Chapter Ten

Cutting Marsh, September 1892

Ethan called to see Miranda several days after her visit to Maggie Blackstone. She was surprised to see him in the parlour, she’d assumed he was busy entertaining his new American friend in London and far too busy to bother with her.

“I thought you were in town,” she said.

“I was but it’s too noisy and crowded for me. I like the peace of the country.”

Miranda smiled. What did he want? He kept gazing at her as if he’d never seen her before and he was doing those fidgety things with his hands he did when he was nervous.

“Are you engaged to Miss McCusker?” she asked.

“No,” Ethan blurted. “I love you, Miranda. I always have and I always will. I don’t care what my parents think. I want to marry you. I don’t want to spend my life with anyone else.” He rushed on before she could overcome her astonishment. “We’ve always known we would be wed, haven’t we?” He grabbed her hands in his and gazed earnestly into her face. “You will marry me, won’t you?”

His features were so familiar. She’d loved him for so long but now…She smiled at the irony of it. Time was she’d longed for this moment, had lain awake at night thinking of his words, how she would respond, how his lips would feel on hers. He smiled back, mistaking her silence for an abundance of emotion. Now was her chance. If she was to change her life it would start right here with Ethan. She owed him of all people, the truth about her feelings. He bent forward and kissed her gently then with more passion. His moustache prickled her mouth.

“I love you, Miranda.” He held her tight against his body. Her cheek was pressed against his linen jacket. She could hear his heart beating in her left ear. He smelled of tobacco smoke. “I want to spend my whole life with you.”

“Oh, Ethan.” Several tears escaped and ran down her cheeks. He held her away to lift her chin with his fingers. Guilt and doubt choked the words in her throat.

“No need to cry, my darling.” He laughed. “We’ve a lifetime to be together in. Nothing to be sad about.”

“No.” She managed to turn her lips up in a smile. A lifetime with Ethan? Piers offered eternity. “But Ethan I don’t know whether we can do this, I mean…aren’t you already promised to Miss McCusker?”

“Not officially. I haven’t asked her. It’s more or less assumed.” The way she’d assumed he would marry her? Poor Miss McCusker.

“Won’t your parents be very angry?”

“Maybe at first but they love you Miranda. You know that. And your father is a good friend. They can’t object for long.”

Could he tell? Did her deceit show as a mark on her forehead, a black sign of her evil nature? But was loving Piers evil? How could it be? Was loving two men evil?

She had a decision to make, a choice, and she’d just made it. She wasn’t betrothed when she met Piers. Now she was an engaged woman she would definitely forgo her trysts. He would soon move on and forget her. A pain sharp as a knife stabbed at her heart. Piers with another girl. Impossible. But she was with another man. But this was Ethan…Piers knew her situation in regard to Ethan and never said a word about it. He wasn’t jealous. Strangely not so. If he truly loved her would he not be eaten with jealousy?

He could have proposed at any time but he didn’t. He offered her a cosmic life together for eternity when she would settle for an earthly one. But he didn’t ask her.

“Let’s tell your father first then drive home to tell mother.” Ethan squeezed her hand.

“Maybe you should have spoken to my father first.”

“He’s expected us to marry for years. He’ll be delighted.”

****

London, 1999

The plane shuddered and twisted as the violent, icy blasts tried to drag it from the sky and unnaturally hasten touchdown. Nina gripped Martin’s hand tightly and held her breath until the thud of wheels on runway jarred the travellers and huge jet engines shrieked in reverse thrust as the pilots slowed the giant plane.

England in January. Wet, freezing, bleak. Nina’s immediate and lasting impression was of smallness. Closed in, cramped, crowded—even the sky seemed smaller although that could have been due to the low grey cloud cover enveloping the city, merging with the rain and exhaust fumes into a dismal smog.

“Remember Bondi,” she said wistfully as they rode in the taxi from the station to Martin’s basement flat.

“I’ll never forget it.” He looked out at the familiar streets and the scurrying pedestrians, heads bowed against the rain, umbrellas bobbing, coats and scarves buttoned and tucked securely.

Martin clenched his fists nervously in his coat pockets. Now they were in his territory Nina would see how he lived in the dreadful, pokey, damp basement flat. After her lovely little house in Balmain she’d hate it and eventually by extension, him. If only he’d been able to keep his previous two bedroom flat. Blame Piers for that, losing his job and his regular income.

