“You think she is in a difficult situation?”
“A woman artist must guard herself more carefully than a man. It is a fact. And the opera house stage is no place for a respectable woman. But when she fell for that wretch Morgan there was no stopping her. He convinced her to do it.”
“Did her family consider it a bad match, then?”
“Her parents were dead by then, and her brother did little to stop it. He was thinking only of the money – and she made vast sums in those early years. But my parents certainly advised her against it and the match with Morgan, but Nan was so in love with him, and in love with the opera. I went to see her début as Cherubino – a friend of mine was depping in the pit and I could not resist going. It was shocking – brilliant, but shocking, none the less.”
“Then you are pleased that she only sings at sacred concerts now?”
“Yes, but the damage is done. It is a great shame. For such an extraordinary talent to be tainted in that way.”
“I had the honour of meeting Mrs Morgan yesterday,” Giles said, “and I see no damage done. She was every inch a lady.”
“Of course, of course she is, but that is not what the world thinks. And until the world changes, then...”
“But perhaps a woman such as Mrs Morgan is what is required to change that reputation. If women on the opera stage, indeed women on the stage in general, are seen to be as uncorrupted and incorruptible as any ordinary decent woman, then the reputation of the professional will change. She can be an exemplar.”
“Perhaps. That was her argument, of course, Major Vernon. She will be pleased to find you espousing it. But I have no great faith in it happening. People will always think ill of women on the stage, no matter how they conduct themselves.”
The sort of people who write malicious, anonymous letters, Giles thought, closing the ledger of names. As he picked it up, he revealed a name, hand-written on the unbound folio of music he had put it down on:
K. E. Pritchard
. Furthermore, Watkins appeared to see him see it, for he at once picked it up and dropped it on another pile, in a manner that was too casual to be anything but deliberate.
“Is there anything else you remember from yesterday, from when you found Mr Barnes? Anything that struck you as unusual? I suppose you got up there regularly. You give the boys lessons there sometimes?”
“Yes.”
“And that was why you were going there that day?”
“No, I went to practice. It is a good organ.”
“Without anyone to blow for you?”
“No, old Walt would have been along presently. I was expecting him. He has very little to do and I can usually get him to come and blow for me as and when I need him.”
“And you asked him yesterday?”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
“But he did not arrive.”
“He did. I turned him away when I got downstairs again. After I had locked up. Why?”
“I just want to know exactly when and how it all happened, Mr Watkins.”
“Surely that hardly matters; what matters it who put poor Barnes there in the first place, and in that terrible condition.”
“You may not know it, Mr Watkins, but it happens often enough that the person raising the alarm on a murder, is the person responsible for the crime.”
“What are you alleging, sir?”
“Nothing, I am only explaining my method. I must know all your movements so I may eliminate you.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, quickly. Giles wondered if he detected nervousness in his voice.
Chapter Twelve
Josiah Harrison was employed as a clerk by Archibald Carr and Sons, one of the largest cloth merchants in the city, so Giles headed to their premises in Greyfriars Street. It was one of several opulent new buildings that had recently been put up in the street. The rest of the street was a building site, as the other merchant enterprises of Northminster were in the process of rebuilding their premises, anxious to keep up with their neighbours. What it would look like when it was all done, Giles could not imagine. At present the new buildings seemed too tall for the street, which was not a wide one, while the variety of fanciful architectural styles and the great expanses of glistening plate glass windows seemed at odds with each other. It was a battle between the quaint and old, and the braggardly new.
Carr and Sons had gone for a tapestry of red and purple brick, with bright white stone dressings, and the impressive entrance took Giles into a show room, furnished with shining counters and all lit brilliantly by gas. A clerk ran up to meet him.
“I am looking for Mr Josiah Harrison,” he said.
“He’s not here this morning, sir,” said the clerk. “Least I don’t think so.” He glanced round towards a more senior clerk who stood at counter nearby, and seemed to be in charge of the room.
“No, he is not,” said the senior man, with some annoyance.
“And he did not send word he would be absent?” Giles said.
