by John Burke
‘But once the Communists had been overthrown, and the borders were open, why didn’t he revisit Scotland openly?’
‘Because he was dead.’
‘He died . . . over there?’
‘He died,’ said Hykisch, ‘trying to get out.’
‘You mean he made a run for it?’
‘He was working on a musical film in the vineyards of Valtice. Right on the Austrian border. He managed to cut through the first fence and hoped to make a dash for it. But it is not so easy.’
‘The first fence? How many . . .?’
‘In your spy films, you are always shown the hero somehow turning off the electricity, cutting his way through the wire, or flying over it on a motorcycle, or something absurd. But beyond the first fence was always a narrow minefield. And then another electrified fence. And even beyond that, the open fields were not . . . well, not open. A half kilometre was still Czech territory, always under surveillance from the watchtowers. Very deceptive.’
‘How far did he get?’
‘Only into the minefield.’
‘And got blown up?’
‘No. The guards in the watchtowers were waiting. He was seen, and shot.’
‘When was this?’
‘In May 1989.’
‘If only he’d waited another six months or so, he could have walked out without any hassle?’
‘Exactly. The Velvet Revolution opened us up to the world once more.’
‘When you said the guards were waiting for him . . . had somebody tipped them off?’
Hykisch lowered his head and shuffled a few more papers. ‘At the time I was in no official position to know the details of these things. But it was rumoured, yes. Always there were rumours in those days. It was best not to ask questions.’ He decided to change the subject by picking up a booklet from the side of his desk. Nick recognized it as a programme for the Kilstane Gathering. ‘After you telephoned, Sir Nicholas, I sent out for this from the concert booking office beside Leicester Square. I see that you are, as I believe you say in this country, following in your father’s footsteps. You and Miss McLeod are performing this . . . ah . . . Mormaer’s Strathspey and Reel and also —’
‘Change of programme, I think. Or change of a performer, anyway. For a time I thought Miss McLeod would be too upset to play, but she has decided to go ahead. And she is approaching a better partner on the piano. A very talented musician, steeped in Erskine’s music.’
‘I have heard of a reel. But a strathspey, that is new to me.’
‘It’s a Scottish dance, slower than the reel, mainly in a sort of lilting rhythm of dotted quavers and semiquavers.’
Hykisch nodded politely but was clearly none the wiser.
‘Is there anything else you wish to ask?’
‘Thank you, but I think you’ve answered one of our main questions.’
‘I shall be interested in any conclusions you draw.’
Did he know something, or was beginning to guess something? His expression was that of a man who had still not quite shaken off the deadpan stolidity of his predecessors.
On the way out, he led them across a reception hall with crystal chandeliers, tall windows with polished shutters drawn back, and a grand piano looking lonely in the middle of the floor. As they passed, Nick couldn’t help fingering a few bars from memory.
Hyndisch stopped in his tracks. ‘What was that?’
‘The main theme of an Erskine piece. The Mormaer’s Strathspey. Which I was originally programmed to perform with Miss McLeod, as you remarked.’
‘How strange. How very strange.’
‘The rhythm is odd, yes. Not a true strathspey.’
‘No, what I meant was that the tune is familiar. Or almost familiar. And the rhythm also. They remind one of an old traditional air, The Court Dance of Prince Mohimir.’
‘Prince who?’
‘Mohimir was a powerful Celtic prince of Moravia in the eighth century. A great legendary figure.’
‘Mohimir?’ said Lesley. ‘And the Mormaer. A prince . . . and mormaer, a high steward.’
‘It is a remarkable coincidence.’
Lesley said: ‘As I was saying to DCI Rutherford, somebody’s been playing games with us.’
‘And with audiences,’ said Nick.
He was about to take this further, but Lesley shot him a warning glance. They made their formal farewells, and walked up Kensington Palace Gardens in silence for a few minutes. As they emerged on to Kensington High Street, Nick took her arm. She tensed, gave him a quick glance; but then smiled into the turmoil of traffic.
