Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  Phin drove on, thinking he would certainly come back out here tomorrow and see if Maxim Volf was inclined to talk to him. Today he would see what Galway City had to offer in the way of theatre memorabilia. He had made notes of several antiquarian bookshops from the phone directory, and once in the city he found a big car park, then began to work through the shops with the aid of a street map. But by lunchtime he had drawn a blank and his feet were aching. He ate a rather despondent lunch at a pub, and considered whether he should switch to visiting the city’s theatres. But had Quince ever appeared in any Irish theatre? That article had certainly referred to concert parties for war efforts, but those concerts could have been staged anywhere, from the Irish equivalent of assembly rooms and co-operative halls to the grandest theatres in the entire county. Phin thought he would finish the trawl of the bookshops before making a decision about exploring theatres.

  The daylight was starting to fade by the time he reached the shop in a small side street near the river. It was pleasingly cluttered, and on a table near the back were a couple of boxes of theatre memorabilia. Phin knelt down to sift through them.

  At first he thought there was not going to be anything relevant, then, near the bottom of the smaller box, he found two old postcards, carefully covered with modern cellophane. They both showed a man standing on a stage – the same man each time. The stage could have been anywhere, but on both of them the name across the top was clear. Mortimer Quince.

  Phin lifted the postcards out with care. I’ve found you, he thought, with delight. This is what you looked like. For the first time, he realized he had been hoping for a younger, slightly more modern version of Roman, but the man in these photographs did not seem to bear any resemblance to Roman. In one postcard Quince was seated on an elaborately carved chair, wearing evening clothes and looking pensive. He was slightly too chubby-faced to achieve the pensive look with complete success, but the general effect was unexpectedly endearing. The legend across the top said, quite simply, ‘Mr Mortimer Quince’. In the second shot Quince was standing on a stage, thumbs in waistcoat in the classic late-Victorian stance, looking as if he was preparing to sing to an audience. A curly banner over his head proclaimed him, in elaborate typeface, to be, ‘Quality Quince, the Man with the Quicksilver Voice.’

  Phin carried both cards to the cash desk to buy them before anyone else could snatch them from his grasp. This done, he returned to investigate the second, larger box. Things often went in threes – was it too much to hope that where there had been two good finds, there might be a third?

  This box contained old theatre programmes and posters. It was sad to think these old programmes and tattered posters were all that remained of the hopes and dreams of forgotten performances and vanished performers. Phin pushed this thought aside, and went painstakingly through the contents. There was nothing more about Quality Quince though, and the hoary old belief about things going in threes was a total fiction after all …

  Then he found it. At the very bottom of the box, the edges crumbling and the surface badly foxed, was an old poster with lettering, probably originally scarlet, now faded to pale terracotta, advertising the Grand Opening of The Genesius Theatre, Galway City, on 23 November next. ‘Come along and bring your friends to a magical night of music. Tickets available at the box office, and small supper bar open for refreshments during the interval.’

  There was a list of the entertainment to be provided, and at the foot of the poster was a list of ‘Participators, performers, and organizers’. The Genesius Theatre stated its grateful thanks to everyone who had been involved, and to the generous donors who had made it all possible.

  And there was Mortimer Quince’s name, billed as having directed and arranged the whole thing. Phin smiled at the name, as if greeting an old acquaintance, then scanned the other names listed. Nothing, no one recognizable, probably nothing else to be found here—

  Then he saw the name at the very end of the list. It was in exactly the same typeface as the others, but it leapt out at him.

  Maxim Volf.

  He sat staring at this for so long that the proprietor came worriedly over to ask was he all right.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Phin, coming out of his trance. ‘I’d like to take this as well as those postcards, please.’

