Jeremy shook his head. “He had affairs with high-society women, and proposed to a number of them, but they turned him down. Well, he had a violent temper and, sorry to say, he was a bit of a slob. Or, to put it more kindly, ‘preoccupied.’ He’d leave food lying around, stale beer and all, when he was composing. And he’d get so absorbed that he’d forget about his appearance in public,” Jeremy explained. “He had all these aristocratic students, including young ladies, like this princess who lived across the street from him. But he’d show up for her music lessons dressed in his pajamas, slippers and little pointy nightcap!”
“But one of his students said he was a very patient teacher,” I noted, “who would seldom scold you for hitting wrong notes or missing a passage, because Beethoven figured these were accidental errors; but he would be furious if a student failed to play with the right ‘expression’ because this showed a lack of attention, feeling and knowledge.”
“Right. Even when he was deaf, he could tell if they were doing it correctly by ‘sight-reading’ the notes and watching the way a pianist moved his hands as he played,” Jeremy marvelled. “Kept composing right to the end. They say he used to walk around town humming to himself and gesturing, figuring out the next symphony, dressed like a bag man. Rotten little kids used to taunt him.”
“Poor guy. He had awful stomach trouble,” I said. “Possibly from lead poisoning. He died when he was only fifty-six.” I sighed. “How could he write all that beautiful music in so short a time, and without hearing so much of it? Maybe he had special powers and could hunt men’s souls in his sleep, too—with music.”
I was still looking at the notes we’d made when the telephone rang. Jeremy went to answer it. I didn’t start paying attention until I heard his tone, and then the words, “Where is she now? Is she out of the hospital?”
I stopped what I was doing, and looked at him. He tried to signal but was too busy getting the details. Finally I heard him say, “I see. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He hung up, looking troubled. “Mum’s had a fall,” he said. “The cleaner found her, and took her to the hospital, but they say it’s not bad. They were afraid she might have broken her hip, but they’re telling me now that it’s a broken ankle.”
I realized that Aunt Sheila, although so chic and young-looking, was really old enough to be concerned about ordinary falls causing serious trouble.
“She’s home now. I really ought to go and look in on her,” Jeremy said. “She told the cleaner not to upset me, and to tell me she’s fine; but she’s on her own there, and I want to see her for myself.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to,” Jeremy said. “This is not such great weather for flying.”
I glanced out the window, and saw that the rain was letting up a bit, and there was even a small, promising patch of blue in the sky. “No, it’s looking better out there. I’ll go with you,” I offered.
“Well, actually, it might not be a bad idea for you to come,” Jeremy agreed, looking at his notes. “That photographer is English, and so is the museum director. We could look them up and see if they have any more info about the Lion.”
Then a horrible thought crossed my mind, and either Jeremy read my face or else he had the same thought.
“Oh, God,” I said. “This doesn’t mean we have to go see Lydia and Bertie, does it?”
“No,” Jeremy said. “We can stay at Mum’s and never set foot in my apartment. We’ll skulk in and out of town and nobody will know or care. Besides, aren’t your parents going back to the States soon? We promised we’d catch up with them before they leave.”
So. Like it or not, I realized, London was calling.
Part Seven
Chapter Twenty-six
We found Aunt Sheila at home, sitting in bed, with a bandaged foot propped up on its own little pillow. She had a bruise on her cheek, too. She looked embarrassed when she saw us.
“I told you two you didn’t have to come!” she protested. Jeremy, carrying pretty flowers which he placed in her hands, bent over to kiss the other cheek.
“Penny, darling, really, I’m all right,” Aunt Sheila said. “Tell my son I’m all right.”
“I did,” I said, “but he loves you. Can’t help it.”
“What happened, Mum?” Jeremy asked, sitting on the end of the bed.
“The silliest thing! I was rushing about, and I missed that step-down in the bedroom, just missed it completely, and I went down rather hard,” Aunt Sheila replied.
"Did they do X-rays?” Jeremy asked.
“Of everything! The hip is all right, which is what they were worried about, and no concussion. I’m fine.”
“How long were you alone before the maid came?” I asked.
“About twenty minutes, I think. I may have blacked out briefly.
Don’t worry. Matilde is looking out for me,” Aunt Sheila said. “She stops in once a day to see if I need anything.”
“But how can you get around the apartment?” Jeremy asked, gesturing toward the bathroom. Aunt Sheila pointed to a pair of crutches.
“That’s not going to work,” Jeremy said briskly. “You need somebody here full-time.”
“What, to take my temperature and blood pressure and all that bother?” Aunt Sheila said, looking horrified. “I don’t want a stranger in the house.”
“We thought we’d stay a couple of days,” I said. “We’re going to visit my folks. They’re holed up in some hotel here. I wanted to see them before they head home.”
“Oh, dear, I’d hoped to take them out to dinner,” Aunt Sheila said.
“We’ll figure out something,” I said. “Meanwhile, Jeremy and I are going to cook you some supper. Jeremy’s getting really good at it, because we’ve been to these terrific local markets in France, and he’s charmed the people who sell the groceries into telling us all about how they like to cook it.”
“So, no arguments,” Jeremy said. “You’re stuck with us.”
“You might have let me know,” Aunt Sheila said reproachfully. “I’d have had the guest rooms specially made ready for you.”
“That’s exactly why we didn’t tell you,” Jeremy said, “but we let Matilde know.”
I followed Jeremy out to the kitchen. “She’s all right, I think,” he said. “But I’m glad we came, just to look after her for a few days. Meanwhile, we still have time to make some research calls. You phone the curator, and I’ll call the photographer. Let’s see if we can get appointments for tomorrow morning.”
Well, the next day, it was actually fun, skulking around London. Jeremy said he felt as if we ought to be dressed in disguise, each wearing a nose and glasses, so that nobody he knew would recognize us and find out that we were temporarily back in town. But the photographer’s studio was way out on a fairly seedy side of London, where there were lots of big warehouses that offered comparatively lower rent for audio recording, TV studios, and artists’ lofts. I didn’t think anybody from Jeremy’s posh crowd would be hanging around here.
We went up a creaky old freight elevator—the kind that has only an iron grate for a door so that you can actually see every floor you pass—to the third floor. The door to the photographer’s studio was ajar, but Jeremy knocked on it anyway.
“Come in,” called out a male voice. We entered, into a spacious one-huge-room that held a very large table, near floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the street; and, on the other end, a bed, a flat-screen TV and DVD center and a kitchen comprised of sink, stove, small refrigerator and oven. The door to an adjoining bathroom was open, and a young female assistant was hanging up wet pictures. The photographer himself, whom Jeremy recognized from his research, was seated at the big table, which was heaped with stacks of enlarged photographs and three giant computer monitors. There was a radio playing somewhere, broadcasting the news in a low, barely audible murmur.
As we moved closer, Jeremy introduced me to the photograp
her, whose name was Clive.
“Right,” Clive said, nodding, looking me up and down. He was a very tall, thin guy with a mop of ash-brown hair. He had lively grey eyes, and wore the kind of khaki shirt, pants and vest that have lots of pockets, which photographers often wear.
“What can I do for you?” he inquired, sitting back in his office chair.
When Jeremy reminded him why we were here, Clive said, “Oh, right, the Lion.”
Clive’s chair had wheels, so he just rolled himself over to a nearby file cabinet and rummaged through it. He pulled out a file and slapped it on the table. He smiled at me, but spoke to Jeremy.
“Unbelievable ruddy big deal about this thing,” he said. “Here I thought I was doing a nice little tourist piece, but I’ve had my old studio broken into three times before I pulled up stakes and moved here. Did Beethoven put this on his piano or something?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Jeremy admitted. “As I mentioned on the phone, we’re assisting an old duffer who’s a Beethoven buff, and he heard you got near it.”
Clive gestured to two folding chairs on the other side of the table, inviting us to sit. Then he handed us the file. The top photo was the one we’d seen on the Internet, but now I could view the details more easily, because the print was larger and sharper. Clive had obviously focused on the memorial procession, following it from the church to the grave, of old men and women, and children dressed up in native costumes, holding candles and torches. Behind them was a grassy hill, and what looked like an open cave all alight with candles.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the cave.
“It’s a shepherd’s hut, built into the hillside. Very old; the family that you see in front of it has made it into a family crypt,” Clive said. “It is kept closed all year, except for this feast day when people lay wreaths of flowers and offerings to their dead ancestors.” He flipped the photo over so that we could see the next ones, which were of the church procession. Finally, we got to the last picture.
This was a blow-up of the metallic item that had been in the background of the first picture. It was still blurry, so I supposed you could imagine it to be what you wanted. But I did think it looked very much like a metalworked piece, and a lion standing on all fours with a great big mane.
“That’s the best shot I’ve got of it,” Clive said, reading our minds. “The rest underneath are just copies.”
“Has the Lion been actually verified by anyone?” Jeremy asked.
Clive shook his head. “The museum bloke who was supposed to do that simply didn’t get there in time,” he said hurriedly. “And to tell you the truth, I’m sick of the whole thing. People think I saw it and can identify it, so they bring me all sorts of lions, believing they’ve recovered it. I never even noticed the damned thing. There was so much else to look at that night. But once the collectors saw the picture, well, that really set the cat among the pigeons.”
I stared at the photograph of the festival, with all those faces glowing in the candlelight. “Which of these people are related to the one in the—grave?” I asked.
“All of them!” Clive said. “They have a large family. I asked about the Lion. They didn’t really want to talk about it. Said it had been in their family for centuries.”
“I don’t suppose they could explain the Beethoven connection? ” Jeremy asked.
“Bah,” Clive said. “I think these antiques boys make up this guff to drive up the price.”
“Who do you think stole it?” I asked boldly.
Clive shrugged. “Could be any number of brokers or traders in this stuff,” he said. “Some of them think nothing of walking off with treasures from graves or digs. But personally, I think it was a rival family. I heard that there had been some kind of feud going on, and the thing changed hands and went back and forth and blood was spilled.”
“Like, a vendetta?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“The word itself was invented in Corsica, they say,” Clive replied. “Their history is full of revenge stories. Whole towns carried on for centuries.”
“Can I make a copy of the first and last pictures?” I asked.
“Take one of each, love,” Clive said. “I’ve got plenty more. Just do me a favor. If you write an article about it, don’t credit me as the photographer. I’ve had enough of it. I used to like Corsica. Rented a nice little place, but now I can’t get a moment’s peace.”
He shook his head wearily. “I’ve published thousands of pictures, ” he said. “War zones, sweatshops, drug lords. But have you ever seen antiques collectors when they’ve got their sights trained on something? They just won’t listen to reason.”
Jeremy asked if the museum director we’d planned to talk to was indeed the one who had come down to verify the Lion. “Yeah, Donaldson. He just missed it,” Clive said uncomfortably. “Wasn’t fast enough. Supposedly an expert on that stuff, but I wouldn’t bother with him. Don’t think he’ll have much to add for you. Pissy kind of fellow, very imperious. I must tell you that lots of people have been after this Lion, but the trail went cold almost as soon as it heated up. I heard there’s a curse on the thing, so frankly, I’d like to see an end to it.”
We thanked him and headed out. “Right, cheers,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
"Well, that wasn’t much help,” I said as we went out onto the street and climbed into the rental car. "Poor guy, he’s sick of it.”
"I’d say it’s a bit more than that,” Jeremy said. “I’m not sure what ails him, but maybe the museum expert can tell us.”
The traffic in London was nearly hopeless. It took us forever to get across town to the higher-end section where the small, elegant museum was situated in a narrow brick house on a quiet, leafy street. As we climbed the white stairs to the front door, I noticed a surveillance camera just above the entrance, which was unlocked. But as we stepped into a small foyer, there was an inner door which was locked; and we had to be buzzed in by the tall, dark security guard at the front desk. I could see him through the window. He looked up when we rang, sized us up, and let us in. There was a young woman with her hair skinned back in a tight ponytail, standing alongside him. Both wore black suits.
“Would you like a catalog?” she asked. I saw a banner for the current display, which was Swords and Shields of the Middle Ages.
“No, thanks,” Jeremy said easily. “We have an appointment with Mr. Donaldson,” he explained.
The girl picked up the telephone, and spoke in a low voice. When she hung up she said indifferently, “Please wait here. He’ll be out presently.”
We drifted around in the lobby, waiting interminably. During the whole time, no visitors came in or out of the museum.
“Why does this place look like a ‘front’ for something?” I whispered to Jeremy. “You know, where some spy comes in from the cold.” I sighed. “I suppose we could have done all this by phone,” I said gloomily.
“No,” Jeremy said, “because we couldn’t look them in the eye on the phone. At first, I wasn’t entirely convinced that this Lion is the same one everybody’s been chasing after for centuries. But now I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Why?” I asked. He grinned at me.
“Oh, call it a hunch,” he said. “Think you’re the only one who gets them?”
The ponytail girl saw us laughing, and she looked unamused. I was glad when a tall, slender man came striding into the lobby. He wore an expensive blue pin-striped suit, very shiny black shoes, a blue and white silk tie, and a white silk handkerchief in his pocket. His very air of importance, and the sudden deference of the guards, told me that he was our man.
Mr. Donaldson shook hands with Jeremy and said, “Follow me, please,” and led us down a marble-floored corridor, past a back workroom where two men in white aprons were sitting on stools at a table with small paintbrushes, delicately cleaning and restoring antique figurines. He ushered us into an office at the back of the building, overlooki
ng a small walled-in garden. The view was of carefully tended shrubs, trees and flowers, and a gravel path with large modern metal sculptures—one resembling a bent-over tulip, another a very long-legged bird.
Donaldson’s office was neat and fastidious, just like him. In fact, Donaldson looked as if he’d be right at home inside one of those Magritte paintings, of men going to work with an umbrella and a bowler hat. However, he possessed a certain twenty-first century slick salesmanship which incessant fund-raising required; he knew who we were, having read about us in the art press, so he immediately asked about the painting we’d inherited, and then he did a pitch for his own museum, asking to be the first to show “anything else amusing that you recover.”
I was getting accustomed to such sales pitches by now, and I no longer panicked at the thought that people whom I’d just met, urgently expected me to give them money and endorsements; for I’d discovered that initially, nothing more was required of me than an attentive expression and a pleasant smile. Jeremy and I took the seats he offered us.
“You’re here about the Beethoven Lion,” Donaldson said.
“Yes, we’ve just spoken to the photographer,” Jeremy said, watching for Donaldson’s reaction. The man snorted in disgust.
“Clive? Yes, well, we have him to thank for the loss of it,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why? Because five minutes after I’d told him I wanted to see it with my own eyes, he went to his favorite bar in Corsica and got drunk, and told everyone about it,” Donaldson said, shaking his head. “When I got there the place was already over-run with dealers, tourists, and press.” He sighed. “Travel journalists. Can’t keep their mouths shut about anything.”
“Could you explain the Beethoven connection to a lion aquamanile? ” Jeremy asked.
Donaldson cleared his throat. “Well, there are very few hard facts to go on. If indeed it is the actual Lion in question,” Donaldson said, “then it would date back to the early 1800s, when Beethoven was in Vienna. There was a certain German aquamanilia craftsman who set up a workshop outside Vienna, and he produced some fine pieces, during the era of Napoleon. I’m afraid at this point we leave the realm of known fact and enter the world of legend. There are actually many variations on the story of the Beethoven Lion, but this is the one I find most credible, and the one that most people in this field tell.”
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 19
