Instead of responding to this statement, King Ludwig paused at the open doorway of an oblong building attached to the palace. Organ music came from inside.
Ludwig indicated that Thomas should go inside with the words, ‘This is the family chapel.’
Thomas stepped in through the doorway. The chapel was large enough to seat forty or so people. An altar stood at one end beneath a stained glass window. Moses was depicted in coloured glass carrying the Ten Commandments. A youth with a very white face sat at the organ. He played the hymn ‘Amazing Grace’, mouthing the words as he did so.
Ludwig spoke quietly so as not to distract the musician. ‘That is my youngest son, Tristan, twenty-two years of age. He has played the organ at York Minster many times.’ Ludwig nodded back in the direction of the open doorway and they stepped outside again. ‘As you see, Tristan and Richard are quite different in temperament. It’s difficult to persuade Richard to come indoors. He’d rather practise archery, or sail his boat on the river. On the other hand, we have a devil of a time persuading Tristan to even put his head out through a doorway. He’s devoted to his music. Just last week he sent a whole parcel of hymns he’s composed to a publisher in London.’
Thomas smiled. ‘Often families can be composed of opposites rather than like-minded souls.’
‘I agree, Thomas. I agree. Now, a devilish business, wasn’t it? Who would fire a gun at Professor Giddings’ home? The fellow and his wife could have been killed.’
‘It’s possible that whoever killed Mr Feasby is responsible.’
‘Very likely, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The big man ran the palm of his hand over the top of his balding head as he thought about this. ‘I have an awful feeling that the devil will attack us again before long.’
‘Do you have any men that patrol the island with guns?’
‘I have my gamekeeper, and the island’s residents are on the lookout for strangers. You see, everyone here knows everyone else. A stranger would be noticed immediately.’
They approached a door that led into back of the palace.
‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said, ‘it would help if the houses had locks on their doors?’
‘We pride ourselves on having no crime on the island. Nobody has ever locked a door on Faxfleet in more than a hundred years.’
‘Perhaps bolts could be fitted until the culprit is caught. Then if—’
Ludwig interrupted so quickly it seemed he wanted to get something off his chest. ‘I specifically asked Scotland Yard to send Abberline here to investigate the death of Feasby.’
‘That was wise, sir. Inspector Abberline is the best detective in the world.’
‘You truly believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he never caught that Ripper fellow.’
‘No, that is true. Nevertheless, his record for arresting criminals is extraordinary.’
‘Well … I don’t doubt his competence for one moment. But I’m pleased that Scotland Yard sent Abberline, because that has delivered the real prize to me.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘You, of course. You are the prize, Mr Lloyd.’
Thomas stared at Ludwig in surprise by this unexpected twist in the conversation. ‘How can I be the prize, sir?’
‘You are a first-rate newspaperman. The articles you write are quite brilliant.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I wanted you here on the island. You are the detective’s shadow and you will write about the murder case he will investigate?’
‘Yes.’ Thomas had become wary. He cast his mind back a few moments to when Ludwig bemoaned the fact that his academy wasn’t being taken seriously by the academic and artistic world at large. Thomas guessed that he was about to be recruited (or should that be press-ganged?) into publicizing the work of the academy in such a way that it would win the public’s approval. Thomas disliked being tricked into becoming the Faxfleet Academy’s champion – someone who would praise it in the newspapers in order to gratify its patron, namely King Ludwig III.
Ludwig flashed charm and smiles as he patted Thomas on the shoulder. ‘Anything your require, Thomas, and I shall see that you are amply supplied. Ha! And you shall be my guest at the top table at dinner tonight. I have some excellent Chablis I would like you to taste.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’s most generous.’
‘Mr Lloyd. Go wherever you wish on the island. Interview whoever you wish, too. I want you to write about what you find here for your newspaper readers and show the entire world that this little realm is populated by a race of geniuses.’ He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open its gold cover. ‘I must go and talk to my land agent. More tedious aspects of life intrude: rent reviews, property audits and such-and-such. I look forward to chatting with you over dinner tonight, Mr Lloyd. Cheerio.’
