by Bill Kitson
The journey to London and back was long, tiring, and would have been extremely boring had I not been accompanied by Charlie. The trip went smoothly, the only tricky moment coming when I had to thread the vehicle between two lines of parked cars on the street where Sheila’s flat was. As it transpired there was ample space; nevertheless, it was a little nerve-wracking in a van I was unused to, and I could see why Crowther was so reluctant to undertake the drive.
We’d been on the road since dawn, and returned to Yorkshire in the early evening. Having parked the van outside Crowther’s house, and waited until Crowther satisfied himself that Henry had taken good care of things horticultural, we set off for Laithbrigg and the Admiral Nelson, where Eve had booked a table. Next morning the operation was complete. Having offloaded the contents of the van, I left Eve and Charlie at Allerscar to help shift furniture while I returned the hire vehicle to Leeds. Early that afternoon I caught a train back to Thorsby, where Eve met me at the station.
‘Our celebrity guest will be staying with us again soon,’ she told me. ‘There’s been a mix-up over the new bed they ordered for Trudi, and it won’t be delivered for another couple of weeks. Sheila’s upset, thinking they’ve already imposed enough on us, but I told her not to worry. Charlie, on the other hand, is delighted.’
Two days later we received a phone call from Alice Pattison, with some dreadful news. ‘The papers here are full of the story,’ she told me. ‘A fire has destroyed a block of flats in North London. Police and fire officers believe it was arson. Luckily, nobody was hurt. They reckon the fire originated in an empty ground floor flat. Adam, the flat was where Sheila and Trudi Bell lived.’
That evening, Sheila had invited us to an unofficial house-warming dinner. The news of the fire came as a terrible shock to all three of them. Sheila’s face was a mask of distress as Eve repeated what Alice had told me. I was especially concerned by Crowther’s reaction. The bleak stare with which he received the news, plus his opening words, revealed his state of mind.
‘This would never have happened but for me. It’s starting all over again, isn’t it?’
I could see where his thoughts were headed, and was determined to stop him going there. So, by her response, was Sheila. ‘I don’t understand why this is happening. Who could hope to gain by doing such things? And why? What is it they want? Harming Gerry, or me, or Trudi won’t achieve anything.’
It was time to produce my theory, if only as a distraction. Sheila’s words provided the perfect opportunity. ‘I can’t tell you who is doing this – not yet. However, as to the why, I think I can answer that. I think the motive behind everything that happened in the 1960s was money. Vast amounts of money, probably millions of pounds. The current violence is a desperate attempt by those responsible to avoid exposure for the crimes they committed. In order to prove whether I’m right, I need you to come to Laithbrigg tomorrow. I need Gerry to confirm if my idea is correct, or way off target.’
I paused to allow them to take on board what I’d said, before adding, ‘This time around, though, there is one huge difference. This time, Gerry, apart from knowing why this is happening, you won’t be fighting the evil on your own. The people responsible are desperate, and desperate men make mistakes. With all of us in a tight circle we can protect each other until it’s all over.’
I was quite proud of my stirring speech. Parts of it touched on being inspirational. Some of it I actually believed.
Next morning, we collected Gerry and Sheila from Allerscar. Charlie and Trudi had suggested waiting at Eden House to give them more room in the car. ‘No way,’ I told them. ‘Until this is over, we stick together wherever and whenever possible. No going off on your own. Safety in numbers, right?’
They agreed, sobered by the reminder of the danger we faced. My words prompted another thought, which in turn caused a little delay in collecting Trudi’s parents. ‘I think we should persuade Gerry and Sheila to stay with us for the time being,’ I told Eve. They took some persuading, and I had to promise to drive Gerry back to Allerscar each day to look after the garden and hens before he would agree.
In addition to waiting for them to pack some clothing, we had to take delivery of a tray of eggs plus a sizeable amount of fruit and vegetables Crowther had picked for us that morning. ‘It isn’t much by way of a thank-you,’ he told us, ‘but it’s the best I can do for the time being.’
