She stood staring at the machine as it clicked loudly, then wound the tape back with an angry whirring sound. Carol pressed the replay button, listening intently as the whispered voice repeated the message. Blended with a brush of apprehension was anger-and the tingle of excitement that her investigation had driven someone to make the threat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Collis Raeburn’s singing teacher lived in an old suburb that had once enjoyed more gracious days. Her house, an undistinguished dark brick, sat stolidly in a neglected garden. Carol shivered as she got out of the car. The day had begun with icy wind and sudden, spiteful showers of rain, as a reminder that it was only very early spring.
Earlier, the sharpness of the day had been echoed by the coldness between her and Sybil. “Carol, there’s been something wrong between us for a long time. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and the way you want to live isn’t enough for me anymore.”
Restraining her anger, Carol had said, “Is running away the best thing to do?”
“We need to have some distance between us… I need some distance…”
“Don’t do this, darling.”
Sybil’s face had tightened at this brisk entreaty. “Carol, we always do it your way-this time it’s going to be different…”
Anne Newsome broke into her somber thoughts. Gesturing at the house, she said, “Being a singing teacher doesn’t seem very profitable. Must be in it for love.”
Love? thought Carol bitterly.
As they opened the sagging gate and walked up the overgrown path, a voice, warm as sunshine, poured out the open window. The sung phrase curled in the air, then faded. A pause, and it was repeated.
Carol knocked sharply on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a woman whose face was familiar from the Collis Raeburn television special. “Inspector Ashton? You’re a little early. I’m just finishing a lesson. Won’t be long.”
As they were shown into an alcove off the front room, Carol glimpsed the polished flank of a grand piano and the slight figure of a young woman standing beside it. She and Anne settled down into lumpily uncomfortable lounge chairs upholstered in dusty brocade.
The lesson recommenced. The young woman would sing a phrase, the dark liquid of her voice caressing the notes, only to be interrupted by an impatient comment and a command to do it again.
“No! No! Listen to yourself. Where’s your control? Remember, your voice is supported by a column of air… Put your hands against your ribs, here, fingers touching… Now, breathe in! Let the air force your hands apart.”
A pause, apparently for the student to comply. Anne caught Carol’s glance and smiled. The teacher’s impatient voice demanded, “You feel that? Do you? Do it again!… Now, you must always remember that the muscular arch of your diaphragm is the foundation of your voice. Singing is only air passing over your vocal cords, so you must control that column of air completely.”
There was a soft comment from the student, followed by an impatient exclamation from the teacher. “Most people are lazy and breathe shallowly. You must learn to use every part of your lungs-they are the bellows of your voice.” A chord was struck violently on the piano. “Don’t sing the note-hum! Louder… louder. Now! Swell it… fade it. You feel your upper lip vibrating? Yes? Remember that feeling. That’s where your voice must be placed to get that clear, beautiful, sustained sound.”
“Seems like hard work,” whispered Anne.
The teacher had begun a piano introduction. The music was unfamiliar to Carol, but it filled the room with an aching melody that intensified as the young woman began to sing. Her voice-tawny and supple-delighted Carol. She shut her eyes and let it curl around her. This time there were no interruptions. The song ended with a few soft notes, then the voice of the teacher saying grudgingly, “That was better. But you must practice. Practice!”
The lesson over, the student was bustled out the front door and Carol and Anne were taken into the main room. “Your student’s got a beautiful voice,” said Anne.
The teacher grunted. “Oh, yes, God’s given her the voice. But that’s just the first step. It’s what she does with it now, that’s important. She could be the next Kathleen Ferrier-if she works hard, and gets the breaks. It’s never enough to have raw talent. Luck has a lot to do with success.”
“Collis Raeburn was lucky?” said Carol.
The woman’s stern face softened. “Yes, Collis was lucky, but he also had a voice that only occurs once or twice a century. He was sent to me early, before he could learn shortcuts and bad habits-tenors often develop them, I’m afraid-and I realized immediately what he was.” She grew grim. “That is all the more reason why it is a dreadful tragedy that he’s dead.”
“You said on the phone to me that you believed someone had killed him.”
The teacher’s eyes narrowed at Carol’s bland tone. “I can see you doubt me, but I know someone did.” She gave a theatrical shrug. “You’ll be thinking I’m overdramatizing, no doubt. But I knew Collis better than anyone, and there is no way he would have killed himself. He had an arrogance, bordering on narcissism, that would make it absolutely impossible for him to even consider destroying himself. Suicide, no matter what, could not be an option.”
Carol said mildly, “Just hypothetically, what if he’d been suffering from something like cancer…”
“You don’t have to pussyfoot around. I knew about the AIDS.”
Hiding her surprise, Carol said, “What did he tell you, and when?”
“About a week before he died he came to see me here. Said he’d tested positive. He was angry and upset, but he wasn’t about to kill himself over it. Collis was a fighter. Wouldn’t have got where he did in his career if he was the sort to throw up his hands and give up. He told me he was determined to beat the virus. That he could afford the best advice, the latest drugs… and he firmly believed a cure was probable within the next few years.”
Carol said bluntly, “Did he have any idea how he caught it?”
She glared. “All he said was it was someone he knew. Said he’d get even, any way he could.”
“Any idea if it was a man or woman? Did he give a name?”
“No. And I didn’t ask, Inspector.” Her face contorted with grief and anger. “Wish I had, because whoever it was killed him to keep him quiet. I’m sure of it.”
As Anne drove them back into the city, she said rather smugly to Carol, “I think I know why he told the housekeeper and his singing teacher, but no one else.”
“He may have told several people, but they’re not saying anything.” Anne looked subdued by this comment, so Carol prompted, “What’s your theory?”
“Well, since Collis Raeburn’s mother died when he was very young, and the housekeeper and his singing teacher are sort of middle-aged, I think they might be mother-substitutes for him.” She flushed slightly. “That’s just off the top of my head.”
“It’s an interesting point, Anne. And it could lead somewhere, or not, but it’s worth saying.”
After an awkward pause, Carol said, “Who was Kathleen Ferrier?”
Anne grinned. “Luckily I can answer that, because my father had all her records. She was an English contralto with the most beautiful voice. She died young from cancer, and her records are all mono recordings, but they’re still wonderful.”
Singers live on in their recordings, thought Carol. What will I leave behind?
Back in her office, Carol closed the door and dialed home. “Sybil? Have you changed your mind?… Darling, please…” She listened, her face blank, then said, “Are you taking Jeffrey with you?”