The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (4 page)

She came away from the window and went to the piano, picking out a few notes as she stood there.

“I need to send for a tuner,” she said.

“Lord Rothborough would probably insist upon you using his man,” Felix said.

“Yes, probably,” she said, glancing up at him for a moment. She played another chord and winced. “Oh dear.”

“Do you know him well?” he managed to ask.

“Scarcely at all,” she said.

“Then he presumes,” he said.

“He is not the only one,” she said. “And in my profession, you learn to expect it.”

“But still, he ought not to,” said Felix.

“It does not offend me. His attention is good-natured and generous. You know, Mr Carswell, he spoke warmly of you. You should not be too unkind to him – I hope you do not mind me saying such a thing? You, on your part, should not assume anything.”

It was gently said, but he felt stung by it.

“Ma’am, I did not mean to imply...” He broke off, and found himself looking about the room, at anything but her. How had he managed to offend her so quickly when all he wanted was her good opinion? “I meant only to...”

He would have continued, but at that moment Major Vernon came back into the room.

“I’m afraid we will have to take our leave, Mrs Morgan. Something rather urgent has come up. But I will be attending to this matter of yours as soon as I can, I assure you.”

“Thank you.”

“In the meantime, if anything else unusual or disturbing happens, please let me know at once. I will put one of my men to watch the house. You can send messages by him.”

“What could be more urgent than those threats?” said Felix as they hurried downstairs. He had no desire to leave at all.

“How about a dead body?” said Major Vernon.

Chapter Five

Giles looked about him, taking in the circumstances.

The room was large, cool and light, with a five-lancet window filling the entirety of one wall – that was the window that could be seen from St Anne’s Street, Giles thought. The opposite wall was filled entirely with the organ pipes. Beneath the large window was a raised dais with a plain communion table with an equally plain cross upon it. There were two floor-standing candlesticks heavy with melted wax, and numerous other candlesticks, also containing half-burnt candles.

On the floor directly below the dais, lying on his back with his hands folded as if in prayer, was the body of a young man. His head was resting on a kneeler and his wavy, pale corn-gold hair had been carefully swept back from his forehead. His eyes were closed, his expression blank. He was the image of dignity and peace in death, yet there was something profoundly shocking about him.

He was scarcely a man, more a boy, and the clear midday light in the room showed his considerable beauty.

“And this is exactly how you found him, Mr Watkins?” Giles said, turning to the younger of the two men who had accompanied him and Carswell.

“Yes, exactly.”

“You did not touch anything?”

“No, nothing. I may have touched him when I went to see if he was breathing – well, to see if he was dead. Then I locked the door and went straight to Canon Fforde.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go to the Dean, Mr Watkins,” said Lambert Fforde.

“I thought since – well, I knew your connection with Major Vernon, sir, and I thought it better. Besides, the Dean...”

“The Dean will need this broken gently to him, yes indeed. I see your point,” said Lambert.

“And you recognize him?” said Giles, turning to his brother-in-law.

“Yes, he’s one of the Vicars Choral,” said Lambert. “His name is Charles Barnes.”

Carswell had knelt down and was examining the body. He felt the dead man’s hand. “He’s not been here long. He’s still warm.”

“Of course he is!” exclaimed Watkins. “He was alive last night!”

“When you’re done, can you make a drawing of this?” Giles said. “Just as he is now – and all the objects around it.”

“Yes, of course,” said Carswell.

“It’s so deliberate,” Giles said. “But no obvious signs of violence.”

“Well,” said Carswell, “I’m not so sure about that. That looks suspiciously like a ligature mark to me.” He loosened the stock and pulled back down the collar and down at the bare flesh of the neck. “Or at least bruising of some description.” Then with a flick of his finger he had pulled back an eyelid. “Dilated pupils. That’s interesting, certainly.”

“A ligature!” exclaimed Watkins. “Are you saying –?”

“I’m not saying anything yet,” said Carswell.

“A ligature – that means strangulation,” said Watkins. “Dear Lord above! Strangulation! But who in the world want to strangle poor Charlie Barnes? Why, he was practically a child!”

“Mr Carswell is only speculating at this point, Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “What caused this remains to be seen.”

