Sunday morning arrived with drizzling, disagreeable weather, but I appeared at breakfast in a wonderfully positive mood. Despite the obligation to remain inside and the option to withdraw into my room with a good book, I happily engaged in the sport of sociable conversation (everything from horse racing to flower gardening), surprising no one more than myself. In fact, for the entire day I behaved as a perfect gentleman, even to the Master, and in the evening received his stately permission to miss a meal with prior approval; however, like a wayward child, I was still barred from riding in the carriage alone.

The following morning I secured the blessing of the household to spend a day alone with my music, as I had not touched my violin for an eternity--the better part of a week. And so, encumbered with the violin case, tobacco pouch and small packed-lunch, I undertook a lengthy, rambling walk up to the town, around its perimeter, and toward the Smith estate. Since I travelled the way of the bee rather than of the coach, my trip took me across unfamiliar fields and presented a few obstacles in the form of hedges, fences and roaming dogs, which are problems readily solved if one is in good condition and carries handy pieces of dried liver in one’s pocket.

When I could finally see the long, imposing hedge of the Smith property I stopped and encamped nearby under the shade of a large tree. True to my word I delved into the intricacies of the E-minor concerto, if only for a very short time (an hour or two) before putting it aside and settling down for a bite to eat and a thoughtful smoke, which seriously depleted the contents of the pouch.

A few moments of reminiscing were all that was necessary to fill me with frustration; thinking of Mr. Carvin’s performance two evenings ago, I imagined that my grey eyes were turning as green as the leaves over my head. Although still imperfect, my own Mendelssohn concerto was aching for some kind of realisation, and I felt a genuine belief in my worthiness to perform for some other than the trees.

I emptied the pipe a final time by tapping it gently against the trunk and prepared to engage in what some might naively label a daydream, but which I have defined as a creative visualisation. This very useful cognitive ability has provided exercise for both deductive and inductive thinking skills, in addition to some simply pleasurable experiences. To truly enter into a creative visualisation one cannot wander aimlessly throughout the mind as a passive observer, but must actively set up a specific situation, decide one’s part in it, and follow it through as a concentrated participant, existing in an absolute time and place. One must see, hear and feel not with the body and senses, but from within the brain.

In this instance, after arranging my limbs comfortably and lightly closing my eyes, I created a complete domain around me: I visualised a piano to my right side, the violin delicately tucked under my left arm, a finely appointed hall surrounding me, and the reverberation of applause in my ears as I step before the dimly-lit audience, which stretches back into an infinite darkness. I nod to the pianist as I lift the violin to my neck and cradle it under my chin, take a breath with the raising of the bow to the string and the sound of the churning keys, and face the familiar feeling of the terrible moment--this is it, no turning back, it must be right! With every nerve alert, I flick my wrist twice and pull down for the rhythmically vital three B’s sweeping to the G below, up to the pulsing E’s and to the B again, running the bow along just deeply enough to create the perfect purr of the strings, tapping and vibrating against the fingerboard with ultimate precision to produce the perfectly noble singing voice, until landing upon the first B again, capturing the intense musicality of the theme in the first brilliantly contoured phrase. I feel the shaking in my stomach fade, and the tension in my body disappear into the totality of every muscle working only for one purpose--the transcendent vibration ringing in my left ear. Each note of the music sounds in its fullest beauty, even as swirls of semiquavers* fly through the air faster than the mind can consider them. I hear the gently flowing Andante not as I have heard it or have played it before, but as it should be, in simple, effortless perfection. During the transition to the third movement I hear the audience rustle softly as they mumble in awe at the intensity of my performance. I sense the floorboards creak beneath my feet as I shift with the light-hearted pulse of the Allegro non troppo and adjust admirably to cover a slight rhythmic mistake from the pianist. I feel the fatigue building in my arms from the supreme effort of the Allegro molto vivace, and feel a drop of sweat trickle down my left temple as I bring the piece to its climax, the pulsing of triumph in my veins as the music breathes and speaks to the heart of each soul sitting before me. The rush of applause begins even before I can lower the violin and bend at the waist in appreciation of the great pleasure the patrons have afforded me--bringing a mathematical depiction of notes and rhythms on a page to rousing, glorious life. I thank the pianist with a sweep of my right hand as I carefully grip the fingerboard and bow in my left and humbly nod to the audience, where my delighted instructor claps enthusiastically, smiling with the realisation that the pupil has finally and truly surpassed his teacher. Before turning to exit the stage, I hesitate for a moment as I scan the dark crowd, searching for another familiar face--a pale but flushed face under auburn curls, wringing her delicate hands with joy--

My eyes opened and the concert hall was shattered by glaring daylight. My disconnected body froze in place; the last few strains of Mendelssohn floated away with the breeze.

I stared at the ground. The green grass was slightly damp but streaked with brown from days of sunshine. A small buzzing insect came into focus, hovering above a tiny yellow flower with great deliberation. It dipped and swayed over the petals for many moments, then swept toward the open violin case, its black outline standing out against the blue velvet lining. It buzzed about indecisively, flew over to inspect the flower again, then drifted over the violin where it landed gently, near one of the f-holes. Before it could gain interest in the rosin dust I reached over and nudged it away with a flick of my hand. I swung the lid over and closed the case firmly, then gazed out over the open fields, seeking an immediate change to another train of thought.

After stashing my belongings securely under a bush, I walked across the field with a burst of energy, keeping a quick pace until I could recognise the location of the massive rock behind the hedge. I took a hidden post and waited for some time, until, to my great satisfaction, a trio of boys with damp and tousled heads emerged from within the grounds and scuttled away into the trees. When they were safely gone, I leapt over the hedge and happily retraced their wet footsteps.

From a distance of about fifty yards I stared upward and observed the curious tree-house, whose small, square window was covered with a drawn curtain. The weathered structure appeared to be at least several years old and was fairly inaccessible, for there were neither low branches nor a ladder to be seen. I then followed an obviously well-travelled trail through the trees to the pond itself, which was nestled within a small valley of trees and surrounded by large, jutting stones, which provided tempting diving platforms. A few beams of amber sunlight crossed into the cosy and quiet oasis.

I removed my clothes and carefully lowered myself into the pond, extending my toes to feel for protruding rocks. The murky water lapped around my neck, and, since I felt nothing but fluid beneath my feet, I decided to risk a dive to the depths of the pond. I took a gulp of air and pushed my head under the water, stretching my arms downward.

To my astonishment, my probing fingers retrieved a fistful of metallic disks from the muddy bottom, and after my head burst up into the air I peered intently at the prizes in the palm of my hand: pennies, none the worse for wear, and marked with recent years. This "buried treasure" momentarily gave me a feeling of amused discovery, then one of amazed, incredulous deception--these poor village boys were not intruders after all, but invited guests.

As my head bobbed above the water I noticed with great interest that the tree-house was just visible from within the pond, its facing wall featuring another small window. Shaking the water from my eyes and scanning the distant treetops I saw that the curtain was now open, revealing both windows, and the square of light from the setting sun burned uncomfortably into my vision as its significance slowly became apparent. Since my arrival at the pond, both window curtains had been pulled wide open.

I leapt from the water and grabbed for my clothes as the realisation finally crystallised in my head--an almost imperceptible drone far in the distance had become the faint sound of vicious barking, and was growing louder.

Desperately I pulled the trousers over my dripping legs as I flew down the path, planted a wet naked foot skilfully on top of the stone and sailed over the hedge just before the guard dogs could close in on my heels, and quickly retraced my own path across the fields. The landscape passed by considerably faster than on my previous crossing.

