The Devil's Harmony, page 13
He and Nina sat next to one another on the plane, and talked about the scrapbook. Nina had done some research of her own, although she had had to do it a bit furtively, because there seemed to be a kind of superstition about the Chopin Library – if you wanted to be fanciful you might almost wonder if there had once been a conspiracy to keep it out of the record books, she said. One day she would like to find out the reason for that. But she had managed to find a very interesting report mentioning it.
‘It was apparently written by somebody who actually saw the Library burn down. I emailed a translation to the professor, and I’ve brought a copy with me. You can see it later.’
It was really nice to talk like this with Nina, and it was extremely nice to be sitting so close to her that several times their thighs touched. This was not something that Lucek would have engineered, even if it had occurred to him, which it had not. In fact, a couple of times it was necessary to concentrate on not having any kind of physical reaction that might be noticed and that might put Nina off, and that would certainly shock Helena.
After they landed, Nina telephoned her professor to let him know they had arrived. Lucek pretended to be rearranging their luggage so as to give her a little privacy. He thought that he probably would not have been able to follow much of a one-sided conversation in English, but he did hear her laugh softly, and say something about Elgar, who Lucek knew was a famous English composer, and then about the Malvern Hills. This would refer to her studies, of course.
Afterwards she said she was greatly looking forward to meeting Professor Liripine again – he would be at the White Hart, and a colleague was coming with him – someone from Cambridge University.
‘The professor says he’s very learned, and extremely interested in the scrapbook,’ she said.
Lucek was quite nervous about meeting this distinguished gentleman and the equally distinguished-sounding colleague. He was also slightly worried about meeting Phineas Fox, who might ask all kinds of searching questions about the finding of the scrapbook, none of which Lucek thought he would be able to answer. He did not say this to Nina, of course.
Helena did not seem in the least nervous or intimated, either by the journey or by the forthcoming meeting. She said it would be interesting to hear what this professor that Nina thought so highly of had found out.
‘We’re booked into a place called the White Hart,’ Nina said. ‘It’s quite near to Miss Wyngham’s house – about a ten-minute drive, she said. She’s booked three separate rooms for us,’ said Nina, meeting Lucek’s eyes, guilelessly.
‘Oh, good.’
‘And we’ve got a drive of about three to four hours, but we can have little stops along the way. I’ve worked it all out and timed it.’
Lucek thought it was good to be with someone who was so efficient. He managed to squash a sudden worry as to whether Nina would be equally efficient in a more romantic setting. It was to be hoped she did not map things out, or even – this was a dreadful thought – time anything.
But he enjoyed the drive to Causwain. At first the roads were busy and crowded, but gradually the traffic thinned out, and there were lovely wide roads with glimpses of mountains in the distance. The White Hart, when they reached it, was low-roofed and white-washed and there were oak beams across the ceilings, and flowery curtains and wallpaper.
Helena liked it very much.
‘This is how foreign visitors expect England to be,’ she said.
‘It’s a lovely old place, isn’t it?’ said Nina, looking about her, clearly pleased.
‘I have a feeling that I’m getting closer to finding out about my past,’ said Helena.
When they went downstairs, there was a phone message from Phineas Fox. Lucek could only follow parts of the rapid exchange between Nina and the hotel receptionist, but he gathered that there had been something about a lost key, and that it was likely to be late afternoon before the professor’s party arrived.
Nina suggested that they might as well have lunch, and the receptionist explained that they did not do anything formal at midday, but their bar lunches were always very popular.
As they studied the menu, which was chalked on a blackboard, Nina pointed to a pork dish that she said sounded like one they had at their own restaurant in Warsaw. They might try that – it would remind them of home.
Lucek was so pleased to hear her call their little café ‘their own’ restaurant, that he began to feel much more confident about meeting Professor Liripine.
He ordered the pork dish, but declined the garlic bread, because there was no knowing what the night might bring.
Phin had got up early in order to put in a couple of hours’ work before collecting Arabella to drive out to the far side of Shrewsbury, where they would pick up Professor Liripine and Dr Purslove.
Arabella had worked out the journey to the White Hart, explaining that they only needed to get off the motorway for a short distance in order to scoop up the professor and Dr Liripine, whose respective trains would arrive at a particular station within fifteen minutes of one another. Phin hoped this optimism would be justified.
For the moment he had set aside Father Gregory and the Cathedral of the Ascension, and he was concentrating on the Chopin Library itself. He had abandoned the online search, and he was working his way through his own books, a great many of which contained obscure references which would not have found their way into the digital world, and most of which had been published at least a century earlier anyway. It was time-consuming, and it would probably not yield any information, but Phin wanted to make sure he had trawled all possible sources.
By ten o’clock he had scoured several turgid descriptions of theatres and opera houses and concert halls, and had ploughed doggedly through a number of architectural tomes on old European buildings, any one of which might have included a mention of the Library. One of these was a hefty volume bearing the title Paean to the Vanished Temples of Music, which initially looked promising, but which turned out to be a kind of textual dirge for old religious houses. It was unbelievably dull, and Phin could not imagine why he had acquired it in the first place. He could not imagine how it had even come to be published.
