“No! It’s wonderful. We all know that.”
“Then what?”
She took a long drink of the brandy, relishing the way that for a brief moment it appeared to clarify her thoughts. “I don’t believe Daniel wrote it. It’s impossible. He’s a fraud. And it’s eating into him more and more. He’s falling to pieces, Hugo. Right in front of our eyes. Surely you can see that?”
Hugo shook his head and sat down next to her. “What are you talking about? Daniel’s upset by Scacchi’s death, as one would expect. It doesn’t mean he’s a fraud.”
“This is more than Scacchi’s death.” She liked the certainty she detected in her own voice. “I knew before that happened, though I didn’t want to face it. In a way I even knew that night we went out to Torcello and he first pulled out those sheets. Daniel couldn’t have written that piece. It’s not inside him. He wants to run away every time he hears it.”
Hugo peered at her. “You really believe that?”
“I know it.”
“Then who did write it, Amy?”
“Search me. Perhaps someone stole it. Perhaps that’s why Scacchi was killed.”
“The housekeeper…” he objected.
“I met the housekeeper, Hugo. She didn’t kill anyone. She just went crazy after it happened.”
He refilled their glasses. “This is most upsetting. Whether there’s any truth in it or not, we must not allow it to interfere with the concert or your own future.”
“To hell with that! It’s Daniel I’m worried about. You heard him.”
Hugo was lost. Sometimes, she thought, he was too trusting. “I don’t understand.”
“This thing is eating him up. Dan’s not that kind of person, and with Scacchi gone, there’s no one to pull in his reins.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending.
“He’s going to spill the beans, Hugo. He said as much. A revelation. If you want my opinion, he’s going to let this thing run its course — he wouldn’t want to harm any of us — then, when the concert’s over and done with, he’ll get it off his chest.”
Hugo Massiter fell back on the sofa with a sigh and said, “Well…”
She watched him, wondering for a moment if his open disbelief could begin to raise doubts within her. Yet she knew that Daniel was lying. His deceit explained everything she had come to understand about him, including, ironically, his innate honesty.
“Hugo,” she said. “You must help him. He’s in hell over this. You have to get him out of it.”
He grimaced. “If you’re right, he’s committed fraud. He’s signed legal contracts for the work on the basis that he is the composer. Some of those people won’t take kindly to being told otherwise. They’ve paid out money already. The police will be involved. He could be looking at jail.”
“And if he doesn’t let it out, it will kill him. Please, Hugo. I hate seeing him like this. Talk to him. He can let us all down gently after the concert, talk to the cops, clear it all up. But he has to share that secret with someone. It’s tearing him to pieces.”
“Very well.” He nodded. “I’ll speak to him. After Scacchi’s funeral. You think that would be an appropriate time?”
“Great!” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, tasting the scent of some expensive aftershave. Hugo Massiter stared at her with an expression she was unable to decode.
“I never envy the young, you know,” he said. “You fill the most precious part of your lives with such pain and anguish over nothing at all.”
“I don’t think this is nothing at all. Claiming ownership of a work like that. And Scacchi’s dead, remember.”
“True. But what are these things to you?”
“I like Dan,” she said, astonished by the question. “He’s special in some way. He’s got… integrity.”
“But you just said he was a fraud.”
“He is. It’s the fact he has integrity that makes him so bad at it.”
Hugo shook his head. “So many complications. The young…”
“Right,” she replied, half-laughing. “And you never went through this. You were grown-up the moment you entered the world. And you never fell in love? Got your heart broken? Stayed awake all night with that guilty thought that wouldn’t leave your head?”
A curious expression crossed his face. “Not when I was your age. I just travelled. And lived, dear girl. Living is everything, you know. Nothing else matters.”
There was an invitation to probe here. She hesitated before taking it. “But…”
Hugo looked warily at her. “Do you really want me to tell you?”
“It’s your choice. I’m not forcing anything.”
He sighed, then said, “I was nearly married once. I was about to become engaged. I believed everything would be perfect in my world. Then it fell apart, and every day I wonder why.”
A film of moisture appeared briefly over his grey eyes. Some other Hugo Massiter had appeared before her: vulnerable, pathetic almost.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. But having asked, you should listen. Perhaps I’m like Daniel. I keep these secrets too long, though this is ours, Amy. You must tell no one, please.”
“Of course.”
He took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils, and looked deeply sad. “I was due to become engaged to Susanna Gianni. The girl who was killed ten years ago. You spoke of her when we went to Torcello.”
“What? Oh, Hugo!”
“I know,” he said coldly. “She was eighteen and I was forty-one. What could I have been thinking of? They would all have said that, wouldn’t they? If they’d been given the chance.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Amy objected. “Not at all.”
“No need to apologise. They would have said it. Even her mother, who knew my intentions, naturally, though the money seemed to make up for everything else. Susanna was perfect, you understand. She would have played the greatest houses. We would have been the happiest pair.”
“Did anyone know?”
“I thought not. We were discreet. We amazed each other and knew that we would one day amaze the world. So we kept ourselves secret. The Sunday after that last concert, we planned to issue an announcement and be gone before the paparazzi arrived. But that damned conductor knew. I realise as much now. He coveted her from the start, I think, and somehow lured her away when the concert was over. I waited and waited, and she never appeared. Then the next morning…”
He stared at his hands. “And there you have it, Amy Hartston. One old man’s secret which he expected to take with him to the grave. Instead I tell it to you. Explain that, please.”
She took his hands, which were warm and smooth and soft. “I can’t,” she said.
He touched her cheek lightly. She did not move.
“Is that why you have these things, Hugo?” she asked, looking at the apartment. “All these possessions?”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “In London I have a Tiepolo of Cleopatra. It is perhaps the most beautiful object I own. But it is still an object, Amy. It is lovely, but it has no warmth, no life. As I said, life is everything.”
He traced a finger on her cheek.
“Do I remind you of her?” she asked.
“Not in the slightest,” he answered immediately. “She played better than you ever will. But you’re more beautiful. You have more confidence and character, I think. Susanna was a blank canvas who demanded, always, that I decide what should be there on the surface.”
Her mouth felt dry. Her head ached a little. “Was that good or bad, Hugo?”
“Neither. That is what she was. You are what you are. I can admire and love both.”
“We cannot—” she began to say.
“The world is what we make it,” Hugo said, interrupting, then gently moved his right hand to the neck of her evening dress, pressed his fingers down, and cupped her breast through the loose fabric. “You’ve never been with a man, Amy, have you?”