Troubles in the Brasses (6 page)

In the lobby, Lady Rhys was collecting mugs. Most of the others were sitting around looking glum, a few were nodding off in the not very comfortable wooden chairs. Lucy stood on the second step from the bottom, holding her lamp like Florence Nightingale.

“There are beds upstairs for any of you who want to lie down. They’re not made up, but I’ve managed to find blankets and pillows. Most of us will have to double up, so please take the roommate you had in Atlanta. Whoever that might have been,” Lucy added with the merest hint of a glance at Delicia Fawn.

“It’s not too awfully cold up there; the stove’s beginning to take the chill off and it will be kept going. Unfortunately the generator doesn’t work, so there’s no running water in the bathrooms. If you want cold water to wash with, Mr. Rhys tells me you can get some from a pump in the kitchen. He’ll help you work it. The rooms do have rudimentary facilities, and I’m afraid we’ll just have to make the best of them for this once. If you’d rather stay down here by the stove, of course, feel free. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Why should you?” Lady Rhys demanded. “It wasn’t your fault. For goodness’ sake, Lucy, go get some rest yourself. You must be worn to a frazzle.”

“Thank you, Lady Rhys. I’ll put a lamp in your room, and see about getting your bed made up.”

“Nonsense, Madoc will do all that. Good night, Lucy.”

W
HILE DOING HIS STINT
at the pump, Madoc at last got to sort out his fellow castaways. They’d seemed a crowd in the cramped lobby; in fact there weren’t all that many. What they boiled down to were the three Rhyses, the four singers, the concertmaster (who was, as always, the principal violin), and seven of the other principals: viola, cello, flute, clarinet, oboe, trumpet, and trombone. Wilhelm Ochs would have been the eighth. The other principals had opted for the train, either because they detested flying or because they wanted to be near their cumbersome instruments even if they couldn’t take them out of the trunks en route.

Lucy Shadd turned out to be the only one of the ten staff members traveling with them. The media director had gone on ahead some days ago, luckily for him. The orchestra manager, of course, had been forced by her malady to miss the flight. The luckless woman who bore the impressive title of assistant to the music director had been banished to the train because Sir Emlyn didn’t much like having her follow him around telling him what to do. More importantly, neither did Lady Rhys.

The two pilots had been persuaded to leave their increasingly frigid aircraft by the warmth of the stove and Lady Rhys’s persuasion, not to mention Delicia Fawn’s. If in fact the soprano was their goal, though, they might be in for a bit of a letdown. Joe Ragovsky, the principal violist, had already confided to Madoc that he’d be well advised not to waste his time, as if he’d been going to anyway.

“As soon as you got inside the door, she’d hand you a surgical mask and a bottle of some god-awful-tasting antiseptic mouthwash. You’d have to gargle and put on the mask or nothing doing. Delicia comes on strong enough, but when push comes to shove, she thinks a damned sight more of her voice than she does of her men.”

If any of these chaps still had enough stamina left for a sociable gargle after a night like this one, more power to them, Madoc thought as he waggled the pump handle up and down, up and down.

His first customer had been the contralto, a comfortably padded woman of forty or so with a spiritual expression, a heavy braid of dark brown hair, and the almost certainly adopted name of Norma Bellini. She hadn’t spoken all evening, as far as he knew, except to say “Dank you” in a low, thrilling tone when he’d filled her pitcher. She’d had the air of somebody who just wanted to take out her hairpins, slip off her shoes, and lie down; and who could blame her?

The bass was Carlos Pitney. He’d be called a black man, Madoc supposed, though in fact he had nothing black about him except his well-polished shoes. His skin was the color of walnut, his hair a uniform steel-gray, his eyes a lighter shade of brown than Madoc’s own. He was gravely courteous in his demeanor, stately in his address, and quite willing to pump for himself, though he couldn’t get the knack of the quick little jerk at the top of the upswing which made all the difference between a gush and a hollow gurgle.

The tenor, on the other hand, made no effort to lift a finger but chatted pleasantly enough about what a pity it was that Madoc’s brother Dafydd had not succeeded in attaining the pinnacle of excellence which he himself had mastered in some particular aspect of vocalization. As far as Madoc was concerned, the man might as well have been talking Choctaw.

