Troubles in the Brasses

by Charlotte MacLeod

Frieda Loye managed a twitch of a smile. “But would you mind terribly explaining to Sir Emlyn that I wasn’t the one who screamed first this time? I know it’s silly, but—”

  “Nonsense, dear. I know just how you feel, and I’ll certainly tell him. But you mustn’t worry, my son won’t let anything happen to either one of you.”

  “Your son?” croaked Lucy. “What can he do?”

  “Madoc can do whatever is necessary, I assure you.” Lady Rhys drew herself up to her most imposing stance, took a deep breath, and bit the bullet. “My son,” she announced in full, rich, pear-shaped tones, “is a policeman.”

  Chapter 6

  AFTER ONE INCREDULOUS SNICKER apiece, Frieda and Lucy accepted Lady Rhys’s declaration. It was not possible that the conductor’s wife would have joked about a thing like this.

  It had had to be done, of course, but Madoc rather wished his mother hadn’t chosen that particular moment to be noble. Now that his cover had been blown, there was no hope of sneaking back for another forty winks.

  Madoc did, however, return to the room he’d been using, found Ed Naxton sound asleep, and decided to leave the poor chap to it. He thought it unlikely that either of the pilots could be involved in what was happening to the orchestra, though it was axiomatic that one never knew. He tucked in his shirttail, put on his waistcoat under his jacket, ran his pocket comb through his hair, cursed the lack of a toothbrush, and went on the prowl.

  His parents were at the far end of the corridor, on the front of the building. Madoc didn’t bother going into their room. He could hear through the ill-fitting door his mother explaining in a portentous whisper what had happened, and his father replying calmly, “Don’t fret yourself, Sillie. Madoc will handle it.”

  He smiled a little and touched his knuckles lightly to the door across from theirs.

  He got no reply, only an agreeable rhythmic, rumbling noise. He pushed open the door—there were no such refinements as locks up here—and saw two beds, each with a rather handsome male head on a far from handsome striped pillow tick. One head was fair, one was dark. One was snoring tenor, the other bass; though Madoc could not be expected to know whether they were on pitch. It was a scene of perfect repose. Madoc surmised that men who sang opera and oratorio as often as Pitney and Kight did were accustomed to hearing loud soprano shrieks and could shut them out at will. He shut himself away from the two singers and moved on to the next room.

  A light tap was answered by an “ungh.” Madoc opened it and stuck his head in. Joe Ragovsky was awake, though just barely. The man in the other bed either wasn’t or was pretending not to be. This must be David Gabriel, the oboist. No wonder Madoc hadn’t been able to remember what Gabriel looked like; he had the kind of face that was designed to be instantly forgotten, and was quite wasted on a woodwind. It would have made a pickpocket’s or a swindler’s fortune. He said, “Sorry, wrong room,” and closed the door again.

  He tried the same tactic on the door across the hall, got no response, and opened it a crack, careful to lift up on the knob so the hinges wouldn’t squeak.

  “Get out of here or I’ll yell the place down.”

  The voice was Corliss Blair’s. The clarinetist was sitting bolt upright, clutching two handfuls of blanket around her. She had a headful of pink foam rollers; her pink flannel nightgown had a frill around the neck. It was a pity Lucy Shadd’s gown hadn’t one. Madoc stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Don’t bother, that’s already been tried and it hasn’t seemed to work. I’m sorry to barge in on you ladies, but my intentions are strictly honorable.”

  “Shucks,” said Corliss, “I was afraid they might be. Sorry, Madoc, I thought you were one of the happiness boys. We’ve already had to throw Cedric Rintoul out of here once. What’s up besides you?”

  “There’s been an unfortunate incident down the hall.”

  “What sort of incident?”

  “Somebody apparently tried to strangle Lucy Shadd with an A-string.”

  “Should have used a G-string,” mumbled a voice from under the blankets in the other bed. Helene Dufresne emerged slowly from her cocoon. “Good God, is it daylight already? What time is breakfast?”

  “Oh shush, Helene,” said Corliss. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about who tried to murder Lucy?”

