by Alexie Aaron
“Just give it to the cabbie. He’ll find it no problem,” Peter said and put a protective hand on Noelle’s arm.
“Be careful and try to come back with both shoes,” Noelle cautioned.
“Don’t worry, I have a good feeling about this.” I looked at my brave daughter and envied her. I motioned for her to walk to the cab with me. I whispered. “Be careful with Peter. I think you hold his heart in your hand right now.”
“Nah, it’s just hero worship. He’ll duck out, wait and see.”
She left me with only one backward glance. Now I could stop acting and be really nervous. Note to self: It is very hard holding sweat in.
“Are we ready, Michael?” I asked as he gave me his arm.
“Bloody hell, no.”
“Why do you Brits use bloody this and bloody that?”
“It’s for color.”
“It’s awfully red, blood red.”
“Sturdy up, Cin. Remember you’re the holder of the Kernow Daa.”
“Angie told you, did she?”
Michael opened up the door of the cab and gave him the address. He settled in his seat before speaking. “She told me it might have saved your life. I don’t scoff at the magic out there. Just because we can’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“I sure hope the Kernow Daa continues to do its stuff.”
“Me too because we have arrived.” Michael paid the driver, and I followed him up to a pleasant brick townhouse. “These were row homes for the rich and posh at one time. The neighborhood fell into bad times, and Maurice purchased the whole block. He converted them into offices. Brought the neighborhood back I think. The only way you know there’s a business here is by the brass plaque.”
“Sherborn Enterprises,” I read off the plaque. I let my eyes wander down the street as Michael opened the door. Nothing looked out of place there but me.
We walked into a foyer and up to a very pleasant but prim middle-aged secretary.
“Hullo, Mrs. Roberts. Tell Maurice that Mrs. Connolly couldn’t make it but Cindy Fin-Lathen is here to see him instead.”
“I didn’t know you were coming. Your brother will be surprised.”
“Yes, I think that he will.”
She rang up Maurice, explained that I would be replacing Mrs. Connolly. He said to send me in. Mrs. Roberts got up to show me the way.
“Mrs. Roberts, I am expecting my secretary Angela with some papers I forgot at the office. Please, could you just show her in when she arrives? That way she can slip in and not bother our meeting.”
Mrs. Roberts nodded and took us down the hall to the largest, most comfortable and well-appointed room I have ever seen.
“Holy cow,” I could not believe I said that out loud.
“I will take that as a compliment. Come in sit down,” a frail man said from the corner of the room. He didn’t see Michael until he sat down. Then he popped right back up. “Michael, you son of Satan. I had no idea you knew Ms. Fin-Lathen?”
“I don’t, I just met her today, Maurice.”
Truth within lies. He did just meet Michael’s aunt today. Very nicely done.
“I don’t understand, but I’m sure you will enlighten me.”
Before I could sink myself further into hell with more untruths I heard Mrs. Roberts say, right this way. Angie walked in and closed the door behind her. “Hullo Maurice, remember me?”
“Come closer, you’re in the dark.”
Angie walked right up to the desk. Maurice turned his head and shook it. “I’m sorry, I can’t place you.”
“Angela Bathgate.”
Maurice’s eyes widened. He tried to speak several times, but nothing came out. He looked at her again. “It’s impossible, you’re dead. He told me you were dead. I don’t understand.”
This either was a great actor before me or a genuinely confused man.
Michael got up. “No, it’s Angie and I that don’t understand. Why did you tell her I was dead?”
“Because you were! Father got the letter, and I went right away to tell Angela. I wanted her to hear from family. It was my duty. When you finally came home, I couldn’t tell her because he said she killed herself after she heard from my lips that you were dead. I didn’t want you to hate me so I said the Germans killed her. I didn’t know. He said...”
“Who said?” I asked. “Angie, Michael, sit down, you’re scaring Maurice. Do you want some water, a drink, something?” I felt horrible. This man was going to have a coronary. I walked around the desk. “Please, Maurice, sit down and breathe. Slowly, in and out, in,” I waited longer each time, “and out.” When I thought his color looked better, I asked him again, “Maurice, who told you Angela killed herself?”
“My wife’s brother, Bentley Hughes. Why did he lie to me? I’m so confused. I feel so horrible. Michael...” He just shook his head and started to cry. “Oh, Angela, I have mourned you every day for the last fifty years. Bentley showed me your grave, and I took Michael there. Who the hell is in that grave?”
“Probably no one. Why would Bentley do this Maurice?” I asked.
“I dunno.”
“Okay, I hate to press on here, but I have to ask you some other questions. Maybe the answers will help us figure this out. Can you bear with me?”
“Yes, yes I have to.” Maurice blew his nose.
“We already know from Michael why you published his masterpiece under your name. I have no problem with that. You and Michael made your peace. But what about the others’ music?”