He’d called Sven from Sydney to tell him they were returning and to clean the place up, get in some food, wash the sheets, kick out any friends he may have collected in the couple of months Martin had been away. Sven had listened and boomed cheerfully, “Ja, ja, ja. Leave it by me, man. No worries,” which generally was a sign to begin worrying immediately.

Nina sat beside Martin, quiet, tired, and disappointed at being unable to catch glimpses of famous London landmarks through the traffic and the rain. The trip from Singapore had been exhausting after a delayed departure, and the last part, when their destination appeared finally within reach, had been particularly bumpy and nerve-wracking as they flew into the atrocious London weather. She yawned so widely her eyes watered.

She wanted to lie down and sleep for hours in a warm comfortable bed. Sleep and dream. A tingle of excitement penetrated the mist of weariness. Piers waited here for her, aware of their proximity, encouraged and pleased they were in England.

But Piers didn’t like Martin’s insistence on knowing what she was thinking. She didn’t like it. But she needed Martin still, needed him to help her help Piers. Nina caught herself at that thought, frowning. Where had that come from? Needed Martin still? As if she were using him. Thoughts like that flew into her head at random as if someone else was thinking for her.

She glanced at Martin and smiled as he turned his head. His mouth curved in that familiar, special way, his eyes were loving and kind, albeit surrounded by fatigue lines. He stretched out his hand and touched her cheek and she tilted her head to rest it on his open palm. He leaned over and kissed her gently, letting his lips linger on hers softly.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She smiled. She would be safe with Martin.

The taxi pulled up with a jerk and they bundled out into the sleet and wind. Martin’s flat was down a flight of steps behind iron railings in a typical row of English terrace houses. The dark green front door flew open as they staggered down the steep, rain-slick steps with their luggage.

A large, red-haired Viking boomed, “Welcome to civilisation. Man, you’ve got a tan.”

He grabbed Martin in a rough bear hug then took Nina’s suitcase and kissed her warmly on both cheeks, his whiskers tickling her face. She caught a glimpse of a poky cream-painted room with a dull red sofa, a table and chairs and a blue curtain across one corner.

“Hello Sven. This is Nina,” said Martin.

“Man, I thought you’d turned into an Aussie by now. A kangaroo.” Sven dumped Nina’s bag through a door which must be to the only bedroom. “So.” He spread his arms wide. “Is it clean enough for you?” He winked at Nina who managed a feeble smile, too tired to do much else. “I make tea.” He pulled the blue curtain aside to reveal a tiny kitchenette.

“Where’s the bathroom, Martin?”

He indicated the bedroom. “Through there. It’s not much, Nina. Nothing like your place.” He yawned and blinked his eyes open. “Sorry.”

“Stop worrying.” She went to investigate the facilities.

Martin hadn’t exaggerated. The toilet and a half size bath only just fitted into the miniscule space. Sven had cleaned as well as he could but Nina suspected the brown stains on the porcelain of both were permanent. And like the other two rooms it was cold. Not just the normal chill but a bone freezing, damp coldness that oozed from the walls. Like a tomb.

When she re-entered the living room Sven and Martin sat at the table drinking tea and talking. Sven poured her a mug from a brown china pot and Nina took it gratefully, cupping her hands around the warmth.

“Cold?” asked Martin.

Nina nodded. “It’s freezing.”

“Sven doesn’t feel the cold. He’s from Sweden and he thinks this is balmy and warm. If the sun shines he puts shorts on.” Martin stood up. “I’ll light the gas fire.”

Sven took a noisy slurp from his mug. “How is it in Sydney? Goot? You get plenty sun there, I bet.”

“It was stinking hot,” said Martin, sitting again. He looked at Nina. “Sven said Jessica called me.”

“Ja. An old lady. She sounded like my Oma.”

“When? Recently?” asked Nina.

“Two weeks ago, maybe. You call her she said.”

“I will,” said Martin. “First thing tomorrow. We need sleep now.”

“And I go. I have a gig tonight.” Sven standing up towered over them both. “I have a regular gig now. Two nights at a restaurant. Piano trio. Is goot.”

“Excellent. Thanks for house-sitting, Sven. Where are you living now?” Martin opened the door to let Sven out. A blast of icy damp air rushed in.

“Upstairs. Top floor. I move from the cellar to the attic.” He laughed. “Franz begged me to move in when that weird guy moved out.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I bet. What weird guy? Jeffrey isn’t weird. He’s an accountant.”

