Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie (33 page)

The newspapers suddenly awoke from the wartime hibernation and were able to splash their pages with a story which all their readers could enjoy. The idol of the British people, the envy of all civilised nations, the hero of a thousand programmes, The Grand Old Gentleman of Vocal Lodge, in short none other than the famous King of Song, Sir Ivor King himself, had been found brutally done to death in the Pagoda at Kew Gardens. Here was a tale to arouse interest in the bosoms of all but the most hardened cynics, and indeed the poor old man’s compatriots, as they chewed their bacon and eggs the following morning, were convulsed with rather delicious shudder’s. The naked corpse, they learnt, surmounted by that beloved old bald head, had been mutilated and battered with instruments ranging from the bluntness of a croquet mallet to the sharpness of a butcher’s knife. This treatment had rendered the face unrecognizable, and only the cranium had been left untouched. His clothes had been removed and there was no trace of them, but his favourite wig, dishevelled and bloodstained, was found, late in the evening, by two little children innocently playing on Kew Green. Those lucky ones among the breakfasting citizens who subscribed to the
Daily Runner
began their day with

W
IGLESS
H
EAD ON
K
EW
P
AGODA
, H
EADLESS
W
IG ON
G
REEN

Later, when they issued forth into the streets it was to find that the placards of the evening papers had entirely abandoned
‘U-Boat Believed Sunk’, ‘Nazi Planes Believed Down’, ‘Hitler’s Demands’, ‘Stalin’s Demands’, and the reactions of the U.S.A., and were devoting themselves to what soon became known as the Wig Outrage. ‘Wig on Green Sensation, Latest.’ ‘Pagoda Corpse – Foul Play?’ ‘Wig Mystery, Police Baffled.’

When the inquest was held, the police were obliged to issue an appeal to the great crowds that were expected, begging them to stay at home in view of the target which they would represent to enemy bombers. In spite of this warning, the Wig Inquest was all too well attended, and the Wig Coroner had a few words to say about this generation’s love of the horrible. Indeed, Chiswick High Road had the aspect of Epsom Heath at Derby Day’s most scintillating moment.

It would be difficult to do better, for an account of the Wig Inquest than to switch over, as they say on the wireless, to the columns of the
Evening Runner
.

I
NQUEST
O
N
W
IG
M
URDER
V
ALET
’
S
S
TATEMENT
O
NLY
C
URLED
L
AST
W
EEK
W
AS
M
URDERED
M
AN THE
K
ING OF
S
ONG
?

‘The “colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady” fought for places at the inquest today on the body, which was found last Friday in Kew Pagoda, and which is presumed to be that of Sir Ivor King, “the King of Song”. The body was so extensively mutilated that a formal identification was impossible, although Mr Larch, Sir Ivor’s valet, swore that he would recognise that particular cranium anywhere as belonging to the “King”.

‘H
IS
M
ASTER
’
S
V
OICE

‘Giving evidence, Mr Larch, who showed signs of great emotion, said that Sir Ivor had left Vocal Lodge to go to London
at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. He had seemed rather nervous and said that he had to keep a very important appointment in town, but that he would be back in time to change for a local sing-song he had promised to attend after tea. His master’s voice, said Mr Larch, had been in great demand with A.R.P. organizations, and Mr Larch thought that what with so much singing, and the evacuations in the Orchid House, Sir Ivor had been looking strained and tired of late. By tea-time he had not returned. Mr Larch did not feel unduly worried. “Sir Ivor had the temperament of an artiste, and was both unpunctual and vague, sometimes spending whole nights in the Turkish bath without informing his staff that he intended to sleep out.”

‘H
IS
F
AVOURITE
W
IG

‘ “When the children brought in the wig,” went on Mr Larch, “I thought it was eerie, as it was his favourite wig; we only had it curled last week, and he would never have thrown it away. Besides, I knew he had no spare with him. I immediately notified the police.” Here Mr Larch broke down and had to be assisted out of the court.

