Simon drank his tea slowly; he was not quite satisfied. The explanation seemed simple and reasonable enough to be true, and yet the speaker did not quite carry conviction. She was too consciously trying to keep the tea-party a normal social occasion at which no inconvenient remarks would be passed. Perhaps it was only his imagination. He tried to startle her by an abrupt change of subject.
‘Do you possess a typewriter, Mrs Sheraton-Smith?’
‘Yes, I possess one, but I do not use it. My late husband purchased it two years before he died. I am not quite certain where it is now, but doubtless my maid will know.’
She stretched a ringed hand towards the bell, but Simon interrupted before she could reach it.
‘Please don’t trouble her now. If you will allow me, I will ask her to let me have a look at it when she shows me out. I’ve just one other question. Did you meet Signor Cassati personally during his visit to England?’
‘I was present at a party in his dressing-room on Christmas Eve. It was very much as all parties of that sort are and I went without invitation. I am sure that if you were to ask him, he would have no recollection of meeting me.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Simon, looking at his hostess as if for the first time. ‘Was it you who was with him when he left the theatre?’
‘As long as my answer does not imply that I did more than reach the stage door at the same moment,’ said Mrs Sheraton-Smith, ‘then I can say that that is so.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Mrs. Sheraton-Smith, do you never read the newspapers?’
Simon spoke indignantly, his relief at having discovered the mysterious companion overshadowed by the knowledge of how nearly he had missed the discovery.
‘Never,’ Mrs. Sheraton-Smith said decisively. She moved the tea-table slightly away from her chair as an indication that the visit could now politely be brought to an end. ‘There is never anything in them of the slightest interest. Why should you suddenly ask that?’
‘If you had read even a single newspaper you would have known how very anxious I was to talk to you, if only I could find out who you were.’
‘Well, now you are talking to me, Superintendent, so all is well. Why did you want to find me?’
‘I’d like to know, for one thing, what you were talking about just before you left the theatre.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Superintendent. But if you were so anxious to know, surely you could have asked Signor Cassati himself that when you could not find me—or has he returned to Italy by now? I suppose he has.’
‘I have no idea where he is, Mrs. Sheraton-Smith. He has not been seen since he left you to step into his car.’
‘Oh, I see. Perhaps he has gone into a monastery.’
Mrs. Sheraton-Smith appeared to think that this would be the most natural solution of the mystery. Simon stared at her in slight exasperation.
‘Have you any reason to suppose that he contemplated such a step?’
‘No, none at all. But he is a Roman Catholic, isn’t he?’
Simon sighed gently.
‘Did he discuss his future plans with you that evening at all? Did he say where he was going when he left the theatre?’
‘He said he was going home to bed. He repeated it twice, I believe. He seemed very insistent on how tired he was.’
‘Did you by any chance hear what directions he gave to the driver of the car?’
‘He stepped straight in without speaking. As far as I remember, the car moved off at once. I imagine it knew where to go. I was looking for a taxi myself, so I did not observe very closely. I am afraid I am not being very helpful, Superintendent.’
‘I’m afraid not. I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you very much for answering all my questions. There’s just one more. I suppose you were present at the performance of Mr Tredegar’s Mass. Would you tell me whereabouts you sat in the Hall.’
‘Certainly. I think the number was A7—in the front row of the stalls.’
‘That was the contralto side, wasn’t it? Isn’t it a little surprising that someone who can afford to give away fifty guineas to engage a tenor should buy the cheapest seat in order to hear him, when the more expensive seats at the back of the stalls are supposed to be much better?’
‘For some people perhaps, but not for me. I have the misfortune to be partially deaf. As it was, I heard only a distorted version of the Mass, but I am afraid it would have been even less satisfactory from a seat further away. Mrs Bainsbury kept this seat for me at my particular request, although she had been anxious to make me a present of one in the Grand Tier.’
‘I see,’ Simon said doubtfully. ‘You don’t know the names of anyone in the seats near you, I suppose?’
‘Only of one. I gave a seat in the second row to Mary, my maid. She is very much attached to Signor Cassati’s voice.’
‘I’ll have a word with her now, then, and also ask her to show me the typewriter, if I may. I don’t think I need to trouble you any further.’
Mrs Sheraton-Smith rang the bell.
‘Mary,’ she said as the maid appeared, ‘before you show the Superintendent out, he would like to see Mr Sheraton-Smith’s typewriter. He may also have some questions to ask you. You may come back for the tea tray after he has left.’
Simon chatted to the girl as he was led across a large hall. She was about seventeen, neat and friendly and willing to talk.
‘It must be lonely for you, working on your own in a big house like this,’ he suggested.
She looked at him wide-eyed.
‘Oh, I’m not on my own, you know. There’s Cook, and Mrs Jenkins in the mornings for the rough, and Jenkins in the garden. I get as much company as if I were living at home.’
‘That’s a lot of people just to look after Mrs Sheraton-Smith.’
‘Well, she’s always had it and you can’t expect a lady of her age to start scrubbing her own floors suddenly. She pays good wages and if that’s how she likes to spend her money it’s not my business to stop her, is it? This is where the typewriter’s kept.’
