The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “The Hills knew of this particular violin and, most interestingly, were aware of a couple of letters secreted in a pocket inside the lining of the case which had, amazingly, survived its travels. Indeed,” said Joseph with a flourish, “here are the documents still and I will come to these later.

  “We also have Hill’s record of the refurbishment required as the violin seems to have been neglected for some time.”

  Harriet, Georgia and, particularly, Ruth, sat rapt at this history.

  “Mr Gillott was a collector, pure and simple, it seems and it was one of his staff who had bought it in the first place from Hill’s who have a record of many sales to Mr Gillott. Hill’s temporary possession was interesting because, in 1850, they recorded that a working man by the name of Handyside had turned up at their shop in New Bond Street with this violin.

  “He said that he had been given it by a man named Antonio Renard. There was no reason to doubt the story since he was able to explain – the Hills record in their ledgers – the story of the man Renard, who had himself been given the violin by his grandmother. And here,” he flourished a letter, “is proof of that. His mother was the once famous French violinist called Marie Renard who, we know, sadly died very young. We are not sure how Monsieur Renard and the violin came to be in Derbyshire where the man Handyside lived, but there we are. We cannot be totally comprehensive.

  “Certainly the instrument must have been played by Marie Renard. Intriguingly, there is a hint in the grandmother’s letter that Niccolo Paganini himself may have heard the instrument or, who knows, may have laid hands on it.

  “However, we cannot be sure so we will confine ourselves to what we know. The violin was certainly bought for Marie Renard in Paris by the Comte de Villiers – yes another Villiers, how strange is that? The trail at this point became very faint. However, by a stroke of good fortune, I was at a conference in Leipzig and met a scion of the Charot-Chandon family from Paris.

  “Having explained my mission to him, and knowing that the Comte de Villiers bought the violin and a Tourte bow at a Parisian dealer, he went home and examined his records. You may or may not know that all reputable dealers keep a detailed contemporaneous record in their ledgers. In a world of so much duplicity and clever copies, we must turn to authorised dealers. He was able to confirm that it was indeed the John Johnson violin that they had sold – unusual because of its Englishness.

  “There was a particular mention because Monsieur Charot-Chandon had bought a small job lot of violins in London where there had been an auction of something called bona vacantia. When someone dies without will or heirs, their property goes to the Crown in England, which sells them to the highest bidder. Do you know,” said Joseph impressively, “that they keep an archive in case of later claims from people who may turn up asserting that they are long-lost beneficiaries?

  “In any case, this violin was sold amongst other articles and the proceeds given to the Crown. The intestate individual was a man called Hugh Wortley of Bath. I managed to trace a little of his life from parish records in St Cecilia’s Church.

  “It seems that he was one of three brothers, two of whom died young. There is a stained glass window in the church, along with some plaques, which document the family.”

  Joseph drew breath and gulped some tea.

  “This is, again, where we have to make some educated guesses. There is another letter,” he flourished yet another yellowing and creased document, “which comes from no less a figure than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart himself! This is a letter of commiseration to the father of one Thomas Linley.

  “Now, he was a young prodigy who lived in Bath but went to train alongside Mozart in Salzburg. He met an untimely and tragic death by drowning. So, from what I can deduce, the violin must have been returned to Linley Senior. It transpires that Linley Junior, the violinist, and Wortley were exact contemporaries, both violinists and one lived in the Royal Crescent and the other nearby in the King’s Circus.

  “We must assume that Linley Senior passed his son’s violin to Hugh Wortley as some sort of memento. All very tragic. They had bought it from some dealer in London that I have not been able to trace. But no matter, because before that we have the diaries of the maker himself – John Johnson.

  “Johnson was in the habit of meticulously detailing even the minutiae of his life and we see that between February and April, 1750, he constructed the violin to a specification of a man called Maundy Cubitt. The diaries tell us of the construction, the wood he used, the varnish, even the sound it made when a bow was first drawn across its strings.

  “Cubitt was a professional musician, performer and teacher. Johnson records that he wanted the instrument to make its debut at the first night of Handel’s Messiah in Coram’s Orphanage in London. Cubitt was first violin so the Maestro naturally will have heard it play.”

  By now Joseph’s pace was slackening, although Ruth remained fascinated to the end.

  “So you see,” said Harriet, all astir, “now we know all about it. Come on Joseph, finish your report.”

  “Well,” said Joseph, “I have detailed all of my findings in this document, together with technical references, extracts from records, diary entries, receipts, certificates of authenticity, and I can confidently sign my name to its remarkable history.”

  “And?” asked Harriet. “The value, the value!”

  “Ah yes. In my estimation, given its history, its certified provenance, its likely connection with several historical musical figures and the prices recorded for it over the years, I can safely say that at auction – although it is no Amati or Guarneri – I would expect this instrument, together with accompanying prestigious documentation and Tourte bow would fetch…”

  They waited.

  “Not less than twenty thousand pounds, possibly twenty-five thousand if there were to be some bidding competition.”

