‘We can’t ask anyone to start digging on spec until there’s a thaw,’ he said gloomily. ‘We seem to have drawn a blank. Do you think there’s any point in searching the rest of the wood?’
‘Cassati would have been a frightful weight to drag,’ Simon answered with an equal lack of enthusiasm. ‘And we’ve covered a pretty wide area in detail. We might have a quick look round the rest, but I don’t think there’s much hope.’
His lack of faith was justified; they found nothing suspicious.
‘I’ll have to leave it to you,’ Simon said at last. ‘As soon as the thaw arrives get as many of the Bexley police as you can and give this semi-circle round the tyre-tracks a digging over. We must be near the answer, if we could only be a little more clever about seeing it.’
‘When you find the body, what’s it going to prove for you?’ Bill asked curiously.
Simon laughed shortly.
‘Heaven knows. Perhaps only that I’m looking for a madman who becomes homicidal every time he hears sweet music. Music’s the only link I can find between the two of them—or perhaps three now, with Evan Tredegar. I’d better get back now and see how he is. I’ve put a man in his room, but, if he does recover his speech, I’d like to be there myself.’
They drove back together in silence. Simon was dropped at the hospital, where he learned that there had been no change at all, for better or worse, in Evan Tredegar’s condition. Thoughtfully he made his way to Twickenham. He had an excuse now as well as an opportunity to examine the composer’s private papers. A search warrant might have caused trouble; now no one was likely to worry if he acted without one.
Annie certainly made no difficulty; clearly, she was glad to have the company of someone she knew. Simon went into the study and settled down to a systematic examination of all its owner’s papers. After two hours he had had enough. There was plenty here to interest a musician but nothing for a detective. He phoned Sergeant Flint to see whether anything important had come in during the day and then cursed himself for not having done this earlier, for he learned that at half-past ten that morning the three hundred-pound notes missing from Evan Tredegar’s drawer had been paid into Shirley Marsden’s account by that young lady herself.
Simon left at once and within twenty minutes had arrived at Shirley’s flat. He found her busily working on Owen’s book and came to the point at once.
‘Have you heard the news about Evan Tredegar?’
She smiled happily.
‘Yes, it is good, isn’t it?’ Then a slight frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘But how did you hear? It’s early yet for it to have been announced.’
‘I think perhaps we have different pieces of news in mind,’ Simon said after a moment of surprise. ‘What were you thinking of?’
‘I thought you were talking about the Old Man’s knighthood, but it isn’t official until Friday, of course.’
‘Oh, you knew about that, did you?’
‘Yes, he told Owen and me about it as soon as he heard, under strict oaths of secrecy. I think he would have burst if he couldn’t have told someone, the pet. What’s your news, though, if it isn’t that?’
‘I’m afraid my news is that Evan Tredegar is dying.’
Shirley half rose to her feet, then slowly sat down again. After a moment’s silence she looked up at Simon.
‘Is he dying naturally—I mean, because he’s old?’ she asked quietly. ‘Or has he been shot too?’
‘He hasn’t been shot. As to whether it’s natural, I’m hoping you may be able to help me there. I think you may have been the last person to see him alive.’
She did not attempt to deny this and there was no look of surprise on her face as she considered.
‘He seemed perfectly normal and well when I left him. I didn’t notice anything unusual at all.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About a quarter to ten. I was there for less than an hour.’
‘Did you have anything to drink while you were there?’
‘He offered me port, but I don’t like it, so I didn’t; he didn’t drink anything either.’
‘Did you know that he suffered from heart trouble?’
‘Not until the day he couldn’t conduct the Mass. He told me after that. Is that what’s wrong?’
‘It may be, but I’m not sure yet. Would you mind telling me why you visited him last night? Was it your idea or his?’
‘His, entirely. I’d been talking to him about Owen’s book on the phone yesterday morning—I asked him if he would write an Introduction, as a matter of fact. He seemed very interested and invited me round. When I got there, he asked whether I’d found a publisher yet. I said I hadn’t and told him that there might be some difficulty—it isn’t a book that will sell well, of course, and when the author’s already dead the publisher doesn’t even have the hope of a more popular work to come. The Old Man didn’t seem surprised. He fished in his drawer and produced a wad of notes. He said he’d like the book to be published, and, if I had any difficulty, he’d like me to be able to offer to pay for it myself. He didn’t let me say anything after that—said he didn’t want the money back whatever happened and that if I had a proper offer for the manuscript, I could keep this as payment for my work on it. It had already occurred to me that I might have to pay for the book and I’ve only got my allowance, so I accepted it.’
‘How much did he give you?’
‘Three hundred pounds. I counted it as soon as I got home. Do you think he knew he was going to be ill? That would explain why he was in such a hurry to give me the money. When he first offered it, I suggested that he should wait until I knew whether the money would be wanted, and how much, but he insisted on my having it at once.’
‘Did he mention what he was proposing to do when you left? Did he say anything about going to bed?’
‘No. He usually goes to bed quite late. I don’t think he needs much sleep. He told me once that all his best work was done after midnight.’
