Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  Phin flipped on the laptop and spent ten minutes trying to trace the source of this line, eventually concluding it was a skewed blend of Longfellow and Shakespeare.

  It might not be so bad, after all, to go to the neighbour’s party. Just for an hour or two. Purely to be polite, and nothing to do with meeting a butterfly-minded female who wove a patchwork of poetry. (How did you sin with angels, for pity’s sake?) Before he could change his mind, he left a message on the neighbour’s phone, saying he would be back in his flat in about a week.

  While he was making the call, an email came in from the red-haired Canadian editor who had told his agent he had silver eyes. She would be in London in two weeks’ time, she said – she was staying at her favourite Bloomsbury hotel, so perhaps Phin would like to take her to dinner one night? Any night would do. Here was the hotel’s number. Phin smiled, and tried to think what restaurants he knew in Bloomsbury.

  The curious thing, to Jessica, was the calm way in which the aunts accepted Tormod’s illness. The doctors had been sad and sympathetic and had said the outlook this time was a poor one. A massive stroke, they said, and Mr Cullen’s sisters, no matter how devoted, could not possibly look after him. He required specialist nursing – there would be tubes, assistance with breathing, various nursing tasks. Better by far, kinder by far, to hand him over to the people who knew what to do. The infirmary in Galway had splendid facilities, and the family could visit as often as they wanted.

  Jessica steeled herself, but it was as if, having dreaded it for so long, now that the worst had happened the aunts were almost relieved. They did not say they had been afraid of him for years, and they did not say they had never been able to forget or forgive what he had done to the poor dead baby at Tromloy that day.

  Instead, they reminded one another that poor Tormod was not actually dead, and that they would be able to visit him regularly. Perhaps they would not do so every day, they thought. Twice a week would be enough – even once a week. Not in the depths of winter, of course, when the roads were icy. But they would go regularly, and they would talk to Tormod, they would tell him all the local news. The doctors had said he would not be able to hear them, but you never knew.

  Nuala said they might even make a day of it each week. They might have their lunch out, and even go to a cinema or a theatre.

  ‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ said Jessica, encouragingly. She looked at them both, and said, ‘Specially if I’m studying at GMIT next year.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It really could happen, could it?’ said Morna, hesitantly. ‘GMIT?’

  ‘Bea Drury thinks it could. She knows one of the lecturers or heads of department there. She’s going to have a word.’

  Nuala said, ‘It will be a very good thing for you, Jess. We’ll be very proud of you.’

  Jessica smiled. ‘You can ask Bea Drury about it tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You are still coming with me to Tromloy, aren’t you? Bea’s really keen to meet you.’

  ‘I thought I’d wear my coffee lace blouse,’ said Nuala.

  ‘And the cameo brooch.’

  Bea thought it was almost like old times to be preparing for guests – to be setting out cups and saucers, and to see Maxim uncorking a bottle of wine. Bea knew he would deliberately sit in the least-lit corner of the room, but at least he had not refused to meet Jessica’s aunts and to see Phin Fox again.

  Phin arrived a bit early. ‘I’ll go out again and drive round the block if it isn’t all right,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to ask one or two questions, and I didn’t want to do it in front of Jess and the Cullen ladies. I don’t want to risk upsetting them.’

  Maxim waved him to a chair. ‘Ask away.’

  Phin said, ‘It’s about Donal,’ he said. ‘I think I understand why he attacked Bea – it was because Jessica told him that Bea knew about the rape, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. And Jess is still apologizing for that,’ said Bea, handing Phin a cup of tea. ‘I think she’ll feel guilty for the next five years. I’ve been trying to tell her there’s no need – that bastard Donal Cullen was about to push her into the ice pit, and the poor child thought if he believed someone knew the truth, it might stop him.’

  ‘Yes. But,’ said Phin, drinking his tea, ‘what I don’t understand is why Donal went out to the Sexton’s House that day. Have we got any clue as to his motives?’

  ‘We think so,’ said Maxim. ‘Bea’s more or less pieced it together.’

