“
We
might be, yes,” she said, with something in her voice that sounded like bitterness. “I think, Mr Carswell, that we had better circulate after all.” And she walked away and went to talk to an old lady about her embroidery.
Chapter Ten
The party broke shortly after that and on leaving the Deanery, Felix turned his steps towards Avonside Row. He had decided that he would walk the long way home down Jacob’s ladder, retracing the route they had taken that morning. That this walk took him under Mrs Morgan’s windows was a fact he chose not to dwell on.
As he came up on Avonside Row he saw Constable Eakins was walking towards him.
“Anything to report?” he asked when they met.
“Next door has had a few callers, but no one here, sir.”
“And Mrs Morgan came home safely with Mr Watkins?” said Felix.
“Mr Watkins? The gent that conducts the minster choir?”
“The Master of Music, yes.”
“Well, he brought her home, but he left her at the front gate. She went in alone. Why do you ask, sir?”
“No particular reason,” said Felix. “And that back lane – no-one has been along there?”
“I’ve walked around the property every five minutes, just like Major Vernon told me. So I couldn’t have missed anything.”
At the sound of a sash being raised, Felix could not help but glance over his shoulder, hoping, he knew, that he might catch a glimpse of her at the window. But there was nothing to be seen but the glow of a lamp within and he turned back to Constable Eakins.
Then a second later a shriek ripped through the air.
It came from the open window – a sustained, hysterical high-pitched scream, terrifying in itself, as well as for what it implied. What nameless horror had provoked such an extraordinary reaction?
Eakins and Felix rushed round to the front door. As he knocked, Felix turned the handle and was surprised to find the door was not locked. He was horrified that the door had been left open in such circumstances. What were her servants thinking?
He ran in and started to sprint up the stairs, his heart pounding at the thought of what might have happened to Mrs Morgan, only to be forced to stop in his tracks. On the landing above him stood the lady herself.
She was holding a candle and was dressed in only her nightgown, her hair cascading down over her shoulders. She looked pale, but it was evident she was not the source of the scream.
“Mr Carswell!” she said. “What are –?”
“Where? Who?” he said.
She indicated the room from which the sound had come and Felix ran into it, only find another woman, also dressed in her nightgown. But he scarcely noticed her, for the lamp was on the floor and flames were starting to lick the rug. Felix was obliged to attend to that first, stamping it out, while the woman fell sobbing into Mrs Morgan’s arms. A jug of water from the wash stand put out the rest of the flames and then Felix turned and saw what it was that had caused such a reaction.
Lying on the bed, in the centre of the quilted white counterpane, was a small dead bird, with a piece of scarlet ribbon about its neck, like a ligature. Felix glanced at Mrs Morgan who was holding the now howling woman against her, comforting her.
“Get it out of here! Get it out!” the woman shouted.
“This is your bedroom, Mrs Morgan?” Felix said, taking the bird up and putting it into his pocket.
“We share it,” said Mrs Morgan, who was already leading the woman out of the room and across the landing. Darkness fell in the room, for she still held the candle, so Felix followed then.
Mrs Morgan crossed the landing and went into a small bedroom. She sat her companion down on a low chair, wrapping a shawl about her and kneeling in front of her, holding her hands.
“Now breathe, Paulina, breathe steady and true. Remember how we were taught? In and then out. In and then out, nice and slow... There, that’s better, isn’t it?” After this admirable treatment, the woman’s hysterical fit seemed to subside. Felix felt he could not have done better himself, and found another score of reasons to admire Mrs Morgan. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“I know, I know,” wailed Paulina. “It’s just that... d...d...dead birds... I cannot bear the sight of them, and to turn round and see one!” She buried her face in her hands. “I could have burnt the house down. I could have killed us all!”
“No, no, it would not have come to that,” said Mrs Morgan. “And our landlord will forgive us a singed rug,” she said. “Do you not think, Mr Carswell?” she added, shooting a gentle smile at Felix as he stood at the door way.
“Certainly,” he managed to say, stunned for the moment by the beautiful movement of her pale gold hair as she had turned to look at him.
“Nothing to worry about, then,” said Mrs Morgan, stroking Paulina’s hair. “Nothing at all.”
