Orchestrated Death

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘But she came to see you here?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘How often did she come?’

  ‘Three or four times a year, perhaps.’

  ‘And when was the last time?’

  ‘Last year – October, I think, or November. Yes, early November. She had just been on a tour with her Orchestra.’

  ‘Did she mention any particular reason for visiting you at that time?’

  ‘No. But she never discussed her personal life. She came from time to time, on a formal basis, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you pay her an allowance?’

  She looked slightly disconcerted at the question. ‘While she was at the College, I was obliged to. Once she had her own establishment and was capable of earning her own living, I considered my obligations as having ceased.’

  ‘Did you ever give or lend her money?’

  She looked pinker. ‘Certainly not. It would have been very bad for her to think that she could come to me for money whenever she wanted to.’

  ‘She had no other income? Nothing except her salary from the Orchestra?’

  ‘Not that I was aware of.’

  ‘Did you know that she owned a very rare and valuable violin, a Stradivarius?’

  Mrs Ringwood displayed neither surprise nor interest. ‘I knew nothing about her private life, her London life. I am not interested in music, and I know nothing about violins.’

  Slider did not press this, though surely everyone must know what a Stradivarius was, and anyone would be surprised if a penniless relative turned out to own one. He felt Mrs Ringwood was departing somewhat from her self-imposed duty of complete openness.

  ‘On that last visit, in November, did she talk about any of her friends?’

  ‘I really cannot remember at this distance what she talked about.’

  ‘But you said she had just been on tour – presumably then she must have mentioned it to you?’

  ‘She must have spoken about it, I suppose. The places she’d been to, and the concerts she’d done. But as to friends -’ Mrs Ringwood looked irritable. ‘As far as I knew she never had any. When I was her age I was always up and doing -parties, tennis, dances – scores of friends – and admirers. But Anne-Marie never seemed to have any interest in anything, except drooping about the house and reading. She seemed to have no go in her at all!’

  Slider was beginning to form a much clearer picture of Anne-Marie’s childhood, and the clash of personalities that was inevitable between this former Bright Young Thing and an introverted orphan who cared only for music. Mrs Ringwood’s perceptions about her niece would not be likely to be helpful to him. Instead he tried a shot in the dark. ‘Can you tell me who her solicitor was?’

  Was there a very slight hesitation before she answered?

  ‘The family solicitor, Mr Battershaw, attended to her business.’

  ‘Mr Battershaw of –?’

  ‘Riggs and Felper, in Woodstock,’ she completed, faintly unwillingly. Slider appeared not to notice, and wrote the name down in his careful secondary-modern-taught hand. He looked up to ask the next question and his attention was drawn to the French windows behind Mrs Ringwood, just a fraction of a second before the dogs also noticed the man standing there, and rushed at him, barking shrilly.

  ‘Boys, boys!’ Mrs Ringwood turned with the automatic admonition, but the newcomer was in no danger. The yappings were welcoming, and the attenuated tails were wagging. ‘Ah, Bernard,’ Mrs Ringwood said.

  He stepped forward into the room, a tall, thin man a year or two older than her, dressed in a suit of expensive and extremely disagreeable tweed, and a yellow waistcoat. His face was long, mobile and yellowish, much freckled. He had a ginger moustache, grey eyebrows sparked with red, and thin, despairing, gingery hair, combined into careful strands across the top of his freckled, balding skull.

  As he stooped in, he put up a hand in what was obviously an automatic gesture to smooth the strands down, and Slider noticed that the hand, too, was yellow with freckles, and that the nails were rather too long. The man smiled ingratiatingly behind his moustache, but his eyes were everywhere, quick and penetrating under the undisciplined eyebrows.

  Slider, freed of the dogs’ vigilance, stood politely, and Mrs Ringwood performed the introduction. ‘Inspector Slider – Captain Hildyard, our local vet, and a great personal friend of mine. He looks after my boys, of course, and he often pops in on his way past. I hope he didn’t startle you.’

