Fatal Inheritance (12 page)

She knocked, and flung open the door at once without waiting for an invitation. The white-haired professor holding the cello turned his face to the door, and it lit up immediately with an expression of delighted pleasure.

‘Rose, Rose! You do not come to see me so often any more!’ he exclaimed with a warm voice and a strong Italian accent.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely, while the blooming womanliness of her seemed to melt away, leaving the place to a loving little girl.

‘What have you been doing lately? I have not seen you since your recital with the sonata of Grieg, but I heard wonderful zings about your Beethoven,’ he said. ‘Ah, and your trio.’ His face grew suddenly sad, but not with a tragic look; rather, with the sadness of an old man who has seen a great deal already, and is prepared to endure more as the years go on.

‘You were doing a beautiful work wiz the trio, Rose,’ he went on, the music taking the major place in his mind, above the sordid realities of life and death. ‘The last time I heard you there was much, much progress since one year ago when you began! Eet was all much more harmonious in style. You worked hard to tame the wild one, the lion, did you not? You must teach him that his voice ees not ze only one, yes? And to bring forth the storm hidden inside the timid miss at ze piano, and to find her hidden passion. I felt it, zat if Sebastian was ze energy driving the trio, you were ze glue which bound it togezer. It was wonderful work, Rose.
Brava!
Eet ees terrible zat it has finished so. What will you do now? Find anozer violinist?’

‘Oh, I don’t know!’ A point of impatience crept into her tone. ‘Claire wants us to play with John Milrose. He says he shouldn’t, and can’t replace Sebastian, but it’s obvious that he wants to, and Claire wants him too. It’s all wrong, Professor Pezze. John’s style goes well enough with the old Claire, the way she used to play, but she’s come so far since then! I don’t think we can make a go of it with John, but I don’t know how to tell them what I really feel. Oh dear. I do wish I didn’t have to be in this situation!’

‘No, you must not do eet eef eet ees so, Rose. Better to cut eet short sooner zan later.’

‘But that would hurt Claire, and I can’t hurt her right now, Professor. She is already devastated! Oh dear, oh dear. But don’t let’s talk about me. See, I’ve brought you a friend, Mrs Weatherburn from Cambridge, on purpose to meet you.’

‘Yes, I see. How do you do, Mrs Wezzerburn? Eet ees a pleasure. To what do I owe such a rare honour as a visit from Rose, in company even? You are a musician?’

‘No, no,’ I said blushing, ‘although I love music.’

‘No, she isn’t a musician, but she’s trying to understand about Sebastian, Professor Pezze.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Understand why he died. I mean, why he killed himself. You see, we don’t understand.’

‘But one cannot hope to understand such zings,’ said the old man, giving the same argument that we had already heard more than once that day, but with a air of gentle philosophy. ‘Ze boy was perhaps disappointed wiz something. It happens so often, sadly. Ze young people, zey do not always zink.’

‘But he wasn’t really, Professor. It’s very strange. But Mrs Weatherburn really wanted to ask you some other questions. Questions about music, and about musicians. For example, about Sebastian’s grandfather. Did you know him?’

‘Joseph Krieger, you mean? I encountered him once or twice, yes, when I was young.’

‘What was he like?’

‘What was he like? He was … vain, domineering, proud, hard, and brilliant. One who must always be at ze forefront of everyzing. You could not approach him wiz friendship. He zought he was always right, knew everyzing best. He was a very difficult man. His students at ze time, I recall, suffered sadly at his hands. When zey could not stand it any more, zey would sometimes come here, to ze Academy, to get a decent education.’

‘Did you ever play with him?’

‘I? No, no. No one played wiz him. He played no chamber music. Only grand concertos wiz ze orchestra, or else solo upon ze stage.’

‘But he played well?’

‘Oh yes, he played marvellously, if you like zis way of playing. A little bit wizout a heart. Passion, yes, but no warmth of ze heart. For virtuoso playing, he was of ze very best of his generation. Zey say he had some gypsy blood in him, alzough he came from Germany. I don’t know if zat is true, or if it is just a story he liked to spread to mark his difference wiz all ozers. Ze violin is a dangerous instrument, you know. It is a devilish instrument as we have known since Tartini, ze greatest violinist of his time, actually saw ze devil playing incredible music upon ze violin and wrote it down. Ze violin sometimes sheds somezing of its dangerous character on ze violinist. When ze capacity is too great, zere is some danger.’

