‘What? Who? You first, Mr Cavendish.’
‘Well, I don’t like to point the finger. And it may have been nothing … but, Peter Farthing, that’s who I would have said.’
‘Peter Farthing?’ Quinn made a note of the name.
‘Yes.’
‘And who is Peter Farthing?’
‘A singer.’
‘With the choir?’
‘No. He is a professional singer whom Sir Aidan brings in from time to time to boost the basses. Also, he was due to sing a solo, or rather a duet with Dame Elsie.’
‘Dame Elsie?’
‘Dame Elsie Tatton.’
Quinn noted this name too and nodded for Cavendish to go on.
‘Farthing had got it into his head that Sir Aidan was trying to cheat him out of his fee.’
‘Was he?’
‘Well, oh, I … there was some confusion over the fee, I will give you that. But Farthing is a prickly character, quick to take offence. And he had also got himself worked up over the programme notes for some reason.’
‘What about the programme notes?’
‘Oh, it was nothing, just Farthing’s vanity. He was not credited for the duet I mentioned, whereas Dame Elsie was. He took great umbrage, as you might imagine he would if you knew him.’
‘Do you have a copy of the programme?’
‘I don’t see that what it has to do with anything, but, yes, here you are.’ Cavendish fished in his inner pocket to retrieve a folded sheet.
Quinn scanned the programme. ‘Why was his name left off?’
‘A simple oversight.’
‘It wasn’t a deliberate insult?’
‘Of course not. In fact, I don’t think we knew he would be the one singing with Dame Elsie at the time we had the programme printed. I rather think Farthing had not confirmed. He likes to keep Sir Aidan dangling. Either that or Sir Aidan was holding out the hope that he might get someone better. Or at least more pleasant. Farthing is a good enough musician but he does himself no favours with his attitude. An arrogant boor, he is. At any rate, he was in quite a fury over it. I believe Paul Seddon overheard him threaten to kill Sir Aidan.’
‘Strange,’ remarked Quinn. ‘Seddon did not mention this just now when we spoke to him.’
Cavendish seemed to lose faith in himself. ‘Oh, perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘You yourself did not hear Farthing threaten Sir Aidan?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘So once again, we only have Mr Seddon’s word to go on?’
‘Possibly Seddon was not being wholly serious. It may have been a joke.’
‘A joke? Rather an odd thing to joke about, is it not?’
‘Yes, but … well, I don’t know. You will have to talk to Farthing about it.’
‘I shall, don’t worry.’ Quinn turned the pages of the programme in his hands as he studied its contents thoughtfully. ‘One other question, if you don’t mind. How did Farthing get hold of a copy of this?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘They had not been distributed to the performers?’
‘No-o-o.’
‘And so, someone must have given him a copy?’
‘Must they?’
‘How else would he have got hold of it?’
‘He might have found one lying around.’
‘Who organized the printing of the programme?’
‘I did.’
‘And who had the copies of the finished programmes?’
‘I did.’
‘And who else had you shared a programme with?’
‘I’m not sure. Sir Aidan, certainly.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Perhaps … I might have … I can’t remember for sure.’
Quinn fixed Cavendish with a thoughtful gaze as he slowly closed the programme. ‘May I keep this?’
Cavendish shrugged his acquiescence.
‘Is it possible, Mr Cavendish, that you gave the programme to Farthing yourself?’
Quinn watched Cavendish squirm. ‘I … well, what an extraordinary … Good heavens …’
‘Perhaps you left it somewhere where you knew he would find it?’
Quinn did not press the treasurer for an answer. Instead he turned his attention to Ursula Cavendish. ‘And you, Mrs Cavendish, who was it you thought of?’
‘Donald Metcalfe.’
‘Ah, well, no. Now, really, I don’t think so,’ protested Cavendish. ‘Ursula, you really can’t mean that! Not Donald, surely not. I know he’s rather an odd cove but … no, no!’
‘Who is Donald Metcalfe?’ Again, Quinn made a note of the name.
Ursula Cavendish sat with her face pinched into a grim, self-righteous frown.
‘He’s our accompanist,’ explained Cavendish. ‘A very talented musician … He is something of a queer fish, I grant you.’
‘Queer fish? Cold fish, more like.’ Ursula shuddered in disgust. ‘You should have seen the way he looked at Sir Aidan. You could see it in his eyes. Hatred, pure hatred. Such a horrid man.’
‘But he plays like an angel!’ objected Cavendish.
‘Why did he hate Sir Aidan?’ said Quinn.
Ursula let out a long sigh. ‘To some extent, Aidan only had himself to blame.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Aidan could be quite … cruel. Or it could seem that way if you didn’t understand what he was trying to accomplish.’
‘What was he trying to accomplish?’
‘Perfection. And yet his tools were very far from perfect. He often grew frustrated. And he would take out his frustrations on Metcalfe.’
‘He was a bully,’ said Cavendish bluntly.
But before he could expand on this, the piercing blast of a police whistle came to them from outside.