‘He didn’t mention that he was expecting any other callers?’
‘No.’
Simon looked at her sharply. Her negative might be true, but he was certain that she had intended to add something to it and had only changed her mind at the last minute. He waited for a moment in silence, but she did not take the opportunity to add anything.
‘Did you meet anyone on the stairs as you left?’
‘No.’
Again there was the slight hesitation, the sudden dropping of the eyes.
‘Did you by any chance wash up two glasses during your visit last night?’
Shirley looked relieved at what seemed to be a change in his approach.
‘Certainly not. He’s got a maid—and anyway, as I said, we didn’t have anything to drink.’
She waited for the next question, but Simon’s attention had been distracted by a book which lay on the arm of a chair. Its title was simply Kent, and although it had the appearance of a book which had been read, it was obviously a new one.
‘Are you interested in Kent?’ he asked idly.
‘My home’s there. I know it quite well. I wouldn’t have bought that myself, but it’s nice to have as a present. I haven’t read it yet, though.’
‘It looks as though it has been read.’
She laughed.
‘I always read books myself before I give them away, I’m afraid. I don’t mind at all if John does too.’
‘John Southerley?’
‘Yes. He brought it round yesterday.’
‘Where is your home?’
‘Bexley. I don’t expect you know it. It was a nice village once, but it’s spoilt now.’
‘Did you spend Christmas there?’
‘Yes. I go home most weekends. My mother grumbles if I don’t.’
‘I suppose you know all about dene-holes, then?’
‘There’s one in the wood at the bottom of our garden. I believe it caused my parents a lot of anxiety when I was small.’
‘
I wonder if the book mentions them. I’m rather interested in the subject.’
He searched in the index and found, to his great delight, a map which showed the position of all the known holes. The roads marked were unnamed, however, and he appealed to Shirley for help.
‘Can you tell from this which of the holes are on Sir Joshua Mester’s land?’
She came closer to look.
‘Well, that’s his house there,’ she pointed. ‘I’m not sure about the boundary of his land. These fields would certainly be his, and this wood.’
Simon ran his finger along a thin line.
‘Then this would be a sort of private road.’
‘That’s right.’
He knew where he was now and stared at the map. Just off the road lay a cluster of five of the little circles which represented the ancient holes.
‘I’ve been a fool,’ he announced to the surprised Shirley. ‘I must get back. Before I go, will you just confirm that it was John Southerley you saw last night somewhere near the Old Man’s flat?’
She was not a good liar and she could not make herself deny it. Seeing that he had read her silence, she apologised for it.
‘I didn’t actually see him,’ she said, justifying her previous answers. ‘But when I left the block of flats, I did notice John’s car standing outside. There wasn’t anyone in it.’
As Simon left, he noticed that the sun was shining; the thaw had begun.
Chapter Eighteen
‘If I’d had any sense at all,’ said Simon, ‘it might have occurred to me that if one finds a hole that has been dug without any sign of the earth has that been taken from it, there’s a chance that the earth has been put down another hole. Anyway, the cold weather seems to have broken now. The Bexley men can start digging first thing tomorrow. They can get the position from a map and light a couple of bonfires to help the sun. But tell them to go carefully and not to touch the body until they’ve got a doctor handy. If they let me know as soon as they’re sure they’re on the right track, I’ll come down at once.’
Bill nodded and made a note.
‘Mind you,’ he said. ‘I don’t reckon this is my business really. It’s time I handed the whole thing over to you Murder people. You can’t call a body a Missing Person.’
‘Well, you haven’t found him yet,’ answered Simon reasonably enough. ‘But from tomorrow morning I will take personal responsibility. Just at the moment I’ve got some very important business to deal with.’
‘I know,’ said Bill, grinning all over his face. ‘I saw her arrive. But from the look on her face I should have thought that she was going to deal with you.’
‘What on earth—My God!’ said Simon, looking in horror at his watch. ‘Delia!’
He rushed back to his room, pursued by the echoes of Bill’s laughter. Delia was patiently reading a magazine. She looked up calmly as he burst in.
‘Only fifty minutes late! I’m sorry if it’s not done for me to come here, but the waiter was beginning to look disbelieving and the smells were making me very hungry. When I asked for you, I tried my best to look as if I had a confession of murder in my handbag. Didn’t fool your sergeant for a moment, though. He’s obviously used to showing young ladies into the sanctum.’
‘Darling, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it’s nearly seven. I haven’t even had lunch yet. I always seem to be asking you to forgive me. May I again?’
‘This is one of the easier occasions. I’m only sorry you’re having to work so hard. Will you be able to get away this evening?’
‘I’ll come now, as soon as I’ve tidied up these papers. I had meant to see John Southerley before I knocked off, but he can wait until tomorrow.’
‘What’s he been doing? Is he still on your list of suspects?’
