On Wings of Song

by Peter D Wilson

rather a lot to be desired, and should a church group really be associated with such a person? Barbara would have referred her to a biblical text but couldn’t for the moment think of the right one, so simply told her not to be so finicky. In any case, like it or not, we were committed.

  Norris had arranged a coach to take us out to the Manor, and when it turned up something about it struck me as familiar. It took a few minutes to dawn on me: of course, it was the same one as we had inadvertently taken over from St. Cyprian’s, and the same driver, too. While we were waiting for one or two stragglers I wondered if there had been any repercussions. He had been called in to explain the mistake (more likely to get a rocket, I thought), but in view of my query had fortunately still kept his instructions which all concerned eventually had to agree were practically illegible and he had been right to follow the verbal directions he had been given. There was a great deal of amusement about it at the depot, but the boss had been furious and insisted on stricter procedures however great the haste; as it was his writing that had caused the confusion in the first place there was little more he could do about it.

  We wondered on the way on whether the musicians would be consigned in traditional fashion to the servants’ hall or allowed to mix with the nobs. We needn’t have worried; the supper was a buffet and all were invited to tuck in. Then there was a short break before the concert, and after that Barbara came up to me in an agitated state to ask if I’d seen Joan, whom she had left talking to Norris. He was not visible either, but Mabel thought she had seen them heading for the garden.

  Despite bright moonlight, I could see no one out there apart from a bear-like security guard who appeared apparently from nowhere and simply grunted when questioned, probably not understanding. However, a sort of gazebo a hundred yards or so from the house looked a likely spot, confirmed as I approached by a murmur of conversation followed by a very definite “No!” from Joan. It seemed best not to notice the slight disarray of her costume but simply to apologise for the intrusion and say she was needed for the performance; nor was there any obvious need to mention the circumstances to anyone else.

  Our show went down pretty well, but Norris had not returned after the interval and even by the end had not reappeared. His wife tried to apologise for him, but her English was not up to it. Very soon a smooth young man relieved her of the task, explaining that his master was unavoidably detained but would want him to thank them for coming and wish them a good journey home. He was just coming to the end of this when the guard rushed in, obviously distraught, and jabbered something in Russian. The young secretary questioned him about it, then apologised to the gathering for some bad news: Norris had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, the police would obviously have to be brought in, and until they gave permission he was very sorry but no one could be allowed to leave.

  The police duly appeared, in fact with a good deal more than their usual alacrity, quickly established that practically everyone had multiple alibis from people with no evident reason to lie, and allowed them to go home. The exceptions, of course, were the guard, Joan and myself. Rodney Cartwright, the secretary, vouched for the guard’s being loyal to the point of self-sacrifice if necessary, but that was no help to us; the officer in charge apologised but we would have to stay until a more senior colleague arrived in the morning. Cartwright quickly arranged rooms for us (to my amusement he asked discreetly whether one or two; someone later joked that I’d missed a trick there) and promised to have us driven home the next day unless the police made other arrangements. I didn’t like the sound of that but of course he simply meant on transport.

  It was rather pleasant to spend a night in utter luxury, although on the whole I should have preferred my own bed, but at breakfast Joan said she had hardly slept. She had been worried in case events in the gazebo should cast suspicion on her, and presumably on me as a possible accomplice, so would it be best to keep quiet about them? I assured her that that would be the worst possible thing to do, as the guard was almost certain to have heard as much as I had and drawn the same obvious conclusion. It was far better to tell the truth, that Norris had made a pass at her, been rebuffed but accepted the refusal with a tolerably good grace. We both knew that he seemed perfectly fit when we left him, although he could easily have had a sudden heart attack or something of the sort afterwards. The idea of anything more sinister seemed at the time too far-fetched to contemplate seriously.

  When Inspector Williams arrived, with more apologies for having to keep us overnight, I therefore asked what were the suspicious circumstances that required it. “The little matter of a knife in his back,” was the rather convincing answer that promptly took the wind out of our sails. We gave our accounts in a more subdued mood. Both were compatible with each other, and although that was only to be expected given the ample opportunity for collusion, the guard had seen us leave the gazebo to return directly to the house. As the body had been found some distance away, and the time of death was most probably later, Williams said we seemed to be in the clear but should leave our contact details in case of need.

