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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Muriel reluctantly confirmed the Covent Garden story. Alec went on to ask her about Consuela de la Costa's threats against Bettina, and then about Marchenko's grudge, both of which she admitted, growing more and more unhappy.
“And your parents still regard your sister as an angel?” he said at last, sceptically.
“They never used to come up to town and don't know anyone here. The only way they could have found out what she was really like was if I told them. Why should I shatter their illusions?” A note of yearning entered her voice. “It wouldn't make them love me any better. They'd probably not have believed me, but if they did they'd be devastated.”
Daisy didn't believe anything was capable of devastating the Reverend Westlea's tyrannical self-righteousness, unshaken by his favourite daughter's death. As for Mrs. Westlea, she was already thoroughly devastated by life with him. Muriel had been on her way to the same pathetic state of submissiveness, but now that Bettina was dead, perhaps Yakov Levich would rescue her. He didn't seem at all the brow-beating sort, but
whether he'd support Muriel against her parents was another matter.
As if he had read Daisy's mind, Alec asked, “Were your parents disturbed by Mr. Levich's presence here this morning?”
“Yes.” Muriel looked mutinous. “Father stared down his nose as if Mr. Levich were a … a cockroach and asked in a perfectly horrid voice if he was a Hebrew. Then Roger, the dear, said very firmly that Mr. Levich was
his
friend, but I said he was mine, too. And then Yasha, Mr. Levich, said he ought to be going. I asked him to stay but he insisted. When I showed him out, he told me he didn't want to add to my parents' distress at such a time. So I said what about my distress and I made him promise to come back for dinner!” she finished in triumph.
“Bravo!” said Daisy.
As Muriel turned to her, Alec's eyebrows warned her against interrupting. “Miss Westlea,” he said, recapturing Muriel's attention, “what did your sister think of your ‘friendship' with Levich?”
“Betsy made things as difficult as she could,” said Muriel candidly, sadly. “She was even ruder than Father to Yasha. But he ignored her, and anyway, she was hardly ever there when we met at rehearsals. Most of her engagements were in the provinces, you know. I'm afraid she blamed poor Roger for that, too, though it was her own fault.”
Seizing the opening, Alec asked her about Roger Abernathy's relations with Bettina. Nothing new emerged, as far as Daisy could tell. Despite all provocation, Abernathy had remained patient and kind, not so much forgiving as accepting his beautiful wife's vagaries.
“He was still in love with her,” said Muriel with absolute certainty, “don't ask me why.”
After that, Alec took her through what little she recalled
about people's movements in the soloists' room, from which one useful fact emerged: After her arrival, Consuela de la Costa had only left the ladies' dressing-room briefly to see Eric Cochran. She had brought bottled spring water with her, the way Continentals did, not trusting tap water. Her maid had a glass of it ready.”
“Her maid?” said Alec, dismayed. “I've heard nothing about a maid!”
“She stayed in the dressing-room. The usher at the door wouldn't have seen her. And I expect Miss de la Costa sent her home at the end of the interval.”
“Yes, probably. At least, she left before the room was locked. That's all for the present, then, Miss Westlea, except that my sergeant should be here by now to take your fingerprints, and Mr. Abernathy's. It's routine procedure, for elimination purposes.”
Without hesitation, Muriel rang for the maid. Beryl appeared with Tom Tring in tow, and was sent to see if Roger Abernathy had risen from his rest.
Abernathy came in just as Muriel's fingerprinting was finished. He still looked pale and strained, but by no means in imminent danger of dropping dead. Like Muriel, he presented his fingertips to Sergeant Tring without hesitation.
“I needn't detain you any longer,” Alec said to Muriel, with a glance at Daisy which said plainly, “and that goes for you, too.”
“Have you got your pills, Roger?” Muriel asked anxiously. He felt in his pocket with his free hand and produced the little bottle. “Oh dear, you only have a couple left, and this is the spare bottle from the cloakroom. I must get your prescription renewed at once.”
Daisy hissed a reminder at Alec: “Watch his lips!” Alec nodded, and she and Muriel went out.
 
 
Muriel telephoned Abernathy's doctor. As she hung up the receiver after talking to him, Tom Tring came out of the dining room.
“I've Mr. Abernathy's permission to have a look through Mrs. Abernathy's desk, miss,” he said.
“Oh dear, I've put Mother and Father in there, and I was just going to send Elsie out for Roger's prescription.”
“I'll clear it out and take the contents downstairs to examine, if that's more convenient, miss.”
“Yes,” Muriel said gratefully, “you can go to the music room. I'll take you up now. Daisy, would you mind frightfully … ?” She gave the drawing-room door an edgy glance.
“Right-ho,” said Daisy nobly, and went to beard the vicar.
She didn't suffer alone for long. Muriel returned, and shortly thereafter the front doorbell rang to announce the first of a stream of visitors.
