Swan Song (14 page)

What at last emerged from a good deal of tedious inquisition was unhelpful. It appeared that at half past four the chambermaids were in the habit of assembling in their sitting-room to brew tea; consequently none of
them had been in the corridor, or within sight of it, at the crucial time.

‘Except Effie,' added the victim of their inquiries after a pause for reflexion. ‘She ‘ad to take someone a tray. But as I say, sir, if anything's gorn . . .'

The significance of these recurrent utterances had at last penetrated to Fen's understanding. He became irresponsible.

‘There's a diamond tiara gone,' he said sternly. ‘And the specifications of the atomic bomb. So if we're all reduced to molecular dust before we have time to turn round it will be your fault.'

‘Oh, sir,' said the chambermaid. ‘You're ‘aving me on.'

‘You just wait and see,' said Fen, wagging his forefinger at her, ‘you just wait and see if I'm having you on or not.' He departed, with Adam and Elizabeth, in search of Effie.

But here again they were unsuccessful; apart from Joan Davis, Effie had seen no one, either on her way to room 72 with Elizabeth's tea, or subsequently. Fen ascertained that the poison could not have been introduced into the tea before it arrived at the bedroom, and left it at that.

‘Ye gods,' he exclaimed gloomily as they stood in the entrance hall. ‘Or to crib a phrase from my illustrious colleague at the War Office – burn me. What other lines of approach are there?' He considered. ‘Whereabouts in the hotel are the rooms of the other people connected with the opera?'

‘Peacock's a few doors along the corridor from us,' said Adam. ‘And Joan's on the floor above and John Barfield's on the floor below, I
think.
But we can look at the board.'

They went to the porter's box and studied the names and room-numbers displayed beside it.

‘Yes,' said Adam. ‘First floor.'

‘What's more,' Fen put in, ‘this wretchedly informative device ensures that no one needed to
ask
for your room
number – which might have given us some kind of clue . . . Well, I'd better go to the manager and make sure those tea-things aren't taken away.'

‘What about informing the police?'

‘Mudge may be at the theatre. If not, we'll ring him up from there. We shall have to find out now where our sundry suspects were just before five.'

‘It lets out Charles Shorthouse and the Thorn woman, doesn't it?'

‘No, I don't think so. Remember that we delayed about half an hour in Wycombe to get Lily Christine mended, and that there's an alternative route to Oxford through Amersham and Missenden and Aylesbury. They could have got here well before us . . . Ridley,' he called to the porter, ‘do you know Mr Charles Shorthouse by sight?'

Ridley, a thin, competent-looking elderly man in blue and braid, made negative gestures. ‘I think not, sir. Mr Edwin Shorthouse – yes.'

Fen sighed. ‘You see? Of course the waiter who served them last night may have seen him come in this afternoon . . . Ridley, is the waiter who was serving in the lounge after ten-thirty last night anywhere about?'

The porter consulted some kind of roster. ‘McNeill. I'm afraid not, sir. It's his afternoon off today. He'll be at the cinema.'

‘Oh, my dear paws,' said Fen in disgust. ‘I suppose in that case there's nothing more we can do for the moment. I'll just look in on the manager, and then we can go.'

THE REHEARSAL, WHEN
they reached it, was in a state of confusion which really amounted to total deadlock. It had been called, rather suddenly, for five o'clock; and since most of those concerned had assumed that there would be no rehearsal that day, and had gone out in search of such merriment as Oxford affords on a week-day afternoon, there were considerable gaps in the ranks, and it was difficult to do any useful work. However, the new Sachs had arrived with remarkable promptness – he was a competent singer whom Adam knew and liked – and Rutherston, in the absence of about a third of the orchestra, was taking him through moves. The remaining two-thirds of the orchestra, along with the chorus and one or two of the principals, pottered funereally about engaged in muted execration of Peacock, who had declined to let them go home on the grounds that the remainder of the cast and of the orchestra might yet appear, and so enable them to do at least an hour's work. Adam thought that on the whole he was justified, in view of the fact that the performance was due in less than a week's time.

