Chord of Evil Read online

  ‘I’m not so susceptible.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Toby. ‘Weren’t you seen with a rather good-looking redhead a week or so back? Wining and dining in a Covent Garden bistro, and probably indulging in a few other activities we needn’t specify.’

  ‘She’s an editor I worked with on a biography about Oscar Peterson,’ said Phin. ‘She’s gone back to Canada. Nothing much in it.’

  ‘It apparently warrants a reminiscent smile, though,’ said Toby, grinning. ‘But a gentleman never tells; well, not unless he’s a D-list celeb and being paid by the tabloids. I hope she was nice, your redhead.’

  ‘She was,’ said Phin, remembering how they had eaten grilled sea bass and drunk white Bordeaux at the bistro. She had said something about him having silver eyes. He had countered this by saying she had copper hair, and she had said, ‘Shall we see if silver and copper can be satisfactorily blended.’

  He then realized he really was smiling reminiscently, so he got up to examine the painting again.

  ‘It’s definitely a tritone,’ he said, and with the words he again had the feeling that he was twining his hand around something that had lain hunched into a dark corner for a very long time – something that would resist being forced back into the world. He glanced at Toby, but he was not sure if Toby would understand this feeling; in fact he was not sure if anyone would understand. He thought with a pang of regret that his copper-haired dinner companion of last week, intelligent and intuitive and musically knowledgeable though she was, certainly would not. And then he had the absurd thought that Arabella Tallis might understand.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Toby, getting up. ‘I’m off to my bed for a couple of hours – it was a very long night, wasn’t it? If the phone rings while I’m asleep, I’ll curse the caller from here to the next millennium.’

  ‘Well, don’t curse too loudly, because I’ll be working.’

  Phin’s current commission was to trace the erratic journeys and various fates of several eminent composers and conductors sent into exile by the Nazis in the 1930s and 1940s, and to provide factual evidence for a textbook intended to grace the shelves of a music faculty at a northern university. It was a serious and scholarly commission which Phin was quite enjoying. It brought back childhood memories of his grandfather, who had fought in World War II as an idealistic young nineteen-year-old, and who later in his life had led the small Phineas into the world of music.

  But this morning, Christa Cain and the unknown Giselle were getting in the way of work, so he put the exiled musicians aside and considered Giselle’s Music. The music might simply once have belonged to someone called Giselle who had wanted to stamp it with her ownership. It might be a title, though – it was certainly common for music to be named for a person or, of course, a place. But it might be the composer’s name.

  Phin wondered how far Toby’s story about his godfather and the portrait could be believed. He did not know Toby very well, and he did not know Toby’s cousin, Arabella, at all. Was it only coincidence that she seemed to have vanished immediately after acquiring Christa’s portrait? Phin toyed with the idea of the painting being a lost or stolen art treasure, but this seemed so fantastic that he dismissed it.

  Presumably Stefan Cain existed, though. Phin called up an online directory enquiry service, and entered Stefan Cain’s name and as much of the address as he had. The name and address came up without hesitation. Stefan Cain, address, Greymarsh, Thornchurch, Kent. The phone number was ex-directory, but there was a postcode. So it seemed safe to accept that, if nothing else, Toby and Arabella Tallis’s godfather was real.

  But he could find no glimmering of Giselle.

  ‘The phone rang while I was asleep,’ said Toby, reappearing towards the end of the afternoon. ‘I knew it would, but I’m very glad I didn’t utter any curses, because it turns out that somebody broke into Greymarsh, and clumped Stefan on the head. The poor old boy has been carted off to the local hospital.’

  ‘That’s dreadful.’ Phin was horrified. ‘Will he be all right?’

  ‘Bit groggy, but no signs of concussion, and all the scans are clear. The medics will keep him in hospital for another day or so to be sure, but he’s as tough as shoe leather. They tried Arabella’s number, and when they got no reply, Stefan was sufficiently compos mentis to give them mine. I managed to reach the police in Thornchurch, and it seems it all happened in the small hours of the morning. Stefan heard someone prowling around, and went down to investigate. He didn’t see who it was, but he was knocked out.’

  ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a mess in the study, but the police don’t know if anything’s actually been taken, not until Stefan’s well enough to be let home and check. They think he probably disturbed the burglar before he actually got his hands on anything, though.’ Toby looked at Phin. ‘But you know what I’m thinking, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re wondering if there’s a connection between your godfather throwing out the portrait, your cousin disappearing from the scene and this break-in,’ said Phin.

  ‘Yes. So I think what I’d better do, I’d better go down to Romney Marsh myself. It’s a bit of a trek, but I can’t leave the dear old boy in hospital all on his own. He’ll be worrying about the break-in as well, and if I’m on the spot I can organize new locks and things.’

  ‘Also,’ said Phin, ‘he and Arabella were obviously in touch recently, because of the painting and that note, so he might know what she’s been up to.’

  Toby looked at him gratefully. ‘He might, mightn’t he? I really think it’ll be a good idea to go to Greymarsh.’

  His tone was elaborately casual and Phin discovered he was wrestling with his conscience. It was not necessary to suggest he accompany Toby. There were probably any number of people who would want – and be entitled – to be involved in Stefan Cain’s burglary and attack. And Phin himself had a deadline to meet.

  On the other hand, if Arabella had got herself into some kind of scrape and was not just dragon-flying somewhere, both she and Toby might prefer it kept as quiet as possible.

  Also, there was Christa, and there was Giselle, and there was the devil’s tritone in Giselle’s music. And Phin’s present commission could be worked on more or less anywhere.

  He said, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  Toby turned his head to look at Phin directly. ‘Yes,’ he said on a note of unmistakable relief. ‘Yes, I would. It’s not a very long journey – couple of hours, traffic permitting. Straight down the M20 and into Kent. You’ll like Thornchurch; it’s a market town – quite lively and prosperous. We can go in my car – it’s coming up to its MOT, but it’ll be absolutely fine, and as long as you remember to pump the accelerator before turning the ignition, it starts practically every time. Would tomorrow be all right for you?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You did say your redhead’s gone back to Canada, didn’t you? And I know one of the girls last night gave you her phone number, so if you were planning on—’

  Phin hastily disclaimed any immediate plans to phone any girl whose number he might have acquired, particularly as he could not remember having done so. ‘I’ll have to bring the laptop to do some work, but that isn’t a problem for me, as long as it isn’t for you.’

  ‘Of course not. We might as well stay at Greymarsh itself – there’s plenty of room, as long as you don’t mind making up your own bed. I’ll phone some neighbours of the godfather before we go, to suss out the situation a bit more. I’m trying to remember their names, but … oh, wait, it’s Mander. Brother and sister. Marcus and Margot Mander,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a variety double act from the Fifties, doesn’t it? Trapeze artists or illusionists, and sequinned tights and top hats. They aren’t in the least like that, though. He’s a translator for some highly respectable firm – trade conventions and even political conferences. I’ll track down their number and give them a call.’

  ‘What had we bette
r do about Christa?’ said Phin, glancing across at the portrait.

  ‘Take her with us,’ said Toby, cheerfully.

  ‘At this rate,’ said Phin, ‘she’ll be able to write a travel memoir.’

  As he put a few things into a small suitcase, and looked out a couple of bath towels in which to wrap the portrait for its journey, Phin found himself constantly meeting the level gaze of the painted eyes. He had a strong feeling that – whatever the truth about her – he might rather have liked Christa Cain.

  THREE

  Margot Mander supposed it would have been impossible to be born into her family and escape the hatred that had been generated by Christa Klein.

  ‘She lived and died before we were born,’ Margot’s brother, Marcus, once said, ‘but we’ve grown up surrounded by that hatred.’

