping. But oh dear,’ she added, sighing, ‘I suppose it could just as easily be someone quite different.’
‘Would you consider John Southerley sane?’
‘Simon!’ she gasped. ‘You can’t think it was John. Was that what you meant on Saturday night? I’m sure John would never kill anyone.’
‘As a matter of fact, he told me himself how much he had looked forward to polishing off Owen.’
‘But not seriously, Simon. And anyway, a man who’d just killed someone wouldn’t go around shouting that he had intended to do so.’
‘He might if he were clever, hoping that I’d argue just as you have done.’
Delia sighed.
‘This is all too complicated for me. But I’m sure John wasn’t the murderer. If you suspect that he is, then I suppose I shall have to help you find out that you’re wrong—even if it does mean that somebody else whom I like may be involved. Don’t you hate being a detective, Simon?’
‘Not as much as I hate the idea of murderers walking about loose. But I agree that it’s not so pleasant when one’s friends are involved. You’ll be careful what you do though, won’t you, darling?’
‘Oh, I’m only going to ask a question. I’ll give you a ring tonight. Now I’m late.’
She picked up her bag and left before Simon had time to free his chair. At a more leisurely pace, he paid a visit from which he discovered that Evan Tredegar had been notified a few weeks previously of his forthcoming knighthood. Much of the rest of the afternoon he spent on the telephone, delivering a string of questions to the police station at Llanberis.
It was the next morning before Delia phoned and by that time Simon had learned enough to make Owen’s paternity almost certain.
‘I’ve asked my question,’ she announced at once.
‘What was it, and of whom?’
‘Of Shirley. When Owen’s about to conduct a concert she usually spends the afternoon before it walking round London with him and keeping him calm. I asked her if she did that this Saturday and whether the Old Man would have known where to find them.’
‘And the answer?’
‘The answer was an explosion of tears. Apparently, Owen spent the whole afternoon with what’s-her-name Badham—you know, the contralto soloist; Shirley didn’t see him at all. But after she’d finished crying, she said that the Old Man phoned her three times during the afternoon, asking if she knew where he could get hold of Owen. The last time was at seven o’clock.’
‘Mm. That’s not really enough, Delia. It suggests that he couldn’t have killed Owen between the rehearsal and the concert—but if he was going to do it at all, why not on the night before, or as soon as he knew he was to be kept away? It looks as though I shall have to pay the man an official visit.’
‘To arrest him, do you mean?’
‘Good heavens no. I haven’t got anything solid enough to act on at all yet—and one needs a good deal of solidity before one starts accusing national figures of murder. Anyway, thanks for closing one door.’
He arrived at Evan Tredegar’s flat unannounced; it was on the fourth floor of a luxury block in Twickenham. The door pushed open slightly beneath the force of his knock but was stayed after a few inches by a short length of chain. Simon examined the useless lock with interest; splinters of wood showed how it had been forced by a heavy blow from outside.
The maid who answered his knock was apologetic about the door.
‘It was an accident on Saturday, and we haven’t had time to get it mended yet; workmen are so slow, aren’t they, sir? Did you want Mr Tredegar?’
‘If you please. What happened on Saturday, then?’
‘I don’t know exactly, sir, because I don’t come in at weekends. But when Mr Tredegar got up in the morning, he found the mortice locked, which neither he nor I ever did, and his key vanished, and there’s no fire escape here, you know, sir, though I do say there should be, on the fourth floor like this. Mr Tredegar had to send for the police or the firemen or somebody before he could get out. What name shall I say, sir?’
‘Superintendent Hudson.’
‘Oh, are you from the police too, sir? I’m sorry I didn’t know. Will you come this way, please?’
He followed the girl into a study where Evan Tredegar was pasting Press notices into a large black album. The preliminaries over, Simon asked his most important question at once.
‘Mr Tredegar, why did you not tell me yesterday that Owen Burr was your son?’
Closely though he watched, he found it impossible to tell whether the musician was startled. The reply was certainly smooth enough.
‘Didn’t see that it had any relevance to the matter you were investigating.’
‘It had some relevance, surely, to the truthfulness of your answers.’
‘Very little, you know, very little. Not a family man myself. Never had any sort of paternal relationship with Owen. Only met him on business.’
‘Nevertheless, Mr Tredegar, I would appreciate it if you would answer any further questions of mine with the strictest accuracy and leave it to me to determine their relevancy.’
‘You’re impertinent, young man.’
Simon stifled the obvious retort.
