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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
It is New Year's day, 1900, when the brilliant violinist Sebastian Cavendish is found dead. The last few days of his life are a mystery, but in the final hours of 1899 he wrote a cryptic suicide note mentioning a "cursed inheritance", took poison, and died in agony. Yet his friends and relations are utterly perplexed. The man they knew and grieve for was vivacious, exuberant and extroverted. His fellow musicians speak of his passion, his drive, and his love of living. The socialites he met, all of whom lavished him with praise, saw only a dazzling future ahead of him. So why, his friends and loved ones ask, would he change his plans at such short notice, disappear for days on end, and take his own life? Vanessa Weatherburn, an established detective and ex-tutor to one of Sebastian's friends, is engaged to investigate the dead man's final movements. It is a journey which will reveal to her the science of genetics, the history of Sebastian's equally brilliant grandfather and the long-kept secrets of the Cavendish family.
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Seitenzahl: 467
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
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FATAL INHERITANCE
CATHERINE SHAW
To the daughter whose cello fills my soul with music
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Vanessa Weatherburn’s Case Diary
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
HISTORICAL FACTS AND PERSONAGES
By Catherine Shaw
About the Author
Copyright
VANESSA WEATHERBURN’S CASE DIARY
Winter 1900
CHAPTER ONE
In which Vanessa listens to a concert of chamber music and learns of a suicide
The music spilt forth, welled up, flooded over, and ran down and away in twinkling rivulets that thinned as they disappeared into unfathomable distance.
The piano rose up in a roar, then subsided as the deep voice of the cello became audible, and swelled to ride the crest of the piano’s wave. The violin entered then, its pure and steady tones bringing to mind a small but sturdy boat, handled by competent sailors, forging a path through wild seas under a mad Northern sky filled with streaks of swaying light and gleaming stars.
I listened to the trio for more than a quarter of an hour, allowing free rein to the images which the music evoked naturally in my mind, before beginning, imperceptibly at first, then more clearly, to wonder if they were really the images that the composer would have intended. The cockle boat, tossed up and down by the violent waves, always at risk but never quite succumbing, had provoked my admiration; now it began to cause a certain irritation. Listen to this theme, now – why so tame? I thought. Should the violin not be soaring ever higher and more powerful, dominating the underlying clamour of the other instruments, representing the very power of nature, like a gigantic ocean bird, wings outstretched, gliding unaffected over the turmoil below? Or a powerful ship, the captain stern at the helm, cleaving the water in spite of the troubled waves and crashes beneath?
The prick of irritation jerked me back to conscious thought, and I turned my eyes to the offending violinist, then glanced down at the programme to see his name.
John Milrose sat on the edge of his chair, his dark hair parted at the side and combed smoothly over his broad, clear forehead. His fingers flew over the ebony fingerboard, and his bow swept the strings with large and generous gestures; his tone was pure and melodic, he paid careful attention to his partners, there was no cheap showmanship in his playing, his love of the music was patent and sincere. In fact, he played altogether beautifully, and really, I exhorted myself, there was nothing one could reproach him with.
Except … that little cockle boat!
The piano took the theme again. The young woman playing had white hands which lifted high into the air like flying birds after each sweeping chord; her face was lowered, her cheeks flushed, and sometimes I thought she closed her eyes. Rose, my little pupil Rose – a blooming young woman now – sat near her, playing her cello with total abandon; she almost never glanced at the music on the stand low in front of her, but watched now the pianist, now the violinist, and melted her entrances into theirs, or paused with a waiting as alive as breathing, till they had reached the very point of diminishment to allow a new voice to rise up in all its ripeness. The sound of her instrument, thick as honey, strong as mead, overshadowed the violin in intensity, though never fully covering its fluting higher notes.
The trio came to an end, and the three players stood up and bowed. They were dressed in deep mourning, and the small stage had been decorously draped in crêpe. I fingered my programme. It was black-edged and folded over; the front held only a box enclosed in a small wreath of black leaves, containing the words:
IN MEMORIAM
The remainder of the information about the concert lay within the flap.
A concert by the Cavendish Trio
dedicated to the memory of Sebastian Cavendish
John Milrose, violin
Claire Merrivale, piano
Rose Evergreene, violoncello
Inside my programme lay the small note that I had received along with it in my mail earlier in the week, the note which had brought me to London without a moment’s hesitation, and for which I was seated presently in this small theatre, with its dim lights and lugubrious atmosphere of mourning.
Dear Vanessa,
It has been at least three years since we last saw each other. I know the fault is entirely mine. I have been so busy, and I am really very remiss! I hope you forgive me enough to attend the concert shown in the enclosed programme. It would give me immense pleasure to see you again, and also – I wish to speak to you about a very strange matter.
Very sincerely,
Your former pupil,
Rose Evergreene
I slipped the note back into the programme and closed it as applause began and grew all around me. I joined in, but my gloved hands made almost no noise; I wondered for a moment whether it was worth removing the gloves, and then decided not to, for the sound of the applause in general was muted and respectful as befitted a mourning ceremony. The clapping went on for exactly the seemly amount of time; the three musicians, having left the stage, returned, bowed once again politely, and left again in single file. They were deadly serious; the face of the young pianist was ravaged.
