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Authors: Catherine Shaw

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Comforting words usually fall easily from my lips in the face of distress, but this event seemed so utterly dreadful, so totally beyond comfort of any kind, that I remained silent, staring at the letter. I admired Mrs Cavendish for having been able to find kind words for this young girl, when her own bereavement was so sudden and so awful. Rose echoed my thoughts.

‘You saw Sebastian’s mother, who was here earlier. Did you notice what she’s like? So upright, so tall, so strong somehow; well, Sebastian was like her in some ways. He had that strength, that vitality – except that he was almost too emotional. And the way he played …’

‘Like a god,’ finished Claire. ‘I never heard a violinist like him. Even though he was still young, he had everything – technique beyond most violinists’ wildest dreams, infinite imagination and the power to express it. When he played, people in the audience were always in tears.
I
used to cry. It was almost beyond human.’ Her words came out in a rush, as though once she had overcome the initial difficulty of talking about him, she couldn’t stop. ‘He used to play the Paganini Caprices as though they were a sort of joke. I’ve never heard anyone play so fast … Did you know that people used to say that the devil stood behind Paganini when he performed, helping him? Sebastian was like that. You couldn’t believe he was just an ordinary person; when you saw him play, sometimes it was as though he was possessed.’

‘Sometimes,’ interjected Rose hastily. ‘When he played madly difficult pieces. But he wasn’t like that for chamber music. There was nothing diabolical about him then. He played as though the trio was a single instrument. We worked so hard; we were reaching for something very rare, and I think … we were approaching it.’ She stopped. I said nothing, feeling humble in the face of a disaster, wondering why they had asked to talk to me.

‘But what can I possibly do?’ I asked.

‘I want to understand why he killed himself,’ said Claire, in a small, stern voice. ‘Nothing foreshadowed it – nothing! The week before, he was exactly as always – and he was
happy
. Happy and vital and intense and full of projects. Oh, Mrs Weatherburn, I’ve lost my sleep from wondering and wondering and wondering, why, why, why? What do his words mean? What did he find out? What was that
something
that made him not want to live any more? What dreadful thing can it have been? Why did he kill himself? Why? Why? Why?’

Her words startled me. I had read his message differently, as though he had written ‘I’ve found out something about myself: that I can’t go on.’ As though he had discovered that he had not the strength to live up to what was required of him. But Claire was understanding something else – that he had found out some particular mysterious
thing
, some actual thing that had driven him to despair. I saw at once that she might, indeed, be right, if it were true that a few days before his suicide, he had not a care in the world. If a man is not depressive or miserable; if he has no visible cause to be deeply despairing or disappointed, and is perceived by those closest to him as happy, vital, intense; then there must indeed be some essential outside
something
to drive him to sudden suicide.

‘You believe that he found out something specific? Some dreadful thing that he could not endure?’ I asked.

‘He must have! What else could it mean?’ she exclaimed, clutching her little bag convulsively with her fingers.

‘I agree with Claire,’ said Rose. ‘I have thought about it also, again and again. We have talked it over and discussed everything we can remember about Sebastian, especially about the days and weeks before he died. If you are willing to investigate this for Claire, we will tell you everything we know. The only trouble is that we don’t see how what we know could help you, because Sebastian was absolutely fine until the last time we saw him. And he wasn’t the type of person who could easily have hidden something that was disturbing him deeply. He was very extroverted, very emotional. And it would have been especially difficult for him to hide anything from Claire, I think.’

‘I could easily tell if something was amiss with him,’ she agreed, rubbing her eyes although they contained no tears; she had reached a stage of grief beyond such expression. ‘The last time I saw him was five days before … it happened. It was the day after Christmas. We hadn’t spent Christmas Day together, because he had to be with his mother. But we met the next day, the 26th. We rehearsed the
Geistertrio
together—’ she glanced at Rose, who nodded in confirmation, ‘and then when we stopped, Rose left, but I stayed and Sebastian and I played Brahms. It was utterly beautiful. And he kissed me goodbye …’

