Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  And now I am writing this with a thin dawn light trickling through the windows of my lodgings. The dream is still strongly with me, and sleep is impossible. I have applied all the palliatives I usually apply after the dream – a tot of gin, a walk around the room, the reading of a good book … None of them has done a scrap of good. As for my shining memory of my father’s last concert – that glittering memory of his final performance in the Mikhailovsky Theatre which may only be a chimera – for the first time, that has failed me. All I can see is the ugliness of that courtyard, and all I can think is that I may have witnessed my father’s execution and that the dream is an echoing memory of it.

  Maxim was in the dream. I heard someone call his name, and I turned, trying to see, but there were only the greedy hating faces, and the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies. But I know Maxim was there, and I know his eyes saw and his ears heard and his mind felt everything that happened that day. It was not until a very long time later that I came to understand how that day must have changed him – how it would have shaped him and perhaps even flawed him.

  I miss him, even after all these years.

  Tonight’s dream has told me – as if I needed telling! – that whatever I do, I can never be rid of the memories of Maxim. And that one day he will find me.

  Mortimer Quince’s diary

  The meeting with Feofil Markov is to be the Pig and Whistle in Islington.

  This is not quite the venue I would have chosen for such an important event – the last time I was there, someone made an extremely disparaging remark about a recent performance I had given at the Shoreditch Empire, and when I objected, he brandished a coal shovel and invited me to step outside and settle the matter with fisticuffs. Thankfully, the landlady, an amply proportioned soul, intervened, ordering the miscreant off the premises, and pouring me a large brandy from behind the bar by way of a soothing draught.

  I had wanted to arrive just a little late. I wanted to make a dramatic and memorable entrance and for Feofil to see it. I think it is true to say I am not unaccustomed to making impressive entrances. I have strode on to many a stage in my time and silenced an audience solely by my presence. The stalls, in particular, frequently stop chattering and turn to stare at me. Often they remain in that transfixed state for a good part of my performance.

  So I planned to make just such an appearance this evening, although it is perhaps a difficult task to silence a smoke-filled, ale-smelling pub merely by walking through the door. Still, I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for the people to sense my presence. It was unfortunate that the coat I had draped across my shoulders (negligent and nonchalant was the image I wanted to convey) should choose that moment to slide down and land in a puddle of spilt beer. By the time I had retrieved it, the drinkers had gone back to their discussions, and no imposing Russian-looking gentlemen approached me to enquire if I was Mr Mortimer Quince. So after allowing sufficient time, I made my way to a corner table, signalled to the barman to bring a drink, and set about wiping as much beer as possible off my coat. (I think it was beer. I hope it was beer.)

  That, of course, was the moment when Feofil made his own entrance, and infuriatingly, the instant he appeared in the doorway – standing in the exact spot where I had stood earlier – all eyes turned to him. There was one of those brief, but disconcerting silences that occasionally fall on any group of people. It was as if the entire pub’s attention was drawn to him, as a magnet draws slivers of steel to its core, and there was a brief sense of puzzlement, as if they were disconcerted – as if they were realizing that here was someone they could not quite classify.

  He surveyed the company unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. I surveyed him, as well. In those first few moments I was conscious that he was not in the least what I had expected. He was rather slender, and he had thick, iron-coloured hair that grew forward and fell over his forehead. I had been expecting the traditional, recognizable Slav cheekbones, and I had certainly thought he would have compelling eyes – mesmeric eyes. But although the cheekbones were there, his eyes were rather small, and even from where I sat I saw that there was a slight cast in one. It’s stupid to admit this, but at that first glance those eyes disappointed me. Everyone knows that a cast in a person’s eye is unattractive. In some cases it’s disfiguring. Was this really the man who had been able to charm his way into the grim Peter and Paul Fortress, and into the cells of the condemned to write his articles?

  He looked across at me, his head slightly to one side as if considering me, then he appeared satisfied, walked over to my table and sat down. As soon as he looked directly at me I revised my opinion completely, because the magnetism, the mesmerism, were both there in extraordinary intensity. It was his eyes after all. Those slightly skewed eyes were neither ugly nor a distortion. They were exotic. They were also disconcerting, because they gave the impression that here was a man who might see the world from a slightly different angle to other people – who might even be able to see or sense things other people could not. In that moment, I thought that I should not like to try keeping secrets from this one.

  In good, but accented English, he said, ‘Mr Quince? Mortimer Quince? I am Feofil Markov. We have a mutual friend, the bookseller from the shop near to St Martin’s Lane. He makes this introduction because you want to talk about Roman Volf.’

  You have to admire such a direct approach. I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Roman Volf was your father,’ he said, and there was the faintest question mark at the end of those last two words.

  In a way it was a relief not to have to launch into one of the careful explanations I had prepared. I have no idea how he knew, though, unless after all the bookseller had guessed and told him. But I only said, ‘Yes, he was. Did you know him?’

  There was a faint, vague gesture that might have meant anything. ‘I had knowledge of him,’ said Feofil Markov. ‘It is a long time ago. Memory can be erratic.’

  ‘You saw him in theatres?’

