Unbidden Melody Read online

  “How did you come to hear of them?” He looked really amused and intrigued then.

  “Why, I have records of them both.”

  “Not originals?”

  “Oh, no. Re-pressings. But—”

  And suddenly they were both talking rapidly about records and singers of the past. “Like two people in the opera queue,” thought Mary, stunned. And with another part of her consciousness she was delightedly aware that the haunted look had gone from his face, and he was ani­mated and concerned only with what they were discussing.

  They were still talking when the car slid smoothly to a standstill outside the entrance to the Gloria. He looked up then and said, a little uncertainly, “Oh—the Gloria—”

  “Yes. Mr. Deane said to tell you that we got your usual suite for you. He said—”

  “But I don’t want the usual suite!” There was no mis­taking the harsh certainty of that. And he looked at Mary as though she had suddenly become an enemy.

  In a second she realised why. Of course he wanted nothing familiar. Nothing to remind him of those other times.

  “You don’t have to have the usual suite,” she said calmly. “I’ll go in and change the reservation now. Just see that Carter takes out all the baggage.”

  Carter would have been furious if he had known that anyone was casting such a slur on his efficiency. But Mary was doing no such thing, of course. She was merely giv­ing Nicholas Brenner a reason for waiting outside while she slipped into the hotel and changed that hideously tactless reservation.

  She accomplished it in a matter of minutes, and with­out fuss or explanation. By great good luck an equally suitable suite was available in a different part of the hotel. This was a matter of happy chance, as Mary well knew. But Nicholas Brenner when he came in seemed to think it was evidence of first-class efficiency on her part.

  He thanked her, briefly but approvingly and then said, “There’s a rehearsal for principals this evening, I see. Will you be there?”

  She opened her mouth to say that no such suggestion had been made. But something far more than her imme­diate desire to go—some unerring instinct which was to inform many of her reactions in these first days of know­ing Nicholas Brenner—made her reply that if he would like her to be there she would certainly come.

  “I should like you to be there,” he said without elabor­ation. “Pick me up here at five.”

  She promised to do so and went out to rejoin Carter.

  “Is that the usual thing, Carter? Do we ferry them to and from rehearsals, and generally hold their hand?”

  “Not with him we didn’t in the old days. But that was when she was there,” Carter explained. “She drove. And she gave the orders too, I might say.”

  “Oh,” said Mary, who had not quite thought of Monica Brenner in that light. “Well, he wants me to go to rehear­sals with him. Can we pick him up here at five?”

  “Sure,” Carter agreed. “Do you want to go back to the office now?”

  Mary said she did. And back once more in her office she began to clear up the routine business of the day. Early in the afternoon her employer telephoned from Paris, and she was able to report that Nicholas Brenner had arrived, was safely installed at the Gloria, where he had decided to have a different suite from his usual one, and that he wanted her to go to rehearsal with him at five o’clock.

  “Wants you to go to rehearsal with him?” echoed Der­mot Deane’s voice. “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Mary with truth.

  “Never happened with Miss Evans.” She heard her employer laugh. “Oh, well, I suppose in Monica Brenner’s day things were different. Fortunate that you had a free evening.”

  “Yes,” said Mary, not thinking it necessary to mention that as soon as she had heard Nicholas Brenner required her company she had jettisoned a proposed theatre visit without question.

  Half an hour later the switchboard girl rang to say there was a personal call for Mary and could she take it?

  “Yes, of course.” And she waited expectantly, half convinced that it must be Nicholas Brenner once more requiring her personal attention.

  It was not his voice, however. It was a voice which, a year ago, would have sounded more wonderful to her than anything that ever wafted itself across the foot­lights. And it said,

  “Mary! This is Barry. I’ve had the devil of a time trac­ing you. They didn’t want to give me your new number at that cautious old solicitors’ office. Since when have you changed jobs?”

  “Hello, Barry.” She cleared her throat and tried to make her voice sound light and casual. “I came to work for Dermot Deane, about three weeks ago. How—how come you’re in London?”

