The Ghost Sonata (31 page)

“Sorry.” Gilda decided she didn't have much time left; she had to get to the point soon. “I suppose I was just thinking that being around all this young talent makes me pity the musicians who die young.”

Professor Waldgrave stopped in his tracks. “Why? Why would this competition make you think such an absolutely morbid thing?”

“Sometimes the dead have a way of speaking to us, don't you agree?”

Professor Waldgrave's face turned gray. “Yes,” he said, staring up at his cat. “I agree. I believe dead composers speak through the performances of their music. However, I must say, Gilda, that I have absolutely no idea what on earth you're talking about.”

Gilda decided there was no chance of a gentle transition into the questions she really wanted to ask Waldgrave, so she might as well get straight to the point. “Professor Waldgrave, I have reason to believe that you know something about a boy named Charles Drummond. It's important that I find out what happened to him.”

Professor Waldgrave turned to look at Gilda with surprisingly vulnerable eyes. He removed his glasses, wiped them off, and put them back on, as if he hoped this might help him view his problems in a better light. “Miss Joyce, I can't imagine why you would be tasteless enough to mention the name Charles Drummond to me, but you have just helped me remember that I am also not supposed to fraternize with young people involved in the competition; it's against the rules.”

“But Professor Waldgrave—”

Professor Waldgrave turned on his heel and walked swiftly across the quad, his cat calling mournfully after him.

42

A Disturbing Discovery

The New College Library was cozy and dimly lit, crammed floor to ceiling with stacks of books arranged in little alcoves. Students sat at tables or in velvet window seats, poring over books and laptop computers, conversing in loud whispers, or sprawling in unapologetic naps.
I can't wait to be a college student,
Gilda thought.
This is exactly the sort of library I love.

Gilda spied Professor Heslop trudging along in her flat Mary Jane shoes, carrying a large stack of books and papers. She disappeared into an alcove labed COLLEGE HISTORY, and Gilda decided to follow, hoping that Professor Heslop might be able to answer some questions.

“Oh, what a surprise!” Gilda declared, pretending to notice Professor Heslop for the first time. “Fancy seeing you here!”

Professor Heslop frowned, her eyes darting up to Gilda's wig, then down to her mud-stained white go-go boots.

“It's Gilda Joyce, Professor Heslop. The page-turner.”

“Oh, sorry. I must say, Gilda, you have quite a travel wardrobe.”

“Thank you, Professor Heslop. I'm a great admirer of fine tailoring.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Gilda, but may I ask what you're doing here? This library is for students of New College.”

“Of course. Well . . . ” Gilda tried to think of a quick excuse. “Mrs. Mendelovich sent me here on her behalf—to do some research.”

“I see. I suppose we can allow it this time, then. Good day.”

“Professor Heslop—”

“Yes?”

“I have a rather unusual question pertaining to the judges—Professor Waldgrave in particular.”

“I'm afraid I can't talk about the judging until the competition is over.”

“This is about something more personal.”

“I must abide by the rules, I'm afraid.” Professor Heslop spoke in a clipped voice. “You're welcome to take a look in these files for information about the competition, if that would help. I must be off to a tutorial now.”

Gilda stuck her tongue out at Professor Heslop's retreating figure. She sighed and decided she might as well take a look through some of the files.

Not sure where to begin, Gilda absentmindedly opened the file in which Professor Heslop had placed some papers. There, she discovered a folder labeled FIFTH ANNUAL YOUNG INTERNATIONAL VIRTUOSOS COMPETITION. Inside, a document labeled FIRST ROUND listed names, performance numbers, and compositions performed. Wendy Choy's name appeared next to number nine, followed by the pieces she had performed—the Bach French Suite in G Major and the Mozart Fantasy in D Minor. A handwritten note next to Wendy's name indicated “qualified for final round.”

Gilda thumbed through the folders in the cabinet and found that each one documented previous years and locations of the competition: the Fourth Annual Young International Virtuosos Competition in Stockholm, the Third Annual Young International Virtuosos Competition in Paris, the Second Annual Young International Virtuosos Competition in Prague. Finally, she pulled a folder labeled FIRST ANNUAL YOUNG INTERNATIONAL VIRTUOSOS COMPETITION, OXFORD, U.K.

Inside, the introductory letter from the competition's founder, Professor Eugene Winterbottom, appeared next to a picture of a white-haired man with rabbitlike front teeth.
So that's Winterbottom,
Gilda thought.

When she turned to notes from the preliminary round, Gilda let out a little squeak of astonishment. She squinted at the paper more closely, just to make sure she wasn't seeing things.

Halfway down the page was the name Charles Drummond.
Omigod,
Gilda thought, feeling almost dizzy at the discovery.
His performance number is nine. That must be why Wendy keeps drawing it!

Something else also seemed eerily familiar—the titles of Charles's performance selections—the Mozart and Bach...
Weren't those Wendy's pieces as well?

A note next to Charles's name said “qualified for finals.” But when Gilda turned the page to view the list of final performers, only nine pianists remained: Charles's name had somehow vanished from the list.

Gilda wanted to sit down, but she was too excited to find a chair. She dropped down to the carpeted floor. Sitting cross-legged, she flipped open her reporter's notebook and began to scribble furiously:

Gilda remembered glimpsing the rage in Professor Waldgrave's eyes when she had mentioned Charles's name. Was Waldgrave capable of murdering someone?

Gilda felt a new sense of urgency. She wanted to do more research, but she decided she had to hurry to the Music Building to tell Wendy what she had found right away. She had to warn Wendy to be careful.

43

A Drop of Poison

 

The Music Building hallway reverberated with chaotic sound—a tangle of scales, arpeggios, and pounding passages from Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, and Beethoven. Anticipation, fear, and white-hot concentration pervaded the practice rooms: all ten finalists played with feverish intensity, as if declaring:
This is it. I might actually win this!

Gilda peeked into a practice room window and spied Ming Fong blasting out a series of running octaves over and over, with robotic precision and focus.

Gilda made her way down the row of practice rooms, glancing into each window in search of Wendy. Just then, she heard a passage of music that sounded distinctly
unserious
—a boisterous, ridiculously embellished version of “Heart and Soul.” Gilda remembered learning to play a clunky version of this piece during her short-lived stint as a piano student. She smiled, feeling certain that it must be Julian playing.
It would be just like him to turn the most intense practice session of the competition into a joke
, she thought.

But when she stood on tiptoe and peeked into the practice room window, Gilda's smile faded. Her skin turned hot and cold all at once. She felt as if microscopic spiders were skittering across her nerves.

Inside the practice room, Julian sat at the piano next to Jenny Pickles.

Jenny's face looked flushed. She giggled as Julian reached across her body to drag the back of his hand across the keys in a sweeping glissando that nearly knocked Jenny off the piano bench. Then the music stopped because Julian was leaning closer to Jenny, and she was leaning closer to him. Gilda couldn't believe what she was seeing.
It can't be happening
, she thought.
It just can't be happening.

But it was happening: right before her eyes, the two of them were actually
kissing
.

Gilda was about to burst into the room, but something stopped her. She turned around and leaned against the practice room door, absorbing her shock and revulsion at the scene she had just witnessed. She reached in her handbag and put on her cat's-eye sunglasses, as if a disguise would protect her from the hot spring of jealousy that bubbled inside.

Feeling that tears might surface at any moment, Gilda whisked out her notebook and marched down the hallway to the ladies' room. Once safely inside, she closed a stall door, sat on a toilet, and began scribbling as fast as she could: