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Authors: Carola Dunn

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BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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“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 wish 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.”
“
I
t is my duty, ma'am, to warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be introduced in evidence in a court of law.” From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Tom's pencil dash across the paper as he recorded the utterance of the required caution. “Do you wish to send for your solicitor?”
“That won't be necessary, I'm sure. None of my guests has complained of being given the ‘Third Degree.'” Mrs. Cochran gave a brittle, artificial laugh. “As the Americans put it, I believe.”
Alec glanced at the constable by the hall door, who shook his head slightly. No departing witnesses had been permitted to take their leave of their hostess, let alone to tell her anything about their interviews with the police.
“I'm sorry people were kept waiting so long,” Alec apologized in a conversational tone.
She relaxed visibly. “No harm done, Chief Inspector, except to Eric's cellar. Gilbert Gower—well, the less said the better! I quite understand, you had to be certain no one else had a hand in that foolish young woman's attempt to dramatize herself.”
“Dramatize herself?”
“By pretending she meant to commit suicide. I must say it
was a disgraceful trick to play on poor Roger Abernathy.”
“Why should Miss Blaise pretend to commit suicide?”
“To catch Eric's attention.” Mrs. Cochran leant forward. “I must explain,” she confided, “that Miss Blaise is rather taken with Eric. Or perhaps she simply hopes to further her career, I can't claim to be sure which. In any case, recently she has been positively throwing herself at him, and the poor dear can't bring himself to be so cruel as to reject her outright. He isn't always able to avoid her—you saw for yourself how blatantly she threw herself into his arms when his duty as host forced him to approach her after that silly show.”
Was she trying to convince herself, or him? “I'm afraid that was not a silly show, ma'am. Not pretence. The glass contained a large dose of cyanide.”
No sign of surprise, of shock, behind the mask of make-up. Mrs. Cochran's story was as slipshod as her crime, the fingerprints missed, the reactions unplanned.
“No doubt Miss Blaise would have found some excuse not to drink, had Mr. Abernathy not prevented her. Unless she really meant to kill herself? In my house!” The indignation at least had been practised, but was belied by Lady Macbethian hands, writhing in her black silk lap. “Thank heaven she failed.”
“Why should she kill herself?”
“Eric must at last have told her plainly to leave him alone.”
“On the contrary, he offered her the mezzo-soprano part in the Verdi
Requiem.
”
“I imagine that was by way of a parting gesture.”
“A parting gesture? A farewell gift? Implying the end of a relationship. What was the relationship between your husband and Miss Blaise?”
“I didn't mean a parting gift!” She was beginning to get flustered.
Alec gave her a hard look. “I think you did, Mrs. Cochran.”
“Oh, very well, I did,” she said sulkily. “Eric is too kind for
his own good; he found it impossible to repulse her. He treated her as a friend and she tried to take advantage of him.”
“And you were angry about their ‘friendship'?”
“Eric is a brilliant conductor. Any scandal could put paid to his future. Of course I was angry. But it was over, so even if I had wanted to kill her, why should I try now?”
“Because it isn't over. Because the Verdi part signalled reconciliation, not good-bye. Because Eric Cochran is deeply infatuated with Olivia Blaise and on the verge of abandoning his career and his wife for her sake.”
“Rubbish! His career is the most important thing in the world to him, and he needs my support. He knows I'd do anything to help him rise to the top of his profession.”
“Anything?” Alec spoke softly, yet she blenched. “Your fingerprint is on the glass.”
“It can't be!” She stared at him aghast, then made a quick recovery. “I mean, of course it can. This is my house, after all, and my party.”
“Your maids handed around the glasses.”
“The sherry glasses, yes. But when I heard Miss Blaise was to sing, I told one of the girls to bring a glass of water specially, in case she needed it. Then I made a point of taking it from her tray myself and placing it on a doily, to make sure the surface of the piano was not marred. Maids are so careless these days. One simply cannot get decent servants since the War.” Mrs. Cochran looked pleased with her clever improvisation.
For the moment Alec let lie the question of how she had managed to leave only a single print when she picked up the tumbler, not to mention the lack of the maid's prints. “You gave the maid the order to fetch a glass of water when you heard Miss Blaise was to sing? That was quick work. I understand she went straight to the piano when she was asked.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps it was when Mr. Westlea expressed his
intent to invite her to sing. Yes, that's it. I wanted to be prepared in case she accepted.”
“I believe you were prepared before that. Even before you proposed the notion to the reverend gentleman.”
“I? It was entirely his own idea.”
“Mr. Westlea says you pointed out Miss Blaise to him and suggested that a song from her would be a suitable memorial for his daughter.”
“What if I did? That's no crime!”
“Odd, though, you must admit, since you disliked and despised Miss Blaise. However, that is only a part of the preparations I referred to. A full set of your fingerprints has been found on the tin of cyanide in the potting shed.”
“Oh Lord, I forgot,” she groaned, her shoulders sagging. But she wasn't done yet. She straightened again, stiff as a backboard. “That is, I forgot I had moved the tin up to a high shelf. I noticed the gardener had carelessly left it within easy reach. As I said, good servants are impossible to find nowadays.”
She was a game fighter. Alec admitted to himself a sneaking admiration. He glanced at Tom.
“Prints on the lid, sir,” the Sergeant murmured.
Mrs. Cochran heard. “Naturally I checked the lid to make sure it was on tightly.”
“Well, we shall of course check with your gardener as to where he left the tin.” He noted her alarm with satisfaction. Still, the gardener might well not remember. The evidence all pointed towards her, yet he'd prefer some sort of admission before he charged her. “Both maids have already denied bringing the water glass to the piano.”
