Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Nothing. Well, except that I think I’ve seen the place in Galway. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve walked past it.’

  ‘Is it still a theatre?’ asked Phin, eagerly.

  ‘I didn’t take much notice. It could be. But I just remember seeing the name over the main door. I wish I could help more.’ And yet a faint memory had stirred at the name of Mortimer Quince. Have I seen it somewhere? But where?

  ‘Well, it was a very long shot.’ Phin reached for the laptop. ‘But can I take you up on that agreement to make notes? It wouldn’t take me more than about ten or fifteen minutes to type those letters into the computer.’

  ‘Yes, certainly. Would it be easier if I read them again, and you type as I read?’

  ‘Much easier. Thanks.’

  This time, with the reading of the words, the emotions seemed stronger, but the only sound was the swift tapping of the keyboard on Phin’s laptop, and his occasional brusque, ‘Yes?’ or, ‘OK, go on,’ as he caught up.

  When they finished it took a few moments for the past to retreat. There was an almost overwhelming compulsion to continue talking, to keep Phin Fox here longer, but it was a compulsion that must be resisted.

  Even so, a huge effort had to be made to say, ‘Thank you. I’m only sorry I can’t help any more. It’s been fascinating, though.’

  It was not exactly a dismissal, but Phineas Fox clearly heard it as such, because he stood up and said, ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m massively grateful to you, though.’

  ‘Will the letters help your research?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. There aren’t any dates to follow up or verify, and there’s only “Antoinette”, without a surname. So it might not add much to what I’ve already got. But you’ve got my phone number and I’ll be here for a few days. I’m staying at O’Brien’s. Maybe you’d call me if anything occurs to you, or if you find any other papers.’

  ‘I will. I’d be interested to hear if you turn up anything.’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Have you got a phone number I can have?’

  As Phin entered the number on his phone – the number of the basic, pay-as-you-go phone, bought for emergencies – the instinct was to shake hands. That was another of the rituals, of course, but you did not offer a hand that had been spoiled.

  Phin Fox did not seem aware of that. He held out his own hand, quite naturally. ‘I’ve liked meeting you,’ he said. ‘I hope we can talk again.’

  Impossible to say, ‘So do I.’ Even more impossible to ask if Phin Fox would like to stay to talk some more about Roman Volf, and about the mysterious Antoinette. And the real Maxim Volf … ‘A danger of an entirely different kind,’ Antoinette had written. ‘I cannot bear to think he will be forgotten completely.’

  But intriguing as it all was, it was too risky to open a door on to any kind of friendship, however fleeting. It was, though, all right to smile, and to lead Phin to the door and watch him place the laptop carefully on the passenger seat so it would not slide on to the floor, then reverse his car down the narrow track.

  And then to go back inside the house, to put the two letters carefully back in the desk, then wash up the coffee cups, and resume listening to Tchaikovsky. Russian music as background for those strange Russian stories. There was a symmetry about that, and, as the music unrolled its sweeping cadences, the images conjured up by Phineas Fox were vivid. A man who had been executed for killing a tsar more than a century earlier, and a woman called Antoinette, who had clearly loved him, who had wanted to renovate a theatre in his name, and who had intended that a child should be protected from the ugly reality of his father’s death. And who had not wanted that other Maxim to be forgotten. Curiosity deepened.

  But it was better not to become drawn in. It was vaguely sad to hear that Roman Volf might have been wrongly executed, but it could not matter after so many years.

  What did matter were those two incomplete thoughts that had darted across the surface of memory. The first had been that sudden awareness of having a liking for the ancient story-telling, story-performing tradition.

  The second had been more disturbing and had seemed to come from a much deeper place. It was that strong, clear recognition of the importance of naming a child.

  It was growing dark inside the Sexton’s House before the other incomplete memory clamoured for attention again. Mortimer Quince. I really have seen that name somewhere. Where?

  A thin rain was beating against the windows, and it felt good to go round the little house, closing all the curtains against the cold, spiteful showers. Provisions had been collected the previous day, and although the tiny cash payments from the church authorities did not go very far, with care they went far enough. This week they had stretched as far as a beautifully fresh portion of salmon, which was a rare extravagance and would be tonight’s supper.

  Mortimer Quince. Where did I see that name?

  Looking through the small collection of CDs to see what might provide a pleasurable evening background, that earlier elusive memory slid suddenly into place. Mortimer Quince was the name that had been written on the back of an old photograph. ‘Mortimer Quince on stage at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, 1910.’ The photograph had been inside Tromloy, in Abigail Drury’s bedroom. Presumably it was still there now.

  Could Phin be told about that? It would mean admitting to having been inside Tromloy – it might be better to remain silent. Or—

  The thought was shut off abruptly, because there was a sound outside. Had it been footsteps, or was it just an animal scrabbling around for food? But it had sounded too large for an animal, and it also sounded very close to the wall of the cottage – almost as if someone was making a cautious way around the sides. No one could get in – the front door was securely locked; from this fireside chair it was possible to see through to the little hall, and the stout old door with the old-fashioned ring handle and the bolt at the top, drawn across. No one could get in.

