

### ACADEMY OF THE DEAD

A Matt Rider thriller #3

### New Edition

Matt Rider is made an offer that seems too good to miss. Go to Prague, find some priceless music manuscripts -- and share in a fortune. Unfortunately, even for a confident backstreet PI, the clues are rather thin on the ground. All Matt knows is that a young Jewish girl called Hana Eisler had the manuscripts in Prague in 1942. Using old records from the Helios Music Academy in England, Matt tracks Hana's movements to a Nazi concentration camp in the Czech Republic. And there the trail seems to end. The American violin teacher at the Helios Academy claims to know something about Hana's family. And so does the Academy dean. Matt decides to contact Hana in a séance. Taking place in England and the Czech Republic, Academy of the Dead is an exciting hunt for lost treasure. There are big stakes to play for -- and maybe not everyone can be trusted. Academy of the Dead is the third Matt Rider detective thriller.
ACADEMY OF THE DEAD

by

Chris Wright

First published in the USA by Hard Shell Publishing ©Christopher Wright 2004

This North View Publishing edition

©Christopher Wright 2016

Academy of the Dead is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

### North View Publishing

email: northviewpublishing@gmail.com

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### Contents

Cover

About this Book

A Word from the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

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### A Word from the Author

This book, the third in the Matt Rider series, was first published in 2004, a time when many electronic and computer based devices that we take for granted today were either in their infancy or non-existent. Digital cameras, which almost everyone has today, were not capable of producing images as good as the best film cameras of the day, and would rarely have been used for surveillance. And cell phones (mobile phones for some readers) were basic and few had any sort of camera. Yes, technology has changed rapidly, and will continue to change. This book has received some minor edits, but I have made no attempt to update the technology in this republished book as that would make the story unreal for the period in which it takes place. The Matt Rider series of books take place six months to a year apart.

I want to express my thanks to Stepán Zdenek, who lives in Letohrad near Ústí nad Orlici, for his help with some of the incidents in the Czech Republic, and for his patience in dealing with my many questions. I also want to thank the unknown driver of a small white car who rescued my wife and me near Ústí nad Orlici in the worst thunder and hail storm I have ever known.

The Czech language is written with accents on many of the letters, and these are vital for correct pronunciation. When I put these accents on the names of Czech characters in the book I felt that they would be a distraction for English-speaking readers. I have therefore not used them for the names of people, but have kept them for the names of places. I hope that Czech readers will understand why I have done this.

### Northern Europe Today
Prologue

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

HANA EISLER is twelve years old. She stands on the railway platform, clutching her precious music case, waiting for the train that will take her to safety before the soldiers come. Puddles of water from the heavy downpour have soaked through her thin shoes on the hurried walk from Papa's house in the Josefov district. Her long blue coat, the junior uniform for the Academy, has kept her shivering body dry.

Hana looks up at the platform clock. The train is already sixteen minutes late. She dares not ask the porter if it is coming soon. Jews have a distinctive way of speaking \-- so her father says. Maybe the German soldiers won't ask for her papers if she keeps her mouth shut. She grips the brown leather case more tightly to her chest. She closes her eyes, swallows hard, and opens them again. Nathania Tischler, the violin teacher at the Helios Music Academy here in Prague once told her to do this before coming on stage for a concert. Nathania Tischler said it calms the nerves and concentrates the mind. Hana knows her mind is concentrated, but her nerves feel far from calm.

Mama and her little sister Rosa died yesterday. Papa hasn't told her how they died, and she is afraid to ask. Papa tells her she must be brave. Terrible things are happening. Apart from her Papa, all the Jews she knew in Prague are dead or taken away -- even Nathalia Tischler. The Nazis say they're cleaning up the city. The big girls at the Academy tell stories of Jewish girls being raped -- in such detail that she sometimes lies awake in bed and lives out of the horrifying ripping of her clothes, the sweating, stinking German soldier pressing down on her body.

The battered music case once belonged to great grandfather Vasek, then grandmother Pavla, then Papa, and now it has been given to her. Papa says that music runs through the family veins with the life-giving force of blood. The beautiful violin, over two hundred years old, is with uncle Otik, to take to safety in America. When the Nazi soldiers came yesterday they left the music case. They were not to know what it held.

Hana hears the train approaching, sees the tall plume of smoke rising over the distant trees at the foot of the hill. For a moment she believes she is out of danger. The train is coming to take her east, to her aunt and uncle's farm in Ústí. Suddenly she hears the noise of an approaching truck and the excited shouts of soldiers.

Papa says the manuscripts in the leather case are her insurance. "Hana," he told her less than an hour ago, with tears in his eyes, "if the soldiers stop you at the railway station, you must ask to see the captain and offer the papers in return for your safety."

Safety? All last night in the damp attic room hiding with Papa she has imagined this moment. Yes, the German captain will take the manuscripts, and then he and his men will have her body \-- before killing her. She turns. The train has slowed to a crawl beyond the trees. The plume of smoke is rising straight up into the gray sky. The soldiers will be here first.

### Chapter One

The present

England

"MY PARTNER Is having an affair. With one of the teaching staff at the Academy." The well-spoken man leaned forward and smashed the flat of his hand onto Ken Habgood's desk. "You're a private detective. Catch them at it."

Ken forced a smile that seemed to lack confidence as he moved back in his seat. "I'm sure we can help. My company ... specializes in this sort of thing." He swung round to Matt, clearly in need of support.

Matt Rider decided to stay silent and let his boss dig his own holes. Habgood Securities didn't specialize in anything. At least, not in the two years he'd been working for the back-street investigation agency. If a customer waved money, Ken Habgood took the job on.

"I don't want sneaky surveillance," the visitor continued, a man in his fifties wearing a dark gray suit. He had introduced himself as Edward Blake, the dean at the English branch of the Helios Music Academy.

"Surveillance has to be sneaky," Ken Habgood told him. "Otherwise you get noticed."

"Oh, I want this to be noticed," Blake insisted, in an annoyingly booming voice. "I want all the bells and whistles." As he spoke, the air hissed loudly through his nose, spoiling his impression of sophistication.

Ken frowned but kept quiet.

"It's like this, Mr. Habgood. I want them to know they've been well and truly caught. And I want it on film." Blake smiled and his frosty attitude seemed to melt a little as he moved away from Ken's tidy desk. "They meet at the Academy swimming-pool -- when they think no one's around."

Matt noticed Ken give a vague smile as he nodded.

"Unfortunately the pool has a high wall round it." The thaw was short-lived. Blake hit the desk for the second time. "I want them caught."

"Right." Ken seemed to be discovering his voice again.

"I'm sorry," Blake said. "I'm finding this a bit of an ordeal. What I'm trying to convey is you'll have your work cut out getting photographs."

"I presume you have some sort of plan to share with us." Matt didn't take to this oily man who'd arrived late for his appointment.

Blake seemed to notice Matt for the first time. "The pool will be closing soon, so we have to hurry. This Indian summer isn't going to last. I'm accompanying the students to London for a concert tomorrow, and the staff are coming with me, which means the Helios Academy will be empty. You know what they say: 'When the cat's away the mice will play.'"

"What do we do, climb a ladder with a camera and a piece of cheese?" Ken asked, grinning at Matt. "Matt could blow a trumpet. That would get their attention."

Edward Blake stood at the window, his back to the room. Maybe he didn't understand Ken's idea of humor. "I wondered about using a long telephoto from the top of the Mount, but the damn hilltop is the best part of two miles away. Anyway, I need them to know they've been photographed."

"So how do we get close enough?" Matt asked.

"You could try climbing the wall around the pool, but unfortunately my partner has a dog. The thing goes berserk as soon as anyone strange comes within a hundred yards. I don't know how she puts up with it."

"And the dog will be there?" Matt thought back with some anxiety to previous canine encounters.

"Too right it will. You'll have to get over the wall to the pool quickly, before it makes a noise. You'd better have a look at these." Blake pulled a black wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and removed two creased photographs.

Ken took them and passed them on to Matt.

"You can't see the pool," Blake explained. His voice and his body language now seemed more helpful. Matt guessed it must be hard to come to strangers and admit to your partner's betrayal.

The two color prints showed the outside of a high wall built of concrete blocks, taken from ground level. But in the background Matt could see the top of the hill known as the Mount. He had to take Blake's word that there was a swimming pool behind the wall. If it wasn't for the dog, Ken's suggestion of a ladder seemed almost sensible. He handed the photos back to Ken.

Ken returned them to the dean and looked anxious. "Do you have any suggestions on how we proceed, Mr. Blake? A helicopter perhaps?"

"Far too expensive," Blake snapped. "And noisy. They'd hear it coming"

"It was a joke," said Ken, grinning foolishly again.

Blake sighed heavily. "You're the experts. Why don't you think of something?"

"But the pool can be seen from the air?" Matt asked. He could see how it might be done. Quick, cheap, and extremely noticeable. Just as long as Zoé didn't find out in advance.

"Of course it can," the suave visitor insisted.

"And the mice will be playing tomorrow?"

Blake looked interested. "The man is pretending to be sick, so he's excused himself from coming to London. My partner will be cavorting with him by the pool between two and three o'clock. Guaranteed."

Ken started to protest. "Tomorrow is a bit short."

"No trouble," Matt cut in. Blake might have an attitude problem, but they couldn't afford to lose this job. "I can be there with a camera."

"And a helicopter?"

Matt decided to ignore the sarcasm. "I've got it cracked."

Ken frowned but the Academy dean seemed pleased. "I don't want any digital stuff. I want old fashioned film. And I'll get it processed myself, thank you. I don't want prints being passed around."

"Naturally." Ken stood up from his desk. "It's standard practice with Habgood Securities to hand all evidence to the client." Thin and smartly dressed like Blake, but with untidy features, Ken was the tallest in the room. He gave Matt a look that said, I hope you know what you've let me in for.

Edward Blake pointed to Matt. "Just make sure you come back with plenty of pictures. Clear ones."

"He will," Ken said, with more confidence than Matt felt was deserved. "Do I send the bill to you or to the Helios Academy?

"Send the invoice to me. This is private business." Blake laughed uneasily. "I hope you understand."

Ken nodded sympathetically. "All our business is confidential. If I can help further, let me know. I have a good contact with a local lawyer."

Blake looked up quickly. "Lawyer?"

"In case there's a messy separation," Matt interrupted. "Isn't this what the job is about?" The man needed putting in his place.

Edward Blake moved closer. His breath whistled down his nose.

"Don't forget, if that dog barks just once, my partner will know someone's around. I want you to take the photographs before they put their clothes on. And I need to see their faces clearly. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing." Matt tried to appear positive. His plan was good, but it required a fair bit of luck along the way.
Chapter Two

MATT GAZED down at the distant Helios Music Academy in the valley. Fast-growing conifers surrounded the college grounds, so from anywhere except the top of the Mount a telephoto lens would be useless. And this was much too far away for photography. In any case, people by the pool would still be hidden by the surrounding wall The only way to see what was happening inside was by air. But not only would he have to clear the conifers, he'd need enough height to get over the roof of the tumbledown farmhouse on the way.

He pulled the straps tightly around his shoulders. He'd been lucky to borrow this paraglider from one of his more adventurous mates at short notice. A practice run would help, but he would only be able to surprise the couple once -- assuming there was anyone by the pool.

Small outcrops of brownish rock broke through this part of the Mount, but he'd managed to find enough flat grassland for a take-off run, between the rocks and gorse bushes. The sun was out and the early autumn afternoon felt unexpectedly warm. The target couple had no excuse for keeping their clothes on today.

As soon as he swooped down and cleared the conifers he should get an unobstructed view of the pool and, with a bit of luck, Blake's partner and her lover lying beside it. He checked again for the strength of headwind and adjusted his helmet camera. He ran down the steep slope and the wind filled the cells of the paraglider as it inflated overhead, surging into the orange fabric and straining at the stitches.

As the fabric rose above him, trying to pull him skywards, the ground fell away and the paraglider seemed to collapse. It was probably nothing more than an illusion, but he always hated the sensation when it happened. It had been worse while learning in the French Alps a few years ago, where the drop below could be measured in hundreds of feet.

Within seconds he entered a left cross-wind, which took him towards the only building on this part of the Mount, a disused farmhouse with most of its roof tiles missing. He was coming dangerously close to the tall chimney stack, so he tugged hard on the left control toggle and swung his legs to one side just in time to avoid contact with the old chimney pot. From up here the whole building looked unstable, ready to fall at any time.

He cleared the dilapidated roof, the wind singing through the taut cords that suspended his body in space. He caught a glimpse of someone hiding in one of the large gorse bushes, but he had more to worry about than an eyewitness. To get detailed photographs he had to arrive as low as possible, and he needed to lose height and just scrape over the row of conifers at the Helios Academy. Now he could see one end of the swimming pool, but no sign of the amorous two. He could even smell the chlorine as he pulled the control cords, increasing the angle of attack in the wing above his head, slowing the paraglider and reducing the altitude almost to the level of the surrounding wall.

He switched on the helmet camera, and the motor drive grabbed film at four frames a second, while the auto focus took care of the rapidly decreasing distance. Two naked bodies lay entwined on a large rug. They leaped up in surprise, a foolish thing to do in the circumstances, and tried to cover themselves with a towel. With a body like that, the man's modesty was definitely misplaced. But it was the dark-haired woman's body that stuck in his mind. She was no spring chicken, but she had fullness, a firmness, that many younger women would have killed for.

He pulled violently at the control toggles and a small white dog jumped up, barking furiously. The wing of the paraglider banked sharply to the left, clipping the roof of the main building. With the Academy now behind, the ground leveled out, and the lower hedge of conifers loomed close. Unable to gain height he drew his feet up and only just cleared the top of the green branches. Ahead lay the landing area he'd selected in advance, with Ken Habgood waving by his sparkling white Ford. In the sun the car looked like a landing beacon.

He could see straight away that Ken had parked carelessly after dropping him off at the top of the track behind the old farmhouse, blocking the space needed for landing. He dug his heels in for a brisk stop on the dusty ground. The fabric above his head collapsed and he skidded to a halt in front of the car with only inches to spare.

"Got it?" Ken brushed the front of his camel-haired overcoat as the dirt started to settle. "Hell of a sight you looked coming down the hill. The Orange Baron. Frightened the hell out of me. I thought you were going to smash into my new car."

Matt nodded. "So did I. Anyway, it's all on here." He tapped the camera on his helmet. The thirty-six exposures would have been used up long before landing. "Let's get this lot packed away before the stud arrives."

Ken Habgood stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning. "Interesting pictures?"

"I wouldn't mind seeing the prints." Matt tried not to think of the woman. "There's something not quite right about this job. Edward Blake is devious. He kept blowing hot and cold in the office yesterday. What do you reckon? Nerves?"

"It's nothing to do with us, kiddo. Just as long as I get me fee."

"Don't forget my share."

Ken just snorted. "It's drafty out here. I'll wait in the car while you fold this lot up."

"Help me, will you!" The wind caught the orange paraglider, ripping it from Matt's hand. "That guy by the pool wasn't some weedy teenage student. He was big -- in every sense of the word. And I've got to get this lot back to my friend."

Ken joined in the struggle to fold the fabric. "I didn't realize there was so much of it. No wonder it flies. You could take your missus up in it."

"The only place I'm taking Zoé is the White Lion this evening -- for a drink. I haven't told her about this job yet. She'd only worry."

"You didn't say you were keeping it a secret," Ken said accusingly.

"Why? Don't tell me -- you've already let her know."

Ken looked embarrassed. "Zoé phoned from the hospital before we came out. I forgot in all the excitement. She couldn't get you on your mobile, but she's going to be late off duty. So she wants you to call at the newsagent and pick up her music magazine on your way home. Anyway, this little escapade will give you something to talk about in the pub. Not that I can see the attraction of the White Lion."

Matt sighed. "The White Lion's a good place."

"As pubs go," Ken retorted as he helped cram the fabric into the rear seat of his car. "I thought Zoé only liked French bars." He started to move quickly. Maybe he too was worried about a visit from the man by the pool. "You should be looking after that woman of yours. Right, that's it then. Let's get going."

"There's only one French bar in town." Matt slammed the rear door. "Le Perroquet Bleu. The Blue Parrot to you, but I'm not too keen on the place. It's expensive." He hurried round to get into the passenger seat. "And you're wrong: Zoé's getting to like English pubs."

Ken made the wheels spin as he exited onto the main road. "I don't believe you. Anyway, Zoé shouldn't be drinking in pubs. Not with her being three months pregnant."
Chapter Three

MATT SAT facing Zoé at a small table in the rear of Le Perroquet Bleu, where they had just finished a shared Pizza Reine, which was huge but not particularly appealing. They'd walked here, as the restaurant was only a couple of blocks from home. To his relief Zoé seemed surprisingly relaxed about his airborne escapade, and now he was trying to explain the problem with the sudden cross-wind that had nearly taken him into the chimney on the derelict farmhouse.

"You did all that just because the dean at the Helios Academy thinks his partner is being unfaithful?" Zoé asked in surprise.

"It's my job," Matt told her. "It's how I earn a living."

Zoé sounded annoyed. Her French accent always became stronger when she was worked up. "You are thirty-five. You should leave the flying to the birds. It is, I think, dangerous."

"Only if you hit something. Anyway, what is a dean?"

Zoé thought for a moment. "I believe he is someone who is in charge of the college administration. He also looks after the students, to make sure they behave properly."

"Does he teach?"

Zoé shook her head. "I do not think Monsieur Blake does. If you had told me what you were planning to do, I could have saved you all that trouble of taking to the air. My music group is putting on a concert next month."

"I know. In the Civic Hall."

"Oui. Well, our conductor is Martin Smith, and he is a tutor at the Helios Academy."

"So he knows Edward Blake?"

"But of course he must." Zoé giggled. "Maybe I will smile at him, and he will invite me to his apartment and tell me all the secrets about Monsieur Blake and his beautiful partner, and then you will have the evidence you need. Martin Smith is, I think, a man of many mysteries."

For a moment Matt felt a twinge of alarm. "Zoé, I've told you a hundred times, you mustn't talk to strange men."

"He is not strange. He waves his little stick for us."

"That sounds strange enough for me. And I'm suspicious of anyone called Smith. I bet it's not his real name."

"You are, I think, just joking. But you are right. He told us about it one evening when we were learning to play the Humoresque by Dvorak. Dvorak came from Prague. Martin Smith said that one day he would like to live where his mother was brought up, and when he got there he would change his name to Martinek Kovar."

"Martin -- Martinek? Okay, but what's Kovar got to do with Smith?"

"He said his mother came to England from Czechoslovakia in 1968. She was called Ruza Kovar, but she thought she would fit in better if she changed her name to Rose Smith, which is what her name means in English. Rose is Rosa and Smith is Kovar. She was not married, but she had a son in the 1970s and called him Martin. Secretly she calls him Martinek. Martinek Kovar."

"I bet no one in your orchestra calls him that."

"Of course not. It is not his real name."

"Do you know Martin Smith well?"

"We talk a lot. He is I think ... what is the word? Obsédé \-- obsessed. He is obsessed with the music of Bohemia."

"Where exactly is Bohemia? I've often wondered."

"It is an old name for what became part of Czechoslovakia in east Europe. Monsieur Smith sometimes talks to us of nothing else."

"Nothing?"

"I have told him all about you."

"Was he interested?"

"He said I was very silly to marry a private investigator, and one day he will take me to live with him in Prague."

Matt frowned. "I don't mind you running away with him, but I hope you didn't tell him any details of my work. That's confidential, and Ken wouldn't like it."

Zoé studied the menu. "I will have a pudding. The strawberries."

"With ketchup?"

"I am sorry?"

Matt shrugged. "It's the sort of thing pregnant women are supposed to like."

"Me, I am French. Ketchup and strawberries? It is perhaps different here in England. Yes, I will have the strawberries -- and some pickled onions."

"Then you'd better order it yourself," Matt said.

"It is a joke. I will have the strawberries and cream."

Matt signaled to the waiter. "Whatever she wants, it's okay with me."

Zoé gave her order, a perfectly sensible one, and Matt continued with his story.

"I can't say I took to Edward Blake. His nose whistles when he gets worked up. You say he doesn't teach, but I bet he fancies himself as a university don." He shook his head. "Probably doesn't know the first thing about music. Unlike my pretty wife who can play the flute like an angel."

Zoé pulled a face. "You are only saying that in case I am upset about what you did for Ken today."

"I've told you a thousand times. I don't take risks with my work."

The waiter arrived with Zoé's ice-cream, and Matt guessed it had come just in time to save him from hearing a list of his other activities Zoé objected to.

Zoé winked at the waiter and gave him a special smile. The waiter winked back. When he had gone she turned to Matt. "You are, I think, jealous."

"I keep telling you, don't flirt with men. It might be okay in France, but here in England you're sending out the wrong signals."

"I am twelve weeks with a baby inside me, and married. What use would I be to a man?"

"You're still some use to me." He reached under the table and patted her stomach. "Anyway, it doesn't show yet."

Zoé balanced one of the strawberries on the end of her spoon and dipped it into the soft white ice-cream. "This is delicious." She tapped the wet spoon onto the end of his nose. "Now you must promise me you will never go up in that thing again."

He shrugged. "If the boss says do it, I do it."

Zoé dabbed him on the nose again. "Me, I am your boss. And who is this Edward Blake that you risk your life for? Is he a Czech?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"The Helios Music Academy is based in Prague."

"It's not. It's on the other side of town. By the Mount."

"The Mount?"

"It's the local name. Short for mountain, I suppose."

"That is a mountain?" Zoé asked in surprise. "In the Auvergne we would call it a little hill. I know the place you mean, but the main Academy is in Prague. Sometimes they exchange staff."

"The Helios Music Academy. Where's Helios?

"Helios is the Greek word for the sun. There is a sun painted on the ceiling of the church in Prague where Mozart played. It is, I think, a good name."

"Greek? Czech? Blake is definitely English."

"Tell me what he is like."

"Thin. I'm not very good on ages. Fifty-five, sixty perhaps, with silvery hair with a wavy finish. Probably blow-dried. I can't make him out. It's like he wants to be friendly but can't manage it. Bluster is a good way to describe him."

"Bluster is not a word I know."

"I'm not sure it's a word I know either, but it sounds right." Matt fished deep into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved the film cassette. "Ken wants me to drop this off at the Academy on my way to work tomorrow morning, but Blake should be back from his concert in London by now. Would you like to see him tonight?"

Zoé reached across the table and snatched the film cassette from his hand.

"Careful," Matt warned. "That's valuable."

She held the cassette behind her back. "First you will tell me more about the woman by the pool."

"There's nothing more to tell." The sight of all that skin had been coming back to him throughout the meal. Edward Blake's partner had been younger than he'd expected her to be. Long brown hair pulled back. Early to mid forties probably. Not that he'd studied her face. He realized that Zoé was looking at him closely and he signaled for the bill. Whatever he said would land him in trouble, so it was best to keep quiet.

But Zoé hadn't finished her meal. "Maintenant, I will have the coffee."

"It will keep you awake all night," he protested. "You have enough trouble sleeping as it is."

"Good," Zoé said. "It will give you plenty of time to tell me why you have been photographing a beautiful woman with no clothes on."

"You're wrong," Matt told her "I had all my clothes on. You have to when you're on a paraglider -- in case you land in the thorns."

*

MATT HARDLY noticed him as they came out of Le Perroquet Bleu \-- a young man in a green knitted hat, a dirty gray blanket clutched to his chest, sitting hunched against the wall by the side of the doorway.

"Spare some loose change." A bare arm reached out and touched Zoé.

Matt pulled her away quickly. "Get lost," he snapped.

"You are a little unkind," Zoé protested in a whisper.

"He only wants it to buy drugs." Matt refused to lower his voice.

"You do not know that."

"I bet he isn't going to spend it on food."

Without warning the man was on his feet. He moved surprisingly quickly for someone who'd looked so weak and helpless only seconds before. He held Zoé by the arm. Matt prized the fingers free and pushed the beggar against the wall.

"Nothing is fair," the man said with an accent that might be Russian. "People like you have everything."

Matt caught hold of his shoulders. "If you ever do that to my wife again I'll break your arm. She's pregnant, and if you've harmed the baby I'll come looking for you. Understand?"

Zoé stood on the pavement, crying. "Matt, all he wants is food."

He felt slightly ashamed of his over-reaction. But protecting Zoé and the baby was more important than anything else. He took hold of Zoé's arm. "Come on, we have to go."

She let out a cry of hurt. "Be careful, it is sore."

He put his arm around her shoulder and together they walked the short distance home to the small terraced house with no front garden. The door opened almost straight out onto the road. Matt turned around before going in to make sure they weren't being followed. "We won't bother to take the film to Blake tonight. I'll drop it round in the morning, as Ken said."

As he was putting the key in the lock Zoé shook her head. "It is all right." She sounded remarkably composed. "The drive will settle me down, and I would love to meet your Monsieur Blake. I want to know what bluster is like. And I would like to hear the whistle in his nose."

*

THE GATES of the Helios Music Academy stood wide open. This didn't surprise Matt, for he could see no need for security at an establishment that did nothing more daring than teach classical music and academic subjects to would-be teenage musicians. The headlights of the rusting Mini picked out the winding drive up to the main building. From ground level, at night, it was difficult to recognize this as the place he'd flown over a few hours ago.

"You think Monsieur Blake will be waiting for us?" Zoé asked.

Matt changed gear from second to first with a loud crunching noise. Not only was the Mini's clutch on the way out, the whole gearbox was in need of replacement. "Edward Blake didn't leave a phone number, so I couldn't let him know we're coming. I've brought a Jiffy bag and a label saying 'confidential'. If we can't find his apartment I'll push the film through the letterbox at the main door."

Zoé sighed. "Just as long as you have not come here simply to have a closer look at his beautiful partner."

"And I hope you're not wanting to meet the man of mystery who conducts your orchestra and excites you with his little stick."

"You are lucky, you have seen the woman with no clothes on. My friend the conductor always keeps his on for me."

He let it ride. Over to the left he could see what must be the residential block. Several of the rooms had lights on, with the curtains closed. One of the front doors opened and a man who looked like Blake stumbled out. A woman stood in the doorway, but Matt couldn't see her clearly. She slammed the door shut.

It was Blake; he'd recognize the suave outline anywhere. And the man had definitely noticed him. He and Zoé could hardly walk away. The only thing to do was put on a brave face.

"I've brought the film," Matt called.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Blake demanded as he walked towards them. "I thought you were coming tomorrow morning."

"I'm trying to help." Talk about an attitude problem.

Blake came over and snatched the film cassette. "Are the photos any good?"

Matt shrugged. "The answer is in the negative."

Edward Blake frowned.

"It's an old photographer's joke," Matt said, although the dean clearly wasn't in a mood for humor. "In the negative," he repeated.

The man, still wearing his dark gray suit, didn't get it. "So what's on the film?" he demanded. "I hope you haven't been wasting my time."

"You'll find I've got what you wanted. I was overhead before either of them could move. And they didn't have any clothes on."

Zoé spluttered and started to cough, and Matt realized that she was clinging rather heavily onto his arm. Without warning she sank to the ground. He felt his stomach sink with her. "What's the matter?" he asked urgently.

Zoé clambered to her feet before he could stop her. "It is nothing," she said. "I am a little mixed up from that man outside the restaurant."

Blake seemed more interested in the film than Zoé's condition. He tossed the cassette into the air and caught it. "I'm sorry to chase you away, but I've just told ... my partner ... that I arranged the photo shoot, and as you probably saw, she isn't in the best of moods."

"I'm not surprised," Matt told him. "Can my wife have a glass of water before we go?"

Blake looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure."

Matt pointed to the front door through which Blake had just been ejected. It might be embarrassing for Blake, but he was putting Zoé's needs first. "A glass of water," he repeated. "You do live there, don't you?"

"Of course," Blake said, after a moment's hesitation.

"Please do not take the trouble," Zoé told him. "I am feeling better now. Me, I would rather go straight home." She smiled at Blake. "I am sorry about your partner. Always it makes me sad to hear when things go wrong in a relationship."

Blake nodded, apparently relieved not to have to go back inside. He pointed at Zoé's stomach. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It is only twelve weeks inside me," Zoé said with an embarrassed expression. "So we do not know yet."

"Well, the best of luck. If it's a girl I hope she's as pretty as her mother."

Zoé blushed bright pink. Matt held her gently round the shoulders and led her back to the car.

"Why do you not like Monsieur Blake?" Zoé asked indignantly as soon as they were alone.

"Did it show?"

"It showed."

"He fancies you. You should have seen the look he gave you when you mentioned the baby. The man's a lecher."

Zoé shook her head. "Matt Rider, you are silly. You think every man fancies me."

"They do."

"Not only are you silly," Zoé retorted, "you are also extremely jealous. You can drive me home now."

The journey back passed without further conversation. Matt was too busy juggling with the Mini's gears and the clutch to be much bothered by the silence, but as they turned the corner into their narrow street he trod on the brakes.

Zoé had been almost asleep. "What is the problem?" she asked irritably.

"It's that homeless man again. He's sitting outside our front door. No he's not, he's squatting down and doing something with one of his shoes."

"It is all right," Zoé said. "He is moving on again."

"We'll stay here for a few minutes. I just hope he doesn't know where we live. I don't want him calling round to see you when I'm not home."

"Matt Rider, you're not only silly and jealous, you are also paranoid -- paranoïaque. You have a guilty conscience because you did not give him any money outside the restaurant."

Matt shook his head. "I'm not jealous, I'm worried. I don't want anything to happen to you."
Chapter Four

MATT SAT on the edge of Ken's desk and explained how he'd dropped the film round to Blake last night, making Ken observe that Blake ought to be impressed with the efficiency of Habgood Securities.

"Anything interesting to report?" Ken switched on his computer and flicked a speck of dirt from the top of his polished desk. He waved to Matt to get up, but Matt stayed where he was.

"Blake was being thrown out of his apartment by a woman. I imagine it was his partner."

"Did he ask you in?"

"You're joking. He'd just told her he'd arranged the photo shoot by the pool."

"So you handed him the film and left without getting involved. Good." Ken found another speck to flick. "Damn biscuit crumbs. I hope you don't use this desk when I'm out."

Matt decided to ignore the question. He rarely ate biscuits. "Zoé wanted to go with me. She wasn't feeling well. We had a bit of a run-in with a homeless man outside Le Perroquet Bleu."

Ken was checking for emails but seemed to be listening. "You never did like the street people."

"I had too many problems with them when I was with the police. The man grabbed hold of Zoé. Left some nasty bruises. Really scared her. And then she told me off. Said we should have helped him. It's funny, but I'm feeling guilty that we didn't. I never know what's best."

There were no emails. Ken went off-line and opened a spreadsheet. It looked like he was about to see if anyone owed him money. "He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. Get in touch with the police."

"Zoé wouldn't want me to."

"You've got to put her first, kiddo. How about that priest who rescued you in France, when you were wanted for murder? Isn't he over here working at the Homeless Anchor place? He'd give you some advice."

"You mean HAT, the Homeless Anchor Trust." Father Alban had assisted at their wedding in Clermont-Ferrand in the Auvergne, the old volcanic region in central France where Zoé had been brought up, where Zoé 's mother had been unhappy about the marriage.

Yes, the young priest should know the right thing to do. "He only lives a mile away, but we haven't seen him lately. I'm always afraid he'll invite me to church, but he never does."

Matt stopped speaking at the sound of high-heeled shoes running up the wooden stairs to the office. It wasn't Zoé. A dark-haired woman flung the door open and stood glaring, with a small white terrier in her arms.

"Are you the creeps who've been snooping on me?" she shouted. "I'm gonna prosecute you for an invasion of privacy." She dropped the dog onto the floor. It joined in the noise by barking ferociously.

Ken scooted his red leather captain's chair behind his desk. "Now hold on a minute." His voice sounded slightly unsteady. "I don't know who you are."

Matt knew. He'd photographed this woman by the pool yesterday afternoon. Even with clothes on she had a good body. What surprised him was her voice. Blake hadn't said his partner was American. The dog bared its teeth. This looked like a good time to join Ken.

"Why the hell did you give the film to Edward Blake?" she continued in a slightly calmer voice. "I mean, don't you need some sort of license to spy on people with cameras? I thought the cops had to train you or something."

Matt was about to say he'd been in the police force, but remained silent. He didn't want his past dragged out. It wasn't his fault he'd had to leave the police in a hurry. Not really.

"What are you, a pair of perverts?" the woman yelled suddenly, making them both jump. This encouraged the dog to bark again.

Ken went on the defensive. "Please control that dog. It's tearing at my carpet."

The American did nothing.

"I'd have thought it was perfectly obvious why we were there," Ken continued.

"Well, it isn't obvious to me. Tell me."

"Your partner went out for the day, and he wanted to know what you were doing in his absence."

"My partner?"

Ken shrugged. "We're just doing a job and getting paid for it. It's perfectly legal, but if you've got a problem, go and sort it out with your lawyer."

"I'll sort it out with my lawyer all right." The woman burst into tears. "You two have no idea what you've done. Blake isn't my partner."

Ken passed a wad of tissues from the box on his desk and waited while the visitor wiped her face. Then he beckoned to Matt to come with him into the outer office.

"Excuse us a moment," he said to the woman. He shut the door to his office and turned to Matt. "Is she crazy or am I? You photographed her by the pool yesterday -- yes?"

"It's her okay, but I'm not sure if she's the woman I saw last night."

"You said you saw her throwing Blake out of the apartment."

"I saw someone throwing Blake out. That's all I can say."

Ken groaned. "So let's start by finding out who she really is."

They returned to the office. The woman glanced up.

"If Edward Blake isn't your partner, who is he?" Ken demanded. "Your husband?"

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. "You two have no idea what a terrible thing you've done."

Matt noticed that the American had smudged her make-up, making dark streaks of mascara run down her cheeks, but he wasn't going to be the one to tell her.

Ken scuffed a shoe over the long fibers the dog had ripped from the carpet. "You'd better explain."

The woman dabbed her eyes with one of the tissues. "Edward Blake's the dean at the Helios Academy, and I teach the violin." She grabbed the remainder of the tissues. "The Academy's the only connection there is between us, you stupid man."

Ken put on a professional expression. "Sit down," he said, pulling a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. "Maybe we can sort it out now." He flicked the top off his pen. "You'd better tell me your name, Mrs. ... " He paused. "It obviously isn't Mrs. Blake, if you're only partners."

"Too damn right it isn't." She sounded exhausted. "My name is Shelley Carpenter. Ms. Shelley Carpenter. And we are not partners."

Matt had seen this sort of charade before. Someone caught in the act, unwilling to admit infidelity. That man isn't my husband, so how can I have been unfaithful to him? Easy enough to say -- and easy enough to check. Maybe Blake was too embarrassed to admit to having a straying wife.

"Matt," Ken said, rising to the occasion, "you'd better make coffee for the three of us. Drop the catch on the downstairs door. It looks like we're going to be busy."

The woman opened her purse. "My credit card," she said. "Just in case you still think I'm Mrs. Blake."

Matt leaned over and read the name on it. Shelley Carpenter. He went into the little kitchen to put the kettle on, making sure the door to Ken's office stayed wide.

"Do you have some additional identification?" he could hear Ken ask. "Distrust goes with our profession, so I'm afraid we make checks on people. Do you have something showing your address?"

The woman sighed loudly. "The Helios Music Academy."

"I need to see it written on something." Ken sounded remarkably calm.

"Such as?"

"A driving license?"

He heard the woman say, "Not on me."

Matt smiled to himself. She'd obviously not expected that one.

"I have an envelope. It was mailed to me only yesterday. Will that do?"

Matt put his head round the door to see the woman digging into her purse. She produced an envelope and Ken glanced at the name and address.

"Apartment eight. Thank you, Miss Carpenter. All right, you're from the Helios Academy. Only we can't be too careful. I don't want to discuss this business with a stranger."

Matt switched the kettle off. His boss was giving the woman too easy a ride. He went back to Ken's office, intrigued to see what happened next.

The woman reached forward, retrieved the envelope and pushed it back into her purse. "I hope you believe me now."

Ken nodded and the little white dog barked again. Ken put out his foot and pushed it away from the patch of carpet where it had started to tear a new hole. "I'm sorry, Miss Carpenter, but Habgood Securities didn't set out to cause you any offence. We were the innocent party in this."

"No, Mr. Habgood, I was the innocent party. If I wish to swim, that is my affair. And who I choose to do it with is also my affair. It has nothing to do with Edward Blake. Do you understand?"

Ken nodded.

"I'm glad. I'm going straight back home to phone my lawyer. Good day." With the white terrier in her arms, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Its shudder reverberated along the walls, rocking the long-dead plant on the tall filing cabinet.

"Distrust goes with our profession," Matt said, repeating Ken's words when he heard the downstairs door bang shut. "Coffee for two is it?"

Ken brought his captain's chair back close to the desk and sat with his head resting in his cupped hands. "Plenty of sugar. That woman is mentally unbalanced."

Matt laughed. "You surely didn't fall for the old name and address on an envelope trick?"

"I need that coffee." Ken looked up wearily. "And use the jar of instant, not that stuff of yours that takes ages to brew."

"So what do you reckon she's up to?" Matt called.

"That's what you've got to find out."

Matt returned, stirring the contents of a white mug. "You'll enjoy this. The milk's fresh for a change."

Ken took it. "Okay, kiddo, any ideas?"

Matt shrugged. "You're a bit late if you want me to follow her. She'll be the other side of town by now."

Ken took a sniff at his coffee and put the mug down. "I've smelt better."

Matt guessed that Ken was dithering. Not that his boss was the fastest PI around, but he usually came up with a sensible course of action, probably more by luck than judgment. "You let her off the hook too easily."

Ken appeared genuinely startled, but said nothing.

"Okay, Ken, so her name probably is Shelley Carpenter if it's on her bank card, but it only takes two days to get a fake address on an envelope. Anyone can find an address they want to use, preferably a house with multiple occupancy -- like an apartment at a music academy. Mail something to it bearing your name, and call round the next day and explain it was sent there by mistake."

"And they always hand it to you," Ken added. "Yes, I should have insisted on seeing her driver's license, but why would she be lying?"

At least his boss had the decency to admit his mistake. Matt shrugged. "I'm not really interested."

Ken raised finger. No doubt a great idea had come to him. "Is that biscuit tin of yours roadworthy?"

"My Mini? It's still got four wheels, if that's any help."

"Drive round to apartment eight at the Helios Music Academy. That's the address she showed me on the envelope. Ring the bell and see who comes to the door."

"And if it is Shelley Carpenter?"

"Then we'll know she was telling the truth"

"Yes, I'd managed to work that out for myself. I meant, what do I say?"

Ken sipped his coffee and looked up in surprise. "This is better than the usual stuff you make."

Matt crouched down and poked at the loose threads. "What do I say to her?"

"Think of something, kiddo. And stop making that hole worse. If the woman sues me, I'll file a claim for a new office carpet."

"Okay, so I go round. Then what?"

"Find out that she and Blake are partners, then we can stop worrying." Ken began tapping on the keyboard. "You still here?"

Matt went to the stairs leading down to the service yard without bothering to drink his coffee. Ken's jar of instant was rubbish anyway. "If my car needs a push I'll let you know," he called over his shoulder.

"And if Zoé rings I'll tell her you've gone to see a naked lady."

"I can believe you would."

"Would I make trouble for you, kiddo?"

Matt decided not to answer back. All he had to do now was to get his old Mini into action. The orange color disguised the rust, but there was no hiding the age of this British car that was all the rage in the Swinging Sixties. Somehow the color didn't seem so swinging now.

It started first time.

*

AS HE DROVE through the gates of the Academy he braked and looked up at the ugly building. The 1960's architecture hadn't passed the test of time well, neither for condition nor for taste. Concrete slabs and acres of glass seemed to be the limit of the architect's aspirations. The design owed nothing to the past, nor did it contribute anything to the future -- except to serve as a dire warning to the next generation to be more choosy in future. Either the brutalist architect or the miserly client, most probably both, had put belt-tightening far above taste. Already the concrete was streaked with black.

Was it even worth ringing the bell of number eight? He'd seen Blake being thrown out of there, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the woman shouting on the doorstep last night was Shelley Carpenter. She was telling porkies in the office when she denied Edward Blake was her partner. She obviously wanted to confuse Ken and deter him from further investigation into her infidelity.

So Blake thought his partner was putting it about a bit. He was right, she was, and now he had the proof on film. Blake must have moved fast to get it processed overnight. You couldn't take those sorts of pictures to a one-hour lab in the High Street. The staff would call the police. The first few exposures would record the couple in what Ken always delicately referred to as a "compromising position." The next pictures would show the couple coming apart, the man rolling over onto his back to look up in surprise, and then jumping to his feet. Definitely pornographic.

Maybe Blake hadn't bothered to get the film processed. If he'd already told his partner he'd arranged the photo-shoot, she could hardly deny she was having a bit on the side.

Matt pulled his cell phone from his belt and rang the office. "Ken, I've cracked it. Edward Blake and Shelley Carpenter definitely are partners."

"Shelley Carpenter told you this?"

"No."

"Edward Blake?"

"Look, Ken, it's so obvious I'm not bothering to ring the doorbell."

"Ring it, kiddo."

Matt looked up at the abysmal Academy. "Shelley Carpenter won't be taking you to court. She and Blake live together. She hasn't got a case against you."

"Against you. You took the photos."

"I'm coming back to the office."

"Not until you've rung that bell."

"There's no point."

"Listen, Matt." Ken sounded surprisingly dynamic. "I've been thinking over what the woman said. I'm worried we may have overstepped ourselves in this one."

At least it was 'we' and not 'you'. "But surely ... "

"Ring that damn bell, and tell Miss Carpenter we know the details of the situation. And tell her I do not want her calling here any more -- with or without her flea-bitten hound. Got it?"

Matt put his phone away. Maybe he was chicken. Why? In case the woman screamed at him again? In case she set her little white dog on him? He'd encountered worse confrontations in his work for Ken, and even more dangerous ones with the police at Trinity Green. When he was with the police at least he could radio in and get some backup. They wouldn't want to know nowadays, even if he phoned them to say a gang of knife-wielding drunks was attacking him. Leaving the force in a hurry hadn't endeared him to his one-time colleagues. Blowing the whistle on the instructions to drop the drugs case with the MP's son had reverberated right through the ranks, leaving him no place to go but to tender his resignation rather than face a lengthy inquiry. It was a great life.

