Fatal Inheritance (11 page)

‘Professor Wilcox?’ Rose said timidly, opening the door a crack, once her preliminary knock had produced a rather sharp ‘Come in!’ in response.

‘Come in.’ The professor was sitting at a desk laden with papers, mostly musical scores, in the process of making annotations on one of them with a pencil. He wrote with his right hand; his left, turned palm upwards, was agitated by a continuous wiggling of the fingers which I momentarily took for a disease before suddenly comprehending that he was playing an imaginary violin, visualising fingerings that he was then transporting onto the score by means of tiny numbers. He looked as though our arrival was something of an unwelcome interruption, I thought, but then surely the worry lines etched into his forehead indicated a state of more general strain than that caused by our momentary apparition.

‘We’re very sorry to bother you,’ said Rose politely, ‘but my friend is trying to help Sebastian’s family – Sebastian Cavendish – and we thought …’ Her voice trailed off suddenly at the sight of the hostile storm gathering upon the professor’s face.

‘I have no interest in discussing Sebastian Cavendish,’ he said shortly.

Abashed, I was on the point of melting meekly away, and I am sure that Rose did not mean to be insolent. The sudden ‘But why not?’ that sprang from her lips echoed nothing but a most sincere reaction of bewilderment.

Professor Wilcox stood up and, bracing himself on his desk with his two fists, leant forward to add emphasis to his chopped-off words.

‘Why not?’ he repeated coldly. ‘Why not? Has it ever occurred to you that there is no act more indicative of utter egotism, selfishness and cruelty than suicide?’

There was a brief pause, during which Rose and I glanced at each other and each perceived that such a thought had never crossed either of our minds. A shocking, iconoclastic notion, this, cutting across the accepted – and surely not entirely mistaken – view of the suicide as having been harassed to his death by the unbearable weight of inner or outer circumstances.

‘I spent years of my life nurturing Sebastian,’ Professor Wilcox was continuing, the muscles of his face strained. ‘I invested countless hours, limitless effort, unspoken depths of feeling in that boy. And if I, a teacher, can say this, think for one moment of his mother! So much devotion, so much love, so much care went into him. What right had he, on the edge of manhood, on the very cusp of the fruition of all our dreams, to throw it all away? I don’t want to speak of it. I don’t even wish to think about it. Did he have a single thought for anyone else before rushing into that mad act? Probably not. What Sebastian did has thrown me into a mental state of disgust with teaching that I will take months or years to overcome, if I ever succeed.’ He glared at us for a long moment, and finally spat, ‘I wish never to hear his name again,’ leaving the clear impression that the name was ceaselessly before his troubled mind.

There was no possible rejoinder to this argument, so bitter and yet so undeniably justified. All of my eager questions faded upon my lips, and we could think of nothing better to do than murmur confused apologies as we hurried simultaneously out of the room in a swish of mingling skirts, and closed the door carefully behind us. Only when we had put an entire corridor and staircase between ourselves and the intensity and resentment of the wounded teacher did we stop to breathe.

‘Oh dear,’ said Rose, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

‘Oh dear, indeed,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. I do hope the others won’t be like that.’

‘But they might, for he really is right in a way. From his point of view, I mean. I do see that now, although I would never have thought of it before.’

‘I believe it takes an egotist to see into the heart of an egotist,’ I observed sagely. ‘Performing musicians, star soloists like Sebastian or his grandfather, must necessarily have a strong ego, otherwise they would not be able to lead the life they do, or even to desire it.’

‘I suppose so,’ she assented glumly. ‘At any rate, that was absolutely useless, and very disagreeable to boot. I wonder who else would know? Oh, I have an idea, if you feel courageous. We’ll go straight to the Director. He’s a very formal person, but really he’s a dear at heart, and surely he can’t feel quite as personally involved in it all as Professor Wilcox does.’

She led me to the Director’s office, where we were told by a forbidding secretary that the Director was out and that in any case he could only be seen by appointment, and asked what the object of our visit was to be.