The Reverend Westlea proved most adept at dealing with the mixed condolences and curiosity of acquaintances, leaving to Muriel her brother-in-law's many genuinely sympathetic friends. Choir members, pupils past and present, others who had worked with Roger Abernathy, all surprised Daisy with their evident fondness for the quiet, unassuming man. He put in a brief appearance, but he was not at all well. Just before he retired upstairs again, he told Muriel and Daisy—to Daisy's annoyance—that the police had left.
Olivia Blaise came specifically to find out how Roger was. “I can't bring myself to offer sympathy,” she murmured to Daisy, “because he's much better off without her, but I do hope he'll take care of his health.”
“Muriel will look after him. It's a frightful thing to say, but if you ask me he ought to have married her, not Bettina. Then they both could have been happy for the last ten years instead of miserable.”
Olivia smiled but shook her head. “Bettina would have battened on them and ruined everything anyway.” She looked round as Beryl announced Mr. and Mrs. Cochran. “I'm off. Don't forget to tell Roger I asked after him.” Turning, she found Cochran close behind her. “Oh, Eric! What do you want?”
“To offer you the Verdi part.” A muscle twitched in his cheek and his eyes pleaded with her. “Browne has arranged for a repeat performance next Monday. Please, Olivia.”
Her gaze searched his handsome face. “Do you really want me?”
“You know I do!”
Olivia's expression softened and she laid her hand on his arm. “We'll give it a try,” she said gently.
Daisy slipped away unnoticed. She joined the group around Mr. and Mrs. Westlea in time to hear Mrs. Cochran offer the use of her house for a reception after the funeral.
“Mrs. Abernathy was well known in musical circles and you will certainly need more space than you have here,” she said. “In my youth we always lent our grounds for church picnics and fetes. My father, Sir Denzil Vernon, considered it his duty.”
The Reverend Westlea eagerly accepted. “Mrs. Cochran, have you met the Honourable Miss Dalrymple?” he went on.
“The Honourable!” Mrs. Cochran's nostrils flared as she stared at Daisy with pursed lips, to the detriment of her
maquillage.
“Yes, Vicar, Miss Dalrymple and I have met. I was not aware …”
“I find titles quite superfluous in artistic circles, don't you, Mrs. Cochran?” Daisy struggled to keep a straight face.
“Why, yes, perhaps. Modern young women are casual about such things, I know. I fear I was not aware that you are Lord Dalrymple's daughter.”
“Cousin.”
Before Mrs. Cochran could rally, her husband joined them to express his condolences to the bereaved parents and second the offer of hospitality after the funeral. Daisy saw Olivia say a word to Muriel and depart.
No doubt Cochran would tell his wife he had arranged for Olivia to sing the mezzo part in the
Requiem.
Not for a moment did Daisy suppose they had reached agreement only on musical business. Surely Mrs. Cochran must have realized by now how matters stood between the two?
A
lec and his henchmen managed to steal away from Abernathy's house without seeing Daisy. She had been very helpful but he had no intention of discussing the case with her any further, since she chose to champion his prime suspect.
“Muriel Westlea seems an unlikely murderer,” he admitted to Tom as the Austin Seven pulled away from the kerb, leaving a couple of disconsolate reporters behind. “Can she be clever enough to make me believe she's candid and ingenuous at the same time she's stupid enough to have left those prints on the decanter?”
“There's only the one set of dabs all right, Chief,” was Tom's unhelpful response. “Clear as a bell, the last lot on the stopper. They'd more'n likely be smeared if summun other'n you had used gloves or a hankie over 'em.”
Young Ernie Piper was still less helpful. “She seemed like a nice lady, Chief.”
“And her brother-in-law's a nice gentleman,” said Alec acidly. “Abernathy's motive is stronger. He's not faking that dicky heart. Is he faking the sorrow? He put up with her shenanigans for years, but so did Crippen with
his
wife until
Ethel le Neve came along. Any hints from the servants why he might have cracked now, Tom?”
“More t'other way about, Chief. Mrs. Abernathy was between lovers, 'ccording to her maid, and she was that taken up with practising for the big concert she didn't bedevil the poor bloke as much as usual. It was more her sister she was badgering, over the Yid.”
“The Jewish gentleman,” Alec reproved him. “Another nice gentleman, and highly talented, I understand.”
“We going to see him next, Chief?” asked Piper.
“No, we'll tackle Marchenko first. I want to leave time to find an interpreter today if he persists in his claim to speak no English in spite of having chatted to Miss Dalrymple. Anything else of interest, Tom? What did you find in the desk?”
“Bundles of love-letters, Chief, all tied up with pretty pink ribbon. I swiped the ones from Marchenko and Gower, like you said. They was the only ones mixed up in this. None from Mr. Cochran. Beryl, the house-parlourmaid, confirmed he used to come here to meet Miss Blaise. She had her eye on his chauffeur, good-looking chap like his master, she said, but he never came in. They'd drive up in front, then Mr. Cochran'd dismiss him and he'd go off on foot.”
