'Better than ever this year,' Sir Beverly Stainer was saying to a group of friends drinking the free champagne. 'Every year a new challenge, eh, Hogbein?'

'We aim to please,' Hogbein said, smiling. He could afford to smile now. The Festival was well into its run, and such administrative hiccups as there had been were long since soothed. Unless something totally unexpected happened — the King's Hall roof falling in or a tsunami flooding the riverside art gallery — they now seemed set for a good festival. There was a sense of gaiety, here in the luxurious basement of the Royal Hotel; the evening's concert had been a huge success, and it amazingly seemed as if they might be going to break even this year.

'What about this woman — this Camille Lag ... Lag ...?'

'Ligorno,' Marius Hogbein said, only a little shortly. Sir Beverly's inability to remember anything but the name of a horse was too well-known to take offence at. 'Brilliant! Did you enjoy it?'

'Pretty little thing,' Sir Beverly said, beckoning a waiter for more champagne. 'Gifted, too! Fairly raced up and down that piano. Makes you wish you'd practised more, eh?' He laughed noisily. His guests smiled appreciatively. It was worth making the effort. Sir Beverly was a very rich man. 'I suppose you like that kind of thing, Hogbein? Bach and all that?'

Hogbein nodded. 'Very fond of Bach! An amazing composer, as fresh today as he was two and a half centuries ago.'

'Ah yes, well, you would.' Sir Beverly excused the festival director with a pitying smile. 'Your bread-and-butter, what? Couldn't have you going round saying you didn't like Bach, could we?' He roared again. 'Myself, I prefer Offenbach! Same diff, eh? Can-can, you know! Frilly skirts and all that jazz. Ought to have an Offenbach festival some time. Yes, why not? You'd get the numbers, and that's the important thing.'

Marius Hogbein smiled until his cheeks hurt, wishing as he did so that some particularly nasty thing would fall on the fat knight's head. He had inherited Sir Beverly from his predecessor, and it had been impossible to unship him from his position as chairman of the Festival.

'Certainly, numbers are important,' he said courteously. 'But not paramount.' Coral Stone, his secretary, gave him a tight, private smile from across the table and he stared back at her, trying to focus in his eyes patient humour and wry disgust. But he suspected that, half full of champagne as he was, he simply looked cross-eyed.

'What do we have to look forward to next?' Mave Cardwell said, leaning across the table towards him. Her expression said, 'let's cut this foul man out of our conversation!'

'In your line of business,' Marius said thankfully, turning towards her, 'tomorrow night's updated version of 'Pygmalion' with an all-black cast.'

Mave pulled a face. 'Oh, for an evening with the Bard in Elizabethan dress!'

'You surprise me,' Marius said. 'A drama critic looking backwards? Why am I bothering?'

Mave laughed, a rich sound full of mockery. 'You tell me, honey! What do people want? Does anyone know? I don't.' She turned to Hal Princeton, sitting at her side immersed in cigar smoke and gin. 'Do you know what your public wants?'

'Tchaikovsky, Brahms, Beethoven, and nothing after ten o'clock. At a guess.'

Alicia Hogbein regarded her husband. 'Were you happy with tonight?'

'The concert? Terrific! A lovely lady. Amazing how she gets so much power from those slim little arms and tiny hands. Must be made of steel.'

Princeton smothered a yawn, born of weariness rather than boredom. Festival time was demanding for those whose job it was to keep the public informed about what they had seen and what they should think about it.

'Shirr-strong as a horse — a lady horse, let's say. But you're right — she's lovely. Anyone who knows her will tell you. Charm, grace ...' He waved his cigar perilously close to Sir Beverly's face, and the chairman leaned away pointedly. 'Sorry, ol' man.' He stood slowly, holding on to the table edge for support until he got his legs properly balanced under him. 'A lovely lady, an' I don't mind who hears me say it! Come on, ol' girl ...'

He held out a hand to Mave, and she, shrugging and pursing her lips at the company, rose in more genteel fashion and gave a comprehensive wave.

''Bye, dears! See you tomorrow — somewhere.'

Marius watched her go. Alicia was collecting bag and lacy stole and making the obvious movements of departure. He sighed suddenly in spite of himself. If he woke up tomorrow and found that the rest of the Festival had been cancelled and he could do nothing about it — well ... No, perhaps not! Too much work had gone into it to back out now, even in his imagination. But he couldn't altogether help looking forward to the end of the season, and three weeks in Europe being himself. With Alicia, of course. She would visit all the museums and art galleries, and he — well, he would probably visit all the museums and galleries, too. He usually did. Out of one set of bonds into another!

