Murder to Music

by Margaret Newman

  Simon put his finger on the line and looked up.

  ‘I presume the War Office told her when they had to report him dead.’

  Tim banged a protesting fist down on the table.

  ‘Use your nut, Simon. Do you really think that we’d send a mother an official report of how her son was slowly murdered? All she’d get from us would be a “Died of Wounds” or “Shot while escaping” or something like that. If a senior officer did send a letter afterwards, he’d definitely make the death sound quick and easy; if he wasn’t prepared to do that, he wouldn’t write at all. No censorship would allow that sort of news out of the camp at the time, either. Someone’s gone out of his way to distress her since then.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Simon after a moment’s thought. ‘Where’s a list of the men who went to the camp and survived?’

  Tim found the place in the file. Simon began to read, but he had not gone very far before he looked up, his face pale and grave.

  ‘It’s time I went back on the beat,’ he said. ‘I could have found this out quite simply without troubling you at all. May I use your phone?’

  Tim nodded, and listened with some curiosity to the one side of the conversation which followed.

  ‘Mrs Sheraton-Smith? This is Superintendent Hudson here. I’m very sorry indeed, but I have to ask you one or two further questions relative to the death of your son. Did you know when you offered to share the payment of Cassati’s fee that he was Geoffrey’s murderer?’

  ‘When did you find out, then?’

  ‘Mrs Sheraton-Smith, who told you?’

  There was a long silence on Simon’s part, although Tim had heard that the answer was short.

  ‘And this was on the day after the Mass was performed. How were you told? Calmly, or excitedly?’

  ‘So you think that the sight of Cassati himself may have had an unbalancing effect?’

  ‘I see. Thank you very much, Mrs. Sheraton-Smith.’

  He rang off and Tim looked at him curiously.

  ‘Well?’

  Simon pointed to a name on the list in front of him.

  ‘I’ve found the executioner.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Simon knocked impatiently at Mrs Bainsbury’s front door. He had knocked before, but although there had been no answer, no sound from the house, he was convinced that it was not empty. For a third time he knocked sharply and often and this time the door was opened—by one of his own men, whom he had sent round behind the house.

  ‘The back door was unlocked, sir, and I could hear that you weren’t having any luck. There’s a kettle on the boil, so there should be someone around.’

  Simon nodded and stepped inside. He tried first the door of Roger’s little room, but it revealed nothing. Next he entered the drawing-room. He saw Mrs Bainsbury at once. She was sprawled across the sofa, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in a cushion which subdued the noise of her sobbing. Before Simon had time to speak, she became aware of his presence and lifted her head to look at him. Her face was pale and ugly with tears, her eyes wild with despair.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she cried. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  Simon took no notice of her distress.

  ‘There is nothing you can do,’ he said. ‘Where is your son?’

  There was horror in her eyes as she realised what he meant; then the despair returned as she accepted what she had already known, that she had failed finally to save her son.

  ‘He’s in his bedroom,’ she said quietly. ‘He went up with a headache when he got back from work and I locked him in. I was afraid—I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Stay here, please,’ Simon said sharply and hurried up the stairs, followed by the constable. He returned to the drawing room five minutes later, alone.

  ‘They won’t hang him, will they?’ whispered Mrs Bainsbury. ‘He’s mad, you know. That terrible man has made him mad.’

  ‘They won’t hang him,’ Simon said briefly. He sat down and looked at her unsmilingly. ‘Now Mrs Bainsbury, I want to hear all that you know. Nothing you say is going to make any difference. Are you ready to answer my questions?’

  She nodded silently.

  ‘When did you first find out that your son had met Cassati before?’

  ‘About a fortnight before the concert, Roger asked me whether it would be possible to stop him coming. He seemed very upset about the matter, but he didn’t give me any reasons and I hardly felt I could do anything about it. He only told me the whole story on Christmas Day, and then it was too late. I could tell then, from the way he talked, that he was—well, not quite normal. When I heard about Geoffrey, though, it seemed to me that there were good reasons why Roger should have been upset; I thought perhaps he might be able to forget the whole thing now it was over, and I was sure he wasn’t an ordinary murderer. It was only when he caused Evan’s death, so unnecessarily, that I knew something would have to be done.’