“Did he, now! I wonder if he went home and reported to Mrs. Cochran that he'd taken her husband to Mrs. Abernathy's house? Have a word with him, Tom, when we call on them.”
“Right, Chief. The only other thing—can't see what it's got to do with what but it struck me as a bit odd—Elsie said Mrs. Abernathy's doctor came round while the family was at lunch. He wanted whatever was left of some medicine he'd made up for her.”
“What, why, and did he get it?” Alec asked, interested. “And what's his name?”
“Some cough syrup, Chief, he said he'd made it special for her and it wouldn't do Mr. Abernathy any good if he was to
take it. Elsie'd already thrown all that stuff out, clearing out the bathroom cabinet for the vicar and his missus, and the dustbin men came around noon. But the oddest thing of all, it was that Dr. Woodward, who was at the concert.”
“Very odd.” Alec frowned as he drove into a narrow, dingy street lined with tall, narrow terrace houses. “Here we are. What's the number Major Browne gave us, Ernie?”
Piper, with his phenomenal memory for numbers, had Marchenko's address on the tip of his tongue.
As they climbed out of the little motor-car, which rocked as Tring extracted his bulk, Alec continued, “Woodward never said a word about being Mrs. Abernathy's doctor, though he was the only one of the three who thought it might be a seizure, not poisoning. I'll have to see him.”
Ernie Piper rattled off the doctor's address and telephone number.
“Showing off, young 'un?” said Tom indulgently, adding in a low voice, “Curtains twitching inside, Chief, and both sides and opposite, too.”
“They're all wondering how we stuffed you into the car in the first place, Sarge.”
“Cheeky bugger. You want me to talk to the neighbours, Chief?”
“Not at this stage, Tom. There's no question of alibis. Come in and take his prints, then you can buzz off and find a telephone booth. Make me an appointment with Dr. Woodward for tomorrow morning, before the inquest. I'm not going to have time to see him today.”
“I'll write down his number for you, Sarge,” said Piper, grinning.
“All right, Ernie, see what you make of this,” said Alec. He pointed at the row of bell-pushes beside the front door. Like most in this area, the once respectable middle-class house had been divided into flats and bed-sitters. Each bell was labelled
with the name of the tenant—every one written in Cyrillic script.
“Easy, Chief.” The young constable thought better of his certitude and hedged, “Leastways, I'd try the ground floor. See, the first two letters looks like an M and an A, and the last two's K and O. Near enough, isn't it? I mean, it's not like it's Chinese.”
Alec pressed the bottom bell.
 
Dimitri Marchenko's flat was sparsely and cheaply furnished. On the rack of an elderly upright piano a vocal score stood open. Having admitted the three detectives, the bass stood by the deal table in the middle of his untidy room, glaring at them. By the light of a single naked electric light bulb—the curtains were tightly closed—he looked more than ever like a bear. An angry bear, but Alec thought he saw wariness in the big man's eyes.
“I'm hoping you have remembered your English, sir,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, speaking clearly. “Otherwise, we'll come back with an interpreter from the Soviet legation.”
“Soviet,
nyet!
” What little of Marchenko's face was visible among the hair turned dark red, a pulse beating at his temple. “English I spik some.
Vchera
—yesterday—was shock, make to forget.”
“I quite understand, sir. First, if you wouldn't mind, my sergeant will take impressions of your fingerprints.”
Marchenko whipped his hands behind his back, an interesting response, as well as one which made it clear he followed English more easily than he admitted to speaking it. At once he thought better of his reaction and sheepishly held out both hands as Tom Tring stepped forward. The two large men stared hard at each other, then, as if by mutual agreement, both dropped their eyes to the fingerprint kit which Tom set on the scarred, ringed table.
That messy business completed, the sergeant departed on his errand. Alec and Marchenko sat down at the table and Piper took up his usual unobtrusive position slightly to the rear of the suspect, notebook at the ready.
Alec scarcely had to prompt Marchenko before the accusations against Yakov Levich poured out. He was a Jew, a Russian, a Bolshevik spy, what more did one need to know?
“Much more,” said Alec. “Why should a Bolshevik spy—supposing Mr. Levich to be one—choose such an unlikely victim?”
“I hear, I see! Always she stop him talk to sister: ‘Come sew button, Muriel'; ‘Go fetch coat, Muriel'; ‘I tell father you like Jew, Muriel.' This I hear. And to him,
oscorbleniya
…”
“In English, if you please, sir,” Alec requested as Piper chewed his pencil in despair.
“Insults, much insults.”
“I understand Mrs. Abernathy insulted you, too, sir, after accepting a number of gifts.”