The big man marched away with an air that suggested he had Thomas safely tucked away in his pocket. That he only had to pull Thomas out again to obediently do his bidding.
Thomas frowned. He certainly wasn’t going to become a puppet of King Mud (as some called him). Nevertheless, now that Ludwig had given him permission to go wherever he chose on the island and to interview its inhabitants, he decided to do exactly that. Thomas returned to the cottage to collect his reporter’s notebook and pencils and then set out to explore the island.
Thomas strode out along a woodland path heading north. Sunlight shone down through the branches. The breeze caused a soft whooshing sound that slowly rose and fell. He came upon rows of cottages here and there. These were where members of the Faxfleet Academy were housed – the artists, philosophers, inventors and scientists. Thomas reached the northern tip of the island. To his surprise he found a waterside village here. This was clearly a community of fishermen and their families, living in log cabins. Nets had been hung out to dry. Small boats rested on the beach above the high-tide mark. A dozen women, wearing long woollen skirts and shawls, smoked clay-pipes as they peeled potatoes and chatted to one another. Occasionally, one would call to children playing on the beach.
Thomas took the trouble to appear nonchalant as if simply enjoying a stroll. The women peeling potatoes stopped talking when they saw him, immediately realizing he was a stranger.
He smiled and politely raised his hat in greeting. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. Lovely weather, isn’t it?’
They nodded back and continued peeling the gleaming white spuds. Although they could hardly be described as hospitable, they didn’t seem overly suspicious of his presence.
‘I’m a guest of the king,’ he said conversationally to a woman with long silver hair. ‘I didn’t realize there was a village here?’
‘We’re only here spring and summer,’ she said in a no-nonsense way. ‘We go back to the mainland come October. Fishing isn’t much to speak of when it drops cold.’
Smiling, he nodded, and continued his stroll. A dog barked at him. One of the women told it to shut up, using some very colourful language. The dog ignored her and darted at Thomas. She threw the potato she was peeling at the dog, although it came closer to Thomas’s head than that of the dog. He glanced back, wondering if that had been deliberate. However, she shook her fist at the mutt and seemed genuinely irked that it was bothering the stranger. At that moment, the dog lost interest in him. It began to eat the potato.
He moved along the shore to where a fisherman loaded a rowing boat with empty baskets. The man’s suntanned face was almost dark purple in colour. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket over his woollen jersey.
Conversationally, Thomas asked, ‘Is this a salmon river?’
‘Not for me, it isn’t. I’ll be taking mussels and crab out of there.’ He nodded at the river. ‘The others go for skate and whiting.’
Thomas didn’t want to usurp Abberline’s role and begin asking questions. After all, he wasn’t a policeman and Abberline wouldn’t approve if Thomas blunderingly attempted his own investigation. Nevertheless, if he engaged the fisherman in conversation he m
ight pick up some useful facts. After all, Thomas was mindful that King Ludwig’s Academy would be expensive to maintain and he did wonder how it was funded.
Thomas looked at the cabins. ‘The king provides accommodation for the fishermen?’
‘Provides? Rents more like. Would you pass me that oar?’
Thomas picked up the heavy wooden oar and handed it to the man.
Thomas said, ‘Is the fishing good in the river?’
‘Fair.’
‘This is freshwater?’
‘Yonder wet-stuff’s briny.’
‘Tidal currents must make your work hard.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘At least you don’t have the dangers of the open sea.’
‘We’ve got the dangers of the river instead.’
‘Does the ferry take your catch to Hull?’
‘Aye.’
‘Would you sell me some mussels?’
‘Aye.’
‘How much?’
‘Penny a pot.’
‘Do you have a bag to put them in?’
‘You bring the pot, mister. I’ll put them in that.’
‘They’re big mussels.’
‘Aye.’
Thomas knew that most Yorkshire men spoke as little as possible. If they could communicate with a one-word response then that’s what they would do.