‘It’s about Sebastian Cavendish,’ Rose began. The woman looked up sharply, and repeated the name in a questioning tone. It struck me that everyone in the school knew Sebastian or at least knew of him, and that much might be learnt from speaking to them.

By a stroke of pleasing good fortune, the outer door opened at that precise moment, and the Director entered just in time to hear the secretary repeat the name.

‘What about Sebastian?’ he asked, without any formality at all.

‘Oh, Professor Mackenzie,’ she said, her stiffness melting slightly in a flutter at having been observed unexpectedly. ‘I was just about to make an appointment for you with these two young women. I recognise you,’ she added in Rose’s direction. ‘You are a student here, are you not? Rose Evergreene, I believe.’ She ran her pen down the pages of the appointment book that lay open upon the desk before her, searching for an empty spot.

‘You wished to speak to me about Sebastian?’ the Director said, coming nearer and ignoring the secretary and her book.

‘Yes, Professor Mackenzie,’ said Rose quickly, ‘you see, we …’

‘Come into my office, why don’t you,’ he interrupted, and, passing behind the secretary, he unlocked and opened the door to his inner sanctum, ushered us through, and closed it behind us. I remained for a moment staring at the beauty and luxury of his office, which contained as many artworks as a museum. Exquisite vases stood upon tables and paintings lined the walls: portraits, Flemish still-lives, and a pastoral scene by Watteau. The professor caught my eye.

‘The paintings honour the role of Director of the Royal Academy of Music,’ he said with a smile. ‘They belong to the Academy and to this office, whoever occupies it. Directors come and go: the paintings remain.’

There was a kindly modesty in his remark that made me smile as I took the seat he offered me. Rose took a deep breath and began to explain to Professor Mackenzie that she I and were making an effort to understand the reason behind Sebastian’s suicide.

‘But my dear,’ said the professor, ‘attempting to discover the cause of a suicide is a difficult and thankless task. It may so easily be that there is no precise cause, but a general state of depression and despair. Or,’ he added, no doubt noting the contrast between his description and the impression that Sebastian had left on people, ‘it can be a consequence of hidden, inner doubts. I do admit that although I knew Sebastian but little as an individual, having encountered him only in the contexts of my classes, I would never have guessed that his life would end this way. It is a tragedy for him and for the Academy, and I would not be averse to understanding better what occurred. But I do not see exactly what you are trying to do, and even less how I can be of help to you.’

‘I am particularly concerned by the fact that he spoke of inheritance in his last note,’ I told him. ‘Since it seems there can be no question of money involved, I believe that he must have been speaking of something more personal, more intimate; something about himself, and I particularly wanted to find out more about his grandfather, the violinist Joseph Krieger.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘I recall now hearing that he was Joseph Krieger’s grandson. Quite right. An interesting point. Krieger was the greatest soloist in England in his time. I never heard him, of course. He must have died just about the time when I was born. But his performances were still spoken of twenty years later. Indeed, even today they are remembered as legendary, although there must be relatively few people alive now who actually heard him.’

‘It is possible that Sebastian was referring to something personal about his grandfather and not merely his reputation as a violinist, with which he must have been familiar all his life,’ I said. ‘That is why I was hoping to discover someone who had personal memories of the man and his family.’

‘The professors here are all too young for that,’ he said. ‘But someone here may know someone … wait – you give me an idea. When I first came here as a student in 1862, I studied with Prosper Sainton, a Frenchman who came here from Bordeaux. He had been my father’s teacher also, and I recall that he had known Joseph Krieger quite well at one time. In fact, he had cultivated his acquaintance assiduously at the time when he was involved in the establishment of the popular concerts. They were friends for a time, and then I believe that they quarrelled. Now, what was it that he told me about Krieger? Wait, it is coming back to me. Something about adoption. Did Krieger adopt a child? Was that what it was?’ He blinked, lost in the effort of memory. ‘A little girl, perhaps? Do you know anything about this?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘Sebastian’s mother was Joseph Krieger’s daughter.’

‘Quite right, of course she was. Possibly my vague memories on the subject of adoption may concern that lady.’

