Greymarsh House was quite large but, close to, Margot thought parts of it could have done with some attention. There were lights glowing in the narrow windows on each side of the front door, though, which was welcoming.
It was silly to be surprised because Mr Cain was elderly. If he was Christa’s brother, he would have to be old. But he was rather distinguished-looking, and he had a nice smile. He said how good it was to be meeting new neighbours. It was difficult to connect him with the young boy with anxious eyes in the old newspaper cutting – to remember that he would have lived through that violent era in Germany.
There were a few other people already there, and before the meal they all had drinks in the hall – actually in the hall! Margot thought this peculiar. Halls were places where you left your coat or your umbrella or your wellingtons if it had been raining. You did not expect to have your jacket cast carelessly into a cupboard, then to be waved to a seat in the hall itself, with your glass of sherry placed on what looked like a large wooden blanket box with carving on its lid.
Margot hoped that she looked all right. The new outfit had looked nice in the shop; the assistant had said beige was always smart, so versatile, because you could wear brown with it, or black.
But the beige two-piece, however versatile it might be, looked drab next to Mr Cain’s goddaughter, who – it appeared – had arranged the evening for his birthday. Margot took an instant dislike to Arabella Tallis, who was wearing bronze velvet and amber beads. It was annoying that Arabella did not even trail the amber beads in the food.
The dining room, when they went through for the meal, had dark red walls which closed in suffocatingly. Arabella said it was an absolute mausoleum and her godfather hardly ever came in here, but she had left the curtains open so they could see the gardens while they ate.
‘Beautifully night-garden and fantastical-forest in this light. If anyone sees a dryad or a rusalka capering about, please say so immediately, because I’ll get the camera.’
‘What on earth is a rusalka?’ asked somebody.
‘Sort of Russian water spirit, but they like trees, as well. If I got one on film, I’d post it on Facebook, and it’d go viral inside ten minutes.’
There were little menu cards on the table, to tell people what they were about to eat. Margot thought this very ostentatious, and she thought the food pretentious. She ate what she was given, though, and made polite comments, and joined in with the sympathy when it seemed that one of the dishes, used to serve some outlandish vegetable concoction, had cracked in the oven’s heat. Everyone seemed to think this was terrible, and Margot offered what she thought was a very useful suggestion about a stall she had found in Thornchurch Market that could repair crockery so you could hardly see a join. But it seemed the bowl was French from somewhere important, and could not really be made whole again. Margot thought, but did not say, that it served Arabella Tallis right for using it to cook the concoction of tomatoes and goodness-knew what else, which all the guests praised. Marcus even asked for a second helping.
It was during the meal that things began to take a faintly worrying turn, and it was Arabella – of course it was – who sent the conversation in that direction.
She began telling everyone about her new project – whether they were interested or not, thought Margot, resentfully. It seemed Arabella was always embarking on new projects, some of which she seemed to get paid for, and some not. Her latest one was the past – well, to be specific, said Arabella, it was the 1930s. She had discovered the era; well, not discovered it exactly, because it had always been there, but she had not taken much notice of it until now. Now that she had found it, though, she found it utterly fascinating. The Golden Age of Hollywood and Edward VIII abdicating, and Schiaperelli clothes, all padded shoulders and shocking pink. Then she looked solemn, and said she knew you had to remember those years had had a dark side, as well – that gathering menace brewing deep within Germany, like a black bruise starting to bleed outwards into the rest of Europe.
Margot shivered, and half glanced over her shoulder, because she had had the sudden ridiculous feeling that something had crept unseen into the room. She pulled her mind back to the conversation. Marcus was asking, very politely, where Mr Cain originally came from.
Mr Cain seemed to hesitate, but then he said his family had been very ordinary; in fact his father had been a lowly music teacher.
‘He had a music shop in Germany,’ he said. ‘He bought and sold musical instruments, and also gave lessons – piano and violin. It was quite a small place called Lindschoen.’
Margot felt as if she had received an electric shock. Lindschoen. She looked across the table at Marcus, and saw him acknowledge the look.
‘Have you ever been back?’ asked one of the men.
