The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (14 page)

“It’s cuz you’re an old bat.  I remember Donald Williams.  He
wrote hymns and dirges.  Michael was working on a symphony.  Maurice was, lord,
I don’t know if he ever produced anything.  Then that lad from Canada...Horace
Beaufort.  Remember we used to call him Heebeegeebee?  He was into big band
music.  Lots of brass.  You would think he hated strings and woodwinds the way
he never wrote any in.”

I looked around and saw that Michael was writing the list of
names down in his notebook.  I smiled at him.  Always prepared just like a boy
scout.

“What about that morose tall guy with the big nose?” Angie
prodded Bobby.

“The Russian.  What the devil...oh, Ivan been down the road
a bit.”

“He means, Ivan Bendonovich, or something near that,” Angie
explained.

“Old Ivan thought he could write a Russian opera.  Can you
imagine?  His tunes were great, but the language is tough.  Heard he rose up in
ranks during the war.”

“Bobby, that’s only five.  Father always had six students.”

“Who are we forgetting?”  Bobby counted on his fingers.
“Donald, Maurice, Michael, Horace, Ivan and Bentley, Bentley Hughes.  He was a
string guy, better at arranging then original work.  Helped all the lads on
their manuscripts, real nice guy.  His family was peers of the realm, big
money, lots of class.  Well, that’s the six.”

“How’s Elizabeth?” Angie asked her brother about his wife.

“She’s here.  ask ‘er yerself.” 

Angie and Elizabeth started talking.  I walked away from the
camera.  Noelle was still muttering.  I left her in peace.  Father Michael
handed me the notebook, and I read off the names.

“Whatcha got there, Cin?” Paz called over from the computer
she was using.

“The names of the men in the last class.  I guess the next
step is to find out where they are now.”

“I have a bloke that could run those names for ya.”

I handed the notebook to Paz, and she started typing them
into the computer.  She handed it back to me.

“I am going to give him Angie’s number to call us with the
results.  Anything else?”

“Can’t think of anything right now.”

I thanked her and walked back over to the web conference.

“Mom, oh mom!”  Alex’s face dominated the screen.

“I’m here Alex.”

“I talked to a police sergeant friend of Slater’s dad, who
said the few people who witnessed Bobby’s fall saw a man in a tan raincoat
standing behind him.  Hang on, it gets better.  One of the witnesses was from
the School of the Arts and he drew a picture of him.”

He held up a copy of the sketch.  It was the same man that
was at the airport and tried to kill me.  I had to force myself to breathe, and
I put my hand on my chest to slow my heart.

“I see you may have met Mr. X, but that isn’t his name.  The
sergeant ran the picture and guess what he found out?”

“Come on, Alex, out with it.”

“His name is Bruno Vanchencho and he’s a former Soviet that
is presently a thug for hire, guess where?  He is rumored to be using London as
his base of operation.  I had the sergeant send the particulars to Chief
Superintendent Browning, the one Noelle wrote me about.  Anyway, let me read
the rest.  Bruno Vanchencho is approximately fifty years of age, and a
mercenary by trade.  There’s some stuff about last known whereabouts and three
or four aliases he has used in the past.”

“Good work, Alex.”

“No problem, Ma.”

“Shame about Donald.  Sorry, Father Michael.  Hey, can I
talk to Noelle?”

Before I could exit the chair, Noelle was almost on top of
me.  The two of them started chatting about this and that.  I adjourned to the
front of the café with Angie and Michael.  As I waited for Noelle and Paz to
finish I read the missives sent by Alex.  They were newsy and short.  Each
ended with the line: “Your car is fine.”  Alex was full of complaints about
being left out, but between the lines I could tell he was happy Noelle was here
with me.

The girls finished, and I paid our tab.  My eyebrows rose a bit
at the expense, but I paid the bill anyway.

“Mom, we’re going to grab some food and hit the pub scene.”

I told her to be careful and watched as she walked with a
lighter step out of the café.  I turned to the others.

“I'm starving, let’s go someplace to eat, my treat.”

Angie nodded.

“I will join you after I find someplace to stay,” Father
Michael said as he tucked his notebook into a pocket.

