Strange Music (25 page)

He already knew, almost to the last comma, what he was going to write – which was why he had left it to the very last moment, of course. Chris had had the brilliant idea to get himself parked on an operating theatre trolley in the existing hospital and wheeled from a ward along the corridor to the operating theatre; and, as a result, he had put all his decorations for the new children's wing – or almost all – up on the ceiling. Carrying out the actual commission would probably leave him with pains in the back and neck that Michelangelo himself would have understood, but . . .

But . . .

There was someone up ahead, sitting on the woodland floor, leaning against a tree . . .

A man in . . . pyjamas . . .

‘I say!' Eric called out.

The fellow did not stir.

But a bush slightly up the hill and behind him did, and from it emerged a very hesitant Tommy Marshall and Andrew Palmer.

‘We found him,' Tommy said, running to Eric.

‘We think he must be dead,' Andrew added, hard on his heels. ‘It's that old German man staying with the Johnsons.'

There was no doubting it. The man – or body, rather – was Marianne's father and he must have been dead for several hours, for, when Eric bent to touch him, his flesh was quite cold. Two flies, experimenting with his bald scalp, flew away; one returned and flew away again instantly.

‘Did you touch anything?' Eric asked the boys – casually . . . not wanting to make a drama of it when they realized what had actually happened here. Death meant little more to them than the death of a hamster as yet, but the formalities that would soon visit them all at the Dower House in connection with this event would change that.

‘No!'

‘We called
Mister
several times and then we took back the rope, which—'

‘What rope?'

Tommy ran to the bush where they had hidden and returned with Nicole's washing line. Meanwhile, Andrew pointed to a branch directly above the corpse, and said, ‘It was hanging over that, there.'

Eric took the line and examined it. ‘Was there a . . . I mean . . . did you untie it? Did you have to untie
anything
?'

‘No,' both boys said. Andrew added, ‘It was what I said. It went up there and over that branch and straight down again. No knots.'

‘OK.' Eric sighed with relief. ‘He was probably a birdwatcher and he probably wanted to use the rope to help him climb up into the tree to get a better view. And then . . . I don't know . . . the effort was too much for him? He had a heart attack? Anyway, he dropped down dead. Look, he must have leaned back against the tree first and then slid down as he got weaker and weaker. D'you see how his pyjama top is all rucked up at the back? That's what happened. But listen, chaps. When people die like this – not in a hospital nor at home with the doctor coming to visit – the police may have to make enquiries. I'm going to get Doctor Wallace to come out here and look at the body and sign a certificate to say he died naturally, which he did. But if you breathe the smallest, teeniest word about the rope, the police will come swarming all over the place. Which will be awful, because Marianne is going to be upset quite enough as it is. So we don't want any complications, OK? D'you know what I mean? No one must say a
word
about the washing line. That could set the police off on a complete wild-goose chase. They might even think he meant to hang himself – which is ridiculous because there wasn't even a noose, was there. But the police would think it their duty to take you, one after another, into a room, all alone – just you and three or four coppers – and ask you lots of questions. You understand, don't you? So, to cut all that out, we're going to say
nothing
about the washing line. You two are going to bring it back to Nicole and say
you
took it and you're very sorry but you didn't think she was going to need it so early in the morning. And this is
our
secret, right? You mustn't even tell the rest of The Tribe. You can boast all you like that you were the ones who found him but you'll say nothing about the washing line. The three of us will be the only ones who will
ever
know about that. Now put your hands on mine and we'll swear an oath about it.'

When they had done, Tommy looked wistfully at the corpse and said, ‘Couldn't we just loop the rope under his arms and sort-of drag him back to the house?'

Eric laughed. ‘A Roman triumph, eh? We won the war! Wouldn't that be wonderful! But no. For one thing, just think what Marianne would feel to see you dragging him home like that. And for another, Doctor Wallace must see him exactly as he is because it proves he died of natural causes. So you two cut along now. I'll stay here to see that foxes and badgers don't try to eat him.'

‘Eeeurgh!' they chorused.