“No,” said the senior man, taking in Giles’ uniform. “He may of course deign to show himself in due course, but I don’t expect you’ll want to wait that long, sir.”
“He is often late?”
“More often than not,” said the senior clerk. “It is a wonder he has a place. It is only to please Mrs Carr that he is kept on.”
“Your employer’s wife?” said Giles.
The clerk nodded and then straightened at the sound of footsteps behind them. Giles turned and found himself facing Mr Carr, with whom he had a slight acquaintance.
“Major Vernon?” said Carr. “What brings you here?”
“I came to speak to Josiah Harrison. In connection with a case.”
“Who is not here, sir,” chimed in the senior clerk. “Again.”
Carr frowned. “Perhaps you’d like a glass of wine, sir,” he said to Giles, and indicated his office door.
“I have been too tolerant with that young man,” Carr said, once they were inside. He poured out the sherry. “I have known for some time that I have made a misjudgement, and now you are here. What was it you wanted with him, Major Vernon? What has he done? Nothing I trust that will bring this firm into disrepute.”
“I wish to talk to him about a friend of his who has died in odd circumstances.”
“That singer boy from the Minster?” said Carr, handing a glass to Giles.
“It’s all about town then, Mr Carr?”
“It is,” said Carr. “And I am not surprised by it. Pack of rascals.”
“You mean the Vicars Choral?” Carr nodded. Giles went on, “Tell me about Mr Harrison. How long has he been in your employment?”
“Couple of years. He came here from Winchester. He’d no background in the cloth trade. He was clerking in an attorney’s office. His references were excellent, one from a clergyman at the Cathedral – he was one of the singers there. I was short-handed at the time, and glad to have a presentable man, but he has not proved his worth. Very lax in his timekeeping and the other men do not like him. They do not like his airs.”
“Airs?”
“He has a great opinion of his talent. He does sing well, if you like that sort of thing, which I don’t much, but my wife who knows about these things tells me he does. But it is one thing to sing well, and another to regard yourself as better than your fellows because of it.”
There was a knock at the door and a clerk came in.
“Harrison has just arrived, sir,” said the clerk. “Shall I send him in to you?”
“Yes,” said Carr.
“Might I speak to him alone?” said Giles.
“My office is at your disposal.”
Harrison came into the office, looking neither defiant nor penitent. He had the air that Giles had seen many times in court as defendants shuffled into the dock. He knew that he was about to be judged. He was tall and good-looking, but any distinction he might have had was extinguished by the humiliation of the moment. He looked as if he had passed the night in a police cell having been discovered in the throes of debauchery – he had that sallow, dirty look, not helped by the brilliant red of the long scarf he had wound about his neck. With exhausted, nervous eyes he glanced from his employer to Giles, clearly trying to work out what was going on. His glance took in the sherry glasses too – Giles’ was still untouched. A sniff had been enough to establish it was not worth drinking after Lambert’s fine Oloroso.
“This gentleman is Major Vernon, the Chief Constable, and he would like to speak to you,” said Mr Carr. “And then you and I shall have words, lad.”
“Save your breath,” said Harrison. “I quit. There – that’s what you wanted, I’m sure.” Carr looked a little startled. “I’ve no damned stomach for this place any more. This whole stinking town.”
It was evident from the slurring of his speech that Harrison was still somewhat under the influence.
“Don’t expect a character, Harrison,” said Carr, on the way to the door.
“I don’t!” said Harrison. “I don’t want one. I shall make my living by my voice. This is slavery and I want no part of it. I was a fool to waste my time here.”
Carr stopped and turned back.
“You ought to be grateful I did not put you out on your ear months ago,” he said. “I should sue you for the return of your wages. You did so little work I reckon I would have a fine case.”
“Oh, go boil your head!” said Harrison, with a flamboyant wave of his hand. Carr left the room without further words but he banged the door behind him.
“Sit, won’t you, Mr Harrison?” said Giles.
He did so, wearily, like an old man. He rubbed his face with both hands and then looked at Giles.
“Chief Constable,” he said. “So, this is about Ch–”
“Charles Barnes,” said Giles. “Yes.”
