He couldn’t take it outside to the dustbin, because she might get out, so he’d have to distract her, and shut her in another room, before he could discard his noisome little bundle. Oh, boy; was life going to be more interesting from now on, and he could only hope that his three other cats would accept her as easily as Mycroft had accepted Ruby and Tar Baby, last year.
Once free of his stinking little bundle, he went into the sitting room, and sat down in his favourite chair with his newspaper, only to find the little cat sliding gently on to his lap, purring like a little engine, and rubbing her face against his left hand as it held the pages of the paper up. ‘You little darling, Cadence,’ he crooned, already having shortened her name for the sake of simplicity, and, dropping his paper to the floor, started to stroke her silky soft fur. ‘You’re going to be no trouble whatsoever, are you, you little poppet?’ he predicted.
IV
Saturday 26th June
When Myles Midwynter came downstairs, a little later than usual as it was a Saturday, he espied an envelope sitting on the doormat which definitely had not been there the night before, and could not have come by post, as the postie never came before eleven on Saturdays.
He picked it up with some interest, slit it open with his thumb, and unfolded the single sheet of paper contained therein. As he read, his face grew redder and redder, and he began to shake with rage. ‘Myrtle!’ he shouted, loud enough to wake the dead, then charged back up the stairs again, holding the letter at arm’s length, as if it were alive. ‘Myrtle!’ he bellowed again, and found his wife sitting up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
‘What on earth is wrong? And why are you making all that noise?’ she asked, in a husky, just-woken-up voice.
‘This – this letter! This bloody letter!’ he exclaimed, thrusting it under her nose, before she had even had the chance to reach for her reading glasses.
‘That bloody man!’ he exclaimed, his voice rising to a shout again.
‘What the hell has he – whoever he is – written, to get you into such a fine old state?’
‘It’s that Dashwood, the bounder! He’s suggesting that we completely reorganise how we run our rehearsals, if we’re to be under his baton. I’ll give him ‘under his baton’! He wants us to rehearse in the old meeting hall, so that we can sit on suitable chairs in our proper musical groups …’
‘Well, the old meeting hall’s just a few yards down the road for us, so that’s not a real problem, but as far as musical groups go, that’ll leave Harold rather lonely, won’t it?’ cut in Myrtle.
‘Harold be damned! He’s always sat with the sax. But – get this – he doesn’t think it appropriate that we should be under the influence of alcohol when we play, as this obviously leads to inaccurate note-reading and an under-par performance. My arse! That’s the way we’ve always done things! Who does he think he is, telling us what to do, when he’s not even been in the village for more than five minutes?’
‘Calm down, Myles. You know you need to be careful of your blood pressure.’
‘And,’ he went on, ‘he thinks that a heavy meal before playing is also a bad thing. Dammit, we’ve been having a meal together before we’ve played, for the last decade.’
Myrtle had now located her reading glasses behind her nightly glass of water, and held the letter up to the light, the better to read it. When she had finished, she dropped the sheet of paper on to the bedclothes, and pierced her husband with a gimlet eye.
‘We have been getting rather lax of late, you know,’ she stated baldly. ‘Why, on at least two practices out of the last half dozen, we haven’t even bothered to play more than one or two pieces. And I can see his point in rehearsing weekly. The concert’s only a couple of months away, and there’s no way we can be ready if we carry on as we are, you’ve got to admit.’
‘What are you suggesting then? That we give in and do exactly what he says, like naughty schoolgirls and boys being told off by the headmaster? Dammit! I won’t be written to like that! I won’t be bullied!’
‘No, but you will be swayed by simple common sense. If we really want to do this concert for charity, then we’re going to need to practise a lot more, not just at home, which I don’t think anybody bothers to do at the moment, but together, and on a much more regular basis.’
‘Traitor!’
‘Don’t be so childish! This is a perfectly polite and reasonable letter, and I think we should give his suggestions serious consideration. And, as for the food and wine, there’s no reason why I can’t leave out a finger buffet here, if I put cling film over the plates. He says here that he’d like us to start at seven. If we do that, and he runs it competently, we can be back here by nine, stuffing our faces and having a few glasses of the old vino. And if he doesn’t run it well, we can tell him to sling his hook.’
‘I vote we tell him to sling his hook now, and just go on as we are.’
‘Now, you know that’s not really an option. The vicar bringing him along, has at least opened my eyes to how much work we actually need to do, to be ready to perform in front of an audience, and I think we should give him a chance. If he can get us through this concert, you can do whatever you like after that, but it’s been much more of a social club than a band practice lately, and you can’t deny that.’
Myles sighed, ran his hand over his suspiciously dark hair, then used both hands to twirl the ends of his magnificent (and also suspiciously dark) handle-bar moustache, actions that indicated that he was thinking. ‘You’re right, of course, but I don’t like admitting it. I’ll do an e-mail for those who’ve got computers, and phone those who haven’t, but they won’t like it.’
‘Then they’ll just have to lump it, won’t they. It’s either practise like the very devil, or cancel, and we simply can’t let the vicar down – or the church restoration fund.’
[1] See Murder at he Manse
[2] See Choked Off
Chapter Two
Friday 2nd July
I
Campbell Dashwood was extremely dismayed to find that he was not the first to arrive at the old meeting hall that evening, even though he was half an hour before time. He was also furious to discover that the two persons present hadn’t just put up their music stands, and tuned their instruments, ready for his instruction.
Instead, he found Vanessa Palfreyman, bow discarded, plucking away at her double bass with a very competent jazz rhythm, Gayle Potten accompanying her on the flute with a high, teasing melody that flew here and there, but never faltered or sounded wrong. There wasn’t a music stand or a chair in sight, and there was no music that he could see from which they were playing.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked, with acid in his voice.
‘Just jamming, squire,’ answered Vanessa, not missing a syncopated beat. The band was the only place she felt she could let herself go a bit, being painfully shy in the presence of strangers, and not able to make friends easily. ‘We got here early so that we could throw around some ideas. It’s just a bit of improvisation. Do you have a problem with that?’ she asked, still plucking away at the deeply pitched strings of her bulky instrument, her self-confidence at its highest, in familiar company.
‘I do, in fact,’ answered Dashwood. ‘I have called this rehearsal, and I would have expected anyone who arrived early would have set out chairs for the others, put up their music stand, and had their music ready for my arrival.’
‘But we don’t know how you want the chairs set out, do we? So we couldn’t do that, and it hardly takes more than a minute to put up a stand. As for the music, we don’t know what you want us to play yet, so we just thought we’d warm up with a bit of a session. Is warming up all right?’ she finished, uncharacteristically insolent.
At that exact moment, the mood was broken with the arrival of Myles and Myrtle Midwynter, and an uneasy truce reigned, as they gave Dashwood a hand setting out chairs in sections near the piano, but sideways on to it, as it was an upright, and Edmu
nd Alexander needed to be able to see the conductor, as well as his music.
When they had finished, Myles looked at the arrangement, and asked, ‘Why have you got one chair sitting all on its own?’ already knowing the answer, but wanting to get this particular matter settled before anyone else arrived.
‘It’s for the trumpet. It’s the only instrument in the brass section, or had you forgotten the make-up of your own band?’ Oooh, that was throwing down the gauntlet, and no mistake! Dashwood’s good eye stared at Myles in mute confrontation, his wild eye roving from side to side restlessly.
‘Harold always sits with the saxophone! The instruments are the same colour and material, and it’s more sociable than making someone sit alone, as if they’ve got chicken pox or some other infectious disease.’
‘The saxophone is a woodwind instrument, and should not be placed next to one from the brass section.’ Dashwood was determined to have his way. This was his band now, and its members would do as they were told.
‘I know damned well it’s a woodwind instrument, although God knows why: the wretched thing makes enough noise to waken the dead. But in our band, Harold sits next to Lester.’
‘And in my band, Harold sits separately, as the sole representative of the brass section,’ Dashwood countered.
Other members had been filtering in as this discussion was underway, and the matter was solved, in the end, by Harold Grimes himself, who walked over to the lone chair, and moved it next to the one where Lester Westlake was unpacking his saxophone. ‘Evening, Lester,’ he greeted his fellow player, and sat down in the recently moved chair and opened the carrying case of his trumpet.
‘What are you doing sitting there, Mr Grimes?’
‘Well, I saw as how you’d put my seat too far away from my old mate Lester, so I moved it to where it should be. Me and Lester always sits together, don’t we?’ he asked the band at large.
There was a chorus of yeses, and Campbell Dashwood had to admit defeat, although only on this one, small matter. If he let them get their own way on this one, maybe they’d be more cooperative with some of the other things he had in mind to introduce, like a dress code for performances.
Everyone having arrived now, Dashwood erected his own stand and removed his baton from his music case, tapping it on the music stand to attract attention, but this ploy went unheard, drowned in the babble of conversation that filled and echoed round the large hall. ‘Quiet, please, ladies and gentlemen! It is nearly five-past-seven, and we aren’t even ready to start playing. Oboe … oboe.’ Here, he consulted a list he had placed on his stand, and continued, ‘Ms Burnett, can we have an A please, so that we can get tuned up?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Dashwood, but my reed isn’t spitty enough yet. Another minute or so, and I should be able to blow it. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Dashwood sighed, as he surveyed the shambles before him. There were piles of music on the floor, instrument cases strewn round like discarded rubbish, and light jackets and cardigans slung over the backs of chairs ‘Never mind, my dear. I’ve just realised that there are other things to be attended to first.’
‘Now, listen up everybody. We can’t possibly have a rehearsal, when you look like you’re sitting in the middle of a corporation tip. I should be grateful if you would hang any garments not presently being worn on the coat-hooks in the entrance foyer. Please take your cases to the right hand side of the room – my right, not yours,’ he added, as Geraldine Warwick, with only a piccolo case to carry, was already out of her seat, and heading in the wrong direction.
‘And when you’ve settled in your seats once more, please gather together any music that you have, with the exception of the Cornelius March, and put it all in a neat pile under your chairs. Place the piece I have named, on your music stands, and when we are all in tune we will start with that.’
