Nocturne with Bonus Material (2 page)

“What if they were more than acquainted?” said Kit. “What if she was Cayley's mistress?”

“You're too young to be thinking of such things,” Erika said with a tsk of disapproval, but when Kit grinned at her, she smiled back.

“They all had mistresses in those days,” Kit added, trying to sound offhand. “Maybe Cayley wasn't as respectable as everyone thought. And maybe it wasn't just coincidence that Ivy Reinhardt lived so close to Cayley's studio. Maybe he set her up in a love nest.”

Erika burst out laughing. “Kit, wherever did you hear such an old-fashioned term? “But--” Erika looked at the portrait again. “She was very striking. I remember thinking it odd that she was unmarried. I suppose I assumed that she was widowed and that perhaps that was why she was so well-off. Her playing, brilliant as it may have been, would not have supported such a generous lifestyle.”

“But Charles Cayley's wife's money would have done,” said Kit. “If Cayley paid for the house in Aubrey Road, he might have given her the piano as well.”

“That's wild supposition,” argued Erika. “But...but if she played for little salons in her home, she could never have publicly acknowledged that the piano was Cayley's gift. And if he had wanted to—”

“Leave a mark—” Kit finished for her. “Literally. A sign that connected them. And if Cayley had used the ivy as part of his signature for years, they must have been together for a long time.”

They were both silent for a moment, gazing at the paintings in the book. Then Kit said, more slowly, “When was Charles Cayley thought to have died? Does it say? I only remember that it was towards the end of the war.”

Erika turned to the previous page. Kit heard the little catch of her breath as she read. “1944. August. It doesn't give the day here.”

“What if they were together that afternoon? In the studio, in Lansdowne House.”

“Oh,” said Erika. “They'd have heard the explosion, wondered where it was. Perhaps he went out to see what had been hit.”

“Imagine his shock when he saw it was her house.”

“And his relief that she hadn't been in it. It must have seemed like a sign from God.” Erika gave a little shake and a strand of her fine hair escaped from its twist. “You knew then that life could be short and that every moment was precious.”

Kit sat back on his heels, thinking. “You might have stood next to him, that afternoon, and never realized. But why wouldn't the neighbors have come forward, identifying her—
Ivy
—as the occupant?”

“Oh, Kit. You've no idea how chaotic it all was in those days. So many people had left London, especially those who could have afforded to live in Aubrey Road. And I doubt that Ivy Reinhardt socialized much with her neighbors. She was a single woman with a slightly suspect reputation. An artiste—a musician. And if Cayley was indeed paying for her house, they may have been discreet about it.”

“What happened to her, after the war?”

“I don't know. I never heard anything more of her. I suppose I just assumed she was displaced, as so many were. Or killed.” Grave now, Erika met Kit's gaze. “I know what you're thinking. But they couldn't have known it would happen. The bomb.”

“You said it yourself. What if they saw it as a sign? And what if there was another bomb, near where Cayley was supposed to have been that day? And they decided to just disappear?”

“Kit, you're an incurable romantic. Where would they have gone? How would they have lived?”

“I'll bet Cayley had been squirreling his wife's money away for years. A secret account, maybe, that he used to support Ivy. And if he had much more Bohemian artist friends, I'll bet there was a cottage somewhere in the country. They could have hidden out, taken up assumed names.”

Laughing, Erika gave his hand a pat. “And now you sound like your father, imagining all sorts of devious things. Maybe you'll be a detective when you grow up instead of a biologist.”

Kit wasn't to be distracted. “We could find out, you know. When exactly Cayley was presumed to have died. Who his friends were. If anything was ever heard about Ivy Reinhardt after that day.” He stood and went to the piano, running his fingers lightly over the keys, imagining the woman in the portrait swaying slightly as she played, that cloud of dark hair shimmering down her back.

“We're making things up out of whole cloth, Kit. And even if it were true, they must be long gone, those two, and I doubt Cayley's heirs would want to know he had deliberately abandoned his family.”

