Chord of Evil

by Sarah Rayne

  It was a shock, but shocking things – dramatic things – were part of wars. Christa, despite her youth, might have been part of some kind of spying activity that had gone wrong. People spied and infiltrated and lived strange, secret lives for their country during wars, and age did not necessarily matter. And if Giselle had been working for the Nazis, Christa could have had justifiable reasons for killing her. Phin did not really like the idea of the mysterious Giselle having been a Nazi, although he quite liked the idea of Christa as a spy. This was probably because it made her a heroine rather than a villainess, though. As Toby said, you had to beware of villainesses.

  But whatever the truth, Silke’s letter must be the reason for Stefan’s repudiation of Christa’s portrait. Toby had said Stefan had adored Christa, and that the painting was the only likeness of her that he had. How must he have felt finding that letter, and reading that Christa had been a murderess? Might he even have known Giselle? He could hardly have lived with the portrait without being aware of Giselle’s name on the music in Christa’s hands. But whatever the truth, Phin thought it was small wonder that Stefan Cain could not bear to see his sister’s portrait any longer.

  And yet … Would Stefan, who sounded to be nobody’s fool, automatically accept that letter at face value? Would anyone meekly accept that kind of slur against a sister he had known and loved? Especially when it related to the war years and a concentration camp. In those circumstances, wouldn’t most people look for other explanations, as Phin, who had not even known Christa, was doing? There’s something more, he thought. This isn’t the reason. There’s more to find.

  With the idea of attacking the problem from another angle, he wrote down the sequence of events to see if they dovetailed. The workmen had brought the boxes down from the attics three – no, four – days before Toby’s party. Phin would check the date on the contractor’s note, but he thought he had it right. Two days after that, Christa’s portrait had been delivered to Arabella’s flat, with Stefan’s note saying he never wanted to see it again. Yes, it fitted.

  And then two separate things – neither of which he had fully registered until now – struck him.

  The first was the reference in Silke’s letter to Sachsenhausen.

  Sachsenhausen.

  Phin bounded upstairs, and seized the laptop from the dressing table, slithering back downstairs with it.

  Sachsenhausen.

  Researching into the exiled 1930s and 1940s musicians, he had come across mentions of a small orchestra based just outside Berlin. There had been several well-documented records of the orchestra’s performances – they had not set the music world alight, but they had attracted quiet acclaim. The musicians themselves had seemed to be semi-professional performers – possibly they were mostly music teachers for the better part of their time – who came together for concerts and recitals at various halls. They had struck Phin as being dedicated and hard-working, and he had rather liked the sound of them. But one of the facts he had uncovered was that a member of the orchestra had apparently been seized after a concert given in 1940, and imprisoned in Sachsenhausen concentration camp.

  ‘The concert’s programme included a work by Mendelssohn – a composer whose work is specifically banned by the Third Reich,’ one account said. ‘It was an act of open defiance.’

  Phin had tried to trace the imprisoned musician’s identity, in case he could be included in the proposed book, but whoever it was had been recorded, with soulless anonymity, simply as Jew No. 8643291ZI. Such nameless entries were customary, of course – the SS had been rounding up Jews from all over Germany, and the Jews themselves had been of no account at that time. Phin knew all that, but it had still distressed him to see it written down.

  The other thing to strike him about Silke’s letter was her reference to having ‘such good memories’ of her visits to Lindschoen.

  Lindschoen. The orchestra who had given that defiant performance of Mendelssohn had been known as the Lindschoen Orchestra. The only individual name attached to it that Phin had been able to find was in the German magazine, Das Theater, which had fulsomely praised the ebullient-sounding pianist, Herr Erich Eisler. Herr Eisler, it seemed, had frequently performed with the Lindschoen, and had been the soloist on the fateful night of the Mendelssohn performance.

