It was not really a surprise when Toby appeared later in the day. Phin let him in, and expressed suitable thanks for the party.
‘Bit of an unexpected night at times, wasn’t it?’ said Toby, grinning. ‘I’m glad I’m not disturbing you. I wanted to make sure that Christa’s still here.’
‘She is.’ Phin indicated the painting propped up on his desk. ‘D’you want some coffee? I only made it half an hour ago, so it’s still hot. Have you managed to reach your cousin?’
Toby, accepting the coffee, said there was still no reply from Arabella’s phone. ‘But I can’t report her as a missing person yet, can I? You have to allow forty-eight hours for an adult, don’t you? She’ll have turned up by then,’ he said, firmly. ‘Have you found out why the godfather suddenly flung Christa out of the house like a Victorian zealot faced with a sinning housemaid?’
‘Not exactly a reason,’ said Phin, slowly. ‘But there’s something that is a bit unexpected.’ He tilted the portrait so that the light fell across it again, and indicated the music. ‘That chord there – d’you see? – is a tritone.’
‘What on earth—?’
‘It’s what’s called an interval of three tones, with an augmented fourth.’
‘Oh, well, of course I knew that,’ said Toby at once, and Phin grinned.
‘It’s not used very often,’ he said. ‘It’s quite discordant, and it was once called the diabolus in musica – the devil in music. It was banned in Renaissance church music, in fact. Church music was supposed to be a paean of praise to God, and the tritone was considered so ugly that it wasn’t thought suitable. Medieval arrangements even used it to represent the devil, and Roman Catholic composers sometimes used it for referencing the crucifixion. Its dissonance can work to advantage in some cases, though. In emergency sirens, for instance.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘I’ll never hear a police car again without thinking about that.’
‘But assuming Giselle was a composer of the era – possibly an amateur, because the music’s handwritten – that isn’t a chord you’d expect to find,’ said Phin. ‘Who was Giselle, do you know? Someone in Stefan Cain’s family?’
‘No idea. I’ve never heard of her. I don’t know anything about his family – I think he lost his parents in the war. They were a Jewish family, so it would have been a bad time.’ Toby set down his coffee mug and stood up. ‘You carry on chasing evil chords and mysterious ladies,’ he said. ‘But be careful you don’t end up too intrigued by Christa and Giselle.’
‘I’m not so susceptible.’
‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Toby. ‘Weren’t you seen with a rather good-looking redhead a week or so back? Wining and dining in a Covent Garden bistro, and probably indulging in a few other activities we needn’t specify.’
‘She’s an editor I worked with on a biography about Oscar Peterson,’ said Phin. ‘She’s gone back to Canada. Nothing much in it.’
‘It apparently warrants a reminiscent smile, though,’ said Toby, grinning. ‘But a gentleman never tells; well, not unless he’s a D-list celeb and being paid by the tabloids. I hope she was nice, your redhead.’
‘She was,’ said Phin, remembering how they had eaten grilled sea bass and drunk white Bordeaux at the bistro. She had said something about him having silver eyes. He had countered this by saying she had copper hair, and she had said, ‘Shall we see if silver and copper can be satisfactorily blended.’
He then realized he really was smiling reminiscently, so he got up to examine the painting again.
‘It’s definitely a tritone,’ he said, and with the words he again had the feeling that he was twining his hand around something that had lain hunched into a dark corner for a very long time – something that would resist being forced back into the world. He glanced at Toby, but he was not sure if Toby would understand this feeling; in fact he was not sure if anyone would understand. He thought with a pang of regret that his copper-haired dinner companion of last week, intelligent and intuitive and musically knowledgeable though she was, certainly would not. And then he had the absurd thought that Arabella Tallis might understand.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Toby, getting up. ‘I’m off to my bed for a couple of hours – it was a very long night, wasn’t it? If the phone rings while I’m asleep, I’ll curse the caller from here to the next millennium.’
‘Well, don’t curse too loudly, because I’ll be working.’
Phin’s current commission was to trace the erratic journeys and various fates of several eminent composers and conductors sent into exile by the Nazis in the 1930s and 1940s, and to provide factual evidence for a textbook intended to grace the shelves of a music faculty at a northern university. It was a serious and scholarly commission which Phin was quite enjoying. It brought back childhood memories of his grandfather, who had fought in World War II as an idealistic young nineteen-year-old, and who later in his life had led the small Phineas into the world of music.
But this morning, Christa Cain and the unknown Giselle were getting in the way of work, so he put the exiled musicians aside and considered Giselle’s Music. The music might simply once have belonged to someone called Giselle who had wanted to stamp it with her ownership. It might be a title, though – it was certainly common for music to be named for a person or, of course, a place. But it might be the composer’s name.
