But He may show you mercy yet.
BE PREPARED.”
It was not written out, but made from printed letters, chopped up and pasted, a violent jumble of typefaces and capitals, so that the words seemed like blows. He stared down at it, appalled that anyone should think of doing such a thing to her.
“Good God,” he said, under his breath.
“This was delivered to you here?” Major Vernon asked.
“Yes.”
“Amongst your usual letters?”
“Yes.”
“But delivered by hand, apparently,” said Vernon. “There’s no stamp, I think?” Felix turned the paper over, glad not to look at it. The name and direction had been carefully printed but the Major was right. There was no stamp. “You don’t recognise this hand at all?” the Major continued.
“No. I have puzzled over it before.”
“You have had such letters before?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Two or three?”
“More than that. Usually I throw them straight into the fire. That seems the best place for them. After all, they are just little bits of gummed paper, it’s just some horrible, childish game. I decided I would not let myself be hurt by them. To take them seriously, well, that seems to play into their hands. I should have burnt that one.”
“But you decided not to on this occasion. Is the language stronger?”
“Yes, somewhat.”
“And why did you decide to speak of this now?”
“Because I have not given out my address here. I had thought it was just some nonsense that happens in London. People do write to me a great deal there. It is a hazard of being well known, and I tried to make light of it. But finding one here, when I am supposed to be away from all that – it disturbed me.”
“When did it arrive?” Felix asked.
“Yesterday afternoon, with my other letters. It was waiting for me when I arrived. That disturbed me and last night I did not sleep. A strange bed in a strange house I suppose accounts for that, but to find it here already, waiting for me...”
“How long have you been receiving these letters, then?” Major Vernon asked.
“I cannot say when it began. I have pushed it from my mind, I suppose. It was too unpleasant. When it came I threw it straight on the fire. It was last summer, I think.”
“And you have spoken to no-one of this?” he said.
“No-one.”
“Not even your husband?” the Major said.
She shook her head.
“My letters are a slightly sensitive matter between us,” she said, after a moment. “I get a great many letters. I do not invite them. It is simply that people of my profession seem to attract admirers.”
“Especially female singers?”
“Yes. Of course that is hard for my husband. It is an affront to his pride. So I do not speak to him of my letters, good or bad. I do not want to wound him unnecessarily, and these letters would make him angry. Perhaps that may seem strange to you, gentlemen, but really I have been trying to make light of this. I should have carried on like that,” she said, getting up. “Really, I have been wasting your time. After all, what can be done about this? I cannot send the police after a shadow who is trying to scare me out of my wits – but who has not succeeded.” She held out her hand to Felix, who stood still holding the letter in his hand. Before he knew what she had done, she had taken the letter from him. “This should go in the fire like the rest of them. And I will lose no more sleep.”
She walked over to the fire with it, but the Major leapt up and stayed her hand.
“Sir?” she said, in surprise.
“If you burn it, I cannot catch him. And I will catch him. This cannot be allowed to pass.”
“I would be happier if I could burn it,” she said. “And think it all nonsense. I want to laugh at this wretch, not fear him.” And she moved her hand again towards the fire, but the Major again stopped her. There was a slight struggle between them, the great fire blazing behind them, and the light of it cast strange shadows on her face, making her beauty seem more other-worldly than before.
Suddenly she stepped back and yielded the letter to Major Vernon. She walked swiftly up the room away from them, then spun round, throwing up her hands.
“Yes, yes, you are right. Of course. I concede, but please give me credit for my defiance. Tell me I have courage for being so careless!” and then dropped a low curtsey, as if she was on stage. As she began to rise from the curtsey, Felix met her eyes again and he could not help himself: he rushed forward and took her hand.
“It is more than courage, ma’am. It is...”
She did not allow him to hold her hand for more than a moment. She stepped back from him and turned again to Major Vernon.
“It is less than courage,” she said. “It is foolish. I should have spoken to someone long ago. I have let it carry on too long. Thank you for making me see sense.”
“I think we should begin by questioning your household,” the Major said. “These things often lie close at home. A disgruntled servant –”
“I cannot think of anyone whom I might have offended. But perhaps I am a bad mistress. I am so busy with my work that sometimes these things may escape me. You should speak to my sister-in-law, Mrs Ridolfi. She engages the servants for me, and counts my sheets and is the repository of all our domestic virtue. She’s out in the garden now with my little boy.” she said, going to the window. As she looked out Felix saw her face light up and wondered what it might be like to be the recipient of her unfettered affection.
“A handsome boy,” Major Vernon said. He was looking out of the other window. “How old is he?”
“Harry is just three,” she said.
“That’s a charming age.”
“I have not yet found an age at which he did not charm me,” she said.
The maid came into the room again.
“Madame,” she said, “there is a policier at the door. He is asking for Major Vernon.”
“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” said Major Vernon and left with the maid.
Felix alone with her, felt dry-mouthed again and struggled to think what he might say. He could not make small talk about her child. He was longing to ask her how things stood with Lord Rothborough, but that was not a question that could be asked.