As I caught my breath and waited to dry out behind a distant bush, I considered a possible explanation for these bizarre escapades. Someone on the estate not only allowed, but encouraged boys to swim in that pond. I was astounded by the simple and obvious use of the tree-house. Boys could not reach it easily; the gardener must have some access, probably with a ladder. The curtained windows were a clear signal: when open, roaming guard dogs prohibit safe entry; when closed, dogs are locked up, leaving pennies for the taking. Pennies were nothing to sneeze at for a poor boy; I had snatched up a stable boy’s wages for the week in one minute under water.

I gathered the remaining contents of the tobacco pouch and lit a last pipe in the fading light, drawing in breath almost desperately; my thoughts evaporated almost as quickly as the smoke trails snaking out of the bowl. I was certain of one thing only: the circumstances of these boys’ deaths were no longer a matter of carelessness or incompetence. The deaths were suspicious, partly because there were never any witnesses, and especially since two of the drownings were seemingly simultaneous, which was difficult to explain--yes, it was possible that two boys could dive and strike their heads a fatal blow instantaneously, or one could drown and the other drown trying to save him, but either scenario was unlikely. If there were foul play involved, what could possibly be the motivation? Was Smith involved, or his wife, or one of his servants? Perhaps these boys were witnesses to some crime, and were murdered, appearing to have drowned in the pond. But why, in any case, would they be deliberately signalled to enter the property? Was the ownership of the estate possibly under some dispute, so that it would be to the benefit of one party to make it the source of controversy and thus less valuable? There were so many variables, so many unanswered questions, I could not think where to begin.

When my dried clothes were assembled and my possessions gathered, I began a slow walk back to my residence, surely resembling a sleep-walker in the grip of a confusing dream. That which appears so simple to me now--a straight and clear path, with few obstructions or distractions--was then only a maze of hedges constructed to insult my intellect. A tree-house at one turn, a curtained window at another, a coin-filled pond another, five drowned boys lying at the hidden heart of the maze...

Each thoughtful journey would only take me back to the beginning of the puzzle. No answer would come into my obscured and unfocused mind.

—————

Searching for ideas to grasp, I decided to spend some time in the town on Tuesday morning gathering interesting and relevant facts about Dr. Smith and company. The clandestine walk into town, like the one to the Smith estate, was not too taxing if taken with a positive attitude and a mind full of purpose, for many sheltering paths and buildings offered sufficient concealment on the way. Serendipity provided some inspiration; as I came across an unwatched storehouse I managed to remove some useful items and move about in the guise of a rough and dirty travelling blade-sharpener.

The townsfolk were more than happy to update me on all matters, affairs, and happenings in the community, including a few enlightening remarks about the retired doctor. Smith had moved into the estate about ten years previously from an undisclosed Northern practice (some said Edinburgh, others cited South Shields), bringing along his ever-reclusive wife. Their only servants were a butler, ostler, and a cook, who all lived on the premises and rarely appeared elsewhere. The chatty greengrocer informed me that the young cook was handsome, slender and shy, that he would discuss nothing but the selection of the best produce at a good price, would never engage in town gossip, and always seemed unaware of the disappointment in the eyes and hearts of more than one woman in the marketplace.

Dr. Smith’s carriage would occasionally be spotted moving through town, the bulky driver hunched over the reins and cracking the whip incessantly, conveying the semi-retired doctor to a nearby hospital to consult on a particularly vexing case of amoebic dysentery. A weary maid relaxing behind the mews gave her grumbling testimony, stating that she had been bothered by the way Dr. Smith’s driver mistreated those lovely grey horses, handling them roughly and shouting when they moved to his dissatisfaction.

I drew a deposition from a young clerk at the chemists who had once delivered a packet of medicine to the front door and handed in to Mrs. Smith herself, who was genteel and friendly despite her apparent illness. The clerk gave a laughing, sneering description of the lady’s square figure, prudish clothes, and the round, ruddy face which shyly peeked out from behind the door. I was pleased to receive even this vague description, and also quite amused that both the clerk and the elderly chemist failed to recognise me, even though I’d made countless appearances in their shop over the years.