“Weird, man. Wore a suit and carried a brief case. Nice to meet you, Nina.” Sven waved through the window as he went up the steps.

Martin went back to sit opposite Nina at the table.

“Warmer now?” he asked. “We’ll have to get you a better coat.” Nervous now that they were alone and Nina could see the true squalor of his living conditions.

The little gas heater gave out a pitiful glow, struggling against the arctic chill of the basement. She nodded and kept her fingers curved around the mug of tea. She yawned. She hadn’t commented at all. He had no idea what she was thinking.

“I think Sven made the bed with clean sheets. I’ll check. I think I’ve a hot water bottle somewhere. Don’t know why but I’m pretty sure there’s one in a cupboard in the bedroom.”

He got up and hurried through the inner door. After a rummage about in the bottom of the wardrobe he came up with a green rubber hot water bottle.

“Would you like a bath?” he asked. “No shower I’m afraid. I’ll just fill this and stick it in the bed then it’ll be nice and warm when you get in.”

Nina stood up and walked over to Martin. She took the floppy green bottle out of his hands, tossed it onto the table and put her arms around him, holding him tight and resting her head on his chest.

“Shut up, Martin.” She stretched up to kiss him. “Let’s go to bed and keep each other warm. I could sleep for a week.”

They snuggled together in the warmth of Martin’s bed with Nina wearing woollen socks and an extra t-shirt under her warmest pyjamas.

“Why do you think Jessica called you?” she murmured, eyes closed, mind drifting into sleep.

He didn’t reply and she thought he was asleep, but he said, “Maybe she found those missing parts.”

“Call her tomorrow.” Her words faded and she wasn’t sure she’d spoken aloud or in her sleep.

“You are here. You’re close to me. You have come to me.”

“Yes,” breathed Nina.

Piers stood before her, dark eyes glittering and those sensual lips inviting passion and seduction. His habitual loose white shirt was carelessly open at the throat, revealing the tight curled dark hair covering his chest. Dark pants belted with a thick leather strap and a distinctive silver buckle she hadn’t noticed before. He held out his hand.

Nina took it, moving straight into his arms, into his embrace, his lips on hers, her body pressed against his, feeling his desire hard against her, senses reeling, overwhelmed.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Mine.”

“Yes, yes.”

“You must do what I want. You must follow the path. Follow the music. The Shadow Music. The key of life. For me.”

He kissed her again and she was falling out of control, spinning and whirling into an abyss. She flung out her arms to clutch onto him as she fell, to grasp Piers to save herself from the blackness.

“Piers,” she screamed. “Save me! Save me!”

The pitch black was cold. Deathly cold. Arms encircled her. Piers’ arms, holding her, comforting her, his voice whispering words of love. She sobbed. Great heaving, gasping sobs of relief. She clung to him as he lay her down, felt the warmth as he pulled covers over her, felt his body lying next to hers, his arms around her, his lips on her face, his lips on hers. The sobs died away as she succumbed to his love and her body responded to his touch.

Martin woke first the next day. Nina slept on, her face childlike and innocent on the pillow. He watched her as she lay beside him. He wondered. Wondered what had happened last night. Wondered if she would remember. Wondered if she would tell him. Wondered if she knew she had made love not to him last night but to Piers.

And he was afraid with bone-chilling fear. Afraid for them both.

Her abrupt mood changes in Australia had seemed unconscious, as if she wasn’t aware it was happening. Then today, in the taxi, when heʼd told her he loved her, sheʼd offered a mysterious smile, but didn’t reply in kind. That was unsettling in its own way. But it was the other times that truly frightened him. The times when he questioned the value of continuing their bizarre mission. Then she clearly changed, or was taken over. If he was to protect her as he had promised himself and her father, he would have to stay close by her side.

But how could he protect her if Piers came to her in her dreams? Dreams which had been strong in Sydney but which now if last night was any indication came with more strength and power. He knew she hadn’t meditated; neither of them had since they’d left Sydney and they literally hadn’t been apart, but Piers didn’t need that assistance to make contact with Nina anymore. Nor did he need the music.

He shuddered to think what effect meditation and the Shadow Music combined would have now, here in England. They were clinging to a raft in a swollen river, powerless to change course, unable to get off, at the mercy of the torrent. They had to stick together or they’d be swept away. Nina must understand that. But how could he warn her without triggering that explosion of fury? Not her fury but Piers’ fury channelled through her.