  “No, I’m curious about whose A-string they used. There was a D-string missing out of my cello case. I noticed it last night when I was packing my cello. You’re sure it’s not a D-string, Madoc? They’re rather hard to tell apart if you aren’t a string player yourself.”

  “I’m not sure of anything. I thought at first it was just a piece of wire. Frieda Loye told me it was a violin A-string, but she didn’t have her contacts in. Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me an expert opinion later on.”

  “I’d be delighted. Is the string still around Lucy’s neck?”

  “No, I found it on the floor under the bed. The assumption is that the assailant slipped the string around Lucy’s neck while she was still asleep, then crossed the ends over and pulled.”

  “What a splendid idea. Cheap and easy. Only I gather it didn’t work. I’m surprised Lucy let the person get away instead of showing him how it ought to be done. She doesn’t usually stand for inefficiency. So that’s what all the howling was about just now? I thought it must be Frieda having another nightmare.”

  “Frieda insists Lucy began screaming before she did, but Lucy claims it was Frieda’s screams that scared the intruder away. I suppose it’s possible Frieda did in fact have a nightmare at the opportune time and start yelling before she woke up. There’s a good deal of confusion as to the actual sequence of events. They both appear to have been sleeping very soundly when the room was entered.”

  “You talk like a policeman,” said Corliss.

  “That’s because I am a policeman.”

  “You’re kidding. I thought you must be a folk singer.”

  “No, I just need a haircut. In point of fact, I can’t tell one note from another.”

  “That needn’t prevent you from being a folk singer.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. My tone-deafness is a greater affliction to my parents than it is to me, so perhaps you’d be kind enough for their sakes not to spread the word around. Anyway, my mother’s given me orders to find out who attacked Lucy Shadd and make him stop trying to kill people, so would you mind telling me whether you’ve been aware of any homicidal maniacs strolling around the hallway during the past half hour or so?”

  “Not offhand, no,” said Helene. “But then we haven’t been watching. What do they look like?”

  “Well, you see, that’s the problem. One can’t always tell. Quite seriously, ladies, have you heard any stealthy footsteps, anything of that sort?”

  “Lord, yes, stealthy footsteps by the bucketful. People have been stealthing all over the place,” Corliss replied. “Mostly in Delicia Fawn’s direction, as usual.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Madoc, don’t try to tell us you haven’t dropped in on her yourself?”

  “My mother wouldn’t let me. Come on, Corliss, left or right?”

  “Right, then. You’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the impression I’ve been endeavoring to convey.”

  “You’re really and truly a policeman?”

  Madoc fished in his pocket and found one of his cards for her.

  “Detective Inspector, RCMP? My gosh, what are you here for?”

  “To spend a little time with my parents; at least that was the idea when I came. I had to be in Wagstaffe on business, you see, and they thought it might be fun for me to join the company and snatch a free ride out to the festival. Now that we’ve run into a spot of trouble, my mother’s decided I may as well make myself useful. So I’ll welcome any cooperation you’re willing to give me.”

  “You honestly believe somebody tried to murder Lucy Shadd just now?”

  “There’s a nasty red m
ark around her throat that adds a certain credibility to the assumption. I shouldn’t advise your going to look at it just now, though. My mother’s given her something to quiet her down. Frieda Loye has also expressed hope of getting a little sleep, though I don’t know how well she’s going to succeed. She seems a nervy sort of lady.”

  “I’d be pretty darned nervy trying to sleep in a room where my bunkie’s just missed being strangled,” said Helene. “For Pete’s sake, Madoc, couldn’t you have found someplace else to put them?”

  “That aspect of the matter didn’t seem to bother them much,” Madoc replied. “And frankly, in a ramshackle old place like this, I don’t see that changing rooms would make much difference. I have a feeling Lucy was determined to tough it out and Frieda was reluctant to put anyone to the bother of switching. I understand she’s already caused some of you to miss a bit of sleep on your previous stops.”

  “I’ll say she has,” said Corliss. “She’s been hooting off like a calliope about every third night lately. I don’t know why, she never did before.”

  “You’ve worked with her for some time, then?”