‘You think the cello is fundamentally different, then?’

‘Oh, yeeeees. Ze cello ees completely different! Fundamentally, you know what?’ The old man leant forward with a gleam in his eye, as though to confide to us a most humorous secret. ‘The cello ees a woman’s instrument,’ he whispered, and sat back squatly in his chair, his pudgy hands resting on his short thighs, which hardly jutted out farther than the round stomach which rested comfortably upon them. His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Zat is what ze people do not yet realise – no! Zey zink because eet ees big, because eet has a deep voice, eet ees an instrument for men! Zey forget zat ze cello sings wiz ze voice of thrilling tenderness – ze woman’s voice! Zey forget zat ze low, sweet tones are feminine; ze loud, brash tones are masculine. And ze women are practically forbidden to play it, are zey not? In ze Academy, one hundred cello students, how many women are zere? Two – only two! And why is zis? I will tell you why. It is because you must hold ze cello between ze knees.
Knees?
But in zis country, ze women may not have knees; zey are not allowed to admit having knees!’

He sat back in his chair again, and a mellow laugh rippled forth.

‘Not to mention ze word
between
,’ he added. ‘Zis word, I zink, evokes ze worst of sin to ze English. But you will see, or perhaps you will not see … but zings will change wiz time, zings will change. One hundred years from now, I will bet zat all ze cellists will be ze women, and ze men will be playing ze drums and ze trombone.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Rose decidedly. ‘Vanessa, do ask him our question.’

‘How can I put it?’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Professor Pezze, can incredible musical talent arise in a person whose family is not at all musical?’

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Zere are many examples. Rose, eet ees so wiz you, no?’

‘And what about the opposite,’ I went on. ‘If the parents are musical, how likely is it that the children will be?’

‘It happens,’ he replied, ‘but eet ees not certain. Zere are examples of entire families gifted wiz unbelievable gifts. You know Manuel García? He was our professor of singing here at ze Academy until he retired just a few years ago. He lives nearby still. You have seen him?’

‘I have,’ volunteered Rose. ‘He’s awfully old, isn’t he?’

‘He is 95 zis year, he taught here until he was 90! Can you imagine? But did you know zat his sister is ze famous soprano, Pauline Viardot? And zat his ozer sister is the legendary Malibran?’

‘Really! Why, how can that be? La Malibran – she was famous sixty or seventy years ago, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, but she was a young zing when she died, no older zan our Sebastian, I zink. Her sister Pauline is still alive, but very old. Zeir parents were both singers, you know. And ze children of Pauline Viardot, zey are all fine musicians also. Zere is a talent which is inherited wizin an entire family. You see? Yet on ze ozer hand, musical parents can have children wiz no talent at all. I have seen some here, sadly. The parents force zem so zat zey can play, but zere is no real talent. And zen, many times I have seen ze gift pass directly from grandfather to grandson. Just as in ze case of Joseph Krieger and Sebastian Cavendish. Or perhaps, who knows, it may be zat the children of Joseph Krieger were also filled wiz talent. I have some memory of hearing zat he would not have zem learning any music. It does not surprise me. He wanted always to be ze focus of attention himself. I cannot imagine his taking ze time to teach his children, or taking ze risk zat zey might become so brilliant as la Malibran, more famous zan himself. Who knows?’

‘What if you found out that Sebastian was not really Joseph Krieger’s grandson after all?’ Rose said. ‘We think he might not have been – we heard a rumour that his mother was adopted. Would that surprise you?’

‘Ha?
Davvero
? You heard such a zing? No, impossible! Zat would be really astonishing.’

‘Why astonishing? You told us that talent can spring up anywhere,’ she said.