‘Oh, but they would, you know. Go straight to Felix and Angela and tell them what's happened – but nothing about the washing line. Just tell them that I think Marianne's father has died of a heart attack here in Gideon's Coppice and could he ring for Doctor Wallace to come out and sign a death certificate. Can you remember those two words: death . . . certificate.

And off they ran, muttering ‘death cer-tifi-cate . . . death cer-tifi-cate . . .' every fourth step.

Left alone, Eric turned to the Freiherr. ‘Well, old boy,' he said. ‘Man proposes, God disposes, eh!' He folded his jacket and sat down beside him. ‘And you never did manage to hang yourself, by the look of your neck. Which is good. You probably don't know it, but you've had a narrow escape. Suicide is actually a
crime
in this enlightened country. If you had been English, all your property would have gone to the Crown. And even if you had bungled it, they'd have arrested you and put you on trial. Things are probably much more enlightened in Sweden but that's the way things are here. I'm only telling you this because, although I don't believe anything but a few shillings-worth of chemicals survive after death, I have to allow the slimmest chance that something may linger around for a bit. So . . . we are rearranging history a bit here.

‘What else can I tell you on this bright midsummer morn? To keep our spirits up, eh? I think the most important thing is to let you know how pleased we are – and I mean everyone here at the Dower House – we're pleased that you and Marianne were able to make some sort of a peace before . . . well,
this
. She always made out that the breach between you was absolute and that that was fine by her. But it wasn't true. No one is that implacable. No one can sustain an emotion of that intensity unless some fire is keeping it hot. I saw you walking arm in arm with her last night, around our midsummer fire – which seems to be a big deal in Sweden – I mean, usually she's in there dancing like a Dervish. But not last night. What were you talking about, I wonder? She had that look grown-ups get when they remember donkey rides . . . wild strawberries . . . turning over pebbles in rock pools. Was that it? I'll bet it was.'

‘It was,' Marianne said quietly.

He turned, saw her, sprang to his feet, and waved an awkward hand toward the body of her father. ‘Marianne – I'm so sorry.'

She shrugged. ‘You knew I was here.'

‘I knew
someone
was here – whoever untied the noose before the boys came down.' He offered her his handkerchief. ‘It's clean. I hoped it was you.'

She coughed up a wheezy sort of laugh. ‘The one thing I forgot. I've cried my tear . . . cisterns . . .?'

‘Glands.'

‘I've cried them dry. But I didn't know what to do, even when Tommy and Andrew came. I just hid. I had the noose untied but when I heard them I just ran and hid. I wanted to stop them but I was . . . like paralyzed. I wanted someone else to take over – not the boys – and then you came, thank God. What you did was so good.' She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you.'

They moved a little way away from the body.

‘But why did you . . . I mean, were you somehow
expecting
this?'

She nodded. ‘He left a note. It's too complicated to explain, but when I read it I just knew he was going to do this. In his place, I think I'd have done the same.'

‘But it wasn't suicide.'

‘Of course it was. His intention, anyway. The noose was round his neck.'

‘But it hadn't tightened. No marks. His heart gave out. He slumped against the tree. Slid down. That's not suicide. Just a heart attack. Lose the rope. He was . . . I don't know – sleepwalking . . . wandering in his mind . . .'

‘And what about the note?'

‘What did it say? Marianne – this is vital!'

‘Exactly?' She was beginning to lose her composure.

‘Yes.'

‘I have it here.' She fished it out of her pocket. ‘I couldn't leave it for Willard to find.'

It read:
Hur får jag se migsjälv i ögonen efter det här?
She translated: ‘How can I look myself in the eyes after this?'

‘That's all? What does he mean –
did
he mean? After
what
?'

‘Last night he read Angela's original transcript of the Wannsee meeting.'

‘No! For God's sake! What was she thinking of?'