  Then the door creaked heavily, almost as if something had leaned against it. It was probably just the old timbers contracting in the cold, but only a madman would open the door to find out.

  The creak came again, and the edges moved slightly. The door handle moved. Apprehension spiralled into real fear. There is someone out there. Someone’s trying to get in. He won’t manage it, though. There’s a strong lock on that door. He’ll go away in a minute.

  But whoever was out there did not go away. The letterbox moved, then was pushed open. Fingertips appeared, holding the flap open, and eyes stared in through the slit. To move would have attracted attention – all that could be done was remain completely still and pray to be out of direct sightline.

  The flap clanged back into place, and the footsteps went away from the door. It’s all right. He’s given up. But even as thankfulness flooded in, a different movement came, this time from the window of the sitting room. He’s still out there. He couldn’t get in through the door, so now he’s trying the window. The curtains were closed, but there was a tiny slit halfway up where they did not quite meet. If the prowler stood up against the window, that chink would act like a camera lens. He would be able to see virtually the entire room.

  Do I challenge him? Or even call the Garda? The movement came again, and in the tiny space between the curtain edges, eyes stared into the room. It was instinctive to look round for a makeshift weapon, at the same time reaching for the phone. But how swiftly would the Garda respond to a call from this house?

  Then, without warning, anger took over, because how dared some sly Peeping Tom sneak up here and try to get in! In two strides the window was reached, and the curtains jerked open with a furious swish. The prowler was caught in the sudden stream of light from the little sitting room, and it disconcerted him – he stood there motionless, with a rabbit-caught-in-headlights stare. The seconds lengthened, then, incredibly, the phone rang, shrilling through the room, and shattering the strange, frozen moment. The man dodged back from the window, and there was the sound of foot
steps again, not fast, making a cautious but unmistakable way across the uneven ground towards the narrow track down to the road.

  There was a second’s delay while the curtains were swiftly pulled back across, then the phone could be answered.

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  ‘Maxim?’ It was Phin Fox’s voice.

  ‘Phin.’ It was a struggle not to say it was very good to hear another voice. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘Is anything wrong? You sound a bit breathless.’

  ‘Oh, there was some wretched prowler outside a few moments ago. It happens. I’m the local weirdo, remember. But it’s a bit unnerving sometimes, and on a traditionally dark and rainy night … Whoever it was rattled the door, and he was standing at the window staring in when you rang. I think the sound of the phone startled him as much as it did me. He’s gone now, though.’

  ‘Shall I come out there?’ said Phin.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘No, but I’d like to talk to you again if you could spare half an hour. About the letters. That’s why I’m ringing. I won’t interrupt your evening for long. I can be there in ten minutes.’

  It would be treacherously easy to give way, to admit that after the prowler the idea of human companionship for half an hour or so was very alluring. But it was probably all right to say, ‘I was thinking of phoning you anyway. I’ve remembered something about that name you asked about. Mortimer Quince.’

  Phin Fox responded at once. ‘In that case I’ll definitely come out. But make the ten minutes nearer twenty, would you?’

  ‘I’ll look out for you. But be careful in case the prowler’s still around.’

  ‘I will.’ A pause. Then Phin said, ‘Do you drink wine at all?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I’ll bring a bottle with me, and we can talk over a glass.’

  There had been no doubt about the fear in Maxim Volf’s voice when he’d answered the phone. Phin had heard it clearly.

  He collected a bottle of wine from O’Brien’s small bar, then drove away. Accelerating through the thin, misty rain towards the Sexton’s House, he was visualizing how it must have felt to sit in that lonely room and see someone pressed up against the window, looking in. Supposing the prowler had actually got inside? How far could Maxim defend himself in a fight? Phin had a sudden dreadful vision of the scarred hands piteously raised to cover the burned face, trying to fight off an attack.

  The house had lights in the downstairs windows when he reached it, and as his headlights swept across the door, it opened, and Maxim was there. Phin locked the car and went inside.

  ‘No sign of any prowlers,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Shouldn’t you call the Garda?’

  ‘No. Whoever it was didn’t get in. I shouldn’t think he’ll come back, and if he does, I’ll be ready.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘I did see him. It wasn’t anyone I recognized, but I’d know him again.’

  When Phin proferred the wine, Maxim smiled, and fetched a corkscrew and two glasses. Seated near the fire, the wine set on a low table catching the fire’s light, the room became unexpectedly companionable.

  ‘You said you were going to phone me about Mortimer Quince,’ said Phin.

  ‘Yes. I remembered something about him. A photograph with his name on the back.’ He leaned back in his own chair, his fingers curled around the wine glass. ‘The photo was in a house called Tromloy,’ he said. ‘It’s on the edge of Kilcarne. Phin, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. I’m going to trust you. I saw the photo because I broke into Tromloy while it was empty.’ He took a defiant drink of his wine. ‘Maxim Volf is an identity I stole.’