‘I’m sorry if I seem to be,’ he said politely instead. ‘I’m only trying to treat a serious matter seriously. Will you tell me, was he financially dependent on you?’
‘Certainly not. Settled £10,000 on him ten years ago, but he earned a good enough packet himself one way and another.’
‘So that as far as you know he was not short of money?’
‘Had no ri
ght to be. Nothing to stop him drawing on the capital if he had a bad patch. Never discussed it with him.’
‘Now, Mr Tredegar, when did you discover that you were not going to be allowed to conduct your Mass on Saturday?’
The Old Man looked for a moment surprised by the question, then appeared to understand its wording and nodded his head.
‘See what you mean. Wondered at first. About half past eight on Saturday morning. Doctor was most firm about it. Great disappointment.’
‘Your doctor certainly seems to be an early riser. I can never get mine to budge until he’s finished The Times crossword over breakfast. Could I have the name and address?’
For the first time Tredegar appeared to be at a loss. The pause was too long, the answer too casual.
‘Certainly. Edgar Smiles, Devonshire Mansions. But he didn’t come round himself to see me on Saturday. Gave me instructions months ago that as soon as I had another twinge, I must lie down all day. Heart, you know. Nothing to be done; just rest and let it go.’
‘I see,’ said Simon. He pulled from his pocket the key which had not been attached to Owen’s keyring. ‘Do you recognise this key?’
‘Where does it come from?’
‘From Owen Burr’s pocket.’
There was a long silence. Simon stood up briskly.
‘With your permission, I’ll just see whether it fits into your broken mortice lock.’
‘You can wait until you’re leaving. I think you will find that it does belong here. Was only wondering how it had come to be in Owen’s pocket.’
‘For the second time, Mr Tredegar, I must ask you to answer my questions frankly. When did Mr Burr last visit you?’
‘On Friday evening. Went through the score together; he told me the various tempi to which the choir had been accustomed and there were a few changes of phrasing he had made.’
‘All quite amicable?’
‘Most, most.’
‘And could he have taken the key with him when he left?’
‘Quite possible. Must have done, in fact. He let himself out. Only use that particular key when I’m leaving the flat empty; keep it in the lobby.’
‘That must have been when he helped himself, then. Now, Mr Tredegar, suppose we hear what really happened on Saturday morning. I think we can forget about the doctor, can’t we? It was only yesterday that you were assuring me you had never felt better in your life.’
‘Teasing you yesterday, teasing you. Knew you were hoping that I’d deny going to the Hall. But you can have the truth if you like.’
‘I do like, Mr Tredegar,’ Simon said heavily. Evan Tredegar shot at him under bushy white eyebrows the look of a schoolmaster for a naughty boy.
‘Rehearsal was at nine on Saturday morning. Got up early, got myself breakfast—Annie doesn’t come in at weekends. Put on my coat, walked to the front door and it wouldn’t open. Note from Owen fastened to the lock, saying that he proposed to conduct the performance himself. Young blackguard. No other way out of the flat. Much too high.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Phoned the scoundrel up at the Hall as soon as I could reach him. Threatened to make the whole thing public if he carried on with it. He didn’t appear to worry—intended to make such a splash with that Mass—my Mass—that no one would care how he came by it.’
‘Why didn’t you phone the police?’
‘I did later. But after I spoke to Owen, I had a heart attack. I really have got a heart, you know, not pulling your leg about that. Flat on the floor until one o’clock. Quite conscious but couldn’t move. Not at all funny. All Owen’s fault, damn him.’
‘So you phoned the police and they came round and broke the door in. Why didn’t you go down to the Hall and conduct the Mass that evening after all, since you were free?’
‘Two reasons. For one thing, my heart still gave me a twinge whenever I moved my left arm; wasn’t quite sure whether I could get through all right. For the other, it’s dangerous conducting a concert when you haven’t taken any rehearsals at all. Anything might happen. Wanted the Mass to be a success, you understand, and Owen had the better chance of making it so, thanks to his own devilry. But after it was over, I meant to ruin him—write to all the papers and all that. Can’t do it now the boy’s dead, of course.’
He looked straight across into the eyes of his interlocutor and Simon, taken by surprise, looked down at the notebook on his knee. He did not know what to think. After so many lies, why should he believe this version? Yet it sounded plausible enough; until he had consulted Dr Smiles, he had no means of testing its possible truth. He sighed slightly, hoping for some miraculous intervention, some solid discovery that would lift him outside all these paths of mere possibilities. None came, and he asked his next question without enthusiasm.