‘No, never. I occasionally hear from one or two people there. Not often, though.’
‘Arabella, you should get Stefan to record all his memories,’ put in one of the women. ‘I bet there’d be some interesting stuff.’
‘There’s an idea, Stefan. What about it?’ said the first man.
‘Oh, never meet your heroes, and never revisit the scenes of your childhood,’ said Arabella, cheerfully. ‘Is anyone having any more ratatouille, or were you all put off by the cracked dish?’
‘We’re not put off in the least,’ said the woman who had made the suggestion about recording Mr Cain’s memories. ‘In fact I’d love to have the recipe for it sometime.’
‘We’re saving space for the pudding,’ said Stefan Cain. ‘You did say there was pudding, didn’t you, Arabella?’
‘Pudding … Oh, my ears and whiskers, the crème brûlée,’ shrieked Arabella, and dashed out of the room, wailing something about setting the grill pan on fire. Marcus went out to help her, which was very courteous of him, although not something he ever did at home.
After they had eaten the crème brûlée, which was extremely rich and which Margot thought would probably give everyone indigestion, they went into a room at the back of the house – it seemed to be Mr Cain’s study, where he sat most evenings – to have coffee. It was a warm, quite comfortable room, although Margot would have wanted to re-cover the old leather chair with a nice chintz, and she would certainly have thrown out the hearth rug, which was as thin as a piece of old silk and looked as if the colours had faded.
‘It’s Egyptian,’ said Arabella, seeing Margot looking at it. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? So finely woven, and those colours are like an aquatint. I found it in one of those street bazaars when I was wandering around the souks, and I haggled fiendishly with the man to get it, because it’s what you’re expected to do in those places, isn’t it, and then I sort of smuggled it through Customs – well, when I say smuggled—’
‘We’d better not know any more,’ put in the man who asked if Mr Cain had ever been back to Lindschoen, and everyone laughed.
‘It’s very nice,’ said Margot politely, and thought she would not have wanted a hearth rug from a street market in her house, and that it was a pity someone had not taken a solution of soapy water and scrubbed the rug thoroughly.
And then she saw the painting.
It was hanging on a wall on one side of the fire, and it was of a young woman, standing against a partly curtained window, holding some sheets of music in her hands. As Margot stared at the painting, the earlier feelings of an approaching threat tugged at her mind a little more insistently, although there was surely nothing especially alarming about a lady with some music. Or was there? She went across to look at the painting more closely. There was a wall light immediately above it – its glow fell directly on to the canvas, lighting the details. Disbelief started to flood Margot’s mind, because at the top of the music, painted in soft brown, presumably to emphasize the fact that it was handwritten, were the words ‘Giselle’s Music’. Giselle. The warm room and the sound of the guests’ voices faded, and Margot was back in the stuffy little music room, watching and hearing her grandmother play music with that name on it. How many pieces of music were there in the world with the name ‘Giselle’ written across them?
She realized that Arabella had come to join her; that she was standing next to Margot, looking at the painting with her.
‘It’s a stunning portrait, isn’t it, Margot. I always think she’s so unusual-looking. Her eyes have secrets in them, somehow.’
Margot managed to say, ‘It’s lovely. Who—?’
Arabella said, ‘My godfather’s older sister.’ She glanced back to where Stefan Cain was talking to the two neighbours about recording machines. ‘I never knew her, of course, and Stefan never says much about her, but I do know he adored her,’ said Arabella, in a lower voice. A pause, then, ‘Her name was Christa.’
Christa. It was as if the name exploded silently inside Margot’s brain, and she had the sensation of invisible hands squeezing all the breath from her lungs. The room tilted slightly, and she reached out to grasp the back of a chair to stop herself from toppling forward, hoping Arabella did not notice that anything was wrong.
But it’s Christa, said her mind. That’s how she looked. Dark hair, dark eyes, not large, but narrow and watchful. But was there a hardness about the mouth as well? No, it was just the shaping of the jaw, surely.
She said, ‘She was at Lindschoen as well?’
‘I think so. Yes, she must have been. But she was a good deal older than my godfather.’