  ‘He was a maestro.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘His final concert at the Mikhailovsky Theatre … That was sublime. It was said he had never played so well.’

  ‘“Duetto Amoroso” and the Devil’s Trill,’ I said, as much to show him I knew about Roman’s last concert as for any other reason.

  ‘You were there?’ A faint surprise showed. ‘You could not have been. You would be too young. It would not have been allowed.’

  ‘I think I was there, though.’ I tapped my head. ‘Memories. I have the images here.’

  ‘But as I have said, memories are not always reliable. Not always to be trusted.’

  ‘I know that.’ I paused, then said, ‘I have other memories – fragmented ones.’

  He leaned forward, the curious eyes intent. ‘They are bad memories, those fragments?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘You have the look of someone who has glimpsed darkness,’ he said, and incredibly, at the time, the dramatic statement did not sound in the least odd. (Writing it down now it sounds melodramatic, of course – dammit, it is melodramatic, and I can revert to my former opinion that he was a poseur.)

  I said, very deliberately, ‘You have glimpsed darknesses as well, I think.’

  ‘There were darknesses in my country over so many years.’ A shrug. ‘What is it you want of me, Mortimer Quince?’

  ‘Just Quince.’

  ‘Then, Quince, what do you want? The memories? The fragments you do not have?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly that.’

  ‘Of Roman? Of his life?’

  ‘Of his death.’

  ‘Ah. Do you really want to hear about that, though?’ By that time he had summoned a drink. He had requested vodka and incredibly the Pig and Whistle had been able to supply it. I almost feared that Feofil would drink it in one go and hurl the glass into the fireplace with some kind of defiant Russian oath about death to capitalists and damnation to imperialistic tyranny, but the reality was that he drank the vo
dka in a perfectly ordinary way.

  But when he asked me that question, he looked at me over the rim of the glass and there was nothing ordinary about his look.

  I was determined not to be intimidated, so I said, challengingly, ‘Roman was hanged. Wasn’t he? He died.’

  Feofil said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes, he died. But before the execution I managed to get into the Trubetskoy Bastion where condemned prisoners were held. It was dangerous, but guards could be bribed.’ He paused. ‘A terrible place, that one – a place that could unfold tales to harrow up the soul. All the time I was there, I expected to feel a hand clutch my shoulder and a rifle thrust into my back.’

  ‘But you saw Roman?’

  ‘For a very short time – perhaps ten minutes. He was not allowed writing materials of any kind, and guards stayed with us. But he had a letter and he wanted me to give it to you – one day somewhere in the future. When I thought it was safe to do so.’

  ‘But that was more than thirty-five years ago,’ I said, staring at him.

  ‘Time is relative. And I have only recently been able to come to England.’

  I could not think how to respond to that, so I said, ‘Why did Roman want me to have this letter?’

  Feofil said, very softly, ‘Because of Maxim.’

  Maxim. The name shivered for a moment in the smoke-filled, beer-scented room, and for a moment the memories of Maxim were strongly with me, bittersweet and stamped for always on my mind.

  Eventually, I said, almost in a whisper, ‘You know about Maxim?’

  ‘Of course I know. I was there – in St Petersburg. People did know about him.’

  ‘Have you read the letter?’

  ‘I have. It was written in Russian, and I have assumed you have forgotten any Russian you ever knew?’

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t much more than four when Roman died.’

  ‘So therefore I have read it and I have written a translation for you. It is in the envelope as well as the letter itself. It will tell you a little – a very little – about Roman. But it will be better than not having anything at all of him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, awkwardly.

  He nodded in acknowledgement, then put out his hand to clasp mine in a conventional gesture of farewell.

  ‘Do we meet again?’ I said.

  He did not answer directly. He simply said, ‘My address is here,’ and put a small handwritten card on the table. It was a part of London I was not familiar with – somewhere near the river, I think.

  I said, ‘I live in—’

  ‘I know where you live. I know where and how I can find you if I want to.’

  I am back in my own lodgings, and my brain is whirling. I have no idea if I shall ever have the courage to seek Feofil out, nor do I know if I want him to visit me here. There was that parting statement that he knew where to find me if he wanted. Do I hope he will want to? Of course I do, although I will admit that I flinch from letting him see these seedy, shabby rooms. That is absurd; Feofil Markov is a man who will have dined in palaces and supped with the great, but I think he could also have known poverty and lived in far less salubrious quarters than these rooms.

  I have placed the letter on the bureau by the window, and I am sitting in my usual chair looking across at it. I cannot forget that Feofil said, ‘Because of Maxim,’ and how, with those words, I felt the pain and the loss of Maxim all over again.

  I thought I had initiated the finding of Feofil through my bookseller friend, but I’m now wondering whether it was the other way around. Did Feofil trace me? Because he thought that after so many years it was safe to give me Roman’s letter?

  I have poured a hefty tot of whisky – actually it’s the second one I’ve poured tonight and I suspect there will be a third and then a fourth.