‘Did anyone know that Owen was your son?’
‘No.’
‘Did Owen know himself?’
‘He wasn’t meant to. He may have guessed, from the fact that I made myself financially responsible for him after his mother’s death. The story was that I was a close friend, a boyhood friend of his father, who died before he was born. But he had imagination. He may have realised the truth—never mentioned it to me, though.’
‘Would you have objected if the truth had become known?’
‘Never thought about it. Not something I should want to proclaim unnecessarily, of course. No need for it to come out now, is there, Superintendent—at the inquest, I mean? That would mean a lot of publicity, wouldn’t it, with the fellow getting himself killed in those circumstances?’
‘I’m afraid it might. I don’t expect it need be mentioned at the inquest unless the coroner especially asks, but of course it may prove—relevant—later on. I may have to trouble you again in a day or two, Mr Tredegar, I’m afraid.’
The Old Man rose majestically.
‘I shall be here. Sorry if I’ve held you up at all. Circumstances were rather unusual; wasn’t quite sure where I was.’
‘I’ll show myself out,’ Simon said as he shook hands.
‘Annie will be there. Oh, but you want to try the key of course. Perhaps I can have it back when you’ve finished with it.’
Simon satisfied himself that the key had been traced to its proper home before calling on Dr Smiles. After a long wait, punctuated by icy remarks from a receptionist who saw her whole programme of appointments for the day disrupted, he learned that Evan Tredegar was indeed under warning of the danger to his heart from over-exertion (‘Though over-weight is the root of the trouble, Superintendent’) and that Dr Smiles had in fact been called in on Saturday and had found his patient in a very dangerous state, the heart being in a state of over-stimulation. It was not possible to tell whether this came from physical effort or from some form of excitement. The time? He remembered it perfectly—a most inconvenient one. He had been sent for at twenty minutes before midnight.
Chapter Ten
‘Delia will be down in a minute,’ said Mr Jones later that day. ‘She is just arraying herself suitably. It is very kind of you to drive her in to her committee meeting. Getting into the centre of Town is simple from here, of course, but to go from one outskirt to another can take hours. But you mustn’t let her use you as a taxi-driver.’
‘I like to be used, thank you, sir,’ Simon said politely. Mr Jones was in fact only twelve years older than his visitor, but he spoke to Simon as to an inexperienced young man of twenty and this had the immediate effect of securing to himself the deference more properly due to a septuagenarian. Nor was he unaware of this, and at the moment he was bent on exploiting it.
‘I hope you’re not going to use her, though, Simon,’ he pursued solemnly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘As a detective, I mean. This business about Owen Burr is most unfortunate and I consider it even more unfortunate that you should have been assigned to the task of apprehending the murderer. It must be tempting for you to draw on Delia’s knowledge, since she is b
ound to be personally acquainted with many of the people concerned. I trust you will be able to resist the temptation.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking her to do anything to which she objected, of course. She has seemed quite anxious to help in any way she can—I mean, she has actually offered.’
‘May I suggest that you should refuse the offer. It is always unwise, in my opinion, to mix business with pleasure, and at the moment her relationship with you seems to be one of pleasure. I may say that I am extremely glad to find that is so. So many of Delia’s friends in the past have been what one might call lame ducks. It is a great relief to me that she should now have formed a friendship with someone who has a normal degree of self-confidence.’
Simon found himself extremely embarrassed by this turn in the conversation, but luckily it was clear that he was not expected to make any comment. Mr Jones pontificated on.
‘That is one reason why you would be unwise to suggest, even indirectly, that you are not capable of managing your own professional affairs. There are other aspects, however. It seems to me possible that a conflict of loyalties might arise in her mind. I think there is little doubt that if the murderer proves to be a friend, or even a pleasant acquaintance of hers, and she has helped you in any way to trap him, she will find it very difficult to forgive herself and perhaps impossible to forgive you for involving her. We cannot all look at these things from a purely professional point of view.’
Once again Simon, to his great relief, was spared the difficulty of making a suitable reply, for Delia appeared at this moment. She was warmly dressed and although, as usual, she went hatless, a headphone of white angora was firmly clipped over her ears.
‘You’re very wise,’ Simon congratulated her, wondering as he looked whether he could afford to buy her a really good fur coat for a wedding present. If ever there was a wedding, of course. ‘It’s icy outside. There’s still time for a white Christmas, and it feels as though it may be on the way. Are you ready now?’
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