  Bea said, ‘Donal attacked Jessica in this house. She’s talked to me about that. I’m not pushing her to talk, but I’m listening when she does, and I think she’s finding it easier to talk to me than to her aunts. It appears that the tramp – the man who died in the car crash – saw the rape. Jess doesn’t know how much he actually saw, but he was at the window – she thinks he wanted to help but wasn’t sure what to do. But it’s clear he saw enough to be a threat to Donal. Donal certainly thought so. He went for him – the tramp ran away, and Jess ran after them both.’

  Bea glanced at Maxim, as if handing the next part over to him. He said, ‘But then came the crash. Afterwards, the tramp was never mentioned – probably no one even knew he was around that day. All that people knew was that there had been a crash, and a passing stranger tried to help with the rescue. Nobody made any connection between that stranger and the tramp. There was no reason why anyone would.’

  ‘But Donal made the connection,’ said Phin. ‘He knew the tramp had been there. Yes, I see.’

  ‘When I went to live in the Sexton’s House, people started to talk. They thought I was the tramp come back.’ Maxim smiled. ‘I probably looked like a tramp most of the time, anyway.’

  ‘You probably did,’ said Bea. ‘But according to Jess, Donal heard the speculation – there was something about a supper party and gossip—’

  ‘Grania O’Brien,’ said Phin, grinning.

  ‘I think after that Donal decided he might need to silence Maxim to stop him talking,’ said Bea.

  ‘So he came out to the Sexton’s House to see if I was the same man.’

  ‘Yes. And he saw it wasn’t the same man at all, so he went away. I’m very glad indeed about that,’ said Bea. She glanced towards the window. ‘That looks like Jessica and the aunts now. Maxim, will you put the kettle on again while I let them in.’

  Morna and Nuala had brought a huge bunch of mop-headed chrysanthemums for Mrs Drury, and they were very pleased indeed to be meeting her, and to be able to thank her for all her kindness to Jessica.

  They accepted cups of tea, and sat together on the sofa, both thinking how lovely it was to be seeing Tromloy properly, without the need to creep around with candles and torches. They had discussed anxiously whether they should tell Mrs Drury the truth about how Jess had lived here for those months, but Jess had said not. It was too sad a memory to print on to Tromloy, she said, especially now, when Bea’s husband had so remarkably come back into her life. Morna and Nuala thought she was right, although they would feel dreadfully guilty.

  Mrs Drury – she had said to call her Bea – made them very welcome indeed, and it was nice to see how relaxed and friendly Jessica was with everyone. They had both been a bit nervous about meeting Mrs Drury’s husband, and Nuala particularly noticed that he took a seat with his back to the light, but in fact he was very charming, and neither of them could imagine how anyone had ever taken him for a vagrant. The burns were distressing, of course, but the odd thing was that once you started talking to him, you forgot them, almost to the extent of hardly noticing them.

  Nuala asked a bit hesitantly, about the old fire screen propped against the wall.

  ‘It’s very unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was here when we bought the house,’ said Bea, and it seemed to the sisters that Jessica leaned forward to listen very intently, as if the screen might mean something to her. ‘But I’ve no idea how old it is.’

  ‘I always wanted to throw it out,’ said Maxim. ‘But it’s got a quaint charm
of its own. And Bea likes it.’

  ‘Yes, but I damaged it a bit the other night,’ said Bea. ‘I wanted to examine one of the glued-on pieces more closely – I was as careful as I could be about taking it off, but it still tore part of the base.’

  ‘Oh, but that could easily be repaired,’ said Nuala, eagerly, pleased to be able to offer a suggestion. ‘You could cover those small tears – use a good glue, and then a new coat of varnish … Could I look more closely, Mrs Drury? I’ll be very careful.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Phin said, ‘Do you recognize any of the photos or newspaper cuttings?’

  ‘Well, they’re a bit before my time, Mr Fox,’ said Nuala, slightly apologetically.