  The local paper naturally splashed “MIDSUMMER MURDER” as a banner headline on the front page of its next issue, and some of the nationals did the same less prominently, but the excitement quickly faded. The crime was never solved, so far as I know; the general assumption was that Norris’s past had caught up with him. Svetlana Norris reverted to her patronymic, sold up to a merchant banker and returned to her family in St. Petersburgh. After another three months the whole business had faded into the background.

  There was however a postscript: spring-cleaning at the Manor turned up some evidently valuable property very personal to Svetlana, presumably overlooked in the move. The banker took it to have been included with the house and would have sold it, had his wife not insisted that it ought to be restored to its original owner. How that might be done was the problem, but the maid who had come across the stuff happened to know Rodney Cartwright’s address and suggested that he might have ideas. He had indeed been in correspondence with Svetlana’s family over outstanding business and duly reported the find. The property was considered too precious to be entrusted to a commercial carrier, so he was asked to deliver it in person. He never returned. Two and two could be put together in various ways, but one widely accepted implied that the connections between the individuals concerned were a good deal less coincidental than had appeared at first sight.

  The business at the Manor had brought Watsonia very much to public attention and it received several requests to perform at various events, although Cynthia as a good businesswoman was at pains to point out that we couldn’t guarantee the violent death of the organiser, neatly turning any superstitious anxiety on that score. To one of these occasions Bill Watson brought along his American counterpart, Cyrus B. Wallace III, who turned out to be much less pompous than his dynastic moniker and was clearly impressed.

  A few weeks later he mentioned to Bill that his silver wedding anniversary was coming up in that year, his wife was an opera fan, and he would like to put on for her sake a performance in which Watsonia would join forces with his chamber orchestra. Barbara thought the idea decidedly over-ambitious, but Cynthia pointed out that “Dido” had come off quite well with only limited resources and piano accompaniment, so with their combined forces and Wallace’s band they should be able to do something quite elaborate. She had in mind a reduced form of “Un ballo in maschera”, naturally in translation, and in the version adapted to escape censorship. She was obviously thinking of its being set in America as a compliment to our host, but I’m sure that at the back of her mind if not more conscious was a sense of familiarity in the story of a cuckolded husband killed by the wife’s paramour who happens to be his secretary. So it was that we came to do Verdi after all.

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  The great advantage of singers over most other musicians when travelling is that the carrier can’t lose their instruments. It can however lose their material luggage,
and of course it had to be Barbara’s that went missing. Fortunately we had a couple of days for rehearsals with the band; exchanging recordings over the preceding weeks had been useful and necessary, but no substitute for physical presence in the final stages. Thus Barbara, with much help from the Wallaces, was able between sessions to shop around for replacements to fill the immediate need. She couldn’t however find a dress that satisfied her, until Gwyneth Wallace pointed out that they were of very similar size and build, and Barbara would be more than welcome to borrow one of hers.

  Gwyneth’s wardrobe was substantial and the choice was obviously going to take some time. The two women started chatting about other things, and Barbara commented that Gwyneth didn’t really sound American. Quite right; it seemed she was born in Britain, but brought to America by her foster-mother when in her teens. Foster mother? Yes, she was one of twins born to a mother who had emotional difficulties and could only cope with one, as had somehow slipped out despite instructions that she was never to be told anything of her origins.

  Barbara of course wanted to know what Gwyneth intended to wear for the occasion, and was duly shown. Don’t ask me the details; to me a dress is simply a dress, and I’m usually more interested in the wearer. Barbara however thought it very special, but needing a little something in the way of extra adornment. Gwyneth agreed, producing a curiously designed brooch that she always wore with it and provided exactly the right additional touch.

  Barbara nevertheless detected, or imagined, a certain sheepishness in Gwyneth’s manner at this point and wondered why, then apologised if she had put her foot in something delicate. “Ah, well,” Gwyneth said, “confession is supposed to be good for the soul, isn’t it?”

  “Confession?”