Zoé understood. Thank God Zoé had wanted him. A French nurse, working over here in England at the local hospital, she'd picked him up in the large bookshop in the middle of town two years ago. She denied it now. Said he'd made the first move. That wasn't how he remembered it; but it didn't really matter. They were together now, living on her nurse's salary and the pittance Ken grudgingly paid out every month.

He wondered what it was like to be personally involved in the matrimonial disputes he investigated. Plenty of men eyed Zoé up and down. At three months her stomach was still flatter than the stomachs of many women not pregnant. Would she ever stray? The thought of Zoé with another man gave him an unexpected arousal. He got quickly out of the rusting Mini -- a not-so-generous gift from one of Ken's cronies for services rendered -- and rang the bell of apartment eight.

A dog barked in the hall and a few seconds later Shelley Carpenter opened the door. "It's you again." The American woman made it sound more like an accusation than an observation. She scooped the yapping terrier into her arms. "Well?"

"Ken Habgood wanted me to call."

"Why?" She sounded hostile, even though the dog wagged its stumpy tail.

"I'm supposed to check that you live here."

"The hell you are. I showed your boss my address. Has he got a short memory or something?"

"We ... he ... wanted to be sure."

"Does the pervert fancy me?"

"It's his age," Matt explained. "It does funny things to a man's hormones. He's over fifty, now."

It was strange how this woman's body did more for his hormones than it probably did for Ken's. Judging by Ken's choice of wife, hormones had never been particularly active in the man's life. He looked Shelley Carpenter quickly down and then up. A close-fitting white cotton top and blue jeans revealed a very feminine outline, with just enough fat to make her body interesting. And he knew what was underneath the clothing. Actually knew. If he took his eyeballs to the photo lab he could get them processed. The image would be sharper and clearer than anything on Blake's film.

"This is harassment," Shelley Carpenter said, bringing his thoughts back to the present. "I'm seeing a lawyer tomorrow morning."

Matt kept quiet, unable to think of a suitable retort that couldn't be used against him in court.

"You can leave now. If I see you here again I'll ... "

"Set your dog on me?"

"...Get a restraining order, or whatever you have in England."

"You're forgetting about Mr. Blake." Matt felt bolder now. "I'm working for him, not you." He turned and walked slowly back to his car.

It took six attempts before the engine fired, belching a dark cloud of smoke from the exhaust. Not quite the polished departure he was hoping for.

Back at the office Ken Habgood still seemed to be smarting from Shelley Carpenter's visit and threat of legal action. "I'm sure she can't do anything," he told Matt. "I've been on to James Freelander while you were gone. He says we've done nothing wrong -- providing Edward Blake really is the dean at the Helios Academy."

"And your lawyer friend will defend you in court if Blake isn't?"

"You're not going to spoil my day, kiddo. I suppose you did find out."

"Find out what?"

"That Edward Blake is the dean."

"I know he's living at apartment eight. I saw him being thrown out of there yesterday evening -- on my own time."

Ken shook his head. "No out-of-hours payment in this job, kiddo."

"Not much pay of any sort."

Ken snorted. "You can always go back to working with the police. Aren't they desperately short of numbers?"

"Not that desperate."

"So that's it then," Ken said. "Shelley Carpenter and Edward Blake are partners, and Blake's partner is having a ding-dong with a young member of staff. Blake wants to sack him. Now he's got the photos he'll make the man leave the Academy in disgrace."

"Ken, Ken, Ken, that's exactly what I thought; but now I'm starting to worry. Which are we -- Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson?"

Ken frowned as he stuck a stamp on an envelope. "That's Blake's bill done. Let's hope he's a prompt payer. What's this about Sherlock Holmes?"

"We're making an assumption from flimsy evidence. Sherlock Holmes always gets it right. Dr. Watson puts two and two together and makes five-and-a-half."

Ken simply shrugged. "Drop this in the mail box across the road. The sooner it's posted, the sooner I'll get the money and I can pay you."

Matt took the envelope. The name and address were correctly aligned in the window for once. He'd set up a template on the computer for Ken to get it in the correct position, but it regularly ended up too high or too low for the postman to read in full.

Matt had one foot on the top of the stairs when a young man barged his way in through the downstairs door. Black silky trousers and a bright red shirt. It could be Shelley Carpenter's lover, but with clothes on it was hard to be sure.

Matt put his head down, staring at the envelope as the large man pushed past. Ken could deal with this one on his own. From the sound of voices coming from the office this might be a good time to have an hour off for an early lunch. And if he delivered Blake's bill by hand rather than mailing it, Habgood Securities might even get paid before the end of the month.

Ken should be grateful.
Chapter Five

A GROUP of students had come out to sit on the lawn in front of the Academy in the late morning sunshine. A few of the younger girls turned to stare as Matt drove through the gates, but the older students, a mixture of boys and girls, seemed to be more interested in each other than in an old Mini. He was surprised to see Blake, still in his dark gray suit, talking to one of these groups. Blake glanced up as Matt waved the envelope.

"It's for you," he called to Blake. He pointed up at the apartment block. "I'll push it through the door."

As Matt was walking towards the door of number eight he heard footsteps on the gravel and turned to see Blake hurrying towards him, smiling.

"I'd better see what it is. Not the bill I hope." He sounded rather breathless even though he'd only come a few yards.

"Ken Habgood likes to keep his accounts up to date," Matt told him. Well, it was true. Perhaps he should have added that Ken did it because he was always short of money rather than through efficiency.

Blake reached out. "Let's see the damage then." He took the envelope and opened it, raised his eyebrows, then gave a low whistle, but not through his nose this time.

"It's what you agreed in the office." Matt thought it worth defending Habgood Securities' charging rates. "The price is all-inclusive. There were no extras."

"I should hope not." Blake laughed as he said it. "I have to admit those pictures you took were better than anything I expected. You certainly know how to handle a camera."

Matt shrugged at the compliment. If only Ken could show a bit of gratitude like this from time to time. "Is there any chance of seeing the prints?"

Blake shook his head, rather quickly. "This job is closed as far as I'm concerned. It was ... done on a moment of impulse." He scratched his right ear and frowned. "To be honest with you, Mr. Rider, I wish I'd never asked you to get involved."

For some reason Matt felt embarrassed for Blake. "I take it Shelley Carpenter is your partner?"

Blake seemed surprised. "How do you know her name?"

Matt realized he'd said more than he should have done. That dog had sharp teeth, and he didn't fancy seeing either the dog or its owner again. He had to be careful not to reveal that Shelley Carpenter had been in Ken's office this morning. "You mentioned her name -- when you came to see us yesterday." Almost certainly Blake had done no such thing.

"What good memories you detectives have." The dean spoke with a certain amount of admiration in his voice.

Matt nodded, relieved that Blake seemed to be accepting the hasty explanation. "I'd better get back to the office."

"Not so fast." Blake shook his head. "I need a promise that you'll forget about this job."

"If that's what you want. As long as you pay the bill."

"I'll pay the bill, of course, and now I'm asking you and your boss to let things rest." Blake turned round anxiously: most likely to make sure that none of the students was near enough to hear what he was saying. "I've been wanting to see you -- away from your office. You seem to be a pretty bright young man."

Matt wondered whether he should be pleased by the description. Neither pretty nor young applied, but the word bright was probably best taken as a compliment.

"Would you be interested in doing another job for me? A private one."

A thousand reasons for refusal rushed through Matt's head. For one thing Blake was a pain, and for another the photographs by the swimming pool seemed to have stirred up trouble. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the man pushing his way up the stairs at Ken's office had been Shelley Carpenter's lover. The man had a wide moustache, which he sort of remembered from the pool. There hadn't been time to take in everything.

"Sorry," he said. "I can't see it working."

"It's all about Ken Habgood, isn't it?" Blake asked. "I could tell by his attitude when I came to see you. You're the one with the brains. Your boss didn't have a clue how to get the photographs. Using a paraglider was a stroke of genius."

Matt was about to jump to Ken's defense when something inside him suggested he should at least hear what Blake had to say. This could be his chance of making some cash on the side. Goodness knows, he and Zoé were going to need it when the baby was born. Maybe before that -- if the Mini continued to fall apart. Had he been daft or what, in getting Zoé pregnant? He'd suggested an abortion, but with her Catholic upbringing Zoé had been adamant. They would have the baby. And now he was both thankful and relieved that she'd dug in.

Zoé occasionally suggested that he should branch out on his own, but he couldn't stand the thought of worrying where the next job was coming from. On the other hand, wondering if Ken would have enough money in the pot at the end of each month was hardly a healthier proposition. Zoé always told him he was impulsive, but if you want something you have to jump for it.

He stared at Blake. "Go on."

"This is confidential." Blake glanced around again, rather too furtively for Matt's peace of mind. "I expect you know the headquarters of the Helios Music Academy is in Prague."

Matt just nodded.

Blake lowered his voice. "I don't want anyone here or in Prague getting wind of what I'm about to tell you."

"Okay," Matt said. He couldn't think of anything connected with the Academy that could require this sort of secrecy.

"I'm ... " Blake paused and frowned. "Prague was occupied by the Nazis in 1941."

"Yes."

"I'm sure you've heard tales of looted gold and art treasures."

"Plenty," Matt agreed. Looking at the expensive way Blake was dressed, maybe he was dipping his hands into a hoard of Nazi treasure from the bottom of some Swiss lake. This sounded interesting.

The big man gazed around again, but not so fast this time. He seemed absorbed in what he was saying. "The treasure I'm trying to track down has nothing to do with gold. To me, with my great love of Czech classical music, the treasure I'm seeking is beyond price."

Matt decided that this didn't sound so interesting after all. Blake's idea of value might not be his. "Czechoslovakia? I don't even know how to spell it, let alone speak the language."

"Czechoslovakia doesn't exist any more," Blake said. "It's the Czech Republic and Slovakia now. It has been, since the end of Communist rule."

"I still can't speak the language."

Blake didn't even smile. "But you must have heard of the Czech composers. Men like Dvorak and Smetana."

"I've heard of them."

"Good, then we're getting somewhere." Blake motioned to Matt to move nearer the Academy building. "There is the possibility, and I have to stress it is only a possibility, that some early music manuscripts from these Czech composers, music that perhaps is completely unknown today, could ... still be in existence waiting for someone to find it."

"You don't sound very convinced," Matt told him. He'd done idiotic things for people on a whim, but nothing quite as hasty as embarking on a Czech treasure hunt. "So what exactly is this unknown music, if that question makes sense?"

Blake put his hand on Matt's shoulder. "This is what makes it so exciting. I simply have no idea. I know the manuscripts were in Prague at the start of the war, but that's all. To tell you the truth I'm so desperate to find them I'd ... even try contacting the dead."

Matt started to laugh before he realized Blake wasn't smiling. "Don't bother to include me. If you want a séance, you can get on with it yourself."

Blake scratched his ear. He seemed to have a problem with it. "When I say I'm desperate to find the manuscripts, I really mean desperate. And that's where you come in. Here, take my card. It's got my cell phone number on it. You might want to contact me."

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"I can't see you turning it down, not when I've told you more about it. Come with me to the Academy library. I want to show you some microfiche records from Prague."

Matt could see no harm in looking. "Don't assume too much." The mobile on his belt played its usual tune. He pulled it out and looked at the screen to see who was calling. Ken Habgood.

"Hi, Ken."

"Where on earth are you, kiddo? In the local hospital? I've been worried sick. I only sent you across the road to post a letter."

"I delivered it personally. I'm with Mr. Blake now."

"Then come back -- smartish." Ken lowered his voice. "It's that young stud you photographed by the swimming pool. He's been giving me a hard time for the past hour. And he's still here."

*

THE STUD, in the black silky trousers and the bright red shirt, turned out to be Martin Smith. Matt realized where he'd heard the name before. Zoé knew him as the piano teacher at the Academy who conducted her little orchestra in the town once a week, aka Martinek Kovar -- the man with the little stick who was obsessed with Bohemian music.

Black haired, tall and muscular, Smith had deeply hooded eyes.

He could easily be Czech, as Zoé said. On his top lip he had a long moustache onto which he'd rubbed some sort of oil or grease so that it stood out sideways and glistened. He'd have looked more at home on a Victorian penny farthing bicycle than standing here in Ken's office in the twenty-first century -- although the red shirt looked too modern and tasteless to be authentic period dress.

Matt reckoned their visitor would be in his late twenties, and as far as he could judge not the sort of man an older woman would normally fancy. But then perhaps Shelley Carpenter wasn't too fussy about who she slept with -- after the odious Blake.

"I'm glad you're back, kiddo." Ken looked exhausted. What on earth had Martin Smith been saying to him?

"Anything I can do to help?" Matt decided to act all innocent. It was possible Martin Smith wouldn't recognize him as the photographer on the paraglider. Hopefully the helmet had hidden his face.

The stud sniffed. "You've ruined my future at the Academy by taking those photographs. Academy rules are strict. Members of the teaching staff are not to have liaisons of a sexual nature with each other, and I've been reported to the principal."

Matt frowned. "Are you sure about losing your job?" If Blake and Shelley Carpenter were living together, that must come pretty close to being an affair. And Shelly Carpenter was the violin teacher. Maybe there was one rule for the teaching staff and one for the dean.

"Academy staff are not to conduct affairs of a sexual nature during Academy hours," Martin Smith explained, as though reading Matt's thoughts. "And afternoons count as Academy hours, even when everyone else is in London."

Matt wondered if the man had been crying. It would explain the dark rims round his eyes, although they looked to be a permanent feature. Weren't dark rims caused by liver problems? Zoé would know about things like that. He looked at his watch. She'd be calling here shortly. She'd started work early this morning and was due to finish mid-afternoon.

Ken coughed politely. "Mr. Smith thinks he has a bit of a grievance, which is why he's come to see us."

"And what have you been telling him?" Matt asked, trying to stir things up a bit.

"It's ... like we said to Miss Carpenter." Ken sounded uncomfortable. "These people aren't our clients. If you do a job for one person there's bound to be someone else down the line who doesn't like it." He looked at Matt for further help.

"Ken's right. Mr. Blake commissioned us to do a job. Like the boss says, we're sorry, but that's life."

Smith obviously didn't see it this way. "You simply can't get someone's post taken away for something they do in private. It's intrusion. There has to be a law against it."

Here we go again, Matt thought. This was almost an exact rerun of Shelley Carpenter's line of attack. It wasn't usual for the party on the wrong end of a surveillance to come rushing round to complain, and never before had he known two people do it on the same day. No wonder Ken looked a bit peaky.

"I keep telling you, Mr. Smith," Ken said. "It's not our fault. Mr. Blake paid us to take photographs of Miss Carpenter by the pool. We didn't ask you to be with her."

"You knew I'd be there." Smith sounded a broken man. Even the ends of his moustache had started to droop. "I've got my mother to look after."

Ken sighed. "Mr. Smith, I won't say you got what was coming to you, because we're not here to make judgments on anyone's behavior. But if you'd stayed away from Miss Carpenter we wouldn't be having this conversation now."

"And what's Mother going to say when she knows why I've lost my post at the Academy? She earns little enough money from her church meetings."

"Church meetings?" Matt wondered why he was even remotely interested in this man's mother. It was just that he was intrigued to know how a woman could earn money from a church meeting.

"It's not really a church, but that's what she likes to call it." Martin Smith twiddled the ends of his moustache so that they drooped less. "She uses the spirits to help people with their problems."

"What does she do, work in the local bar?" Ken asked in his usual crass manner.

Smith didn't smile and probably didn't even get the joke, such as it was. "She holds séances. Contacts the spirits of those who have passed on."

Ken seemed completely insensitive to the occasion. "Can't your mother get the spirits to help you keep your job?"

To Matt's surprise, Martin Smith took Ken seriously. "Mother has helped me many times. She'd help me now, I know, but if she contacts the spirits on my behalf they may tell her what I was doing with Shelley Carpenter. It will break her heart if she finds out."

"I know someone who went to a fortune teller once," Ken said thoughtfully. "She told him he'd be married and have four children before he was forty. Only trouble was, he was gay." He laughed loudly, probably an attempt to break the tension, but Smith received the intervention with a stony silence.

"I don't think Mr. Smith came round here to discuss fortune tellers," Matt said. It was strange that Blake had mentioned contacting the dead, when Smith's mother made money out of doing it. Well, Blake wouldn't catch him going down that line. He turned to Martin Smith. "Ken's right. Mr. Blake paid us to keep an eye on Miss Carpenter, and it's just tough that you happened to be with her."

"My misfortune, yes." Smith went to the door. "I don't know what sort of a man you think I am, but I don't go round screwing every bit of skirt I can find at the Academy. Shelley Carpenter is totally to blame for this. She enticed me."

"That's not what Mr. Blake ... "

"Ken," Matt interrupted quickly. "Don't say any more."

Smith went to the door. "I'm going home. I have to break the news to Mother about losing my post."

Matt couldn't help feeling sorry for the musician from the Helios Academy -- assuming the man was telling the truth. "Have you actually lost your post, or are you afraid you'll lose it?"

Ken clapped his hands as though the interview was over. "I can't believe you deserve the sack for what you've done, Mr. Smith. I can put you in touch with a good lawyer."

Matt shook his head. "Leave it, Ken. This has absolutely nothing to do with us."

Martin Smith went to the door. Standing in the shadow at the top of the stairs the dark rims around his eyes looked more pronounced than they had when Matt arrived. "I hope you're both proud of yourselves."

Matt heard him walk slowly down the stairs and go out through the door into the street. Ken looked up, pulled a face, and shrugged. "You'd have thought his mother would have seen it coming."

"His mother?"

Ken laughed. "If she's in touch with the spirits they ought to have given her a warning."

"That's all rubbish."

"Have you ever been to a séance?" Ken asked, a smile still on his face.

"No, have you?"

"Only once. I had to investigate a medium for a client. It must have been seven ... probably eight years ago. My client was a middle-aged woman and she thought her mother had been murdered in an old folk's home. The police weren't interested, so she went to see a medium who claimed she could contact the mother in the afterlife and ask her the truth. After a couple of séances the medium claimed she was definitely in contact with the mother, but the answers were hopelessly vague. After about ten visits my client suspected the medium was taking her for a ride."

"And your client was paying every time she went?"

"You bet. Being charged a fortune, just to hear a lot of nonsense being spoken in a husky voice."

"I wish I'd been there. Was the medium genuine?"

"Not that I could see. My client took me along to one of the séances and told the medium I was her brother. I took a camera and flash, just in case anything materialized in the dark."

"A camera? Was that allowed?"

"I didn't ask, kiddo. Anyway, nothing showed up. Just this strange voice talking about life on the other side. As far as I could tell it was the medium, speaking from deep in her throat. A sort of creepy ventriloquist act."

Matt moved closer, intrigued. "How did it end?"

"I told the medium who I was. She agreed she was getting nowhere and returned the money -- reluctantly. Well, most of it."

"So was the mother killed in the old folk's home?"

"Don't ask me, kiddo. I don't investigate murder."

"But you surely don't believe in that sort of thing."

Ken shrugged. "I'm open about it. But I'm sure of one thing: offers to contact the dead are an invitation for a grieving relative to lose money. That's when people are at their most vulnerable. Anyway, I've wasted enough time this afternoon with that Martin Smith, so let's not get into discussing his old mother. I've got work to do. Tell me what Blake said when you took the bill round. Is he going to pay promptly?"

Matt remembered the offer Blake had made at the Academy, asking him to do a bit of investigation on the side. Something to do with missing music manuscripts. But with Ken was in such a bad mood this didn't look like the best time to discuss it. "He didn't really say."

"You took a hell of a long time to sort that one out." Ken glanced up quickly. "Who's that coming up the stairs now?"

It certainly wasn't Martin Smith. Matt reckoned he would have noticed if Martin Smith had been wearing high-heels.

Zoé opened the door and stopped in surprise. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing," Ken told her. "I could do with a bit of sanity around the place."

Matt went forward to kiss Zoé. "It's not often Ken gives out compliments."

"I do if someone's pretty enough," Ken said.

"Why, thank you." Zoé blushed. "Ken he is a good man, Matt. You are wrong to keep telling me such bad things about him."

Matt shrugged and briefly told Zoé about Smith's visit.

"He lives with his mother?" she asked.

"Sounds like it," Matt said.

Zoé looked around the office. "Monsieur Smith is a talented pianist, and a good conductor for our little orchestra. If he has lost his post at the Academy it is all your fault, Matt. And yours, Ken."

"Lady," Ken told her, "don't blame me for this one. I don't know anything about him."

"I have always thought he is sad," Zoé said.

Ken stood up and waved his hands to shoo them out of his office. "Look," he said impatiently, "I don't care if he's sad, or mad, or even dangerous. My afternoon's been wasted enough as it is. Go home early, Matt, and leave me in peace. I've got a couple important phone calls to make."

Matt beckoned to Zoé to come with him. "Let's go before Ken changes his mind." He stopped and looked back into the office. "Shall I lock downstairs door?" he asked.

"Why would you do that?" Ken asked.

"Just in case Smith comes back. You never know, he might be sad, mad, and dangerous."

Chapter Six

MATT HAD left his bright orange Mini in the service yard behind the office in its usual parking slot. For some reason he looked back over his shoulder as he unlocked the car door to let Zoé in. Maybe it was the thought of Martin Smith hanging about that made him do it. Well, if the stud came back looking for some sort of revenge, Ken would have to deal with him. He'd had bad vibes about this assignment from the moment Blake came into the office, but Ken couldn't see it.

"Please be careful of my arm," Zoé said, as he held on to her more tightly than he'd intended. "That man outside the restaurant last night, he has bruised it."

"Right," Matt told her. "I'm going to make sure he's off the streets by tomorrow morning."

"And how are you going to do it?"

"I'm ... going to think about it."

"You thought about it last night. You thought that the police would not be interested in anything you told them."

"I'm going to ask Father Alban for advice. That was Ken's idea."

"Father Alban he is a good man, so why would he encourage you to harm a homeless man?"

"Father Alban works for HAT, and no, he definitely wouldn't encourage me to violence."

"Ah yes, the Homeless Anchor Trust. Are you sure Father Alban is still here? We have only seen him a few times since our wedding."

"He'd have come to see us before going back to France. Look, I sometimes feel guilty about homeless people. I start to worry in case one of them is God in disguise, sitting by the side of the road to test me."

"Then I think you have failed to test."

"I think we've all failed the test."

"Except Father Alban."

Matt pulled Zoé's sleeve up and revealed a greenish bruise on her left forearm. "I don't think God did that to you. More likely the man's a drug addict and doesn't really know what he's doing." He looked at his watch. "Do you think Father Alban would be there now?"

"Maybe we could see him later. I would like to go home now and have a rest." Zoé patted her stomach. "I think the two of us need to take it easy, and I would like you to come with us."

"I saw Edward Blake this afternoon. He ... he offered me a sort of job ... on the side."

"On what side?"

"It's a saying. It means doing something unauthorized. Blake reckons he's on the trail of some missing Czech music. He's been going through the Academy records in Prague."

"Records? Do you mean CDs?"

"I imagine he meant written music. Stuff by Dvorak and Smetana, he said. Maybe Janacek. I don't know. He's going to tell me more about it later."

Zoé gave a little squeak of pleasure. "Matt, this is the most exciting thing I have heard for a long time. Lost music from Bohemia? I do not think the baby will mind if we go and see Monsieur Blake now."

"If you're sure." He pulled out his cell phone. "I've got Blake's number now. I'll give him a ring and see."

Blake sounded a little dubious. He said he was busy, and asked Matt if he could possibly manage the evening, about eight. "We'll need to use the Academy library -- on our own," he explained. "It's closed to students this evening, but I have a key."

"I'd like to bring Zoé with me if that's all right. We'll come straight to your apartment."

"Do you know where my apartment is?"

"Number eight. We saw you there last night, when I brought the film round."

Blake hesitated. "Best if you come to the main entrance. I'll be waiting. Try not to be early."

At eight o'clock exactly Matt drove the old Mini up the winding drive with Zoé sitting sleepily in the passenger seat. Her little rest had turned out to be a sound sleep after tea.

He parked in one of the visitors' spaces and switched off the headlights. The summer was coming to an end and the nights were drawing in more noticeably. Blake said he'd be waiting by the main entrance. Matt couldn't see a light in any of the windows of apartment eight so presumably Shelley Carpenter was out. It wouldn't surprise him if Blake had told her to move out permanently.

Blake emerged from the gloom and opened the car door for Zoé. "I hope you're feeling better, Mrs. Rider," he said in his rather deep, penetrating voice.

Zoé got out quickly, perhaps to prove that she'd fully recovered from last night's ordeal. "Today I have no problem, but thank you for asking."

Blake nodded, clapped his hands, and looked round as though to make sure no one was watching. "Right, the library."

The library was not at all the sort of room Matt was expecting. Somehow he'd imagined a large mahogany door opening onto shelf upon shelf of leather bound books. Instead the room looked more like a small sports hall with rows of fluorescent lights which came on with a clatter as Blake flicked the switches. Most of the books appeared to be modern, stacked on gray steel shelving, and nowhere could he see anything that looked like bundles of Academy records dating back over the past hundred years or so.

"This is what we need." Blake went to the microfiche reader. From his jacket he removed an envelope containing a rectangle of film in a see-through protective cover. "The Academy records for Hana Eisler," he said with a dramatic flourish.

"Is she a student here?" Zoé asked.

Blake inserted the sheet of film into the glass carrier. "Hana Eisler was a student in Prague. She disappeared in 1942."

"Disappeared? Like dead?" Maybe this was where Blake's idea of contacting the departed came in.

"Dead, Mr. Rider? I have absolutely no idea."

"It's just that you mentioned something yesterday about being prepared to contact the dead."

Blake frowned. "Did I? Perhaps I was thinking of contacting Hana Eisler's parents, or even her great grandfather Vasek Tesar." He laughed awkwardly. "Let's concentrate on finding what happened to Hana. She was twelve years old, and as far as I can tell she was the last person to have the music manuscripts."

"I need a starting point." Did Blake think a PI just stumbled on clues without knowing the background?

Blake felt in the side pocket of his jacket and removed a black box, the sort of presentation case that jewelers use. He flicked it open and Zoé gasped.

"It is beautiful, Monsieur Blake."

Blake nodded. "I borrowed this brooch..." He paused and turned to Zoé. "Do you French call them brooches, or pins like the Americans?"

"Brooches," she said. "In French it is broches."

Blake put on a smile. "Brooches it is. I borrowed this brooch from the Academy in Prague. It was still with Hana Eisler's records. She left it there in 1942 and never returned."

"You think it was a family heirloom?" Matt asked as Zoé reached forward to remove the brooch carefully from the box.

"Non," Zoé said. "It is not an heirloom. It may have belonged to Hana's mother, but it is not older than that."

Matt examined it closely. "How do you know?"

"It is easy." Zoé turned the brooch over in her hand. It was in the shape of a small butterfly with a mix of colored stones making the shape of the wings. The butterfly's body was a single green stone set in silver, with a bright red stone for the head. "It is Art Nouveau. Perhaps French."

Matt took the brooch from Zoé and held it to the light. For a moment he had a vision of a young Jewish girl wearing it proudly in the city of Prague, her head filled with classical music. Hana Eisler with an Art Nouveau brooch; a gift from her mother.

Blake retrieved it and replaced it carefully in the box. "Prague was a major center in the development of Art Nouveau. It will have been made somewhere in what was Czechoslovakia."

"Is it valuable?" Matt asked.

Blake shrugged. "I have no idea. In any case I have to return it to the Academy in Prague soon. They ... they do not know I have it."

Matt took one last look as Blake closed the box. "I take it we're not after jewelry."

"No, not jewelry, Mr. Rider, I have already told you it is music. My belief is that Hana Eisler was in possession of some rare nineteenth century manuscripts when she disappeared. Bohemian music manuscripts that could cause major ripples in the music world today."

"Hana Eisler." Matt repeated the name aloud. "You really expect me to find out what happened to a twelve-year-old girl? Do you know where she was last seen?" As if that would help. Hana Eisler was hardly likely to be sitting on a doorstep somewhere in the Czech Republic, still holding the manuscripts.

"Hana Eisler failed to turn up at the Prague Academy on the fourth of June 1942." Blake shifted the glass carrier through several pages on the microfiche, stopped, and adjusted the focus. "The Academy register for June 1942. Hana's name is marked as absent on the Thursday in question. Then follows a handwritten note, added later by her tutor, to say that she failed to appear from that time on."

Matt leant forward to examine the photographic copy of the page projected onto the screen. It was written in Czechoslovakian. At least, that's what he assumed the language to be, with so many accents over the letters. "I can speak French, but I can't guess at these words."

"This is not French," Blake said.

"I know it's not, but if you can speak French you can make a reasonable stab at languages like Italian and Spanish. But I can't see single word here I recognize."

"Czech is a Slavic language," said Blake.

Matt looked again. "Are you sure you know what it says?"

"Perfectly. I speak very little Czech myself, but I've been able to get a few of these pages translated by someone who speaks the language fluently. Next time I go to Prague I hope to get all the pages translated."

"Maybe we should wait until you've done that," Matt suggested. "There might be all sorts of clues on that film."

"After World War Two, the principal of the Prague Academy conducted a major search for the missing manuscripts. He had full access to these records." Blake pointed to the microfiche reader. "I doubt if there's much of interest on here."

"So why show it to us?" Matt asked.

"Mr. Rider, I merely want to prove to you the existence of Hana Eisler and the music manuscripts. That is all."

"But you've been getting these records translated. So someone else must know what you're doing." This seemed surprising. "I thought your investigation was secret."

Blake looked round quickly. Again, he seemed lost for words, but only for a moment. "You are quite right, Mr. Rider. I removed this microfiche and the brooch from the Academy records in Prague without anyone knowing. And I can assure you that the person who did the translation for me had no idea why I needed it."

"The mother of Monsieur Smith is Czech," Zoé said.

Blake breathed in quickly. "Mrs. Rider, Martin Smith must not know what I'm doing. Is that clear?"

Zoé nodded, and Matt rushed to her defense. "There's no need to speak like that. Zoé was only trying to help."

Blake held his hands up. "Please excuse me. I have been so involved in trying to trace what happened to Hana's manuscripts, that I am sometimes a little edgy. I had no wish to cause offense."

Matt moved to one of the wooden library chairs and sat down. It didn't really bother him whether anyone else knew about Hana and her manuscripts or not. "What have you found so far?"

For someone who'd only been able to get a few of the pages translated, Blake seemed to know his way around the microfiche pretty well. He slid the carrier sideways and then forwards, and adjusted the focus on another page. "Here is a letter from Hana Eisler's father, Jakob Eisler. I am told it is a request to the Academy asking them to admit his daughter as a pupil. In it Jakob Eisler claims that his grandfather was Vasek Tesar, a Bohemian musician who was famous in the mid nineteenth century."

"I can't say I have heard of him, but then I'm not really into Czech music," Matt said. "I'm more of a Shostakovich man."

Blake breathed in sharply again. "Why do you say that?"

Matt shrugged. "I just like the way he wrote. I've collected Shostakovich for years."

Blake seemed to relax. "Shostakovich, the man who gave equal status to every note. Dissonance, you could say. You're not going to hear much Shostakovich being played in Prague, Mr. Rider. Too many memories of the Communist regime."

"I know about Vasek Tesar," Zoé said, as she peered forward to examine the screen. "He wanted to revive Czech national music in the 1840s, and was a sponsor of composers like Dvorak and Smetana."

"I still haven't heard of him," Matt said, "but I guess it's not important." He looked up to find Blake frowning. "Is it?"

"No, no, I'm sure it's not. I'm not asking you to investigate Vasek Tesar. Anyway, his life is well documented. We know he had a daughter Pavla who carried on the fine musical tradition of the family. But Pavla had a mind of her own and married a Jew. His name was Eisler. Erich Eisler. In the eyes of many citizens of Prague such a marriage was a serious social blunder for Pavla Tesar."

"When was this?" Matt asked.

"In 1882," Blake said confidently.

"Marrying a Jew was a problem in those days? I thought European Jews didn't get a hard time until the 1930s."

Blake shook his head. "Mr. Rider, you obviously have no idea how the Jews have been persecuted in Europe over the centuries. The situation in Prague was no worse, and probably no better, than what was happening in other European cities. European Jews have been persecuted off and on for over a thousand years. And don't think persecution stopped at the end of the World War Two. The Communists were almost as hard on the Jews as the Nazis were. Perhaps as hard."

Zoé pulled a chair forward and sat down. "My country France has a bad record of persecuting the Jews." She looked at Matt. "And so does yours, in the Middle Ages."

"I didn't know." He wanted Blake to get on and tell him what he had to do. "You were talking about missing manuscripts."

The door opened and Martin Smith, the young stud, stood blinking in the light. He was still wearing his black shiny trousers and red shirt. It seemed to be his trademark. Blake turned round quickly.

"Yes, Mr. Smith?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blake." In spite of his size Smith sounded tense.

Blake waved his hands dismissively. "Mr. Smith, if you've come to discuss Academy business you can see me in my office in the morning. And if you've come about any other matter, I have no wish to talk to you."

Matt wasn't surprised to find Blake speaking like this. Martin Smith had been caught having an affair with his partner. It was a wonder that Smith had stayed to speak when he saw Blake here in the library.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blake. It's just that I noticed the lights on." Martin Smith sounded embarrassingly self-effacing. As quickly as he'd arrived he was gone, the library door closing almost silently behind him. Blake took a key from his pocket and locked the door on the inside. "I should have done this when we came in."

Matt realized that Zoé had stayed looking at the microfiche reader. She was probably embarrassed to be seen here by Smith, since he would recognize her from the small orchestra he conducted in the town in the evening. He wondered whether to mention Martin Smith's self-styled alternative Czech name of Martin Kovar, but maybe the man had told Zoé's orchestra about it in confidence. Fancy Kovar meaning Smith, or Smith meaning Kovar. It only confirmed what he'd decided a few minutes ago: someone who spoke only English and French didn't stand a chance at guessing what these Slavic words meant.

"Excuse the interruption." Blake wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Now, where were we?"

Zoé sounded surprisingly enthusiastic. "You are telling us about some missing music manuscripts."

"Ah yes." Blake tapped the screen. "Young Hana's father Jakob possessed the music manuscripts in 1940, because according to these records that is when he showed Vasek Tesar's violin to the Academy principal. The Tesar family had loaned the violin to Dvorak when he went to the United States. He used it in 1893 to write what you probably know as the New World Symphony."

"Dvorak's Ninth," Matt added, feeling that Blake was talking down to him.

"Yes, his Ninth," said Blake distantly. "It would seem that the Prague Academy was hoping to be presented with the Tesar violin on permanent loan -- in return for admitting Hana."

"Buying favors?"

"It still happens, Mr. Rider. However, we needn't concern ourselves with the violin. One instrument looks very much like another. If we found it, how could we prove it was once a property of Vasek Tesar? Dvorak is unlikely to have carved his name on it when it was loaned to him."

"And how could you prove ... ?"

"...That the music manuscripts are genuine?"

Matt just nodded, but Zoé seemed to know the answer.

"That is easy," she said. "The way the composer writes the notes on the paper, even the type of pen he uses, is what you would call a giveaway, Matt. And of course the paper, it has to be right. Is that not so, Monsieur Blake?"

Blake smiled. "I didn't realize you were a musician."

"Zoé runs the town orchestra," Matt explained. "Martin Smith is the conductor." He wasn't quite sure why he mentioned Smith, but it was interesting to see Blake's face.

"Please don't refer to that man." Blake seemed to be over-reacting. Maybe he was keen to show his contempt for Martin Smith. "Mr. Rider, let me explain about the missing music. It's not only Smetana and Dvorak's music we're looking for. In October 1787, Mozart's opera Don Giovanni had its debut in Prague, with young Mozart himself conducting the orchestra. Mozart was a prolific composer, and again," Blake tapped the screen, "these records indicate that Vasek Tesar owned some original Mozart pieces, which would almost certainly be unheard of today. But the main treasures I'm after are the preliminary workings of Dvorak and Smetana."

"And they'd be valuable?" Matt asked.

"Over the years there have been whispers of an unknown symphony by Dvorak."

"But Dvorak, he wrote only nine symphonies," Zoé said in surprise.

"Nine are all we know about, Mrs. Rider, so there may indeed be a wealth of music to unearth. Maybe only a partially completed symphony, perhaps the outline for his tenth. It is of course imperative that no one is aware of this search, or I may find someone will manage to get there first."

Matt knew he'd already shown an appalling ignorance of Czech composers and the Czech language, so maybe Blake was about to pay him to drop the case and forget about it. He decided to jump before he was pushed. "Give the job to a PI in the Czech Republic." He laughed, even though it probably sounded slightly forced. "At least they'd be able to go round Prague asking questions."

Blake moved away from the microfiche reader and sat on one of the library tables. "It is like this," he explained. "Right now there is a renewal of nationalistic fervor in the Czech Republic. I am English. Do you really think I would be told the truth by a Czech investigator?"

"Surely you could trust someone in the Prague Academy," Matt said. "The manuscripts could be tucked away in one of their cupboards. Ask someone there to organize a hunt."

"Mr. Rider," Blake said, sounding slightly annoyed, "I would put a notice in one of the classical music magazines if I wanted the whole world to start looking. I've come to you because you have already proved you are good, and I believe you know the meaning of the word confidential."

"I'll need to know where to start." Matt decided the man was not exactly helping himself by taking this attitude.

"Allow me to make a suggestion. I don't know much about the Internet, but I believe some people use it to trace their family history. There are even Jewish websites, so I have heard. Find what happened to Hana Eisler and maybe you will be able to locate those manuscripts. Who knows, Hana could have ended her days in a concentration camp."

"It would be easier if I spoke Czech, or could even read it."

Blake shook his head. "Most of the Jews who search for their European roots are American, so surely most of the websites will be in English. If I knew how to do it I would get on with it myself. But I don't, so I'm paying you."

"We haven't discussed a fee," Matt reminded him.

"Payment by results. If you don't come up with anything, you don't get paid."

Matt turned to leave. "Then you can forget it."

Blake caught him by the shoulder. "Please do not be so hasty, Mr. Rider. These manuscripts could be worth serious money. Find them and I will be generous."

"What do you think, Zoé?" It was just as well to find out now rather than wait until they were home and it was too late to avoid an argument.

Zoé thought for only a fraction of a second. "I think Matt needs some of the money before he starts the job."

Blake nodded sympathetically. "I am prepared to buy the airline tickets -- and advance the money for a basic hotel when he goes to Prague."

"I have to go to Prague?"

"Of course you do, Mr. Rider. You have to bring back the missing manuscripts."
Chapter Seven

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

HANA IS frozen with fear. If only Papa had come. Papa should be here now instead of hiding in the little attic. But Papa is a Jew and he doesn't like all this fighting. Grandpapa Erich had been a Jew. Would he have fought? Memories of Grandpapa seem distant, like what is left of a dream on waking. Grandmama Pavla had not been a Jew. Had Grandmama been a brave woman?

The train is moving closer again. Hana can see the tall funnel of the locomotive as it noses its way round the wooded bend below the hill, like a long caterpillar. Maybe the German soldiers have come to meet someone on the train, and are not here for her. She hears one of the soldiers shout, but cannot bring herself to turn.
Chapter Eight

"WHAT ARE you doing?"

Matt swung round from his computer. He'd not heard Zoé come into the small room they used as a study. "I've found a reference to Vasek Tesar on the Internet. It says he was a gifted musician."

"That is what Monsieur Blake and I have already told you. So why are you looking?"

Matt sighed with mock impatience. "I'm a detective. Blake tells me something, you tell me something, but I need to check it out for myself. It's how I'm going to work if I take this case on. Anyway, you didn't tell me Tesar was a composer."

"That I did not know."

"I'm not surprised. It seems that none of his pieces has survived. His music was considered too controversial for the time. It caused riots in the Prague concert halls."

"The same thing happened to Stravinsky at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in Paris," Zoé told him. "It was the premiere of his ballet The Rite of Spring in nineteen thirteen. At first there were a few laughs and objections, but within minutes the audience started to scream and shout with rage. It takes the time for people to adjust to a new sound."

"Maybe Tesar's pieces would go down better today. Dvorak's tenth symphony? Blake was making that up. He's really after Vasek Tesar's music."

Zoé tutted. "I am going to bed. Try not to be late. Is it not possible to do all this searching at work?"

"I don't want Ken to find out. Give me an hour and I'll join you."

Zoé was just going out of the door when he called her back. "This site is a catalogue of Bohemian musicians of the nineteenth century. It says that Vasek Tesar's daughter Pavla wasn't only an accomplished violinist, she was so pretty she caught the eye of Smetana and Dvorak. She played in Smetena's orchestra where he valued her skills while composing. He'd write a few bars and she'd play them for him on his piano."

Zoé yawned loudly. "Lucky Monsieur Smetana. You are keeping me and the baby up. Peut-être you will find all you need if you keep looking."

"Do you think Pavla Tesar was having an affair with Dvorak and Smetana?"

"Dvorak was a committed Catholic, so I doubt it." Zoé yawned again, although it sounded false. "Smetana, he died of syphilis. He may have slept around a bit, as you would put it, but people catch syphilis from kissing an infected person, and even from public baths and toilet seats. You do not only get it from a prostitute. Is that all?"

"It will have to be. You can find out a lot on the Internet, but there's always something vital missing."

Zoé tapped her hand over her open mouth as though stifling a yawn, but made no sound. "As we say in France, c'est la vie. Goodnight."

He blew her a kiss and returned to the monitor. He already had the names Vasek and Pavla: father and daughter. This website even told him that Vasek Tesar was born in 1826 and his daughter Pavla in 1861. But the trail went cold at this point. Blake said that Pavla Tesar married Erich Eisler in ... 1882, but he couldn't find anything on Erich Eisler. It would be fairly easy to dig deeper to research an English family. He'd done it for lawyers using birth, marriage and death certificates, and old census and parish records. But he had no idea how to do it with a family who'd lived in Prague before 1940, especially as he couldn't speak a word of Czech.

The door opened again and Zoé came over. Her eyes gleamed. "Me, I have been thinking, and I do not feel so tired. Hana Eisler would not be the only descendant of Vasek Tesar who could have been given the music. So I found myself wondering how many descendents there could be, and whether we could contact them."

"Too many. Think of your great-grandfather. You think he's yours."

Zoé looked puzzled. "Of course he is."

"He is, but there are probably twenty or thirty people in France who also say he's theirs. You don't know anything about most of them, and they don't know about you."