The audience began to rise and gather up fans, programmes, handkerchiefs, reticules and other personal items. The large double doors at the back of the hall opened up, leading into the foyer. I joined the line forming in front of this door and, after some minutes of advancing very slowly up the aisle between the seats, reached it and emerged into the large space, dazzling with lights, gilt mouldings and a shining copper counter on which glasses and bottles had been placed, surrounded with piles of snowy but black-edged napkins.
A hall led away from this foyer, curving around the concert hall itself from the outside. I followed it, and passing through a baize door at the end, found myself in the rooms behind the stage set aside for the use of the artists. A murmur of voices led me to the area where the three musicians were still engaged in packing away their instruments and their scores. A man’s voice was speaking; the youthful violinist.
‘You’re kind to say that, but I know it isn’t true. I can’t be part of the Cavendish trio. It was just for this evening; for this one time. I can’t replace Sebastian and you know it.’
‘Oh, John, can we not always play together?’ asked the pianist, who was holding his arm, looking straight up into his face. ‘It isn’t a question of replacing Sebastian. Of course no one can replace him, ever. But you understand about him – you were his friend! That’s why I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone but you playing with us tonight.’
Rose said nothing; her back was turned to the other two, and she was kneeling down in front of the large, open cello case, fitting her instrument carefully into its velveteen bed. This done, she took a silken square and dusted the traces of rosin carefully from the burnished wooden surface, passing under all the strings. She then used the square to tuck in the instrument as tenderly as a child, after which she closed and latched the lid. The round shape of her shoulders as she concentrated made me suspect that she wished to stay out of the discussion. I thought that perhaps she did not wish for John Milrose to continue as part of the trio.
‘Well, we’ll see, Claire,’ Mr Milrose was saying. The baize door behind me swung again, and two or three more people entered to greet the artists; an elderly couple, a dark-haired young lady, then a moment after, two young men. One of them wore the red, rubbed mark of a violinist under the left side of his chin. Mr Milrose and Miss Merrivale separated immediately and turned to greet the newcomers. Rose stood up and came forward also. Her face lit up with a wonderful smile as she saw me.
‘Vanessa!’ she cried eagerly. ‘I am so glad that you came. It has been much too long! Let me introduce you to Claire and John.’ She kissed me warmly, and taking me by the hand, drew me over to where John was now talking to the people who had entered behind me. Claire was standing near him, listening, but her attention had wandered to Rose, and she took a quick step towards us as we approached.
‘This is Vanessa Weatherburn,’ Rose told her, in a tone which clearly indicated that she had already spoken of me to Claire, and that Claire was expecting, for some reason, to meet me. I shook her hand and spoke admiringly of her playing. But still holding my right hand in hers, she brushed off my praise with a quick sweep of her left, and said,
‘Rose tells me I can talk to you – I must talk to someone, I don’t know what to do – I can’t bear it any longer!’
‘Just ten more minutes,’ said Rose quickly, ‘we must be polite. Let’s just wait until everyone’s gone.’
A few more people had entered. Claire saw them, and drew herself together sharply.
‘There’s his mother,’ she said, and crossed over, as though pulled by a string, reluctant but compelled, to a somewhat elderly lady who was speaking to John Milrose. I drew nearer to observe, and noticed how the woman’s banal words seemed charged with meaning, because of the quiet intensity and poise with which she spoke them. Her hair, a greying ash-blonde, was dressed with the kind of simplicity that bespeaks taste in ample quantities, compensating, perhaps, a certain lack of wealth. Like the three members of the trio, she was wearing deep mourning; the cut of her gown was just fashionable enough to hint at an awareness of fashion without the slightest ostentation. The shoulders puffed too gently to be qualified as leg-of-mutton sleeves, underlining the slender waist without unduly attracting the eye. The skirt was close fitting, deeply gored at the back but devoid of ruffles and ribbons, and the collar rose high on the neck. A row of jet buttons gleamed down the front of the bodice. The woman who wore this dress was a woman of quality.
Her voice was quite extraordinary; it was of an exceptionally rich timbre, as though it came more directly from the chest cavity than from the throat, and her speech was very slow, each syllable enunciated carefully and yet without any sign of particular effort. She radiated a strong personality in which Claire Merrivale seemed caught like a little silver fish in a net. She looked up at the older woman, her voice trembled, she seemed unable to find words.
‘That’s Mrs Cavendish,’ Rose explained in my ear, ‘Sebastian’s mother.’ She tapped the In Memoriam on the front of the programme that still dangled from my fingers. ‘We’ll tell you everything in a minute.’ She went to join Claire, and half-consciously laying a comforting hand on the other girl’s arm, she undertook to answer the lady’s remarks herself, with more aplomb than her friend. I watched intently, guessing that this little scene and everything concerning the defunct Sebastian Cavendish would soon become the focal point of my attention.
Claire and Rose were much of a size, and Mrs Cavendish dominated them by a good five inches; however Claire appeared slight and weightless in front of her, whereas Rose stood firm and strong. I found it odd how, although the lady spoke with only the kindest words, her remarkable tallness and the sheer force of her character produced a desire to oppose some resistance to it, even though there was not the slightest conflict in her speech or attitude. But perhaps this impression did not emanate from the lady only, but also from Claire’s display of weakness; she seemed on the point of breaking down. Perceiving this, Mrs Cavendish bent down a little towards her, taking her hand, and I heard her say,
‘Try not to yield to despair, my dear. You must take courage from your art.’
