Music Macabre Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent titles by Sarah Rayne from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  Recent titles by Sarah Rayne from Severn House

  The Phineas Fox mysteries

  DEATH NOTES

  CHORD OF EVIL

  SONG OF THE DAMNED

  MUSIC MACABRE

  The Nell West and Michael Flint series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY

  THE SIN EATER

  THE SILENCE

  THE WHISPERING

  DEADLIGHT HALL

  THE BELL TOWER

  MUSIC MACABRE

  Sarah Rayne

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Rayne.

  The right of Sarah Rayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8896-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-643-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0342-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Phineas Fox had not expected to find evidence of murder linking a famous and esteemed nineteenth-century composer at the end of his life to a notorious music hall dancer at the start of hers. But incredibly, he was looking at it.

  He had not been searching for murders. He had been enjoying his new commission, which was the gathering of background material for a light-hearted biography about the life and loves of virtuoso composer-pianist, Franz Liszt. Phin had been treading a cautious path between speculation, rumour-mongering, and the Victorian version of fake news – Liszt’s life and his character were intriguing and complex. To call him a philanderer was probably an exaggeration, but he had certainly been gallant, and the search had already taken Phin from the dizzy heights of grand duchesses’ boudoirs to the lush beds of dancers and music hall performers.

  But until today, his research had not turned up anything particularly startling. The morning had been spent in scouring the shelves of a favourite antiquarian bookshop just off St Martin’s Lane, and in the foxed pages of one tome he had found a reference to a music hall performer for whom Liszt, in his later years, had apparently conceived a great admiration. Phin scooped up the battered volume eagerly, added a few others that might yield some useful information sometime, and carried them all back to his flat. On the tube he remembered the overflowing state of his bookshelves, and supposed that he would have to have more shelves built in his small study. But books could perfectly well be stacked on windowsills and floors, and at the moment Franz Liszt and his ladies were more interesting than trying to get estimates out of carpenters – always supposing Phin could track down a reliable carpenter in the first place, which probably he could not.

  Inside his flat, he turned on the desk light against the dull afternoon, and began to read. The music hall performer who had caught Liszt’s eye had been known as Scaramel; there were two slightly faded reproductions of photographs. One was a conventional pose, suggesting she had been curvaceous in the way the late Victorians and Edwardians had admired. The other, however, showed her dancing with considerable abandon – and very little clothing – on the top of a concert grand. It was lively and vivid, and Scaramel’s costume was mostly black with touches of defiant scarlet.

  Phin smiled, liking the lively sauciness of the figure, wished there were more details that might identify the venue or indicate the date, and turned the page.

  It seemed that during the 1880s and 1890s, Scaramel had been a favourite turn at somewhere called Linklighters Supper Rooms. As well as dancing on concert grands, she was also credited with dancing on tables – in one case there was said to have been a naked performance for the Prince of Wales. The book’s author did not know if Lillie Langtry or Alice Keppel had been present on that evening, but was inclined to think not. Phin was inclined to agree.

  But it seemed that among the tally of Scaramel’s admirers had been the ageing Franz Liszt. This might be gossip, but it could be true. Everything about the lady was in accordance with what was known of Liszt’s reputation and preferences; what was not in accordance with anything at all, and what sounded a definitely discordant note, was a paragraph at the end of the chapter.

  Scaramel enjoyed considerable and affectionate notoriety during her career,’ wrote the author. ‘However, there is a somewhat discreditable rumour that she was tangled up in a crime – and that the crime was the most heinous one of them all. Murder.

  Murder. The word seemed to leap off the page, and present itself in blood-dripping letters, like a strapline for a hammy horror film. Phin stared at it, re-read the previous paragraph in case he had missed something, saw he had not, and read on.

  In (somewhat slender) support of the rumour of a murder, reproduced on page 24 is a sketch thought to be from Scaramel’s era, and probably the mid-1890s. Sadly, the artist did not sign the sketch, so his – or her – identity is not known. Much of the legend’s information appears to be third-, if not fourth-hand – sketchily remembered fragments of casual conversations in taverns, and gossip supplied by descendants of music hall artists or backstage workers. Nor is it known what eventually became of Scaramel, who appears to have faded from the public gaze at the very end of the 1800s.

  Phin checked the book’s publication date. It was 1946, which meant that even if any of the sources could be traced, the sources themselves would probably be long since de
ad. He turned to page 24 for the sketch.

  It was not in the least what he had been expecting, and it smacked against his senses like a blow. It looked like a pen-and-ink sketch, lightly touched with colour here and there. There was a cobbled square with narrow buildings on three sides, and an alley leading off. In one corner was a tall street gaslight that cast softly coloured, diamond-shaped shadows. Harlequin shadows, thought Phin.

  But it was the two figures in the sketch that drew his eye, although it was impossible to decide which one dominated the picture. One stood beneath the streetlight; it was wrapped in a dark cloak, the face in deep shadow, the stance imbued with menace. The other figure was in the forefront and it almost looked as if it was begging the artist for help. Its hands were clapped over its ears, and it was plainly flinching from the figure beneath the gaslight. Phin thought he had never seen an air of such terror portrayed in a sketch. It was so disturbing and so eerie that he felt as if something cold and menacing had stepped up to peer over his shoulder. He made an involuntary movement to look behind him, then was annoyed with himself.

  There was a scribble of initials in one corner, but Phin could not make them out. Beneath the sketch, though, were the words, ‘Sketch by unknown artist. Titled, Liszten for the Killer.’

  Liszten for the killer.

  Phin stared at these four words for a long time.

  Liszten for the Killer. Liszten. It’s a misprint, he thought. Or somebody misread what the artist wrote. Or the artist was foreign and got the word wrong.

  He looked at the sketch more closely. A tiny, pale oblong had been drawn against the brick wall behind the gaslight – was it a street sign? Phin hunted out a magnifying glass, and focused it on the page. It was a street sign. He tilted the desk lamp to get a stronger light, and moved the glass again. Was it Headley Street? No, it was not street, it was court. And it was not Headley, but Harlequin. Harlequin Court. Of course it was. Why else would the artist have painted in those chequered shadows? Phin frowned and turned back to the main text.

  Although the legend of this murder can not be verified, several of the interviewed sources maintained that there is a song from the era referring to it. One source has suggested that the song’s lyrics were written by a Welsh writer. Sadly, that writer’s name is not known, and nothing of the song itself seems to have survived.

  Phin sat back. There could not be any connection between any of these facts. The sketch with its curious title could not have anything to do with Franz Liszt. And yet Liszt had apparently admired Scaramel. Scaramel, thought Phin. It’s a version of Scaramouche, of course, and Scaramouche was one of the prancing figures in Columbine and Harlequin. He looked again at the just-readable lettering on the street sign.

  The sketch had probably come from the artist’s imagination. Or it might have been an illustration – for a Bram Stoker-type bloodfest novel maybe, or a Grand Guignol theatre programme. Maria Marten in the Red Barn, or Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. And the title could still be a printing error.

  And yet … Scaramel and Harlequin Court, and a sketch that might conceivably have Liszt’s name in it …

  It was at this point that enthusiastic knocking sounded on the door. Phin swore, and abandoned Liszt and Scaramel to answer the door, already knowing who it was. Nobody knocked on a door with quite the same exuberant optimism as Toby Tallis.

  ‘I haven’t shrivelled a promising bit of research, have I?’ said Toby, bouncing cheerfully into the flat. ‘Because if so, I’ll vanish like a pantomime villain through a trapdoor – well, not literally a trapdoor, not in your flat, because that would mean materializing in Miss Pringle’s flat downstairs, and the dear old love would have half a dozen heart attacks on the spot.’

  His straw-coloured hair had flopped over his forehead, and he was wearing the ingenuous smile that Phin knew from experience heralded a request for Phin to get involved in some plan destined to end in chaos.

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ he said, removing Phin’s pile of books from the deep window seat. ‘You’re starting to get crowded out by books, aren’t you? I tell you what you need – you need someone to knock up a couple of extra shelves.’

  ‘It’s a question of finding someone who’ll do such a small job—’

  ‘Oh, I know someone who’s just started a DIY company,’ said Toby, sitting down on the space he had cleared for himself. ‘Joinery and plumbing. Why don’t I have a word—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Phin, who had vivid memories of past domestic disasters into which Toby’s enthusiastic helpfulness had precipitated him.

  ‘Well, anyway, I saw your light so I knew you were in, and I thought you’d want to talk about that letter and the email,’ said Toby. ‘You have had the letter and the email, have you?’

  ‘Now you mention it, there was a letter this morning,’ said Phin, recalling picking it up from the mat, and putting it on his desk. ‘I haven’t looked at my inbox today, though. It’s distracting when you hear an email come in.’