She came away from the window and went to the piano, picking out a few notes as she stood there.
“I need to send for a tuner,” she said.
“Lord Rothborough would probably insist upon you using his man,” Felix said.
“Yes, probably,” she said, glancing up at him for a moment. She played another chord and winced. “Oh dear.”
“Do you know him well?” he managed to ask.
“Scarcely at all,” she said.
“Then he presumes,” he said.
“He is not the only one,” she said. “And in my profession, you learn to expect it.”
“But still, he ought not to,” said Felix.
“It does not offend me. His attention is good-natured and generous. You know, Mr Carswell, he spoke warmly of you. You should not be too unkind to him – I hope you do not mind me saying such a thing? You, on your part, should not assume anything.”
It was gently said, but he felt stung by it.
“Ma’am, I did not mean to imply...” He broke off, and found himself looking about the room, at anything but her. How had he managed to offend her so quickly when all he wanted was her good opinion? “I meant only to...”
He would have continued, but at that moment Major Vernon came back into the room.
“I’m afraid we will have to take our leave, Mrs Morgan. Something rather urgent has come up. But I will be attending to this matter of yours as soon as I can, I assure you.”
“Thank you.”
“In the meantime, if anything else unusual or disturbing happens, please let me know at once. I wil
l put one of my men to watch the house. You can send messages by him.”
“What could be more urgent than those threats?” said Felix as they hurried downstairs. He had no desire to leave at all.
“How about a dead body?” said Major Vernon.
Chapter Five
Giles looked about him, taking in the circumstances.
The room was large, cool and light, with a five-lancet window filling the entirety of one wall – that was the window that could be seen from St Anne’s Street, Giles thought. The opposite wall was filled entirely with the organ pipes. Beneath the large window was a raised dais with a plain communion table with an equally plain cross upon it. There were two floor-standing candlesticks heavy with melted wax, and numerous other candlesticks, also containing half-burnt candles.
On the floor directly below the dais, lying on his back with his hands folded as if in prayer, was the body of a young man. His head was resting on a kneeler and his wavy, pale corn-gold hair had been carefully swept back from his forehead. His eyes were closed, his expression blank. He was the image of dignity and peace in death, yet there was something profoundly shocking about him.
He was scarcely a man, more a boy, and the clear midday light in the room showed his considerable beauty.
“And this is exactly how you found him, Mr Watkins?” Giles said, turning to the younger of the two men who had accompanied him and Carswell.
“Yes, exactly.”
“You did not touch anything?”
“No, nothing. I may have touched him when I went to see if he was breathing – well, to see if he was dead. Then I locked the door and went straight to Canon Fforde.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go to the Dean, Mr Watkins,” said Lambert Fforde.
“I thought since – well, I knew your connection with Major Vernon, sir, and I thought it better. Besides, the Dean...”
“The Dean will need this broken gently to him, yes indeed. I see your point,” said Lambert.
“And you recognize him?” said Giles, turning to his brother-in-law.
“Yes, he’s one of the Vicars Choral,” said Lambert. “His name is Charles Barnes.”
Carswell had knelt down and was examining the body. He felt the dead man’s hand. “He’s not been here long. He’s still warm.”
“Of course he is!” exclaimed Watkins. “He was alive last night!”
“When you’re done, can you make a drawing of this?” Giles said. “Just as he is now – and all the objects around it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Carswell.
“It’s so deliberate,” Giles said. “But no obvious signs of violence.”
“Well,” said Carswell, “I’m not so sure about that. That looks suspiciously like a ligature mark to me.” He loosened the stock and pulled back down the collar and down at the bare flesh of the neck. “Or at least bruising of some description.” Then with a flick of his finger he had pulled back an eyelid. “Dilated pupils. That’s interesting, certainly.”
“A ligature!” exclaimed Watkins. “Are you saying –?”
“I’m not saying anything yet,” said Carswell.
“A ligature – that means strangulation,” said Watkins. “Dear Lord above! Strangulation! But who in the world want to strangle poor Charlie Barnes? Why, he was practically a child!”
“Mr Carswell is only speculating at this point, Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “What caused this remains to be seen.”
“Something – somebody caused it,” Watkins said. “You just don’t lie down and die like that. Charlie was as fit as a fiddle. This... this is murder! There is no other word for it!”
Whatever it is, it is strange, thought Giles staring down at the carefully arranged body while Carswell continued his cursory examination.
“But who on earth would wish to murder young Barnes?” said Lambert. “I shall have to go and tell the Dean,” he added with a sigh.
“Yes, you had better. And you, Mr Watkins, you can tell me everything you know about Mr Barnes.”
Carswell stood calmly making his sketch while Giles led Watkins to one of the benches by the side.
“Everything?” Watkins said after a minute.
“Every little thing that you can,” said Giles, taking out his notebook.
