Eric still hadn’t come down. I went to the stairs and called him, but I got no reply. I made myself some dinner and ate it in the lounge, staring at the strange arrangement of account statements and fan mail and creepy photographs on my desk. This was turning out to be anything but the boring country sojourn I’d envisaged.
I picked up one of Helen’s letters, reading over the words once again. What had made this girl so desperate for Eric’s attention that she’d done all this? But then, I thought of Damon Sputnik, and all the scheming I’d done with Cindy over the last six months to get him to notice me. Sure, I hadn’t tried to run him over, but I had thought about tripping him up, just for an excuse to talk to him? Was I really any different?
It all comes back to the music.
Eric’s music. That’s what all this was about, really. If I understood the music, I would understand Helen.
I grabbed my iPod off the desk, and slipped it into my pocket. It was time for some more sleuthing.
Eric still hadn’t shown his face. I kicked open the door to my bedroom, and told him if he was inside it was time for him to leave. Satisfied that he was too much of a gentleman to spy on me, I undressed and showered, washing away the strangeness of the day. After I finished my shower and crawled into bed, I pulled out the iPod, jammed the headphones into my ears, and typed Eric’s name into the store.
You shouldn’t be doing this, I cursed myself inwardly. It’s a bad idea. You’ll either hate it, and Eric will be hurt, or you’ll love it, and it will make you fall for him even more—
Nonsense, Devil’s Advocate Elinor scoffed. I have to help Eric find out who killed him, and if it’s Helen Manning, then listening to his music is going to help me understand her mindset better. The best detectives had an innate ability to get inside the heads of criminals, and that’s all I’m trying to do here.
Really?
Really.
Ghost Symphony’s latest album, Coppelius’s Alchemy, popped up. The front cover was an image of Eric with his back to the viewer, wearing a long leather trenchcoat that flapped around his body as he walked through a gloomy, gothic cemetery. His wavy black hair streamed down his back, and in his hand he clutched Isolde. The bow was strapped to his belt like a sword.
I clicked BUY NOW.
My heart pounded against my chest as I watched the little circle download. It clicked over to FINISHED, and the album art appeared in my library. I took a deep breath, and pushed PLAY.
The first notes rang out, slow and sombre in my ears. The melody drew into a deep, crushing riff, and soon I was nodding my head along. Then, Eric’s bow screamed across the strings, and a piano fluttered to life, and the song kicked into three-and-a-half minutes of the most furious, distorted and fantastic music I’d ever heard.
I let out the breath I didn’t even realise I’d been holding. The music swirled around me, full of malice and dread. My fingers drummed the furious beat against my thigh, and my head nodded along as I lost myself completely in this strange world of classical instruments and heavy metal abandon. I saw the track was called “Sandman”, after the legendary monster of Hoffman’s story that tore out the eyes of children who didn’t sleep to feed to his own children who lived on the moon. It was as if they’d brought the tale to life. Not the story, per say, but the mood, the sensations.
This music was Eric. It was raw and powerful. It was a glimpse into his soul. I couldn’t believe the cocky, grinning ghost that had been bugging me for the last couple of days was the man who created this.
Now, I understood what had made Helen so obsessed with him. As the music coursed through my head, my body grew warm. I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, but I felt agitated, on edge. I wanted to do something, but I wasn’t sure what. I imagined Eric on stage, his fit body wrapped head-to-toe in black and his dark ringlets plastered to his face by the heat of the stage lights. His fingers flew across the neck as he raced across the front of the stage, planting his feet wide apart as he pummelled the instrument with his bow. I pictured myself in the audience, hemmed in on all sides by sweaty, pulsing bodies, each one feeling the same awe and majesty as I felt. I imagined Eric finishing the last, haunting note, reaching down and grabbing my hand, pulling me on stage and sweeping me into a passionate kiss, while all around us, the crowd roared their adoration ...