“Something – somebody caused it,” Watkins said. “You just don’t lie down and die like that. Charlie was as fit as a fiddle. This... this is murder! There is no other word for it!”

Whatever it is, it is strange, thought Giles staring down at the carefully arranged body while Carswell continued his cursory examination.

“But who on earth would wish to murder young Barnes?” said Lambert. “I shall have to go and tell the Dean,” he added with a sigh.

“Yes, you had better. And you, Mr Watkins, you can tell me everything you know about Mr Barnes.”

Carswell stood calmly making his sketch while Giles led Watkins to one of the benches by the side.

“Everything?” Watkins said after a minute.

“Every little thing that you can,” said Giles, taking out his notebook.

“Well, he’s... he was,” Watkins corrected himself with a gulp, “one of my best tenors, with an exceptional range. Very sweet, pure voice that blends well. Perfect top notes. Could sing alto at a pinch. And getting better everyday. Just the sort of man one needs. Last Sunday for example, I gave him the solo in the Nunc – Bryce in F, and he sight sang it at short notice and did a good job. Perhaps you heard it?”

“I was away on Sunday,” said Giles.

“Usually Harrison would have done it but he was ill. Or at least said he was – I’m not sure he wasn’t exaggerating. Jos Harrison has a touch of the
prima donna
about him, on occasion, but I let him get away with it, because he is so exceptional.” The words faded and Watkins glanced away, overcome for a moment. “What will I tell him, for God’s sake? He will be heart-broken.”

“Mr Harrison is another of the Vicars Choral?”

“My other first-class tenor, yes.”

“And they were close, Mr Barnes and Mr Harrison?”

Watkins nodded.

“Like brothers,” he said. “This will be dreadful news for Harrison. I should go and find him.”

“All in good time, Mr Watkins,” said Giles. “What can you tell me about Mr Barnes’ family? Was he a Northminster man?”

“I don’t think so. Not by birth. But he lived with his uncle – can’t recall the name – but he’s that bookbinder down the little lane past the White Hart. Charlie was still apprenticed to him – that was the trade he was supposed to be learning but his heart was not in it, and I think with good reason. He was not just a fine singer but he was a promising organist.”

“Sledmere, perhaps?” said Giles.

“That’s the fellow. Heavens, what a specimen he is! I took a few scores in there for repair and he treated me as I was asking him to bind some obscene portfolio. Practically a dissenter. He did not like Charlie singing at the Minster, I am sure of that. I think he believes that music is the work of the devil.” Watkins shook his head.

“And did Mr Barnes have a sweetheart?” Giles asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Watkins. “But you should talk to Jos Harrison. He knew him better than I did.”

“I will,” said Giles.

“I should like to have known him better. I had hoped to. I have not been here so very long, you see, Major Vernon, and, perhaps a little preoccupied in my spare time with various matters...” Watkins got up walked over to the body, and stood gazing down at it. “And now I shall never know him, shall I? Or hear that wonderful voice again. I was writing a setting of the canticles with his voice in mind, and I don’t know how I shall find the heart to finish it now.”

Chapter Six

Giles stood at the front door of a narrow house in one of the narrow lanes of Northminster. It was marked by a sign: “Sledmere. Bibles and Bookbinders.”

The blinds had all been drawn down; a “Closed” sign was propped up in the front window, while black crepe adorned the knocker. The house was already in mourning, for Giles had sent Sergeant Collins to inform the Sledmeres that their nephew was dead.

Giles knocked and waited for some time to be admitted. At last the door was opened by a woman. She was dressed in black which did not look much like mourning, but rather her habitual attire. She frowned at him.

“Mrs Sledmere?”

“Yes?”

“Major Vernon, of the City Constabulary. I have come to speak to you about your nephew. I think Sergeant Collins will have mentioned that I would call?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose he did,” she said. “I’ll get my husband.”

“I should like to speak to all the household, if I may?”

“Yes, well, if you like...” she seemed nonplussed. “I’ll just get Mr Sledmere.”

“Thank you,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Yes, yes, you had better,” she said, closing the door behind him. “Wait here, sir, will you?”

