The Music Box Enigma Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by R. N. Morris

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Hampstead Voices’ Christmas Concert 1914

  Prelude

  First Movement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Second Movement

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Third Movement

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Fourth Movement

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Fifth Movement

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Coda

  Acknowledgements

  Also by R. N. Morris

  Novels

  PSYCHOTOPIA *

  The Silas Quinn series

  SUMMON UP THE BLOOD *

  THE MANNEQUIN HOUSE *

  THE DARK PALACE *

  THE RED HAND OF FURY *

  THE WHITE FEATHER KILLER *

  The Porfiry Petrovich series

  THE GENTLE AXE

  A VENGEFUL LONGING

  A RAZOR WRAPPED IN SILK

  THE CLEANSING FLAMES

  * available from Severn House

  THE MUSIC BOX ENIGMA

  R. N. Morris

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by R. N. Morris.

  The right of R. N. Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8955-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-709-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0430-1 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

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  For Rachel

  PRELUDE

  Saturday, 19 December, 1914

  ‘Is he …?’ Paul Seddon’s gaze veered wildly between the screaming woman and the motionless figure sitting upright at the piano. The question did not need finishing, still less answering. The object sticking out of a bloody wound in the man’s ear left little doubt. That object was both incongruous and apt. It was even peculiarly satisfying. Paul was conscious of thinking that he was not as shocked as he ought to have been, neither at the scene that confronted him, nor his own somewhat detached reaction to it.

  It was all very unexpected. That was certainly true. But there was an air of unreality to it that left him strangely numb.

  Perhaps he was in shock after all.

  At last the screaming stopped. Lady Emma nodded energetically. ‘Don’t touch him. He’s been murdered. Aidan has been murdered!’

  ‘Murdered?’ It was of course stupid of him to question this self-evident fact. If Sir Aidan was dead, as it seemed he was, the presence of a weapon (however incongruous, apt or satisfying) protruding from the side of his head led inevitably to the conclusion that he had been murdered. Unless he had driven it into his brain himself, which was unlikely.

  Lady Emma nodded insistently. ‘We ought to send for the police.’

  ‘Of course. But are you absolutely sure he’s dead?’ He made as if to approach the piano.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She spoke sharply. ‘We must seal the room. No one must come in until the police have been. The police will know what to do.’

  ‘Your hand.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There’s blood on it.’ The same blood, he would hazard, that was pooled around the dead man’s ear.

  ‘Blood?’ Lady Emma glanced in disgust at the hand with which she had been pointing at her husband. She slowly retracted the index finger. ‘I felt for a pulse … on his neck. That must be how it got there.’ She held the hand out as if it was not part of her but some dead animal she wanted rid of.

  Paul noticed that the blood was not limited to the tip of her index finger, or even just that finger and the one next to it, as would be the case if she had been feeling for a pulse. It was all over her hand. In fact, it was all over both hands.

  ‘Do you have a handkerchief?’ She was calm, but her gaze was imploring and strangely commanding. Seddon did not hesitate to comply.

  ‘I’ll call the police. There must be a phone in the office. I think you should come outside. I’ll get Metcalfe to guard the door.’

  ‘Metcalfe?’ She shook her head. ‘There’s no need to involve him. Or anyone. I shall watch the door.’

  He had only said Metcalfe because he knew he was nearby. On reflection he was probably not the best choice. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Her voice was decisive, her expression sealed off, unapproachable.

  ‘We will have to … tell people,’ he suggested tentatively.

  ‘The police first. And then …
tell Cavendish. He will know what to do.’

  ‘Very well. Will you be all right for a moment?’

  ‘All right?’ Her face clouded as if she did not quite understand the question. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I shall be all right.’ She distractedly handed back his handkerchief, which was now smeared with blood. Paul frowned uneasily as he wondered what to do with it.

  Eventually, reluctantly, he pushed it down into his trouser pocket.

  FIRST MOVEMENT

  ONE

  Two days earlier. Thursday, 17 December, 1914

  ‘Splendid. Yes. Very good, Cavendish.’

  Sir Aidan Fonthill, seated at the Danemann grand piano in the room he liked to call his studio, held a fresh proof of the concert programme at various distances from his nose to try to bring it into focus. He did possess a pair of reading glasses but didn’t like to wear them, not in front of other people, especially not those who were younger than him. Most particularly, not in front of young ladies. But also not in front of younger men, such as Cavendish.

  In truth, he did not know for sure that Cavendish was younger than him, but suspected he was. Cavendish was one of those chaps who seemed to have been born middle-aged. Bit of a stuffed shirt, truth be told. A stickler, you might say. Sir Aidan supposed it went with the territory. Accountant. Clever with numbers, but dull. No imagination. The balding head didn’t help. Sir Aidan thought proudly of his own full head of sand-coloured hair. He sported a foppish fringe that had to be repeatedly swept from his eyes. He eschewed facial hair too, believing a clean-shaven face suited the varsity look he was trying to cultivate. It was his little weakness that he could not pass a mirror without looking into it. Not as gratifying an activity as it once had been, he had to admit, but it was generally enough to reassure him that he still had ‘it’.

  Sir Aidan rose from the piano and transferred to his desk, on the grounds that it had more light being situated beneath the window. In truth there was not much light to be had anywhere today. Sir Aidan glanced up to take in the view of the garden. It was not looking its best at the moment. The wind and rain had given the stark wintry plants a battering. He placed the programme down on the green leather-topped desk and twiddled distractedly with a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. The signet itself was of a trefoil or shamrock, a reference to his family’s Irish origins. It was a habit he had, this obsessive turning of the ring, whenever he was preoccupied.

