Orchestrated Death by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page B

thousand.’
    ‘Pounds?’
    ‘Oh yes. We don’t deal in guineas any more.’ Watson regained his composure as Atherton lost his. ‘You must understand that
     this is a very rare and important instrument. And it’s in beautiful condition, I’m glad to say.’ He ran a hand over it with
     the affection of a true connoisseur, and then raised his speedwell eyes to Atherton’s face. ‘In fact it could easily fetch
     over a million. If you ever do come to sell it, I should feel privileged to handle the sale for you. And ifyou ever feel able to divulge its history, I should be extremely grateful.’ Atherton said nothing, and Watson sighed and placed
     the violin gently in its case. ‘It’s a shock to see such a beautiful instrument lying in this horrible case – and with these
     horrible bows. I hope no-one ever tried to play it with one of them.’
    Atherton was interested. ‘You think the bows – incongruous?’ He chose the word with care.
    ‘I can’t believe any true musician would ever touch this violin with either of them,’ Watson said with simple faith.
    ‘I didn’t know there were good bows and bad ones.’
    ‘Oh yes. And good bows are becoming quite an investment these days. I’m not as well up on them as I ought to be, I’m afraid
     – they’re a study in themselves. If you wanted to know about bows, you should go and see Mr Saloman of Vincey’s – Vincey’s
     the antiquarian’s, a few doors down in Bond Street. Mr Saloman is probably the leading authority in the country on bows. I’m
     sure he’d love to see this violin, too.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Watson,’ Atherton said, restraining the urge to press his hand lovingly, and took his massive bulk and the
     Stradivarius out of Mr Watson’s life.
    First he went to find a phone and call the station. Mackay answered from the CID room to say that there was still no reply
     from Mrs Gostyn’s telephone or door. Atherton felt a stirring of anxiety.
    ‘Tell them to keep trying, will you? An old bird like her can’t have gone far. She’s bound to be back some time soon. I’ll
     ring in from time to time and see if you’ve got her.’
    He was then free to keep his appointment with John Brown, the Orchestra’s personnel manager – a rosy, chubby man in his forties,
     with the flat and hostile eyes of the ageing homosexual. He received Atherton impassively, but with a faint air of affront,
     like a cat at the vet’s, as of one on whom life heaps ever more undeserved burdens.
    ‘She hadn’t long been with us. She came from the Birmingham,’ he said, as though thus dissociating himself from the business.
    ‘Where in Birmingham?’ Atherton asked ingenuously.
    Brown looked scornful. ‘It’s an orchestra – theBirmingham Municipal Orchestra. She’d been there about three years. They could tell you more about her personal life than
     I could,’ he added with a sniff.
    ‘Had she any particular friends in the Orchestra?’
    Brown shrugged. ‘She hung around with Joanna Marshall and her lot, but then they shared a desk, so what would you expect?
     Most of them stay with their own sections in coffee-breaks and so on. I don’t think she was particularly chummy with anyone.
     Not the chummy sort. Out of hours, I couldn’t tell you
what
she got up to.’
    ‘Did she drink a lot? Take drugs – pot or anything like that? Was she ever in any kind of trouble?’
    ‘How should I know?’ Brown said, turning his head away.
    ‘You didn’t like her, did you?’ Atherton asked, woman to woman.
    ‘I neither liked her nor disliked her,’ Brown said with dignity, refusing the overture. ‘She was a good player, and no less
     reliable than the rest of them. That was the only way in which her personality could interest me in the slightest. I’m not
     paid to like them, you know.’
    ‘What do you mean, no less reliable? Less reliable than whom?’
    ‘Oh, they’re always wanting releases to do outside work. With her it was wanting to go back and