“Maybe he had good reason. Your book said that Cayley's wife and her friends didn't take his painting seriously. Maybe Ivy Reinhardt did. But it's your piano,” Kit said, turning. “So you should decide.”

Erika sat quietly for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, well. I confess it's going to drive me mad now, not knowing. But you look it up.” She'd been an academic before she retired, a history professor, and had always encouraged Kit to learn as much as he could about things that interested him.

Kit went to the computer she kept on the desk by the garden window. It was a bit ancient, but should do the trick. First he did a search for Ivy Reinhardt.

“Born in 1911,” he read. “But there's no date of death. Her parents were German Jews who immigrated to London before the First World War. Her father was a tailor.”

“Ah,” said Erika. “I always thought she was a Jew. It is a German Jewish name, Reinhardt, but if she grew up in London that explains her lack of accent. And if her father was a tailor she certainly would not have been considered the social equal of Cayley's set. What else does it say?”

Kit summarized. “She was well-known throughout the thirties for her playing, particularly of Shubert and Chopin. Never married. No children. Not heard of after the war.”

“And Cayley?” Erika was on the edge of her chair now, intent.

Kit pulled up a new page and scanned it. “Assumed to have been killed by a bomb in the City in August of 1944.” He looked at Erika. “But he wasn't, was he? We were right, I'm sure of it. They ran away together.” He went back to his search, eyes widening as he saw another entry.

“Erika, listen. ‘In 1971, more than a dozen previously uncatalogued paintings by Charles Cayley were discovered in the sale of a workman's cottage in Sussex.'”

“The Bohemian cottage in the country,” Erika said softly. “It seems you may have been right about that, too. If so, they kept their secret well. And he kept painting.”

“Our secret now, too,” said Kit, considering it. “And so it should be. Ivy would have liked knowing you had her piano, don't you think?” Going to her, he bent and kissed her cheek, something he'd never have done if anyone else had been present. “I wonder if they found a piano in the cottage as well?” Glancing up at the garden window, he added, “Oh, bugger. It's almost dark. If I don't get home, Gemma will have the dogs out after me.”

“Watch your language, young man,” admonished Erika, but she was laughing again. “Go on with you, then.”

She never asked if he would come again the next day, and he never promised. And that, too, he thought, was as it should be.

He gathered their cocoa cups and carried them into the kitchen, but when he started to rinse them Erika shooed him away with a cheerful wave.

Grabbing his backpack from the hall, he let himself out the front door and bounded up the steps into the street. The sky had begun to turn pink in the west, and his breath formed a mist in the chill air. He could smell garlic cooking in one of the neighboring flats. His stomach reminded him that it had been too long since lunch, and he started home at a jog.

But when he reached St. John's Gardens, he found himself going on, up Lansdowne Road until he reached Lansdowne House. The lights were coming on in the old studios, making golden pools of the windows, and the roof was a jagged silhouette against the now violet sky. Kit stood for a long time, until he began to feel the cold seeping through his jacket.

Then a movement caught his eye—a woman's silhouette had appeared in one of the lit windows. As she reached up to pull down the shade, he saw the swing of her hair as she turned her head. The room dimmed, and just for an instant, he imagined he heard the faint tinkle of notes on the rising wind.

Shivering, he turned and started home.

A cacophony met him as he opened the front door. The dogs, Tess and Geordie, barreled barking into the hall, nails skittering on the floor, tails wagging. A children's program blasted at full volume from the television in the sitting room, and music blared from the kitchen as well—something embarrassingly awful. ABBA. That meant Gemma was cooking. The house smelled of burnt curry.

She came to meet him, spoon in hand, copper hair disheveled. He realized he'd quite got used to her being at home, and that he was going to miss her when she went back to work in a few weeks' time.

“Oh, Kit, there you are,” she said. “I'm so glad you're home. I seem to have got things a bit mixed up in the sauce. Maybe you can sort it out for me.”