She then kissed her affectionately, turned away, and departed upon the arm of an extremely elegant gentleman with side-whiskers and a gold-topped cane, who had been waiting silently at some little distance. The room having emptied considerably, Rose addressed a vigorous goodbye, tantamount to a dismissal, to John Milrose who was still standing amongst a few remaining friends. He smiled at the girls, took up his violin case and left with his group, and we found ourselves entirely alone in the green room.
‘There,’ said Rose. ‘Now, Claire, you can tell Vanessa everything.’
There was a short silence, during which Claire struggled with tears.
‘Well, I had better begin,’ said Rose, although even she seemed to have some difficulty finding the words to tell me what had happened. ‘You see, Vanessa,’ she explained finally, ‘the violinist of our trio, Sebastian Cavendish – Claire was engaged to him – he – well, he died a month ago. Tonight’s concert was already planned; we turned it into a memorial concert for him … we had to find another violinist … John Milrose was one of Sebastian’s closest friends … No, why am I talking about him? The problem is …’
Her voice tailed off, and I perceived that although more stable and less emotional than her friend, she was also deeply troubled. A cold fear seized me. What dreadful thing could have so disturbed her?
‘How did he die?’ I asked gently, leaning forward to look in her face.
‘He committed suicide,’ said Rose with what was clearly a conscious effort to steady her voice. ‘He left a note for Claire. That is what she wants to ask you about. Claire – Claire? Come, you must explain things to Vanessa. And show her the note.’
Claire was already fumbling with the clasp of a little black brocade bag she held in her hands. The note she took out was written on a sheet of small, thick letter-paper of admirable quality. The ink had penetrated deeply into the soft fibres. The gentleman’s handwriting was large and dashing. The short note filled the entire page, which had been rendered soft and grey by Claire’s incessant handling of it.
Darling Claire,
How can I say this to you? I’ve found out something about myself – I can’t go on with it any more. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Cursed inheritance – it’s too dangerous to take such risks. Please try to understand.
Comforting words usually fall easily from my lips in the face of distress, but this event seemed so utterly dreadful, so totally beyond comfort of any kind, that I remained silent, staring at the letter. I admired Mrs Cavendish for having been able to find kind words for this young girl, when her own bereavement was so sudden and so awful. Rose echoed my thoughts.
‘You saw Sebastian’s mother, who was here earlier. Did you notice what she’s like? So upright, so tall, so strong somehow; well, Sebastian was like her in some ways. He had that strength, that vitality – except that he was almost too emotional. And the way he played …’
‘Like a god,’ finished Claire. ‘I never heard a violinist like him. Even though he was still young, he had everything – technique beyond most violinists’ wildest dreams, infinite imagination and the power to express it. When he played, people in the audience were always in tears. I used to cry. It was almost beyond human.’ Her words came out in a rush, as though once she had overcome the initial difficulty of talking about him, she couldn’t stop. ‘He used to play the Paganini Caprices as though they were a sort of joke. I’ve never heard anyone play so fast … Did you know that people used to say that the devil stood behind Paganini when he performed, helping him? Sebastian was like that. You couldn’t believe he was just an ordinary person; when you saw him play, sometimes it was as though he was possessed.’
‘Sometimes,’ interjected Rose hastily. ‘When he played madly difficult pieces. But he wasn’t like that for chamber music. There was nothing diabolical about him then. He played as though the trio was a single instrument. We worked so hard; we were reaching for something very rare, and I think … we were approaching it.’ She stopped. I said nothing, feeling humble in the face of a disaster, wondering why they had asked to talk to me.
‘But what can I possibly do?’ I asked.
‘I want to understand why he killed himself,’ said Claire, in a small, stern voice. ‘Nothing foreshadowed it – nothing! The week before, he was exactly as always – and he was happy. Happy and vital and intense and full of projects. Oh, Mrs Weatherburn, I’ve lost my sleep from wondering and wondering and wondering, why, why, why? What do his words mean? What did he find out? What was that something that made him not want to live any more? What dreadful thing can it have been? Why did he kill himself? Why? Why? Why?’
Her words startled me. I had read his message differently, as though he had written ‘I’ve found out something about myself: that I can’t go on.’ As though he had discovered that he had not the strength to live up to what was required of him. But Claire was understanding something else – that he had found out some particular mysterious thing, some actual thing that had driven him to despair. I saw at once that she might, indeed, be right, if it were true that a few days before his suicide, he had not a care in the world. If a man is not depressive or miserable; if he has no visible cause to be deeply despairing or disappointed, and is perceived by those closest to him as happy, vital, intense; then there must indeed be some essential outside something to drive him to sudden suicide.
‘You believe that he found out something specific? Some dreadful thing that he could not endure?’ I asked.
‘He must have! What else could it mean?’ she exclaimed, clutching her little bag convulsively with her fingers.
‘I agree with Claire,’ said Rose. ‘I have thought about it also, again and again. We have talked it over and discussed everything we can remember about Sebastian, especially about the days and weeks before he died. If you are willing to investigate this for Claire, we will tell you everything we know. The only trouble is that we don’t see how what we know could help you, because Sebastian was absolutely fine until the last time we saw him. And he wasn’t the type of person who could easily have hidden something that was disturbing him deeply. He was very extroverted, very emotional. And it would have been especially difficult for him to hide anything from Claire, I think.’