‘But not een this case, surely! I heard zem both, you know. Fifty years apart, I heard zem both. Perhaps not many people have. Ze same bearing, ze same attack, ze same flair, ze same technical prowess. Krieger not Sebastian’s grandfather?’ He shook his head doubtfully. ‘If he was not, zen ze whole zing is truly a miracle.’

Two days later, I crossed Hanover Square, turned into Tenterden Street and entered the imposing square door of the Royal Academy of Music quite by myself for the first time. I almost felt something of a fraud as I walked through the hall and up the stairs, following the directions that Rose had given me to locate her at the end of her trio rehearsal. All around me, students passed carrying all kinds of instrument cases, some of shapes so lumpy and irregular that I could hardly guess at the identity of the instrument inside. A tall young man carrying a tiny box that probably contained a flute accompanied a diminutive girl lugging a contrabass taller than her companion. Feeling oddly naked with nothing but my handbag, I walked along briskly, trying to look quite as though I belonged there, and soon reached the padded door where Rose had told me I should find her.

I stood outside the door and cocked my ear. Faint strains of music filtered through, muted and lovely, facilitating the necessary wait, for I did not want to interrupt the musicians at their work. Crossing notes and fragments wafted through the corridors from all of the different doors along it. I found the place pervaded by a stimulating atmosphere of hard work and deep concentration. My own thoughts were in something of a whirl, for Rose was to accompany me to visit Professor Wessely, and armed with the kind note scribbled by the Academy’s director, I thought to be allowed to have access to the private diaries and letters of a musician who had known Joseph Krieger closely and well.

The idea that Tanis Cavendish might have been an adopted and not a natural child of her father intrigued me to the highest degree, and I longed for some kind of confirmation. I stood there in the hall thinking it over, and trying to remember what the old Swiss violinist Herr Ratner had said about the Krieger family. He had spent about two years visiting the house regularly for lessons, I recalled, but he could hardly remember Krieger’s wife; he had called her a self-effacing person, a remark which might have been a deduction as much as a memory. He had also said that Joseph Krieger had no sons, for if he had, Herr Ratner might have found employment as their musical tutor. But there had been only daughters, Herr Ratner had recalled.

Until now, I had not taken any particular notice of these words, taking them to mean nothing more than the expression of Joseph Krieger’s not being childless, yet having no sons. But now, I wondered suddenly.
Daughters?
Might it not be possible that Herr Ratner remembered daughters, because there really were daughters, and not just one daughter? And had Professor Mackenzie not quoted Sainton as saying that Krieger had not had his
children
trained in music? It could be just confusion or poor memory, of course – but could it not also mean that Sebastian’s mother Tanis might have had a sister? And if she had, what were the chances that that sister’s name was nothing other than
Lydia?

I made a rapid calculation of ages in my mind. According to Dr Bernstein’s book, Lydia had been twenty-four in 1870: she would be fifty-four today. Mrs Cavendish must be of much the same age.

My heart began to beat as a mental scene began to unroll itself before me. There was the party in Zürich, in Frau Bochsler’s padded, plushy parlour, filled with pillows and little porcelain objects. There was Dr Bernstein, telling Sebastian with eyes full of memory about a woman called Lydia, of nearly the same age as Sebastian’s mother, whom he resembled astonishingly. I saw Sebastian smiling indulgently, having never heard a word about the existence of any such person, and paying scant attention, probably putting it down to coincidence or to the faulty memory of a romantic old man. And later on, at that very same party, there was Herr Ratner, chatting away with the young star of the evening, telling him this and that about how he had once known his grandfather – and mentioning
daughters
.

Why should he not have mentioned them that evening, as naturally as he had mentioned them to me? And if he had, then might not the very same idea have sprung into Sebastian’s mind as now sprang into mine?

