Requiem for a Mezzo

by Carola Dunn

  “I suppose so. I’ve never before had any occasion to wonder. But surely, Mr. Fletcher, this may all be a horrible mistake? Perhaps Roger was mistaken, having the beastly stuff on his mind?”

  “Detective Constable Piper smelt it too, I’m afraid. It’s just conceivable the smell came from something other than cyanide. We shall soon find out, I hope. It’s not a difficult test, when there’s enough of the stuff there. Mr. Cochran, is there somewhere we can go for a private word? I’d like the rest of you to stay here, together, for the moment.”

  Cochran stared at him, aghast. “You don’t think she’ll … the person will try again, do you? Try to kill Olivia?”

  “I doubt it, sir, but I’d rather she wasn’t alone.”

  “She’ll come with us,” the conductor said firmly. “Anything we have to say to each other, she can hear.”

  Alec conceded, and the three of them went out, leaving Daisy, Muriel, and Roger.

  “Mr. Fletcher thinks it was Mrs. Cochran, doesn’t he?” Muriel said to Daisy as Roger sat down at the piano and began to play softly, aimlessly.

  “So does Cochran. At least, he’s afraid it might be.”

  “I’m so sorry for him … for her … for all three of them, though I can’t quite bring myself to like him. Daisy, does this mean Mrs. Cochran killed Betsy?”

  “Possibly,” Daisy said with caution, “but not necessarily.”

  Muriel shuddered. “How frightful to think there may be two murderers about!”

  “It is rather, isn’t it?” Involuntarily, Daisy gave a quick glance around. They were alone, of course, except for Roger. No sinister figure crept towards the French windows—and just what did Alec expect her to do about it if the murderer tried to escape that way? she thought indignantly. Hit him or her over the head with a music-stand? Call on Roger to help her tackle him?

  Roger was playing something quiet and sad, deep lines of sadness carved in his face. He had aged immeasurably over the past few days, not troubled more than usual by angina but sinking into apathy. The newspapers’ nasty hints about Yakov Levich had roused him, as had Olivia’s singing and the attempt on her life. Now he was slipping back, the notes coming softer and slower until he sat with his hands resting on the keyboard, head bowed.

  “Muriel, I’d like to go home,” he said suddenly in a low voice, raising his head with an obvious effort. “Do you think the Chief Inspector would let us go, Daisy?”

  “I expect so, but I don’t like to interrupt to ask. I’m sure Sergeant Tring will be here any moment, if you can hold on.”

  “Come and sit in one of these comfortable chairs, Roger,” Muriel said anxiously. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

  “No, just tired. So very, very tired.” He moved to one of the leather armchairs and at her coaxing drank a little more of the brandy left in his glass.

  A few minutes later, Alec returned with Cochran, Olivia, and a uniformed constable whom he posted at the French windows.

  “Yes, you can go,” he told Muriel, “though I’ll need to talk to you both again. Miss Dalrymple, I want you to go home with Miss Blaise if you would. Otherwise I’ll send for a woman police officer.”

  “No, I’ll go.” She was more pleased to have the opportunity of talking to Olivia than annoyed at his high-handedness.

  “Thank you. Lock the door and don’t open it until you hear from me … .”

  “I’ll take Miss Blaise home,” interrupted Eric Cochran, who looked utterly wretched.

  “Sorry, sir, I need you here. Is there a telephone in your house, Miss Blaise?”

  Olivia shook her head. She was still pale, but calm and self-possessed. Though she stood a little apart from Cochran, not touching him, the link between them was almost tangible.

  “I’ll send an officer to let you know what’s going on,” Alec decided. “I ’phoned for a taxi. Here’s for the fare, on the Yard.” He handed Daisy a ten bob note.

  “We’ll drop Muriel and Roger on the way, shall we? They’ll want to leave the hired motor for the Westleas.”

  Alec gave Muriel and Roger one of his searching looks, then nodded. “Yes, that’ll do. I must talk to the vicar and Mrs. Westlea before they leave here.” He held Daisy back as another policeman came in to announce the arrival of the taxi-cab and usher them out. “Daisy, may I take you out to dinner tomorrow?” he said softly.

  “Yes, spiffing!”