Paltry trinkets, Marchenko claimed, or at least that's what his muddled explanation, scattered with Russian phrases, amounted to. As for the insults, what else could you expect from a “veetch?” (Bitch? Witch? Wasn't one Russian letter written B but pronounced V?) A sensible man took no account of such things.
Marchenko spoke calmly but his eyes glittered. Better take a look at those gifts, maybe have them appraised, Alec decided.
“And what did you
see,
sir, which roused your suspicions of Mr. Levich?”
“I see him at table in soloist room. What he wants there? Has own room for orchestra,
nyet?
Own refreshment, also.”
“Did you take a drink from the table, sir?”
“
Da.
To sing make thirst. Take samovar for tea. English tea
otvratitelny.
”
Alec didn't bother to ask for a translation of that. He went
on to ask about everyone's movements in the soloists' room.
“After
Lacrimosa
we come from stage, I get glass tea, bring to men's room. Gover already in room, drinks Scotch veesky from flask. Never he goes out, always drinking and pimping.”
A muffled gasp turned into a cough came from Piper.
“Perhaps
primping
is the word you want, sir?” Alec suggested.
Massive shoulders shrugged. “Pimping, prrrimping—you English swallow letter errrr.” He gave it the full rolling Russian sound, like a bear's growl. “Gover sits at mirror, plays with hair.”
“You are quite sure Mr. Gower never left the men's dressing room during the interval?”
“Quite very sure. Only drrrinks and prrrimps,” Marchenko said with scorn. “When Cochran comes, quickly he hides flask.”
It looked as if the tenor was out of it. “What did Mr. Cochran want?”
“Has new idea to phrase
‘quam olim Abrahae.'
Is not bad idea, but too late to rehearse. We talk, sing few notes. When he leaves dressing room, I go with to get more glass tea. There is
gospozha
Cochrana looking after him.”
“Mrs. Cochran looking for him?” Alec proposed, more for Piper's enlightenment than his own.
“Tak.”
Marchenko nodded. “They talk. I go to samovar. Then Cochran knocks on ladies' door. Out comes Miss de la Costa, Miss Vessstlea,”—he hissed the name—“and sister. Miss Vestlea has glass in hand. Like Gover, always taking nipples.”
Momentarily stumped by the possibly apposite but presumably misapplied word, Alec glanced at Ernie Piper. “Taking nips, sir,” the young detective said, wooden-faced.
“I stay to listen to music talk.” Once started, the bass
seemed suspiciously eager to cooperate. “I see Miss de la Costa stay at end of room.”
“She did not go anywhere near the table?”
“
Tak.
Next comes in young woman—Bless is name,
da?
Olivia Bless?—short dark hair, much
chic.
Miss Muriel goes in ladies' room, brings out papers to her. I am talking about
‘quam olim,'
not see if Miss Bless goes near table, but notice later she still there, talking to Muriel. Then comes Abernathy, also talks music. Soon he goes to table, brings cup tea for wife,
English
tea. ‘Peeg sveel,' she says. ‘I not drinking that peeg sveel.'” Marchenko's relish made clear his hearty concurrence.
“Cochran and wife go away,” he continued. “Miss de la Costa go into dressing room. This is when Levich arrives. At door he talks to Cochran, one moment, then he looks round room, goes to table, and puts poison in Bettina's drink.”
“You actually saw him put some substance in the decanter, sir?”
His eyes shifting, Marchenko backed off a little. “I know this is what he does. He is filthy, murdering Jew.”
“Yes, well, sir, we've been through all that. Was anyone else in a position to see what he was doing?”
“Miss Bless goes to him at table on way out. But plenty time before to put in poison.”
“Was Miss Blaise with him long?”
“Just moment. Two ticks of lamb's tail, as you say. After, he goes quickly to Muriel. At once Bettina finds loose button. ‘Muriel, sew on button!' like I tell you.”
“So you did, sir.”
“Like I tell you, never she lets Levich talk to Muriel, so Levich kills her.”
“That remains to be seen, sir. What happened next?”
“I go back in dressing room,” said Marchenko, disgruntled by Alec's scepticism. “See nothing no more. That is all.”
Except where Levich was concerned, Alec saw no reason to doubt his word. In fact, he had turned out to be an excellent witness. Abernathy had already mentioned the cup of tea for his wife, and most of what Marchenko had said could be checked with other people.
As for his own innocence or guilt, the most telling points would be the value of his gifts to Bettina and whether the team presently trudging from chemist's to chemist's found evidence of his having purchased cyanide. The name he signed in the Poison Book, required of everyone buying dangerous substances, might be false, but no one who had seen and spoken to him could possibly forget him.
Alec thanked Marchenko for his help and warned him not to leave London without informing the police. Then he and Piper went out to the car, where Tom awaited them.
BOOK: Requiem for a Mezzo
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