by Sarah Rayne
The idea of investigating Quince was an alluring one, and the prospect of travelling to Ireland, to the place where Quince had lived and organized wartime concerts, and where, presumably, he had died, was attractive. Roman’s son, thought Phin. Would he lead me back to Roman? Would it help me to find the truth about his part in the assassination? On a practical note, would the TV people see such a journey as a legitimate, chargeable expense?
These speculations were interrupted by the rugby-playing neighbour who seemed to be dragging furniture around his flat, singing something with a strong Elizabethan flavour as he did so. After two verses, Phin identified the song as one he had found while helping with a compilation of Rabelaisian song cycles the previous year. It was an outrageously bawdy ballad hailing from the sixteenth century; the title was ‘Mother Watkins’ Ale’, and the bawdiness was written with such clever subtlety that it had sneaked its way past several centuries of censors. It was rather unexpected to hear it being sung with such gusto in the middle of present-day Maida Vale.
Phin made a mental effort to shut out the Elizabethan bawdiness, but the sudden flapping of the letterbox pulled him back into the present. He went out to the tiny hall, thinking it was a bit late for the postman.
It was not the post. It was a slightly untidy note from the rugby neighbour, inviting Phin to a party the following evening.
‘Nothing grand, just some chaps and a few bottles, and we’re going to brew up beer in the bath. That couple from across the landing are coming, but Miss Pringle from the garden flat says she’ll go to bed with earplugs and Inspector Barnaby. This is an apology in advance for the noise, and an invitation for you to join us. You’ll be very welcome. I daresay it’ll go on most of the night, then there’ll be a fry-up for brunch tomorrow.’
Phin considered this missive. He was not very good at parties, and he always found it surprising how many parties he was actually asked to. But given the choice between travelling to Ireland to track down Roman Volf’s elusive illegitimate son, and spending a night carousing with a roomful of strangers and a bathful of homemade beer, Roman Volf won hands down. He wrote a careful reply, expressing thanks for the invitation and also the apology, but explaining that he was going to be away for a few days, in fact he was leaving quite early tomorrow. As an afterthought he added his mobile phone number in case anything unforeseen occurred while he was away.
He put the note through the neighbour’s door, then sat down to wrestle with the intricacies of online air-ticket booking. It appeared that he could fly to Shannon or Galway Airport and, if the map could be trusted, Kilcarne was not much more than an hour’s distance from either airport.
Phin booked a ticket for a fairly unearthly hour the following morning, together with a hire car for collection at Galway Airport, and a further booking for what appeared to be Kilcarne’s only B&B-cum-pub. It was called O’Brien’s and it advertised itself as providing, ‘Clean, comfortable accommodation, with great home cooking.’
He emailed his agent and the TV company to explain about the journey, and was considerably relieved to receive a response asking him please to keep full VAT receipts for all the outgoings.
The journey was smooth, and the hire car bucketed its way out of Galway and across extravagantly beautiful countryside. Phin enjoyed the drive, and as he got nearer to Kilcarne he slowed down to look at some of the houses along the way, wondering if Mortimer Quince might have lived in any of them. There had been nothing in the acres of print written about Roman Volf to suggest he had had family here, or even that he had ever been here at all. Why, then, had Quince come here to live? Phin contemplated this intriguing question until he reached Kilcarne. There was a small main street, and O’Brien’s was low ceilinged, peat-scented, and comfortably appointed with soft chintzes and oak tables.
Phin unpacked, showered, and went downstairs in search of food and drink. Evening meals could be taken in the minuscule dining room off the bar, and were available from seven o’clock each evening. There was a small menu which offered freshly caught salmon, scallops or prawns, and several kinds of grills. Phin ordered salmon at the bar, and was poured a large glass of wine, which he took through to the dining room. This was furnished with oak tables and window-seats, and the walls were decorated with framed fragments of Kilcarne’s past, which were instantly interesting. Phin, sipping his wine with enjoyment, walked slowly along the rows of photographs. Most were views of Kilcarne from the previous century – it did not, in fact, look as if it had altered very much in the last seventy-five years. There were slightly self-conscious rows of cricket teams and school gatherings and outings, and shots of Kilcarne’s various war efforts. Phin looked for a mention of Quince, hoping there might be a programme or a poster of one of the concerts Quince had referred to in the article. ‘Since coming here to Ireland’s west coast,’ Quince had written, ‘I have been involved in a number of theatrical projects – music festivals and concert parties during the 1940s, staged for the war effort.’