  “Don’t get too excited.” He grimaced. “Unless this is all cleared up by then, it’ll be a mixture of business and pleasure, I’m afraid, but on Saturday, if you’re free, Belinda and my mother hope you’ll come to tea. I promise to be there, if I have to disconnect the ’phone!”

  “Tea on Saturday?” Don’t be ridiculous, she admonished the butterflies which suddenly took flight in her middle. “Please tell them I’ll be delighted and I look forward to meeting them.”

  “Good. Belinda will be thrilled. Off you go, now. Don’t worry, I don’t really think Miss Blaise is in any further danger, but she ought to have someone with her.”

  As she hurried after the others, Daisy wasn’t worrying about Olivia. She was thinking that he hadn’t said Mrs. Fletcher would be pleased—let alone thrilled—by her coming to tea.

  The policeman showed them out by the back door, through the kitchen where Tom Tring was already ensconced at the table with a cup of tea and several excited servants. He lumbered to his feet as the ladies passed, giving Daisy a wink as infinitesimal as Ernie Piper’s. Clad in funereal black instead of his usual wild checks, he looked slightly less bulky and much less vulgar, more like an undertaker than a second-hand car salesman.

  In the taxi, Olivia insisted on Roger settling on the forward-facing seat while she perched on a pull-down seat. Daisy told the driver to take them to Mulberry Place, and they set off.

  “My dear,” Roger said to Olivia, “I’m so very sorry.”

  “I don’t mind sitting here in the least, honestly. I was going to walk or take the ’bus.”

  “No, no, about the dreadful fright you’ve had. I feel responsible.”

  “Good heavens, Roger, why? I owe you my life.”

  He looked a bit nonplussed. “Well, I … Suppose it was a false alarm, as you suggested?”

  “I only said that for Eric’s sake.” Olivia continued seriously, “I simply can’t think of anyone other than his wife who might want me dead, you know. It’s too frightful for the poor darling.”

  “Yes, but … if it was indeed Mrs. Cochran, the idea must have been put into her head by … what happened to Bettina.”

  The three women exchanged glances. It would be too cruel to remind him that Mrs. Cochran had probably imagined she had the same motive for murdering Bettina as she had for Olivia.

  “If so,” said Daisy, “you can hardly be blamed for that, Roger. Olivia’s right, she owes you her life, and if by some outside chance you were mistaken, I’m sure she’s jolly glad you didn’t wait until she dropped dead to cry wolf.”

  “That goes without saying,” Olivia agreed dryly.

  Roger seemed not entirely reassured, but the taxi-cab pulled up outside the house so it was left to Muriel to set his mind at rest. They got out and Olivia gave the driver her address.

  She moved across to sit beside Daisy. “Thank you for coming. I couldn’t have borne some grim police matron. I must say, your pet policeman’s a pretty decent chap.”

  “Isn’t he? He said he doubts you’re actually still in danger, by the way.”

  “Better safe than sorry. We’ll have a cup of tea. I could do with one!”

  “To tell the truth, I’m starving. You started singing before I had time to start eating.”

  “Sausages and toast?”

  “Spiffing. I don’t want you to think I’m a complete Philistine, though. Your singing was absolutely heavenly, and everyone around me was frightfully impressed. I’m looking forward no end to the repeat Verdi concert.”

  “It’s a great chance for me.” Olivia sighed. “I just wis
h it had come to me some other way. Poor Roger! Poor Eric!”

  “What did Alec want to ask Mr. Cochran, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “He wanted to know if there was any cyanide in the house. Eric’s a bit vague about domestic matters, but he remembered talk of poisoning a wasps’ nest in the attic last summer.”

  “Oh gosh!”

  “Then Mr. Fletcher asked again whether Ursula knew about Eric and me before last Sunday, whether she could have suspected Bettina, all that stuff. And Eric tried to persuade him she’d never have wrecked his concert like that, whatever she suspected. Neither of us could think of anyone else who might have it in for me, though.”

  “No, it does look awfully as if it must be Mrs. Cochran.”

  “Eric blames himself terribly, and though Mr. Fletcher was perfectly polite, I could tell he holds Eric to blame for the whole mess. You don’t like him either, do you?”

  “Oh dear, does it show?” Daisy demanded, dismayed.

