Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  After this he set off for the Sexton’s House. He had no idea whether Maxim would come with him to The Genesius, nor did he have any idea if it had been a good idea to suggest it. He would like to have Maxim’s company, but he would not push it.

  But Maxim opened the door as soon as Phin drove up the track, and he was wearing a long dark coat with a deep collar. Phin guessed he would turn up the collar as soon as they were among people. He got into the car with a cursory nod, and he was outwardly perfectly composed, but Phin could feel the apprehension in him. With the idea of dispelling this a bit, he told him about the flat and the exploding home-made beer.

  Maxim seemed to enjoy the story. He smiled, and said, ‘God, that reminds me of—’

  ‘Yes?’ Phin glanced across at him, and saw that he was frowning.

  ‘I don’t know. Another of those infuriating half-glimpses of a memory. It’s gone now. But if it involved a party and home-brewed beer that went wrong, it’d probably have been something studenty.’

  ‘We’ve all been there,’ said Phin, grinning, and let the subject drop.

  They reached the centre of Galway shortly after eleven, and Phin identified a large car park and managed to find a space.

  ‘Is this the nearest we can get?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Maxim looked out of the window. ‘I’ve never driven here – at least, not as far as I know. I don’t know if I can even drive. But I think this is reasonably close to the theatre. If you go through that walkway over there – between those two buildings – then bear left, I think you’ll see it ahead of you.’

  Phin turned to look at him. ‘Are you coming in there with me?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure. Why d’you want me to?’

  ‘Lots of reasons. For moral support. Because two pairs of eyes are better than one. Because I might not recognize the place, even if it rears up in the middle of the road and gibbers at me. Because if there’s anything to be found about the real Maxim Volf, you might want to know it. Because—’

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ said Maxim, dryly, but Phin saw him look around the car park. He’s checking how many people are around, he thought. Then Maxim turned up the deep collar of his coat, hunched his shoulders and shrugged. ‘All right. But a brief visit.’

  ‘Probably it’ll be closed at this time of day and we won’t be able to get in.’

  But they did get in. The main doors stood half open, and there was a large A-frame sign advertising an exhibition of The Genesius’s past. ‘Its history, its emergence from the ruins, and its successes,’ said the sign. ‘A pictorial journey into bygone eras.’

  ‘Now that,’ said Phin, ‘could be very helpful indeed. We’ll take the pictorial journey, shall we? Is that all right?’

  ‘Phin, for God’s sake stop asking me if things are all right! If I don’t want to go in, I won’t. But let’s try, and if I want to beat it out of the nearest exit, I’ll meet you back at the car.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Beneath the sign about the exhibition, in modest and almost apologetic typeface, was a small and courteous placard. ‘We do not make any charge for entrance to the exhibition, but hope that visitors may feel able to leave a donation.’ On a small shelf was a large box with slots for coins and notes.

  ‘Very trusting of them,’ said Phin, fishing for his wallet. ‘Anyone could dash in here, scoop up that box and be off down the road before they were spotted.’

  ‘It’s chained to the wall,’ said Maxim.

  ‘Oh, yes, so it is. I hadn’t noticed that, but then I have this beautiful trusting nature.’

  ‘And I have a cynic’s outlook. In fact—’ Maxim stopped, and looked about him, and Phin saw that the pupils of his eyes had contracted to pinpoints.

  ‘What?’

  Maxim said, ‘I have a feeling I’m recognizing this place. Or am I? No, I think it’s just that I’ve walked past it. And theatres have such strong atmospheres, don’t they? Let’s look at the exhibition and the bygone era.’

  The exhibition was in the auditorium, and as they walked towards the display boards and the printed legends about the theatre’s past, Maxim said, ‘Tell me again what we’re hoping to find.’