He dropped his backpack and followed her into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. “Um, Gemma, you might want to start over from scratch.”

“Oh, dear. That bad?” She slid the pot from the hob with a sigh. “Well, let's put the kettle on first and you can tell me about your day. Learn anything interesting?”

“No,” he said, reaching for the teapot. “Not a thing.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek at Deborah Crombie's next book, NO MARK UPON HER, featuring Gemma James and Duncan Kincaid.

“Simply a brilliant book!” Louise Penny

NO MARK UPON HER

Deborah Crombie

On Sale Wherever Books Are Sold February 7, 2012

Chapter One

The art of sculling is like any other art. It is perfected only with constant practice so that each movement is graceful and is done correctly without thinking about it.

—George Pocock

Notes on the Sculling Stroke as
Performed by Professional Scullers
on the Thames River, England

A glance at the sky made her swear aloud. It was later than she'd thought, darker than she'd realized. Since the clocks had moved back, night seemed to fall like a bludgeon, and there was a heavy wall of cloud moving in from the west, presaging a storm.

Heart thumping, she moved across the cottage's shadowy garden and through the gate that led out onto the Thames Path. Tendrils of mist were beginning to rise from the water. The river had a particular smell in the evenings, damp and alive and somehow primeval. The gunmetal surface of the water looked placid as a pond, but she knew that for an illusion. The current, swift here as the river made its way towards the roar of the weir below Hambleden Mill, was a treacherous trap for the unwary or the overconfident.

Breaking into a jog, Becca turned upriver, towards Henley, and saw that Henley Bridge was already lit. Her time was running out. “Bugger,” she whispered, and pumped up her pace.

She was sweating by the time she reached Leander, the most renowned of rowing clubs, tucked into the Remenham side of Henley Bridge. Lights had begun to come on in the dining room upstairs, but the yard was twilit and empty, the boatshed doors closed. The crew would be doing their last training session of the day in the gym, accompanied by the coaches, and that suited Becca just fine.

Opening the small gate into the yard, she went to the boatshed and unlocked the doors. Although her boat was up on an outside rack, she needed access to her oars, which were stored inside. She flicked on the lights, then stood for a moment, gazing at the gleaming yellow Empachers, the Germanmade boats used by most of the rowing eights. The shells rested one atop another, upside down, long, slender, and impossibly graceful. The sight of them pierced her like an arrow.

But they were not for her. She'd never been suited for team rowing, even at university when she had rowed in the women's eight. A gawky fresher, she'd been recruited by her college's boat club. All the boat clubs trawled for innocent freshmen, but they'd been particularly persistent in their pursuit of her. They had seen something besides her height and long limbs—obvious prerequisites for a rower. Perhaps, even then, they'd spotted the glint of obsession in her eyes.

Now, no team would be daft enough to take her on, no matter how good she had once been.

The thump of weights came from the gym next door, punctuated by the occasional voice. She didn't want to speak to anyone—it would cost her valuable time. Hurrying to the back of the shed, she picked out her own oars from the rack at the rear. The rectangular tips were painted the same Leander pink as her hat.

“Becca.”

She turned, startled, knocking the oars against the rack. “Milo. I thought you were in with the crew.”

“I saw the light come on in the shed.” Milo Jachym was small and balding, with a bristle of graying hair still shading the scalp above his ears. He had been a renowned coxswain in his rowing days, and he had also once been Becca's coach. “You're going out.” It was a statement rather than a question, and his tone matched his scowl. “You can't keep this up with the clocks going back, Becca. Everyone else has been in for an hour.”

“I like having the water to myself.” She smiled at him. “I'll be fine, Milo. Help me get the boat down, will you?”