  “Not to anyone who doesn’t care as much as I do,” Olivia assured her. “I know he’s weak, and he’s let me down before, and all the rest of it. I know he’s not perfect, but nor am I, and I can’t help it, I love him desperately.”

  Despite the dim light in the taxi-cab, Daisy could see Olivia’s lips firmly compressed in an effort to stop the tears overflowing her swimming eyes. She took the unhappy girl’s hand and pressed it.

  “Like Roger,” she said, commiserating. “However badly Bettina behaved, he went on loving her to the end.”

  Olivia drew a long, shuddering breath as the taxi pulled up outside her digs. Daisy paid the driver, giving him a very decent tip “on the Yard.” They went upstairs and Olivia locked the door of her room behind them before she spoke again.

  “Perhaps it would have been better for Eric,” she said then, “if Roger hadn’t stopped me drinking from that glass.”

  “Bosh! Alec would have caught Mrs. Cochran anyway, and she’d have been hanged, and Eric wouldn’t have had you there to comfort and console him. Though I must say it does complicate matters, your having survived.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Olivia picked up the kettle from the gas-ring by the fire and went behind a curtain in the corner to fill it. Daisy stuck one of Scotland Yard’s shillings in the meter. As it dropped with a satisfying clunk, Olivia turned back with a smile. “Sergeant Tring fed the meter when they all came here. He didn’t think I saw but I heard, of course. Thanks.”

  “It’s on the Yard,” said Daisy grandly. “But I expect the sergeant’s was his own—he’d have a hard time claiming it as expenses. He’s a nice chap, Tom Tring, a friend of mine.”

  Lighting the gas-ring, Olivia looked at her curiously. “You’re rather democratic for an Honourable, aren’t you? I’ve met one or two before, and Lady Thises and Thats, and they were all fearfully stuck-up.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m interested in people, and lots seem to want to talk to me, and once one talks to someone and likes them one can’t just discard them because they’re not out of the top drawer. At least I can’t. My friend Lucy—oh, she took your portrait, didn’t she?—she’s always ragging me about it. Not that she’s even an Honourable, but her grandfather is an earl. As if it made the slightest difference to what people are like!”

  “Speaking of which,” said Olivia, continuing the preparations for lunch, “what do you think Eric will do if Ursula’s convicted of attempted murder? If he stands by her, everyone will say he doesn’t want to lose her money. If he applies for a divorce, everyone will say he’s deserting her.”

  “It’s a bit late to worry about what everyone says,” Daisy pointed out. “Don’t forget to prick those sausages or they’ll explode. Shall I slice the bread?”

  “Yes, will you? I’ll light the fire. It takes a while to heat up enough to make toast. I suppose you mean I should have thought about what people would say before succumbing to Eric’s charms.” Her sardonic tone showed she had recovered her poise in spite of returning to the difficult subject. “You’re quite right, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk. I should have considered Ursula’s point of view, too. I was so sure she didn’t love him, only cared for the chance of a title he represented.”

  “One can be possessive, and jealous, without love, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Bettina being complaisant if Roger had strayed, though she doesn’t seem to have cared a hoot for him.”

  “She didn’t care a hoot for anyone but herself. All the same, it will be too beastly if it turns out Ursula killed her by mistake because of Eric and me.”

  Daisy could only soberly agree, while privately feeling that for everyone but Olivia and Cochran it would be even worse to have two murderers on the loose. She wished she knew what Alec was discovering back at the Cochrans’ house.

  “It was cyanide they used on that wasps’ nest all right, Chief,” Tom Tring reported, padding across the music room to the desk where Alec sat. “They stored what was left in a tin in the potting-shed, up on a high shelf out of the way, clearly marked ‘POISON’ with a skull and crossbones. I oughter’ve caught that last time, when I came about the chauffeur.”

  “We weren’t seriously considering either of the Cochrans as Mrs. Abernathy’s murderer then.” Alec frowned. “I’m not at all sure I am now. Does Mrs. Cochran garden?”

  “She potters, picking flowers, pruning roses, and such. No one wouldn’t think twice to see her pottering into the potting-shed, as you might say.” He paused to allow Alec to appreciate this bon mot. “But what’s more to the point, Chief, there’s a loverly set of dabs on the tin, on the sides and on the lid. It’s a bit dusty, a bit rusty, easy to see the prints are recent. I sent one of the local laddies to take it over to Fingerprints.”