  He watched jealously as the poster was swathed in bubble-wrap and placed inside a stiffened envelope, then carried it back to his car, and laid it with extreme care on the front passenger seat where he could reach it, in case it should jump out of the vehicle of its own accord and be for ever lost. He would like to go in immediate search of The Genesius Theatre, but it was already almost four o’clock, and he did not want to leave the poster and the Quince postcards unattended in a municipal car park while he prowled the city’s streets more or less at random. He would try to find an exact address for The Genesius tonight, and he would come back tomorrow … No, tomorrow, he had promised himself that he would check out the present-day Maxim Volf. He would get to grips with The Genesius the day after. The place had most likely long since crumbled to the ground, or been turned into a multiplex or a trendy tapas bar, but fragments of its past might still be found.

  He ate a solitary dinner at O’Brien’s, wondered if the amiably inclined Grania was enjoying her supper party with the Cullen family, and took himself to his room to re-read The Genesius’s poster, in case he had missed any vital nugget of information. He had not, of course, so he finally set it aside, and turned his attention to drafting a possible outline for a scene in which a suitable actor enacted Roman Volf’s last defiant performance on the banks of the Catherine Canal. If he could sell this reconstruction idea to the TV company as part of the documentary it would be very good indeed. Hell’s teeth, it would be better than good, it would be brilliant and striking and moving. Roman’s behaviour that night had been outrageous and foolhardy in the extreme, of course, and ultimately it had been tragic, but what a farewell performance! Phin, his mind alive and alight with ideas, drafted out three possible scenarios, after which he drank a large measure of scaldingly potent Irish whiskey, and finally fell asleep trying – and failing – to think of an actor who could believably portray Roman Volf.

  Nuala and Morna always enjoyed their preparations for Donal’s visit and they liked the buzz of anticipation that seemed to fill up the house before his arrival.

  Tormod was looking forward to seeing Donal as well, although he was not best pleased to hear the O’Briens were coming to supper. He said he supposed the invitation could not be withdrawn, but it was to be hoped Rory O’Brien and his sister would not stay late.

  Nuala had considered attempting boeuf en croûte, but had decided against it because it could so easily go wrong and Tormod would probably sulk or bang the table with his stick if soggy pastry was placed before him. So she was going to play safe with a nice leg of roast pork, with apple sauce. There were some beautiful Bramleys in their own apple tree, and there was no reason why Jessica could not help peel and core them. Morna wondered if it was a good idea to let Jess have the sharp corer, but Nuala said it would be perfectly all right; in any case she would be there in the kitchen with Jess all the time, and it would be good for the child to feel she was joining in the preparations.

  It was wonderful to see Donal again, and Rory O’Brien and his sister were always lively company, although Morna and Nuala were rather shocked at Grania O’Brien’s outfit which they thought was just a bit too tight and just a bit too short. They themselves had worn their best outfits. Nuala’s was cream with coffee-coloured lace, Morna had a powder-blue blouse. Jessica had put on a bronze sweater – it made a lovely splash of colour, said Nuala, and brought out the red glints in her hair.

  ‘Uncle Tormod said I should put something else on,’ said Jessica. ‘He said something about only harlots having red hair.’

  ‘Oh, your Uncle Tormod gets a bit too caught up with the Old Testament,’ said Morna. ‘You don’t look anything like a harlot, not that I’ve ever seen such a cr
eature – well, I shouldn’t think there are any in Kilcarne – but you look great.’

  ‘Just like your mother,’ said Nuala, blinking hard, then smiling. ‘You always look like that if we mention Catriona. Wistful. No – not that. Hopeful.’

  ‘That’s because you hardly ever do mention her. I like hearing about her.’

  ‘It upsets us to remember how she ran away, you see,’ said Nuala. ‘We were so very fond of her. The baby of the family … But when we heard from the hospital where she died – when they wrote to say we were named as your guardians – well, that was wonderful, wasn’t it, Morna?’

  ‘It was. Now then, I tell you what, Jess, we’ll put you at the corner of the table, by the jar of chrysanthemums I picked this afternoon,’ said Morna, who could not be doing with sentiment when there were still tables to be laid and glasses to be polished. ‘You’ll make an absolute picture there.’

