‘At once.’ She turned to her father. ‘Not too late tonight, I hope, but don’t wait up.’
She kissed him on the forehead and led the way out to the car. As soon as they were on their way she turned to Simon.
‘Were you discussing me when I came down just then?’
Simon grinned.
‘Discussing is not the right word. But it is true that your father was elaborating on the subject of you.’
‘I do wish he wouldn’t. He knows I hate it. When he was forty, he took up psychology in a big way and he’s never been able to leave anyone alone since.’
‘Does he just dabble, or does he really know something about it?’
‘Psychology? I don’t know, I’m afraid. He’s got some sort of diploma, but of course that may not mean anything. Where normal people are concerned, he tends to rub them up the wrong way—but I have noticed once or twice that he has the knack of persuading unhappy people to talk to him.’
‘I’m obviously happy, then,’ said Simon. ‘I can never get a word in edgeways. Does he know many of the Metro Committee?’
‘He’s met them all, casually. We have Committee parties every New Year and he’s been as my guest two or three times.’
‘He doesn’t know any of them apart from that—more intimately?’
‘Oh yes.’ Delia stopped herself just as she was about to proceed and glanced across at Simon’s face, but he was concentrating, for once, on his driving and did not notice. ‘Let me see, in the Committee,’ she said thoughtfully, in a tone less enthusiastic than that with which she had begun. ‘Shirley and John, I think, are the only two who have ever been home; he must have met them there once or twice.’
‘John Southerley?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t realise you were a particular friend of his.’
‘I’m not.’
‘He’s just another of the young men who never quite got round to kissing you goodnight on the doorstep, is he?’
Delia made no reply to that, but after a little while she volunteered an explanation.
‘He’s got digs quite near home. He used to drive me to and from Committee meetings and practices—it’s a frightful journey by bus, you know.’
‘You certainly have your transport well organised,’ said Simon. Delia glanced across at him again but continued to speak calmly.
‘He offered chiefly because he wanted someone to talk to about Shirley,’ she said. ‘His parents are both dead and I think he’s very lonely. He was still only twenty when I first knew him, and incredibly young for his age—except as a pianist, of course.’
‘What do you mean about Shirley?’ asked Simon.
‘He fell for her at sight, with the dog-like devotion of a lifetime—can’t you imagine the effect she can have on a very young man? She never had any use for anyone but Owen, though—Shirley’s no flirt, though everyone who sees her assumes she must be. So poor John was left to pine alone. They’re quite friendly now, but at that time I doubt if she knew he existed.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’ he demanded.
‘You didn’t ask me, and I didn’t think it was relevant. Is it?’
Simon threw both hands up off the steering wheel.
‘Relevant! Everyone keeps talking about relevancy. All I want to know is fact—unassorted, unsifted fact. I’ll give it relevancy.’
At his side there was silence and his brief anger turned against himself as he realised what he had done. He drew the car abruptly to a halt and put his arm round Delia’s shoulder.
‘That was a damn’ silly thing to say. Please forgive me, Delia. You’ve been so helpful all the time and then I have to pitch into you like that. I don’t deserve you ever to speak to me again, but do, please.’
Still Delia did not speak. Simon bent over further and kissed her on the lips. The kiss became a passionate one; he held her tightly, and, as he kissed, he longed desperately to ask her whether she would be his wife. To be safe with her, to have no more fear of these stupid hurts and silences; he could hardly restrain himself from speaking. But she sat unresponsively, only allowing herself passively to be kissed, forcing him to realise that of all possible times for proposing marriage this would be one of the worst. He was silent himself now, feeling a little foolish as he withdrew his arm and re-started the car.
‘I’d better take your father’s advice,’ he said gloomily. ‘I won’t mention this wretched case to you again.’
Delia managed a half-smile.
‘I wasn’t feeling offended then,’ she said quietly. ‘I was only thinking that I don’t want it to be John.’