In the end, despite spending most of the day talking with about two dozen citizens, I was unable to locate a single person who had actually entered the home of the elusive doctor, and I returned home exhausted and unsatisfied.

—————

In need of personal reassurance and a refill of my tobacco pouch, the next afternoon I undertook another walk into town (this leave was announced, however, and duly approved by the lady of the house) for a visit with dear Mr. Carvin. My music instructor was also my pipe-smoking mentor and happened to be excellent company, for although he was in his late forties he was still a exuberant bachelor who retained all of his youthful, idealistic enthusiasm. He was quite surprised to see me but I was warmly invited up to his bed-sitter, as usual, to sample his many jars of tobacco and discuss the varying merits of each.

The small room was crowded with piles of music, instruments, a cabinet piano, and the ever-present smell of tobacco leaves, burnt and unburnt. I was struck by the space of several years stretched before me; I realised that my first visit to this room had been at the age of nine, holding a crude, tiny violin, and that Mr. Carvin’s once chocolate-brown beard was now liberally sprinkled with silver. I stepped carefully around the musical artefacts and found a comfortable, sunken seat on the faded settee, wondering how this genial man could be comfortable in such a dilapidated and cluttered space, and how his amiable landlord, who lived in the remaining rooms of the house, could tolerate such a noise and mess for so many years, especially considering that Carvin had a tiny income and could not have paid what the room was worth.

We lost no time filling our pipes with an excellent, robust shag. Mr. Carvin was an unpretentious, carefree soul and we spoke casually in each other’s presence. While engaged in aimless, disgruntled conversation, I tossed out a few off-hand comments about the controversial Dr. Smith, hoping for more information.

"It’s seems strange, doesn’t it," I remarked, "that there’s not a single person who has stepped foot across the Smith threshold, aside from its occupants? I don’t believe anyone from town has ever been inside."

"That’s not true," he muttered, speaking around the smoking pipe stem between his lips. "I know a young musician by the name of Walker. He’s just a casual acquaintance--I met him through a mutual friend--but I believe he’s been known to visit Dr. Smith’s home on some previous occasion."

I felt an instantaneous inner satisfaction, and proceeded with the hint of a smile. Even at this young age I had already discovered (from unpleasant prior experience) that if one asks direct questions, a person will usually succumb to self-consciousness and avoid giving the answers that you require.

"Oh, I doubt that he’s actually been there. He’s probably just claiming a visit for notoriety’s sake."

"No--he has definitely been in the house. I heard him complain about the quality of the piano; he said that it was in need of a good tuning, but Dr. Smith has a tin ear and can’t understand the need for it."

I scoffed. "I suppose it’s possible. I just wonder how you can take the unproven word of some unknown young man."

This remark achieved the satisfying result of learning everything that my tutor knew about Mr. Walker. He was a talented and satisfactory pianist, close to my age and ability; however, his skills were stagnating and his repertoire was limited from lack of practice. Even though he was a sporadic music student his conceit was considerable; he would take any opportunity to perform in front of others, and had apparently served as pianist for several dinner parties held at the Smith estate.

I frowned, and reached for a match. "He sounds like a character to avoid. I have little patience for pretend ‘artistes’ who would rather take empty praise than develop their talents."

"He is lacking in focus, which is a thing you possess to an incredible degree. It’s very easy for a young man to lose interest in music when attracted by social activities. You’ve never had that distraction."

"Well, now, I wouldn’t say that; I am certainly not incapable of distraction. You’re over-simplifying my personal outlook on life."

"Oh? And what is your outlook on life?"

I chuckled quietly and re-lit my pipe. "When I fully develop my theoretical views, I will publish them."

"I am on the edge of my seat, dear boy!" Mr. Carvin waved his pipe with enthusiasm, and the smoke trails danced around his arm. "We shall all be amazed by your philosophy, and very grateful for your advice. You are certainly the most profound young man I have--never mind that, the most profound man I have ever known, although you keep those depths well hidden."