He was just thinking he had better return some of the books to their shelves – it was remarkable how books could scatter themselves over the floor when you were looking for something – and in any case he would soon have to drive out to collect Arabella.
He had replaced most of the books, and he was reaching for his jacket and car keys when the phone rang. A vaguely familiar voice announced itself as being a neighbour of Arabella’s.
‘Marjorie Gilfillan – I live in the flat facing Arabella’s. I expect you remember we met that night when Arabella got the fire alarm stuck on the “on” position, and we had to get the fire service out to disconnect it.’
‘I do remember that night.’
‘She’s asked me to phone you,’ said Marjorie Gilfillan, and Phin, with vivid memories of other calls made to him on Arabella’s behalf, said, warily, ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Not to say wrong, but Arabella wondered if you could delay collecting her. Perhaps by about an hour.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘One of those small, stupid things that might happen to anyone …’ She paused, and Phin thought they were sharing the thought that small, stupid things happened to Arabella far more frequently than to anyone else.
‘It’s her door-key,’ said Marjorie Gilfillan. ‘She took some rubbish out to the bin – there’s a kind of communal chute at the back of the building for tipping the rubbish down into the communal dustbin in the basement. I should say waste-disposal container, I expect, but whatever you call it, it’s a monstrous great thing and the men have to use a kind of grab mechanism to empty it.’
Worrying images were already forming in Phin’s mind. He said, ‘Yes?’
‘Arabella wanted to be ready for when you collected her – parking is so difficult here, isn’t it? – so she locked the flat and trundled her case into the main hall. But,’ said Marjorie Gilfillan, ‘she brought out the rubbish at the same time, so it could be put down the chute on the way. Very sensible, of course, because you don’t go off for a couple of days and leave rubbish to moulder in your kitchen, do you?’
‘No.’ Phin already had a fair idea of what was coming.
‘And she had the rubbish bag in one hand and the key ring looped over a finger, and when she flipped open the chute—’
‘The keys slid off her finger and went down the chute along with the rubbish,’ said Phin, resignedly.
‘Yes, and although she says being locked out isn’t too much of a problem, because at worst you can always get a locksmith, she refuses to leave a set of keys among the rotting cabbage leaves and the remains of number five’s Chinese takeaway, because you never know who might pick them up.’
Phin could hear Arabella’s voice coming through this very clearly. He said, ‘Had I better come over anyway?’
‘Arabella said you’d offer, but she said not to. For one thing, you’d never get a parking space within a mile of the flat. She’ll ring as soon as she’s rescued the keys and got back into the flat and cleaned up. She’s having to sift through all the rubbish, you see. Potato peelings and so on.’
‘Yes, I do see. All right. Would you tell her I’ll contact the people we’re meant to be collecting. Thanks. Good luck with the potato peelings and cabbage leaves.’
He picked up the Paean which he had left open on his desk, and he was about to close it when an entry in the index caught his eye. ‘Lost Music Accolades – A memory of trophies abandoned and extinct.’
The chapter would not be very likely to contain any mention of the Chopin Library, but helpful snippets could crop up in the most unexpected of places. Phin turned to the appropriate page, and almost at once the Library’s name leapt up off the page. He blinked, then sat down at his desk to read the entry.
It was quite short, and its main focus was on the presentation of a music award – the Żelazowa Award.
‘Considerable interest was expressed in this Polish music award,’ said the text. ‘Sadly, there was only ever the one recipient, since the award seems to have vanished without trace – obviously because of the ravages inflicted on Poland as World War II advanced.
‘However, the award is intriguing, in that it appears to have been sent anonymously to the Academy of Music at Łódź, with the stipulation that it be presented to the most gifted final-year student. There was speculation as to identity of the donor, but as far as the author can ascertain, that donor was never discovered. It was, though, named for Żelazowa Wola, the tiny village in Gmina Sochaczew, which was the birthplace of Chopin – one of Warsaw’s most famous sons. It has not been possible to establish whether there is any actual link between the award and Warsaw’s Chopin Library – particularly since the Library itself was destroyed more than ten years ago – but it is an interesting possibility.’
Phin thought, ten years, and turned to the opening pages to check the book’s publication date: 1957. Which fitted with what he knew so far. It also meant, though, that it would probably be difficult, if not impossible, to trace any sources the book’s author might have used – they were likely to be very widespread. Textual evidence was probably no longer in existence, and people interviewed were most likely dead.
‘The announcement of the winner and the presentation was made at the Chopin Library,’ went on the book, ‘which does suggest a connection. The recipient was a Miss Tanwen Malek, who had just finished her studies at Łódź. Your author found a brief report of the actual event in a publication of the day – the Kultura Ludowa (The People’s Culture).’
If it had not been for Anatol’s account of the Library’s fate which Nina Randall had found, Phin thought he would by now be starting to wonder if the Chopin Library had ever existed – if it could have been what people today called a unicorn story. Fabulous and beautiful, but almost certainly mythical. But he had believed Anatol’s report and, if this book’s author could be trusted, here was an article that had been written by someone who had actually attended an event in the Library. He was aware of a slight feeling of unreality and even a faint eeriness, because this seemed to be virtually primary source material – something straight from the horse’s mouth. Phin reminded himself that horses’ mouths could sometimes be the mouths of unicorns in disguise, that Anatol’s story had still to be verified, and began to read.
A brief accreditation was given to the translator of the Culture’s article, then came the article itself.
A relatively illustrious company assembled at the Chopin Library in the Street of Music, last Friday evening, to hear the announcement of the first ever recipient of the mysterious Żelazowa Award.
Various suggestions have been made as to the identity of the award’s donor – a few have been credible, while others have been startling. This magazine will do its utmost to uncover the truth, and will report all discoveries to its readers.
The ceremony took place in the famous Ivory Salon, where both Chopin and Paderewski are said to have performed. After suitable speeches, the announcement was made that Miss Tanwen Malek, a graduate of Łódź University, was to be given the award.
On being presented with the trophy, Miss Malek expressed her delight and was careful to also express her extreme surprise. However, she then treated the assembled company to what we were told was an impromptu performance of the third movement (the rondo) of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 – often referred to as ‘The Turkish’.
This magazine does, of course, join in congratulating Miss Malek on her award, and would not dream of understating her ability. It does, though, take leave to question whether the performance of the concerto was indeed impromptu in the strictest sense of the word. To your humble correspondent it appeared to have been rehearsed, giving rise to the suspicion that Miss Malek knew all along that her name would be announced as the winner.
It was observed that the Library’s director of music, Yan Orzek, was later seen talking to Miss Malek with what more than one lady has been known to describe as the “darkling look of the maestro”.
Phin had no idea how far to trust any of this – and certainly not that description of a musical director given to darkling looks, and apparently well regarded by ladies. It was perfectly possible that something of the original meaning had been lost or misunderstood in translation, of course, or that the translator had been of a romantic turn of mind, but even so …
Yan Orzek had been mentioned in Anatol’s account of the fire. He reached for it, to find what Anatol had said about him. Here it was. ‘Tempestuous and attractive to the ladies.’
He turned to the next page, hoping there might be more, and was greeted by a black-and-white photograph of Tanwen Malek. The caption merely said, ‘Miss Tanwen Malek, the only ever recipient of the anonymous Żelazowa Award.’
The photograph was a head and shoulders shot, and it had not reproduced particularly well, but it was easy to see that Tanwen had had a cluster of soft dark curls. She was smiling at the camera, but Phin thought it was rather a smug smile, almost verging on a simper. He thought that, however talented she might have been, he would not have liked her very much.
Malek was a name that might hail from several countries, but Phin could not remember ever encountering a Tanwen. The article ended by saying that Miss Malek had been invited to join the group of musicians who performed at the Chopin Library, and would make her debut at a concert there later in the year. It would, stated the article firmly, be a wonderful event.
Phin marked the page and closed the book thoughtfully. He was just putting it in his case, because Arabella and the others would certainly be interested in it, when the phone rang. This time it was Arabella, saying buoyantly that she had found her keys, although it had taken absolutely ages, and there had seemed to be a positive ocean of rotting vegetation and decaying fish-heads – had Phin realized people still actually bought entire fish and gutted and beheaded them? – not to mention soggy newspapers and foil trays with the remains of people’s takeaways. But she had had a swift shower and dunked the keys in disinfectant just in case.
‘So if you could dash over now, we can head west and pick up the prof and Dr Purslove from their respective trains,’ she said. ‘And after grubbing around in chicken carcasses and the remains of somebody’s macaroni cheese, not to mention potted shrimps that had gone bad, I’m looking forward to the drive.’
Phin said, ‘With that precious pair on board, it’s likely to be a bumpy journey. But did I tell you the White Hart had a double room with a four-poster?’
‘I hope you booked it,’ said Arabella.
THIRTEEN
After a great deal of agonizing, Thaisa had invited Helena Baran and her young nephew, and Nina Randall to Sunday lunch. Nina had accepted the invitation with pleasure, and then had explained that some other people were coming to the White Hart. The Warsaw scrapbook had caused quite a lot of interest, she said, and there was a professor of music and a researcher who were going to be with them. They would certainly hope to meet Thaisa.
The mention of a professor of music and a researcher almost threw Thaisa off balance altogether, but she managed to listen to Nina Randall saying cheerfully that of course they would not all expect to come to lunch.
‘But if Helena and Lucek and I could come, and then the others turn up later – mid-afternoon, say – that would be really good. Could you manage that?’
What was there to say, other than that they would all be welcome?
‘Lunch will only be very simple,’ said Thaisa. ‘I’m not used to entertaining.’
‘A sandwich and a cup of coffee will be more than acceptable,’ said Nina Randall, at once. ‘The visit is primarily about Miss Baran meeting you, so please don’t go to a lot of trouble.’