‘Have you fished from the island for a long time?’
‘Aye.’
‘The cabins look new.’
‘Ten years old.’
‘Oh? Is that how long you’ve been here?’
‘Look, mister. Why not say what’s on your mind?’ The fisherman picked up a basket full of mussels. The shells were a glistening blue-black.
‘Oh, nothing’s on my mind as such.’
‘Seems it to me.’
‘I’m a visitor. I wanted to get an impression of life here on the island.’
‘Well, make the most of it. Won’t be here for much longer.’
‘You’re saying the island won’t be here for much longer?’
‘I just said that, didn’t I?’ He sorted through the mussels, picking out those that were open and throwing them behind him onto the beach. The dog arrived to sniff optimistically at them: another meal seemed to be arriving in its direction. The man stood up straight, scratched his bristly jaw, and nodded at pieces of timber, jutting up out of the water about fifty yards offshore. ‘See the sticks?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was our jetty. The village stood close by. Ten years ago the whole lot was washed away, along with a good chunk of the island. That’s why the cabins yonder are no more than ten years old.’
‘That must have been a devil of a storm.’
‘Not so much the storm’s doing, mister. The Admiralty’s been dredging the river in a fierce way for the last twenty years. Fiercer and deeper they go. They’ve ripped up the riverbed so big steamships can go upstream to Goole. What they’re doing is changing the flow. This island’s now being eaten away by the water. Shrinking … dwindling.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘In another thirty years all this’ll be water. Faxfleet will be gone for good.’
This was quite a speech for the fisherman. In fact, he looked disgusted with himself for using so many words. To many a Yorkshireman, being garrulous is a repellent quality. He returned to stirring shellfish with his suntanned hands. He threw more open mussels onto the beach. These were the dead ones that wouldn’t be good to eat. The dog decided otherwise – it began to crack the shells with its teeth.
Thomas thought about what he’d heard. ‘Then the king will, one day, lose his kingdom?’
The man didn’t reply. He picked out a small crab from the basket and dropped it onto the beach. It scuttled toward the water’s edge. The dog gave chase, then retreated when the crab turned on him with its pincers.
‘It was shocking to hear that Mr Feasby had been murdered. Shot from a tree by an arrow.’
‘Here.’ The fisherman handed Thomas a little basket filled with the mussels he’d been sorting.
‘Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t have any money on me.’
‘Pay me later.’
‘That’s very trusting of you.’
‘A gent like you won’t diddle me for a pennorth of shellfish.’
Without another word he pushed the rowing boat down the beach to the water. The dog chased the crab as far as the river’s edge, then stopped dead as the crab vanished into the waves.
‘Thank you again,’ Thomas called after him. ‘And goodbye.’
The man paused. ‘Mr Feasby was all right. He loved creatures. I don’t know why, but he did. He fixed yonder dog’s leg when the daft thing got itself bit by a seal.’
‘The dog looks fine now.’
The fisherman gave a nod. ‘I hope you catch whoever it was that killed Mr Feasby.’
‘How do you know I’m looking for the killer?’
‘Because you came snooping.’ He slid the boat into the water and climbed in. ‘No need to look amongst us fisher-folk for the murderer. We liked old Mr Feasby. You should do your snooping among the king’s guests in their little cottages. Some of those gentlemen and ladies are so crooked they couldn’t lie straight in bed.’ He sat down on the boat’s seat and began working the oars.
With the words ringing in Thomas’s ears, he carried the basket of mussels back towards the cottage that would be his home for the foreseeable future.
Before Thomas Lloyd reached the cottage he encountered a striking figure on the shore. A man of about fifty stood with his foot resting on a boulder as he plucked strings on a violin. Tied to his leg above the knee was what appeared to be a wooden board on which was pinned a page of sheet music. The man was tall and as thin as a broom handle, or so it seemed to Thomas. The stranger appeared to concentrate so ferociously on plucking the strings of the violin that his face had become fixed in an extraordinary scowl. Every so often he’d stop picking the instrument’s strings, remove a pencil from behind one ear, and then add musical notes to the paper attached to his leg.