  ‘Photos of Maxim – the other Maxim, I mean. And Mortimer Quince, of course. Roman’s son. Hell’s teeth,’ said Phin, forcefully, ‘they were both part of that inaugural concert – their names were on that poster I found, advertising its Grand Opening. So if one or both of them aren’t somewhere in this display, there’s no justice in the world.’

  ‘But if they were behind the scenes – I mean, won’t it just be the actual performers in the photos?’

  ‘I hope not. But I’m not leaving this stone unturned,’ said Phin.

  It was very quiet in the theatre. Phin supposed it was rather early for most people to be wandering around, and The Genesius was a bit off the tourist/visitor track as well. He glanced back at Maxim, hoping he had not been too forceful with him. But Maxim was walking slowly along the displays, clearly interested, occasionally pausing to examine something more closely. He’s all right as long as there aren’t people around who might stare at him, thought Phin. Or pity him, of course – yes, that’s what he hates the most. I’d love it if one of us were suddenly to shout, ‘I’ve found something,’ but it’s starting to look a bit unlikely. Damn, this seemed like such a good lead.

  And then it did happen. Maxim, who had been studying one of the smaller displays, said, ‘Phin. Come and look at this.’

  ‘What?’ His voice is completely controlled, thought Phin. So it can’t be anything very much that he’s found.

  Maxim indicated the board. There were four photographs, all black and white, and two slightly fuzzy. Above them was a printed note, saying that they were shots taken during rehearsals for The Genesius’s opening night in November 1921, and immediately after the performance.

  The largest photo was of a small orchestra, most of them in shirtsleeves, with a man who was clearly their leader standing on a podium. Next to it was a group of singers, with someone talking to them. Even though it was grainy and badly focused, it was possible to see the eagerness of the man’s demeanour.

  ‘He’s so keen on what he’s doing, isn’t he?’ said Maxim, echoing Phin’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’ Phin peered more closely at the photo. ‘It’s Mortimer Quince,’ he said, suddenly.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t remember the photo at Tromloy very clearly, so—’

  ‘It is him,’ said Phin. ‘Slightly older than the man on the postcards I found, but it’s the same man all right.’

  The third photo was another anonymous group – the people might have been anyone, but the fourth—

  ‘Dear God,’ said Phin, staring at the single figure in evening dress, standing as if he had deliberately arranged it so, in a spotlight. A violin was held loosely in the man’s hands, and he had turned his head, as if slightly impatient with the photographer.

  This photograph was labelled. The small printed note said, ‘Taken immediately after the performance, and showing the Russian journalist, Feofil Markov, who took part in the 1921 concert at very short notice, and received a standing ovation.’

  ‘Feofil Markov,’ said Maxim. ‘That’s who you thought had translated Antoinette’s letters.’

  ‘I still think he did. But that isn’t Feofil,’ said Phin.

  ‘Who is it?’

  In a voice he hardly recognized as belonging to him, Phin said, ‘It’s Roman Volf.’

  ‘Good God. Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve studied too many photographs of Roman in the last couple of weeks not to know him. He’s a lot older, but it’s unmistakably Roman,’ said Phin. ‘God alone knows what he was doing performing on a stage in an Irish theatre – under an assumed name – when the world believed him to have been hanged in Russia forty years earlier.’

  Maxim said, ‘Look at that.’

  ‘What? Where?’ And then Phin saw that along the bottom edge of the display board
was a note that said, ‘Photographic stills reproduced by kind permission of the Irish Film Society, affiliated to the Irish Film Institute and Irish Film Archive, Dublin. Taken from the cine film of the concert on the night of 23 November 1921.’

  ‘Which means …’ said Maxim, and then stopped.

  ‘Which means,’ said Phin slowly, ‘if that reel of film is still in existence, that somewhere on a dusty shelf is a can of film containing a live recording of what was probably Roman Volf’s final performance.’ He sat down on a low window ledge, still staring at the photograph. ‘I can’t take this in. I wanted to find proof that Roman was innocent. I didn’t expect to find that he escaped execution and ended up here. And that there might be old film footage of him performing.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘What I think we do,’ said Phin, reaching for his phone, ‘is furtively photograph that shot – keep watch, will you, because I’m probably about to infringe half a dozen copyright laws.’

