Ghost Variations
Page 1
Ghost Variations
The Strangest Detective Story In Music
Jessica Duchen
Unbound
London
This edition first published in 2016
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© Jessica Duchen, 2016
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has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright,
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ISBN (Ebook): 9781783529834
ISBN (Paperback): 9781783529827
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Cover photographs:
© Malgorzata Maj / Arcangel Images
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Ghost Variations © Jessica Duchen. All Rights Reserved, except where otherwise noted.
Contents
About the Author
Super Patrons
Prologue
16 February 1938
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part II
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Coda
Author’s Note
Bibliography
Patrons
About the Author
Jessica Duchen writes for The Independent on classical music, opera and ballet, and during the past 25 years has interviewed many of the world’s finest musicians. Her first four novels (published by Hodder) have gathered a loyal fan-base and wide acclaim. “Duchen has a rare talent which is increasingly being recognised” (Gavin Esler, The Glasgow Herald).
Jessica grew up in London, read music at Cambridge, also studying piano, and felt torn at first between the prospects of a musical career and a literary one. Having decided to be “sensible” – perhaps a debatable point – and choose the latter, she held editorial posts on several music magazines before going freelance to concentrate on writing.
Her interest in cross-genre arts finds music playing a vital role in her novels as well as her journalism, and she frequently narrates concert versions of two of them, Alicia’s Gift and Hungarian Dances. She is currently writing an opera libretto for the composer Roxanna Panufnik, a commission from Garsington Opera for 2017.
Her output also includes two plays, biographies of the composers Erich Wolfgang Korngold and Gabriel Fauré (both published by Phaidon) and her popular classical music blog, JDCMB.
Jessica lives in London with her violinist husband and their two cats. She enjoys playing the piano, preferably when nobody can hear her, as well as cookery, long walks and plundering second-hand bookshops for out-of-print musical gems.
The following people helped to make this book possible by sponsoring a character.
Jelly d’Arányi is kindly sponsored by Irmina Trynkos
Donald Francis Tovey is kindly sponsored by Steven Isserlis
Myra Hess is kindly sponsored by the Jersey Liberation International Music Festival
Dear Reader, The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.
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Super Patrons
Etienne Abelin
Rami Abiel
Rebecca Agnew
Dimitri Ashkenazy
Louise Barder
Judith Barnard
Luiza Borac
Richard Bratby
Julian Brewer
Judith Bronkhurst
Nicky Brown
Tim Bullamore and Lisa McCormick
Trevor Campbell Davis
Desmond Cecil
R. and C. Chatsworth
Nicola Creed
Ellen Dahrendorf
Alexandra Dariescu
Robert Dean
Dr Marc Desautels
Colin Dick
John Dilworth
Michael Duchen
Harriet Eisner
David Eisner
Susan Elkin
Timothy Fancourt
Katie Fforde
Sadie Fields
Margaret Fingerhut
Colin Ford
Sophie Fuller
M G
Harold Gray
Anthony Hacking
Kulvinder Hambleton-Grey
Mary Hamer
Nigel Hamway
Laszlo Harkanyi
Julian Haylock
Rustem Hayroudinoff
Anthony Hewitt
Amanda Hurton
Steven Isserlis
Nani Jansen
Guy Johnston
Dan Kieran
Judith Knott
Horst Kolodziej
Piers Lane
Jane and George Little
Harriet Mackenzie
Roxanna Macklow-Smith
Samuel Magill
Ben Mandelson
Dr. Marion Gedney
Paul Maskell
Hugh Mather
Murray McLachlan
Viv McLean
Alice McVeigh
Zamira Menuhin Benthall
James Mews
John Mitchinson
Francis Norton
Nadia Ostacchini
Lewis Owens
Lev Parikian
Norman Perryman
Sarah Playfair
Justin Pollard
Catherine Rogers
Andrew Rose
Tomoyuki Sawado
Seb Scotney
Margaret Semple
Sue
Shorter
Mary Sigmond
Steven Spooner
Eleanor Stanier
Gillian Stern
Clare Stevens
Tot Taylor
Madelyn Travis
Irmina Trynkos
Robin Tyson
Liubov Ulybysheva
Angelo Villani
Marion von Hofacker
Jo W
Ricki Wagner
Helen Wallace
For Michael, Laura, Hannah, Ben, Luca, Toby and Tom, with all my love
With grateful thanks to my brother, Michael Duchen, through whom I first learned to love the violin
Prologue
16 February 1938
She stood at the side of the stage, invisible to the audience; violin in one hand, bow in the other, her eyes half closed against the brightness above. A thrum of expectation was reaching her from the gathered listeners in the auditorium. Outside, in Regent Street, snow had been falling when she arrived; now it felt like a benediction. Her dress was white and silver, bright and pure, as if she were taking her first communion.
This concert would be unlike any other she had given. During one concerto by a composer of genius, a piece nobody here had heard before, she must prove that every note she had played, every letter she had written, every pain she had battled, was worthwhile for its sake. Half an hour to learn whether she was still herself, still strong after the past years’ turmoil; still there to command the concert platform that used to be her true home. Alone, inward, she summoned one spirit, and prayed for his blessing. ‘In art alone,’ she remembered, ‘we find salvation.’
‘Ready, Jelly?’ Adrian was beside her, calm on the outside but, who knows, perhaps as tumult-ridden within as she felt.
‘Ready.’
He stood aside to let her walk on stage first. She crossed herself, then stepped forward into the light.
Part I
1933–34
Chapter 1
Jelly d’Arányi’s assistant, Anna Robertson, seemed to enjoy keeping her employer’s feet attached in some small way to the earth. By the time their Eastbourne hosts called them downstairs for drinks, a frost was forming on Anna’s bedroom window; Jelly, though, had dressed for dinner in a crimson evening gown with a fashionable, deep-scooped back that exposed her shoulder blades. She had spent enough of her childhood in the 19th century to cherish a lingering nostalgia for its flamboyance and poetry.
‘Jelly, you’ll catch your death,’ Anna protested. She preferred a plain skirt, court shoes and cardigan; tonight it was buttoned up to her chin. Suffering from a chronic cough and a slight fever, she had been asleep for two hours while Jelly was practising. Last night Jelly had performed the Brahms Violin Concerto in nearby Hastings; today she could not rest. Another concert ahead meant more music to prepare.Jelly was pleased to see Anna looking a little brighter. ‘Darling, don’t worry about me. I just want you to feel better.’
The dining room was warm, the fire smouldering in its grate beneath the mantelpiece. There a silver frame held a photograph of the Southerns’ two sons, who had both fought at Mons in 1914. One body was never returned; the other boy came back with an uncontrollable twitch of the head and neck, unable to speak. After two months in a nursing home, he disappeared one night. Trawling a nearby lake for evidence, they discovered he had found peace at last in its waters.
The windowpanes multiplied Jelly’s slender image skimming across the lamplit hallway, the gleam catching her necklace – a gift from a long-ago admirer. Ten or fifteen years previously, scarcely a day would pass without a delivery boy on a bicycle bringing flowers, a parcel or an invitation to a dance – and Jelly loved dancing. Many weeks, what with concerts, salons and dinner parties, she’d seen in the dawn three or four times. This year at the end of May she would be 40. Part of her still felt no older than she was in 1916, on the day before she heard that Frederick Septimus Kelly was dead.
‘Jelly d’Arányi!’ Charles welcomed her with a mock-ceremonial bow as she swept in. ‘There she is. Muse to Bartók, Ravel and Elgar, angel to Vaughan Williams and Holst, and no wonder. You look positively scrumptious.’
‘And I’m a deeply grateful guest, as ever. I don’t know how many years I’ve been staying with you after concerts now.’
‘I’ve lost count, and the more it is, the happier we shall be.’
She gave him a kiss. He returned it, twice – then turned to Anna and pressed her hand to his lips, perhaps so that she would not feel left out.
‘Charlie, dear, are you flirting again?’ His wife, Mary, gave a tut that Jelly judged only semi-serious. ‘Why don’t you pour Jelly and Anna a nice glass of sherry? Goodness knows they’ve earned one.’
*
After they had eaten and the maid had cleared the plates, Charles sat back, a crystal decanter in front of him. ‘So, ladies, what’s after port? Cards? Charades?’
‘We could have a good session, as there are four of us,’ Mary suggested. ‘It’s always better with more people.’
Anna and Jelly exchanged glances. ‘Mary likes to play the glass game,’ Jelly explained.
‘Load of rubbish, but if Mary gets a kick out of it I don’t mind,’ Charles declared. ‘Who knows, these supposed spirits might even tell us something useful this time. What shares we ought to buy, or how the economy is ever going to get out of this damnable hole.’
‘Don’t swear, dear,’ said Mary. ‘Jelly, Anna, will you play?’
They both hesitated, Jelly fidgeting with the cross at her throat. ‘I’ve always felt it’s just… not quite right,’ she said.
‘I find it too scary,’ Anna admitted. ‘Adila sometimes wants me to join in, but I don’t dare.’
‘But what harm can it do?’ Mary cajoled. ‘It’s only the glass game, not a séance. We’re not spiritualists – anything but – and there’s no ectoplasm or ghosts appearing to worry about. Why not join us, just this once?’
‘Do humour her, dear Jelly,’ said Charles. ‘Otherwise I’ll be in for a double session tomorrow.’
Jelly looked from Charles to Mary, and at Anna, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘Just a few minutes, perhaps,’ she said. It seemed the polite solution.
‘We can stop whenever you like,’ said Mary. She beamed at Jelly, then drew the curtains, closing out the world. Opening a drawer in her bureau she brought out a well-used Ouija board, its black print fading towards sepia. The letters of the alphabet were marked on it in a wide semi-circle of two rows, the numbers up to nine – plus zero – in one row beneath, as well as the words ‘Yes’ on one side, ‘No’ on the other and ‘Goodbye’ at the bottom. This she placed in the centre of the table, with a small planchette pointer on top. Finally she extinguished the lamp and lit one candle; dim lighting would aid concentration. In the glow of its flame, Jelly saw the faces of her companions turned to gold, while their surroundings melted into the darkness.
They took their seats, two on each side of the table.
‘Very gently,’ Mary instructed. ‘Everyone rest one finger on the pointer. Whatever happens, don’t push. Let them move it as they wish. I’ll ask the questions.’
For a while the pointer stayed immobile. Then beneath their fingers it gave the slightest shudder.
‘Is there anybody of friendly intent who would like to talk to us?’ Mary intoned. And as they watched, the pointer began to slide over the board towards the letter N.
‘Are you doing that?’ Jelly mouthed at Anna.
‘No! It’s just… moving on its own. How on earth… ?’
‘Mary, it’s you!’ Charles accused.
‘No, it is not. Hush, please.’ Mary was officious, noting down the letters ‘N-O-T-Q-I-T-E’.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Charles said. ‘If there’s nobody there, how can there be someone to say “Not quite”?’
‘Sometimes I am not quite here either,’ Jelly tried to joke.
‘They’re having fun with us, so let’s have some fun with them, or whoever i
s moving the pointer this time. Let’s ask some real questions. The stock markets. Volatile as hell. So will the Dow Jones move up or down tomorrow?’
The pointer spun from letter to letter: F-T-S-C-V. ‘Gibberish,’ said Mary. ‘Let’s keep on.’
Jelly was indeed not quite there. A wall of tiredness had come upon her – the inevitable delayed reaction after the post-concert euphoria. She half followed the pointer beneath their fingers, with scant concern for the outcome.
The arrow glided to the letter A, then in succession to D-I-L-A. Jelly’s stomach gave a flip. ‘Adila?’ she said.
Jelly’s sister Adila was, according to her friend, Baron Erik Palmstierna, a psychic ‘sensitive’. For her, messages would come through unusually clearly and at considerable length, often whirling the glass along at high speed, in English, French, German or even perfect, grammatical Hungarian. News of Adila’s gift spread rapidly through those circles that interested themselves in ‘psychical research’. She would interpret the incoming messages while a minute-taker – sometimes her husband, but more usually Erik, who was the Swedish minister to London – transcribed them, one letter at a time. Jelly, living with Adila and her family, usually managed to avoid these sessions, finding them most uncomfortable when the messages made sense. Ill at ease with Erik, she would have preferred her sister’s talent to be restricted to the violin.
‘What’s Adila got to do with the stock market?’ Charles demanded.
The pointer chuntered on, letter by tortuous letter.
‘It seems to say something along the lines of “Adila is playing beautifully at this moment”,’ Mary declared, reading back her transcript. ‘Jelly, is she?’
‘No, no, no,’ Jelly insisted. ‘She has a concert today, but it was this afternoon, not this evening. You see? This is just a silly game!’
‘Don’t call them names,’ Mary said. ‘They don’t like it.’