  The letter handed to Feofil in the condemned cell is addressed to Roman. It’s signed ‘Antoinette’. I have no idea who Antoinette is or was, but I have an absurd fear that her words might fade from the pages by daylight, or even that the letter itself – both the original and Feofil’s translation – might dissolve like a chimera in sunlight or a cobweb exposed to a candle flame. I do know this is a fantastical idea, but I do not care and I have copied the contents down here.

  My very dear Roman

  I dare not send this to the Peter & Paul Fortress, but they tell me there is still someone living at your apartment house who can be trusted, and may be able to get messages to you. So I shall send this there, enclosed inside a request that it is delivered to you.

  Roman, I shall move the stars in their courses to save you and ensure your release. You cannot have played any part in Alexander’s murder. It is impossible. You were with me on the day he was killed – we were in Odessa, in that bedroom with the shades drawn across, shutting out the afternoon, with the bed tumbled, with you making such passionate, such intense love to me I thought I might die from sheer ecstasy.

  I bade farewell to you in Odessa that same night with such pain. You know how much I wished I did not have to leave, but I had to do so. You know why. You and I were so close during those days, so much in sympathy, physically, mentally, emotionally … To wander round Odessa – to walk through the remains of the burned-out Skomorokh Theatre – to hear you rhapsodizing about how that lost theatre could be rebuilt and restored and how no lost theatre should ever be lost for ever … For me, heaven was in all those things.

  I did not think that the next time I saw you would be three days later in St Petersburg. I did not think it would be to witness your arrest by the imperial Cossacks.

  I saw your arrest from the carriage – did you know I was there? But I was, and I saw everything. We had both been emotional after bidding farewell, and you had walked to the Pevchesky Bridge – it was almost midnight, and the lamps had been lit. They reflected in the waters below the bridge. I watched you and I knew you were seeing those lights as the star studs of musical notes. Do you remember what you once said to me?

  ‘I see music as sprinklings of brilliance on dark water, Antoinette, and each note is a fragment of a diamond, clean and bright and beautiful beyond bearing. That is how music should be played.’

  You were recognized by late-night crowds, of course, and they surrounded you, cheering. Someone thrust a violin into your hands – clearly you had no idea who did so or who the instrument belonged to, but you laughed and shook your hair out of your eyes, and in response to the shouts, you started to play. I was not near enough to hear what you played, but I could hear shreds and threads of the music – that night I truly believed I could see them! It was as if fragments of music were streaming from you like stardust, or the diamond sprinklings you had described to me.

  It was like something out of commedia dell’arte. The delicate iron tracery of the bridge’s railings caught the light from the lamps, showering you with a motley of colours. You were, in truth, the impudent, quicksilver Harlequin that night; you were the fantastical magician-figure wearing the bright silken clothes and the cat-faced mask of the legends. The man who could transform himself into anything or anyone he wanted …

  But between one heartbeat and the next, the scene changed from fantasy to tragedy. The sounds of marching echoed along the canalside, and the clip of horses’ hoofs rang out. Sharply barked orders cut through the night, and a detachment of Cossack guards ran at you. You were halfway across the bridge, the people still following you, and you turned to see what was happening, not understanding. Your followers melted into the shadows – were they genuine, I wonder, or were they theatre-dressing, part of a plot to trap you? The Cossacks fell on you, and I heard shouts of Assassin, and Murderer. Before I could reach you they had dragged you into one of their own carriages.

  I tried to follow – did you ever know that? Did you even know I was there? I was too late, though. They had already gone, galloping hard through the city, their carriages jolting violently across the ground, taking you into the depths of the fortress. And I could not reach you.

  As for that other matt
er – I shall do what you want. I will make it all right. I will ensure Maxim’s silence, although I do not think he would speak of it anyway.

  And I will find a way to clear your name. If I have to force my way into the courtroom at your trial and tell them you and I were in Odessa – that I was in your arms and in your bed when Alexander was killed – then I will do so. They will believe me, because—

  I dare not write that down, not even to you.

  But you know why they will believe me.

  Antoinette.

  I read Antoinette’s letter a second and then a third time, then I sat back, and watched a smeary dawn break outside my window.

  It is like a knife in my vitals to realize that, whoever Antoinette was, if she can be believed – and if she can be trusted! – my father might have been innocent of Alexander II’s murder. He was not in St Petersburg when it actually happened. I know that doesn’t absolve him from all blame, but I cannot see Roman as a sly, behind-the-scenes, backstreet plotter. So I am forced to ask a bitter question: Was he hanged for something he didn’t do?

  Above and beyond all of that, though, is Antoinette’s assurance that she would do what Roman wanted. That she would ensure Maxim’s silence.

  Maxim. All the time I was reading Antoinette’s letter I had the strong feeling that Maxim was close to me – as if he might be standing at my shoulder, so that if I turned my head, even very slightly, I would see him.

  I must never see Maxim again, though. I dare not risk letting him into my life ever again.

  SIX

  Phin had studied the photograph of Roman outside the burned Skomorokh Theatre in Odessa from every magnified angle possible. He had checked all the relevant dates half a dozen times at least. And so far he had found nothing that would take him any further. Which left Mortimer Quince.