Murder to Music

by Margaret Newman

  ‘Did any of your staff see you when you arrived home?’

  ‘No. The cook goes early to bed and Mary had gone home for Christmas. I can assure you, however, that I came straight here on that evening. I was deeply distressed.’

  ‘Have you a car of your own?’

  ‘No. I find it simpler to use taxis than to employ a chauffeur.’

  ‘I see. Are there any circumstances, Mrs Sheraton-Smith, in which you consider murder to be justified?’

  ‘None. As it happens, I strongly disapprove of the death penalty being inflicted by the State, and I certainly would not condone the taking of life by any private person.’

  ‘Did you have any prior knowledge, even any suspicion, that this particular murder was about to take place?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And you were not concerned with it in any way?’

  ‘I can see that I must seem to you to have a reason for hatred, Superintendent, but I had nothing to do with this death.’

  ‘This is my last question, Mrs Sheraton-Smith. Did Mr Tredegar know what you have told me?’

  ‘Not from me,’ she answered with some surprise. ‘I can see no reason why he should know, or why he should be interested in the matter. I hardly think that he had any relations in the camp.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I must apologise most sincerely for the distress I have caused you.’

  ‘I appreciate your motives, Superintendent. Doubtless you will soon reach the end of your search.’

  It seemed to Simon as he walked away an unlikely possibility. Even as he congratulated himself that the death of Owen Burr could now be treated as an accident, the thought occurred to him that, on the contrary, the murder of Cassati might be only a red herring, designed to suggest to him just that conclusion. He dismissed the thought almost before he had weighed it; the blood of the murderer could surely not be as cold as that.

  A telephone booth caught his attention and he phoned through to Sergeant Flint, instructing him to start the check on the Covent Garden taxi-drivers. The sergeant had some news to give.

  ‘Dr Smiles telephoned five minutes ago, sir, from the hospital. He said that Mr Tredegar has recovered consciousness but he’s afraid that it’s only a matter of minutes before he dies.’

  Simon waited for nothing more. This was one time, he decided, when a taxi fare on his expense sheet would be approved. He sat impatiently on the edge of his seat until they reached the hospital; then within a moment he was outside Evan Tredegar’s room. The man whom he had posted there rose quietly to his feet.

  ‘Dr Smiles would like a word before you go in, sir. He’s in the next room.’

  Simon hurried in. The doctor’s face was grave.

  ‘Good morning, Superintendent. Mr Tredegar became conscious for the first time half an hour ago. I have not attempted to discuss the accident with him. I wouldn’t let you do so if there were any hope, but I’m afraid his heart is failing fast; all you can affect is the time. How long you will have depends on how much you excite him; it will be less than half an hour. He can’t speak, I’m afraid, but he’s recovered a little movement in his right hand. You’ll have to do the best you can with that. I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do to help.’

  Simon nodded and went into the next room where Evan Tredegar lay motionless, his right hand lying heavy on top of the sheet. Simon put his own hand inside it. The old man’s eyes opened painfully; he looked at his visitor, but no muscle of his face moved in recognition.

  ‘You remember me,’ said Simon. ‘I’m the detective who plagued you, and now I want to find out something about this unfortunate accident of yours. If you can hear and understand what I say, will you press my hand?’

  The pressure was slow but definite. Simon smiled his thanks.

  ‘Good. Now, if you want to answer “yes” to any question, will you squeeze just like that. For “no”, don’t move your hand at all.’

  The pressure was repeated; the old man had understood.

  ‘Did you turn on the gas fire in your room that night?’

  There was no movement. No.

  ‘Did you wake up to find gas in the room?’

  Yes.

  ‘So you got out of bed to turn it off and then collapsed?’

  Yes.

  ‘Could the gas have been left on by accident?’

  No movement.

  ‘Did you shut your bedroom windows tightly before you went to bed?’

  Again, no.

  ‘Did you hear anyone moving in your room during the night, or any sound of someone opening and shutting the window?’

  No.

  Simon paused. He could go no further in this direction. He moved to another subject.

  ‘Last night I told you Mrs Bainsbury’s version of your relationship and you promised to give me the true version. Were you ever in love with her?’

  There was no pressure from the heavy cold hand.

  ‘Was she, as a young woman, in love with you?’

  Yes.

  ‘And she has continued to be anxious for your attention, without any encouragement from you?’

  Yes.

  ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me on that subject?’

  There was a pause but at last the pressure came again.

  ‘Except as a singer, did you know anything particular about Cassati?’

  No.

  Again Simon paused. The pressure was growing weaker and the dying man’s eyelids had closed again over his tired eyes. He must come quickly to the point.

  ‘Mr Tredegar, you must tell me this. Did you see anything during the performance of your Mass which made you suspect, even if not until later, the identity of Owen’s murderer?’

  The huge body, until that moment motionless, began to move with the exertion of heavy breathing. Simon recognised the violence of the feelings which could not be expressed and spoke again quickly.

  ‘I’m not expecting you to be sure or definite—even the vaguest idea might be of help. Have you such an idea?’

  There was calm again as Simon felt the movement in his hand, but it was now very faint.