He said: ‘Fancy a disgusting meal in the plane on the way back?’
‘I’m a bit churned up. I’ve got other things to digest.’
‘I’ll arrange a large malt for you, for starters. I’m driving at the other end.’
It was not until ten minutes after takeoff that she turned towards him, resting her cheek against the seat, and said: ‘Well? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Probably. Erskine and Strepka. Erskine could have brought Strepka’s serious compositions out with him. According to my father and mother, outgoing visitors’ luggage was hardly ever examined at Ruzyne. Not if you were a visitor of any standing. And even if they did give Erskine a going-over, what was so suspicious about him carrying a batch of music with him?’
‘He’d been performing, he’d brought his own music in with him and he was taking it home again.’
‘Exactly. And later, travelling with Mairi as his amanuensis, companion, call it what you like . . .’ The quizzical smile provoked by his stumbling phrase threw him for a moment, but at that same moment the plane banked and made a tight turn, and by the time it levelled out he went on: ‘Either or both of them could have carried things like that.’
‘McCabe . . . Strepka . . . he would rather have his music performed under another man’s name, so long as it was performed — and heard.’
‘But what about Erskine? Even if Strepka was that idealistic and that self-effacing, were he and his old schoolmate so close that Erskine didn’t mind having Strepka’s music mixed in with his own?’
As the stewardess came along with drinks and the promise of food, Lesley stared out of the window as if conjuring up themes and theories out of the pallid clouds, while Nick thought of Mairi McLeod and found himself resenting her as some kind of traitor, a mocking cheat who had slipped through his grasp.
With the glass of Glenmorangie in her hand, Lesley returned from contemplating the heavens. ‘Suppose . . . just suppose . . . that Erskine never did write any truly substantial music of his own. The early stuff was pretty trivial. There never was any such thing as a real Erskine style.’
‘According to Adam Lowther, there were in fact three different styles. Three successive periods. The first very simple, then a second much richer, and then a final quite different phase.’
‘Simple stuff, of no great merit? That’s what I mean. And then all at once he blossoms and begins to acquire a fine critical reputation. Only it’s Strepka’s work which is making Erskine’s reputation for him.’
‘But when Strepka is killed . . .?’
Lesley’s sudden hoarseness might have been due to the bite of the Glenmorangie at the back of her throat. ‘The supply has dried up. Yet Erskine’s compositions still keep appearing. And his reputation grows.’
‘Only now the works are in yet another different style. Perhaps he has found his own voice, with the help of Mairi McLeod?’
‘His own voice?’ Lesley drained her drink as the food trays were handed out. Or another useful voice?’
‘I don’t get you.’
They ate for a while in silence. Nick broke it with: ‘But who killed Erskine? And why?’
‘And how does that tie in with our first corpse, in the Academy tower? Or are we just unlucky, with two unconnected murders on our hands?’
‘The only possible connection, and it’s a pretty tenuous one, is that once it was publicized t
hat the remains had been identified as those of a woman, Erskine changed his mind and came down to Kilstane. Why?’
‘I do think,’ said Lesley, ‘that we must turn our official attention to Miss McLeod.’
‘You can’t seriously think —’
‘Wasn’t there a lot of talk about Erskine revealing some awkward truths? He was going to speak out about something. All in his own good time — he said something like that to me.’
‘I do remember that. And I believe he gave quite a drunken rant to the Schiltron Circle on the same subject. Threatening all sorts of unspecified revelations.’
‘Maybe about his collaborations? Guilt over Strepka? Or the part played by Miss McLeod? She might not have been in favour of that.’
‘Why on earth would she want to kill him? He was her livelihood.’
‘If he was about to blow the gaff on her doing all the actual work —’
‘But wouldn’t she be more likely to want him to do that at last? She would always have longed to be taken seriously as a composer in her own right, but for years she had been using him . . . or he had been using her. It would be wonderful to be accepted in her own right.’
Thinking of that brief session in the house at Altnalarach, Nick remembered Mairi talking about the second strain which struck away from the main melody of a folk song.
A second strain — and now, somehow, a third?
Lesley was saying: ‘And do we really think there’s a chance that it was Strepka’s old friend — and possible collaborator — who betrayed Strepka, making sure he never got out and would never receive his due as a composer?’
*
It was almost dark when they touched down at Edinburgh. In the car, heading south towards the Borders, they found only the same questions to talk about, and the same non-answers to offer. After a while they relapsed into silence. Nick glanced from time to time at that profile.
Even in silence, the subject was still the same. Music. Mairi McLeod had been wild, unpredictable music. Lesley was Mozart. Such an immaculate surface, but pulsating with deep, lasting passion underneath.
When they stopped outside her door in Kilstane, he said: ‘I think I’d better have a quiet word with Mairi.’
‘Please don’t. We don’t want her alerted. I certainly intend to see her myself. And it may not be so quiet.’
He got out and walked round to hold the passenger door open for her. As they brushed close together, with one hand still on the door he put his other arm round her and kissed her. For a moment her lips remained tightly, obstinately shut. Then they softened, and opened. Until her weight pushed the door half shut, and she stepped back.
Nick said: ‘Lesley, this is ridiculous. I —’
‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And we mustn’t let it get ridiculous.’
Chapter Ten
He had been half expecting an outburst and was braced ready for it. But Nora had never been one to explode in anger. She simply withdrew into herself with a weary shrug. This morning she sat at the kitchen table with her head down as she folded and refolded half a dozen napkins.
‘No.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘No, I don’t believe it. You don’t have to lie to me.’
‘But it’s true. Sir Nicholas is too busy trying to keep an eye on the whole Gathering. And he missed a crucial rehearsal because he was off somewhere else. He doesn’t know the music the way I know it.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘Please don’t spoil things, Nora. This music means a lot to me.’
‘Don’t I just know it.’
‘Why don’t you come along and hear us play?’
‘You didn’t come when Duncan and I were playing. Why should you expect me to come to yours?’ It was not bitter: just dull and resigned.
He had wanted to slip into the conversation as casually as possible that Mairi had invited him, later, to drive up with her to Sutherland so they could go through Erskine’s scores and papers together. There were things on which she particularly wanted his opinion. It would be a wonderful privilege. But every word he said about it here and now would be misinterpreted.
No, it wouldn’t. That was the trouble. It would be interpreted all too accurately. His excitement at the thought of being away from here, being deep into Erskine’s home and music and deep into Mairi’s tempestuous body would have shone too blatantly through every word he uttered.
He looked at his watch. ‘Must be off. There are some tricky passages we have to get right.’
‘I’m sure you’ll work wonderfully together.’
Undoubtedly it was Deirdre Maxwell he had seen on the other side of the street. And Deirdre wasn’t one to keep her mouth shut.
*
Deirdre Maxwell said: ‘You know who’s been having it off with Erskine’s tart ever since they got here?’
Although the shallow slit windows just below the ceiling of the caravan were open, the sun striking the roof made the interior hot and sticky. Lesley and Rutherford were in shirtsleeves, but tried to maintain a stiff upright appearance. Deirdre was wearing a flimsy dress of orange and yellow diagonal stripes which looked cool and summery, but there was a smear of sweat along her upper lip.
‘I hate doing this,’ she went on, ‘but I felt it was my duty to come and offer what help I could to the police.’
There was an outbreak of crashing and splintering as somebody unloaded empty bottles into the nearby bottle bank.
‘Very public-spirited of you,’ said Rutherford without a muscle in his face twitching.
‘They had it off in the shop, with the blinds drawn. While his sad little wife and my husband were doing their bit for the festival by playing duets up the hill. And this morning he’s off round to the laird’s place. Right under his nose. I saw them go in.’
