Requiem for a Mezzo

by Carola Dunn

  “Mrs … ? Oh, Miss Westlea. The late Miss Westlea,” he corrected himself with a nervous glance at the baize-shrouded mound on the stage. “Well, if you must, you must.”

  Wringing his hands, he watched Alec slice out a good-sized patch of damp carpet and roll it up with the smallest slivers of glass embedded in it. The almond smell was still strong. The unfortunate Bettina must have been given a massive dose, Alec thought, taking the shallowest breaths possible.

  Where the deuce were the local coppers?

  Heavy footsteps behind him provided the answer. “Chief Inspector Fletcher?” The uniformed sergeant saluted, the constable at his heels following suit, as Alec nodded. “Sir, all the exits are guarded, like you asked on the telephone.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. They know no one is to leave without giving a seat number, or at least row number, name, and address?”

  “There won’t be any trouble about that,” said Browne dolefully. “They’ll be only too happy to leave word where to find ’em. Seven thousand odd ticket refunds, that’s what I’m looking at. It’ll make mincemeat of my budget.”

  With his somewhat callous concern for his carpet and his budget, Browne seemed an unlikely poisoner. However, Alec might need his knowledge of the internal working of the Albert Hall.

  “I won’t keep you just now, Major,” he said, “but I must ask you to stay in the building for the present. Be so good as to send to the soloists’ suite the usher who was on duty at that door during the interval.”

  “Right you are, Chief Inspector.” The manager trailed away, disconsolate but not visibly alarmed.

  Alec turned back to the sergeant and gave him the names of the others who were to be asked to stay.

  “I want them gathered in the choir’s room,” he said as the man laboriously wrote in his notebook. “It’s next to Browne’s office, which will be a good place for interviews. As soon as you’ve notified all those, circulate word that the rest can go. I’m going to the soloists’ suite now. When Detective Sergeant Tring arrives, send him to me.”

  “Sir.”

  “And you”—Alec turned to the constable—“you’re to stay here to make sure no one interferes with the body or these items of evidence. A police surgeon and photographer will be along soon.”

  Several times, as he made his way through the crowded passage outside the auditorium, anxious or irate concert-goers stopped him, recognizing him as the man who had taken charge. Alec soothed them with promises of being able to depart very shortly. At last he reached the soloists’ suite, where a weedy youth in uniform nervously awaited him.

  “You were here during the interval?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” the usher bleated. “I d-didn’t see anything, honest.”

  “I’m not going to bite. I just want to ask you a few questions.” Alec unlocked and opened the door. “Come in here a minute.”

  He threw a swift glance around the small room. An array of easy-chairs covered in “tartan” tweed in singularly hideous shades of burnt orange and olive green met his eyes. Worse than the worst of Tring’s abominable suits, he decided. To his left, in the corner, a table held small coffee and tea urns; a silver samovar; a carafe half full of water; a round silver tray with a cut-glass decanter; cups, saucers and glasses, some used, some clean—one full of tea, scummed on top, appeared untouched; a plate of digestive biscuits; and an empty ashtray.

  Anyone standing at the table would effectively hide with his back whatever he was doing with his hands.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Alec said sharply as the usher followed him in. Closing the door, he pointed at two others, one on each side of the room. “Where do those lead?”

  “The one on the right’s to the ladies’ dressing-room and lav, sir, and t’other’s the gents’. There’s mirrors and that, and the ladies’ has a couple of chaze longs so’s they can lie down.”

  “Who came in here while you were on duty this evening?”

  “Well, all the soloists, sir. That’s Miss Costa, Miss Westlea that’s dead—as was reelly Mrs. Abernathy and her sister’s Miss Westlea, but that’s arteests for you—and Mr. Gower and Mr. Marchenko.”

  “And the organist?”

  “Mr. Finch? That’s right, though you don’t hardly notice whether he’s there or not. A nice, quiet-spoken gent.”

  “Those are all the authorized people. Did you let anyone else in?”

  “Mr. Abernathy, though he only popped in for a minute or two. In the choir room next door he was mostly. Then there was Miss Muriel Westlea, she was here the whole time, doing this and that for her sister. Sings in the choir, she does. Major Browne dropped by like he always does, to see they’ve got all they need, and so did the conductor, Cookham, is it?”

