Trevor uttered a snort of laughter. The doctor asked in a gentle, anxious voice: ‘You’re sure of this, Susan? You’re not making it up?’
‘Of course not! Those aren’t all the exact words, but that was the gist of it. I couldn’t forget, because it was like having her back. On one of her good days, still with that sharp flavour she had, but in a good humour—’
Dr Randall got up abruptly. ‘I must go and see if my patient is sleeping,’ he said, and hastily left the room.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Susan, dismayed, ‘now I’ve upset him.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Trevor. ‘He’s all right, leave him alone. You said yourself it was like having her back. Go on!’
‘Then there was Richard. She didn’t leave him any money, just all the rest of her books and records, and her manuscripts and letters, and the Mozart spinet, and some personal things like that.’
She broke off, unsure of her voice. The thought of Richard had suddenly come back to her with terrible poignancy, so lonely and so old and so bewildered; and it seemed to her that killing him had been a lesser crime than depriving him of his sure knowledge of Antonia, and his security in remembering her. She was suddenly immensely grateful to Laurence for the few awkward words which at least had done something to illuminate the old man’s last night in the world.
‘Yes? And the rest?’ prompted Miranda nervously licking her dry lips.
‘She left you an annuity for life, but I can’t remember how much it was.’ She really couldn’t, she wasn’t being mischievous. ‘I know it seemed to me a lot of money, I’m sure it will turn out to be generous,’ she said reassuringly. ‘And the residue is left to Laurence.’ This she remembered almost word for word. ‘“To my dear nephew,” she said, “the best and most unassuming accompanist I ever had, who fondly imagines I don’t realise how carefully and lovingly he has been nursing my failing powers for three years, and what an effort it has sometimes cost him to refrain from telling me to admit my age and stop making an obstinate old fool of myself.” And then she said he was to spend lavishly while he was young, and she hoped the first thing he’d buy would be a horn. But she made a condition, too—’
She had gone on talking because Laurence, taken utterly by surprise, was half laughing and quite on the verge of tears, and she had to give him time to recover his breath and his balance; but now she saw to what a crisis her rush of words had brought them all, and stopped guiltily.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Laurence shakily. ‘The lovely, wicked old devil, she never missed a trick.’
‘A condition?’ said Miranda sharply. ‘What condition?’
There was no help for it, it had to come out sooner or later. Susan fixed her eyes on the whitening daylight that fingered the misted windows, and said in a small voice: ‘That he lives apart from you.’
Miranda came to her feet with a rigid dignity that made her look twice her normal height. ‘That is the kind of insidious attack I might have expected from Aunt Antonia.’ She glared murderously at Trevor, who had considerately translated a splutter of laughter into a convulsive sneeze. ‘I hope I am capable of assessing the eccentricities of an old woman at their true value. I shall not allow myself to be upset by them.’ For that amount of money she would have swallowed worse affronts than this, no one doubted it.
‘In any case,’ said Laurence in a loud, firm voice, blushing to the ears, ‘I shall be needing a separate establishment, Mother, because I’m thinking of getting married.’ His eyes, bright with hope and apprehension, caught Susan’s, and firmly held them. ‘If she’ll have me,’ he said with a slightly tremulous smile.
If she’d have him! A sweet, hare-brained fool who got out of a sickbed and went crashing down a mountain in the dark and the snow to rescue a girl, without a weapon, without adequate means of helping either himself or her, without the slightest hope of success against a man with a gun. Absolutely irresponsible, except that he got there before anyone else. Totally ineffective, except that he brought her back with him. What more could she possibly want? She shut her eyes quickly, to keep from crying, and heard Miranda say in a faint, dismayed voice: ‘Married?’
‘And I am going to buy a horn,’ said Laurence wildly, ‘and I’m never going to touch the piano again.’ It wasn’t the thought of the money that was making him drunk, it was the nudge in the ribs from Antonia’s ghostly elbow, the sharp old voice egging him on to shed his jesses and take flight for freedom. ‘I hate pianos! As far as I’m concerned, keyboard instruments stopped with the harpsichord.’
If her eyes had not been tightly closed, and all her senses concentrated in her hearing, Susan would not have caught the knocking sounds from outside the house for the noise he was making. Curious, steady, measured raps, which by some process of divination she identified as the sound of boot-heels being drummed against the wall to dislodge accumulated growths of hard snow.
‘Hush!’ she said, trembling.
Laurence fell instantly silent. They all reared their heads, listening wide-eyed.
‘I heard someone outside. It’s them. They’re coming back.’
Then they all heard the low voices and the movements of many men, going heavily and wearily. The doctor came in, and on the opening of the door the sounds were enlarged, moving in upon them.
‘They’re here. I saw Herr Klostermann pass the window.’
‘Is he—Did they find him?’ asked Laurence from a dry throat.
‘I don’t know. They haven’t come in yet.’
Trevor crossed to the window, rubbing at the steamy pane. They came to his shoulders, peering out into the murk of the early daylight, which showed them little enough until the doctor snapped out the lights in the room. Then they could discern the big, muffled shapes of men approaching the yard gate, in a tight, steadily moving group; and in a moment they saw the reason for this close formation. They were carrying something between them on a stretcher.