  There was a brief interval, then Phin pocketed his phone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out before someone comes boiling out of a security office and confiscates the phone.’

  As they came out of The Genesius and headed for the car park, Maxim said, ‘What next?’

  ‘Next, I need to see if the lady at Tromloy—’

  ‘Beatrice Drury.’

  ‘Yes. I need to see the photo of Mortimer Quince that you found. I need to ask her where it came from and whether she has any more.’ As he unlocked the car, he said, ‘I can easily drop you off at your house on the way back.’ He paused. ‘Unless you feel you could come with me.’

  ‘To Tromloy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maxim got into the car. As he reached for the seat belt, he said, ‘All right.’

  ‘All right, what?’

  ‘All right, I’ll come with you to Tromloy.’

  Phin stared at him. ‘Now you really have surprised me,’ he said.

  ‘I really have surprised myself. Let’s do it before I succumb to stage fright and change my mind.’

  TWENTY

  Since she had found Maxim Volf’s name on The Genesius programme, Bea had been trying to make up her mind to go to the theatre to see if she could find out any more about him.

  It was ridiculous to feel so apprehensive about this. There was probably nothing to find, but in order to be sure you were facing a cul-de-sac, you had to go into it. She ate breakfast, checked emails on the slightly erratic internet connection, then worked for a while on the half-completed illustration for the teen fantasy book.

  Perhaps she could time the journey to have lunch in Galway. There used to be a nice pub near The Genesius itself – she and Niall had sometimes had a late supper there after seeing a show. She put the illustration away, and went upstairs to get a coat before she could change her mind. She would not let the memories stop her from tracking down Mortimer Quince and Maxim Volf.

  It was not quite raining, but there was a thin, light mist everywhere. Bea stood at the bedroom window for a moment, enjoying the way the mist gave everything a layered appearance, like the pop-ups in a child’s book. The mist transformed Tromloy’s gardens into an eerie enchanted tanglewood, and she wondered how massive a task it would be to have the land tidied up. It would spoil Tromloy’s charm to have any kind of formal landscaping or patio-laying, but it might be a good idea to have the thrusting rosebay willow cut back, and the trees pruned. Then she remembered the parlous state of her bank balance, and thought Tromloy could be left to its wildwood for a bit longer.

  But she would take some photos of the garden looking like this, because it might make a good base for an illustration, or even a full-blown painting sometime. She went downstairs to hunt out the camera, left her coat and bag on the kitchen table ready to leave, and ran back up to the bedroom before the marvellous mistiness vanished.

  She was just squaring up the camera and trying to remember how the zoom operated when there was a movement on the edge of the scrubland, in between the old trees. Was someone out there? Bea clicked the camera anyway, the automatic flash activating itself in the dull morning light, and took several more angles. Then she leaned closer to the window, because there really was something moving out there. Was it a cat, or even a fox prowling through the long grass in search of prey? No, too large. She waited for a few more moments, and just as she was thinking she really would set off for The Genesius, the movement came again, and this time there could be no doubt. It was not an animal – it was a person, in fact it was two people. A youngish-looking man, rather thin, with dark brown hair. With him was a figure Bea recognized. Jessica Cullen.

  For a moment she thought they were coming up to the house – that perhaps Jessica had brought the cousin she had mentioned to meet Bea, which would be a friendly, normal thing to do. But almost immediately it was clear that the two figures were not approaching the house; they were walking through the trees. Bea, slightly puzzled, began to have the impression that there was something wrong about them. Was the man half pulling Jessica along? Forcing her? Surely that could not be happening. Or could it?

