Flowers Stained With Moonlight (16 page)

My dearest Dora,

I am home again – something most important has happened!

Yesterday, I received a telegram from Arthur saying that Pat O’Sullivan told him he has a piece of information for me and I must come up to Cambridge at once. Between Ellen, Sylvia, and what I heard from old Martha, I have been so confused these last days that I was eager to hear any positive fact whatsoever (though I feared a little that whatever he had to tell me would merely add to the muddle). I hastened to inform Mrs Bryce-Fortescue of the new development, and arrange for Peter to take me up to Cambridge.

I telegraphed, and when I arrived, Arthur and Pat were waiting for me.

‘Now they’ve found something worth knowing,’ Pat cried eagerly the moment he saw me, without even waiting for the customary greetings, let alone the usual roundabout queries upon one’s health and other topics which politeness generally requires upon such occasions. ‘Already a couple of days ago, they’d managed to trace that fellow’s trip to Haverhill all the way back from London. He came up from London, but yesterday, they discovered that he hadn’t started his trip there – he’d come up in the boat train from
Dover
of all places! They’re certain of it now, and they’re down in Dover today, enquiring with the ferries. If they manage to trace him on a ferry over, then they’ll be
certain
!’

‘Certain of what?’ I asked with tense reserve, wondering and not fully wanting to know what he was leading up to.

‘Why, dead certain that he’s some lover of Sylvia Granger’s from Paris! Isn’t it obvious? That’s been their suspicion all along, hasn’t it? And the gun being of French manufacture was a point in their favour. They’re determined to find him; they’ve got several men at the port now, questioning everyone who worked on the ferries bound for England that morning! If he came over that way, they’ll probably know it by tonight, or tomorrow at the latest.’

‘And what will they do if that happens?’

‘Ah, then, they’ll be in a rare pickle, heh, heh. They can’t go detecting in France – they’ll have to turn the case over to the French police, and the French won’t care so much about helping to detect an obscure murder over here when they’ve
got so many of their own! And even if they could find and identify him, there’d be the problem of extradition. No, we’ve got a headstart on them there!’

‘A headstart? What do you mean?’

‘What do you mean, what do I mean?’ said Pat, looking vexed at my obtuseness, which if not exactly deliberate, was certainly a consequence of my inner resistance to the police theory. ‘Aren’t you going to go detecting? Why, it can’t possibly be so hard to identify the fellow, unofficially at least! If Sylvia had a lover, surely the people she frequented over there must have known all about it. And what about that girlfriend she was there with – girlfriends tell each other everything, don’t they? Why don’t you ask the girlfriend?’

‘I have talked to her about Paris, but she has told me nothing of interest.’

‘Of course she wouldn’t, even less so if she has any notion of the danger her friend is in. But you ought to be able to surprise it out of her! And besides, those girls must have been all over the Paris scene together – they must have socialised with simply hordes of people! Go over there and ask questions, Vanessa! For Heaven’s sake, what are you waiting for?’

‘I – I don’t know exactly,’ I said hesitatingly. ‘Perhaps I’m very stupid, and yet, at this point I’d have sworn that things can’t be the way you’re describing them.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Well … this sounds silly, but it doesn’t correspond to the way Sylvia is behaving. She doesn’t seem likely to have a lover. And even if she did, and even if he did come over and
shoot her husband, you’d think she would guess it, even if she knew nothing about it and had nothing to do with the planning of it. But in fact, I don’t believe any such idea has even crossed her mind. She’d show some signs of it – she couldn’t possibly be
light-hearted
– as I assure you that she is, deep down inside her, beyond the level of present worry and fear, and the mourning and anguish.’

‘Probably she thinks she’ll get off scot free and finds it a cheering idea,’ snarled Pat rather unpleasantly.

‘Oh, no! She’s not like that. It – no, I don’t know. But something seems wrong.’

‘Well, the police may have their knife into her, and maybe even a little too much, but you’re all the other way! It’s easy to see who hired
you
, and it may turn out in the end that you’re doing a fine job of
not
looking for the murderer!’