“Bentley came back from the war early and was shocked to see his family in such a bad state. Poor chap had a small breakdown. The responsibility of taking care of his family fell solely on his shoulders. I tried to help him, but he didn’t want to pull me under. In the end he managed to pull himself and his family’s company together. Shear grit and hard work. I was really surprised, didn’t think he had it in him. No one did. I asked him later on about what happen to bring him out of his depressed state. Bentley was an a-b-c, one-two-three, kind of a lad. He went on a trip to visit places that had made him happy in his childhood. He found happiness, and it drove the demons away. On one of his jaunts he ended up at Bathgate. Much to his dismay there was no one around. Ever the clever parker, Bentley dug into his pocket and produced his old set of keys. Luck was with him because the Bathgates hadn’t changed their locks. So, he walked in and toured our old haunts. He ended up in the file room, and he looked for his music. He wanted to feel again, maybe write music again. He thought if he could channel up the old memories that he would be all right.
“He took his manuscripts and everyone else’s too from our class. He brought yours and mine to me. I think his original intention was to send them home to the students or to their families, if the students hadn’t survived that horrible war. That way they would have a part of the lads to remember. That is what he told me he was going to do. Meanwhile, I was all dried up. I couldn’t write my address let alone a symphony. I was under a lot of pressure, so I recopied yours in my own hand. I had Bentley help me with some problems in the arrangement. Remember how he used to help us in school? Well I did it. I plagiarized your work. And when I thought you were dead I felt I could live with my crime by telling myself that it was what you would have wanted. Your work would live on even though you were dead. Father and Mother were so proud of me. I was the toast of the town. I still mourned you, but the parties, the booze and the attention from the women made me feel better.
“I married Bentley’s sister, and as long as I was on top she was so happy. It was about that time we heard the wonderful news that you were alive and were on your way home. I didn’t care if I was drummed out of society as the fraud I was. All that mattered was that you were alive and coming home. When Bentley found out he took me aside and told me about Angela. I felt your death was my fault, Angela. I had to tell my brother that you were dead. I was a weak man. I made up the story about the bomb, so he would never find out that you killed yourself because o
f what I told you. Michael, you died in front of my very eyes. When you did come around months later, I told you about the music. Bentley had already published the piece and it was a hit in a world starved so long from beautiful music.
“Michael, you told me you didn’t care. You didn’t want to have anything to do with music anymore. You let me have the manuscript. I used the money to send you back to school for horticulture, like you originally wanted, before Father and Mother made you change to composing. This was the only way I knew how to help you. ‘Spring Water Music’s’ popularity held on, but the world was waiting for my next piece. I had no talent - it was evident even to me by then. Bentley had always been my confidant. When I told him my worries he just smiled. He said, ‘Maurice, remember when I took those manuscripts. I sent one home to Ivan. I heard he was killed in action and thought his mother would appreciate the gesture. Guess what? She sent three of his pieces back with a note thanking me for my kindness. She felt the western world would have a better chance to hear Ivan’s work and asked me to publish it.
“I was in shock. I couldn’t take Ivan’s work, but Bentley insisted that if we put all the work into making his Russian opera into an English opera then we should have our names on the music too. I didn’t know that he left his and Ivan’s name off the score and copies till I went into rehearsal. I told my wife, and she said that her family couldn’t stand another scandal. She begged me to let it go. I did, and we all made a lot of money off Ivan’s work. I gave Bentley letters and checks to send Ivan’s mother.”
“I don’t think she ever received them, Maurice. Ivan’s mother died before he attended university here,” Michael informed him.
“I didn’t know. I never much paid attention to him. He was a little different for my tastes. Anyway, Bentley’s business was now making money. It was about that time that I received a letter from Donald. It was 1950, maybe 1952. Anyway, he wrote he was in severe financial trouble. He couldn’t get published in the United States because of a family scandal. I took this letter to Bentley, and he listened and looked at the material Donald had sent. "Let me take care of this," he said. Two weeks went by, and Donald wrote me again. He said he had spoken to Bentley and agreed with him that the UK didn’t know Donald Williams from dirt, so he agreed to have his work published under my name. He would accept half of the royalties. His family needed the money. I thought, what was the harm? Hymns. Who was going to buy a hymn? The best stuff was written centuries ago. But I was wrong. Bentley did a spin job, and the next thing I knew the C of E was revising hymnals just to include Donald’s hymns. I received half the money and I assumed the other half was sent on to Donald because I received a yearly letter thanking me for doing this for him.”
“Do you have these letters?” I asked.
“Yes I do, they’re over at the house. I looked them over just after my wife died. They made me happy. Even if I was a fake, I could at least aid this family in distress.”
“You honestly believe that, don’t you?” Angie asked him.
“Yes. Why?”
“You said the letters were dated in the 1950’s?”
“1952 through 1963.”
“Did you ever talk to Donald?”
“No, just the letters.”
I looked at Michael and Angie. I didn’t know if Maurice could stand another shock.
He stared at us. “What? Tell me. Don’t you dare hold anything back, Michael.”
Michael nodded at me to tell him.
“We found Donald’s body in the bog behind the music school a few days ago. He had been there for a long time. The FSS found that Donald was shot and left to sink to his death in 1945.”
“That’s impossible. That would make Bentley a liar, thief and a murderer.” Maurice sunk back in his chair.
“There’s more. Tell us what you know about Horace Beaufort?”