  Phin had translated the review with some help from the online service and saved it to the hard disc. He opened the document and re-read it. It described Herr Eisler as a maestro, referred affectionately to his always untidy appearance and untamed hair, and described how, under the quiet authority of his conductor, he had given a moving interpretation of the Leibesträume.

  ‘However, in the second half, the orchestra played Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony. Music aficionados will know, of course, that Mendelssohn is one of the composers whose work is banned. This magazine understands that Schutzstaffel officers were in the audience, and we have been informed that shortly after the concert one of the musicians was taken to Sachsenhausen labour camp.’

  Phin had tried, without success, to track down the relevant edition of Das Theater and also the name of the quiet conductor. It had not been Eisler himself who had been imprisoned in Sachsenhausen, though, because he had found a review of a much later date, when Eisler had entertained an appreciative audience in Paderborn.

  Had it been the quiet conductor who had urged his orchestra on to that act of defiance? It would be a leap of faith to wonder if that conductor, the imprisoned Lindschoen musician and Jew No. 8643291ZI could be one and the same person, but Phin did wonder it. It was an even greater leap to wonder whether, if so, he had been the Siegreich’s composer, which would certainly fit with the legend. The arrest could have been not so much because of the Mendelssohn defiance as because the Nazis believed he could give them the Siegreich.

  But hundreds and probably thousands of musicians had been imprisoned during that war, and the Siegreich could have been composed anywhere by any one of them. Phin would have to keep remembering that.

  The sound of the shower whooshing upstairs, and Toby’s cheerful voice raised in song, brought him out of the past. He closed the laptop and went to call up to Toby that he was making breakfast. As he scrambled eggs, he was thinking that unless he had severely mistranslated, or wildly misunderstood, Silke’s letter, it seemed likely that the murdered Giselle had lived in Lindschoen.

  Over breakfast, having brought Toby up to date with his findings, he said, ‘Do you by any chance have a current passport?’

  Toby, who had been spooning scrambled eggs on to a plate, looked up. ‘Aha. You’re going to Lindschoen, aren’t you? And you’d like me to come with you.’

  ‘I think I am going. I want to see if I can track down the conductor of that orchestra. I don’t suppose you can actually spare the time to come with me, though—’

  ‘I might manage it,’ said Toby, thoughtfully. ‘I can probably fudge things so that I’m not at lectures for about a week. And I sort of feel I owe it to Stefan to find out the truth about Christa. It’ll be difficult to find the Lindschoen gang, though, won’t it? It’s a very long time ago, and they don’t sound as if they were the Berlin Philharmonic.’

  ‘I know. But,’ said Phin, reaching for toast, ‘I want to know the truth about the Siegreich.’

  ‘I hope you aren’t chasing phantoms,’ said Toby. ‘Do I mean phantoms or mirages? Or am I thinking about those capering hobgoblin things that beckon to the unwary, and promise a crock of gold at the end of the rainbow?’

  ‘You said earlier that I was straying into da Vinci territory,’ said Phin. ‘Now you’re going into Irish fantasy.’

  Toby grinned, then said there were bound to be a good many really bawdy Irish songs they might add to their anthology. ‘Story-tellers of the world, the Irish.’

  ‘I know,’ said Phin, dryly, having recently spent some time on the west coast in pursuit of a chimera of a very different kind. ‘But this is all linking together, and I’ve got to follow the links and see where they end
.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a crock of gold and not a crock of shit,’ said Toby.

  FIFTEEN

  Margot Mander would never forget the night near the end of Marcus’s final university term, because she knew it was the night she had nearly lost him for good.

  He had come home for the weekend; mostly, it seemed, because he wanted to tell Margot and Mother that he had been offered a job with a firm of translators in south London.

  ‘I’ve been for one or two interviews with other companies, but this is the one I wanted. They do a lot of conference work – interpreting for businessmen at conventions – which would be brilliant. There’ll be a good deal of grunt work as well, of course – translating textbooks and manuals. I’ll probably be on that at first, until I prove my worth.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Margot.