  ‘A lot before it, I should think,’ said Phin, smiling at her, and Nuala blushed, and thought how much nicer and friendlier he was than the image she and Morna had had of an aloof British academic.

  ‘That looks like something from one of the old wartime concerts.’ Morna was examining the screen and pointing out a small playbill.

  ‘Quality Quince again,’ said Maxim, glancing at Phin and grinning.

  ‘The man was everywhere.’

  ‘See, if you just slide this old programme out where you’ve chipped away that section,’ said Nuala, ‘it can be trimmed back. It won’t damage anything, because it looks as if it’s the entire programme, not just the cover. Or is it padded underneath by some sheets of paper?’

  ‘Do be careful,’ said Morna. ‘There’s writing on those sheets – they might be valuable.’

  Maxim said, ‘It’s probably somebody’s old shopping list,’ but both he and Phin were leaning forward.

  ‘It looks like part of a letter,’ said Nuala, and with one voice, Phin and Maxim said, ‘A letter?’

  ‘Yes, rather graceful writing. It’s folded – there are several pages—’

  Phin and Maxim were both kneeling next to her by now.

  ‘Can we get at them?’ said Phin. ‘Without damaging them?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but if I’m extremely careful …’ There was a brief pause, then the dry rustle of old paper. Nuala sat back, beaming with triumph. ‘There you are.’

  ‘Miss Cullen, you’re brilliant,’ said Phin. He glanced at the others, then looked straight at Maxim.

  Maxim said, ‘It’s the same handwriting as my two letters, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Phin touched the paper with a fingertip.

  ‘Can you see the signature? But,’ said Maxim, ‘you don’t need to see it, do you?’

  ‘No.’ But using extreme care, Phin unfolded the sheets of paper until he came to the last one and the signature.

  And there it was. Antoinette.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The room had fallen into a deep, waiting silence, and as Phin flattened out the sheets of Antoinette’s letter, he realized his hands were shaking. Antoinette, he thought, don’t let me down. Please have put all the answers in this letter. And Roman – Feofil – don’t have put your own slant on this. You must have translated it, but please don’t have edited out what you thought shouldn’t be known.

  As if from a long way away, he was aware of the two Cullen ladies murmuring something apologetic about leaving – this would perhaps be a family document – and of Bea reassuring them, and asking them to stay.

  Then Maxim’s voice reached him. ‘Read it, Phin.’

  ‘It’s your house. Your letter,’ began Phin.

  ‘But it’s your work, Phin,’ said Bea. ‘Please read it.’

  Phin took a deep breath and, as he began to read Antoinette’s words, the past poured into the room, exactly as it had done before.

  My dearest Roman

  Again, I send this to your apartment house, and again I have the assurance it will reach you.

  I have hesitated about setting these details down, but I cannot see any other way of telling you what is about to happen.

  It’s said that the most successful plans have, at their heart, simplicity, and I think there is great simplicity about this plan. But there are two weak links in the chain I have forged.

  Two of the guards at the fortress have been bribed – this is the first weak link, for one or both of them may have questionable allegiances, be playing a double game, or be offered higher bribes. But I hope the money given them – with the promise of a further payment afterwards – will be sufficient.

  You are held in Cell No. 9. In Cell No. 6, close by, is a man convicted of murder and rape – a crime that happened just before the tsar’s assassination, and that received scant notice as a result. Still, he was sentenced to death – rightly so, I am assured – and he is to hang, in a week’s time. He will hang in your place. When the executioner comes for you, the numbers on the doors will have been turned upside-down, so that No. 6 will appear to be No. 9, and the man inside will be assumed to be you. Like you, he has become unshaven and unkempt, and he is of the same colouring and similar build. But the risk of it being realized he is not you is the second weak link.

  The man knows he is to die, and his silence and compliance has been bought by the promise that his sister – the only person for whom he has ever shown any real care or affection – will be provided for. I have already done that. My father had many faults, but he was always generous, and there are sufficient funds.