‘No – it was me. Me. I gave it to him. So the question is how can
I
face
myself
after' – she waved a hand over her shoulder – ‘this!' She turned and took a step back toward her dead father, shouting at him: ‘
Du
. . .
du
. . .
!
'

By the time Dr Wallace arrived, almost everyone in the community had been down to Gideon's Coppice. Marianne, who was by then too numb to show any of the expected emotions, was easily persuaded by Willard to return to the house, from where she could call friends of her mother's and ask them to break the news as and when they saw fit. She could leave the transport and funeral arrangements to him if she wished.

‘I'll miss the site meeting at Enfield,' she said, and then burst into tears but simultaneously laughed, saying, ‘Dear God! As if that's the only important thing now, and the only thing left that can still make me cry!'

The doctor had no hesitation in certifying a death by natural causes, assessing the time of death as between three and four last night. ‘I'll give you something to help Mrs Johnson sleep,' he told Willard, who had arrived back with a makeshift stretcher. Willard took the bottle though he knew Marianne wouldn't touch the stuff, just as she would never get drunk or go on violent fairground machines or do anything that might threaten her moment-by-moment control of her everyday self.

Angela went only halfway down the woodland path, just far enough to glimpse von Ritter, still propped against the tree with his pyjama top rucked halfway up his back. Then she turned and fled to Marianne, by now back in their flat at the top of the house. ‘It's all my fault,' she called out before she was even through the sitting-room door. But the moment she stepped inside she could only stop and stare. Of all the activities you might expect a bereaved daughter to be doing in such circumstances, the last thing of all would be ironing; but, indeed, Marianne was standing at the ironing board, pressing the grey pinstripe trousers her father had been wearing on his arrival yesterday morning.

‘It's not your fault at all,' Marianne replied wearily. ‘I'm the one who suggested it.'

‘No. I suggested it. You just agreed. It's me and those hanging movies all over again. I couldn't bear his ignorance . . . and his arrogance—'

‘You think I could?' Marianne asked, but Angela went on talking over her: ‘I wanted him to understand . . . you know. He was so damned . . .' She sighed. ‘I'm sorry. He was your father, after all. Well, it's done now and talking won't undo anything. I must just learn to live with the vengeful, spiteful creature that I am.'

Marianne gave a hollow laugh and fished out her father's note. ‘First him,' she said, passing it over. ‘Then me. Now you. Felix will probably think it was all
his
fault for accidentally collecting him at Welwyn North. Where does responsibility end?'

The phone rang. ‘Shall I finish that?' Angela offered.

Marianne went to answer it. ‘You can do the shirt if you wouldn't mind.'

The shirt was finished by the time she returned. ‘They say my mother seemed to understand it for about five minutes. Then all she could remember was that there was some sort of message about my father. Was it about him coming home . . . dates and times and so on? It doesn't look good. His manager . . . or deputy? . . . anyway, his right-hand man says my father several times expressed a wish to be cremated. I wonder if we should do it over here? It's Golders Green, isn't it? But who to inform? The Swedish embassy . . . the German embassy, I suppose . . . Oh, God, I'm going to make such a mess of it and Pappa will think I've done it deliberately!'

Angela let the implications of that curious remark pass by. ‘Surely Willard will know exactly what's to be done?'

‘Yes!' She brightened, as if she had completely forgotten him. ‘Look, he's already doing it. He made that stretcher in minutes, you know – the door off Rosy Primrose and two clothes-line props. And half-a-dozen nails. Willard will fix
everything
. Pappa will have a perfect cremation!'

And Angela silently heaped yet more cause for shame upon herself by trying – but failing – to suppress the thought that she might steal a few grams of the ashes to sprinkle over the site of one or other former
KL
– not Ravensbrück nor Mauthausen, to be sure – but that still left over a thousand from which to choose.

Eric finished his review by lunchtime and walked into the village to post it – along with, and more importantly, his invoice. He seemed to be getting lots of work lately but all of it for very tardy payers. In Gideon's Coppice there were few signs of that morning's drama – trampled bushes, stirred-up leaf mould, the faintest scrape where von Ritter's spine had rubbed some lichen off the tree trunk; Mother Nature was closing in as always, an Old Maid, fastidious about death. On his way back, at the edge of the wood, he found Tommy and Andrew, pretending they were only half there.