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘Please don’t be angry. I think your ideas about the murder must be wrong somehow, but I know that you’re right about detecting. If the young man is really traced back on a ferry to the other side of the Channel, then that is where I must go and detect. I do, I really do see that if they find he came from there, it will be necessary to go, and I will most certainly do it. But it will be difficult; my French is not good enough for real detecting, even if Annabel
has
been teaching me for the last four years – and I could hardly go there all by myself!’

I looked at Arthur.

‘Funnily enough,’ he said, intervening in the conversation for the first time, ‘Korneck has been pressing us lately – Charles and me, that is – to spend a couple of weeks in
Paris. Charles Hermite is working over there on generalising Cayley and Sylvester’s work on some of the same lines that we are, and it seems he’s making some quite extraordinary discoveries. Well, our teaching has just come to an end, so – I suggest that we all go together. If you must go, I would much prefer to be near you.’

‘Oh, Arthur – can it be possible?’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, if it were not for this dreadful murder, it would be heavenly to travel to Paris with you! Still, I am worried that detecting in French will be too difficult for me.’

‘How about if we take Annabel with us?’ he suggested thoughtfully. ‘Something tells me she would not refuse. It may be a little expensive, but we mathematicians may be subsidised by the Department, so if you can see with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, it could be done.’

‘Mrs Bryce-Fortescue! Arthur, I can’t! I should have to explain to her about the Paris connection, and she will become perfectly terrified that Sylvia will be implicated,’ I said. ‘I know she firmly believes that Sylvia is innocent, but if it turns out that Sylvia had a lover in Paris who came over and killed her husband, it will cause an enormous scandal, even if Sylvia knew nothing about it! No – I can’t, I daren’t tell her, not now, not before I have been there and discovered what I can. Later, of course, it will probably be necessary to do so.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Arthur. ‘She could help you with more than expenses; she could write you letters of introduction to her friends.’

‘Arthur, she will not send me to Paris to investigate her
daughter, and that is exactly what I will appear to be doing!’ I said. ‘Come – you do see that it is impossible! Yet Pat is right; the thing cannot stop now. No, I shall simply tell her that I am following up the clues concerning the young man, without saying where I am going. And I shall pay for myself, even if I use up all of my savings to do so. Depending on what we find out, I could always request expenses from Mrs Bryce-Fortescue later. But I will not think about that now. Let us just simply pay our way, and be off!’

‘That’s the attitude!’ applauded Pat, smiling sunnily. ‘But don’t do anything until we know more. After all, it certainly sounds likely that he came over from France, since he took the boat train, but wait till they know for sure. I’ll drop by my brother-in-law’s later on to get the news.’

‘Come to our place when you know,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re right of course – the man may turn out to live in Dover, or to have come over from Oostende and be Dutch!’

‘I’ll let you know for sure. But if they find what I expect they will, you’ve got to go; that’s my frank opinion, and I stick by it!’ said Pat with emphasis, as though he suspected I might still change my mind, and he shook our hands and departed with his springy step.

‘However shall we get through this evening without knowing,’ I moaned.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you!’ cried Arthur consolingly, taking my hand. ‘We have an engagement for this evening – we’re going to a concert! Do you remember your little pupil Rose?’

‘Rose? Why, of course. How enchanting she was! She stopped coming to school … a good two years ago, to
devote herself to music. How old must she be now? My goodness, fifteen already – a real young lady! Is
she
to be playing in the concert?’

‘Yes, she is,’ he answered. ‘I received an invitation from her mother, and I expect yours is waiting for you in your rooms.’

It was. When I opened the envelope, out fell a note, a programme, and to my surprise, a ticket. I had somehow imagined that Rose would be playing in her home, but no; it was not a mere family affair, but was to take place in one of Cambridge’s loveliest concert halls. The brief note, from her mother, informed me that this concert has been organised by her professor, as her farewell to Cambridge, for she will be leaving in a month to study in London.