Felix was even more impressed by her courage than he had been that morning. For it was evident that the bird had been left there deliberately, presumably by the same person responsible for those vile letters.
“Mamma?”
Felix looked round and saw that there was a small child in his night shirt standing by him. He looked sleepy and disorientated. Presumably the commotion had awoken him.
“Oh, Harry, darling,” said Paulina and put out her arms to him. Mrs Morgan also stretched out her hand and the boy went into the room, and hesitated, as if he did not know which of them to choose. But Mrs Morgan caught his hand and said, “Give your dear Aunt a hug, Harry,” and propelled him gently into Paulina’s arms. Paulina proceeded to give him the most suffocating embrace imaginable, but it clearly soothed her.
“Why don’t you go and put Harry back to bed?” said Mrs Morgan. “You could sleep there, if you like.” Choking back her tears, Paulina nodded, and stood up, lifting up the boy in her arms now, the shawl falling from up her. She carried him out of the room. Mrs Morgan followed with her candle and stood at the foot of the stairs as they climbed up. She waved at the boy, then turned back to Felix.
“Mr Carswell, I can’t thank you enough,” she said.
“Your servants did not lock your door,” he said. “Which one of them should have done it?”
“Berthe, I suppose,” said Mrs Morgan. “She must have forgotten.”
“It seems gross negligence to me, given that... given that...” He was suddenly disturbed by her lack of clothing. Her nightgown seemed the flimsiest lawn item, slipping from her shoulders. He went and fetched the shawl that had fallen to the floor and handed it to her. “You must keep warm. The shock –”
She smiled, and took it from him, and then proceeded to wrap it about herself with an elegant gesture which seemed to make her lack of dress worse. He felt his mind cloud with inappropriate desire. He had wild thoughts of falling to his knees and kissing her hem, her bare feet. He wanted to say so much and also to do too much. With difficulty he said, “You must bolt it when I have gone. And I will join Constable Eakins on his watch.”
“No, no, that I cannot permit,” she said. “You must go to bed. You have been working all day. You must rest. You have a murder to attend to.”
“And you are being tormented. I cannot –”
“It is just a dead bird. It does not scare me, let alone torment me. It is just unfortunate Paulina saw it first. I should not have been so rattled, I promise you. Now, you must go home.” She wrapped her shawl about her a little more tightly. “Is there no young Mrs Carswell to draw you back to your own fireside?”
“No,” he said.
“You should look to it,” she said, gently. “It would be good for you.”
He managed a smile, though the remark stung him more than he cared to admit.
Chapter Eleven
Next morning, Giles went in search of Watkins and found him marshalling his gaggle of choristers after their morning rehearsal in the song school, before sending them off to their lessons. He had his arms full of music and a vaguely flustered air as Giles approached.
“One moment, sir,” he said, “if you don’t mind?”
“No, not at all,” said Giles, watching the boys fidgeting and chattering in their places.
“Silence!” Watkins shouted, and they fell silent. “Now Decani, I want you boys back fifteen minutes early this afternoon for extra rehearsal. You were all very sloppy. Cantores, that was adequate, but only just. And Herbert, your organ lesson today is in the Minster, not St Anne’s Chapel.”
One of the older boys stuck up his hand.
“Please sir, does that mean the body is still there?”
“Mr Barnes to you,” said Watkins. “No, he has been taken away. And this is not a subject for idle conversation! No matter how odd the circumstances of Mr Barnes’ death, it is a great loss to us all and I hope you have all remembered him in your prayers.”
“A good point,” said Giles, stepping forward, “and there is another way you can help Mr Barnes. If any of you saw or heard anything that seemed out of the ordinary around the Minster Precincts over the last few days, I want you to talk to a member of the constabulary about it.”
***
“You have a fine house here, Mr Watkins,” said Giles, following him into the spacious hallway of a pretty double-fronted house in the Minster Precincts, that was tucked into a little yard behind the Minster school.
“It needs furniture and a wife,” said Mr Watkins, going into a large room containing only a grand piano made with glowing yellow satinwood, and a dilapidated bureau bookcase. There were no curtains at the window, no rugs on the bare boards, and no pictures on the wall, only patches of darker paintwork where the previous occupant’s pictures had once hung.
