The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  “Which you regret, I think,” Felix said.

  “Yes, of course. She has an extraordinary voice.” He frowned. “And whatever fancies you are weaving about the lady and myself, Mr Carswell, I can assure you, as I did earlier, that nothing –”

  “I cannot believe you, sir,” Felix cut in, “you are the last man in the world to lie, but I cannot take you at your word on this. You are lying to save her reputation, which you seem to care inordinately about, which makes me think that –”

  “A respectable woman’s reputation is something one must always care about.”

  “If she is respectable. From what Morgan said – well, and Mrs Ridolfi – the implication was clear enough!”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Major Vernon spoke in a careful, quiet voice.

  “You are letting your imagination rule your reason, Mr Carswell. Perhaps you have been reading too many lewd books. They are dangerous stuff for an unmarried man. Besides, what may or may not have passed between us is hardly your business, is it?”

  He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Felix declined to give him one. Instead, after a moment had passed he said, “I will of course, do as you wish. Though I doubt she will care much for me as a guard dog.”

  “If you stay civil, she will not object,” said Major Vernon. “And keep your ungenerous opinions to yourself, if you please! You may abuse me all you like – but if I hear that you have broached this with her, you will have to answer to me for it! She is at my sister’s house – if you would escort her from there to the Minster, I would be grateful.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Having assembled Mr Johnson, Superintendent Rollins and Barker, to act as clerk, it was time for Giles to begin his interview.

  “I have often observed,” said Giles, sitting down in front of Dean Pritchard, “that when I have a man in here, accused of some dreadful crime, he finds it a great relief to talk to me in detail about what has happened.”

  “I will not talk to you,” said Pritchard.

  “For such a wretch it is often the first step to redemption. I have seen a great change come over men, when they have confessed it all too me,” Giles went on, “and when the burden of the deed is laid down. After that they will often talk to a clergyman and are guided to seeks God’s grace.”

  “What do you know of God’s grace?” said Pritchard.

  “Not enough, probably. I am a sinner who does not examine his conscience as much as he should. But the behaviour of those poor prisoners always reminds me that I ought to address my faults more plainly and also that I can take heart, knowing that I can be forgiven for them by a loving Saviour, if I truly repent of them.”

  Giles felt a little as if he were parroting his catechism, but he hoped a show of piety might make the Dean uneasy, or at least more co-operative.

  “You will have a great deal to repent of when this business is over,” said Pritchard. “And I pray you see it sooner rather than later, sir, that I am entirely innocent of this crime, and all your outrageous accusations will turn to dust in your mouth!”

  “It would help me, then, if you were to demonstrate where I am in error. I have put the pieces of the picture together wrongly, perhaps? Is that it?”

  “Perhaps?” said Pritchard. “Definitely.”

  “Then you might help me to rearrange them? That would be better than you staying silent, if you could help me find the culprit. I would be grateful, sir. It would give me great pleasure to be wrong in this case, believe me.”

  “You are wrong,” said the Dean, leaning forward, and stubbing his finger on the table to make his point. “Your conclusions are entirely erroneous.”

  He believes himself cleverer than me, Giles thought with pleasure.

  “Then you will help me correct them?” he asked, in his most humble tone, intending to encourage Pritchard to begin a course of lies.

  There was a long pause and then Dean said, “Yes, I suppose I must – if only to finish this ridiculous charade.”

  “Mr Johnson,” Giles said, “do you wish to talk to your client alone for a moment?”

  The Dean waved his hand. “Mr Johnson may leave if he wishes,” he said.

  “I do not think, sir, that would be advisable,” said Mr Johnson said.

  “I am an innocent man!” exclaimed the Dean. “Major Vernon has just admitted as much. I do not need you now, sir!”

  A nice show of bravado, Giles thought, and liable to lead him into great trouble. But if he felt he was safe, then let him think that he was. He was far more likely to say something incriminating in such a mood. It was only a question of gently leading him through the maze.

  Mr Johnson gathered up his papers and said, “If you are certain, sir?”

  “Yes, yes. Send me your account. Thank you for your time,” said the Dean.

  Mr Johnson left looking uneasy but the dismissal was clear. If the Dean wanted to hang himself then he could not be stopped from doing so, and Giles felt a quiet triumph at having achieved that much. Yet he would have to proceed slowly and carefully. Once prised open, the oyster might all too easily clam up again.

  “I am grateful for whatever help you can give us, sir,” said Giles.

  “I am glad you are viewing matters in a different light now,” said the Dean. “What were you thinking, sir?”

  “It is this profession. It makes me suspicious. Forgive me.”

  “We must not let our work degrade us,” said the Dean.

  “No,” said Giles. “Now perhaps we can begin with poor Mr Barnes. I know that you were taking a charitable interest in him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What form did that take, this charitable interest?”

  “He was liable to go astray and I wished to prevent that, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” said Giles. “In what manner was he going astray? The more specific you can be, the more it will help me.”