  A lot of the younger chaps had signed up, which was dashed inconvenient as it left the tenors and basses severely depleted. But one could hardly blame them. The call to arms was hard to resist. So perhaps Cavendish wasn’t as young as all that. Or perhaps he was a coward. You would have thought he would have been glad to get away from that wife of his. Of course, she was always very pleasant to Sir Aidan, even if it was in that dreadful, simpering way she had. He winced a little at the thought of her and gave Cavendish a quick, pitying look. By all accounts, she made Cavendish’s life hell.

  But the man had a decent enough voice, and so Sir Aidan was grateful for whatever it was that kept him out of the army.

  He liked to think that, had he been a younger man, he would have applied for a commission himself. But it remained a hypothetical question. He was honest enough to acknowledge that he was relieved, rather than frustrated, that it need never be put to the test. He felt that he had work to do, important work, which was best done in a civilian capacity.

  He read the front of the programme and nodded approvingly.

  ‘And how are ticket sales going, do we know?’

  Cavendish’s answer was to clear his throat, a curiously despondent sound, similar to the sound of the rain hurtling into the windowpanes. He stood by the fire, on the other side of the piano, half-hidden by it, warming the filthy weather out of his trouser legs.

  Tea had been brought. On a silver tray – another mirror for Sir Aidan’s opportunistic vanity, to go with the large one hanging over the mantelpiece.

  ‘We are virtually sold out.’ Cavendish’s tone was inexplicably morose.

  Sir Aidan put the programme to one side and looked round at the treasurer from his green leather-topped desk. ‘Splendid.’

  Cavendish grimaced. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course it is! Why would it not be? We want to sell as many tickets as possible, do we not? To raise as much money as possible for …’ Sir Aidan consulted the programme again. ‘For the refugees.’

  ‘Yes, but … at the last rehearsal …’

  ‘What?’

  Sir Aidan wished Cavendish would stop pulling those faces. ‘Are you quite all right, Cavendish? You look like you’re suffering from indigestion.’

  ‘We sounded awful,’ said Cavendish bluntly. ‘It doesn’t help that we’re missing so many of our best singers. There are all the men we have lost. And Miss Seddon, of course. The sopranos are certainly feeling her absence.’

  Now Sir Aidan was the one to grimace. ‘There’s still work to do. I grant you that. But it will all come together. It always does.’

  ‘It certainly is a shame about Miss Seddon, though.’

  Sir Aidan’s expression settled into a frown. What the devil was Cavendish getting at, bringing up Anna like that? He let it go, however. The fellow’s impertinence did not merit a response.

  Cavendish pressed on in his insistent, carping drone, ‘The next rehearsal will be with the orchestra and the professionals. I don’t think we’re ready, do you?’

  ‘I can always call for extra rehearsals if we need it. It would help if people would learn the music, you know.’

  But Cavendish was not reassured. ‘I fear this time we may have bitten off too much.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Sir Aidan picked up the programme again and opened it. ‘There’s nothing here that any half-decent choir shouldn’t be able to sing with their eyes closed.’

  ‘There will be paying members of the public coming along to this. The press may well be there. We don’t want to embarrass ourselves.’

  ‘We won’t, Cavendish!’ Sir Aidan insisted forcefully. ‘Good grief, you’re such an old woman. If anyone should be worried, it ought to be me. It’s my reputation on the line. I am the one who has pulled strings to ensure the participation of our distinguished guest performers. I have also managed to secure the attendance of a certain very important personage.’

  ‘He’s coming, is he? Churchill?’

  ‘The First Lord of the Admiralty has expressed that intention to me, yes.’

  ‘Ah, an intention.’

  ‘Winnie won’t let me down.’

  ‘Winnie now, is it?’

  ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘So you said. I expect a lot of other boys were too.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Are you sure he remembers you?’

  ‘He remembers me.’

  Cavendish shook his head woefully. Really, it was hardly surprising that his wife treated him so roughly. He would have brought out the harridan in the saintliest of women. The man was a wet blanket.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ insisted Sir Aidan. ‘He will be there.’

  ‘That’s just what I am worried about. It’s making the choir nervous, the thought of performing in front of such a prominent individual. We are not at our best under such circumstances.’

  ‘On the contrary, I am confident that the presence of such notables will inspire the choir to new heights of excellence. I certainly hope so, for I am also expecting the presence of another celebrity in the audience. One whom I understand to have the most exacting musical standards.’

  ‘Who?’ Cavendish asked warily.

  ‘Sir Edward Elgar.’

  Cavendish’s eyes bulged. ‘You do know we’re performing one of his pieces?’

  ‘Naturally. That’s why I put it in the programme. To entice him. A local choir singing his Christmas Greeting in a Christmas concert? He won’t be able to resist.’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘This won’t
end well.’

  ‘Don’t be such a doom-monger, Cavendish. Mark my words, this concert will put us on the map. I see it leading to all manner of invitations and opportunities.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘For the choir. Festivals, even the Proms – who can say?’

  ‘Are we ready for that?’

  Sir Aidan ignored the question. ‘And in the meantime, we will be supporting a very worthy cause. How much have we raised already, by the way?’

  ‘I don’t have the figures with me.’

  ‘Roughly. Off the top of your head. You must have some idea.’

  ‘I think we are close to two hundred.’

  ‘Seats?’

  ‘Pounds.’

  Sir Aidan nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent, excellent!’

  ‘The residents of Hampstead have been most generous. Many have paid in excess of the ticket price. There are some expenses that must be met out of this, of course. The hire of the harpsichord, for example. And there are the new Performing Right Society fees to be paid. But we are fortunate in that our principal artists have agreed to appear pro bono.’

  ‘But this is excellent news, Cavendish. It calls for a celebration, do you not think? Would you care for a brandy and soda?’

  Cavendish seemed to recoil from the suggestion. A mistrustful, worried look entered his eyes. He muttered a weak demurral.