So Giles waited as she disappeared into the back of the house. As he stood there, he sensed he was being watched, and stepped forward a fraction so that he could see up the stairs. He peered up into the darkness and thought he saw a pale white face and some white skirts, but only for a moment. Whoever she was vanished into the shadows.

Sledmere came out of the back of the house, pulling on his coat. He looked displeased at the interruption.

“I am sorry to have to intrude at such a difficult time,” Giles said. “But any help you can give me now will only bring to justice sooner the person responsible for this.”

“Then it is murder?” said Mrs Sledmere.

“I am afraid there is little doubt of it,” said Giles.

“As they sow, so shall they reap,” said Mr Sledmere, with a fierce shake of his head. “The vengeance of the Lord is a terrible thing, sir, a terrible and wonderful thing. A stubborn, wicked soul has been cast down into the fiery pit, and no mistake about it. The Lord God hath acted against his iniquity and sent him down. This is a great lesson to us all. For the lord your God is a jealous God, and shall not suffer a sinner to live!”

“I am sure you are right,” Giles said, formulating his words with care, somewhat astonished by this outburst. “Perhaps you might explain a little more to me? How had your nephew offended you?”

“It was not I who was offended!” exclaimed Sledmere. “It was against the Lord he sinned, and now he must pay for eternity. I warned him, many the times I warned him. I have been up many a night attempting to save his soul and bring him into the light of faith but he would not go. He was resolute in his sin, and this is the result.”

“And the person who did this to Charles, what do you think of him?” Giles asked, turning to Mrs Sledmere. “Surely he has denied your nephew the chance to come to repentance. Surely he must be punished for that?”

“You will not find him, not in mortal form,” Sledmere broke in, for Mrs Sledmere seemed about to answer. “It was the hand of the Lord. He has sent an avenging angel. That is the long and short of it.”

“You must forgive me, sir, if I offend you, but that I cannot believe. Your nephew Charles was wilfully murdered by a fellow human, who must be found and punished for their wickedness. As a good Christian you must assist me in this. You know it is your duty.”

There was a long silence, and then Sledmere jerked his hand towards the stairs.

“We will go up to the parlour,” he said.

They went into a grim little room, more like a waiting room than a place a family might use for their recreation. But Giles supposed that the comforts of this world were of little interest to Mr and Mrs Sledmere. Above the fireplace there was a large framed text, which had been draped with black gauze. Catching sight of this as he came in Mr Sledmere snatched it down and threw it into the empty grate. “Woman, I thought I told you that we would have no signs!” he said to his wife.

“It was not me,” said Mrs Sledmere. “Rose must have...”

“Did you not make it clear to her?” he said.

“I cannot. She will not listen to reason. She is too...”

“You must be firmer with her,” Mr Sledmere said. “It is for her own good. Her soul is in as much peril as his if you do not!”

“Rose?” enquired Giles as mildly as he could.

“Our daughter,” said Mrs Sledmere. “Our only child.”

“Is she close in age to Charles?” Giles asked.

“She is seventeen,” said Mr Sledmere. “And not yet saved.”

“May I speak to her?”

“She is not well,” said Mrs Sledmere. “This news, it has...”

“She is very upset?” Giles said. Mrs Sledmere nodded.

“Perhaps you might tell me when you last saw your nephew?”

“At breakfast this morning,” said Mrs Sledmere.

“Mr Sledmere?” said Giles.

“He was at his work – well, he was supposed to be at his work, with me in the shop, but he took offence when I rebuked him, and went – well, I don’t know where. He left the house.”

“He said nothing to indicate where he might have gone?”

“No,” said Sledmere with a shake of the head. “No, he went and that was it. And the Lord’s judgement is on him now!”

“He took offence – you mean you quarrelled?”

“I rebuked him and he took offence,” Sledmere said, as if Giles were simple-minded.

Giles turned to Mrs Sledmere again.

“Has Charles been living with you long?”

“He came to us at three years old,” Sledmere answered for his wife. “His mother left him here.”

“Your sister, Mr Sledmere?”

“Aye.”

“Who was his father?”

“A dirty rogue of a soldier. My father had to pay him to marry her. An Irishman.”

“Is he still living, do you know?”

“No. If he was I should have gone after him for the boy’s keep.”