“You’ll stay with us,” Angie said, “lots of room.”

“You can have my room, and I will bunk in the dormitory with
the girls.  Or are you afraid for your reputation?” I bated him.

“It would be a pleasure to stay with you ladies and watch
Cin haul her behind up to the third floor.”

I linked my arms in with Angie and the Father.  “Done and
done.  Hey can you go in a pub in that, er, uniform?”

“Better be a Catholic pub.”

“I know just the one.”  Angie led us down the street.

When we sat down in the pub.  I asked if they noticed all
the people staring at us.

Father Michael asked, “What people?”

“If people did stop and stare at us,” Angie laughed, “it was
because you are so obviously a tourist.”

“Obviously.”  I smiled.

“A redhead, a priest and a Brit go into a pub...” the pub
owner started.

“Burt, if you continue on that path, the Father here will
have you doing double duty in purgatory,” Angie warned.

“Then you won’t be the only one there.”  He snapped a towel
in her direction.  “Tell me, what’ll you be drinking?”

“Double scotch for me.”

“Ma’am.”  He stared lustfully at me.

“You wound me up with the ma’am, so I’ll test your prowess
as an international pub owner.  Do you have behind that beautiful polished bar
of yours, sweet vermouth?”

“Aye.”

“Throw a shot in a glass and marry it with two shots of
cheap whisky.  Give it a drop of bitters and a cherry for a reward.”  I smiled.

“Don’t you be asking for any ice, my red-haired witch.”

“I wouldn’t dream of putting you out.”

“So if I make this Manhattan, an old man’s drink, for ye,
what will my reward be?”

“Why go to purgatory when you can dance in hell with me?”

Burt laughed and slapped the counter.  “Guess you lost two
souls all over a bit of cherry, Father.”

“My son, if you make two Manhattans I’ll let you skip the
Hail Mary’.”

“Done and done.”

It took only a moment for our drinks to arrive.  We chose a
booth as far away from the din of the jukebox as we could find.  I took a sip
of my drink and felt all the kinks leave my body.  Angie and Michael waited
until I took another sip before getting down to business.  I sifted through the
pile of papers I had been carrying to find the report Paz’s bloke from the
Royal Academy of Music put together on Maurice Sherborn.  I scanned the page
and dug in my purse to find a pen.  I attacked the page with vigor.

“As you both know, we have many questions we need to sort
out.  Who killed Donald?  Why are the attacks on the Bathgates and me happening
now?  We know who attacked the three of us, Bruno Vanchencho.  We know he’s a
former Soviet as was Ivan, but I’m getting ahead of myself, please bear with
me.  We don’t know who hired him.”

“I’d say Ivan,” Michael said simply.

“Two Russians, makes sense to me,” Angie agreed.

“Hold on a moment.  Let’s not forget his center of
operations is in London presently, and we don’t know if Ivan is still alive or
what motive Ivan would have to harm the three of us.”  I stopped a moment and
let this information sink in. “Back to the ‘why now’.  I have information that
tells me Maurice Sherborn is being considered for knighthood.  If the
investigation that the new Yard is doing uncovers no blemishes on Maurice’s
life then he will be a Knight of the Realm at the end of this month.  That’s
four days from now.”

“Why do you think Maurice has something to do with why this
is all happening now?” Angie asked.

“I was scanning this list as Bobby and you were listing the
class of students Donald and Maurice were in.  I paid special attention to what
type of music each person specialized in.  The knighthood is for the body of
Maurice’s work, not just one piece.  One, Bobby and you mentioned Maurice
wasn’t anything special, anything special in the composing department.  Two, we
know Maurice published Michael’s work in 1949 under his own name.”

“Michael was dead.  What harm would that have done?” Angie
interjected.  “Michael’s work was published and that in itself is very
important.”