  ‘Why?’ said Phin, after a moment. ‘Who are you really?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was involved in a car crash two years ago – near Tromloy. A car veered into the roadside, then burst into flames. I tried to get to the two people inside it – to get them out – but I didn’t manage it. They burned,’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘And you were burned in the attempt to rescue them,’ said Phin, very quietly.

  ‘Yes. As well as having my face and hands burned, my memory got burned, too. I have no idea who I am. Just over a year ago – when I finally got out of the medics’ hands – I went to Tromloy because it was where the two people who died in the crash had lived. I can’t explain why. Maybe I had some idea of—’

  ‘Asking for forgiveness?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Maxim, ‘have put it quite so lyrically, but you could be right. I managed to get inside the house using a faulty window catch. The place was closed up – the man’s widow had never returned to Ireland – and I went into all the rooms. I’m not proud of it, but I honestly had no sinister intentions. Only then I found a couple of letters – one a bank acknowledgement, the other a note of thanks for a donation to The Genesius Theatre. They were both written to Maxim Volf. I didn’t have a name of my own, or any kind of identity, and I saw the name as a ready-made identity. An identity that no one would miss if I took it.’

  ‘Were the letters dated?’

  ‘One was. But it was so smudgy I couldn’t tell if it was 1930 or 1950. You can see them if you want, but they won’t tell you anything.’ He had been staring into the fire, but now he looked across at Phin. ‘I do know that what I did was illegal, and I don’t know if you can understand. But I couldn’t bear being nameless any longer. I took the two letters, and also the ones from Antoinette.’

  ‘Because of that reference to Maxim?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to leave anything that might – well, that might give the lie to me being him.’ He sat back. ‘There you have it. Identity theft.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem much of a crime. It’s not even as if you hacked into the bank account.’ Phin looked up. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘The bank,’ said Maxim, dryly, ‘no longer exists.’ As Phin grinned, he said, ‘Why did you ring me earlier? I’m extremely glad you did, because it scared off the prowler, but—’

  ‘To ask if you’d come with me into Galway, to The Genesius Theatre.’

  ‘No.’ The response was swift and definite.

  ‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Phin. ‘But listen, I need to find out more about Mortimer Quince and he was connected to that place. So was the real Maxim Volf. And if I’m ever to prove that Roman Volf was innocent of murder, I need to bring all these strands together. Quince and Maxim and Antoinette.’

  ‘Does any of it matter after so long?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phin, very positively. ‘I want to clear the name of a brilliant musician.’

  ‘Even so, none of it has anything to do with me.’

  ‘It does,’ said Phin. ‘Like it or not, you’ve got entangled in Roman Volf’s story.’

  ‘Because I stole Maxim’s identity?’

  It came out bitterly, and Phin said, ‘Yes. And doing that, you found another link between The Genesius and Maxim. You also found Antoinette’s letters. Don’t you want to know who she was? Or who Maxim was?’

  ‘I admit to a degree of interest,’ said Maxim. ‘Oh hell, all right, I’m intrigued. Who wouldn’t be? But I’m not intrigued enough to come into Galway with you in broad daylight.’ He did not say, ‘To be stared at,’ but Phin heard the thought behind the words. ‘Anyway, you don’t need me. You can do it on your own.’

  ‘I’d prefer you to come with me. Apart from anything else, I have no idea where the place is. If you like you can just point the way, then stay in the car.’

  There was a silence, then Maxim said, ‘When would you want to go?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’m making no promise.’

  ‘I’ll come to the Sexton’s House at half-past ten and we’ll argue it out then.’

  THIRTEEN

  At first Jessica had thought the supper for Donal with Mr O’Brien and his sister there, was all right. She had even quite enjoyed listening to the t
alk, because Miss O’Brien – Grania – said things that made people laugh. But then had come the mention of a man who lived in the Sexton’s House – a hermit – and the atmosphere round the table had changed.

  Jessica was not sure if she had ever seen the hermit, but the O’Briens seemed to know about him. Rory O’Brien called him a tramp, and said he had lived here once before. With the words something seemed to drive a hard fist against Jess’s mind, and she had had to stare down at her plate, because the mind-pictures were trying to form. Something about the tramp, was it? I know about him, thought Jessica. But what is it I know?

  Donal had asked who the man was and where he had come from, but nobody had really known, although Grania said something about him having been injured in a car crash. Then the aunts changed the subject, and supper went on and things were all ordinary again. Or were they?

  Next morning, Tormod did not get up for breakfast, and Aunt Morna said he was not feeling very well. They must all be quiet and considerate. Donal came down to breakfast, but he was pale and his eyes were puffy, as if he had not slept. He refused everything except a cup of black coffee, which worried the aunts. Jessica thought they did not know whether to focus on Tormod who was definitely unwell, or on Donal, who might be slightly unwell.

  She had hoped she would be able to go to Tromloy this afternoon without anyone bothering or noticing, but after breakfast Aunt Nuala suggested Jessica and Donal went into Galway for the day. Donal always enjoyed visiting the cathedral, and it would be nice for the two of them to be together. Jess, hating herself for lying and deceiving, said vaguely that she was going to sketch in the fields this afternoon.