“Heebeegeebee, why he was very big during the war. Big Band music didn’t fade till the Korean Conflict in the United States. Horace came over here and worked with me on my arrangements. He actually took the time and brought out the talent in me. He was younger than I, but I think he felt bad for me. The tunes I can call my own are the Big Band arrangements. I owe it all to Horace. Bentley had him over here to try to seduce him away from the publisher he’s with now. The United States is in the midst of a resurgence in Big Band music. The old retirees are still playing them in community bands, plus almost every high school that has a marching or symphonic band also has a Jazz or Big Band. Horace’s arrangements are on fire right now.
“I had a bit of luck, but not like Horace. What a great bloke, regular type, you wouldn’t even know he was French Canadian.”
I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I chose to continue, “Your name isn’t on any of his charts?”
“No, but his is on mine. I made sure he received an arranger’s credit and half the royalties.”
“Who would benefit by his death?”
“I suppose his family. Why?”
“Maurice, Horace was killed in a hit and run accident on April 10th of this year. The driver left the scene of the accident. A local hit man that operates out of London was in Canada at that time.”
“I didn’t know that. Oh dear, I must write his family. Why did you bring him into all of this?”
“Honestly, I thought maybe you stole his Big Band charts. I’m sorry, I was in error,” I apologized.
“No offence taken, I seem to have a pretty good track record in that area, don’t I?”
“The same thug that was in Canada during Horace’s death pushed Bobby Bathgate down an open air escalator in Florida five days after his accident.”
“What? Bobby Bathgate? What does he have in common with Horace?”
Angie walked over to the desk. “Two days after Bobby’s fall someone tried to burn down the music school, and I was knocked on the head. I may have been dragged and thrown in the bog if my neighbor hadn’t arrived unexpectedly. A week ago, I was shot.” She parted her hair to show him the healing wound. “Almost knocked me off the tractor to my death. Cin saved me. Two days after that I was almost kidnapped by the same thug that pushed Bobby and probably ran over Horace. Cin saved me again. And then two nights ago, Cin was drugged and thrown in the bog. If her necklace hadn’t become tangled in an old fallen tree she would have died and never been found. When we pulled her up, we found Donald. Earlier, Cin had found Donald’s wallet when she cleaned out the instrument room. It had gotten jammed in between some shelves. She was bringing in the evidence that Donald had been here in 1945 when the same thug, Bruno Venchencho, attacked her. What do we have in common with the rest?”
“Cin, what do you do in the United States?”
“Oh, this and that, a little research, and I play alto clarinet in several of the community bands in South Florida.”
“I knew you were a musician. Alto Clarinet, well I’m a clarinet player myself. Ever play the contras?”
“Just a note or two, can’t afford one myself.”
“Hey, aren’t we getting off track here,” Michael protested.
“I was just trying to fit this beautiful lady into the picture. I can’t believe all this is going on. Maybe we should call the authorities.”
“Wait Maurice, there is one more bit of evidence. Come on, you’re stronger than you look.” He reached over and ruffled his hair as if he were a lad. “There. This morning the same thug shot at me. Donald’s nephew, who is a Jesuit priest, got in the way and took a hit in the shoulder. If he hadn’t, my head would have been blown off. So, is all this a bloody coincidence? No!”
“So, everyone, with Cin as the exception, was in or involved with someone at Bathgate at the same time. Anything else?” Maurice asked weakly.
“Someone has tried to buy Bathgate with all its contents. I received a good offer from an Estate agent from London. I called and asked Bobby to come and look over the music. He was injured and sent Cin, who is a musician and an expert on old music manuscripts, instead.”
>
“If the chance of discovering Donald’s body was the reason, why did he go after Horace and you, Michael? Why destroy the school?”
“I just remembered. There was a picture taken from the wall. It was your class picture...”
“So, Bobby and Horace would have known who was in the class. They would also remember the music.”
“Maurice, we need your help here. Why now? Why not years ago? What is happening now?”
“I was up for a knighthood that I declined.”
“You declined the knighthood? Why?” Michael asked aghast.
“Very simple. If the knighthood were for my Big Band tunes I would be sitting on the Queen’s lap. But I can’t receive an honor that isn’t mine.”
“Does Bentley know you declined?” Angie asked.
“Not yet, we had a falling out over his terms on a buyout of my copyright.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was all set to sign over all my rights to my music for a tidy sum to Bentley Hughes, when I read the fine print. It was contingent on my knighthood. I told him I wanted that clause taken out. He refused.”
“I guess Sir Maurice Sherborn would sell more than just Maurice Sherborn,” Angie guessed.
“No, I disagree. I may be just an alto clarinet player but I have worked the libraries of three bands. It’s the quality of the arrangement, not the name. Sure, there would have been more publicity, but who wants a piece of music that is crap just because the Queen likes the composer?”
“If Bentley’s company did get your music and you were proved a fraud then the scandal...”
“It would have sunk the company. No one would have anything to do with Bentley. Shame and scandal all over again. But there is only my say so. There isn’t any proof of plagiarism except the word of Horace, Bobby, Angie and Michael.”