I tore off the headphones, and threw them across the room. “This was a dumb idea,” I said aloud. I rolled over, turned out the light, and tried to focus on sleep. But even with my eyes shut tight, I could still see Eric under the spotlight, his beautiful fingers dancing over the strings.
Eric
I spent the night hiding in the attic with mountains of old junk and all the antique furniture that Dad had chosen and my mother therefore never wanted to see again. I hadn’t seen Elinor since I’d run from the study, and I felt guilty and stupid for hiding for so long, although I couldn’t figure out why I should feel that way. I hunted in through boxes and inside cupboards and under Chippendale chairs for my violin case, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.
When I heard Elinor finish her morning shower and descend the stairs, I decided it was time to show myself. I felt nervous seeing her again, like a teenager trying to talk to his crush. Don’t be ridiculous, Eric. So she saw you when you were vulnerable. Big deal. It’s not as if she can tell the press about it.
I squared my shoulders and floated down the staircase. Best to pretend nothing happened. Just act like your normal, arrogant, wise-cracking self.
But that was going to prove more difficult than I realised. When I entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, Elinor wouldn’t even meet my eye. She stayed hunched over her laptop, her eyes scanning some website while she sipped her morning tea, deliberately angling herself away from me. The awkwardness hung in the air between us like a gallows filled with condemned men.
“You disappeared yesterday,” Elinor mumbled into her cereal. “I had some things to tell you.”
“I was looking for my violin,” I answered. I wondered if she was expecting an explanation, or an apology. I didn’t think I owed her one. It was my house, after all. I could move about it as I liked.
“Your violin? You mean Isolde?” Elinor was still avoiding my gaze. That was odd. Was she embarrassed about the things she’d said in the hallway? That must be it. She had been trying to push me away ever since I’d tried to kiss her, and she felt as if she’d revealed too much. That was fine, at least she wasn’t looking at me like I was pathetic. That I could not bear.
“Yeah.” I hovered inside the chair across from her, trying to place my body within her vision. “I couldn’t see her in the crash pictures. It’s quite a large case, so we would’ve seen it in the car. But she wasn’t there. That means I must’ve left her in the house somewhere before I started driving again, although I don’t know why I’d do that.”
“That makes sense. Did you find her?”
“No. I haven’t checked everywhere, though. It would help if I could remember where I’d put her. I hate this stupid selective memory thing.”
“Could she not be back with the rest of the gear at the venue in London?”
I shook my head, a silly gesture, since she couldn’t see it. “No. I probably left Tristan behind, sure. But not my father’s violin. She comes with me everywhere. She must be here in the house somewhere. But then, why I’d leave her here is also a mystery. Maybe you can help me look today?”
“I’m quite busy with work today.” Elinor said shortly, her hair hanging over her face as she pushed her cereal into her mouth with giant gulps. Another awkward silence descended upon us, broken only by her furious chewing.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, breaking the silence. The question came out a bit sharper than I’d intended. I was starting to get annoyed at her on-off behaviour. I wasn’t used to this, having to chase someone who only sometimes wanted to be chased.
“No. Everything’s fine.” Elinor looked up then, and I saw that her eyes were ringed with
dark shadows. “I just didn’t get a lot of sleep, is all.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, you’re going to love it. Duncan came for tea yesterday. He informed me that we’re having the funeral—yours and your mother’s—here, at Marshell House, on Saturday.”
“What?” I froze. My whole body went numb, and I dropped a foot through the kitchen floor before I managed to pull myself up again. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I am. Duncan has made all the arrangements. There’s going to be black flowers everywhere, and a big marquee out on the back lawn with a stage for live music and speeches, and a huge catered dinner, and they’ve sold 400 tickets to all of the most fanatical members of your fan club, so all your closest friends and family will be here to talk about how wonderful you are. And look,” Elinor turned the screen on her laptop around so I could see the website she was browsing. “Tickets are starting to appear on eBay, for £250 each. There’s not enough space here for all the people who want to go, Eric. Your funeral sold out.”
I buried my face in my hands, my elbows sinking through the oak table. No. This can’t be happening. As if being murdered wasn’t enough, I was going to have to sit here and watch my own funeral? This was too much.
Elinor reached across the table and took my hand. The warmth flowed through my body, pulsing with the beating of her heart. That was the first time Elinor had initiated contact with me.
I looked up, and Elinor looked up too, and held my gaze.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We will track down Helen Manning, and maybe you won’t have to endure this. I’ll make sure Duncan pays for what he’s done. I won’t let anyone get away with hurting you, Eric.”
Her tone was so strong, so final. I nodded, feeling annoyed at myself for being sharp with her, and relieved that she was here. It felt good to have someone looking out for me. I was so used to having to take care of things myself.
The doorbell rang. Elinor sprung back as if she’d been slapped. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, clutching her hand as if I had burned it. “I’ll get that.”
She dashed off. I floated to the window to see who it was. My chest swelled with warmth when I recognised the familiar blonde-haired figure shuffling from foot to foot as he waited on the porch.
Allan.
Elinor
What were you thinking? There I went again, getting close to Eric, forgetting about the barrier that stood between us. When I reached out to touch him, I hadn’t even thought of the heat, or the way it made me feel. I just wanted to show comfort, to let him know that he didn’t have to do this alone. But I’d broken my rule. I’d got too close … again. I needed to be more careful if I was to escape this house with my heart still intact.
The doorbell rang again. I rushed through the house to answer it, assuming it was one of the vendors for the funeral. Eric’s funeral. How on earth was I going to hold it together while I watched Eric’s body being lowered into his grave?
Knock knock.
“Hello?” I pulled open the door. The man on the porch looked taken aback to see me standing there. He was young, close to my age, and wearing a black t-shirt with a grinning skull on it and a pair of tight black trousers with buckles along the seams. I recognised him from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it. “H-hello?” he asked.
“You’re knocking on my door, I’m supposed to be asking the questions.”
“Oh, right, yes.” He scratched his head. “So you own this house, then?”
“No.” He waited for me to volunteer more information. I didn’t.
“I … um … I was told Alice Marshell’s lawyer was here. I’m a friend of her son, Eric. Actually, I’m the drummer in his band. I expect you’ve heard of us—”
“I’m Ms. Marshell’s lawyer,” I said, cutting him off. So that’s why he seemed familiar – I’d seen the picture of him on Eric’s website, standing toward the back of the band picture, looking staunch and sexy in black leather. I wasn’t about to acknowledge that I recognised him, though. I’d had enough experience with Eric to know that if you wanted to keep the upper hand around these rock star types you had to pretend you didn’t know who they were. It unnerved them.
“Her lawyer? Really?” He sounded incredulous. “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to pull a fast one on me.”
“Excuse me?” I pushed the door shut a couple of inches, indicating I was ready to cut the conversation short. What did this arrogant jerk want to see, my bar exam results?
“It’s just that lawyers aren’t usually so pretty. At least, not the ones I’ve met.”
Oh. Despite the cheesy line, I couldn’t help but grin. I was such a sucker for a bad boy. Allan-the-drummer grinned back. He was actually pretty cute, with spiked blonde hair and smooth, almost angelic features, although the steel spikes through his eyebrows and labret showed that he was no cherub. His piercing blue eyes flickered over my body, and the grin never left his face. And, a huge plus for him, he appeared to be completely, 100% alive.
“So what do you want at the house of Alice Marshell?” I asked Allan. “No offense, but if what I’ve heard about her is correct, she was not overly fond of either her son or his chosen profession. I’d expect she’d have stoned you at the door, but she also seemed quite proper and Debrett’s etiquette tends to frown on the use of medieval tortures for unwanted houseguests.”
“Relax, I’m not here to rob the place or make trouble. I’m meant to be giving a eulogy at the funeral on Saturday and thought I should scope the place out. But, I actually wanted to talk to you, Miss Pretty Lawyer with the ponytail and cute glasses. I have some questions about the estate.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Come in,” I said, throwing the door open.
