“He’s gone, I’m afraid. Would you happen to know whether he had any history of chronic illness?”
“Oh yes,” her ladyship replied. “Wilhelm had a terrible stomach, and he wouldn’t stop eating things he wasn’t supposed to have. Fried fish, you know, and heavy pastries and far too much coffee. And—”
Lady Rhys whipped a lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it to her mouth. Lucy took over.
“Lady Rhys is quite right. It was chronic bleeding ulcers, I believe. Poor Wilhelm was always a terrible glutton.”
“You knew him pretty well, then?” the policeman asked her.
“I’d known him most of my life, off and on. We played together in the Champlain Symphony when we were both starting out, and later in the Sackbut Sextet. After I joined the Wagstaffe Symphony as a horn player quite some years ago, I played in the same section with him. I don’t know whether you realize it, Officer, but an orchestra exists in a little world of its own, especially when it’s on tour, as we are now. We get very close to each other. As director of operations, I’m the one who’s supposed to keep our little world spinning, so I have to be aware of things like the special diet problems of certain orchestra members. I tried to keep Wilhelm off the fried clams and fried chicken and fried this and fried that, but he had a positive passion for grease. Lately he’d been stuffing worse than ever, it seemed.”
“Did he show any other suicidal impulses?” the intern asked.
Lucy Shadd stared at him. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Doctor.”
“A person who has a known disability and persists in doing things that make it worse is playing Russian roulette with his life,” the young man answered pedantically. “Usually it’s because the person is depressed and has a subconscious or maybe even conscious urge to get his misery over with. Would you say your friend here was more down in the mouth than usual?”
Lucy looked at Lady Rhys, who shook her head.
“If he was, I certainly didn’t notice. It seems to me he went right on telling his dirty stories and playing his decidedly unfunny practical jokes much as usual.”
“He put a lump of plastic dog do in my instrument case only yesterday,” a nearby violist volunteered. “I’d say he was still full of the old pep and vinegar.”
Lucy scowled.
“Oh, you wouldn’t see anything wrong with anybody if he dropped dead at your—” She choked a bit. “Actually, Doctor, I have to say Wilhelm had good reason to be depressed, even aside from his stomach. He was losing his embouchure.”
“His what?”
“It’s something that happens to wind players, particularly the brasses. One’s lip muscles become so painful from the constant strain that one simply can’t endure to play any longer. That’s why I myself work backstage nowadays instead of out front. At least I was able to adapt when it happened to me, but Wilhelm was such a dunderhead—except about the horn. He was a superb French horn player. Nobody can take that away from him.”
Lucy Shadd sounded rather fierce, and as if she’d just about run out of composure. Lady Rhys laid a diamond-laden hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s see if we can find ourselves a cup of tea, shall we? What happens next, Doctor? Do we call an undertaker? Not to sound callous, but we have to push on to Vancouver right after the performance.”
“There’ll have to be an autopsy, I’m afraid,” the intern apologized. “It’s a matter of routine in a sudden death like this. Isn’t that right, Officer?”
The policeman nodded. “That’s right, ma’am. Could you give me the deceased’s full name and address? Did he have a family?”
Lucy had got hold of herself. “His full name was Wilhelm Jan Ochs. I believe his only close relative is a brother in Manitoba. I have his and the brother’s addresses in my files, but they’re packed with the luggage. I can dig them out and call the police station with the information as soon as I find them, if that’s acceptable?”
The policeman said that would be fine. The intern, the policeman, and the ambulance driver, who hadn’t said a word the whole time, wrapped the body in green plastic and transferred it to the stretcher they’d brought with them. By now, intermission was almost over and the musicians had to hurry onstage. Nobody took any notice when Madoc followed the policeman out to the vestibule and handed him the little plastic bag of vomit.
“How did you happen to think of doing this, Mr. Rhys?” the man asked him somewhat suspiciously.
“I’d been reading a detective story on the plane.”
That was no lie. Madoc had picked one up in the terminal to while away the flight. He’d found it hilarious. “The mess could hardly be left there, you know, with half the concert still to play, but I thought somebody ought to do something.”