  “He was keeping bad company, with the people you should be talking too – Harrison, for one.”

  “Harrison, yes, of course. You considered him a great threat?”

  “He is an evil wretch, yes. He corrupted Charles.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Charles told me.”

  “So he confided in you?”

  “Yes, of course. As I have just said. I was trying to help him back onto a more virtuous path. My interest was strictly pastoral.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” said the Dean. “Of course.”

  “Paying a young man’s tailor’s bill might be misconstrued by some. I seem to have done so myself. The gesture was entirely innocent, then?”

  “I did not pay any bills for him.”

  “Are you sure, sir? Mr Lockley seemed sure that you did.”

  “Mr Lockley must be mistaken.”

  “Then who else might have paid off his bill? Do you have any idea? Mr Lockley seemed sure that it was you. Your name is even in the ledger.”

  “I may have contributed something,” said the Dean after a moment.

  “If, as you say, you were trying to help him, then it seems admirable to have done so. I ran up terrible bills with my tailor as a young man. I would have been lucky to have such a friend. It would have saved me a great deal of embarrassment.”

  “I did not wish him to save him embarrassment,” said the Dean. “I wished to save his soul. Embarrassment would have done him some good – as no doubt it did you, Major Vernon.”

  “Do you feel that Charles was sufficiently grateful for your kindness?” Giles said

  The Dean did not answer but twisted up his mouth.

  “Then he disappointed you?” Giles asked.

  “I would not say that,” said the Dean, after a pause, and there was something about the denial that did not convince Giles.

  “Might I ask what drew you to him in the first place, as a cause?” Giles went on.

  “I try to do good where I can.”

  “But Charles, specifically? You must
forgive me – I did not know him in life. Describe him to me, if you can. What was it about him?”

  “I saw a young man being led from the path of virtue into a life of irredeemable vice. I had to act.”

  “Of course, of course. There is nothing worse than to see something so fresh and beautiful grow tainted. Charles was an extremely handsome young man, I think?”

  “I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,” said Dean Pritchard.

  “Surely that was why Harrison was attracted to him – his great beauty. If Charles had been a pock-marked hunchback he would hardly have been in any great danger from those elements, would he? Even with his exceptional singing voice. It was his beauty that put him in that particular moral danger, I think.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. It was not something that was uppermost in my mind.”

  “But it was a consideration, his beauty?”

  “I was aware of it, yes, but no more than that. What are you trying to imply?”

  “I was only thinking that we are sometimes more aware of the faults in others that mirror our own private inclinations. We are more aware of another man’s danger, because we understand the precise meaning of such temptations. You knew Charles was in danger because you felt the danger for yourself. You understood its meaning.”

  “I hope that is not another accusation, Major Vernon.”

  “It is an observation I would like you to consider. Charles struck you as in danger, because you understood that danger for yourself. It was something you perhaps once struggled with?”

  “Major Vernon –”

  “Come, come, sir. We have both been away at school. We know what young men may get up to if not properly supervised, the passions that can arise.”

  “Yes, but God gave me the strength to eschew such degradations. That is what I hoped to achieve with Charles.”

  “And do you think you did save him?”

  “I... I.... pray to God yes, and that he knew redemption at the last.”

  “It must have been a horrible death. It will not have left him much time for prayers, to be attacked mercilessly by someone he considered a friend. I cannot imagine what he suffered.” Giles studied the Dean to see if this provoked any reaction, but he remained impassive. “Did you see Charles on the day he died?” he asked.

  There was a long hesitation and then the Dean shook his head.

  “You are certain?” Giles pressed on. “Not even briefly?

  “Perhaps,” said the Dean glancing away. “Briefly.”

  “Where?” said Giles, quietly, carefully concealing his feeling of pleasure at this small admission.

  “I don’t remember,” said the Dean.

  “I appreciate it is painful for you to recall, given the circumstances,” Giles went on in his most sympathetic tone. “But please, if you could remember. Did he come to see you?”

  “No, it was... a mere chance that I did see him.”

  “And where was that?”

  “In the chapel.”

  “That would be St Anne’s Chapel?”

  There was a slight pause and the Dean inclined his head.

  “And how did this chance meeting happen?”

  The Dean considered for a moment, scratching his temple and glancing about the room.

  “I think I saw an open door, and since that door should not be open, I went to see why.”

  “And you were surprised to find Charles there?”

  “Not entirely,” the Dean said. “I had sometimes met him there before for our pastoral conversations.”

  “Did you give him the key to the chapel, perhaps?”

  “I may have given him a key at some point.”

  “So when you saw the door open, you knew he might be there, knowing he had a key?” Again he nodded. “And so you went to see if it was Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did not see anyone else in the area as you went in?”

  “No, no-one.”

  “And can you tell me what time this was?”

  “No, I don’t recall. Some time that morning. I am sorry I cannot be more precise. I am not in the habit of timing all my comings and goings for the for benefit of an officious police enquiry.”

