Swan Song. Edmund Crispin

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       Chapter Five

      And that was when the real trouble started.

      There was a minor hitch over positioning, followed by a misunderstanding as to the point in the score at which the music was to be recommenced. Shorthouse snapped at Peacock; Peacock snapped back at him, and then they went for one another, as Adam afterwards put it, ‘like a nationalization debate in the Commons’. Although it was an eruption which everyone had expected, the embarrassment was general, since the sight of two grown-up men bawling at one another like children is at the best of times dispiriting. No one, however, interfered; only, when Peacock finally stalked out, after smashing his baton on the conductor’s desk in an access of blind fury, Adam went quietly after him. He heard the murmur of released tension as he left the stage.

      Peacock was in the rehearsal-room. He stood quite still, gripping the lid of the piano with both hands and struggling to control his emotions. His bony, irregular, sensitive features betrayed the strain he was undergoing, and his eyes were momentarily vacant and unseeing. Adam hesitated for an instant in the doorway; then said briefly:

      ‘You have my sympathy.’

      There was a considerable pause before Peacock replied. At last he relaxed and said with great bitterness:

      ‘I suppose I should apologize.’

      ‘Technically, yes,’ Adam commented. ‘Humanly, no. You must realize that everyone is on your side. Edwin is behaving intolerably.’

      Peacock muttered.

      ‘I ought to be able to control a situation like that. After all, it’s all part of my job …’ He considered. ‘You’ve more experience of these things than I … Should I resign?’

      ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Adam warmly. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Naturally, I realize’ – Peacock spoke with difficulty – ‘the line it’s desirable to take. Genial but firm … The trouble is, my nerves won’t let me do it. I suppose really I’m unfitted for this kind of work.’ He looked so haggard that Adam was shocked. ‘But I’ve simply got to make a success of it. One way or another, it’s going to affect the whole of my future career.’

      There was a silence. ‘What about the rehearsal?’ Adam asked.

      ‘Tell them it’s over, will you? I can’t face people at present.’

      ‘It would be better if you—’

       ‘For God’s sake tell them it’s over!’

      Peacock checked himself abruptly, and a spasm of shame passed over his face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’

      ‘I’ll tell them,’ said Adam, and hesitated.

      ‘For the love of heaven don’t do anything rash,’ he added, and returned to the stage.

      There he made his brief announcement. Shorthouse, he observed, was not present to hear it.

      People drifted away, chattering in a subdued fashion. The orchestra began to dismantle and pack up their instruments. Joan Davis accosted Adam.

      ‘How is he?’ she asked.

      ‘I don’t like it,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t like it at all. Where’s Edwin?’

      ‘He left immediately after Peacock.’

      Adam sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point in lingering here. Let’s go back to the hotel and get a drink.’

      ‘Do you think we should have a conference?’

      ‘A conference … I scarcely see what would come of it.’

      Joan smiled wryly. ‘Nothing, in all probability. But it might clear the air.’

      ‘After dinner, then – preferably over a drink.’

      ‘I’ll arrange something.’ Joan nodded briskly, and went off to her dressing-room.

      At the stage door Adam met Shorthouse on the point of leaving.

      On a sudden impulse: ‘What the hell is the matter with you, Edwin?’ he demanded.

      Shorthouse looked at him queerly, almost blankly. His thin grey hair was dishevelled, and there was sweat on his cheeks and forehead. It came to Adam, with a sudden twinge of horror, that the man might be growing insane. Irrationally, and quite unexpectedly, Adam had a feeling of pity.

      But it was wiped away when Shorthouse spoke – thickly, as though the movement of his mouth were painful to him.

      ‘I shall telephone Levi,’ he said, ‘and get that little whipper-snapper kicked out.’

      ‘Don’t be a fool, Edwin.’ Adam spoke sharply. ‘Even if Levi agreed, it’d be the beginning of the end for you. You can’t antagonize people beyond a certain point without suffering for it.’

      But Shorthouse, surprisingly, took no offence. ‘Suffering,’ he repeated dully. ‘People don’t realize how I suffer already …’ He paused: then, collecting himself, blundered out into the early darkness.

      Adam followed him shortly afterwards.

      Dennis Rutherston, the inevitable hat perched on the back of his head, leaned back and stared fixedly at the pale amber of the whisky in his glass.

      ‘Why worry?’ he said. ‘It’ll smooth itself out. These things always do.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Adam interposed with unwonted vigour. ‘But I don’t agree.’

      They were in the bar of the Randolph Hotel, seated round a table near the door – Adam, Elizabeth, Joan, Rutherston, Karl Wolzogen, and John Barfield. It was eight o’clock of the same evening, and the after-dinner crowd had not yet collected. Nonetheless, a few persistent drinkers shared the room with them. At a neighbouring table, a tall, dark man with a green scarf round his neck was holding forth learnedly on the subject of rat-poisons to a neat middle-aged gentleman of military aspect and an auburn-haired youth with unsteady hands and a rose in his buttonhole. The place was predominantly blue and cream. It was blessedly warm after the cold outside. The clink of glasses, the angry fizzing of a beer-machine behind the bar, and the bell of the cash-register mingled agreeably with the hum of conversation.