  “Oh yes, we principals are all old hands with the Wagstaffe. It’s one of Canada’s finest orchestras, as your parents must have told you, so once they hire us, we’re happy to stay on. You know, I suppose that Lucy used to be principal horn player? She bucked for Wilhelm to take her place when she had to retire.”

  Madoc gave the cellist one of his gentle smiles. “Retire sounds like an odd word for someone who works as hard as Lucy Shadd does.”

  Helene shrugged. Her nightgown was short-sleeved, and Madoc could see how muscular her arms were. “I know, but being on the staff isn’t like being a member of the orchestra. I’d hate getting shoved off the stage, myself.”

  “You’re safe enough, Helene,” said Corliss Blair. “We winds blow ourselves out sooner or later, but the strings go on forever. Look at Pablo Casals.”

  “Yes,” said Madoc, “why don’t you? By the way, Helene, I was wondering how you happened to be on the plane last night? I’d been given to understand that the players usually preferred to travel with their instruments. You didn’t bring your cello with you?”

  “No, it’s on the train, where I thought I was supposed to be. They’d already taken away the instrument cases and I was getting on the bus when Lucy ran up and told me I was on the list for the plane. God knows why, I loathe flying. I assumed it was some sort of mixup, but Lucy’s been having such a hellish time trying to do two jobs that I didn’t want to make a fuss. Besides, I have a favorite cousin in Vancouver and it looked like my chance to grab some free time with her. You just can’t count on anything, can you?”

  “Sometimes it seems that way. But my mother is counting on me to find her a clue, so I’d better get cracking. Thank you for your help, ladies. If you’d like a wash, there’s hot water in the kitchen.”

  They didn’t want a wash. They wanted to go back to sleep, as who could blame them? Funny ladies, Madoc thought; they hadn’t shown much interest in what had happened to Lucy Shadd. Perhaps they hadn’t really believed him; maybe they were still so traumatized by their own near-miss from being killed on the plane that a failed attempt at a murder down the hall seemed trivial by comparison. It might simply be that they felt Lucy Shadd as staff didn’t merit the same concern that she would have if she were still principal horn player.

  Or maybe Helene and Corliss just didn’t like Lucy Shadd. Maybe her officiousness annoyed everybody else the way it had got under Madoc’s own skin last night. That was one more thing to think about. He went next door and tried another experimental rap.

  Nobody was home. A beautiful dark blue suit with an ever so faint pinstripe was hung with great care over the back of the one wooden chair, a black cashmere overcoat across two hooks on the wall. An initialed calfskin carryall stood beside the chair, an expensive shaving kit and a black homburg hat reposed on the stained and battered dresser top. The bed had been neatly made up, but nobody was lying in it. Madoc cocked an eyebrow and continued his explorations.

  The neighboring room was empty of inhabitants but far from unused. Both beds were a mess of rumpled blankets and shed garments. The floor and dresser were strewn with objects ranging from an empty vodka bottle to an old-fashioned shaving brush and mug to a toy wind-up mouse that was a pretty good imitation of the real thing except, of course, for the key in its backside. Madoc didn’t need the two open instrument cases to inform him that this had to be where the trumpeter and the trombonist had set up housekeeping. But where were they?

  They weren’t in the room occupied by the sleeping Lucy Shadd and the wide-awake Frieda Loye. Madoc met the flautist’s horrified stare with a reassuring nod.

  “Just checking,” he murmured, and backed out, closing the door with exaggerated care, not that he supposed it mattered much.

  In the room beyond, he discovered the missing concert-master, slumbering peacefully in a double bed beside the opulent Madame Bellini. Both Monsieur Houdon and his lady were wearing flannel pajamas, silk eyeshades, and fuzzy white earplugs. L’amour, toujours l’amour.

  So by the process of elimination, Delicia Fawn must be at the far end of the hall. And so she was, looking ravishing in her sleep. And so was Steve MacVittie, looking ravished. And so were Cedric Rintoul and Jason Jasper, wearing surgical masks and tiger-striped pajamas with feet in them, standing one on either side of the bed with their instruments raised to the approximate presumed location of their lips.

  “Rehearsing a matinatta, gentlemen?” said Madoc politely.