But there was nothing, and Phin, aware of disappointment, sat down to await his meal, which was placed in front of him by a chestnut-haired, grey-eyed waitress who seemed disposed to linger to make sure he had everything he wanted. Another glass of wine? Soda bread to accompany his meal? And was his room all right – he was in the front bedroom, was he? Ah, well now, that was one of the nicest rooms they had. Should she come up later to make sure all was well there? No, it would be no trouble whatsoever, it would be a pleasure.
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine,’ said Phin.
‘If you want anything at all, just ring for me. My name’s Grania O’Brien,’ she said. ‘It’s my brother and me who run this place. I’ll be around until at least midnight if you want anything. Anything at all.’
Phin hesitated, then said, ‘Have you – or your brother – by any chance ever heard of a Mortimer Quince? He lived here in the 1930s and 1940s as far as I know – maybe even a bit earlier. But I think he organized concert parties for war charities, so his name might be remembered.’
‘It’s all way before my time. I could ask one or two of the older ones, if you like, though. Plenty of them come in here of an evening.’
‘Could you do that? Would it be any trouble?’
‘It would not.’
Without any real hope, Phin said, ‘How about the name Volf? Have you ever heard of anyone with that surname in the area?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Volf? As in Volf? I have indeed. Is it Maxim Volf you mean?’
‘Well, it might be—’
‘Because if so, he has a house out on the Galway Road.’
Phin had been reaching for his wine glass. He stopped, his hand suspended midway. ‘Someone called Maxim Volf lives here? Actually here in Kilcarne?’
‘Yes. He’s a strange man if you believe the tales.’
‘In what way?’
‘Bit of a hermit, so it’s said. Still, the poor soul, wasn’t he involved in some kind of car crash a few years back, and his face burned, so it’s no surprise he hides himself away most of the time.’
‘And he lives on the Galway Road? Whereabouts exactly?’
‘Not very far. Take the Galway Road, and it’s about a mile and a half out, on the right-hand side. Five-minute drive, that’s all. The house is on its own, above the road, a bit. Quite a small place, something to do with the church, I think. It’s called the Sexton’s House. Would he be able to help with your research at all, this Maxim Volf?’
‘He might,’ said Phin cautiously, but he was already wondering how many people with the surname of Volf you would encounter in the course of a week, a year, even a lifetime, in a place like this. Maxim Volf had to be Roman’s descendant. Via the illegitimate son, Mortimer Quince?
‘He won’t see you,’ said Grania. ‘He never sees anyone. If you knock on his door he’ll ignore you.’
‘I could try, though.’
‘You could, but I wouldn’t bother trying today. He’s a great old creature of habit, and he’s off into Galway on this day
every week for his shopping, regular as the tide.’ She leaned over the reception desk. ‘Speaking of knocking on doors,’ she said, her voice sliding to a softer note, ‘if you felt inclined to knock on my door at all, I certainly wouldn’t ignore you.’
Phin said, carefully, that he would bear it in mind. He went up to his room, his mind tumbling with this new information. Was it possible that Mortimer Quince had left a son or daughter behind? And was a descendant of that son or daughter – therefore a descendant of Roman – living on the Galway Road, five minutes’ drive out of Kilcarne, in a place called the Sexton’s House? And if so, what letters and photographs and handed-down memories might that descendant have?
Mortimer Quince’s diary
I cannot say whether I had expected to see Feofil again after that meeting in Islington. I will not say whether I had hoped to do so.
I had been appearing at a small playhouse in the East End, and I had returned home, somewhat tired and rather dejected. It’s a wearisome business at times to coax appreciation from a moribund audience who cannot see the finer points of fine music and lyrical songs. Ah, the Bard had the right of it when he talked of playing down to the groundlings.
I was slumped in my favourite chair, sipping a glass of gin, and for the first time (no, it was the hundredth time at least), I was questioning whether I wanted to remain in this chancy, unforgiving profession. As I drained the glass, a soft footstep came from the landing outside. At first I thought it was the plump-bosomed lady from the second floor back (I admit my heart sank, for I was in no mind – or, indeed body – to deal with her exigencies). But the tap on my door was certainly not the eager hand of that dear soul. Something hopeful and absurd leapt in my own bosom, although even in those seconds before opening the door I did not dare believe—
But he it was. Feofil. He was leaning with careless elegance against the shabby wall, entirely at ease in the moth-eaten surroundings. His greatcoat swept the floor with arrogant disdain, and as he came into the room he removed the soft-brimmed hat he wore and placed it on the desk, surveying the room with – I could have sworn it! – nothing other than interest.
‘You have liquor to offer?’ he said, and I was glad that as well as the gin there was a bottle of whisky.
He sat in the most comfortable chair, sipped the whisky with only the faintest raising of one eyebrow at the taste, then said, ‘Now I have a proposition.’
I was instantly suspicious. A proposition from Feofil could be anything from an invitation to supper, a booking to sing at a music hall, my help in covering up his involvement in the overthrowing of the Romanovs, or, conversely, my help in restoring a spurious claimant to the toppled Romanov Empire.
It was none of those things. It was a request that we join forces for a journey to the west coast of Ireland.
I stared at him. ‘Why?’ I said at last. ‘I mean – why do you need to leave England, and why Ireland?’
‘I do not actually need to leave England,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘But I have a house in Ireland in a place called Kilcarne. It was bought three years since.’
Three years ago – in 1917 – Russia had been torn apart by the Revolution. People were scattering and fleeing.
I said, ‘You’ve never lived in it, this house?’
‘No, nor seen it,’ said Feofil. ‘Photographs only. But as I get older, I find I should like to see the reality. Someone looks after it for me. A family called …’ He paused, evidently searching his memory. ‘O’Brien,’ he said. ‘They have a tavern of some kind – for guests and for people to drink. I pay a quarterly sum through the banks to them. There has to be a degree of trust, but I do not think they cheat me. Not any more than most people cheat, you understand. I should like to make sure of that, however.’ He drank some more of the whisky. ‘The house is called Tromloy. It’s small, but I believe it provides a reasonable degree of comfort.’
‘Why do you want me to come with you?’
‘Oh, because I find you companionable. And perhaps a little for the sake of Roman Volf’s memory. For me, he was the maestro.’ The enigmatic eyes regarded me. ‘Also,’ said Feofil, in a more practical voice, ‘my English is not yet as perfect as I should wish, and you would be useful on the journey – dealing with money—’ A wave of one hand indicated his disdain for, and uninterest in, such a sordid matter.
‘And the money itself?’ I said. ‘The funds for the journey?’
He looked slightly surprised. I suppose if there’s money in the bank you don’t think about these things, but I’ve hardly ever had money in the bank, well, I’ve never actually had a bank – and so I did think about it.
‘There is money enough,’ said Feofil, as if such things were unimportant.
‘We would live in your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long would we be there?’
‘I have no idea.’ He set down his glass. ‘Well? Do you accept my request?’
I have no idea why I said what I said next. I had meant to decline politely, or at the very least to say I would think it over. Then I remembered again my growing dissatisfaction with the stage as a profession and, let us be honest, my continuing lack of real success. So what I said was, ‘Yes. I’ll come with you to Ireland.’
‘I am glad.’ But he sounded unsurprised. ‘I shall tell you soon when we depart. Somebody – a shipping company or a ferry company or somebody – will arrange it all.’ Again there was the uninterest. He would pay somebody else to perform mundane tasks he did not want to do for himself. I was only relieved he had not asked me to handle that part of things, for I had never booked a ferry or made hotel reservations in my life.