  “Cochran.”

  “Him. Then a lady came by said she was his wife.”

  “Did you let her in?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d got no reason to think she wasn’t what she said, had I? Fancy dresser that, di’monds and all. And there was another one, proper dowdy-looking, claimed to be Mr. Gower’s missus.”

  “She went in too?”

  “Summun came up and asked me summat, and she must’ve slipped past me, ’cos she came out a couple of minutes later. Said Mr. Gower was back there in the dressing-room and she wouldn’t wait. I asked did she want to leave a message but she said no.”

  “Mrs. Cochran. Mrs. Gower.” Alec had to admit that once more Daisy had proved right when she advised him to see those two ladies.

  “Then there was Miss Blaise. She’s another singer. She’d left summat at Mr. Abernathy’s house when she went for her lesson, and Miss Muriel’d promised to bring it in for her today. And the only other one I can think of’s Mr. Levich.”

  “Yakov Levich? The violinist? The orchestra’s leader?” Not on Daisy’s list.

  “Right, and he’s another nice, quiet chap even if he is a furriner. Always a friendly word though you can’t hardly tell what he’s saying. Not like some I could name.”

  “What did he want in this room?”

  “I didn’t ask. The leader mucks in with the rest of the orchestra in their room so he doesn’t properly belong in here, but I wasn’t going to stop him when he came along, was I? I seen him around. I know who he is.”

  “Reasonable,” Alec conceded. “I hope he hasn’t left, but I suppose I can always find him later. All right, my lad, you … .” He stopped as someone knocked on the door.

  “Chief?” Around the opening door appeared a large, bald head, the face beneath adorned by way of emphasis with a splendid grey walrus moustache. “Ah, there you are.” Sergeant Tring came in, a massive figure in his favourite suit of tan and yellow checks.

  “That was fast, Tom,” said Alec.

  “Mate of mine had dropped by for a cuppa, him and his wife. He’s got a motor-bicycle so he ran me in.”

  Alec’s mind boggled at a vision of Tom’s bulk squeezed into a side-car, or worse, balanced on the back of a motor-cycle. “A brave man, your mate. Give him my thanks when next you see him. Tom, first thing, find the local man and tell him to add Yakov Levich, the orchestra’s leader, to the list of people I want to stay. Then come back here.”

  “Right, Chief.” The sergeant withdrew with his curiously soft, light tread.

  Turning back to the usher, Alec dismissed him. “I may have more questions for you later, but I assume Major Browne has your address, so you can go. You’ve been helpful. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” said the young man with a slight bow, regaining the suave manner of one accustomed to dealing with the public.

  The door clicked shut behind him. Alec turned to the table. The array of refreshments reminded him that it was teatime, that he was not likely to be offered any, and that his dinner with Daisy was not going to reach the soup, let alone dessert. Still, since she had somehow managed to involve herself in the investigation, she could hardly take umbrage. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

  Absently nibbling on a rather limp dige
stive biscuit, he studied the various items before him.

  The door opened again. “Living dangerously, Chief!” said Tom Tring.

  “She was poisoned with a drink, not a biscuit. Look, this is labelled with her name.”

  The cut-glass decanter sported a silver tag engraved “Bettina Westlea.” Only a few dregs remained in the bottom. Wrapping his fingers in his handkerchief, Alec delicately removed the stopper, sniffed, and beckoned to Tom.

  “Cyanide right enough, Chief. But that almond smell’s strong enough with only a drop or two left, you’d think she’d’ve noticed before she took a swig.”

  “Not everyone can smell it, as I was reminded by one of my self-appointed medical consultants.”

  “Ah.” The sergeant helped himself to a biscuit and chewed it ruminatively. “Dabs?”

  “Yes, you have your kit? Good. Fingerprint this room and the two adjoining, and look out for anything which might have contained the cyanide before it was put in the decanter. A photographer and a police surgeon should arrive soon, I don’t know who’s on call today.”

  “’Cepting it weren’t you and me.”