‘Mr Smith, taxi-driver, said that the old person first of all told him to go to the Ritz, but stopped him at Turnham Green and was driven back to the gates of Kew Gardens where he paid the fare, remarking that it was a fine day for a walk. He was singing loudly in a deep tenor all the while, and seemed in excellent spirits.

‘A V
ERY
H
IGH
N
OTE

‘Mr Jumont, a gardener at Kew Gardens, said that he was manuring the rhododendrons when he heard the “King” go past on a very high note.

‘The Coroner: “Did you see him?”

‘Mr Jumont: “No, sir. But there was no mistaking that old party when he was singing soprano. Besides, this was his favourite song, ‘When I am dead, my dearest’.” (Music by the Marchioness of Waterford.)

‘At these words there was a sensation, and hardly a dry eye in court. Some fashionably dressed ladies were sobbing so loudly that the Coroner threatened to have them evicted unless they could control themselves.

‘Continuing his evidence, Mr Jumont said that Sir Ivor seemed to be walking in the direction of the Pagoda, the time being about 3 p.m.

‘A W
ONDERFUL
T
HATCH

‘Mr Bott, another employee at Kew Gardens, told how he had found the body. Just before closing time he noticed some blood stains and one or two blond curls at the foot of the Pagoda, then saw that the Pagoda door, which is always kept locked, stood ajar. He went in, and a trail of blood on the stairs led him to the very top where the sight which met his eyes was so terrible that he nearly swooned. “More like a butcher’s shop it was, and it gave me a nasty turn.”

‘Coroner: “Did it seem to you at the time that this might be the body of Sir Ivor King?”

‘Mr Bott: “No, sir. For one thing the old gentleman (who, of course, I knew very well by sight) always seemed to have a wonderful thatch, as you might say, for his age, but the only thing I could clearly see about the individual on the Pagoda was that he hadn’t a hair to his name.”

‘Mr Bott said, in answer to further questioning, that it had never occurred to him Sir Ivor King’s hair might have been a wig.

‘One or two more witnesses having been examined, the Coroner’s jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.

“The Coroner said there was an overwhelming presumption that the corpse was that of Sir Ivor King.’

Next day, the
Daily Runner
, in its column of pocket leading articles called BRITAIN EXPECTS, in which what Britain generally Expects is a new Minister for Agriculture, had a short paragraph headed:

‘M
OURN
T
HE
K
ING
O
F
S
ONG

‘A very gallant and loved old figure has gone from our midst. Mourn him. But remember that he now belongs to the past. It is our duty to say that in the circumstances of his death there may be more than meets the eye. One of our Cabinet Ministers may be guilty of negligence. If so, we should like to see a statement made in Parliament.

‘
Our
grief must not blind us to
his
fault. For remember that
we
belong to the future.’

There was more than met the eye. Sure enough, the very next day it was learned from reliable sources that the King of Song has been a trump-card in the hand of the Government. He had, in fact, been about to inaugurate, in conjunction with the B.B.C., Ministry of Information, and Foreign Office, the most formidible campaign of Propaganda through the medium of Song that the world has ever seen. The British and French Governments, not only they, but democrats everywhere, had attached great importance to the scheme. They had estimated that it would have a profound effect upon neutral opinion, and indeed might well bring America into the war, on one side or another. Without the King of Song to lead it, this campaign would fall as flat as a pancake, no other living man or woman having the requisite personality or range of voice to conduct it. It must, therefore, necessarily be abandoned. Thus his
untimely and gruesome end constituted about as severe a blow to the Allied cause as the loss of a major engagement would have done.

The horrid word Sabotage, the even horrider word Leakage, were now breathed, and poor Fred, who was given no credit for having conceived the idea, was universally execrated for not having delivered it. In the same way that the First Lord of the Admiralty is held responsible for the loss of a capital ship, so the death of Sir Ivor was laid at poor Fred’s door. He made a statement in the House that mollified nobody, and Britain Expected every morning that he would resign. Britain did not expect it more than poor Fred expected that he would have to; however, in the end he got off with a nasty half-hour at No. 10. It was now supposed that the King of Song had been liquidated by German spies who had fallen into Kew Gardens in parachutes, and Sophia said ‘I told you so’ to Luke, and hardly dared look out of her bedroom window any more.