Feofil drained his whisky and stood up to take his leave, apparently feeling that no more needed to be said and, I noticed, having consumed most of the bottle of whisky without apparent effect.
In the privacy of these pages, I can admit that the prospect of going to Ireland in company with Feofil Markov is an alluring one.
This journey is proving to be an extraordinary experience. We have used trains and the ferry so far, and when we reach Ireland we shall cross to its west coast by hired cars with our own drivers.
Twice so far we have spent the night in luxurious hotels – Feofil does not appear to think any other kind of hotel exists. He expects, and unfailingly receives, the best attention everywhere.
Even on the crossing from Liverpool to Dublin, when I was ignominiously and disgustingly unwell over the side of the boat – even then, courteous help was there. Feofil raised a hand to summon an attendant, and at once I was swathed in soft rugs and blankets, and fed with warm brandy. ‘Do try it, sir, just a sip. Most of our passengers find it very helpful.’ There was general agreement that the Irish Sea could be as unruly and turbulent as the Irish themselves, and that ‘today was just one of those days, most unfortunate for you, sir.’
Later, we were served with the lightest and daintiest of repasts.
‘I usually find,’ said Feofil, surveying his plate with satisfaction, ‘that a little caviar with smoked salmon is an excellent remedy for mal de mer. Waiter, do you perhaps have any white burgundy on ice? Yes, Pouilly-Fumé would be acceptable. We shall have that, please.’
Incredibly, the caviar and smoked salmon stayed with me. The wine did nothing worse than give me hiccups, which is undignified but not, heaven be praised, as disgusting as being sick over the railings of a ferry.
And now we have reached Kilcarne.
Well, now, Kilcarne. What can I say about it? What is there to say that won’t take all of two minutes? It’s tiny – a speck of a place in the west of Ireland, not on the coast itself, but near enough to make it possible to go out there if one should wish. I think I shall wish. A gentle drive of perhaps an hour, so they tell me (this is if one can find, and drive, a motor car to convey one, or, of course, a horse and cart). And oh, indeed, they say, Galway City is a fine old place, and isn’t it the most spectacular sight in the world to see the bay at sunset?
&n
bsp; Kilcarne itself has a street with three shops, a wine bar called O’Brien’s (which becomes the centre of the entire place most evenings), a doctor’s surgery, and what I think is a solicitor’s office. And there’s a minuscule cobblestoned square at one end, and there are houses scattered around. The hills and the fields all around are peppered with farms. And there’s a church. Of course there’s a church, this is Ireland for pity’s sake, with churches every ten paces. But other than that, it’s a backwater. The place God forgot and the devil overlooked. I love it.
Because when the sun sets over some mountain range (I haven’t yet found out what it’s called, that range), there’s a soft violet haze everywhere, laced with fiery strings of light so that you feel you’re inside a glistening golden cobweb. And when the wind blows in from the Atlantic it’s scented with all the perfumes of Arabia, and so achingly sweet you want to reach out and cup it in your hands.
When I commented on this last phenomenon to Feofil a few nights after our arrival (we had been drinking the fiery Irish usquebaugh), he said, ‘Ah yes, the strange invisible perfume that renders the winds love-sick. Actually, I believe it’s salt and fish from Galway Bay, blowing inland, and diluted by the bracken on those hills.’
He can always do that, Feofil. Switch from wild romanticism to disconcerting mundanity in the space of half a heartbeat.
Tromloy is small, spick and span, and very comfortable. My bedroom looks towards the distant, purple-streaked mountains, and there is even a fully equipped bathroom and water closet along the landing.
I have set out my few possessions in the room – the photograph that was taken of me on stage at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire is on a small ledge by itself. It makes me look slightly chubby, I think, but I am nevertheless proud of it.
As for Antoinette’s letter – the letter that states Roman to have been in Odessa when the tsar was assassinated – that is locked away in a small carved box. Once or twice I have re-read it, lingering on some of the phrases … ‘I was in your arms and in your bed when Alexander was killed,’ Antoinette had written. ‘I will tell the truth and I will clear your name … They will believe me … You know why they will believe me.’