  Harriet, now standing and picking up the violin and proffering it towards Ruth, said “There will not be any auction, however. Ruth this is yours and always will be.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Time, if you are patient enough and look carefully, has a way of winding together people and events which at first glance seem unrelated until you peer more closely.

  Some call it coincidence. Others detect the guiding hand of fate or, if you are troubled by a concept of predestination, simply the intermeshing of accidental occurrences where, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces fall into place and produce their own uniquely beautiful pattern.

  So, Harriet was able to present Ruth with the one object in her life that she could trace back to her childhood and, when she played, would bring to mind the sunshine through the laurels, dappling the lawn in the garden in Pankow, the smile of her mother and, more poignantly, the silent love in the eyes of her father as he shuffled past her for the last time.

  “I shall treasure it,” said Ruth. “I cannot believe that you have done this for me,” she said, emphasising the final word. “It is as if I had lost my child and been suddenly reunited.”

  “Well now it is yours,” said Harriet.

  “Thank you,” said Ruth, “although we know from Joseph’s chronicle that it is only with me momentarily. There is someone waiting to be born who will hold it as I do today and form the next link in the chain.”

  “You are right,” said Harriet. “But for now it is with its rightful owner.”

  *

  Yet there were still several more pieces of the kaleidoscope to fall. Too proud to accept charity, Ruth continued with her frugal life living in a rented room and skivvying for a subsistence wage. At least she had the daily pleasure of playing music. Some of the more choleric tenants did complain to Mrs Shinkfield, but, no shrinking violet, she batted them away.

  “I think it gives the place a touch of class. If you don’t like it you can bugger off. There’s plenty of other places. It’s not every day you can hear a pro
per musician for free.”

  One evening there was a knock at Ruth’s door. It was Mrs Shinkfield.

  “Young fella to see you. Seems a well-spoken type but thought I’d ask before I sent him up.”

  Ruth had had no visitors apart from once when Harriet had shown up unexpectedly. Ruth had been mortified that she should see the tiny, sparse world that she inhabited, though Harriet had been kindly and matter-of-fact.

  A young man?

  “Well I’m not expecting anyone. Certainly not a young man. But if you say he looks all right you’d better show him up.”

  A tall, smiling, courteous, dark-haired man appeared on the landing, carrying a satchel.

  “Ruth Frankel?”

  “Yes that’s me,” replied Ruth, uncertainly.

  “May I come in?” he asked politely. ”I may have some news that would interest you.”

  Overcoming her natural shyness and wariness, Ruth showed him in and offered him the single chair while she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I do apologise for appearing out of the blue as it were but you have been difficult to track down. My name is Benjamin Bornstein and I work for an organisation called the Jewish Restitution and Reconciliation Project. I am based in London, off Victoria Street but we are worldwide.”

  Unbuckling his satchel, Benjamin pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “Firstly, I need to establish that I have the correct person. I am sorry to be so formal but can you give me your full name, date of birth, place of birth, parents’ names, dates of birth and details of any brothers or sisters.”

  Ruth recited the details carefully while Benjamin made notes and checked these against his sheet and nodded, satisfied.

  “Let me tell you something about us. We are an organisation that is funded by several charities, some individuals and also governments. Our aim, in short, is to find property that has been lost, looted or stolen in some way during the last war and to try and make restitution to the rightful owners.

  “You may not be aware but there was wholesale theft, particularly of works of art, from Jewish people. And we are dedicated to returning things to their rightful owners. Of course it is not easy. There needs to be documented proof of ownership, traceability, proof of death sometimes, records of birth, marriage and so on. Formidable challenges but worthwhile when things all fall into place.

  “We managed to trace you through a chance remark by one of our New York benefactors, Emil Hermann who had remembered you and your father. Apparently you came to mind when someone was tracking down the details of a violin? I know nothing about that but I do have other issues to resolve.”

  “I am really not sure what this is to do with me?” Ruth said.

  “Well,” said Benjamin with the slight chuckle of someone in possession of good news, “you’re actually one of my easier cases.

  “Of course, as you might know, there are, sadly, records that confirm beyond any doubt that your parents and sisters were killed, leaving you as the only surviving heir.”

  “Heir? To what? We had no works of art as far as I know. And our house was taken over by others long ago and I have no papers. The only thing I have of value is my violin here and that has been by my side through most of my life.”

  “You are correct. No paintings, or jewellery or property. However, it seems that back in 1936, your father was very prudent. He established an account at Kuhn and Loeb in Manhattan where he seems to have transferred a considerable amount of your family wealth. The money was placed in an investment account and, what with the increases in share value, dividends that have been ploughed back in, interest payments and so on, the sum has increased further over the intervening thirty years.

  “The stock market has trebled and your father’s friend and associate at the bank seems to have ridden this rising tide as well as picking stocks very shrewdly.”

  “This is all a foreign language to me, unfortunately,” apologised Ruth.