As he stood and made his farewells and helped Alicia into her stole he sighed again. It wasn't that he was bored. So what was it? Perhaps he was just too confoundedly efficient, he thought all at once, surprising himself. He planned everything so that there would be no problems, and then when there were none he began to wish for a judicious hiccup or two for him to deal with.

They reached the top of the velvet-draped stairs and found that the night had grown cool with the smell of rain. At least there was nothing in the open air for the next few days. Cancelling was always a hassle.

'It was a good concert,' Alicia said as they reached the car. 'She really is a splendid lady, Camille Ligorno. I'd like to have time to talk to her tomorrow.'

'So you shall. I'll get Craig to arrange it for you.'

But in the morning they found the delightful Madame Ligorno lying amid the crushed flowers in her hotel room, and nothing looked easy any more.

CHAPTER 2

It worried Marius that his first sensation, after the first jolting shock of Madame's death, was relief that she had fulfilled all her commitments to the festival. She had arranged to have a couple of days free afterwards, an opportunity to make the most of the wide Australian beaches and perhaps even to see other distinguished performers whose paths seldom crossed her own, and so were too often no more than a name in a catalogue or pure and beautiful sounds issuing from a compact disc.

He told himself that his reactions were quite understandable; but he was relieved that his secondary emotions were less egocentric. He spoke to the police outside the door of the murder room.

'Did she ... do they think ... do you suppose she suffered at all?'

The policeman shook his head. 'Couldn't have. Instantaneous, the doc says.'

Marius gave a deep sigh. 'Thank God for that, anyway. A lovely woman like that — unbearable to think.'

The man nodded sympathetically. 'Makes you wonder, doesn't it?'

'I'd like to see whoever's in charge,' Marius said. 'I feel somewhat responsible.'

But it was early to know anything for sure. There was plenty of bustle in and around the room, police photographers flashing their cameras, detectives filling notebooks, and the slow movements of other guests past the door in the hopes of seeing something they could later relate, however vague. Marius went downstairs and into the coffee lounge, where several of his own staff were sitting, eyes on his as he entered, an unspoken question hanging in the air. Faces were pale under their midsummer tan, and the euphoria of the past few nights had quite disappeared.

'Anything?' Coral said quietly, and he shook his head.

'I think you should go back to the office in case people are trying to contact us.' He patted her shoulder gently. She looked haggard in the morning light. The festival press officer, Jim Fletcher, stood up and hesitated for a moment. 'Yes, Jim?'

'Do you want a press release? Is it appropriate?'

Marius frowned. 'I suppose so. I don't know. This is one thing I have no experience of. Get one ready.' He put a hand briefly on the other man's arm. 'Bring it to me and we'll see what's necessary.' He pressed his fingers into his eyes. 'I suppose there should be a formal statement from the festival, as well as all the garbage the newspapers will cough up.' He nodded encouragingly to Jim, and the young man left quickly, as if he was glad to have something constructive to do.

'My God!' said someone behind Marius, with a whoosh of sound from the automatic doors as she swept in. 'You poor old devil, Marius!' It was Mave Cardwell, of course, always at top pressure, always on the job. He turned to greet her, and was taken aback by a kind of glee in the over-powdered eyes. 'What a tragedy! What a story! This'll go round the world!'

'We could have done without it,' he said mildly enough, and she snorted back at him.

'International recognition for the festival that wiped out one of the world's greatest performers!'

Marius groaned. 'Spare me, Mave. I've got enough to worry about.'

'But she'd finished her stint for you, hadn't she? What can you lose?'

'Mave!' he said, shocked in spite of himself. 'We're talking about murder. About that 'lovely creature' we were discussing last night.' He stopped suddenly. 'At just about the time, according to the doctor. Oh, Lord!'

'Sit down,' she ordered. 'You need a drink. Have you had any breakfast?' He shook his head. The news had broken just as he was coming out of the shower. Alicia had told him, eyes wide and tragic. 'Then you must eat, sonny!' She called to a waiter and ordered quickly. 'Can't have you fainting on the job, old boy.'

He felt better after he had eaten. One corner of the lounge had been tacitly taken over by the festival staff and hangers-on, and they were secluded, away from the normal comings and goings. 'So what happened?' demanded Mave, watching Marius finishing his second fried egg.

'She was shot. But apart from that, I don't know. No one's told us.'

'What a wicked thing!' Mave exclaimed with an undercurrent of satisfaction. 'To bring to an end a life filled with such — such glories. Who could have done such a thing?'

'You'll have to ask them.' Marius pointed to a couple of policemen crossing the foyer. Mave looked up.

'I believe I will.' She stood and made her way with determination across the wide hall, stopping the men in their progress. They listened to her courteously enough, but Marius could see they weren't telling. He smiled wryly to himself. He liked Mave, even her shocking halo of unrealistically black hair, but there were times when her exuberance for life in all its rainbow shades got out of hand. She pulled a face at the men, expressing her frustration, and returned to the corner of the lounge.