  ‘Do you think the same person might have attempted to gas you—just possibly?’

  Yes.

  ‘Mr. Tredegar, I must know who that person is. I am going to say the letters of the alphabet slowly. Will you press my hand when I come to the first letter of his name?’

  As he began to recite the letters, he wished he had asked first whether it was a man or woman. But seconds were important now and he must not confuse the dying man by changing his questions. He went on slowly.

  ‘E. F. G. H. I. J.’

  His hand was gripped tightly, with more force than he had believed still to rest in that inert body.

  ‘Does the name begin with J?’ he asked, excited.

  There was no relaxation of the tight grip. In sudden realisation Simon felt for the pulse in the wrist which lay so close to his own. It was not to be found. Evan Tredegar was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Simon sat for a moment without moving. He had received the pressure for which he asked at the letter J, but was that now worth anything? It might have been nothing but a dying spasm from a man who could not wait until a later letter was reached. It might equally mean that an earlier letter had been passed without comment by a man who no longer had any control over even this last of his movements. Even if he, Simon, were to think that he had been given a piece of significant information, it was too easy to see what pleasure this point would give to a defending counsel. Regretfully he decided that he must forget it. Now that it was too late his mind was busy with questions which he might more profitably have asked. He rose heavily to his feet.

  After a few words with Dr Smiles he walked slowly down to the entrance hall. The sound of a voice he knew asking after Evan Tredegar made him pause. He listened to the solemn answer before he took a silent step forward. Mrs Bainsbury stood there alone, her face white, her hands nervously clenching and unclenching. S
uddenly she seemed to make up her mind about something; she turned abruptly and hurried out of the hospital. Simon, not knowing why he should be curious, followed.

  Once outside, he faltered for a moment; missing lunch was becoming too frequent an occurrence. But Mrs Bainsbury’s determined hurry drew him on. He followed her to the nearest station and found a seat from which he could watch her through the end window as she sat in the next coach of the Underground train. Her journey was to Baker Street, from which she walked steadily eastwards, Simon always discreetly behind. She turned down Harley Street, then off it, standing for a few seconds in front of a house which, in defiance of topography, bore a Harley Street number.

  She summoned her courage—Simon could see her doing it—and walked up the steps. When the receptionist appeared in answer to her ring, there was a doubtful conversation before she was admitted; it seemed that she had come without an appointment. As soon as the door closed behind her Simon came closer. The profession of the house-owner could be taken as certain but there was no nameplate to give more definite information. He made a note of the number and walked briskly away in search of food.

  Half an hour later, refreshed in body although still uncertain in mind, he was able to discover from a street directory that Mrs Bainsbury had been visiting a certain Dr Leo Leib. A telephone call to a friend of his who worked on one of the medical journals was even more informative.

  ‘Leo Leib? Yes, I can tell you about him. Er—you’re not enquiring on your own account, are you?’

  Simon assured him that his interest was purely professional and was amused at the relief which was promptly expressed.

  ‘Well, this chap’s got quite a reputation, in a specialised sort of way. He has got various Continental medical qualifications and that’s why he calls himself a doctor, but he practises chiefly as a psychiatrist. Concentrates on homosexuals; I think he works in with the police quite a lot—you know, takes over these people who are let off on condition they have treatment. With a man who’s willing to be helped he can work wonders. He’ll tell you anything you want to know himself, though. He came over as a refugee in the thirties and had a certain amount of official help in settling down, so he’s always anxious to oblige. Like me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Simon, and within ten minutes he was presenting himself as yet another unexpected visitor.

  He was shown straight in, after he had promised the receptionist that he would leave before the next patient arrived at three o’clock. Dr Leib was a good-looking man with tired, smiling eyes and an accent attractively Austrian. Simon introduced himself as a detective.

  ‘I imagine you usually ask most of the questions here. I hope you will answer one or two for me now.’

  ‘I shall be happy to help you if I can, Superintendent.’

  ‘I’m inquiring about Mrs Bainsbury, who called on you about an hour ago.’

  The Austrian seemed about to deny this; then he looked quizzically at Simon.

  ‘A woman of about fifty, in a brown coat and black hat?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘To me she gave the name Mrs Williams, but it must be the same. All my other patients today have been men.’

  ‘I don’t want to set you an ethical problem, Doctor, but if you could tell me why she needed to consult you it might be extremely valuable to me. I should explain that I am investigating three murders and I have a natural anxiety lest the third should not prove to be the last.’

  ‘I do not think that I need have any scruples about answering your questions, as I gave a warning that I should do so if they were ever asked. It was about a question of murder that Mrs Williams came to me and I made it clear to her that I could not guarantee in advance to work against the police in a matter of that sort. She was in a state of considerable anxiety. She put to me the case of a friend of hers. This friend, it appeared, had all her life been perfectly normal, until she had suffered a very severe shock. Even after that she had shown few signs of abnormality until something happened to remind her of the shock she had undergone, when she committed a murder—only one was mentioned—to free herself from the memory. Mrs Williams knew that her friend had done this, but did not wish to inform the police as she hoped that this sudden madness was only temporary, caused by circumstances which could not possibly occur again. But just in case it should not after all be only temporary, she wanted me to cure her friend.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘My answer, I fear, was not what had been hoped for. I told Mrs Williams that her friend must come to me voluntarily and must accept the possibility that I might find it necessary to insist that she should remain under supervision while I examined and treated her, perhaps for a long period of time. You will understand, Superintendent, that if the friend should prove to be a homicidal maniac, I could not allow her, as my patient, to remain in society.’

