Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  Maxim said, softly, ‘So that’s who she was.’

  ‘An illegitimate Romanov,’ said Phin. ‘Of course she was. And the family – in that letter she gives it the upper case F, by the way – the family wanted to demonstrate how they dealt with anyone who attacked one of their number. I’d guess they found out about Antoinette’s affair with Roman—’

  ‘And disapproved?’ said Bea. ‘That’s a bit steep considering old Alexander had – wait a bit, it’s here somewhere … Yes, here it is. Wilhelmine Bayer was one of seven known mistresses of Alexander II.’

  ‘Other times, other manners,’ said Maxim.

  ‘We’ll probably never know the exact truth,’ said Phin, ‘but it’s a reasonable supposition that even though Antoinette was a bastard sprig of the imperial tree, the Romanovs didn’t much like her association with such a flamboyant and public figure as Roman Volf.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a murder charge was faked,’ said Maxim, dryly.

  ‘No. I shouldn’t think Roman did play any part in the assassination, but the theatre world’s a curious mix of people and Russian Society in that era … Roman could have been in the company of one or two of the plotters a few times,’ said Phin. ‘If so, the Romanovs might have seen that as their chance to entangle him in the list of the real killers, and get him away from Antoinette that way.’

  ‘In those other two letters,’ said Maxim, ‘Antoinette says something about wanting to force her way into the courtroom to give Roman an alibi. You remember that, Phin?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘She said they would believe her “because—”. She broke off the sentence there, though. She must have meant the court would have believed her because of who she was.’

  ‘The tsar’s own daughter,’ said Phin.

  ‘Why didn’t she do that?’ said Bea. ‘Because she didn’t dare? Because the other Romanovs prevented her?’

  ‘Either or both,’ said Phin. ‘But what she did do was make sure Roman wasn’t hanged. And that his son – that real Maxim Volf – was taken to safety. She even changed his name so that he couldn’t be traced.’

  ‘He became Mortimer Quince,’ said Maxim. ‘And he lived in this house.’

  ‘I think he must have done.’

  ‘I’ve looked on the Title Deeds,’ said Bea, eagerly. ‘The name doesn’t appear. There is a Russian name, though – someone who owned Tromloy for several years in the early part of the twentieth century.’

  She looked at Phin, and he said, ‘Feofil Markov?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Phin said, very softly, ‘Which means that Roman Volf once owned and lived in this house.’ He sat back and looked round the room.

  Jessica said, very hesitantly, ‘Might there be anything else in the fire screen?’

  ‘It’s got so many old photographs and newspaper cuttings,’ said Nuala, almost apologetically.

  ‘You’re right.’ Phin sprang up from the chair. ‘Always return to your original source,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what there is. Bea, if we do any irreparable damage, I promise it’ll be made good a hundredfold.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Bea, getting up to help them.

  The Cullen sisters were careful and neat. Slowly and painstakingly, they chipped at the old varnish, and even more slowly and painstakingly, they removed the cobwebby fragments and handed each one to Jessica.

  ‘A shame to litter up your lovely room,’ said Nuala to Bea, as Jess laid each piece on the floor.

  ‘I don’t care if you turn the whole house upside-down,’ said Bea.

  It was an hour before the contents of the screen had been removed, but, finally and at last, there they were. The chronicles of the rich, romantic, bawdy, vagabond life that had been Mortimer Quince’s. It was all spread out like the shards of a Persian prince’s carpet, or jigsaw pieces snipped from a lost century. The memories of the music halls, and the taverns, the cider cellars and the pub rooms, the press cuttings and the photographs and the song sheets.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Phin, cautiously picking up programme covers from theatres whose names had vanished, and brittle old newspaper cuttings of concerts long forgotten. ‘And also priceless.’ He looked at them, his eyes shining. ‘Quince once wrote that one day he hoped to create his autobiography,’ he said. ‘I tried – unsuccessfully – to find it. I didn’t know then – probably he didn’t, either – that the operative word was “create”.’

  ‘He didn’t write it,’ said Bea. ‘But he did create it. This is his autobiography. Can you – I don’t know – but can you assemble it into something for people to see, Phin? A book or a programme or something?’

  ‘If I can’t,’ said Phin, ‘my agent will make sure somebody else does. In fact he’ll fall on all this with such … You’ll all be credited in whatever comes of it, of course,’ he said, looking up, and Morna and Nuala turned pink with delight.

  ‘And so,’ said Maxim, sitting back, ‘the revels ended here in Kilcarne. The insubstantial pageant faded.’

  It was not until the following night that the last shred of Roman Volf’s life reached out to Phin. It was the smallest of shreds, and news of its existence came through modern technology in the form of an email.

  The sender of the email was the secretary of the Irish Film Society, and the subject heading was, ‘Old cine footage.’

  Don’t expect anything, thought Phin, almost afraid to read it. It’ll be too far back – they won’t have kept film footage from that time.

  Dear Phin Fox,

  I’m delighted to tell you we have found the old footage you emailed us about yesterday – the clip of The Genesius Theatre, in Galway, from 1921. The quality has deteriorated with time, of course, but the images are still surprisingly good.

  Could you contact us as soon as you can, because we would be more than happy to arrange a viewing for you.

  It was, as you thought, recorded on The Genesius’ opening night – it was very helpful to our search that you gave us an exact date! – and it features an unknown violinist called Feofil Markov. We understand that sadly Mr Markov died later that night, so whoever he was, that evening saw his final performance.

  The final performance. So that had been the night when Roman stepped off a concert platform for the last time. The revels had ended there, in The Genesius, but the insubstantial pageant of Roman Volf’s life had not faded. That final scrap of his brilliance had been trapped on a sliver of cine film. Phin would be able to see it for himself. Other people would see it.

  And, thought Phin, reaching for his notes for the TV programme, in the weeks ahead, Roman Volf’s name would be cleared of murder.