Marius took the opportunity to excuse himself, rejecting politely Mave's offer to come with him to the office. He needed to be alone, to think. Death was one thing. It would have been bad enough to find Madame in her bed, her life ended by a heart attack. But murder implied other things, dark things that he didn't want to think about, but must. He must try to set the whole period of time since Ligorno had arrived in the city fixed in his mind, so that he would have some kind of framework for the police enquiries. Murder meant a victim; but it also meant a murderer.

Coral Stone was sitting at her desk when he entered the office. She turned to him with a question in her eyes. 'I know,' he said. 'Don't ask me anything now.' He passed through the outer room and closed the door on his own office, leaning back against it for a moment. The Festival, which had stretched before him, neatly and efficiently planned, now seemed a shambles. He remembered his discontent of the evening before, and wished it back so that he could relish the sensation of having no particular problems. Dimly he was aware that phones were ringing, but he ignored them.

Craig, the administrative officer, knocked gently and entered, his face drawn. 'Sir Beverly for you, Marius. Will you take it?' Marius started to shake his head, then stopped.

'Yes. Put it through.' He picked up the receiver. 'Sir Beverly?'

The voice at the other end of the line was harsh and angry. It seemed he might be blaming Marius for the tragedy. He simply held the phone and allowed the sound to continue. 'Well?' said the distant voice. 'What are you doing about it, eh? What are you actually doing?'

'We are doing whatever is necessary.' Marius's own voice was colourless. 'It's in the hands of the police. There's not a great deal we can do — except answer the phone and help in any way possible.'

Sir Beverly humphed grumpily. "Keep me informed. I ought to be informed! See to it!" He slammed the receiver down. Marius stared into the earpiece before replacing it with commendable control.

'Three bags full, Sir Beverly!'

'Dame Clarissa for you,' Coral said, putting her head round the door; and before he had time to think what he should say the formidable lady was upon him. Tall, elegant, regal in style, she had been chairperson of the Festival Friends for ten years, and associated with the festival for thirty. He was very fond of Dame Clarissa — though he could have done without her at this moment.

'A terrible thing!' she was saying. 'Frightful! Frightful! In our festival, too. Are you all right, dear boy? You must be feeling absolutely shattered.' Dame Clarissa always spoke with a decibel range that implied that you were in a far paddock with the wind against you. It probably came of being reared on a Northern Territory cattle station before marrying the late Colonel Osbert Payne, whose main claim to fame had been his undoubted success on the parade ground of the Victoria Barracks.

In his lighter moments, Marius had sometimes wondered how their more intimate conversations would have been conducted — molto vigoroso e sempre fortissimo, he imagined. But she was a dear, in spite of it.

'Come in, Clarissa. Yes, it's been a sad blow.' They sat down and regarded each other silently.

'You look distinctly peaky, dear boy. Don't let it get you down. It wasn't your fault ...' She stopped suddenly, and they caught in each other's faces the knowledge that this was not a matter of blame, but of criminality. Someone — and it was likely it was someone they knew — was responsible. 'Oh dear,' the old lady sighed, looking her years for once. 'Oh dear, dear, dear ...'

'I suppose the problem is ... that there's nothing we can do,' Marius said after a while. 'It's in police hands. You feel you want to go rushing round saying to people, "where were you at the time the crime was being committed?"

'But you can't do that! I just hope they've got somebody on it who understands what they're handling. After all, it has international repercussions. She was a very great lady. Many people are going to be broken-hearted over this affair.'

'I don't think we're right to assume,' Dame Clarissa said slowly, 'that it must be someone from here. Couldn't it be some kind of — um — international syndicate — isn't that what they call them? Couldn't it be ... ah ...?'

'It could be. But let's face it, it's not very likely. The people who are involved with the festival, the people who were involved with Camille Ligorno, they're all people known to me. They're all people known to all of us, Clarissa! That's what makes it so devilish. But we can hope — for an outsider, someone off the street.'

Coral opened the door quietly, peeped round. Behind her was the figure of the detective in charge; Marius pushed back his chair and stood, defensively. Dame Clarissa stood, too, her eyes going from his and Coral's to the unrevealing face of the man beyond.

'You'd like me to go, dear boy!'

'No! No, Clarissa, you stay. We're all going to be in this.'

The detective entered, confident, authoritative, at ease in this room from which the ease had departed. Behind him, his young constable.

'Marius Hogbein? Nick Verdun, detective sergeant. This is detective constable Briggs.' Both men flashed their ID, and Marius nodded.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Death at the Festival by Barbara Yates Rothwell. Copyright © 2016 Barbara Yates Rothwell. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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Last amended May 2021.

Death at the Festival

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