  Slider shook the strong, bony yellow hand, and the vet bent over him charmingly and said, ‘How do you do, Inspector? What brings you here? Nothing serious, I hope. Has Esther been parking on double yellow lines?’

  Slider merely gave a tight smile and left it to Mrs Ringwood to elucidate if she wanted.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come to look at Elgar’s foot?’ she said. ‘It was kind of you to drop by, but I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Tomorrow would have done just as well.’

  ‘No trouble at all, my dear Esther,’ Hildyard said promptly. Slider watched them, unimpressed. Something about them struck a false note with him. Had she warned him off, provided him with the excuse? Was there some kind of collusion between them, and if so, why?

  ‘I’ll look at it while I’m here,’ Hildyard went on. ‘Don’t want the little chap suffering. By the way, Inspector, is that your car out in the lane?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slider. He met the vet’s eyes and discovered that they were grey with yellow flecks, and curiously shiny, as if they were made of glass, like the eyes of a stuffed animal. ‘Is it in your way?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. I was merely wondering. As a matter of fact, that was partly why I called in. We keep an eye on each other in a neighbourly way in this village, and a strange car parked near a house like this is always cause for concern.’

  He paused. With five pairs of eyes on him, watchful and waiting, Slider felt pressed to take his leave. He moved, and the dogs rushed upon him, yapping.

  ‘I’d better be on my way,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Ringwood. Nice to have met you, Captain Hildyard.’

  Hildyard bowed slightly, and Mrs Ringwood smiled graciously, but they were waiting side by side for him to leave with a palpable air of having things to say as soon as he was out of earshot. There was more between them than vet and client. Old friend? Or something closer?

  ‘Who was that utterly bogus character in the hairy tweeds?’ Joanna asked as he got in and started the engine. ‘He looked like a refugee from a Noël Coward play.’

  ‘He purported to be one Captain Hildyard, the local vet.’ Slider drove off, feeling relief at the putting of some distance between him and the house.

  ‘He gave me a fairly savage once-over as he passed. Why only purported to be?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose he’s a vet all right,’ Slider said tautly.

  ‘He seems to have ruffled you.’

  ‘He had long fingernails. I absolutely abominate long fingernails on men. And I don’t like people who use military rank when they’re not in the army.’

  ‘I said he looked bogus. What was he doing there, anyway?’

  ‘It did seem rather opportune, the way he suddenly appeared. But on the other hand, the dogs of the house evidently knew him all right, and he said he’d called because he was worried by a strange car being parked near the house, which is not only reasonable, but even laudable.’

  ‘You do like to be fair, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I bet you’re Libra.’

  ‘Close,’ he admitted. ‘I’m told I’m on the cusp. But listen, he had long fingernails, which is not only disgusting, but I would have thought a distinct handicap for a vet.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s such an eminent vet he only does diagnoses from X-rays, and never has to shove his hands up things like Mr Herriot.’

  ‘Maybe. Still, I found out a couple of things, despite the aunt’s unwillingness.’

  ‘Why was she unwilling?’

  ‘That’s what I hope to find out. S
he told me, you see, that Anne-Marie had nothing but her income from the Orchestra. But when I asked casually who her solicitor was, she gave me the name.’

  ‘Anne-Marie’s solicitor, you mean?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m not with you. What’s significant about that?’

  ‘Well, look, ordinary people don’t have a solicitor. Do you have one?’

  ‘I’ve consulted one on a couple of occasions. I couldn’t exactly say I “have” one.’

  ‘Precisely. If you talk about “having” a solicitor, it suggests a continuing need for one. And the only continuing need I can think of is the management of property, real or otherwise.’

  ‘Aha,’ Joanna said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Slider agreed. ‘So what we do now is have some lunch, and then go in search of the Man of Business. Shall we find a pub, or would you prefer a restaurant?’

  ‘Silly question – pub of course. You forget I’m a musician.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Where There’s a Will There’s a Relative

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Joanna as they strolled into The Blacksmiths Arms a few villages further on, ‘that the pub is the only modern example of the old rule of supply and demand?’

  ‘No,’ said Slider obligingly. They had chosen the pub because it had a Pub Grub sign and sold Wethereds, and when they got inside they found it smelled agreeably of chips and furniture polish.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘In every other field of commerce the rule has broken down. The customer bloody well has to take what the supplier feels like supplying. Complaining gets you nowhere. You can look dignified and say “I shall take my custom elsewhere” and the least offensive thing they’ll say is “Suit yourself”.’

  ‘I suppose so. Well?’

  ‘Remember what pubs used to be like in the Sixties and Seventies? Keg beer, lino on the floor, no ice except Sunday lunchtimes, never any food. Now look! They’ve actually changed in response to public demand, which is a total denial of the Keynes theory.’

  ‘What, Maynard?’ he hazarded.

  ‘No, Milton.’

  They reached the bar. ‘What will you have?’

  ‘A pint please.’

  ‘Two pints, then,’ Slider nodded. It was lovely to be in a pub with someone other than Irene, who never entered into the spirit of the thing. The most she would ever have was a vodka and tonic, which Slider always felt was a pointless drink. More often she would ask, with a pinching of her lips, for an orange juice, than which there was nothing more frustrating for a beer-drinker. It makes it quite clear that the asker really doesn’t want a drink at all and would sooner be anywhere but here, thus at a stroke putting the askee firmly in the wrong and destroying any possibility of enjoyment for either.

  They ordered ham, egg and chips as well, and went to sit down in the window seat, where the pale sunshine was puddling on a round, polished table. Joanna drank off a quarter of her pint with fluid ease and sighed happily.

  ‘Oh, this is nice,’ she said, smiling at him, and then an expression of remorse crossed her face so obviously that Slider wanted to laugh.

  ‘You were thinking that if Anne-Marie hadn’t died we wouldn’t be sitting here at all.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your face. It’s like watching a cartoon character – everything larger than life.’

  ‘Gee, thanks!’

  ‘No, it’s nice. Most people are so world-weary.’

  ‘Even when they’ve nothing to be weary about. Poor things, I think it’s a habit they get into. It must be terrible never being able to admit to enjoying anything.’

  ‘So why are you different?’ he asked, really wanting to know.

  She gave the question her serious consideration. ‘I think because I never have time to watch television.’ He laughed protestingly, but she said, ‘No, I mean it. Television’s so depressing – the universal assumption of vice. I don’t think it can be good for people to be told so continuously that mankind is low, evil, petty, vicious and disgusting.’

  ‘Even if it is?’

  She contemplated his face. ‘But you don’t think so. That’s much more remarkable, considering the job you do. How do you manage to keep your illusions? Especially as -’ She broke off, looking confused.

  ‘Especially as what?’

  ‘Oh dear, I was going to say something impertinent. I was going to say, especially as you aren’t happily married, either. Sorry.’

  Considering they had just spent the night making torrid love together, considering he was being unfaithful to his wife with her, impertinent’ was a deliciously inappropriate word, besides being pretty well obsolete in this modem age, and he laughed.

  He had never in his life before felt so at ease in someone’s company. More even than making love with her, he wanted to spend the rest of his life talking to her, to put an end to the years – his whole life, really – of having conversations inside his head and never aloud, because there had never been anyone who would not be bored, or contemptuous, or simply not understand, not see the point, or pretend not to in order to manipulate the situation. He knew that he could talk to her about absolutely anything, and she would listen and respond, and a vast hunger filled him for conversation – not necessarily important or intellectual, but simply absorbing, unimportant, supremely comfortable chat.

  ‘Talking of your job,’ she said, following Humpty Dumpty’s principle of going back to the last remark but one, ‘shouldn’t you be asking me questions to justify bringing me along with you? I shouldn’t like you to get into trouble. Come to think of it, you’ve been pretty indiscreet, haven’t you, Inspector? I mean, suppose I did it?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well there you are, then.’ Slider said comfortably.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she said. ‘You seem to have no instinct for self-preservation.’

  Where she was concerned, he thought, that was painfully true. The number of things he ought to be worried about was multiplying by the minute, but he was completely comfortable, and her left leg was pressed against his right from hip to knee. He roused himself with an effort. ‘Tell me about your friend Simon Thompson, then.’

  ‘No friend of mine, the slimy little snake,’ she said promptly. ‘However, I don’t suppose he could have been the murderer. He’s like a kipper – two-faced, and no guts.’

  ‘Never mind supposing. You’ve been reading too many books.’

  ‘True,’ she admitted, and then tacked off again. On the other hand, and come to think of it, he might just have been capable of it. These self-regarding people can be surprisingly ruthless, and he had convinced himself that she was the Phantom Wife-Phoner.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Oh – well – you know I told you that people often do things on tour that they wouldn’t do at home? Of course everybody knows about it, but everybody keeps quiet about it. Except that once or twice people’s wives have received anonymous phone calls spilling the beans, and of course that makes terrible trouble all round. Well, after Anne-Marie and Simon had split up, he put it about that she was the Phantom, and that made things very nasty for her, because of course there will always be people who says things like “there’s no smoke without fire”.’

  ‘Do you think she was the Phantom?’

  ‘No, of course not. What possible reason could she have for wanting to do that?’

  ‘What reason could anyone have?’

  She thought, and sighed. ‘Well, I don’t think it was her. Poor Anne-Marie, she never made it to the top of the popularity stakes.’

  Slider drank a little beer, thoughtfully. ‘When she and Simon were having their affair – did they get on well? Were they friendly?’

  ‘Oh yes. They were all over each other. Martin Cutts said it made him feel horny just to look at them.’ She frowned as a thought crossed her mind. ‘They did have a quarrel on the last day in Florence, come to think of it. But t
hey must have made it up, because they sat together on the plane coming home.’

  ‘What was the quarrel about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She grinned. ‘I had my own fish to fry, so I wasn’t particularly interested.’

  He felt a brief surge of jealousy. Other fish? ‘Tell me about Martin Cutts,’ he said evenly.

  She leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her face. Oh, Martin’s all right as long as you don’t take him seriously, and hardly anyone does. He simply never grew up. He got fossilised at the randy adolescent stage, and feels he has to have a crack at every new female that crosses his path, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s quite childlike, really – rather endearing.’

  Slider thought he knew the type, and anything less endearing was hard to imagine. Dangerous, selfish, self-regarding – and what had been his relationship with Joanna? But he didn’t want to wonder about that. Fortunately the food arrived at that moment and prevented his asking any really stupid questions. The food was good: the ham was thick and cut off the bone, moist and fragrant and as unlike as possible the slippery pink plastic of the sandwich bar; the chips were golden, crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside; and the eggs were as spotlessly beautiful as daisies. They ate, and the simple pleasure of good food and good company was almost painful. O’Flaherty’s voice came to him from somewhere in memory, saying ‘A lonely man is dangerous, Billy-boy’.’

  ‘Thank heaven for pub grub,’ Joanna sighed, echoing his pleasure.

  ‘I suppose you must eat out a lot,’ Slider said.

  ‘It’s the curry syndrome,’ she said cheerfully. ‘One of the hazards of the job. When you’re on an out-of-town date, you have to get a meal between the rehearsal and the concert, which is usually between five-thirty and seven, and nothing is open that early except Indian restaurants. And when you’re playing in town, you want to eat after the show, and you have a couple of pints first to wind down, and by that time the only thing left open is the curry-house.’

  ‘It all sounds horribly familiar,’ Slider said. ‘You could be describing my life.’ Then he told her about his late meals with Atherton and The Anglabangla and his lone indigestion, and that brought him back to Irene and he stopped abruptly and ate the last of his chips in silence. Joanna eyed him sympathetically as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, and he thought that she probably did. But married life is different he told himself fiercely. If he and Joanna were married, they wouldn’t go on having cheerful, chatty, comfortable lunches together like this. Of course they wouldn’t. It would all change. A lonely man is a dangerous man, Billy-boy. He gets to believing what it suits him to believe.