‘Have you seen this?’ Peter Farthing thrust the programme out aggressively.
Paul looked down and scanned the page. ‘What of it?’
‘Am I or am I not to sing the Saint-Saëns “Benedictus” with Dame Elsie Tatton?’
‘I have no idea. Are you?’
‘Yes, I am. Obviously. I would not ask the question in that way if I wasn’t. It was clearly a rhetorical question.’
Paul generally had little time for rhetorical questions. He supposed they had a place in political speeches, or courtroom summations, or advertising copy, but in ordinary conversation they were simply tiresome. ‘And so? Your point?’
‘My point is that only she is credited on the programme, despite the fact that everyone knows it is a duet between soprano and baritone. So who is to sing the baritone part? A ghost?’
Another rhetorical question, no doubt. ‘Look, I’m very sorry, but this is nothing to do with me. I don’t know where you got the idea that it was. You should speak to Cavendish about it. Or Sir Aidan,’ he added as a mischievous afterthought.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, I shall.’
Farthing threw the programme away in disgust. He then went out of his way to knock Paul with his shoulder as he jostled past. He affected the forward-leaning, head-down walk that communicates ‘storming out’.
Paul consulted his pocket watch. An hour had been allotted for lunch, giving people enough time to wander into Hampstead village and back if they wished to. But it was now getting on for an hour and a half since they had broken off, and there was still no sign of Fonthill. Had he taken himself off for a rest after the rigours of the ‘Russian Dance’ and inadvertently fallen asleep somewhere?
Paul spotted Cavendish in the audience seats. He was sitting next to his wife, both unspeaking, their bodies turned away from one another, frozen in a tableau vivant that might have been entitled ‘Loathing’.
Paul casually slipped into the seat next to the treasurer. ‘Where is he?’
No sooner had he sat down than Ursula took herself off.
Cavendish blinked at him as if a spell had been broken. ‘Who?’
‘Sir Aidan, of course. Who else?’
‘How should I know.’
‘Just thought you might. The natives are getting restless, you know.’ It was true. The first quizzical grumblings of some of the more old-womanish choir members (of either sex) had amplified into an unruly din. True to type, the brass players and percussionist had gone off to the pub. Dame Elsie was pacing about operatically. Émile Boland was long gone, as were the Russian dancers, but their part in the rehearsal was at an end anyhow. ‘We ought to start again soon or I fear we may have an out and out mutiny on our hands.’
To which Cavendish replied, rather unexpectedly, ‘I’m leaving Ursula.’
‘Oh.’
‘Or she’s leaving me. I’m not quite certain which. At any rate, we’re leaving each other.’
‘I’m … sorry.’
‘I’m not.’
‘What brought it on?’
‘She’s in love with him.’
‘Yes, I’d rather gathered that.’
‘He’s not interested, of course.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘No. I can see that.’ Paul winced sympathetically. ‘Well, if you’re … not sorry. Then you’re … happy? Perhaps?’
‘I’m not that either.’
‘No. Sorry. Stupid thing to say.’
‘We’ll do the concert, then go our separate ways. I have decided to apply for a commission.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Paul felt a pang of conscience. If even Cavendish was thinking of answering the call to the colours then perhaps he should too?
Paul felt himself blush and did his best to change the subject. ‘By the way, I just bumped into that Farthing fellow. Quite literally, as it happens. He seems none too pleased about not getting top billing on the programme, or some such. Positively murderous, he was.’ But he could see that Cavendish was not interested. In fact, the other man frowned at him as if he had been speaking in a foreign language.
The two men sat next to each other in silence for a few minutes longer.
‘Well, I suppose someone ought to go and look for his nibs, if only to save him from the wrath of the Farthing. Shall it be me? Not that I have any particular desire to protect him. But, well, you know. One can hardly condone violence.’
Cavendish looked at Paul uncertainly as if he could not quite place his face. It was a disconcerting sensation, which Paul was anxious to flee.
He looked around for Lady Emma. Perhaps she would know where Fonthill was? Although, given what he now knew about the state of their marriage, would she care? As it happened, there was no sign of her.
There was no sign either of Donald Metcalfe, which was odd because usually the accompanist did not go far from the piano during breaks. It was his habit to sit on the piano stool, eating the potted beef sandwiches that his mother made for him or drinking tea from a Thermos flask.
Paul left the Great Hall by the main entrance. In the corridor, he found Metcalfe in conversation with a young man whom he did not recognize.
‘Pardon me, but have you seen Sir Aidan? We really ought to be getting on.’
The unknown young man bolted off with his head down. It struck Paul as a little rude at first, but then he remembered that he had been the one to interrupt the two men’s conversation.
‘Yes, I have seen Sir Aidan,’ replied Metcalfe, his voice strangely mechanical, as if he were giving a prepared answer or speaking from a script.
‘Where?’
‘In the Great Hall.’
‘Oh? He’s not there now. When did you see him there?’
‘It was a minute off half past twelve.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. I saw him then. We all saw him then. I meant, have you seen him since then?’
‘No,’ said Metcalfe flatly.
Paul studied Metcalfe for a moment. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether the fellow was being deliberately difficult or simply did not understand how to interact with other people. Either way, the result was the same. He was a decidedly tricky person to warm to.
At that moment, a soft, rhythmic tapping drew Paul’s attention. He glanced up to see the back of the blind man he had encountered outside. The man was making his way along the corridor, away from the practice room where Cavendish and Fonthill had been arguing earlier.
At virtually the same moment, there was a piercing scream, which seemed to come from that very room.
Paul looked quizzically at Metcalfe, whose expression did not change.
Paul felt himself frozen to the spot for what seemed like an age but was almost certainly no longer than one or two seconds. He was torn between giving chase and answering the cry which was still going on. The two events – this man’s appearance now and the ungodly sound – were somehow connected, he felt certain. Both repelled him in equal measure.
It was hard to ignore the scream, though. The longer it went on, the more compelling it was. He had to admit it was quite a feat of voice production. It rose in pitch to reach a firm, resonant note that might even have been a top C. This was held for an impressively long time before swooping down in a steep glissando to what sounded like the G below.
He moved tentatively towards the source of that sound, at the same time reaching out an arm ineffectually towards the blind man. ‘I say, you there! Hold on a moment, will you.’
The blind man picked up his white stick and began moving with surprising speed. In fact, it was hard to discount the idea that he was running away.
But that scream could not be ignored any more.
Paul thrust open the door.
Lady Emma Fonthill stood in the centre of the room. She turned towards Paul as he came in, her eyes fixed on him with a fierce glower. Her mouth was open in a shape that appeared almost premeditated. The extraordinarily musical scream continued to come out of it. How could she keep it up for so long?
She held one arm extended in the direction of an upright piano. It was disconcerting to notice that the hand at the end of that arm was covered in blood.
Someone, a man – good God, was it really, could it be … Sir Aidan? – was seated at the piano, motionless, his back to the room. The lid of the piano was closed, his hands resting upon it. His head was bent forward at an acute angle, his face hidden from Paul. Blood was streaming from one ear, from which also, oddly, there protruded the U-shaped end of what appeared to be a tuning fork.