Sophia was really upset by the whole business. She had loved her old godfather, and having always seen a great deal of him she would miss him very much. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that she found a certain element of excitement in her near connection with so ghastly and so famous a murder – especially when, the day after the inquest, Sir Ivor’s solicitor rang her up and told her, very confidentially, that Vocal Lodge and everything in it had been left to her. She had also inherited a substantial fortune and a jet tiara.

Sophia now considered herself entitled to assume the gratifying rôle of mourner in chief. She took a day off from the Post, instructed Rawlings to fill up the car with a month’s ration of petrol, and drove round to the Brompton Oratory. Here she spent an hour with a high dignitary of the Roman Church arranging for a Requiem Mass to be held at the Oratory. The dignitary was such a charmer, and Sophia was so conscious of looking extremely pretty in her new black hat, that she cast
about for ways of prolonging the interview. Finally she handed over a large sum of money so that masses could be sung in perpetuity for the old gentleman’s soul; and when she remembered the eternal basting to which he had so recently condemned her, she considered that this was a high-minded and generous deed on her part. The transaction over, she made great efforts to edge the conversation round to her own soul, but the dignitary, unlike Florence, seemed completely uninterested in so personal a subject, and very soon, with tact and charm but great firmness, indicated to her that she might go. Sophia, as she drove away, reflected that whatever you might say about Popery it is, at least, a professional religion, and shows up to great advantage when compared with such mushroom growths as the Boston Brotherhood.

On her way to Vocal Lodge she went to pick up Lady Beech who had consented to accompany her on her sad pilgrimage. She was to meet the solicitor there, see Sir Ivor’s servants and make various arrangements connected with her legacy. Lady Beech lived in Kensington Square. She was evidently determined to take the fullest advantage of Sophia’s petrol ration, for, when the car drew up at her front door, she was already standing on the steps beside an enormous object of no particular shape done up in sacking.

‘Very late,’ she said. ‘Most unlike you. I know, darling, that you won’t mind taking this little bed to Heal’s on our way.’

This rather delayed matters. It became evident, during the course of the drive, that Lady Beech very much wished that Vocal Lodge had been left to her instead of to Sophia.

‘Oh, darling, what a pity,’ said Sophia; ‘silly old gentleman not to think of it. Of course I’m going to give it to the Nation, don’t you think that’s right, really? To be kept exactly as it is, a Shrine of Song, and I am giving some of the money he left to keep it up. He left nearly a quarter of a million, you know, so I am going to build an Ivor King Home of Rest for aged singers, and an Ivor King Concert Hall as well. Don’t you think he’d be pleased?’

‘Very wonderful of you, my dear,’ said Lady Beech gloomily. ‘Tell me, now, had it occurred to you what a very much more interesting gift to the Nation Vocal Lodge would be if somebody lived in it – I mean somebody rather cultivated, with rather exquisite taste? She could preserve the spirit of the place, don’t you see? Like those châteaux on the Loire which have their original families living in them.’

Sophia said she had just the very person in mind, an old governess of her own, who was extremely cultivated and had perfectly exquisite taste. Lady Beech sighed deeply.

When they arrived at Vocal Lodge, Sophia was closeted for some time, first with the solicitor and then with Sir Ivor’s servants, whom she begged to stay on there for the rest of their lives if it suited them. Larch took her upstairs and showed her all Sir Ivor’s wigs laid out on his bed, rather as it might have been a pilgrimage to view the body. He was evidently, like Sophia, divided between genuine sorrow and a feeling of self-importance.

‘The Press, m’lady,’ he said with relish, ‘awful they’ve been. Nosing round everywhere and taking photos. And the lies they tell, I don’t know if you saw, m’lady, they said cook had been with Sir Ivor ten years. It’s not a day more than seven.’

‘I know,’ said Sophia. ‘I can’t go outside the house for them. Why, look at all the cars which have followed us down here.’ And indeed there had been a perfect fleet, greatly incommoded, Sophia was glad to think, by the roundabout and, to them, surely rather baffling journey via Heal’s.