‘Getting higher on it, I’m afraid. You see, it’s pretty certain that Cassati has been murdered—we should know tomorrow. It’s not really very likely that it should only be a coincidence, the murder of two musicians within a week; there’s a strong probability that the same man was responsible for both. One of the best reasons why Cassati should have been killed would be if he knew the identity of Owen’s murderer. Now just look at this.’ He spread out on the desk the plan of the Festival Hall which Delia had already seen on the night of the concert. ‘We already know that John was furiously angry with Owen. We also know that the gun was at some point in his possession. Suppose that in the moment after he finished playing, he pulled it out and shot Owen, who would be most likely to notice?’ Simon jabbed with his pencil at the two squares he had drawn next to the larger shape of the piano. ‘The bass and tenor. They could hardly help seeing anything unusual.’
‘Has anything happened to the bass?’
‘I checked on him. He left for America on Boxing Day, for a tour. I couldn’t find anything to link him with Owen, so I didn’t bother much about him. Anyway, he may not have noticed anything, while Cassati may have shown by some movement that he had.’
‘Why wait so long to get rid of him, in that case? He might have phoned the police at any moment.’
‘Lack of opportunity would explain the delay in killing. Cassati didn’t go out much and when he did, except on concert nights, his valet was always with him. As for his silence, anyone might be chary of getting mixed up with the police in a strange country.’
‘Then it wasn’t necessary to kill him.’
‘The murderer wouldn’t dare not to be sure. Anyway, it was certainly a man who drove Cassati out to his death, if he is dead, and it was someone fit who got into the Old Man’s bedroom last night.’ This part was news to Delia, and he gave her the details briefly. ‘And John was in Twickenham last night. It may have been a coincidence, but…’
‘But why should he want to hurt the Old Man? I don’t see how that fits in.’
‘Nor do I at the moment, but I don’t pretend to know the whole story. By the way, do you know anything about a place called Bexley?’
‘Well, Shirley Marsden used to live there before she took her London flat. I spent a weekend at her parents’ house there once, with Mrs Bainsbury and Roger—about three years ago. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing in particular.’
Delia was silent, staring at the diagram. She picked up a ruler and laid it across the paper, first in one position and then in another. Simon, glancing hastily through a memorandum which had arrived during the afternoon, paid no attention until suddenly she drew in her breath sharply.
‘Simon! Oh, Simon, what a fool you’ve been—what a fool everyone’s been. Just look at this.’
There was a knock on the door and after a discreet pause Sergeant Flint’s head appeared.
‘A Mr John Southerley would like to see you, sir.’
Simon’s eyebrows rose.
‘Show him in. Isn’t it time you went home?’
‘Just off, sir.’
John looked pale, thought Delia, and under the determined good humour of his voice he was angry.
‘I believe you want to speak to me.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Shirley phoned me half an hour ago. She was rather incoherent, but the gist of her remarks seemed to be that I was about to be accused of poisoning the Old Man. If I may say so very politely, I would prefer it if you would discuss your strange theories with me before you start broadcasting them among people whose good opinion I value.’
‘I certainly made no mention of poison to Miss Marsden; the thought never occurred to me.’
‘She can hardly have invented the whole incident. You may not have made any specific accusation, but she is not insensitive. I gather that drinks and washed-up glasses were a feature of your conversation.’
‘Would you like me to go?’ asked Delia, acutely embarrassed. ‘I can wait downstairs.’
‘Not on my account,’ said John. ‘All I propose to say is that last night I had a glass of port from a decanter produced by Evan Tredegar and poured out by Evan Tredegar and that I drank it. I did not w
ash up my glass and my host was in the best of health when I left him.’
‘What time was that?’ asked Simon.
‘About half-past eleven. I didn’t notice particularly.’
‘And what time did you arrive?’
‘I knocked on the door at ten o’clock precisely, the time for which I was invited.’
‘Oh, you went by invitation.’
‘I did, at some inconvenience to myself.’
‘And what was the purpose of the invitation?’
‘To try out a suite for piano that the Old Man had been working on. He’s not much of an instrumentalist and he can’t cope with his own difficult bits. He sent me the manuscript score on Saturday and asked me to come over last night, to play it through and give him any comments I might have from the pianist’s point of view. Which I did. It wasn’t very good.’
‘How is it that you didn’t meet Miss Marsden on the stairs, since she saw your car outside the flats?’
‘I was in the pub opposite, waiting till ten o’clock. I was always taught that it wasn’t polite to arrive early.’
‘Do you know Kent well, Mr Southerley?’
‘Not at all. Unless Folkestone’s in Kent; perhaps it is. I used to spend holidays there as a child.’
‘Where did you live as a child?’
‘Kilburn.’
‘With your parents?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are they still alive?’
‘No.’
‘But you knew them—they didn’t die when you were very young or anything like that?’
‘My father was killed in the war when I was young; my mother died five years ago.’
‘Do you know whether there was any physical resemblance between you and your father?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you have no doubt that your mother’s husband was your father?’
John exploded.
‘Are all policemen as bloody impertinent as you? My mother was my mother and my father was my father, and, if you don’t believe me, I presume you know how to look it up. I came here because I thought I might be of some help to you, but I’m damned if I’m going to sit here while you insult me. Goodnight, Delia. Forgive me if I don’t fall for your boyfriend.’
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