Phin wondered how far Toby’s story about his godfather and the portrait could be believed. He did not know Toby very well, and he did not know Toby’s cousin, Arabella, at all. Was it only coincidence that she seemed to have vanished immediately after acquiring Christa’s portrait? Phin toyed with the idea of the painting being a lost or stolen art treasure, but this seemed so fantastic that he dismissed it.
Presumably Stefan Cain existed, though. Phin called up an online directory enquiry service, and entered Stefan Cain’s name and as much of the address as he had. The name and address came up without hesitation. Stefan Cain, address, Greymarsh, Thornchurch, Kent. The phone number was ex-directory, but there was a postcode. So it seemed safe to accept that, if nothing else, Toby and Arabella Tallis’s godfather was real.
But he could find no glimmering of Giselle.
‘The phone rang while I was asleep,’ said Toby, reappearing towards the end of the afternoon. ‘I knew it would, but I’m very glad I didn’t utter any curses, because it turns out that somebody broke into Greymarsh, and clumped Stefan on the head. The poor old boy has been carted off to the local hospital.’
‘That’s dreadful.’ Phin was horrified. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘Bit groggy, but no signs of concussion, and all the scans are clear. The medics will keep him in hospital for another day or so to be sure, but he’s as tough as shoe leather. They tried Arabella’s number, and when they got no reply, Stefan was sufficiently compos mentis to give them mine. I managed to reach the police in Thornchurch, and it seems it all happened in the small hours of the morning. Stefan heard someone prowling around, and went down to investigate. He didn’t see who it was, but he was knocked out.’
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘There’s a bit of a mess in the study, but the police don’t know if anything’s actually been taken, not until Stefan’s well enough to be let home and check. They think he probably disturbed the burglar before he actually got his hands on anything, though.’ Toby looked at Phin. ‘But you know what I’m thinking, don’t you?’
‘You’re wondering if there’s a connection between your godfather throwing out the portrait, your cousin disappearing from the scene and this break-in,’ said Phin.
‘Yes. So I think what I’d better do, I’d better go down to Romney Marsh myself. It’s a bit of a trek, but I can’t leave the dear old boy in hospital all on his own. He’ll be worrying about the break-in as well, and if I’m on the spot I can organize new locks and things.’
‘Also,’ said Phin, ‘he and Arabella were obviously in touch recently, because of the painting and that note, so he might know what she’s been up to.’
Toby looked at him gratefully. ‘He might, mightn’t he? I really think it’ll be a good idea to go to Greymarsh.’
His tone was elaborately casual and Phin discovered he was wrestling with his conscience. It was not necessary to suggest he accompany Toby. There were probably any number of people who would want – and be entitled – to be involved in Stefan Cain’s burglary and attack. And Phin himself had a deadline to meet.
On the other hand, if Arabella had got herself into some kind of scrape and was not just dragon-flying somewhere, both she and Toby might prefer it kept as quiet as possible.
Also, there was Christa, and there was Giselle, and there was the devil’s tritone in Giselle’s music. And Phin’s present commission could be worked on more or less anywhere.
He said, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
Toby turned his head to look at Phin directly. ‘Yes,’ he said on a note of unmistakable relief. ‘Yes, I would. It’s not a very long journey – couple of hours, traffic permitting. Straight down the M20 and into Kent. You’ll like Thornchurch; it’s a market town – quite lively and prosperous. We can go in my car – it’s coming up to its MOT, but it’ll be absolutely fine, and as long as you remember to pump the accelerator before turning the ignition, it starts practically every time. Would tomorrow be all right for you?’
‘Well—’
‘You did say your redhead’s gone back to Canada, didn’t you? And I know one of the girls last night gave you her phone number, so if you were planning on—’
Phin hastily disclaimed any immediate plans to phone any girl whose number he might have acquired, particularly as he could not remember having done so. ‘I’ll have to bring the laptop to do some work, but that isn’t a problem for me, as long as it isn’t for you.’
‘Of course not. We might as well stay at Greymarsh itself – there’s plenty of room, as long as you don’t mind making up your own bed. I’ll phone some neighbours of the godfather before we go, to suss out the situation a bit more. I’m trying to remember their names, but … oh, wait, it’s Mander. Brother and sister. Marcus and Margot Mander,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a variety double act from the Fifties, doesn’t it? Trapeze artists or illusionists, and sequinned tights and top hats. They aren’t in the least like that, though. He’s a translator for some highly respectable firm – trade conventions and even political conferences. I’ll track down their number and give them a call.’
‘What had we better do about Christa?’ said Phin, glancing across at the portrait.
‘Take her with us,’ said Toby, cheerfully.
‘At this rate,’ said Phin, ‘she’ll be able to write a travel memoir.’
As he put a few things into a small suitcase, and looked out a couple of bath towels in which to wrap the portrait for its journey, Phin found himself constantly meeting the level gaze of the painted eyes. He had a strong feeling that – whatever the truth about her – he might rather have liked Christa Cain.