  ‘It’s a good thing I opened my post, then,’ said Toby, ‘because we’ve had the half-yearly statement on that book we collaborated on, and sales are very good indeed. Bawdy Ballads Down the Ages – you do remember it, I suppose? We did most of it when you came with me to visit my godfather. Or are you trying to pretend you had nothing to do with it, in case people think you’ve abandoned the intellectual stuff and fallen amongst bad company?’

  ‘Of course I remember the book, and I’m not trying to forget it at all,’ said Phin, indignantly. ‘You inveigled me into doing it, but I enjoyed it,’ he said, opening the errant letter which he had now found. In fact, working with Toby on the book charting bawdy ballads over the centuries had been extremely enjoyable. It had gone into what to Phin, accustomed to the leisurely pace of academic publishing, had seemed very fast production, and Toby had organized a lively launch party. This had mostly been attended by his fellow medical students and the rugby club to which he belonged – several rugby clubs had turned up, in fact. Phin had only meant to stay at the party as long as politeness required, but Toby’s cousin, Arabella, had accompanied him, and it had turned out to be an unexpectedly agreeable evening. It was remarkable how events that Phin normally avoided became entertaining if shared with Arabella.

  Toby had been right about the sales of the book. Even allowing for the fifty-fifty division they had agreed, and the percentage due to Phin’s agent, the statement indicated that it had already earned about five times as much as Phin’s last book, which had dealt with exiled German and Jewish musicians in the run-up to World War II.

  ‘Those figures are very good indeed,’ he said, pleased. ‘What’s in the email?’

  ‘It’s from the editor we worked with for it, and she suggests that they’d be very interested if we felt like embarking on a follow-up.’

  ‘But,’ said Phin, opening the email, ‘there are only so many bawdy ballads to be found, and we’ve already plumbed a fair few depths, so—’

  ‘Ministers and angels of grace defend me. We wouldn’t do bawdy ballads again. We’d make it different but similar. I’ve got it all worked out,’ said Toby, beaming. ‘Street ballads. Raucous news-sheets describing the latest hanging or the newest scandal in Bohemia – no, sorry, that’s Conan Doyle, isn’t it? But things like those halfpenny news-sheets about royal births and deaths and murders and wars and scandals in high places. And Victorian song sheets – that’d be very much in your field of work, wouldn’t it? It’d be light-hearted and occasionally saucy, but informative. And very sellable.’

  ‘Street literature,’ said Phin, thoughtfully. ‘I believe I can see that working. We could include material from cartoonists and lampoonists …’

  ‘So we could.’

  ‘There’d be no copyright to worry about …’

  ‘Nor there would.’

  ‘And plenty of primary sources to plunder,’ said Phin, catching Toby’s enthusiasm. ‘Newspapers were heavily taxed in the nineteenth century, and th
e broadsheets and ballads were all the ordinary people could afford, so there were torrents of them. We ought to be able to track down a fair few and pick the juiciest ones. They were sometimes called catchpennies, I think.’

  ‘I thought you’d know all about them,’ said Toby, happily. ‘And before we agree to anything, we can check the terrain to see what we can turn up. If you can tear yourself away from your current scholarly commission for a couple of hours, we could have a bite to eat later and make a start – oh, unless you’re likely to be entangled with my cousin, Arabella, tonight? If you are, don’t tell me the details, because I’ve always felt I ought to be a bit protective towards Arabella – ask what people’s intentions are and all that kind of thing. But I’d rather not do that with you.’

  Phin said that his intentions towards Arabella were currently a wish that she was not decamping to Paris for the best part of a month to work for a perfume company who wanted to gain a foothold in the English market and required some inventive and imaginative PR proposals from somebody who spoke reasonable French.

  ‘That’s fair enough. I’ll miss her as well,’ said Toby. ‘What about tonight, though? We could start with Soho. And then maybe Limehouse – or Whitechapel. I don’t mean all on the same evening.’

  Phin had the sensation of being swept along to an inevitable fate by a wave of such cheerful enthusiasm he suspected he might not be able to resist it. Arabella had the same effect on him, although with Arabella the fate was generally an extremely pleasurable one. He was aware, again, of a pang of regret that she was going away. A month was hardly a lifetime, but it was still thirty days. Not that he would be crossing the days off on a calendar, of course.

  As far as tonight went, he had thought, vaguely, that he would break off work at some point, and put together a meal from whatever was in the fridge. But Toby’s idea was alluring, and the possibility of more royalties on a par with Bawdy Ballads was tempting. He might even be able to afford some new, properly built bookshelves. And it might clear his head of the clutter accumulating from Scaramel and Liszt.