‘I could easily tell if something was amiss with him,’ she agreed, rubbing her eyes although they contained no tears; she had reached a stage of grief beyond such expression. ‘The last time I saw him was five days before … it happened. It was the day after Christmas. We hadn’t spent Christmas Day together, because he had to be with his mother. But we met the next day, the 26th. We rehearsed the Geistertrio together—’ she glanced at Rose, who nodded in confirmation, ‘and then when we stopped, Rose left, but I stayed and Sebastian and I played Brahms. It was utterly beautiful. And he kissed me goodbye …’
‘It isn’t easy to recall everything exactly,’ said Rose, ‘and yet it is. Because there isn’t anything special to say about that day. We’ve been through it again and again, and it was just as usual. That doesn’t mean dull or routine. Sebastian was like a wire when you see the electricity go crackling down it, with sparks.’ (I noted with pleasure that some of the scientific lessons I had provided during Rose’s tender childhood appeared to have left some trace.) ‘I wish we could describe him to you better. Imagine his mother – a bit larger than life, you know – but young, handsome, and happy. Yes, he was happy, not contented or cheerful, but with a happiness that was like – like bated breath, for life was so unexpected, and the things it brings so fearfully wonderful. Oh, Vanessa, you don’t have to believe just us! If you’re willing to do this, you should talk to his friends, his teachers. Then you’ll see what he was like. No one, but no one could believe that he had killed himself.’
I steeled myself to ask a terrible question.
‘How did he …?’
‘He drank a cup of poison. The police told me; they say he took something that he found in the house, and put it in a cup of coffee that he left next to his bed. Something must have happened on his trip – something dreadful, unspeakable, to provoke such a gesture!’
‘He went on a trip?’ I asked.
‘Yes – he left in the evening, after the last time we saw him, that we just told you about,’ she replied. ‘He took a night train to Zürich, where he had been invited to play the E minor Mendelssohn Concerto with the Tonhalle Orchester. It was a great honour – they’ve built a new concert hall and it’s said to be the best in the world. He was going to talk to them about the three of us coming, to play the Beethoven Triple Concerto …’ She stopped speaking, and swallowed.
‘Have you tried to find out anything about what he did in Zürich, and whom he saw there?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied Rose in a small voice. ‘We’re not detectives. We didn’t actually do anything. We didn’t know what to do. We just tried to think.’
‘And you are sure there was nothing strange about his behaviour before he left? He didn’t seem to have any special plans?’
‘No-o,’ Claire put in. ‘But there was something strange afterwards. His concert was on December 28th, and I’m sure he meant to come home the day after. At least, I had understood that, although I can’t remember that he specifically said so, but I’m sure he would have told me if he actually meant to spend time away. But he didn’t. Then when I didn’t hear from him, I did wonder what he was doing, but of course I wasn’t in the least bit worried. I just thought that he must have met some interesting people, and stayed on.’
‘Because he did not return home, in fact?’
‘It seems that he didn’t, until he was found dead.’
‘And when was that?’
‘In the morning of January 1st, by the charwoman who comes in by the day. Mrs Cavendish was at home in bed, but she had come in late from a New Year’s celebration and had seen nothing of him.’
‘We had an idea,’ intervened Rose. ‘We thought that maybe he discovered that he was ill with some horrible illness which would kill him. We thought he might have felt ill and gone to see a doctor. Not that he ever seemed at all ill, but we couldn’t think of anything else. So after the inquest, we asked the doctor who … who …’ She glanced awkwardly at her friend.
‘… performed the post-mortem?’ I helped her.
‘But he said there was nothing,’ she replied quickly, ‘no illness of any kind. Nothing was wrong with him.’
‘Still, some doctor somewhere could have made a terrible mistake, couldn’t he?’ said Claire. ‘And told him he was dying? Or something like that. I just want to understand … I must understand what happened, and whose fault it was. I must … I can’t sleep …’
She stood up and wandered half-blindly across the room and out of the door which led directly onto the stage. After a moment, a turbulent storm of music flowed into the room.
‘Chopin’s twenty-fourth prelude,’ murmured Rose. ‘It was the piece he most loved to hear her play.’
‘If I understand rightly,’ I said, ‘the police are not actually undertaking any investigation.’
‘No, they’re not. For them, it’s just an ordinary suicide, nobody’s fault, and there is nothing to investigate. As long as they can make sure he did it, they’re not interested in his private reasons. But we are! Oh, please say you’ll try to find out what happened. Please! It’s – I can’t tell you what it’s done – it was so sudden, it shattered our lives. Claire’s worse than mine, but it isn’t just that they loved each other; it was the music, too. We were all together in that; we were doing something like – like one person. We put our whole lives into it; we were discovering new ways to interpret, new ways to express the music, something really, truly different. How could he have smashed it all and abandoned us? What could have been more important to him than music, that was his very soul?’
The sound of the piano continued to flow in from the stage, its voice so gripping that it absorbed and held all my attention. I found it hard to continue to speak, hard to organise my thoughts.
‘I will do it,’ I said. ‘I can only try, you understand that. I have no idea what I may or may not find out. Whatever I find, I will tell you about it frankly, Rose – but only you. What you do with what I tell you is up to you.’