“They would, wouldn't they,” she said contemptuously. “Really, Chief Inspector, what's all the to-do about? Miss Blaise didn't die. She came to no harm whatsoever.”
“Bettina Abernathy died.”
“That has nothing to do with me. I had no reason to kill
her.
”
“No, but you thought you did. You didn't know about Miss Blaise. Mr. Cochran met her at the Abernathys' house, and you had every reason to believe his affair was with Mrs. Aberna-they.”
“What if I did? However much I wished to be rid of her, I'd never have poisoned her in the middle of Eric's concert, and such an important concert!”
Much against his will, Alec believed her. How neat it would have been to wrap up both cases at once with a single arrest, he thought regretfully, though he'd never counted on it. Bettina's murderer was still unidentified.
His tone deliberately casual, he said, “So Mrs. Abernathy's murder just gave you the idea of poisoning Miss Blaise.”
“Yes, it … . No! I want my solicitor!” Mrs. Cochran demanded belatedly.
“By all means, ma'am. He can join us at the police station, where you will be charged with attempted murder. I suggest you ask your maid or your husband to pack up a small suitcase for you.”
“Not Eric.” The heavy cosmetics no longer disguised her years. “I don't want to see him. This is his fault, all his fault!”
Pitying her, Alec could not altogether disagree.
 
When Eric Cochran arrived at Olivia's digs, the sausages were long gone, a second pot of tea brewed and consumed. To stop Olivia's nervous pacing, Daisy had persuaded her to practise for the
Requiem
and she was singing the
Agnus Dei
when her lover rang the bell.
Daisy had a sudden qualm about letting him in. “Alec said he'd send an officer,” she remembered. “What if it's a ruse to get at you?”
“If Eric wants to kill me, I'd just as soon be dead.” Olivia unlocked the door.
Cochran looked almost shell-shocked. “They've arrested Ursula,” he said dully. “I can't believe it. I simply can't believe it.”
Though Daisy was dying to ask whether Mrs. Cochran had been arrested for Bettina's murder as well, she opted for discretion. The moment his face was buried in Olivia's lap, she hopped it, waving good-bye as Olivia raised her head to mouth a silent “Thanks!”
She went home first, to tell Lucy the latest news.
“Darling, you do get mixed up with the most peculiar people,” Lucy drawled. “I trust your tame copper doesn't think the woman pinched the cyanide from my darkroom?”
“I shouldn't think so,” said Daisy, a bit disgruntled because Lucy wasn't all agog. “After all, the Cochrans patronized a posh West End photographer.”
“Some people imagine they must get something better if they pay more. Phillip dropped by this morning. The poor prune rang up next door and panicked when he didn't get answer.”
“The maids were told not to answer the 'phone because of reporters. What did Phil want?”
Lucy waved a languid hand. “Just to know whether you were still in the land of the living. If they've arrested this Cochran person, you'll be coming home, won't you?”
“I expect so. Not because of the arrest; because the ghastly vicar's supposed to flee the wicked city today so Muriel won't need protection from him. I'd better go and see what's going on. Toodle-oo, darling.”
Daisy found Muriel alone with her afternoon tea. Roger was lying down in his room and the Reverend and Mrs. Westlea had already departed.
“Father was furious that I wouldn't go with them,” Muriel said. “Have a biscuit while I ring for another cup.”
“I couldn't touch another drop. Olivia and I drank tea till my insides started sloshing about.” She took a chocolate biscuit though. “Why on earth did your father expect you to go back to the wilds of Norfolk?”
“He couldn't decide whether I was more likely to be compromised by Yasha or by Roger. I suppose it will look a bit odd, my going on living in Roger's house now Betsy's gone.”
“Bosh! You're practically brother and sister, and he'd never survive without you. Today was a bit much for him, was it?”
“He's just so tired. And he still seems to feel the attempt on Olivia's life was somehow his fault. Do you know what's happening?”
“Golly, I nearly forgot to tell you. Alec's arrested Mrs. Cochran.”
“Oh dear, that's what Roger's afraid of. He doesn't believe she killed Betsy, so she must have copied whoever did.”
“Which doesn't make it his fault.”
“No, but you know how one imagines all sorts of frightful things when one's ill and overwrought. He must wish he'd been able to stop Betsy behaving in such a way that someone decided to poison her. Anyway, whatever is bothering him, he's in a dreadfully morbid state. He even … . Daisy, promise you won't tell Yasha?”
“Tell him what? All right, I promise.”
“Roger's made an appointment with his solicitor for tomorrow morning. He's going to change his will and leave the house to me, which would be wonderful if it didn't mean he's feeling absolutely rotten.”
“He told me he didn't expect to survive losing Bettina,” Daisy said slowly. Muriel looked so appalled, she quickly added, “But I dare say he'll live for years yet. Why don't you
want Mr. Levich to know about the house?”
“It's this impossible business about not wanting him to marry me because I have a bit of money, and not wanting him
not
to marry me for fear I'll believe … you know.” Muriel sighed. “Not that I really expect him to propose, but he's so … . He has a rehearsal this afternoon, but he came straight here from the Cochrans', as soon as Mr. Fletcher had finished with him, to make sure Roger and I were all right. Oh Daisy, he was so sweet, so pleased that Mr. Fletcher had trusted him to guard the back door.”
Daisy refrained from pointing out that Alec had no earthly reason to suspect Levich of wanting to bump off Olivia. “I hope it means Alec's cleared him altogether,” she said, “but don't count on it. Once you're on his list of suspects, it's frightfully difficult to get off. I wish I knew whether he's charged Mrs. Cochran with Bettina's death too!”
BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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