“Yes, but couldn’t Maurice at least have given Michael
credit as a co-composer?  He didn’t.  According to this report, Maurice debuted
that piece of music during the last year of the war.  Michael was away
fighting.  Maurice was home and making money off of Michael’s work.  Wait, let
me finish.  Three, Maurice’s other work, well, why don’t we take a look at the
match up I have done.  See, here’s Maurice’s work.  In the 1950’s he
specialized in religious music.  Donald was a hymn writer.  Maurice moved on to
Big Band tunes.  Horace Beaufort was a Big Band composer and arranger.  In the
1960’s Maurice Sherborn wowed the world with his first opera. Ivan Bendonovich
was struggling with the Russian language, but he did have a completed opera before
he left England.”

“So you’re thinking Maurice stole the music from Michael,
Ivan, Horace and my uncle?”

“CSP Browning checked out the music library after the recent
break-in and found that the manuscripts were taken from Bathgate a long time
ago.  Why not thirty-five years ago?  And if Maurice was as driven as Bobby
said he was, who was to stop him from stealing the manuscripts?  Angie, you
were in the hospital.  Your mother wasn’t living at Bathgate full time.  Your
father was at the university.”

“If Maurice took the manuscripts, then why didn’t he take
any of the other classes’ work?” Angie asked.

“Because there was a greater chance that the
composers/students had presented their work already,” Michael answered. 
“Perhaps my uncle found out, and that’s why he was killed.”

“I just can’t see Maurice, as wimpy as he was, overpowering
Donald.  I can see him stealing the others’ work but a killer?  I just don’t
think so,” Angie talked into her just drained glass.

“All I am saying is the ‘why now’ is Maurice’s knighthood. 
I’m going to be on pins and needles until Paz’s friend comes through with the
whereabouts of the surviving class members.”  I drank deeply from my glass. 
“Any one of them could have hired Bruno, though it sure seems very convenient
to put him and Ivan together.  It’s possible Maurice composed all his own work,
but it nags at me as to why he hasn’t done anything in the last twenty years. 
I want to talk to this man.  He is the key.”

“Don’t forget about Bentley.”  Angie pointed to the name that
I had circled on the paper.  “He was a wonderful guy, helped everyone.  But his
eyes were sharp, I remember, awfully sharp.  Used to flatter Mother into making
him biscuits.  I just never paid that much attention to him.  Michael was my
world.  Poor Michael dead, with his brother cashing in on his work.”  Angie
grabbed my arm.  “Cin, that’s why Bruno is searching the school and wants me
dead.  I have proof Maurice didn’t write ‘Sunlight on Water Music.’  Maurice
knew about the copy Michael and I communicated on.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if it were this simple?  Remember, the
others knew about the copy also.  I don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle
yet, but I assure you I will.  Now is that Shepherd’s pie I smell?”

I got up and walked to the bar.  Burt looked at me.  I
looked at him.  He gave me a tray with another round of drinks on it for us.  I
delivered the drinks.  Then I came back and looked at him.

“What,” he snapped.

“Shepherd’s pie?”

“I have three Guinnesses to build before I can waste my good
time going into the kitchen for you lass.”

“I build a good Guinness,” I said and walked around the end
of the bar and stood next to him.

“How good?”

“You could write I love red-haired witches in the head with
your tears.”

“Fine, you build the Guinness, and I will get the pies.”  Burt
snapped me on the behind with his towel.  I grabbed three glasses and started
to build the Guinness.  I ignored the startled looks from Angie and Michael. 
Everyone has a talent: composing, singing, and the Lord’s work.  Mine happens
to be building Guinness.

~

With our bellies full of hardy food and our minds lulled by
good spirits we departed Penzance.  The ride to Bathgate was a quiet one.  I
was happy to have the silence to put everything I had learned this afternoon
into some kind of order.  Since my first exposure to murder was yet a recent
one, I wasn’t quite sure how one goes about figuring out motive.  Why do humans
kill?  I guess the easy answers are anger, greed and maybe self-defense. 
Defending yourself because of greed, someone wanting what you have.  What did
Donald have?  Music, talent and quite possibly information that he had to be
killed to stifle.  Why try and kill Bobby or at least stop him from coming to
England?  Bobby was still sharp and would remember not only Donald’s fellow
students but also the music each of them were working on.  Angie?  She had the
original manuscript to Michael Sherborn’s masterpiece.  Me?  I had found out
Donald was there at Bathgate.  I wonder if now that Donald was found I would be
able to stop whirling around each and every time I heard a footfall behind me. 
Why try to buy Bathgate with all its contents?  I puzzled over this briefly and
came up with: so no one would come across Donald or Michael’s manuscript.  The
interested party would have free reign to loot the house and music school to
find and destroy the manuscript, not to mention having the time to discover if
any of the previous students’ manuscripts had been presented.  How many of
those students died in World War II?