I knew nothing of Sebastian’s family, but he had lived near his mother for his entire life, and must have been sensitive to her every mood, reserved and cool though she was. If my idea was right, if Tanis Cavendish had had a sister whose existence had been concealed from her son, then how would she have reacted when he asked her, in all the innocence of childhood, why he had no aunts, uncles or cousins as his friends all did? She would have kept her secret if she wished, of course, but as for the underlying minuscule tensions that invariably accompany a lie – who is better equipped to detect them than a mother in her child, or a child in his mother? I smiled to myself, remembering a time not days ago when, upon being asked, little Cedric had asserted with a broad smile of angelic beatitude that
of course
he had already cleaned his teeth. How was it that I was able to laugh at him without the slightest feeling of doubt, and tell him to stop telling untruths and to go and clean them at once? I could hardly even define to myself what made me so certain; it was not that he had looked sly or shifty, it was far more subtle than that: some elusive, inexpressible difference between that cheery smile and his usual one. Might not Sebastian have felt a similar minuscule pinprick when his mother told him that she had no family at all? Without ever having the slightest indication of the contrary, he had probably dismissed it from his mind. But perhaps the two facts he had learnt almost simultaneously that night had suddenly made that pinprick blossom into a full-fledged doubt, accompanied by an urgent desire to
know
!

The door before me opened and Rose looked out into the corridor.

‘Oh, Vanessa, you found the room!’ she exclaimed. ‘You didn’t need to wait out here. You’d have been welcome to enter. Do come in.’ The dark-haired, solidly built young violinist that I had already seen, John Milrose, was standing with Claire, his hands on her shoulders, and was talking to her softly and seriously, his eyes locked into hers. Rose’s glance followed mine and she shrugged, with a faint air of annoyance.

But Claire wrenched away from him when she saw me, and hurried over, her hand outstretched.

‘Mrs Weatherburn,’ she said. ‘Rose says you have found out some things, but she wouldn’t tell us anything till you came! Oh, I did so want to see you. Do you think you understand what might have happened? I’m sorry,’ she added, recovering her manners, yet with a nervous stammer still causing her voice to shake, ‘I have barely even asked you how you are. And about – about your expenses. Rose says you have been travelling. Of course I will—’

‘Please, do not even think about that now,’ I said firmly. ‘We can discuss it at the end. I do have some things to tell you, although nothing is yet certain. But I am continuing to discover new information.’ In a few words, I told her about Lydia K., then about the mention of daughters in the plural, and the possibility that Sebastian had made a connection between the two things. She looked doubtful.

‘But you say that he didn’t pay much attention to what the doctor told him,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘You really think—’

‘There is one more thing,’ I interrupted. ‘We learnt yesterday that there seems to be some rumour, some possibility, that Sebastian’s mother may not have been the true daughter of Joseph Krieger, but an adopted child. Rose and I were wondering if it is true, and if Sebastian knew it, and if that fact could perhaps explain the way he always used to deny that he had inherited his musical abilities from his grandfather. I wondered if you knew anything about that. I thought perhaps he might have told you, if he told anyone at all.’

Her startled glance reminded me of a wren.

‘I—no,’ she began. ‘No, I didn’t know that. He never told me. But you know, I wonder – it’s strange, because he did hint at something of the kind, now that you mention it. He made some remarks once or twice, but I never paid any attention, because I thought it was just his way of declaring his independence. You know, from the all-dominating grandfather thing.’

‘Quite. However, it has occurred to us that, if true, this piece of information might completely change the meaning we have been giving to the words “cursed inheritance”,’ I said. ‘We were thinking that he might have found out something about his mother’s real parents, perhaps.’

‘Yes, I see. Yet I still don’t understand why he should have cared so dreadfully, whatever it could have been.’

‘I only wish we could confirm that his mother really was adopted,’ I said, ‘and that Sebastian knew about it.’

‘He did,’ said John Milrose unexpectedly, coming nearer to us. He had been standing aside, out of politeness, but he could hear everything we were saying, and as Rose and Claire seemed to consider this perfectly acceptable, I did as well.

It was far too early for Claire to even think of falling in love again; it was obvious that Sebastian still reigned over her heart, but it was also clear that John had an interest in helping her in any way he could to recover her peace of mind. It had not occurred to me, though, that he might know anything intimate about Sebastian that had not been confided even to Claire.

I was, however, mistaken. John explained to us how Sebastian had told him the truth some months earlier, when they had entered into a serious argument on the subject of hereditary artistry.

