Trumpets Sound No More by Jon Redfern

Author:Jon Redfern [Redfern, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Anne McDermid & Associates Ltd.
Published: 2011-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

At the age of eight, Owen Endersby had been taken by his father to see a public hanging. This was done in the father’s belief that all events contained in themselves a kind of justice. And it was up to man and woman alike to seek that justice out, to see the world as a rational place. Owen Endersby never forgot that outing with his father. He ardently believed it had helped to shape his way of thinking and prepare him for his vocation as a policeman. Owen desired reason and balance above all things, searching out miscreants sometimes to the point of exhaustion.

The case of Samuel Cake was resting on conjecture. Worse, it was to be taken from him, and all its horrific mystery left in limbo while the murderer still breathed the cold holiday atmosphere of London. Endersby pushed his way through wet, grumpy fellow city-dwellers, their “pardon me’s” lost on his ears. London was full of brutes, he thought. All of them wearing top hats and fine coats. All unaware that his mind was set on finding one responsible for a young impresario’s death.

Twenty minutes of walking found him at the river’s bank. Endersby had shuffled the Cake murder puzzle around, and like any man in a hurry, he had occasionally miscalculated one piece fitting in for another. But he sensed he would soon find a clearer picture. There was, after all, Cake’s clothing still to examine. The cloak, for instance, had blood spatters. It also had deep pockets, but Endersby had not taken enough time to look at them all thoroughly. “Must be done, old gander,” he scolded. Fifteen minutes later, after walking through more busy streets, the rainy sky now clearing above him, promising sunshine, he stood at the stage door of the Italian Opera in the Haymarket. He asked for the singer, Miss Elisabetta Mazzini, and was delighted by the warm reception he subsequently received from a fine-looking woman. “Most kind of you, Madame Mazzini.”

The woman was in her late thirties, round, blithe in gesture, her voice deep and smooth, and when she began to speak, she astonished the inspector, who stood for a moment with his mouth open. “Yes, from Manchester. Last name of Stork. Not a proper name for an opera singer. So, I trained in Naples and dyed my hair and married a Mr. Mazzini who has passed on and left me comfortable. Clara is my real English name, but London knows me by Elisabetta.”

“A fine ruse indeed,” Endersby finally said. “You are truly an actress.”

“Well, there are many of us who must play at disguises in order to earn our suppers, Mr. Endersby. Come into my private rooms. I am sure you will be wide-eyed on hearing about Mr. Samuel Cake. A man of mask and mystery much more than I.”

How fortunate Endersby felt to find Elisabetta Mazzini so accommodating; how delightful to see her in her chamber at this late afternoon hour, meeting her pianist, listening to her voice trill and play in the realms of Mozart and Bellini.

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