When we returned to Eden House, it was time to test my theory out. Gerry and Sheila were clearly shocked by the amount of damage, and I could see Crowther was about to put on the hair shirt of repentance, knowing that the attack had been the result of our efforts on his behalf. ‘Luckily,’ I told them, ‘almost all the stuff they damaged had been earmarked for replacement. Now, we can get the insurance company to pay out instead of us having to bear the cost.’
One of the greatest assets a reporter can acquire is the ability to lip-read. As I finished my little speech of reassurance I glanced beyond Sheila, in time to see Eve mouth the word, ‘bullshit’.
I led them into the study, where I gestured to one item that had already been purchased by way of a replacement. ‘I bought this in Thorsby the other day, so you’ll have to bear with me, because I’m not familiar with the controls yet.’
‘Would you like me to do it, Adam?’ Charlie suggested. ‘I have one like this in my bedroom at the castle.’
I thanked him and handed him the record I’d taken from a carrier bag. ‘I also bought this in Thorsby, and I’d like you to listen to it very carefully.’
As Charlie placed the stylus on the edge of the black vinyl, I watched Crowther’s face carefully. This was the moment of truth. We would know soon whether I’d identified the motive for the crimes correctly, or if it was a red herring. The instrumental was familiar enough to Eve, to me, and I guess to Sheila. Even Charlie knew it vaguely, but I was fairly certain Crowther had never heard it before. Within a couple of bars, his expression changed from mild interest to a puzzled frown and then to rapt attention. He stared at the turntable, then looked at me, then back to the record player, his mouth open in astonishment. He signalled to Charlie. ‘Stop playing. Take it off.’
I was already sure my idea was accurate, but confirmation came swiftly. ‘Where did you say you got that?’ Crowther pointed to the record.
‘In the music shop in Thorsby. I take it you recognize the melody?’
‘Recognize it? I should do. I wrote that bloody tune. What I want to know is, who recorded it without my permission?’
Crowther looked round, at Sheila, then Eve, saw they were both staring at him. ‘What’s wrong? Have I missed something?’ he asked.
I explained as gently as I could. ‘That track was recorded in 1968. Three years after you supposedly died.’
There was a long silence, before I told Crowther, ‘The same instrumentalist recorded three more singles between 1968 and 1970. They’re also on that album. Would you like to hear them?’
Crowther nodded, and Charlie replaced the stylus on the record. Within the first few bars of each tune, it was clear by Crowther’s expression of outraged horror that he recognized them only too well. When the last notes of the final one died away he looked at me, confirming what we all had realized minutes earlier. ‘They’re my compositions – all of them. I wrote every single note of those four tunes. Who is the thieving bastard?’
I think we were all shocked, because none of us had heard Crowther swear before. ‘That’s a very good question, Gerry, and the quick answer is, we don’t know. Nobody does, or at least nobody was prepared to reveal the identity.’
‘But who played them?’
I explained, and it was rather like updating someone who had been cast away on a desert island. ‘In early 1968 a phenomenon burst onto the music scene. As far as I can remember, it was around March that the keyboard player you heard on those tracks reached the top ten with the first of four hit singles. Over the next eighteen months all four reached number one. The keyboard player called himself The Mystery Min
strel, and for the most part he refused all gigs and concert offers. Even when he did agree to appear, on shows like Top of the Pops, he was always in deep shadow, and all the viewers could see was the silhouette. The story was that the sessions were pre-recorded, with only the few technicians and the show’s producer on the set.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this Mystery Minstrel.’ Crowther commented.
‘I was a journalist, remember. There was a lot of speculation in the national press, and it became every reporter’s ambition to discover who the Mystery Minstrel really was. Nobody succeeded, though.’
Crowther snorted. ‘That’s probably because there would have been too many suspects to choose from. The way that person mangled those tunes, I’d guess anyone over the age of eight with the most basic knowledge of music could have played them – in most cases probably making a better job of it.’