“How come you didn’t put up a howl when they wanted to move the body?” The cop was finding him mildly amusing, too.
Madoc decided to take the question seriously. “Because I knew it didn’t matter. You see, Ochs didn’t just drop down dead all of a sudden. He’d been sick for quite some time. My mother and I were sitting in the front row and we could see him getting greener and greener. I didn’t think he was going to hold out till intermission. The chaps around him were worried, too, I could tell. They took him between them and got him off as soon as they possibly could. I doubt whether Ochs would have made it on his own.”
“Yes, I know. I have their testimony. Well, thanks for the doggie bag, Mr. Rhys. What do you do in the orchestra?”
“Nothing at all. I hadn’t even met any of them, till just now. I popped up this evening from Fredericton for a little visit with my parents, whom I hadn’t seen for a while. I have to catch them as I can, they’re on tour so much of the time.”
“I can imagine. Must be hard on your mother.”
“Oh no, she loves throwing her weight about. The conductor’s wife is always the power behind the podium.”
“That figures. Are you a musician yourself, Mr. Rhys?”
“Not me. I have a rather tedious job with the Canadian government,” Madoc replied disingenuously.
He was on ticklish ground, all too aware of what his standing in the family would be it he let drop so much as the mere breath of an inkling that he might possibly be here on police business himself. Wilhelm Ochs’s death by gluttony was something this nice fellow would easily accept. Wilhelm Ochs’s sudden demise coupled with whatever it was that had driven Sir Emlyn Rhys to send for his son the Mountie might be enough to bring the tour to a screeching halt right here and now. Just finding out who he was might get the local authorities wondering. If they decided to hold the orchestra members here, bang would go Madoc’s newfound popularity in the family circle.
That consideration alone would not of course have had any weight in striking a balance between his professional and his filial obligations. However, Madoc honestly didn’t see why he should break his father’s heart on the off chance that Wilhelm Ochs might have succumbed to something other than his own greed. Sir Emlyn was the humblest of men but he did have one boast: in all his years of conducting, he’d never once failed to show up on time for a scheduled performance. Why should this be an exception?
The autopsy and his little paper cup, if the police bothered to have it analyzed, should settle the matter. If there had to be any further investigation, it would be undertaken by the right people, namely people other than Madoc Rhys. If any of the orchestra members were needed, they’d be available. Nobody in this crowd was going anywhere except to the Fraser River Music Festival, where they’d been booked for over a year in advance. If it was somebody from outside who’d put an end to Wilhelm’s career before his lip muscles gave out, then it wouldn’t matter where the musicians were anyway.
All very rational, but Madoc still felt guilty. Blast it, why couldn’t his father have come straight out and said what the trouble was? There’d have been no chance to talk to him about it backstage, even if the cop hadn’t been present. Sir Emlyn was short a French horn;
that would be tragedy enough for the moment.
Madoc could hear the tentative squeaks and blats which meant the orchestra was tuning up. He headed back to his seat, got an icy glance from his mother, and spent the latter half of the concert wondering how he might decently and reasonably get hold of that autopsy report on Wilhelm Jan Ochs.
Most likely nobody would be doing anything about it tonight, anyway. Depending on how many cadavers the pathologist had lined up ahead of Ochs, results might not be available tomorrow, either. If nothing came through by tomorrow night, he’d get the efficient Lucy Shadd to give the coroner’s office a buzz.
From Vancouver, that would be. Madoc hadn’t expected to be traveling with the orchestra. What he’d envisioned was a reasonably amicable meal with his parents in a comfortable restaurant before the performance, a fast but thorough briefing on the trouble with the brasses, if in fact that was what Sir Emlyn had called him about, and maybe a day or so spent sniffing around asking guilefully stupid questions. By that time, he’d assumed, all would be clear. The miscreant or miscreants would have been turned over to Lady Rhys for excoriation and, if their offenses were heinous enough, excommunication; and he’d be on his way home to Janet.
He hadn’t even got any dinner, only a little box of semi-edibles described as a snack and a cup of lukewarm coffee on the plane. Lunch had been another sandwich, eaten at his desk, and a mug of stewed tea. Damn it, he was hungry.
Madoc had never been much of a pouter even at four years old, but he felt as if he’d be quite justified in pouting now. This was no way for a mother to treat her son. When at last the concert had whooped its lengthy way to a raucous end and Sir Emlyn was letting the musicians and singers take far too many bows for his liking, Madoc murmured to his mother under cover of the applause, “Can we collect Tad now and get supper somewhere? I’m starved.”
His mother gave him yet another look. “Didn’t they give you something on the plane, for goodness’ sake?”
“Something, yes. Goodness had nothing to do with it.”
“Then why on earth didn’t you stop for a bite at the airport?”
“Because I was running late and I didn’t want to be any later. I was under the apparent misapprehension that Tad wanted rather urgently to see me.”
“Of course he does, dear. Tad always wants to see you. I’m afraid we can’t do much about food just now, but don’t fret. Lucy will have sandwiches and things laid on once we get on the plane.”
“Mother, you don’t mean we’re going straight from here? When are we supposed to leave?”
“As soon as we’re ready is the best I can tell you. It’s a private plane we’ve been lent, so they can’t very well start off without us. I’ll tell you what, dear, why don’t you sit down with your father after he’s finished changing and share his Ovaltine and biscuits? That will tide you over and give you two a chance for a nice, quiet little talk while the rest of us are out here slaving our heads off. You’d be no earthly use with the packing anyway. Come along.”
Ovaltine and biscuits. Madoc should have remembered that on the days when Sir Emlyn was going to conduct an evening performance, he always ate a hearty breakfast and a generous luncheon, but no dinner because he got too strung up to digest. Mother would have treated herself to high tea at the hotel while Tad was having his rest, no doubt, and still be nicely replete with scones and lemon curd tarts. As usual, Madoc was stepping to the music of a different drummer. Suppressing a sigh that wouldn’t have done him any good, he followed his mother’s triumphal march backstage.
Here a kind of orderly pandemonium prevailed. Musicians were either packing their own instruments into the individual cases they themselves would carry or else reluctantly consigning them to heavily padded trunks that had foam nests to fit them into, especially the big, awkward ones like the cellos and double basses. These trunks, Madoc gathered, were to be shipped by train in a specially air-conditioned car. So were most of the musicians and all of the chorus; a van and a couple of buses were already waiting outside to carry them to the station. The director of operations was running at full steam, making sure the instruments were being properly stowed, that everybody’s luggage was accounted for, that nobody who was supposed to be bussed to the train would lag behind, and that those who were supposed to fly didn’t get on the wrong bus by mistake.
Who went how, Madoc figured out after a while, was partly a matter of protocol and partly a question of time. Certain members of the troupe would be needed at the festival earlier than the rest: some to rehearse, some to arrange the amazingly complex details of getting everybody housed and fed and the concerts into rehearsal. Some of the principal players and all four of the vocal soloists would be on the plane with the Rhyses.
Not knowing what else to do, he concentrated on staying out from under everybody’s feet until his mother gave him clearance to enter the conductor’s inner sanctum. There sat his father alone at last, looking elderly and exhausted in the same tweed suit he’d worn for traveling since Madoc could remember. When he spied his son, he managed a smile.
“Ah, Madoc. Sit down, boy. Have a biscuit.”
“Thanks, Tad. When did you start hitting the Ovaltine? Didn’t it use to be hot milk and brandy?”
“Your mother decided brandy kept me awake.” Sir Emlyn reached for the shabby leather briefcase that held his scores, pulled out a flat bottle, and poured a reasonable tot into each of the two plastic mugs that were sitting on the table next to the thermos. “Ovaltine’s not bad, but I still find I like it better if my tongue’s a bit numb. I’m glad to see you, Madoc.”
“Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner.” The brandy was numbing his tongue just fine.