‘She’s dead now, presumably?’
‘Oh yes.’ Arabella glanced back to where her godfather was pouring brandy for the guests, and said, softly, ‘I hardly know anything about her, but I’ve always had the impression of some deep tragedy surrounding her.’ She sent Margot a quick glance. ‘Don’t tell the godfather I said that, will you? It’s only my idea, and I’d hate to upset him.’
‘No, I won’t say anything.’
Arabella moved away and Margot finally managed to look across at Marcus, and she saw that he, too, was staring at the portrait, and that he had heard Arabella’s identification of it as Stefan’s sister. His eyes were glowing with triumph.
The woman who had wanted the recipe was asking about the music in Christa’s hands.
‘“Giselle’s Music”, it says. That’s rather intriguing. Who was Giselle? Was she a relative or an ancestress? Or even the composer of the music? It’s not printed – it’s handwritten, so it might be something original.’
Margot thought Stefan Cain was about to speak, then appeared to change his mind, and it was Arabella who said, blithely, ‘No idea in the world. Probably no connection.’
‘It’s a French name anyway, isn’t it?’
‘French or maybe German. I only know it from the ballet, though,’ said Arabella, and Margot thought it was like the creature to show how cultured she was. She glanced at her godfather again, then said, ‘But I always like to think of “Giselle” as someone mysterious and intriguing. I think I’d have liked her. Now, would anyone like more coffee? No, it’s no trouble at all. I’ve only got to top up the percolator. And I’ll bring the liqueur bottle from the dining room in case anyone would like a tot.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Marcus, following her out. ‘I’ll get the liqueur, shall I?’
Driving home, Margot could sense Marcus’s delight. As they went into their own house, he flung himself down in a chair and said, exultantly, ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘You were.’
‘All that proof – all those leads we’ve got. Christa’s portrait – God, wasn’t seeing that the most incredible thing? And the fact that Cain lived in Lindschoen,’ said Marcus. ‘And that his father had a music shop there.’
‘And Giselle’s Music is in the painting,’ said Margot.
‘Yes, that piece in the old music stool was called that, wasn’t it? I’d almost forgotten.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘I’d like to find out if there’re any more documents in that house,’ said Marcus. ‘Legal stuff. Cain’s birth certificate, even – that would give his parents’ names. Even address books. Cain mentioned occasionally hearing from people living in Lindschoen. And it’s not out of the question that his family knew Lina’s father.’
‘The murdered martyr,’ said Margot.
‘Not everyone who gets murdered is a martyr.’
‘How could we do all that, though? You can’t walk into somebody’s house and start searching.’
‘Don’t be stupid, I shan’t do it openly. And the “how” is already in place.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When Arabella went to get more coffee, I went into the dining room for the liqueur bottle, you remember. I was thinking ahead by that time,’ said Marcus. ‘We’d seen the portrait – we’d heard that mention of a music shop and of Cain’s father having a music shop in Lindschoen, and so on. So I thought there was very likely more to be found – certainly that it was worth looking around without anyone knowing. So I wedged that narrow side dining-room window very slightly open – only a couple of centimetres. I used one of those menu cards, folded up.’
‘They’ll realize. They’ll see,’ said Margot, in panic.
‘I don’t think they will. Arabella Tallis is more organized than you’d think. While everyone was drinking coffee, she had whipped all the dishes and the glasses out of the dining room and dunked them in hot soapy water. She had even tidied away the tablemats and wiped the crumbs off the table. And the curtains were halfway open, if you remember—’
‘Dryads and rusalkas,’ said Margot, dryly.
‘Yes. I think it’s a safe bet that the curtains will be left like that. And even if Arabella goes in there tomorrow to finish tidying up, she probably won’t touch the curtains. As for Cain himself, I doubt he’ll go in there for days.’
‘Arabella did say the dining room’s hardly ever used,’ Margot admitted.
‘Exactly. And even if it’s noticed, a bit of card stuck in a side window wouldn’t mean anything.’
‘When would you do it?’ asked Margot, after a moment. ‘Tonight?’