"I am not sure I understand."

Matt opened his notepad and picked up a pencil. Computers might be clever but sometimes you couldn't beat old-fashioned paper. He marked two Xs. "Let's say these are Vasek Tesar and his wife -- Hana's great grandparents. I don't know how many children they had but let's say three." He marked three Xs below the first two.

"I am sure in those days they would have had more than three."

"Okay, but we'll guess that only three of them went on to marry and have children. That takes us to Hana's grandmother Pavla. So, following my theory of threes, Hana's grandmother Pavla is one of three children. They all have three children who marry and have children -- three each again -- which now makes three lots of nine. So Hana Eisler could have twenty-six brothers, sisters and cousins, and they'd all be able to trace their family line back to Vasek Tesar."

"It is complicated."

"And if Vasek Tesar has four children instead of three, and so does everyone else along the line, Hana is sharing her great-grandfather with ... forty-seven others. That was in 1940. By now there'd be another two generations, which would make it ... " He did his sums and looked up. "Six hundred. You're right, we've got a problem. Any of these six hundred descendents could have the manuscripts."

"And how are you going to contact six hundred people -- especially if most of them are dead?"

"Blake suggested using a medium, but I think he was joking."

"We do not know any mediums," Zoé said.

"Your conductor's mother runs a little sideline in contacting the dead."

"Martin Smith? He has never told us."

"I'm glad he's kept a few surprises back from you. I was starting to feel a little jealous."

Zoé yawned again, and this time it sounded genuine. "Turn the computer off and we will have a big cuddle in bed. Oui?"

It sounded better than working for Blake. But there was something staring him in the face about Hana, something that Blake had said, but he couldn't see it. Maybe after a good night's sleep he'd get there. He pressed the shut-down key, the hard drive light flickered, and the monitor went black.

*

MATT DIDN'T get the undisturbed rest he'd been hoping for. Finally, after what seemed like several hours of worrying about web searches, he sat up in bed. The digital clock showed just after five. Zoé was snoring gently and seemed to be having no trouble sleeping. He slipped out of bed and gripped the door handle firmly. It was the only way to stop it making a noise.

Across the landing in the little study he switched on the computer and went to the bathroom while the machine was warming up. He decided to risk using the flush, for Zoé would rather be woken than discover the loo unflushed later.

Soon he was back with the searches he'd given up on last night.

He typed in Genealogy, Jew and Prague. Several sites came up, but they were the Jewish websites he'd already looked at.

The words Hana Eisler, as a complete phrase, produced no hits so he tried Eisler and Prague, the words to be found in any order. This produced several references to various Eislers in Prague, but these seemed to have no obvious connection with Hana or music, or even with Vasek Tesar.

He tried all the relevant words he could think of, in various combinations, and decided it was time for coffee. Slipping down to the kitchen meant avoiding the squeak on the stairs, and he'd learned long ago which tread to avoid. As the kettle was coming to the boil he remembered what had been bothering him. Something that Blake had said last night. Hana could have ended her days in a concentration camp. Concentration camps. Places where the Nazis detained Jews and other unwanted citizens to face forced labor or death -- most probably both.

He took his coffee upstairs but in his eagerness forgot to avoid the loose tread. It squeaked loudly. He froze, but no sound came from the bedroom. He crept the rest of the way and sat in front of the monitor. A combination of Prague and concentration camp brought up many references, with the name Terezín featuring prominently.

Within a few minutes he discovered that Terezín was only a few miles north of Prague, on the River Vltava. It seemed that a substantial number of Jews had remained at Terezín until the end of the war. Maybe Hana had survived the terrors of the camp.

His optimism was short lived. The next search brought up a list of names. Record of Czechoslovakian people who, according to information recovered on the liberation of the camp in February 1945, died at Terezín. Under the letter E he found Eisler, Hana, an orphan child aged 12. Died June 9 1942.

A sudden feeling of loss came over him. Here was the end of a short life. Whether Hana had died from disease, malnourishment or brutality, the site didn't say. But clearly the girl's life had ended in tragedy. A noise behind him made him jump.

Zoé stood there. "Why did you let me sleep late?" she demanded. "Now I will have to miss breakfast."

Matt pointed to the screen. "Hana's dead."

Zoé leaned forward and read the few words that were hardly an epitaph, just a cold clinical statement. "I am so sorry. Is this the end of your work for Monsieur Blake?"

He could see that Blake might lose interest if there was no longer a living trail to follow. "I'm going to print this page and think about it. I don't have to say anything to Blake yet. Come on, let's get dressed or we'll both be late for work."

As he switched on the printer Zoé made no move. "Maybe there are things we do not understand."

Matt stared at the clock for the first time. Eight o'clock. It was amazing where time went when you were on the Internet. "Such as?"

"Things we will never understand because we do not speak the Czech language."

"About the only Czech I know is that Smith means Kovar, and I didn't know that until you told me yesterday. Perhaps Blake means Eisler for all I know. Perhaps he's a descendant looking for the family's music."

"What is a smith?"

"Someone who uses a hammer to make things out of metal."

"Ah, he makes the shoes for the 'orses. Oui? And what is a Blake?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. You can't translate a name unless it means something."

Zoé seemed deep in thought. "How could Blake mean Eisler? It is easy if it is a job, like a carpenter."

Matt retrieved the page from the printer. "Carpenter? That's good. Let's see if carpenter means something in Czech. I'll search for an on-line dictionary."

"Shut the computer down, Matt. We are both going to be late for work."

"I'll see what I can find on Ken's computer in my lunch break." He felt excited by Zoé's suggestion.

Zoé had other ideas. "If Hana Eisler is dead, maybe the mother of Martin Smith could contact her for you. You told me his mother is a medium."

*

AT LUNCHTIME, Ken said he had to go to the bank.

"Take a gun with you," Matt suggested, "and get me enough for a new car."

Ken just snorted.

This was the right time to ask the question. "Is it okay if I use the computer? I want to look up some names on the Internet."

"A name for the baby, is it? Take my advice, kiddo, and let the in-laws choose it. You'll have a lot less hassle that way."

Matt didn't reply. It Ken wanted to think he was looking up babies' names, that was fine.

"Meanings are important," Ken said with an embarrassed smile. "My mother used to tell me that Kenneth means Handsome."

"Did your mother have trouble with her eyesight?"

"Not that I remember. Anyway, when we got married, Mrs. Habgood and I thought we might have a baby. We never did, but we bought a book of names, just in case. My mother was wrong. The book said Kenneth means Royal Obligation."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"I've never been able to find out, but it sounds good. See you later."

Matt waited until he heard Ken's car start up, then he logged on. At home he'd found a couple of sites in Czech, and ignored them. Maybe he'd missed something important. After twenty minutes he felt like giving up. Sites in the Czech language were no use. And Ken's computer was so slow.

The next search was a lucky one. Here was exactly what he was looking for: a site showing Czech surnames and their meaning in English.

He found Kovar and confirmed that it did indeed mean Smith. It wasn't possible to search from English into Czech so he had to look down the list, picking out names that described a job. Bednar meant Cooper, Dudek meant Bagpiper, Krejci meant Taylor ... He carried on, and there it was.

Carpenter.

Just wait till he told Zoé. He decided to print it off.

It sounded like Ken's car in the yard. He went to the window and saw his boss whistling cheerfully. Since he had no intention of calling his child Zápotocký, the last name in the list, meaning From Beyond the Brook, and didn't want Ken to have the slightest suspicion he was doing a job for Blake, he closed the search engine and went to his own desk in the outer office.

Ken came in through the door smiling for a change. "Remember that job we did for the butcher, when we discovered his daughter's boyfriend had a criminal record? Well, I've got good news. His payment has cleared at long last, which means there's enough in the bank to pay you this month."

"You're right, that is good news."

"It's not the only good news I've got, kiddo. I met your French priest outside the bank. The one from the Homeless Anchor Trust."

"Father Alban?"

"The very same. He said he's been hoping you'd call in to see him sometime. Anyway, I told him about the man who attacked Zoé outside that restaurant."

"He didn't exactly attack her. Just bruised her arm when he caught hold of her."

"That's not how you told it to me. Anyway, he said it could be one of his crew. He calls them his crew. Something to do with anchors I suppose. He wants to drop in here this afternoon and see if you can identify the man."

"Look, Ken, I don't want to make trouble. You've probably made it sound much worse than it was. But it's good of you to be worried about Zoé, so thanks."

"I worry about both of you, kiddo. Anyway, I need you here with me, not home nursing a sick wife."

"You really do want me, don't you?" It had never crossed his mind that Ken might be concerned for him.

Ken went to his desk and settled into his red leather chair, looking a little uncomfortable. "I can't pay you as much as you deserve, and I know I keep telling you to go back to the police, but we've got a good partnership going."

Did Ken know something about Blake's offer? Almost certainly not. Ken wasn't likely to keep quiet if he suspected disloyalty. "Thanks for saying it, Ken."

"And I mean it. I've been thinking about your car. I might be able to replace it."

"Another of your clients got an old banger he'd rather give away than pay to have it scrapped?"

Ken reddened slightly. "It's not quite like that, but I do have one or two contacts in the trade. Don't count your chickens. We'll have to see if how it works out."

Matt began to feel bad about moonlighting for Blake. And Father Alban was due to appear in the office. The last thing he needed was a morality lecture from a priest.

*

FATHER ALBAN arrived just after three.

His whole image had changed considerably since Matt had last seen him, not long after the French wedding down in the Auvergne. Gone was the black clerical suit, its place being taken by jeans and a dark red sweatshirt with the letters H-A-T on the front, arranged around a gold anchor; and the swept back hair had been changed to an informal mess.

"You look different," Matt said in French. The priest still looked more like a teenager than a thirty-year-old.

Father Alban grinned widely. "I can speak your language much better now," he said, proving it by speaking English, with a strong French accent. Far stronger than Zoé's. "I do not think anyone from my parish in the Pas de Calais would recognize my new image."

"Is that why you did it?" Matt asked, glad to be able to communicate in English. For the past few months he and Zoé had been speaking mostly English to each other, and he was starting to get rusty with his French.

The grin changed to a loud laugh. "I have too much of the work here in England with the homeless. I cannot think about going back to my France. My bishop has given me his blessing to stay here. Perhaps he does not want me back in the parish. He is a good friend of the local chief of police -- and they do not speak to me because I help you escape from the courthouse."

Matt was uncertain whether to laugh or shake his head in commiseration as he remembered his time in France soon after he first met Zoé. He shook hands instead. "It's great to see you again, Father. It was Ken's idea to get you here. He's bothered about a man we met outside Le Perroquet Bleu."

"Ah yes, the homeless man who attacked Zoé."

"I think Ken's panicking unnecessarily. I was more worried when we found the man outside our house when we got back."

"You didn't tell me about that." Ken looked up from his paperwork.

"You must tell me what this man appears like," Father Alban said.

Matt was starting to wish he'd said nothing. It wasn't as though the man had bothered them again. "It's not important. He was ... mid twenties, very short dark hair ... "

Father Alban nodded. "Did he have the scar under the eye to his left?"

"His left eye? I didn't notice. I just wanted to get Zoé away quickly."

"Next time you must ask if he has one of our cards of identity," Father Alban insisted. "We call it the Anchor Card. It has the picture of an anchor, and a photograph of the holder."

Ken put down his papers and seemed to be taking an interest. "The Homeless Anchor Trust? What's an anchor got to do with helping the homeless, Father?"

"We provide safety for those who are drifting into the danger."

Father Alban pulled a card from his jacket. "We invite the homeless to register with us, and then we give them an Anchor Card, like this. They use it to get the help from our supporters in the town. The food and the charity shops for clothing."

"And drugs?" Matt asked, wishing immediately that he'd kept his mouth shut. Father Alban's English was perfect at times.

The young French priest shook his head and waved his arms in typically Gallic fashion. "Impossible," he said, using the French pronunciation. "We view the drug taking extremely seriously. Alcohol abuse as well. Do you think this man was on the drugs?"

"He seemed to be on something," Matt said. "And he sounded Russian. Certainly East European. Does that help?"

Father Alban smiled. "I know exactly who it is. He is Salman. He is a harmless refugee from Chechnya."

Ken was already returning to his paperwork. "He doesn't sound very harmless to me, Father."

"He has strong views about people who have the wealth," Father Alban said.

Matt laughed. "Tell him, Ken. Tell him how little you pay me."

Father Alban didn't even wait for Ken to answer. "Matt," he said gently, "if you have suffered in the conditions that Salman has been through, anyone who can eat even a small meal in a restaurant is doing well."

Ken nodded. "There you are, Matt. You're not so badly off after all."

Matt ignored the comment. He'd just caught sight of his page of Czech names and their meaning in English, still in the printer tray. He had to retrieve it -- without Ken asking if it was something for him.
Chapter Nine

MATT SAUNTERED over to the printer and picked up the page. He waved it vaguely in Ken's direction. "Names," he said.

"Matt and Zoé are having a baby," Ken explained, grinning broadly. "I expect they'll be wanting you to do the christening."

Father Alban went forward and shook Matt's hand firmly for the second time. "I did not know. Give my wishes of the best to Zoé. And of course I will be delighted to arrange the christening. Maybe I will see you and Zoé in church one Sunday. It is ... necessary."

Matt simply nodded, completely taken aback.

"Now perhaps you can see why I was worried about Zoé, Father," Ken explained.

"Of course, of course," Father Alban said. "But if it is Salman, maybe there is not too much for the worry."

Matt glanced at the sheet of paper. The thought of there being a mix of nationalities at HAT had given him an idea. It would be worth downloading pages from the Czech websites -- if he could get them translated into English. "Do you have many foreigners in HAT?"

Father Alban smiled. "We have a few economic migrants; people like Salman."

"Anyone from the Czech Republic?"

Father Alban frowned. "From Slovakia. Her name is Olga. Why is it that you ask?"

Matt wished Ken would get on with his work so they could retire to the outer office and talk confidentially. Even when he seemed to be engrossed in paperwork, Ken could be relied on to overhear everything. "Father Alban," Matt said, "your English is much better than my French. How about we talk in French now, and I get some practice?" He nodded towards Ken. "We'll leave you in peace, Ken."

Ken sighed with relief. "Just keep the noise down and answer the phone if it rings. You know what they say \-- time is money, and I've got a couple of letters to see to." He stood up and shook hands with Father Alban. "Thanks for coming. You've brought a breath of sanity to the place. This office has been like a madhouse the last couple of days. I've had a dog in here trying to eat a hole in my floor, and a young man whose mother talks to the dead."

"Talks to the dead? Perhaps you would like to tell me about this man?" Father Alban suggested.

"I'm trying to forget." Ken waved them away and opened a file. "Don't let Matt keep you talking too long. I'm sure you've got important work to do -- even if Matt hasn't."

As soon as they were in the outer office Matt decided to stick to French just in case Ken could hear through the door. "I'm trying to trace a family in Prague," he explained. "There are pages on the Internet that could be useful, but they're in Czech. Is the Slovakian language the same as Czech?"

"I will find out," said Father Alban. "I will ask Olga tonight. Do you have anything I can show her?"

"Not yet, but I'll bring you some examples when I've downloaded them."

"I am sure Olga will help if she can." Father Alban pointed to Ken's office. "But I think maybe your boss is unhappy about something. There is an ... atmosphere. Yes?"

"Yes, I'm sorry about Ken. We got involved in a surveillance job that went wrong. People have been round here giving him a hard time about it."

"What is this about the dead?" Father Alban asked. "Has one of your clients passed on?"

Matt laughed. "Ken sometimes wishes they'd all pass on. We photographed a man with someone else's woman, and he's one of the people who came to complain. He says his mother's a medium, and he thinks she'll be too upset to hold any more séances."

"Then that is a good thing, Matt. I would never advise anyone to get involved with trying to contact the dead."

"Surely you believe in the survival of the soul."

Father Alban smiled. "Yes."

"And you presumably believe there's a God in heaven, and the dead are with him."

"Some of them are, of course. But trying to contact the dead is something I cannot possibly encourage. The Bible warns against it most strongly. If you want to talk to someone in heaven you could always try praying."

"Who do I pray to?" Matt knew he was sticking his neck out. You don't ask a priest a question like that and not get a mini-sermon in return.

Father Alban smiled. "You could try talking to God's Son, Jesus Christ. Prayer is like a door. You open it and he is on the other side, waiting for you. I am sure he would like to hear from you."

Matt felt embarrassed. This was a bit more personal than he'd expected. "I might. One day. If I'm ever in trouble."

"Do not think that prayer is a magic wand," Father Alban added. "It is a way of getting to know God."

The time had come to change the subject. "So you don't think séances work."

"Sometimes it is, I think, telepathy. The medium may not even know that he or she is reading your mind."

Matt shrugged, not entirely convinced. "Occasionally a medium must make contact with something."

"Oh yes, a medium may contact something, but how can you tell it is not an evil spirit pretending to be the person?"

"By asking it?" Matt suggested.

"Evil spirits tend not to tell the truth."

Matt bit his lip. Sure, he'd laughed at the idea when Zoé had jokingly suggested it this morning, but Hana was dead, and a séance would be one hell of a way to find the answers to Blake's questions. And it would certainly beat the Internet.

"Who do you wish to contact?" Father Alban asked.

"There's a young girl who died in Prague in 1942. She might have the answer to the location of ... some missing items."

"And you do not speak Czech?"

"No."

"If you contact this girl, do you think she could talk to you in English?"

He hadn't thought of that one. "You mean she might only speak Czech?"

"I doubt if the dead learn foreign languages in heaven. And I very much doubt you could contact her anyway. Be careful, Matt, a séance might stir up dark forces. Dark forces of evil."

It certainly sounded a bit spooky. He'd have to see what Zoé thought. But there was a new problem: the one Father Alban had identified. If Hana spoke only Czech, how could he understand what she was saying?

"I hope you will listen to my warning, Matt."

He didn't reply. He'd just realized he had the answer. Martin Smith's mother was a medium, and Martin Smith's mother originally came from Prague. She was sure to speak Czech, and could translate the questions and answers as she went along. But this job for Blake was confidential. So how could he persuade Mrs. Smith to hold a séance -- without her son finding out?

###  Chapter Ten

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

HANA IS watching the German soldiers as they question the passengers getting down from the train. Masaryk station is the end of the line for trains from Bohemia. The captain orders his men to spread out and search every compartment. Maybe he thinks someone is hiding in one of the carriages. Suddenly there is a commotion. A man wearing the brown clothes of a country worker is bundled off the train and pushed to the ground. One of the soldiers kicks the man in the chest while the others shout rude words. The passengers waiting to board the train all look the other way, pretending not to see what is happening. Hana doesn't look away. She cannot take her eyes off the soldiers. One of them is studying her and now he starts to come closer.
Chapter Eleven

ZOÉ WASN'T home from the hospital when Matt got back after work. He opened the freezer and pulled out two gammon steaks and a pack of sausages. He decided on the sausages, defrosted them in the microwave then looked up at the kitchen clock. Zoé should be back soon. He turned on the oven and sprinkled some frozen chips on a baking tray. It wasn't going to be the healthiest meal ever but he was hungry, and it was a sort of thing Zoé liked from time to time. He'd even heat up a can of baked beans.

A few minutes later the outside door opened. The timing was perfect. "Ten minutes," he said, giving Zoé a kiss. "You've just got time to get ready."

"Merci," she said. "I will be quick."

As she ran up the stairs Matt went to the hall to call up. "You told me that Smith means Kovar in Czech."

Zoé stopped at the top of the stairs. "And you are going to tell me I am wrong?"

"No, you were absolutely right. And when you come down I'll tell you what Carpenter is in Czech."

Zoé started back down the stairs. "Tell me now," she demanded.

Matt shook his head. "Get ready for tea."

Instead of the usual fifteen minutes that Zoé needed to wash and change, she was back down in five. "Tell me about Shelley Carpenter," she said.

"In Czech, Carpenter is the same name as Tesar. I've got the proof here, on this sheet of paper."

"Is that important?"

He was expecting a better reaction than this. "Of course it is. Blake wants me to find what Hana Eisler did with some music manuscripts. Hana's grandmother and great-grandparents were called Tesar."

"I do not understand."

"I love conspiracy theories. I bet Shelley Carpenter is a descendent of Vasek Tesar, and Blake wants her out of the way."

"Yes, I see now what you are thinking, Matt. Monsieur Blake does not want Miss Carpenter to know that he is looking for some music. You think that if she is a Tesar she may be able to claim it." Zoé opened the oven door and sighed. "Sausages and chips? We would be better eating fish. It is good for your brain. You are, I believe, going a little crazy. You think everybody is acting suspiciously."

"We can easily see if I'm right or not. We'll go round after we've eaten and confront Shelley Carpenter. I'll ask her straight out if she's descended from the Tesar family."

"And then you will forget all about this ridiculous idea? "

He reached into the cupboard and pulled out two plates. "Two sausages or three?"

"I think I will start with one. What other silly ideas have you dreamed up today?"

"I saw Father Alban this afternoon," Matt told her as he served up the evening meal. "Where's the ketchup?"

"In the refrigerator, where it should be. Tell me about Father Alban."

"Ken was worried that the man outside Le Perroquet Bleu might hurt you again, so he asked Father Alban to call at the office. But according to Father Alban the man's harmless. His name is Salman, and he comes from Chechnya."

Zoé picked up her small glass of wine. "I did not think there was a problem. All we have to do is to give the man some food when we see him next time, and he will leave us alone."

Matt nodded. "That's exactly what Father Alban said. No money, just food. And probably clothing. Come to think of it, he didn't mention clothing. Just something about charity shops."

"Maybe Salman will prefer your clothes rather than mine," Zoé said with a giggle.

"HAT doesn't only look after men; there's at least one woman there. Her name is Olga and she comes from Slovakia. I'm sure she'd like some of your cast-offs. And I don't think you ought to have any more drink in your condition. "

"And why are you taking all this interest in foreign women?" Zoé demanded, leaving the bottle alone.

"I've always been attracted to foreign women. That's why I fancied you in the bookshop."

"And are you going to talk to Olga?"

"Possibly. Father Alban is going to ask her if she'll translate some Czech websites I keep finding. He reckons Olga can speak Czech."

Zoé looked fascinated, which came as a relief. There might not be a crock of gold at the end of this particular rainbow, but somehow Hana Eisler had become very real. He could picture a young Jewish girl hiding in Prague from the Nazis. He could even see her holding the papers and wondering where to take them for safety. He could almost feel her suffering, and even imagine her horrific death at the Terezín concentration camp.

"What is the matter?" Zoé sounded concerned. "I can see some sadness in your eyes."

"I keep thinking about young Hana."

"She has been dead a long time, Matt. I think perhaps you must forget about her."

"I can't. Ever since I've been trying to track Hana down, it's like she's trying to contact me. It's scary."

"You think you are a medium?"

"Of course not. Funnily enough, we got round to talking about séances with Father Alban in the office, and he's very anti that sort of thing."

"I am not surprised. Most of the mediums are in it for the money." Zoé put down her knife and fork. She didn't seem impressed with the sausage. "I will show you. Do you know anyone whose name begins with the letter A?"

"Are you asking me?"

"It is what the medium asks. Pretend I am the medium."

"If it makes you happy." Matt finished a mouthful of chips. "What's the question again?"

"Do you know anyone whose name begins with the letter A?"

"My grandfather was called Alec." He could see now what the game was. He and Zoé had to pretend to be strangers. "Yes, my grandfather was called Alec. He died two years ago."

"Yes, it is Alec who is coming through. He says he is your grandfather. He wants you to know that he is now at peace. And there is someone with him who wants to talk to you. The name has the letter J at the beginning. Do you know anyone whose name starts with the letter J?"

As Matt started to shake his head, Zoé did the same. "Or it might be the letter G. The person is rather distant and the voice is not very clear."

"I have an Auntie Jane. But she's still alive."

Zoé frowned. "No, it is not a J; it is definitely G. A man I think. Yes, a man."

"My Uncle Graham died when I was a baby. Not that I can remember him."

"Yes, he says his name is Graham. Was he the brother of your father?"

"I think so."

"You are right. He is here in the room. I can hear him clearly now. He says his name is Graham Rider. He can remember you when you were a baby. He was watching over you while you grew up. He always kept you safe on your way to school. He loves you very much."

Matt decided not to pour himself a second glass of wine, or Zoé might follow his example. "He didn't stop me falling off my bike and breaking my collar bone then I was ten."

Zoé sighed. "Do you want to know how I did it?"

"Easy. You know about my family."

"I did not know about your Uncle Graham."

"It was a lucky guess."

Zoé got up from the table and fetched the carton of orange juice from the fridge. "Not lucky. Everyone knows somebody who has died with a name that starts with J or G. Sometimes they need a bit of prompting, but they get there in the end."

"Is that how mediums do it?" Matt helped himself to the juice.

Zoé held out her hands wide. "So I have read. Sometimes they do not even know they are doing a trick. Have you heard about horses that can to the mathematics?"

"Tell me."

"Horses are clever. They can do the easy sums like two times four. You ask the horse the question and it taps the hoof eight times."

"Pull the other one."

"It is true. I have seen it on the television in France. The owner asks the question and waits while the horse taps the hoof. When the horse gets to the answer, the owner looks away or stands back, or raises a hand. All the horse is doing is tapping the hoof until it gets the signal to stop. It does not understand the question. Sometimes the owner is not aware of giving the signal, and really believes the horse can count."

"It makes sense. I heard about a dog that barked the answers, but I didn't know how it worked."

"And you think you are the clever detective. A medium would find you very gullible."

"If Mrs. Smith asked if I knew someone whose name began with H, I'd want to know a lot more before I gave Hana's name away."

"Did Hana Eisler speak English?"

"That's exactly what Father Alban wanted to know. It's not a problem. Mrs. Smith came from Prague originally, so she'll know what Hana's saying."

Zoé looked aghast. "Oh no, Matt, you are not going to try to contact Hana Eisler. It is dangerous."

"Father Alban said that too. Come on, it's only a bit of fun. You were full of the idea earlier. Even Blake thought a séance might be worth a try."

"Then Monsieur Blake can go to Madame Smith himself, and ask her to contact Hana."

"He can't. Blake doesn't want Smith to know about Hana Eisler and the music manuscripts. Anyway, I've never been to a séance. It will be an experience."

"No, Matt."

"We can go when Martin Smith is teaching at the Academy. His mother needn't know we're doing it for Blake. I could say we want to contact a girl who died in the war. In Prague."

"You would have to tell Mrs. Smith the name. There must be millions of dead people from Prague. How will she know who to contact?"

"Okay, I'll show her a Habgood Securities card and say we're doing it for a Jewish client who wants to trace his roots. I can say the dead relative is called Hana Eisler, but I won't say when she died or how old she was. If Mrs. Smith says she's managed to contact Hana Eisler who died in 1942, I'll get her to ask Hana to tell me the names of Hana's parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. Mrs. Smith wouldn't be able to guess that lot \-- not even if she's a horse. Come on, let's go back to the Academy and see if Shelley Carpenter's at home."

*

THE ACADEMY gates were open as usual, the lights on in several windows in the residential block. Matt parked in the middle of a row of cars, most of which were old, though none was as old as his Mini. Did Ken really have a replacement car lined up? He'd not say anything to Zoé yet. It would only raise her hopes.

"We've got to think about this carefully," he explained. "If Edward Blake opens the door we have to tell him ... "

Zoé caught hold of his sleeve. "We will not be telling anyone anything, I think."

"Why not?"

"Because apartment eight is empty. Look, there are no lights on. I would make a better detective than you."

He wasn't going to be outsmarted. "Maybe Shelley Carpenter is round the back."

"And maybe she has gone out. Are you going to ring the bell?"

He shrugged, and was just reaching for the bell push when a young voice called out from behind.

"Are you trying to find Miss Carpenter?" asked a girl who looked to be about fifteen. She seemed surprisingly smart for a student, wearing a long black skirt, and a black jacket over a white blouse.

Matt smiled at her, trying to look relaxed. "We came to see Miss Carpenter. Or Mr. Blake." He wasn't sure why it bothered him that one of the students might find him visiting Shelley Carpenter, but instinct told him to keep this job to himself.

"Mr. Blake doesn't live here," the girl said with a laugh. "Whatever would the principal say if she thought Mr. Blake and Miss Carpenter were living together?"

Obviously the students didn't know. Well, he wasn't going to be the one to start the gossip going around the Academy. "Do you know where Miss Carpenter is?"

The girl came closer, looking at Zoé warily. "Are you friends of hers?"

Zoé nodded.

The girl shook her head. "She's gone."

"Gone?" Matt asked.

"Back to America, and taken her violin with her. Los Angeles I think. There's been a terrible fuss."

Matt kept quiet. The girl was trying to tell them something, but might stop if he interrupted her.

The girl's eyes opened wide. "Haven't you heard? Our principal arranged an Academy concert in London next month. It's already been advertised, complete with a solo by Miss Carpenter on her violin. I think the principal's more worried about the violin not appearing than about Miss Carpenter."

"It is a special violin?" Zoé asked.

Matt guessed it was special. Blake had already told him about a violin owned by Vasek Tesar.

"It was once played by Dvorak," the girl told them, confirming Matt's assumption. She turned as another girl called from the doorway of the main building, and then waved before looking at Zoé. "Have to go. We've just got back from a concert. Sorry about Miss Carpenter."

As the student ran off, Matt took Zoé by the hand. "See, I was right. Blake and Shelley Carpenter weren't even lovers, let alone partners. That man's been lying."

"You were right," Zoé agreed, "but too late."

"I could ask Blake for Shelley Carpenter's new address, but I don't trust the man any more. Maybe I can get ... No, it would be better if you did it. Someone in the office will give you Shelley's address in LA if you ring in the morning and say you're a friend. I'll give you the Academy phone number when we get back."

Half an hour later they parked outside their house. They didn't notice her at first, but she must have been sitting in her car, waiting for them to come home. It was only when Matt put the key in the door that he heard Shelley Carpenter call his name.
Chapter Twelve

SHELLY CARPENTER sat forward in the armchair. "I can't stay long. I don't want my dog barking and whining, upsetting the other guests in the hotel."

Matt looked her straight in the eye. "Should we call you Shelley Carpenter or Shelley Tesar?"

That got a reaction. Their visitor sat up quickly. "Just call me Shelley."

Matt had expected her to deny having the name Tesar. He'd come back to it later. "Okay, Shelley, if you're returning to the States, what are you going to do with your dog?" He wished the American woman had arrived wearing something more substantial in the way of clothing. Her sweatshirt clung to her body, revealing every outline.

Shelley Carpenter sighed loudly. "I wanted to go back to America this week, but I can't take him with me. So I'm trapped. I guess I'll have to stay in town until I've sorted things out."

Matt was afraid Zoé was going to invite Shelley Carpenter to move in with them for a few days. It would be a disaster. For one thing he didn't know if he could believe anything this woman had to say, and for another he didn't want her delinquent dog wrecking the place. And he was aware that Zoé was giving Shelley a look that said: be careful, this man's mine.

"How did you know about my family name being Tesar?" Shelley asked with a hint of annoyance when the room went silent.

"It was just the guess," Matt told her. "I was looking at some Czech names and noticed that Tesar means a carpenter. I know you've got a famous violin, and I'm guessing it's the one that Vasek Tesar leant to Dvorak for his trip to America. Am I right?"

Shelley Carpenter shook her head in disbelief. "For a PI you've got one helluva a long nose. And I thought all you did was spy on people with a camera."

He could see if he wasn't careful the woman would storm out, as she'd done in Ken's office. "How did you get the violin?" he asked.

"I suppose it doesn't matter. After all, it's not exactly a secret. Vasek Tesar was my great, great great-grandfather. Vasek married a woman called Anna Král in 1859. We don't know if Anna was Jewish, but their daughter Pavla married a Jew, so we assume the family had Jewish sympathies. Pavla Tesar married Erich Eisler in ... I think it was 1889. One of their children was my great-grandfather Otik. Otik Eisler."

Matt started to count on his fingers, going back through the generations. "You'll have to wait a moment," he said.

"Matt," Zoé interrupted, "Shelley cannot spend all the night here."

He got there in the end. Otik Eisler could be a brother to Hana Eisler's father. "Did Otik have any brothers or sisters?"

"Just one brother. His name was Jakob. Jakob was older than Otik. Jakob had two girls, Hana and Rosa, but he insisted on staying in Prague. The Nazis killed the whole family in 1942. My great-grandfather got his family out of Czechoslovakia just in time, and emigrated to California. My own father was only six. Is it important?"

Matt noticed Zoé giving him a strange look. If only he'd had a chance to talk this through with Zoé first. "I'm just interested, that's all."

"Would you like a tea or a coffee?" Zoé asked, standing up.

"Coffee would be fine," their visitor said. "Plenty of milk."

"Matt." Zoé gave him a look that said listen carefully. "You will have to give me a hand to get the jug down. I am not able to reach it by myself."

He was about to protest that there was no jug to reach, when he guessed that Zoé wanted to say something in private. As soon as they got the kitchen her eyes flashed. "I have seen you looking at that woman," she admonished him.

"I have to look at her when I'm talking."

Zoé stamped her foot. "You know very well what I mean. You have already seen enough of that woman to last you a lifetime."

Maybe he'd let his thoughts run away a little, but it was hardly his fault. The woman shouldn't have taken her clothes off at the pool. He helped Zoé prepare the tray rather than risk going back into the living room alone.

"I want you to play along with what I say," he told Zoé quietly when she had calmed down. "If I say I don't know something, please don't contradict me and say I do. I want to see if Shelley is as innocent as she claims."

"Ah, it is Shelley now, is it? To me she is Ms. Carpenter. Right, everything is ready. Please carry the tray."

He went ahead, put the tray on the coffee table, and let Zoé do the pouring.

"You seem surprised that I can trace my family back so far. Thanks." Shelley Carpenter leaned forward to take her mug. Fortunately the neck of her sweatshirt stayed tight and revealed nothing. "We Americans are much keener on tracing our roots than you British are. When I've finished my coffee I really must be going. It's my dog. I don't want him upsetting the other guests in the hotel."

"Is that any chance of seeing the violin?" Matt wanted to delay Shelley until he'd asked a few more questions. "Zoé would like to see it."

Zoé must have caught on. "I would love to see such a famous violin," she said.

Shelley Carpenter smiled. "It's in my room at the hotel. It's a bit of a painful subject right now. The principal wants me to play my violin in the London concert next month, but no way am I doing it now she's fired me. And she sure isn't going to borrow the violin if I'm not there."

The conversation was going the way Matt wanted. "You're right. It belongs to your family's past."

Shelley looked thoughtful and nodded, as though to herself. "There's something you won't know. I was telling the principal about it when I first came to the Academy. The violin really belonged to Otik's brother, Jakob, who was left in Prague at the start of the war. My father always felt guilty about our side of the family having it."

"Yes?"

"Jakob Eisler inherited it because he was older than Otik. But Jakob gave it to Otik to take to America, but I guess it was only to make sure it was safe during the war."

"So why the guilt?" Matt asked. "Your grandfather couldn't have given it back. You said Jakob and his family died in 1942."

Shelley looked embarrassed. "When my great-grandfather Otik got to America his surname was Eisler, but he changed it to Carpenter."

"He must have been proud of his family tree," Matt prompted. "So why not Tesar?"

"So he couldn't be traced by anyone in Czechoslovakia."

"He probably didn't want an argument about ownership with the family," Matt suggested. He could hardly accuse Shelley Carpenter of having a great-grandfather who was an art thief, but it sounded likely.

"Something terrible happened, and that's all I'm saying." Shelley shrugged. "My grandparents have been dead for ages and my father died three years ago. I guess I'm the only one alive who knows the story." Suddenly she burst into tears.

Matt looked at Zoé in alarm. This wasn't what he wanted.

Zoé knew what to do. Her training is a nurse kicked in and she reached out and took hold of Shelley's hand. She began to smooth it on the back. "Please," she said, "you must not be distressed about something that happened so long ago, before you were even born."

Shelley Carpenter sniffed loudly and wiped her face was a couple of tissues that Zoé passed her "My great-grandfather Otik was a murderer. He got his brother's family killed -- so he could keep the violin for himself."

Matt waited a moment. "I'd be interested to hear how it happened," he said when Shelley seemed to have run out things to say.

"The Nazis were in control of Prague, but in May 1942 a group of Czech resistance fighters decided to kill Reinhard Heydrich."

"Wasn't Heydrich the Nazi commander of the area?" Matt asked.

Shelley nodded. "A brutal and ruthless man. A band of resistance fighters set an ambush and shot his car to bits."

"Shot him as well," Matt added. "I remember seeing a television program about it. He didn't die straight away. I think the stuffing from the car seat got taken into his body by the bullets." He glanced at Zoé. "Blood poisoning."

Shelley looked up. "The assassination made the Nazi leaders mad. They rounded up every possible collaborator they could find and killed them. But they knew they hadn't found everyone involved in the assassination, so they kept looking."

"Was Jakob Eisler one of the resistance fighters?" Matt felt almost proud for the man.

"Very unlikely. But he was a Jew, and the Nazis were ready to believe anything about a Jew. As the story's come down to me, Otik Eisler went to the Nazi leaders and got a guarantee of safe passage out of Czechoslovakia, in return for the name of a family involved in the assassination. His brother's family."

"And the Nazis fell for it?"

"They went round that night and found Jakob's wife and younger daughter Rosa alone in the house. They arrested them and threatened to kill them -- if Jakob Eisler didn't give himself up, along with his daughter Hana."

Matt shook his head but said nothing. Hana and Rosa. Slowly he was filling in the blanks on the family tree. How could any man be put in such a terrible position? Jakob could sacrifice his wife and little Rosa, and keep Hana and himself safe. Or he could give himself up, and they would all be killed.

"He knew his wife and Rosa were already as good as dead, so he decided to stay in hiding with Hana," said Shelley Carpenter, pre-empting Matt's next question.

"But they all got caught," Zoé said. "What a terrible end for a family."

Shelley Carpenter looked a little more relaxed. "The Germans shot Jakob's wife and daughter, and the next morning they found Jakob hiding in his house. They shot him in the street without trial. They picked up Hana Eisler at the railway station and took her to a concentration camp. That's where she died a few days later."

"Terezín," Matt said.

Shelley Carpenter jumped. "How did you know that?" she demanded.

"I'm going to take a chance and level with you," he told her. "I've been asked to look into what happened to Hana Eisler."

"Well, now you know." Shelley Carpenter sounded exhausted. "She's dead. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who asked you to find out?"

"It's confidential." He knew straightaway he'd made his reply sound too stuffy.

Shelley Carpenter closed her eyes. "It has to be the dean. I don't know why, but Edward Blake's determined to destroy me. I'm sure he fixed up your photo job so he could get me out of the country. He's also managed to get Martin Smith suspended. Blake's after something."

Matt noticed Zoé looking at him encouragingly. No, he wasn't going to say anything about Blake. To play this game to his advantage he had to change the subject. "So how did you end up teaching here at the Academy?"

"My family's always been nuts about classical music." Shelley Carpenter wiped the last drop of moisture from her cheek. "When my father died I wanted a job in Prague, teaching at the Helios Academy."

Matt said, "With your family connections you should have got in easily."

Shelley stirred her coffee slowly. "I tried. Problem is, you can only teach at the Prague Academy if you speak the lingo, and I hardly know a word of Czech." She shrugged. "Anyway, what my great-grandfather Otik did in 1942 is unforgivable."

"There is no way you can undo the past," Zoé opened her hands in an expression of resignation.

Shelley sighed. "You're right, honey. Whatever the rights and wrongs, the violin has ended up with me, and I intend to treasure it."

"Good for you, Shelley," Zoé added.

Matt decided to jump in. He needed to get the Vasek family tree right. "Could you help me fill in the blanks?" He opened his folder on Vasek Tesar. "Does this look sort of right to you?"

Shelley examined Matt's handwritten work and quickly filled in a few missing names and dates. After writing down Otik's dates and those of her grandfather, she stopped. "The rest is a bit personal," she said. "A lady doesn't like to give her date of birth away."

Matt picked up the sheet of paper. With a body like hers, Shelley didn't need to be coy about her age. "That's okay. I just wanted to be clear in my mind about where the two brothers fit into the jigsaw."

"Sure," said Shelley. "Not that I can see how it's gonna help."

He decided to take the opportunity to catch Shelley off guard. "I imagine all sorts of musical keepsakes must have been passed down from Vasek Tesar."

"Such as?" Shelley didn't sound exactly hostile but the tone of her question conveyed suspicion.

Matt tried to make it sound casual. "I was thinking of family diaries. Things like that. I've never heard any of Tesar's music, so I've no idea if it's any good or not."

Shelley Carpenter smiled. "There's a Russian expert who believes that Shostakovich was influenced by Bohemian music. You can hear bits of Dvorak in The Gadfly. So he's suggesting it could be Tesar who influenced Shostakovich in his dissonant pieces. At the moment there's a lot of speculation in the music world about Vasek Tesar. Not that any of his pieces have turned up in Shostakovich's personal effects."

"Shostakovich?" Matt remembered how Blake had seemed slightly taken aback at his mention of the Russian composer's name. Maybe Blake thought he and Zoé were knowledgeable about Bohemian music.

Shelley Carpenter nodded slowly. "This expert in Bohemian music claims that Slavnost českých venkovanů, the Harvest Festival from Smetana's Dreams, was clearly an inspiration to Shostakovich."

"But that's Smetana, not Tesar," Matt protested, admiring Shelley's brave attempt at Czech pronunciation.

"You have to follow the theory through," Shelley said, who seemed to have recovered from the heartfelt confession she'd just made. "This Russian professor believes Smetana was influenced by Vasek Tesar. From Smetana's annotations it's certainly clear that the Harvest Festival was a tribute to Tesar's music. So it looks like we have a chain: Tesar, Smetana and Shostakovich, although Smetana only flirted briefly with dissonant music. He probably remembered just how badly Tesar's music had gone down in Prague a few years earlier."

"I like Shostakovich, so why haven't I heard any Tesar?" Matt asked, deciding not to know anything about the music being lost. Shelley hadn't denied having any of it.

"Matt," Zoé said, "none of the music of Vasek Tesar has survived." She gave him the sort of look that conveyed much between two people who knew each other well, but was unlikely to be noticed by a stranger. She was definitely playing along to help.

"What, none of it?" he asked, feigning surprise.