  “Good.”

  “Only thing is, the gardener doesn’t come Wednesdays. Could be he used it for rats or summat.”

  “You can track him down later. Anything else that can’t wait?”

  “Just that both the maids swears neether of ’em put that glass on the pianner.”

  Alec nodded. “About all I’ve learned is that it was Mrs. Cochran who suggested to the vicar that he ask Miss Blaise to sing.”

  “Ah,” said Tom, “was it now.”

  “All right, I want you to help me with these interviews or we’ll be here till midnight and the natives are already restless. This room’s big enough, you can take them at the other end. I want to know were they previously acquainted with Miss Blaise, when the glass appeared on the piano, who put it there, did anyone go near it, all the obvious things.” He could count on Tom to follow up anything significant and draw it to his attention.

  “Right, Chief.”

  “Warn them we might be in touch again, and let ’em go. It’s a good job I had you wear black. You look quite respectable for once.”

  “Want me to talk la-di-da?”

  “Just don’t drop your haitches.”

  “As if I ever did,” said Tom, his tone injured, but a grin lifted his luxuriant moustache.

  Alec told the uniformed constable at the dining-room doors to send in two guests, and the Gowers came in together. The officer directed Gilbert Gower to Tring, his wife to Alec.

  Plump, untidy, sallow in black, Mrs. Gower was agitated, but remembering their previous interview he couldn’t hold that against her. This was no time to ask her about nitroglycerin, either, whatever his hunch about the attempt on Miss Blaise being an imitation, not a second effort by the same murderer. Besides, he hadn’t yet heard from either Sir Bernard or the lab on that question.

  He opened his mouth to ask about the glass, but she forestalled him. “Gilbert had never even met Miss Blaise, Chief Inspector,” she said with nervous determination.

  The tenor’s voice, penetrating though slurred, came from the other end of the room assuring the sergeant of the same thing.

  “We have no reason to suppose your husband was in any way involved with Miss Blaise,” Alec assured Mrs. Gower.

  She was quicker-
witted than she looked. “Oh dear, then it was she and … I told Ursula you believed Eric Cochran wasn’t Mrs. Abernathy’s lover, but I swear I never said it was someone else, let alone mentioning Miss Blaise. I didn’t know! Did she … ?”

  “We don’t know yet just what happened,” Alec said firmly, and moved on to his questions about the glass. Nothing useful emerged.

  Gilbert Gower came over, a trifle unsteady. “All done, Chief ’spector? C’mon, darling, le’s go home.” He took her arm and they left.

  “Sozzled,” said Tom succinctly. “He swears he’s broken off with Miss de la Costa and he’ll never touch another bit on the side.”

  The next two came and went, and the next. It began to look as if they’d get to Mrs. Cochran, deliberately left till last, before Alec heard from Piper. Then the constable on duty in the hall stuck his head round the door. “Telephone call for you, Chief Inspector, sir.”

  He made his excuses to a stout gentleman in gold pince-nez, the umpteenth to swear no glass stood on the piano when he first arrived in the house—unless he simply hadn’t noticed it. And he wouldn’t have noticed anyone putting it there, either, Alec reflected as he went out to the hall. Practically everyone in the three reception rooms had been holding a glass.

  Ernie Piper was on the line. “They done the test, Chief. They was that glad to get plenty to work with this time.”

  “Thanks to your quick action, Ernie. It was cyanide?”

  “Enough to kill an elephant, they reckon, if the glass was full.”

  Alec averted his eyes from the elephant’s-foot umbrella-stand, met the fox’s glazed gaze, and turned his back. “And the glass?”

  “Miss Blaise’s prints, Chief, plain as the nose on your face ’cos it’d been wiped before she touched it. But … . Hold on a jiffy, Chief.” Down the wire came a distant murmur, then Ernie’s excited voice returned. “That tin of poison Sergeant Tring sent in, Chief? With the dabs on it? And what I was just going to say: When the glass was wiped there was one print missed, at the bottom.” He paused dramatically. “It’s the same as on the tin, and they’re Mrs. Cochran’s.”