  There will have to be a very macabre addition to the execution. It is to be partly public – people are to be allowed into the courtyard to witness it. That, of course, is one of the Family’s ploys to demonstrate how they deal with the people who killed the tsar. They have stirred up a great deal of hatred and bitterness against you – they knew how loved and revered you were, and they will not risk any kind of protest. So the execution is to be watched by several hundred people. There is still the old mechanism for public execution in that fortress, and it will be made use of. The guards will let it down from the window of what is called the hanging room, which overlooks the courtyard. It will remain like that for the execution, jutting at right angles to the wall, suspended some thirty feet above the crowd.

  While the death procession walks to the hanging room, you will be taken from the real Cell 9 and through the prison until you are outside. More bribes have been paid to ensure that all doors will be unlocked.

  I dare not be there to take you away. Once you are outside the fortress, it must be your ingenuity and courage that gets you away. But you have my word that I will take Maxim to safety. Already I have arranged a new identity for him, and I will impress on him the absolute need to forget that ‘Maxim Volf’ ever existed. He is an intelligent boy and I will make him understand. I will not risk you being caught, and I will not let your son’s identity be known. My family are hunting down the assassins – they have sworn to find and execute every last one. If they come to hear of Maxim’s existence they might try to find him. It could create a trail that would lead them to realize you did not die on the gallows. They might even mete out punishment to Maxim himself, purely for who he is. I will not risk any of that.

  The execution will be on the day after tomorrow at nine o’clock in the morning. I think the plan will succeed. You will smile now and say I am being fey, but – but, Roman, in my mind I can see you, far in the future, on a stage somewhere, pouring your marvellous music into an auditorium. Sprinkling its brilliance on to dark water. Do you remember once saying that to me?

  I don’t know how or where or when it will happen, that far distant stage and that unknown theatre, but I believe it will be so. I hope I can be there to see it. But I do not think it will ever be possible.

  I do not forget my image of that theatre of the future, though, with you on its stage. Sprinkling the brilliance.

  Do you remember how, in Odessa, looking at the ruined Skomorokh Theatre, you were so passionate about saving it from its dereliction – about saving all theatres from dereliction? That money I placed in a trust account is still there, Roman – if not for the Skomorokh, perhaps for some other theatre.

  My family
believe I am travelling to England to escape the unhappy and unwise marriage I made. There is a man in England I have met, who talks of marriage. He is one of the St Leger family, and he is wealthy and influential. If I marry him, I would have the title baroness.

  If things had been different, Roman, you and I … But I know it cannot be, not now. Perhaps it never could.

  But the reality is that I am forever yours, as I always was, and always will be.

  Antoinette.

  When Phin laid down the letter, there was a long silence.

  Then, finally, Maxim said, very softly, ‘The plan worked, didn’t it? She got him out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was she, Phin? Because there’s another name now – St Leger. Can we look her up? Bea, is the laptop on—?’

  But Bea was already at the dining table, and the laptop’s screen was already lit. It seemed to Phin that as Bea typed in a search request for Antoinette St Leger, the ghosts crept nearer, leaning forward to hear and watch – not because they wanted to know; they already did know. But because they wanted the people in the room to know.

  Then Bea said, ‘I think this is it,’ and Phin sat in the dining chair next to her.

  ‘Read it,’ said Maxim, and Jessica and the aunts leaned forward eagerly.

  Bea began to read.

  ‘“Antoinette St Leger, born Antoinette Bayer on 20 June 1856, at St Petersburg, Russia. She was—”’ She stopped, then went on. ‘“She was the illegitimate daughter of Alexander Nikolaevich Romanov – Alexander II, Tsar of Russia – by his mistress, Wilhelmine Bayer. Antoinette married Federico Stolte in 1873, but they were divorced before 1881. In October 1881 in London, she married Richard Flemyng St Leger, after which she was known as Baroness Antoinette St Leger. She died in January 1948, aged 91”.’ Bea scrolled the web page down slightly. ‘There’s another paragraph about how she and St Leger created a kind of centre for poets and musicians and writers in the Swiss part of Lake Maggiore, but that’s all.’