Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

“I don’t think so. It’s no more ridiculous than any of the other things that have happened. And it’s happened before. In Sydney.” The flicker of fear in her eyes as his words registered, was unmistakable. Her expression changed. She was his Nina again. He walked across and put his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and clung to him like a child.

  “I’m frightened,” she whispered.

  “So am I. We’d be crazy not to be.”

  “He comes to me when I sleep.” She paused. “He’s so attractive. That’s such an inadequate word. He’s unbelievable. I can’t resist him. He’s in my head. He controls me completely.”

  “We have to work out how to stop him.” Martin swallowed a surge of jealous, bile filled rage. He gripped her tightly.

  “And last night something different happened.” Nina looked up at him, confusion and fear twisting her features. “I was Piers, waiting for Mira in a grove of trees. It was hot. Daytime.”

  “You were Piers? Has that happened before?”

  “No, but that’s not the weirdest thing. I saw Mira and she was me.”

  “What do you mean, you?”

  “She had my face but I was Piers waiting for her. And I absolutely adored her. More than anything. It was the fiercest most consuming passion…”

  She stopped as a realisation hit her. “Do you think he did that deliberately so that we’d, I’d, know? How he feels, felt? To keep us going?”

  “He hasn’t done it to me. I don’t dream about him, thank God,” said Martin. “He just wants to use me.”

  “And don’t you think he’s using me?” she asked incredulously. “You think I’m enjoying this?”

  “Of course not! But you must stay with me, Nina. We have to do this together. Separately we don’t have a hope.”

  She clung to him, closer now than she’d been last night when they made love.

  ****

  Jessica invited them to her house this time. They went that same afternoon travelling by Underground and briskly walking the last few blocks fighting an icy wind direct from the Arctic. Nina, huddled into her thick new navy blue parka was grateful Martin had ignored her protests and insisted on shopping first. Her feet were warm for the first time since their arrival, in stout laced ankle boots and thick socks.

  Jessica greeted Martin like an old friend. Nina hadn’t known what to expect from his vague description but the woman who ushered them into her home reminded her of a bird—a diminutive grey-haired bright-eyed finch dressed in smart charcoal wool slacks, a slim-fitting green sweater with a casually knotted scarf in shades of reds and greens and gypsy-style gold hoop earrings.

  Her skin had a rosy glow and the welcoming smile never wavered as she darted about taking their coats and hanging them in the hall cupboard.

  “Come in, come in. You must be frozen,” she said to Nina. “Coming from Sydney in the summer. This weather is hopeless. I don’t know why I don’t pack up and move to Barbados.”

  She herded them through to the living room. Nina sat on the cream-covered couch. Martin waited for Jessica to take her seat opposite then sat beside Nina.

  “Now, let’s get straight to the point,” Jessica said. “That’s what we all want, don’t we?” She cocked an inquiring eye at Martin and he nodded.

  “Before we see your photos, though,” he said. “We’d like you to look at something and tell us what you think.”

  Nina opened her bag and pulled out the precious envelope containing the Shadow Music. She carefully placed the violin part on the low table in front of her.

  “Can you tell us if that is George’s handwriting?” She pointed to the words scrawled across the top.

  Jessica picked a pair of gold rimmed half moon glasses off the coffee table and perched them on her nose. She peered at the inscription.

  “Oh my, oh my,” she said. “Well I never.” She unconsciously clutched her hands together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white under the pressure.

  “What is it?” asked Nina softly.

  “That’s George’s writing but I’ve never seen that before. I mean, when he showed me the parts all those years ago he hadn’t written on it.”

  She raised a worried face and looked from one to the other. “That would mean he played the music himself. Before he sent the parts away. I was so sure he never…” She closed her mouth firmly, obviously unwilling to admit he might have deceived her.

  Martin said, “We wondered why he didn’t play himself. Why he gave the violin part to the other violinist who, incidentally, detested it.”

  “He did play it,” said Nina. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have written what he did. I wonder if…” She stopped and looked at Martin. “Should we?”

  “I think we should. Jessica may know more than she thinks about it.”

  “About what?” demanded Jessica.

  “The Shadow Music,” said Martin and between them they gave her a relatively concise rundown of their experiences to date. Jessica sat silent throughout, her grey eyes giving nothing away, her face alert and interested as she listened.

  When Martin finished with their surprise at reading her letter that morning she didn’t utter a word for several long moments. Nina met Martin’s eye. Was she about to make a frantic dash for the telephone and call the police or the lunatic asylum?

  Jessica cleared her throat, swallowed and said, “If I hadn’t heard that melody myself I would think you two were completely and utterly barking mad. As it is, I believe every word you’ve told me.”

  A collective relieved exhalation whooshed through the room. Jessica stood up and went across to a small antique writing desk. She returned with a bundle of photographs and spread them on the coffee table. Nina and Martin leaned forward eagerly.

  “These are the photos I found in that suitcase in the attic.” She picked one up. “This is George’s mother, Anne, as a baby. His grandmother is holding her and standing beside them is his grandfather.”

  “Stanley West.” Nina gazed at the man whose initials appeared on the music. In the manner of all early photographs the subjects posed stiffly, staring at the camera as though at a firing squad. “When was she born?”

  “October,1903. All the men wore those dreadful mutton chop whiskers. The height of fashion.” She gave a little titter of laughter. “And the women all looked terribly fierce. Probably from wearing those shocking corsets.”

  “So this must have been taken in 1903 or at latest, early 1904. Anne’s only a few months old.” Nina studied the faded sepia toned figures.

  “This is another of Stanley and his bride on their wedding day. Her name was Elizabeth.”

  “What a lovely wedding dress. Look at that veil.”

  “Yes that would have been in 1902. April, I think.”

  “How do you know the dates of these things?” asked Martin.

  “I told you I’ve been doing a bit of sleuthing,” Jessica said proudly. “Family records, Births, Deaths, Marriages, that sort of thing. The internet is very useful.”

  She picked up another photo. “This is the one I thought might be most interesting, and since you’ve filled me in, I know it is.”

  Six faces gazed solemnly out from the past. They held musical instruments and one sat at an upright piano. The shot had been taken in a living room, complete with potted plants and heavy velvet curtains. Nina scanned it eagerly then relaxed. Piers wasn’t there. Someone else held the violin, a nondescript thin-faced man.

  “This one is Michael, Stanley’s father.” Jessica pointed.

  “He’s Irish,” said Martin. “Has a lilting accent and a soft, gentle voice.”

  “However do you know that?” Jessica exclaimed. Then she remembered. “Oh.”

  Martin nodded. “I heard him.”

  “I don’t know any other names except this one, his cousin Arthur.” She indicated the pianist. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” said Nina. “We do.”

  Martin said, “That’s Jasper with the flute.”

&
nbsp; Nina gazed at the pale, earnest-looking man trying to reconcile the flat, two-dimensional image with the voice and flute playing she had heard for months.

  “But Piers isn’t there.” Nina looked at Martin. “We don’t know any of the others, do we?”

  “When was this taken?” he asked Jessica.

  “Probably early 1900’s. Michael was born in 1848 and Stanley in 1872. I’d guess Michael to be around fifty-five, wouldn’t you?”

  Martin sighed, as disappointed as Nina. “That makes this photo well past the time we’re dealing with. They all sound young, don’t you think, Nina? Jasper looks about fifty as well and I think he’s only in his late twenties or even younger.”

  “It’s hard to tell from voices though,” objected Jessica.

  “True. But we know they were involved with the Golden Dawn group and they fizzled out early in the 1900’s.”

  Why were they gasbagging about what was so obvious? “We both know Piers is young. He’s no more than thirty.”

  Jessica gave Nina a startled almost hurt look. A frown chased across Martin’s face. She must have sounded as annoyed as she was. She modified her tone as she went on. “It’s obviously a different group to ours. There are too many of them for starters. And I’ve never heard a piano. Ever.” She slumped back into the couch. “What a fizzer.”