Harrison closed his eyes for a moment. Then he gestured towards the full sherry glass.
“Is that going begging?” he said. “I’m rather dry. It’s thirsty work quitting.”
“You’d be better putting your head under a pump,” Giles said.
“I am not ready to be sober,” said Harrison, each word punctuated with a pause. He reached out and pulled the sherry glass towards him. “And how sad for this poor glass to go to waste.”
“Talk to me a little first,” said Giles, removing the glass and putting it on the mantelshelf. “And then you may have it. Tell me about Mr Barnes. You were friends?”
“Yes.”
“Close friends? Like brothers?”
Harrison looked up at him, blinking.
“Yes, close.” He exhaled nosily.
“And when did you last see him alive?”
“Night before last. Tuesday night. About eleven.”
“And where was this?”
“Top of Saffron Lane. Near the Fox and Grapes.”
“And what were the circumstances?”
“We parted there. We were walking back from an evening party.” He winced as he said it. “Oh, God.”
“Where was this party?” asked Giles.
“At Mr Geoffrey’s in Martinsmount.”
“A fine address,” Giles said. “Where you working there or were you guests?”
“We did sing for our supper,” said Harrison. “But it was a generous supper. Mr Geoffrey is hospitable.”
“So a pleasant evening?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, why was that?”
“He was...” Harrison broke off. “He was... Well, I was vexed with him and we had words. The party was...”
“You quarrelled?”
“How that must look to you,” said Harrison, pushing his hands through his hair.
“I merely want the facts,” said Giles, sitting down opposite him. “I have formed no judgements. A man can quarrel with another man without it being cause for murder.” Harrison looked slightly more at ease. “So,” Giles went on, “you say you were vexed with him? Why?”
“He would not see my point of view.”
“About what?”
“I... I am thinking of going to London. I thought we should both go, try our luck together. But Charlie, he has... had never been out of Northminster. He was scared of the notion, so I told him he was a coward and that if he wanted to rot in provincial obscurity he was welcome to, but I was going and that was an end to it.” He paused. “I was in my cups. Mr Geoffrey is liberal, as I said.”
“And what was his response?”
“He said he could not leave. That there were people he could not leave.”
“His family?”
“His family. Though God only knows why. Those ghouls.”
“His cousin though?” Giles suggested. “Rose?”
“Rose,” said Harrison bitterly. “Briar Rose, with her little thorns.”
“There was not some understanding between them?” Giles said.
“Her fancy,” said Harrison. “He was not inclined.”
“But she was enough to keep him in Northminster?”
“Out of guilt. They had him on a long chain, like a dog in a yard,” said Harrison. “I told him as much and we quarrelled.”
Giles put the sherry back on the desk. Harrison drank it in one gulp.
“Did you often quarrel?” Giles asked.
“Yes,” said Harrison after a moment. “But we always put it right again. But not...” He broke off. “Not this time.”
“So,” said Giles, “you left the party together, but in an ill humour. You walked down from Martinsmount, along Greyfriars?”
“Yes,” said Harrison.
“You did not stop anywhere, for a nightcap or a smoke?”
“No. We hardly spoke, and then, at the corner of Saffron Lane, which is where he always turns... turned off, I let him have it. I told him that he was a coward. That if he did not consent to go to London with me, then I would no longer consider him my friend. That I would not write to him when I was gone. I told him I’d had enough.”
“Just words? Nothing more? The argument did not come to blows?”
“No.”
“And there was no-one with you? No-one witnessed this argument?” Harrison shook his head. “And how did the matter end, then?”
“When I said my piece, I walked off.”
“He didn’t respond? And you did not expect an answer from him?”
“I thought he might come after me, I suppose. But he did not. I wish to God he had.”
“And you never saw him alive again? Not yesterday morning?”
“No, I did not manage to get to Matins. I was ill.”
“Did you miss your work that day then?”
“Yes, I stayed in my bed until four. I got up and went to Evensong and that’s when... when I heard what had happened.”
“In your bed all day?”
“Yes.”