Martin eased out of bed slowly, pulled on socks and a pullover and went into the bathroom. Now more than ever he missed the luxury of a shower but he stuck the plug in the bath and turned the hot tap on full blast. Then to the kitchen to boil the jug for tea and light the gas fire. He squinted out the window and up the steps to the little patch of sky visible between the railings and the footpath overhead. Grey and dismal. Depressing in its rain-soaked dullness. Oh, for Sydney and the sun, sitting in Nina’s small back garden with Soda curled at his feet and a cold beer on the table.

He padded back to check the bath water, turned off the hot tap, added cold water and then stripped and hopped in quickly before the cold air penetrated his skin. Neither the size of the tub nor the temperature of the bathroom was conducive to lying and soaking, so he soaped up vigorously and washed the travel staleness from his body, concentrating on the task at hand, trying not to think. Unsuccessfully.

The big question kept circling like an eagle waiting for its prey to make a dash for safety, ready to pounce. What to say to Nina? She was increasingly touchy. Like a lover not wanting to hear anything against the beloved. What could he say to her? How could he voice his fear without getting his head snapped off. How could he make her see Piers was using her, manipulating her in the cruellest most callous way possible?

He reached no conclusion and towelled himself briskly before piling on layers of warm clothes and thick woollen socks. They needed to go shopping today for a weather proof coat for Nina and some boots. She’d only brought sneakers, totally inadequate for London in midwinter. Then he’d call Jessica.

When Nina blearily wandered into the kitchen, Martin had the gas fire glowing hot and was sitting at the table going through two months worth of mail.

“Got a cup of tea going?” She hugged her arms around herself, moving to crouch in front of the little heater.

“Certainly.” Martin jumped up to refill the electric jug. “Would you like a bath?”

“Yes, please. I must smell terrible.” She grimaced. “Sorry.”

“No worse than I did. Hell of a trip we had.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and Nina heard the splash of water as he turned on the taps. She remained huddled by the heater, her head filled with muddled and disturbing memories of last night. Piers had spoken to her again and started to make love to her but something odd happened, something frightening, then he had come to her again and held her warm and safe and they made love and the images after that were quite different.

She was in a small copse of trees, shaded from the hot sun by their arching, leafy green branches. It was private, a secret trysting place and she was waiting impatiently for someone. She leaned against a tree trunk as she waited, the rough bark poking through her thin white cotton shirt into her back. She looked down. A dark brown jacket lay on the grass at her feet. She wore boots—dusty brown leather boots. Man’s boots.

Someone was coming and she peered anxiously, excited through the trees. A flash of white, a light step and then she could see a girl. A long white dress with small blue flowers, a straw summer hat with trailing blue ribbons, dark hair, brown eyes, a familiar face…her own! Love and desire swept over her as the girl ran into her open arms.

Then it was night. Warm summer night with a full moon and she was waiting again in the same place made silver and enchanted by the moon light but this time she was angry. Seething with rage, pacing restlessly.

Chanting. She could hear voices chanting and then she heard the violin. She was playing the melody, the Shadow Music. Playing brilliantly the way Piers himself played. She could see her fingers on the fingerboard and the hand holding the bow. They were strong, large fingers with dark hair on the wrist. Piers’ hands. Tears fell from her eyes and she had awoken with an utterable sense of desolation and loss.

Nina stared at the flickering gas flame. If the room wasn’t so cold she would have doubted the reality of her present state and whereabouts. Just like the quote of the ancient Chinese Taoist writer Chuang Tzu on awakening from a dream.

“He didn’t know whether he was Chuang Tzu who dreamt he was a butterfly or a butterfly who dreamt he was Chuang Tzu.”

Nobody could deny the fact, however, that her toes were like ice blocks and that when she had woken in Martin’s bed her breath had steamed in the chill air of the bedroom.

But her dreams last night had seemed more real than ever. She had been Piers. And then Piers had been with her. She could touch him and hear him, feel the strength of his arms and the roughness of his stubbly cheek as he kissed her, taste his kisses on her lips, feel his body desiring hers as she desired him, as she gave herself to him completely and utterly.

Martin said, “Bath’s ready,” and startled her.

She rose slowly and went into the bathroom where she scrubbed away the travel grime. Dressed, wide awake and acclimatised to her position in time again, Nina joined Martin at the table. She picked up the mug of tea he’d poured.

“Thanks.” Here was a caring, reliable and truly wonderful man. A man who loved her. She smiled. “Anything interesting in that lot?” She nodded at the pile of discarded envelopes and neat stack of papers he’d accumulated while she bathed.

“There’s a letter from Jessica. Listen to this.” He picked up a piece of blue notepaper and read:

“Dear Martin,

I wonder how you got on in your search for the music we discussed. Your visit and our conversation got me thinking and I decided to do a bit of sleuthing on my own. I started back in George’s things and found a whole suitcase full of photographs collected over many years. Mostly of people long gone and forgotten but I did find some pictures of his grandfather Stanley West and Stanley’s father, Michael. You may be interested in seeing them. One is of a group of musicians. Perhaps they were playing your music!

I’m going away over Christmas and shan’t be back until early January. I’ll telephone when I return and perhaps we can get together again. If you would be interested, of course. I must admit to a degree of curiosity about that music. I remember the fascination of that melody very clearly.

Yours sincerely,

Jessica Harrow”

“Call her,” said Nina. “Have you already?”

“No. I was waiting for you to wake up.”

Martin fingered the letter, licked his lips and pursed them. What he was going to say? Surely not backing off again? Hadn’t they had that conversation already? She sipped her tea, face and body flushed warm from the bath, mind alive with the excitement of Jessica’s find. “Nina?”

“What?”

“You had a nightmare last night. Do you remember it?” he asked, almost cautious, afraid of her reaction.

“I didn’t wake up,” she said obliquely. What had so frightened him about a nightmare of hers? One she didn’t even remember?

“You screamed out ‘Save me’.”

“And did you?” she asked mildly but her heart thumped a wild beat. A flash of memory, Piers, whirling blackness, terror…

“You didn’t cry out to me. You wanted Piers.”

Hot blood rose in her body but she said nothing. Martin pinioned her with those hazel eyes that usually regarded her with gentle love.

“What’s going on?”

“How do I know?” she snapped. “You know as much if not more about this than I do.” Her mouth finished in a firm straight line. Topic closed.

“Do I? I’m not sure about that.” He stood up. “We need to buy you a coat.”

“Aren’t you going to call Jessica?” Nina stayed seated at the red Formica topped table scratching her finger over a chip on the surface. “I’m hungry. Call her while I have some toast.”

She looked at him with an expression of such hard, calculating determination he hardly recognised the girl he’d fallen in love with. She got up and pulled the blue curtain aside, grabbed the packet of bread and shoved two slices into the toaster. Arms folded she leaned against the narrow bench and regarded him through impassive dark eyes. Martin held her gaze and they stared at each other like two wary dogs weighing up each other’s capabilities.

“Nina, you made love to Piers last night. Not me.” The hurt seeped into his voice.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said loudly.

“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.”

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.

“Thank you very much. That sounds perfect,” said Martin.

Nina said at the same time, “Lovely. Thank you.”

By common unspoken consent they didn’t mention the Shadow Music, Piers, or Mira while peeling potatoes and scraping carrots. Jessica poured them all generous glasses of sherry.

“To warm us up,” she said and shooed them out of the kitchen so that she could tidy up.

The heavy sweet wine went straight to Nina’s head. She sagged onto the living room couch in front of the gas fire, leaning back into the soft cushions. Martin sat beside her.

“She’s fantastic, isn’t she?”

“Mmm,” murmured Nina. Her eyes drooped shut. The room was warm and cosy. She was dimly aware Martin took the glass from her fingers and kissed her cheek.

“Come to me,” said Piers. “Come to me.”

“Where?” she cried.

“We must be together.”

“Where are you?” she cried again frantically. “Piers? Where are you?”

Her eyes flew open. Martin and Jessica leant over her both with anxious faces. Martin held her hand tightly. Warm, comforting, and above all, real.

“Did he tell you?” asked Jessica.

“Tell me what?” she asked, blinking at the light.

“Where he was. You cried out, ‘Piers, where are you?’ ” said Martin.

“No. It was dark.” Nina frowned. “I was in bed. And hot. A hot night.”

“Summertime,” said Jessica with great satisfaction. “He must have wanted her to meet him somewhere. Maybe they were having an illicit affair. How romantic.”

“But where and when and who is Mira?” asked Martin.

“After dinner we shall combine our formidable collective brain power and find out,” said Jessica.