  ‘And I’ve found a flat, quite near to the office,’ said Marcus. ‘Well, it’s a few tube stops along and you have to change lines midway, but it’s not so bad.’

  ‘It all sounds very exciting.’ Margot was daring to hope that this might be what she had waited for; that he might tell her they could be together at last. Would she dare to actually live in London? But she would be with Marcus. She would do it if he asked her. And something could be worked out about Mother, surely.

  But after Mother had gone up to bed, Marcus said, ‘The flat I’ve got is pretty basic. Not much more than a couple of cupboards, but London prices are terrifying, and it’ll do for the time being.’

  Clearly Margot was not going to be part of this new scenario, and disappointment rose up, but then Marcus said, ‘I haven’t forgotten what we talked about that night, Margot. When we found the letter to Lina about that house, you remember. It was in a German town called Lindschoen’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Have you still got the letter?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

  ‘We got a bit carried away that night, didn’t we – well, I was pretty potted, I remember. But I said that all we needed …’

  He stopped, but the sentence finished itself in Margot’s mind. All we need is for Mother not to be here any longer …

  ‘I remember everything,’ she said, a bit breathlessly.

  ‘Good girl. It can be our goal, that house.’

  ‘When do you start work?’

  ‘As soon as term ends. I’m moving into the flat as soon as I can.’

  ‘That’s nice. I’m really pleased for you. I’m glad about the flat, too.’

  She waited for him to say she must come to see it, even spend a weekend there, but he did not. A vicious disappointment sliced through her. Again, thought Margot. He always does this; he always lets me down when I’m expecting something. She was aware of a stab of anger, because he should have sensed her feelings.

  But he did want them to be together. He had said so. Margot reached for that memory and held it hard. All we need is for Mother not to be here any longer, he had said.

  ‘I’ve got a cold starting,’ said Margot’s mother, a couple of weeks later. ‘Actually, I think it might be flu.’

  ‘Go to bed early. I’ll bring you some paracetamol and some hot milk with whisky.’

  ‘I might need the doctor in the morning. You’d better phone the office and tell them you can’t go in. Flu shouldn’t be neglected. Not at my age.’

  Margot’s mother was nowhere near an age where you had to worry about neglecting flu, but Margot helped her into bed, then went downstairs to heat the milk. Pouring it into a mug, she had the oddest feeling that it was not her hands that were doing this. Here were the paracetamol; the box said two tablets every four hours. How many would knock you out? Six? Eight? How many would tip you beyond being just knocked out?

  She carried the tray upstairs. ‘Drink the milk while it’s hot. And I’ll leave the box of paracetamol on the bedside table for you.’

  ‘Could I make an appointment for my mother to see a doctor, please? Mrs Mander, Forest Avenue.’

  ‘Next Tuesday at ten?’

  ‘Couldn’t it be sooner? It’s Thursday today, so—’

  ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘Not exactly. She’s had a touch of flu, I think. A bit of a high temperature. It’s been a couple of days now.’ And then, because it was important to keep as close to the truth as possible, she said, ‘She was sick yesterday, as well.’

  The receptionist said there were a lot of those kinds of viral infections around at the moment. Stomach bugs, if you wanted a layman’s term for it. They generally cleared up within four or five days.

  ‘It’s left her very low, though. Very depressed,’ said Margot.

  ‘I expect it will. But unless you’re telling me it’s an emergency, next Tuesday’s the earliest date I can give you.’

  ‘Yes, all right. What should I do in the meantime?’

  ‘Make sure she has plenty of fluids for the vomiting. And paracetamol for the fever. Only six paracetamol in any twenty-four hours, though – at the absolute maximum, eight. It’s important to remember that.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I’ll be careful,’ said Margot.

  ‘If the condition deteriorates severely, phone back, and if it’s out of surgery hours, the out-of-hours number is on our voicemail. Or, in a real emergency, 999, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  Margot rang off, and went into the kitchen to make a hot lemon drink for her mother.