He followed her out, picking up two folding slings from just inside the boatshed doors. Becca took her oars through the gate and laid them carefully beside the launch raft, then walked back into the yard, where Milo had set up the trestles beside one of the freestanding boat racks. Her white and blue Filippi rested above two double sculls, and it took all of Milo's reach to unstrap and lift the bow as she took the stern.

Together they lifted the shell free and lowered it right side up into the waiting cradle. As Becca checked the rigging, she said, “You told Freddie.”

Milo shrugged. “Was it a state secret, then, your rowing?”

“I see you haven't lost your talent for sarcasm,” she countered, although for Milo, who used sarcasm the way other coaches might use a battering ram, the comment had been mild enough.

“He was concerned, and I can't say I blame him. You can't keep on this way. Not,” he added before she could draw breath for a heated protest, “if you want a chance of a place in the semis, much less at winning.”

“What?” Glancing up in surprise, she saw that he was no longer frowning, but regarding her speculatively.

“In spite of what everyone says,” Milo went on, “I think it's possible that you can win in the trials, maybe even in the Games. You were one of the best rowers I've ever seen, once. It wouldn't be the first time a rower your age has made a comeback. But you can't keep up this half arsed business. Rowing after work and on weekends, doing weights and the erg in your cottage—oh, I know about that. Did you think a few beers would buy you silence in a place this incestuous?” He grinned, then sobered. “You're going to have to make a decision, Becca. If you're going to do this, you'll have to give up everything else. It will be the hardest thing you've ever done, but I think you're just bloody-minded enough to succeed.”

It was the first time that anyone had given her the least bit of encouragement, and from Milo it meant more than from anyone else. Her throat tight, she managed to say, “I'll—I'll think about it.” Then she nodded at the shell, and together they hefted the boat above their heads, maneuvering it through the narrow gate, and gently set it into the water beside the launch raft.

She slipped off her shoes, tossing them to one side of the raft. Then she retrieved her oars, and in one fluid movement she balanced them across the center of the shell while lowering herself into the sliding seat.

The shell rocked precariously as it took her weight. The movement reminded her, as it always did, that she sat backwards on a sliver of carbon fiber narrower than her body, inches above the water, and that only her skill and determination kept her fragile craft from the river's dark grasp.

But fear was good. It made her strong and careful. She slipped the oars into the locks and tightened the gates. Then, with the bowside oar resting on the raft and the strokeside oar balanced flat on the water, she slipped her feet into the trainers attached to the footboard and closed the Velcro fasteners.

“I'll wait for you,” offered Milo. “Help you put the boat up.”

Becca shook her head. “I can manage. I've got my key.” She felt the slight weight of the lanyard against her chest. “But, Milo . . .” She hesitated. “Thanks.”

“I'll leave the lights on, then,” he said as she pushed away from the raft. “Have a good row.”

But she was moving now, letting the current take the shell out into the river's center, and his words barely registered.

The world seemed to fall away as she settled into a warm-up rhythm, working the kinks out of her shoulders and the stiffness from her thighs. The wind bathed her face as it blew steadily downriver. Between the wind and the current, she would have the advantage—at least until she made the turn round Temple Island, and then she would have both wind and current against her as she rowed back upriver.

Her strokes grew longer, deeper, as she watched the arched golden lights of Henley Bridge recede in the distance. She was moving backwards, as rowers did, judging the river by instinct, and she might have been moving backwards in time as well. For an instant she
was
the girl who had seen an Olympic gold medal within her reach. The girl who had let it slip away.

Frowning, Becca pulled herself back into the present. She concentrated on her stroke, feeling the sweat beginning to form on the back of her neck, between her breasts. She was
not
that girl. That had been fourteen years ago, in a different world. Today she was a different person, connected to that young Rebecca only by muscle memory and the feel of the oars in her hands. Now she knew the cost of failure.

And she knew Milo was right. She was going to have to make a decision, and soon. Complete commitment to racing would mean taking leave from the job to train full-time. She could quit outright. Or she could take the leave of absence the Met had offered her.

But that would leave unfinished business.