Allan followed me through the entrance and receiving room and into the kitchen, his buckles clanging against each other with every step. I pulled my last bottle of wine out of the fridge and poured us both a glass, then led him into the floral sitting room. I saw Eric standing in the corner of the room, staring at me with a strange expression on his face. Allan followed my gaze into the corner, but his face didn’t register Eric’s presence. He didn’t stop talking about the last tour they’d done together to mention the figure of his old friend in the corner. So that answered one of our questions. I was the only one who could see Eric.
“Wow,” Allan said, glancing around the room at the faded Victorian roses and lace doilies. “This is very … ”
“Ghastly,” I said, slumping into one of the chairs. “I can’t imagine living in this house. Well, actually, I could, but only after some serious redecorating, and a contract with an extermination company to have all the spiders removed.”
“I can’t imagine Eric living here,” Allan said, sitting down on the couch, leaning over the arm so that he was close to me. “It’s so stuffy and old-fashioned, not like him at all. His place in Devon is all gleaming marble and wrought iron. Industrial goth, he liked to call it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Marshell House has a bit of a vibe about it. It’s a bit horror-film theatrics, you know, the crumbling gothic mansion filled with antiques, every room a tribute to the cruel, uncaring mother. I imagine that influenced his music a bit.”
“I think all the free booze and women on the road had some impact, as well.” Allan grinned. In the corner, Eric twisted his face into a scowl. For some reason, he wasn’t happy about Allan being there.
“Tell me about him,” I said, turning toward Allan so I could no longer see Eric’s face. “What was it like working with him? I’ve never met him or even heard of him before, but spending time in this house and learning about his family life, I feel as if I’m getting to know him a bit.”
“About Eric? He’s remarkable. There are musicians who are into dark music because they think it’s cool, or a way to get into kinky stuff with hot goth chicks, or whatever. But Eric is different. The music is him. He’s intense to be in a band with; he doesn’t lau
gh a lot, and he doesn’t like to be told he’s wrong. But he has an incredible creative mind. Had an incredible mind, I guess I should say.” Allan gulped, looking away suddenly. Behind me, Eric snorted. Allan wiped his eyes. “Sorry, it’s still sinking in, you know? We just played a show and then, a few hours later, he was dead.”
“Do you know much about how he died?”
“The police told us it was a hit-and-run. They’re still looking for the other driver, but they said that without any witnesses it’s unlikely they will find him. It’s just one of those horrible, tragic events that we all have to live with.”
“So you said you wanted to talk to me about something? If it’s to do with the funeral arrangements, you need to contact Duncan—”
“The jolly old dude? I’ve already talked to him. He was the one who sent me here, actually. I came up from London a few days early. I needed the time to collect myself, walk around this town and remember Eric before he … before I …” Allan turned away from me, took a deep breath and held it for a few moments, then let the air race out through his lips. “I came to Crookshollow once before with Eric, We stayed here at one of his friend’s flats above a tattoo parlour after our first sold-out tour. It’s quite a magical place. I want to kind of walk around and remember him.”
“That’s nice.” Allan looked sick. I noticed for the first time that his blue eyes were rimmed with black shadows. He’d lost his close friend, his bandmate. No wonder he was a bit of a mess. I hurried to adjust my tone. “No, I mean it. I know firsthand how tough it is to lose someone close to you. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh. It’s silly.”
“What?”
“I was wondering if I could have his violin.”
“You what?”
“Eric’s violin.” Allan unfolded a piece of paper from the pocket of his pants, and spread it out on the table. “The one he calls Isolde. We have Tristan in our backline, but Isolde is missing. That’s the letter from Eric’s lawyer. It says he left me both violins in his will. He didn’t have much family, apart from his mother, and she wouldn't have wanted it because it used to be Eric’s father’s instrument, so I guess it makes sense that he left it to me. It’s a bit of an honour, actually. But the problem is, I can’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t in his house in Devon. The police didn’t find it in his car after the accident, and so I was wondering if perhaps it might be here?”
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 13