Thomas decided not to interrupt the man. He quietly walked up the beach, intending to take a woodland path.
The man had closed his eyes while moving the pencil in the air as if it was a conductor’s baton. Suddenly, he opened one eye. He fixed it on Thomas.
‘Mr Lloyd, how does the day treat you thus far?’
‘It treats me very well, thank you,’ he said, responding to the man’s quaint greeting. ‘Good afternoon.’
The musician tucked the pencil behind one ear. ‘Mr Lloyd, we have not met. I saw you at dinner in the refectory. You were in the company of the Scotland Yard detective.’
‘Inspector Abberline.’
‘Yes, Abberline!’ He briskly advanced towards Thomas while holding out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’
‘And I also.’ The handshake was a decidedly twitchy one, hinting that the man was animated with an overabundance of nervous energy. ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.’
‘And such fascinating work it is, sir. You see, I create music. However, instead of deriving melodies from that cauldron of cliché used by so many other composers, I listen to the sounds of nature. The air moving through the trees. The lap of waves on a beach. Such as now! I’ve absorbed the sound of those little ripples striking lightly against the pebbles. I replicate the sound like so.’ He picked at the strings; the sound echoed the waves washing against the stones. ‘That’s where I draw inspiration for my music.’
‘I see.’
‘My name is Virgil Kolbaire. I have been composing my music on this island for eight years. The king has been so pleased with my compositions that he has extended my stay each year.’
Thomas sensed the man was eager to state his case as if he required Thomas’s approval and endorsement. ‘You must have produced a considerable body of work in that time, Mr Kolbaire.’
‘I compose a symphony each year, which I dedicate
to King Ludwig. I also write opera, and nocturnes for the violin.’ He plucked a string to underline the point.
Thomas carried the basket of mussels in one hand. He realized that the smell coming from the fisherman’s basket was a pungent one. Kolbaire didn’t seem to notice. Seemingly he wanted to reveal important truths.
‘You know, Mr Lloyd, this is a crucial time of year. Soon, members of the Faxfleet Academy must present a selection of our work to King Ludwig. He judges our output. He then decides who remains here and who is despatched.’
‘I imagine that such a judgement is trying. It must prey on the minds of the academy members.’
‘Indeed it does, Mr Lloyd. Mark my words, many people on this island will be lying awake at night worrying – worrying that their time here is coming to an end and they will be sent back to the mainland.’
‘Do many leave each year?’
‘There are over thirty members living here. A dozen will be exiled, as it were. Some people do not know the meaning of hard labour. They will end up in the poorhouse, or sleeping at the side of the road.’
‘Then the stakes are high.’
‘Ha!’ The man vigorously gestured with the violin. ‘I’ve seen people come and go. They arrive with such cocksure optimism. They leave on the ferry as broken-down relics. Their faces wet with tears.’
‘You make this sound like a cutthroat business.’
Kolbaire’s eyes blazed with excitement. He actually seemed to enjoy describing the sad exit of academy members that had failed to please the king. ‘It is a cutthroat business. Men and women scheme here. They puff up their chests and pretend they are geniuses. But next month you will see dejected people ride that ferry back to the mainland. Their dreams in tatters, their hopes dashed – ha! – all their pretence of greatness stripped away.’
‘As you’ve been here for eight years, Mr Kolbaire, I doubt if you fear being cast out, as it were.’
‘I do not fear that one jot, sir. I have my beautiful music.’ His thin fingers plucked the strings very fast so that they sounded like drops of rain striking a tin roof. He nodded towards an area of higher ground where the forest met the shore. ‘Just look at Manvers over there. He’s painting landscapes day and night. He frittered his year away drinking too much, talking too much. Now he’s trying to catch up. Ha! He’ll be on the ferry with his tail between his legs. He’ll end up shovelling manure for a living. Mark my words.’