There were few lights in the auditorium, though it was possible to make out the coffered ceiling and the white balcony with the illuminated clock set in its centre. On either side there was one tier of boxes, almost antiseptically severe in design, with blue velvet curtains and concealed lighting; while on the carved shield above the proscenium-arch two symbolic young women were
sprawled, scantily clad, lubriciously curved, and holding slender angelic trumpets to their lips. (‘They represent,' said Fen, ‘the proctorial authority, summoning the youth of Oxford to virtue and sobriety.') On the stage, Rutherston could be heard complaining to George Green about the demeanour of the apprentices in the brawl at the end of the second act. ‘They scamper about,' he said, ‘like a herd of deer attacked by a Pekingese.' In the orchestra-pit, a trombonist was doing a very creditable imitation of a Spitfire diving, and a clarinettist was surreptitiously playing jazz. John Barfield was seated in the front row of the stalls, consuming a large orange.

Adam went to make his apologies to Peacock, whom he found talking to Mr Levi in the wings. Mr Levi was a large, kindly, polyglot Jew, with a powerful if somewhat inaccurate command of the English language.

‘'Allo, Langley,' he said. ‘Terrible 'old-up, this.
Schrecklich, gar fabelhaft
. I tell you, I 'ave no use for that twister someone knock-off, see, but 'e 'ad a voice. nothing like it since Chaliapin,
famos, nicht wahr
? And now,' said Mr Levi with some relish, ‘'is tonsils'll be dinner for coffin-worms' sarcophaguses, clever little insects.'

Adam introduced him to Fen.

‘Still,' Mr Levi resumed cheerfully, ‘we get the show on none the less.' He patted Peacock encouragingly on the back. ‘The maestro 'ere, 'e's good. I tell you – 'e keep that orchestra right where 'e want 'em. The 'orn-players' – Mr Levi here became suddenly lyrical with enthusiasm, and addressed himself, gesticulating illustratively, to Fen – ‘The 'orn-players, even, they listen to what 'e say and stop shaking the spit out of their 'orns, ain't it?'

Peacock assented confusedly to this doubtful recommendation.

‘And
nicht nur das
,' said Mr Levi. ‘Not only the 'orns, but the double-basses. You know 'ow it is with double-basses. They wink and snigger. It's the dames,' he explained to Elizabeth, ‘what makes 'em wink and
snigger. I tell you, I seen double-basses behave in a public concert like in a way would 'ave made me old mother blench, but it's all the same nowadays, it's
Vénus toute entiére à sa proie attachée,
the dames themselves is to blame for 'alf of it.'

Having delivered himself of this sentiment, Mr Levi left to return to London, after warmly wishing them all good luck and assuring them of his continued enthusiasm for the production. A few new-comers drifted in and uttered reluctant apologies to Peacock. The tuba-player arrived, unpacked his instrument, and began making a sound like a fog-horn on it, while the rest of the orchestra chanted ‘Peter Grimes!' in a quavering, distant falsetto.

‘I think,' said Peacock as he contemplated this phenomenon, ‘that perhaps we'd better start.'

There could be no doubt, thought Adam, that the death of Edwin Shorthouse was not much regretted by either Peacock or anyone else connected with the production. Adam said as much to Fen.

‘I know,' said Fen. ‘It seems positively indelicate to be trying to discover his murderer.'

Joan Davis had joined them and was regarding Fen quizzically. ‘Then you've quite made up your minds it was murder?'

‘I
have. I'm not so sure about the police . . . Adam, introduce us.'

Adam hastened to do so.

‘Your Marschallin was magnificent,' said Fen. ‘As good as Lotte Lehmann.'

Joan laughed. ‘I wish I thought so. It would have to be superlative if it was that . . .' Suddenly her voice changed. ‘Professor Fen, I'm in a mess. I wonder if you can help me?'

‘I'll try. As a matter of fact I've been wanting to have a talk with you. Can we go' – Fen stared gloomily about him – ‘somewhere a bit quieter?'

‘George,' said Joan, ‘what will you do when you finally get going?'

‘The assembly of the Masters,' Peacock replied, ‘and the trial-song.'

‘Then you don't want me?'

‘Not for the moment.'

‘Come on,' said Joan. ‘We'll go up to my dressing-room.'

Fen turned to Adam. ‘Can you sing the trial-song and keep an eye on Elizabeth as well?'

‘Yes.'

‘I shall be perfectly all right,' said Elizabeth.