He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, no doubt taking it for granted that Madoc would know the name of anyone famous enough to sing for Sir Emlyn. Madoc had found out easily enough from Delicia Fawn, who’d dropped by to get some gargling water and to find out whether Madoc might care to reconsider. The man was Ainsworth Kight, he was older than he looked, his impressive head of chestnut-colored hair was mostly toupee, and he’d never even made it to the semifinals. Ainsworth was as good a singer as he said he was, though, so none of the rest mattered.

The two brasses came together, one with the pitcher and one with a water pistol that needed filling. The obnoxious Cedric Rintoul did not become less so on closer acquaintance. The principal trumpeter, Jason Jasper, didn’t impress Madoc all that favorably, either, even though he offered to show Madoc his impressive collection of whoopee cushions if they ever reconnected with the wardrobe trunks. Nothing was supposed to go into those trunks except the clothes worn for performances, but obviously a good many extraneous articles did, and some necessities didn’t. Madoc remembered that onstage Jasper had been wearing black socks pulled over his tan shoes and a white tie deftly folded out of toilet paper: He hadn’t been the only orchestra member in makeshift attire; Madoc had gathered they didn’t do it to be funny.

Jacques-Marie Houdon, the concertmaster, had been impeccable onstage, and still was. He took his filled pitcher, nodded affably, and went away. Joe Ragovsky, the violist, a likeable chap from the wheat fields of Manitoba, offered to pump and succeeded. Joe even pumped for the cellist. This was Helene Dufresne, whom Lady Rhys had alluded to as a most agreeable woman even if she did walk bow-legged, as cello players tended to do. Tonight Miss Dufresne had on a voluminous gray wool dirndl and floppy leather boots, so Madoc couldn’t tell much about her walk, but he assumed his mother was right. She generally was.

Frieda Loye, the flautist, gave Madoc a nervous little smile and gasped, “Oh, that’s enough. You mustn’t bother about me,” when her pitcher was less than halfway filled. The clarinetist, Corliss Blair, settled for a mug since she was to share Helene Dufresne’s room and hence her pitcher. The oboist didn’t come to be pumped, but Joe Ragovsky said his name was David Gabriel and they’d be bunking together.

Sir Emlyn and Lady Rhys would share a room, of course. The self-sacrificing Lucy Shadd was apparently going to take on Frieda Loye and her nightmares as part of the job. The two brass players would be together, as would the two male singers and the two pilots. Theoretically, that meant the concertmaster and Norma Bellini would have rooms to themselves, since it didn’t seem likely that the contralto would care for a ménage à trois with Delicia Fawn and whoever might have won the toss tonight.

That would appear to take up the ten rooms, with none left over for Madoc Rhys. However, this would not be the case, according to the informative Mr. Ragovsky, since Monsieur Houdon would in fact be paying his respectful attentions to Madame Bellini although nobody was supposed to notice. The way things looked right now, there’d probably be at least one spare bed in the pilots’ room, too.

While the rest got themselves sorted out upstairs, Madoc occupied himself building a fire in the big kitchen range, filling the hot-water reservoir on the back, and setting a copper washtub of water on top. That should be enough for the morning ablutions. He put more wood in the lobby stove, shut down the dampers, and went to seek what rest he might obtain.

By now, it was getting on toward five
A.M.
, or not as the case might be. Four or three, maybe, according to how many time zones they’d been blown across. The Grumman most likely had not yet been reported overdue, its flying time was probably longer than a commercial plane’s. The train wouldn’t be due in for ages yet. There was nobody out here to report a downed aircraft without any lights; nobody would be looking for them.

Back in Fredericton, Janet and Annabelle would be thinking about getting up even though they didn’t have to; they were both early risers by habit. They’d sit a long time over the breakfast table, planning their day, talking family, catching up on Pitcherville gossip, of which there was never any dearth. They’d go over again the details of the cozy chat they’d had last night with Madoc and his parents.

Madoc was humbly thankful his Jenny would have that to think about instead of a phone call from some reporter wanting to know the details of the crash and how it felt to be a widow. She’d feel a little bit let down if he didn’t call her again tonight, but she wouldn’t really start to worry for another day or so.