  “That’s life—I hope you conveyed my apologies to Mrs. Tring. Anyway, I’m putting you in charge while I start interviewing. I’ll use one of the local lads for note-taking until Piper gets here.”

  “You going to search ’em all for whatever they brought the stuff in?”

  “I thought about that, but the easiest form of cyanide to obtain is the potassium or sodium salt, as a pesticide or photographic fixing agent. The crystals could be carried in an envelope to be flushed down the lavatory. Our murderer has had every opportunity to dispose of the evidence.”

  “Ah.”

  “Keep an eye out for any unexplained container, all the same. It’s always possible he used prussic acid, which would require a glass vial. I’m off.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, Tom, I … er … I don’t believe I mentioned on the ’phone that I came to the concert with Miss Dalrymple?”

  Tom grinned. “Ah.”

  “I’m afraid she … well, she’s managed to get mixed up in things again. One of our suspects is a friend of hers.”

  “Dunno how she does it,” said the sergeant admiringly.

  “So don’t for pity’s sake let her interfere!”

  With those heartfelt words, Alec stepped out into the passage. The crowd had thinned considerably. At the two nearest exits, constables scribbled down particulars of the audience, orchestra, and choir members in the slowly shortening queues.

  As Alec turned towards the manager’s office, Ernie Piper hurried towards him. The wiry young Detective Constable was out of breath, the shoulders of his brown serge suit damp and his tie awry.

  “I came quick as I could, Chief,” he panted. “Ran all the way from the Tube.”

  “Perfect timing. I’m just about to start interviewing.”

  “Ready, Chief.” Piper’s notebook and three sharp pencils instantly appeared. Alec sometimes wondered if he slept with them in his pyjama pocket.

  Browne was in his office, gloomily contemplating figures in a large ledger. “You want my room, Chief Inspector?” he said. “You can have it, and the bloody job, too. What a balls-up! My only hope is to persuade people they had half the concert so they can’t expect more than half a refund.”

  “Can’t you reschedule the concert and offer replacement tickets?”

  “Possibly, but there’s all sorts of extra costs involved, and whether people’ll want to come after the stupid bitch—ahem—the unfortunate woman got herself murdered in front of an audience … .” He brightened. “Still, knowing the great British public, it might even bring ’em in. Who can guess?”

  “You didn’t care for Mrs. Abernathy?” Alec asked.

  Browne looked at him in alarm. “Now don’t you go making something of a slip of the tongue!” he begged. “Except for meeting her a couple of times when they rehearsed here, I only knew her by reputation. I’d heard she was difficult, and by George, she was. Too hot, too cold—as though I could change the Hall’s heating system just to please her! I tell you, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another, but I’d no cause to bump her off.”

  “Who picked her to sing in the Verdi? Who chooses the soloists?”

  “Well, I’m consulted, though the conductor has the final say. Something like the Requiem, the choir-master’s generally asked for suggestions. Roger Abernathy—his ProMusica sings here quite often—he’s tried before to talk a conductor into giving his wife a chance. Dotes … doted on her, he did. He’s a good chap, mind you, but I’ve generally managed to put a spoke in his wheel in the interests of peace and harmony.”

  “This time you failed.”

  “Could have knocked me down with a feather. I’d had a quiet word with Cochran and he agreed absolutely that Bettina Westlea was more trouble than her voice was worth. Next thing I know, he’s done an about-face and won’t consider any other mezzo.”

  Confirmation of Daisy’s remark that Cochran had been behaving oddly, Alec thought. “Did he give you any reason?”

  “No, just he’d decided her voice was perfect for the part whatever her drawbacks.” The Major sounded resigned. “These artistic types, you simply can’t count on ’em, you know. Give me a boxing-wallah any day. Crooked as corkscrews, every one of ’em, but you know where you are. Speaking of which, care for a whisky, Chief Inspector?” He opened a drawer of his desk.

  “Thank you, not on duty.” Alec had to assume he was on duty. He hadn’t yet heard from either his own or the local division’s Superintendent, though the local duty officer had responded with admirable speed to his request for manpower. If the case was later taken out of his hands, at least he could lay a solid foundation for whoever took over.