  She had no idea whether she should go out and challenge them. Tromloy’s boundaries, like everything else about it, were a bit vague. They had never been delineated or fenced or walled, because it had never mattered. It might well be that Jessica and the man were walking on the common land beyond Tromloy’s lawful precincts. He might be helping her over a bit of uneven ground. As Bea watched, the figures vanished from sight. Where? But the ground out there dipped unevenly, and they had probably stepped into one of those dips. Or should she walk out there anywhere, and appear to meet them by chance? Just in case … It was at this point that the man appeared again, but this time without Jessica. His coat collar was turned up and his shoulders were hunched, and it was impossible to avoid thinking this was the classic furtive, I-don’t-want-to-be-seen demeanour.

  Bea was still holding the camera, and almost as a reflex action, she flipped it back to zoom and focused it on the figure, because if there really was something wrong about this, she would at least have a record of the man. The flash fired once, then twice, glinting on the window both times, and it must have caught the man’s attention, because he turned sharply to look across at the house. Bea clicked the camera again, and this time he looked about him, then began to half run towards the house.

  Bea stepped back from the window at once. She was not exactly frightened, but she was starting to feel uneasy. She reminded herself that she was in her own house and that she had a perfect right to photograph anything she wanted. She had been doing just that, in fact, wanting to capture the lovely mistiness of the day so she could paint it. Yes, but whoever this was – Jessica’s cousin, Donal? – he had seemed to be taking Jessica somewhere she did not want to go, and now he was on his own and there was no sign of Jessica. Bea dropped the camera on the bed, and ran down the stairs to make sure the front door and also the little garden door were locked. It was all right. The garden door that led off the kitchen was not only locked, it was bolted, top and bottom, and it had only the tiniest pane of glass at the top. The faulty window catch that Maxim Volf had used to get in had been repaired. And the front door was locked. If the man knocked on the door, Bea did not have to open it. If necessary she could call out to ask what he wanted. But probably he had gone away by now. She went back upstairs to look out of the bedroom window again. There was no sign of him, or of Jessica. The chances were that she had misunderstood or misjudged the situation.

  Then, from downstairs, from the front of the house, came a sound that made her freeze with terror. It was a sound she had not heard for two years, but it was unmistakable. The sound of a key turning in the lock. And of the door opening, and footsteps coming along the hall.

  Once beyond Kilcarne’s main street and beyond sight of the houses, Donal had pulled the car off the road, far enough into the trees for it not to be seen. The track to Tromloy was only a few yards beyond them, and, before Jess could scram
ble out of the car, he had already got out of the driver’s seat and come around to the passenger side. His hands, pulling her out of the car, were strong and hard – the hands she remembered.

  He said, ‘If you scream, I’ll say you’ve succumbed to one of your mad fits and I’m trying to get you home.’ His face swam closer. ‘I mean it, Jessica.’

  ‘I’d tell people the truth,’ said Jessica, sobbing angrily, and fighting to get away.

  ‘And given the choice, who would people believe?’ said Donal, pushing her on to a very narrow footpath, so overgrown with thrusting bushes and trees it was barely visible. ‘Would they believe a girl who’s been strange for at least two years – they all say that about you, you know – or would they believe an honest, hardworking parish priest? The girl’s cousin who’s trying to help her and is so distressed by her condition. And don’t look at me like a frightened rabbit, because I’m not going to kill you.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m just going to show you what might happen if you ever break that promise you made not to tell.’

  ‘I won’t,’ cried Jessica. ‘Truly, I won’t.’

  ‘Let’s make assurance doubly sure though, shall we?’

  He took her along the footpath. Brambles and low branches whipped into her face, but Donal pushed them back impatiently. It was like a dream where things started out normal and pleasant, but gradually slid down into something very frightening indeed.

  They must be quite near to Tromloy – Jess glimpsed it several times through the overgrown bushes and tried desperately to see if Bea Drury was there, or if her car was. If she could get free of Donal she could run to the house, and she would not care if Bea thought she was mad; she would beg to be taken into the house, to be safe.