He found a room with sagging twin beds and nobody in either one of them, shed the three-piece tweed suit he’d been wearing to placate his mother, and wished he’d had the foresight to bring a separate overnight case as all the other passengers appeared to have done. He could borrow Tad’s shaving things in the morning, and perhaps even a change of linen. Keeping his socks and underwear on, he wrapped himself in a couple of itchy blankets and stretched out on one of the beds. Luck was with him; he got almost a full hour’s sleep before the screeching began.

“My God, what’s that?”

The voice was not his own. In the grayness of almost-dawn, Madoc was interested to see that he’d acquired a roommate. MacVittie must have won the semifinals; Ed Naxton was in the other bed looking startled, as well he might. The noise was dreadful.

“As an educated guess, I’d say it’s our flautist having her customary nightmare,” Madoc explained. “My father told me Mrs. Loye puts on quite a turn when she gets going.”

“I’ll say she does. Sounds like a pig getting its throat cut.”

With the speed of much practice, Madoc was already into shirt, coat, and trousers. “I’ll go. My mother seems to have elected me general handyman.”

Grateful that he’d opted to keep his socks on against the desperate chill of the mountain night, he slid his feet into his shoes and tied the laces. The lamp he’d brought to light the narrow upstairs hallway was still feebly aglow, doing its small best against the approaching daylight. Madoc knew just how it felt. Why couldn’t the confounded woman have taken to insomnia instead of nightmares?

He was not the first on the scene. Lady Rhys had beaten him by a whisker, surprisingly colorful in a long robe of russet, green, and yellow velour. Madoc supposed she must sometimes get sick of all that black. She was standing over another twin bed like the one Madoc had just got out of, shaking a slender woman by the shoulders.

“Frieda, wake up and quit screaming. You sound like a runaway train. Sir Emlyn needs his sleep, you know.”

“Mother,” Madoc said gently, “that’s not Frieda.”

Lady Rhys groped among her gaudy swathings for the ever-present silver chain around her neck, found her Victorian silver lorgnette somewhere along the line, and flicked it open. “Why, so it isn’t. Lucy, whatever is the matter with you?”

“I—he—water, please!” The voice was croaky and almost incoherent.

“Madoc, get her some water. He what, Lucy? Who did? Here, drink this.” She held the thick mug Madoc had filled from the pitcher to the hysterical woman’s lips. “Now then, what’s this all about?”

“My throat. He—”

Lucy Shadd wasn’t shrieking anymore, but her roommate was.

“Madoc, go get that lamp,” his mother ordered. “Quickly. Frieda, stop making those ghastly noises. Do you need some water, too?”

Frieda cut herself off in mid-yelp. “Lucy woke me up.” She made the accusation in something of a self-satisfied tone, as if it were a triumph for her not to have been the waker this time.

“But you were screaming right along with her,” Lady Rhys pointed out.

“I was screaming at Lucy to tell me why she was screaming.”

“You were not!” cried Lucy. “You were screaming at him, too. You were just as scared as I was.”

“Was I? I don’t remember being scared. Him who?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy fell back in exhaustion upon her sleepless pillow. “I’m sorry, Lady Rhys. It was too awful.”

“What was?”

“Being strangled. If Frieda hadn’t begun to yowl and frightened him off, he’d have killed me. He meant to, I could feel it. You saved my life, Frieda, truly you did.”

“Did I really? I’m so glad, Lucy. What—what did he do?”

“He put something around my neck and pulled it tight. I could feel it cutting into my skin. I suppose I must have made some kind of noise. I don’t know. It woke me up, the pain and choking. Then you piped up and I felt the thing slacken and he ran off.”

“He who?” Madoc prodded. “Did you get a look at him?”

“No, everything was blurry. I think he’d put something over his face. One of those stocking masks. You know.”

“But you’re sure it was a man?”

“It must have been. His hands were so strong.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Lady Rhys. “All instrumentalists have strong hands, they exercise them so much. You of all people ought to know that, Lucy. Bring the lamp closer, Madoc, so I can get a look at her throat.”

Madoc’s younger, keener eyes had already taken note of the thin line around Lucy Shadd’s none too swanlike throat. Fishline, he thought, remembering that small but effective instrument of torture he’d seen attached to Cedric Rintoul’s trombone during the performance. That had been sadistic enough, but this was something else. He was not yet sure what.

“Mrs. Shadd,” he said, “would you mind sitting up, or at least rolling over so we can see the back of your neck?”