‘You’ve got your tenses wrong,’ he answered. ‘Whoever it is has been a murderer, not is to be.’ But the flicker of jealousy was with him again and it was for his own sake as well as hers that he struggled for a change of subject.
It did not come easily. In fact, as soon as he had spoken, he realised that his mind had refused to be dragged from the case.
‘There’s certainly a class structure in soloists for these concerts of yours, isn’t there? I was staggered by the difference in the fees you paid for the Mass. Fifteen guineas for the poor contralto, thirty-five for the bass and a hundred for the tenor. It’s just a matter of supply and demand, is it?’
‘We got the contralto cheaply because no one’s ever heard of her. As for the tenor, we only paid him fifty, as a matter of fact, though he would have been worth more if we’d had it.’
‘Only fifty? Are you quite sure? I saw the agent this morning and his secretary told me that the fee was a hundred guineas.’
‘What were you seeing him about?’
‘Just trying to find out whether any of the soloists had any possible link with Owen.’
‘And had they?’
So they were back again. But it was she who was making the running and presumably she would stop when she wished.
‘Not the bass or the tenor. I didn’t ask the boy; one doesn’t want to drag a twelve-year-old into a murder investigation unnecessarily. Anyway, he and the contralto were sitting at the wrong angle. And it doesn’t seem very likely that any of the solo singers—without the protection of the piano which Southerley might have counted on—would risk taking a pot-shot in full view of the audience.’
‘The contralto had some sort of link, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, but it was very much in her interest to keep Owen alive. She was hoping that he’d be able to get her more jobs in the future. She was quite frank about it. I don’t think Shirley really had very much to worry about. But look, about this business of the tenor. I don’t expect it means anything, but find out how much your treasurer admits to paying. If he says fifty, don’t make any comment, but say I’d like to have a look at his accounts. It may be that the agent is lying to keep up Cassati’s fee, but I’d like to sort it out.’
Simon swung across the road and pulled up outside Mrs Bainsbury’s house, where the presence of three other cars pointed to the fact that Delia would not be the first arrival.
‘I shall be in my office for about an hour,’ he said. ‘Will it be any good my calling for you then, or will you still be hard at it?’
‘I should think that will be about right. This should be quite a short meeting. It’s chiefly a formality, to find out how we’ve done financially and sanction payment of all the bills. But I expect there will be a lot of talk about Owen, in the circumstances. I feel very guilty, though, dragging you out of your way like this.’
‘I like it,’ said Simon. ‘If you’re prepared to be driven by me, then I love driving you. Anyway, if I’m early, perhaps someone will invite me to join in the beer.’
‘They’re all much too frightened of you,’ she said, laughing. ‘See you later, then.’
As usual Roger admitted her to the house and took her coat. He seemed tired and did not speak after he had greeted her. Delia glanced curiously at a large, though fading, bruise on his forehead. ‘Have you been kicked by a horse or som
ething?’
‘By a goalkeeper actually. Rough types, these undergraduates. I’m still seeing stars.’
‘I bet you are. Well, this is going to be an uncomfortable evening, isn’t it? Is Shirley here?’
He nodded silently and she made her way into the drawing room, where four members of the Committee stood, restlessly. Delia’s eyes went at once to Shirley. She had her back to the others, pretending to be absorbed in the contents of a bookcase. When she turned, Delia was shocked; she had never seen Shirley look dowdy before. She was wearing the same clothes, her face and hair had been as carefully groomed as usual, but her eyes were dead and her lips unsmiling. Delia could think of nothing to say.
Robert Stanley and Mackenzie Mortimer were also there, fidgeting with papers and occasionally whispering to Mrs Cuthbertson. Mrs Bainsbury came into the room and distributed agendas.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone else to come, is there?’ she murmured to the chairwoman. ‘Oh yes, John Southerley.’
His knock was heard at that moment. The Committee settled down into its chairs. While Mrs Bainsbury read the Minutes in her usual expressionless voice, Delia studied the agenda with some surprise.
