Smallbone Deceased

Part One of the performance was more than half over. The chorale, “Here would I stand,” drew to a close, and Bohun locating himself by means of the Tenor and Bass Recitatives that followed, knew that he had come in at exactly the right moment. The second choir were on their feet and he saw Cockerill get up quietly to join them.

There was an unmistakable touch of confidence in the way he held himself and after the first two notes of the “O Grief”, Bohun’s impression was confirmed. The man had a more than ordinarily fine voice. It was not one of the great tenor voices of the world. It lacked perhaps the tight consonantal finish which die-stamps the work of the professional; but full compensation was offered; the tone and the good temper and the clear sincerity of the singing. “Oh grief, how throbs His heavy laden breast. His spirit faints, how pale His weary face.” It was as if the singer was hearing the words for the first time. The mutter of the choir: “My Saviour, why must all this ill befall Thee?” The tenor voice spoke again: “He to the Judgment Hall is brought. There is no help, no comfort near.”

The words set off a train of pictures, like an uncut cinema film, starting with an old and evil judge mouthing over the words of the death sentence and finishing in a small concrete shed in a high-walled yard at dawn.

When he brought his thoughts back, Cockerill was on his feet again for his second solo. “I would beside my Lord be watching.” This is a difficult passage for any amateur, but the singer rode through it with a sort of innocent triumph, taking the long runs with perfect judgment, until it fell away into its final chorale.

“And so our sin will fall asleep. Will fall asleep. Our sin will fall asleep.”

Taking a quick look round him as the last notes died, Bohun saw that he was not alone in his appreciation. The audience having paid the tribute of silence and stillness to a moving performance, broke into the momentary shuffle which is the complement of this sort of attention.

Bohun saw something else, too.

Three rows ahead of him was a head on a thickset neck, topping a pair of blacksmith’s shoulders.

It was a figure that he had every reason to recognise.

It occurred to him to wonder what had brought Inspector Hazlerigg out at night to the Temple Concert Hall.

‌Chapter Fourteen —Saturday— Preparations for Completion

A house may be habitable but entirely different to the house contracted for.

Bickerton Pratt: Conveyancing Practice

I

“I see,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

He drew a truculent rabbit on the scribbling-pad in front of him: thought for a few minutes, then took out a four-colour propelling pencil from his inside pocket and dressed it in a Harlequin tie.

“The ball’s in your court,” he said.

“I can’t see any way round it,” agreed Hazlerigg. “The trouble is that all this recent stuff has come in so fast that I haven’t had time to put any of it to him.”

“He’s been questioned, of course.”

“On the preliminary matters—like everyone else—yes.”

“I see.” The Assistant Commissioner returned to the rabbit and presented it with a top hat, an eyeglass and, as an afterthought, a wooden leg. “He certainly had the opportunity for both murders. The means weren’t beyond him. And he’d got plenty of motive.”

“Too much motive, in a way, sir.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” said Hazlerigg diffidently, “I’ve always believed that a certain type will kill in anger and another type for gain. In a sort of way he seems to have done it for both.”

“Too much motive makes a nice change, anyway,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Look at Aspinall’s chap! However, there’s also the fact that he lied about his movements on both occasions. That’s the sort of thing a jury can appreciate. By the way, I think Sergeant Plumptree might get a pat on the back for tracing that Saturday morning phone call. It was sound work.”

Hazlerigg nodded.

“I don’t see what else we can do,” went on the Assistant Commissioner. “You’re quite right. He’ll have to be given a chance to explain this new stuff. Where is he now?”

“Somewhere on the North Sea, I imagine.”

“Oh—yes, he’s staying down at that weekend cottage, isn’t he?”

“He arrived late last night. I’ve got the local sergeant keeping an eye on him. He rings me up from time to time. He’s a good man, too.”

“It mightn’t be a bad thing—from our point of view—if he did try to bolt.”

“He’s not the sort of chap who’ll lose his nerve easily,” said Hazlerigg.

The Assistant Commissioner appeared to make up his mind.

“I can’t see that we stand to gain anything by waiting,” he said. “Take a warrant and go down this afternoon. Whether you use it or not is entirely up to you. You’ll just have to see what you think of his explanation. I can’t give you any guidance—you’ve had as much experience in that sort of thing as I have. I needn’t remind you that once you do make up your mind—”