“Well, he’s... he was,” Watkins corrected himself with a gulp, “one of my best tenors, with an exceptional range. Very sweet, pure voice that blends well. Perfect top notes. Could sing alto at a pinch. And getting better everyday. Just the sort of man one needs. Last Sunday for example, I gave him the solo in the Nunc – Bryce in F, and he sight sang it at short notice and did a good job. Perhaps you heard it?”
“I was away on Sunday,” said Giles.
“Usually Harrison would have done it but he was ill. Or at least said he was – I’m not sure he wasn’t exaggerating. Jos Harrison has a touch of the prima donna about him, on occasion, but I let him get away with it, because he is so exceptional.” The words faded and Watkins glanced away, overcome for a moment. “What will I tell him, for God’s sake? He will be heart-broken.”
“Mr Harrison is another of the Vicars Choral?”
“My other first-class tenor, yes.”
“And they were close, Mr Barnes and Mr Harrison?”
Watkins nodded.
“Like brothers,” he said. “This will be dreadful news for Harrison. I should go and find him.”
“All in good time, Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “What can you tell me about Mr Barnes’ family? Was he a Northminster man?”
“I don’t think so. Not by birth. But he lived with his uncle – can’t recall the name – but he’s that bookbinder down the little lane past the White Hart. Charlie was still apprenticed to him – that was the trade he was supposed to be learning but his heart was not in it, and I think with good reason. He was not just a fine singer but he was a promising organist.”
“Sledmere, perhaps?” said Giles.
“That’s the fellow. Heavens, what a specimen he is! I took a few scores in there for repair and he treated me as I was asking him to bind some obscene portfolio. Practically a dissenter. He did not like Charlie singing at the Minster, I am sure of that. I think he believes that music is the work of the devil.” Watkins shook his head.
“And did Mr Barnes have a sweetheart?” Giles asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Watkins. “But you should talk to Jos Harrison. He knew him better than I did.”
“I will,” said Giles.
“I should like to have known him better. I had hoped to. I have not been here so very long, you see, Major Vernon, and, perhaps a little preoccupied in my spare time with various matters...” Watkins got up walked over to the body, and stood gazing down at it. “And now I shall never know him, shall I? Or hear that wonderful voice again. I was writing a setting of the canticles with his voice in mind, and I don’t know how I shall find the heart to finish it now.”
Chapter Six
Giles stood at the front door of a narrow house in one of the narrow lanes of Northminster. It was marked by a sign: “Sledmere. Bibles and Bookbinders.”
The blinds had all been drawn down; a “Closed” sign was propped up in the front window, while black crepe adorned the knocker. The house was already in mourning, for Giles had sent Sergeant Collins to inform the Sledmeres that their nephew was dead.
Giles knocked and waited for some time to be admitted. At last the door was opened by a woman. She was dressed in black which did not look much like mourning, but rather her habitual attire. She frowned at him.
“Mrs Sledmere?”
“Yes?”
“Major Vernon, of the City Constabulary. I have come to speak to you about your nephew. I think Sergeant Collins will have mentioned that I would call?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose he did,” she said. “I’ll get my husband.”
“I should like to speak to all the household, if I may?”
“Yes, well, if you like...” she seemed nonplussed. “I’ll
just get Mr Sledmere.”
“Thank you,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Yes, yes, you had better,” she said, closing the door behind him. “Wait here, sir, will you?”
So Giles waited as she disappeared into the back of the house. As he stood there, he sensed he was being watched, and stepped forward a fraction so that he could see up the stairs. He peered up into the darkness and thought he saw a pale white face and some white skirts, but only for a moment. Whoever she was vanished into the shadows.
Sledmere came out of the back of the house, pulling on his coat. He looked displeased at the interruption.
“I am sorry to have to intrude at such a difficult time,” Giles said. “But any help you can give me now will only bring to justice sooner the person responsible for this.”
“Then it is murder?” said Mrs Sledmere.
“I am afraid there is little doubt of it,” said Giles.
“As they sow, so shall they reap,” said Mr Sledmere, with a fierce shake of his head. “The vengeance of the Lord is a terrible thing, sir, a terrible and wonderful thing. A stubborn, wicked soul has been cast down into the fiery pit, and no mistake about it. The Lord God hath acted against his iniquity and sent him down. This is a great lesson to us all. For the lord your God is a jealous God, and shall not suffer a sinner to live!”
“I am sure you are right,” Giles said, formulating his words with care, somewhat astonished by this outburst. “Perhaps you might explain a little more to me? How had your nephew offended you?”
“It was not I who was offended!” exclaimed Sledmere. “It was against the Lord he sinned, and now he must pay for eternity. I warned him, many the times I warned him. I have been up many a night attempting to save his soul and bring him into the light of faith but he would not go. He was resolute in his sin, and this is the result.”
“And the person who did this to Charles, what do you think of him?” Giles asked, turning to Mrs Sledmere. “Surely he has denied your nephew the chance to come to repentance. Surely he must be punished for that?”
“You will not find him, not in mortal form,” Sledmere broke in, for Mrs Sledmere seemed about to answer. “It was the hand of the Lord. He has sent an avenging angel. That is the long and short of it.”
The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) Page 3