"All trace of Tesar's music disappeared years ago," Shelley Carpenter explained. "But whatever it sounded like, it caused one helluva commotion in the Prague concert halls in the 1850s. Experts in Czech music reckon Vasek Tesar could have been the greatest Bohemian composer of all time. Greater than Dvorak or Smetana."

"So what went wrong?" Matt asked.

"Vasek Tesar received a terrific snub from the music critics for his progressive compositions. He hid it all away and became a sort of recluse. He occasionally wrote a Czech polka -- that sort of thing -- but he died in 1905, a bitter and disillusioned man. His wife Anna had died many years before, while she was still young."

"And Tesar hid his music away?" Matt tried to draw Shelley out. Maybe the music had never been given to Hana Eisler. "Come on, I can't believe your family hasn't got some of it tucked away."

Shelley Carpenter laughed a loud laugh. "If we did, I sure wouldn't be slumming it at the Helios Academy. I'd be famous, traveling the world, playing Vasek Tesar's music on Vasek Tesar's violin."

Matt decided to try another tack. "What did the principal say when you told her about your family background?"

"She called the dean into the room. Edward Blake claims to be an authority on Czech music. I'd say they were both extremely keen to have me on the staff."

He'd managed to steer the conversation round to Blake. "There's one thing I'm not happy about," he said. "You claim your affair with Martin Smith was a one-off. So how did Edward Blake know you'd be with him the other afternoon? Bit of a long shot, wasn't it? "

Shelley Carpenter's sighed. "I haven't been completely honest with you." She looked first at Zoé and then at Matt, then down at the floor. "It's been going on for a couple of weeks now." She looked up quickly. "To tell you the truth I'm disgusted with myself."

"And you've no intention of going back to Blake?" he asked.

Shelley Carpenter jumped to her feet. "Don't keep saying that. Blake and I have never been lovers. I can't stand the man. Why can't you get that into your heads?" She ran from the room and reached the front door before Matt or Zoé could even get into the hallway.

She slammed it hard as she left.

"I think perhaps you did not deal with that very well," Zoé said as silence descended.

"It's exactly what I wanted."

"You wanted the front door to fall off the hinges?"

"She's upset, that's all."

"She was upset to have to tell you a family secret, and you made her carry on with the talking."

"I wanted Shelley to tell us the truth about the music manuscripts and about her affair with Blake."

Zoé frowned. "She does not know about the manuscripts, and I do not think she has been having an affair with Monsieur Blake."

"Exactly."

"So what deductions are you making, Chief Inspector?"

"Blake's a liar, the manuscripts are still up for grabs, and I'm going to Prague to find them."

"For Monsieur Blake?"

"I'll decide that after the séance." He picked up the family tree that Shelley had helped him complete. "Hana's mother was twenty years younger than Jakob. She was only thirty-one when she died. Maybe we can contact her as well as Hana. I'm going to get this into the computer before I go to bed."

Zoé started to straighten the cushions on the armchairs. "I was stupide to have suggested a séance in the first place. Non, there is to be no séance."
The Tesar Family Tree

Chapter Thirteen

MATT WOKE early, his mind filled with a dream where a young girl was trying to call out to him, but no sound came from her open mouth. She wore a black school blazer, with a brooch shaped like a butterfly pinned to the lapel. In her hand she waved some sheets of paper. As he went towards her, to see what was on the paper, she became hidden by a cloud of soot. When the soot cleared she was no longer there. He felt a chill run down his back -- and it wasn't only caused by the duvet which he'd accidentally kicked back on his side during the night.

The dream disturbed him. It was as though the girl had been desperately trying to speak but was unable to form the words. He got back under the duvet and switched his thoughts to the Helios Music Academy, running back over the events of the past couple of days. Shelley Carpenter seemed genuine enough \-- a maiden wronged -- but maybe she played a leading role in amateur dramatics back in the States and knew how to put on a convincing show.

One thing was for sure: Shelley Carpenter's ownership of Vasek Tesar's violin, and Blake's offer of a job to find Tesar's music manuscripts in Prague, were connected The only person who seemed to come out of this well was Martin Smith. But now, as he gave it some thought, he realized that Smith's mother came from Prague. Prague was at the center of everything.

The alarm clock rang -- Zoé's idea in case they overslept again -- and stopped him coming to any firm conclusions. Then Zoé's hand reaching under the duvet made him forget about Vasek Tesar and the violin completely.

Once again he was nearly late for work.

*

KEN GAVE the impression of being much happier today, chatting about his plans to redecorate the office. It seemed that Ken had also spent a restless night, finally coming to the conclusion that the office carpet was overdue for replacement. He reckoned it had been there for the best part of twenty years, and asked Matt what color scheme he preferred.

"Save the money," was Matt's advice. "Buy some cheap rugs and put them over the holes."

Ken clapped his hands. "That's a brilliant idea, kiddo. Those holes are a safety hazard and I don't want anyone suing us. I know just the place to get a couple of mats. I'm going that way to see a client. I'll leave you to mind the shop, if that's all right with you."

"Anything I can do while you're out?" Business was slack and Matt couldn't think of anything, but it was just as well to ask. He'd feel guilty about doing another web search in the firm's time if he was meant to be working.

"You can tidy up the tea cupboard, but that's about it. All the files are up-to-date, as I'm sure you know."

Matt certainly did know. Ken had a thing about files. Every letter, every note relating to a case was meticulously recorded and stored for safekeeping. Maybe some of the really old files needed throwing away, but he wasn't prepared to take the responsibility. "Is it okay if I use the computer?"

"As long as you don't break it."

Matt rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. The person who could wreck a computer, almost terminally, was already going down the stairs. But at least it was good business for Mac the Hack who carried out repairs in the Internet Café. "Thanks," he called.

It took less than ten minutes to wipe out the cupboard with some damp paper towels and tidy up the crockery. Looking closely at the mugs Matt decided he should have asked Ken to get the new set while he was buying the rugs. It was embarrassing to offer clients tea or coffee in this odd assortment that had been collected over the years: mainly gifts from reps trying to sell surveillance equipment. But perhaps the names on some of the mugs impressed Ken's clients -- those who could read, anyway.

He went to the computer. The Terezín site with the record of Hana's death had a hyperlink to a Czech site that came up with something he couldn't make any sense of. Maybe he could give pages like this to Father Alban to pass on to Olga in the homeless shelter. She could translate them into English. He didn't doubt that Hana was dead, but unless he could come up with a contact in Prague, he might as well inform Blake that the job was a non-starter.

He was about to send the page to the printer when he heard the downstairs door open and heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Martin Smith, still in his black silky trousers but with a shirt that was now bright green rather than red, came into the outer office.

Matt called him through into Ken's office. He felt almost useful, talking to someone while sitting in the red captain's chair. And he didn't even have to worry about Ken coming out with insensitive ideas that were a failed attempt at humor. "What can I do for you?"

Smith looked around the office. "Is Ken Habgood here?"

Matt shook his head. "You've just missed him. Can I help?"

"I suppose so." Smith didn't sound very convinced. "I came to apologize. I've had time to think, and I can see that Ken Habgood was right. I can't blame him for what happened at the swimming pool. As an older woman, Miss Carpenter should have known better. To put it simply, she led me astray."

This wasn't how Shelley Carpenter said she saw it. Matt didn't say anything.

"I've been talking is over with my mother." Smith sighed deeply. "She's taken it surprisingly well. She says the spirits have told her I'm not to worry. They're sorting out my future." He looked at Matt. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" Matt had a few thoughts, but decided not to share them. "If it helps, then, yes." It wasn't exactly profound, but the response seemed to meet with Martin Smith's approval.

"Will you pass on my apologies to Ken Habgood?" Smith asked.

"Of course I will." Matt wanted to find out more about how the man's mother operated. He tried to think of a way to put the question without raising suspicions in Smith's mind. He wasn't really up to anything too subtle this morning so he asked it directly. "Does your mother work for Czech clients as well as English?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Ken and I were talking about it yesterday, after you'd gone."

Smith came over to the desk. "Mother has the occasional Czech client who wants to contact one of their dead ancestors."

"Czechoslovakian?"

Smith nodded. "You're using the word Czechoslovakian correctly, because most of the dead lived in Czechoslovakia rather than the new Czech Republic."

Matt decided he didn't need a lesson in European history. "Does your mother hear the dead speaking in Czech or in English?"

"In their own language, naturally. Mother says she's the only Czech medium around. She can ask the questions in Czechoslovakian and understand the answers. She can even translate them into English if the client can't speak the language."

Matt tried his best to sound only vaguely interested. "So if we were doing a job for ... a Jewish family who'd left Czechoslovakia as refugees, perhaps sixty or seventy years ago, and they wanted to contact a relative who'd died in Prague. Could she help?"

"Why, do you have such a client?"

He wasn't going to be put on the spot. He'd probably already given away more than he should have done. "I couldn't possibly discuss the business of Habgood Securities."

Smith laughed easily. "Right, you're discussing a purely imaginary case. Let's suppose a Czech client comes through the door tomorrow morning and wants you to help. Would my mother be interested? Is that what you want to know?"

"Hypothetically, yes. The client, if we had one, might want the questions and answers kept confidential."

Smith felt in his back pocket and produced a business card. "You could assure your client that my mother goes into a trance and remembers absolutely nothing afterwards."

"Really?" The one thing holding him back from using Martin Smith's mother was the possibility of her having a big mouth. He didn't want anything to get back to Martin Smith, or Blake would be furious. Smith and Blake had become enemies since Shelley Carpenter had dropped her kit for both men -- assuming Blake and Shelley Carpenter had indeed been partners. Maybe he could do a bit of probing to get the truth once and for all. "Can you tell ... ?" No, he couldn't bring himself to ask who was making love to whom. Smith might blow a fuse and forbid all contact with his mother. He looked at the business card Smith had given him. Rose Smith, Medium. The address wasn't one of the smartest areas in town, but at least it was local. "There's no phone number," he said.

"Mother is adamant her clients communicate in writing."

"Yes?"

"She needs to meditate over the handwriting and get in touch with the client's guiding spirit before they meet."

It all sounded weird. "I could call round. Should the need ever arise, of course."

"It would be much better if you wrote -- should the need arise."

"I'll make sure the card gets put in our list of business contacts." Matt stood up. "I'll tell Ken Habgood you called." No, he had to be more open about the need to hold a séance. "Look, I can't possibly discuss the details, but we do have a Jewish client. She believes her family hid some valuable jewelry in Czechoslovakia during the war." The story seemed to fall out of his mouth easily, even though he was thinking it up as he spoke.

"Ah," Smith said, with a smile, "I imagined you had a reason for your questions. Take my advice and write to Mother straight away."

"There's a problem," Matt told him. "I know it sounds silly, but our client might be worried that your mother would go to Prague and dig up the jewelry, when she discovered where it was."

"It's like I told you," Smith said with undue patience. "Mother goes into a trance and remembers nothing."

Matt was thinking furiously about how to phrase the next point. Yes, he knew how to do it. "Our client could still be worried about security. Who else knows about your mother's business? I mean, has she got a neighbor who helps with her correspondence?" He pointed at Smith. "And what about you? I imagine she talks to you about her clients."

Smith drew his breath in slowly and shook his head. "My mother's business is like yours here at Habgood Securities. Client confidentiality is absolute. Mother has never once discussed a client with me or with anyone else, nor would I expect her to."

So that was all right then. Matt looked at the card again. He'd drive round to Mrs. Smith's lunch-time and drop a hand-written letter through the door for her to meditate on . And he'd give his mobile phone number, not the office one.
Chapter Fourteen

YOU'LL NEVER guess who called while you were out," said Matt.

Ken Habgood dropped two rolled-up packages onto the office floor and let out a cry of pain. "I should have got you to carry these up the stairs. Who did you say called?"

"Martin Smith."

Ken looked down at the floor. "I hope he didn't bring his creepy mother. I don't want her in here, poking at these holes. I can't afford more rugs at this price."

"He came to say sorry he gave you a hard time. He's thought it over and it was his fault for being with Shelley Carpenter. He blames her for the affair. It's interesting, because Shelley Carpenter told me he's the one who led her astray."

"Shelley Carpenter's been here too?"

"Not today."

Ken looked relived. "So when did she tell you this? She's a good looking woman. You've not been seeing her on the side, have you? What on earth is Zoé going to say when she finds out?"

"Of course I've not ... " He shook his head in disbelief at his own stupidity. Here he was, trying to keep Blake's assignment a secret, and he might as well be waving flags, just in case Ken hadn't guessed something was going on.

The phone rang at that moment. Ken answered it and passed it over. "It's for you. Sounds like Edward Blake."

Matt had a brief panic, but Ken didn't seem especially interested. "I'll take it in the outer office."

"That's okay, kiddo. I'm not using my desk. I want to see how these new rugs look. You carry on."

There was nothing for it. "Matt Rider here."

"Hello, Mr. Rider. Blake from the Helios Academy," the booming voice announced. "Is it okay if we talk?"

Matt held the receiver tightly to his ear in case the sound leaked out, but Ken seemed more interested in unrolling the new rugs than listening to the conversation. The deep red color blended surprisingly well with the fawn carpet. "Can I ring you back?"

Blake sounded agitated. "I thought I told you to keep this job to yourself."

"You did, and I have." Phoning the office was hardly the way to keep a job like this under wraps. "So why are you ringing me here?"

"I need to know what you're up to. Miss Carpenter called at the Academy this morning to collect her things. I gather you know she's been fired."

"I heard."

"Yes, heard it from her. You don't need to believe everything this American tells you about her violin."

"What violin is that?"

"Don't act all innocent with me," Blake snapped. "Miss Carpenter's violin has no connection with the job you'll be doing for me. That woman knows nothing about the lost music."

"I can't believe that. The violin and music both belonged to Vasek Tesar." He looked across at Ken. His boss was arranging one of the rectangular rugs at a new angle and seemed totally absorbed in getting the correct artistic arrangement. But you never could tell with Ken.

Blake sounded uptight. "Everything was passed down through the family, but the violin was taken to the States in 1942. The music manuscripts definitely stayed in Prague. You saw the evidence on the microfiche. Hana Eisler was the last person who touched those manuscripts."

"You only showed me a couple of pages and I couldn't translate them." Matt wondered whether to tell Blake that Hana was dead and the trail was now cold. "I'm not sure I can help you. Anyway, we haven't agreed how much I'll be paid." He looked across at Ken again. He was now smiling.

"What do you think?" Ken pointed at the floor.

Matt nodded and smiled back. "Good," he said, not really taking it in.

"Are you still there?" Blake asked .

"Carry on," Matt told him.

"Tell me how much you earn in a year with Habgood Securities."

Matt told him, rounding it up a bit to make himself sound better paid then he really was. He didn't want Blake thinking he was dealing with some third-rate PI.

"I'll give you six months' pay if you recover the manuscripts," Blake offered without hesitating. "Plus ten percent of what I get for the manuscripts."

"In a lump sum?"

"Six months pay in cash, just as soon as you bring the manuscripts back to me."

"And the ten percent?" He tried not to sound too eager.

"That will be paid after I've sold the manuscripts. No cash advance, apart from your airfare and hotel expenses in Prague."

"You really think I'll have to go to Prague?"

Ken was definitely paying attention now. He looked up from his handiwork and raised his eyebrows. "Prague?" he mouthed silently.

Matt just shrugged. "I've got one lead to follow up," he told Blake, "and then I'll give you my answer." No way was he going to mention the planned séance.

"You won't get anything out of Miss Carpenter, if that's what you're thinking."

"Actually, I'm hoping to talk to Hana Eisler."

"You've found her?"

"Maybe I know a way to contact her." Matt could see that Ken was getting restless, and definitely inquisitive. "I'll be in touch." He put the phone down. "Sorry about that." He gave Ken an embarrassed smile.

"You're up to no good," said Ken, the rugs obviously forgotten. "Is someone offering you a new job?"

"Sort of," Matt muttered. Ken must have heard money being mentioned.

"I could see it coming." Ken stretched and gripped his back. "I need to sit down. You'd better give me my chair. It's all right, you can sit on my desk. As usual."

Matt did as he was told -- the first time he'd ever been given permission to perch on the polished surface.

"So come on, kiddo. Is it a rival detective agency?"

"I was going to tell you."

"It's the baby, isn't it? As soon as you told me Zoé was pregnant I guessed you'd be moving on for more money. I'd love to keep you here, kiddo, I really would, but I can't afford it."

Matt felt awkward. "It's not what it seems. It's a one-off job. Abroad."

"Prague?"

"I knew you were listening."

"Prague doesn't interest me, kiddo. You know I don't like foreign detective work where I can't understand the language."

"It's not really detective work. More of a treasure hunt." Matt explained briefly about the missing music.

Ken raised his eyebrows. "You mean you could be rich? Don't forget old Ken when you open your Swiss bank account."

"I'm not going to be rich. The most I'm getting is six months' pay, in a lump sum, and ten percent of a possible sale."

Ken shook his head. "You're right," he said. "Six months' pay? You're certainly not going to be rich on that, kiddo. It's Blake, isn't it? No wonder I've been getting every Tom, Dick and Harry calling here in the last couple of days about that photo shoot at the Academy swimming pool. Are they all in on it?"

"I don't know. And it worries me not knowing."

"When did you arrange this job?"

"When I took the film round to Blake. He tempted me with an offer."

"And you fell?"

Matt looked at the wall behind Ken's desk, covered in framed press cuttings and letters of thanks referring to some of their more successful investigations. "I didn't know whether to tell you or not. I'm only going to need a few days, and I could take some holiday. I like working for you, even though I'm always moaning about money."

Ken looked surprisingly pleased. "We work well together as a team. So if I let you find the treasure, it would be like getting a pay rise? You'd have enough extra money to last for two or three years?"

"At least."

Ken nodded. "And you wouldn't need to look for a new job."

He could see what Ken was getting at. He was about to give his blessing. "You're not mad with me?"

"Listen, kiddo, if anything like this happens again you must talk to me. I don't like Blake, but if he wants to throw his money at you, I'll keep my nose out of it."

"You're not such a bad boss after all," Matt said.

Ken walked over to one of the rugs and stood there grinning. "You ought to listen to that wife of yours. Zoé keeps telling you how nice I am."
Chapter Fifteen

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

HANA LOOKS around quickly to see if there is a friendly face \-- someone she can run to for help. She knows she won't see anyone in her family. Not even horrible uncle Otik. Papa doesn't like Uncle Otik, even though they are brothers. Uncle Otik was here in Prague only three days ago. She hated seeing him again. Mama said he had only come to make trouble.

They thought she was asleep, but she heard the three of them arguing. So she crept down the stairs to listen. She remembers the angry voices talking about the violin. Always there are arguments with Uncle Otik about the violin. She wishes the stupid thing had never existed. Uncle Otik says he is taking his family to safety in America, but he needs money to pay the man who will take them through Austria to the coast in Italy. He wants money from Papa, and he wants the violin. They talk loudly for a long time, until Mama comes out of the room and finds her on the stairs.

The next morning Uncle Otik has gone. She knows Papa and Mama are frightened about some of the things Uncle Otik said, but all they tell her is that Uncle Otik has taken the violin with him. He will give it back to Papa as soon as the fighting is over. Hana knows that her mother's jewelry has gone as well, perhaps to Uncle Otik, but Mama didn't say. She is glad her special butterfly brooch is safe in her locker at the Academy. It was a beautiful present from Mama on her seventh birthday.

Why is Uncle Otik always so angry? No one ever tells her why, but she is sure it is because Papa is older than Uncle Otik, and Grandmama gave him the special things of Vasek Tesar. Well, Uncle Otik might have the violin \-- until the trouble is over -- but she has the music right here in her brown leather case.

Uncle Otik and his family got away from Prague just in time. Two nights ago the German soldiers took Mama and little Rosa. Papa said they would have taken him as well, if he and Hana had not been out looking for food. Last night she and Papa hid in the attic of the empty house. This morning Papa told her to take the train to Ústí nad Orlicí and find Uncle Libek and Aunty Vetka at Krkavčí farma.

###  Chapter Sixteen

"LISTEN will you, Zoé. I haven't booked a séance. All I've done is push a letter though Mrs. Smith's door to ask if she's prepared to hold one for us. I don't even know what she charges."

Zoé sounded decidedly pessimistic. "It will be a waste of our money, and maybe you will bring something unpleasant home with you."

Matt laughed. "You mean something scary?"

"Remember what Father Alban said. No, a séance is something I do not like."

"It was your idea in the first place."

"And now I am changing my mind."

He pushed his plate away. "Don't worry, the woman may not even bother to contact me."

"That is good."

"Maybe I should have made the letter more specific, but I didn't want to feed Mrs. Smith any clues about Hana."

"But we will have to tell her. If we go."

If we go? He didn't say anything, but it seemed that Zoé was coming round to the idea after all.

"And another thing," Zoé added. "How will we know what Hana is saying?"

"That's easy. Mrs. Smith speaks Czech, so she'll be able to translate the answers into English. And ... hold on, that's my mobile ringing."

He fetched his cell phone from the hallway and answered it. The woman on the other end said she was Mrs. Smith. Matt put his finger over the mute button for a couple of seconds and told Zoé.

Zoé nodded, somewhat halfheartedly.

"Mrs. Smith, can we make a date?" Matt asked.

The medium said she was free that evening.

"Is it all right if my wife comes as well?" He looked up at Zoé and noticed she was still nodding.

"I do not want to get to bed too late tonight," Zoé whispered.

"I promise." And he meant it. He spoke into the phone again. "What time do you want us to come round?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rider," said Mrs. Smith, "but the first meeting must be at the prospective client's place of residence."

"Don't you run séances in your own home?" Then he realized what the woman must be implying. "I'm sorry, but you're not holding a séance here."

"Mr. Rider, I'm only talking about our initial meeting. Just to check everything out. Please don't misunderstand me, but some people have a negative aura. It's not their fault, of course, but a negative aura can have such an unsettling influence on the guiding spirits in my parlor."

"Hold on a minute." Matt put his finger on the mute button again. "I don't know what to think," he said to Zoé. "Mrs. Smith wants to come here and check us out for negative auras."

"Tell her to mind her own business," Zoé said vehemently.

He removed his finger from the button. "Mrs. Smith? What exactly will you do if you come here?"

"Nothing to be alarmed about, Mr. Rider. All I need is thirty minutes with you and your wife, just to make sure that you're both sympathetic to receiving messages from the spirits."

Matt decided he'd take responsibility for this one. After all, if he and Zoé proved to have negative auras, whatever they were, the job was at an end. He wasn't going to find another Czech medium. "How soon can you be here?"

*

MRS. SMITH turned out to be a smartly dressed woman in a two-piece brown jacket and skirt. Her tightly curled gray hair looked like a wig, and her face was lined with hard work, but she was probably not much over fifty.

"You seem surprised, Mr. Rider." She had a ready smile as Matt opened the door. "Were you expecting someone in a black cloak and a witch's hat?"

Matt felt at ease already. He glanced quickly at Zoé who'd come into the hallway. She looked relieved as well. "I've never done anything like this before," he said as he showed the medium into the living room.

"Don't worry, many of my clients only come as a last resort. After they've had the wonderful experience of talking to their dearly departed, they wonder why they didn't come to me as soon as their loved one passed over. Have you suffered a recent bereavement?"

This wasn't quite the language Matt was hoping for, and he didn't want Zoé put off. "It's not a family member," he said. "I can tell you more, if we decide to go ahead, but you might as well know that the person died more than sixty years ago. In Czechoslovakia."

Mrs. Smith continued to smile. "That's fine. I speak good Czech." She frowned. "How did you know?"

"Someone told us," Matt said, avoiding mentioning her son. Blake wouldn't want Martin Smith muscling in on the money from the manuscripts. "So you don't see a problem?"

"The dead are usually ... I'm calling them the dead so you will understand what I'm talking about. We prefer to call them the spirits of the departed. Many of them return to visit us from time to time, even though we cannot see them. The dead are usually very willing to tell us about the afterlife, although on rare occasions they draw a veil over themselves. I cannot possibly intrude when that happens."

"To tell you the truth," Matt explained, "we're both a little apprehensive. A séance isn't dangerous is it?"

Mrs. Smith looked taken aback before smiling. "Good gracious no, the spirits are here to help us, not to harm us." She smiled. "I can see by your expressions that you both have doubts."

"I'm open about it," Matt said, repeating the words Ken had used in the office, totally ignoring Father Alban's warning. "Tell me how you'd get in touch with the person I need to talk to."

"We sit around a small table, with our fingers touching. But before we arrange a date to do this, you must tell me as much about the person as you possibly can. I need their name, their age, where they lived, and so on."

Matt shook his head. He'd suspected this was going to happen. "Then we don't have a deal. If I'm going to be convinced I need the information fed to me."

"Mr. Rider," the medium said with a patient smile, "there are millions upon millions of people in the afterlife. How can I possibly tell which one of them you want to talk to?"

"I'll give you a name, but not until the start of the séance."

Mrs. Smith seemed a little miffed. "Do you think I'm going to cheat and find out details in advance?"

Matt looked at Zoé, and she nodded. "It is a possibility," Zoé said bluntly.

He didn't comment. He knew he had to be careful. If he blew it now, then the chances of contacting ... No, it was possible the chances of contacting Hana were zero anyway, if the dead didn't speak, not even to Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith closed her eyes as though in meditation. Suddenly she opened them. "It would help greatly if you had something that belonging to the deceased. An item of clothing, or something personal, such as a pen."

Matt shrugged. He wasn't able to get hold of anything belonging to Hana.

"The butterfly brooch," Zoé said. "Remember how Monsieur -- "

Matt cut her short. "No names," he said quickly. It was a brilliant idea though -- as long as he could persuade Blake to lend him Hana's brooch.

Mrs. Smith looked from one to the other inquiringly. "Yes?"

He decided to take the lead. "There's a brooch that belonged to ... the person we want to contact. It may have been her mother's as well. Does that matter?"

"I don't think so." Then Mrs. Smith smiled again. "No, of course it doesn't matter. A strong family connection reinforces the vibrations. I'll need the brooch for several hours before the séance."

"I'll try and arrange it," Matt said. "We asked you here this evening to see if you'd be able to help."

"I'm sure I can. You both have very positive auras. There's nothing to be worried about. Nothing at all."

Matt looked at Zoé. "What do you think?"

"I think maybe we should try to make contact."

"Maybe?"

"All right," Zoé agreed. "Yes, as long as there is no danger."

"No danger at all," Mrs. Smith said with a smile.

*

IT WAS nearly ten o'clock when Matt and Zoé arrived at the Academy. Blake hadn't objected to getting a phone call so late in the evening, and said it would be better if they came now rather than in the morning. He was already waiting on the doorstep of the main building when they parked the Mini.

"Anything interesting to tell me?" he asked.

Matt waited until they were in the impressive hallway before he spoke. "I need to have another look at the microfiche."

On the way here he and Zoé had decided that an oblique approach was the best way to go about getting their hands on the brooch. Blake was an unpredictable man, and might need to be brought round to the idea gently.

"I was hoping you'd have made more progress than that," Blake said when Matt asked to see the microfiche again. "Very well, wait here while I get the key to the library."

Matt glanced around. On a large table someone had arranged several stacks of literature. He picked up a prospectus for the Academy and was just starting to flick through the high quality pages when Blake came back, out of breath, his nose whistling more noticeably than usual. Matt kept hold of the prospectus. There might be something useful in here, and Ken would probably be interested to see it.

Once again the library lights came on with a loud clatter. As soon as they were all in, the dean put the key into the door on the inside and locked it. "No interruptions this time," he said without a trace of a smile, presumably referring to their last visit when Martin Smith had barged in.

"Do you have the microfiche?" Matt asked.

"Right here." Blake removed the envelope from his inside jacket pocket. "What exactly do want to see? It is all in Czech, remember. "

Matt reached out to take the film from Blake's hand. "May I?"

"Most certainly not." Blake moved the film away quickly. "You can't see anything unless we put it on the reader. I thought you knew that." He switched on the machine and pulled the glass tray forward, tutting in obvious annoyance when he saw that someone had left a film in the carrier.

"Damn students." He placed the microfiche on the shelf above the reader. "They can sort out their own problems in the morning. If these things don't get filed away properly it takes forever to sort them out. One microfiche looks exactly like another."

Matt had never thought of it before, but it was true. Each small sheet of film showed nothing but row upon row of miniature rectangles -- until they were magnified in the reader. It also gave him an idea. "Find the letter from Hana's father; the one asking if she can be enrolled in the Academy."

Blake quickly found the page. "It's not important and it won't mean anything to you." He turned in surprise. "Is that what you came to see me about?"

"If you want my help, Mr. Blake, you must let me decide what's important. Will you please translate it for me."

"I am only doing this from memory," Blake warned. "My grasp of the Czech language is very poor."

The dean stumbled through the wording. Matt wasn't really listening. The only reason for coming was to get the brooch.

Blake frowned. "You're not involving anyone else on this job, are you?"

"I'm following a lead," Matt said, trying to sound vague.

"Which is?"

"It's to do with Hana's brooch. My wife had a brilliant idea after tea today. Didn't you, Zoé?"

Blake was looking at the screen again, and didn't notice Matt nodding anxiously to Zoé to agree with him.

"Matt thought it was a good idea," Zoé said, frowning and shaking her head. She obviously had no idea of what was required of her.

"Are you going to tell me?" Blake demanded after a pause.

"It would be better if Matt told you." Zoé smiled at Blake as he turned round to look at her.

"Mr. Rider?"

"We have a friend who's a jeweler, and I want to get his opinion. Zoé thinks the stones could be valuable, and wonders why a young girl would wear an expensive brooch to the Academy, and then leave it there."

"And you think the answer will help you find what Hana did with the music manuscripts?" Blake sounded scornful.

"It's a stab in the dark," Matt said. "But if we could get a picture of it in the Czech newspapers it might make Hana contact us, to get it back."

"Not if she's dead," said Blake.

"You said you didn't know if she's alive or not," Matt said quickly.

"You're right, but if Hana's alive, why hasn't she shown Vasek Tesar's music to the world?"

"Maybe she hasn't got it. Anyway, even if she's dead, one of her family might see the picture and tell us," Matt added.

"Hana has no family. They all died in 1942."

Matt knew he had to borrow the brooch. No brooch -- no séance. "If Hana left a valuable brooch for anyone to find, maybe she left the music manuscripts lying around and someone simply threw them away."

Blake nodded to himself. "Maybe they were thrown away," he repeated. "I hadn't even considered the possibility. My dear Mr. Rider, of course you may borrow the brooch. Hold on here and I'll fetch it for you."

"Is it all right if I print this page?" Matt asked, surprised by the eagerness which Blake was now showing.

Blake shook his head. "The printer is broken. Anyway, some of those pages on the microfiche are confidential." He turned and left the room.

As soon as the door closed Zoé pressed the print button and the copier started up. "See, it works," she said in excitement. "Monsieur Blake, he was lying, Maybe there are things on there he does not want us to see."

"I can guarantee it. But we can't print every page." Matt switched the printer off. "Keep an eye open for Blake." He quickly removed Blake's film from the glass carrier.

"What are you doing?" Zoé asked in surprise.

"A little conjuring trick. Pass me the microfiche that Blake put on the shelf. I'm going to swap them over."

"Will Monsieur Blake mind?" Zoé passed the film.

"Monsieur Blake won't know." Matt held the two films side by side. Rows of small dark rectangles that were impossible to tell apart. The only trouble was the header. The one in the microfiche reader when they arrived was titled Classical Music Magazine, March 1969. Blake's microfiche had no heading. He began to peel the header label from the magazine microfiche. It came away easily. Taking the film was the easy bit. Getting it back to Blake without him knowing would be trickier. The best plan would be to somehow put it back on the shelf in a day or two for Blake to find.

Zoé put Blake's film into her purse. "Be quick, Monsieur Blake is coming," she warned in an urgent whisper.

The dean reappeared, holding the small black jewelry box.

Matt handed Blake the music magazine microfiche from which he'd removed the label. "I've finished with it now," he said. "I'll let you know if I need it again."

Blake nodded and slipped the film back into the envelope and into his inside pocket. Then he opened the box, showed the brooch, and handed it to Zoé.

"You do not mind if we take it away?" she asked.

"Not at all," Blake said affably. "Look after it, that's all. I have to return it to Prague." He patted Matt on the shoulder. "I really hope you will be able to help me."

The time had come to confront Blake. "What are we really after? Dvorak's Tenth Symphony -- or the music of Vasek Tesar?

Blake stared back, his mouth wide. "Vasek Tesar?"

"You lied to me about Dvorak." Matt felt bolder now. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"Of course not, Mr. Rider. When we first met I spotted you for go-getter, but I have no idea you were interested in classical music. It was a ruse. A ruse to guarantee your interest."

"Okay, Mr. Blake, you've got my interest. But no more lies. Okay?"

Blake grinned sheepishly. "It's a deal, Mr. Rider."

Matt took an anxious glance at Zoé's purse. She'd not closed it fully and he could see a shiny corner of the microfiche sticking out. "Come on," he said. "We ought to be getting home." He turned to Blake. "I don't like Zoé having late nights now she's pregnant."

As Blake went ahead to unlock the door Matt pointed nervously at Zoé's purse. She looked down, let out a small gasp, and snapped it shut.

"Give me a phone call as soon as you know anything," Blake said.

Matt nodded, his mind more on the microfiche in Zoé's purse. It was going to be a late night. The next port of call was Mac the Hack.

*

MAC THE HACK was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette in his shabby room at the back of the Internet Café, with two large mugs of murky coffee on the desk. Judging by the pale skin on top, they had both gone cold hours ago. Lines of code filled the computer monitor. Mac, in an old white sweatshirt, didn't attempt to hide it even though he was probably up to no good.

Matt had only got to know Mac because of Ken's unreliable computer. Mac seemed able to fix anything, and cheaply. He'd even managed to crack an encrypted CD for them last year. Heavy Rock music blasted from two speakers on the wall. Matt pointed to them.

"Can you turn it down?" he shouted.

Mac the Hack couldn't have heard, but he must have guessed what was wanted from the way Zoé was pulling faces.

The room went strangely quiet. Mac took a deep draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. "Trouble?"

Matt produced the microfiche from Zoé's purse. "Can you do anything with this?"

Another puff of smoke was followed by a gulp of cold coffee. Zoé said she'd wait in the café area, which was deserted -- and thankfully smoke-free.

The computer expert held the microfiche to the light. "Such as?"

"I need to be able to read it," Matt said.

Mac handed it back. "Take it to the local library."

"I don't want anyone to know I've got it."

Mac tapped his nose and winked. "Say no more."

"Can you scan it and put it on a CD?"

Mac the Hack peered more closely at the film, but judging by the way his eyes were running from the smoke it was doubtful he could see much. "Old fashioned technology, this."

"I can't change that. Just tell me if you can do anything."

"What do you want me to scan? The whole microfiche?"

"I suppose so. I need to be able to read every page."

"Never touched anything like this before," Mac said with a cough.

"Have to see how it goes. Call you at work tomorrow morning."

Matt took Zoé out into the fresh air and looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty. And he'd promised her an early night.
Chapter Seventeen

MATT GOT the promised phone call from Mac soon after arriving at work in the morning.

"I've fixed it for you," the computer genius said, yawning as spoke. "Can you come round now?"

Matt hoped Mac hadn't been up all night. With no advance payment from Blake this job could work out expensive. "I'll come now." He shouted out to Ken. "I'm just going round to Mac the Hack. He's got something for me."

The Internet Café was only a block away. Ken always reckoned that the area where Mac worked wasn't as smart as the street he'd chosen for his office. But then nowhere round here was very special, which was why Ken could afford the rent.

"Don't be long," Ken called.

Matt was glad he'd been open with his boss about this job for Blake. It would be hopeless if he had to be furtive with every phone call. Ken would definitely suspect he was an unfaithful husband.

Mac the Hack was still in his back room, the air still thick with smoke. But he was wearing a blue sweatshirt instead of the dirty white one from last night, so he must have been home to change at some time. Maybe it wasn't going to cost too much after all.

Mac held up a CD in a jewel case. "Can you read JPEG files?" he asked.

Matt nodded. "I'm about to go out to fix someone's computer." Mac got up from his desk. "Let me know if you have a problem reading the disc."

"I'd better have the microfiche as well," Matt said. The sooner he could get it back to the Academy library the better.

"Ah," Mac said.

Matt felt his stomach sink. "What does that mean?"

Mac pulled a see-through envelope from the desk drawer and tipped four strips of film onto the desk. "I had to put it in the film scanner. It was the only way I could get the resolution high enough."

"And?"

"And it didn't all fit in one piece. "

For a moment Matt thought Mac might be joking, but the evidence was there on the desk. "You weren't meant to do that," was all he could say.

"You wanted it in a hurry," Mac told him, as though that was sufficient authorization to commit an act of vandalism. "Is there a problem?"

"You bet there's a problem. I'm supposed to return this without anyone knowing."

Mac the Hack tapped his nose. "Got it. Sorry about that." He looked at his watch. "Can't stay. Hope there's something useful on the CD."

Matt decided to go straight back to the office. Maybe Blake would never look in the envelope again. The main thing was not to ask for another viewing.

"Everything okay?" Ken asked as Matt came back up the stairs to the office.

Matt removed the CD from its case. "I'll show you. Open up the photo program on the computer."

Ken stood up quickly. "You'd better do it."

Matt smiled to himself. Ken was hopeless, even with something as basic as the programs in the office suite, such as the word processor. He opened the CD drawer and inserted Mac's disc. The photo program opened at a leisurely pace and Matt clicked on the CD file. He found fourteen separate images listed, so Mac must have put two pages on each scan to make twenty-eight in total. He clicked on the first one, and two pages appeared on the monitor side-by-side.

Ken was obviously bursting with curiosity. He stared at the screen. "You're not going to be able to read that lot," he said. "It's too small."

Matt clicked the magnification button several times and the thin black lines changed to rows of handwritten words.

"That's clever," observed Ken. He leaned forward. "It's foreign."

"Czechoslovakian. I think."

"That's no good. You don't speak Czechoslovakian."

Matt shook his head. "Not a single word. But I know a young lady who can."

"You and your young ladies. I hope Zoé doesn't know what you're up to."

"She knows everything. She was with me last night when I took this to Mac."

"I hope you're telling me the truth." Ken almost certainly meant it as a joke.

Matt pointed to the screen "Is it okay if I sit here for a few minutes and print these off? I want to take them round to Olga on my way home."

"Olga? Is she pretty?" Ken made a low whistle.

"No idea. She's one of Father Alban's crew, but I haven't met her yet."

Matt's mobile rang.

Ken smirked. "Another of your fancy women?"

Matt had no idea who wanted him, but guessed it wasn't Zoé.

"Is that Matt Rider?" the woman on the phone asked. "This is Mrs. Smith." Then she added, "Mrs. Smith the medium." Maybe she thought he knew so many Mrs. Smiths that she needed to identify herself by her job.

"I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"I've had a cancellation for this evening. Now that you've got the brooch maybe we could ... "

Alarm bells rang. "How do you know about the brooch?" Had Mrs. Smith met Zoé this morning -- or was she clairvoyant?

Mrs. Smith laughed uneasily. "Maybe I'm being a little presumptive. It's just that last night you told me you could borrow a brooch that belonged to the deceased."

"I'm sorry, I forgot." That was the penalty of being ultra cautious. It was also the penalty of not having the best memory. "Yes, I've got it."

"Could you and your wife be round here about seven o'clock?"

He'd not anticipated anything this sudden, but he couldn't complain. "We can manage seven. What about the brooch? You said you needed it for a few hours before the séance."

Mrs. Smith hesitated. Her memory couldn't be all that hot either. "Yes, of course." There was a moment of silence. "I don't want you bringing it round during the day. I have several bookings and I never like it when one client meets another, even by accident. I can pick it up from you. I can be passing your office in the next few minutes."

Again Matt felt uncomfortable. Did Mrs. Smith know where he worked? For all she knew he might have a job out of town. He was being wrong-footed. "You know where Habgood Securities is?"

"Habgood Securities? No, you'd better tell me."

He relaxed. Presumably Mrs. Smith would look after the brooch. He'd told Blake he was getting it valued. What if the woman lost it? She might have insurance, though probably not, but it would be impossible to make a claim without knowing the approximate price of a replacement.

"Okay." He checked that she knew how to find Ken's office.

When he'd hung up he noticed Ken looking inquiringly. "A date?" Ken asked.

"Hold on a minute, I want to show you something." Matt fetched the brooch from his desk in the outer office and showed it to Ken. "What do you think? Is it valuable?"

Ken held it to the window and then turned it slowly in his hands. "Glass," he said with the authority of an expert on an antiques show. "But it's well made. Where did you get it?"

Matt replaced it in the box. "It's part of the job I'm doing for Blake. If it's glass, it shoots a good theory through the head. I was thinking maybe the girl was careless with her possessions. It looks like she knew it wasn't valuable, or she wouldn't have left it in her college locker."

"So?"

"So the music manuscripts are valuable, which means she was more careful where she left them. Hid them somewhere safe, probably. I'd better leave a message for Zoé at the hospital and tell her we're going to a séance this evening."

"I thought you weren't getting involved in all that nonsense."

"This one's different. It's for money. What have we got in the way of digital recorders?"

*

MATT PRINTED the pages from Mac the Hack's CD then phoned the Homeless Anchor Trust and spoke to Father Alban. The young priest said that Olga was in this afternoon but was suffering from a stomach upset.

"I only want to have a word with her," Matt explained.

"I do not think she will want to see you. She thinks she has eaten something bad for breakfast."

Matt expressed surprise. "Is anyone else ill?"

"Olga did not come back last night. Often she stays out walking in the countryside. Probably she found food in the bin of a restaurant. Always I am warning my crew not to scavenge for food. Anyway, Matt, why is it that you wish to speak to her?"

He might as well come out into the open. "I've got some pages written in the Czech language. I printed them off the computer this morning."

"Ah yes," Father Alban said. "You would like Olga to translate them into English." Matt could almost hear Father Alban shaking his head wearily. "Today? Impossible." He gave the word an emphatic, French pronunciation.

Well, it had to happen. After the climb comes the fall. Now Blake's microfiche was ruined, and all for nothing. Where else would he find a Czech speaker, apart from Olga and Mrs. Smith? And no way was he going to show them to Mrs. Smith. "Could I bring them round for Olga to look at when she's better?"

"Perhaps you can wait until tomorrow."

No, he wasn't going to wait. "I'll drive by HAT on my way home and give the pages to you."

