A Traitor to Memory

At that, Davies moved his gaze off Lynley and fixed it on the fire, but the rest of his body remained motionless. “What about my sister's death?”


“Did everyone hold their thinking and feelings close in when she was murdered? And during the trial that followed?”

Davies' legs tightened against each other as if they would defend him from the questions. “No one ever talked about it. ‘Best to forget’ was like a family motto, Inspector, and we lived by it.” He raised his face towards the ceiling. He swallowed and said, “God. I expect that's why my mother finally left us. No one would ever talk about what desperately needed talking about in that house, and she just couldn't cope with it any longer.”

“When was the last time you saw her, Mr. Davies?”

“Then,” he said.

“When you were nine years old?”

“Dad and I left for a tour in Austria. When we returned, she was gone.”

“You've not heard from her since?”

“I've not heard from her since.”

“She never contacted you in the last several months?”

“No. Why?”

“Your uncle says she intended to see you. She intended to borrow money from you. He says that she told him something came up to prevent her from asking you for money. I'm wondering if you know what that something was.”

Davies looked guarded at that, as if a barrier had come down like a thin shield of steel to cover his eyes. “I've had … I suppose you could call it some trouble with my playing.” He let Lynley fill in the rest: A mother anxious about her son's well-being was unlikely to petition him for funds, either for herself or for a ne'er-do-well brother.

That supposition didn't conflict with what Richard Davies had told Lynley about his former wife phoning him to learn more about their son's condition. But the timing was off if the musician's condition was supposed to be what had kept his mother from making her request for funds. Indeed, it was off by several months. For Gideon Davies had undergone his trauma at Wigmore Hall in July. It was now November. And according to Ian Staines, his sister's change of heart concerning asking her son for money had occurred in the more immediate past than had Gideon's musical difficulties. It was a small point only, but it could not be overlooked.

“Your father tells me she'd been phoning him regularly about you, so she did know that something was wrong,” Lynley said in agreement. “But he made no mention of her wanting to see you or asking to see you. You're certain she didn't contact you directly?”

“I think I'd remember my own mother contacting me, Inspector. She didn't, and she couldn't have done. My number's ex-directory, so the only way she had to contact me would have been through my agent, through Dad, or by turning up at a concert and sending a note backstage.”

“She did none of those things?”

“She did none of those things.”

“And she passed no message to you through your father?”

“She passed no message,” Davies said. “So perhaps my uncle's lying to you about my mother's intention of seeing me to ask for money. Or perhaps my mother lied to my uncle about her intention of seeing me to ask for money. Or perhaps my father's lying to you about her phone calls to him in the first place. But that last is unlikely.”

“You sound sure of that. Why?”

“Because Dad himself wanted us to meet. He thought she could help me out.”

“With what?”

“The trouble I've had with my playing. He thought she could …” Here, Davies went back to looking at the fire, his assurance of a moment before quite gone. His legs trembled. He said, more to the fire than to Lynley, “I don't really believe that she could have helped me, though. I don't believe anyone can help me at this point. But I was willing to try. Before she was killed. I was willing to try anything.”

An artist, Lynley thought, who was being kept from his art due to fear. The violinist would be looking for a talisman of some sort. He would want to believe his mother was the charm that could get him back to his instrument. Lynley said to make certain, “How, Mr. Davies?”

“What?”

“How could your mother have helped you?”

“By agreeing with Dad.”

“Agreeing? About what?”