Music to Die For (The Falconer Files Book 6)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Spend the first hour practising this, and running through that ‘Cornelius’ March you played last time, as at least you managed to start together, even if you all wandered off individually in the bits in between. I shall visit each room to check on your progress and playing, then we will all gather in the largest room, to play through those two pieces ensemble. In you go. Edmund, you go straight into the hall. I’ve left the music out for the new piece for you, to give you a chance to run through it a few times before we all come together.’

  As they filed past him into the building, his voice sounded again, in an angry squeak. ‘I can smell alcohol. I expressly forbade the consumption of alcohol before rehearsals. Which one of you has been drinking?’

  His face turned to thunder as all present raised a hand. ‘How dare you! How bloody dare you, after I made such a point of how alcohol dulls the senses and inhibits accurate playing. Get inside, before I really lose my temper.’

  ‘Right you are, guv,’ said Lester Westlake, loud enough for the man to hear, and Harold Grimes and Myles Midwynter both saluted him as they marched past him.

  ‘And don’t call me ‘guv’!’

  III

  Dashwood started his tour of inspection in the room he had designated ‘strings’. Inside, he found Cameron McKnight and Gwendolyn Radcliffe both tuning their violins. Fern Bailey was running up and down a scale on her viola, and Myrtle and Vanessa Palfreyman were still tightening and anointing their bows, lost in conversation.

  ‘But I’m really not keen on going this year. Couldn’t we just give it a miss for once?’ he heard Myrtle say to Vanessa.

  ‘But we always go. We’ve gone for years, now. Why should this year be any different?’

  Myrtle Midwynter and Vanessa Palfreyman were considered to be very close friends, and always went on a hiking holiday together at the end of the summer, when the crowds had disappeared back off to work or to school.

  ‘Please excuse me butting in, ladies, but this is supposed to be a band rehearsal, not a ladies’ knitting circle. Chop chop! or we’ll never get started.’ Dashwood was poised for action, his small notebook and pencil at the ready to take notes.

  There was a general sigh, expressing the joint thought ‘oh, God’, and the five stringed instrument players placed the music for the familiar march on their music stands, Cameron McKnight, as first violin and, therefore, ‘leader of the orchestra’, counted them in, and off they went, all of them fighting to keep, not only in time, but in tune, their nervous fingers betraying them as they endeavoured to make as good an impression as they could on Dashwood.

  When they had finished that piece, he asked them to place the parts for the new piece of music he had brought with him on their stands so that he could hear them sight-read. They were only four bars in when he said, ‘Thank you,’ in a voice loud enough to halt playing, and stalked out of the room, in search of other prey.

  ‘Oh my God! That was awful,’ exclaimed Myrtle, echoing the feelings of everyone in the room. ‘I forgot, as usual, to look at the key signature, so I didn’t play a single flat in it.’

  ‘And I read it in cut time, so I was playing at twice the speed of everyone else,’ offered Fern Bailey, gloomily.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. I had, what I now realise to be page two, on my stand, and outdid you all, by playing completely the wrong music, added Vanessa Palfreyman, with a heartfelt sigh.

  Myrtle started it. It was just a wheezy little chuckle, but it was infectious, running round the room until everyone had caught the silliness, and within ten seconds, they were all howling with laughter at the complete shambles they had presented to their new Musical Director.

  ‘That’ll teach him!’ said Gwendolyn Radcliffe who had, until then, remained silent.

  ‘Maybe he was right about the alcohol,’ suggested Fern Bailey, laying her viola on the floor, in case she dropped it, in her mirth.

  ‘Absolute rot!’ exclaimed Myrtle, leaning over her cello for support, as she continued to chuckle. ‘We just didn’t have enough!’

  This set off another round of hearty laughter, but they soon sobered up when Vanessa Palfreyman, putting her fingers to her lips and trying to regain control of herself, said, ‘Shhhh! If he hears us, he’ll come in to see what’s so funny, and I’m not telling him.’

  That produced a more sober mood, in more ways than one, and they applied themselves to the challenge of a new piece of music – a very rare event, since the last but one Musical Director had fled the drear of English weather for sunnier climes.

  IV

  As Dashwood had been appraising the awful caterwauling of the strings, he had been aware of doors opening and closing, and the scraping of what sounded like a chair. With his suspicious mind on red alert, he headed straight for the woodwind room, and found exactly what he had concluded, from the noises, that he would find.

  Wendy Burnett sat with her double reed in her mouth, keeping it moist, so that it was ready to play. Gayle Potten was adjusting the three parts of her flute to get it into perfect alignment, giving it a little blow between each minute adjustment. Geraldine Warwick had the new piece on her stand, and was gently fingering her way through it with a stately slowness, blowing only very gently, so as not to disturb the others, who were listening to Myles holding forth.

  He was still intermittently sucking at his reed to moisten it sufficiently to play. ‘I don’t see why we have to learn anything new, when we’ve got such a large repertoire already. There are plenty of pieces we’ve already played, that would serve perfectly well for this concert, and …’

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentleman.’ Dashwood had made a swift entrance, so as to catch them all by surprise. ‘Not playing yet? Tut tut! And where is our Mr Westlake? I did emphasise that the saxophone was to be in its correct section, and yet I see no sign of him in here.’

  ‘He’s gone in with Harold, so that he won’t have to sit all on his own. There is a social element to band meetings, whatever you may think to the contrary, and he didn’t come here to spend the evening alone in a little room, with nobody to talk to but himself.’ This explanation came from Gayle Potten who, being his current girlfriend, was always concerned for his welfare.

  ‘Contrary to what seems to be common belief, he would not have needed anyone to talk to. The idea of using these practice rooms is so that you can play in your separate sections, without getting put off by any of the others. He should be spending all his time in there playing, which I can patently see, that you are not. Now, why would that be?’

  ‘Reeds, old boy,’ explained Myles with an infuriating smile, and putting his reed back into his mouth, to make noisy sucking noises on it.

  ‘Get those reeds onto your instruments, and put ‘Cornelius’ on the stands. I want you playing that to me within ten seconds, and no more of the dumb insolence and downright defiance that I’ve been faced with this evening.’

  As in the strings’ room, Dashwood made copious use of his notebook and pencil, stopped the piece after two lines, and bade them put their new piece out to play at sight. As sheet music rustled in the changeover, a voice could be heard muttering, ‘You’ll be lucky, mate!’

  ‘Who said that?’ Dashwood demanded, his face reddening with anger, but no one owned up, and they began, at various different speeds, and wildly differing competence in sight-reading, to murder the piece he had selected to be the jewel in the crown for this, his first concert as Musical Director.

  ‘Stop, oh stop that dreadful racket!’ His patience did not last long, and he swept out of the room, reminding them to be in the largest of the rooms at eight o’clock, so that they could all play together.

  V

  Entering the room that had a piece of paper taped to the door reading ‘Brass’, he found Lester Westlake reading the newspaper, and Harold Grimes, busy with a pencil, writing on his copy of the new piece of music.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in here?’ Dashwood asked in disbelief. ‘Why is neither of you playing?�
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  ‘Well, Harold here can’t concentrate if I play while he’s thinking, so I thought I’d let him get his prep done first, then we’d have a go together,’ explained Westlake, looking even more superior and supercilious than usual.

  The saxophonist was immaculately turned out, as usual, with not a hair out of place, his teeth looking as if they had been professionally whitened, had recently taken to wearing a variety of coloured contact lenses. Tonight his eyes were of a turquoise hue. In his job, although no one knew exactly what that was, one had to look smart at all times, in case one was seen by one of one’s clients.

  Dashwood let his gaze stray over the younger man, sneering slightly, as he had deemed the saxophonist to be rather ‘naice’, then glared at Harold, whose pencil was still working away, writing all over what had been a pristine piece of music.

  ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing, Mr Grimes?’

  Harold looked up. ‘I’m marking in my notes, squire. Haven’t quite got the hang of this music-reading yet, so I mark my notes in, then I know which fingers to use, to get the tune right.’

  Dashwood eyes turned up so much they nearly disappeared into his head. He struck his forehead with the palm of his right hand, and merely said, ‘Eight o’clock. Don’t forget!’ before slamming shut the door, and disappearing off to hear the pianist run through his paces.

  VI

  As he walked down the corridor, he became conscious of a totally unmusical sound and, muttering, ‘What the hell is that cacophony?’ hurried along to the hall.

  ‘That cacophony’ was Edmund Alexander, who was trying out the accompaniment for the new piece. At the moment, the music was well ahead on points, and the entry of Dashwood gave Edmund the excuse he needed, to call off the fight and declare the music the winner.

  ‘What was that bloody awful racket I just heard?’ asked Dashwood without preamble.

  ‘I was just having a go at my new part – I’m afraid it rather got the better of me, but I’ll get it under control eventually.’

  ‘But I thought you could sight-read. You played perfectly well for the last two rehearsals.’

  ‘Oh, I can sight-read, but not at FIRST sight. It takes me a while to sort it all out between my eyes and my fingers, and then everything’s just fine and dandy.’

  ‘And just how do you propose to accompany the band for tonight’s joint practice at eight o’clock?’

  ‘Blimey! It’s going to take longer than that, before I’m comfortable with it.’

  ‘And?’ asked Dashwood, urging him on to the inevitable conclusion.

  ‘And – I suppose I’m not going to able to manage it. Sorry.’

  ‘And what do you propose we do without the piano accompaniment?’

  ‘Don’t know, Mr Dashwood,’ apologised Edmund, looking down at his feet in embarrassment.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, Mr Alexander. You’re going to turn round all those chairs until they face the piano, and I’m going to play the damned thing. It won’t be easy, trying to conduct with my head, while my eyes and fingers are trying to give of their best to the music, but it’ll just have to do for tonight.

  ‘You must practise like the very devil before our next meeting, because I can’t be doing with this on a regular basis. Do I make myself understood, Mr Alexander?’

  ‘Perfectly, Mr Dashwood. Sorry, Mr Dashwood.’

  VII

  At exactly eight o’clock, a rather more subdued straggle of players wandered into the main room, showing a modicum of surprise to see that the configuration of chairs had been rearranged to face the piano, and Edmund Alexander, normally the most cheerful of characters, sitting in a chair to the left of the piano stool, a glum expression on his face.

  Looking at his watch, as he noted their punctual arrival, Dashwood, aware of their curiosity at the change of seating, addressed them thus. ‘I have decided that I shall provide the piano accompaniment for this part of the rehearsal. As you yourselves are no doubt aware, Mr Alexander is not a gifted sight-reader, and I am giving him the opportunity to familiarise himself with the work, during the next week.’

  (What he had, in fact, said to Edmund was, ‘You will no longer play for the rehearsals, I have decided. You’re suspended until you know the accompaniment by heart.’)

  ‘I shall take his place for tonight, leaving the keyboard, if I feel it necessary, if the timing goes adrift. I’m sure you will all be most cooperative at this temporary arrangement, and try your hardest to produce the most accurate playing of which you are capable.

  ‘Now, if you’ll all find your places, I’ll play the piano introduction, and you can take your tempo from that? What was that? I didn’t quite catch it?’

  There was no reply to this, as someone had mumbled, ‘Pompous old git!’ just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough for the words to be distinguished.

  Seating himself on the piano stool at the keyboard, he nodded to Edmund Alexander, who had found himself cast in the role of page-turner for the rest of the evening, and prepared to play. At his opening notes, Harold winked across at Myles, acknowledging that, even if no one else had identified the speaker of the sotto voce insult, he had, and was congratulating him in on his naughtiness.

  At the appointed bar, only the violins played, the rest of the strings joining them on the third beat, others joining in throughout the next two bars. With an angry crashing of notes, Dashwood stood and faced his band.

  ‘I assume you all took the time to run through your parts in your separate rooms?’ he enquired angrily. There was a subdued mutter of assent. ‘Then what the hell was that shambles?’ he asked, piqued, as only a fussy little man of his bent can be.

  ‘It’s too fast.’

  ‘We weren’t ready.’

  ‘I’ve got my music upside down.’

  ‘There are too many flats in it. Can I ring them in pencil? I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘We’re not used to the introduction. All we’ve got is the number of bars’ rest.’

  With a murderous expression on his face, Dashwood addressed these issues one by one. ‘First of all, I’m already playing it at half speed, so it is definitely not too fast. If I play it any slower, I’ll fall asleep on my stool with boredom.

  ‘Secondly, no, you were not at all ready, which is an absolute disgrace for a band that claims to have been playing together for ten years. Thirdly, I shouldn’t have to check that you’ve got your music on your stands the right way up.’ Here, he sucked air in through his teeth, the way a car mechanic does when he lifts the bonnet of one’s car, and is deciding how much he can get away with charging one.

  ‘As for the key signature, it’s only four flats. I should have thought you’d have been able to cope with them with relative ease, given what I said in point two. And as far as the introduction goes – count! You’ve got the number of bars that you are at rest: bloody well count them, then you’ll have no trouble coming in on time. Now, let’s try it again, and I’ll try to play it even slower.’

  Their second attempt staggered its way through the first four lines – that was, the first four lines for some of them. Others were still on line three, and Myles Midwynter had managed to sprint ahead to halfway through line five, before Dashwood exploded again.

  ‘Have you performed much in public?’ he demanded in a loud voice, and without waiting for an answer, went on, ‘I understand that you collect for charity at Christmas by playing carols at various venues. Do you make much?’

  ‘Five or six hundred pounds a year, old chap,’ Myles informed him with pride.

  ‘How? Do people pay you to shut up and go and play somewhere else? It’s unbelievable to me, that anyone could stand the cacophony you make for more than a few minutes.’

  ‘Now, look here, guv, a lot of people get real enjoyment from our carols at Christmas,’ Harold shouted, in defence of them all.

  ‘Then they must either be stone deaf or tone deaf. I’m going to go through you, one by one now,
and offer a little friendly advice to improve your playing. After this utter waste of an evening, we’ve got very little time left, and I’m not going to waste what little there is on listening to you slaughtering a beautiful composition.

  ‘I’ll start with you, Mr Midwynter. What number reed do you use?’

  ‘A three-and-a-half,’ answered Myles, looking a little smug, as this was a rather hard reed, that many people who only played for fun were unable to blow.

  ‘Then I suggest that you return to a number two. Not only do you go purple in the face when you’re playing, which, apart from anything else, can’t be good for your blood pressure, but you squeak and squeal like a whole colony of mice. Not only is that an unpleasant sound, it is very jarring to the nerves, as well.’

  Myles’s face had only just returned to its normal tanned hue after the effort of playing, and began to redden again at such harsh words. He was secretly very proud of his playing, and the little man’s criticism had cut him to the quick.

  But Dashwood hadn’t finished with him yet. ‘You also need to learn to count accurately. In that last debacle, you were a full bar-and-a-half ahead of everyone else. Pay attention, and listen to the other players. If you don’t listen to each other, we’ll never get anywhere.’

  Finished with victim number one, their new Musical Director moved on to Myrtle. ‘How long have you been playing the cello, Mrs Midwynter?’

  ‘Fifteen years. I have a lesson every week, without fail.’

  ‘Then may I suggest that your teacher is just cynically making money out of you? Have you looked at the passage on page two, that goes into the alto clef? No? Can you read in the alto clef?’

  ‘No.’ This was more whispered than spoken, for Myrtle couldn’t believe he could say such harsh things to her.

  ‘And when is your next lesson?’

  ‘Monday.’ Again a whispered answer.