  “I’ll bring the tea, shall I?” Jessica got up hurriedly and darted out of the room before either could say a word.

  “Well, now what?” asked Nina.

  “We stay and have tea and we’ll be polite to Jessica,” said Martin abruptly. “She could help us a lot. Don’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “She has access to all sorts of information and she doesn’t think we’re crazy.”

  Nina scowled but Piers said, “The music is here. You are close to the music. I feel it.”

  His voice ran through her brain like an electric shock, jolting her upright, too surprised to hide her reaction from Martin. His eyes narrowed.

  “What happened?”

  “Piers just told me the music is here. He can feel we’re close to the music.” Wide-eyed she stared at him. He reached out and clutched her fingers in his.

  Jessica re-entered the room holding a tray laden with cups, plates, fruitcake and a teapot in a brightly coloured, knitted cosy. She put it down carefully on the table and began setting out cups and saucers.

  “Milk, sugar?” she asked, teapot held at the ready.

  “Just milk for both of us,” said Martin. He took the rose patterned cup and saucer Jessica offered him. “Thank you.”

  “Jessica, I’m sorry if I sounded rude just now.” Nina took her cup. Martin was right. They needed Jessica. Piers needed her.

  “You were disappointed. That’s understandable.” The cheerful smile reappeared. “I should apologise for building up your hopes.”

  “Find the music,” said Piers.

  “No, no, not at all.” Nina took a deep breath. “Do you think George may have kept some of the music instead of sending it away? I mean, he obviously got rid of the parts we’ve found but what if he kept the score, for example? Is that possible?”

  “I suppose so. But he was adamant about getting rid of it.” Jessica frowned into her tea. “If he did it can’t have been put with the other music or Martin would have found it at the shop.”

  “Find the violin. Find the instrument,” Piers insisted.

  “Did you keep his violin?” asked Nina.

  “Yes, I did. He loved it so much I was reluctant to part with it.” She smiled sadly. “It’s a little reminder of him for me when I go into the room he used as a practice room. I have my computer in there now.”

  “Maybe he put the music with his violin and the pieces he was playing regularly.”

  “Oh, he never played that piece again. I would’ve heard it,” said Jessica quite definitely. “It frightened him too much, I think.”

  “It’s very, very difficult—impossible—to destroy it,” Martin reminded her gently. “We were amazed that he could have even managed to post the parts away and not be forced to keep playing. Especially as he had the violin music. Piers’ part is the main one, the most powerful.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t,” said Nina. Piers knew he hadn’t. That was why they were here. “Perhaps he kept the score and it’s still here.”

  Jessica bounced to her feet with surprising energy for her age. “Why are we sitting here then? Let’s look.”

  As they mounted the stairs to the first floor, excitement built with each step. Piers was almost a tangible presence by her side as Jessica opened the door to a room she called “George’s study.” She snapped on the light before darting across to drag apart the heavy forest green drapes and let in some feeble winter light.

  Nina had already spied the violin case on a shelf of the bookcase which took up one whole wall of the room, floor to ceiling. Piers breathed hard in her ear. She glanced over her shoulder expecting to catch a glimpse of him but there was nothing.

  “There! There!” he whispered hoarsely.

  “May I?” she asked, barely waiting for Jessica’s nod before lifting the instrument down and placing it on the desk. Piers fingers wrestled with hers as she unzipped the blue outer covering but he paused before opening the case itself. Nina slid her hand between the cover and the hard case and smiled triumphantly as she pulled out a sheaf of music.

  Piers gave a shout of triumph and cried, “There it is. You have it! Play! You must play. Now!”

  Surely they heard him? How could they not? But both Martin and Jessica were transfixed by the music in her hand. They hadn’t heard a thing.

  “We have to play it, Martin,” she said.

  Jessica clutched her hands together. She opened her mouth but words failed to emerge. She sat down hurriedly on the leather swivel chair behind George’s desk. Nina spread the sheets of music before them on the polished wood of the desk.

  It was a score. Six staves of music joined by a thick bar line at the beginning and end of each line. Ten unbound handwritten pages. Across the top was written in the same familiar elegant script as on their own parts, “Shadow Music.” The initials P de C were printed neatly in the top right-hand corner.

  “Piers wrote it.” exclaimed Martin.

  “Of course. Who else?” Nina scoffed. “We knew that already.”

  Martin frowned and shot her a suspicious look. Her voice had changed—firmer, harsher, the tone of a leader.

  “We have to play it,” she said again.

  “How can we play it? We don’t have the instruments. And you can’t play the violin part properly.” Piers had somehow invaded Nina once more. The selfish, obsessed lunatic. He had to fight the maniac, keep control of Nina.

  “Piers will play it,” she said.

  Jessica gasped. “Oh, my goodness.”

  “Nina. We don’t have the instruments. We can’t.”

  “Sven can play the bass. Look there’s a double bass line as well as a cello.” She stabbed a finger at the relevant part.

  “No, I won’t ask him again. And we can’t ask a guitarist to play. You know we can’t.” He barely recognised the girl behind the ferocious grimace and the raging fire in her eyes. Going head to head and arguing with her was pointless. Arguing with Piers, in other words. He changed tack. “Fine. Calm down. We’ll have to think about it very carefully.”

  He sat down on a straight-backed chair, legs stuck out in front of him. Nina remained standing, chest rising and falling with each furious breath but the anger slowly subsided. Jessica, white-faced, swivelled her head from one to the other.

  “Do you know Piers’ other name?” she asked eventually.

  “Piers de Crespigny,” said Nina shortly. “He told Martin. If you’re wondering how we know.”

  “Perhaps I can track him down on the internet.” She sat up straighter. “Well, relatives at least. I’ll give it a try tonight.” She smiled at them both, colour returning to her cheeks. “You gave me quite a
turn then, Nina.”

  Nina looked at Jessica blankly for several long moments, then her face softened and her lips curved in the smile Martin loved.

  “I’m sorry, Jessica.” The smile faded and her voice shook slightly as she continued, “Piers…sometimes he talks for me. I don’t know how to stop him.”

  “Can’t you just not have anything to do with the music?”

  “No,” they said simultaneously. Nina walked across to Martin and took his hand. He returned the pressure, trying to send comfort and reassuring strength through his touch.

  “George couldn’t either, could he? And he was stronger than either of us because he managed at least to separate the parts,” he said.

  “Piers is the key to this. We must find out about Piers,” announced Jessica firmly. “He wrote the thing. There must be something about him somewhere.”

  “I suppose,” said Martin slowly. “We could ask him.”

  Nina turned to Jessica. “That’s how Martin found out his full name. I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough to resist him. You’ll have to,” she said, looking Martin directly in the eye.

  No one spoke until he said, “What will I ask him?”

  “What the date is and where he is. No, where he was at the time—you know?” suggested Jessica. “Also find out Mira’s full name, then I can do a search on her.” She laughed. “I can’t believe we’re having such a discussion, seriously, about talking to a ghost.”

  Nina nodded. “I know. But we’re long past thinking we’re mad. Look at what George wrote. He knew, too.”

  “That’s true. What shall we do now?” asked Jessica. “This looks like a lengthy process. I think dinner might be a good idea. You’ll stay with me, of course?” Before they could reply she’d bustled across and drawn the curtains against the winter darkness which had fallen stealthy and unnoticed as they talked. “I’ve a good thick hotpot ready to heat up. All we need do is add some extra vegetables. After dinner we can decide on a plan of attack.”

  She stood with her hand on the study door handle, her eyes betraying her anxiety that they stay and not leave her alone with the realisation her husband had been haunted by a spectre from the past. And that her beloved George had deceived her, however well intentioned that deception may have been.