I shrugged. "My views may be less amenable than you expect. So tell me, how does one become distracted by social activities? Shall I go to a party?"

He shook his head at my droll and apathetic tone. "And I suppose you never go to a pub, either?"

"You are very astute."

"There’s the difference, my boy; I believe that Walker never avoids an evening in the pub when he can help it. Now, you know that I love a good ale now and then--in moderation, of course..."

He happily puffed and prattled for a while on the merits of good ale and good conversation as an essential part of a happy life. I smiled and nodded as he described the three favourite local pubs, and I finished off my pipe as he specified which of the pubs contained a most commendable piano.

Upon departing from Mr. Carvin’s room I immediately strolled over to the pub and took a rear seat with an good view of the piano. I waited to the brink of my imposed time limit, but, disappointingly, the patronage was sparse, and Walker did not appear. As I hurried back down the country road, I decided to make a return trip to the pub on the Saturday evening.

—————

The announcement of my desire to visit the pub on that evening was met with more than simple astonishment from my hosts, as it was the first time in their experience that the request had ever been made. At the close of tea I humbly suggested that the gentleman and I could converse over a drink or two in the town; his scoffing refusal was entirely anticipated, but I gave a convincing display of forlorn disappointment. The Master’s disdain for the tavern was eclipsed by Madame’s excitement that I showed any interest in participating in a social environment, mindless and drunken though it may be; her suggestion that the beleaguered driver might act as my guardian for the evening was, surprisingly, met with little resistance from the gentleman of the house. I gave no indication of my real purpose, and as I departed, deftly hid my violin case under my coat.

The driver, of course, happily slipped off to the ale house of his favour, and I returned to my view of the pub’s cottage piano. While sitting motionless at a corner table waiting for the mysterious Walker to appear, I augmented my plan to engage his attention, aided once again by serendipity. My shifting foot met with a metallic scraping noise on the floor, and I discovered that some unfortunate soul had lost a pair of spectacles, which were of more than moderate price but much the worse for wear. The frames had suffered twisting and the glass showed deep scratches, revealing evidence of a broad-nosed, moderately near-sighted gentleman with a propensity for over-indulgence. This fellow’s loss became my creative departure, for as I tried them on for size I took on another persona: that of a brilliant but unfortunate German violinist, one in need of a musical engagement. I am unsure why this thought occurred to me; perhaps I was enjoying a relapse of the dramatic predilection that had captivated me in past months.

I laid my violin case on the table, adjusted the bias of my hair with a few swipes of the hand, and took on the haggard expression of one who takes his beer rather seriously. Any pianist, I theorised, could not help noticing a dishevelled figure gazing drunkenly through his glass at a violin case.

So it was that a dashing, toothy young man approached me before I had finished my first pint. He had spent a few moments scanning the shadows for familiar faces, but settled for me instead.

"Say, my good fellow, is that your violin?"

I looked up, with a slightly bobbing head. My German accent was thick, but made with a great effort to hide it.

"Yes, and vaht of it?"

He grinned widely. "Oh, I don’t know, my man, it seemed a bit odd, that’s all."

Emotion bubbled in my throat. "Odd? Vaht is odd about a violin? It is a vonderful and beautiful ting, is vaht it is." A hint of a tear came to my eye. "It is only ze heartlessness of country-folk who do not appreciate a musical artist, who tink it is strange."

The young man leaned over the table, shaking his head; his persistent smile was genuine, if a bit crooked.

"I didn’t mean it was a strange thing! It’s just unusual, you see, for a violin to be lying on the table, that’s all. I meant no offence. You are a violinist, then?"

I nodded, pulling my glass up to take a drink, staring into it with a puckered brow.

"Wonderful! I am a musician as well. I don’t like to blow my own horn, as it were, but I am a accomplished pianist. I can play all of the Lizst Années de Pélerinage, both volumes, and it is quite a piece of work. Pleased to meet you--my name is Walker."