  The hatred came mostly from their aunt – great-aunt, actually, Marcus said, or even a cousin – who was called Lina and with whom they lived. But Margot and Marcus’s mother usually added her contribution to the invective.

  ‘That’s because she’s so grateful to Lina for taking her in when our father left,’ Marcus said.

  Marcus was going to get away from the hatred, because he was going to university. When he had the letter offering him a place, he told their mother and Lina that he was glad he would no longer have to listen to their constant droning about the past.

  ‘It’s like a … a legacy of bitterness, all that stuff about Christa,’ he said. ‘And neither of you will let it go.’

  Lina was furious. She said Marcus was trying to pretend that the wickedness of the past had never happened. ‘You’re dressing up evil, Marcus. Hiding it behind clever words.’

  ‘Like,’ said his mother, darting in, ‘a murderess putting on silk gloves to hide the blood on her hands.’

  A murderess. Christa had probably not worn silk gloves, but she had committed a vicious murder.

  ‘It was seventy-odd years ago,’ said Marcus. ‘For God’s sake, let it die.’

  But Lina would not. She said it was all very well for Marcus to talk like that; a dreadful, tragic injustice had been dealt to their family, and it should never be forgotten. One day the balance must be redressed.

  ‘I relied on you to do that, Marcus.’

  ‘Lina depended on you; well, on both of you.’ Mother accorded Margot a grudging nod.

  ‘But now it seems all we’ve done is bore you.’

  In the end, Marcus relented. He apologized and said he had got a bit carried away, and they clung to him gratefully.

  ‘My father was a wonderful man,’ said Lina. ‘He died a terrible death in a great cause.’ There was a pause, as there generally was at this point. ‘He was butchered by that harlot, Christa Klein – the family changed its name later, but it’s how I still think of her. Christa Klein. A murderer and a traitor to her own people.’

  Margot said, daringly, ‘Was she really a traitor?’ They had learned about traitors at school. People who were traitors got beheaded or burned.

  ‘She was a black traitor and a vicious murderess. There was a clumsy attempt to cover it up afterwards, but there were people who knew the truth.’

  ‘Lina was one of those people,’ put in Margot’s mother, proudly.

  ‘Nothing was ever proved but, at the time, everyone knew that Christa Klein committed a terrible crime inside Wewelsburg Castle.’

  Wewelsburg Castle. The name always had the power to thrill Margot. It conjured up all the dark fairy tales of fiction – all the brooding castles on hillsides where ogres and enchanters dwelled, and to which courageous and handsome princes travelled to rescue beautiful maidens. Lina had never actually said she had been at Wewelsburg, but she had been born in 1940 or perhaps 1941, so she could have been. It was quite difficult to see her as a child. She had a severe face and bushy eyebrows and a skin that looked as if it had been sandpapered, but when she was young she had probably been nice-looking and her figure would not have been like a cushion.

  Occasionally, Lina went into the small, sunless sitting room at the back of the house, which was rather grandly referred to as the music room, and played the tinny, out-of-tune piano. Nobody was supposed to interrupt her at those times, but Margot sometimes stole along to the door and peeped through the badly fitting frame. Like that, lost in whatever music she was playing, Lina looked different – she looked softer, as if the music had brought back the ghost of the young girl she had once been, the child who had adored her father and never been able to forget him. Margot thought he must have been dazzling and marvellous for her to remember him so intensely for all these years, but Marcus disagreed.

  ‘He was probably a horrid old lecher, romping through the 1930s,’ he said. ‘And Lina’s brooded over it all her life, and now she and Ma believe their own version of the truth.’

  ‘Don’t say Ma, she hates it.’

  ‘Well, whatever the truth is,’ said Marcus, ‘the whole thing’s morbid, and whatever did happen to the old boy, I’m not interested.’