  “I’ve been transferred back to our head office.”

  “From Edinburgh? And how about—Elspeth?” There was a time when she would have thought she could scarcely pronounce that name, but it came out fairly trippingly when she made the effort.

  It was he who left a moment’s pause before he said, “That didn’t work out, Mary.”

  “Didn’t—work out? You mean you’re not married, after all? Or do you mean—?”

  “I mean she married another chap four months ago. Someone with rather more money than I have, and a great deal more of what it takes, I guess.”

  She really hardly thought that possible. For Barry, in her view, had more than his fair share of “what it takes”. Oh, much, much more. That was why, when he became engaged to Elspeth Horton, life had lost all its savour and joy for a while.

  She had pulled herself out of that slough of despond by now, of course. She was a year older, a year wiser. She knew that she had been a fool to suppose that anyone of Barry’s particular make-up would fall for her type. He needed someone far more sophisticated, more worldly, more accomplished. Someone like Elspeth Horton.

  And yet Elspeth had turned him down eventually, it seemed. For the first time in her whole relationship with him, compassion for Barry flooded over her, and her heart warmed afresh to him.

  He was talking again now. “These things happen, Mary. They hit one between the eyes at first, of course. But it’s no good being crushed and bitter about them.”

  Oh, she knew that! She knew that very well. That was the way she had talked to herself when he first became engaged to Elspeth and went away out of her life. But now he was back again. He was in London—and asking her to meet him again, that very evening.

  Suddenly her mental processes shifted gear, and she exclaimed distressfully, “Oh, I can’t, Barry. I’m terribly sorry. Not this evening. I—I have to go to rehearsal with one of our top clients.”

  “A rehearsal? What do ‘our clients’ do, then?” He sounded amused rather than impressed.

  “I told you—I work for Dermot Deane, the impresario, you know. We—I mean he—handles most of the big musical stars. People like Oscar Warrender and Torelli and—and Nicholas Brenner.”

  “But surely people like that can get to a rehearsal on their own by now? Every little chorus girl in Shaftesbury Avenue can do that. Whose hand have you got to hold to­night?”

  “I’m not holding his hand. It’s Nicholas Brenner and—”

  “The tenor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good heavens, Mary, you’re not going to stand me up for a tenor? He’s probably frightful when he’s not singing. Wears patent leather pumps and a fur-collared coat, I expect.”

  “No,” said Mary coldly, “he does not. At least, he didn’t when I met him this morning. And anyway—”

  “You only met him this morning, and he wants to take you out this evening? He’s a fast worker, even for a tenor.”

  “He is not taking me out,” Mary insisted patiently. “My boss is away in Paris—”

  “I say, you do live it up in your new office, don’t you?”

  “So I have to deputise for him,” concluded Mary, ig­noring the interruption. “It’s merely a question of giving polite and efficient treatment to an international star.”<
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  “Are you cross with me, darling?” asked Barry’s voice coaxingly.

  “No, of course not.” She had been, but when he called her “darling” in that particular way she felt all the pain and bitterness of a year ago drain from her. “Barry, I’m truly sorry not to be able to come with you this evening. But ask me another evening. Please dot I’d love to see you and talk of old times and—”

  “New,” he supplied, in a tone which stirred the long-suppressed feeling of joyous excitement which she had always associated with him. “All right, make it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow would be perfect,” she assured him, hop­ing anxiously that Nicholas Brenner would not require her then.

  “Are you still living at home?” Barry wanted to know before he rang off.

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “My good little home-bird!” He laughed, but tenderly rather than mockingly. Then he arranged where they should meet, and as she replaced the receiver Mary found that she was trembling slightly. Even now, and at the end of a telephone wire, Barry could still do that to her.

  “But I’ve learned a lot since that terrible mistake a year ago,” she assured herself. “I’ll know not to take things too seriously this time. Just to enjoy the moment—play it lightly—not to assume too much just because he calls me darling and looks at me in that special way.”