  ‘Why did you not go to the police on Christmas Day?’

  ‘I have told you. Besides, you would not really expect a mother to give up her son for the sake of such a monster.’

  ‘But if you had come forward at once, Cassati’s life might have been saved. He did not die immediately. Did you know before Christmas Day that it was Roger who had killed Owen Burr?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think. You see, he wasn’t supposed to be at the concert at all; he had told me that he would be staying on to a party after his soccer match at Oxford. That was why he came to the rehearsal in the morning. But at the rehearsal, of course, he saw Cassati, and the whole thing seemed to boil over in his mind. He told me that he couldn’t bear to think that so pure a sound could come from so foul a man; it seemed to him important that he should stop it. He was playing in a match at Oxford that afternoon, but he broke away from the party early. He had a gun here which he brought home after the war, and just the single bullet it was loaded with. He collected that and then went on to the Festival Hall, arriving about ten minutes before the end of the performance; he stood in the doorway where Evan Tredegar was already listening. I saw him there—Roger, I mean; I was telling the truth when I said that I didn’t see Evan. They must have changed places in the minute before Delia looked.’

  ‘Mr Tredegar knew that Roger was there, then?’

  ‘Yes. Roger muttered something about coming to meet me, I gather, and hoped that it would be taken as quite natural. Evan left just before the end, so he didn’t see Roger fire. But of course if he had mentioned the meeting to you, it would have been awkward; and that evening when you came here Roger thought he was inviting you round so that he could tell you about it. That was why…’

  She began to cry again, but Simon gave her no time.

  ‘So you guessed at once, did you, that Roger had shot Owen? Was that why you wrote the letter to me?’

  ‘I didn’t know till Christmas. I didn’t know the facts about Cassati, and I couldn’t think why Roger should want Owen to die. But I thought it was strange, Roger turning up like that, and, when I asked him, he said he hadn’t been there. So I was afraid he might possibly have had something to do with it. I was worried about it, especially when I heard that you suspected Evan.’

  ‘Did Roger feel any regret when he realised that he had killed Owen by mistake?’

  ‘I don’t think he did,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘That evening was the first time when, even without knowing what had happened, I wondered whether he was quite normal. He said then that the music had excited him, but afterwards he told me that he was just furiously angry with Owen for having suddenly moved into such an unlikely position. That first failure upset him so much that the next day he did one completely stupid thing. He told Janet—Janet Sheraton-Smith—the truth about Cassati and Geoffrey; I suppose you know that, but I only found out from her this morning and I was terribly frightened that Roger might try to harm Janet as well as Evan. But perhaps he was so unbalanced at the time that afterwards he forgot he had spoken
to her. Today he seemed to be behaving queerly again, though; I suppose he was wondering whether Evan had said anything.’

  ‘Have you ever noticed any signs of abnormality in your son before, Mrs Bainsbury?’

  Again she hesitated.

  ‘Well, there was something. I suppose it was my fault, and of course his father died while he was still a boy. But I did know that his friendship with Geoffrey Sheraton-Smith was very close; their housemaster told me about it. I thought they’d grow out of it, though, they were only boys. But as soon as they left school, they were thrown into the Army, and, before they had time to settle down in it, they were prisoners—and still so young, Superintendent. They were together all the time, so it’s hardly surprising—and then Roger had to watch his friend being killed like that! It must have been a terrible experience. When he came back, he tried very hard to be—well, an ordinary young man. He used to take girls out, and I always hoped that one of them might be able to help him; but I don’t think he would ever let them. But why do you want all this second-hand information? Why don’t you ask Roger himself?’

  ‘I am not able to do so, Mrs Bainsbury.’ He stared at her for a moment, wondering how much had happened with her knowledge; but the puzzled expression of her eyes convinced him, and he spoke more compassionately. ‘Did you not know when you locked him in that your son kept his spare razor blades in his bedroom?’

  She understood him at once and stood up, white-faced.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Bainsbury. But perhaps it is the best solution. You mustn’t be too upset.’

  There was a very long pause before she spoke quietly.

  ‘Is a mother to smile when her son dies? I would like you to go now, Superintendent.’

  He nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I will leave you. One of my men will have to stay until the ambulance comes, but I will tell him not to disturb you. You too must have had a terrible experience in these last few days.’

  He left her to face the tragedy of her future life and, suddenly depressed, went to Delia for comfort.

  Delia listened in silence as Simon talked; occasionally, her face troubled, she leaned forward to stab an unnecessary poker into the fire.

  ‘Poor Roger,’ she said when he had finished. ‘And poor Mrs Bainsbury. It must have been terrible for her. Was Roger really the only one concerned? I mean, did he manage to kill Cassati single-handed?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t actually strike a killing blow, but he did everything else. He was fit, and, though Cassati was a heavy man, he was flabby, and he was a coward. Roger had fixed the doors and windows of the Daimler and the glass partition behind the driver to turn the back of the car into a little gas chamber. That gave him the opportunity to tie his victim up. And afterwards, you have to remember that Cassati didn’t know anything about the dene-holes. When he found himself being marched into the darkness of the wood, he may have believed that there would still be time to turn and fight.’

  ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ Delia shivered as her imagination brought the scene to life. ‘But at least it’s all finished now. Are all your questions answered? What about the two washed-up glasses, for instance?’

  ‘We shan’t ever know for certain,’ Simon said. ‘Roger may not have had anything to do with them, though. I was speaking to Dr Smiles this morning and he suggested one possible explanation. Apparently, the Old Man had been forbidden to drink port, so perhaps he washed the glasses up himself, lest Annie should tell the doctor. It sounds silly, but old men do sometimes behave like that.’

  ‘And the gun?’ Delia asked. ‘I suppose Roger slipped that into John’s coat while we were all at the committee meeting.’

  ‘He must have done. It looks as though John was telling nothing but the truth all along.’

  Delia refrained from saying, ‘I told you so’. She was still looking unhappy.

  ‘You know I was fond of Roger once, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And yet I never guessed that he could do a thing like this.’

  ‘Why should you guess? Even his mother didn’t know until he told her. None of us knew just from looking at him.’

  ‘But I knew him better than that. He used to talk about himself a lot; I knew some of his difficulties, but I never suspected that he could behave, or even think, in such a way.’

  Simon moved to sit on the arm of her chair.

  ‘I don’t quite understand what’s worrying you, Delia. No one blames you for not recognizing a potential murderer.’

  ‘It’s not for that I blame myself. It’s something else. Simon, you were quite right when you told me that no one could be sure, even of the person he loved. I didn’t believe you, but you were right, and I was wrong. I’m sorry I was angry. Will you forgive me, Simon?’

  It was the question that he had waited himself to ask and to hear answered for so many days. ‘With all my heart,’ he said. ‘And now, with all my heart, there’s a question that I want to ask you.’

  Chapter One

  ‘More coffee, darling?’ asked Sally Heldar.

  ‘Yes, please. It seems particularly good tonight.’

  ‘Because we don’t always have it,’ said Sally, thinking of the price. She refilled Johnny’s cup, returned it to him, and sat comfortably back in her chair.

  The house was quiet after a busy day. It was a little Regency house in St Cross Square — a peaceful Bloomsbury backwater which had somehow escaped transformation into offices and private hotels. The flat which Johnny had found after the war had been very adequate until they had tried to get Peter into it too. After that they had moved, and the house held the twins and Nanny quite comfortably as well. It was, conveniently, a quarter of an hour’s walk from Heldar Brothers’ shop in the Charing Cross Road.