  Marcus was at Warwick University, at the School of Modern Languages and Cultures, studying German, and German culture, and Margot was intensely proud of him. Their mother said it was all very clever, and she did not understand a tenth of it. Lina said it was only what she would expect, and she was very glad that Marcus was being true to the memory of her father, and to his own ancestry.

  Margot was determined not to mind that Marcus was going away. She was determined not to feel jealous of the friends he would make, the people she would probably never know. There would probably be girlfriends, but they would not really mean anything, Margot knew that.

  When he came home in the holidays he did not talk about girlfriends and he did not bring any home, although that did not surprise Margot, because it was not a house you would want to bring a friend to. It was not a house that had any sense of welcome.

  And one day Margot and Marcus would go out into the world together, just the two of them. One day they would have a marvellous life together.

  She kept a private calendar to cross off the days until Marcus would finish his student years.

  There had never been any thought of Margot trying for university. She learned shorthand and typing and word-processing in her last year at school, although the teachers said shorthand was something of a dying art. Everyone was beginning to type their own letters and reports – still, it did not hurt to have the extra skill, and shorthand could be useful for professions like the police and journalism.

  Armed with these skills, which were modest in comparison to what Marcus would eventually have, Margot got a job in a small local office. The company sold or imported things, and the work was not very interesting, but there was a small salary and it got her away from the stifling atmosphere of home each day.

  ‘In any case, the salary doesn’t matter,’ Margot’s mother said. ‘You and Marcus will have my money one day.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Lina. ‘And this house, of course.’

  Margot did not like to ask how much money there might be, but she thought it might be quite substantial. Houses in this street sometimes had ‘For Sale’ boards outside them, and Margot thought they were quite expensive to buy. It was useful to know all this because of the real life that was waiting – the life in which she and Marcus would buy their own house. Quite often she visualized the house, and occasionally in her lunch hour she went into furniture stores to look at sofas and tables.

  Sometimes the girls in the office invited her to go out with them – they were going clubbing, or to the cinema and a meal afterwards. Margot went a couple of times, but she did not much enjoy it, and she knew Marcus would not like to think of her with a crowd of slightly tipsy girls, giggling and vying with each other for the attention of various men. When the girls asked her if she had a boyfriend, she smiled, and said, Oh, yes, there was someone, but he was away at university. Studying hard. It would be almost two years until he came home. She saw them glance pityingly at her and exchange sly glances, and she u
nderstood they thought she was spinning a story, and that there was no boyfriend, except in her imagination. After that, they did not ask her out again. It did not matter.

  It was after one of Marcus’s weekend visits home – one of his all-too-rare visits – that Margot woke to hear the faint sounds of the piano from below. She listened for a moment, then got out of bed, reached for a dressing gown and slippers, and stole down the stairs.

  It was a cold, rainy night and the house was in darkness. The window on the half-landing had no curtains; it was an oblong of blackness, misty with condensation and the lashing rain. The piano music had stopped, and the only sound was the ticking of the long-case clock in the hall.

  Margot sank down on the stairs, peering through the banisters towards the music room. The door was slightly open and the room was in shadow, but Lina did not seem aware of the darkness. Margot wondered if she might be sleepwalking, or whether she was simply pulling her memories around her with the music. Her eyes were open, but Margot did not think that meant anything.

  There was a movement from the room, and a rustle of papers, and Margot, her heart pounding, crept down the remaining stairs, to get nearer. Lina had opened the old tapestry piano stool and taken a piece of music from it. She placed it on the stand and sat down again, staring at it. This was unusual, because she generally played from memory, and what was even more unusual was that, even from here, Margot could see that the music was not printed, but handwritten. She waited, expecting Lina to start playing again, but she did not. After a while she replaced the music in the stool, and closed the lid.

  Margot, not daring to run back upstairs in case she was seen, pressed back into the deep shadow cast by the old clock. The faint vibration of the mechanism tapped against her, like a ticking heart.

  Lina came out of the music room, and Margot waited until she heard the bedroom door open and close, then went into the music room.