  “Forgive me,” said Giles. “So you went up to the chapel and found Charles there?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have given you some pleasure. To find him there?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You went up expressly to see if he was there. In the hope of finding him.”

  “That was in my mind.”

  “Was there any particular reason you wanted to speak to him?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “He had not told you he was thinking of leaving Northminster.”

  “We may have discussed that.”

  “I would imagine it would be more than a discussion,” said Giles, “given that he was intending to go away with Harrison. Surely you wished to advise him strongly against it.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said the Dean rather vaguely, as if he very much wished to avoid anything more specific.

  “If I were you, I would have read him the riot act,” Giles said. “Did you?”

  There was a long pause.

  “I let him know my feelings,” he said at length. “I advised him not to go.”

  “And what did he say to that?” Giles said.

  “That he was decided. So I left. I was angry of course, but I left.”

  “And what time was this when you left?”

  “I think it may have been about eleven,” said the Dean. “I think I heard the clock chiming the hour as I walked back to the Deanery.”

  “And that is all that passed between you?”

  “Yes. I was there for a few minutes, that is all. It was a fruitless conversation. Very distressing.”

  “I am sure it was,” Giles said, getting up.

  He picked up his notebook and began to look through his notes.

  “So is that all, Major Vernon?” asked Dean Pritchard. “I trust that –”

  “No, not quite,” said Giles, “if you please. What I find interesting is that Mr Harrison says that he was angry with Charles because he had said he would not go to London. He is specific – they had a heated argument and Harrison left at about ten thirty, and we have a witness who saw him leave. And then you were there at 11 and he was still alive.”

  “I am not sure it was eleven...”

  “But it does not matter, does it, since you left him alive? As did Harrison, which is interesting. Now, whom should I believe?”

  “That is a ridiculous question given his notorious character.”

  “Yes, but facts are facts. I have not a scrap of evidence against Mr Harrison. The key to the chapel did not turn up in his privy. He has never had a key to that chapel. He did not give it to Charles in order that they might meet there for trysts. You gave Charles that key, and he wore it on a ribbon about his neck – a sentimental gesture if ever I saw one. Charles decided to stay because of you, Dean Pritchard. That is what he told you when you went to speak to him. He chose you over Harrison.”

  “He did not say that, I have told you! Why do you say that? It is foolish of you, Major Vernon. You ruin your own case. Why would I have strangled a man who... who...”

  “Who told you he loved you?” Giles cut in. “Is that not what happened? He told you he was not going away, that your affection, your care and your protection meant more to him than Harrison. I am not surprised. Harrison could not afford such expensive tailoring. Harrison did not buy him handsome presents. You treated Barnes like a mistress, Pritchard, that is undeniable.”

  “I absolutely refute this,” said the Dean.

  “You may of course, but you have form,” said Giles. “I know you have these inclinations. Fildyke has been most co-operative. He has sold you a fair few lewd books over the years, and he also told me all about a young lodger of his, whom you paid handsomely for the pleasure of buggering – which is,
as I think you know, sir, a hanging offence.”

  Dean Pritchard stared at him.

  “I can find that young man easily enough,” Giles went on. “And I don’t suppose he was the only instance of your giving into temptation. I knew a man once, a senior officer in another regiment, who was addicted to the pleasures of young men. We young fellows all had tales to tell of of it, though he had learned to prey only on the enlisted men, who would often submit for a shilling or two. He was a good Christian, that was the interesting thing about him, and he struggled violently against it, but he never seemed able to overcome it. In the end he killed himself rather than sin again. Self-murder – it was a great tragedy. I thought of him when I saw your wife with that key this morning, and again, when Fildkye told me the names of the books he had sold you over the years. You are like that poor fellow, Dean Pritchard, and you do not like yourself for it. You are angry at yourself. No doubt you have thought of destroying yourself. You have probably prayed a great deal for deliverance from your sin, from your dark desires that you know rank high among the abominations in God’s sight! And to have Charles say he loved you, to feel that this sweet, trusting boy felt something for you, and saw into your heart...”

  The Dean seemed to be having a little difficulty breathing. He certainly would not look Giles in the face. Giles went on softly.

  “It was more than you could bear. A temptation too great for you to stand. I think you embraced him and then you strangled him so that he could not tempt you any more. You destroyed him because you could not bear your feelings any more, the feelings he produced in you. You put away temptation so that you could live a righteous life once more. You wanted to be at peace.”

  “I could not, I would not allow him to destroy everything,” Pritchard said.

  “So you destroyed him?” Giles said.

  There was a long silence, and then the Dean stood up and said, “He was lost. Lost.”

  Giles stood also and met his gaze. “So you destroyed him?”

  The Dean’s hands went up, in a gesture that was both defensive and aggressive.

  “It had to be done. I was protecting myself from sin. He was lost. I looked into his face and saw he had been eaten up by sin. All his protestations of affection, of loyalty, his submission to me – it was false. It was no submission. It was the wiles of the devil, in the form of Charles Barnes. I had to stamp on the serpent to free myself.”