‘Perhaps we could ask Professor Sainton?’ I said hopefully.

‘Oh, he died ten years ago,’ said the professor. ‘But do you know, he left all of his musical papers and writings to one of the professors here, Hans Wessely. We hired Wessely in 1889; Sainton was already an old man then who no longer gave lessons, but he came here often and followed the musicians of the Academy with great interest. They became very close during the last months of Sainton’s life. Wessely tells me that there are some interesting things amongst the papers that Sainton left behind; many years’ worth of reflections on the teaching of orchestral musicians, and other recollections. Why don’t you ask him? If it can be of help, I will write him a personal note requesting him to show you whatever he has. If there really was an adopted child, the circumstance may be mentioned in private papers or letters. I don’t see how you can do any better, for anyone alive now who knew Krieger would have had to have been very young at the time, and would probably not have been a familiar of his household. I remember Sainton’s telling me that Krieger was quite standoffish and could be downright unpleasant.’

He wrote the note, sealed it and gave it to us, and we set out into the corridors once again, now in the direction of Professor Wessely’s office. But he was not in, and his door was closed and locked.

‘Bother,’ said Rose, ‘but fortunately I know that he will be here the day after tomorrow. He teaches on Thursdays.’

‘Urgh,’ I said. ‘I am so impatient to see the old papers that might talk about Joseph Krieger. Well, I will just have to wait. You know, it makes sense that Mrs Cavendish might have been an adopted child.’

‘Does it?’ she said, surprised. ‘I shouldn’t have said so! Everyone connects Sebastian’s talent with his grandfather – and he wouldn’t even really have been his grandfather after all!’

‘That’s true,’ I rejoined thoughtfully. ‘But there was one person who always refused to make that connection. Do you see?’

‘Oh? Why, yes, I do see – you mean Sebastian himself! I know he always denied that his gift could have anything to do with inheritance. After we talked about this in the tea shop, I decided that he must have been resentful of its being attributed in some way to family, like a person who would prefer to earn his own fortune rather than merely inherit one.’

‘Well, that might have been what it was,’ I said, ‘but I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve never met anyone who had inherited a family fortune and denied it when it was mentioned. Family heritage is usually a source of pride. Think back, Rose. Do you think there’s any possibility that Sebastian might have been aware all along that his mother was an adopted child?’

‘I see now that that’s possible; it does seem as though he was hinting at it, though he never said it outright,’ she admitted. ‘But if his mother didn’t want it known, he would have respected that. Pity it’s such an embarrassing question to put to Mrs Cavendish directly. That’s annoying; she must know the answer, but we can’t ask. He might have told Claire – but no, he can’t have. If she had known that, she would have known that the cursed inheritance couldn’t come from the grandfather.’

‘But this raises a whole new set of possibilities!’ I said suddenly. ‘Perhaps he unexpectedly found out something about his
mother’s
real parents!’

Rose gave her head a little shake.

‘I can’t get that idea into my head,’ she said. ‘Everyone always associated him with Joseph Krieger. Oh dear, I don’t know what to think. I have an idea, Vanessa – do let’s go now and see if
my
professor is in. He’s a cello teacher, of course, but he’s old, he’s been here for ever so long, and I think there isn’t much that goes on here that he doesn’t know. And he’s so lovely! Come – let’s go and find him. He’s a marvellous old gentleman. I adore him. It’s true what Professor Wilcox was saying about gratefulness, you know. I hadn’t thought of it for Sebastian, but for myself, when I think about all that Professor Pezze has done for me – and more than that, all has given to me of himself – I can’t even think about how he would feel if I died. He’s like a darling grandparent, only even better because he transmitted all that music to me out of choice, out of a love that didn’t come into being because of any bond of blood. The love of the teacher for the student is something different, perhaps even deeper in some ways. Oh, I don’t know how to explain it. But it’s something strong that builds you up and stays with you for your whole life. Here we are. Listen – he’s in! That’s his cello sound. He may be almost seventy, but he still has such energy in his playing. Oh, I do love him!’