The thought brought a surge of anger so intense that she instinctively drove the oars into the water, pushing her stroke up to racing rate. The riggers creaked as the boat took the strain. Water flew from the oars on the recovery, splashing droplets across her face.

She was moving now, listening to the whoosh and thunk as the oars went in, followed by an instant of absolute silence as they came out of the water and the boat plunged forward like a living thing. It was perfect rhythm, this, it was music. The boat was singing, and she was a part of it, lifting from the water like a bird.

Henley receded, a glowing dot in the distance. Now she could really see the sky, rose-gold on the horizon, fading to mauve. Clouds, still visible against the dark dome above, seemed to be flying, matching her stroke for stroke. A few cottages—hers somewhere among them— and clumps of trees on the Berkshire bank flew by in a dark blur.

Ten strokes. Her thighs were burning.

Ten more, focusing on the count, on getting her oars out of the water cleanly.

Ten more, shoulders on fire now.

And one more ten, with all the power she could summon, the boat leaping from the water, her throat searing as she took great gulps of air.

Then, a pale flash on her right, the ornamental folly on Temple Island. This shard of land midriver, once a part of Fawley Court, now served as the starting point for the Henley Royal Regatta. Once past the island she'd have to turn back, or she'd lose the last glimmer of light and would truly be rowing blind before she reached Leander again.

She eased up on the stroke, letting her lungs fill, easing her cramping muscles. As she passed the downriver tip of the island, she stabilized the boat, oars resting lightly on the surface of the water.

Suddenly, she realized that her earlier anger had passed and she was filled with a deep and calm certainty.

She would race. She would not let this last chance pass her by. And if it meant leaving the Met, she would leave, but she would not be fobbed off quietly with a token gold watch and more hollow promises. She would see justice done, whatever the means, for herself and the others like her.

The swift current was carrying her downstream, towards the lock and the weir. A flock of rooks rose with a clatter from the trees on the Buckinghamshire bank. As she watched them wheel in a dark ballet, Becca let the boat swing round. When the birds disappeared from her field of view, she was facing downriver. The wind felt fiercer now. It bit at the back of her neck, and when she took her first full stroke, the current's resistance challenged her.

Rowing downriver, she'd stayed near the center, taking advantage of the swiftness of the current. Now, she eased in towards the Bucks side, where the current was less brutal, the upriver journey less arduous. Anyone who had ever rowed out of Leander knew every twist and turn and wind shadow along the Bucks bank, and most, like Becca, could row it in their dreams.

But the darkness seemed deeper, facing away from the faint illumination cast by the town, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. In her brief pause the sweat on her body had begun to chill.

Becca slid forward, squaring her oars, then put all the strength of shoulders and legs into the drive. She kept it up, stroke after stroke, counting to herself—the sculler's litany—judging her progress by occasional quick glances at the shoreline.

She reached the upriver end of Temple Island, saw again the pale wedding-cake shape of the folly, and slowly, slowly, the dim shapes of familiar landmarks moved by. If before she had had the sensation of slipping backwards in time, now she felt suspended, as if only her own efforts could inch the clock forward.

She pulled harder, again and again, lost in the rhythm of the stroke. It was only in the instant of calm following a perfect drive that she heard the floundering splash. The boat creaked as she stopped, as if it were resisting the cessation of forward motion.

The sound had been close, and too loud for a diving bird. A large animal slipping in from the bank, perhaps?

She tasted salt, realized her nose was running from the cold and wind. Shifting her grip on her oars into one hand, she swiped at her lip with her other sleeve. The boat rocked slightly as she twisted to look upriver and she quickly grasped the oars in both hands again. Then she peered at the bank, but the shadows beneath the trees had deepened to impenetrable ink.

Shrugging, she rotated her oars, putting the sound down to her imagination. But as she slid up to the catch, she heard a cry. The voice was unmistakably human, oddly familiar, and she could have sworn it had called her name.