‘You like working for her then, do you?’ Simon asked, ignoring the machine for the moment.
‘Oh, she’s ever such a kind mistress. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’
‘I hear she gave you a ticket for the concert at which Signor Cassati sang. Did you enjoy it?’
‘I thought it was lovely. I’d like to sing in a big choir like that. There are people who say I’ve got quite a nice voice.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual towards the end?’
‘You mean before Mr Burr was killed? No, I didn’t. I’ve been trying to think ever since, but I can’t. Don’t you want to look at the typewriter?’
‘Thank you. Is there any paper I could use?’
Mary looked doubtfully in the top drawer of the heavy oak desk.
‘I don’t know what the right sort of paper is. Would this do? She doesn’t use it very often.’ She listened for a moment as Simon typed from memory the first paragraph of Mary Smith’s letter. ‘She’s quicker at it than you, all the same, though.’
‘Mrs Sheraton-Smith? I thought she didn’t type.’
‘She doesn’t much. But I heard her one day last week and she was fair rattling along.’
‘What day last week?’
‘It would be Wednesday, because it was while I was still in bed. It was ever so early in the morning. She often gets up early on Wednesdays to go to Early Service, but I’m not expected to be down until seven as usual.’
Simon was excited. He folded the paper neatly into his wallet and hurried away. He could hardly wait while his two specimens were examined but wandered restlessly round his office until the report came up. Mary Smith had typed her letter on Mrs Sheraton-Smith’s machine. What was more, she was either a professional typist or at least a practised one—‘her effort was much smoother than yours, old man, and it was typed faster than an old-fashioned machine like that will really work’.
Simon i
gnored the comparison and drove back to the big house in Kensington. Mary opened the door and stared at him in surprise.
‘Did you forget something?’
‘No. I want to see your mistress again. Is she still in?’
‘Well, she is, but she’s talking to Mrs Bainsbury on the phone and they usually have a long chat. Still, she’s an old friend. She won’t mind being interrupted.’
‘Just a minute.’ Simon stepped into the hall and considered. ‘I didn’t know Mrs Bainsbury was such an old friend. Does she come here at all? Does she ever let herself in? Look, Mary, what I really want to know is this: could it have been her and not Mrs Sheraton-Smith you heard typing last week?’
Mary’s face lightened.
‘Yes, of course it could. I thought it was funny, Mrs Sheraton-Smith being able to type so fast when she hardly ever does. But Mrs Bainsbury calls for her every Wednesday because they go to the service together. Mrs Sheraton-Smith opens the door and if she isn’t quite ready, Mrs Bainsbury waits. And I expect she can type ever so fast because she’s some sort of a secretary, isn’t she? I’m sure that would be it. She knows where everything’s kept. Would you like to ask Mrs Sheraton-Smith about it?’
‘I don’t think I will come in for the moment, after all. You needn’t say that I came again. Thank you very much, Mary; you’ve been a great help.’
Simon hurried down the steps and walked to another similar building only a few streets away. Here he asked for Mrs Cuthbertson and was shown into a drawing-room almost as cluttered with photographs as Mrs Sheraton-Smith’s; in this case, however, the subjects were without exception canine. Simon managed with difficulty to avoid treading on the current member of this doggy procession, a young, lively and extremely objectionable Yorkshire terrier upon which the Metro’s ex-chairman kept a motherly eye throughout the interview. Simon’s first questions probed Mrs Cuthbertson’s dislike of Owen Burr, a dislike which she was quite willing to explain in detail but in which he did not feel any great interest; since the disappearance of Cassati he had become convinced that some more subtle theory was needed to explain Owen’s death than that of mere dislike. The purpose of his visit was to collect gossip and towards this he presently turned the conversation.
Mrs Cuthbertson disappointed. Rumour there certainly had been in the past, but fact—that was something on which she refused to commit herself. It might have been true, but equally it might not. It was possible, she would go so far as to say that, it was possible that Mrs Bainsbury had once been the mistress of Evan Tredegar. But that, the Superintendent was to understand, had been thirty years ago, when Mrs Bainsbury was young and unwidowed; the relationship, if it ever existed, might well have ended when she became free to remarry. There were certainly few indications that it still continued; although Mrs Bainsbury’s attitude was one of hero-worship, Evan Tredegar’s behaviour towards her was offhand to the point sometimes of rudeness. This might be a calculated deception on his part, but it would be such an unnecessary one that it seemed unlikely. It was more probable, was it not, that if the relationship had ever existed, the seventy-nine-year-old man had by now lost interest and would have preferred to forget all about it? Mrs Cuthbertson really couldn’t suggest more than that, could she now, Muffin, good doggy, then.
Simon was by now resigned to hearing less than he hoped for; clearly, he would have to approach one of the two principals. In the meantime he went home and opened a tin for dinner.
Later the same evening he paid a call on Mrs Bainsbury. As his car drew up outside her house it was joined by a taxi from which Evan Tredegar emerged. The two men walked together to the front door, which was opened by Mrs Bainsbury before they had time to ring. She was expecting a visitor, but she was surprised to see Simon and a little doubtful as to what to do with him.