“And I am unlikely to get the one without the other,” Watkins went on, dumping his pile of music on the piano. “Now, the names of all the Vicars Choral? I have them in a ledger. Canon Fforde gave it to me and he was insistent about proper record-keeping – he is right; such efficiency does not come naturally to me, but I am trying. I don’t like to disappoint him. He has been good to me. I think it is only because of him that I have this position. The Dean does not much like me.” He spoke as he searched through the various pigeon-holes on his desk. “He wanted a man in orders for the job. That was the important thing with him. Not musical ability. Here we are.” He brought a battered ledger to the piano and flipped through it. “Most current list – well, it isn’t now, if you take my meaning.” His finger was resting on the entry labelled “Barnes, Charles.” He shook his head, and walked away down the room, wrapping his arms around himself, leaving Giles to study the ledger.
Giles looked down the list of names.
“May I borrow this?”
“Yes, of course, take it away.”
“Which of these men would you say Mr Barnes was particularly friendly with? His drinking companions?”
“As I said yesterday, Jos Harrison. And Fred Taylor, I suppose. He was at the Minster school with Charlie, I think. I know they sometimes go drinking together at the Vine in Saddler Street.”
“And did you know of any animosities among them? Any quarrels?”
“Not that I know about. But I don’t always notice that sort of thing. I don’t know them that well. I don’t go drinking with them, well not often. I have to try to maintain a little distance – it makes things clearer, and there is of course the question of my professional standing. The Dean, you see, thinks little enough of me as it is, and wouldn’t care to hear of my going out drinking with the Vicars Choral. What I am supposed to do for amusement I do not know, for I am not invited there. Your sister and brother-in-law have been kindness itself, sir, but Dean Pritchard –”
“They entertain very little,” Giles pointed out.
“They entertained last night,” said Watkins. “And your surgeon Carswell was not too low for them.”
“I am never asked,” Giles said. “And Mr Carswell was somewhat surprised to be asked. You should not make anything of it, Mr Watkins.”
“Of course I should not,” said Watkins, sitting down at the piano. “But I cannot help being offended. Not for myself, but for my people. The Dean seems to think that my people are no-one. He is offended by the notion of my mother having performed in public, that is at the root of it, and that I will not –” He broke off and played a rapid succession of loud, dissonant chords, than stopped and went on, “She never appeared on the stage, sir, perhaps you might tell him that. He would listen to you, I am sure. Only ever in oratorio. She has never acted. My grandparents would not have dreamt of allowing such a thing.”
“Yes,” said Giles, returning to his study of the names in Watkin’s ledger. “Whose name is this crossed out? I cannot make it out.” He brought the book over to Watkins who was still sitting at the piano.
“Oh, Fildyke,” said Watkins starting to pick out a figure which soon turned into an elaborate fugue.
“That is what I thought,” said Giles.
“It is crossed out because I dismissed him,” said Watkins, continuing to play. “One of the first things I did when I got here. What he was doing in the choir I can’t imagine. He can’t sing. And of course I had no idea that he was a pet of the Dean’s. Not an auspicious start.”
“Does this Fildyke have a shop in All Souls?” Giles was forced to speak rather loudly for Watkins was now going at his fugue fortissimo.
“Yes, I think so,” said Watkins ending with a flourish. “I didn’t deprive him of his livelihood.”
“Was that Bach?” said Giles.
“Yes,” said Watkins, with some surprise. “Do you like Bach?”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” said Giles, thinking of Laura playing to him on the old piano he had rented for her. How imperfect and yet how delightful it had sounded.
“I want to do one of his Passions,” said Watkins. “Nan Morgan agrees with me – they should be performed more widely here – and it would be a great thing for Northminster and the Festival. Herr Mendelssohn has brought out some new editions. If there is a taste for Handel, I think we may develop a taste for Bach.”
“Do you know Mrs Morgan well?” Giles said, a little astonished at such a casual reference to the lady.
“She’s known me since I was a drooling babe,” said Mr Watkins. “She was one of my mother’s pupils – one of the best, my mother says. Not that she listened to all her good advice. She would be in a better situation now if she had not been seduced by the idea of doing opera. My mother told her it would not do.”