Fatal Inheritance (3 page)

It was clearly a dismissal, but I estimated myself successful with all that I had obtained, and bid the Maestro goodbye with the greatest respect. I felt optimistic about my next step, hoping for much rich conversation from a music-loving and party-arranging lady.

Frau Adelina Bochsler was very friendly, very helpful, and very, very voluble. She was horrified by the so gifted young virtuoso’s dreadful death. She had seen in him a great future. She was always, but always, looking out for young geniuses such as he. She had hoped for a long and fruitful collaboration. She had heard him in London, and it was her idea that he should come to Zürich. She had persuaded Herr Maestro Hegar, who had hesitated to take risks on yet unknown youth, but the young man’s gold medal at a famous competition had helped convince him. Sebastian was so young, so strong, so handsome, so appealing. Those who had never met him could not even understand, was it not, dear Frau Vetherburn? She had been lucky to meet him even once. As for myself, how lucky I had been, and how sad my bereavement! I nodded until I felt like a Chinese mandarin.

I asked if dear Sebastian had stayed on in Zürich after his concert. No, Frau Bochsler did not believe that he had. In fact, she had asked him, for if he had been staying longer, she would have gladly taken him on an outing in her carriage to see the sights. But he was leaving the very next morning. Where was he going? Why, she didn’t know. She supposed he was returning home. But had he said so? She didn’t remember, but she did remember that he was quite – how could she say? He seemed eager to go. It was as though something important was awaiting him next. But she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in this. Surely the life of such a handsome young man must be filled with exciting events.

So he had seemed nervous? No, nervous would be the wrong word. Not nervous, but tense, excited, wound up. He was to leave quite early in the morning. The trip to London was a very long one. Such musicians were in great demand; they must resolve themselves to a great deal of travel.

Had poor Sebastian spoken to her of his trio, or his fiancée? Why yes, he had. He had told her of his hopes to come with his trio to play the Beethoven Triple Concerto with the Tonhalle Orchester. But Frau Bochsler had felt a twinge of dismay, as she did not know whether it would be right to encourage him in this idea. She was not at all certain that Herr Hegar would agree, and of course it was Herr Hegar who took all such decisions. She did not say so, but she seemed very much to prefer the idea of Sebastian coming all by himself, to be petted and taken under her wing. The idea of his arriving flanked by two radiant young ladies did not seem to appeal to her much. She sighed, and agreed that of course his fiancée must be utterly devastated.

Could she tell me anything she had noticed about Sebastian’s mood over the course of the evening? You see, I told her, we were convinced that at some point between his leaving for Zürich and his death, he had learnt something which had a profound and terrible effect on him. We were trying to trace his every movement and gesture during that lapse of time in order to pinpoint the moment at which this had happened. She understood perfectly. But she could not see how anything of the kind could have happened at her soirée. Well, obviously, there had been many people there. Thirty-five or forty people. Dear Sebastian was not previously acquainted with any of them, as far as she knew. She had kept him near her for the whole first part of the evening, introducing him to the cream of music-loving Zürich society; magistrates, doctors, men of law, men of government, and their elegant, artistic wives. He had not encountered any familiar faces that she knew of, except for Herr Hegar’s, of course. At least there had been no sign that he had done so. His mood was excellent, and he was such a lovely young man, so full of charm, such easy manners. Of course he spoke mainly English, but he had some German, and these two languages sufficed for him to enter into many a more or less broken conversation. No, he was not in the least bit shy; quite the contrary. And he seemed to enjoy making friends. What a personality; he was truly the star of the evening, truly, truly. To think he was dead, it was dreadful. Frau Bochsler took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

Yet he seemed somehow tense when he spoke of hurrying home. Why would that be? She didn’t know, hadn’t thought about it. Probably he simply missed his fiancée. Perhaps, indeed. But, I asked, could it possibly be that he had had a particular conversation at the soirée which had disturbed him? She could hardly imagine it, yet – her eyes sparkled with excitement – it was not impossible; no, she supposed that it was not impossible. Did she think that Sebastian had spoken with more or less everyone at the soirée? Yes, he had probably exchanged at least a few words with nearly everyone. Had she noticed him in particular conversation with anyone? Well, on and off she saw him talking and laughing with several people. What did they talk about in general? Well, music was the subject of the evening. Sebastian’s talent, his superb interpretation of Mendelssohn, his gold medal, his budding career, his future. He spoke of it all with such grace; he was modest and at the same time eager and hopeful and so gifted it was quite impossible to believe that he was gone. Frau Bochsler wiped her eyes again.

