Swan Song by Edmund Crispin Page A

Cockney. ‘I expect you’d like to hear some of my
Oresteia.
Can either of you sing?’
    â€˜Surely you remember me, Shorthouse?’ said Adam, annoyed.
    â€˜Oh,
Langley.
Of course. How stupid of me. Are you going over to the Metropolitan? We’re losing all our native singers nowadays . . . Well, I’ll play you the second act of the
Agamemnon,
if you like. That’ll give you an idea of the work as a whole.’
    â€˜This is Professor Fen, from Oxford.’
    â€˜Glad to meet you. Very progressive of the Metropolitan to employ an educated man as their agent.’
    â€˜No, no . . . Professor Fen has nothing to do with the Metropolitan.’
    â€˜Beatrix distinctly said . . .’
    â€˜It was a ruse,’ Adam explained. ‘She wouldn’t let us in at first.’
    â€˜I’m not surprised, either,’ said the Master; and then, evidently feeling that this might sound ungracious, added: ‘What I mean is, she lets very few people in at thebest of times.’ He had crossed to the window and was contemplating Lily Christine. ‘What a nice little car. I wish,’ he said wistfully, ‘that I could have a nice little car like that.’
    â€˜Surely you could if you wanted one.’
    â€˜No. Beatrix wouldn’t let me. She’s very anxious to protect me from noise. People creep about this house, you know, as though one were lying dead. It becomes unnerving after a time . . . Well, do sit down, if you can find anywhere.’
    For the moment this was a problem, since the room was less untidy than chaotic. It was dominated by a Steinway grand piano, and every available surface was littered with music manuscript paper. Over by the window was a tall wooden desk at which the Master stood while scoring; quantities of bedraggled hothouse flowers drooped from vases; and a photograph of Beatrix Thorn and the Master gazing at one another, rather self-consciously, hung crookedly on the wall. Fen and Adam cleared a couple of chairs and sat on them; the Master paced up and down.
    â€˜I’ve really lost all control,’ he was saying. ‘Beatrix doesn’t want me to be worried with domestic details, so I can never find out what’s going on. For example’ – he shook his head, mystified – ‘there seems to be a huge number of maidservants, who whenever you meet them are always either tear-stained or actually weeping. I used to think Beatrix was responsible for this, but I’ve discovered recently that it’s Gabriel, my amanuensis, who has a penchant for the opposite sex. I can’t think,’ he added with great frankness, ‘what he does to them . . . By the way, did you come to see me about anything in particular?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Adam. ‘About your brother.’
    â€˜Oh, Edwin.’ The Master was not enthusiastic. ‘And how is the dear fellow?’
    â€˜You must know he’s dead.’
    â€˜So he is,’ said the Master, brightening. ‘I had atelegram about it this morning. Well, well. When is the funeral? I don’t expect I shall get to it, though.’
    â€˜It’s thought that he was murdered.’
    The Master frowned. ‘Murdered? What an extraordinary coincidence.’
    â€˜Whatever do you mean, coincidence?’
    â€˜I’ll tell you something’ – the Master leaned forward confidingly – ‘provided you don’t let it go any further.’
    â€˜Well?’ Fen asked. He appeared stupefied by so much cold-bloodedness.
    â€˜I had seriously considered killing Edwin myself.’
    Adam gazed at him, aghast. ‘You can’t mean that?’
    â€˜Of course,’ the Master admitted, ‘I had to consider the pros and cons.’ Here Fen muttered something unintelligible, and hastily lit a cigarette. ‘The question really was whether Edwin’s
voice
or Edwin’s
money
was going to be more useful to me in producing