Swan Song by Edmund Crispin

furious-looking cat was trying to get at a parrot. It was far from restful; indeed, it was almost apoplectic. Though he had seen it all before, and hence might consider himself to some extent acclimatized, Adam was unable to repress a shudder.
    Miss Thorn, striding unperturbed through this ghostly tumult, conducted them into a small back room. Here she turned to face Fen.
    â€˜Well?’ she inquired in a hoarse whisper.
    â€˜Well?’ Fen countered blankly. ‘Where is Mr Shorthouse?’ He gazed suspiciously at a large urn whose sides were stencilled with an energetic Rape of the Sabine Women, as though expecting that the composer might be concealed within it.
    â€˜All the Master’s business affairs,’ hissed Miss Thorn, ‘pass through my hands. You may speak freely to me.’
    â€˜Oh, I may, may I?’ said Fen, who was not possessed of much patience at the best of times. ‘But I’m sorry to say I have no authority to deal with anyone but Mr Shorthouse himself.’
    â€˜
Im
possible.’
    â€˜Then I shall go back to America,’ Fen announced with conviction.
    â€˜If you could wait an hour or so . . .’
    â€˜No,’ said Fen, on whose normal tones an American accent had rather implausibly grafted itself during theforegoing interchange. ‘
Im
possible,’ he added involuntarily. ‘I have to see Richard Strauss –
almost at once
.’ He frowned with such severity that Miss Thorn, who, Adam suspected, was essentially a credulous soul, was visibly shaken.
    â€˜Well,’ she whispered, ‘I suppose we
might
disturb the Master . . .’
    â€˜Let us by all means disturb the Master. I don’t doubt he’ll be most annoyed if you keep me from him.’
    This was a hit, a palpable hit; it was evident that the last thing Miss Thorn wanted was the Master’s disfavour. She drew a deep breath, like one about to plunge into cold water.
    â€˜Wait,’ she said, ‘I shall be back shortly.’
    They waited; she was back shortly. ‘Will you come this way,’ she said; it was less a question than an awestruck comment on their transcendent good fortune. ‘The Master will see you.’
    They returned through the hall. How nice it would be, thought Adam, if by this time Consummation had supervened – Mercury flown, the Eumenides vanished, the panther quiescent and satiated, Laocoön dead, the dragon dispatched. But no; all were fixed and immutable in their rage, as before; and Adam shuddered again as Miss Thorn led them up the staircase. Her manner suggested that the Veil of the Temple was about to be put aside; she walked on tip-toe, with elaborate precautions against noise.
    It was not long before they reached the door of the Holy of Holies. Miss Thorn opened it reverently and peered inside. A peevish voice said:
    â€˜Well, come along, come along.’
    Another moment, and they were in the Presence. The Presence, it should be said, displayed no special desire for Miss Thorn’s continued company.
    â€˜All right, Beatrix,’ it said testily. ‘I can manage.’
    â€˜You’re quite sure?’
    â€˜Of course I’m sure. Leave me alone with these gentlemen.’
    â€˜Very well, Master. Don’t tire yourself.’
    â€˜I am perfectly fit.’
    â€˜I wasn’t suggesting, Master, that you weren’t perfectly fit. But you mustn’t exhaust yourself unnecessarily.’
    â€˜Will you go away, Beatrix.’
    â€˜Very well, Master. If you need me, you have only to call.’
    â€˜It’s very unlikely that I shall need you.’
    â€˜But you might.’
    â€˜In that case I’ll call. Now please leave us.’
    Sighing, Miss Thorn departed. The Master advanced to greet them. He was a small, plump, middle-aged man with a large head and horn-rimmed spectacles, and he looked harassed.
    â€˜Nice to meet you,’ he said; his voice held the faintest suggestion of