Flowers Stained With Moonlight

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘Please don’t be angry. I think your ideas about the murder must be wrong somehow, but I know that you’re right about detecting. If the young man is really traced back on a ferry to the other side of the Channel, then that is where I must go and detect. I do, I really do see that if they find he came from there, it will be necessary to go, and I will most certainly do it. But it will be difficult; my French is not good enough for real detecting, even if Annabel has been teaching me for the last four years – and I could hardly go there all by myself!’

  I looked at Arthur.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ he said, intervening in the conversation for the first time, ‘Korneck has been pressing us lately – Charles and me, that is – to spend a couple of weeks in Paris. Charles Hermite is working over there on generalising Cayley and Sylvester’s work on some of the same lines that we are, and it seems he’s making some quite extraordinary discoveries. Well, our teaching has just come to an end, so – I suggest that we all go together. If you must go, I would much prefer to be near you.’

  ‘Oh, Arthur – can it be possible?’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, if it were not for this dreadful murder, it would be heavenly to travel to Paris with you! Still, I am worried that detecting in French will be too difficult for me.’

  ‘How about if we take Annabel with us?’ he suggested thoughtfully. ‘Something tells me she would not refuse. It may be a little expensive, but we mathematicians may be subsidised by the Department, so if you can see with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, it could be done.’

  ‘Mrs Bryce-Fortescue! Arthur, I can’t! I should have to explain to her about the Paris connection, and she will become perfectly terrified that Sylvia will be implicated,’ I said. ‘I know she firmly believes that Sylvia is innocent, but if it turns out that Sylvia had a lover in Paris who came over and killed her husband, it will cause an enormous scandal, even if Sylvia knew nothing about it! No – I can’t, I daren’t tell her, not now, not before I have been there and discovered what I can. Later, of course, it will probably be necessary to do so.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Arthur. ‘She could help you with more than expenses; she could write you letters of introduction to her friends.’

  ‘Arthur, she will not send me to Paris to investigate her daughter, and that is exactly what I will appear to be doing!’ I said. ‘Come – you do see that it is impossible! Yet Pat is right; the thing cannot stop now. No, I shall simply tell her that I am following up the clues concerning the young man, without saying where I am going. And I shall pay for myself, even if I use up all of my savings to do so. Depending on what we find out, I could always request expenses from Mrs Bryce-Fortescue later. But I will not think about that now. Let us just simply pay our way, and be off!’

  ‘That’s the attitude!’ applauded Pat, smiling sunnily. ‘But don’t do anything until we know more. After all, it certainly sounds likely that he came over from France, since he took the boat train, but wait till they know for sure. I’ll drop by my brother-in-law’s later on to get the news.’

  ‘Come to our place when you know,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re right of course – the man may turn out to live in Dover, or to have come over from Oostende and be Dutch!’

  ‘I’ll let you know for sure. But if they find what I expect they will, you’ve got to go; that’s my frank opinion, and I stick by it!’ said Pat with emphasis, as though he suspected I might still change my mind, and he shook our hands and departed with his springy step.

  ‘However shall we get through this evening without knowing,’ I moaned.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you!’ cried Arthur consolingly, taking my hand. ‘We have an engagement for this evening – we’re going to a concert! Do you remember your little pupil Rose?’

  ‘Rose? Why, of course. How enchanting she was! She stopped coming to school … a good two years ago, to devote herself to music. How old must she be now? My goodness, fifteen already – a real young lady! Is she to be playing in the concert?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ he answered. ‘I received an invitation from her mother, and I expect yours is waiting for you in your rooms.’

  It was. When I opened the envelope, out fell a note, a programme, and to my surprise, a ticket. I had somehow imagined that Rose would be playing in her home, but no; it was not a mere family affair, but was to take place in one of Cambridge’s loveliest concert halls. The brief note, from her mother, informed me that this concert has been organised by her professor, as her farewell to Cambridge, for she will be leaving in a month to study in London.

  Out of respect for an event of such importance, I put on my blue muslin with lace, redid my hair and sallied forth with shawl and hat to meet Arthur upon the front step. We walked together to the centre of town, almost in silence, but the most trusting and companionable silence imaginable. Every step we took together in the balmy summer breeze was like a prayer of thanks for such togetherness. Poor Sylvia – to have been married and never to have lived this.

  The foyer was full of people milling about, preparatory to entering the hall. So many people come to listen to little Rose! I could hardly get over it, for even though I knew she was no longer a child, I was quite unable to imagine her any different from the fair-haired sprite who had attended my classes for three years. After taking a few moments to absorb the sociable yet hushed atmosphere which always precedes a concert, I looked about me, and perceived several acquaintances; there was Emily, beckoning to me furiously, and her mother, together with Rose’s mother.

  ‘We are so happy that you could come,’ said the latter as I approached. ‘Please do come backstage to see Rose after the concert; she will be absolutely delighted to see you again after so long! She knows she could have visited you often enough since she left school, but you know how children are – she’s been too busy with her music … and just with the process of growing up, little by little, into a young lady.’

  ‘It’s a good job she didn’t drop me,’ said Emily indignantly – ‘and she probably would have, if I hadn’t gone hunting her out every so often!’

  ‘Oh no, not you, dear,’ said Rose’s mother soothingly. ‘Young girls find their friends simply indispensable, as you well know! And Rose is an only child to boot.’

  The warning bell rang, and the loose mass of people pressed towards the doors leading into the hall, broke loose again on the other side and edged between the rows of plush seats with a great deal of shifting about and arranging of stoles, hats and purses. Some ladies took off gloves, others took out fans, gentlemen opened programmes with a rustle, and there was whispering and discussing. I seated myself next to Arthur, and enjoyed the slowly intensifying feeling of hushed waiting. The lights dimmed and darkened over the audience, while falling directly on the stage, which contained a beautifully burnished grand piano, a chair and a music stand with music ready upon it. There was complete silence for more than a minute, and then a door opened at the back of the stage and Rose appeared, followed by a dapper gentleman in tails, with a neatly waxed moustache, and a slender young man also in black, but not so elegant, who took his station humbly next to the grand piano on the side away from the audience, and prepared himself for the task of turning pages by anxiously licking his fingertips.

  The clapping began and then swelled into a great clatter. Rose and her pianist smiled out over us and bowed slightly, then took their places. The pianist played a note, and Rose touched her bow lightly over the strings of her cello and tuned them softly. Then, suddenly, the music began in a great storm, piano and cello crying aloud together without warning!

  Time appeared to stop. I felt suspended, motionless, in the rush of notes, and the young girl facing me on the stage, behind her great shining instrument, appeared to me at once like the Rose I had always known – the soft, tender, young lines of her cheek and chin, the great cascade of fair waves held back from her face by a wide ribbon, the childlike vigour of all her movements were exactly as before – and a new, mysterious Rose, whom I watched as from t
he other side of a great river, as with flushed cheeks and eyes dark with inward intensity, she seemed with ease and yet with effort to pitch the stream of notes upwards, so that they fell upon us like dashing raindrops. She played with authority – I can find no better word to express it – and that authority, and the extraordinary power of inwardness and concentration which she achieved as she sat facing such a crowd of people, and the beautiful dress of forest green silk relieved only by a narrow collar of cream-coloured lace, so different from the pink flounces she once favoured – all this made me feel much as though she had travelled over all the world since I last saw her, and become – more than a young lady, more even than an adult – she had become a consummate artist.

  Grieg’s Sonata came to an end suddenly. It seemed to me that no time at all had passed, so powerfully had I been under its spell. Applause surged around me, and I joined in, faintly because of my emotion. Rose stood up, smiled, bowed, left the stage, returned, left again, returned again. Arthur poked me, and laughed.

  ‘You look mesmerised,’ he said.

  ‘I am mesmerised,’ I answered. ‘I remember notes like these under the bow of a little dancing elf, some four years ago – even then I was amazed, but now! There is something in her playing which defies any kind of judgement; something queenly, which is quite simply beyond commentary.’

  Rose was returning, and the noise quieted down to the merest rustle. She put the music stand aside, advanced her chair, and sat down alone. She remained for a long moment without moving, unaware of the waiting audience, capturing some inner mood. Then she shook back a strand of hair, set her bow on the strings, and began to play the second suite by Bach.

  Now her playing appeared to me of devastating simplicity. I listened as the music developed itself onwards and forwards, moving inexorably, as it seemed, to its foregone and unavoidable conclusion. If such a thing were possible, I would have said that Rose’s playing added nothing and subtracted nothing from the very soul of the notes themselves; I felt as though I were reading the music directly as Bach had written it, as if no arbitrary interpretation came between the notes and me. Movement followed movement in their right and prescribed order; Prelude, Allemande, Courante, then the bitter beauty of the Sarabande, the absurd cheer of the Gavotte and finally the strange irony of the Gigue, the natural gaiety of whose rhythm was belied by the weird agony of the melody.

  The music stopped, followed by clapping, and there was a pause; many people got up and squeezed past my knees to go wander about outside. I believe even Arthur went, but I remained fixed in my seat, unwilling and indeed quite unable to return to a normal state of mind. I remained so, half hypnotised, mixed fragments of melodies running through my mind, until the bell rang again, the audience returned, the lights dimmed and Rose returned with her pianist, this time to launch directly into the passion of Beethoven’s third Sonata. I followed the music as in a dream, and the dream continued; in fact I awoke to my senses quite suddenly by feeling my arm pulled unceremoniously. Arthur was tugging at it and saying,

  ‘Everyone is leaving. Don’t you want to go backstage and visit Rose?’

  The music was over, the applause many times repeated had come and gone, and people were gathering up their wraps all around me and pouring out of the doors.

  ‘Oh, please come with me!’ I exclaimed, feeling almost dismayed at the idea of confronting the young crowned goddess I seemed to have been watching. He took my arm, and together we worked our way against the direction of the great majority of the crowd. I should not have known where to go, but eventually we went down some stairs and around a corridor, and there was a large room, and Rose was standing in it laughing, surrounded by several people, all of whom were kissing and congratulating her warmly.

  ‘Oh, what am I doing here?’ I exclaimed, overcome with shyness and the strong impression of not being in the same world as all these gaily dressed, cheerful people. ‘Oh, do let’s go!’

  But before we could make a move toward the door, Rose spied me, and jumping towards me, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me happily.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you came!’ she exclaimed, and my vision melted and disappeared, and there was Rose in front of me, exactly as she always had been; perhaps just a little taller, but really no different at all!

  ‘I’m going away from Cambridge, did you know?’ she told me eagerly. ‘I’m going to study in London, at the Royal Academy! I am frightened – I’ll be the worst student there, I just know it!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I laughed with relief. ‘Surely if they accepted you, they mustn’t think so! How did it come about? Did you have to go there and play?’

  ‘Oh, yes – it was awful!’ she cried. ‘I played for a professor who called me into his room. First I played my prepared pieces, and then he made me play scales and studies and horribly difficult exercises and things – they were much too difficult! He said “Do wat Ai do” and I had to try to imitate it all, and his hands are absolutely enormous – it wasn’t at all fair! I thought he must be thinking how awful I was, but then he said “Eet ees good, you study wiz me.” He’s Italian – his name’s Professor Pezze frrrrom Milano. Then I listened to his class and heard all his students. They’re all wonderful – one of them is a girl, and she’s even younger than I am! Her name is May Mukle. “Remember her name,” he told me, “eet weel be famous some day!” Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘I wish I could say “So will you”,’ I told her, ‘but after hearing you play, I don’t want to any more; it seems of no importance whether one is famous or not, when one can speak so with the voice of a wooden instrument. What matters is that voice. Never lose it, Rose! Don’t let a teacher train it until it becomes unrecognisable!’ I kissed her, and then turned away, for I felt near tears with emotion.

  ‘Music tells everything, but everything,’ I mused, as Arthur and I walked home through the quiet streets. ‘I didn’t think about Sylvia for a single second during the music, yet now that I remember her, I feel as though her whole story, and everything that must happen, and all that I must do was told there. The Sonata by Grieg told a story of mysterious passion, while the Bach suite described a kind of mathematically inexorable fate; then the Beethoven Sonata ended it all with a tale of intense suffering mellowing into unbearable sweetness. That’s how the music says it will end, and I believe in such messages – at least, I pray that it may happen so!’

  Arthur slipped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed hard, without speaking.

  We arrived home, and were precisely in the process of kissing each other goodnight most tenderly – goodness, we are engaged! – when Mrs Fitzwilliam’s door popped open and I nearly had a heart attack from dismay. I turned to her, sure that I was about to be the victim of serious remarks.

  ‘You’ve received a telegram,’ she said, ‘I took it for you.’ She handed it to me, and forgetting all about the kiss, I tore it open and read it together with Arthur. Its brief but powerful contents were as follows:

  YOUR MAN WAS SEEN ON SIX-FIFTEEN FERRY FROM CALAIS STOP PAT

  ‘We shall leave as soon as possible,’ Arthur said simply. ‘We’ll arrange it tomorrow.’

  So Pat was right. Oh, I do feel frightened of what I may find out in Paris. But there is nothing for it. It is clear that I must go.

  Your deeply moved and worried

  Vanessa

  Paris, Sunday, July 3rd, 1892

  My dearest sister,

  Here we are in Paris – we arrived yesterday rather late and tired, booked into a hotel – Le Grand Hôtel de Paris, if you please, on the Rue de Rivoli – and spent the evening trying not to make fools of ourselves while getting something to eat, and then walking along the indescribably beautiful moonlit banks of the Seine. The whole of today was devoted to exploring the city under the expert guidance of our ubiquitous friend Mr Korneck, who arrived separately (under more luxurious conditions, I have no doubt) but has made arrangements to join our party with alacrity.

  I must write down these
experiences while they are fresh in my mind, for I feel that if I do not, they will soon fade away and disappear. There is something so very unreal, so gossamer fragile, about all that is happening to me at this moment. I, Vanessa Duncan, ignorant and inexperienced schoolmistress from the country, taking a walk in Paris – why, one might as well take a climb up Mount Parnassus and meet the gods! The beauty and the history of the city make me feel simultaneously very humble and altogether euphoric, and I admit that for the space of one day, the purpose which brought me here slipped somewhat towards the back of my mind; but I shall turn my full attention to it again tomorrow.

  The windows of our hotel rooms overlook the Tuileries where poor Marie-Antoinette, Sylvia’s unhappy heroine, whiled away many miserable months before the axe of the Revolution finally descended upon her and her family.

  I am armed, for detection, with the names of two of Mrs Bryce-Fortescue’s friends in Paris whom Sylvia and Camilla frequented last winter; I retained them from our conversations. Indeed, I clearly remember her mentioning the Hardwicks of the Embassy – they should be easy enough to find, and then the Mrs Clemming with whom she was acquainted of old. Although Mrs Bryce-Fortescue would probably not have wished me to come here, she knows nothing of it, and I shall profit from this ignorance by making shameless use of her name in calling upon them, before they can find out the truth.

  According to Sylvia, Mrs Clemming is a widow who is quite well off; constrained to live the simplest and soberest of proper lives during her husband’s lifetime, she sold everything the moment he died and moved to Paris immediately, where she has lived ever since, having succeeded in establishing a rather chic salon, which means that writers and artists, with a seasoning of a few members of the minor aristocracy of various countries, frequent her house regularly once a week. It sounds rather fun – I only hope that she will think me fit to be invited there, as Sylvia was! As for the Hardwicks, I do not know what they are like, but I do know that Sylvia saw them when she was here, and that will be a starting point for my investigations. Tomorrow I will call at both their homes, and if they are not in, I shall leave notes; it should be cards, of course, but alas, I am not possessed of any!