When I was struggling with algebra word problems, my father
gave me the best advice.  He said, “draw a picture.”  It may have been a
picture of trains starting out from different points or lumber needed to build
a house.  By visually understanding the word problems I was able to weed out
the extraneous information and clearly deal with the clues given.  This method
helped me rise above the mercy D minus to a respectable B in algebra.  I used
it again in accounting and received an A plus.  I know, I digress, get back to
the story.  Anyway, I have used it a lot in life.  So why not use it now?  I
turned over one of Alex’s emails that Paz printed for me and began to jot down
the facts, as I knew them so far.

FIRST
CRIME:  Theft of musical manuscripts.

MOTIVE:
 Greed

SUSPECTS:
 Maurice Sherborn - Michael Sherborn’s manuscript published as “Sunlight on
Water Music” under Maurice’s name.  Horace Beaufort, Ivan Bendonovich, Bentley
Hughes – Students at school with Michael.

WILD
THOUGHT:  Maybe Donald participated in the theft and was killed for it.

I looked down at what I had written and looked for the
suspect with the strongest motive.  Maurice Sherborn. He reportedly had no
talent.  He published Michael’s work for certain, but regarding the others I
had no proof.  Okay, that’s one for Maurice.  I was trying to keep the crimes
in date order.  I didn’t have exact dates, but I went on my instincts here.

SECOND
CRIME:  Murder of Donald Williams

MOTIVE:
 Defense of Greed

SUSPECTS:
 Maurice Sherborn – If he committed the theft and Donald had knowledge of it,
Donald may have been lured to Bathgate and killed during argument.  Or Donald
may have been killed in case of wrong place/wrong time.

Horace
Beaufort, Ivan Bendonovich, Bentley Hughes – same reasons as above.

QUESTIONS:
 What was Donald’s involvement in this – innocent bystander or co-conspirator? 
Where were the suspects during the time of the murder?

NEED
TO KNOW:  The condition of Donald’s remains.  Was he

attacked? 
Was his death from drowning in the bog?

Maurice again seemed to have center stage.  The only shaky
area was that, according to Angie, Maurice had been a frail man all his life. 
If Donald was overpowered and dumped in the bog, could he have done it alone?

Angie turned the lorry off the smooth pavement and the
bouncing around made writing too difficult.  I decided to wait until we got
back to Bathgate to continue.

I decided to sit back and enjoy the view.  Cornwall is
unlike anywhere in the United States that I have visited or know about.  It
isn’t trying to be anything that it’s not.  It hasn’t yet cashed in on ambiance
although there is something very quaint about its rolling hills,
less-than-single-lane roads, stone buildings, big skies, ancient sites without
fences, and magic, lots and lots of magic.

Father Michael stirred next to me.  I think he must have
fallen asleep unnoticed by me.  “Where are we?”

“Almost to Bathgate, Father,” Angie answered.

“I seem to be out of sorts.”

“Understandable considering you traveled through the night. 
A good nap is what you’ll be needing.  Ah, here we are.  You can get out here
and...”

“Oh no you don’t!”  I stopped her.  “We will stay in the
lorry and with you till you get back to the house.  I am in no mood to fight
off Russians, besides I am wearing my new shoes.”

Angie just shook her head while she guided the lorry into
its place in the barn.  Michael got out first and helped me down.  He walked
over and insisted on Angie taking his arm as we walked back to the house.  I
don’t know if they teach you that in Jesuit seminary or if it was his good
southern training kicking in, but Michael certainly made you feel female at
times.

I showed Michael up to my room.  He carried his bags in and
placed them at the foot of the big bed.

“If you wait a moment I’ll change the linen.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been sleeping here.”

“Did you wet the bed?”

“No, maybe drooled on the pillow.”