"I may not be here," Father Alban explained.

"Let Olga know I'm coming. I'll put everything in a large envelope with her name on it. One of your crew can give it to her."

Father Alban had run out of excuses. All Matt had to do now was wait for Mrs. Smith to collect Hana's brooch.

*

FATHER ALBAN was outside the Homeless Anchor Trust when Matt drove up in the late afternoon, arguing with three men who were without doubt the worse for drink. Matt stopped well short of the building to wait until the fracas was over. Unfortunately the young priest spotted the Mini and waved to Matt to come over.

"Meet some of my crew," he said. "This is Larry, this is Jock, and the handsome one is Paddy."

Larry and Jock laughed, and Matt smiled dutifully at each one in turn, but he felt embarrassed, not knowing what to say. The men seemed to be sobering up. Whatever the argument was about, it couldn't have been serious.

He pushed the envelope into Father Alban's hand. "This is for Olga; for when she's better." He tried not to feel too disgusted with these men. As a police officer he'd found them relatively easy to deal with. You could threaten scum like this with arrest, or warn them that it would be better if they found somewhere else to hang out. Father Alban was treating them as human beings.

The priest handed the envelope back. "Olga is much better now, so you can give it to her yourself."

This was good news. "I won't keep her long."

"Wait here," Father Alban said. "I think it is better if visitors like you stay outside. We have many here who are suspicious of anyone who is smartly dressed."

Matt had never thought himself as being smartly dressed, but maybe that was how the homeless saw him. Father Alban came out with a thin, shy girl who looked like a fifteen-year-old. As she came closer he could see that she was probably in her early twenties. The swept-back hair accentuated the hollowness of her cheeks. Her two small dark eyes glanced nervously around.

Matt held out the envelope. "Hi, I'm Matt." That didn't seem to get much of a response. "Father Alban thinks you can read Czechoslovakian."

Olga nodded, though warily.

He decided to open the envelope. "I want to know what's on these pages. Can you do me a translation -- when you're better?"

He wasn't sure why he'd said that last bit. Quite honestly he didn't care how Olga felt as long as he got results. Maybe some of Father Alban's compassion was starting to rub off. Probably not. "I don't need to know what's on every page. Look at this one. What's it about?"

"It is a list of clothing that someone needs for school."

"And this one?" He passed Olga a page of typing.

She took her time reading it. "It is a copy of a letter to say that someone called Hana is a shy girl and is not fitting well into a place called the Academy. It is, I think, to her parents."

He was getting somewhere. Olga spoke excellent English, which meant the translation would be reliable. "Can we go through each page and you quickly tell me what each one is about?"

"Perhaps," Olga said quietly. She held her stomach and looked decidedly off-color. "I speak Czech as well as Slovak."

"And can you write English?"

She shook her head. "I can read and speak Czech and I can read and speak English, but I have never been able to write properly in any language. Father Alban has tried to help me, but I still cannot do it." She coughed as though to be sick. "And now I do not feel so well again."

"I'll pay you."

Father Alban must have heard the offer for he hurried across. "I am sorry, Matt, but you must not give money to my crew. If you want to give the money, please make a donation to the Anchor Trust."

"I was only trying to help," Matt explained. "I have to know what's on the rest of these pages."

"Of course, and I did not mean to give offense." Father Alban pointed down. "Maybe Olga would like the pair of new shoes."

Matt looked down at Olga's tiny feet. He'd not noticed before, but her sneakers had split at the front.

"What size are they?"

"An English three," Olga said, her dark eyes almost lighting up.

Matt tried to smile, but felt uncomfortable. Maybe his mind was too much on the job to care about Olga's stomach upset. "I'll be here tomorrow lunchtime." He looked at the French priest. "It really is important," he said. "All I need is a brief description of what each page is about."

Father Alban smiled. "I am sure Olga is looking forward to a new pair of the sneakers. She walks a lot on the Mount, looking for wild birds. But she does not know all their names." He turned to Olga. "Matt will buy you some sneakers and a book on British birds to take with you on your walks."

Olga's almost jumped in excitement. "That is so kind," she said, her eyes wet.

He'd walked right into that one, but he'd not really been had. A pair sneakers and a small book on British birds was a small price to pay to find out what Blake was trying to hide.

"And the Anchor Trust relies on financial donations from the public," Father Alban added with a wink.

A donation? He'd been had after all. "Let's see how we get on with the translation." He pulled one of the pages from the pile.

Olga took it and looked through it. "It is another letter," she said, no longer clutching her stomach. "This one is very upsetting."

"It says something about a girl called Hana Eisler," Matt told her. "Is she dead?"

"I will read it to you." Olga moved to be under one of the overhead lights.

Matt switched on his miniature digital recorder as soon as Olga began speaking. She did the translation slowly, but seemed to have no trouble with the English language.

Dearest Mama,

I want to tell you about a girl who is my new friend here at Terezín. She came here four days ago, but she is still not speaking a word to anyone, not even to me. When they brought her to the camp, the guards told us her name is Hana Eisler and she attends the Helios Music Academy in Prague. I wonder if anyone at the Academy knows she is here. Perhaps you should tell them.

Yesterday Hana started to play one of the camp violins for us. She is so good that the guards have asked her to play some German solo pieces to them tomorrow. The music she plays is rather slow and sad, but she is very talented. We are all listening to Hana now, and soon we will go to bed. Hana shares a bunk with me.

It is now the next day. The saddest thing happened this morning, Mama. I woke to find Hana crying in our little bunk. She was clutching her stomach and suddenly blood came from her mouth. I called the guard and he said he was taking Hana to the camp hospital. But first he had to take Hana for a shower because she had soiled herself in the night. After breakfast the guard told us Hana was dead. I feel so terribly miserable. The camp violin that Hana played is being given to an old man. He is a good player, but not nearly as good as Hana. I do not think I ever want to hear the violin being played again.

Tomorrow some of us are being taken on a train journey all the way to a camp in Poland. I think the guards say it is called Auswich. We do not know what awaits us there.

All the love in the world, Your dearest Emilie.
Chapter Eighteen

MRS. SMITH'S house looked as ordinary today as it had yesterday, when he'd pushed the letter through the front door. For a church, which is what Martin Smith said his mother called it, the place wasn't exactly imposing. The uninitiated would think it was merely a 1930s semi-detached: with a small front garden in need of attention, rusting drainpipes, and loose tiles on the front porch.

Zoé held back. "Perhaps we will not go in."

Matt took her firmly by the hand. It had needed a fair bit of persuasion to get Zoé this far, and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to contact Hana. Quickly he rang the doorbell.

He thought he'd seen a slight movement behind the downstairs net curtain as they drove up, but Mrs. Smith took a couple of minutes before coming to the door. Even though the woman had said there was nothing to be alarmed about, she had dressed in a long white cotton gown, which Matt knew would worry Zoé.

"Welcome," the medium said in a rather somber voice. "I believe we are going to be blessed this evening. The brooch you gave me today carries many powerful feelings, but most of all a great sense of sorrow. Would you care to tell me something about the owner? A young woman, I imagine."

That wasn't a surprising observation. Only a child or a young girl would wear a glass brooch. Matt waited until the front door shut behind them. "She's a twelve-year-old Jewish girl who lived in Prague." To be more precise he should have said she was a twelve-year-old Jewish girl. The Terezín site on the Internet said Hana was dead, the girl's letter on Blake's microfiche said Hana was dead -- and now the medium was probably about to tell them the same thing.

"Can you give me the name of the person you wish to contact?" the medium asked.

"Not yet."

Mrs. Smith held the brooch wistfully in her right-hand and raised it up, the white sleeve of her gown hanging in a loose fold. "A Jewish girl, I think." She looked at Matt questioningly, as though seeking confirmation or denial.

He tried to keep his face expressionless. He didn't intend to say anything more at this stage, but the woman was doing her best to drag things out of him. It was probably all part of the skill needed to summon up the dead -- or to pretend to summon up the dead.

"Ah yes," Mrs. Smith continued. "A Jewish girl living in Prague during the war. The sensations I picked up from the brooch are starting to make sense now."

The woman was fishing. She would have seen Zoé making an almost invisible nod of the head when she mentioned Prague. Together they had given her Hana's background. Well, he couldn't help that. The main thing was not to give Hana's name away.

In the center of the room the medium had placed three chairs around a small circular table with a plain white cloth on it. The room would have looked gloomy enough in daylight, but outside it was now almost dark. The medium lit a candle, placed it on the sideboard, and closed the heavy brown curtains. The flickering candle was their only illumination.

"Before we start, is there anything you want to ask?" Mrs. Smith looked from Matt to Zoé and back again.

Apart from asking if they could both go home? Matt placed his digital recorder on the table. "I'd like to use this."

Mrs. Smith reached forward and picked it up. "Is it switched on?" she asked.

Matt shook his head. "I was going to wait until we started."

"Ah," Mrs. Smith said, "I should have explained yesterday evening. The spirits are disturbed by nearby electrical circuits, and often refuse to come. I would much prefer it if we put your recorder to one side, but you are welcome to leave it running. And mobile phones -- if either of you have one."

Matt put his on the table. Mrs. Smith placed it on the sideboard. "Do you have one, Mrs. Rider?"

Zoé sounded apologetic. "I am always forgetting mine."

Mrs. Smith turned to Matt. "Do you have a camera?"

Matt shook his head. "I didn't think there'd be anything to photograph."

"There won't," Mrs. Smith said firmly. "I believe the spirits will only communicate by voice today." She picked up the recorder, checked that it was on and put it with Matt's phone on the sideboard close to the candle.

Matt looked at the three chairs. "Where do we sit?"

Mrs. Smith placed herself in the largest and pointed to her left. "I would like Mrs. Rider to sit here, and you must have the other chair, Mr. Rider. We touch hands to make a circle, and the energy flows in through the right hand and out through the left. I think that as you are the only man present, the spirit of the young girl will feel more comfortable with this arrangement."

Never mind about how Hana would feel. Matt looked at the woman in the long white gown and began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "What happens next?"

"You seem nervous," Mrs. Smith said.

Matt agreed. "I am."

Mrs. Smith placed the brooch in the center of the table and spread out her hands to make contact with his and Zoé's fingers. "No matter what happens, please stay seated exactly as you are. I am going to summon my spirit guide. There is nothing to be alarmed about."

The medium closed her eyes and tipped her head forward. Matt waited for her to say something, but she stayed silent. Perhaps it was like prayer, where you didn't actually need to say the words out loud.

Suddenly, Mrs. Smith spoke in a rather morbid voice. "I have two people with me who wish to make contact with a girl from Czechoslovakia. She was the owner of this brooch."

Matt couldn't hear anything, but Mrs. Smith kept nodding her head as though conducting a conversation with her eyes closed. Then she opened them and stared up at the ceiling. "I can feel the presence of a new spirit. Yes, she is a girl who can only speak the Czech language. She is asking why you have come to contact her."

"Ask her what the name is," Matt said, trying not to sound too distrustful.

Mrs. Smith said something in a foreign language that was presumably Czech. Suddenly her voice went squeaky and poured out a torrent of words.

"Is the girl you wish to speak to called Rachel?" Mrs. Smith asked after a period of silence.

Matt shook his head. He wasn't surprised Mrs. Smith had failed to come up with the right name. She already knew that the girl they wanted to contact was Jewish. Rachel was a fair guess, but this could take ages because he'd done his best to give nothing away.

"I will ask her to fetch the owner of the brooch." Mrs. Smith spoke again in Czech. After two or three minutes of painful silence she looked up at the ceiling again. "The girl you are seeking is here now. Her name is Hana."

Matt felt a shiver run down his back. He heard Zoé gasp, and watched as she put her hands to her face, giving the biggest clue ever that the name was correct. But no way would Mrs. Smith be able to guess the surname Eisler.

"Don't break the circle," Mrs. Smith warned.

Matt was still trying to see how was the trick was performed. Okay, Zoé had just given away that Hana was the right name, but it didn't explain how Mrs. Smith had come up with it so quickly. Maybe she had a genuine gift. Well, perhaps she did, if people were prepared to make regular visits. If Hana had come through, he desperately wished he could ask her the questions directly rather than rely on Mrs. Smith's interpretation. He just hoped that the medium's Czech language was up to the job.

He needed to be convinced before they went any further. "Ask Hana what her surname is."

Mrs. Smith started to ask the question. Or at least she was asking something, judging by her tone of voice.

Again the reply in a high-pitched voice. After a few sentences Mrs. Smith opened her eyes and looked at Matt. "I am having difficulty keeping the communication open. Hana is not an easy spirit to commune with. Even now she is not fully at rest."

Matt realized he should have expected such a maneuver. Mrs. Smith had got one name right, but now she was struggling to find the surname. Maybe Hana was a common Jewish name in Czechoslovakia before World War Two.

Mrs. Smith spoke again, and the hairs on the back of Matt's neck stood up.

"Hana is speaking clearly now. She says her name is Eisler. Hana Eisler."

Matt sat in stunned amazement, still making finger contact with Zoé and the medium.

"Hana agrees for me to do the translation into English," Mrs. Smith added.

Something else must have been said, because whatever the girly voice had been saying, a lot more words than that had been used. He looked over at his digital recorder, and put on a wistful expression. Mrs. Smith, who seemed to miss nothing, spotted him looking.

"You must trust me, Mr. Rider," she said in her normal voice. "If you ask the questions I will be able to translate them into Czechoslovakian for Hana, and translate her answers into English for you. Would you like to start now?"

He nodded.

"I am going into a deeper trance," she explained. "The spirit of Hana will be able to talk through me. Please do not try to wake me."

Mrs. Smith made a low moaning noise and rocked slowly backwards and forwards with her eyes closed. Suddenly Matt felt her fingers in contact with his stiffen, and she sat absolutely still. The candle, burning on the sideboard directly behind her, gave her white gown an edge of light, almost an aura.

He waited and then realized that the next move had to be his. "Ask Hana if she can remember the war."

Mrs. Smith said something. The high-pitched voice answered briefly.

"She remembers many things," Mrs. Smith said. "She says that some of her experiences were too unpleasant to recall now."

Matt decided to dive straight in. "Ask Hana what she did with the music manuscripts that belonged to Vasek Tesar."

Again Mrs. Smith spoke, but this time the high-pitched reply sounded distinctly agitated. Matt could see that the medium was definitely the one doing the speaking, but the girl's voice sounded unreal. It was more like a Punch and Judy voice, and it didn't even seem to be coming from the woman's vocal cords.

Mrs. Smith appeared to be in great distress as she began to writhe around, still maintaining finger contact. "Hana says she is not ready to talk about the music," she cried out. The medium could almost be experiencing someone else's pain.

Zoé had been keeping quiet until now. "Please ask again about the music. It is important."

Mrs. Smith's own voice sounded distant. "Hana had such horrible experiences before she died, even from those she trusted. She says she wants to be sure that you are her friends. You must ask her some other questions first."

Matt was about to ask if Hana was definitely dead, but if this was her voice the question was unnecessary. "Ask her where she left her brooch before she died." Mrs. Smith might be able to guess some things, but she wouldn't know the answer to this question.

Mrs. Smith asked, and the high-pitched girl's voice replied. Mrs. Smith spoke again. "Hana says she left it in her locker at school, before she was caught by the Germans."

"Where did the Germans take her?" asked Matt. He waited for the translation.

"She was taken to a concentration camp close to Prague. It is a name like ... Terezín"

The two voices now spoke rapidly in turn, getting more and more agitated. And all the time Mrs. Smith moved her head as though in pain. "Hana wants to go back," she said. "She is reliving a terrible time in the gas chamber at Terezín. She thought she was being taken for a shower. People all around her are screaming. She is choking to death. She is dying."

Matt felt panic running through his body. "Ask her what she did with the manuscripts."

Mrs. Smith said something, and this time the reply from Hana was long. Suddenly it ended with a long penetrating scream that made Matt shiver. Goodness knows what Zoé was feeling.

"Hana says you must find her Uncle Libek Sykora and Aunty Vetka. They have a farm in a place called ... " The medium caught her breath and out came the shrill voice. Matt waited for the translation.

When the room went silent Mrs. Smith spoke again in English. "Hana says the place is called Ústí, and the farm is known as Krkavčí farma. There are loose bricks in the far wall inside the barn. That is where she hid her precious things. If you want them you must go there and find them. You are never to contact her again. You have made her remember how the Germans caught her and took her to Terezín. After the gas chamber they burned her body in the furnace and ... "

"Please stop it." Zoé jumped to her feet, breaking the circle. Mrs. Smith toppled face-down onto the table making sobbing noises. Matt was more worried for Zoé than he was for the medium.

"Are you all right?" he asked Zoé.

"I would like a drink of water," Zoé said faintly. "Please."

Mrs. Smith made a quick recovery. She sat bolt upright, opened her eyes, and looked around, blinking. It was as though she'd been woken suddenly in the early hours of the morning. "Is it over?" she asked.

"We heard all we needed to," Matt said. "Zoé needs a glass of water."

"I feel so tired," Mrs. Smith said. "The kitchen is across the way. Can you get it for her?"

Zoé held onto Matt tightly. "Do not leave me."

Mrs. Smith got reluctantly to her feet. "You must both stay here."

Matt moved his chair closer to Zoé and put his arm round her shoulder. "Was it the séance?"

"It was a terrible time. Terrible for Hana Eisler. I think the scream we heard was the one she made when she was dying in the gas chamber."

"What on earth is that woman up to?" From the kitchen he could hear the sound of cupboard doors opening and banging shut, and the rattle of crockery.

Mrs. Smith appeared eventually, holding a large mug of blue and white striped china. "This will have to do," she said breathlessly. "Are you all right?"

Zoé sipped the water. "Yes, I am feeling better now. Matt, you must take me straight home."

He went to the sideboard and retrieved his phone and recorder. "Mrs. Smith, do the names Libek Sykora and Vetka mean anything to you?"

"They are Czech names," Mrs. Smith said, frowning. "Libek is a man and Vetka is a woman. Where did you hear them?"

"You see," Zoé told Matt, "Monsieur Smith was right. The medium does not remember what happens in the séance."

"Did the girl give you those names?" Mrs. Smith asked in surprise.

Matt wasn't going to admit anything. "Do you know a place with a name that sounds like Oostee? It's probably in the Czech Republic."

"That will be Ústí," Mrs. Smith said. "U-S-T-I. I'm not sure where it is. You'll need a map."

"I'll get one. I'm taking Zoé home now. Please don't mention anything about this séance to your son."

"Of course I won't," the medium said in a motherly voice. "All my meetings are confidential. I would quickly lose my clients if I breathed a word of what goes on in this room. And as your wife has so aptly said, I do not remember conversations I have with those who have passed over."

"Thanks," Matt said. "And thank you for your time. It's been invaluable."

Mrs. Smith sighed deeply. "I feel drained, but the spirits will bear me up and renew my energy when you have gone. I feel that a terrible tragedy has been relived here this evening."

As they walked back to the car, Matt stopped and took the small recorder from his pocket. He pressed play and the medium spoke, this time from the small speaker, telling them that the spirits might not come if the recorder was too close. He skipped forward a few minutes. This time Hana's high-pitched voice came out, speaking a foreign language.

Zoé put her hands to her ears. "Stop it, Matt, you make me frightened. How can you stand it?"

He switched the recorder off and helped Zoé into the car. "This could be vital evidence of what the voice was saying."

Zoé clipped her seatbelt in place. "Do you not believe that Mrs. Smith was giving us a good translation?"

Matt turned the key and the engine started after the third attempt. "Mrs. Smith wasn't translating anything."

"But we heard her!"

"No we didn't. Mrs. Smith was not Mrs. Smith."

Zoé tutted. "Always you are suspicious."

"If a visitor asks you for a drink of water at home, would you know where to find the drinking glasses?"

"Of course."

"That woman didn't. It's like being on holiday in a rented cottage. You keep opening the wrong kitchen drawers and cupboards for days."

"You are right," Zoé agreed. "She was taking much too long. So maybe it was not Hana talking?"

"Whatever it was, it spooked me. I can still hear that weird high-pitched noise coming from the woman's throat."

"Matt, I am worried now. What are we going to do?"

He slowed the Mini, ready to turn in the road. Yes, it was obvious. "We'll take the recording to Olga. I bet Mrs Smith didn't bank on us doing that. We'll soon know if she was speaking in the Czech language, or speaking nonsense and pretending to translate it into English."

*

AS MATT feared, the young Slovakian was out on one of her late-night walks on the Mount. He wondered whether to leave the recorder with Father Alban to give to Olga when she got back, but decided against it. The young priest had definitely been anti the idea of a séance, and might do something drastic such as erasing the evidence. He told Father Alban he'd call back tomorrow lunchtime. Zoé stayed in the Mini, deciding not to risk a confrontation with any of the so-called crew.

"We'll have to be patient," Matt said when he returned to the car. "Tomorrow we'll know what was really being said at the séance."
Chapter Nineteen

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

THE MAN who was dragged from the train is taken to the truck. The German soldier watching Hana speaks to the captain who immediately points at her.

"What is in that case?" the captain shouts.

Hana feels a desperate need to go to the toalety before she wets herself. Surely the soldiers wouldn't follow her into the Dámy.

The cubicle smells disgusting. A girl is already in there, wearing a blue coat like Hana's. Hana recognizes her immediately. It is Katerina from the Music Academy. The other girls call her Kitty, but they are afraid to be friends with her because Kitty's father is an enemy of the Nazis. He is believed to have published posters denouncing the occupation. Kitty is two years older than Hana, but not much taller. She is crying, but when she sees Hana she points to the brown leather music case. She begs Hana to give it to her.
Chapter Twenty

KEN SEEMED surprisingly enthusiastic at work the next morning, talking excitedly about what he called the Prague treasure hunt. He flicked through the prospectus for the English Academy that Matt had brought back, and told Matt to take an extended lunch break to buy a guidebook of the Czech Republic.

"And if you do go to Prague, take the small ultraviolet lamp. If you find anything you can check to see if the paper is genuine."

"How do I do that?"

"It's common knowledge. Any paper made before the 1950s will stay dark."

"If there's anything at this Krkavčí farma place, it's bound to be old. What's the point in checking it?"

"Remember the PI code, kiddo: be prepared."

"I thought that was the Scouts."

"Whatever, it's good advice. You ought to keep it in mind. You jump before you think, that's your trouble."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right."

Matt remembered Ken coming back with the light a few months ago. He'd bought it in an electronics shop in town, but had never used it. The lamp looked like a small flashlight with a short fluorescent tube along one side.

"I'll look it out for you while you're shopping." Ken handed the prospectus back. "And make sure you take this to Prague while you're at it. You never know, you might need to convince someone you're connected with the college."

"Maybe I should get a letter of recommendation from the dean, and let everyone know what I'm doing." Matt started down the steep stairs. But even so, he might as well pack the prospectus. It had some useful phone numbers in there -- if he got into serious trouble in Prague.

The best place to find a guidebook was the bookshop where he'd first met Zoé. His luck was turning at last. Not only did the shop have a selection of guides to the Czech Republic, it also had a decent map of the Czech and Slovak Republics. He looked in the index of the guidebook and found Ústí. It was spelled exactly as Mrs. Smith had said, although it had a couple of accents on the letters. He bought the book and the map, and returned to his Mini.

The guidebook said that Ústí was an industrial town, on the river north of Prague by the German border. The book also advised against visiting the place except by necessity.

He unfolded the map and found Prague, which was called by its Czech spelling of Praha. It wasn't too easy handling the map in the Mini but at least he wasn't attracting the attention he would have got in the bookshop.

The River Vltava, aka the Moldau, ran through the center of Prague and wound its way north -- the river that featured in one of Smetana's most famous compositions. He traced its course with a finger and quickly came to Ústí, slightly nearer to Dresden in Germany than it was to Prague.

Matt traced the Vltava back towards Prague and there he saw it, the name Terezín. How Hana had got from Ústí to the concentration camp in Terezín he had no idea, but everything seemed to be fitting into place nicely. Ústí, mentioned in the séance, and Terezín, found on the Internet and on Blake's microfiche. He had three independent sources saying that Hana had died in Terezín. Everyone knew that Jews were gassed in what they thought were going to be showers. That way it was easier to get them inside.

Never mind if the medium wasn't really Mrs. Smith. As long as Olga said that the words and translations on the recording from the séance matched, the job was definitely on.

He drove to the Homeless Anchor Trust and parked just down the road. His orange Mini might be an object of derision to his neighbors, but Father Alban had warned that the people here could see it is a status symbol and be resentful.

Olga was back from her walk and came out in great excitement when Father Alban told her she had a visitor. From the look on her face she was expecting to be shown more than a small digital recorder. Matt remembered how he'd promised to get Olga a pair of sneakers and a book on birds, and felt bad. He certainly intended to do it, but other things had seemed more pressing. He now realized he'd let the young woman down badly.

"I'll bring your sneakers and a book on birds this evening. That's a promise." Somehow he had to make sure he remembered to do it. "Size three isn't it?"

Olga nodded, a slight sign of hope coming back to her face. "I have not looked at the pages you gave Father Alban," she said apologetically. "I will do it this afternoon."

Matt flicked on the recorder and the sound of the medium's voice came out, speaking Czech. "Can you understand it?"

Olga moved closer and asked him to play it again.

He decided to take her down the street. He didn't want Father Alban coming out to see what was happening. He put the recorder close to Olga's ear.

She listened for a moment and nodded. "The woman is asking if there is a girl from Prague in the room." She gazed up at Matt with eager eyes. "Is that right?"

He shrugged. "I don't speak a word of Czech. It is Czech isn't it?" After all, if Mrs. Smith wasn't Mrs. Smith and a stand-in had conducted the séance, she might have been speaking any language.

"It is good Czech," Olga said.

Within thirty minutes Matt had discovered that the questions in Czech were the ones he'd told Mrs. Smith to ask, and the answers were exactly as the medium had translated them during the séance. Zoé always said he was unnecessarily suspicious, but it was his job to be suspicious. He'd make some sort of apology to Zoé when he got home this evening.

"Olga," he said, "you've been such a help."

But Olga looked decidedly shaken. "What are these voices? They are frightening me."

Matt decided that a little dishonesty was justified, especially if it saved Olga from having nightmares. "It's part of a play."

"In the Czech language?"

He thought quickly. "Most of the play's in English. It's for the Helios Music Academy, where the staff speak Czech. They'll know what the play is about when they see it."

Olga nodded and smiled. "I have seen the Helios Music Academy. Often Salman and I go walking on the big hill at night. We see all sorts of wild animals, like badgers and foxes. I do not like the city. Back home in Slovakia my parents worked in the country."

"So why did you come to England?" From what he'd seen in the guidebook the Czech Republic and Slovakia looked to be amazing countries.

"I came five years ago for a better life," Olga said simply. "Many bad things happened to me in Slovakia."

"And this is a better life?" Matt pointed to the HAT building.

Olga shook her head. "Maybe I will go back. I have no friends here except Salman."

He decided he'd got into deep enough water. He wasn't even sure he was saying the right things. "I'll bring you your sneakers and the book after work. And I really need you to take a look at those pages for me."

*

MATT PHONED the Helios Music Academy when he got back to the office, and asked to be put through to the dean. As soon as he said he was willing to go to Prague, Blake sounded relieved, almost excited.

"You'd better tell me what sort of breakthrough you've made," he said.

Matt realized he needed to get to the farm as quickly as possible. Martin Smith's mother, or whoever was doing the séance, might have taken in much more than she claimed, and Martin Smith could be packing his bags to get to Ústí right now.

"A branch of Hana's family lived on a farm, about forty miles north of Prague."

"You've found out all that from the Internet?" Blake sounded dubious. "You must make sure you've got the right place."

Matt wasn't going to say he got the information from a séance, nor would he mention the loose bricks in the barn. He left Blake's question unanswered. "Hana went to the farm in 1942. If the family is still farming, they could easily have a box of Hana's things in the loft. Farmers never seem to get rid of anything."

"It's a bit of slim clue." Blake didn't seem exactly thrilled. "I was hoping you'd come up with a better lead than that. Make sure you get the name of the place right. I can't afford too many mistakes."

"Trust me," Matt told him, trying to make light of things. "I'm a PI."

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Blake sounded more intrigued than annoyed.

"Nineteen-forty-two was a long time ago. The trail's been cold for years. My information may turn out to be zip, but I have to start somewhere."

"You don't sound very sure, Mr. Rider."

"It's a good lead, but I can't take it any further until I've been to Prague."

Blake laughed. "I think you're not telling me everything you've found out."

Matt said nothing.

Blake seemed to catch on. "That's good enough for me, Mr. Rider. I'll organize tickets now, for you and your pretty wife."

"I'd rather you left it until I've had a chance to talk to Zoé. You know she's pregnant. She might prefer to stay back. I only need to be in the Czech Republic for a couple of days."

"So short?"

"It's Thursday today," Matt said. "If I arrive in Prague tomorrow morning, I can sort out some transport and get to the farm in Ústí on Saturday. I may need to stay there overnight, so look up the flights and see if there's anything useful that will get me home Monday." He could have added, with the manuscripts, but he wasn't going to let his enthusiasm run away. He'd probably be lucky to find the right farm, let alone a barn with a hiding place in the back wall.

"By the way," Blake said, "I don't suppose you know what happened to my microfiche?"

Matt felt his blood run cold. "The one with Hana's records?" He wanted to sound as innocent as possible. "I saw you take it out of the microfiche reader."

"I put it back in its envelope. Or at least I thought I did. I wanted to look at it again today and all I could find was a microfiche about some damn music magazine."

"I know what happened." Matt tried to sound helpful. "That film that was in the carrier when we got there. You put it up on the shelf above the reader. You probably muddled them up when we were leaving."

Blake grunted. "I've already thought of that. There's nothing on the shelf now."

"Perhaps one of the students put it away."

"That's typical." Blake sounded angry. "No one puts anything away when you want them to. I'd have to go through thousands of damn films in the filing system. I can't very well put up a notice asking if anyone has seen a microfiche with the records of Hana Eisler. I'm not supposed to have the film in the first place."

"Sorry," Matt said. "I can't help. I'll ring you this evening and let you know if Zoé wants to go with me to Prague." He put the phone down. Trust Blake to want to look at the microfiche again.

Ken agreed that Matt couldn't return the microfiche now that Mack the Hack had taken his scissors to it. "Mind you," he said, "I think I'd be a bit miffed if something confidential like that just disappeared."

"Ken, let me tell you a tale that will make the hairs on your arms stand on end."

When Matt had finished his account of the séance, he picked up the digital recorder and played a section with the hysterical voice. Ken stared at him openmouthed. "I thought Father Alban told you not to do it," he said at last.

Matt shrugged. "I don't think any harm's been done. But if the medium wasn't Martin Smith's mother, the whole thing could be highly iffy."

"Perhaps Mrs. Smith was ill and didn't want to lose the money. How much did you pay her?"

"Not much. What do you think? She got someone to take her place?"

"I'd put money on it, kiddo. Everything else stacks up, so stop worrying and get over to Prague. The sooner you get this sorted out the sooner you'll be able to give my work your undivided attention. What do you think of the rugs? I reckon they've raised the tone of the office."

"They look great," Matt told him without much sincerity. "Is it okay if I leave early? I have to buy my new girlfriend a pair of sneakers and a book."

*

OLGA GAVE a little squeak of delight. From her reaction Matt felt she could be imagining she'd been given a designer pair of sneakers and a copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

"I have looked through all the pages you gave to Father Alban," she said, her dark eyes gleaming. "There are many sad things written there. Do you want me to tell you?"

Matt nodded in approval as Olga jumped up and down, testing the feel of her new footwear. The sneakers seemed to be a good fit, which was a relief. "They're the records of a Czech schoolgirl who lived a long time ago."

"I know," Olga chipped in. "She went missing in the war."

At least Olga was telling the truth. She must have been through all the pages. "Are there any records of her family?"

Olga nodded. "She had a younger sister. Her name was Rosa."

"Anyone else?"

"She had parents."

"And?"

"Do you mean grandparents?"

He shook his head. At the moment Hana's immediate family wasn't important. "How about uncles and cousins?" Maybe there was something about Otik Eisler.

"I will get the pages. Would you like to come in?"

Matt knew he had to face up to going inside sometime. He followed Olga through the outer door. The corridor inside the HAT building was brightly painted with gaudy murals depicting rows of shops with people walking past them. Almost certainly these had been done by residents, past and present. He felt the effect was more depressing than uplifting, but it wasn't for him to say anything. Several men stared at him suspiciously as he waited in the hallway for Olga to return.

"Yes," she said when she returned. "I thought she did."

"Did what?"

"Hana had an aunt and uncle. Libek and Vetka Sykora. The principal of the Academy was told to contact them if anything happened to Hana, and he couldn't get in touch with her parents." Olga sighed. "I have heard much about the war back in Slovakia. Hana was Jewish, yes?"

He nodded. "Does it say where the uncle and aunt live?" This might be too much to hope for.

"It says they live just outside a place called Ústí, and the farm is called Krkavčí farma, which means the Farm of the Raven."

Matt reached out. "Show me how it's written."

Olga pointed to the Czech words. It was easy enough to read them with the pronunciation Olga used. He now had corroboration of the information that came from the medium at the séance. So whoever Mrs. Smith was, the trip to Prague wouldn't be wasted. Krkavčí farma \-- Raven's Farm. Why hadn't Blake told him about the farm? Perhaps the person who did translation for him hadn't got this far. Not that he could show it to Blake. The film was now in four strips, thanks to Mac the Hack's butchery.

All he had to do next was to talk Zoé into coming with him.

"YOU KNOW I would like to come with you," Zoé told him when he got home. "I have never been to Prague, and I have heard that there are many musical concerts in the churches."

"We won't be going to any concerts," Matt said. "We have to get to a place called Ústí, find the farm, and fly back Monday. Time is something we're not going to have."

Zoé started to peel an apple. "I have the morning sickness to worry about, and do not wish to travel so far. I am sure Monsieur Blake will understand if you go on your own. It will save him the money, so perhaps you will be able to stay in a better hotel."

He didn't want to look at it like this, even though the chance of a bit of luxury wouldn't come amiss. "I said I'd phone Blake this evening. I'll tell him to book a ticket just for me -- if you're sure."

"Oui, I am sure." Zoé finished peeling the apple and pointed the small kitchen knife at him. "Please be careful in Prague. I do not want anything to happen to you."
Chapter Twenty-One

1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

KITTY EMPTIES the brown music case and gives the large collection of papers back to Hana. Hana pushes the thick bundle inside her blue coat. She has to do the belt up tightly or everything will fall to the ground. She glances down and for a moment she smiles. She looks different now, like the fat German girl in her class.

Kitty tells her to keep quiet and stay in the toalety. She says that the captain always brings the soldiers to the station at this time of the morning to meet the train from the east. Yesterday the captain shot her father on this station and took her brothers and three sisters away. They have been sent to the camp at Terezín. She knows she will never see them again. She is going to shoot the captain with the pistol her father kept from the last war.

Hana warns Kitty that she will not be able to get near enough to the captain to be sure of hitting him, but Kitty says that the captain will want to see what is in the music case. She will take it to him, and when she is close enough she will pull the trigger. The Germans will not be expecting a girl to have a gun. Hana cannot understand bravery like this. Kitty is prepared to kill and be killed to avenge her father. Could she do the same if the soldiers kill Papa?

Kitty gives Hana a quick kiss on the cheek and walks calmly out through the door onto the platform. Through a gap in the door Hana sees a soldier seize Kitty by the arm and lead her away. Hana stays hidden in the foul smelling cubicle and hears the captain call, "Come!" Then she remembers that her name and address are written inside the music case. The Germans will read it and think that Kitty is her. Soon they will be hunting for Papa.

Hana puts her hands to her face and presses her thumbs into her ears.

The shot makes her jump.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Prague

MATT EMERGED from the airport, surprised to see so many Skoda cars in the waiting area. He guessed he should have been expecting this, since Skodas came from the Czech Republic, but the association hadn't clicked before now. He felt tempted to take a taxi to the city center, but opted to share a minibus with four students. He gave the students slightly more than his share of the cost and they seemed happy. His guidebook said this sort of arrangement was the cheapest way to get to the city center, and he was on a tight budget if he was going to stay within Blake's paltry advance.

As the minibus approached Prague from the top of the hill he could see the city laid out like a map, with towers and church spires rising among the terracotta rooftops. The driver spoke very little English but Matt managed to get dropped by the main railway station. He'd been expecting something on the scale of Paris, but the center of Prague didn't seem to be much larger than the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame areas of Paris combined. At least he'd be saving on public transport.

Rather than cut through the maze of small side streets he opted to go to Wenceslas Square, which the guidebook said was rather like the Champs-Élysées. The wide street had grand buildings on each side, but the resemblance to the most famous boulevard in Paris ended there. He could see plenty of parked cars but very little in the way of moving traffic. Wide flowerbeds down the center gave the place an air of peace -- something that was totally lacking in its French counterpart.

Blake had mentioned some self-catering apartments in an alleyway just off Wenceslas Square and here he rang the bell. The receptionist showed him to a couple of rooms at what he had to admit was a reasonable price. He threw his pack into the corner, had a quick shower, and went out to put the first phase of his plan into action: find a guided tour.

Several shops advertised city tours, and he found one that was starting within the hour. It was short and cheap, and probably nothing more than a quick run in a minibus around the old streets and up to the castle across the river. Exactly what he wanted. To make a booking he'd need a phone card from one of the kiosks selling newspapers and magazines. He booked the tour then phoned Zoé to let her know he'd arrived safely. One of the nurses on duty in the hospital ward had been briefed to get her when he rang.

"Everything okay?" he asked. The hospital didn't like the nurses being rung while on duty, but they were making an exception this time. He wasn't going to leave a pregnant wife worrying about whether he'd survived the journey.

"I'll miss you tonight," Zoé told him when he'd finished explaining about his accommodation.

The money on the card seemed to be running out rapidly. "And I'll miss you, girl. I'd better go." He'd need to make a few more phone calls before the trip was over.

Two elderly couples were standing where he'd been told to wait for the city tour, and he guessed they were waiting to join it with him. They seemed to know each other and were chatting away in English. He kept quiet. He wanted to collar the tour guide as soon as he could, and didn't want to explain his business to anyone he'd befriended along the way.

The minibus was old and cramped and he had to sit with his feet on one of the rear wheel arches, giving very little the room for his legs. Speed bumps in the old quarter of the town proved to be no deterrent to the driver, who seemed determined to use them to test the springs to the limit.

It wasn't until they had a ten minute break at the top of the hill by Hradčany, Prague Castle, that Matt got a chance to speak to the guide who'd been giving a running commentary in English, a small man in his mid forties.

"My name's Matt." Matt produced the map of the Czech Republic from his shoulder bag, but kept it folded. "Do you know the country well?"

The guide looked at the map, obviously intrigued. "Good afternoon. My name is Stanislav. I have traveled much in the Republic. What is it you wish to know?" His English was excellent, which meant he could do more than repeat a script parrot-fashion for the benefit of the tour passengers.

"Are you free tomorrow, Stanislav?"

The guide kept eyeing the map. "Tomorrow is Saturday. I do not work Saturday and Sunday. The tour company uses other guides for the weekends. Why do you ask?"

Matt knew he'd got Stanislav hooked. Slowly he unfolded the map and laid it on the front passenger seat. "I'm a private detective from England."

Stanislav looked at Matt closely. "And you want me to help?"

"I don't speak a word of Czech. I'm only here until Monday, and I have to get to a place called Ústí tomorrow." He pointed to the town on the map. "A client has asked me to trace a family. They lived on a farm in Ústí."

The guide laughed. "A farm in Ústí? The closest thing to a farm in Ústí is the milk processing plant." He laughed again.

"You mean it's been industrialized?"

"The last cow to die in Ústí probably coughed to death in 1920."

"There must be farms in the countryside all around."

"Of course there are farms, my friend, but we will need to know the name of the village."

"I don't have the name of the village. All I have is Ústí and the name of the farm."

Stanislav drew his breath in through his mouth and shook his head sadly. "You are only here until Monday? Impossible, I am afraid."

Matt felt frustrated. The medium hasn't been nearly as clever as he'd thought. Or maybe it was the spirit of Hana that was to blame. Hana would have known the area well, and perhaps hadn't felt the need to give an exact address. "How about a phone book?" It was an obvious next step.

Stanislav shrugged. "We can go to Ústí on the train tomorrow and make inquiries. But are you sure it is Ústí nad Labem, and not Ústí nad Orlicí you are looking for?"

"You mean there are two Ústís?"

"Most certainly. It is a source of confusion to many people. Ústí nad Orlicí is far to the east, in north Bohemia. It is a small country town. There will be farms there."

"I can hire a car."

The passengers for the tour started to trickle back. "We would be better using the train. It is only a two-hour journey by train." Stanislav put his hand on Matt's shoulder. "When we get back to the center of Prague and drop the passengers off, the two of us will have a drink and discuss the matter further." He looked up at the first woman who was making her way up the shallow steps. "All aboard for Charles Bridge," he called.

It seemed to take forever for the passengers to get seated, making Matt impatient. He didn't know anything about Stanislav, but as long as the man didn't want to be paid too much, the help he so badly needed was sitting in the driving seat of the minibus. So far so good. Taking the tour had been a good move.

Half an hour later he and Stanislav were sitting under a large umbrella in a pavement café in Staroměstské náměstí, the Old Town Square, drinking a local lager beer. Stanislav said he had a woman friend who'd gone to Plzeň for the weekend, so apart from drinking he had nothing to do for the next couple of days.

"I can't pay you much," Matt told him. He didn't want to show his cash. The wad of money looked thick, but it had to pay for his accommodation and food. If the Ústí he needed was far to the east, the train journey might be expensive. He couldn't tell Stanislav what the job was really about, so he'd have to invent something plausible. "I'm trying to trace a family in connection with an inheritance, and we can't find them."

"You are a lawyer?"

"A private detective. I'm working for a lawyer." He hoped he sounded convincing.

"Maybe I can see your map."

Matt spread it across their laps.

"Let me find Ústí nad Orlicí." Stanislav's breath smelled of alcohol. He studied the map for less than a minute and pushed it over onto Matt. "We can be in Ústí by noon tomorrow." He looked at Matt closely. "You have the name of the people?"

Matt nodded. "In the war they were called Sykora, but I don't know how long they lived there. The farm is called Krkavčí farma."

Stanislav frowned. "I thought you said the descendants of the family were still there."