  ‘And what was Mrs Bains—Mrs Williams’s reaction to that?’

  ‘She said it was impossible. She cried for a little and then she went out. I asked her to come and see me again, but she did not answer.’

  ‘And you let her go?’

  ‘I will be honest with you, Superintendent. I did not believe a word of her story. You tell me that murder has in fact been committed, so I am wrong, but she appeared to me to be a woman capable of considerable self-deception and at present—perhaps constantly—in a state of suppressed hysteria. Certainly she needs psychiatric treatment, but it is not a matter of life and death to her and my fees are high; nor am I a specialist in her particular trouble. I could not compel her to stay.’

  ‘It is quite possible that her story is true. You say that this friend was a woman?’

  ‘Do not be misled by that, Superintendent. More than half my patients come to me first with stories of “a friend”. Always the friend’s problems are their own. If there really is a friend in this case it could just as well have been a man; if she had any particular reason for choosing me rather than any other doctor it is possible that the friend is a male homosexual. The pronoun in the story is immaterial. The sick of mind know best how hurtful the truth can be. So you see, I have not helped you at all.’

  Simon nodded wryly in agreement.

  ‘Do you think that the woman you saw could have committed murder herself?’

  The psychiatrist shook his head protestingly.

  ‘It would be irresponsible of me to answer that question. I am sorry.’

  It was the end of the interview. Simon thanked him and left thoughtfully. He had one more call to make before he returned to his office.

  The call was at the War Office, and, when the doorkeeper asked his business, he named a friend, Tim Milligan, rather than try to find out which particular department he really wanted. He had worked with Tim, a Security Officer, during the war and remembered hopefully the invariable reply to any awkward request, ‘Doubtless it can be arranged.’

  Tim was drinking tea with his left hand while he sorted through a pile of photographs with his right. He welcomed his old colleague exuberantly and at once rang for more tea. It came accompanied by an enormous piece of cake.

  ‘My typist’s birthday,’ Tim explained. ‘She showers cake on anyone who comes in out of the sheer joy of being a year older. Makes me feel a cad every year because I never remember and by tea-time it’s too late even to find a bunch of flowers somewhere. However, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I want some dope about a prisoner-of-war camp in Italy. I know it’s not your department, but I thought you might be able to put me on the right track.’

  ‘I can do better than that. I can arrange for it to become my department as from now. Everyone accepts the fact—unwillingly—that Security is liable to stick its nose into anything at any time. Which camp was it?’

  Simon fished in his wallet for the details which Mrs Sheraton-Smith had written down for him and handed them over. Tim phoned them down to Records and the two men chatted until a girl appeared, trying to keep the dust of a file away fro
m her overall.

  ‘Now, what do you want to know?’

  ‘First of all, I want to confirm that a young fellow called Geoffrey Sheraton-Smith died in the camp.’

  ‘Rank and regiment?’

  ‘Lieutenant. Sorry, I forgot to ask about the regiment.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Tim found the place and whistled softly. ‘My God, the place can’t have been very healthy. There’s a death roll as long as my arm.’ He turned back a few pages. ‘Oh, I see. There was a case put up against one of the junior camp officers as a war criminal, but they don’t seem to have caught up with him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Pulvi. Nasty-looking bit of work. Look.’

  Simon leaned over to see. The photograph, taken from a military identity card, was faded and had never been clear, but its subject was Cassati. It was a thinner, grimmer Cassati, looking villainous in a slovenly cap, but there was no mistaking the glinting, pig-like eyes and the thick-lipped mouth.

  ‘That’s one case you can close,’ said Simon. ‘The man’s dead; that’s why I’m here. I suppose he changed his name when Italy packed in, to avoid trial. And once he’d started to make an international reputation, he’d want to keep that part of his life as dark as possible. Anyway, it’s his victims I want to trace.’

  ‘Sheraton-Smith, you said. Yes, he’s here. Aged twenty.’

  ‘She was telling the truth, then. I heard this afternoon how the boy died.’ He repeated what he had learned. ‘And this man, Pulvi—Cassati—was killed more or less by the same method; almost a judicial execution, in a way. Can I have a look at the complete list of the dead?’

  ‘Of course, but it’s a long one. I’ll check through with you. Is there any particular name you hope to find?’

  ‘All I can hope is that one of them will ring a bell as I read it. But I might be interested in, say, an older man called Southerley.’

  They read down the sad list together, but Tim’s attention wandered. He stared out of the window while Simon worked methodically on.

  ‘Look here,’ he said slowly at last. ‘How did your old lady know all this about the way her boy died? It’s true, all right, but how did she find out?’