  “Well, let me translate it for you as best I can,” said Benjamin with a smile but without condescension. “The money your father invested has grown. It now stands at about two and a quarter million dollars, or to put it into English money, getting on for a million pounds.”

  Ruth sat, stunned, twisting the belt of her apron and frowning in an effort to comprehend the news.

  “And you,” said Benjamin, “are the only and indisputable beneficiary.

  “Now, once you have absorbed this information, part of my job is to help you secure the money and perhaps invest it or maybe buy a property. From experience there can be all sorts of pitfalls and no shortage of ‘new friends’ who would like to relieve you of your windfall. So as well as finding you and giving you the good news, I am your guide and advisor.

  “So, should you require them here are my details and my card. Can I suggest that we meet tomorrow at my office, say around ten o’clock and we can decide on a plan? Can I say, Miss Frankel, that I am sure you were devastated by your experiences and by the loss of your family. I am sure you would give all of this money back just to have one more day with them. But they are lost and this may be some very small sliver of consolation and a final gift from your father across time.”

  *

  As Ruth was absorbing this startling news of her father’s endowment, Harriet was mentally sketching out an idea of how she might employ the Villiers legacy. On her walks across Hampstead Heath with a playfully skittering Crotchet, she often passed a dilapidated mansion. A victim of death duties, vandalism and a 1960s fashion away from classical architecture to more brutalist styles, the old house was mouldering away.

  In time, no doubt, a cold-eyed property developer would buy it for a knockdown price, raze it to the ground and erect a series of nondescript but lucrative executive dwellings consigning the place to history. The only memories of its existence would be fading black and white photographs of the Big House on the hill, fronted by smocked children, women in long dresses and top-hatted gentlemen, all long dead.

  Threatening signs warned of consequences for trespassers and a tall barbed wire fence deterred any unwarranted incursion. Through these perimeter barriers, Harriet could see tumbling chimneys, smashed windows and overgrown gardens with rampant nettles and willow herb. She could imagine the house in its pomp – ladies sauntering past with parasols, children playing lawn games. She could hear the staccato of horses’ hooves on the cobbles in front of the stables, the bustle of staff going about their duties and the sound of a gong from the kitchens announcing tea.

  For some reason, the property entranced Harriet. She could almost feel and touch its history. She fancifully speculated on what might be involved in restoring it to glory. After all she was a woman of means. Could this be a worthwhile project that would give direction and meaning to her life? It would be too big and overwhelming to live in but… and then an idea came to her that she took to Mr Hodge at Hodge and Pinker.

  “I could restore it and make it into a school. A school that specialised in music. We could offer scholarships so that less well-off children could benefit if they were talented. I can just see them thronging that beautiful house and hearing its old corridors echo with the sounds of pianos, flutes, violins, cellos!”

  Hodge injected a more sober note.

  “Miss Harriet, I know the property you mention and it is almost completely tumbledown. In my experience there is no end to the work involved and consequently the cost. You are a young lady of means but these are not limitless. There is considerable risk. And then to undertake the business of running a school well, there would be regulations, licences, staff to recruit, budgets to oversee… I could go on.”

  “Well, I understand your caution, Mr Hodge, but can you look into it? Find out who owns it and what they want for it. And, if you can, get some idea of what would be involved in getting it back to what it was.”

  “Very well, Miss Harriet, I will see
what I can do, but it is my duty to forewarn you of the implications, complications, costs, risks…”

  “I understand that, Mr Hodge,” said Harriet firmly. “But, two things. Firstly, it is you that taught me that it is for the client to give YOU instructions. Secondly, I would hope that you will entertain this idea as positively as I do. You can give me all the cons you can think of. But I expect you to list the pros as well.”

  Suitably chastened, Hodge did as he was instructed. A few weeks later, he called in to Harriet to update her.

  “As I suspected, the family who owned the property have made it over to the Treasury in lieu of death duties. It has been on the market for over two years, with, up to now, little interest. However, there is now an offer on the table for nine hundred and fifty thousand from the property developers, Cazenove. A low offer because of the costs involved in demolition, clearance, redevelopment and the risks of financing the properties they are proposing to build which are not of course guaranteed to sell. So there is heavyweight competition. On the plus side there would only be a limited number of complications were you to establish a music school. Point One.

  “Point Two, I have commissioned a report from a reputable builder who has experience in renovating similar old properties. They come highly recommended and seem very competent. They also say it would be cheaper to renovate than to demolish and rebuild, in their view. They have produced this report. Their director, Mr Costello, has a love for old buildings and is prepared to make this a priority and would not be looking for high margins.”

  Hodge pushed a folder across the desk.

  “As you will see from this they feel that the place is fundamentally sound so the majority of the work would not require major structural alteration and renovation. There is, of course, a fair amount of dilapidation, water ingress, need for updating of heating systems, replacement of electrics, cornices, central roses, windows, etc. etc. But although it could not be described as ‘cosmetic’, they feel that, given immediate access, they could have it finished in six to nine months including glazing, redecoration, etc.”