‘It isn’t easy to recall everything exactly,’ said Rose, ‘and yet it is. Because there isn’t anything special to say about that day. We’ve been through it again and again, and it was just as usual. That doesn’t mean dull or routine. Sebastian was like a wire when you see the electricity go crackling down it, with sparks.’ (I noted with pleasure that some of the scientific lessons I had provided during Rose’s tender childhood appeared to have left some trace.) ‘I wish we could describe him to you better. Imagine his mother – a bit larger than life, you know – but young, handsome, and happy. Yes, he was happy, not contented or cheerful, but with a happiness that was like – like bated breath, for life was so unexpected, and the things it brings so fearfully wonderful. Oh, Vanessa, you don’t have to believe just us! If you’re willing to do this, you should talk to his friends, his teachers. Then you’ll see what he was like. No one, but
no one
could believe that he had killed himself.’

I steeled myself to ask a terrible question.

‘How did he …?’

‘He drank a cup of poison. The police told me; they say he took something that he found in the house, and put it in a cup of coffee that he left next to his bed. Something must have happened on his trip – something dreadful, unspeakable, to provoke such a gesture!’

‘He went on a trip?’ I asked.

‘Yes – he left in the evening, after the last time we saw him, that we just told you about,’ she replied. ‘He took a night train to Zürich, where he had been invited to play the E minor Mendelssohn Concerto with the Tonhalle Orchester. It was a great honour – they’ve built a new concert hall and it’s said to be the best in the world. He was going to talk to them about the three of us coming, to play the Beethoven Triple Concerto …’ She stopped speaking, and swallowed.

‘Have you tried to find out anything about what he did in Zürich, and whom he saw there?’ I asked.

‘No,’ replied Rose in a small voice. ‘We’re not detectives. We didn’t actually
do
anything. We didn’t know what to do. We just tried to think.’

‘And you are sure there was nothing strange about his behaviour before he left? He didn’t seem to have any special plans?’

‘No-o,’ Claire put in. ‘But there was something strange afterwards. His concert was on December 28th, and I’m sure he meant to come home the day after. At least, I had understood that, although I can’t remember that he specifically said so, but I’m sure he would have told me if he actually meant to spend time away. But he didn’t. Then when I didn’t hear from him, I did wonder what he was doing, but of course I wasn’t in the least bit worried. I just thought that he must have met some interesting people, and stayed on.’

‘Because he did not return home, in fact?’

‘It seems that he didn’t, until he was found dead.’

‘And when was that?’

‘In the morning of January 1st, by the charwoman who comes in by the day. Mrs Cavendish was at home in bed, but she had come in late from a New Year’s celebration and had seen nothing of him.’

‘We had an idea,’ intervened Rose. ‘We thought that maybe he discovered that he was ill with some horrible illness which would kill him. We thought he might have felt ill and gone to see a doctor. Not that he ever seemed at all ill, but we couldn’t think of anything else. So after the inquest, we asked the doctor who … who …’ She glanced awkwardly at her friend.

‘… performed the post-mortem?’ I helped her.

‘But he said there was nothing,’ she replied quickly, ‘no illness of any kind. Nothing was wrong with him.’

‘Still, some doctor somewhere could have made a terrible mistake, couldn’t he?’ said Claire. ‘And told him he was dying? Or something like that. I just want to understand … I
must
understand what happened, and whose fault it was. I must … I can’t sleep …’

She stood up and wandered half-blindly across the room and out of the door which led directly onto the stage. After a moment, a turbulent storm of music flowed into the room.

‘Chopin’s twenty-fourth prelude,’ murmured Rose. ‘It was the piece he most loved to hear her play.’

‘If I understand rightly,’ I said, ‘the police are not actually undertaking any investigation.’

‘No, they’re not. For them, it’s just an ordinary suicide, nobody’s fault, and there is nothing to investigate. As long as they can make sure he did it, they’re not interested in his private reasons. But we are! Oh, please say you’ll try to find out what happened. Please! It’s – I can’t tell you what it’s done – it was so sudden, it shattered our lives. Claire’s worse than mine, but it isn’t just that they loved each other; it was the music, too. We were all together in that; we were doing something like – like one person. We put our whole lives into it; we were discovering new ways to interpret, new ways to express the music, something really, truly different. How could he have smashed it all and abandoned us? What could have been more important to him than music, that was his very soul?’

The sound of the piano continued to flow in from the stage, its voice so gripping that it absorbed and held all my attention. I found it hard to continue to speak, hard to organise my thoughts.

‘I will do it,’ I said. ‘I can only try, you understand that. I have no idea what I may or may not find out. Whatever I find, I will tell you about it frankly, Rose – but only you. What you do with what I tell you is up to you.’

I glanced towards the stage, from which the last notes of Chopin’s prelude resonated despairingly.

‘I understand,’ she whispered, clasping my hand in hers. ‘Thank you, Vanessa.’

CHAPTER TWO
 
 

In which Vanessa visits the charming town of Basel and meets an orchestra conductor

 

Old, crooked houses leant together along the Rheinsprung as though for support, like a group of elegant dowagers. Crowned with ancient tiles dusted with chill powdery snow, painted in unexpected pinks, blues and greens, frozen flowerpots ready at the windows, awaiting the advent of spring, the houses spoke of centuries devoted to order, duty and gentility. I moved along the row admiringly, my eyes hesitating between the delightfulness of the pretty row of house-fronts and the glorious beauty of the Rhine shimmering in front of me. On I went past Münsterplatz and down the Rittergasse, then right on the broad St Alban-Graben to the Steinenberg, where the Stadtcasino concert hall rose impressively in front of my eyes.

This was my first experience of Switzerland, and it had lasted all in all barely an hour until this point. Arriving from Paris and then Mulhouse, the train never really left France, but deposited one upon the very boundary between the two countries; only upon crossing some corridors on foot and displaying suitable papers to uniformed guards was one permitted to actually enter the country. And from the Basel train station to the centre of the old town was but a short ride, although one so remarkably charming, as the cab wound its way among narrow cobbled streets, as to fill the mind with enduring impressions. I sat happily, thinking how many of the most extraordinary experiences of my life had come to me through my detecting efforts, and how very lucky I was to have stumbled into the profession, almost by sheer accident.

The cab deposited me at a small pension, the name of which had been given to me by my dear friend Mrs Burke-Jones as being highly reputable and filled with travelling English ladies. I was not completely sure that this was the kind of company I most desired, but on the other hand, my German was so very rudimentary – and the language that I heard spoken all about me, in any case, so very unlike even my elementary notions of German! – that I thought it must surely be useful to be able to communicate in English. So I booked a room, spent the entire night crossing the Continent, and arrived at midday, ready to offer myself the gift of an afternoon and evening devoted to exploration, before presenting myself at the rendezvous so kindly granted me by Maestro Friedrich Hegar in Basel, where he was conducting a special concert.

I had written to him immediately after the conversation with Rose and Claire, for it seemed as clear to me as to them that whatever had driven Sebastian Cavendish to sudden suicide, it was something that he had learnt within the course of his five days’ absence, and I could think of nothing more urgent or more useful than to retrace every step that he took during that short period of time. It was so recent that the project struck me as eminently possible, and I determined to begin in Zürich, whither he had travelled to give his concert with the Tonhalle Orchester.

I hesitated over leaving at once, but my husband advised me that it would be more prudent to write to the conductor, explaining the situation and requesting an interview at his convenience. Arthur said that orchestra conductors are busy and often widely-travelled men, and he turned out to be quite right, for the Maestro informed me that he would be out of the country for a few days, and then he would be spending a short time in Basel for a series of concerts with the Chorale there, before returning to Zürich. If I could not wait until his return home, he offered to receive me in Basel for a short meeting, and gave me a most precise day and hour during which I might come to the concert hall; it was very nearly the only free time that he would have. I accepted immediately by telegraph, made my preparations, deposited my things at the pension and went for a roundabout walk: and thus I found myself wandering along the banks of the Rhine in the wintry sunshine, somewhat early, somewhat timid, but very much charmed by my surroundings.

Upon the stroke of four o’clock I entered the building, and soon found the main concert hall. The orchestra members were putting away their instruments and leaving; the conductor, who must be none other than Herr Hegar, was gathering up his music. I approached him with a little trepidation, hoping that he had not entirely forgotten about our meeting.

He turned as he heard me coming up to the stage from the seats, and I saw a head of white hair brushed artistically back, giving a peculiar effect of being rigidly windblown, a pair of sharp, commanding blue eyes, and a general air of being used to authority and to public observation. Then he came forward, his hand outstretched, and shook mine. His score under his arm, he invited me to join him in the room set aside for his use before and after concerts, and I followed him there under the curious glances of the musicians. It was a simple, pleasant little room furnished with a wardrobe and a mirror – important accessories for the conductor, certainly – a desk and lamp, and two or three armchairs. He settled down in one of them – it seemed almost too small in character, although not in size, for such a personality – and ushering me into another, leant forward to speak.

‘So you have come about Sebastian Cavendish,’ he said. ‘Terrible, terrible, that he should be dead. I can hardly believe it. He was so young, so vigorous, so extraordinarily talented – a true artist, such as one meets but few over a lifetime of music. Only weeks ago he was playing here in Switzerland – only weeks ago. And now he is dead. I am horrified. I would wish to express my greatest sympathy and condolences to his family. If I may be so blunt, how did he die?’

His English was elegant, carefully pronounced yet strongly accented with the rhythmic singsong and peculiar vowels that characterised the incomprehensible Swiss German I heard spoken all about me in the streets. It made me want to smile, but the very thought of the dreadful nature of the response I must give to his question effaced that desire at once.

‘He committed suicide by drinking poison,’ I replied, unwilling or unable to be flowery on the matter.

His expression changed; he looked stern.

‘Really,’ he said. ‘I had thought it must be some accident. I am sorry to hear what you tell me. Some tragedy of love, perhaps. But it is not clear to me why you wished to meet with me upon the subject. I was hardly acquainted with young Mr Cavendish, though I would gladly have hoped to become more so in the coming years.’

‘We, his friends and family,’ I began, smoothly adopting a polite fiction that I often used to avoid presenting myself as a detective, ‘believe that he had no reason to wish to do away with himself before he left on his trip to Zürich. All are of one mind that he was happy, excited, hopeful and full of plans and projects, as well as being engaged to a charming young lady who was also a brilliant pianist and a member of his trio, the Cavendish Trio. In fact, it seems that he meant to broach the subject of a possible return to Zürich with the trio, in view of a performance of the Beethoven Triple Concerto.’

‘Ah yes. He did speak of that,’ replied the conductor with a wave of his hand. ‘We had a discussion at the party that followed the concert, about his possible return. I expressed my preference that he should return as a soloist, to play something in contrast with the splendidly romantic Mendelssohn; something that would electrify rather than move. Paganini, perhaps. The Beethoven Triple Concerto is extremely difficult to organise; three soloists, three payments, and then generally more than the usual three rehearsals to put everything together. As an established trio, of course, they would have been able to prepare it in detail beforehand. On the other hand, the names of the other two members were unknown to me, although I cannot imagine that Cavendish would have participated in a mediocre trio. Still, I would have wished for further guarantees, and in addition, both the pianist and the cellist are women, which seemed to me to be a poor arrangement.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And why would that be?’

‘We Swiss are lovers of tradition!’ he responded firmly. ‘Our women are not expected to attack the professions, as so many do in your advanced English society. We do not wish for such forwardness here. Women are content to stay at home in their kitchens, and they do not rush about getting up on stages to show themselves in public, or clamour loudly for the vote. Not even to mention the peculiar appearance of a young man travelling with
two
young women. It would not have done here, not at all, I assure you.’

I wondered inwardly whether to laugh or cry over the description of England as an advanced place for women, then decided that it is always best to count one’s blessings. I could not guess whether Swiss women were truly as he described them, or whether this was a man’s description, offered under the optimistic assumption that women were as he wished them to be. It is not that I am not acquainted with a certain number of Englishmen who would be likely enough to hold the same discourse (except, of course, that they would be obliged, additionally, to fulminate against the modest progress we women have achieved in attaining to the professions, and against the multiple demonstrations women have unsuccessfully staged in order to obtain university degrees, the right to vote, and other carefully protected male prerogatives). The question is both infinite and close to my heart, so I considered it wisest to nod my head sagely and appear as kitchen-oriented and profession-free as possible.