"I told you I don't know who's living there now." He felt quite sure he'd made that clear. "It will help if the same family is still there, but the main thing is to find what I'm looking for."

"Surely it would be most vital to contact the family if there is an inheritance for them."

Matt breathed in deeply. Maybe he shouldn't have made up the story about working for a lawyer who was trying to track down a family in the Czech Republic in connection with a will. But he'd wanted to allay any possible suspicions about the reason for the trip to Ústí. It seemed as though his caution was having the opposite effect.

Stanislav seemed to be decidedly interested. "It is confidential. Yes?"

Matt reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of the English Academy prospectus. Ken had been right about bringing it. "Have you heard of the Helios Music Academy here in Prague?"

Stanislav nodded. "It is famous." He reached across and took the prospectus from Matt. "I did not know that there is one in England."

"The governors of the English Academy think there may be a financial benefit for the family who lived in Ústí in the war, and they want me to investigate. That's all I'm going to tell you at present."

Stanislav seemed to take the hint. "First I will ask at the main post office in Prague. Krkavčí farma, you say? They will, I think, have records that will give us the name of the farmer who lives there now. Now, how much are you going to pay me for my help?"

It didn't take long to do a deal. Stanislav was obviously at a loose end and had heard that the beer in Ústí nad Orlicí was particularly good. "We get the train from the main railway station tomorrow morning. But I do not want to stay there overnight. Can we do everything in one day?"

"Maybe. As long as we can find the farm quickly."

Stanislav was already on his third glass. "I will collect you from your hotel ..." He paused. "You must tell me where you are staying. And you will pay for my train ticket. Yes?"

Stanislav seemed to be particularly thirsty. Maybe the tickets were going to be the cheap part of the expedition.

"We have to walk to the post office." Stanislav stood up a little unsteadily. "When we get there I will go in alone. They may not be so helpful with a foreigner."

Matt blinked. He hadn't really thought himself as a foreigner. But he was an alien in a foreign land, unable to pronounce the words on the signposts, and certainly not able to interpret any of them.

The post office was in a wide street. Matt looked at a tram that was passing and realized the street led straight to where he was staying in Wenceslas Square. When Stanislav went inside, Matt leaned against the wall to wait, fascinated by the assortment of old and modern trams that passed regularly.

After spending some time he switched his attention to the girls walking by. Then he glanced at his watch. Stanislav must be running into some sort of difficulty. Twenty minutes had gone and still no sign of the guide. Eventually Stanislav emerged with a broad grin on his face, the first time Matt had seen him so much as smile.

"There is a Krkavčí farma in Ústí nad Orlici, and it is occupied by Tomas Dusek and his wife Lenka. Are they the names you were hoping for?"

"Dusek?" Matt shook his head. "I was hoping it was Sykora. It doesn't matter. I still need to speak to them." He hoped his disappointment didn't show too much.

Stanislav told Matt to be outside his hotel at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, and went off somewhere for another drink, leaving Matt to walk on to Wenceslas Square.

Most of the shops he passed seemed to be selling Art Nouveau souvenirs. A jeweler had a display with a selection of painted eggs and small brooches. Since Zoé liked Hana's brooch he decided to go in and see if he could find a suitable present for her.

There was nothing at all like Hana's brooch, but perhaps that was just as well. A replica might bring back unfortunate memories of the séance. He chose a medium-sized brooch of a fairy, made up from pink and red stones. It had wings, but there the resemblance to a butterfly ended. He just hoped Zoé would like it.

It was much too early for an evening meal, but the journey and the tour of old Prague seemed to have made him hungry. He returned to the old part of the town, down the narrow cobbled streets. As he passed tall buildings with ornamental baroque facades, he was expecting to come across the Czech equivalent of a delicatessen.

A small supermarket was the best he could find, and he had to make do with an over-ripe apple and a dry bread roll. Zoé would say it was healthy, but he'd not come to Prague for his health. The bottle of Czech lager was some compensation for his disappointment.
Chapter Twenty-Three

MATT WOKE after a reasonable night's sleep, having only been disturbed once by noisy guests talking on the landing outside his door some time after midnight. It was just after seven a.m. Stanislav had told him to be ready at nine-twenty for the nine fifty-three train, which gave plenty of time to take a walk around the local area. He was now on Central European time which had meant putting his watch forward one hour at the airport yesterday. He yawned. Maybe his body clock still needed time to adjust. He wouldn't phone Zoé yet. It was only just after six a.m. in England.

The small department stores would have suited Zoé if she'd come, but they were still closed and not really his scene. He was afraid of not getting back in time if he went sight-seeing in the old town, so he returned to his room to read. The railway station was only a ten minute walk from the hotel, and at nine he phoned Zoé from a roadside phone kiosk and checked that all was well. At nine-twenty he could see no sign of Stanislav outside the hotel. He hoped the man had stayed sober enough last night to remember the arrangements. It was nearly nine-thirty when the Czech guide called across from the other side of Wenceslas Square.

They hurried to the station and as soon as they got there Stanislav disappeared. The television monitors in the entrance hall showed a bewildering number of destinations, but Matt could see no mention of Ústí nad Orlicí. He checked in his pocket for his money but kept it well out of sight. Was it worth making the journey alone if Stanislav was now under a bar table? Even if he did somehow manage to get to Ústí by himself, he might as well be landing on Mars for all the use his communication skills would be. And he wouldn't stand the slightest chance of speaking to the owner of any farm around Ústí, never mind the right one.

He jumped as a large hand descended heavily on his shoulder from behind. Stanislav stood there grinning. "The toilet," he explained, burping. "Give me the money quickly, my friend, and I will buy the tickets. I will get the cheapest ones."

The train was packed, and Matt wished he'd taken more of a part in the booking arrangements. It looked as though he and Stanislav would have to stand for the next two hours, while passengers in the first-class compartments were able to lounge in comfort for only fifty percent extra. And fifty percent extra of cheap was still a bargain.

When the train approached the town of Kolín, Stanislav told him to be ready. Two passengers rose and Stanislav beat everyone in the rush for their seats, keeping one for Matt. Stanislav nodded gently to himself and closed his eyes. Two minutes later his head had fallen to one side and he seemed to be fast asleep. Last night must have been a heavy one.

Matt started to follow their route on the map as he didn't intend to overshoot their destination. Stanislav slept soundly through the next two stops, but something seemed to wake him five minutes before they got to Ústí. Maybe he'd had one eye half open and was not as lost to the world as he'd seemed.

"Good." Stanislav stretched and yawned, and got rather unsteadily to his feet. Matt hoped it was the effects of sleep rather than a delayed reaction to drinking. The station was a long walk from the town, but Stanislav seemed a capable walker in spite of his insides being weighed down with lager.

Ústí seemed to be a smaller town than Matt was expecting, but it still had ornate buildings similar to Prague in the center. Surrounded by hills this seemed like a pleasant place to retire from the world. But the thought of finding the Dusek's farm in the area made him feel a little dispirited.

"Show me your map," Stanislav demanded.

Matt unfolded it on a low wall and sat down.

Stanislav studied it and shook his head. "The local roads are not shown on here."

"Let's see if we can buy a better one from the shop over there," Matt suggested.

"That is a good idea, my friend. And we will have a drink and some lunch in the bar over there while we look at it."

The small shop came up trumps, having a map of the whole area suitable for walkers and cyclists. Stanislav retired to a pavement restaurant to study it. He ordered something called Ústecký goulash for both of them. The beer came first, and while drinking it Stanislav found what he was looking for. "The farm is ... " He jabbed a stubby forefinger onto the paper. "There."

"And how do we get ... there?"

"By taxi."

Matt looked around. In the square a driver stood talking to a woman by the side of his taxi. It was all very well for Stanislav to suggest exotic travel. He wasn't paying the bills. "Is there a bus?"

Stanislav roared with laughter. Either the beer or Ústí nad Orlicí had brought on a sense of humor. Maybe he was relaxing. Maybe he needed to get out more. He tapped Matt on the arm. "It is not far. A taxi will not be expensive. Remember, I have to be back in Prague tonight. Ah, here comes our food."

Matt was impatient to get started to the farm, but he also felt hungry. The goulash had what looked like large dumplings floating in it, consisting of various hard lumps -- strange to look at, but tasty enough. The rest of the goulash could have been beef or horse. Whatever it was, Stanislav seemed to be enjoying it almost as much as his beer.

As the taxi started to leave the town Matt watched the dashboard meter ticking up like the price on a pump in a gas station. This part of the journey wasn't going to be inexpensive.

They hit the open countryside surprisingly quickly, making their way up a steep hill on a narrow road. The driver slowed by a farm gate where a long straight drive made its way to a low house with terracotta tiles. The walls of the building had been painted white, but not very recently.

"Krkavčí farma," the driver announced. Then he added something else in Czech.

"He wants to know if he should drive all the way up to the farm," Stanislav translated.

Matt looked up the driveway. It was only a couple of hundred yards and he didn't want to attract attention. The numbers on the taxi meter didn't seem to make sense. "Ask the driver how much I owe him."

Stanislav asked the question and Matt winced at the translation into English. He counted out the money in Czech krona, gave a bit extra for a tip, and asked Stanislav to tell the driver to go.

"How will we get back to Ústí?" Stanislav asked in surprise.

"Maybe the farmer will drive us back to the station." Not very likely. He still hadn't made up his mind whether to reveal the true purpose of this visit, but he didn't need a taxi clocking up a fortune in waiting time.

As they driver reversed in the road, Matt looked up at the farmhouse, taking in as much detail as he could. To the left of the house he could see a large wooden barn and tried not to feel disappointed. The timber looked new and certainly didn't date back sixty or seventy years. Maybe it had been built to replace an earlier brick construction, the one that Hana had known. Maybe in the spirit world you couldn't see what was going on back here.

"You look worried." Stanislav's voice disturbed his speculation.

"Don't forget," Matt warned, "I don't want anyone here to know why I've come from England."

Stanislav grinned. "Because they might claim the inheritance that is meant for someone else?"

"Exactly."

Matt led the way up what in effect was a mud and gravel track, with a small area of woodland beyond. A dog barked somewhere close, followed quickly by another. But the animals didn't come racing down the track so they were probably tethered. Perhaps in the wooden barn.

"You want me to knock on the door?"

Stanislav's question didn't need to be answered. A man appeared from round the back of the house and shouted something that didn't sound particularly friendly.

Stanislav stopped. "He would like us to go away."

Matt hadn't expected to find the place unoccupied on a Saturday morning, but he'd been hoping to nose around on his own while Stanislav kept the owners chatting. "Keep walking. He won't hurt us."

The dogs sounded as though they were ready to do a fair bit of hurting, but there was still no sign of them.

"He says his name is Tomas Dusek and he is asking why we are here."

Matt nodded. He'd guessed that much for himself. But the man didn't have a gun and he'd stopped waving. He now stood with his hands on his hips defiantly.

Stanislav said something and Tomas Dusek started forward. Stanislav continued talking while the man listened. The reply was brief.

"What was all that about?" Matt asked.

"I told him you are from England, but your grandparents were originally from Czechoslovakia."

"They weren't."

"Of course not. But I told them your grandparents lived in Ústí and knew the family who used to live here at this farm. I said your grandmother used to stay here in the holidays. He thinks you have come to see the place you heard so much about."

Matt nodded in appreciation. Stanislav was actually quite a star when it came to it. "Ask if I can have a look round."

Again the conversation in Czech. Stanislav began shaking his head and laughing. He pointed at Matt and said something, but the farmer didn't join in the laughter.

"Now what?" Matt asked when they'd finished.

"He wants to be sure that you have not come to buy the farm."

"Buy it?"

Stanislav nodded. "He thinks that word has got round that he wants to sell. Last month he found a man round the back of the farmhouse who said he had heard that the farm was for sale and he was interested in buying it."

"But you didn't tell him about the inheritance?"

"No, but I think you will find he is your friend because I have told him that your grandparents came from Ústí nad Orlicí. Tomas knows that you do not speak any Czech, but he would like to shake your hand."

Thanks to Stanislav's fairy tales the farmer came forward and thrust out a large hand, then said something that sounded good-humored enough, and clapped Matt hard on the shoulder.

Stanislav did the translation. "He wants you to come into the house and meet Lenka his wife. They would like to hear all about your Czech grandparents."

Czech grandparents? He should have predicted this outcome from Stanislav's make-believe. "You got me into this, and I'm relying on you not to dig any more holes."

Stanislav's response was a loud laugh.

Tomas Dusek led the way round to the back of the farmhouse. From close up the white painted walls looked even more dismal than they had from the bottom of the track. The farmer and then Stanislav lowered their heads to enter the wide but low doorway from the yard.

Matt stopped.

At the end of the farmyard, hidden by the farmhouse until now, he could see a small brick barn with a galvanized tin roof. The roof was relatively new but the bricks that made up the structure of the barn were easily a hundred years old.

This was where Hana had come in 1942 to escape the terrors of Nazi occupation. In that brick barn she had hidden the priceless manuscripts.

"Hurry up," Stanislav called from the farmhouse doorway. "I need some details of your grandparents."
Chapter Twenty-Four

TOMAS DUSEK'S wife, Lenka, was by far the more talkative of the two and insisted on finding out as much as possible about Matt's imaginary grandparents. While they all had coffee, Stanislav was clearly enjoying himself. Maybe the opportunity to be the center of attention was what had made him become a tour guide in Prague. He told Matt not to worry about coming up with a good cover story. He'd do it, as long as Matt pretended to give him the details. Soon Stanislav sounded as though he was inventing a convincingly fictitious background to Matt's family. Whatever he was saying, it went unchallenged.

Tomas and Lenka sat enraptured as Stanislav waffled on, making an occasional wise nod of their heads at something that seemed to make sense to them. Maybe Stanislav should be a private investigator rather than a tour guide. He obviously had the natural ability to build a cover story without having to think too hard about it. Matt just hoped that there wouldn't be too many inconsistencies, or he and Stanislav would find themselves on the road back to town -- with the two farm dogs after them.

"Tell them I want to look round the farm," Matt told Stanislav when things had gone quiet.

Stanislav passed on the request and Tomas stood up, saying something in Czech that sounded like permission. Stanislav told Matt that of course he could, and Tomas would be delighted to show him round.

Matt shook his head. The last thing he needed was an eyewitness. "Explain to Tomas that this is a very emotional time for me. You can tell him that my grandmother often came here as a child and I want to relive that time quietly. Tell him I hope he understands." He felt pleased with his response. Stanislav wasn't the only one who could come up with a credible story.

Lenka asked her husband to check that the two dogs were tied up safely in the wooden barn and, through Stanislav, told Matt to take his time looking round. Things were going really well -- assuming the spirit of Hana hadn't been malicious. The way things had fallen into place so far, even though it had taken a bit of smart detective work to get here, made him think the information was genuine. Another five minutes and he'd know for sure.

Tomas returned to report that the dogs were indeed secure, and as Matt was leaving he turned to see Tomas fetching a bottle of what looked like some sort of home-made brew from a cupboard beside the large stone fireplace.

"Slivovitz. Plum brandy." Stanislav grinned with embarrassment. "Tomas and Lenka suggest we have a little drink to occupy ourselves while you are looking round the farm."

Matt suspected that not all the conversation that Stanislav had been translating had been about his mythical grandparents. Well, the slivovitz would keep the three of them out of his way while he recovered the booty.

From the right-hand side of the farmyard he could hear snuffling noises. It sounded like pigs. The two dogs obviously recognized his hesitant footsteps as those of an intruder and set up a strident duet. He wasn't about to waste time going to see them, and made straight for the low brick barn with the tin roof. The double doors were secured with a heavy wooden beam resting in two massive U-shaped hooks. As he was struggling to lift this out he heard a voice behind. It was Tomas.

Stanislav was with him. "Tomas says there is nothing in this barn for you to see."

"Tell him my grandmother had her first kiss in here with the farmer's son."

Stanislav translated, and Tomas laughed so loudly that Lenka came out to ask what was causing so much merriment. The home brew must be exceptionally strong.

Tomas came forward and lifted the beam easily from its mountings and motioned with his large hand for Matt to enter.

All Matt could do was stand and stare, while the farming couple looked over his shoulders and giggled. The invention of his grandmother's first kiss had seemed a good one at the time, but now he was having second thoughts. Maybe the inhabitants of Ústí didn't kiss.

"It is my fault," Stanislav explained when the laughter died down. "I told them that your grandmother was often sent here as a punishment for breaking wind in the kitchen."

Matt waved them all away. "Go back to the house and leave me here," he pleaded. Stanislav's fabrications were not to be relied on after all.

Almost reluctantly the three Czechs returned to the farmhouse and presumably another round of drinks. At the far end of the barn, where the manuscripts were allegedly hidden, large bales of hay or straw -- being a townie he never could tell one from the other -- had been placed against the far wall, hiding it completely from sight.

He used the vertical ventilation slits to judge the thickness of the side walls. The barn seemed to have been built with a double skin of bricks, so it should be possible to remove bricks from the inside and hide something behind them. But did Hana have the ability to take out enough bricks? As far as he could remember from the séance, Hana said that the bricks were already loose. There was nothing for it but to remove the bales. And for that he would need help.

Returning to the kitchen he found Tomas, Lenka and Stanislav already well into their second bottle. Tomas lifted a spare glass and beckoned to Matt to come over.

He shook his head and went close to Stanislav. "Can you come outside a moment, without attracting suspicion?"

Stanislav stood up and said something in Czech before going out into the yard. "You have a problem?"

"I haven't been completely honest with you." He had no alternative but to let Stanislav in on the reason for the trip.

"Of course you have not been honest with me. You are a private investigator. What has really got you here? Does the farm belong to someone else, and you have come to reclaim it?"

"It's nothing like that. There's something ... hidden here, and it doesn't belong to these people." As he said it, he wondered who really had a legal claim to Hana's treasure. It almost certainly wasn't Edward Blake. The dean at the Helios Music Academy had found out about the existence of the manuscripts almost by chance. Did that discovery give him a valid claim to ownership?

He remembered a case earlier in the year that he'd been involved in. A treasure hunter with a metal detector had found a hoard of silver coins in a farmer's field. Unfortunately he'd not sought permission nor had he informed the farmer that he was searching. The farmer was claiming the coins, and it seemed likely he would get them when it came to court. Most treasure hunters set out a fifty-fifty agreement in writing with the farmer before searching, to be sure of taking something away if they struck lucky. What sort of treasure trove laws did the Czechs have?

"You look worried, my friend."

"I am worried." There seemed to be two major contenders for ownership of the manuscripts. The most obvious one was Tomas Dusek. He owned the farm and presumably by law he owned everything on it, even things he knew nothing about. The other potential claimant was Shelley Carpenter. The manuscripts had once belonged to her grandfather's brother. But the fact that Shelley's great-grandfather had betrayed his brother might make a difference.

"Tell me what is wrong," Stanislav said.

Matt pointed to the wall of bales. "Something valuable was hidden behind there -- in 1942."

"Valuable?" Stanislav looked a little too interested for comfort. "What sort of thing?"

"Nineteenth century music manuscripts."

Stanislav spat on the ground in disgust. "Paper is valuable?"

"We won't know until we get it out. Yes, it could be valuable."

He'd said more than he wanted to, but there was no way he could shift all those bales by himself, nor could he send Stanislav home and then ask Tomas to help. The search for Vasek Tesar's music wasn't something you could convey with sign language.

Stanislav nodded his head in the direction of the farmhouse. "You want me to tell them?"

Matt breathed in deeply and sighed. "Yes, tell Tomas I've come to find something that was hidden here a long time ago. Whatever you do don't tell him it's in this barn. I want to get a written agreement that we share the value of the find when it's sold. And I don't intend to share it fifty-fifty. More like ten percent to them. Okay?"

Tomas and Lenka stood transfixed in the farmyard when Stanislav called them, listening carefully as Stanislav laid out the offer. Immediately some frantic conversation took place between the farming couple. It didn't sound promising.

"They want half," Stanislav told Matt.

"Tell them it's ten percent, or I'm going back to Prague on the next train."

Tomas shook his head angrily when he heard the ultimatum. He seemed to have guessed where to search and kept looking at the far wall of the barn. Matt had no idea how carefully Hana had concealed the loose bricks, but if wouldn't take a determined Czech farmer long to find them. In which case striking a fifty-fifty deal now would be a bargain. There wasn't time to check with Blake. Tomas was already climbing onto the bales.

"Tell Tomas it's twenty percent."

They settled on thirty. Well, he might have done Blake out of a bit of profit, but he'd also lowered what he'd get from his own ten percent share of the sale value. So Blake could hardly accuse him of giving too much away unnecessarily.

"And how much do I get?" Stanislav asked.

"We haven't even found anything yet," Matt told him with a certain amount of annoyance. "You get five percent of the total. Okay?"

Stanislav muttered something but nodded in agreement.

"Right, let's get it all down in writing before we go any further. And make sure Tomas and Lenka understand that there may be nothing here, in which case we all get nothing."

They returned to the kitchen where Lenka produced a crumpled pad of writing paper from a drawer in the large wooden table. Stanislav wrote something lengthy on one of the sheets and showed it to Matt.

Since it was written in Czech Matt had no idea if he was being seen off or not, but the right numbers were written as percentages and the names were spelled in a way that seemed more or less to tally with the pronunciation. He signed his name with the others.

He asked Stanislav to make a second copy, which the others agreed to sign, although somewhat reluctantly. Matt put this copy in his pocket, to safeguard his future. Maybe he'd be doing the final deal with Shelley Carpenter, not Blake. As the only surviving member of Hana's family, Shelley might demand everything.

Stanislav interrupted his thoughts. "Tomas says he has signed the paper and now he wants to know where the treasure is hidden."

"You can tell him that if he's after gold he's going to be disappointed."

Tomas looked more irritated than disappointed when Stanislav told him.

"Okay, Stanislav," Matt said. "Here are the facts as I know them. You can translate the story in Czech as I tell it. Let's not have any misunderstanding, so you don't add anything extra."

The farming couple listened to Stanislav's translation of Matt's account of Hana Eisler coming here in 1942 to visit her Aunt Vetka and Uncle Libek. Lenka interrupted to ask where all this fitted in with Matt's Czech grandparents. He told Stanislav to tell her not to disrupt the story.

Tomas was eyeing the bales, probably wondering just how quickly he could dismantle them. He pointed to the far wall. "And the parcel of Hana is hidden behind there?" he asked through Stanislav.

Matt nodded and Tomas muttered something that sounded ill-tempered.

"He says you should have come last week when the barn was empty," Stanislav translated. "He has only just placed the bales of hay here."

"Tell him I didn't know about it last week," Matt said. Tomas shouldn't be complaining anyway. He was being presented with thirty percent just for moving a few bales.

Tomas turned quickly and strode across the farmyard to an open shed housing a dark blue tractor, a monument to solid Communist engineering dating from the 1950s. It might be newer, given that the design had probably been unchanged for many decades. The paintwork had been recently redone by hand, and not particularly well. The battery turned the engine over at a leisurely place but it failed to fire.

A couple of minutes later, with the battery turning the engine over slower and slower with each attempt, the tractor sprang into life. The money would have been better spent on a new battery rather than blue paint, and the time would have been better spent applying a fresh coat of white paint to the farmhouse.

Tomas backed the massive tractor out of the shed and fitted a set of long-fingered tines to the front. Then, in a haze of black smoke he drove through the doorway into the brick barn, charging at the foot of the bales. The bales crashed around the tractor, covering the front. Tomas roared with laughter and backed the tractor away with two bales stuck to the spikes. In the farmyard he pulled these off and returned for another load. He looked like a medieval night on horseback, with his jousting pole piercing the opposition in a frantic charge.

Finally Tomas switched off the engine and rolled the last couple of bales away with his large hands. "Show me the treasure," he demanded.

Matt had been anticipating this moment with excitement, but now he felt panic. Supposing the spirit in the séance had been deliberately leading him astray. There might be nothing here at all.

The lower part of the back wall had been built out into the barn by the height of several bricks, making a sort of buttress. One area immediately caught Matt's attention -- an area where a group of bricks didn't seem to be cemented into place.
Chapter Twenty-Five

TO MATT'S surprise Tomas Dusek stood well back, almost in awe. Feeling like an actor in the center of the stage, Matt bent down and tried to remove one of the bricks. But his fingers didn't fit the gap and it was impossible to grip anything.

The farmer said something which Stanislav translated. "Tomas says he has tools," the guide said. "Would you like him to fetch them?"

Matt could see scratches around four of the bricks. Maybe protection from the weather had left them looking fresh like this. "Okay. Something long and thin like a screwdriver would be best."

Tomas Dusek opened the toolbox on the side of the tractor and produced a massive screwdriver with a filthy orange handle. He held it up, seeking Matt's approval, but didn't attempt to come forward to help.

Matt took the screwdriver and tried to insert it between the bricks. "Ask him if he has something smaller."

The farmer must have already anticipated the request and stood with a more slender instrument in his hand. Lenka Dusek held a small hanky to her mouth, bobbing up and down on her thin legs in anticipation.

There seemed to be four loose bricks, two across the base and another two directly above. Matt knew that if he could get one free he could easily pull out the others. Even as he removed the first brick he could see a large brown package in the dark space behind. He tossed the remaining bricks to one side and reached in to retrieve an enormous envelope -- the sort of thing lawyers kept deeds in. At this point Tomas Dusek's patience gave way and he hurried forward, shouldering Matt to one side.

Holding the envelope with two hands the farmer laughed loudly while his wife gave a squeak of ecstasy. Then Tomas walked up to Matt, clapped him hard on the back, and handed over the envelope while speaking a torrent of Czech.

"He wants you to open it," Stanislav explained.

Matt felt a wave of relief. For a moment he'd thought it was all going wrong. He still didn't know for sure what he'd agreed to on the sheet of paper in the kitchen, but out here on his own with three Czech citizens and two barking dogs the safest thing to do was to stay on good terms with everyone.

The large, dusty envelope, the thickness of a small parcel, had the name Hana Eisler written on it in rather large untidy capital letters. Carefully, Matt pulled at the flap. It opened easily. No doubt the glue had weakened with age. Inside he could see a thick wad of folded paper. Afraid of dropping something he pushed everything back inside and told Stanislav he was going to the kitchen to sort it out on the table.

As soon as they were inside the farmhouse, Lenka picked up the phone and started speaking. Matt ignored her and opened the envelope, spreading sheet upon sheet of music paper on the large pine table. There must be over two hundred sheets of handwritten compositions.

Some had preprinted staves, and on others the lines on which the music was written were ruled by hand. There seemed to be a mix of sizes close to A3 and A4, with the staves aligned for the pages to be held vertically. He quickly thumbed through them. Most pieces were written with single staves for what was, presumably, a violin. Vasek Tesar's violin?

After talking for several minutes Lenka Dusek replaced the phone and spoke to Stanislav, who then turned to Matt.

"Lenka has just been phoning an elderly neighbor," he explained. "The neighbor remembers Vetka and Libek Sykora. And she can remember a girl called Hana staying with them in the war."

Stanislav listened again to Lenka, then spoke to Matt. "The neighbor says Hana was here until after the war."

Matt shook his head. "She wasn't. She died in 1942. She must only have been here for a few weeks."

Lenka seemed offended to have her word questioned.

Stanislav did the translation. "Lenka insists that her neighbor said Hana Eisler stayed here until 1947. She would have stayed longer, but her Uncle Libek died suddenly. His sons put their mother into an institution and took possession of the farm. Then they sold it and shared the money."

Matt pointed to the manuscript pages on the table. "And yet they had all these."

Stanislav shook his head. "Yes, my friend \-- but they did not know it. Hana had hidden them too well."

"Ask Lenka what happened to the sons."

Lenka said she didn't know. She and Tomas had taken over the farm in 1977 from a local farming family. Their name was definitely not Sykora.

"Thanks." Matt nodded towards Lenka Dusek and smiled. Why on earth did he feel uneasy? Did it matter when Hana died? Anyway, Lenka's neighbor was probably old and confused about the dates if she'd been living on the next-door farm in the 1940s. These manuscripts had to be genuine.

Lenka Dusek started to look through the pages. She pulled out one, studied it, and spoke enthusiastically.

"It is music for the piano," Stanislav explained. "Lenka wants to know if you would like to hear the music."

"She can play it now?"

Stanislav passed on the query, and before he could translate the answer Lenka Dusek was out of the door and into the front room. Matt recognized the sound of a piano lid being opened. As he ducked his head to go through, the farmer's wife was already playing the first hesitant notes.

Within a few bars she got into the rhythm and suddenly the room was filled with melody. The piano must be used regularly, for it was pretty well in tune. No wonder the Duseks were interested in this music. Matt asked Lenka to start again at the beginning. Everyone listened to Vasek Tesar's music being played for the first time for ... how many years? Even if Hana or her parents had played this piece in 1942, it still hadn't been heard for over sixty years. And maybe no one had played it since Vasek Tesar was sent in disgrace from the concert halls in the mid nineteenth century for daring to play music that everyone felt was too progressive.

He waited until Lenka had finished. The piece was a typical polka that any Czech composer could have written. Catchy, but hardly revolutionary. But this was only one of perhaps a hundred pieces. It was surely unreasonable to expect every one of Tesar's compositions to be world-shattering. Maybe Tesar's violin pieces were the ones that had sparked the controversy.

"Ask Tomas if I can use his telephone. I want to phone my wife." Matt tried not to sound too excited. It was important to play down the importance of the discovery in front of the Duseks. They almost certainly weren't to be trusted.

Tomas told Matt he could use the phone, as long as he paid for the call. Considering they were all sitting on a potential fortune, this struck Matt as being rather mean minded, but he nodded in agreement. He asked Lenka to play another piece. The harsh notes certainly didn't sound like another polka. Lenka stopped after the first few bars and started again. But it sounded the same. It would be easy to believe this was a piece by Shostakovich at his most intense.

"Listen," he said when Zoé answered. He held the mouthpiece towards the piano.

"It sounds ... unusual," Zoé told him. "What is it?"

"It's Vasek Tesar. It's not all like this. There's a Czech polka. Anyway, the good news is we've found his music."

"We?"

Matt explained about the deal he'd been obliged to strike with Stanislav and the Duseks.

"Monsieur Blake will not like it," Zoé observed.

"Monsieur Blake will just have to understand. Phone and tell him what's happened. It will be cheaper if you do it. I've got to pay for this call."

"Exactly what do you want me to say?"

"Tell him I've found ... no, tell him I think I've found Hana's papers. Just be careful not to tell him about the share-out deal I've had to make here."

"I do not like it, Matt. Perhaps I will say the wrong thing."

"Okay, I'll give you the number here, and you can ask Blake to phone me. I won't be going anywhere just yet."

After a little discussion, Zoé agreed.

"Thanks, Zoé. Must go. I don't know what this call is costing. Love you, and give my love to the baby."

"The baby is not born yet."

"Then give the bump a little pat for me." He put the phone down and saw that Tomas Dusek was making a note. No doubt the duration had been timed to the second.

As Lenka continued to play, it occurred to Matt that Blake, Smith and even Shelley Carpenter might all be mixed up in this, either working together or as rivals. Blake wanted the manuscripts, but what could interest Smith? And why had Shelley confided in him? That was all something to worry about when he got home.

He returned to the kitchen to make sure that all the papers were safe. Before he went any further he wanted to count them and get the others to agree exactly how many sheets there were. It would save any unpleasant complications later. And maybe he should check them with Ken's UV light. It would stop someone subsequently switching the pages for modern fakes. He was glad now that Ken had talked him into bringing it.

Some of the pieces were no longer than a single page, while others consisted of several pages of tightly packed handwritten notation on single and multiple staves, presumably making up a violin concerto. He could see no sign of a full symphony, which was rather disappointing. Then he came to a page of handwriting. He asked Stanislav what it was.

Stanislav studied the page for a moment, frowning. "It seems to be the work of a school child. It is hard to read, but I can see something about musical theory." He turned the paper over and on the back someone had added a few words with a red pen. Stanislav grinned. "It is like the work I did at my school. The teacher has found many faults."

Matt wasn't bothered about the teacher's comments. "Does it say whose homework it is?"

Stanislav nodded. "Oh yes, the name of the pupil is here at the top. It is Hana Eisler."

Okay, so the contents were genuine. How else could Hana Eisler's marked homework have got amongst these papers if she hadn't handled the contents? "Thank you, Mrs. Smith," he breathed aloud.

Stanislav put the page down and looked at Matt in surprise. "Mrs. Smith?"

Matt felt an explanation was called for. "Mrs. Smith is the mother of someone at the Helios Music Academy in England." He wasn't going to mention the séance. "It was her idea to come here to find the papers."

The piano went silent. Lenka Dusek stood up quickly. "Helios?" she asked, obviously picking up the one word she recognized.

The word would be the same in English or Czech. The farmer's wife probably thought he was talking about the academy in Prague. "Tell her there's a Helios Academy in England," he told Stanislav.

Lenka Dusek seemed extremely puzzled to hear about the English Academy, apparently not believing that there could be one outside the Czech Republic. Matt remembered that he'd brought the English Academy prospectus. The way to convince the woman was to show it to her, as he'd already done to Stanislav on the train. As Lenka flicked through the pages she suddenly stopped and called to her husband.

Tomas came over and sounded angry.

"What's happened?" Matt asked.

Stanislav seemed almost amused. "Tomas says that the man who came to buy his farm is the man in this picture, and he wants to know what you are doing here. He does not believe you are a private investigator."

This didn't make sense. Perhaps Stanislav's translation into English was lacking something essential. He looked at the page in the prospectus that the Duseks were pointing at. It showed a group of the English Academy staff sitting by the side of the main building, surrounded by various musical instruments. The Mount was just visible in the background.

Tomas Dusek jabbed a dirty forefinger on the photograph and let rip with what sounded like verbal abuse. Stanislav translated his words as, "That is the man."

"That's Martin Smith."

"And it was Mrs. Smith who told you to come here?" Stanislav asked, with a grin.

Matt knew what Stanislav was thinking. And maybe he should have thought of it first. Tomas Dusek said he'd seen a stranger on the farm last month, but the timing didn't make sense. "Ask Tomas exactly when he saw this man," he said the Stanislav.

"Tomas says it was four weeks ago," Stanislav translated. "It was when his farmhand disappeared, just when things were busy."

"And when did Tomas stack the bales of hay in the barn?"

"Tomas says it was five days ago."

Five days ago was before the séance, and the placing of the bales in the barn must have been chance. Anyway, if the farmer had received a tip-off from England and filled the barn to stop anyone looking, he'd hardly have removed the bales today without making a fuss. "Is he absolutely sure?"

The farmer went to a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, ran his finger down it, and nodded. Yes, he was absolutely sure.

Stanislav said something to Tomas, which met with the man's approval. "We would like you to go into the yard for a walk," said Stanislav. "Thomas wants to talk to me alone."

Matt knew he had no choice but to comply. He wandered into the farmyard and across to the wooden barn which he'd not inspected yet. Everything up to now had been a little too neat. It seemed as though someone was taking him for a ride.

The two dogs kept up a constant barking from behind an old cattle trough where they were tied. The chains rattled as they were tugged wildly, but they looked secure. He retreated as far as an ancient bicycle, propped vertically against a pile of timber. It was a woman's bike and probably Lenka's. It looked as though she used it regularly because the tires were pumped up and there was no dust on the saddle. Maybe he could take it into town and get some photocopies of the manuscripts. It would be a good idea for everyone to have a full set each, to save any arguments later.

He sat on the saddle and gripped the handlebars, trying to decide exactly where Martin Smith fitted into the picture. It had to be something to do with his mother. Yes, here was a likely theory. Martin Smith's mother hadn't been in a trance. She'd remembered every detail of the séance and told her son. Martin Smith had jumped on a plane, got here within a few hours and started to search.

When Tomas Dusek had challenged him, he'd made up a story about thinking the farm was for sale. But for some reason he'd been frightened off. He shook his head. Tomas Dusek was certain that he'd seen Martin Smith here a month ago.

He heard Stanislav calling, and got off the bicycle. The three Czechs were waiting for him in the farmhouse kitchen.

"What was that all about?" Matt asked.

"We think the pages are fakes," Stanislav said bluntly. "We think your friend from England has put them here to trick us."

Matt held one of the sheets of hand-written music and examined it closely. It not only looked old, it felt old, and the brownish-black ink used for the notation had faded just enough to look genuine. The large brown envelope in which the pages had been stored seemed newer, and that bothered him slightly. The others must have picked up his feelings.

"You have suspicions?" Stanislav said.

"I'm a private detective. It's my job to be suspicious of everything -- and everyone. But these pages are old. I can tell, just by looking at them."

"We are not sure." Stanislav added something in Czech, and the Duseks both nodded grimly.

Matt reached in his bag and pulled out the UV light source. "This will prove that the papers are as old as they look."

"A flashlight? How will it do that?" Stanislav queried.

Matt switched on the light. The short fluorescent tube glowed a pale purple. "Modern paper looks white because the paper mills add a fluorescing agent. Under ultraviolet light modern paper looks bright blue."

"Like my shirt at the nightclub?" Stanislav translated for the benefit of the others, but neither Tomas or Lenka seemed to know what happened to shirts at a nightclub.

"Exactly. But any paper made before the late 1950s stays dark. It's an easy way to check for fakes." He hoped Ken knew what he was talking about back at the office. And he hoped the batteries were fresh.

"And that is an ultraviolet light?" Stanislav asked excitedly.

Even here in the kitchen Matt could see blue light being reflected from his shirt. The others gathered round, gasping in surprise as their own clothes glowed brightly.

"It's the washing powder," Matt explained. "There's an additive to make clothes look brighter and cleaner."

"And the music pages?" Stanislav asked.

Matt asked Lenka to close the shutters. From the start it was obvious that the manuscript pages were going to stay dark. He went through each one in turn. The three Czechs still didn't seem convinced. Maybe they thought he was doing some sort of conjuring trick. He pulled his copy of the agreement from his pocket and put it on the table. It glowed bright blue.

After exchanging a few words with the Duseks, Stanislav said, "We believe you. So what do we do now?"

"I want to get photocopies to share round, so we all have proof of exactly what's been found here. Ask Tomas if he'll take me to Ústí in his car."

As Stanislav translated this request, Matt noticed small specks of fluorescence on the large brown envelope. He moved the light closer. There were faint flecks of blue light all over it. Could these be clumps of fluorescing fungus that sometimes lived on old glue?

Stanislav listened to the farmer. "We are all pleased to know that these papers are genuine," he translated. "And, yes, we all need copies. Tomas is very happy to take us into Ústí."

Matt placed the small UV light close to the envelope again. The tiny specks of fluorescence were still visible. They looked too miniscule and regular to be traces of fungus.

"You seem very interested in the envelope," Stanislav observed. He said something to the Duseks, and both Tomas and Lenka answered, nodding rapidly.

"We think you have some doubts," Stanislav explained. "Is that not so, my friend?"

Matt looked up at the farming couple. He could understand how they felt. There was no need for the envelope to be as old as the manuscripts. Maybe Ken was wrong about the 1950s. Perhaps fluorescing agents were added in the '30s and '40s.

At that moment the phone rang. Tomas Dusek answered it and held out for Matt. He took it.

"Edward Blake here," the loud voice said on the other end. "I gather you've got a bit of a problem."

Problem? The whole affair was becoming a nightmare. He just didn't know who to trust. Stanislav was listening, and would almost certainly pass on this side of the conversation to the Duseks.

"Mr. Blake," Matt demanded, "did you tell Martin Smith about this search?"

"Of course not."

"The farmer is convinced he saw Martin Smith on the farm a month ago."

"Impossible."

"If the farmer says he saw him, then I'm sure he saw him. It's as simple as that."

"Martin Smith? Do you think he was after the manuscripts?"

"I can't think of any other reason why he was here."

"But he didn't get them, did he?"

"We're looking at them at this moment, on the kitchen table." Surely Blake had grasped that by now.

"We?"

"The Duseks. The farmer and his wife. I'll explain what happened."

"I don't want any explanations. Just bring everything straight back. It's what I'm paying you for."

"You haven't paid me for anything yet, apart from some small expenses," Matt reminded him. "You might as well know it hasn't been entirely straightforward. The farmer filled the barn with bales of hay or straw at the beginning of the week, and he had to shift them before I could get to the hiding place."

"So?"

"So we did a deal. He gets thirty percent of whatever we sell the manuscripts for." Then after a pause he added, "And the guide who's been acting as my translator gets five percent." It was just as well to get all the bad news over in one go.

"You're a fool," Blake snapped.

"I didn't have any other options." He felt taken aback by the dean's response.

"Of course you did. You could have come away without saying anything."

"And leave the manuscripts hidden in the wall?" Was the man simple or something?

"What's the hurry? You could have returned in the spring when all hay had been used."

"The farmer knew there was something hidden. He'd have pulled the barn apart if necessary. Anyway, if the manuscripts are as valuable as you think, you'll still be doing all right."

There was a silence on the other end. Then Blake said, "You needn't think you'll be getting your ten percent. More like five, I'd say."

Matt saw red. "These manuscripts don't belong to you. I can do a deal right here with the Duseks. They get their thirty percent and the guide gets his five, and that's still leaves me with sixty-five. All to myself."

Blake obviously saw the point. "I'm sorry, it's just that ... this has all come as rather a shock. All right, you can have your ten percent. Tell the others they can have their share, exactly as you've agreed. How soon can you be back in England?"

"I'm booked on a flight Monday evening. I might be able to get an earlier plane, but right now we have to go into town and get photocopies of everything. I can't imagine the farmer will let me go back to England with the originals unless everything is copied. But there's a bit of a puzzle."

"Yes?" Blake sounded wary.

"I've done a simple ultraviolet test to check that the paper is old."

Blake laughed. "I'd no idea it was possible to do such a test. I suppose I should have expected something like that from a detective. Was everything all right?"

"Perfectly."

"Yet you have a problem?"

"I'm not worried about the paper that the scores are written on. They came out of the test fine. Anyway, they look absolutely genuine."

"So what is the problem?"

"I'm not too happy about the brown envelope. The one the music was in. It seems a bit too modern for my liking."

"Look," Blake shouted, "stop messing about with your silly tests. We can get everything examined by real experts when you get back. Just get on the plane with those papers and bring them to me at the Academy."

Blake's mask had suddenly slipped. Matt put the phone down without another word. He wasn't going to be spoken to like that. It reminded him of the outburst on the dean's first visit to the office when the man had been unable to keep his cool.

Stanislav had been listening intently. "There is trouble?" he asked.

"Tell Tomas I'm ready." Matt folded the bundle of sheets and replaced them carefully into the large envelope that bore Hana's name. He wasn't going to discuss the matter any more.
Chapter Twenty-Six

### 1942

Masaryk Railway Station

Prague

Czechoslovakia

THE SOLDIERS have all gone now, and so has the train. Hana is still hiding in the toalety. The door opens and a woman stands there, looking surprised. She puts an arm on Hana's shoulder, calling her a poor, frightened kitten.

Hana bursts into tears as the woman comforts her. The woman says that a girl in a blue coat shot the German captain in the stomach an hour ago. No, he is not dead, not yet, but he is badly wounded.

"The girl ... " The woman stops and looks closely at Hana. "The girl was dressed like you." She says that the girl has been taken away. The soldiers found an address on the music case and some of them have gone there.

Hana is sick on the floor. The soldiers have gone to Papa's house. She tells the woman about Uncle Libek and Aunty Vetka in Ústí. She asks how she can get to see them now that the train has gone.

The woman tells Hana to take off her blue coat and push it behind the water cistern so she is not recognized. As Hana removes her coat the precious pages spill across the floor. She has forgotten she pushed them in there when she gave the leather music case to Kitty. The woman tries to pull Hana away as she bends down to retrieve the papers from the patch of vomit, but Hana is insistent. A voice inside her head urges her to keep them safe. Most of the pages are still dry. The others she tries to wipe clean on the wall as she is led onto the platform.

The captain's blood has stained the ground. Nothing else remains of the visit by the Nazi soldiers. Hana begs the woman to let her see if Papa is safe. The woman shakes her head and tells Hana she is taking her to the protection of a church. Then she must leave Prague and go to Uncle Libek and Aunty Vetka's farm in Ústí nad Orlicí. Krkavčí farma. The woman says she knows the driver of a delivery truck who will get her there safely next week.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

THOMAS DUSEK said he had a few things to do on the farm before he could drive Matt into town to get photocopies of the pages. Since Tomas was the only one with a car, an elderly Skoda estate in several shades of gray, Matt suggested that he ride into town using the bicycle in the barn.

The farmer told Stanislav, and Stanislav told Matt, that there was no way Matt was going to leave the farm on his own with the manuscripts.

"Tomas will not let you go anywhere, unless you leave all the pages here."

"Tell him that's impossible."

"Tomas says is it is impossible for you to leave," Stanislav translated the farmer's response. He was obviously giving the condensed version of the reply which not only sounded long, it also sounded heated. "But he is prepared to divide everything into three equal piles and let you take your share."

Whether this was Stanislav's own idea or a delayed translation, Matt had no idea, but it wasn't an acceptable solution. "Tell Tomas to hurry up with his farm work or the shops will be closed."

Tomas Dusek said most of the shops would be closed anyway, although he wasn't sure, as he never went to town on a Saturday afternoon.

Matt wasn't going to waste time while he waited. He opened his bag and got out the A4 prints he'd made from Blake's microfiche of Hana's Academy records. He asked Stanislav to look at them. There might be something useful that Olga had missed.

Stanislav pulled a chair up to the large kitchen table and put on his glasses. "Where did you get these?" he asked with interest.

Matt told Stanislav enough of the background to guarantee his co-operation, but not enough to help him make a later claim to all the music.

"Do you want me to read every page?" Stanislav asked in horror as he leafed through them. "It will take a long time."

It would, too. No way could this be allowed to hold up the trip into Ústí. Matt pointed to the door. "I'm going out for another look round the farm. I'll give you a quarter of an hour to read them. Okay? See if you can find anything about Hana coming here."

Stanislav sighed. "There are many pages. I will need another drink." Maybe reading didn't play as prominent a part in his life as alcohol.

Matt knew he was losing his patience fast. He turned and stormed out through the low kitchen doorway into the farmyard without bothering to reply. He went into the wooden barn and checked out the bicycle once more: just to be sure it wasn't locked. It would get him to Ústí in an emergency. Ten minutes later Stanislav called out to say that he'd gone briefly through every page. What did Matt want to know?

"I don't think Hana was here for very long. She was killed at the concentration camp in Terezín. Does it say anything about Terezín in these pages?" He wanted to test Stanislav.

"There is a letter from a girl to her parents. She says that her friend Hana died in Terezín when she had a bad stomach."

"Yes, I know about that. The girl's parents sent the letter on to the Academy for their records." That was good. Stanislav seemed to be reliable. "Is there anything on the other pages that says she was gassed in the showers?" If he could get independent corroboration of Hana's words at the séance, he'd feel happier. Dying of stomach wounds and being gassed to death didn't sound a likely combination.

Stanislav looked surprised. "Hana was gassed in the showers at Terezín?"

"That's what I've heard."

"Then you have heard wrong, my friend. There were no gas chambers at Terezín."

Matt sighed. "I don't know much about Nazi concentration camps, but I know the guards unloaded people from the trains and told them to undress and take a shower. The shower rooms were really gas chambers."

"You certainly do not know much about Terezín," Stanislav said mockingly. "There is a famous story about Terezín. Some children were sent there from Auswich, where their parents had been gassed in the showers. When the guards told the children to take a shower when they arrived at Terezín they started to scream. They said they knew what was going to happen."

"They were going to be gassed?" Matt said.

"They were going to take a shower. It is as I said: there were no gas chambers at Terezín."

"Definitely?"

"Definitely, my friend."

Matt wasn't going to mention the séance in Martin Smith's house. Now he came to think of it, Martin Smith had featured a little too prominently in the journey here. The woman pretending to be Martin Smith's mother should have made him more suspicious than he had been. Ken's suggestion that the woman was a stand-in, so as not disappoint them, had given him a false sense of security. "Maybe I heard it wrong."

Tomas Dusek came into the kitchen to say that he was now ready to drive into Ústí. Lenka would stay behind as she did not care for shops.

NOT ALL the shops in the center of Ústí were open on Saturday afternoon, and the copy shop that Tomas Dusek knew about had closed for the day at lunchtime.

"In England you can get photocopies made at shops that sell newspapers and magazines," Matt said. They were near the shop where he had earlier bought the map, but he couldn't see a sign outside offering the service.

Stanislav didn't hear. He was in discussion with two men wearing smart suits. Probably he thought that businessmen would know exactly where you could get copies made. Matt looked at Tomas. Not everyone was smartly dressed by any means, but this farmer in his shabby clothing stood out like an embarrassing hillbilly.

"The men say that there is a bookshop down that road." Stanislav came over to Matt. "The owner has a large photocopy machine which they think we can use."

The bookshop had all that was necessary to make two copies of each page, some in the large A3 size. The owner counted the sheets in the pile. Two hundred and twenty-three originals. Four hundred and forty-six copies. When Matt asked how long the job would take, the owner consulted the calendar.

Matt shook his head and pointed to his watch. "Today," he insisted. He hoped the shop wasn't about to close. It was already after four. "How long? One hour? Two hours?"

The owner told Matt it would take at least an hour, and he was anxious to get home as he was taking his wife out for a meal. Stanislav talked long and hard, doing some sort of financial deal.

"It will be expensive," the owner told Matt when the discussion was over.

Matt asked how much, and Stanislav told him. Well, his credit card would stand a shock like that. He suggested they go out and have something to eat while the copies were being made.

Tomas shook his head and spoke forcibly. Stanislav translated the words along the lines that no way was the farmer going to leave the precious papers with someone he didn't know. He would stay and keep an eye on the man while he worked. At this point Matt decided that he wasn't going to trust a farmer he hadn't met before. Tomas might come to some shady arrangement with the bookshop owner and lock the door for the rest of the weekend. Maybe Stanislav had managed to cut himself in on the arrangement.

It was time to contact Zoé again. She was sure to be worrying about him. Maybe he could risk leaving Tomas and the bookshop owner alone for five minutes. After all, he knew how many pages there were in the pile. He retrieved the phone card from his pocket and told Stanislav that he had to ring home. The cubicle was only just across the road. To his surprise Stanislav followed. He shrugged apologetically.

"Tomas Dusek has asked me to make sure that you do not make an agreement behind his back."

"I'm phoning my wife."

Stanislav stood his ground, keeping one foot inside the glass cubicle. "Carry on, my friend."

"Thanks," Matt said sarcastically. "Perhaps you'd like to speak to her, too."

Stanislav grinned and probably saw the humor of the situation, but he clearly had his orders.

Zoé took a long time before answering, and when she did she sounded anxious. "I am sorry, Matt, I was out in the back yard hanging up some washing."

"You sound bothered."

"I am. I have been hoping you will phone."

"Is there a problem?"

"Something is worrying me. Ken called here about an hour ago to check I was all right, which was really kind of him. Matt, Ken he is a good man."

"He may be good sometimes. Anyway, what's the problem?"

"I wish I had not let you go to Prague. Salman from the Anchor Trust has been round here. Twice. The first time he came was early this morning. You know how he caught hold of me outside Le Perroquet Bleu."

"You should have told me about it when I phoned you from the farm."

"I did not want to worry you."

"Worry me? I can take care of myself. What did Salman want?"

"He said that Father Alban had told him you were in Prague, so he came round to see if he could do anything to help."

"I hope you didn't let him in."

"Of course not. I told him there was nothing I wanted and said 'thank you'. He was, I think, annoyed. I told Ken about it and he said I have to keep the front door locked."

"Of course you must keep the door locked. Always." Matt looked at the display on the telephone. His card was about to expire. "Listen, I need to buy another card. I'll phone you again soon." He could hear his front doorbell ringing clearly down the phone line. "Who is it?"

"I will go and see."

He had a sudden feeling of panic. "If it's Salman again, don't let him in. Look through the spy hole and use the safety chain."

The phone card ran out.

Stanislav noticed him replace the receiver, and moved aside. "You look worried, my friend."

He was worried. "Where can I buy another phone card?"

Stanislav pointed across to a tobacco shop.

The shop was busy, and the customers seemed to have come more for a gossip with the owner than to buy cigarettes. When Matt eventually returned to the phone with a new card, the cubicle was occupied. He wished he'd asked Stanislav to stay in it, pretending to make another call. He could see another phone across the square. He ran across and dialed his home number. There was no reply.

Stanislav joined him, standing out of breath beside the telephone. "Tomas Dusek wants me to stay with you," he gasped.

Matt tried to contain his anxiety. There was probably a very good explanation. Maybe Zoé had sent whoever was at the door away, and had now gone to the bathroom. He tried Zoé's mobile number, but it was switched off. She left it switched off in the house, and often didn't bother to take it when she went out. All he could do was keep trying his home every two or three minutes until she answered.

"We must go back to the bookshop," the guide insisted, not sounding quite so breathless now.

"Look, Stanislav, just stay outside and shut up." He dialed his home number again, but it still wasn't answered.

Matt felt unable to relax for the rest of the afternoon. Stanislav and Tomas sat in the bookshop and chatted, but Matt could only watch impatiently while the owner fiddled around with the pages. Part of the problem came from the odd sizes of paper which either overfilled the sheet, or looked illegibly small when reduced. About halfway through the copier jammed, and this took an age to clear. It was nearly six o'clock when the last copy rolled off the machine.

Matt paid the bill, which was more than he'd been quoted, and asked if there were any large envelopes or folders for the copies. The owner provided two massive padded envelopes and Matt carefully sorted the pages into three sets: two sets of copies and one set of the originals. Before leaving the shop he even lifted the cover of the copy machine, to make sure nothing had been left behind.

Tomas said it would be dark in an hour, and he had to get back to the farm.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

MATT SAT in the back of the farmer's old Skoda car and worried. They passed a public telephone on the edge of town and he insisted that Tomas stop so he could try phoning Zoé. There was still no reply, and Zoé's cell phone was still either off or out of range.

Tomas seemed to appreciate the problem and, through Stanislav, said that Matt must feel free to use the phone in the farm until he made contact. Matt closed his eyes and tried to recall his exact words to Zoé just before the card expired. It had only taken seven or eight minutes to buy the card and try his home number again. Maybe Zoé had not expected him to ring back straightaway, and had popped out to the shops for something.

As they approached the farm Tomas Dusek put the brakes on heavily. The car came to a rapid halt, and the nose dipped sharply. Matt opened his eyes. Had a chicken run under the wheels?

"It is the police," Stanislav announced.

The Czech guide didn't really need to point it out. A white police car with a green stripe blocked the long drive up to the farm, and a giant police officer in shirt-sleeves stood by the gate with his arms raised. He called out what were obviously a string of instructions. His colleague, a smaller man also in shirtsleeves, listened intently.

"What's he saying?" Matt asked when the man paused for breath.

"They have found a body in the woods on the farm next door," Stanislav explained. "They think it is the young farm worker who went missing a month ago."

The farmer stayed in the Skoda, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The huge policeman spoke again, his tone pleasant but firm. Finally Tomas Dusek nodded his head.

Stanislav turned round in the front passenger seat. "Tomas has to see if he can identify the body. We are required to wait here."

Matt started to get out. "Tell them I have to phone my wife. I don't mind walking up to the farm."

Stanislav explained the situation and the big policeman beckoned Matt towards the drive.

"He says you may go to the farm," Stanislav said, "but you are not to leave here until the police have finished their inquiries."

It could have been worse. Some police officers would have made him wait at the bottom of the drive for maybe an hour or two. He smiled.

"Tell him I'm grateful and I'll stay in the farmhouse." Not that he would. If Zoé didn't answer he'd be on the next train back to Prague where he'd try phoning her again, and get the next flight home if he still didn't get a reply.

Dark clouds had descended around the hills, adding to his already gloomy mood. He half ran and half walked up the long dusty drive. He didn't want to be too out of breath when Zoé answered -- assuming she was there to pick up to phone.

Lenka Dusek hovered anxiously, trying to stop him dialing. She wanted to tell him something, but he didn't have a clue what she was saying. "Is it Zoé?" he asked slowly. "Zoé?"

The farmer's wife shook her head and said something again. He wasn't sure if she was worried on his behalf, or was concerned about the phone bill. He looked at his watch. It was nearly six-thirty here, which meant it was only five-thirty in England. With the heavy cloud cover, it was already starting to get dark. Stanislav was down at the bottom of the drive talking to the two police officers. He just had to hope that the guide wasn't spinning them some unhelpful story.

Matt ignored Lenka and dialed his home number. As soon as his phone started ringing, it was picked up. "Matt Rider's house."

"Ken?"

"Is that you, kiddo? I've been trying to phone you, but every time I ring some batty woman answers and I can't understand a word she's saying."

Matt looked over at Lenka. "It's the farmer's wife," he said. "She probably thinks you're batty too. There's nothing wrong with her. It's just that you don't speak the same language. Anyway, what are you doing in my house? Is Zoé with you?"

"I don't know how to tell you this," Ken said quietly.

It sounded like bad news. "Is it about Zoé?"

"How did you know?"

"I've been trying to phone her for ages. Go on then, tell me."

"I called earlier to make sure Zoé was all right."

"She told me."

"She seemed a little anxious, so I thought I'd better come round again after tea. I've only been here a few minutes."

"Yes?"

"I rang your front bell and got no reply. I thought I'd take a look round the back, and your kitchen door was open."

"Was anyone in?"

"I called out and poked my head round the door. I was worried. Is your house usually in a mess?"

"A bit. Why?"

"I thought someone had been over it, but I can't see anything obviously missing. Look, I don't want to worry you, but I felt you ought to know."

"Ken, tell me what I ought to know."

"To cut a long story short, the place is empty."

"So where's Zoé? Was there any blood?"

"No sign of a struggle. I've been trying to ring you. I hope you don't mind me using your phone."

The last thing he minded was Ken using his phone. "How on earth did you get this number?"

"I've rung Blake," Ken said. "I thought maybe Zoé had gone to see him."

"Had she?"

"He says not."

"And the back door was open?"

"Wide open. You don't have to worry about it, kiddo. There's no damage. You know how easy it is to jump these doors out of the lock."

"Not mine. If that door's open, someone used a key."

"The key's inside the door. I can lock it when I leave."

Matt said nothing. He was more worried about Zoé than about an unlocked door.

"Matt, are you still there?" Ken sounded anxious.

"I'm coming straight home."

Matt heard voices in the farmyard, presumably Stanislav and the two policemen. He couldn't discuss his plans to return to England with Stanislav listening, for he was likely to tell the police. If they knew he was going back to Prague, they'd put him in the cells until their inquiries were complete. "Stay where you are, Ken," he said quickly. "I'll phone you again as soon as I can."

Stanislav came into the room. "I hope you are not planning to go anywhere for the next couple of days," he said cheerfully as Matt replaced the phone. "The police want to question you."

"And you as well, I imagine."

"This is where you are wrong, my friend. You are the one who came here looking for buried treasure."

"I've only just arrived in the Czech Republic. I hope you told them."

Stanislav shrugged. "They want to ask you a few more questions. Do not worry, I will stay to help with the translation." He smiled again, but it wasn't a particularly reassuring smile.

Matt could only think of one thing -- Ken sitting in the empty house while Zoé was ... where? He didn't care what questions the Czech police wanted to ask him; he had to be on the train to Prague and on an overnight plane back to England. Why would Salman have broken in through the kitchen door? And had Ken searched everywhere? He remembered a case when he was with the police where he and his colleagues had failed to find a missing husband's body until two days after his wife reported him missing. No one had thought to look in the cupboard under the stairs. There'd been a bit of the fuss about that one, but at least they'd been able to charge the stepson with murder.

Lenka turned on the light in the kitchen and everyone blinked in surprise. Matt glanced at the bulky envelopes on the large table: the two new ones containing the photocopies of Vasek Tesar's music manuscripts, and Hana's old envelope full of the originals. Somehow he had to take the originals back to England. Unfortunately Stanislav had noticed him look at the envelopes, and said something to Lenka. Then Stanislav went forward and put the old envelope on the high mantelpiece above the stone fireplace.

"You must go into the farmyard, my friend," Stanislav said. "Lenka wishes to talk to me alone."

They were up to something. Matt was about to protest that as long as they spoke in Czech he might as well stay in the room, when he heard Tomas and the policemen arguing in the farmyard. It was now completely dark. No wonder Tomas had been anxious to get back from Ústí.

He pretended to go out and see what was happening, but left the kitchen door slightly ajar and stopped to look back through the gap. Stanislav snatched the old envelope from the mantelpiece and hurried to the table where he swapped the contents of the two envelopes. He had just finished putting them both back in place when Matt decided to go back in. Stanislav tried to look innocent. Maybe Lenka hadn't even noticed the exchange. She was sitting down, studying her hands.

"You're both wanted," Matt said, jerking a thumb towards the farmyard.

To Matt's surprise Stanislav took Lenka with him, but he only just had time to reverse the contents of the envelopes before Stanislav returned alone. It sounded as though the police had wanted to see him after all.

"The police say it is the body of the missing farmhand. They wish to see your magazine from the Music Academy in England. The one with the picture of the man that Tomas saw on the farm last month."

"The prospectus," Matt said. He fetched it from his bag and handed it over as the farming couple and the two police officers came into the kitchen.

The men and Lenka studied the prospectus to the accompaniment of much discussion. When they had finished, Stanislav turned to Matt.

"You are to stay here. I have to go to Ústí with the police. They want to see if there is any record of the Englishman on their computer. But before we go you are to write Martin Smith's name carefully on a piece of paper using English spelling."

As if he knew how to write it with Czech accents! He did as he was told. With the police officers and Stanislav out of the way for the next hour or so, there would only be the Duseks here to prevent his escape.

The phone rang again. Lenka answered it and handed it to Matt, but the large policeman grabbed it before Matt could speak. The policeman listened, frowned and then handed it to Stanislav.

Stanislav took the phone, nodding to himself as he listened. "It is someone in England who wants to speak to you," he said to Matt. He spoke to the police officer who waved to Stanislav to pass the phone to Matt.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to get you," Ken said. "I thought you were coming back."

"What about Zoé?"

"Absolutely nothing. If you ask me, that young refugee Salman has something to do with this. I've phoned Father Alban to see if he knows anything, but he doesn't even know where Salman is. And that's not all. Shelley Carpenter has disappeared as well."

"Yes?" He didn't take it in at first. His mind was too full of Zoé. "Disappeared? What happened?"

"It's odd. Her hotel room has been broken into and the police can't find her."

"She's been kidnapped?"

"I might as well tell you. I phoned one of your mates at Trinity Green about Zoé, and had a heart-to-heart. He took his time listening but said he can't do anything, yet. Not until Zoé's been missing for a lot longer. When I mentioned how you've been investigating the Academy, he told me that they're looking into the suspicious disappearance of a staff member there. Wondered if I knew anything. He said the woman's name was Shelley Carpenter. The hotel manager had called the police. It could be suicide. I feel bad about it, kiddo."

Matt felt sick. "I can't believe Shelley's dead." He gave Stanislav a shove with his elbow. The man was standing too close and trying to listen.

"Is it bad news?" Stanislav asked.

Matt just nodded and Stanislav took the hint and backed away.

"She left a note," Ken added.

"A suicide note?"

Ken sounded distressed. "That's what the police think. It was in her hotel room, with her dog. She wants it to be looked after by someone gentle."

"Not by me."

"Nor me. Mrs. H would go bananas. They reckon Shelly Carpenter had more than she could take. She lost her job because she was seeing Smith, and of course she had the added shame of being photographed with him."

"How did they know about Martin Smith?"

The line stayed silent for a moment. "I filled them in, kiddo. See, I told you Shelley Carpenter was unbalanced."

"She was uptight, Ken, that's all. Do you really think Shelley would leave her dog?"

"She might, if she decided to end it all. Who knows how these people think?"

"Hey, Ken, if it's suicide it's not our fault." He knew his uninvited excuse sounded pathetic, but neither he nor Ken could have foreseen this when they took the job on for Blake. Perhaps he should have let Shelley stay in the house with Zoé. It would have been company while he was away.

"So are you coming home?"

"Of course." He couldn't very well elaborate with Stanislav listening.

"When?" Ken asked. "I've been expecting a call from you to say you're nearly at the airport."

"It's not a simple as that. The Czech police have found a man's body in the woods, and they think it may have something to do with Martin Smith. They won't let me go until they've finished their inquiries."

There was a long pause as Ken obviously struggled to take it in. "Martin Smith?" he said at last. "Are you serious?"

Stanislav seemed to be paying particular interest, and was translating Matt's side of the conversation for the benefit of the two police officers.

"Listen, Ken, I have to stay here until tomorrow, or perhaps even the next day."

"You're joking."

"Yes."

Another pause from Ken. Then he caught on. "You can't talk freely, I imagine. Do I take it you're returning to England without permission?"

"Absolutely, Ken."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I can understand. See you soon -- I hope."

"I hope so too. If you get any news on Zoé, phone me here. Like I said -- I'm not going anywhere." Like hell he wasn't. He'd already worked out how to disable the Duseks' phone. Now all he had to do was wait for the police car to take Stanislav into Ústí, then drive the Skoda -- all the way to Prague airport.

The large police officer spoke again and Stanislav did the translation. "There is a change of plan, my friend," he told Matt. "You are to come as well. There may be questions for you to answer in Ústí."
Chapter Twenty-Nine

1947

Prague

Czechoslovakia

THE WAR is over at last. Hana is walking slowly along Parížská, a street she once knew well. No one recognizes the thin and sickly shadow that once came to these shops with Mama and little Rosa in the bright days, before the Nazi occupation. Soon she sees the church where the woman gave her shelter for the night when she rescued her on Masaryk railway station, six painful years ago while she was still a child.

She remembers leaving something in the church, but she is seventeen years old now and has no wish to revisit the past. She will find work in one of the hotels near Staroměstské náměstí, the Old Town Square.

The Communists are getting more powerful since the Soviet army drove the Nazis from the city. Jews are still not welcome. The people here think she is a country girl, but she knows she still sounds like a Jew. She would have stayed at Krkavčí farma in Ústí if Uncle Libek had not died. Poor Aunty Vetka is in an institution, and another family now has the farm. Hana knows that the time has come to make a new life.
Chapter Thirty

THE LARGE police officer led Matt out of the kitchen into the farmyard, towards their parked car where his colleague was already waiting. Matt knew he had to find an excuse to stay here. He told Stanislav about Zoé, and Stanislav proceeded to tell to the police officers. He waited for his reply to be translated.

"You can use the phone at the police station," Stanislav said when the discussion had finished. "The Duseks will remain here."

Matt pointed to the door into the kitchen. "Let me get my bag before we go."

The giant of a policeman agreed and waited outside in the unlit farmyard with Stanislav. When he returned to the kitchen Matt got the impression that the Duseks looked embarrassed about something, almost guilty. Lenka said a few words to her husband, but Matt had no idea what she was saying. They seemed to be hatching a plot. Tomas Dusek looked at Matt and put both his hands forward with his fists clenched and moved them backwards and forwards in turn, his arms apart, raising his eyebrows as though to ask Matt if he understood.

Matt frowned, and shrugged his shoulders. Was this some strange Czech ritual? Then Lenka joined in the play acting with her hands forward, rotating them as though winding a handle. Now he realized. They were going through the motions of riding a bicycle. Of course, Lenka's old bike was in the wooden barn. Perhaps they understood how desperately he wanted to get home to find Zoé. Maybe he'd misjudged them.

"Bicycle," he said.

Lenka and Tomas looked each other and shook their heads. Obviously the word meant nothing. He copied their play acting and they both nodded. Using the bicycle to get to the railway station in Ústí was a brilliant idea and it might work. Ken would have phoned if Zoé had turned up. Stanislav and the two policemen might come in at any moment. He nodded his head enthusiastically and rotated his hands as though using them to pedal a bicycle Lenka and Tomas exchanged glances then had a brief discussion. They seemed to be an agreement about something. Tomas went out through the kitchen door into the farmyard while Lenka held Matt by the sleeve with her thin fingers and signaled to him to be quiet.

Lenka took the old envelope from the mantelpiece, the one that now presumably still contained the original music manuscripts after he'd swapped them back, and passed it to Matt, before fetching his bag from the side of the fireplace. Then she quickly pulled him into the hallway and proceeded to unlock the front door. The old bolts came back with a sharp snap and Lenka paused to listen, but no one had returned from the farmyard. She opened the large front door and Matt follows her out into the darkness.

After the light in the kitchen he was unable to see anything, but Lenka Dusek seemed to know her way around blindfolded. She hurried over the uneven ground and made her way to the rear of the wooden barn. Matt could hear voices in the farmyard. It wouldn't be long before the police started to look for him.

He could make out Lenka's hand tugging his sleeve as his eyesight began to recover. Lenka opened an old wooden door in the back of the barn and pulled him inside. The dogs stayed silent. He stumbled across the floor until Lenka guided his hands onto the handlebars of her bicycle. He wheeled it quickly outside into the night. They were out of sight of the farmyard but his troubles were far from over. He could hear Stanislav calling inside the house.

The farmer's wife pointed towards the left. "Ústí," she said excitedly.

Was this a trick? They'd come up the hill from the right, both when he and Stanislav arrived in the taxi, and when Tomas Dusek had driven them back from town. So he pointed to the right. "Ústí," he repeated.

"Ne, ne. Ústí." Again she jabbed her forefinger to the left.

He understood. Clever Lenka Dusek. The best road to Ústí was to the right, but the road to the left must go there as well. As long as he kept going downhill, all roads probably led to town. With the police car taking the obvious route to the right he'd be safer going left. Much safer. The bicycle didn't have any lights, but that was just as well. He didn't want to illuminate his escape route all the way to town.

"Lenka! Lenka!" Tomas Dusek bellowed from the yard.

To Matt's horror, Lenka replied. He'd not expected her to draw attention to herself. Tomas shouted something and whatever it was, it made Lenka scream. He'd hardly got onto the saddle when he felt the woman grabbing at the bag that was over his shoulder, but her thin fingers failed to get a proper hold.

He shot down the dusty driveway, the handlebars twitching nervously in his hands as he bounced over the uneven ground. And then, just as he reached the gate onto the main road he heard the sound of an engine revving up, followed by the clatter of gravel under the wheel arches as the car accelerated violently. The police were after him.

He turned sharp left the way Lenka Dusek had pointed. And then it occurred to him that maybe the Duseks' help had not been so noble after all. Lenka and Stanislav had swapped the contents of the envelopes just so they could carry out this trick, but hadn't seen him swapping them back. They had been encouraging him to escape so they would be left with the originals. Tomas must have now discovered the switch and alerted his wife.

He could hear the police car scrabbling its way down the gravel drive. He just hoped it would turn right. Open fields meant there was nowhere to hide off the road, and he had to go at a snail's pace in the darkness. The police car turned right.

He pulled into the side of the steep hill. At least the brakes were good, which was something in his favor. Suddenly the dogs began barking and he heard another car crunching its way down the drive. The Duseks and their dogs were coming, and he knew which way they'd be turning. He got back onto the saddle and resumed his downhill journey, trying without success to search the road ahead for problems. Already he could see the headlights of the old Skoda flashing across the trees. And then he caught sight of a building, smaller than the Duseks' farmhouse, but the place was obviously occupied because he could see a light behind the downstairs curtains.

He jumped from the bike and turned round to look. The approaching car was only one bend in the road behind him. He only just got out of sight in the front garden of the house, before the car flashed past. A dog barked and he could see the curtains being pushed back. This definitely wasn't the best place to hide.

He could hear the Dusek's dogs howling. They were much closer now. The dog in the house must have heard them because its frantic barking became louder and more rapid. A man's face appeared at the window and the curtains were hastily drawn shut.

Matt picked up a stone and threw it at the window, shattering one of the small panes of glass. He just had to hope that the occupant would rather send his dog out than venture into the darkness with a gun.

The ploy worked. The front door opened slightly. To the sound of an urgent command a large dog rushed out just as the Dusek's dogs bounded in from the road. As the three animals became embroiled in a fight, Matt jumped back onto the old bicycle. It was unlikely the dogs would try to follow him now. They'd got this far because they'd seen the Dusek's Skoda going down the hill. The only scent they'd get now was from Lenka's cycle wheels, which wasn't likely to be of interest to them.

Matt resumed his ride down the hill, but even more cautiously now. It wouldn't be long before the police and the Duseks met up in Ústí. They'd exchange their findings and know he was still somewhere on the way. Then they'd drive backwards and forwards until they found him, making regular visits to the railway station where the staff would be told to look out for an Englishman. There was no way he could cycle without lights to another town to catch a train, even if he knew which way to go. He'd just have to hole up somewhere until everyone got tired of looking. Somewhere in the distance behind he heard the barking dogs and the raised voice of the householder.

He could see headlights coming his way, and there was no mistaking the sound of that old Skoda engine. He hadn't reckoned on the Duseks being bright, but it looked like they'd already turned round, knowing that he couldn't have got far. With every minute that passed, his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and a half moon had now appeared through a gap in the clouds. It wouldn't help the Duseks, but it would help him. Already he could see a gate into one of the few fields with a hedge. He jumped over it and hauled the bicycle after him. And only just in time. The Skoda raced past. He could see the lights going back towards Krkavčí farma, Raven's Farm. Maybe the Duseks were going to check the envelopes again, just to make sure they'd been tricked.

He looked inside his bag, for he might have been the one to have been tricked after all. But no, the envelope contained old sheets of paper: he could tell by the feel. The modern photocopies had been smooth and the paper uncreased. He pulled his collar up against the cold. The temperature dropped rapidly. He couldn't see himself staying in this field for more than an hour.

It occurred to him that maybe he was doing all this for nothing. Zoé might have turned up by now, and Ken would be trying to ring him at the farm to pass on the good news. Now that he'd run away, the police were definitely not going to let him catch a train back to Prague. As suspicious actions went, using a bike to escape must be one of the most foolish moves he could have made. Ken was always accusing him of rushing into things without thinking first, and tonight Ken was right.

A large van drove up the hill, grinding its gears as it reached the steepest part, but it didn't seem to be part of the search team. Then he heard the Duseks' Skoda coming back down the hill, approaching very slowly. He stayed motionless behind the hedge. The slightest movement and he'd surely be seen, for he could imagine Tomas and Lenka looking out sideways hoping to catch a glint from the bicycle. But he'd laid it flat in the field, and was crouching low at the bottom of the hedge.

The smartest thing to do was to follow the car, using its headlights to show the way. The instant the Skoda had gone past Matt dropped the bike over the gate and began to peddle rapidly down the road. He couldn't feel any gear lever on the handlebars, and he'd not even noticed if the bike had gears. But he found he could keep up with the Skoda easily, though he had to keep well back or the brake lights, which were being applied frequently, would light him up.

How far would the Duseks go before turning round again? If they did come back, he might be trapped in a part of the road where there was no place to hide. It would be impossible to outrun the Skoda up the steep hill. Anyway, the dogs might be on the lookout for him again.

He must have got halfway to Ústí before the brakes on the Skoda were applied finally, bringing the car to a slow halt. Down here on the level, small roads led off on both sides. Matt realized he could go down any of these to hide, but the same thought must have occurred to Tomas and Lenka, for they now backed up slowly. He had no choice but to go down the nearest road, which led to some sort of warehouse or factory. If he could get inside the building he could shelter from the cold and remain out of sight. But the building probably had an alarm system, and flashing lights and wailing sirens was not the best way to stay concealed.

As the Skoda came towards him he squeezed the bicycle between two large storage tanks. But the Duseks' heart didn't seem to be in the search. Quickly the Skoda was driven back out, leaving Matt shivering in the cold, but at least safe for now. What he needed was a phone. Maybe he could hide the large envelope of Vasek Tesar's music somewhere and come back for it later. For a moment he could imagine how Hana Eisler must have felt, pursued by the Nazis, seeking somewhere safe to leave her precious possession.

The building, definitely a factory, had a small gatehouse by the entrance. The red and white security barrier had been thrown onto the grass, presumably after it had been knocked aside by some careless or impatient driver. But the thing that really caught his attention was the wire running to an overhead pole. It didn't look like an electricity cable, so it must be part of the phone system. The factory would almost certainly be alarmed, but probably not the gatehouse.

He threw the bicycle on the ground beneath some shrubs and picked up a medium-sized stone, smashing the glass panel on the door. He reached through the hole for the catch and entered the small room. He could just make out two chairs in front of the desk that housed the operating system for the now obsolete barrier. And then he saw what he was looking for -- a telephone.

As he reached to pick it up he wondered if it might need to be connected through a switchboard in the main building, but to his relief he heard a dial tone, but not the one he expected. He wanted to turn the light on to see the pushbutton dial clearly, but couldn't risk attracting attention from the road. He worked out which was the nine button, which usually got through to an outside line, and the sound changed to the Czech Republic tone he now knew well. He could ring his home number without needing to see the buttons. And he could remember the 0044 international dialing code. He waited for the phone to be answered.

"Matt?" Ken obviously wasn't expecting a call from anyone else.

"Any news on Zoé?" He knew what the answer was going to be, but he had to ask the question.

"Afraid not, kiddo. The police know she's missing, but they won't do anything until the morning."

Matt looked out of the window as a car went past the gatehouse, going towards the hill that went past the farm. It made him jump, but it looked smaller then either the Duseks' Skoda or the police car. "What about Salman? Have the police managed to find him yet?"

"No one's seen him for hours. Father Alban called here to see if he could help, but he didn't stay. He says Salman's probably out somewhere looking for Olga. She's been gone since mid afternoon. Anyway, he can't believe Salman has anything to do with Zoé's disappearance."

"Can't he? If he'd seen that Chechen refugee attack Zoé outside the restaurant the other night he might think differently."

"This is important: do you really think Salman could be responsible?"

Matt knew he could be making a big deal out of nothing. "It's possible, that's all. Did Father Alban want anything else?" He'd like to think a priest had come to offer comfort at a time like this.

"He said he'd pray for you and Zoé." Ken sounded embarrassed. "But then I expect all priests say that sort of thing."

They probably did, but at least Father Alban would have meant it. "If you see him, say thanks. And if you see Blake, don't say anything about Martin Smith's visit here. I'm not sure where Smith fits into the picture, but I don't trust him."

"Where are you? At the airport, I hope."

"If only. I'm sure the police don't believe I had anything to do with that body, but they're not letting me go."

"Are they holding you?"

"I'm near a place called Ústí, about a hundred miles from Prague, and I'm on the run."

"You're not even in Prague? I thought you'd want to be back here looking for Zoé."

"I don't want to be in Ústí. All I've got is an old bicycle, and it isn't going to get me even a quarter of the way to Prague. I'm going to catch the train. Problem is the police may be looking out for me at the railway station."

"Is there any way I can reach you if Zoé is ... " Ken hesitated. Matt knew what he'd been going to say. "What I mean is can I reach you when Zoé turns up safe and well?"

"No way. I'll phone you from time to time. If Zoé's okay, and I hope to God she is, I needn't worry too much about getting back in a hurry. I'm going to cycle into town and see if I can get on a train without anyone seeing me. If the police ... " A large gray car, definitely a Skoda, stopped right outside the entrance. It backed up slightly and began to swing round to face the factory, its lights on main beam.

"Are you still there, kiddo?"

Matt dropped quickly to the floor still holding the phone, just in time before the headlights flashed across the gatehouse. "Unfortunately, yes."
Chapter Thirty-One

"KEN, I MAY be in trouble. I'll ring you again soon."

Matt reached out and replaced the phone, being careful to keep his head down. Slowly the Skoda continued towards the factory. It was definitely the Duseks' car, but only Tomas was in it. The farmer hadn't stopped long enough at the entrance to drop his wife off, so presumably he'd already taken her back to the farm. Maybe Lenka was fed up with the manhunt, or more likely Tomas wanted her home in case the police needed to make contact.

As the Skoda disappeared round the back of the factory, Matt had a bright idea. Lenka's old bicycle wasn't going to get him far, but the Skoda would get him all the way to Prague. He ripped out the phone wires and ran from the gatehouse to pick up the broken security barrier from the grass. The red and white pole seemed to be aluminum and felt unexpectedly light, as well as cold. He laid it across the two uprights that had recently supported it across the entrance, and stood behind the gatehouse just as the Skoda returned from making a complete circuit of the factory building.

Tomas braked hard at the barrier. He'd obviously not expected an obstruction. He sat in the car for a few seconds, glancing across at the gatehouse as though waiting for it to be raised. After sounding the horn impatiently a couple of times, the farmer got out of the car, leaving the engine running. As he walked across to the gatehouse, Matt slipped round behind the Skoda, jumped into the driver's seat and locked the doors. Tomas shouted, but he was too late.

Matt revved up the engine and the red and white pole flew over the roof of the car as he let the clutch in with a bang. He turned sharp left, the way that Lenka had told him to go to Ústí. Already there were street lights, so he must be close to the center of town. It was no good blundering on. He had to get on the main road to Prague without wasting any more time.

The fuel gauge read decidedly low, and he'd need fuel, but not in Ústí. He had no idea what the road was like from here to Prague, but he could guess that on a Saturday night it wasn't going to be easy to find a filling station in the countryside. He had the map of the Czech Republic in his bag. The advantages of stopping to read it far outweighed the risk of being caught, and he'd be safe if he stopped in one of the small residential roads that led off everywhere.

He parked well out of sight and turned on the interior light. He quickly found Ústí nad Orlicí on the map, and then Prague. The two places looked quite close together, but he doubted it was really so. In his experience places in foreign countries were never as close as they looked on a map.

He needed to go through the center of town to reach the E442 which was marked in red. This would take him as far as the large town of Hradec Králové, then the E67 would take him all the way to Prague. The last part of the route would be by motorway, which should speed things up. He turned the car in the narrow road and made his way into Ústí. He had to be careful not to panic. With the telephone in the gatehouse now disconnected, there was no way that Tomas Dusek could have reported the theft of his car this soon. And even if he had, would the police react quickly enough to set up a major roadblock? And why would they bother? He was hardly an international terrorist. They must have worked out by now that he was not involved or even a witness if he had only just arrived from England.

The thought helped calm him down. The only place the police were likely to be looking for him was here in Ústí \-- and perhaps at his hotel in Prague which Stanislav knew about. He had his passport in his bag, but not his air ticket. The Prague police wouldn't have the resources to make many checks. If they found his ticket at the hotel, that's where someone would wait for him if they felt it important enough. He could see the signpost to the E442, and no sign of the police.

The main road to Hradec Králové looked busy at this time of the evening, enabling Matt to feel inconspicuous. He found a gas station and used his credit card to fill the tank to the brim. He had no idea how much fuel the Skoda used, but saving money was the least of his worries. He phoned home from a kiosk in the garage forecourt.

Ken was still there, but not Zoé.

*

THE AIRPORT was easy to find, with good signposting showing well before Matt reached the outskirts of Prague. He parked the old Skoda in the short-term waiting area, made his way into the departure lounge and rang home again. As he feared, Ken had no news. There was a phone directory in the kiosk. He flicked through it until he came to the page he wanted. There wasn't time to copy out the names and addresses, so he tore out the whole page and jammed it in his pocket.

He hurried to the desk of the airline he'd used to fly into the Czech Republic. The woman regretted it, but there was no plane to England until the morning. He asked if they had planes flying tonight to anywhere on the continent, and she said that one was shortly departing to Amsterdam. There were seats and, yes, she would take a credit card if he would like to wait a moment. He wondered if this was some delaying tactic, and his name was on a list of wanted travelers. But no, she seemed genuinely helpful. Anyway, did Stanislav know his surname? He couldn't remember. His passport said Matthew, and the Czech police might not know that Matt was an abbreviation.

"Do any other airlines have a flight to England this evening?" he asked, glancing around the large departure area.

The woman shrugged. "You could try over there. It depends what airport you want to arrive at."

He wanted to end up where he'd parked his Mini, less than an hour's drive from home. Anywhere else and he'd have to hire a car to get home, and his credit card wouldn't stand the charge.

"Can you get me from Amsterdam to England?"

"I'll just check." The clerk tapped the keyboard and looked at the monitor. "You're in luck. As long as everything runs on time, you can be in England at your home airport in four hours. But you'll have to make up your mind quickly." She smiled and raised her eyebrows. "Yes or no?"

He said yes.
Chapter Thirty-Two

MATT PHONED home from Amsterdam airport, and again as soon as he cleared customs in England. Ken had stayed in the house in case there was any news, but it seemed that the police believed it was some sort of domestic problem, and Zoé would be contacting Matt when he got home.

As he approached the street where he lived he almost expected to see Salman, the Chechen refugee, sitting outside his front gate. The dashboard clock said it was just after five a.m. The street was deserted but he could see lights on in his front room. Just for a moment he hoped.

"Sorry, kiddo," said Ken who came to the door on hearing the Mini stop outside. "You've got a visitor. Your priest friend is here to see you."

Matt clambered from his car and went with Ken to the front door. Suddenly it all seemed real.

"I'm exhausted," he said, leaning against the doorway. He was glad Ken had stayed, but unless ... "Father Alban is here?" Was Zoé dead? Had the priest come to offer counseling?

The small Frenchman, dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt came into the hall. "I only wish I could help you find Zoé," he said. "I think we can eliminate Salman in this mystery."

"Are you sure?" Matt asked.

"All I know is that Salman and Olga have both disappeared. They are together, I think."

Matt fell into his favorite armchair, in no mood for polite conversation. "It's a funny thing that Salman went missing after he'd been round here making a nuisance of himself with Zoé."

Father Alban shook his head and spread his arms in a show of anguish. "It is perhaps my fault," he said quietly. "I encourage my crew to be of help in the community. I thought that Zoé might need assistance."

"She didn't need to be harassed by some homeless beggar. I don't know what you were thinking of, sending him round here when I was away."

"Matt, Salman was sorry for what he did to your wife that evening. He wanted to make amends."

"By kidnapping her?"

Ken stepped forward. "It's been a bad time for all of us, especially for you, Matt. Let's hold it right here. This isn't going to help us find Zoé."

Matt sighed. Ken was right, but he wasn't going to apologize to the priest. He'd sort that one out later. "Why do you think Salman and Olga are together?"

Father Alban nodded. "They have become very friendly in the last few days. I think maybe there is romance in the air."

Then Matt remembered. "Olga wanted new shoes because she goes walking in the countryside. Up on the Mount, you said."

"That is correct," the French priest said. "But I do not think your wife would have gone walking with them."

The thought hadn't even occurred to him that Zoé would have gone hill-walking. And if she had, she'd have been back long before now. Or would she? Maybe she and Olga were staking out a badger's sett. Olga seemed fascinated by wildlife, and Zoé wasn't expecting him back till tomorrow.

Ken pointed to the kitchen. "It doesn't explain why the back door was wide open."

Matt's head ached. If only he knew who had come to the front door while he was speaking to Zoé on the phone from Ústí. He should have bought a spare phone card in advance. It was obvious that a single card wasn't going to last the whole weekend. Zoé's cell phone was on the coffee table. He picked it up and noticed that it was switched off. The break-in made no sense. This mobile would have been easy pickings.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you," said Ken. "When I said the police had been round here it wasn't to help find Zoé."

Matt felt sick. "Tell me."

"You'd better sit down. Would you like Father Alban to make you a coffee?"

"A strong one. Black. No sugar."

"Leave it to me." Father Alban went into the kitchen. Matt could hear him opening the cupboards and drawers. He was about to go and help, but he had to listen to Ken's news.

"Right," said Ken, "I'd better tell you everything I know."

"Sounds like a good idea." Matt closed his eyes. If he kept them open he could see the room starting to go round. Even with them closed he felt unsettled.

"The police showed me Shelley Carpenter's note."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because you and Zoé are mentioned by name. It was more of a letter really. Not that Shelley Carpenter had finished it. She wrote that her violin has gone."

Matt opened his eyes and sat upright. "That's Tesar's violin."

"Valuable, is it?" Ken paused. "You haven't got the thing, have you?"

"Of course not. I'll let the police search the house if they want to."

Ken breathed in deeply. "I've already had a quick look round myself. I wasn't being nosey. I was just hoping to spot something that would explain Zoé's absence."

Father Alban returned from the kitchen, holding an old mug that Zoé used for measuring flour. Matt decided it only confirmed what he'd thought about the woman claiming to be Mrs. Smith. A visitor doesn't know where to find things in a strange kitchen. Martin Smith and his mother definitely had questions to answer.

"I think I know where we might find Salman and Olga," the priest said.

"Then you'd better hurry up and tell us," Ken told him brusquely.

Father Alban nodded slowly. "It has only just occurred to me. On the Mount there is an old farmhouse. It is behind the Helios Music Academy."

"I know it," Matt told him. "I nearly crashed into the chimney stack on a paraglider." It seemed an age ago that Blake had persuaded him to take photographs of Shelley Carpenter and Martin Smith by the swimming pool.

"I have never been there myself, but I think perhaps they use the farm for reasons that are personal." Father Alban looked slightly embarrassed, even though he dressed as one of the boys. "I cannot approve, but I do not interfere with the private lives of my crew."

The room went quiet. Father Alban crossed himself, closed his eyes, and laid a hand on Matt's head. Matt looked up and saw the priest's lips moving. The words were quiet but positive. He hadn't expected to feel encouraged by hearing someone praying for him and Zoé, but he was desperate enough to clutch at any straw.

A banging on the front door made everyone jump. "Father Alban, Father Alban," called a young voice through the letterbox.

Ken opened the door to find a youth in his mid teens standing there.

"One of my crew," Father Alban explained. "What is it, Michael?"

Michael sounded too agitated to speak properly. "Salman ... has come back. He wants ... wants you ... to go with him to the Mount. There's an ... an old building," the youngster panted. "And a body. Someone's ... been killed."
Chapter Thirty-Three

England

Fourteen hours earlier

ZOÉ REPLACED the phone and hurried to the front door. It was always so. If she was watching something special on the television the phone would ring, and if she was talking on the phone the front doorbell would go. The doorbell rang again as she pulled back the latch. Whoever it was must be impatient, or in a hurry.

"Zoé, Zoé, your husband has to help me." Shelley Carpenter stood there, her hair everywhere. She never dressed smartly, but today she looked a complete mess.

"You have a problem?" Zoé asked. As she said it, she realized that the question was unnecessary. The American woman not only sounded distraught, she looked it.

"Is Matt in?"

For a moment Zoé felt afraid. Matt always suspected people of having a concealed motive when they asked for help, and sometimes he was right. Maybe Shelley was what Matt would call, up to no good. But Matt had trusted this American woman, so perhaps it would be all right to invite her in. But then Matt was attracted to Shelley, which maybe made him a poor judge of her character. She shook her head. "Matt is not here at the moment. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"My hotel room's been broken into."

"Then you must contact the police."

Shelley had obviously thought about that one. "There isn't time. My violin's been taken and I know who's got it."

"You saw someone leaving your room?"

"It's Martin Smith. And no, I didn't see him."

Zoé realized now what Shelley was talking about. "Ah yes, the violin that Dvorak took to America. But why would Martin Smith want to steal it?"

"He's been after that violin ever since I first showed it to him. The man covets it."

Zoé was not quite sure what the word meant, but from the emphasis Shelley put on it, the meaning seemed obvious. "But why would he break into your hotel room?" She felt as though she was cross-examining a witness. Subconsciously she must have inherited the suspicious attitude from Matt, but somehow she sensed she could trust Shelley.

"I went to the Academy this morning to settle my affairs," the American explained. "I told Blake I'm returning to LA early tomorrow, and I guess the news got round the rest of the staff. So Martin Smith didn't have any option but to break into my hotel room today if he wanted the violin."

"Maybe it was Monsieur Blake who broke in. Peut-être he wants it."

"It was Martin Smith. I know it was. And we're wasting time talking like this."

Zoé decided to be open. "Matt he is not here. He is in Prague. If you would like to come inside and wait he will be phoning me again soon."

Shelley caught Zoé by her shoulders and held on tightly. "I can't wait." She sounded frantic. "There's only one place Martin Smith will have taken the violin, and that's back to the Academy."

Zoé pulled herself free. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"Grab your coat and come with me, honey. Blake won't let me back into the Academy on my own, but he won't argue if there are two of us."

Zoé turned and looked at the phone on the hall table on which she had just been speaking to Matt, wishing he was here. He would know what to do. "Will it take long?"

Shelley shook her head fiercely. "The hell it won't. I'm going to bawl Martin Smith out and make him confess. And then I'm going to haul his ass down to the cops."

Zoé stepped back a couple of paces. "I am not sure." She was seeing a side of Shelley that had been hidden until now. This woman made an opponent formidable, and was surely not in need of support.

"Listen, honey, I'm not asking you to get heavy or anything. All I need is a witness. Okay?"

Put like that Zoé felt she had little option, but she had to be sure. "It is definite that I will not get hit." She patted her stomach. "You know about the baby."

"Sure, honey, I know all about it. No, there'll be no rough stuff, I promise. That Smith slob will cave in when he gets on the wrong end of my temper. We've got to hurry."

*

EDWARD BLAKE the dean stood at the main entrance to the Academy building and repeated his declaration. "No, Miss Carpenter, neither you nor your companion are putting one foot inside this door. If you attempt to come any further I shall call the police."

"Sure, go ahead call them. They'll pull this place apart, and when they find my violin they'll close your stinking Academy."

Zoé sighed. Shelley and Blake had been arguing for nearly five minutes. The British police might be interested to hear about a stolen violin, but they were hardly likely to organize a search team. "I think we should go," she said quietly.

Shelley suddenly conceded defeat. "Yeah, yeah, we'll go now, sure." She looked closely at Blake. "You needn't think I'm giving up on this. I'll have my violin back today, you just see."

"We are going?" Zoé asked. She had not expected her advice to be taken so quickly.

"Sure, honey, we're going." Shelley turned and stormed down the steps, pulling Zoé with her. "Come on," she said loudly, "we'll get a taxi back to your place."

As they reached the bottom of the steps Shelley stopped and whispered, "Go back? Like hell we will. I know a way into these grounds. We'll search Martin Smith's rooms together. Okay?"

Zoé knew it was anything but okay. Matt might do this sort of thing for work, but living on the edge of the law had never appealed to her. Nursing was a much safer profession.

"You look shocked," Shelley observed. "It's not stealing, honey. It's my violin and I want it back. Martin Smith is the thief." They reached the bottom of the drive, out of sight of the main building, and Shelley turned. "We make a right here and go up the side of the Academy grounds."

"If you are sure." Zoé felt numbed. But deep down she recognized that she did feel a little excited by the thought of getting into the Academy building unseen -- and searching the room of Martin Smith. It would be something to tell Matt when he got back. He might even be proud of her. She looked at her watch. Matt would have tried to phone her again by now, but he would not worry. He had plenty to keep him occupied in the Czech Republic.

*

"IT'S JUST along here," Shelley explained ten minutes later, when they reached the top fence. "If anyone comes we can easily hide in these gorse bushes."

The leaves already had a hint of brown, but they still provided plenty of cover. "Now let's find the way though the fence."

"The way through the fence? How do you know there is one here?" Zoé asked.

Shelley laughed. "All the older girls and boys have their special way onto the Mount, but they think the staff don't know about it."

"So what is it for?"

"What is it for?" Shelley stared in astonishment. "Girls? Boys? Why you think they want to use the Mount, honey?"

Zoé felt herself blushing. Then she began to laugh. Suddenly she stopped. A movement deep inside one of the gorse bushes made her jump. She caught Shelley by the arm. "There is somebody in there who is watching us."

"Come out," Shelley ordered, but Zoé thought her voice didn't sound particularly bold.

Slowly the small figure of a girl emerged. She was no Academy student; not with dirty jeans and a long black coat. In her hand she held a book. Zoé recognized the book and the sneakers. "Olga?"

Olga bit her bottom lip, looking incredibly guilty.

"What the hell are you doing, kid, spying on us?" Shelley demanded.

Zoé shook her head. "This is Olga," she explained. "She has not been spying on us. She is here to observe the wildlife on the Mount." She turned to Olga. "Is that not so?"

Olga agreed that it was so, and showed an already dog-eared copy of her book on birds. "What are you doing here?" she asked hesitantly, like a shy child.

"We are ... " Zoé looked at Shelley and tried not to giggle. They could hardly admit to trying to break into the Academy.

Shelley took charge. "There's a bad man around," she warned. "He's stolen something that belongs to me, and I have to get it back."

"A big man? What has he stolen?" Olga asked. "Is it something in a bag? Big, like this?" She held her hands wide apart, like an optimistic angler indicating the size of the one that got away.

"About," Shelley agreed.

Olga nodded.

"Hey, kid, what's all this about?" Shelly sounded angry. "Do you know something?"

"I am sorry." Olga backed off, retreating into the gorse bush.

Zoé realized that if Olga had been here for most of the afternoon, she would have seen anyone using the way through the back fence. A big man? She did not like to think it. Martin Smith had been a considerable help in her little orchestra in the town. "Did he have a wide moustache?" she asked.

Olga's eyes came alive, the first time her face had shown any expression other than anxiety. "A moustache like this?" She twiddled the ends of her fingers, one hand each side of her nose, as though arranging a moustache that a Victorian would have been proud to own.

"That damned pianist," breathed Shelley in anger. "Where the hell has he taken my violin?"

Olga glanced at the remains of the old farmhouse, only a few hundred yards up the hill.

"Did he take the bag there?" Zoé asked.

Olga just nodded.

"And is he still inside the building?"

Olga shrugged. "I have been looking at the birds."

Zoé could feel the excitement running through her stomach now. It was as though the baby was kicking, but at only three months this was impossible.

Shelley seemed to be sharing the feeling of excitement. "That guy's hidden my violin in that tumbledown farm! Hey, kid, how long ago was this?"

Olga opened her book and started turning through the pages. She pointed to a small brown bird perched on top of the fence about twenty feet away. "A linnet," she said. "I have a picture of it here."

Shelley waved the book away. "I haven't got time for that nonsense, kid."

Zoé noticed the disappointment on Olga's face. She went across and studied the picture. The bird on the fence almost certainly was not a linnet, but she nodded and smiled. "Good," she said, then turned to Shelley. "If we want Olga to help us, then let us show a small piece of courtesy." Courtesy was an English word she had learned recently. The idea of showing respect for someone had always appealed to her, but she had previously thought of it with the French word. La courtoisie. Her patients in the hospital certainly appreciated it.

"Sorry, kid." Shelley joined Zoé to look at the book, but Zoé doubted she took in what Olga was showing her. "Will you help us find where the big man hid the bag?"

Olga shook her head, her eyes wide. "Salman says it is too dangerous to go in there."

"Salman?" Shelley demanded. "Who the hell is Salman?"

Again Olga backed away. Zoé could see that in her present state Shelley was doing more harm than good. "Salman is her friend at the Homeless Anchor Trust," she explained.

Judging by Shelley's expression, she had no idea what the Homeless Anchor Trust was. "Anyway," Shelley said, "whoever Salman is, what the hell does he know about buildings?"

"Salman's father was a builder in Chechnya, before the Russians destroyed his village," Olga explained.

"Chechnya?" Shelley shook her head and looked at Olga. "Is the world going nuts, or am I?"

Zoé smiled at Olga. "Why does Salman think the building is dangerous?"

"It is the roof," Olga said. "And the chimney. Salman says that when the winter wind blows, the roof will fall in."

Shelley licked her finger and held up in the air. "Look, kid, there's no wind and it's not winter. So how about showing us round the place?"

Olga bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

"Will this help?" Shelley reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a high value note.

Olga grabbed the money with a thin, dirty hand.

"Not so fast, kid." Shelley snatched the note back and returned it her pocket. "You help us find the bag, and the money's yours. Is that a deal?"

Olga stared at Shelley's pocket. Perhaps she had never seen so much money in one go. "A deal," she agreed.
Chapter Thirty-Four

ZOÉ HAD misgivings right from the start. It did not need the opinion of a builder to know that the timbers in the farmhouse were fragile. Pourri, rotten, might be a better description. Olga beckoned them through the wide front door. Shelley went second and Zoé followed.

"This isn't some sort of trick, is it?" Shelley demanded.

"No trick," Olga said.

Remains of the ceiling hung in jagged pieces from the overhead joists, but most of the white plaster lay on the ground underfoot. Many of the roof tiles were missing, and Zoé could see large patches of daylight through the floorboards in the room above. Only a fool would go up the broken staircase.

Olga seemed to have the same idea. "The man will not have taken the bag up there," she said, shivering a little. The temperature had dropped rapidly within the past few minutes.

"So what's the plan?" Shelley asked.

"Plan?" Olga seemed disoriented.

"The plan, kid. There aren't many places in this crummy place to hide anything." Shelley looked around, caught Zoé's eyes, and shook her head.

"There is the cellar," Olga said after a pause.

Zoé looked down the wide passageway that went from the front to the back of the building. The door to a cellar usually started behind the stairs, but she could see nothing.

Olga laughed. "I have been here several times on my own to explore. But Salman will not come." She kicked at some planks of wood on the floor. "There is a hatch under here."

Shelley must have read Zoé thoughts. "You must think I'm stupid or something," she said in exasperation. "Those old pieces of timber look as though they've been there since the year dot."

"The students come and move things around." Olga started to pull the pieces of wood away. "I am thinking that if I was a man who had something to hide, I would want to cover up the hatch. Have a look: there is no dust on this wood."

"The kid's right." Shelley reached for Zoé's hand. "Anyone with sense would want to disguise their tracks."

They stood and watched as Olga quickly uncovered a square panel in the floor. She reached for a recessed ring and lifted a small hatch.

Shelley walked forward and looked down into the blackness. "How do we get down there?"

"There are steps," Olga explained, though Zoé noticed that she kept well back.

"You go down, kid." Shelley pushed Olga in the back.

Olga squealed and ran to the door. "If I go down there you will trap me, and I will die."

Shelley sighed in exasperation. "It's my violin we're looking for, damn you. Get down there and fetch it for me -- if you want the money."

Zoé could see that Olga clearly did not need money that badly. "We all go," the Slovakian insisted.

"Just get down there, kid, and stop messing us about." Shelley sounded surprisingly firm.

"I think perhaps we have a problem." Zoé wanted to smooth the situation. "Olga does not trust us if we stay up here, and we do not trust Olga if we go down on our own."

"So what are you suggesting?" Shelley snapped. "We all go down?"

"That," Zoé said, "is about it."

Olga nodded with enthusiasm. "It is a good idea? We all go down? Yes?"

Zoé walked towards the edge of the hole in the floor. "Yes," she agreed.

Shelley came forward warily and held onto Zoé as though she needed help to keep her balance. "Does anyone have a light?"

"I have a cigarette lighter," Olga said. "Please, we must be quick. I have to get back to meet Salman."

Zoé put her hand to her mouth. "And I have to get home. I think I have left the back door unlocked. Matt phoned me when I was hanging out some washing. I had to hurry into the house. And then you came to the door, Shelley, and I forgot to lock it. What shall we do?"

"Do?" Shelley said. "We find my violin, that's what we do."

Zoé could see a flight of wooden steps leading down. Olga went first, but she waited halfway to make sure she was being followed. Zoé went next and as she looked back up and saw that Shelley had stayed behind. She shared the concerns of Olga about being trapped. Was she able to trust Shelley Carpenter?

"I'll stay up here and keep guard," Shelley called from across the room. "I can't stand heights."

Zoé shot back up the steps. "We all go," she insisted.

"Then you'll have to help me, honey." Shelley knelt on the floor and carefully lowered one foot backwards. Zoé placed it on the top step then cautiously, very cautiously, the second foot came over.

Olga snapped on her lighter, but it was difficult to see very far by the small flame. As the lighter flickered out Olga lit the flame again.

"Hey, kid," Shelley called as she finally reached the floor, "I hope you've got plenty of fuel in there."

Olga was already over on the far side of the cold, damp underground room. "There is nothing here," she called. She gave a little gasp. "I can hear someone coming."

Zoé could hear a noise from above. Suddenly the hatch slammed shut. Olga was up the wooden steps like a frightened squirrel up a tree, straining to push the hatch open. Whoever it was up there, they were not trying to be quiet. It sounded as though as though they were replacing the timber onto the top of the hatch. Then the lighter went out.

Shelley pushed her way past Zoé. Maybe she did not mind steps as long as it was dark. "Open this damn hatch," she screamed.

They could hear more timber being dragged around, but no one spoke. Then they heard a shout, a man's voice, followed by a crash that shook the air. It sounded as though the room above had collapsed. With Olga and Shelley at the top of the steps, Zoé held tightly on at the bottom.

"You'd better use that lighter again, kid." Shelley said as silence enveloped them.

"Maybe there is another way out," Zoé suggested, feeling the need to keep everyone's spirits up. "Olga, will you please use the lighter."

"It has stopped working," Olga said. "It is an old one I found."

"Then you'd better get us out of here damn fast," Shelley shouted.

"There is no escape," Olga said quietly. "I have been here before."

"That's brilliant," Shelley said. "We come down with an empty lighter and there's no way out."

"We are going to die," Olga said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I am sorry."

"You're sorry?" Shelley yelled. "I'm not ready to die yet, even if you are. Anyone got a bright suggestion?"

"Do you have a cell phone with you?" Zoé asked quietly.

"Hell, no, I sold it to one of the college kids. I'm going back to LA tomorrow morning. Don't you have one?" Shelley seemed to be calming down a little.

"Not with me." Zoé felt irritated with herself for not bringing it, but she had come out in such a hurry.

"I do not have one either," Olga said in a whisper." Then she added, somewhat unnecessarily, "I have no money to buy a phone."

Zoé heard it first. A slow creaking from above. It was impossible to make out anything in the darkness, but she was convinced that the ceiling directly above their heads was collapsing. The noise stopped for a few seconds then grew louder. Cracks of daylight appeared in the ceiling and to her horror she could see some of the large supporting timber falling. A large beam caught her on the chest and sent her crashing backwards onto the stone floor. The timber came to rest across her stomach. The pain made her scream out. All she could think of was the baby.
Chapter Thirty-Five

The present

MATT GRABBED his coat and the keys to his Mini. Michael's unexpected news had come as a shock. Zoé was missing and Salman had found a body on the Mount. "Did Salman say if it's a man or a woman?"

Michael was still out of breath from his run here to collect Father Alban. He shook his head. "He didn't say. All he said was Father Alban had to come quickly."

Matt glanced round at Ken and the priest. "Let's go."

"Don't you think we ought to send for an ambulance?" Ken asked, sounding more than a little indecisive. "I mean, it may be ... " He hesitated.

"You're thinking it may be Zoé," Matt told him. He might as well look on the blackest side. He turned to Father Alban. "Does Salman often say things like this?"

The French priest shook his head. "Salman has sometimes caused to me much of the heartache, but he would never tell the lies."

"Okay," Matt said, "this is what we do. Ken, you take Father Alban in your car and pick up Salman. I'll phone the emergency services and then drive straight to the Mount. We'll all meet there. There's only one old building, so you can't miss it. I should be there before you."

Ken pointed up at the night sky. "You'll need a light."

Matt pushed Ken out of the door. "I've got a decent hand lantern in the back of my Mini. Just go."

As Ken drove off, Matt made his emergency call. He had to admit that the woman answering it didn't sound particularly convinced there was a problem, but after a bit of argument she agreed to send an ambulance and a police car to the old farmhouse. He hurried out to the Mini and turned the key. The run from the airport had given the battery a good charge. The engine turned over briskly but failed to fire. He turned the key again, and then again. He'd been stupid to let Ken drive off, but at least they were going to the Mount once they'd picked up Salman, and the emergency services were on their way.

He turned the key again. The battery already sounded as though it was failing. Then, just as he was about to give up in despair, the engine fired, but not on all cylinders. Carefully he pressed the pedal down and the engine coughed. Then the revs picked up. Time to let in the clutch.

As he shot off down the street he realized he hadn't turned the lights on. He could imagine being picked up by the police, and trying in vain to explain why he was in a hurry. Fortunately his little indiscretion had gone unobserved. Something seemed to be on his side. Maybe Father Alban's prayers were being answered. Maybe he should try prayer himself. What had Father Alban said? Prayer wasn't a magic wand? It was a way of getting to know God? For the first time since school he pleaded with God to hear him.

Magic wand or not, only one set of lights was red, and he felt confident of being first up the Mount.

The old lane up the side of the Music Academy was closed with a metal farm gate, but it was never locked. He had to stop to open it, which meant that Ken and the others hadn't arrived yet. The surface of the lane was gravel, and over the years grass had grown through it. Ken would think twice about taking his new car up here in the dark, but certainly the police wouldn't turn a hair -- assuming they were coming.

His headlights picked out the outline of the old farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away. The track did a couple of loops on its way up the hill, but the Mini had no trouble keeping going. He came to halt in front of the building, grabbed the lantern from the boot, and switched it on. As he shone it over the building something looked wrong. Then he realized. The chimney had gone. The roof, which had always drooped in the middle, had collapsed with it. He stepped through the front door and found his way ahead blocked by pieces of smashed joists and floorboards, blocks of stone, and a pile of roof tiles.

He'd seen bodies before, when he worked for the police, but he still jumped. He'd recognize the shiny black trousers and bright green shirt anywhere. Martin Smith lay face down, with the remains of the large chimney pot crushing his skull. At least it wasn't Zoé under there. Afraid that more timber was falling he ran back into the night air. But as he ran he heard a woman's voice calling out.

He waited outside the door of the old farmhouse where he felt safer. "Who's there?" he called loudly.

The wind picked up for a moment, making it impossible to hear if anyone answered. With his hands covering his head in case anything fell from above, he returned to the passageway where Martin Smith's body lay, and repeated his question.

This time he definitely heard a voice, and the sound of hammering from under the timber.

"We're trapped down here," the voice called.

Matt shone the lantern along the length of the passageway. The words "down here" seemed to imply there was another room below. "Who are you?"

"Is that Matt Rider?"

He recognized the voice. Shelley Carpenter. "Yes, I'm Matt. Is Zoé with you?"

"There's a hatchway in the floor up there. You've got to get us out quick. Zoé's hurt real bad."

He returned quickly to the door and listened. He couldn't hear anyone coming, neither the emergency services nor Ken. Where the hell were they? "Can you hold on? The floor's covered in rubble."

He went to the door and listed again. All he could hear was the wind blowing across the open rooftop.

A different voice shouted now. It sounded like Olga. "Be quick. Zoé is dying."

He could imagine Shelley giving the kiss of life to Zoé, leaving Olga to do the shouting. He balanced the lantern on the timber and angled the beam down to where he judged the voices to be coming from.

He had to move Martin Smith's blood-soaked body out of the way, but first he needed to lift the remains of the massive chimney pot off the man's head. The police might not be impressed with his actions, tampering with evidence. But it was their fault, they should have been here by now. He moved the heavy pot and dragged the body by the feet into the open air. Blood and brains from Martin Smith's head had soaked into much of the rubble, making it messy to move. Not that he cared. He kept up a running conversation with the two women below, assuring them that he would be through to the hatch at any moment. But some of the wood was jammed across the passageway. Using one piece as a lever he worked his way down until he could see a brass ring under the grit and dust.

It took an age to clear the four sides of the hatch. He fetched his lantern and pulled the ring. As the hatch came up on its hinges Olga emerged, dusty and white faced. "Zoé may be dead," she said.

He turned and looked back at the doorway to the farmhouse. Headlights flashed across the walls of the passageway. "It's the police. Get out there and show them the way in," he told Olga. "I'm going down to see Zoé."

He put his feet on the wooden steps and clambered down, shining the lantern around the cellar. Zoé had a wooden beam across her stomach. Shelley shook her head.

"If she dead?" he asked slowly, getting down on his knees to cradle Zoé's head.

"I am not dead," Zoé said slowly. "You must get this wood off me. It is hurting my stomach badly."

"I've been praying for you," he whispered as he tried to lift one end of the timber. Then he heard voices from above and a powerful light shone down through the open hatch. Within a minute a police officer and two ambulance workers were lifting the beam clear of Zoé. The ambulance crew, a man and a woman, put an oxygen mask over Zoé's face and carefully loosened her clothing.

Zoé seemed surprisingly active. She tried to sit up, but the woman ambulance worker held her down gently. "Lie still, love."

But Zoé had no intention of lying still. She put her hands between her legs and pulled them back quickly with blood on her fingers. She held them in front of her face in stunned silence. Then her mouth opened wide.

"I am losing the baby!" she screamed.
Chapter Thirty-Six

Eight weeks later

"I'M OFF THE hook with the Czech police." Matt came into the office, moved the papers Ken had spread across the desk, and sat on the corner.

"I've been wondering how you got on over at Trinity Green last night." Ken looked at his watch. "I thought perhaps they were keeping you in, seeing how you were late this morning."

Matt shuffled further onto the desk to be more comfortable. He was only ten minutes late, which wasn't bad. Zoé was back at work now, but on a late shift, so he tended to sleep in. "It seems the Duseks aren't going to press charges. They were just glad to get their old Skoda back. But they're not too thrilled about getting a thirty percent share of nothing, because nothing is what the manuscripts are worth."

"Nothing at all?"

"Maybe they have a bit of curiosity value. Anyway, Zoé's relieved I haven't got to go back to the Czech Republic to face charges."

"You can thank James Freelander for fixing that one up. He's a good lawyer." Ken looked agitated. "I may be slow, but I'm confused about what was forged."

"So when do I get my new car?"

"New? It was only going to be an old one. Leave it with me a few more weeks. You have to be patient about these things. At the moment I'm much more interested in what the police had to say to you last night." Ken sighed. "Sit in a chair, kiddo. You're scratching my desk with your old jeans."

Matt stayed where he was. "Blake's made a full statement -- at last. He and Martin Smith forged the music manuscripts to make money. To be more accurate, Blake was in it for the money. He admits he organized the scam. Martin Smith just wanted to be famous, so he wrote the music."

"Famous? I thought he put some Czech composer's name on it, not his own."

"Of course he did, or the deception wouldn't have worked. To use Zoé's words, Martin Smith was obsessed with Bohemian music. Ever since he was small he wanted to find Vasek Tesar's compositions and travel the world playing them. He wanted to be known as the Tesar expert."

"Would people have gone to hear him?"

"That's why he wanted the old violin so badly, to make the whole experience plausible. He raided Shelley Carpenter's hotel room and stole it."

"And when Miss Carpenter got back she guessed what had happened, and went straight round to Zoé for help?"

"And left the so-called suicide note," Matt added with a laugh. He loved getting a dig in at his boss.

Ken opened a folder and studied the contents to hide his embarrassment. "Don't blame me for that one. The police thought it was a suicide note, not me. Anyway, it looked like one. It said she'd had enough and no one would see her again. She wanted someone to look after her dog."

"Ken, Shelley was feeling ashamed of herself. So she was planning to fly back to America the next day and leave the dog in her room. She wasn't thinking straight. As far as she could see it was her only option. She started writing the note in the night. Then she went to bed and forgot about it. If she'd had a chance to finish it, the wording would have made more sense." He paused to check that Ken was paying attention.

"Carry on." Ken closed the folder.

"When Shelley came back from the Academy, and found her hotel room had been broken into, all she could think of was her violin. Martin Smith had put it in the cellar in the old farmhouse, and covered the hatch with pieces of timber. But when he came out he saw little Olga hiding in the bushes. He didn't know she was bird watching -- he thought she was snooping on him, so he kept watch from inside the Academy grounds. He saw Zoé and Shelley going in with Olga -- and tried to trap them in the cellar."

"To kill them?"

"I imagine so, but Smith's skull got smashed so we'll never know for sure. He probably planned to collect the violin a couple of weeks later, when they were all dead. But he must have dislodged a supporting timber and brought the whole place down. The violin was destroyed at the same time."

"So what's Miss Carpenter doing with the bits of wood and catgut?"

"The remains of her violin? She's taken it back to LA to get it restored. She says it's going into a museum there, but I can't see it being played again."

"So how did Blake get involved?" Ken seemed to have given up on reclaiming the top of his desk, and the folder stayed shut.

"Blake was also into nineteenth century Czech music, and he and Smith often discussed its influence on later composers like Shostakovich. Blake made regular business trips between the English Helios Academy and the one in Prague. He knew that Hana Eisler was a descendent of Vasek Tesar, so he told Smith he'd search in the Prague Academy library to see what Hana's records said. They were fuller than he expected, so he borrowed the microfiche, and Smith got the whole lot translated. That's when Blake read the girl's letter saying that Hana Eisler had died in Terezín. And he believed it. He didn't know another girl had taken Hana's music case and been confused with Hana. As far as he could see it was the end of the trail."

"Only it wasn't. How about getting us some coffee?"

"You're right, it wasn't. And no, I'm not getting coffee. It's much too early. Martin Smith made a joke to Blake about forging some of Tesar's music, and Blake thought it was the best idea he'd ever heard. Don't forget Smith had studied Bohemian music for years. If the experts believed it was by Vasek Tesar they'd have praised it, and Martin Smith would have been able to bask in the glory. Anonymously of course. Zoé's been telling me that Fritz Kreisler did a similar trick back in the early nineteen hundreds. The critics said his compositions were only average, so he put on concerts pretending he was playing some new discoveries of music by Vivaldi and other early composers, as well as playing his own work. The critics went overboard with their praise of what they thought were the Vivaldi pieces, but criticized Kreisler for playing his own rubbish at the same time. It went on for years -- until in 1935 Kreisler admitted he'd written the lot. And then the snobby critics turned against him."

"So Martin Smith would have pretended he was playing someone else's work?"

"Brilliant." Matt leaned over and clapped Ken hard on the back. His boss had got it at last. "Martin Smith was an accomplished composer, and all he and Blake needed was some old music manuscript paper to come up with a convincing hoax."

"Czechoslovakian paper?" Ken coughed, recovering from the unexpected congratulations. "They must have known the manuscripts would get an extensive forensic examination. Remember the Hitler diaries in the 1970s?"

Matt nodded. "A bit before my time, but I know they were written in old notebooks of the right period, which is why some people were so easily fooled."

Ken nodded. "But every notebook was a cheap one, which should have been a giveaway. The head of a country doesn't write a diary over several years using cheap notebooks."

Matt laughed. "Blake got lucky. While rummaging around in the Prague Academy library he finds a box of blank manuscripts paper, all dating from the early part of the nineteenth century, in all sorts of designs and sizes. He brings the paper back from Prague and leaves Martin Smith to get on with writing some Bohemian masterpieces and putting Tesar's name at the top."

"How did he know how to forge Tesar's work?"

"He didn't need to. No one has seen Tesar's writing, so no one could check up. Brilliant. All they needed to do was hide it somewhere convincing and get someone they could trust to discover it. Blake looks in Hana's records again, and finds the name of a farm where she stayed with an aunt and uncle in the war. Smith takes the music there and hides it in the barn. And that's when they needed me."

Ken stood up. "I could definitely do with a coffee. I'll make it. Just this once. You said Blake and Smith needed us."

"They needed me. Blake paid me a compliment when he asked me to take on the job. I reckon I deserve a pay rise."

"How come?"

Matt could see that Ken was never going to master the percolator. His boss was just about to open the jar of instant coffee, but he took it from him and replaced it firmly in the cupboard. "They were going to handle the discovery themselves, but it all went wrong when Smith went to Ústí."

"He killed the farm worker?"

"That's what the police think. The man had been hit over the head with a spade, and Martin Smith's fingerprints were on the handle. Maybe he'd seen Smith hiding the envelope in the barn. Blake claims he knows nothing about anyone being killed. He probably doesn't. Smith comes back from the Czech Republic and tells Blake they have to move fast. So they start looking for someone who is bright enough to crack the clues, but dim enough to think he's done it all by himself."

"Who?"

"Me. Zoé had already told Smith I'm a PI, so he and Blake decide to put me to the test with the surveillance job at the swimming pool. Blake was impressed by the way I handled the work, so he agrees I'm clever enough to find manuscripts."

"You? Clever?"

"A bit too clever. I immediately discover that Shelley Carpenter and Martin Smith aren't really lovers. Blake and Smith cooked that one up to get Shelley Carpenter out of the way. Blake didn't even bother to get the film processed. They knew Shelley would return to the States in shame when she knew she'd been caught. As dean, Blake could easily have got Smith reinstated later. But they hadn't reckoned on that feisty woman storming round here to see us. Blake wanted people to think he and Smith were enemies, so there'd be no suspicion of collusion in the discovery. They even staged a show in the library to make me think they couldn't stand each other."

"So how did Smith manage to be at the swimming pool with Miss Carpenter?"

"That was easy. Smith chatted Shelley Carpenter up. She says she was flattered to get so much attention from a younger man. On the day of the trip to London, Smith persuades her to undress by the pool. I come in on cue, take the photos, pass the test, and the trip to Prague is on."

"They really thought you'd find the right farm?" Ken stood with his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't risk it."

"The pair dangled enough carrots to get me started. They even reckoned I was bright enough to work out there were two places called Ústí." He wasn't going to admit how Stanislav laughed at him for getting the wrong one. "In other words, they relied on my skills as a private detective."

"What skills are those?"

Matt scooped out the ground coffee. "Considerable ones. For instance, Blake claimed he didn't know how to do a web search, but he'd already done one and knew exactly what I'd be finding. But he hadn't reckoned on me pinching his microfiche and getting Olga to translate it. He thought one of the students had put it back in a wrong drawer in the Academy library. Blake was going to reveal the Academy records later, to confirm my discoveries. Like I said, I was too clever."

Ken brought the kettle to the boil successfully. The man wasn't totally lacking in skills. "Too clever for your own boots," he muttered.

Matt ignored the jibe. "I didn't twig at the time, but it was Blake who first suggested a séance, and then he got Martin Smith to call at the office and just happen to mention that his mother was a medium. Martin Smith's mother had already translated the pages on Blake's microfiche, but when he told her to pretend to contact Hana, she refused to go through with it, so he had to use a friend from the Czech group he hung around with."

"The medium was Smith's friend?"

"Which is why she had to come to my house to make the arrangements. Smith took his mother out for a drive on the evening of the séance, and his friend dressed up. She was nervous and she made a fatal mistake. Martin Smith told her to make it clear that Hana died in Terezín, but he didn't brief her properly. She said Hana died in the gas chambers. But there weren't any gas chambers."

"So why did you rush off to Prague?"

"Because the séance seemed scarily genuine. I was so keen to help Blake that I overlooked the obvious. Anyway, I didn't know about the gas chambers until I met Stanislav over there; and then I found the envelope, so it didn't seem to matter. There was even a genuine page of Hana's homework with the music. Blake found it with Hana's records in Prague. It was all so plausible. But something made me suspicious, so I checked everything with your ultraviolet lamp before coming home. When Blake phoned me, I told him there could be a problem with the envelope. And he panicked."

"I thought the paper was some old stuff they'd found in Prague."

"The paper was genuine, and so was the ink, but the brown envelope was one Blake had picked up in the Prague library. It looked old, but he hadn't thought about it having to pass any sort of test. If I'd rushed home, Blake would have taken the manuscripts from me and destroyed the envelope. He was confident that everything else would come through with flying colors. I'm not sure that it would. I've been reading up on forensic science. Even if you use old paper and ink, it doesn't look exactly like an old document. Something to do with how far the ink sinks in, and how much the edges of the ink feather over time."

"Anyway," Ken conceded, "you did well. But somebody called Hana Eisler died at Terezín. Were there two Hana Eislers?"

"A girl called Emilie wrote a letter from the camp to her parents. Not everyone in Terezín was a prisoner. Whole families chose to go there for their own protection -- or what they thought was protection. The parents must have passed the letter on to the Academy where it was put with Hana's records. Read the letter again and you'll see that Emilie, the writer, only assumed the girl's name was Hana, because that's what the guards said. But the girl was too traumatized to speak."

"Why would the guards get the name wrong?"

"That's what I intend to find out."

Ken groaned. "I hope you're not rushing off to Prague again. You've just told me the manuscripts are fakes. The Czech police don't want to see you. It's over. Done with. You're never going to find those old tunes."

"I'm not so sure. There's a directory in every phone kiosk in Prague."

"And no one vandalizes them?"

"Not usually. But there's one at Prague airport that's missing the page with the names starting with Eis."

Ken stirred his coffee. "Eis for Eisler, I imagine."

Matt grinned. "I've been writing to all the Eislers I can find, asking if they're related to a Hana Eisler who lived in Prague at the start of World War Two. I gave Hana's date of birth and hinted that there's a legacy involved, possibly for them. Surprise, surprise, everyone replied, and one of them says Hana Eisler is a distant aunt, and she's still living in the city."

"So you are going to Prague again?"

"Of course I am. I've arranged to phone Hana at her relative's house this evening, to see when we can meet." He gave a big grin. "All of a sudden Zoé's playing Smetana and Dvorak on her flute. She says it's more exciting than French music, and her next concert will be a selection of Czech music. But she's still upset about Martin Smith. She says he was such a good conductor of her orchestra, and they can't find a replacement."

Ken looked worried. "I hope Zoé isn't going with you. It sounds dangerous over there. That farming couple might still be on the warpath."

"Zoé insists on going with me."

"Are you sure she's well enough to travel?"

"She's fine now."
Chapter Thirty-Seven

The present

Masaryk Railway Station Prague

Czechoslovakia

HANA SITS on the platform bench, waiting for the Englishman and his wife to arrive. They are bringing the brooch she left at the Helios Academy when she was just a child. She has the precious music in a shopping bag at her feet. She recalls waiting here with these same papers many years ago. A different lifetime. Some of the trains are red and some are blue, and they are all electric now. No longer do they leave a plume of smoke as they approach from around the hill. The trees are taller, and modern buildings and the new road obscure some of the view, but the scene is much the same.

She must remember to thank the Englishman for reminding her of this treasure, and for offering to go through it with her. She wonders why she left everything in the church for so long. Maybe the trauma of wartime Prague blotted out the memory. The woman who helped conceal them in the war is dead, but the papers were still in the hiding place behind the wooden confessional. Some of the pages are badly stained, but they are easy enough to read. She has been looking through them, and is surprised that Papa did not tell her about the Mozart compositions, and the short pieces by Smetana and Dvorak. But the greatest treasure of all is the collection of violin concertos by her great great-grandfather, Vasek Tesar.

Her feet feel damp from the slush on the road. If these papers are valuable she will be able to buy good boots. She feels excited that Vasek Tesar is to be famous at last. She is proud to be part of his family. If only Papa could be here.

For a moment she frowns. Something has been spilt on the platform. The dark patch looks like blood, but it is probably only oil. She shakes her head wryly. The stain left by the dying captain may have gone, but other memories have stirred her heart. Poor Kitty, taken away with the music case, taken away to Terezín. Lovely Papa, beaten to death in the street outside the family home, and his body left for the neighbors to stare at.

A dark shadow falls across her face. A man and a woman stand with the sun behind them. "Hana?" says the man. "My name is Matt Rider, and this is Zoé."

Hana bursts into tears, a mixture of sorrow for the past and happiness for the future. The woman is expecting a baby.

THE END

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