  Over supper, Grania told them about somebody who had come to stay at O’Brien’s. ‘A music researcher, whatever that might be, and his name’s Phineas Fox. Quiet, but very nice looking.’ She winked at Jessica when she said this. ‘And he’s wanting to look into the 1930s and 1940s – he says there were some concerts held hereabouts then, arranged by some old music hall performer who retired to Kilcarne. Mortimer Quince was his name, and this Mr Fox is trying to trace his life – I don’t know why, because I don’t think Mortimer Quince was anybody very famous. But it’d be useful if Phineas Fox could talk to anyone who might remember the concerts, so I said I’d ask around. Mr Cullen, you’d maybe remember the concerts, perhaps? The later ones, I mean.’

  But Tormod could not remember any such thing, and his tone suggested he found the question impertinent.

  ‘Ah well, it’s a good few years back,’ said Grania, cheerfully, ‘and you’d all three have been very young.’

  ‘There might be some old parish records,’ said Donal. ‘I could ask Father Sullivan has he anything.’

  ‘Could you? That’d be great.’

  They had finished their pudding by this time, and Donal had poured a glass of brandy for everyone. Grania had had two glasses; she had had a generous share of the wine earlier as well, and she was starting to sound a bit slurred. She leaned closer to Donal and placed a hand on his arm, saying it was nice to help people, wasn’t it? Morna and Nuala hoped they were not heading for an embarrassing incident, and wished they had not seated her next to Donal.

  ‘I’ve sent this Mr Fox along to see that hermit out at the Sexton’s House,’ said Grania. ‘Something about a name that matched up, he thought.’

  Donal did not seem to have noticed Grania’s hand. In a suddenly sharp voice, he said, ‘What hermit?’

  ‘He’s been here for a year or so,’ said Rory, ‘although a man would have to be desperate to live in such a ramshackle place. Hasn’t it been falling down for years? But he looks like a tramp, so I daresay he doesn’t notice.’

  ‘A tramp? Who is he?’ said Donal, leaning forward.

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows,’ said Grania. ‘The story is that he was injured in a fire – his face scarred quite badly – so he keeps clear of people. Somebody said he was in Kilcarne once before. People would see him wandering around the fields. Bit of a local landmark at one time. Morna, you and Nuala would remember that, surely?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Morna, rather shortly. ‘I didn’t know he was supposed to have come back.’

  Jessica, who had not spoken much, but who had listened to the conversation, said, ‘People do come back sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, they’re saying in the bar that he came back to hide,’ said Rory, cheerfully. ‘That he returned to the place where his face was ruined. That’s one of the stories, at any rate. It’s a bit too much like a romantic film or a book for my taste, but people will say anything after a few drinks, isn’t that true, Father Donal?’

  ‘Sad but true,’ said Donal. ‘Tormod, will you have a drop more brandy?’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  ‘Probably none of it’s true about the hermit,’ said Grania, as Donal refilled Tormod’s glass. ‘Still, Mr Fox might find out a bit more about him. I’ll ask him tomorrow.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. Best leave it alone,’ said Donal.

  ‘Donal’s right,’ said Morna. ‘It’s only spreading gossip, and we don’t want to do that.’

  ‘We don’t like gossip,’ said Nuala.

  Tormod, drinking the brandy and crumbling cheese on his plate, told them that gossip was an evil and an abomination before the Lord.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Grania. ‘But I don’t suppose Mr Fox will get inside the Sexton’s House anyway, for it’s said the hermit never opens his door to a single soul. Is there more brandy – well, just a tot to keep out the cold, Father Donal – oh, my word, what a large one you’re giving me.’ She sent him a look from beneath her lashes that shocked Nuala to her toes.

  ‘That Grania O’Brien is a bold, shameless one,’ Morna said later, over the washing-up. ‘She flirted – actually flirted – with Donal, did you see that?’

  ‘I did. And made some very suggestive remarks, as far as I could tell.’ Nuala had not actually understood the majority of Grania O’Brien’s saucier comments, but it had been impossible to mistake the tone. ‘Tormod was very displeased.’

