He immediately cleared his throat, and I stared in wonder, for it was the first time I had seen him discomfited.
‘Indeed,’ Downs said. ‘I suppose you are familiar with his aunt, Lady Anne Ardglass.’
‘Aye, I am,’ McGray grunted. ‘The old bitch lives on and on and on.’
Downs’s face paled after McGray’s remark, and then we could only walk in an uncomfortable silence.
As we went deeper into a long corridor, we heard the muffled music of countless instruments. Apparently there were many students practising in the upper storeys, and even though they all were playing different pieces, the overall sound was rather soothing, even pleasant.
We approached a wide oak staircase, where a fat, middle-aged man received us.
He had all the looks of a mad musician: half bald, with messy grey hair on the back and sides of his head; his eyebrows were thick and projected upwards like pointy brushes; his uneven whiskers were a loud statement of bad taste, just like his jacket, which was a couple of sizes too small for his round waist.
‘Mr Downs! What a surprise.’
Downs introduced us immediately as CID inspectors investigating the death of Guilleum Fontaine. The fat man, of course, was Alistair Ardglass, dean of Edinburgh’s Conservatoire of Music.
As soon as he saw McGray his eyes widened. ‘Oh, but it is none other than Nine – Mr Adolphus McGray! Pray, tell me, how is your family?’
McGray cast him the most hateful stare. For a moment I feared he would explode as he’d done in the tavern. Fortunately he only hissed: ‘As you’d expect. And Lady Glass?’
Mr Ardglass cleared his throat noisily and Downs’s face reddened like a ripe cherry.
‘Inspector Ian Frey, at your service,’ I said neutrally, trying to break the tension. ‘We would like to ask you a few questions about Guilleum Fontaine.’
‘In the meantime, I can give these violins to their new owners. You see, Mr Ardglass, my client bequeathed his instruments to his most distinguished students and colleagues.’
Mr Ardglass could not hide a greedy spark in his eyes. ‘Did he?’
‘Ye’ll have to wait,’ McGray prompted. ‘I want to interrogate all the legatees, and to be present when they receive the fiddles.’
I saw McGray looking at me, eyebrows arched. I understood what he was looking for: a suspicious inheritor.
‘As you wish, Inspector,’ said Downs. ‘In fact, the first instrument I was intending to deliver is for Mr Ardglass.’
Ardglass pressed his chest in the most unconvincing gesture of surprise. ‘Oh, good, good Guilleum! To think of me! ’
‘Please, don’t soil yerself,’ Nine-Nails muttered.
Ardglass looked annoyed, but then Downs said something that would upset him even more: ‘Actually, the violin is not for you personally. It is for the Conservatoire.’
‘Pa-pa – pardon?’
‘Monsieur Fontaine wanted the instrument to be in your custody, but he stated very clearly that the violin will legally belong to the institution, and it is to be lent only to its most gifted students and professors.’
Ardglass’s smile vanished in an instant. ‘Typical Guilleum,’ he grunted. ‘Well, which instrument am I supposed to have in my “custody”?’
‘The most precious, of course. My client’s Stradivarius.’
That was like salt in a wound and Ardglass received the violin case with utmost acrimony. I could see the avarice in his face, the injured pride.
He hastily signed the appropriate documents and then McGray went on to his questioning.
‘D’ye ken much about Mr Fon-teen? His career … personal life …?’
‘I know the necessary. The man was half French and half Scot. He studied music in Paris, got married, then lost his wife and never managed to recover. That is why he settled in Edinburgh, I believe. Very quiet old man, he was; his life was divided between teaching here, playing at home, and sometimes joining us for the receptions we hold after important recitals.’
‘Did he have problems or quarrels of any kind?’ I asked.
‘No, no. As I told you, he was very quiet … even dull, if you do not mind my saying so.’
McGray was nodding, stroking his stubble. ‘Did youse two get along?’
There was tension in Ardglass’s voice. ‘I cannot say we were actual friends; our connection was purely professional. He was my second in rank. The best maestro we’ve had in years.’
‘And I understand that he’d been working here for a good while, right?’
‘Yes. Around erm … well, twenty-odd years, I think.’