How could we possibly find out if he had had any particularly striking conversation that evening? Well, she was eager to help. What could she do? She herself had participated in the most fascinating moment when Mr Cavendish had actually taken out his violin to show it to some of the assembled guests. It was a most extraordinary violin, but I would know all about it, of course. (More nodding.) A lion’s head was carved at the end of the fingerboard, at the place where there is usually a scroll; a lion’s head with a strangely long, extended tongue. The young soloist had explained that the violin was made by a certain Jacob Stainer of Austria. I perked up my ears at the mention of an actual name, only to learn further that Jacob Stainer had lived and died in the 17th century. Frau Bochsler believed that the name meant no more to her guests than it did to herself – namely, nothing whatsoever – although some of them had appeared to pretend to know all about him. Mr Cavendish had smilingly explained that the sound of the violin was not as powerful as certain others that had been made in Italy, but that it was so extraordinary an instrument in tone and quality that he would not wish to change it; he felt it belonged to him by destiny. She remembered that he had said that the violin had been inherited from his grandfather. Was it not remarkable that grandfather and grandson should both be violinists? But perhaps it was quite a normal thing. Frau Bochsler herself loved embroidery, and she had shared this taste with her grandmother. Her mother had not seemed to enjoy it so much, she recalled. Frau Bochsler’s mother had been given to making lace, and she had taught her daughter to make lace, but little Adelina had preferred to embroider poppies and cornflowers and violets, like her grandmother. She had made these napkins herself, she recalled, extracting some from a drawer to show me. I admired the ability of a child to form such perfect stitches, and wondered fleetingly if my own little Cecily would be able to hold still long enough to master such an art. But this was a digression. I drew Frau Bochsler firmly back to the matter at hand. Yes, yes, she said, her eyes still on the napkins, but Sebastian had not wanted anyone to say that he inherited his gift from his grandfather just as he had inherited the violin. The joke had been made, but he had said it was impossible, out of the question. Frau Bochsler did not see why it should be out of the question. Such things could be inherited, certainly. She continued to finger the napkins. But Sebastian had said it was impossible. Then he had laughed. He was a young man of infinite vitality; the guests had been won over by his charm.

All this was relevant enough, but although it appeared that the guests were learning many an interesting fact from Sebastian, I could hardly imagine what he might have learnt from any of them during the course of such banal conversations. Yet it was tantalising. The violin must have been of tremendous importance to him – I could well imagine a flamboyant personality on the cusp of a grand career appreciating the effect produced on his public by the unusual sight of a lion’s head at the tip of his instrument. The fact that he associated the violin with his ‘destiny’ was also intriguing, indicative of something fundamental in his life. Yet, what on earth could he have possibly learnt that night about his own violin? And what fact about a violin could possibly provoke a suicide? Even discovering that it was a fake or a fraud would surely not produce so dramatic an effect. My imagination was failing me.

I drew Frau Bochsler back to the subject of Sebastian’s suicide. She could not imagine any relation whatsoever between this terrible event and anything that had transpired during the soirée. It seemed to her, alas, much more probable that poor Sebastian had made some dreadful discovery in London. Could it not be – she leant towards me, dropping her voice to a whisper – that he had found out something
about his fiancée
? Such things had been known to shatter the happiness of young men.