  She telephoned her mother then, to explain that she would be late home. And then she added casually, “You’ll never guess who phoned. Barry Courtland. He’s back in London.”

  “Oh?—On a visit?” She knew her mother too well not to detect the faint reserve in her tone.

  “No. He’s come back here to work. He—Elspeth Hor­ton didn’t marry him after all, Mother. She married someone else some months ago.” Then, as her mother said nothing—”He wanted me to go out with him this evening. But I couldn’t, of course.”

  “That was a good thing.”

  “Oh, Mother! Why?”

  “Because, dear, if I may say so, you were once far too ready to drop everything and do whatever he wanted. That’s not good for any man, you know.”

  “No,” agreed Mary thoughtfully. “Nowadays, I wouldn’t do that, of course. I’m older—and perhaps a bit wiser.”

  And only when she had rung off did she remember the theatre ticket in her handbag, which was not going to be used now because she had agreed to go to rehearsal with Nicholas Brenner instead.

  He was waiting for her in the hotel vestibule when she arrived.

  “I’m not late, am I?” She glanced quickly at her watch.

  “Not at all. And I hope I’m not interfering with your plans for the evening. I forgot to ask about that. Were you doing anything special?”

  “Not a thing,” lied Mary cheerfully, mentally sinking the theatre performance—and even Barry—almost with­out trace.

  “Then perhaps you’ll have dinner with me afterwards,” he said, as they drove eastward towards the rehearsal studios.

  “Oh, but you don’t have to bother about me like that.” She smiled frankly at him. “I can quite easily—”

  “It isn’t a bother,” he said gravely. “I should like your company, if you will have dinner with me.”

  She thought perhaps he was thinking that he would like any company rather than his own. And suddenly she was tremendously aware of the identity of that bright, golden girl who had been killed, and guessed that he could not bear to be alone on this first evening in London without her.

  “Of course I’ll come. It’s terribly nice of you to ask me,” she said.

  Although Mary had occasionally been able to attend a public dress rehearsal in the Opera House, she had never before been to anything so intimate and close-range as a rehearsal for principals. Oscar Warrender, who was to conduct the “Carmen” performances, was himself at the piano when they entered the studio. And his wife, Anthea, who was to sing Micaela, was also there.

  Mary noticed that they both greeted Nicholas Brenner as a well-liked colleague. No reference was made to the tragedy which had happened since they last met, but Anthea Warrender’s manner was warm and friendly to a degree, and even her famous husband relaxed something of his usually cool, remote air.

  The Carmen, who came in a few minutes later, was a French Canadian. As famous for her acting as her sing­ing, Suzanne Thomas was more emotional in her greeting to Brenner, whom she kissed on both cheeks.

  “I’m so desperately sorry, darling,” she said in a low husky voice which was perfectly natural to her although it sounded rather too good to be true. “You know how we all feel. I don’t have to say anything, but—”

  “No, Suzanne, you don’t have to say anything,” he agreed curtly. But he touched her cheek in a way that softened the abruptness of that.

  Warrender then took over, cutting short further emo­tional exchanges, and Suzanne Thomas pushed back her sable jacket from her shoulders and dropped it into Mary’s waiting hands, a little as though she expected a slave girl to be standing just there.

  Anthea, on the contrary, smiled and said, “Oh, thank you, Miss Barlow,” when Mary took her coat. “You are Miss Barlow, aren’t you? Mr. Deane told me about you.”

  Mary was charmed. First that Dermot Deane should have spoken about her in any way that was in the remotest degree memorable, and secondly that one of her most ad­mired sopranos should actually bother to recall her exact identity.

  The other members of the cast came in then, and the rehearsal began.

  Mary had wondered in her innocence why an intensive rehearsal was called for when each one of the principals was already internationally famous in his or her role. But when she saw and heard the imagination and intensity they put into their work, and the skill and artistry with which Warrender wove the well-known musical strands into a glorious, ever-fresh whole, she realised that this unremitting work was one of the good reasons why they were all world-famous.