‘I’ll wait,’ announced Tredegar gruffly in the hall. ‘Roger will look after me while you get rid of your business. I don’t expect you’ll be long, will you?’
‘I hope not,’ Simon answered politely. The Old Man, leaving his heavy coat in a crumpled heap, opened a door opposite to that of the drawing-room.
‘Got a chair for me here for ten minutes, Roger? The house is stiff with police wanting to put your mother through the third degree.’
The door closed behind him as Mrs Bainsbury, without speaking, led Simon into her drawing-room.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,’ he said apologetically.
‘It’s all right as long as you don’t need to stay too long. We’re expecting someone else at eight—someone we’re thinking of to take Owen’s place. We’re more or less going to interview him.’
‘I see. I thought perhaps Mr Tredegar’s visit was a purely social one. Does he come here often?’
‘Very rarely. Only for committee meetings as a rule. Tonight’s business is unusual, of course.’
‘And yet you are very close friends, are you not?’
‘We have known each other for a good many years,’ Mrs Bainsbury amended carefully.
Simon drew a deep breath and then stopped to consider again.
‘Mrs. Bainsbury,’ he said at last, ‘I’m about to ask a question which I’m afraid you will consider impertinent, but it is very important, all the same, that you should give me a truthful answer. Has your relationship with Mr. Tredegar ever, at any time, been closer than that of mere friendship?’
She understood what he meant all right; he could tell that from the blood which flushed her sallow neck. Her face remained pale, however, as she answered him indignantly.
‘Your question is unpardonable, and it is completely without foundation. There has never been anything of that sort between us. It is a monstrous suggestion. I cannot imagine how you could have conceived such a notion.’
There was a long pause.
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it,’ Simon said at last with all the gravity he could summon. From his wallet he produced the letter signed by Mary Smith and laid it on the table beside his chair, smoothing its creases meticulously before he spoke again. ‘I had imagined that your answer, had it been affirmative, might provide a partial explanation of this, but now I must ask you to tell me exactly why you wrote it.’ He was not quite certain enough to dare to give her time for denial but pressed on with more confidence than he felt. ‘I believe I am right in saying that you typed it last Wednesday morning at the house of your friend, Janet Sheraton-Smith. Before you give me your explanation, I would like to remind you that this letter contains a confession of murder.’
Mrs Bainsbury was very pale.
‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ she asked tensely.
‘I am pointing out that you have yourself admitted to murder. I am suggesting that if you are going to claim that this letter contains a pack of lies, then you would do well to give a truthful explanation of why you sent it to me.’
There was another long, very long, silence.
‘It was a lie,’ she said at last, so softly that Simon could hardly hear. ‘I’d been worrying all night, and then I had an opportunity, so I wrote the letter on the spur of the moment. I didn’t think there was anything to connect Janet with the case, or that you would ever think to visit her, otherwise I would have waited till I got home. I wrote it because I was sure that Evan could not be a murderer.’
‘The law does not very often make mistakes in such a serious matter. If Mr Tredegar is not a murderer, then he is in no danger.’
‘How was I to be sure of that? Delia gave me the impression that you were intending to arrest him at any moment.’
‘But why should you be so vitally concerned?’
‘I suppose that the question you came here tonight to ask was a reasonable one,’ Mrs Bainsbury answered after another pause. ‘I should not have been so upset by it. It is true that Evan would once have liked me to—well, to do what you were suggesting. That was a long time ago, and I refused. I had a husband, a young son; I was not prepared to risk my domestic happiness for what I thought might be only a f
lirtation. I didn’t find it easy to refuse. I have always had a great admiration for Evan and at that time, when I was still a young woman, I was very much flattered by his interest. But I did refuse, and he was very angry with me. That was the year he wrote his Third Symphony. It was a failure and he blamed me. I blamed myself, too. I have always wanted to be able to do something which would be a recompense for the way in which I felt I had let him down and last week it seemed as if my chance had come. Evan knew nothing about it, of course. I hope it won’t be necessary to mention it to him. I’m not sure that he has ever quite forgiven me; it might all be a little embarrassing.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t promise that. This is a very serious matter, as I am sure you appreciate. I must check it as far as I can.’
There was a ring at the front-door bell. Mrs Bainsbury glanced uncertainly at Simon, who rose to his feet.
‘I’ll leave you to your business now,’ he said. ‘I hope you won’t interfere any further in mine. It’s a dangerous hobby.’
As he went into the hall Roger was just opening the front door. Evan Tredegar, obviously watching for Simon, beckoned him into the little room in which he had been waiting.
‘Won’t be long,’ he shouted across to Mrs Bainsbury. ‘Just want a word with the superintendent here.’
The word he wanted was of reassurance. Clearly, he hoped to hear that suspicion had fallen on someone else. Simon was not communicative. He used the brief opportunity for his own purpose. Without revealing the source of his information, he repeated some of the story that Mrs Bainsbury had just told him and asked for comments.
Murder to Music Page 14