‘Election of chairman,’ announced that lady. ‘As I have resigned from membership of the choir, I am obviously no longer eligible to be a member of this Committee. May I have nominations for a chairman to take over until the end of the season?’
‘But Mrs Cuthbertson,’ protested John Southerley, ‘is it really necessary for you to resign? I’m sure everyone here would be most sorry to see you go.’
‘It was made fairly obvious last Saturday that my membership could be dispensed with. I do not propose to wait until I am snubbed again.’
Delia gazed at her incredulously. It hardly seemed possible that Owen’s death could be ignored as completely as this; rarely before had Mrs Cuthbertson managed to express her feelings so strongly. There was no further comment. Mackenzie Mortimer was elected chairman and Mrs Cuthbertson, pursued by bewildered thanks and good wishes, swept out of the room and the house.
Mortimer requested the secretary to write a letter of appreciation to the ex-chairman and settled down efficiently to the management of the meeting. The treasurer reported a handsome profit on the concert, but nobody liked to show the cheerfulness with which such an announcement was usually greeted. He hurried through the list of payments to be authorised; Delia noticed that Cassati’s fee was entered as fifty guineas but made no immediate comment.
‘While we’re on the subject of accounts,’ she said casually just as Mortimer was about to move on to the next item. ‘Superintendent Hudson has sent a message through me; he would very much like to inspect the Metro’s accounts for the past eight years. I don’t know whether the Committee’s permission is necessary for that sort of thing.’
‘If it is, I see no objection to giving it,’ said the chairman briskly. ‘I’m sure we would all like to help the Superintendent as much as possible.’
Shirley and John nodded in agreement. Delia looked across at Robert Stanley, who sat stiffly in his seat.
‘I shall be seeing him after the meeting tonight,’ she said. ‘If you could let me have the accounts, I’ll hand them over to him at once.’
The treasurer’s face lost its final drop of colour.
‘I’ll have to send them,’ he said hastily. ‘I haven’t them with me.’
‘But that book you’ve been reading from,’ began Delia.
‘Not the right one at all. These are just the day-to-day items of expenditure and income. What Superintendent Hudson will want is the set of annual audited accounts.’
Delia looked doubtful but Mackenzie Mortimer, assuring her the Superintendent was not likely to mind a delay of one day, swept on through the agenda.
‘Appointment of assistant conductor,’ he read. ‘Well, of course, we are all very sorry that this has to be discussed. I imagine we all want the secretary to record in the Minutes our most deep regret at the tragic happening last Saturday. Unfortunately, there is nothing else we can do, except for an idea of my own which I shall mention under Any Other Business. It is not pleasant to have to discuss the question of Owen Burr’s successor so soon, but unfortunately, whatever our sentiments, we must remember that we have another concert in February and that the choir will be meeting again in a fortnight’s time. It will be necessary to find someone to take over the work as soon as possible.’
‘We can’t settle much without the Old Man though, surely,’ said John. He looked at Mrs Bainsbury. ‘Do you think he will turn up later?’
She shook her head. ‘He sent an apology. He is flying to Italy at ten-thirty this evening. A most inconvenient time to travel, but the arrangements were made at short notice and apparently it was the best that could be arranged. He did not mention when he expected to return. So I think we ought to make at least a temporary choice ourselves.’
Delia glanced at her watch; it was twenty to ten. The need to think quickly seemed to paralyse her brain. She turned to the secretary.
‘May I use your telephone, Mrs Bainsbury?’
‘Of course,’ replied the secretary, looking puzzled. ‘But—surely it can wait until the end of the meeting.’
‘Yes, Miss Jones,’ said the chairman. ‘We still have some business to attend to.’
Everyone was looking at her with slight disapproval, but Delia’s blush was caused by her sudden realisation that she was about to become an informer. She felt it necessary to her pride that she should act publicly.
‘I think it may be urgent,’ she said jerkily. ‘Unless of course you think that the police already know that the Old Man is proposing to leave the country.’
‘The police!’ Mrs Bainsbury jumped to her feet, her notebook slithering to the ground. ‘Why should the police be interested in Evan’s movements? Why, he wasn’t even at the Hall on Saturday.’
‘But he was, Mrs Bainsbury. You saw him there yourself.’
‘I deny that absolutely. In any case, I think it despicable that you should be acting as a spy. None of this is your business, nor that of the police. I will not allow you to use my telephone for this purpose.’
Mackenzie Mortimer intervened in an attempt to control the quarrel.
‘We must remember that Miss Jones is a friend of Superintendent Hudson,’ he said soothingly. ‘Perhaps she knows more about the investigation than she is prepared or able to tell us. In any case, I don’t see how any of us can object to the police learning information which I feel sure Mr Tredegar did not intend as a secret; they will doubtless decide themselves whether it is of any value.’
Mrs Bainsbury’s hands were clenched tightly as she turned towards Delia.
‘Do they suspect Evan, then? Are they going to arrest him?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Bainsbury. I honestly don’t know.’
She hated herself as she moved out through the silent room into the hall and dialled Simon’s number with miserable fingers. She gave him the information without comment, noticing as she did so that the door of the drawing-room was ajar and that no sound came from inside it.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
There was a silence.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not ready to do anything. If he’s got no reason for going, I can ask him to stay, but of course he will have a reason, and I can’t see that I’ve got a strong enough case to make an arrest. I think my only chance is to drop a hint to Interpol and hope that the fact that he’s so well-known will prevent him from disappearing. I’ll drive down to the airport anyway—afraid that means I shan’t be able to pick you up after all. Thank you for phoning. I’ll let you know what happens.’
He rang off abruptly and Delia returned to her meeting. She sat unhappily to the end, approving without enthusiasm the new chairman’s suggestion that a repeat performance of the Mass should be given as a special tribute to Owen. When the business was concluded she did not wait to share the refreshments bu
t set out at once for home.
It was a long walk to the nearest convenient bus route, but she had not gone very far before she heard a car pull up beside her. John Southerley opened an inviting door.
‘Going my way, miss?’
She accepted gratefully and seated herself beside him.
‘Not often I have the pleasure nowadays. Boyfriend busy?’
‘Mm.’ She did not want to discuss it anymore and changed the subject quickly. ‘What a wonderful coat you’re wearing. It must keep you very warm.’
‘As burnt toast. A posthumous present from my great-grandfather—a family heirloom, in fact. Stands up well to its eighty years, doesn’t it? The only trouble is that it was built for a man with a considerably larger stomach line than mine. However, I hope to grow into it before I die.’
She stroked the curly black wool admiringly.
‘I think it’s magnificent. What is it—astrakhan?’
‘That sort of thing, but slightly different. It weighs a ton, though. I can’t imagine any little lamb skipping gaily about with this on its back.’
They drove along in silence for a while. Delia asked for a cigarette.
‘Help yourself. Left-hand pocket of great-grandfather. The lighter may be there or else just in front of you. Light one for me, will you?’
Delia dug into the voluminous pocket and extracted two cigarettes from the packet she found there. Her hand returned for the lighter. The metal was cold, and she raised it straight to her lips. Suddenly she saw what she was holding and dropped it on to her lap with a quick intake of breath. John looked at her in surprise.
‘Can’t you find the lighter?’ he said. ‘Try on the tray, next to the duster. Put it back in my pocket when you’ve used it, will you?’
Delia’s fingers trembled as she lit the two cigarettes. For a moment she sat in silence, her forehead wrinkled. Then trying hard not to let the two metal objects clink together, she returned to the pocket of John’s great-grandfather the cigarette-lighter and the cold, murderous pistol.
Chapter Eleven
As the car sped along the road to London Airport, Simon wondered for the tenth time what he was going to do when he arrived there. The case against Evan Tredegar was so plausible, yet so incomplete. There was a motive of a sort, an opportunity which, although unsatisfactory, was no worse than that which anyone else committing the murder would have had to seize. It was not enough, but would he ever have anything more?
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