‘Don’t be such a musical snob, Gerry,’ Sheila told him. ‘The question remains, where did they get that music from?’
‘I wasn’t certain until I heard all four,’ Crowther told her, ‘but there can only be one explanation. Do you remember that night in Chester?’
Sheila went bright red and glanced swiftly at her daughter. I’m not sure if any of the others caught that implication, but I think Crowther did, for he hurriedly continued, ‘That was the night my hotel room was broken into and my case stolen. It had those four tracks in it.’
‘What a shame there isn’t another copy,’ Eve suggested. ‘Then you could challenge the authenticity.’
‘But there is. Not another copy, but the fully scored version. Those,’ Crowther gestured to the record, still revolving silently on the turntable, ‘were only draft copies. The complete score included orchestral backing amongst other differences.’
‘I assume you still have those?’
‘Of course I do. I would never throw anything like that away. Too much hard work goes into writing them.’
‘Where are they?’
Crowther looked at me for a moment, considering the implications of my question, I guessed. ‘At the bank, along with my other documents.’
‘Have you opened that box since you put them in?’ To our surprise it was Charlie who asked.
‘Only once, to get the anonymous letters out, why?’
‘That’s a shame. I remember my Dad telling me once that the bank keeps a record of every time you go to a safe deposit. If you hadn’t been in since the date you placed them there, you could have proved beyond doubt that they were the authentic versions.’
Crowther smiled at Charlie. ‘You are a very astute young man. I would probably not have thought of this had you not prompted me, but all my sheet music, both published and unpublished, is in an envelope. Also in that envelope are the deeds to Lovely Cottage and my will. I made the will in January of 1966, and took it straight to the bank with all my other papers. The envelope was dated, sealed and signed by me, then countersigned by the bank manager. He added the date once more in his handwriting, before the envelope flap was stamped with the bank’s rubber stamp. That was all done at my insistence,’ Crowther told us, adding with a wry, self-mocking smile, ‘that was only three months after the Newcastle disappearing act, when I was at the height of the Crowther paranoia season.’
‘And that envelope remains intact? You haven’t broken the seals on it?’
Crowther shook his head. ‘And to go back to what you’ve just heard, you’re convinced those are all your work, but without the orchestral backing?’
‘I am.’
‘No other differences? On the first track, for example?’
Crowther gave me an odd look, but eventually agreed that the lack of an orchestral backing was the sole variance from what he’d composed. Although he and the others were convinced that those who claimed to have composed the piece, plus the Mystery Minstrel, must have been the ones who stole the music, I was suddenly smitten with doubt. There was one point where the track we’d just heard varied markedly from the version I’d heard on the radio. I’d no idea who it had been played by, but I now felt sure there was a second version out there. What added to my misgivings was that Crowther had not volunteered any information about what was missing from the tune we’d heard, when compared to the earlier rendition on the radio. With two possible suspects to pursue, identifying those responsible would be far from easy – and possibly highly dangerous.
‘Haven’t they to put their name on the label?’ Trudi asked.
‘They certainly do,’ Crowther agreed. ‘Good thinking, Trudi. The composers have to be identified, along with the performer. The names of those responsible for nicking my music should be on there.’
I reached across and lifted the record from the player. After examining the label, I looked at the others. ‘I’m none the wiser. Do the names A and J Deva mean anything to you?’
As I glanced round, and was met with a set of blank stares, I realized that we were no nearer forward than we had been when the music started playing.
I was about to raise my point about the tunes we’d just heard, but Eve began to expound her theory. By the time she finished, I changed my mind and decided I would do some research first.
‘Adam’s theory is that whoever stole the music from you, or whoever they passed it to, must have recognised the potential to make huge sums of money from it,’ she told them. ‘However, that couldn’t happen with Gerry around. But if he was killed, in a tragic accident, say, that would leave them free to publish those tracks without being challenged to their rights.’