I told her that the fiancée was more distraught by the mystery of it all than anyone else, and described the note that Sebastian had left for her. Frau Bochsler sighed deeply upon hearing about it, and the distaste for having doubts shed upon the absolute success of her party was slightly overshadowed by the glowing account I gave of the mystery of it all, and the realisation that she might possibly yet play a role in its elucidation. I asked again if she could be sure that there had been no other significant moments for Sebastian during the evening, and if she had noticed his mood when he finally left. Well, it was as she had told me; he left somewhat early as he had an early train to Paris on the following morning, and he was definitely tense when he told her this, as he shook her hand. Perhaps there had been something to cause that. It was possible, after all, although she had certainly thought nothing of it at the time.

Could I, perhaps, arrange to meet some of the other guests and ask them the question?

It would be a little socially awkward. Yet, she thought it could be done. Without saying so directly, she intimated that certain people might be quite interested to hear details about the terrible tragedy that had passed so close to them. She could arrange something. She had the list of guests, of course. Her soirées were highly prestigious, highly desirable. Everyone who was anyone in Zürich wished to be invited. She must keep lists and be careful to exclude undesirables. Anything might happen if one were not strict; people who were not received because of a social scandal could attach themselves to other people and, on the grounds of visiting them, could worm their way in. Frau Bochsler had had to yield on such matters many a time when she was younger and less experienced, and more than once she’d had a soirée ruined by the presence of an obnoxious or unwanted guest. She knew better now. She had precise lists and they were given to the servants. Yes, we could consult her list. It would be awkward but not impossible to visit her guests and explain the situation. There were not as many visits to make as it might seem, since many of the guests had come as couples or families. She found it very hard to believe that I would discover anything of significance, however. As the hostess, she had spent the larger part of the evening near Sebastian and heard whatever people had to say to him. Music was much discussed; the young man’s studies, his professor, his musical preferences, his concert experiences, his future plans, and his instrument. She could not remember any other topics; she had heard nothing that struck her as the slightest bit unusual. Of course, there were necessarily many things that she had not heard. And I, who knew Sebastian personally, might perhaps pick up some allusion, some reference that others had not noticed, although she could not even imagine what it might be. She really could not believe it possible that the fatal knowledge acquired by the poor young man before his death could have been learnt at her soirée. No, truly she could not. For if it had been, why would he not have committed suicide that very night, at the Pension Limmat, where she herself had organised his lodging. What a horror that would have been; a horror and a scandal! All the more so because she knew the lady who ran the Pension Limmat quite well. It was a very proper place, and Frau Dossenbach would not have liked a suicide there. She, Frau Bochsler, would never have lived it down. It was indeed fortunate that it had not occurred thus. The mere idea made her feel faint. Well, in any case, she quite saw how important it was for the family to try to understand why he had felt that he had to die. A true tragedy. Although Frau Bochsler had many engagements, she was free the next morning, and, if I wished, we might begin our round of calls then.

In the meantime, she recommended me to the Pension Limmat. It was right on the Limmatquai, a short and pleasant walk over the bridge from the Tonhalle. If I did not yet have a room somewhere, I should certainly go there. It was short notice, but she would write a letter of recommendation to Frau Dossenbach, which I could show her directly I presented myself there. It was not extremely far, and very easy to find; I need only walk straight down the Kirchgasse to the river and then turn along the quay. I could go there by foot if my bag was not too heavy.

I thanked her, took the missive which she sealed with a large ring, and left, feeling a slight relief, in spite of all her kindness, at leaving the plush and pillowy surroundings of her parlour behind and emerging into the crisp, sunny air.

I was in a hurry to reach the pension, but my eyes and my feet had other desires, for the daintiness of the streets, the fresh colours of the houses, the old beams and the bright flowers at every window constantly distracted my attention so that I found myself pausing on my way, staring about me in delight. When I reached the river, instead of turning left along it, I walked onto the Quaibrücke and spent an enchanted moment hanging over the edge. A solid mass of black ducks, many dozens of them, was wedged into the corner formed by the river and the old bridge, reposing or simply socialising, and amongst them, two enormous white swans were etched out against the black background. I forgot momentarily where I was in the contemplation of this astonishing spectacle of Nature, then suddenly remembered Sebastian. Had he also paused on this bridge, on his way to the Tonhalle which lay just a short distance from the other end? He must have, surely. It was so beautiful, and he had loved beauty.