  “Yes. It isn’t really mine at all.”

  “Come on, you can’t leave it at that! Not now you’ve aroused my curiosity.”

  It seemed that the foster-mother had not entirely lost touch with the real parent, and heard that the other twin was at a boarding school near a resort that they visited occasionally. During one such break, Gwyneth was left for a few hours to her own devices and wandered over to have a look at the place. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and a door had been left open. The temptation to investigate was too great to resist, especially as the area seemed deserted, and she was particularly interested to see what the bedrooms were like. In one of them she noticed a newly-opened box and in it a most unusual brooch. She was engrossed in examining it when a girl of about her own age came in, so without thinking she pocketed the brooch and jumped out of the window. Only later did she find the object in her pocket, knew that she ought to return it but couldn’t think how.

  Barbara wondered that she could bring herself to wear it. “Two reasons. It’s beautiful, and it reminds me that I’ve done something dreadful when I’m tempted to criticise anyone else.”

  The two women eventually agreed on a dress for Barbara, who then had to dash off for the next rehearsal. All went smoothly after that, and I have to admit that at the party after the show, Gwyneth looked stunning. I was telling her so when Cynthia came up with her own compliments, but then noticed the brooch and asked if she might have a closer look. That surprised me, as she didn’t usually take much interest in such things, and she explained that she had once had one very similar, supposedly of unique design.

  “What happened to it?”

  “I lost it long ago. But excuse me, I must go and have a word with Barbara.”

  At least they were now on speaking terms, but then I saw that their conversation appeared quite uncharacteristically friendly, and the look of astonishment on Barbara’s face was one I’d never seen before and haven’t since. I couldn’t resist commenting, and she explained that a puzzle of ancient history had just been resolved. She and Cynthia had once been friends; their feud stemmed from an occasion when a particularly valuable piece of jewellery had been stolen and Cynthia claimed to have seen her escaping after taking it. Barbara couldn’t understand how such an accusation could be made, while Cynthia couldn’t forgive the apparent betrayal of friendship, still less tolerate the denial of what seemed plain fact.

  It took a little while for the implications to sink in, and then of course Cyrus had to be told. I must say that once over his initial shock, he handled the situation beautifully. At a suitable point in the proceedings he banged a spoon on the table for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not one for long speeches as you know, so I shan’t take much of your time. On behalf of Gwyneth as well as myself, thank you all for coming here and making our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary such a memorable occasion. Thanks particularly to Watsonia for coming over the pond to entertain us, and to our own band of musicians for joining up with them. Of course you expected me to say all that, but now there’s something else completely unexpected. It turned up only a few minutes ago. I shan’t go into the ins and outs of the story, at least not this evening, but we have just now found out that Barbara Maxwell of Watsonia and my wife are almost certainly sisters, separated since early childhood. Yes, we’re as staggered as you are. So now, please go on with enjoying yourselves while we try to get used to the new situation.”

  Gwyneth was naturally anxious to return the brooch at last to Cynthia, who wouldn’t however hear of it. “No, no, my dear, it’s just right on you, and on me it would be very much de trop. Keep it with my good wishes.”

  “But you must have something to make amends!”

  “Well, all right, if you insist.”

  “I surely do. Let’s go out tomorrow and find it; there should be time before your flight.”

  So after that, as the prisoner said to the judge, everything was hunky-dory. Even Barbara’s missing luggage turned up just as we were about to leave. There obviously wasn’t time for a proper family reunion on that visit, but Barbara arranged with the Wallaces to make plans for a real slap-up occasion later.

  Back home, this familial revelation was the talk of the town, with the paper eager to publish some of the party snaps, and it probably boosted Watsonia’s audience for the next performance quite a bit. That was last autumn. Now we have another piece of excitement, more conventional though none the less happy for that, coming up next month. Joan and Gordon are getting married and have asked me to give the bride away. Cynthia is to be Matron of Honour. I’m rather looking forward to it - so long as no one expects me to sing.

  *****

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  About the author.

  Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.

  A short biography and more of his writing (short stories, plays, film scripts and non-fiction) may be found with contact details at his web site

  https://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk