Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  “Thank you very much. That sounds perfect,” said Martin.

  Nina said at the same time, “Lovely. Thank you.”

  By common unspoken consent they didn’t mention the Shadow Music, Piers, or Mira while peeling potatoes and scraping carrots. Jessica poured them all generous glasses of sherry.

  “To warm us up,” she said and shooed them out of the kitchen so that she could tidy up.

  The heavy sweet wine went straight to Nina’s head. She sagged onto the living room couch in front of the gas fire, leaning back into the soft cushions. Martin sat beside her.

  “She’s fantastic, isn’t she?”

  “Mmm,” murmured Nina. Her eyes drooped shut. The room was warm and cosy. She was dimly aware Martin took the glass from her fingers and kissed her cheek.

  “Come to me,” said Piers. “Come to me.”

  “Where?” she cried.

  “We must be together.”

  “Where are you?” she cried again frantically. “Piers? Where are you?”

  Her eyes flew open. Martin and Jessica leant over her both with anxious faces. Martin held her hand tightly. Warm, comforting, and above all, real.

  “Did he tell you?” asked Jessica.

  “Tell me what?” she asked, blinking at the light.

  “Where he was. You cried out, ‘Piers, where are you?’ ” said Martin.

  “No. It was dark.” Nina frowned. “I was in bed. And hot. A hot night.”

  “Summertime,” said Jessica with great satisfaction. “He must have wanted her to meet him somewhere. Maybe they were having an illicit affair. How romantic.”

  “But where and when and who is Mira?” asked Martin.

  “After dinner we shall combine our formidable collective brain power and find out,” said Jessica.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What if I play the melody while you meditate?” suggested Nina. They were in George’s study again. Nina had unpacked the violin and stood fiddling with the tuning pegs and plucking strings. Jessica sat at her computer already typing in Piers’ name to find family details.

  “I suppose that would give us the most power,” said Martin dubiously. “Just keep playing the first bit but go into the second part if things get too hairy. Right?”

  “All right,” said Nina. “Jessica’s here. She’ll grab the violin if I can’t stop playing.”

  Jessica smiled weakly at Nina’s attempt at a joke.

  “This terrifies me,” she said.

  “Me too,” said Martin with a grimace riding on a deeply drawn breath.

  “Ready?” Nina tucked George’s violin under her chin. It was a lovely instrument, better than hers back in Sydney.

  Martin sat comfortably cross-legged on the floor on a small cushion and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. Nina began to play. The effect was instantaneous. Piers was furious.

  “Why aren’t you playing all the parts?” he demanded. “Where are the other parts?” Nina played on with shaking fingers, tears trembling on her lids. She’d never heard him speak like that. He loved her, he said so.

  “Why? Why? Why? Don’t you care?” he ranted. “You’re pitiful, I thought you were different. I trusted you to help me.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks but she kept her eyes fixed on Martin sitting so relaxed and composed on the floor in front of her. She played the melody through three times. Piers’ abuse was unbearable, his escalating rage unbearable. At the end of the third repeat she couldn’t continue, shaking uncontrollably from head to toe whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” through her tears.

  Martin stayed seated, eyes closed. Nina met Jessica’s equally tear-stained gaze. Her sweet cheerful face wore an expression of grief so profound Nina moved quickly across and wrapped her arms around the small body. At her touch Jessica broke free from the spell. She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. She patted Nina’s arm and smiled.

  “Goodness me,” she murmured and sniffed.

  Martin stirred. His eyes opened and he stretched his arms over his head.

  “Wow.” He stood up and opened his arms to Nina who rushed across to clutch him to her.

  “What did he say to you? He was furious with me. He was horrible.” More tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Martin hugged her close. “It’s okay. I talked to him. I found out some things. Her name is Miranda Templeton and she lived in a village called Cutting Marsh.”

  “I know Cutting Marsh. It’s near Plymouth,” Jessica interrupted, clapping her hands together. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head. “He faded out. He was disturbed. More so than usual, that is.”

  “He was really angry that I was playing by myself,” said Nina. “He kept asking why? Didn’t I care? Things like that. I couldn’t bear it.” She sniffed and swiped fingers across her eyes. “Why did we hear him differently?”

  “I’ve no idea. Did you hear anything, Jessica?” he asked.

  “No voices. But that melody is filled with the most profound sadness it made me cry. It’s absolutely the saddest music I’ve ever heard. It’s exactly the melody George played to me.” Her eyes misted over again and she wielded her sodden tissue vigorously.

  “Did you discover anything online?” Martin asked.

  “Yes, I did.” She instantly became businesslike and brusque, sat up straight, took a piece from the desk, stuffed her tissue into her pocket and read aloud.

  “Piers de Crespigny came from Jamaica. His family had a coffee plantation there. There is a bit of information about his brother who ran the business. Ambrose, the brother, went into politics so he features in that respect. Piers seems to have been the black sheep of the family. He was born in 1859 in London but grew up in Jamaica and returned to England in about 1885. He died in 1892.”

  “Black sheep?” said Martin.

  “Because he was a violinist. An extraordinarily good one. We may find more about him if we look at newspaper archives for concert details and reviews of that period. Now.” Jessica looked at them solemnly. “Piers was murdered.”

  Nina wailed in shock. “Murdered? How do you know?”

  “It caused a scandal at the time for his political brother.”

  “Who murdered him?” asked Martin.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t go into details about Piers. The implication is that he met a fitting end.”

  “Poor Piers,” Nina said. “No wonder he’s so sad. Wandering in torment for eternity. His soul can’t rest.”

  “Can you find out about Miranda Templeton?” asked Martin.

  Jessica typed and they all stared at the screen waiting for the search results to appear.

  “She must have died before Piers,” said Martin. “Before 1892.”

  “Or at the same time,” said Nina.

  “No, it’d have to be before or he wouldn’t be trying to revive her.”

  “Two Miranda Templetons. One Amelia Miranda Templeton. Three Miranda Temples. Cross out those and that one. Let’s try these two,” muttered Jessica and hit more keys. They all three craned forward eagerly.

  One was too young, born in 1947. The other was too old, born 1826.

  Jessica brought up Amelia Templeton with similar results. The fully displayed name caught Nina’s eye. Amelia Miranda Sung Templeton.

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?” she asked. “Sung was my Chinese grandfather’s family name.”

  “She was born in 1852. Could be our girl’s mother.” Jessica added as an afterthought, “Unless Piers preferred older women.”

  Martin, excited, said. “Remember how we wondered why Piers chose us, Nina? What if you are related to Mira? Way, way back. If you both have a Chinese ancestor in common?”

  “Amelia Templeton married Daniel Templeton in 1870 but there’s no further information except that she had two children. She must have died in childbirth if she’s Miranda’s mother because she died in 1874. Not much time to have two children, poor thing,” observed Jessica.

&nbs
p; “If that’s the case then Mira must have been only a girl when she died. If she died before Piers in 1892. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two at most, younger if she was the second child,” said Martin thoughtfully.

  “It’s so sad,” sobbed Nina, turning away to wipe her eyes furiously. “Piers loved her beyond everything. He wants her so desperately. We have to help him. We must do as he asks, Martin.”

  “Not tonight. It’s late and we have to get home.”

  “But Martin!”

  “He’s waited over a hundred years Nina. He can wait another few days. Anyway what can we possibly do? I don’t know how to set a soul to rest, do you?”

  Nina set her mouth in a stubborn line. She couldn’t answer those questions and at that moment she hated Martin for pointing them out. A hot surge of familiar rage flowed through her body but she bit her tongue and said nothing.

  “Would you like to spend the night here?” asked Jessica. “It’s very late and probably freezing out.”

  Martin looked at Nina and received no response other than a shrug and a turned cheek as she began to pack away George’s violin.

  “I think we would like to stay. Thank you, Jessica.”

  “I’ll get the spare room ready then.” She touched Martin reassuringly on the arm as she passed and whispered, “I understand now, Martin. Don’t worry.”

  Martin smiled bleakly at Jessica and turned back to Nina.

  “Nina,” he said firmly. “We’ll work this out together. We need sleep now.”

  “We have to put it on the tape. All of it.”

  Nina’s eyes shone unnaturally bright, her face set and determined when she faced him. “Now,” she said with exactly the tone of authority. Piers’ tone.

  Martin hesitated, calculated swiftly. “I don’t have my flute with me,” he said.

  Nina seemed to deflate before his eyes and regain her normal self. She wrinkled her brow as she stared at him.

  “No, no, that’s right, you don’t,” she said vaguely as she walked across and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Nina darling, we have to stick together,” whispered Martin into her hair as he hugged her tight. So tight he could keep Piers out, keep him from invading her mind, her body, her sanity.

  “Piers is so powerful, I don’t think I can resist him.”

  “Just keep remembering you love me.” He held her away to gaze into her flooded, luminous eyes. “You do, don’t you?”

  She touched his cheek gently and smiled. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  They met Jessica on the landing outside the study, arms loaded with towels and pillow cases. Nina hastily took them from her.

  “I’m sorry. I can make up the bed.”

  “It’s already done. I’ve put on an extra quilt but I suspect you’ll keep each other warm, won’t you?” Grey eyes twinkled cheekily as she looked from one to the other.

  Martin flushed. Nina laughed.

  “Martin embarrasses easily,” she confided to Jessica as they followed her up the stairs to the top floor. “It’s his English reserve.”

  “Yes, I know all about English reserve.” Jessica opened the door to their room. “Dear George was very proper. Mind you, he had his moments.”

  Nina giggled and dumped the towels on the bed. “Yes, I know what you mean.” She began putting a slip on one of the pillows.

  “Excuse me ladies, but would you mind continuing this conversation without me.” Martin picked up a towel. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Laughter followed him out the door but he smiled to hear Nina’s happy voice as she joked and chatted with Jessica, telling her about Florence back in Sydney. He’d cheerfully be the butt of any joke if he could hear that laughter. He’d been wrong about Jessica. She wasn’t nearly as proper or as elderly as he’d thought. She’d get on with Florence like a house on fire.

  ****

  She ran constantly. Terrified. Hot. Cold.

  A field of grass stretched endlessly into the distance whichever way she turned. The sun beat down on her head searing into her brain. A man on a big brown horse galloped across the field toward her and she veered away toward a grove of thick, cool, green trees but her skirts tangled around her legs and she fell with the thunder of hooves loud in her ears, drumming closer and closer.

  The scent of roses wafted in the air and she lifted her head to see where the scent was coming from but all around were thick tufts of grass. The hoof beats were upon her and she covered her head with her arms, sobbing in terror.

  Then it was pitch black. Was she dead? Trampled by the horse?

  Rain pelted down. Her dress clung to her legs like clawing fingers, chill water soaked her to the skin. Something lay on her, crushing her chest so she couldn’t breathe through the pain and the fear.

  Then she was running again in the darkness. Terrified. Sobbing. Wanting only to reach Piers. But she didn’t know where he was, just that she had to reach him. Piers was waiting. Somewhere.

  Trees. Stately ancient oaks, dark, green and cool in their silence. Terrifying.

  Nina woke with a cry on her lips, heart pounding in fear. She lay panting and exhausted in the bed, watching as the feeble winter morning sun struggled through a gap in the curtains. Martin slept beside her. He had such certainty and strength. If only she had the same but she didn’t and she needed him to give her an anchor, a safe harbour.

  In the months since they’d met he’d gained weight, his skin had tanned and his face no longer had that gaunt, haunted look. She trusted him to keep her sane through this torment. He and Jessica. Without them she’d be lost to Piers and his dark, forceful, hypnotic attraction, living in a twilight world of fantasy and dreams which became increasingly frightening.

  He was stronger than ever now. When he spoke to her as a lover she was completely powerless to resist, wanting to do exactly as he asked heedless of consequence. How could he be stopped? How could they lay his soul to rest? Who had murdered him and why? Was his murderer brought to justice? Did Mira have anything to do with it or was her death earlier and unrelated to his? And why had she died so young?

  At breakfast Nina related her nightmarish dreams and voiced those questions which tormented her.

  “Piers doesn’t seem to be bothered about being murdered,” said Martin thoughtfully as he sprinkled brown sugar onto the steaming bowl of porridge Jessica had placed in front of him. “He only talks about Mira and the Shadow Music.”

  “She was his great passion. She and his music.” Jessica gazed at nothing, porridge ladle held poised over the saucepan. “Terribly romantic.”

  “Terribly terrifying,” said Nina wryly.

  “I’m sorry. Of course it is.” Jessica plonked the ladle into the porridge and doled out another bowlful for herself. Nina had opted for toast and marmalade which she picked at listlessly.

  “You’d think the ghost or spirit of a murdered man would only be interested in revenge,” continued Martin. “But he’s not. I wonder what happened. Where exactly is Cutting Marsh?”

  “Close to Plymouth. Only ten miles or so to the northeast. Some very dear friends of mine live there. They bought the old manor house in the 1960’s. Broome Hall. We used to laugh and call it the Broome Cupboard although it’s large and rambling, hardly a cupboard.” She paused. “We should go there, shouldn’t we?”

  Martin nodded meeting her bright excited eyes.

  Nina said in a strained voice. “How will we get there?”

  “Go to Cutting Marsh!” Piers urged her but she fought hard to make him recede. She poured herself more tea and concentrated on Jessica’s reply. The thought of going to that place frightened her in a way she couldn’t articulate even in her mind. An uneasy, fearful, heavy dread that had nothing directly to do with her doubts about Piers.

  “We could go by train to Plymouth, and then take a bus or taxi but probably the quickest and most convenient way is to drive,” Jessica said.

  “We’d have to hire a car,” said Martin.


  “I can borrow mine back from my nephew, I’m sure. I gave it to him when I stopped driving a year ago. The traffic is horrendous in London so I gave up. I’ll call him right now. Can you drive, Martin?”

  “Yes. While you’re organising that, Nina and I should go home and pack a few things.” He took a deep breath. “I have the feeling we’re finally going to sort this out.”

  Piers said, “Soon. Soon we will be together. Play the music and you will be mine forever as we were meant to be.”

  Nina gripped Martin’s hand. She screwed her eyes tight shut. Her heart skipped a beat and then resumed at a breathless gallop.

  Martin said hoarsely, “Nina? Is he there?”

  Nina opened terrified eyes and her voice shook so much she could hardly speak. She opened and closed her mouth, swallowed and said, “He said, ‘Play the music and you will be mine forever as we were meant to be’.”

  Martin and Jessica froze as the change in words registered exactly as they had with her.

  Nina whispered, “Did you notice? He said ‘you’ not Mira and ‘we’. Does that mean he thinks I’m Mira, that he’s reincarnated her as me?”

  ****

  Cutting Marsh, September 1892

  That night Piers stood in her room again. Miranda expected him this time but he still shocked her, appearing so suddenly. She sat up, wide-eyed.

  “Piers,” she whispered. “Piers, speak to me.”

  “Mira. You can see me, hear me?”

  “Yes. How is it so?” Her voice trembled with excitement and fear. He looked so real, standing beside the bed in shirtsleeves and grey trousers, dark eyes shining, face tense and pale.

  “Come to me Mira. Don’t desert me. We belong together.”

  That’s what Maggie said. Could it be true? Or was she losing her mind?

  “Where shall I come, Piers?”

  “Come to me.” He was fading, the curtains visible through his body.

  “How? Where? Where are you?”

  He disappeared completely. She lay on the bed, waiting, watching eagerly and suddenly he was there again.

  “Mira. You must come to me. Come now.”

  “Where?” Almost sobbing in frustration.