‘That,' said Fen in parting, ‘is probably what Caesar told Calpurnia at the Ides of March. So don't go mooning off on your own.'

‘“All right”?' said Joan, as the two of them climbed the stairs to the dressing-rooms. ‘Why shouldn't Elizabeth be all right?'

‘For a reason' – Fen was noncommittal – ‘which I'll tell you about in a moment . . . I hope you aren't on the second floor.
Mon beau printemps,
as Mr Levi would probably remark,
a fait le saut par la fenêtre
. Is this it?'

‘This,' Joan assured him, ‘is it.' She unlocked the door of her dressing-room.

Physically it resembled that in which Edwin Shorthouse had met his end; but its atmosphere was entirely different, and Fen marvelled anew at the relative sensitivity of the sexes to their immediate surroundings. The difference appeared to lie – he became momentarily abstracted and analytical – in the feminine predilection for profusion and colour. Joan's dressing-room was not less untidy than that of Shorthouse – if anything it was more so. But it was crowded with clothes, cosmetics, books, photographs, telegrams, and the effect of these things was to give it a friendlier and more comfortable air than the corresponding male habitation, with its comparative drabness and austerity. Joan switched on the electric fire (in that bitter February it was much needed); they sat beside it and lit cigarettes; and Fen returned to the matter in hand.

‘Well,' he said. ‘What sort of a mess is this you're in?'

Joan smiled. ‘I thought you would have known.'

‘It's to do with the police, is it? No, I haven't seen Mudge since lunch-time. What has he been up to?'

‘Among other things he's been questioning Karl and me. And I think he's developed a theory.'

Fen groaned. ‘Go on.'

‘One of the things he elicited from Karl was that yesterday evening, after dinner, several of us held a kind of emergency meeting. It was to discuss the situation that had arisen during the rehearsal, and to consider means of dealing with it. It didn't come to any conclusion – such meetings seldom do – except that Edwin's parents should never have met. But unfortunately I made rather a compromising remark.'

‘Well?'

‘I said: “It would be nice if we could poison him just a
little
– just so as to make him unable to sing”.'

Fen attempted to blow a smoke-ring, and failed miserably. ‘I begin to see.'

‘The Inspector asked me if I
had
said that, and of course I couldn't deny it. The trouble is, of course, that though out of its context it sounds decidedly sinister, in fact it was just one of those careless, silly things one does say.'

‘Exactly.' Fen was leaning forward to warm his hands at the fire. ‘But by itself –'

‘Worse is to come,' said Joan, and laughed a little shakily. ‘It seems that Edwin's gin was doped with Nembutal – and the only person round here who possesses any Nembutal is me.'

Fen sat upright. Distantly, they heard the music of the first act begin. Rich, sonorous, and dignified, Barfield's voice called the roll of the Masters.
‘Now to a trial as summoned hither, masters in council are come together
. . .' A trial, Fen thought: God alone knew what fantastic notions this Nembutal business had put into Mudge's head.

‘I get it on a prescription, of course,' Joan went on. ‘For insomnia. And I have – or rather I had – quite a lot of it.'

‘The past tense?'

‘Most of it's gone. Something like four hundred grains, in fact.'

‘Gone from where?'

‘From this room.'

‘You've been keeping it here?'

‘Yes. Purely by chance. I packed in rather a hurry, put it in my dressing-case, and forgot about it until I got out my make-up the other day. I've been sleeping well recently, and haven't needed it. For the same reason I didn't bother to take it to the hotel.'

‘But you keep this room locked?'

‘Not always. As I seldom leave anything valuable here, I sometimes don't bother.'

‘Anyone could have snaffled the stuff, in fact?'

‘If they'd known it was there.'

‘And did anyone know?'

Joan smiled wryly. ‘Half the company, no doubt. You know Adela Brent who's singing Magdalena?' And when Fen shook his head: ‘Well, I told
her
it was here, and like most of us she gossips.
“Did you know that Joan kept Nembutal in her dressing-room?”'
Joan mimicked. ‘“
I always suspected her of taking drugs
.”'

‘Yes,' said Fen pensively. ‘It's the sort of trivial scrap of information which does get about. There's no lead there.' He paused for a moment. ‘But I presume Mudge doesn't suspect you of
actually murdering
Shorthouse?'