‘No. Arabella’s not going home until later tomorrow, and it’d be better to wait until Cain’s on his own. I’d prefer him to be out of the house altogether, but I can’t lurk outside Greymarsh for days on the off-chance. So it will have to be the middle of the night when he’s asleep. It looked as if the main bedrooms were at the front, so he wouldn’t hear someone sneaking in through a room at the back. He’s probably a bit deaf, as well.’
‘He didn’t seem deaf.’
‘You’re determined to find flaws, aren’t you?’ said Marcus, impatiently. ‘I’m telling you, I’ve got it all worked out. The study’s at the back of the house, if you remember, and I’ll bet anything worth finding would be in there. I’ll wait until Friday, to be sure Arabella’s gone.’
‘And then break in?’
‘And then break in.’
Margot thought that Friday night would never come, and then, when it did, she thought it would never end. Marcus left at two a.m. and Margot sat huddled in a chair, watching the clock tick round. He would not be more than an hour, surely. If he had not returned by three o’clock, she would start to worry.
She had offered to go with him – she could keep watch, she said, but Marcus said it would be better if only one of them was creeping around Greymarsh House.
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘Not always.’
‘Why not?’
‘We both know,’ he said, and when he turned to look at her, the disquieting glint was in his eyes again. Then he started to talk about finding an old black jacket with a hood so he could blend into the darkness, and the moment passed, and it was the familiar Marcus once more.
When three a.m. came and there was no sign of him, Margot began to get nervous. Supposing Mr Cain had caught him and called the police? She began to listen for police sirens.
Half past three. What would she do if the phone suddenly rang and it was the police saying they had taken her brother into custody? She began to wonder how long it would take her to walk to Greymarsh House to see what was happening. Marcus had been going to park his car in a layby a little way from the house. It would be well off the road, he said, with overhanging trees, and he would smear mud over the number plate as well. Anyone seeing it would think it was a couple who had parked up to have a bonking session on the back seat.
It was after four a.m. when Margot finally heard his car, and she ran to the door at once, prepared for a tale of disaster and failure.
But it was all right. He was smiling and patting his jacket pocket. He had found something.
‘But not,’ he said, throwing the dark jacket on to a chair, ‘without a blip. Cain must have heard me as I was about to leave – that was a bad moment. I was about to climb out of the dining-room window when a light went on, and he was standing in the doorway.’
‘Did he see you? Oh God, did he recognize you?’
‘No,’ said Marcus, very positively. ‘I had the hood pulled well up and the room was in shadow. He would only have seen a dark outline.’
‘What did you do?’
‘A defensive reflex action,’ said Marcus. ‘I grabbed the brandy decanter and threw it at him.’ He frowned, then said, ‘It caught the side of his head, and it knocked him out. But it’s all right,’ he said, before Margot could speak. ‘He was only stunned – I checked his heart and his pulse and everything was fine. And just as I was about to go I heard the milk cart trundling along the drive – you know that distinctive whirring sound those things make. So I opened the front door to make sure the milkman would see Cain lying on the floor, and then I beat it like a bat escaping hell.’
‘It sounds all right,’ said Margot, slowly.
‘It is all right. And now listen to what I’ve found.’
It was a letter, and it was in German.
‘It was in a box file over the desk,’ said Marcus. ‘I almost missed it, but there were three or four files, labelled with things like, “Insurance” and “Bank statements”. One had what was obviously private correspondence – that was the one I grabbed, of course. It was mostly letters from friends, and they weren’t of any interest, except for this one. I’m translating it for you, and I know I’ve got it correctly.’
Dear Stefan,
It was good to hear from you and have your news. Please accept the enclosed as a birthday offering – no doubt you’ll use it to replenish either your bookshelves or your wine cellar! I hope the birthday dinner is enjoyable – your goddaughter will make sure of that, though. I so much enjoy the anecdotes you send about her.