  He asked the manager a few more questions about the organization of the Albert Hall in general and the Verdi concert in particular, then let him go.

  “Privilege working with you chaps,” said Major Browne, sketching a military salute. He gestured at Alec’s tie. “Royal Flying Corps, were you? They stuck me in the Army Service Corps, worse luck, but I saw a bit of action, all the same.” He hefted his ledger and reached for an appointment book. “I shan’t buzz off yet. I’ll just take these through to my secretary’s room, have another go at the blasted figures and check a few dates, so halloo if there’s anything more I can do for you.”

  “Not next door, if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “Oh? Right! Least heard, soonest mended, eh? The ticket office’ll be just the ticket then, haw haw.” Pleased with himself, he went off.

  “The three doctors next, I think,” Alec said to Piper. “It never does to keep professional men waiting.”

  “All together, Chief?”

  “Yes. They’re not suspects, I just need a written report of their diagnosis. They should be with the rest in the choir room, next door.” He gestured at the wall opposite the door to Browne’s secretary’s room. “Oh, but one of them is taking care of Abernathy, I believe.” According to Daisy. “Er … I ought to warn you, Ernie, that Miss Dalrymple has got herself mixed up in this business.”

  “Our Miss Dalrymple’s a right ’un!” said Piper with enthusiasm.

  Alec sighed and sent him to fetch the medical men.

  The subsequent talk of hyperpnea, dyspnea, hypopnea, vertigo, convulsions, cyanosis, nausea, hypotension, asphyxia, and syncope strained Piper’s shorthand to the utmost. All three doctors admitted to never having seen a death from cyanide poisoning before, but the symptoms were consistent with what they had read. Together with the bitter almond odour, the conclusion was obvious.

  “I’ll have statements drawn up for you to sign, gentlemen,” Alec said at last, “but I needn’t detain you any longer at present—except you, Dr. Woodward, just a moment, if you please. I’d like your advice about Mr. Abernathy.”

  There was something slightly odd about Woodward’s reaction to his request. However, thanking the other two, Alec failed to analyse it and it ha
d passed by the time he turned to their younger colleague.

  “Mr. Abernathy is not officially my patient, Chief Inspector,” Dr. Woodward said at once, “but I can tell you that he is a sick man. The shock of his wife’s sudden death has brought on an acute attack of angina, possibly even a mild heart seizure. It would be most remiss of me to allow you to question him without protest.”

  “Shall I send for an ambulance?”

  “No, he is resting in moderate comfort at present and he is best left thus as long as possible.”

  “Would you be kind enough to go and see whether I could have just a word with him in a few minutes? If not, I shall leave him till last, or even postpone talking to him until another day if you think it absolutely necessary.”

  “Probably, but another hour may see him much improved. I’ll stay with him.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  The man’s gold-rimmed spectacles glinted as he nodded. Piper showed him out.

  “Who’s next, Chief?”

  “The victim’s sister, Miss Westlea. She’s the one Miss Dalrymple has taken under her wing this time. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to separate them, but you might try suggesting to Miss Dalrymple that her presence is unneeded.”

  Piper grinned. “I’ll try, Chief.”

  Alec was not at all surprised when Daisy followed Miss Westlea into the office. As he had guessed, her protective instincts had been aroused. Ignoring her for the moment, he concentrated on Muriel Westlea. A slight, brown-haired woman, meek-looking, her eyes red and puffy from crying, she nonetheless seemed quite composed. She had taken charge at once when her brother-in-law had his attack, according to Daisy.

  According to Daisy. Sometimes he wondered wryly how the deuce he had managed over the years to solve so many cases without her help! Of course, he hadn’t had to contend with her interference, either.

  “You don’t mind if Miss Dalrymple stays with me, Chief Inspector?” Miss Westlea asked anxiously.

  “Not at all,” he said stoically, beetling his eyebrows at Daisy’s smile. “Please be seated, ladies.”

  They took two chairs facing the manager’s desk, and Alec sat down behind it. Piper, notebook at the ready, stationed himself near the door, slightly to Miss Westlea’s rear. Daisy turned her head to smile at him—she had more than once acted as Alec’s stenographer when he interviewed a suspect.