“And how is our sweet Jenny? She’s not offended because I didn’t invite her along?”
“Not at all. She has Annabelle staying at the house, so she couldn’t have come anyway.”
Sir Emlyn nodded. He was beginning to unwind a bit. Madoc didn’t try to hurry him along. Whatever Tad wanted to say, it would come when he got ready.
It came. “This is a bad, bad business, Madoc.” Sir Emlyn was pouring the hot Ovaltine as he spoke, being careful not to spill the tiniest drop. “What do you think about Wilhelm Ochs?”
“I’m trying not to think anything until we get the autopsy report, Tad. It sounds like a perforated ulcer. Ochs had a terrible medical record, I understand.”
His father sighed. “They all have terrible medical records, or think they do. If they’re not sick, they’re complaining. If they are sick, they won’t let you know it because they’re afraid you might be glad of an excuse not to have them around. Ochs was all right at rehearsal this morning and he was all right when he got here this evening. I know because he was moaning to me about how rotten he felt.”
“Maybe the chap was telling the truth for once. He could have eaten something at supper that disagreed with him.”
“He wouldn’t have eaten much since his lunch, I shouldn’t have thought. Might affect the wind, you know. They were planning to eat a late supper on the train. Mrs. Shadd arranged for the dining car to be kept open.”
“Is she the one they call Lucy?”
“Our director of operations, yes. A very efficient woman. She used to be a horn player herself, your mother tells me. Come to think of it, Ochs wasn’t going by train, he’d have been on the plane with us. I wish we were going by train, too. It’s the only civilized way to travel, in my opinion.”
Sir Emlyn finished his Ovaltine with the determination of one getting a duty over with, and took a ginger biscuit to reward himself for the effort. “Now then, Madoc, I suppose you’d like to know why I asked you to come.”
“It might be helpful,” Madoc conceded.
“It wasn’t about Wilhelm Ochs’s death, of course. I wasn’t expecting that.” Sir Emlyn took another biscuit. “But I have to admit I was expecting something. I don’t think of myself as a fanciful man, Madoc, but there has been an atmosphere around this place.”
&nb
sp; He ate his biscuit, then nodded as if he’d reconsidered the word and decided it was the right one, after all. “Yes, an atmosphere. Look you, son, there is nothing strange about musicians clowning around a bit. Ours is a stressful and taxing profession; a few laughs can help to break the tension. Some of the jokes may not be in the best of taste, I have to admit.”
The conductor smiled wryly. “In fact, most of them aren’t. The brasses are the worst, as a rule. Chaps who make their careers out of blowing high-toned farts, as Ochs himself far too often called them, have a natural affinity for bathroom humor. One understands and makes allowances.”
“Even Mother?”
“Your mother has great skill at not noticing what it’s wiser to ignore. So have I, but one can’t keep on walking around with one’s head in a bag forever. There has been unpleasantness, Madoc.”
Chapter 3
THIS, FOR SIR EMLYN, was a remarkably strong statement. Madoc decided he’d better tell his father about the trombonist with the fishline on his slide. Sir Emlyn thought it unfunny, also.
“Cedric Rintoul is a fine trombonist, but I know nothing to recommend him as a human being. To torture poor little Loye, who’s a bundle of nerves at the best of times, was the act of a wretch. Do you know that plucky woman never missed a note or wobbled off pitch through the entire concert? She’ll have screaming nightmares tonight from the strain, no doubt, and keep the whole train awake. It’s happened at the hotel twice already.”
Madoc shook his head. “I don’t think Mrs. Loye is going on the train. She wasn’t lined up for the bus with the others, and I’m quite sure I heard Mrs. Shadd say something to her about the plane.”
“Ach, then she’ll keep us awake instead.” Sir Emlyn shoved the last of the biscuits toward his son. “At least your mother will be on hand to soothe her down. Loye’s fits are one thing even Mrs. Shadd can’t cope with. I only wish Rintoul weren’t flying with us, too. I’m surprised your mother let this happen.”
Troubles in the Brasses Page 2