  The sound of his voice woke Delicia, and she began to speak. What she said was not nice. It was not genteel, it was not comme il faut, and it was just as well her next-door neighbors had their earplugs in. But she got her point across. Boiled down, it amounted to, “You unspeakable persons, get out of here.”

  Madoc raised his hand to stem the flow. “Before we leave, Miss Fawn, I should perhaps explain that I’m here in my professional capacity as a detective inspector of the RCMP. My duty at the moment is to investigate a murderous assault which was made a short time ago upon Lucy Shadd, who is occupying the room two doors away from yours. May I ask how long you and Mr. MacVittie have been in one another’s company?”

  Steve MacVittie was slowly coming to life. “Assault, huh?” he grunted through a jaw-cracking yawn. “Is that what all the yelling was about down the hall a while back? Yeah, I’ve been here ever since I won the toss. I haven’t had strength enough to leave. But these guys weren’t.”

  “We were so, eh,” Rintoul protested. “You just couldn’t see us. We were hiding.”

  “Where, for instance?”

  MacVittie’s question was a good one. There wasn’t even a closet, just a few hooks screwed into an unpainted board on the wall opposite the bed.

  “We were under the bed,” said Jason Jasper.

  Madoc stooped and checked. “You were not, Mr. Jasper. This is an old-fashioned coil spring and it sags in the middle. Mr. MacVittie is a big man and Miss Fawn is not puny, either; therefore it sags a good deal. You and Mr. Rintoul are no lightweights yourselves, I may point out. The combined weight of the occupants is pushing the mattress and spring down so low that neither one of you would have been able to crawl underneath, much less the pair of you together. Added to that, the dust under the bed has not been disturbed. Come on, Mr. Jasper, what else have you and your pal been up to? Did you also think it would be a jolly jape to scare Lucy Shadd within an inch of her life?”

  “God, no! Why’d we do a thing like that?”

  “Perhaps for the same reason that Mr. Rintoul amused himself by tickling Frieda Loye’s neck with a piece of violin string taped to his trombone all through last evening’s concert, knowing full well that Mrs. Loye was subject to screaming nightmares as a result of previous teasing, and would probably wake up everybody tonight with another one.”

  With the exception of Monsieur Houdon and Madame Bellini, who’d have been wearing th
eir earplugs, but Madoc saw no reason to go into that. “It was in fact a piece of violin string, was it not, Mr. Rintoul?”

  “What’s the big deal about a piece of violin string?” Rintoul was trying to be truculent, but he’d forgotten he still had the surgical mask over his mouth, so he missed his effect. He snatched off the mask and snarled at Madoc.

  “And how come this crap about being a Mountie? I thought you were Sir Emlyn’s son.”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive, Mr. Rintoul.”

  “Lady Rhys told me you worked for the Canadian government.” Jason Jasper sounded like a petulant four-year-old. “In research.”

  “That is quite correct, Mr. Jasper. On behalf of the law enforcement branch of the Canadian government, I am at present researching you. Getting back to my question, Mr. Rintoul, was it in fact a piece of violin string you were using to torture Mrs. Loye?”

  “I resent the use of me word torture.”

  Madoc didn’t respond to his resentment, merely stood and waited. Delicia Fawn was in no mood for passivity.

  “Cedric, don’t be such a jackass. So what about it, Madoc? Or do we have to call you Inspector now? What’s so important about a hunk of violin string?”

  “Call me what you please. What’s important about a violin string is that a piece of one was used by somebody trying to strangle Lucy Shadd. Where did you get your string, Mr. Rintoul?”

  “I’m not saying I had one.”

  “If you don’t, one of your colleagues will,” Madoc pointed out. “It’s not possible that none of the other members of the orchestra noticed what you were up to. My mother and I could see it quite plainly from where we were sitting. You’ll be hearing from my father on the subject of unprofessional behavior, I expect, but we’re not concerned with that just now. Talk, Mr. Rintoul.”

  Chapter 7

  THE TROMBONIST DID A bit of snorting and snuffling, then shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Oh, all right. What the hell, guys like you couldn’t see a joke if it waltzed up and jumped on their corns. It was a hunk of violin string I found on the floor of the rehearsal room, that’s all.”