‘He was actually angry with me for insisting,’ he admitted, ‘and that’s why he told me. His mother had told him the truth because of what happened at his debut concert, his very first solo concert with orchestra. He was just thirteen, and after the concert dozens of people came and told him that he was the worthy heir of his grandfather and that it was easy to see where his gift came from. He said that after they were all gone he actually cried with rage; no one was talking about him – it was just Joseph Krieger, Joseph Krieger, Joseph Krieger, like he didn’t even exist, like he was nothing but a reincarnation. That’s when his mother told him that it wasn’t even true, that Krieger was not his real grandfather because she was an adopted child. She said he must never tell anyone, but should always keep that knowledge inside himself to give him strength.’

‘So that’s it,’ I exclaimed, astonished to have so suddenly obtained an answer from this unexpected source to one of the many questions that assailed me. ‘Did he say whether he knew anything about his mother’s real parents?’

‘He said she didn’t know and didn’t wish to,’ he replied. ‘Actually, I believe he regretted telling me about it, afterwards. Not that he cared much himself whether people knew, but it isn’t a thing one spreads about really; and then, his mother did not want it to known. It was not that she drew any special pride or glory from being the great violinist’s daughter – she never behaved in that way at all – but still, with her engagement to Lord Warburton, questions of family were taking on a certain importance, what with Warburton being a proponent of Galton’s eugenics and all. Sebastian asked me to keep the secret for his mother’s sake, so I never mentioned it again.’

‘But Sebastian’s note didn’t make you think about it at once?’ cried Rose in amazement. ‘I mean, the words “cursed inheritance” – I’d have thought of that right away, if I’d known what you knew!’

‘He wrote those words in his note?’ he said in surprise. ‘I had no idea. Claire never showed it to me. I thought I had understood that he hadn’t given any explanation at all.’ He put his arm around Claire’s shoulders, as though to defend her from the cruelty of such an empty message. Rose hoisted her cello case over her shoulder.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘it was probably silly of us not to think of asking you before. I do hope we haven’t missed too many opportunities like that. Of course, there’s Mrs Cavendish herself, but we simply
can’t
ask her about this – and anyway, it’s probably true that she doesn’t know much about it. We think the best place to find out would be from older musicians who knew Joseph Krieger. We’re going to chase up a source right now. Come, Vanessa, let’s go see if Professor Wessely is free.’

She led me through the halls in the direction of his office.

‘Urgh,’ she said, ‘John Milrose annoys me. It’s not nice of me, and I don’t even know exactly why it is, but the way he’s pressing Claire with his feelings – can’t he see that it’s much too soon? It’s in poor taste. Sebastian died barely a month ago!’ With the energy of irritation, she knocked vigorously upon the door. No response, however, was forthcoming.

‘I know he’s here today,’ she said, and she hailed a young man passing by with a violin case slung over his shoulder.

‘Professor Wessely is teaching in the grand studio right now,’ he told us, consulting his pocket watch. ‘It’s on the ground floor to left. But he won’t like being interrupted. He hates that, you know.’

‘We’ll just wait until he’s free,’ said Rose, and down we went, to a very grand door that seemed to indicate passage into an unusually elegant room. Through this door we heard a few notes, which were quickly interrupted by a long string of remarks in heavily accented English. Rose knocked gently and opened the door a crack.

The studio was indeed large, with a burnished parquet floor covered with remarkable carpets, portraits upon the walls, and an immense shining grand piano before which sat a woman, her fingers on the keys, waiting for instructions. To my surprise, the student was just a little boy no more than ten years old, with a bony, sensitive face, a large nose, deep eyes sparkling with intelligence and a violin that looked too large for him. I was alarmed at Rose’s boldness and half-expected a sharp reproach at our interruption, but the professor, a dynamic man in the prime of his life, smiled cordially.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘that is quite perfect. Please, do come in and sit down. Wolfe, you will play the Tartini for these visitors. Enter, enter,’ he added, beckoning us forward and ushering us to two of the brocaded chairs that surrounded the walls. ‘This is my youngest student: Wolfe Wolfinsohn, from South Africa. An extraordinary youngster. He will play for you the Devil’s Trill.’