  She could not warm to Suzanne Thomas as a person, but as an artist she was riveting. And, although this was not essentially a rehearsal for acting, the way she used a flick of her hand or a glance from her long, dark, provoca­tive eyes to convey sensuous appeal was a lesson in stage­craft.

  Or perhaps it came quite naturally to her? Mary was not quite sure. Certainly she had never before seen any woman with quite so much animal magnetism.

  It was, of course, the business of the tenor to seem en­slaved and entranced. And this Brenner did to such good effect that Mary began to wonder if he and the French­woman were half in love with each other. Then she re­membered Monica Brenner and the recent tragedy, and reproached herself for being so naïve as to be taken in by what was simply superb acting.

  Having settled that to her satisfaction, she could revel contentedly in the vocal feast spread out before her—the pure lyricism of Anthea Warrender’s voice, the dark, sultry appeal of Suzanne Thomas, and the thrilling bril­liance and power of Nicholas Brenner’s tones.

  She knew the expression “a voice of metal”. But she had never before realised so exactly what this implied. Although Nicholas Brenner could run the full gamut from low-voiced appeal to heroic declamation, what gleamed through the texture of the voice again and again was the glint of pure gold. It was like shafts of light illu­minating the darkening drama. And Mary, sitting there with her lips slightly parted in sheer wonder and delight, could scarcely believe that she was being privileged to hear all this at such close quarters.

  They did not go straight through the work, but they ended with a good deal from the last act. And as Anthea was not required for this she came and sat beside Mary during the final heartbreaking scene.

  “Nick almost kills one with that final appeal,” she mut­tered to Mary. “No one else does it with quite that mixture of fury and despair.”

  “She’s wonderful too,” whispered Mary in all fairness.

  “Oh, yes. No wonder he murders her,” returned Anthea rather cryptically.

  Then the rehearsal was over and they were all picking u
p their wraps and talking at once. And Mary overheard Oscar Warrender say to the tenor, “You’re in remarkable voice, Brenner. It’s got back that burnished quality you used to have three years ago.”

  “Thanks.” Nicholas Brenner smiled briefly. Then he turned to Mary and said, “Ready?”

  She was—on the instant. But before they could take their leave Suzanne Thomas put her hand lightly on Bren­ner’s arm.

  “Nick, you’re not running away, are you? I was hoping we could have a bite to eat together and discuss—”

  “Not tonight, my dear. You must excuse me. I flew over this morning and it’s been a long day. Another time.”

  “Well, of course—” She allowed her glance to slide over Mary in a speculative, not very friendly way. Then she seemed to decide that this inconsiderable young per­son was there for no purpose but to pick up wraps, carry scores, check timetables and generally make herself use­ful.

  “A bientot” she said with a satisfied little nod, and turned away. Brenner and Mary went out to the waiting car.

  “Where to, sir?” enquired Carter.

  “Somewhere quiet, where the food is good, the wines better, and no one will ask me for my autograph,” replied Brenner comprehensively. “Where does Mr. Deane go when he wants a bit of privacy?”

  “Leave it to me, sir,” Carter said. “Shall I drop you anywhere, Miss Barlow?”

  “Miss Barlow is corning with me,” the tenor stated without emphasis but in a tone of cool decision. And if Carter found anything unusual in the arrangement he made no sign of doing so.

  Within twenty minutes he deposited them at the incon­spicuous entrance of a small, exclusive restaurant which answered in every particular Nicholas Brenner’s stated requirements. He was then dismissed with a courteous good-night and the information that he would not be re­quired any more that evening.

  Feeling shy but elated, Mary preceded her famous es­cort into the restaurant, where they were immediately installed at a secluded corner table. She tactfully saw to it that he was seated with his back to the room, so that in the unlikely contingency of anyone coming in who might recognise him, he would not attract undesired attention.