Fatal Inheritance Read Online Free PDF

excellent, and he was such a lovely young man, so full of charm, such easy manners. Of course he spoke mainly English, but he had some German, and these two languages sufficed for him to enter into many a more or less broken conversation. No, he was not in the least bit shy; quite the contrary. And he seemed to enjoy making friends. What a personality; he was truly the star of the evening, truly, truly. To think he was dead, it was dreadful. Frau Bochsler took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
    Yet he seemed somehow tense when he spoke of hurrying home. Why would that be? She didn’t know, hadn’t thought about it. Probably he simply missed his fiancée. Perhaps, indeed. But, I asked, could it possibly be that he had had a particular conversation at the soirée which had disturbed him? She could hardly imagine it, yet – her eyes sparkled with excitement – it was not impossible; no, she supposed that it was not impossible. Did she think that Sebastian had spoken with more or less everyone at the soirée? Yes, he had probably exchanged at least a few words with nearly everyone. Had she noticed him in particular conversation with anyone? Well, on and off she saw him talking and laughing with several people. What did they talk about in general? Well, music was the subject of the evening. Sebastian’s talent, his superb interpretation of Mendelssohn, his gold medal, his budding career, his future. He spoke of it all with such grace; he was modest and at the same time eager and hopeful and so gifted it was quite impossible to believe that he was gone. Frau Bochsler wiped her eyes again.
    How could we possibly find out if he had had any particularly striking conversation that evening? Well, she was eager to help. What could she do? She herself had participated in the most fascinating moment when Mr Cavendish had actually taken out his violin to show it to some of the assembled guests. It was a most extraordinary violin, but I would know all about it, of course. (More nodding.) A lion’s head was carved at the end of the fingerboard, at the place where there is usually a scroll; a lion’s head with a strangely long, extended tongue. The young soloist had explained that the violin was made by a certain Jacob Stainer of Austria. I perked up my ears at the mention of an actual name, only to learn further that Jacob Stainer had lived and died in the 17th century. Frau Bochsler believed that the name meant no more to her guests than it did to herself – namely, nothing whatsoever – although some of them had appeared to pretend to know all about him. Mr Cavendish had smilingly explained that the sound of the violin was not as powerful as certain others that had been made in Italy, but that it was so extraordinary an instrument in tone and quality that he would not wish to change it; he felt it belonged to him by destiny. She remembered that he had said that the violin had been inherited from his grandfather. Was it not remarkable that grandfather and grandson should both be violinists? But perhaps it was quite a normal thing. Frau Bochsler herself loved embroidery, and she had shared this taste with her grandmother. Her mother had not seemed to enjoy it so much, she recalled. Frau Bochsler’s mother had been given to making lace, and she had taught her daughter to make lace, but little Adelina had preferred to embroider poppies and cornflowers and violets, like her grandmother. She had made these napkins herself, she recalled, extracting some from a drawer to show me. I admired the ability of a child to form such perfect stitches, and wondered fleetingly if my own little Cecily would be able to hold still long enough to master such an art. But this was a digression. I drew Frau Bochsler firmly back to the matter at hand. Yes, yes, she said, her eyes still on the napkins, but Sebastian had not wanted anyone to say that he inherited his gift from his grandfather just as he had inherited the violin. The joke had been made,