I took his hand with an strong grip; his grasp was friendly but weak, especially for a pianist of some accomplishment. I introduced myself as Mr. Holtz, graduate of a prestigious European conservatory (I was too modest to mention its name), and a soul so possessed by music that I could not be parted from my violin at any time and must carry it everywhere.

Walker's eyes glinted with opportunity; with one eye on the piano in the corner, he begged, "Would you favour me with a selection from your repertoire?"

I stretched over my beer to remove the instrument and bow, checked the tension of the hair, plucked the strings with the left forefinger to test the pitch, placed my chin in the rest, and froze in my chair. Then I pulled the bow down for the gracefully dancing lines of the Larghetto from Beethoven's brilliant concerto--the soloistic development about a third into the movement. Half a minute of purely divine lyricism, with curly figures around the edges of sweetly singing long tones, and the purest, most delicate high pitches imaginable. Then the violin sunk to my lap, my upper body slightly swaying to the now absent music.

Walker's smile drooped a bit around the edges. "That’s marvellous, my good fellow, but I believe you may be in the wrong place. There are a few music lovers here, but they don’t come for Beethoven! They want to hear "Bold William Taylor," or sing some bawdy tune--"

"I know a few tunes. Perhaps dey vill enjoy dis one."

I staggered to my feet, pulled the violin to my chin, and started in on a rousing Irish reel called "Temple Hill"; my bow bounced and scraped with abandon, producing a stream of flying rhythms which would set a dead man’s foot a-tapping. The half-dozen other patrons all snapped their necks around as if on cue, and stared with wide eyes as if a performing seal had appeared, balancing a ball on its nose. After about twenty-four bars I could hear a few hands slapping on tables and some boot-heels shifting in time--or nearly--to the music. After a few more sequences I ended the tune with a flourish of notes, met not by applause, but a gratifying murmur of approval. I dropped back into my chair and exchanged the violin for the pint.

"Beethoven vas certainly a genius," I murmured to Walker over the rim of my glass. "However, ze genius of one man is no match for ze ingenuity of generations of Irish country-folk."

Walker’s lips spread until it seemed his every tooth was showing. His arm came round for a robust slap on my back, which very nearly sent beer up my nostrils.

"Another pint for this gentleman!" he grinned to the bar-keep. Then to me he added, "You won’t pay for another drink here if I can help it. What else do you know? Can we have another?"

I insisted, with humility, that we should all be graced with the talents of a pianist instead, as I wished to turn my attention to the good ale before me.

Walker responded with some keyboard exhibitions of his own: a couple of songs of a licentious nature, followed by a showy, noisy display from the Liszt ouvre, which I raved over to the point of his satisfaction. He joined me at my quiet corner table and over a few more pints it was a simple enough task to discover what I desired: another dinner party would soon be given at the Smith estate. Unfortunately, Walker was quite reluctant and secretive about this affair, and refused to discuss it in detail.

I sensed that a way to fraternise was to feign a casual but sincere interest. I told Walker that it was "just ze sort of situation vitch I vas looking for." He opened up discernibly, and after another round, and a few ingratiating remarks on my part about the obvious substance of Walker’s musical genius, he eventually offered to bring me along as an unpaid assistant.

"I am unable to contact Dr. Smith to approve an additional fee," he whispered confidentially, "because I have been instructed only to receive messages, never to send them."

I was mystified by this arrangement, and my clouded mind could not imagine its purpose, but I agreed enthusiastically.

"It is not money zat interests me, my friend, but only ze company of like-minded and appreciative souls."

He happily agreed to a suggested list of pieces for piano and violin, and made arrangements for us to meet on the designated date. I repeatedly refused requests for another performance, and Walker’s insistent offers to buy me another drink, for the possibility of uncovering more information about Dr. Smith was pushed aside by my discomfort at Walker's over-friendly arm around my shoulder and his beery breath in my ear. I made my excuses for the evening and slipped outside into the darkness.

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