‘They’re rehearsing for this evening’s recital,’ said Lesley. ‘And Sir Nicholas is at home.’
‘Rehearsing? Oh, yes, I’ll bet. Right under his nose,’ said Deirdre again. ‘Why don’t you ask Adam Lowther where he was the night that Erskine got murdered? Ask him why the two of them wanted the poor old sod out of the way.’
‘Have you any concrete evidence to support that accusation?’
‘Evidence? Isn’t that your job, collecting it? All I’m telling you is what’s behind it.’
As she left, Rutherford watched the sway of her bottom through the skimpy material. ‘I seem to sense a hint of sexual jealousy there.’
‘Even so, that doesn’t stop it being true. Maybe. Just maybe.’
‘We’ll have to pick our way cautiously round that one. Is there any way it ties in with what you picked up on your London jaunt?’
Lesley summed up the main points of the visit. Rutherford let out a shuddering sigh when she embarked on musical theory, but perked up when she detailed the probable meetings of Erskine, Strepka, and Mairi McLeod.
‘Two of them dead, and one still with us. And looks as if she could have been exploiting both of them.’
‘Or helping both of them.’
‘Either way, it was for her own ends. Look, you said there was a hint that Erskine betrayed his old mate because he didn’t want him showing up and claiming to be the real composer of all that stuff. Couldn’t it have been the McLeod woman who did the grassing? And later, when it came to Erskine —’
‘You can’t suspect her of killing Erskine — her bread and butter?’
‘Perhaps all those threats of his about letting the whole town know something or other were a signal he was going to let it all out. Everything about their relationship, and the phoniness of his own music. If your hunch on that is right.’
‘Guilty feelings? Mm.’
‘He’d maybe had enough of the whole bloody charade. And she killed him because she didn’t want the world to know the truth about the music not being his. It had been nagging at him, until he was ready to confess. We’ve come across that sort before, haven’t we?’
‘But you’d think she’d be glad. Es
pecially if she was doing most of the composing herself. Wouldn’t she want to be recognized in her own right?’
‘Bloody musicians. Weird gowks. Why can’t they have their fights and killings out in the open, like ordinary villains?’
‘Or could she have been in love with Strepka during their meetings behind the Iron Curtain? And later she discovered that Erskine had been the one — he told her, or boasted about it when he was drunk — that he’d been the one responsible for shopping his old mate. And she killed him in a rage.’
‘They did leave the house together that evening, didn’t they? And that story of hers about thinking he was going off to see Lowther could have been just another bit of double talk. Maybe Erskine did actually mean to go to Lowther’s place.’
‘He seemed to be getting quite fond of him.’
‘But the McLeod woman made sure he didn’t get there.’ Rutherford mopped his brow. A stain was appearing on the shirt under his right armpit. ‘You reckon she’d be strong enough to swipe him hard enough with that guitar?’
‘I’d imagine she has a good strong bowing arm.’
‘We do need to get some more out of that woman. And some more from Lowther.’
‘I’ve got an idea. But you won’t like it.’
‘Try me, Les.’
‘The two of them will be performing this evening.’
He leered. ‘Performing?’
‘They’ll be giving the recital in Black Knowe that Deirdre Maxwell was on about. I’ve been offered a ticket.’
‘I’ll bet you have.’
‘I could watch them during the recital. The two of them, together.’ She found it impossible to believe even fleetingly in the idea of Adam Lowther, with his love of the old man’s music, being in any way involved with the murder or with the woman who might be a suspect. But she said: ‘Body language, that sort of thing.’
‘While they’re fiddling and pounding away? A different sort of language, I’d think. Difficult to interpret.’
‘In between movements. And afterwards.’
‘Movements?’ Rutherford allowed himself a coarse snigger. ‘Body movements? All right, Les, let your imagination run riot.’