Out of respect for an event of such importance, I put on my blue muslin with lace, redid my hair and sallied forth with shawl and hat to meet Arthur upon the front step. We walked together to the centre of town, almost in silence, but the most trusting and companionable silence imaginable. Every step we took together in the balmy summer breeze was like a prayer of thanks for such togetherness. Poor Sylvia – to have been married and never to have lived this.

The foyer was full of people milling about, preparatory to entering the hall. So many people come to listen to little Rose! I could hardly get over it, for even though I knew she was no longer a child, I was quite unable to imagine her any different from the fair-haired sprite who had attended my classes for three years. After taking a few moments to absorb the sociable yet hushed atmosphere which always
precedes a concert, I looked about me, and perceived several acquaintances; there was Emily, beckoning to me furiously, and her mother, together with Rose’s mother.

‘We are so happy that you could come,’ said the latter as I approached. ‘Please do come backstage to see Rose after the concert; she will be absolutely delighted to see you again after so long! She knows she could have visited you often enough since she left school, but you know how children are – she’s been too busy with her music … and just with the process of growing up, little by little, into a young lady.’

‘It’s a good job she didn’t drop
me
,’ said Emily indignantly – ‘and she probably would have, if I hadn’t gone hunting her out every so often!’

‘Oh no, not you, dear,’ said Rose’s mother soothingly. ‘Young girls find their friends simply indispensable, as you well know! And Rose is an only child to boot.’

The warning bell rang, and the loose mass of people pressed towards the doors leading into the hall, broke loose again on the other side and edged between the rows of plush seats with a great deal of shifting about and arranging of stoles, hats and purses. Some ladies took off gloves, others took out fans, gentlemen opened programmes with a rustle, and there was whispering and discussing. I seated myself next to Arthur, and enjoyed the slowly intensifying feeling of hushed waiting. The lights dimmed and darkened over the audience, while falling directly on the stage, which contained a beautifully burnished grand piano, a chair and a music stand with music ready upon it. There was complete silence for more than a minute, and then a door opened at
the back of the stage and Rose appeared, followed by a dapper gentleman in tails, with a neatly waxed moustache, and a slender young man also in black, but not so elegant, who took his station humbly next to the grand piano on the side away from the audience, and prepared himself for the task of turning pages by anxiously licking his fingertips.

The clapping began and then swelled into a great clatter. Rose and her pianist smiled out over us and bowed slightly, then took their places. The pianist played a note, and Rose touched her bow lightly over the strings of her cello and tuned them softly. Then, suddenly, the music began in a great storm, piano and cello crying aloud together without warning!

Time appeared to stop. I felt suspended, motionless, in the rush of notes, and the young girl facing me on the stage, behind her great shining instrument, appeared to me at once like the Rose I had always known – the soft, tender, young lines of her cheek and chin, the great cascade of fair waves held back from her face by a wide ribbon, the childlike vigour of all her movements were exactly as before – and a new, mysterious Rose, whom I watched as from the other side of a great river, as with flushed cheeks and eyes dark with inward intensity, she seemed with ease and yet with effort to pitch the stream of notes upwards, so that they fell upon us like dashing raindrops. She played with authority – I can find no better word to express it – and that authority, and the extraordinary power of inwardness and concentration which she achieved as she sat facing such a crowd of people, and the beautiful dress of forest green silk
relieved only by a narrow collar of cream-coloured lace, so different from the pink flounces she once favoured – all this made me feel much as though she had travelled over all the world since I last saw her, and become – more than a young lady, more even than an adult – she had become a consummate artist.

Grieg’s Sonata came to an end suddenly. It seemed to me that no time at all had passed, so powerfully had I been under its spell. Applause surged around me, and I joined in, faintly because of my emotion. Rose stood up, smiled, bowed, left the stage, returned, left again, returned again. Arthur poked me, and laughed.

‘You look mesmerised,’ he said.

‘I am mesmerised,’ I answered. ‘I remember notes like these under the bow of a little dancing elf, some four years ago – even then I was amazed, but now! There is something in her playing which defies any kind of judgement; something queenly, which is quite simply beyond commentary.’