At a quarter-past-seven, he had to raise his voice again to restore order, as various people had stopped to have a chat before going back to their seats. ‘Please, please, ladies and gentlemen, will you settle down and pay attention! That A, if you’d be so kind, Ms Burnett.’
‘Please call me Wendy,’ she requested, as she raised the instrument to her mouth.
‘We are meeting on a semi-professional basis here, and I think it would be more appropriate if we used a more formal mode of address. I shall continue to call you Ms Burnett, and you may call me Mr Dashwood. Do I make myself understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied Wendy in a small voice and, blushing furiously, played an A for all the other instruments to tune to.
Myles Midwynter had also turned the colour of a turkey cock, something he usually only did when he was playing his clarinet or, in this case, seething with anger. This man was a mountebank of the worst order and, if he had any say in the matter, would be dispensed with as soon as was humanly possible.
Finally, as settled as they would ever be, and purporting to be in tune, Dashwood raised his baton, declared, ‘I shall give you four beats in,’ and proceeded to start the piece.
By the end of the first line, he had stopped it again. ‘I should be very grateful,’ he said in a sarcastic tone, ‘if you wouldn’t mind observing the beat I am giving, and not all play at different speeds. It would sound so much better if we played at the same rate, don’t you think? Now, one more time. After four.’
It didn’t! – sound any better, that is. It was still awful, and the conductor stopped it at the same place, a look of despair creeping across his features. ‘How long have you been playing this piece, may I ask?’
‘About a year,’ responded Myles, now slightly subdued, as he had produced more than a couple of very high-pitched screeches with his instrument in the last two attempts at the piece.
‘And when, exactly, did you last play it?’
‘About a couple of months ago, I think. Not sure, really.’
‘Thank you, Mr Midwynter, and would you like to explain to me exactly what the problem is?’
‘You’re going too fast for us. We usually take this at a rather more sedate pace.’
A few voices murmured in agreement with this statement.
‘Well, you clap your hands for me to show me how fast you usually play it, and I’ll match my conducting to that, for now.’
Myles clapped a slow rhythm, Dashwood raised his baton to beat them in, and the band launched on its third attempt at the piece. This time the conductor allowed it to continue through to the end, before sighing and laying down his baton on the little shelf of his music stand.
‘I don’t know if there are any funerals booked for the near future, but that’s all that is fit for at the moment. It’s a march, not a funeral dirge. We’ve got to get it more lively, and observe at least some of the dynamics. May I request that you work on that at home, for us to have another look at, at next week’s rehearsal?’
With a quick glance down at his crib sheet of names again, he asked, ‘Ms Warwick, you didn’t play in that piece. Would you be so good as to explain to me why that was?’
‘Because I don’t have a part for it,’ she explained in a quiet voice.
‘Have you lost it?’
‘No, I never had one.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the last Musical Director said she couldn’t write parts.’
‘And which instrument did this dear lady play?’
‘The clarinet, Mr Dashwood. It’s not my fault. It really isn’t.’
‘I know it isn’t, dear Ms Warwick. I shall write one when I go home tonight, and put it through your letter box first thing in the morning, and then we can have the pleasure of you playing with us next week.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dashwood.’
‘Now, what about that Teddy Bear thing you did last week? Let’s find out how that sounds without the aid of alcohol.’
There was a deal of movement, as all the band members searched for somewhere to put down their instruments, before scrabbling under their chairs to look for the appropriate piece of
music, and Dashwood, looking at his watch, realised that it was already going on for eight o’clock. This would never do. He’d have to get a stronger grip on them than this, it they weren’t to be there until midnight.
‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ was even worse than it had been when they had last played it. Not only was it slow and funereal, like the other piece, but was full of wrong notes, with several people losing the beat, and either playing a bar or two behind, or several bars ahead, which was the case in point with Myles Midwynter.
‘Stop, oh, stop that dreadful racket,’ shouted Dashwood, wringing his hands in despair. ‘Mr Midwynter, you were several bars ahead of everyone at letter B.’
‘Oh, I always am,’ explained Myles guiltily. ‘I’ve never quite been able to sort out the timing in that section.’
‘Sort it out? You doubled it!’
‘Oh, is that what I was doing wrong? Couldn’t work it out, myself,’ Myles thanked him, a mystery solved at last.
‘Let’s try it again, but just the first section, and very, very slowly. And you must watch my beat.’
‘But we can’t,’ called Myrtle from her seat in the strings. ‘We need to look at the music.’
‘And just how long have you been fighting this nursery masterpiece?’
‘About two years now,’ she answered meekly.
‘And you don’t know your parts yet? How often do you practise between rehearsals?’
There was an ominous silence.
‘And you really expected to be ready for a concert that is just a couple of months away?’
A second silence filled the room to bursting point.
‘I can see that things are more serious than I thought. I’m going to have a word with the vicar, to see if it’s possible for us to use the new village meeting rooms. If we can secure that for our rehearsals, then we can have sectional rehearsals in different rooms, at seven, then all meet together at eight o’clock, to put together the progress we’ve all made in the previous hour. Would that be agreeable?’
Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6) Page 3