  It rained for the whole of Thursday, and for all of Thursday night. When Margot got up on Friday morning, it was still raining – a ceaseless, despairing drizzle that turned the rooms into dim underwater caverns, and seeped through badly fitting window-frames, dripping on to the floors directly beneath. The house was in a shockingly run-down state. Margot mopped up the rainwater, and put down a couple of old bathroom mats to catch any more drips.

  She took her mother breakfast on a tray, which her mother said she could not eat because she still felt sick. When, later, she complained of stomach pains, Margot brought hot milk with brandy, then fetched a hot-water bottle, because her mother said she was cold. No, she did not want the electric blanket on. She might be sick all over it, and electrocute herself, had Margot thought of that? Margot left a bowl by the bed, in case of sickness, then suggested bringing the small radio in – it could go on the bedside table and it would be cheerful and company. Or something to read, perhaps? But her mother could not be doing with raucous voices telling her about the dreary events in the world, and her head ached too much to read.

  ‘Close the curtains, would you? The light hurts my eyes.’

  Margot closed the curtains. In the dim light, her mother looked shrunken and her skin was sallow.

  ‘I’ll fetch Lina’s walking stick, shall I? You can use that to knock on the floor if you need anything. I’ll come up later, though.’

  She found the walking stick, which Lina had used when her rheumatism was troubling her, and took in a jug of lemon barley water and the paracetamol. Six only every twenty-four hours.

  She was doing everything a devoted daughter should do. It was important to keep that in mind.

  Later, when she went upstairs again, her mother was asleep. That would be the paracetamol; they could build up, everyone knew that. Margot counted the pills left in the box.

  She tiptoed in again at midday, but her mother was lying in the same position, so Margot closed the door and went out.

  It was nearly nine o’clock that evening when she heard a tapping from overhead. It was startlingly loud in the quiet house, and Margot’s heart lurched. It could not be her mother, it could not. Not after three days of so carefully administering the paracetamol. Of counting the pills so diligently. Staggered dosage, it was called. It built up in the body.

  Margot pressed her hands over her ears, so she would not hear the sounds, but she knew they were still going on. And if you were a dutiful daughter, you would not ignore such a sound. You would go up to see what was wanted, or whether anything was wrong. It was
the kind of thing you would tell people afterwards. ‘I heard her knocking on the floor,’ you would say, ‘so I went up to her room.’

  But you might not immediately hear the knocking. You might be in the kitchen clattering crockery around, or you might be watching television with the sound high. You might be washing your hair, water splashing around your ears. In any one of those situations, it might be quite a long time before you heard the tapping. Could it be as long as an hour? It was now quarter past nine. At quarter past ten Margot would go upstairs.

  At ten o’clock the tapping came again, but Margot waited doggedly for the clock to crawl round to quarter past, then took a deep breath, and went out to the hall.

  And once there, she almost laughed with relief, because she could hear the sound more clearly now, and she knew what it was. Something called water hammer. It had been a nuisance earlier this year, and a plumber had eventually come to the house. He had sucked his teeth and shaken his head, and said, short of ripping out floorboards and relaying the old pipes, there was not really a cure. The pipes were out of true with one another, that was the problem; they juddered when water was forced through them.

  A dutiful daughter would go up to her mother’s room about now, though. To make sure her mother was comfortable for the night, to see if anything was wanted. Margot made her way up the stairs, moving slowly.

  The bedroom was almost exactly as she had left it. Well, not exactly, but near enough. She made sure the curtains were still closed against the rainy night, and she collected the used cup and saucer from the bedside table. She took away the jug that had contained the lemon barley drink so it could be thoroughly washed along with the cup and saucer, but she left the box of tissues, because they were things people wanted to hand when they had flu. After thought, she fetched a book from her own room and put that by the tissue box.

  Then she said goodnight to her mother. There was no response, of course.

  Margot went back downstairs, knowing that she had done absolutely everything right, everything a devoted daughter could have been expected to do.