  ‘I daresay Donal was displeased, as well, but he didn’t show it, of course.’ They smiled; Donal was unfailingly courteous.

  ‘Jessica was quiet, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but she always is.’

  They looked at one another, then Nuala said, ‘That man Grania mentioned—’

  ‘The one she called a hermit?’

  ‘Yes. And Rory said looked like a tramp – Morna, it can’t be the man who was here before, can it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Morna, a bit too quickly. ‘He won’t have come back. We’re perfectly safe. It’s just people spinning tales in O’Brien’s. Still, Rory was right about the Sexton’s House falling to pieces. It’s a ramshackle old place.’

  But they went rather unhappily to bed. It might have been coincidence that made them both wake at the same time – or it might even have been the chiming of the clock in the hall below. One a.m., and that single note was always quite sudden.

  But they both knew it had been neither of those things. They both knew it was the sound of footsteps along the landing that had woken them. Soft, slow footsteps going towards Jessica’s bedroom.

  Morna was out of bed in a minute, dragging on a dressing gown, thrusting her feet into slippers. There would not be anything wrong, of course, and likely as not the steps would be Donal going along to the bathroom. But just in case …

  As she opened her door, Nuala came out of her room. Neither of them spoke. They did not need to. They could both see the figure outlined against the tall narrow landing window. A figure that dragged one foot only very slightly, and that did not need to hold on to anything for balance as it did in the daytime.

  Tormod reached for the handle of Jessica’s bedroom and very slowly started to turn it.

  The sisters were there at once, Morna taking his arm before the door could be opened, Nuala saying it was cold tonight, and wouldn’t he be better in his bed? She would bring him some hot milk with brandy.

  For a moment they thought he was going to resist, and they both thought Jessica would wake, but Tormod only stared at them as if he did not recognize them, then allowed himself to be led back to his own room.

  Downstairs, heating the milk, Nuala said, ‘He didn’t know us, did he?’

  ‘No. He was sleepwalking, like – like he was once before. You remember the time when—?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Nuala, quickly. ‘I didn’t think he’d ever do it again, though. I didn’t know he could walk as easily as that any longer.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Morna. ‘We’ll need to be a bit more watchful. Nuala, did you know Tormod used to go into Catriona’s bedroom sometimes? Late at night. Years and years ago, I mean, when we
were all young.’

  ‘I did know,’ said Nuala, in a voice hardly more than a whisper. ‘I saw him once.’

  They looked at one another, the knowledge that Jessica slept in the room that had been Catriona’s between them.

  ‘He’d stand at the foot of Catriona’s bed, looking at her,’ said Morna.

  ‘I know. I never dared say anything. There was nothing wrong, of course.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘But, Morna – did you ever think – all those years ago, I mean – that Tormod was – well, a bit too fond of Catriona?’

  ‘She was his sister,’ began Morna.

  ‘I know. That’s the point. I hardly dare say this, even now, but—’

  ‘But you think Catriona ran away because of Tormod.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ELEVEN

  Phin set off for the Sexton’s House and the hermit who might be Roman’s descendant shortly after breakfast.

  Grania O’Brien accorded him a cordial good morning, and seemed disposed to enter into a discussion. She had not found out anything about the wartime concerts at the Cullens’ supper party, she said, although there had been a bit of speculation about the man at the Sexton’s House. It would be very interesting to hear if Mr Fox found out anything about him.

  ‘Probably he won’t want to talk to me,’ said Phin, and made good his escape.

  He was trying not to hope too much that something would come out of this meeting, but surely this man had to be connected to Roman. The name was too much of a coincidence.

  The narrow track that led up to the house was so steep that in the depths of winter it would probably be so iced over it would be impossible to get in or out. But at the top there was an astonishingly beautiful view towards Galway, and Phin suspected Maxim Volf probably did not mind if he was marooned out here for a week or two. There was even a certain attraction about the idea, providing you had sufficient food and drink and warmth. And books, thought Phin. And music, as well, of course, because you wouldn’t want to be wrapped in too much silence out here.