‘I see,’ I said humbly but encouragingly.

‘However, I did assure young Cavendish that he would be invited again for next year’s opening season,’ continued Herr Hegar, ‘without yet specifying what concerto would be played. He had a very bright future in front of him and seemed very enterprising, full of energy, and happiness also. I assure you that I cannot have the slightest notion of why he should have committed suicide.’

‘Neither do we,’ I answered slowly. ‘It seems to all the members of his family that when he left, he was as you describe him. Therefore, we have determined to follow his traces and attempt to discover everything he did while he was away, to see if we can recapture what led to the tragedy. I ought to explain to you that he left a note to his fiancée, telling her that he had “found out something” and “could not go on”. We are all quite certain that whatever it was, he must have found it out during the course of his trip to Switzerland, for he left in good spirits and died immediately upon his return. That is why I am trying to go to the places where he went, do the things that he did and speak to the people that he met: in order to discover the cause of his sudden despair. Perhaps the most I can ask of you is to tell me how much you saw of him while he was in this country, and if you know where he stayed, any other people he was in contact with while he was here?’

He hesitated, then shook his head.

‘I cannot be of much help to you, I am afraid,’ he began. ‘I do not know exactly when he arrived, but he was certainly here on December 27th, the day before the concert, for we had a three-hour rehearsal in the evening of that day. Cavendish did not stay for the three hours, of course. He waited while we went through the overture to Fidelio, then we rehearsed Mendelssohn, and he left while we worked through the second half of the program, Schubert’s unfinished symphony. The first rehearsal was only moderately successful in that his playing was so free that it was not easy to comprehend his style and predict his rubato. For the next morning’s rehearsal, I summoned him an hour early to discuss the score in detail, and he explained his interpretation to me with a high level of technical mastery and also poetic expression. The rehearsal went much better. The concert was on the evening of that day. After the concert, there was a soirée during which Mr Cavendish appeared at the top of his form; that was when we had the conversation about his possible return for next year’s season. This is all that I saw of him. I cannot tell you anything further.’

‘But that is already a great deal,’ I said. ‘He played on the 28th of December. The … the death occurred during the night of December 31st; he was supposed to join some friends celebrating the arrival of the New Year. What did he do in between? Did he stay on in Zürich?’

‘I have no idea what he did or where he may have gone after the evening of the 28th,’ said Herr Maestro Hegar, beginning to look slightly impatient.

‘I quite understand, and you have already given me some most important information,’ I said hastily. ‘Perhaps I may ask you if he received many people backstage after the concert, and who organised the soirée?’

‘The soirée was organised and hosted by one of our most faithful sponsors,’ he replied, a faint smile hovering over his lips. ‘Her name is Frau Adelina Bochsler, and she is a great lover and supporter of music and musicians. She would certainly have gone to greet the evening’s soloist after his concert and can tell you more than I about what occurred there. As it happens, she is also the person to ask about who was invited to the soirée. As always in her home, it was a formal and carefully organised affair, so I should not be surprised if she could provide you with a list of guests. I will write you a letter of recommendation to her, so that you may present yourself at her home in Zürich.’ He seemed relieved at the idea of handing me over to the care of someone else, and, moving over to a small writing table, he wrote, folded and sealed a letter which he gave me, together with a note containing the lady’s name and address.

‘You may present yourself directly at her home and leave a card,’ he said, ‘upon which you should write that you are sent by me. If she is in, she will receive you, and otherwise she will certainly send for you at her earliest convenience. I am certain that she will be willing to render this service to the cause of Music. I would be happy to accompany you to visit dear Frau Bochsler, if I could, but I will not be returning to Zürich for several days. Basel is a lovely place,’ he added, looking around him, then out of the window, with a smile. ‘I lived here as a child and still have excellent friends here, who sometimes even come to visit me in Zürich for the concerts. This city is filled with old associations that, by some mysterious contrast, serve to refresh and renew me. It is good for the soul. But I expect that when I return to Zürich, you will probably no longer be there.’

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