Roots of Evil(151)

She was wearing black, as befitted an elderly lady, but it was black silk, heavy and expensive-looking, and around her shoulders was draped a black stole, with the most exquisite silver bead embroidery Lucy had ever seen. Her hair was immaculately arranged, and she wore what looked like a rope of black pearls.

‘Probably priceless,’ murmured Michael to Francesca. ‘If we aren’t mugged and robbed before midnight it’ll be a miracle.’

‘She looks extraordinary,’ said Francesca. ‘Like something from an Edwardian painting. Arrogant and elegant. And there’s such a – a romance about her and about tonight.’

Chandeliers sparkled and coruscated from the ceiling, illuminating the glittering scene and the shifting throng of people, all of whom had flocked here to observe the tradition of New Year’s Eve in Vienna. Champagne stood ready in ice-buckets, and hothouse flowers were banked against the orchestra’s platform, the heady scents mingling with the perfumes of the women.

There was a stir of curiosity as they walked forward – they don’t know who she is, thought Lucy; not really. But they know she’s somebody. And she’s loving that. I’m loving it for her, as well.

There were seats and a table on one of the balconies, with champagne and glasses set out for them. ‘Excellent,’ said Alice composedly. ‘I can look down at the dancers. You’re all going to dance, aren’t you?’

‘Of course.’

But it was not until shortly before midnight, with more champagne opened, that the conductor tapped his stand and looked across to their table. Lucy thought Michael nodded, and the orchestra slid smoothly into a piece of music that made her skin prickle and her senses race. Before anyone could say anything, Michael leaned forward and took Alice’s hand.

‘Do you mind?’ he said. ‘They truly don’t know who you are – I contacted the conductor last week while they were rehearsing, and asked if it could be played as a tribute to a lady who would be here tonight, and who had known the composer.’

‘Deborah’s Song,’ said Alice, and her dark eyes were shining with something that might have been tears, but that might have been intense happiness. ‘Oh, my dear boy—’ She sat up a little straighter. ‘We’ll have no embarrassing sentimentality, but Lucy, it would give me immense pleasure to see you and Michael dancing to this.’

Michael stood up, and held out his hand to Lucy. ‘For Lucretia and Conrad,’ he said.

‘For Lucretia and Conrad.’



The music wound its lovely way onwards, conjuring up the ghosts, summoning the shades of the man who had written it all those years ago, and of the scandalous baroness.

It had not quite reached the final bars when Liam said very quietly, ‘Francesca.’

Francesca had been enjoying the music, and she had been enjoying watching Michael and Lucy dancing. She turned to Liam, and then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Liam – oh no. She – she’s gone, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ he said, very gently. ‘But she died in a glittering ballroom, listening to an orchestra playing the music written by the love of her life, with a glass of champagne within reach of her hand. I can’t think of a better way for her to die.’

‘Michael will be devastated.’

‘I know. So will Lucy.’

Francesca looked at the still figure in the chair again. ‘She’s smiling, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ Liam hesitated, and then said, ‘Look down there. I don’t know if you see it, and maybe it’s just the champagne I’ve had, but—’

‘It isn’t the champagne,’ said Fran after a moment. ‘I do see it.’

Michael and Lucy were still dancing – the floor was crowded, but it was easy to pick them out. As they moved, there was a moment when it seemed to Francesca that two other figures moved with them – like the overlaying of a transparent photograph, or like the superimposing of an old, old film – so that it was no longer Michael and Lucy, but two other figures from a long-ago night.

Lucretia von Wolff and Conrad Kline, together again, dancing beneath the glittering chandeliers of a Viennese ballroom…

Fran looked back at Alice who had been watching the dancers and sipping champagne, and who had died quietly and happily, one hand turned palm upwards, as if eagerly reaching out to clasp the hand of someone who had been waiting for her…