I looked at Ardglass with interest. ‘Are you not sure?’
‘Well … he arrived here before I did.’
McGray arched his eyebrows. ‘So the auld man got here before ye, yet he was second in rank? How come?’
Ardglass instantly became defensive. ‘He was offered the position and he refused. Fontaine never was a man of authority!’ He noticed his tone and took a deep breath. Then he looked at me and spoke in a whisper. ‘You must forgive me … We have been told nothing as to how he died. Even his maid does not know! And now we have people from the CID coming here to investigate … It was something grisly, wasn’t it?’
I pulled my most neutral expression. ‘We are not allowed to divulge any details just yet. But believe me, there’s no reason to be alarmed.’
I studied Ardglass’s reaction most carefully. He was alarmed, but he also seemed confused.
‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘We would like to question Mr Fontaine’s luthier. We were told that you could provide us with his address.’
‘Oh, but of course. Let me write it down for you.’
Ardglass came back with a note. When I first read it I thought it was a joke: ‘Joe Fiddler? Do you call him that too?’
‘Yes, we all call him that. Nobody knows his actual name. He is a very eccentric fellow I must say, but very good at his craft; people from all over Scotland come to him to repair their instruments.’
‘Will those be all your questions, Inspectors?’ Downs asked, once again going through his crumpled papers, and McGray and I nodded. He looked at his documents. ‘Mr Ardglass, you may help me find the second heir. Is Miss Caroline at the Conservatoire?’
Ardglass’s face was perplexed. ‘Miss Caroline? Do you mean my niece?’
‘Indeed.’
‘What? The spoiled child only plays beginners’ waltzes and horrid folk reels and she gets a violin!’ He had to clear his throat. ‘Unfortunately she is in London at the moment. She should be back in a few days.’
‘Ye better keep that instrument ’til the lassie arrives,’ McGray told him. ‘And tell us before ye deliver it.’
Begrudgingly, Downs agreed. He then saw that Ardglass was meaning to say something, but could not manage to utter the words.
‘Yes, Mr Ardglass?’
‘May I ask …’ he was almost whispering, ‘which instrument is she inheriting?’
‘She is to have the Guadagnini.’
Ardglass twisted his face as if sucking a lemon. ‘Oh, the one with the sweetest tone!’
‘If Miss Caroline is not present,’ Downs went on, ‘then I will deliver the Galiano violin to … Signor Danilo Caroli.’
‘What? That blasted Italian gets the –’
‘Oh, shut up, ye smarmy leech!’ McGray cried. ‘Just tell the man where to go!’
After gnashing his teeth, Ardglass told us that Caroli was teaching and asked a student to show us the way.
As we walked to the classroom, I whispered in McGray’s ear. ‘Is there a history between you and the Ardglass family?’
McGray chuckled with bitterness. ‘Och, ye noticed! Aye, we loathe each other’s bones … but that’s not what upset me. Their name is appearing too often in this case.’
‘What do you mean by too often? This is the first time I have heard their name.’
‘I’ll tell ye later, Frey.’
We arrived at the door of a small classroom, where a
student was playing a very fast fugue. Louder than the frantic notes, we heard the hearty yells of a man who sounded Italian to the bone:
‘You ’ave to stroke with feeling, man! ’Arder! Come on, you won’t break the violin! ’
McGray had to knock hard on the door to make his presence known.
‘All right, you can rest now.’ Then the door opened and a lean man in his thirties almost jumped out of the classroom. He looked as Mediterranean as he sounded: olive skin, wavy black hair and wide dark eyes. I could picture a good deal of ginger ‘lassies’ sighing for him. ‘Can I ’elp you? Oh, Mr Downs, so good to see you!’
He shook Downs’s hand so effusively that the entire body of the little man jerked.
Again, Downs introduced us as inspectors from the CID and explained we had urgent matters to discuss with him.
Caroli nodded. ‘Very well. Let me dismiss this boy and I’ll be right back.’
One moment later a chubby student left the classroom and Caroli invited us to walk in. I saw that the small room was an utter mess: broken bows and instruments in need of repair in one corner, crumpled sheets on the floor and piles of old scores spread all around. There was barely enough free space at the centre of the room for one student to play in front of an old music stand. Caroli tossed aside a pile of paper, revealing two chairs underneath. ‘Please, sit down.’
Downs and I sat, but McGray preferred to remain standing. Caroli moved a decrepit violin out of the way to sit on the desk. ‘This is regarding Guilleum, isn’t it?’
Once more, Downs told him about the instrument he was to inherit and showed him a dark brown violin. ‘Fontaine wanted you to have his Galiano.’
Unlike Ardglass, Caroli’s surprise seemed genuine. ‘Oh, good old Guilleum, ’e shouldn’t ’ave!’
Caroli quickly signed the relevant documents and then received the violin case. Throughout the rest of our meeting he kept it on his lap. I saw his eyes glittering on it, obviously impatient to have his first play.
When we asked him about Fontaine, Caroli’s affection for the old man also became evident. He spoke with candour as he mentioned all his virtues, yet he could not tell us anything new about his character. Fontaine had been indeed very quiet, in love with his profession, much respected and without enemies or quarrels.
‘I truly envied ’is technique,’ Caroli confessed. ‘Fontaine was trained in France and Italy by the best European masters, including Paganini, I believe.’
‘Paganini?’ McGray asked.
‘A very famous violinist,’ I said.
‘I ken that!’ And then he smacked the back of my head.
I turned around slowly and looked at him with wrath. ‘Do that again and I shall make you eat every single square of your clown’s tartan.’ When I turned back to Caroli, the Italian wretch was grinning in utter amusement. I cleared my throat. ‘From what you say, Mr Caroli, I would assume that you were close acquaintances.’
‘Oh, yes! We were very good friends for years. Guilleum was the first one to befriend me and my wife when we moved ’ere. We dined together at least once a week. My Lorena enjoyed the old man’s company, and Guilleum loved ’er cooking. She makes some pasta you wouldn’t believe. The secret is in the tomatoes. She roasts ’em with some sea salt and ba–’
‘We get the general idea,’ I interrupted. ‘Now tell me, did you see Mr Fontaine on the day of his death?’
‘Yes, at work, as usual.’
‘And since you were very close to him, I assume he would have told you about anything unusual that might have happened to him?’
‘Yes, but everything went as normal that day. We ’ad the usual chit-chat, Guilleum taught the students … I think the only unusual thing ’e did was leaving early to see the Joe Fiddler.’
‘We know about that,’ I said. ‘Well, if you recall anything, no matter how insignificant, please let us know.’
‘I will. Rest assured.’
‘Mr Caroli, you seem a reliable man,’ said McGray just when I was about to stand up. ‘Can we show ye something ’n’ ask ye a question in the strictest confidence?’
I looked at McGray in puzzlement.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Caroli. ‘If there’s anything I can do!’
After asking Downs to leave us for a moment, McGray turned to me. ‘Frey, show him the paper.’
‘I thought that you were saving that for your gypsy hag.’ As I spoke I produced my handkerchief. I tried to pull the paper out so that the shard of glass did not show.
Caroli gasped when he saw the paper stained in red. His olive skin turned yellowish. ‘So it’s true! Guilleum was murd–’
McGray seized his shoulder and looked at him intently. ‘Mr Caroli, I ken it’s hard for ye, but we need ye to focus right now. All right?’
Caroli gulped and nodded just once.
‘Could ye possibly tell where this piece of paper came from?’ McGray pointed at the little notes visible on the paper. ‘Can ye tell which composition?’
Caroli shook his head. ‘Of course not! There’s ’ardly three notes there. But … erm … that stamp there, it looks like the stamps from our library. Guilleum was always borrowing scores to practise at ’ome.’
‘Good, we might be able to tell which score he was playing. Do you have access to the library records?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid, but I know the librarian; he’ll let me look at the logs if I ask him.’
‘Great. Could ye go and tell us which books were on loan to Mr Fon-teen?’
‘Of course, but right now the librarian is ill. A damn drunkard, ’e is. But I can ask ’im for the keys to the records as soon as ’e comes back.’