‘I accept that,’ Crowther replied, ‘but I still have no idea who might be responsible.’
‘We do, or rather I do,’ Eve told him. She explained her theory regarding how successful Robbie Roberts had become. ‘He started Music Magic.’
I could tell the name of the publication meant nothing to Crowther, although Sheila and Trudi clearly recognized it. ‘Music Magic is a monthly magazine devoted to rock and pop music,’ Eve explained for Crowther’s benefit. ‘It’s become highly popular with pop fans and now has a huge worldwide circulation. My point is that in order to set up something like that, Roberts would have needed a huge amount of working capital. The obvious source for that would seem to me to be the proceeds from a string of hit records.’
During the discussion that followed, no solution as to resolving the threat against Crowther and his family presented itself. We were still groping in the dark, the figures of the perpetrators as shadowy as they had been when we started out. And they still had us firmly in their sights.
Chapter Seventeen
It was an enormous relief when the insurance assessor arrived, inspected the damage and indicated that he would advise the company to authorise our claim.
Armed with that knowledge, Eve co-opted Sheila to assist in a series of shopping expeditions to boost the sales figures of a number of local furniture stores. I was invited along, as was Crowther, but we both sensed that the invitations had been issued purely out of politeness, and declined the offer, as did Trudi and Charlie.
Having moved my car to allow Eve to reverse her Mini out of the drive, we waved the women off, before setting out for Allerscar. There, Charlie and Trudi collected eggs, fed the hens, and helped Crowther harvest more of his crop of vegetables, while I was placed in charge of the hosepipe. It was a warm, dry spell of weather, and watering was essential.
As I watched Crowther working I reflected on how different this must seem to him, compared to his old career as a pop star. The contrast could not have been more marked, and even as I was considering this, I realized that to a large extent it only mirrored the changes in my own lifestyle.
The change from the plains and mountains of Africa, where danger was a constant companion, or the hustle and bustle of New York, to the peace and tranquillity of the Yorkshire Dales was as radical as could be imagined. Granted, many of my former companions had also changed roles, but most of them had remained within the news industry. Some had become political pun
dits, or correspondents dealing with specialist subjects like health or education. One, a particularly close colleague, with whom I’d shared several perilous missions in search of stories, was now a highly respected crime reporter for one of the big national dailies. What, I wondered idly, would Paul Faulkner make of the story I was watching unfold.
Even as I was dwelling on this, the idea came to me. It was a radical one, to such an extent that I momentarily lost control of the hosepipe. The cold shower I treated Charlie and Trudi to caused instant protests.
‘Sorry,’ I told them, ‘something startled me.’
Trudi accepted my apology at face value, but Charlie gave me a searching look of disbelief. The only other witness, Trudi’s father, said nothing, but his deep-throated chuckle spoke volumes. Having re-directed the hose pipe to its intended target, I thought some more of the notion that had taken hold of me. Like one of Crowther’s seedlings, it took time to develop, and it was a couple of days later before I had thought it through in sufficient depth to present it to the others. We had just finished dinner when I addressed our little gathering. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ I told them.
Reaction was instantaneous. ‘Quick, Sheila,’ Eve said with some urgency, ‘grab my car keys. We need to escape as fast as possible.’
Her alarm, fortunately, provoked more amusement than mass panic.
‘What sort of an idea?’ Crowther asked.
‘I think we ought to go public with what we know.’
The idea was revolutionary enough to appal everyone in the room. After a long silence marked by universal expressions of shocked disbelief, Eve said, ‘We can’t do that, Adam. It would expose Gerry, Sheila, and Trudi to the sort of danger we’re trying to protect them from.’
‘That’s not how I see it. Think about it this way; the people who have demonstrated that they fear the affair coming into the open have been the opposition. They are obviously so terrified of exposure that they have taken extreme measures to avoid anyone talking to us.’