I glanced towards the stage, from which the last notes of Chopin’s prelude resonated despairingly.
‘I understand,’ she whispered, clasping my hand in hers. ‘Thank you, Vanessa.’
CHAPTER TWO
In which Vanessa visits the charming town of Basel and meets an orchestra conductor
Old, crooked houses leant together along the Rheinsprung as though for support, like a group of elegant dowagers. Crowned with ancient tiles dusted with chill powdery snow, painted in unexpected pinks, blues and greens, frozen flowerpots ready at the windows, awaiting the advent of spring, the houses spoke of centuries devoted to order, duty and gentility. I moved along the row admiringly, my eyes hesitating between the delightfulness of the pretty row of house-fronts and the glorious beauty of the Rhine shimmering in front of me. On I went past Münsterplatz and down the Rittergasse, then right on the broad St Alban-Graben to the Steinenberg, where the Stadtcasino concert hall rose impressively in front of my eyes.
This was my first experience of Switzerland, and it had lasted all in all barely an hour until this point. Arriving from Paris and then Mulhouse, the train never really left France, but deposited one upon the very boundary between the two countries; only upon crossing some corridors on foot and displaying suitable papers to uniformed guards was one permitted to actually enter the country. And from the Basel train station to the centre of the old town was but a short ride, although one so remarkably charming, as the cab wound its way among narrow cobbled streets, as to fill the mind with enduring impressions. I sat happily, thinking how many of the most extraordinary experiences of my life had come to me through my detecting efforts, and how very lucky I was to have stumbled into the profession, almost by sheer accident.
The cab deposited me at a small pension, the name of which had been given to me by my dear friend Mrs Burke-Jones as being highly reputable and filled with travelling English ladies. I was not completely sure that this was the kind of company I most desired, but on the other hand, my German was so very rudimentary – and the language that I heard spoken all about me, in any case, so very unlike even my elementary notions of German! – that I thought it must surely be useful to be able to communicate in English. So I booked a room, spent the entire night crossing the Continent, and arrived at midday, ready to offer myself the gift of an afternoon and evening devoted to exploration, before presenting myself at the rendezvous so kindly granted me by Maestro Friedrich Hegar in Basel, where he was conducting a special concert.
I had written to him immediately after the conversation with Rose and Claire, for it seemed as clear to me as to them that whatever had driven Sebastian Cavendish to sudden suicide, it was something that he had learnt within the course of his five days’ absence, and I could think of nothing more urgent or more useful than to retrace every step that he took during that short period of time. It was so recent that the project struck me as eminently possible, and I determined to begin in Zürich, whither he had travelled to give his concert with the Tonhalle Orchester.
I hesitated over leaving at once, but my husband advised me that it would be more prudent to write to the conductor, explaining the situation and requesting an interview at his convenience. Arthur said that orchestra conductors are busy and often widely-travelled men, and he turned out to be quite right, for the Maestro informed me that he would be out of the country for a few days, and then he would be spending a short time in Basel for a series of concerts with the Chorale there, before returning to Zürich. If I could not wait until his return home, he offered to receive me in Basel for a short meeting, and gave me a most precise day and hour during which I might come to the concert hall; it was very nearly the only free time that he would have. I accepted immediately by telegraph, made my preparations, deposited my things at the pension and went for a roundabout walk: and thus I found myself wandering along the banks of the Rhine in the wintry sunshine, somewhat early, somewhat timid, but very much charmed by my surroundings.
Upon the stroke of four o’clock I entered the building, and soon found the main concert hall. The orchestra members were putting away their instruments and leaving; the conductor, who must be none other than Herr Hegar, was gathering up his music. I approached him with a little trepidation, hoping that he had not entirely forgotten about our meeting.
He turned as he heard me coming up to the stage from the seats, and I saw a head of white hair brushed artistically back, giving a peculiar effect of being rigidly windblown, a pair of sharp, commanding blue eyes, and a general air of being used to authority and to public observation. Then he came forward, his hand outstretched, and shook mine. His score under his arm, he invited me to join him in the room set aside for his use before and after concerts, and I followed him there under the curious glances of the musicians. It was a simple, pleasant little room furnished with a wardrobe and a mirror – important accessories for the conductor, certainly – a desk and lamp, and two or three armchairs. He settled down in one of them – it seemed almost too small in character, although not in size, for such a personality – and ushering me into another, leant forward to speak.
‘So you have come about Sebastian Cavendish,’ he said. ‘Terrible, terrible, that he should be dead. I can hardly believe it. He was so young, so vigorous, so extraordinarily talented – a true artist, such as one meets but few over a lifetime of music. Only weeks ago he was playing here in Switzerland – only weeks ago. And now he is dead. I am horrified. I would wish to express my greatest sympathy and condolences to his family. If I may be so blunt, how did he die?’
His English was elegant, carefully pronounced yet strongly accented with the rhythmic singsong and peculiar vowels that characterised the incomprehensible Swiss German I heard spoken all about me in the streets. It made me want to smile, but the very thought of the dreadful nature of the response I must give to his question effaced that desire at once.
‘He committed suicide by drinking poison,’ I replied, unwilling or unable to be flowery on the matter.
His expression changed; he looked stern.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘I had thought it must be some accident. I am sorry to hear what you tell me. Some tragedy of love, perhaps. But it is not clear to me why you wished to meet with me upon the subject. I was hardly acquainted with young Mr Cavendish, though I would gladly have hoped to become more so in the coming years.’
‘We, his friends and family,’ I began, smoothly adopting a polite fiction that I often used to avoid presenting myself as a detective, ‘believe that he had no reason to wish to do away with himself before he left on his trip to Zürich. All are of one mind that he was happy, excited, hopeful and full of plans and projects, as well as being engaged to a charming young lady who was also a brilliant pianist and a member of his trio, the Cavendish Trio. In fact, it seems that he meant to broach the subject of a possible return to Zürich with the trio, in view of a performance of the Beethoven Triple Concerto.’
‘Ah yes. He did speak of that,’ replied the conductor with a wave of his hand. ‘We had a discussion at the party that followed the concert, about his possible return. I expressed my preference that he should return as a soloist, to play something in contrast with the splendidly romantic Mendelssohn; something that would electrify rather than move. Paganini, perhaps. The Beethoven Triple Concerto is extremely difficult to organise; three soloists, three payments, and then generally more than the usual three rehearsals to put everything together. As an established trio, of course, they would have been able to prepare it in detail beforehand. On the other hand, the names of the other two members were unknown to me, although I cannot imagine that Cavendish would have participated in a mediocre trio. Still, I would have wished for further guarantees, and in addition, both the pianist and the cellist are women, which seemed to me to be a poor arrangement.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And why would that be?’
‘We Swiss are lovers of tradition!’ he responded firmly. ‘Our women are not expected to attack the professions, as so many do in your advanced English society. We do not wish for such forwardness here. Women are content to stay at home in their kitchens, and they do not rush about getting up on stages to show themselves in public, or clamour loudly for the vote. Not even to mention the peculiar appearance of a young man travelling with two young women. It would not have done here, not at all, I assure you.’
I wondered inwardly whether to laugh or cry over the description of England as an advanced place for women, then decided that it is always best to count one’s blessings. I could not guess whether Swiss women were truly as he described them, or whether this was a man’s description, offered under the optimistic assumption that women were as he wished them to be. It is not that I am not acquainted with a certain number of Englishmen who would be likely enough to hold the same discourse (except, of course, that they would be obliged, additionally, to fulminate against the modest progress we women have achieved in attaining to the professions, and against the multiple demonstrations women have unsuccessfully staged in order to obtain university degrees, the right to vote, and other carefully protected male prerogatives). The question is both infinite and close to my heart, so I considered it wisest to nod my head sagely and appear as kitchen-oriented and profession-free as possible.
‘I see,’ I said humbly but encouragingly.
‘However, I did assure young Cavendish that he would be invited again for next year’s opening season,’ continued Herr Hegar, ‘without yet specifying what concerto would be played. He had a very bright future in front of him and seemed very enterprising, full of energy, and happiness also. I assure you that I cannot have the slightest notion of why he should have committed suicide.’
‘Neither do we,’ I answered slowly. ‘It seems to all the members of his family that when he left, he was as you describe him. Therefore, we have determined to follow his traces and attempt to discover everything he did while he was away, to see if we can recapture what led to the tragedy. I ought to explain to you that he left a note to his fiancée, telling her that he had “found out something” and “could not go on”. We are all quite certain that whatever it was, he must have found it out during the course of his trip to Switzerland, for he left in good spirits and died immediately upon his return. That is why I am trying to go to the places where he went, do the things that he did and speak to the people that he met: in order to discover the cause of his sudden despair. Perhaps the most I can ask of you is to tell me how much you saw of him while he was in this country, and if you know where he stayed, any other people he was in contact with while he was here?’
He hesitated, then shook his head.
‘I cannot be of much help to you, I am afraid,’ he began. ‘I do not know exactly when he arrived, but he was certainly here on December 27th, the day before the concert, for we had a three-hour rehearsal in the evening of that day. Cavendish did not stay for the three hours, of course. He waited while we went through the overture to Fidelio, then we rehearsed Mendelssohn, and he left while we worked through the second half of the program, Schubert’s unfinished symphony. The first rehearsal was only moderately successful in that his playing was so free that it was not easy to comprehend his style and predict his rubato. For the next morning’s rehearsal, I summoned him an hour early to discuss the score in detail, and he explained his interpretation to me with a high level of technical mastery and also poetic expression. The rehearsal went much better. The concert was on the evening of that day. After the concert, there was a soirée during which Mr Cavendish appeared at the top of his form; that was when we had the conversation about his possible return for next year’s season. This is all that I saw of him. I cannot tell you anything further.’
‘But that is already a great deal,’ I said. ‘He played on the 28th of December. The … the death occurred during the night of December 31st; he was supposed to join some friends celebrating the arrival of the New Year. What did he do in between? Did he stay on in Zürich?’
‘I have no idea what he did or where he may have gone after the evening of the 28th,’ said Herr Maestro Hegar, beginning to look slightly impatient.
‘I quite understand, and you have already given me some most important information,’ I said hastily. ‘Perhaps I may ask you if he received many people backstage after the concert, and who organised the soirée?’
‘The soirée was organised and hosted by one of our most faithful sponsors,’ he replied, a faint smile hovering over his lips. ‘Her name is Frau Adelina Bochsler, and she is a great lover and supporter of music and musicians. She would certainly have gone to greet the evening’s soloist after his concert and can tell you more than I about what occurred there. As it happens, she is also the person to ask about who was invited to the soirée. As always in her home, it was a formal and carefully organised affair, so I should not be surprised if she could provide you with a list of guests. I will write you a letter of recommendation to her, so that you may present yourself at her home in Zürich.’ He seemed relieved at the idea of handing me over to the care of someone else, and, moving over to a small writing table, he wrote, folded and sealed a letter which he gave me, together with a note containing the lady’s name and address.
‘You may present yourself directly at her home and leave a card,’ he said, ‘upon which you should write that you are sent by me. If she is in, she will receive you, and otherwise she will certainly send for you at her earliest convenience. I am certain that she will be willing to render this service to the cause of Music. I would be happy to accompany you to visit dear Frau Bochsler, if I could, but I will not be returning to Zürich for several days. Basel is a lovely place,’ he added, looking around him, then out of the window, with a smile. ‘I lived here as a child and still have excellent friends here, who sometimes even come to visit me in Zürich for the concerts. This city is filled with old associations that, by some mysterious contrast, serve to refresh and renew me. It is good for the soul. But I expect that when I return to Zürich, you will probably no longer be there.’
It was clearly a dismissal, but I estimated myself successful with all that I had obtained, and bid the Maestro goodbye with the greatest respect. I felt optimistic about my next step, hoping for much rich conversation from a music-loving and party-arranging lady.
CHAPTER THREE
In which Vanessa visits Zürich and hears all about a charming party which took place there
Frau Adelina Bochsler was very friendly, very helpful, and very, very voluble. She was horrified by the so gifted young virtuoso’s dreadful death. She had seen in him a great future. She was always, but always, looking out for young geniuses such as he. She had hoped for a long and fruitful collaboration. She had heard him in London, and it was her idea that he should come to Zürich. She had persuaded Herr Maestro Hegar, who had hesitated to take risks on yet unknown youth, but the young man’s gold medal at a famous competition had helped convince him. Sebastian was so young, so strong, so handsome, so appealing. Those who had never met him could not even understand, was it not, dear Frau Vetherburn? She had been lucky to meet him even once. As for myself, how lucky I had been, and how sad my bereavement! I nodded until I felt like a Chinese mandarin.
I asked if dear Sebastian had stayed on in Zürich after his concert. No, Frau Bochsler did not believe that he had. In fact, she had asked him, for if he had been staying longer, she would have gladly taken him on an outing in her carriage to see the sights. But he was leaving the very next morning. Where was he going? Why, she didn’t know. She supposed he was returning home. But had he said so? She didn’t remember, but she did remember that he was quite – how could she say? He seemed eager to go. It was as though something important was awaiting him next. But she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in this. Surely the life of such a handsome young man must be filled with exciting events.
So he had seemed nervous? No, nervous would be the wrong word. Not nervous, but tense, excited, wound up. He was to leave quite early in the morning. The trip to London was a very long one. Such musicians were in great demand; they must resolve themselves to a great deal of travel.
Had poor Sebastian spoken to her of his trio, or his fiancée? Why yes, he had. He had told her of his hopes to come with his trio to play the Beethoven Triple Concerto with the Tonhalle Orchester. But Frau Bochsler had felt a twinge of dismay, as she did not know whether it would be right to encourage him in this idea. She was not at all certain that Herr Hegar would agree, and of course it was Herr Hegar who took all such decisions. She did not say so, but she seemed very much to prefer the idea of Sebastian coming all by himself, to be petted and taken under her wing. The idea of his arriving flanked by two radiant young ladies did not seem to appeal to her much. She sighed, and agreed that of course his fiancée must be utterly devastated.
Could she tell me anything she had noticed about Sebastian’s mood over the course of the evening? You see, I told her, we were convinced that at some point between his leaving for Zürich and his death, he had learnt something which had a profound and terrible effect on him. We were trying to trace his every movement and gesture during that lapse of time in order to pinpoint the moment at which this had happened. She understood perfectly. But she could not see how anything of the kind could have happened at her soirée. Well, obviously, there had been many people there. Thirty-five or forty people. Dear Sebastian was not previously acquainted with any of them, as far as she knew. She had kept him near her for the whole first part of the evening, introducing him to the cream of music-loving Zürich society; magistrates, doctors, men of law, men of government, and their elegant, artistic wives. He had not encountered any familiar faces that she knew of, except for Herr Hegar’s, of course. At least there had been no sign that he had done so. His mood was excellent, and he was such a lovely young man, so full of charm, such easy manners. Of course he spoke mainly English, but he had some German, and these two languages sufficed for him to enter into many a more or less broken conversation. No, he was not in the least bit shy; quite the contrary. And he seemed to enjoy making friends. What a personality; he was truly the star of the evening, truly, truly. To think he was dead, it was dreadful. Frau Bochsler took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
Yet he seemed somehow tense when he spoke of hurrying home. Why would that be? She didn’t know, hadn’t thought about it. Probably he simply missed his fiancée. Perhaps, indeed. But, I asked, could it possibly be that he had had a particular conversation at the soirée which had disturbed him? She could hardly imagine it, yet – her eyes sparkled with excitement – it was not impossible; no, she supposed that it was not impossible. Did she think that Sebastian had spoken with more or less everyone at the soirée? Yes, he had probably exchanged at least a few words with nearly everyone. Had she noticed him in particular conversation with anyone? Well, on and off she saw him talking and laughing with several people. What did they talk about in general? Well, music was the subject of the evening. Sebastian’s talent, his superb interpretation of Mendelssohn, his gold medal, his budding career, his future. He spoke of it all with such grace; he was modest and at the same time eager and hopeful and so gifted it was quite impossible to believe that he was gone. Frau Bochsler wiped her eyes again.
How could we possibly find out if he had had any particularly striking conversation that evening? Well, she was eager to help. What could she do? She herself had participated in the most fascinating moment when Mr Cavendish had actually taken out his violin to show it to some of the assembled guests. It was a most extraordinary violin, but I would know all about it, of course. (More nodding.) A lion’s head was carved at the end of the fingerboard, at the place where there is usually a scroll; a lion’s head with a strangely long, extended tongue. The young soloist had explained that the violin was made by a certain Jacob Stainer of Austria. I perked up my ears at the mention of an actual name, only to learn further that Jacob Stainer had lived and died in the 17th century. Frau Bochsler believed that the name meant no more to her guests than it did to herself – namely, nothing whatsoever – although some of them had appeared to pretend to know all about him. Mr Cavendish had smilingly explained that the sound of the violin was not as powerful as certain others that had been made in Italy, but that it was so extraordinary an instrument in tone and quality that he would not wish to change it; he felt it belonged to him by destiny. She remembered that he had said that the violin had been inherited from his grandfather. Was it not remarkable that grandfather and grandson should both be violinists? But perhaps it was quite a normal thing. Frau Bochsler herself loved embroidery, and she had shared this taste with her grandmother. Her mother had not seemed to enjoy it so much, she recalled. Frau Bochsler’s mother had been given to making lace, and she had taught her daughter to make lace, but little Adelina had preferred to embroider poppies and cornflowers and violets, like her grandmother. She had made these napkins herself, she recalled, extracting some from a drawer to show me. I admired the ability of a child to form such perfect stitches, and wondered fleetingly if my own little Cecily would be able to hold still long enough to master such an art. But this was a digression. I drew Frau Bochsler firmly back to the matter at hand. Yes, yes, she said, her eyes still on the napkins, but Sebastian had not wanted anyone to say that he inherited his gift from his grandfather just as he had inherited the violin. The joke had been made, but he had said it was impossible, out of the question. Frau Bochsler did not see why it should be out of the question. Such things could be inherited, certainly. She continued to finger the napkins. But Sebastian had said it was impossible. Then he had laughed. He was a young man of infinite vitality; the guests had been won over by his charm.
All this was relevant enough, but although it appeared that the guests were learning many an interesting fact from Sebastian, I could hardly imagine what he might have learnt from any of them during the course of such banal conversations. Yet it was tantalising. The violin must have been of tremendous importance to him – I could well imagine a flamboyant personality on the cusp of a grand career appreciating the effect produced on his public by the unusual sight of a lion’s head at the tip of his instrument. The fact that he associated the violin with his ‘destiny’ was also intriguing, indicative of something fundamental in his life. Yet, what on earth could he have possibly learnt that night about his own violin? And what fact about a violin could possibly provoke a suicide? Even discovering that it was a fake or a fraud would surely not produce so dramatic an effect. My imagination was failing me.
I drew Frau Bochsler back to the subject of Sebastian’s suicide. She could not imagine any relation whatsoever between this terrible event and anything that had transpired during the soirée. It seemed to her, alas, much more probable that poor Sebastian had made some dreadful discovery in London. Could it not be – she leant towards me, dropping her voice to a whisper – that he had found out something about his fiancée? Such things had been known to shatter the happiness of young men.
I told her that the fiancée was more distraught by the mystery of it all than anyone else, and described the note that Sebastian had left for her. Frau Bochsler sighed deeply upon hearing about it, and the distaste for having doubts shed upon the absolute success of her party was slightly overshadowed by the glowing account I gave of the mystery of it all, and the realisation that she might possibly yet play a role in its elucidation. I asked again if she could be sure that there had been no other significant moments for Sebastian during the evening, and if she had noticed his mood when he finally left. Well, it was as she had told me; he left somewhat early as he had an early train to Paris on the following morning, and he was definitely tense when he told her this, as he shook her hand. Perhaps there had been something to cause that. It was possible, after all, although she had certainly thought nothing of it at the time.
Could I, perhaps, arrange to meet some of the other guests and ask them the question?
It would be a little socially awkward. Yet, she thought it could be done. Without saying so directly, she intimated that certain people might be quite interested to hear details about the terrible tragedy that had passed so close to them. She could arrange something. She had the list of guests, of course. Her soirées were highly prestigious, highly desirable. Everyone who was anyone in Zürich wished to be invited. She must keep lists and be careful to exclude undesirables. Anything might happen if one were not strict; people who were not received because of a social scandal could attach themselves to other people and, on the grounds of visiting them, could worm their way in. Frau Bochsler had had to yield on such matters many a time when she was younger and less experienced, and more than once she’d had a soirée ruined by the presence of an obnoxious or unwanted