  The fire was burning well. They had turned out the wall lights and were sitting under the softer glow of the standard lamps. The light fell kindly on the little Adam mantelpiece, the flowered chintzes and the Persian rug, the old rosewood and mahogany pieces which they had inherited from Mark Mercator, who had died by violence four years before. The room was extraordinarily peaceful, and when the front-door bell rang Johnny said wearily, ‘Oh, damn!’

  But it was no use pretending they weren’t in. Anyone who knew them at all knew that there was always someone here in the evening, because of the children. Johnny got up and went out of the room.

  A minute or two later Sally heard voices on the stairs. She listened, recognised the second voice, and relaxed just before Johnny opened the door again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s only Toby.’

  ‘I hope you mean that kindly.’ Toby Lorn looked small and slight beside Johnny. But he was well up to the middle height and by no means puny, though he was always too thin. His hair was dark and smooth, and his cheeks a little hollowed below his horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked tired, as usual. But he smiled and limped forward and kissed Sally affectionately.

  ‘We’re delighted to see you, Toby,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten? There’s plenty in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve eaten, thanks, Sally.’

  ‘Would you like coffee, then — there’s lots left — or will you give Johnny an excuse for a drink?’

  Johnny looked at Toby’s tired face. ‘Have mercy on me,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the whisky. Sit down, won’t you?’

  Toby thanked him and sat down on the sofa, straightening his left leg unobtrusively in its calliper. Toby was the young stepbrother of Peter Lorn, who had been at Porterbury and Magdalen with Johnny and had been killed at one of the Rhine crossings. Young Peter had been called after him. Johnny had found Toby after the war, an unhappy, sensitive sixteen-year-old, recovering slowly and without much enthusiasm from polio, debarred from most public school activities, his father recently dead and his mother clearly not much use to him. Johnny had pulled him through with infinite patience, exercised a certain amount of remote control while
he was at Oxford, and seen him into Fleet Street. He was twenty-nine now, still over-sensitive under a professional armour of cynicism — few people guessed that he was the son of a country parson — but standing strongly enough on his own feet and doing pretty well.

  Johnny came back with a tray and helped Toby and himself from the decanter and the syphon. They said, ‘Cheers,’ drank, and settled down again, and for a quarter of an hour or so the room was very quiet. Toby had plenty of conversation when it was needed — with strangers he was apt, like some other newspapermen, to be a slightly feverish conversationalist — but with the Heldars he could relax. Sally, watching him unobtrusively, saw the lines on his forehead smooth themselves out a little. She wondered again if his evening meal had consisted of sandwiches and remembered the bleakness of his flat.

  Presently he put his tumbler down and turned to Johnny.

  ‘I’m afraid I really came,’ he said, ‘because I wanted to consult you.’

  Johnny raised an eyebrow. ‘Rare book? Manuscript?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to consult you as an antiquarian bookseller; I was thinking of your other capacity.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Johnny cautiously. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had a murder in Fleet Street.’

  ‘Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid. It’s merely a poison-pen in the office.’

  Johnny’s nostrils twitched a little. ‘Not very nice,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for you. But poison-pens are rather outside my experience, Toby.’

  ‘I know — at least, I was afraid you’d say so. But will you listen to the story?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Toby paused to collect his thoughts, and then began.

  ‘I think I’d better explain the set-up first. As you may or may not remember, we’re called the National Press Archives. We’re a fairly new concern — we only opened six months ago. The Loughbridge Commission on the Press was largely responsible for our foundation, and the Treasury put up part of the money. The object of the exercise was to provide easy access to newspaper cuttings and pictures — photographs and old prints and engravings and so on — for Fleet Street and authors and business firms, and indeed almost anyone. The Fleet Street agencies deposit their stuff with us as soon as its immediate news value has worn off. We make no charge for letting people see a picture or a cutting, but we take a minimum of thirty shillings for any picture which is reproduced. We don’t own any copyrights — the agencies didn’t want to give them up — so a percentage of the charge goes to the owners. The Archives are divided into two departments, known locally as Feelthee Peex and Comic Cuts, with a Negative Department as a subsidiary to Peex.