I was in Lindschoen last week – you’ll like to hear that it’s hardly changed. Driving back, I noticed that the old Torhaus is still empty. It’s always been a bit of a mystery, hasn’t it? I believe attempts were made years ago to trace its owner, but it looks as if the authorities have given up. It’s probably an impossible task – so much was lost during the war – documents and deeds vanished – also, as we both know, so did many people. I’m always glad to think that Velda was able to take you to England.
I hope to visit England again soon. It’s been far too long, and it’s time we got together and reminisced.
Kindest regards
‘It’s signed “Nathaniel”,’ said Marcus. ‘And there’s an address in the Paderborn district. I think that’s more or less in the Lindschoen area, although I’ll check the map.’ He looked at her, and his eyes were alight with excitement. ‘But you got the reference to the Torhaus, didn’t you? That translates as gatehouse, by the way.’
‘The house whose rightful owner was never found,’ said Margot, slowly. ‘You think that could be Lina’s house?’
‘Don’t you think it could? If it’s in the Lindschoen area … And even if that’s a dead end, there’s that other lead about Cain’s father having a music shop.’
‘You’re going there, aren’t you?’ said Margot. ‘To Lindschoen. To find this Torhaus?’
‘Yes … And,’ said Marcus, ‘you’re coming with me.’
‘But can we do it?’ said Margot, next morning. ‘Can you get the time off work? And can we afford it?’
‘I’ve got annual leave left,’ he said. ‘And if I say there are family problems, I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty. It’d only be for about a week – that ought to be long enough. I’ll take the laptop so they can email anything urgent. As for the money …’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘We’ll have to do it on the cheap. Stay in quite basic places. It might cost less to drive all the way, rather than fly and hire a car out there. Maybe the ferry from Harwich across to Holland, and then into Germany. Or the Shuttle from Folkestone. I’ll find out.’
Margot said, ‘I’ll get the last bank statement and see exactly how much money we’ve got.’
They heard, that afternoon, that the milkman had seen Stefan Cain lying on the floor and called the paramedics. It was assumed that an intruder had got in, and that Mr Cain had heard him, and had gone downstairs to investigate.
A terrible thing, people in Thornchurch said, if a man of that age could not be safe in his own home. Such a nice man as well, so gentlemanly, and those adult classes for German and German literature had been very well attended and very interesting. Still, apparently he had suffered only mild concussion and bruises.
Marcus had phoned Greymarsh House later in the day.
‘Sort of to make an alibi,’ he said. ‘Behaving as if I didn’t know about the injury. I got the answerphone, of course, but I left an innocent message, thanking him for the dinner party.’
‘I’m glad he’s all right,’ said Margot. ‘I’m glad you didn’t kill him.’
‘I’d have let myself be arrested for house-breaking sooner than kill him,’ said Marcus. He had been studying a map of Germany, finding Lindschoen, but he looked across at her. ‘What would you have done if I had killed him?’ he said, in a very quiet voice.
‘I’d have found a way of making sure you weren’t suspected,’ said Margot, at once. ‘Told the police you were here, probably.’
‘You’d have lied for me? Even if I’d murdered someone?’
‘It’s what sisters do for brothers, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Marcus, softly. ‘It’s what brothers should do for sisters, as well. You protect your own – even if it means lying.’ He paused, then said, very deliberately, ‘Not if it were to be a case of murder, though. I don’t think I could protect anyone who had committed a murder.’
He looked at her for a moment, not speaking, then went out of the room.
Margot sat very still, his words reverberating through her brain. What had he meant? Had he meant anything at all? Or was he trying to tell her he knew what she had done – Lina and then their mother …? He could not know, though, not for sure. Or did he suspect, and was he trying to tell her that he suspected? Margot remembered how he had looked at her the night their mother died – how there had been hatred in his eyes; no, it had been more than hatred, it had been fear. And immediately afterwards he had insisted she must not live on her own, and he had taken over her life and they had ended up in this out-of-the-way place where no one knew them. But that was because of Stefan Cain being here. Or was that all it had been? Couldn’t they have investigated Stefan perfectly well from a distance? Had it really been necessary to move to this small place where no one knew them?
But of course Marcus had not meant anything by that remark. It was only that his mind was taken up with going to Lindschoen and finding the house.