‘We will appreciate your help,’ McGray concluded. ‘And if ye don’t mind, could ye keep whatever ye find between us?’
Once again Caroli nodded, and I wrapped the little paper with my handkerchief again. We then told Downs he could come back in.
‘There is only one more violin to deliver,’ he said, ‘but I am afraid it may be too late now. Mr Caroli, do you know if this chap, Theodore Wood, is still around?’
Caroli chuckled. ‘That boy would live in the classroom if we let ’im bring a bed.’ As Caroli led us along another corridor, he spoke softly: ‘Theodore … erm … doesn’t ’ave a natural talent for music – you must forgive my saying so – but ’e practises like a madman. Day and night! Sometimes the chap doesn’t sleep or forgets to eat. I couldn’t be that diligent.’
‘You seem to know him very well,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes. We’re comrades. You’ll see that Theodore is quite – well, let’s say eccentric. People tend to avoid ’im, but my wife and I ’ave become ’is closest friends.’
The Conservatoire had fallen silent and the sun had already set. We passed in front of a window and I saw a parade of students and maestros going home, most of them carrying instrument cases. Only one violin could be heard in the old building, its echoes bouncing in the now darkened corridors. Even though there were three other men walking next to me, the place suddenly felt desolate.
Caroli knocked on the door of one of the furthermost practice rooms. We heard a muffled voice crying ‘Not now!’
‘Let me go in,’ Caroli said when he saw my exasperated face. ‘I’m one of the few who can reason with ’im.’ Caroli walked inside and we heard him muttering for a moment, then his hearty laugh, and then he came out. ‘The chap will see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave. My wife must be waiting for me. She is expecting our first child, you see.’
We saw him leave and then entered the practice room to meet the last beneficiary we would see that day … and this one would turn out to be the strangest of all. He was playing in semi-darkness, illumined only by the dim light from a narrow window and the orange flames of a small fireplace, sharp shadows projected on his face.
Theodore Wood was a skinny man but he had a swollen belly, so his body looked like a small pear with long sticks for arms and legs. He had a funny crooked nose, sunken cheeks
and wore his long ginger hair in a twisted ponytail. Nevertheless, his most striking feature was the dark bruise on the left-hand side of his neck.
It is common for violinists to exhibit a reddish mark a the chin and neck. They have to hold the instrument solely with their shoulders and jaw, leaving their left hand free to press the strings, so the violin is constantly abrading their skin. When I looked closer I saw that Theodore’s case was particularly severe: he did not only have a mark, but a cluster of calloused lumps. My brother Elgie had told me that some musicians even developed allergies to the varnish of their violins. My stepmother was very concerned about this, so she forced him to practise protecting his neck with a silk cloth, which he dropped only when playing in public.
McGray also saw Theodore’s neck, and whispered his elegant remark into my ear: ‘What a nasty fiddler’s hickey!’
For the third time Downs explained Fontaine’s will, and Wood listened to him with a rather … eerie expression. The man did not even blink, and when Downs showed him the violin case he looked at it as though it was the Ark of the Covenant.
‘Fontaine wanted me to have this?’ he asked, as if in trance.
‘Yes, he did. He left you his Amati.’
‘I don’t believe it! ’ he hissed. His eyes almost fell out of their sockets as he received the case with shaky hands.
‘He’s gonna wet himself,’ McGray whispered again, and for the first time I agreed with him. Downs was telling Wood about the documents he needed to sign, but the man ignored him. He was already opening the case, and basking in the sight of the ruddy violin with the wooden lion head. It was still stained with blood, but Wood did not seem to notice.
‘I don’t deserve this …’ he said, and immediately lifted the violin, felt its weight, then tried it on his neck and plucked the strings. ‘I have to tune it.’
‘Mr Wood, I must insist on the paperwork!’
Wood finally obliged, but signed so hastily that his name was an unintelligible scribble. Then he kneeled by the fireplace and began to adjust the strings’ tuning pegs.
McGray leaned next to him. He, too, was looking at the violin with fascinated eyes. ‘Theodore, can ye tell me why this fiddle’s so special?’
The Strings of Murder Page 11