Someone had run ahead to open the gate, and the bearers were halted for a moment while it was swung back to let them in. The long shape on the stretcher was draped with coats. A gloved hand, the fingers stiffly curled, jutted from the folds. The face was covered.
‘He’s dead,’ said Susan.
Relief and regret and pity and sadness tore at her like contending winds, shaking her into uncontrollable tears. Laurence put his arms round her and drew her gently away from the window. He was astonished and moved to find that his movements had authority with her; she went gladly, and clung to him gratefully.
‘It’s better that way, what was there left for him now? Oh, darling, don’t!’ He felt her trembling, and held her the closer. ‘Don’t think of it any more, it’s over. We couldn’t have done anything for him, even if he’d come back alive. Oh, darling, don’t, don’t cry, it’s all over now.’
But it was not quite over. Tired, deep voices filled the hall. Klostermann came in slowly, grey with fatigue, his cap in his hand. Under his arm was a black briefcase, filmed over with rime and glistening wetly now in the warmth withindoors. He laid it on the table, and chafed his cold fingers until he could unbuckle the straps. They drew into a fascinated circle round him, staring at the case that held a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and a legendary love affair.
Trevor mustered enough of his hesitant German to ask questions. They heard Neil Everard’s name pass.
‘How was it?’ asked Laurence round the constriction of excitement and sadness in his throat. ‘Did he smash himself up?’
Trevor shook his head. ‘No major injuries, only battered and bruised. He froze to death. They didn’t find him until it began to get light. Seems they didn’t have to look for his briefcase, he’d found it. He was lying over it when they got to him.’
Klostermann had the briefcase open now. He drew out the envelope that held Antonia’s will, and then a big oblong case of worn leather that had occupied most of the available space. The dark red lid was tooled in gilt with an elaborate coat of arms, the quarterings
of which were so rubbed that they could not easily distinguish them, though the two supporters seemed to be blackamoor pages in turbans with tall aigrettes, one balancing a tray, the other flourishing a handkerchief. Everyone stood silent, staring intently, waiting for the case to be opened. When Klostermann lifted the lid the glitter seemed to them blinding, because they were waiting to be blinded.
Trevor said in a queer, still voice: ‘Oh, my good God almighty!’
‘Kennen Sie diese Juwelen?’
There was a deep collar of brilliants, a flexible tiara, a pair of clasps in the form of a double eagle, two bracelets and a great pendant. They blazed out of the bed of black velvet with a deceptive splendour, and then, crystallising into things truly seen instead of more than half imagined, became what they were, adornments for a stage costume, tinsel beautifully made, with love and artistry, but tinsel.
‘Know them? Yes, I know them. I haven’t seen them since she left the operatic stage, but I know them all right. So he killed for these! Threw away his career and everything he had and was – for these!’
Trevor turned abruptly, and crossed the room to rummage hastily through the pile of papers on a side table, and came back with the magazine he had bought at Schwechat before they boarded the plane. He held out to them the picture of Antonia and Richard in Rosenkavalier. There was the turret of brilliants in the powdered hair, the glittering collar about her throat, the bracelets on her wrists, the double eagle in the foam of lace at her breast.
‘Treplenburg-Feldstein diamonds, my foot! I never did believe in them. It was only a glimpse of the case that first tempted him, of course, and I suppose those armorial bearings have a convincingly archducal look, unless you’re in on the joke. If he did risk a look inside it was only one glance by torchlight, they’d more than stand up to that. But if he went on believing in them to the end – and poor devil, I rather hope he did! – his specialist knowledge evidently didn’t extend to opera or diamonds. That is an imaginative craftsman’s idea of the coat of arms of the Princess von Werdenberg. Those are the stage regalia the Salzburg company had made as a present for Antonia, when she sang the Marschallin for the hundredth time. She never sang it again without them, they were her good-luck charm.’
They stood in dead silence, staring at the brittle stones for which two people had died, and two more gone very near to death.
‘Do you mean to say,’ whispered Susan, clinging with cold hands to Laurence’s arm, ‘that all this was for nothing? He killed Richard and destroyed himself for nothing?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say nothing. If values really exist in the mind I suppose he died with a quarter of a million in his arms. To Richard these things were beyond price. And even for what they are, they have a certain value. They’re good paste,’ said Trevor ironically, ‘and excellent workmanship. I shouldn’t be surprised if they’re worth every penny of a hundred pounds!’
About the Author
Ellis Peters is a pseudonym of Edith Mary Pargeter (1913–1995), a British author whose Chronicles of Brother Cadfael are credited with popularizing the historical mystery. Cadfael, a Welsh Benedictine monk living at Shrewsbury Abbey during the first half of the twelfth century, has been described as combining the curious mind of a scientist with the bravery of a knight-errant. The character has been adapted for television, and the books drew international attention to Shrewsbury and its history.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1960 by Ellis Peters
Cover design by Barbara Brown
Illustrations by Karl Kotas
The title and the chapter headings are taken from Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s libretto of Richard Strauss’s opera, Der Rosenkavalier, in the English version by Alfred Kalisch.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0164-8
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
EBOOKS BY ELLIS PETERS
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
These and more available wherever ebooks are sold
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
[email protected] (212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
Edith Pargeter, The Will and the Deed
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends